The Forging of the Ring by Uvatha the Horseman

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March 23 – The Failure of Nerve

Sauron planned to go through with the Forging, but balked at the last minute.

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March 23 The Failure of Nerve

The tent canvas flapped in the wind, which rose and fell but never ceased entirely. Orange light from the volcano played on the tent canvas during the long hours of the night. When the grey dawn arrived, Mairon didn't so much wake as give up trying to sleep. He lay in his cot, knowing he should get up, but putting it off.

So many things could go wrong. His design might be flawed. He might misinterpret a procedure. He might not even have the skill to make his own design.

Or suppose it failed over something trivial. What if he accidentally skipped a step? What if he dropped something? What if, when casting a spell, his memory failed him and he forgot the words? There were so many things he wanted to double check once more before he did this.

Or suppose the task was beyond him. What if he'd overestimated his own abilities?

He got dressed and put the notebook on the corner of his bed. He pushed the tent flap aside. No one else was up, and the fire had gone out during the night. He went over to the servants' tent and called out, "Sirrah, make me a cup of tea."

A boy appeared a moment later. He ran to the campfire pit and blew on the cold embers. When no flames sprang to life, he produced a tin box from his pocket and took out flint, steel, and tinder.

"Let me do it," Mairon said, waving the boy aside.

Two or three half burned logs from yesterday lay in the fire pit, ash grey and half unburned.

He focused his thoughts on yellow flames reaching into the air, on embers carried high in the air by the fire's updraft, on the heat from the fire's heart. The logs in front of him burst into flame, sap popped, and heat warmed his face.

The boy backed away and made the sign of the evil eye.

"After you get the tea started, tell the cook to start breakfast." Mairon called after him.

How superstitious these peasants were; it wasn't necromancy, it was just fire starting. Anyone with a lesson or two in magic could do it.

He realized he wasn't holding his notebook. It wasn't on a rock nearby; his heart skipped a beat. He raced back to his tent; the notebook was on the foot of his cot, right where he'd left it.

When he came back, a servant was pouring tea; the smiths and scribes were huddled around the campfire, drinking from steaming cups. The group hummed with the buzz of excited conversation. His Chief Assistant brought a cup of tea to him. It slipped from his hand, and tea soaked his sleeve and the front of his tunic.

The cook prepared a substantial breakfast for them. Mairon planned to keep working until they finished, probably in late afternoon, without taking a midday break.

He was too nervous to eat; he could barely manage a cup of tea. He paced on the cinder road. Maybe he shouldn't do this. He wasn't ready.

He told his Chief Assistant, "I think we can finish in ten hours. It we start just after six, we'll finish a two in the afternoon." A line formed between the man's brows, and Mairon slapped his forehead. "I mean eight hours."

The sun started to come up. He meant to get started before sunrise, he was making them late. They had a successful rehearsal the day before. There was no reason not to go ahead. He stood to make the announcement.

"Follow me. We have work to do." he said.

The smiths and helpers around the campfire jumped up to their feet, grinning.

He led them to the door of the Sammath Naur. Everything was ready, laid out the evening before. Gloves and masks were laid out on the bench in rows. The scroll which showed the process they would follow lay unrolled on the work table, ready to go.

This was the most difficult task he had ever attempted. It pushed the very limits of his skill. So much could go wrong, and if it did, it could finish him. His heart was pounding, and he couldn't catch his breath. He barely slept the night before, which left him feeling dull witted and clumsy. It wasn't safe to attempt this today.

He turned his back to the chasm. Flickering orange light played across the faces of his people. "Attention, there's been a change in plans. We will do this tomorrow."

There were dismayed looks, and murmuring in the ranks.

"But why?" one of them asked.

"Because I said so," he said.

They filed out together. Later, he returned to the workshop and sat down at the table. He spent the rest of the day reviewing his design to make sure it was sound. As far as he could tell, it was.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The Ring was devised for a single purpose, to bind the Great Rings that he and Celebrimbor made. Before the first of them was forged, he included a latching mechanism in the design, and put it in a utilitarian part of the structure where it wouldn't be noticed. But he quickly discovered that while he knew how to make a Binding Ring, he didn't have the ability to do so, because it couldn't be made in an ordinary forge, it required the temperatures found in dragons' fire.

When he was driven from Eregion, he came to Mordor to live. He discovered that the fires of Orodruin were as hot as dragon's fire. He had a design, he had a heat source. He could have forged the Binding Ring at any time.

But once he was away from the Ost-in-Edhil, the Great Rings seems less important. He had more immediate concerns: establishing himself as Dark Lord with his own people, forming alliances with Nurn and Haradwaith, and overseeing the construction of his Tower, which consumed most of his attention.

Six hundred years ago, he began building the Tower on a promontory of the Ash Mountains, and when it was finished, he meant to raise an army to conquer all of Arda. The Tower rose until its foundations collapsed beneath it. Progress stalled until the foundations could be strengthened by enchantments.

Then Celebrimbor forged the Three Rings. Mairon was determined to take them away from him.

He had to make the One Ring and bind the others to it. The One Ring had to be more powerful than any of the Rings it would bind. Like the foundations of his Tower, it would need an infusion of his own power.

He could afford to make either the Ring or the Tower, but not both.

He spent almost ten years trying to figure out how to make the Ring magnify his own power to the point that he could use it to strengthen the foundations. He could do it, but his early designs needed a bigger infusion of power than he had to give. Also, he struggled to fit all the parts into a small space. He could have made a sword, or a large pendant to wear around his neck, but since he planned to keep it on his person all the time, he wanted something he could wear all the time, that he wouldn't put down by accident and forget.

He was proud of the design he brought to Orodruin. It was small and didn't take more power than he could afford. It wasn't elegant, but it was sturdy and workmanlike. He read every page of his notebook and reviewed every aspect of his design; it was sound.

Late that afternoon, packhorses arrived with barrels of water. He gave their handler a message for his Steward. Send more provisions and water, they would be up here a few days longer than planned.

-o-o-o-o-o-

He was arranging layers of rock deep within the earth, giving form to the ochre and russet bands of mineral. They couldn't be shaped by force. He had to choose a point to apply pressure slowly, steadily over time, and eventually they would yield.

But the browns and rusts, the gold and gemstones, weren't part of the earth at all, they were the silk garments of the nobility, embroidered in gold threads and bedecked with jewelry. He spoke with one of them and then another, and gradually he shaped the group's opinion to his liking.

His eyes snapped open.

Structures and Influence, which he thought were unrelated, were two different aspects of the same thing.

They were the two chief components of the Ring. Structures would allow him to use his abilities as an earth spirit to strengthen the foundations under his Tower, while Influence would enhance his ability to persuade. It would help him to form alliances with neighbors, and to lead an army.

He'd never seen the connection before, but once he did, it was obvious. It meant he could combine the two components and get a more efficient design. It shouldn't be that difficult.

He pulled on clothes over his nightshirt, found his boots, and headed for the Sammath Naur, a beacon of orange light in the side of the mountain. Even if he hadn't been able to see in the dark, he'd have found it easily.

He found pen and paper and began to write. He didn't want to wake up in the morning, knowing he'd had an important insight, but unable to remember what it was. When he was sure he'd captured everything, he went back to his tent and slept until morning.