At times before this, I dwell on the Ring, the One Ring of the fallen Sauron. But I do not see that as wrong until these moments. Now I know that even though I have never seen the Ring, it is consuming me. How this is possible I do not know, but I know it is happening.
It started with the very occasional wondering of what I would do had I the One Ring, during my studies about it. Then it became more frequent. Then I began to actually want it. It was a guilty desire I liked to pretend I didn't have at first. Then it grew stronger and I could no longer pretend to myself. My ability to pretend to the outside world, however, increased. They only know that I have become more secretive. Now I can only think of the Ring, except when Olorin is near.
Olorin is my last thread, by which I dangle over the darkness that draws me. He alone knows that I am distressed, though he does not know the cause. He expresses the opinion that he cannot help me if he does not know why I am troubled.
He is wrong there. Just by being near, he can make me happy, which I am not otherwise. My thoughts are always for him and him alone, when we are walking together, him going on and on about his wanderings. For those moments, for those wonderful moments, I forget about the Ring completely-until he asks, as he always does at least once when he visits, why I never speak about what I am doing myself, and what is so clearly wrong.
I have tried to confess to him, to beg him for forgiveness or even aid. But when the words are about to fall from my mouth, fear always holds them back. Fear that he'll turn away from me, cast me out, or even kill me. I do not know if it is shame, cowardice, or the Ring's influence.
Sometimes, for one terrible moment, the fears include that he suffers from the same thing as I, and will cast me down as a rival. One thing I think might be the reason of the Ring's far-off power over me is it may be feeding off my power, and then I wonder if all of us have been affected. It is indeed a terrible thought, that Olorin, my beautiful Olorin, might be destroyed the way I am being destroyed.
But then I think of how alive he always is, about the many things he speaks of, and how only my distress bothers him. The Ring cannot have touched him.
But I touch him. I must always tell him I do not wish to talk about it, and this hurts him deeply. That I hurt him is of great pain to me, a sadness I carry for the rest of the visit. Then I realize how there is a strain between us, and I feel even worse. When we reach whatever is now serving as my bed, my sadness turns into desperation, and dissolves into passion. We make love like mortals and elves do, and each time is more desperate, more intense. Often afterwards I find him crying. He whispers words to me, trying to describe the indescribable, about his feelings for me and about the pain he suffers on my behalf. More then anything, I want to whisper back words of comfort, but I cannot say anything then.
Any words of comfort would be false. Love between the Maia is powerful, but not powerful enough. Eventually it too will succumb, and my fall into darkness will be complete. I fear for Olorin, for what I will do to him then, and to Middle-Earth. I fear for Middle-Earth greatly, but not as greatly as I used to, for it has lost interest for me.
For myself I hold no fear. To have fear, one must first have hope.