"It is precious to me...."

I read those words over and over again. They are already seared upon my brain, nay, upon my very soul, yet I continue to read them, staring at the handwriting upon the page. It is as familiar to me as my own, and I still have those cherished few letters addressed to me in that same handwriting. Mithrandir has brought me his papers from Gondor as proof that young Frodo's ring is The One Ring. I read the words, and I can hear his voice as if he were standing next to me, his hand warm upon my shoulder. That hand, though, is cold in a grave now, the Ring he chose to wear upon it sealing his doom. The body that I once craved so very much is turned to dust, yet the love I had for it and for him refuses to do so.

3000 years it has lasted, tainted at the last by his betrayal, yet still forever embedded within my heart as if it were an arrowtip that cannot be removed. I carry it with me, its sharp edges dulled by the passage of time, yet still an everpresent ache.

I had thought that Isildur was strong. The blood of his father, the blood of Numenor, ran strong in his veins. And now, I hear the wizard speak, telling me that we must place our hope in men. I feel the pain squeeze my heart. No, Mithrandir, do not ask me to believe in that.

"Men.. men are weak. The race of men is failing. The blood of Numenor is all but spent. It's pride and diginty forgotten. It is because of men the ring survives. I was there... I was there three thousand years ago, when Isildur took the ring. I was there the day the strength of men failed."

I cannot keep the bitterness from my voice, and I cannot turn my face to show the pain I feel. It is but a memory, yet I can still hear and see it as if it were but a moment ago. His father was tossed aside by the hand of Sauron, and Isildur flew to his side. Filled with rage and bloodlust, his only thought was revenge, overpowering his fear of the Dark Lord standing before him, ready to take his life as easily as he did his father's. That strength did not fail then. Narsil broken into many shards, empty body of his father next to him, he struck out, his arm true. By the hand of Isildur, son of Elendil, the Dark Lord fell. We were all saved.

He looked as if he were in a trance, staring through unseeing eyes as he clutched the Ring in his hand. Like a docile child, he let me lead him into Mount Doom, finally coming free from his state as we approached the fires deep inside. He halted, our hands still entwined together, and stared at me.

"It is a gift to us, my precious one," he whispered, drawing my hand to his mouth for a kiss.

"Yes, it is," I replied, thinking he was referring to the fall of Sauron. "He is gone, and when the Ring is destroyed, the darkness will be banished."

Pulling him forward, I grew more eager than ever to cast the Ring into the fires from whence it came. My own selfish thoughts had me thinking only to get this simple task over with, and then return to our camp where I might better celebrate our victory with my love. I was so entranced by those thoughts that I hardly noticed when our hands parted, and I ran on ahead. Standing on a precipice, almost deafened by the powerful fires below, I shouted back at him to cast it in. When there was no response, I looked back, puzzled to see that he should still be standing there and not at my side. A strange look was upon his face, and again I urged him forward to cast the Ring into the fires.

A smile crossed his face, such as I have never seen before. It held not joy nor love nor any emotion I had ever seen before on Isildur's countenance. A feeling of dread began to fill my heart as I beheld pride, and a lust for power so intense that I nearly stumbled backward into the flames myself.

"No."

Even as I shouted his name, ashamed of the pleading desperation in my voice, I knew that he was lost to me. The strength of men, the strength of my beloved, the one I held dearer to me than any other, had fallen. He was not the King of Gondor anymore, but a mere piece of flesh to be used for the purposes of darkness. His will had not been of iron as I had thought, but of a mere weak metal, shattered into too many pieces to ever be made whole again.

I could not just let him go. I had to see him again, and try to reason with him though I knew that his reason was already twisted by the power of the Ring. I went to his tent, and he looked at me with such happiness that I nearly forgot why I had came. He thought that I had changed my mind, and came to him to celebrate him keeping the Ring. Full of joy, and bursting with power, he told me why he had kept the Ring. I nearly fell to the ground as I heard our love being used as the excuse for his holding on to the epitome of darkness. I wanted to go to him, hold him, and plead with him, telling him that he did not need the Ring, that we did not need the Ring. Though I knew it was foolish, I wanted my love to be enough to convince him. I wanted my love for him to be more powerful than the call of the Ring.

Yet I could not bring myself to touch him. He reached for me, and I recoiled, not believing that the day had finally come when I would refuse his embrace. I knew that he was not mine to touch anymore. He belonged only to the Ring now, and I knew that any touch of his would be corrupted by it. Pain continued to lance through my heart as I beheld the bewilderment and hurt on his face at my rejection. I could not stay in his presence any longer, lest the Ring use my love for him to tempt me to join him.

Knowing that I would never again look upon it, I paused to drink in the sight of his face one last time before turning to leave. I did not look behind me even as I heard his voice call to me, and I felt my heart curl up within my chest.

I could have chosen to die -- my grief was certainly powerful enough. I considered it, even gave myself up to it at one point, but found myself fighting against it. I knew that I must stay alive to fight against the Ring. For him, for our love, I had to do so. I could not give up on any small hope that the Ring might still be destroyed and Isildur saved. Even after his death, as fresh sadness poured over my soul, I was even more certain that I must stay alive. He had taken the Ring in the name of our love, and I would not rest until I had seen it destroyed in that name as well.

I murmur, mostly to myself. "It should have ended that day, but evil was allowed to endure. Isildur kept the ring, the line of kings is broken. There is no strength left in the world of men. They are scattered, divided, leaderless."

Mithrandir speaks, forcing me from my reverie.

"There is one who can unite them, one that could reclaim the throne of Gondor."

I think of Aragorn, and the love of a father that I hold for him. From a child, I have helped to raise him, and I might be vain enough to think that my influence could overcome the frailty of his bloodline's history. I try to not hold Aragorn accountable for the weakness of his ancestor. I know that he does that to himself, and I am aware that I have not comforted him as I might have due to my own misgivings. He is not Isildur, and he too must make his own choices. Yet, Isildur went against his blood, and behaved not like his own kin, his father, Elendil. It is yet possible that Aragorn may go against his own will and follow in Isildur's footsteps. I know at the very least that he will be tempted mightily to do so by the Ring. And I find it hard to believe in the strength of men when I have been cursed with eternal heartache because of its failure.

My heartache is what prompted me to help raise the sons of Gondor. I have done my best, swearing on the love that was once between myself and my beloved Isildur, to help them to cultivate whatever strength they have to stand before the Dark Lord and the call of the Ring, and to resist them both. Perhaps in Aragorn's case I have done this too well as he swore to never be King, and chose instead to live the wandering life of a Ranger, never embracing the White City as his home.

"He turned from that path long ago. He has chosen exile."

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know in my heart that his exile is at an end. His destiny is not mine to control, and I am well aware that the burden of the Ring will not leave Aragorn untouched. In the name of Isildur, I will see to it that he is not left to bear it alone.