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My Precious, light of my life, fire of my being. My sin, My soul. My-pre-cious: the tip of the finger taking a trip of three steps down the knuckles to tap, at three, on the metal. My. Pre. Shuss.
She was a Ring, a plain Ring, in the beginning, glimmering under the waters some leagues below. She was the One Ring to Saurun. She was finder’s bounty for Bilbo. She was The Ring of Power on the dotted line. But on my finger she was always My Precious.
Did I owe her to aprecursor? I did, indeed I did. In point of fact, there might never have been my precious at all – a shudder at that thought – had not Saurun longed, years ago, for a certain amount of power. Oh when? About as many ages ago as, in my reckonning, have past since my precious was taken from me by a certain hobbit. You can always count on a ringbearer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of middle-earth, exhibit number one is what the ancients, the misinformed, noble kings of the ancients, buried. Look at this tangle of thorns.