Desire and Envy

Disclaimer: I do not own Isildur, and I do not own the One Ring or any of the other characters that show up in my writing. They were invented by J R R Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended, and I make no money from playing with the characters.


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Desire and Envy

Isildur envied his lovers. He looked into their eyes and saw passion and lust. He looked at them between hungry kisses and saw rapture inscribed upon their faces. And he envied them. He had never had a lover that could instil these feelings in him. He had met no one that could give him the gift of such deep emotions. Yet he himself was seemingly able to instigate them in all those he bedded.

Isildur thrust harder into the pliant body beneath him, invaded and plundered the flesh of his lover. He watched as his lover's lips formed a silent "O". As passion built in his body, he could not stop gazing into the grey eyes that were locked onto his. He was fascinated by the love he saw in them - love for him.

He longed to experience that kind of love for someone. He wanted to meet a person who could take him passionately, who could overwhelm his senses and make him forget all his worries and cares. He felt a deep need to love with abandon, without feeling vulnerable. He wanted to feel safe in the strong arms of a man who understood all his needs and knew him as well as he did himself.

He was urged on by moans and sighs of pleasure, and he gave what he wanted for himself. As he felt the hot seed of his lover flow over his hand, he released his own pent-up tensions inside him, and cried out in passion and frustration. Then Isildur hid his face in the dark hair of the other male, catching his breath.


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It was more than envy. He wanted to be his lovers. He wanted to experience what they experienced, feel what they felt. He wanted to trade places with them, but he did not want a mere reversal of roles. No, he did not want them to take him. He wanted Isildur to take him.

He studied his own face in the mirror, admiring his proud brow and his clear, intense eyes. He let his gaze wander down over his naked body, regarding the broad, well-muscled chest, rounded shoulders and strong arms. The light from the candles in the room reflected on the body that he studied, creating golden highlights and dark shadows on his taut muscles.

In the mirror Isildur saw everything that he was looking for in a lover, and his thoughts and impressions made the blood rush down to his groin, making him hard. He put a hand to his chest, slowly moving it towards one hard nipple. He flicked his thumb over it and sighed at the sensation.

He continued to tease his nipples, alternating feather-light touches with hard pinches. He kept on studying the reflection in front of him and moved his other hand to take his blood-filled arousal in a tight grip, moving his fist leisurely and letting the pleasure build up slowly.

He watched the muscles in his body ripple as he moved, catching the flickering candlelight with each movement, each thrust of his hips into his hand. Isildur's breath caught in his throat as he watched the beauty and strength reflected in the mirror. He stroked his hard flesh faster and harder, needing the release.

He wished that he could divide himself so that he could experience both sides simultaneously; both the ravishing of the strong body in front of him, and the sensation of being ravished, taken, possessed. He knew that was what his lovers felt with him. He possessed them, owned them completely, and he wanted so much to be owned.

He felt the passion rising, the telltale signs of his release... Then the ecstasy washed over him in a great wave, and he released his seed with a lusty groan of pleasure.


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Isildur could only watch, powerless, as his father was thrown through the air and smashed into the side of the mountain. He knew that no man could survive that. He scrambled to his father's side, finding dead, vacant eyes staring into nothingness.

The Dark Lord loomed over Isildur, the menacing shape making him feel weak and insignificant. He reached for his father's sword - a warrior's instinct. He felt what was left of hope and resolve shatter as Narsil shattered beneath the foot of Sauron. He swung upwards in desperation, shocked as he felt the broken sword make contact with the form of the Dark Lord. Isildur watched in disbelief as black fingers fell to the ground, a glitter of gold falling with them.

There was a terrible pressure and a rush of air that felled everyone it met. The foul stench that went with it could only be described as the stench of Evil. When it had passed and the soldiers of the Last Alliance could breathe again, Sauron was gone and his army easily defeated.

Isildur took up the gold band, the One Ring, and it spoke to him. It spoke to him of both terrible and wondrous things. It whispered to him, promising him all that his heart desired. It told him that with this power he could do anything, get anything. It whispered to him of fantastic things: he could rule as king, leading his people into prosperity and peace, now that his father was dead, that with the power of the Ring he could rebuild all that Sauron had destroyed. It promised him that he would find a way to look at himself without a mirror, to be close to the body he desired, as a separate entity. The Ring caressed his mind, and promised him caresses of the body as well.

And Isildur could not put it down.

He could not do what it was that Elrond wanted him to do. He could not destroy it. How could he? It was a chance for the world to be rebuilt; it was a chance for him to get all he wanted. The Ring was precious to him, and he saw that with it his line would be mighty indeed. He felt that he was strong enough to use this power. Sauron was dead, gone, his power broken. He, Isildur, had done this. The Ring was now free, free to be used by a man of strong will.

"Cast it into the fire. Destroy it!" Isildur looked at Elrond as he shouted at him over the roar of the infernal fire of the mountain. He knew that the Elven Lord would probably never understand, or forgive him, but there were things that he needed to do.

"No." It was all he that could say. No explanation would satisfy the Elf, and he was not even sure that he wanted to explain himself. Isildur turned around and left, ignoring the anger and the disappointment in Elrond's voice as he called out behind him.

"Isildur!"


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The screams and the clanging of swords, the sounds of war, were still ringing in his ears, but they seemed to grow more distant with every moment. Isildur opened his eyes, only to look up into eyes that looked straight into his. Disbelief was written in those eyes; they were wide open in shock. He knew this face well, for it was his own.

He reached out to touch the blond hair; it felt soft and ethereal in his fingers. He leaned closer, his lips softly touching those of the other man. He savoured the sweet taste of himself; it was a dream come true. He wanted more, wanted to feel this strong body in front of him, wanted to love and be loved. He did not understand how this had happened, but the Ring had promised it to him. He moved through the water, moved around Isildur.

What was this? His would-be lover, the other Isildur, was injured. How could he have missed that? There were arrows in his back, the black shafts sticking out of his body, invading his flesh, his back stained red with blood. In his anguish he tried to touch him again, not believing what he saw. This could not be. He could not lose his lover when he had just got the chance to touch him.

He reached out a hand towards the body bobbing in the water, and finally he understood. He understood the deceit of the power of Evil. He understood what the Ring had whispered to him. He watched as his hand went straight through Isildur, as he tried to touch his wounds. His hand lost its substance while he was looking at it. It was slowly fading, and soon he could see straight through it.

In truth, he was now a separate entity from the body he coveted, the Ring had whispered truthfully to him. But Isildur would never be able to experience the love and the passion for which he had longed, and as his spirit faded away from this world, he could see that in his folly he had refused to destroy the one thing that held the power of Sauron - the One Ring.

The price he had to pay was steep indeed.