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Chapter Text

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone...

— The Lord of the Rings

S.A. 1595
Khazad-dûm

“Celebrimbor!” Durin exclaims, and claps the elf on his back. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, and on such short notice?”

Celebrimbor’s smile is forced, and his eyes dart about the king’s chambers with a nervousness quite unlike him. He folds his long legs into a sitting position without so much as asking for permission—which Durin does not mind , not truly, but again, it is strange behavior for one usually so courteous and respectful.

“May I be blunt, old friend?” Celebrimbor asks, and his voice, at least, is yet his own, firm and piercing.

“Of course,” Durin agrees. “Would you like something to drink? And have you been properly accommodated for your stay? If I could—”

“No, no, I will not be staying long.” Celebrimbor’s hand drifts to his pocket, then hurriedly pulls away. “I am off to Lórinand as soon as I am able. Like as not, I will pass through your halls once more, as I plan to travel westward to Lindon and beyond, but...”

He shakes his head. “But that is of no matter to you, King Durin. I have a gift for you.”

Durin beams, though his own cheer is gradually dampening. “It is always an honor to receive a gift from you, Master Starfire.” Such praise is not given lightly, especially not to an elf; but Celebrimbor has long been a friend of Khazad-dûm, and he is not an ordinary elf.

Celebrimbor is not one to downplay his skill with false modesty, and yet to not even pause to accept the compliment is strange of him. He is of a fey mood, this day.

“It is a ring,” the elf says, and opens his palm to reveal a golden band with a single, flawless blue gemstone. Durin leans close to inspect it, and while he can find no flaw in the craftsmanship, neither does he detect anything remarkable about it.

Nonetheless, he accepts the gift, and takes it from Celebrimbor’s hand. It is not until he slips it onto his finger—an astonishingly perfect fit—that he feels it, the sudden power coursing through his veins.

“Mahal be with us,” he exclaims. “Starfire, what—?”

“It is a Ring of Power,” Celebrimbor explains, and Durin is too shaken now to even notice the insolence of interruption. “The Gwaith-i-Mírdain have been studying this craft—I believe several lesser such rings have made their way into your coffers already—but this one, the Sapphire Ring, is part of a set of more powerful rings. Rings forged by myself—and...Annatar.”

“The Maker’s servant,” Durin rumbles. To receive the one called Aulendil into his halls has been a great honor, for who else among the living could claim friendship with Mahal Himself?

Celebrimbor’s face twists in grief, and a deep foreboding settles into the pit of Durin’s stomach.

“He is—not who he seems,” Celebrimbor rasps. “I know not his true nature—not yet... But I believe he has betrayed us all.”

Durin huffs softly, tapping the sapphire on his new ring thoughtfully. He remembers the way Celebrimbor was with Annatar, light-hearted and bright-eyed: utterly infatuated. If he has reason now to believe his lover faithless, no wonder he is so distraught.

“And yet you would have me wear his crooked handiwork?” he asks pointedly, for to dwell on the elf’s broken heart would get them nowhere.

“Aulë’s folk are hardy, and resistant to corruption,” Celebrimbor explains. “None more so than the Line of Durin. The Rings he and I have made...they must be scattered across all Middle-earth, for their safety and the preservation of us all. And there is none I trust more than you, Durin, to wield such power with wisdom.”

With any other, Durin would have suspected such praise to be false flattery. But Celebrimbor is unfailingly honest, and more open and vulnerable now than ever before. Durin believes him.

“There may come a time, soon, when the West-gate must close, and our peoples shut themselves off for fear of treachery,” Celebrimbor continues. “It breaks my heart to think of our long collaboration fracturing—of the Doors Narvi and I made shutting out the friendship they exemplify...” He swallows, and Durin bows his head in sorrow. Narvi’s passing is recent enough that her memory still brings an ache of grief into his heart, and moreso, he suspects, to her dearest, most immortal friend.

“But I would not have both our realms fall to darkness if our defenses are not strong,” Celebrimbor says after a moment. He shakes his head. “This Ring has the power to preserve, to fortify. It will bring wealth and prosperity to your people, so long as it is used well. But you must beware the Shadow that lurks within, and deny it a foothold in your heart.”

“Celebrimbor Starfire, dwarf-friend and friend of my heart,” Durin says firmly. “It is a great gift, and a greater burden, to bear such a Ring. But I and my heirs will do so with pride and humility, for your trust and sacrifice is as much a gift as your handiwork.”

Now, at last, Celebrimbor’s smile reaches his eyes, though he is yet weary.

“Thank you, Durin,” he murmurs, and rises, impossibly tall, back to his feet. “I knew I could count on you.”

T.A. 2845
Dol Guldur

It is raining, a terrible black rain, and he is alone, his companions have deserted him, he is alone—

It is raining, and the pounding of the rain is a hammer on his skull, and he is in torment—

It is raining, and the rain is in his eyes, and he cannot see, can barely feel—

It is raining—

—It is not raining.

He is not alone: there is a Shadow with him, a dread Presence. The pounding in his head is of pain, the torment is of the flesh; blood is in his eyes, and he is lost, utterly, to the darkness.

There is a Voice-that-is-no-voice, a whisper in his mind rather than his ears. Such is the price of pride, it croons, and the black claws in his heart twist until he is choking on his own blood. Too long have thine ancestors kept this treasure from its rightful Lord. You are stubborn folk, my once-Master’s Children. Stubborn and proud...and yet all too mortal.

“Please,” he gasps, or he thinks he does. He is beyond words, now; beyond anything. Surely his death is nigh.

Give it to me, says the Shadow, though he could easily take the Ring by force.

Thráin is beyond begging. What is a Ring, even Durin’s Ring, even a Ring of Power, in the face of such agony?

And so he surrenders, and the Sapphire Ring falls from his finger and into a blackened hand. The claws retreat, and Thráin breathes a last terrible breath, and his spirit flies—

—and is pulled back.

No, laughs the Necromancer in his lair of sorcery, and weaves a binding spell. Not yet, little king. I have use of your secrets still.

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S.A. 1650
Belegost

Despite Durin’s praises and the ancient friendship between the Longbeards and the elves, Hannar finds himself skeptical of the elf’s purpose here in Belegost. Yes, perhaps this elf’s kin had once been allied to Hannar’s own ancestors, but Azaghâl’s policies drowned with the Sunken Lands, and Hannar is not his forefather.

He takes the offered ring with suspicion, for Starfire’s warnings are dire, and resolves in his heart never to use it. It is a pretty thing, if simple, and the ruby stone is a deep, blood red like the setting sun.

Yet as he slips it onto his finger, Hannar is suddenly struck silent.

There is power in this Ring, he realizes. Its simple appearance belies a coursing energy within, a greater power unlike any he has before known. This elf truly is a master of his craft, rivaling Belegost’s own master-smiths!

Hannar looks up at Celebrimbor Starfire, seeing him in a new light. The elf seems less fretful and paranoid, more cautious and grim.

“You say the Shadow has risen again in the East,” he says slowly. “That he has touched even the elven lands, and your elven craft. Tell me, Master Starfire: how might we resist him, even from so far away?”

The relieved smile that breaks over Starfire’s face is wide and honest enough that Hannar almost decides he likes him.

Almost. This Ruby Ring is a gift, and gifts must be honored with hospitality. And if he and his people can learn more of elven secrets, and perhaps unlock the skills behind the making of this Ring...well, that will profit Belegost and the Firebeards for Ages to come.

T.A. 2677
Ered Luin

Long he has slept. Long he has hid. Long he has stayed burrowed under this mountain, hiding from pain and fire and water that kills.

Yet now there are rumbles above him, around him. Old passages, long abandoned when the first dwarf-cities crumbled beneath the buckling weight of the devouring sea—there are footsteps along the paths again.

Long it has been quiet. No longer.

And Lhamthanc, he of the forked tongue and thunderous flame, serpent-lord of the Elder Days—he wakes.

Dwarves again, he realizes. An annoyance.

—Dwarves again.

Lhamthanc is hungry.

He uncoils himself, stretching out limbs long-tangled up in slumber. The haze of fear and pain that drove him to this long hibernation is gone. The oppressive weight of the Master’s purpose is gone. There is still the hint of a Shadow in his mind, but his other needs are far more vicious.

He must hunt. He must feed. He must be free.

Lhamthanc slithers out of his deep cavern, gobbling up tiny cave creatures, and finally finds a delving dwarf. Ah, but what a delicacy! He has forgotten the rich taste of incarnate flesh, how life and spirit enhances a meal.

Three more he devours in quick succession, stunning them with his lightning breath, so that they are frozen and helpless as his teeth find their purchase. Up, up he climbs, until he breaches through the mines and into a proper city, filled with dwarves, and Lhamthanc laughs.

He will feast.

He eats a dozen dwarves before they can do anything but watch in horror. By the time they have gathered enough sense to shoot their pathetic arrows at his hide, he is fully woken and full of ire. Foolish creatures! As if they could take down a dragon so mighty as he!

Then their axes bite at his legs, and this he feels, and howls. He remembers now that the Dragon-father was defeated by these axes, and he knows dread once more.

But it was not dwarven axes that killed Glaurung, he tells himself. And so he presses on, gulping another half-dozen of his foes, still alive and screaming, down his gullet.

Then comes their King, marching forth with horns behind him, and there is a dreadful power in him that makes Lhamthanc recoil. He feels a piece of the Master in the King’s possession—

No. No the Master.

The Lieutenant.

The first blow the dwarf-king strikes hits true. Lhamthanc howls and thrashes his tail, and wishes bitterly that he had been made with wings. But the second blow he dodges, and with the third he grabs the King, and roars into his face.

“Cursed be!” the King shouts. “The Line of Linnar bows to no beast of darkness!”

Lhamthanc finds his tongue again, dislodging a dwarven spear from between his teeth, and hisses back, “I want not your fealty. I want your flesh.”

The King tears against his scales with his hands. But mortal flesh cannot penetrate dragonhide—

And yet he feels a spark of pain as a searing power strikes true, dislodging a single scale upon his throat. Lhamthanc reels back, lifting the King into the air, and he sees: upon one finger glints a single Ring, set with a ruby stone.

This is his power, Lhamthanc realizes. Power enough to harm a dragon.

He shakes his head and lets out a blast of lightning flame. It matters not. No dwarf, even with a trinket of the Lieutenant, is a match for a dragon. And if Lhamthanc can defeat him...and take the King’s power and treasure for his own...

He laughs, and bites the King’s head off.

He spits it out—all that hair makes it the worst part of any meal, easily—and swallows the rest of him whole, Ring and all.

His long sleep had served him well...but if he is now awake, Lhamthanc is going to live gloriously.

T.A. 2700
Mordor

Tar-Mairon takes in the corpse of the last dragon of the Elder Days with a critical eye. A waste of resources, truly, to kill such a mighty creature for only the contents of its belly, but Lhamthanc gave him no choice. To have swallowed a Ring of such power was foolishness, not that the dragon would have known better. And perhaps it was for the best: Lhamthanc had deserted the armies of Melkor before the War of Wrath had come to a close. He was wily and cowardly, a poor combination for a soldier.

Still, if Tar-Mairon could have broken his mind...

Ah, well. It had been difficult enough to summon Lhamthanc here to him; the part of the dragon’s Song that was still bound to Melkor—and thus to Melkor’s successor—was buried deeply enough that it had taken nearly all his concentration to draw it back to life. And even then, Lhamthanc had struggled, for his lair beneath the Ered Luin had proved excellent for a renegade wyrm.

And the time it took for Lhamthanc to slink from the the Great Sea to Mordor! Twenty years of travel, resisting all the way; and taking the slow, dark path of deep caverns and secret nights. No, even the lesser dragons of these Lesser Days are of better use, for they are winged.

—Hmm.

Now there is an idea...

Tar-Mairon smirks beneath his elegant black helm, rolling the Ruby Ring between his fingers, cleaned of Lhamthanc’s gore. Only one Ring remains missing now, one Ring imbued with power that is rightfully his.

(Three more out of reach, three Rings his hands had never touched... But he shall have them in the end. He shall have everything in the end.)

“Snaga,” he commands, and a slave comes scurrying out of the darkness, head bowed. “Send for the Scourers. Have them strip the body of scales and leather. When all exterior materials are removed, call the butchers. When they are done...”

Dragons, he muses. Mighty, beautiful creatures. Wily, fierce-minded, and rebellious without a strong hand to guide them. The young ones, the brood of the surviving wyrms of the Elder Days...they would not take kindly to interference with their freedom.

But all dragons possess a lust for gold, for power, as Lhamthanc had so clearly proven in devouring the Ruby Ring. If that lust can be stoked, can be steered in the right direction...

“Master?” the slave whispers, trembling in terror.

“When the butchers are done, have whatever remains thrown into the Mountain’s fires,” he concludes. “Go.”

The slave disappears into the darkness to do his bidding—and Tar-Mairon turns his mind to Erebor, where the Sapphire Ring is hidden, just waiting to be unearthed by a gold-hungry wyrm.

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S.A. 1651
Nogrod

“And did you take it?”

Hannar harrumphs. “Of course I took it,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

“I thought it maybe would have been better not to,” Naugladur admits.

“But...?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “I took it.” He hesitates—but this is Hannar. They were boys together; they are kin, cousins through their mothers and Kings of brother-lines. He is Úri’s heir, as Hannar is Linnar’s. Naugladur can trust him.

He takes the Ring out of his pocket. It is beautiful, if simple, and the yellow topaz gem glitters even out of the light. He is mesmerized by it—and that troubles him.

“Pretty thing,” Hannar breathes, the jewel’s light reflecting in his eyes. In return, he lays his hand on the table between them, revealing the Ruby Ring he received from the elf.

Naugladur stares at his cousin’s hand. “You wear it openly?” he demands.

Hannar quirks an eyebrow. “Yes and no,” he says. “Did you notice it before I showed it to you?”

Naugladur has to admit he didn’t.

“It is part of the magic of it,” Hannar explains. “Yes, it’s a Ring of Power, but unless you call attention to it, no one unknowing of its true nature will notice it is anything other than just...a ring.”

“He told you this?” Naugladur asks sharply. It rankles him, a little, that Starfire had gone to Belegost first and Nogrod second. What else might he have done to favor the Firebeards?

“No,” Hannar says. “I discovered this on my own, when my spouse said nothing of it until I told them. And then my counselors reacted the same way...”

“Hmm.” Naugladur strokes his beard. “I did not let him speak to me alone. The whole Council was there when he offered it to me.”

“Wise of you,” Hannar admits. “I trusted too much in Durin’s recommendation, perhaps.”

“Not overmuch, I hope.”

“Well, unless he has us both enthralled by elvish sorcery...”

There is an uncomfortable pause. It is, after all, somewhat true: the power of the Rings is too great to ignore.

“Did he speak to you of the Shadow?” Naugladur murmurs.

Hannar nods gravely. “That is what convinced me, in the end.”

“Aye, me too. We Broadbeams have never been overfond of elves...”

“As if the Firebeards have!” Hannar protests.

“More than us! But,” Naugladur amends, “never so much as the Longbeards.”

They grumble together at that. There is where the true favoritism lies: of course it is the eldest, mightiest clan who gain the favor of the elves!

“At least he is a High Elf,” Hannar jests. “Not one of those bastard Grey-elves!”

Naugladur laughs, and twists the Topaz Ring onto his finger. “If he’d been one of that lot,” he agrees, “he wouldn’t have made it out of Nogrod in one piece!”

S.A. 3260
Nogrod

Sikhil laughs in the face of the elven-fair lord before him. “Aulendil!” he mocks. “We know your true nature, Thauron Blackhand.”

The visitor’s smile does not falter. “I was once beloved of Aulë,” he begins, but Sikhil only laughs again.

“Fool you are, to think we would trust one who betrayed our Maker and perverted his craft,” he taunts. “And more fool to think we would surrender the source of our wealth! We owe you nothing, Blackhand. My Ring is an heirloom of my line, tracing back to Naugladur II, and I will not—”

He breaks off with a choked cry. The guards around him draw their axes, but there is no visible sign of attack, only their king’s purpling face.

“Perhaps you should reconsider who you call a fool,” Thauron says sweetly. He has not moved in the slightest.

“Fiend...!” Sikhil rasps, tugging at the nothing around his throat. “Foul...!”

“Give what is mine, and I shall let you keep your life,” Thauron says.

But more than fear is boiling in Sikhil’s veins: rage, also, keeps him livid and living.

“Never—” he spits.

Thauron’s mask of friendliness slips away so quickly it is as if it was never there at all. In a flash, before the guards can do anything, he is there before the king, choking him—as if he had been there all along, invisible, and the being standing placidly on the floor below was only an illusion.

Thauron releases one hand—not black, as they call it, but long-fingered and ivory-fair—and effortlessly plucks the Topaz Ring from Sikhil’s grasp. His other hand tightens to an inescapable vise, and a faint snap echoes throughout the hall.

Sikhil III falls limp in his throne, dead.

Now the assembled dwarves roar in fury, the spell of horror that had frozen them still breaking at last. But Thauron only smirks, and slides the Topaz Ring onto his finger just above another: a band of purest gold, unadorned by any jewel.

And as the dwarves descend upon him with their weapons drawn, he vanishes, as if he was never there at all.

Behind him, Sikhil’s body shudders, as if his spirit only now can fly away.

It is unfortunate, Tar-Mairon laments as he flies back to Mordor, quicker than a thought. This trick will work only once, and now the Firebeards will guard their Ruby Ring all the more closely.

But the added power of even one Ring—especially one he had not already drawn strength from, as Celebrimbor had secreted this one away before he could touch it—is enough to strengthen him for his coming journey. Even now, as he soars over the Ephel Dúath, he can see faintly in the distance Númenórean ships approaching. Ar-Pharazôn will soon be upon him.

He smiles. Just as the Broadbeams did when they allowed him into the chamber of the King, Númenor seals its fate.

And he still has a few of the Nine to disperse...if he can find the right Men to bear his gifts.

Tar-Mairon strokes the Topaz Ring lovingly as he alights upon the heights of Barad-dûr. “Yes,” he murmurs to it, to the piece of Celebrimbor inside it, to the piece of himself now curling back up in his eäla; “yes, my dear. You will be useful indeed amid the storm to come...”

Chapter Text

S.A. 2100
Ashūkkan, in the Yellow Mountains

The Mage of the Deserts bows courteously before him, and Thelór nods his approval. He does not trust this spirit, who smells of northern ash and western salt, but at least he has manners. The other spirits who came to his halls, the ones all robed in blue—well! He will not receive them a second time.

Thelór invites the Mage to dine with him and his wife. The spirit speaks the Mannish tongue of these lands quite cleverly, easily adapting to the Ironfist dialect used in the Yellow Mountains, and if his charm was not quite so effortless, Thelór might have been inclined to like him. Beside him, Tallunah laughs uproariously at his jokes, and Thelór finds himself almost...jealous. Tallunah has long since stopped finding him amusing, or indeed anything other than bothersome.

When the meal is over, the Mage turns to more serious matters. He speaks first of his connections to Yettafaz and its queen; of his land in the north, and the enemies he faces. Thelór is ready to politely deny him military aid, but the Mage does not ask for it. Indeed, he asks for nothing at all.

“And what is it you desire from us?” he says when his patience with the spirit’s delicate speech grows thin. He will consider the request, of course, but he will not grant it—unless the Mage wants Tallunah. Her, Thelór will not miss.

“From you? Nothing.” The Mage’s smile is too wide, too bright. “You have given me much already. Your hospitality is admirable, your Majesty! No, I want nothing from you but your friendship. Perhaps some spices, if you are willing to trade. But I came to Ashūkkan merely to establish a connection.”

Thelór raises and eyebrow. He knows there is more. There is always more, especially when it comes to spirits.

“And I have a gift,” the Mage admits at last. “For you, the greatest dwarven king in the South.”

Thelór is not impressed: he is the only dwarven king in the South. The Blacklocks and the Stonefoots in the East have each other, and though Durin woke alone, the Longbeards have the Firebeards and Broadbeams in the West. But the Ironfist and Stiffbeard clans have stood apart from their kin ever since the Ancient Days, when the Mountains of the Wind were destroyed and sundered their people.

(The part of Thelór that remembers those days, the part that is Thelór the Endless, shudders at the memory. They lost so much, so very much—he has returned only now, last of the Seven Fathers to reincarnate, because he has finally found the strength to do so after millennia of rest—)

He feels the Mage probing at his thoughts, and he bristles. No. This is sacred, his relationship with his ancestor who is himself. He will not allow this spirit to pry.

“What gift?” he demands, perhaps a little harsher than necessary. At his side, Tallunah flinches. (She knows. He told her too much, when they were young and hoped their marriage could last. An exercise of good will, long since betrayed.)

“A Ring,” the Mage says, and draws forth a golden band set with a shining emerald.

Thelór shudders. Deep within, Thelór I rebels at the sight. He should not take this, he should never—

But he must at least pretend to consider it. He picks up the offered ring—

And in his palm he feels it, the mighty power, promising fortune and glory and stability. He feels its intent, its promise, its loyalty to him alone...

(In his heart, Thelór I is silent.)

“What is this?” he asks in wonder, and already knows he cannot let it go.

“A Ring of Power,” the Mage explains. “I created it, for you and your kin specifically. It will attune to your mind and spirit, and bring you prosperity, should you wield it with the proper intent.”

“Oh, my!” Tallunah exclaims. “Thelór, might I—”

He closes his fist over it, bristling. “It is not yours,” he snaps, and she falls silent, shocked.

“Indeed,” the Mage agrees. “It is your alone, King Thelór. Of all the Rings I have made and gifted, none have taken quite so readily to their bearer.”

“Who else has a Ring such as this?” Thelór asks sharply.

“Why, not a century ago I gave one to King Audun of the Stiffbeards,” says the Mage.

Now even the Thelór within is eager to listen to the spirit. Audun of the Stiffbeards! The Stiffbeards, whom he has not seen since—since—

(Ah, but if only it were Sindri, his true spouse, who ruled them now...)

Yet beside him is his wife, and before him is the Mage of the Deserts, and even Audun is far away in the North. Sindri is utterly out of reach...

And in his palm is the path to power: the magical Emerald Ring.

“Thank you for your gift,” Thelór II rumbles. “Now, I am eager to hear more of our brother-clan. What do you know of the Stiffbeards?”

T.A. 1279
Ashūkkan

Dalabētt thought she would weep when she was finally alone. But now that she has privacy at long last, after days of grief and toil, she finds she has no tears.

She is too exhausted to cry.

She will remember it for all her days: the tremblings of the past month that the miners assured was just the mountains settling. The vanished workers from the lower depths, assumed fallen into the mine shafts. The rumbling below the throne room, the ground giving way as the Worm erupted from below with little warning. The way her father screamed as the Worm engulfed him. The way the cursed fire burned her beard—the way her mother would not flee—

Why did she not flee? Was it worth it, to die at her husband’s side? To leave Dalabētt alone?

Eaten, they were, and Dalabētt had seen it. Had watched the Worm’s teeth grind at their flesh. Had heard their terrible screams.

King Rûvek is dead. His only heir, his daughter, is now King.

King Dalabētt. She has always known this day would come, but she never thought it would be so soon. Not like this. King Dalabētt. She thought she would be old, with an heir of her own; she thought she would be ready—

She feels a sob wrench its way out of her throat, but it is a dry and horrid sound. Where are her tears? Did the Worm burn them away like her beard?

Who has ever heard of a king without a beard?

The Worm had left before they could mount any kind of counter-attack. The people are already calling it Sarghyr, for its miraculous, malicious, magical (dis)appearance. They whisper: It is the Mage of the Deserts, come to claim his own.

It ate Rûvek. Not whole—he was in pieces—but it ate him entirely. Ring and all.

Ashūkkan remains, ruined though it is. Dalabētt can rebuild it. She must rebuild it. But the Emerald Ring, the source of her father’s might and wealth—it is gone. Their gold is melted, their future warped...

Perhaps she might bear a son, she thinks desperately, though she has no spouse yet. Perhaps he could be Thelór come again, in his sixth incarnation, for all that the fifth was only two generations before Rûvek. Thelór could fix this—and was it not Thelór II who received the Ring in the first place?

But—no. Dalabētt stands, and clenches her fist like the firm iron for which her people are named. She will do what she must. She will be the King her people deserve. She will rebuild Ashūkkan greater than it was, and she will do it on her own. No Mage, no Endless Father does she need!

She will do it herself. And under her guidance, the Ironfists will flourish.

T.A. 1412
North Miraz Desert, west of Ashūkkan

Sarghyr’s final scream still echoes through the empty desert air, but Sarnūsh does not care. Vekmû’s blade is stained with green-black blood as he pulls it from the Were-worm’s gullet, but he does not care. The sand around them is glassed over black and gold from flame and sorcery, and they do not care at all for the devastation wrought. They care for nothing but their purpose.

Slay the Worm, the Master said. Retrieve the Ring.

There was no promise of reward. Once, long ago, there would have been. Once, long ago, when they were still Men, kings and queens. But now they are wraiths, slaves to the Master’s will.

Sarnūsh melts away the Worm’s skin and sinks her hand into its belly. She can feel it, the Emerald Ring, calling out to her—no. To the Master, through her.

She is only a tool for Him.

Vekmû watches impassively. Sarnūsh searches, delves into Sarghyr’s innards—and finds.

She draws out her prize in a dripping, gooey fist. She does not smile: she has no lips with which to do so. She does not laugh: she has no heart with which to find joy. She does not speak: she has no reason to care for Vekmû’s thoughts, nor her own.

To the Master, she thinks, and knows Vekmû thinks it too. And so they leave the steaming corpse of the Were-worm they slew, mounting their black camels and turning them north to Mordor, where the shadows lie.

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S.A. 1950
Ironhold, in the Iron Mountains

“Ah, friend of my fathers!” Audun cries, welcoming Aulendil into their halls. “We were glad to hear of your approach. Come, come—we have been expecting you!”

Aulendil smiles easily, bowing to Audun with the fondness of a friend. It has been many decades since his last visit to Ironhold—Audun has not seen him since their childhood—but he appears the same as ever. Perhaps now he is even better dressed—not for the cold, of course, but with great style. A fire spirit has no need for furs.

Though the last Stiffbeard King to host Aulendil was Audun’s grandfather, he speaks with Audun as if there had been no time at all since his last visit. He is well aware of the concerns of the people of the Northeast: of Gundabad’s occupation in the West, of the unrest of the Khundolar in the South, of the sudden cessation of communication with the Longbeards of Khazad-dûm.

“I have grim news of this, I must confess,” Aulendil says solemnly. “Durin and his people are well, so far as I know, but their elven allies in the land of Eregion have fallen. I was long a guest in their fair city of Ost-in-Edhil, but I was driven forth when suspicion and jealousy fell upon me as an outsider, and shortly thereafter they were assailed by orcs and Men from the South until they were destroyed.” He shakes his head in sorrow. “Durin closed his gates, and has not opened them since. I know not when the Longbeards will emerge once more: already it has been two centuries. His son may be King now, far all I know.”

“Dreadful, dreadful,” Audun murmurs. “Well, I am glad to hear Khazad-dûm yet stands, even still.”

“I as well,” Aulendil agrees. “But more glad am I to return here to Ironhold!” He leans in with a secret smile, eyes dancing with mirth. “You must not tell the other clans, but you have always been my favorite. The most friendly, certainly!”

Audun laughs heartily and toasts their glasses of mead. “Aye, and you are our favorite guest!”

“Still, it is all this unrest in the West that drove me to visit you,” Aulendil continues. “I have a new craft to share. It is something I worked on with the elven smiths, before they grew jealous of my skills and forced me from their city... Here. It is yours.”

He offers a ring to Audun, and they take it with no small amount of awe. A golden band with a deep purple amethyst set into it, it is beautiful in its simplicity. And as they slip it onto their finger, they gasp, for a great power is within it, as if Aulendil had put a fragment of his own mighty soul into his craft.

“Maker’s axe,” they breathe. “What a wonder!”

Aulendil’s smile is sad as he observes them. “It is indeed a powerful tool,” he says, “and it pains me to part from it. But I have Rings of my own, and you have greater need of this. It will bring wealth and strength, King Audun, if you wield it well. Strength to defend Ironhold, should the darkness spread even here.”

“I thank you, old friend,” Audun says firmly, grasping his arm with the upon which they wear their Amethyst Ring. “Sindri’s folk will remember your generosity in the Ages to come!”

T.A. 1833
Ironhold

King Rûvek III of the Ironfists:

I write to you with grim and deadly news. My father, Sindri VI, incarnation of Sindri the Endless who is both our forefather along with the honorable Thelór who guides your clan, is dead.

Ironhold was attacked by a dreadful Cold-drake, Hrímil Frost-heart, and our hoard is stolen. I led an evacuation, and most of our people survive, but my father would not leave his gold and home. He and some of his closest followers, his consort included, remained in Ironhold’s defense, and we know not what has become of them. Likely they are dead, for the Drake remains in our mountain, his freezing breath slaying any who dare come near. I fear also, knowing what has become of your clan’s Emerald Ring, that he has been consumed along with our Amethyst Ring.

It was only through these Rings that our tribes reconnected after millennia of separation from the Cataclysm. The one we knew as Aulendil, and yourself as Sar-Myrin, has revealed his treachery, but in the Rings with which he intended to snare us, he has instead given us strength. The spirits of Mahal’s children are incorruptible, and when we stand together we are indestructible. We need not our Rings to be powerful, so long as the Maker is on our side—but they are a great boon, and we desire the Amethyst Ring’s recovery. Yet more we desire to return to our home, and to avenge our Father Sindri.

When your namesake, Rûvek II, was devoured by the dread Were-worm Sarghyr, we the Stiffbeards sent our aid, and would have come ourselves in arms had King Dalabêtt requested. We may be yet sundered in distance, but let our hearts not be divided! I call upon you and the Ironfist clan to rally to arms and join us in our campaign to retake Ironhold from Hrímil Frost-heart.

In brotherhood and bond,
King Gudbrand II of the Stiffbeards

S.A. 1894
Ironhold

“I told you, we should have brought in Mannish mercenaries,” Rûvek grumbles. “It is historical fact that only Men have ever slain dragons!”

“This is no concern of Men,” Gudbrand growls.

“If you wanted the beast slain, and not just driven off, it is!”

“We have reclaimed Ironhold,” Gudbrand says firmly. “We have recovered many of the bodies of our kin, frozen as they were, to lay now in stone. It will have to be enough, even without the Amethyst Ring.”

Rûvek’s grimace softens. “I am sorry we failed to exact vengeance,” he says. “Sindri our Father deserved better than this.”

“He would have wanted our people to endure,” Gudbrand says gruffly. “More than anything, he would have wanted that.”

“And he shall have it,” Rûvek says firmly. “When he returns in his final incarnation, your people will remain to welcome him, and he will know of the success and the strength of his son.”

“You are a good friend, Rûvek,” Gudbrand rasps. “I mourn for our ancestors before the Great Reuniting, that they did not have this connection between our clans.”

Rûvek clasps his arm, and Gudbrand pulls him into a fierce embrace. A few moments later, they part, wiping their eyes and mumbling under their breath.

When Rûvek regains his composure, he takes a breath, and asks, “You will rid yourself of the tainted gold, of course?”

Gudbrand’s eyes narrow, their closeness of a moment before vanishing. “What do you mean?” he demands. “We have use of it. We cannot go about discarding quality gold!”

Rûvek shakes his head. “No, you must melt it down and let it rest for a century at least,” he insists. “We have had our fair share of quarrels with the Were-worms, in Miraz, and not just in the case of my namesake’s devouring. When a dragon, be it a drake or worm or winged beast, claims a hoard, some foul spell is laid upon it, the gold in especial. It can drive you to madness if you let it.”

“No wonder your people are so poorly armed, if you destroy your gold every time a dragon so much as looks at it!” Gudbrand cries.

“Heed my warning, or not,” Rûvek snaps. “You will discover the truth soon enough, when your mind is filled with naught but gold-lust and your people slaughtering each other over trinkets!”

Gudbrand flinches. Rûvek continues, his tone softer: “And it is not forever. You will have a lean century—though Ashūkkan will send as much aid as we can, of course—but you can use the ingots for new riches, eventually.”

“Or we could trade it away to Men and elves,” Gudbrand mutters.

Rûvek laughs shortly. “Aye, you could do that. I only fear it will stoke Men’s greed so terribly they will wage war upon you for more.”

Gudbrand sighs, his anger abating. “I will think on this,” he concedes. “I am glad you came to our aid, in arms and advice.”

“As am I,” Rûvek said. “Brothers we are.”

“And brothers we shall remain,” Gudbrand agrees.

T.A. 2004
Grey Mountains

He is so tired.

He was mighty once. Mighty, and immortal, and feared. He ruled the drakes of the Iron Mountains, and struck fear into the weak hearts of the dragons in the Grey. The North was his, and he had a mighty hoard, made mightier when he claimed the dwarves’ stronghold for himself.

Yet that had been the beginning of the end, had it not?

He ate their petty King. He was filled with holy power, for the King had borne a trinket blessed by some Maia. He had been born after the War of Wrath, to parents who escaped the destruction of the Master’s armies, but he knew Maiar. He knew especially the one called Thû, who haunted the northern peaks and the place that long, long ago been his Master’s first fortress.

It was Thû who touched this Ring. It was Thû who was Hrímil Frost-heart’s undoing.

When the dwarves returned and ousted him, Hrímil was astonished at his own weakness. The power of the Ring was no longer strengthening him. Now it sapped his strength, and burned in his belly.

He is so hungry...

He fled. To the Grey Mountains of his birth, where his brood yet dwell. But his mates jeered at him, his brood taunted him; even the lesser wyrms rejected him. Hrímil is alone. It is Vethúg who rules them now, Vethúg once the runt of his clutch, now King of Dragons.

For a century he lived like this, slinking and scavenging. All the while, he rotted from within, the Ring eating him from the inside out.

It wants to be free. He wants to be free, of it, but he cannot expel it no matter how he tries. Only in death can he find his release.

He is so tired.

Hrímil lays down now, for the forever-sleep. He knows the end is near. He fears it, yet craves it. Surely then the pain will end. Surely then he will be free.

He is so tired.

He closes his eyes. The burning is his one constant, the fire in his belly where frost once lived. He cannot even twitch his tail, his wings.

He lets out a feeble whine, and lets the darkness take him.

But the darkness holds on, and Hrímil remains.

T.A. 2243
Grey Mountains

Not even worms will devour this corpse. Not even dragons will plunder its meager hoard. Nothing will touch this Ring-drake, the dragon that once was Hrímil Frost-heart, who is now nothing but a Ring-bound wraith.

Hrímil’s spirit radiates malice and icy fury. Slow decay has eaten away skin and fat, but his scales remain, and his accursed bones. Aiwareiks pays no mind to the aura of hate as he approaches. He has not had a mind in a very long time.

Bring me the Ring, for the Master, the Witch-king had said. And Aiwareiks, weakest of the Nine, was made to obey.

It is easy to slip his incorporeal hand through a sagging ribcage. He looks not for golden scales and poisoned fangs, but for a more singular treasure. A singular ring: the Amethyst Ring.

Even now, Hrímil guides his last treasure fiercely. But Aiwareiks, weak though he may be in comparison to the head of his order, is more than a match for a wasted dragon-spirit. He draws his axe and rends the haggard soul in twain, freeing it from its torment and sending it into oblivion.

And there: the Ring. It is done.

Aiwareiks departs, slow and silent. He will take his prize to Minas Morgul, and the Witch-king will deliver it to the Master. She will earn His reward, but Aiwareiks does not care. He cannot care.

He is done. He will rest now in his tomb in the North, until he is called upon again.

Chapter Text

S.A. 2300
Kalormë

Rarely does the serpent-sorcerer summon the dwarven kings of the East to his hall in high Kalormë, but when he does, the call is not lightly ignored. Thus it is that Halakund II of the Blacklocks and Chayalor of the Stonefoots bow before Túvon in his golden throne, holding back the wounded pride of all their ancestors.

Around Túvon stand his mortal guards, stout and stern Sûhalar axemen, grimacing and wary. Some Sûhalar claim distant kinship with the dwarves, and it is true that they are shorter and sturdier than their other kin in the East, but the dwarves scoff at such a boast. No Mannish blood taints their lineages!

But today, even Túvon is nervous, and when he bids the dwarven kings to take their places of honor in the lesser thrones on his either side, it becomes immediately clear to Halakhund why they have been summoned here, for another guest is declared, his many titles striking fear and awe into the hearts of all present.

Túvon is clever and powerful. He rules these lands without contest, and no rebellion against his sorcery has ever succeeded for long. Let the western clans scoff at the Blacklocks and Stonefoots who pay tribute to this accursed sorcerer: they do not know the horrors he wields upon those who defy him.

But greater than Túvon is his one rival, the true Lord of the East. This sorcerer, spirit, necromancer—for he is all that and more—he dwells mostly in the vast lands across the Inner Sea, leaving Túvon to his own petty tyranny. But all in these lands know that Thû is greater than Túvon, and when the serpent-sorcerer dares assert his power beyond his bounds, Thû Sunlord will come a-reckoning.

Halakhund clenches his fist as the grand doors of the high palace atop Kalormë, where the air is thin and dwarves must struggle to even take breath, swing open. In strides the spirit who can only be Thû, dripping in silk and silver, elven-fair but with eyes too keen to be anything but a spirit of fire.

Halakhund has never seen Thû himself before this day. It has been many generations since the Sunlord last came to Kalormë to humble Túvon. But the way Thû looks right through him, as if he sees straight to the core of his stone heart, is so visceral it is as if the violation of his ancestors’ sovereignty is drawn forth up out of his soul, leaving him choking on the shame of bowing to any but Mahal.

Thû does not bow to anyone. The Blacklocks fear him even more than Túvon, for he is terrible in his friendship and monstrous in his rage, or so the legends tell. Túvon, at least, is a familiar tyranny, predictable and appeasable. Thû is unknown—and they would like him to stay that way.

Halakhund is astonished when Thû all but ignores Túvon, instead addressing him and Chayalor directly. Is this a slight against the serpent-lord? How long has Thû been here, to have already brought his rival to heel? But he has little time to think, for Thû’s words are rich and heavy, dripping into his mind like honey into tea.

“King Chayalor, King Halakhund,” Thû drawls. “Revered kings of the Stonefoot and Blacklock clans. It is an honor to meet you.”

He meets Halakhund’s eyes a second time, and now his shame is replaced by a swell of pride. Here, at last, is a spirit who recognizes his authority!

“I come bearing gifts for the mightiest of dwarven kings,” Thû continues. He spreads wide his arms, the long, sweeping golden-black sleeves of his robe brushing against the polished stone floor. “I have traveled far from my domain in the West, seeking out each of the Seven Tribes, and of them all none have been so grand as your own. Ai, the wondrous depths of Tagamand, where gold flows like a river through skilled hands! Ah, the great caverns of Banzakh, where jewels grow like flowers under the tender care of salt and song! Not even Khazad-dûm, stronghold of Durin’s folk, can compare!”

Halakhund is no fool: he knows when he is being flattered. Yet still he sits a little taller in his throne, and smiles to see the evidence of his people’s gemcraft scattered across Túvon’s lustrous halls. On Thû’s left side, he catches Chayalor hiding a smirk in his long white beard, for just as Banzakh’s jewels are prized beyond measure, so is Tagamand’s rich red gold.

And both have been stolen from them by Túvon, here in his high palace.

A sudden boldness overtaking him, Halakhund stands, and says, “Fair words you offer, Sunlord! But what gifts do you speak of, beyond flattery?”

“It is not flattery to speak the truth,” says Thû, but his smile is not too sharp, and he seems to wink at Halakhund. From his long fingers he removes two rings, golden bands each set with a stone: one sparkling crystal-white, the other iridescent in its shifting, gleaming colors.

“Here are my gifts to you, your Majesties,” Thû proclaims, beckoning them forth. Halakhund and Chayalor rise as one and hasten toward him, eager to receive his offering. “They are Rings of Power, imbued with some small part of my own vigor, but their true strength lies in the spirits of their bearers. If you are wise and skillful, as I know you are, your Rings shall multiply your treasures and sway the hearts of even mighty sorcerers to your service.”

To Chayalor he gives the Ring set with diamond, and to Halakhund, the Ring of opal. It is clear at once the truth of his claims, for as soon as Halakhund slips it on his finger, he feels the power of the Opal Ring flowing through him, ready to be wielded.

So caught up in the glory of their gifts, neither Halakhund or Chayalor notice the way Túvon’s face darkens from his seat upon his mighty throne, nor the smirk that flickers across Thû Sunlord’s lips as they fall into his trap.

T.A. 2492
Banzakh

There are tales and legends of dragons rampaging through the far lands, casting down mountains in their fury and devouring great hoards of treasure in their lust. The tales of Were-worms in the South and Cold-drakes in the North have made their way to the Walls of the Sun, where the Blacklocks and Stonefoots dwell. But the serpents of the Walls of the Sun are under the domain of its sorcerer, and Túvon directs them upon his subjects only when they rebel against him.

Thus it is when the dragon comes, the Blacklocks are not prepared.

The first village in the foothills is utterly destroyed. The second sees the fires of the first, and evacuates the populace, but their homes are set ablaze. The dragon spares neither Men nor elves nor dwarves, annihilating all in her path.

The trading outposts are next, then the grain stores, and then at last the Fire-drake assaults the outer gate to Banzakh, the great city under stone. Only then does she speak, taunting the guards before eating them one by one, sparing only one to deliver a message to the King.

When the first ravens flew to Banzakh with the news, Sûkhor frantically began preparing for her arrival and sending aid to those already affected, but he is not fast enough. Now the dragon sits on his doorstep, threatening to plunder his halls of gold and gems if he does not come out and face her, Lorekh the Wild, in combat.

Sûkhor is left with no choice. He is a young king, having inherited early when his father was killed by the sorcerer-tyrant for refusing to pay him fealty. Sûkhor watched it happen, and had been made to pay obeisance himself whilst kneeling in a pool of his father’s blood, and had only barely managed to claim the Opal Ring from the corpse before Túvon snatched it for himself.

That was all of ten years ago, and the memory haunts Sûkhor to this day. He has paid Túvon’s taxes, has knelt and groveled to him, has even cropped short his beard in a gesture of humility that was truly humiliation. He has let his own spirit be crushed in the name of letting his people live in peace—so why now does the Lord of Serpents turn his beast upon them, when they are loyal to even his most outrageous demands?

He has no spouse or child, and only one heir, a cousin, gone away to settle the mountain they call Parzakh on the main continent, far away from Túvon’s overlordship. Should he fall, the Blacklocks will remain leaderless until this cousin returns, if she returns.

And yet: Sûkhor readies his axe, and ties his hair into a braid. He will face this Lorekh. He decided ten years ago he would put his people first, before his pride, before his very life. He will not fail now, and doom them to a fiery death by dragonfire.

Many and mournful at the songs sung of this battle, between Lorekh the Wild and Sûkhor the Brave. For in truth, as it was later learned, Lorekh had not been sent by Túvon: she escaped his dungeons, and rampaged through the land in her freedom, driven by a force unknown to Banzakh where the Opal Ring lay hid.

The bards whisper that it was the Ring Túvon coveted, the Ring that made him so cruel; but he had never before set hands upon it, and knew not of where it was kept. For the Blacklocks did not wear it openly, not after the Diamond Ring of the Stonefoots was stolen away.

But it is in Banzakh’s hoard, and Sûkhor puts it upon his finger now, for he shall need all his power to defeat a foe as mighty as Lukhor the Untamed.

Oh, she taunts him as he stands before her on the battlements, and he bellows back in rage. He demands her surrender, and Túvon’s apology, but she laughs in his face. Her scales are the silver-gold color of electrum, and her breath is poisoned fire, and yet Sûkhor dances away from her spurts of flame and the lunges of her terrible claws.

Long into the night the battle lasts, so the poets wail, and Sûkhor seems to gain the upper hand. Yet as the Sun rises, sudden over the Walls that keep it hid amidst the night, Lorekh’s fire spits forth ever brighter, and blinds Sûkhor so his axe strikes wide.

Now she grasps him in her terrible jaws, and hisses her triumph over him. But in his last moments, Sûkhor draws upon the power of the Opal Ring, and in a wild burst of strength he swings his axe one more time—and strikes her across the face, rending a terrible gash between her eyes.

She screams and lets him fall, and his back breaks upon the stone below. In fury she wails and flaps her wings, blinded by her own blood, and in vengeance she grabs the King’s limp body, swallowing him whole, Ring and all.

And now the audience of this great lay weeps to hear of his terrible death, but Sûkhor saved his people that day. The blow to Lorekh’s face weakens her and drives her away from Banzakh, into the West and the North, where she becomes an outcast among her own kind.

But with her she takes Sûkhor, briefest and bravest of kings, and with him the Opal Ring. The King’s cousin does return to take up his mantle, but Banzakh is never again the place of wealth and beauty it was in days long ago, and the mountain of Parzakh in Middle-earth becomes the new center of Blacklock power, and yet never so great as Banzakh that came before.

T.A. 2589
Northeastern border of the Woodland Realm

Cleaning up after a conflict as devastating as this one is always a grueling chore. Yet Tirdis would rather walk in the blood and muck of a battlefield than endure what the warriors who march back to Thranduil’s halls must do: for even disposing of dragon-corpses is better than telling the King that his spouse is dead, and their young son motherless.

Queen Thúlivren is carried away upon a bier covered in brown cloth to hide her grievous wounds, and beside her in no less honor is the body of the mortal woman who landed the killing blow of the dread beast Thirristiel. The woodmen who joined this battle were brave but few, and only a handful remain to carry Hildr’s remains back to her family.

It is an awe to Tirdis that one so young, even by the standards of her own people, had the strength to drive a spear into the dragon’s heart. Yet the act had killed poor Hildr, just as surely as dragonfire had laid low the Queen. And now it is Tirdis, Eredhnil, and Malweth who must oversee the disposal of the dragon’s body and the cleansing of the forest around it.

It has been a bad year for dragons. Some unrest in the Grey Mountains to the north shook up the beasts, sending them south to devastate the Free-peoples of Rhovanion. Little drakes sacked villages, while the great Vethúg Wintermind descended upon the halls of the Longbeard dwarves, slaying their King and forcing his son to retreat to the Lonely Mountain. Thranduil was concerned enough about the presence of dwarves as neighbors so near, but when one foul-faced dragon turned her attention to the Woodland Realm...

Thirristiel they named her, for the dreadful scar upon her face, and she is wilier than her kin. Something burns at her from within, and she is vicious beyond account to any who dares cross her. Any male drake who tries to woo her is killed, and she is fearsome beyond measure to elves and dwarves and Men. The unrest in the North forced her southward to the Wood, and bold Thúlivren of the Silvan folk took up her staff and sword, leading their people to battle against this terrible foe.

And now they all are dead, Thúlivren and Thirristiel and the brave mortal Hildr, and Tirdis remains, her own heart shaken. She is a scout under Captain Garaveth, and the leader of those other guards ordered to take care of the dragon’s remains; with her are Eredhnil and Malweth and their contingent of healers whose spirits are closest to the land.

Their task is a grim and taxing one. Loose scales must be collected, for they have value in medicine and armory, but none may be pried from the corpse; malice lingers in the air, heaviest upon the beast’s ruined body. Blood and guts ooze from her torn belly and wounded chest, and all life it touches withers away.

With Song and strength, they confine the gory mess to a small corner of the wood, and then set alight the body. It is a long, terrible watch they make as the fire burns, but after several days, when all that remains are embers, the healing work begins.

Now Tirdis steps back and watches with awe the work of Malweth and Eredhnil. Songs are sung, coaxing plants back to life and creatures back to their grazing-grounds. Water from a stream is diverted, and the earth and air are cleansed.

The site of the fire, still burning low, is scoured. That will remain a desolate mound for century, until the long, slow work of the earth itself reclaims it. It cannot be hurried along any further.

At last there is no more left to do but sort through the ashes of what once was Thirristiel’s corpse. Malweth takes the exhausted guards and healers home, to where they are surely needed to tend those sick with lingering illness from the ruin of dragonfire. Now only Tirdis and Eredhnil remain to see to the last of their task—and only then do they discover the Ring.

It ought to have melted in the flames, or dissolved within the dragon’s stomach. But it is in pristine condition, the opal shining and the gold unstained.

Eredhnil picks it up in awe. “A Ring of Power,” they realize, and beside them Tirdis shivers. 

The Woodland Realm has no magic ring. Oropher and Thranduil never wielded one, for Celebrimbor did not offer them any, and in their distrust of the Noldor they would not have accepted. This Ring must once have belonged to a Man or dwarf, and was swallowed up by Thirristiel years ago.

“We should bring it to the King,” Tirdis says, but even she is uncertain.

“What would he do with it?” Eredhnil asks with a frown.

“I do not know,” she admits, “but he has more right to decide than we.”

Eredhnil closes their fist over it. “I will keep it in my bag until we return,” they say, and Tirdis nods.

When their work is finally done, they melt into the depths of the forest with the Ring in Eredhnil’s pack. But there are deep shadows in the Woods, even this far north, and the heavy burden they carry calls to others of its kind.

Who can say what happened to Eredhnil and Tirdis? Only a very few can know for certain. But it is true that they were never seen again by friend or beast. Perhaps they lost their way, or were assailed by Spiders. Or perhaps the other lord of Mirkwood, the Lord of Dol Guldur, stole them away to his keep, and earned his second Ring.

In the end, the Opal Ring made its way to Sauron’s hoard through Khamûl, second of the Nine, though whether he himself won it from the Silvan elves or one of his many thralls, it is not known. Whatever happened, it is certain that Thranduil never heard of it: for the Woodland Realm has never had a Ring of Power...and it never shall.

Chapter Text

S.A. 2300
Kalormë

“What a pretty treasure,” says Túvon, looming over him with more shadows than is right and proper.

Chayalor scowls up at him, undaunted. “I know what you want,” he says bluntly. He will not be cowed by this tyrant, not now. Not anymore.

“I?” Túvon asks, falsely innocent, his snake-eyes glittering.

“You,” he agrees, more bold in his defiance than he has ever been before. He lifts the Diamond Ring up to Túvon’s eyes, taunting him with it. “Well, it isn’t yours, my Lord. You shall never have it.”

Túvon smiles a snake’s smile, without any lips at all. “Of course, your Majesty.”

Chayalor turns away without another word, chuckling softly to himself as he rejoins the retinue that accompanied him here to Túvon’s halls. What good fortune Thû Sunlord has brought him, and King Halakhund as well! And what humiliation, to spurn Túvon!

Ai, the foundations of the Walls of the Sun are shifting, and soon the Stonefoots will stand stronger than the snake in his lair. No longer will any proud dwarves bow to a spirit other than Mahal!

T.A. 490
Tagamand

It happens without any warning. One night, there are there with him, his wife in his arms and their son in his bed—and the next morning, they are gone.

Zakhnab is frantic. All of Tagamand is in uproar. There is no stone unturned as every dwarf and child scrambles to search for their missing queen and prince. Yet there is no note left behind, no trace of their whereabouts: they have simply vanished into the night.

Drasír would not do this. She would not leave him, and even if her heart grew wan and cold, and she drew away from Zakhnab, she would not take little Khundda away from him!

Zakhnab is loath to ask the one whom he fears the most if he knows where his wife and son have disappeared to. He reaches out first to the Blacklocks, and then the elves—and when they can give him nothing but condolences, he turns at last to the Sûhalar...and through them, to Túvon.

The Sûhalar are quick to respond, delivering him two things: a corpse, and a letter.

King Zakhnab V of the Stonefoots:
Look upon the body of your queen, and know I am capable of much worse, should you deny me what I am due.
Give me your Diamond Ring, and your son will be returned to you.

It is unsigned but for a serpent-shaped stamp on the seal. It does not need a signature for Zakhnab to know exactly who it is from.

Zakhnab weeps and shouts and tears at his beard. A grand funeral is held for Drasír, and she is sealed in his own tomb: when he dies, he will be laid beside her.

As for Kundda, and the Ring—

What is one life, when he is responsible for protecting all the Stonefoot clan? What is one child, if hundreds go hungry in poverty? What is he, the King, if not the guardian and champion of his people?

The Diamond Ring of his forefathers is his. It is theirs, the Stonefoot clan’s, not Túvon’s. It is Khundda’s birthright.

Zakhnab does not pay Túvon’s terrible ransom. He will bring his son home another way.

There is no other way.

He tries, and he tries, but he only loses more: soldiers, gold, hope. Khundda remains out of his reach, and Zakhnab despairs.

There is no other way.

One year to the day from Drasír’s murder, Zakhnab receives another grisly package.

He opens it and recoils in disgust and horror. Falling out of a stained silk wrapping is—a child-sized leg, severed just below the knee. Upon the heel is stamped Túvon’s serpent-brand.

There is no note, this time. None is needed. Zakhnab knows exactly what Túvon demands—and what he threatens.

His beard is thin from tearing in grief and worry. The halls of Tagamand flow with bounteous gold: pure concentrated yellow, copper-rich red, silver-infused electrum. They are wealthier now than ever before.

But Khundda—his son, his baby boy, whose twelfth birthday was spent in agonizing captivity—

Khundda must believe his father does not love him.

This is what breaks Zakhnab, in the end. Perhaps he dooms Tagamand to poverty and despair, but he will have his son back. All the riches in the world are not worth the torment of his beloved baby boy.

He sends the order to his smiths to begin work on a foot of made of gold, and he takes himself to Kalormë, the Diamond Ring upon his finger for just a little while longer.

A generation later, Zakhnab the Poor is laid beside his queen in a white stone tomb. A new King rises to the throne of the Stonefoots, the first in centuries to take his oaths without a Ring of Power upon his finger—but Khundda Goldenheel lives, and rules over a diminished people, the last of their mighty wealth (it is said) contained in his foot of gold.

T.A. 1023
Kalormë

Túvon cowers on the ground, slumped kneeling before his own throne, whereupon Tar-Mairon sits and considers how to reprimand his errant vassal. The cowardly Úmaia is a master of deception second only to Tar-Mairon himself, but he lacks the power and strength of will a true Dark Lord must wield to bring Arda under his control. Again and again Tar-Mairon warns him of the folly of resistance, and again and again Túvon grows greedy and proud, disobeying him at every turn.

“I think,” Tar-Mairon purrs, “this is the last time I shall be merciful with you, Túvon.”

Túvon trembles, but does not weep. Not yet, at least.

“Next time, I will bring you back to Mordor with me,” Tar-Mairon muses. “I shall put you to work amongst the Olog-hai and the Balrogs and the dragons I command. You shall know true labor, and you shall be truly humbled.”

“M-Master, please,” Túvon rasps, his voice ragged with fear.

But Tar-Mairon is the Deceiver, and knows a show when he sees one. “Cease your whining,” he orders, and Túvon lifts his head sharply. “You forget who stood at Melkor’s side at the height of his power and glory. You could have had this, Túvon the Faithless, had you remained loyal to the King of Arda. But you deserted him, to play here in the East with dwarves and Men, and so I did what you could not. I became the Lieutenant, and I became Melkor’s successor.”

Túvon’s eyes dart around him, where all Nine of the Nazgûl stand, motionless and threatening. “I have erred,” he begins, but Tar-Mairon cuts him off with a raised finger—the finger upon which he once wore the One Ring.

He is no longer fair, as he was long ago when he first brought Túvon beneath his heel. He is no longer so strong. But Túvon, here in his personal continent, knows little of the details of his last defeat. He knows not what Tar-Mairon has lost, nor what he has to gain.

His Ring is gone, yes. But he has the Nine with him still, and one of the Seven...and Túvon shall give him another.

“Give to me the Diamond Ring,” he commands. “I know you coveted it from the beginning. I know you extorted it from the Stonefoot dwarves. I know also that you have failed to discover its secrets or to wield it with any efficacy.”

“Master,” Túvon protests, but Tar-Mairon’s unblinking eyes bore deep into his eäla, and he shudders, prostrating before him once more.

“The Ring, Túvon,” Tar-Mairon says.

Rage flashes across Túvon’s face, but he holds forth his hand and offers it to Tar-Mairon. A foolish mistake, Tar-Mairon thinks snidely, as he nods to his Witch-king. A Morgul-blade is drawn, and Túvon screams as his hand is severed from its wrist, and his fána from its borrowed power: he falls back, writhing, and morphs into a shadow-snake, slithering away in agony.

“Follow him,” he orders his own Tyrant, and the Despot of Rhovanion glides after him, utterly subservient.

“Master,” whispers his pet Queen, Zimraphêl of the Drowned Empire. She offers him the Diamond Ring, for the false flesh of Túvon’s hand has melted away, and he takes it from her with a smirk.

It is almost a shame Túvon did not succumb to the same thralldom as his Nine. He would have been much easier to control. But it seems even a coward as he is still powerful enough as an Úmaia to maintain his selfhood whilst wearing a Ring of Power.

His plans have changed a hundred times over. Men he seduced admirably; the elves he has yet to conquer, and shall not for some time. Dwarves—he knew they were made of sturdier souls than Men, and yet, he is frustrated that not a single one has fallen to his dominion. Maiar, even Úmaiar, are outside his abilities to control in this way (if only he had Melkor’s unadulterated might—!)...

Tar-Mairon slides the Diamond Ring onto his finger just above the Topaz Ring he recovered from the Broadbeams before his sojourn in Númenor. Dwarves are his old Master’s creations; his brothers, in a sense. He shall have to attempt a different approach with them.

Already he is stronger, with this Ring returned to him. He will need all the Seven to gather enough power to launch a true campaign across the West. He remains powerful in the East and South, where his Nine are strongest, and the North is a wasteland not worth his time, but the West...

There lie the Three, he knows, hidden somewhere with their elven bearers. He must have them all—and he must have the One. But first, the Seven.

The Nine shall bring them to him. He will return to Mordor, and send them abroad to scheme and plot and steal them back to their creator. If dwarven spirits are unconquerable, then it is their mountains that must be vanquished—and greed has ever been the undoing of Aulë’s Children. Tar-Mairon knows it well: for greed and lust for power are what drew him first to Melkor.

Topaz and Diamond he has. But Sapphire, Ruby, Emerald, Amethyst, Opal...these crafts are his, and he shall call them back to him. Even without the One, they will still hearken to their master, and return to him upon his dark throne in Mordor, where the shadows lie.

Tar-Mairon will make it so.