Isildur came into the tent. On a low bier lay a long bundle covered with a cloth of mithril. The cloth glistened, shimmering in the poor light; but at the sight of it Isildur felt as if he had taken an arrow in his breast. Perhaps, indeed, an arrow would not have hurt as much as the shaft of grief which pierced his heart.
He knelt at the side of the bundle. After a little he put out a trembling hand to the cloth and let it rest on the surface. Then he took a deep breath and drew back the top. Underneath was a heavy dark green cloak, stained black with blood. This time he lifted the side and found a hand. He held it gently. The fingers were curled slightly and fitted comfortably around his; but they were too cold and did not clasp his own as they should have done.
Isildur started to weep.
Eventually he decided to uncover his brother's body.
Was it worse than his imaginings? He was not sure. He knew he had been slain by a great stone cast from Barad-dûr. The reality tore at his heart. Anárion's body lay mutilated, unrecognisable. His head was crushed; his breast was crushed, his blood coating his misshapen armour. It was not removable, not without losing almost all the flesh within.
He gave a long, low moan. His beloved Anárion, gentle, peaceable, loving Anárion; also bold, resolute, steadfast, courageous, resourceful Anárion. He looked at the hand he held. There was blood there too, staining the skin round his fingernails.
"Bring me water and a cloth!" he said to the guards standing by. He wanted to wash Anárion's hands.
No blow in this war had hurt so sorely; nothing had cut so deep. Not the loss of his fortress; not the loss of his beloved White Tree, burned by Sauron's forces when his tower had been overrun; not the return to the devastation of his home, precious, irreplaceable treasures from his lost homeland strewn and burned, trampled underfoot and destroyed by defeated invaders. On each occasion he had wept; on each occasion Anárion had been at his side, comforting him, consoling him, and making him laugh suddenly when he least expected and most needed to. Beloved, sweet Anárion, dependable and strong in all circumstances, wise always in judgement, able to find joy in the most dire of straits.
I need you now as never before, Anárion my sweet brother, he thought. Who will comfort me in my loss? For you are gone. It is you I must mourn; yet how desperately I need you in this grief!
They had brought him warm water in a golden basin with a fine lawn cloth. They had provided also a brush for gentle scrubbing – perhaps someone had perceived the thought behind his command.
Carefully he started to wash his brother's hands, one at a time. Each touch with the cloth was a caress. It was all he could do, now.