Bound

One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them,
One ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.

Sizzling energy awakens me. My master plans to rule Middle-Earth, to rule the Rings of Power, to rule Men, Dwarves, Elves, and I am to help him. I lie on the cold marble slab in front of my master, his energy pouring through me, his energy is my energy. After promising to help him, to wreak havoc and chaos on the world, my master places me on his finger, and though I cannot see, I sense. The control we exert over the other rings. The closeness of the shadow realm, and the dark power coursing through it.

Before long, the Elves sense our treachery and hide their Rings, and Men—the foolish creatures—still wear theirs. They shift, lock into our frequency. I make them bow to us, make them become darker, blacker. I devour their shriveling souls, and they pledge immediate loyalty to us. They vow to serve us, to aid us in our mission to enslave the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. And they do well, as we marshal armies of Orcs against the Elves. We conquer more and more of the land with the help of our loyal servants, the Nazgûl, and we are on the last battlefront.

The Elves are strong in numbers, and my master wavers for a moment. I sense his hesitation, sense his fear. If we lose this battle, we shall lose everything we have conquered, and the losses we have suffered to now will count for naught. All the destruction and darkness and power will disappear, and we shall be alone and weak. I push my energy, the energy he stored in me, onto him, and he clenches his fist, shouts the battle cry. And when the Elves push us back, we retreat to Mordor.

We are weakened, but my master feeds me his energy, pours his power into me, and I cling to him more dearly. I desire the destruction of Middle-Earth as he does, perhaps more than he does, for he designed me with evil intent, with a fraction of his soul's energy that has grown and grown. We become one entity, inseparable. We wait until we grow stronger then begin raising armies once more.

Again, we nearly conquer Middle-Earth only to lose. I sense my master's impatience, his recklessness, but we are both too bloodthirsty to care. And the final time, Isildur destroys my master's body, cuts my master's finger from his body, retrieves me and wears me—some kind of prize, some kind of pennant.

I vow to kill Isildur. I vow to betray him, for my master is now little more than a hissing whisper of wind because of his blade.

Isildur will think I am his, but I am not. I belong to no one except Sauron.