Rights to go Tolkien, Peter Jackson, ect. I own nothing.

Please, only constructive criticism is asked for.

(I humbly require readers to refrain from arguing or personally lecturing me or anyone else what the Deadly Sins and The Virtues actually mean—or what character really should represent what trait or element. It's not meant to become a religious or personality debate of any kind. It is my own personal opinion that both sin and virtue take on many forms and they have their degrees and angles. And that was what I am merely experimenting with here.)

Thank you!

~ VANITY ~

Wise were the Elves.

This was no mystery, for it was widely known. Their allies often sought their advice and council to lay their worries to rest.

But with such knowledge and experience in life...sometimes a certain air of haughtiness and criticism followed them. The Elves, in a minor unspoken way, had deserved a higher calling than most in Middle Earth. Many could argue they were designed to grow superior.

Lady Galadriel had always been just, fair, and rather fearless. But in a mere moment, her deepest desires had also gotten the better of her as Frodo stepped towards the Mirror. And she never apologized for it.

In that moment, she tested her limits. Her eyes had glowed a blue-violet, a color of pride and self-importance.

All shall love me and despair!

~ JEALOUSY ~

At first, Boromir hadn't believed what Lord Elrond's meeting was coming to.

Hadn't believed what the world was coming to.

Their fate as they knew it, lied in the hands of a Halfling from the secluded farming hills of the Shire, no less.

What was worse, everyone else who had been trying to establish this Fellowship of Nine Companions invested more of their trust and faith in the Ranger who chose exile over him! He too was an elite Son of Gondor, was he not? His baby brother, father, and their people all alike had praised him for it. How could everyone discard that fact with a blink of an eye?

The ongoing Quest had waned his significance little by little.

And so, that—thing—that Halfling, had made Boromir feel something he rarely felt during his entire lavish childhood as the firstborn.

The feeling possessed somewhat of a...sickly green tint to it.

It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine. It should be mine!

~ Gluttony ~

Even for a shapeshifter, Annatar the Fair still had been a glorious sight to lay eyes on during the Silmarillion; entrancing eyes that shined like sunlight, his light complexion, beautiful golden hair. Even His charm had rivaled the very grace of the Elves so perfectly, that it had become difficult for them to hide their trust from Him. His passion for new creations was so inspiring, that His trickery all along was hardly suspected. He was truly the fairest.

When the day approached, and everything came into light, Annatar-turned-Sauron knew everyone's loyalty would be strained, including his own.

Aye, He had made several gifts to share, but this was done out of ravenous intentions.

Only He could be the One Lord to rule.

One to rule them all.

~ LUST ~

Privately and silently, Frodo couldn't deny that he was unable to ignore the pull any longer. He'd been falling into Darkness for a while, and almost a little too willingly. His mind was being torn in several directions while the Ring scraped away at his sense over common things. He'd been wanting to hold It. Its voice had grown overly familiar to his ear. It tempted him with each and every heavy step he took. It continually promised him inner power, authority titles, loyal subjects, thrones and kingdoms to spare.

And the idea of parting with It—destroying It—had become frightening for him in an entirely new way. Frodo wondered, would he throw It away when (or if) he reached Mordor? Could he? A part of him regretted the whole Quest already.

His heart slowly filled with an odd desire he couldn't really name.

Yes, Frodo noted to himself during one starless night, laying there, rolling the golden band between his fingertips long after Sam and Sméagol had dozed off. Frodo, the Lord of the Rings did sound quite pleasing.

Frodo had closed his eyes, and he saw a red fire behind his lids; he had seen it burning with fury, passion, and longing...

The Ring is mine.

~ WRATH ~

Gollum seethed deeply within as his Master and the Fat One said their farewells to the archer-captain. He couldn't believe Sméagol relied on them so much to banish him away! Yes, it was indeed a very good thing he came back, too. Poor Sméagol had been crying. Crying all alone again...shedding tears because Master betrayed them, even after they did nothing but swear on the Precious to make sure the Hobbitses were on a safe path into Mordor.

And they hated betrayal. They hated thievery more!

Master and his blubbering pet would pay for theirs soon.

The Precious would be Gollum's again. Yes, yes, Sméagol would have the Precious again. And they'd break those little Hobbit necks for It!

Blackness began to stir and churn in his stomach once more. Fingers tightening into a fists, Gollum clawed into the dirt.

They stole it from us!

~ SLOTH ~

Denethor claimed it was his right to become Steward and the shepherd of Gondor, and yet, he had not been a flexible soul. He was not willing to relieve his responsibilities over to any other heir, but he still hadn't done anything to fend for his people himself.

A part of him realized a blue, sorrowful madness had begun crawling into his mind although he didn't put any effort into trying to mend it. He ignored the concern from those who yet loved him.

There were a number of things he should have done for everyone in need, though his shell of bad habits prevented him from dipping his toes in too deep. He wanted the easiest way out. He wanted the fastest solutions there were.

And when the Dark Armies showed up at the gates, Denethor's ambition had turned to laziness amongst all the terror and death. He called down to the soldiers, telling them to run for cover and abandon their duties. To leave their long-beloved White City to its doom.

Denethor of Gondor had been indeed a greatly known leader—but a poor excuse for one.

Better burn sooner than late...

~ GREED ~

Smaug purred contently as he was settled into his warm piles of treasure over again, the noise rumbling inside his throat. The Dragon loved the feel of the metal grazing against his scarlet scales, sanding down their rough edges. They were bit jagged before in the North and were in need of a decent grooming. But not now.

He closed his eyes, stretched out his neck, titled his head sideways, and soaked in the heat of his own fires alit around the nest. If anyone actually witnessed this in person, they would probably say that at the moment, his mannerisms were almost catlike. The gold coins clanked lightly under him. And it was all his, the entire Hall. He was not ready to share anything.

Dragons were solitary creatures by nature; and there were only so many centuries his kind could only crave knowledge alone.

Eventually, a Dragon will want something new to covet.

I am King under the Mountain!