Autumn, TA2
near Gladden Fields

Isildur surveyed the Dúnedain around him, watching them prepare for what was to come. Hardened faces set in grim determination, these men showed no fear. They knew well what to do and they would do it with deadly efficiency. Anger swelled within him - anger that his warriors must again do battle after surviving so much for so long, that his sons were again in danger, that his long-awaited reunion with his wife would be delayed. Perhaps forever. His grey eyes snapped back to the squire in front of him patiently awaiting his orders. Isildur had made his decision, a decision born of desperation in the face of insurmountable odds, and his squire would not like it. Ohtar had hardly left Isildur's side these last seven years; he would be loathe to do so now.

"Ohtar, the time has come. Take the shards of my father's sword and make for the High Pass. Go to Imladris. If things go ill, I want to know that Valandil will have what remains of my father's sword. I want you to tell..."

"No!" Ohtar interrupted, stepping forward and prodding Isildur's chest with a gloved finger. "No. Isildur, I will not abandon you. I have fought by your side through worse than this. Much worse! I will stay and fight. You cannot send me away!"

"I am not asking, Ohtar. As your King I command it!" Urgency forced the words from Isildur's mouth, louder and sharper than he intended and drawing a few curious glances from the Dúnedain around them. He closed his eyes briefly and drew a calming breath before continuing more gently. "Go, Ohtar, please. All will be well. This we must believe. After all these years of war, you already know the words to speak to my wife and son. Ride hard and do not look back."

The squire sighed in resignation. "Very well, your majesty. As your subject, I will do as you command but as your friend, I must tell you that I do not like it." Isildur's lips curved into a wry grin. He expected no less. Ohtar turned to ensure the shards of Narsil were secure within his saddlebags. "Your little son will have his grandsire's sword and your lady wife will have your words of love." He bowed formally and with a small, regretful smile swung himself up in the saddle. His chestnut gelding snorted and tossed its head in eagerness to be away. "I shall see you in Imladris. May the Valar protect you. May they protect you all."

"Safe travels, my friend. We will meet again." Isildur patted the horse's rump and backed away.

Ohtar nodded silently, his lips set in a firm line. He had no more words for his oldest friend; they had all been spoken many times over during the war. Spurring his mount, he rode swiftly away from the impending battle, away from his King who stood stoically with a hand raised in farewell. If Isildur had thought for a moment that his sons would agree, he would have ordered them away as well. Shaking his head and squaring his shoulders, he went to oversee the final preparations.

OoO

The sun sank low in the sky and the battle cries of the orcs rose, growing louder and louder until the wave of dark creatures broke against the armour-clad Men of the West. They swarmed like vermin and overran the Dúnedain, their sheer numbers overwhelming Isildur's men. Arrows were soon spent keeping the foul, black tide at bay, but it was only a matter of time before the inevitable end.

As the ground became littered with bodies, the remaining men rallied around their King and his heirs. Isildur watched in horror as his younger son collapsed to his knees with a thick black arrow protruding from his chest. Aratan! His wide eyes looked to Isildur in shock as a slow trickle of blood ran from his mouth and the sword dropped from his limp fingers. With a mighty cry, Isildur charged forward only to be blocked by a jeering group of orcs. He watched helplessly as one of them cleaved its filthy, jagged blade into Aratan's neck, silencing his ever-smiling, always-laughing son forever. Isildur howled in rage and anguish. He was vaguely aware of strong hands gripping him and pulling him back, the hands slipping and trying to find purchase on his bloody armour, yet still relentlessly pulling. Cursing and yelling Isildur was dragged backwards away from the heat of battle and forcibly spun round to face his eldest son. Elendur gripped his father's face between his hands and spoke to him. Isildur could see his son's mouth moving but his fractured mind could not piece together the words coming from it. His throat felt raw, his eyes burned, and his heart felt like it had been torn apart.

"Father, you must flee! You must take the Ring away from here. It cannot fall into the hands of the enemy." Elendur's words finally reached his ears, but Isildur's conscience rebelled at the thought of abandoning his remaining son and the meagre remnants of the Dúnedain.

He shook his head and unwittingly echoed Ohtar's earlier sentiments. "I will not leave you here, Elendur, I cannot. I will not flee this battle!"

"You must! The Ring must be protected at all cost! We will buy you as much time as we can. Now go! Please!" And with that Elendur shoved his father away and ran with renewed vigour back into the fray.

Isildur watched him go, love and regret in equal measure tightening his chest, then he did as his son commanded - he ran. He ran until his breath burned in his lungs and his knees felt weak, pausing in his flight only long enough to pull the gloves from his hands and clumsily remove the armour from his body. He stumbled on towards the sound of rushing water, the shrieks and growls of his pursuers growing ever nearer. With a trembling hand, Isildur removed the mithril chain from his neck, hesitating only a moment before slipping the Ring onto his finger and hoping for salvation. The warm metal glinted dangerously in the moonlight and nestled possessively around his finger. All of his pain and anguish were instantly amplified and whispers of darkness deafened his ears.

He forced his legs to keep moving and waded into the river, its icy waters nearly stealing his breath. Almost there. Halfway across the river sharp, shooting pains in his shoulder and abdomen caused him to stumble. One hand flew to his midriff, feeling the sharp tip of an arrow protruding from his skin. Another searing pain in his chest knocked him off his feet and he slipped under the swift water. No. Not like this. Kicking weakly he fought to keep his head above the water as he was swept downstream, the protruding shafts of the arrows catching and breaking on rocks and logs in the river. Numb fingers finally managed to grab onto a fallen limb and drag his weary body from the river. Clutching onto roots and vines, Isildur clawed his way to safety. His dimming vision picked out a safe haven in the growing darkness - a tall, bent tree on the river's edge, its moss and branches hanging low to the ground, almost completely shielding a small hollow where he could hide.

With great difficulty he made his way to the tree and crawled into the hollow, curling up inside and breathing heavily. His hand, pale and aching from the Anduin's frigid waters, held tightly to a thick wooden vine as the agony coursed through him and his life's blood seeped into the ground around gnarled roots. Leaning his head back to rest against the tree, he glanced at the hand gripping the vine, his eyes lingering on the Ring as it glimmered in the darkness. Such a precious little thing. Isildur was tired, so tired. He could feel his body weakening, his breaths slowing. Perhaps he could rest here just for a while and move on after the orcs had passed. His gaze fixed on the golden band, Isildur murmured a prayer to the Valar seeking protection for himself, his son, his wife...his Ring. He finally gave in to his exhaustion, lured by the promise of rest. Blanketed in warmth and soothed by gentle whispers, Isildur closed his eyes to sleep, never to open them again.

OoO

The orcs did pass, but Isildur never awoke. For years his body lay in the hollow of the tree undiscovered and undisturbed, his flesh feeding the roots. The skeletal hand still clutched the vine, the Ring still sat on its thin, white finger as the tree absorbed Isildur's remains completely. Vines grew, moss spread, and over the years the tree's trunk grew around the alabaster bones until nothing remained to mark his final resting place. Nothing.