For FrodoBaggins252 for her birthday.
He had worn the Ring as a pendant about his neck, a silver chain threaded through a hole of gold fit to swallow the world. The Ring had been prepared to drink his life and the Light of his Being as if from a bottle, breaking the lock that guarded his heart and emptying his soul.
Ever he had been played upon as if he were the string of a violin, the note trued by the vibration of a celestial fork. The music played upon him had been written by the hands of the Creator in stars of mithril upon the sheet of night, stroked with a bow wrought of wind wielded by the moon made as agile as a monkey.
He stood upon the wharf, surrounded by his kin yet utterly alone, isolated by a burden that yet weighed the more for having been lost. Círdan bowed before him.