One hobbit would have been enough to carry the ring to Mordor. We brought four. The wise among the Elves call this “redundancy” and “contingency planning.”

The first died, betrayed by a man maddened by lust for the ring, on Amon Hen. Two were carried off by orcs; I hope, for their sake, that they died. The fourth carried the ring bravely until Cirith Ungol, where he fell victim to the greatest child of Ungoliant.

It does not do for the great to carry the ring. But by Earendil's light I have no other choice.

We swore a great oath, the three of us, to each bear it one day in three; he who hesitated to pass the Ring to the next in line would be struck down on the spot, as irredeemably tarnished by its influence. So far, we have given up the ring with good grace; whether because we have resisted its influence or because we do not want to give a sign before we have reached the perfect moment to strike, I cannot say.

I know not what the Ring says to the dwarf or to the elf; I know only what it whispers to me on the watch late at night.

In the great books of Elrond’s library, I had read of my ancestors, of the great cities of Numenor, crushed under the waves for daring to defy the Valar. I was supposed to learn of the folly of Man. On this subject, though thirsty for learning, I was not a good student.

It is easy to praise the Gift of Men when one will live forever. It is harder when one faces down a mere ten score years, aching with the brevity, and knowing that one only gets so many because of the blood of Numenor running in one’s veins.

The hands of a king are the hands of healer, they say. What illness better to heal than that which mars all Men?

If mortality is such a gift, why isn’t every elf maiden a Luthien?

My love has given up much for me. I know not whether in her place I would have done the same.

But one lesson indeed I have taken to heart from the tales of Numenor. If one is to end the Doom of Men, one must do it wisely and with care, and without the fair gifts of foul men.

As a child, I had many lessons in the wisdom of the Elves. My tutor would often ask me how long it would take an ordinary man to write a poem, and how long it would take me; I would give myself the shorter time, reasoning that I had been inspired by the beauty of the morning, or that I had an excellent grasp of the meter I intended to use. Still, despite my predictions, I took as long as the ordinary man.

“Learn this lesson well, Estil,” my tutor would say, laughing. “Men and Elves have wisdom about others that they do not have about themselves, and forever think of themselves as a special case.”

I hope dearly I have learned my lesson well.

The Ring speaks to me as I carry it on my breast. It whispers of the thousands that have died, today and yesterday and tomorrow. Each day that I trudge with sore feet toward Orodruin I kill another thousand, as surely as if I broke their necks myself. All I must do is slip the ring on my finger--

No, I think. I am of the line of Isildur. Do I truly think I can rule the Ring where he did not?

Isildur was not trained among the Elves. Perhaps only one who knows the Elvish wisdom, who has mastery over his mind as another man would have over the sword or the bow, can turn the Ring toward the good.

Indeed, this is true, I think. I know the Elvish wisdom, and I am using it to do the only good thing one can do with this Ring, namely, destroying it.

Do I even know the Ring is evil? It seems the sort of lie the Valar speak. Can I trust they who call Death good to speak of good and evil? Perhaps they call it evil because they do not wish mortal men to have its power. Tyrants never wish their subjects to have the power to overthrow them.

The biggest fool in the world can think it’s raining and that doesn’t mean it’s sunny, I think wearily. I thought the Ring was evil in Rivendell, safe from its influence. I am hardly going to think better with it on my breast under the eye of its baleful Master.

The Ring quiets for a moment. I sigh, a tired soldier with a moment of rest before the battle starts again.

Perhaps they made a mistake in saying that the great should not bear the Ring. A hobbit may be weak and succumb to its lure. The dwarf may wish to secure it within his private hoards; the elf, to preserve things unchanging so he need not go to the West. I must watch carefully to make sure they do not; soon I may have to keep in spirit the oath which I break in letter. But I, armed with all the knowledge the Elves could teach and with the love of Men burning in my breast, I alone am safe to bear it. I alone can beat back the seductive lies it whispers in my ears.

After all, mankind is precious.