1. The Ring

Merry knew that the Ring had been watching him since he was nineteen years old. There was that time when Merry was twenty one and he had slipped quietly into Frodo’s study as only tweenagers can while his cousin was taking a bath. The chest had opened as silent as he wished and the Ring was waiting at the bottom. As Merry held it up to the light and watched the sun shine off the gold, he thought he heard a voice, like a waterfall in the back of his head, whispering “Meriadoc”. He threw the Ring across the floor and then it was only Frodo, calling across the smial to his cousin for the third time, asking how the huckleberry picking had gone earlier.“Fine,” Merry called, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as he frantically stuffed the Ring back in its hiding place and closed the lid.

It wasn’t any surprise to him then, to hear that same rushing whisper as Rivendell disappeared behind them.

At first Merry tried to shove it away and put it out of his mind, but the nights were long and silent with walking. Any company was welcome. He let it sit and tried not to pay it much attention, but it was insistent and soon, Merry started listening and stopped being horrified.

He was scared that Aragorn or Gandalf or Frodo might know, might somehow sense his treacherousness. Whenever one looked his way, he fell behind the others, where he knew no eyes were watching and wondered what to do.

Take it.

He didn’t, but he let the thought sit and fester until he could think of nothing else. He tried to rationalize it, but he never quite managed. There were times—usually when he was eating—when he knew that, somewhere along the line, things had gone horribly wrong. It would last and he would be almost cheerful again until Frodo or Gandalf looked his way. Then the whisper would come back, eating away at him until he crumbled. Ever so sweetly it wheedled and cajoled and promised.

It should be mine.

It will be mine.