Concerning the One Ring

The true story of my own ring (of power), and it’s inevitable corrupting influence and loss.

I was sad to be free of it. And still am. It wasn’t mine to throw away and I didn’t give it up freely. I admit it was precious to me as it was an inheritance and I want to see it again.

But I know there’s slim hope of that.

It was a simple gold band, on a chain, silver I think, though I seldom wore it. When it was placed near the heater in my room on campus it didn’t glow and show the written language of an ancient evil tongue. There was no strange inscription. It was just my mother’s wedding band. Less than a year after I inherited it, it was gone. It’s loss compounded my grief as such further losses so often do.

Weird are the ways of such things as golden rings. I didn’t report it or call the police because the guilt I carried convinced me it was my own fault. Of course I searched for it, but it remained lost.

An age has passed since I last saw it. Close to 20 years and I still miss that ring. It held no great value except for the regard in which I held it. This ring too, had conveyed no real power, except to remind me of my mum, whose simple will stipulated her jewellery, such that it was, went to me. I still have the matching engagement band but it’s not a set without its mate.

I was a trusting sort back then. Although newly awake to the random cruelty of the world though the loss of my mother, I was still innocent too. I realised much, much too late that the thief must be someone I probably lived with at the Halls of Residence, and knew, if even only slightly.

If you, thief, threw my mother's ring into the abyss I demand a description. It's only fair.

If you, thief, threw my mother’s ring into the abyss I demand a description. It’s only fair.

So, unless the thief who took it explains they threw it into a volcano (like the one close to where I used to live), then I want it back. I don’t want retribution. I don’t curse you forever, although perhaps once I could have. I don’t even hate you, because now I think about it, anonymous thief, you are pitiable. You were corrupted by greed. If you knew me then you knew you stole one of the few things that belonged only to me, and you would’ve have been aware I didn’t have much to steal, valuable or otherwise. Your guilt is your own to bear about this and it will have to do.

If I can’t have my mother’s wedding band back then I want the story of it. More than gold, stories are precious and I think, I know, I deserve that much. Tell me what happened?

 

Proposed chart: graphical representation of my grief and your guilt.

Proposed chart: graphical representation of my grief and your guilt.

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About Becadroit

A writer compelled to review Doctor Who episodes and art exhibitions, while also commenting on writing and submitting short stories and working on novellas.
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