The Forging of the Ring by Uvatha the Horseman

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March 25 – The Forging (Noon)

Sauron transfers part of his own power into the Ring.

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March 25 (Noon) The Forging

It was past midday when he finished making the internal components and fitting them in place. Now it was time to sink a portion of his own power into the Ring. It wouldn't be a huge amount, but after he committed himself, he couldn't get it back.

He prepared himself to do it. He cleared his mind of everything except the small piece of gold in front of him. Sweat ran down his sides. He began to sing the syllables of Black Speech which would invoke the spell. Then he hesitated.

He felt inhibited, closed off. He was distracted by the protective clothing. He couldn't see through the eye slits in the hood. The leather gauntlets made him clumsy. He was afraid of dropping his work into the crack. He wasn't ready to do this. He didn't even think the transfer of power could happen right now. He let the magma sink down to its normal level and put down his tools.

Sweat ran in his eyes, stinging them. He walked to the back of the chamber, where he pulled off the hood and gauntlets and dropped them onto the workbench. He dragged his arm across his face; he was drenched in sweat.

This part of the chamber felt cool compared to the temperature near the crack. Someone brought him a glass of water. He drained it and asked for another.

He knew he was putting it off. Stop it.

But there was something else. With the hood on, he was looking at the Ring through sheets of mica rather than with his own eyes. He didn't feel connected to his work. That was wrong. It was supposed to be a part of him.

"Are we going to quit for the day?" his Chief Assistant asked.

"No, I'm going back," he said.

The transfer of power was an intimate act. It wasn't easy to get into the right mindset when wrapped in multiple layers of protective clothing. He didn't feel exposed or vulnerable, and he suspected that vulnerable was the way he needed to feel, for this to work.

He peeled off the leather shirt, slimy with sweat, and the linen shirt beneath it. His arms were so damp they stuck to his sides. He stepped out of his boots and stripped off the leather leggings and the woolen hose beneath them. He definitely felt vulnerable now.

"Toss me that rag," he said, pointing to a piece of chamois on the workbench. He caught it and wrapped it around his waist like a towel.

As he walked toward the edge, he willed the magma to rise to meet him. The heat near the crack was so intense his skin prickled from sweat. He had never been barefoot in here before. The rock floor of the chamber was hot beneath his feet.

He walked up to the stone slab that held the anvil. He felt like a sacrificial victim approaching the altar, about to give up a part of himself. His mind was still, relaxed, yielding, permitting it to happen.

Without the protective mask, he could see the gold circle clearly. And when he held the Ring in the tongs, he could feel it, indirectly, through the tips of his fingers. Much better.

A scribe called out the steps. He put the Ring in the liquid rock, and when he pulled it out a moment later, it glowed a dull red. He laid it on the anvil and picked up a hammer.

This was it.

He raised the hammer above his head, sang the words of enchantment, and brought it down with all his strength. A shower of sparks flew in all directions. He cursed when they singed his bare skin, but didn't stop what he was doing. He was a smith, and used to getting burned. Unless it was really bad, he paid no attention.

He felt a part of his power flowing out of him. His body felt lighter, although what he'd given up shouldn't be enough to notice.

He released the magma. In moments, it sank a hundred feet. He put the Ring in a bed of ash between two banks of coals. He gaged its temperature by color, and told a helper to start a fifteen minute hourglass. The sand ran through its neck while the gold cooled at a controlled rate.

This far away from the crack, the chamber felt chilly. Someone draped a blanket over his shoulders. Someone else brought him a three-legged stool, he sank onto it gratefully and wrapped the scratchy wool around himself. He felt sleepy and relaxed. Now all he had to do was wait. In a few minutes, he'd know whether it took.

The last grains of sand ran through the hourglass. He picked up the tongs and pulled the gold from the annealing bed and quenched it, then hefted it in the palm of his hand. Odd, but it didn't feel any heavier.

He brought it to the scale, and stood there, frozen. It was an effort to extend his arm, tip his hand, and let the Ring slide into the empty pan. The scale dipped for a moment, then rose back up and came to rest, level. The weight was unchanged. He slammed his fist on the workbench.

It didn't take.

He considered his options. If he gave up now, he would lose everything he'd put in so far and have nothing to show for it. Or he could try again. If it worked, he'd get all his investment back, and more.

He hadn't foreseen this. Maybe nothing had transferred. It was hard to tell, he didn't feel any different. He decided to try again, and this time, he would transfer more. He wasn't sure what to do.

He picked up the Ring and walked to the edge of the crack. He raised the level of the magma. With tongs, he plunged the Ring into it for a few seconds and pulled it out again. The gold glowed a dull red.

He laid the Ring on the anvil and picked up the hammer, sinking himself into the trancelike state to prepare for what was to come.

Nearby, the orange-yellow surface of the magma boiled harder. A large bubble burst just a few feet away, splattering drops in all directions. A scream rang in his ears and the hammer clattered to the floor. He dropped to his knees, wailing in pain.

Gloved hands pulled him to his feet, and his people, their faces hidden behind protective gear, ushered him to the back of the chamber, where they forced his into the slake barrel and held it there.

Mairon yanked to get free, but before he broke loose from the man's grasp, two others rushed over and held him down. The Ring was still on the anvil. He hated to leave it there, but at least he could see it, a glint in the yellow light from the chasm. He slumped against the barrel, his arm in the cold water. He sat very still, breathing carefully. He feared he was about to see his breakfast again.

With his right hand injured, it would be hard to continue working. If he used his left hand, he couldn't use the hammer and tongs at the same time.

His Chief Assistant could hold the tools while he stood at his elbow and talked him through it, as he used to do with Celebrimbor, but it would be too hard. He wouldn't be possible to explain what he wanted his Assistant to do. He didn't want to admit defeat, but it looked as if they were done for the day. Maybe this injury was a sign that he should stop.

A voice startled him from his thoughts. "Let's see the hand."

Mairon looked up. A scribe was standing over him, a canvas pouch in his hand. Oh, right, one of the scribes was trained as a healer.

"I'm fine, I don't need any help," Mairon said.

"Why are you being difficult?" said the healer.

Mairon knew the type, and he also knew the easiest way to get rid of them was to do what they wanted. He sighed and offered up his hand. The healer turned it palm upward. There were several blisters where droplets of lava had landed including one between his fingers, which caused him terrible pain.

"Can you work with your left hand? You shouldn't use this one until it heals," said the healer.

"Not good enough." said Mairon.

"Can you use a healing spell?" asked the healer.

"I can't use a healing spell on myself any more than I could take a blade to my own flesh. The healing spell would hurt as much as the original injury,[1]" said Mairon.

"Should I ask one of the other sorcerers to do it, then?" asked the healer.

"Send for … Oh." His shoulders sagged. Any of the sorcerers he would have asked for were still at Lugbúrz, a day's ride away.

"I'll do what I can for you, then," said the healer.

Very gently, the healer painted a clear liquid onto the burned places. It evaporated quickly, without leaving a residue. In a strange way, for someone who had to be in control all the time, it was pleasant to let someone else take care of him.

"This won't mend you, but it will help with the pain," the healer said.

Almost right away, his hand stopped throbbing. He rose and walked back to the anvil. The Ring was resting on its surface.

He raised the magma and dipped the Ring below its surface. He lifted the hammer and spoke the words of enchantment, and sunk in twice as much of himself as he had before. This time, he could feel the loss. It was something tangible, with substance and mass. This time, he was sure he weighed less than he had before.

It was working. He dropped the Ring in the annealing bed and waited to see if the second infusion had been enough. The sand ran through the hourglass. He watched, feeling himself relax.

A thought hit him. He jumped to his feet, upturning the stool. He transferred such a large portion in the second time because he thought the initial portion hadn't taken. But what if it had? Then he accidently put in nearly twice as much as he originally planned, more than he could afford. He swayed, feeling faint.

When the last grains fell, he pulled the small piece of gold from the annealing bed with the tongs and dropped it on the scale. The pan dipped, and then leveled.

It didn't take. He'd crippled himself, and for nothing.

Things were spinning out of control, and he needed to be in control all the time. He felt like grabbing one of the workbenches and overturning it. He forced himself to calm down.

He had to decide whether to keep going. He needed this to work, but right now, he was too flustered to calculate how much more power was needed, or even to weigh the pros and cons of whether to keep going. He didn't know what to do.

This thing wasn't going to beat him. He was going to fight, and he was going to win. He decided to stake everything he had.

He stood up and brought the Ring to the edge. When the magma was within reach, he dropped the Ring on the hook and dipped it in the molten rock, then pulled it out and secured it to the anvil.

He stood before the anvil. The small circle lay there, red hot and untouchable. He held himself perfectly still, drawing breath and letting it out, waiting to enter the trance-like state necessary for this to happen.

Then he raised the hammer and spoke the words of enchantment, and with a momentous blow, he sunk the greater part of his native power into it. His vision went black for a moment, and he staggered to catch his balance.

Almost the moment he let go of a measure of his power, he regretted what he'd done. If it didn't take this time, he was finished.

He turned his back on the chasm. The magma made a slurping sound as it drained back into the earth. He brought the Ring to the annealing bed and turned over the hourglass. Then he sank onto a bench and buried his face in his hands, waiting to learn his fate.

There were still a few things he could try, like jettisoning Influence and Structures, Languages and Shape Shifting, leaving only the ability to bind the Great Rings. He would have to act now, but he felt strangely passive. He started to voice a prayer but stopped himself. Whatever it was had already happened, it wouldn't change anything.

A helper stationed at the annealing bed called out that the last few grains were slipping through the hourglass. The window in which he could take action was closed.

He rose and picked up tongs, his mouth dry, and took the Ring from the annealing bed. He dropped it on the scale. The pan sank low and bobbed up again. He turned away, unable to bear watching the scale come level for the third time.

He screamed and swept his arm across the workbench, sending brass instruments, tools, and glassware flying. A handsome hourglass struck the stone floor, spears of glass piercing the white quartz sand. His notebook landed near it, face open with its pages bent. He threw himself against the wall of the chamber, his head cradled in his arms, and slid down the wall to the floor, wailing.

It was over. What had he done?

He lay on the floor, trying to breathe. A minute went by. Someone touched his arm. "You may want to see this," his Chief Assistant said. Mairon didn't want to move, but he dried his face and turned around. There was the scale, one side distinctly lower than the other.

It took.

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Chapter End Notes

[1] This bone-setting technique comes from the excellent fanfic 'Dark Judgment' by Glorfindel.