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The One Ring was, of course, not meeting him for the first time.
Thus, what that ring—so well acquainted with him—showed within his consciousness was not power, but an overly gentle radiance of dawn.
—All who have departed shall return.
It was a primitive and cunning temptation, one born from deep within his own heart, tearing open an old wound from childhood.
The Ring showed him a radiant white ship piercing through the clouds, descending from the sky above.
His father was at last no longer a lofty, untouchable star, nor must he guard the cold void at the edge of the world. His mother rose from the sea, spreading her wings as she descended with him, her smile seeming to draw him back to the carefree spring days that had been stolen from his youth.
His brother still stood beneath the White Tree of Númenor, unchanged in appearance, proudly showing them the great and powerful realm that should have been eternal—an empire never led astray, never swallowed by the sea.
He shook his head. He was already old, old enough to have long accepted all kinds of loss. He had his own wife and children; in the Last Homely House, such a primitive illusion could not tempt him anymore.
So the Ring showed him another fate that could have been possible.
—All wounds shall be healed.
He could have healed Celebrían’s spirit as well. Her shining silver hair would never have been tainted with the blood and darkness of the mortal world, nor would her eyes, when turned to him, hold that emptiness and numbness even he could not fill.
No—Celebrían would still be at his side, embracing him each night in her soft arms. They would have their whole and unshadowed eternity. Hand in hand they would walk through sunlit woods, from spring to summer, and none of the children of Ilúvatar could imagine even greater happiness.
This time, the temptation struck deep, piercing his heart. Drowned in guilt and remorse, he remembered why he had chosen the fate of the Elves, why he had studied the healing arts. Why must this world contain so much—so unbearably much—pain?
—All suffering shall be ended.
Was that not his purpose? Because there existed too much suffering in this world, suffering that he could feel in his own flesh, while fate remained cruel to him and all those he loved.
Why had he, at six years old, already witnessed slaughters amid the burning flames? Why was Ainulindalë written in such injustice, and why must he atone for debts he never incurred?
Why, even after drinking so deeply from the cup of sorrow, did his heart still surge with boundless compassion and pity?
Why could he still wish that even the Fëanorians—whose hands were drenched in his kin’s blood—might one day find redemption?
—Yes, put me on. Otherwise, after the marring of Arda comes only deeper marring.
Then the Ring sought to frighten him. It showed him black towers like rotting trees clawing at the sky, and the land scorched to ash.
Rivendell—his last, his one and only home left, built and guarded with all his care—was consumed by sulphur and flame, reduced to drifting dust. His beloved books burned to cinders, his healing potions turned to poison, and the weary souls who had fled to him screamed as they were charred to blackened corpses. All would be in vain.
He clenched the hand that bore the Vilya. He had seen all this before. He had witnessed too many fallen kingdoms, too many ruined cities. He was, after all, the orphan of lost realms; rebuilding upon ruins was his very instinct. Visions of destruction could not make him yield, nor could further loss terrify a soul so long accustomed to loss.
At last, the Ring stripped away every illusion of beauty and every mask of horror, reaching toward that place within any soul where even starlight could not touch—the deepest, most primordial wound.
—Put me on. Otherwise, you shall no longer be needed; your descendants will forget you ever existed.
No war, no destruction, no loss. Only…utter peace.
Middle-earth at last entered eternal harmony-no longer in need of havens, of healers, or of wise elders to guide the lost.
His children all chose the fate of Men; he would never see them again, but would sail alone upon the westward trail to that eternal, foreign Valinor.
There, in the ultimate place of healing, his wisdom would be a mere footnote to some past tragedy, his art of healing rendered useless, his chronicles unread.
—Without me, you and all that you have lived for shall be completely forgotten by Middle-earth.
The Ring did not foresee this: he laughed.
He laughed that Sauron, who had once worn the appearance of the most fair and good he could imagine, yet had never truly understood how to appreciate the fairness and goodness. He laughed that the Lord of Gifts never knew what gifting meant. He laughed at the absurdity of Mairon’s lifelong pursuit—he laughed that even after thousands of years, Sauron still failed to grasp the fundamental, unbridgeable difference between them.
When all the Ring’s tricks were spent, he picked up that golden ring once more, and not even the faintest vision could stir his heart anymore.
He had passed the trial. The Ring would be destroyed; he would diminish. And he remained Elrond.