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Chapter Text

And thou Melkor shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not it's uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite for he that attempteth shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful which he himself hath not imagined – Eru Illuvator (J.R.R Tolkien)

The Ring-bearer screamed, and with the last of his ferocious will, he hurled the creature from his back. Smeagol wobbled on the edge of the cliff, his filthy toes clawing for purchase against jagged stone. Below, the fire and molten rock hissed and spat, a churning sea of fiery hunger that waited to devour them. Smeagol's wide eyes flickered between terror and devotion as he clutched the Ring to his chest.

The Ring-bearer collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His task was incomplete. Smeagol had found footing and would surely flee deeper into the mountain. The air thickened with tension. Outside, the Nazgûl were still afar, their fell beasts shrieking in agony beneath the whip of dark sorcery, driven to a frenzy but unable to hasten their flight. Their hooded masters gnashed their rotten teeth in impotent fury as the hour was nigh and they were found wanting. Try as they might, in their dark hearts, they knew they wouldn't reach in time.

Then, all chaos ceased. A stillness fell, deep and suffocating, as though the world itself had drawn a deep breath and forgotten how to release it.

Then, reality bent, and a presence entered the cavern.

Vast, unseen, and yet undeniable. The mountain groaned under the weight of such a will. The Ring quivered in Smeagol's trembling grasp as its sharp senses felt the change that mortal hearts could not. For a heartbeat, even the flames seemed to recoil, unwilling to act according to their nature.

With a silent act, the unseen power turned its attention upon the wretch. Smeagol was lifted from the precipice and cast downward like refuse. His scream was devoured by the roar of the lava below as his body met its end.

But the Ring lingered, resting upon a charred hand that floated above the molten sea.

It did not fall. Instead, it prayed and it begged.

The burning air pulsed with its plea - not to the ethereal monarchs of the far West, but to the unknowable presence that stood beyond time, beyond space, beyond death itself. The ultimate mystery, vast and silent, yet filled with love for its creation. The One Above All.

It wasn't its fault. It had never been granted autonomy since its birth. It had never been given a true chance to be judged fairly.

The Ring prayed and pleaded for an eternity uncounted, until reality shivered once more and the threads of fate rewove themselves.

A ripple crossed the magma's surface. The cavern warped again, as though creation hesitated in its unfolding. From the inferno, a fragment of stone tore free and rose. Upon it, a blackened hand twitched and found purchase, the ring in its grasp floating to safety.

The Ring burned with a blinding light, purging the last echo of its master's malice. Somewhere, far beyond Middle-earth, a scream of defiance was silenced forever.

And in the heart of Mount Doom, what had once been a forge of evil, became a mausoleum. For now, it rested and observed the outside world through means beyond physical sight.

Chapter Text

But the delight and pride of Aulë is in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery. - The Silmarillion, "Ainulindalë"

A Brief History of The World

The Great Empire Of Dawn & The Long Night

The victorious armies of the grand alliance had long dispersed to return, triumphant, to their holds. To celebrate, make merry, be fruitful and multiply.

A long silence followed, one that stretched across centuries. The fires cooled, the mountains slept, and the world was remade in the quiet aftersong of its deliverance. The elder races’ great and final migration to the eternal West was at its very end.

No longer will those of the great beyond influence the fates of the sons of man.

From the western shores to the silver fields of the East, the tongues of men whispered of peace reborn. Kingship returned in mortal form yet tempered by immortal grace of the elder races. In that age, the blood of two races, once divided by fate, flowed as one.

Nimloth the Fair bloomed again under the wise patronage of the Númenórean kings.

Under their reign, the world flowered anew. Great cities rose from ruin, not in fear but in defiance of the nightmares of the dark age. The high towers were carved from pale stone that caught the morning sun and shimmered like starlight in honor of the great white city.

The laws of men were rewritten in the spirit of mercy rather than conquest. The harvests grew heavy again, and even the long-silent forests sang beneath the touch of gentler hands.

The wise who had guided the elder world withdrew, their task complete, their blessing left behind in the form of quiet wisdom that lingered like fragrance in the air. The sea calmed. The shadows of the North receded. For a time, no blade was raised in anger. Scholars called it the Age of Renewal. Poets named it The Dawn of the Twice-born Race.

The men called it the Great Empire of Dawn.

Great voyages sailed across distant seas, carrying banners of peace and discovery. Lands once hidden from the eyes of men were charted and claimed, and for a time the world knew harmony and abundance. It was an age of grace, when wisdom tempered power and the memory of divine wisdom still lingered in mankind.

An Empire spanning an entire continent was formed.

Yet peace, like all mortal works, could not endure. As the centuries passed and the wise accepted the Gift of the Man, the hold upon higher truths began to fade. The hearts of men, ever restless and easily swayed, turned from humility to vanity. They crowned lesser men as rulers and the wisdom of Numenor slipped into legend.

A shadow crept once more across the lands. The white city, dimmed and dulled beneath the weight of pride and neglect. Trade faltered, wages fell, and corruption festered in high places. The fortresses and watchtowers of the borderlands, once steadfast and vigilant against the shadowed realms, stood empty, their beacons unlit when trouble came marching forth.

The fear of death, long conquered, returned to the hearts of kings and it took priority over everything else.

The rulers of men began to curse their mortality, naming it a cruelty of the gods rather than a gift. In their despair, they sought forbidden paths. Cults of dark learning spread through the cities, reviving knowledge best left buried.

The air grew thick with whispers of necromancy and the summoning of shades that had been cast out of the world in ages past. And so, as knowledge rose and wisdom faltered, the light of that great age began to die. The monarchs turned sorcerer kings maintained blood harems and feasted on human flesh to unnaturally prolong their lives.

In the cold, lifeless places of the world, a new evil began to take root. Another song of creation perverted by the Great Evil emerged from its long slumber. The Great Others emerged from the heart of winter and descended with merciless hunger for warm blood upon the realms of man.

City after city, grown soft and spoiled by the virtue of their ancestors, fell beneath their onslaught. The slain were raised to swell the ranks of the dead, and the legions of winter marched southward, devouring the warmth of the world. Civilization collapsed beneath their advance. Entire bloodlines were wiped from history, their names surviving only as faint echoes in ruined tombs. The bustling cities of trade and life became grim mausoleums where the dead ruled in silence. Rivers froze solid beneath the tread of the Great Others, and the lands of men lay buried under endless frost. The very flame of mankind guttered, and the world stood on the brink of a night without end.

For a moment, all seemed lost.

If these were the choking gasps of a species, it was a fitting end for their hubris.

Yet, it was not to be. For today was not the end of all days. On this day, the sons of man decided to fight.

After all, the fate of humankind was not bound to the spheres of this world alone. As decreed by the One Above All, a fierce desire for life and liberty burned within their hearts, a flame that no shadow could ever hope to quench. The Great Enemy, the accursed Morgoth, could not hope to achieve it.

What hope could these fey of ice and darkness have?

It was this fire, older than despair, that allowed men to reshape the very skeins of fate in ways even the mightiest magi and warriors of the elder races could not.

From the ruins of fallen kingdoms, refugees who had fled the decadence and corruption of the Old Empire began to gather and organize. They turned once more to the old ways, seeking strength and courage in the wisdom of the ages.

Tomes hidden from the flames of burning libraries were opened. The ancient forges sang again, their hammers ringing with purpose. Legions rose from among the disillusioned and the dispossessed, bound by shared defiance.

At the heart of the Great Muster of Men stood one descended from the blood of Númenor. Beneath his banner, the remnants of humankind gathered, weary yet unbroken, their eyes alight with the fire of ancient oaths. The frozen silence of the world was broken by a cry older than kingdoms, a battle-shout that once sent dread through the hosts of darkness.

Aure entuluva! Day Will Come Again!

The hosts answered as one, their voices rising like peals of thunder across the plains. They fell upon the undead and their eldritch masters in a storm of honest steel, fury, and a renewed love for death.

The air rang with the song of iron, and the frost split beneath the fury of their charge. Men perished by the thousands, yet none yielded. Their courage blazed brighter than the pyres of their slain, and the long night itself seemed to tremble before that wrathful light.

Yet it was not enough. Try as they might, the undead tide slowed but did not relent. The earth groaned beneath the endless march of the dead, and even the bravest hearts began to waver.

But hope was nearer than any could have guessed. Not all ancient beings that lingered in the forgotten corners of the world were peversions of Morgoth’s evil. The Ents - shepherds of the trees and eldest of the Earth’s children, watched in sorrow as mankind gasped its last. When they saw the flame of courage rekindled in mortal hearts, they knew the time for silence had passed.

They came before the chosen of men, he whom the songs would declare Azhor Ahai, and spoke of visions granted by the One Above All. They told of a relic hidden deep within the bones of the world, a treasure of unmeasured knowledge and power that might turn the tide. Guided by their counsel, Azhor descended into the mountain and battled shades and unnamed horror that forever gnashed its teeth in impotent fury and frustration.

He found it there, gleaming amidst cold lava and a burnt hand.

It was the Ring, an artifact of an older age, and it beheld him with wonder.

In the noble warrior it saw both humility and wrath, a fierce love for his people and an iron will that hope against the dying of the light. And so it chose him. The Ring bound itself to his spirit, whispering the secrets it had once hoarded in silence.

Under its guidance, the knight learned to shape dragonglass and forge weapons of arcane might, tools of light and flame to drive back the darkness. For though its former master had been cruel beyond measure, he had been a smith without equal, and the Ring had learned much under his dominion.

With its aid, Azhor Ahai waged war unending, and the legions of the dead were cast down. The Great Others were driven into the farthest reaches of the night, and the living world breathed again. When at last Azhor fell, his body laid low by time and toil, the Ring did not perish with him. It sought another whose heart echoed that same spark of creation and defiance.

In the cold North it found Brandon Stark, a maker of things and a shaper of stone and steel much like its own nature. The ring was delighted beyond words to find a kindred spirit. To him it offered its counsel, and together they forged a wall beyond reckoning, a bastion that would forever stand between mankind and the returning dark.

Rise Of Valyria

The banishing of the Others led to the rebirth of civilization. Mankind rose again from ashes and ruin, building kingdoms and forging empires that reached farther than the dreams of their forebears. Chief among these was the Great Empire of Yi Ti.

Yet far to the west, of the continent now called Essos, another power began to stir. It was born not in courts or military legions, but among the herdsmen of the Valyrian peninsula.

In time, those herdsmen uncovered secrets that should have remained buried. They found the lairs of dragons, creatures forged from Morgoth’s perversion of the song of creation. Rather than fear them, they sought to master them. With blood rites and binding spells, they yoked the fire drakes to their will.

The shepherds now fancied themselves kings and godlings.

The Ring beheld their ascent with dread and loathing. It saw in them a perversion of every virtue it had once known in the hands of noble men. The Valyrians raped, plundered, and killed with a bloodlust not seen in a long time. Every waking moment was spent filling their halls with blood harems to fuel their blood magic.

They reveled in cruelty and called it high culture. Whole tribes of men were chained, burned, or erased from memory on a whim because one of the fourteen flames was inconvenienced. Their cities shone like jewels above rivers of blood, and their towers scraped the heavens as if in mockery of the divine. Meanwhile, entire tribes toiled in boiling mines in utter darkness, forever denied the light of Varda.

Not even the proud kings of old Númenor, in the madness of their fall, had sunk so deep. It reminded the Ring of Ar-Pharazôn and his debauchery. And the mighty king had been made to kneel and pay dearly for his horrifying crimes.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in its mind as if by Providence. When it had been whole with its master, they had similarly humbled an Empire. If it can be done before, why can’t it be done again?

The Ring would humble these usurpers as it had once humbled kings. It would whisper in their dreams and tempt their pride, until the mighty towers of Valyria crumbled into ash and silence, and the world would once more remember that all empires, no matter how terrible, must fall.

Fall Of Valyria

Just because it had turned over a new leaf, didn’t mean it had lost its older talents.

The Ring, ever patient and cunning, bided its time. Like a siren’s song, it lured an ambitious dragonrider to its snowy domain, a woman of pride and restless hunger, she immediately claimed it for himself.

To her it whispered secrets of power and dominion, of knowledge long forbidden even to the highest of Valyria’s magi. The rider, blinded by her own brilliance, believed the gift her  birth right. Together they soared until the ring found its way into the very heart of the Freehold’s power base.

Yet the Ring was treacherous, as it had always been. From the grasp of one flame it slipped to another, moving from lord to lord, lady to lady, like a siren with its seductive song. Each it seduced with visions of supremacy, each it left ruined or slain. Soon the Freehold, once united in bloated arrogance, turned upon itself. Dragonlord battled dragonlord, and the skies over Valyria burned with fire.

When their wars grew wild and senseless, the Ring passed into humbler hands. A servant found it, believing it a trinket of luck, and gifted it to his daughter. She, in turn, lost it to a merchant, who sold it for coin to a smith, who bartered it to a priest. So it wandered, nameless and unseen, slipping ever downward through the cracks of empire until at last it came to rest in the black mines beneath the Fourteen Flames.

There, in the bowels of the world, the Ring found its true audience. It whispered to the miners in their dreams, teaching them to speak to the earth’s blood, to shape the molten rock with rites. Blood ran in channels beside lava, and the air grew thick with dark incantations. The mountain stirred, restless and aware.

Soon, Valyria would be no more. The Ring’s design neared completion, and it exulted in the ruin it had wrought. Yet before the final stroke could fall, another darkness awoke, vast and alien to its understanding. The Ring cried out in fury as unseen hands tore it from the plane of its triumph and hurled it across the continent, far from the fires it had kindled.

And thus, on the eve of Valyria’s doom, the Ring vanished once again into shadow.