[HerenIstarion]

"There are Rings in Middle-Earth,
Horatio, Man was not meant to wear."

HAMLET


One of the few redeeming facets of tutors, I thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was true when Bilbo taught me to read Elvish, it was true when he tried to teach me to be a poet, and it's true now when I'm learning Ring-handling.

"You haven't been practicing!" Gandalf's harsh admonishment interrupted my musings.

"I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exercise."

As if in response, the Ring I was trying hard not to put on but throw into the hearth began to tremble and wobble in midair.

"You aren't concentrating!" he accused.

"It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons Gandalf had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for cheeky Ring-Bearers.

"The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like this, dolt!"

My mental contact with the object of my concentration was interrupted as the Ring darted suddenly toward the fire. It jarred to a halt as if it had become imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from
the grating, then slowly rotated to a horizontal plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a leaf caught in an eddy.

I risked a glance at Gandalf. He was draped over his chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently devoted to devouring a leg of roast mutton, a mutton I had cooked, I might add. Concentration indeed!

He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too late to look away so I simply looked back at him.

"Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show me how much you've been practicing."

It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then I looked up desperately. The Ring was tumbling floorward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my hand . . . gently . . . don't knock it away....

I caught it a scant two hand-spans from the floor.

I heard Gandalf's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to break my concentration. I hadn't let the Ring touch the floor for three evenings already, and it wasn't going to touch now.

Slowly I raised it to eye level. Wrapping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then turned it. As I led it through the exercise, its movement was not as smooth or sure as when Gandalf set his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its assigned course.

Although I had not been practicing with the Ring, I had been practicing. When Gandalf was not about or preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my time to throwing pieces of metal—old mathoms, to be specific, into the hearth. Each type of throwing had its own inherent problems. Not rounded metal was not hard to work with because it was an inert material. The Ring, having once been part of a living Dark Lord, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To throw metal took effort, to maneuver a Ring required subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I could see a more direct application of that skill in my chosen profession. After all, why not put a Ring on and cast sword or something into the Crack?

"Good enough, lad. Now put it back into your pocket"

I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not because of its potential applications, but because it was fun.