For the Want of a Nail
By Ardrang and Lelia Mellini
Ash nazg durbatulûk
Ash nazg gimbatul
Ash nazg thraktulûk
Ash burzûm-ishi krimpatul
Isildur, by his father's body, whom the Dark Lord Sauron had felled, took up his father's
sword and, in the most desperate moment of Men and Elves, struck off four fingers of
Sauron's hand, one of them encircled by the One Ring.
And Sauron fell.
Having lost the focus of his power over the three races of Men, Elves, and Dwarves, he was
gone in a single blast of his malice. Men and Elves were thrown back to the ground by his last
roar of fury.
The defenders of the three peoples, as they lay scattered by Sauron's last caress, looked up in
disbelief as the Dark Lord's essence was blown away and his dreadful armor crumbled to the
ground, its pieces having lost their aura of terror.
Isildur, not quite believing that his certain death had been averted, for he had not expected his
last desperate blow to stay Sauron's hand, gazed upon the severed fingers and the one among
their number that bore the One Ring. He grasped it, hardly realizing that this small thing was
the source of all the peril of the free peoples. The finger, so much larger than his own, came
apart in his hand, turning to coal before his very eyes. As the dust was blown away in the dark
winds of Mordor, the One Ring rested in the palm of his hand. He held it up, and as he did, it
shrunk to fit perfectly around his own finger.
"Isildur, hurry!"
Surprised out of his reflection, Isildur looked up to see Elrond Half-Elven standing above
him, covered in ash and orcblood, the exertions of the battle clear upon his face. Yet Elrond
stood unbowed, his manner urgent.
"Follow me!" With that he turned and began the long ascent of the slopes of Mount Orodruin
towards Sammath Naur, whose fires were the only hope of destroying the One Ring.
Isildur came to his feet, struggling with weariness and confusion as he followed the Lord of
Imladris to the fires of Mount Doom.
*****
Their path was treacherous and more than once, they found stragglers of that great host of
Orcs between them and the summit. Such skirmishes did not take a long time, but any delay
preyed on Elrond's mind and fed the apprehension in his heart. For he feared that the end of
Isildur's steadfastness would be reached before they reached the cleansing fires. But even so
he did not dare to demand the Ring from Isildur, as he did not trust his own heart to find the
strength to do what must be done.
But at last Sammath Naur's slopes of black rock were conquered and they stood before the
very fire the Ring must be cast into. Elrond took a few steps ahead, relief from the shadow
only a few heartbeats away. He turned to look at Isildur who had lagged behind a pace or two
and stood staring at the Ring, transfixed.
"Cast it into the fire!" he cried out, unable to bear being in the same world as this evil thing
for a moment longer.
Isildur remained where he was, still silent, his attention only on the small glitter of gold in his
hand, a strange look coming into his eyes.
Elrond's heart seemed to skip a beat at seeing this look, this unholy glint that presaged only a
mind poisoned by Sauron's evil. What had been simple concern grew into certainty. Isildur
the stalwart had failed at his post.
"Destroy it!" Elrond cried, pleading in his voice but with no hope left in his heart.
Isildur finally met his eyes, and all Elrond had feared became real in the contact.
"No," said Isildur, smiling. But his smile was not one of joy or pleasure, but of greed and
corruption. He turned away from Elrond, in mind already down among the armies and lands
he would now rule.
Elrond felt something splintering deep inside him, but if it was his trust in Men or just in
Isildur, he could not have said. The Lord of Imladris did not beg, and would never come so
close to it as in that moment.
"Isildur!"
The Man neither turned nor stopped his descent.
Elrond stood, appalled at what seemed to him defeat in the midst of victory. All the dead, Gil-
galad his King, Elendil, King of Gondor, and father to Isildur, who had traded their lives for
this one chance to forever wipe away evil from world of Middle-Earth, they must surely haunt
these lands if their sacrifice should go unnoticed.
*****
Later, when the combined armies had driven away the last remains of Sauron's army and
were tending to their wounded and gathering their dead, a lone figure walked down from the
mountain, weariness in his step and deep grief in his eyes. Immediately he was approached by
the captains of the armies, their eyes full of questions.
Before one could find the boldness to ask them aloud, he spoke.
"The Ring has been destroyed," Elrond said. He would say no more, even when they pressed
him, only that Isildur had taken a fall into the fires of Mount Doom, and the Ring with him.
Slowly the armies of Elves and Men set out to leave the battlefields of Mordor, turning
westwards once again, to their homes and their lands. Now freed of the threat of the Dark
Lord's terrible grasp, Elves marched gladly, unlike their allies. The armies of Gondor walked
sadly, their heads bowed with great sorrow, their banners rolled up in the heralds' packs. No
song of victory told of their return to their homeland, for neither King nor Heir would ever see
the White City of Minas Tirith again and rejoice in her splendor.
Of all the Elves, only Elrond rode silently, and if it seemed odd, the wondering soldier would
remind himself that Elrond Half-Elven had lost not one, but three good friends on the plains
of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
End.
By Ardrang and Lelia Mellini
Ash nazg durbatulûk
Ash nazg gimbatul
Ash nazg thraktulûk
Ash burzûm-ishi krimpatul
Isildur, by his father's body, whom the Dark Lord Sauron had felled, took up his father's
sword and, in the most desperate moment of Men and Elves, struck off four fingers of
Sauron's hand, one of them encircled by the One Ring.
And Sauron fell.
Having lost the focus of his power over the three races of Men, Elves, and Dwarves, he was
gone in a single blast of his malice. Men and Elves were thrown back to the ground by his last
roar of fury.
The defenders of the three peoples, as they lay scattered by Sauron's last caress, looked up in
disbelief as the Dark Lord's essence was blown away and his dreadful armor crumbled to the
ground, its pieces having lost their aura of terror.
Isildur, not quite believing that his certain death had been averted, for he had not expected his
last desperate blow to stay Sauron's hand, gazed upon the severed fingers and the one among
their number that bore the One Ring. He grasped it, hardly realizing that this small thing was
the source of all the peril of the free peoples. The finger, so much larger than his own, came
apart in his hand, turning to coal before his very eyes. As the dust was blown away in the dark
winds of Mordor, the One Ring rested in the palm of his hand. He held it up, and as he did, it
shrunk to fit perfectly around his own finger.
"Isildur, hurry!"
Surprised out of his reflection, Isildur looked up to see Elrond Half-Elven standing above
him, covered in ash and orcblood, the exertions of the battle clear upon his face. Yet Elrond
stood unbowed, his manner urgent.
"Follow me!" With that he turned and began the long ascent of the slopes of Mount Orodruin
towards Sammath Naur, whose fires were the only hope of destroying the One Ring.
Isildur came to his feet, struggling with weariness and confusion as he followed the Lord of
Imladris to the fires of Mount Doom.
*****
Their path was treacherous and more than once, they found stragglers of that great host of
Orcs between them and the summit. Such skirmishes did not take a long time, but any delay
preyed on Elrond's mind and fed the apprehension in his heart. For he feared that the end of
Isildur's steadfastness would be reached before they reached the cleansing fires. But even so
he did not dare to demand the Ring from Isildur, as he did not trust his own heart to find the
strength to do what must be done.
But at last Sammath Naur's slopes of black rock were conquered and they stood before the
very fire the Ring must be cast into. Elrond took a few steps ahead, relief from the shadow
only a few heartbeats away. He turned to look at Isildur who had lagged behind a pace or two
and stood staring at the Ring, transfixed.
"Cast it into the fire!" he cried out, unable to bear being in the same world as this evil thing
for a moment longer.
Isildur remained where he was, still silent, his attention only on the small glitter of gold in his
hand, a strange look coming into his eyes.
Elrond's heart seemed to skip a beat at seeing this look, this unholy glint that presaged only a
mind poisoned by Sauron's evil. What had been simple concern grew into certainty. Isildur
the stalwart had failed at his post.
"Destroy it!" Elrond cried, pleading in his voice but with no hope left in his heart.
Isildur finally met his eyes, and all Elrond had feared became real in the contact.
"No," said Isildur, smiling. But his smile was not one of joy or pleasure, but of greed and
corruption. He turned away from Elrond, in mind already down among the armies and lands
he would now rule.
Elrond felt something splintering deep inside him, but if it was his trust in Men or just in
Isildur, he could not have said. The Lord of Imladris did not beg, and would never come so
close to it as in that moment.
"Isildur!"
The Man neither turned nor stopped his descent.
Elrond stood, appalled at what seemed to him defeat in the midst of victory. All the dead, Gil-
galad his King, Elendil, King of Gondor, and father to Isildur, who had traded their lives for
this one chance to forever wipe away evil from world of Middle-Earth, they must surely haunt
these lands if their sacrifice should go unnoticed.
*****
Later, when the combined armies had driven away the last remains of Sauron's army and
were tending to their wounded and gathering their dead, a lone figure walked down from the
mountain, weariness in his step and deep grief in his eyes. Immediately he was approached by
the captains of the armies, their eyes full of questions.
Before one could find the boldness to ask them aloud, he spoke.
"The Ring has been destroyed," Elrond said. He would say no more, even when they pressed
him, only that Isildur had taken a fall into the fires of Mount Doom, and the Ring with him.
Slowly the armies of Elves and Men set out to leave the battlefields of Mordor, turning
westwards once again, to their homes and their lands. Now freed of the threat of the Dark
Lord's terrible grasp, Elves marched gladly, unlike their allies. The armies of Gondor walked
sadly, their heads bowed with great sorrow, their banners rolled up in the heralds' packs. No
song of victory told of their return to their homeland, for neither King nor Heir would ever see
the White City of Minas Tirith again and rejoice in her splendor.
Of all the Elves, only Elrond rode silently, and if it seemed odd, the wondering soldier would
remind himself that Elrond Half-Elven had lost not one, but three good friends on the plains
of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
End.