VII.) The Tree and the Temple
In his private chambers in the palace of Romenna, Amandil stared into the master Palantir mounted on the pedestal before him.
It was fifty-five years, he reflected, since Sauron had first stained the isle of Numenor with his dark presence. Now his shadow had grown very great, until it encompassed practically the whole of the land and its people. After the atrocity in the King's throne room at Armenelos, five years before, Sauron had begun construction of his Temple of Melkor. Using uncounted numbers of foreign slaves, and whatever dark magics were available to him though his Ring, Sauron had recently completed the unholy edifice, more quickly than anyone would have thought possible. Amandil had never seen it in person, but it was said to be a vast cylindrical building of white marble, five-hundred feet in diameter, with walls fifty feet thick. The marble walls rose two-hundred and fifty feet above the ground, and on top of them a great silver dome, gleaming in the sunlight, soared another two-hundred and fifty feet into the air. Into the top of this dome was cut a circular hole, designed to foul the skies with the black smoke of sacrifices to Morgoth.
Sauron had not refrained from conducting sacrifices during the period of the Temple's construction, building temporary altars for that purpose. He had begun by sacrificing the slaves who had built the Temple, as they became too exhausted to work. Now that the Temple was completed, these slaves were all but spent. He had dispatched many ships and soldiers of Numenor to the wild lands of Middle Earth to capture more sacrifices for his dark god. Yet these were not the only sources of sacrifice; for Sauron was ever ready to cast into the fire those amongst the Numenoreans he accused, whether truly or not, of blaspheming the name of Melkor, or of plotting against the King's life.
The Queen, since Ar-Pharazon squelched her protest on that fateful day in the throne room, had remained silent. She could not, or would not serve to rally those still faithful to Eru against the lies of Sauron. Amandil and Elendil had sought to organize resistence amongst the people of Numenor, yet all their efforts had been in vain. The worship of Morgoth – Melkor, Giver of Freedom, to his followers – had spread like wildfire amongst nobles and commoners alike. Amandil could not tell how many submitted to the new religion out of greed for eternal life and worldly power, and how many acquiesced out of fear. No Man had yet been sacrificed on the grounds of failing to worship Melkor. Yet, if a man spoke out in public, or even in private, against the worship of Melkor, he placed his life in jeopardy. If, inside the walls of his own home, he even once called Melkor by the name Morgoth – the Dark Enemy – that was enough for his life to be forfeit. The walls had ears - it took but a whisper from one of Melkor's devotees to Sauron's priests for a dissenter to be condemned as a blasphemer and traitor, and sacrificed by fire.
Only here in Romenna, reflected Amandil, were those who were still faithful to Eru, and openly opposed to the worship of Melkor, allowed to remain unmolested. So far, the citizens of Romenna, buoyed by the spirit of their Lords, had avoided falling under the madness that had swept the rest of the island. Their numbers had been increased by Amandil's followers from Andunie, seven years ago. Every day their numbers waxed greater. After the declaration of the new religion, a handful of nobles had removed themselves and their families and servants from their own dwellings, and made their way to Romenna, acknowledging Amandil as their chosen leader. This trickle had soon turned into a flood - every week, bands of refugees found their way to the haven of Romenna, seeking sanctuary from the worship of Melkor.
Amandil was unsure how long Romenna's reprieve would last. Refugees had told him that the Lords of Andunie were demonized by Sauron's priests as heretics and blasphemers, and denounced by the King's Men as traitors to their liege-lord Ar-Pharazon. On the sacrificial altars, many Numenorean victims – no doubt under the influence of torture, or of Sauron's will – had publicly proclaimed that they were Amandil's agents, directed by him to commit many crimes against the loyal subjects of the King. Amandil knew that it was only a matter of time before the King used some pretext to send his armies against the Lords of Andunie, and wipe out the last bastion of resistance to the new order.
Amandil turned his attention back to the matter before him. It was the last day of the week, and the Sun had just dipped beneath the Western horizon - time for his weekly report from the only agent he truly had in Armenelos. That agent, an old friend of his son Elendil, was the only surviving senior military officer clear-headed enough to have recognized that Sauron was still the enemy of Numenor, and not its benefactor.
Amandil stared at the Palantir on its pedestal before him, and frowned. Gil-galad had explained to Elendil, that the Palantir responded to the will of the user, but that will must be focused and clear if the crystal sphere was to do its work. Amandil concentrated, and after a few moments the shifting smokes within the Palantir parted, revealing the image of a grey-bearded, aging face and blue eyes. Amandil had entrusted a Palantir to this man so that he could report, in absolute secrecy, on events in the capital, and the latest moves of Sauron and the King.
Curiously, when one stared into a Palantir at another Palantir user, one could communicate with him though thought alone, just as the wisest among the High Elves did without recourse to any external magics. Without opening his lips, Amandil spoke to the man whose misty image he could see in the crystal ball. "Report, Admiral Minastir."
Minastir seemed shaken. "My lord" he replied – the words formed soundlessly in Amandil's mind – "A new devilry of Sauron is afoot."
Amandil sighed. That was hardly surprising news. "What blasphemy is he planning now?" he asked.
"The White Tree, my lord", replied Minastir. "He wishes it to be cut down and burned, to inaugurate the opening of his accursed Temple. The human sacrifices on its altar will commence once the White Tree has been destroyed."
Amandil froze. More than three-thousand years ago, the White Tree, Nimloth the Fair, had been a gift of the High Elves of Valinor to Elros Half-Elven when he founded the land of Numenor. It was descended from Celeborn, the White Tree of Tol Eressea, which in turn was descended from Galathilion, the White Tree of Tirion in Elvenhome. Galathilion was fashioned in the image of mighty Telperion, the Silver Tree of Valinor. Telperion had stood next to Laurelin the Golden, and together these giant Two Trees of the Valar had provided light to the Blessed Land before the rise of the Sun and Moon.
The Two Trees were long gone, destroyed by Morgoth, but Galathilion and its descendents survivied as diminutive images of Telperion. Nimloth itself was a living symbol of the ancient ties between the Men of the West, the High Elves, and the Valar. The symbol of the White Tree was adopted as part of the heraldic design of the Kings of Numenor, and was displayed on the sable tunics, shields and banners of the Royal Household Guard. King Ar-Inziladun, father of Queen Miriel, had prophesied that the fate of the line of Elros was tied to the fate of the White Tree. As long as it lived and bloomed, he had prophesied, the heirs of Elros would flourish. But, should it ever die without being survived by any offspring, then the line of Elros would be overthrown.
"What does the King have to say about this?" asked Amandil.
Minastir frowned. "It seems strange that the King would agree to Sauron's demands. According to the well-known prophecy, it is Ar-Pharazon's own line that will be overthrown if the Tree perishes! For a time, the King seemed reluctant to agree. Yet I have heard rumor he is on the cusp of assenting to Sauron's demands. The King has already declared that Nimloth is a symbol of the enslavement of his ancestors to the false oracle Eru, and the rebellious Valar! I fear it will take little effort for Sauron to sway the King toward taking the final step."
Amandil pondered this news grimly. Not only did it foreshadow the end of the line of Kings, and the downfall of Numenor – signs of which seemed to flourish in these dark times – but his own family, as descendents of Elros, were also under the sway of the prophecy. Their fate, and that of their followers, was tied to that of the White Tree as much as was the fate of the King.
Amandil spoke again to the Admiral. "I do not know how to stop this mad scheme, should the King pursue it" he said. "It is beyond my power to guard the White Tree from the King's Men, standing as it does in the heart of the Palace Garden of Armenelos. But I shall take council with my sons and grandsons. We will do what we can to avert this evil."
"My lord" said Minastir. Then his image faded, and the depths of the Palantir were once again shrouded in shifting smokes.
Isildur crouched in an alcove of one of the walls flanking the Palace Garden. The oncoming evening lengthened the shadows that concealed him. Far above, the pale Moon stared down at him, and Earendil had begun his nightly voyage across the skies. A chill autumn breeze sailed through the Garden, rattling the leaves and branches of its many trees.
In the heart of the shady, pleasant gardens, on mound of green grass bedecked with flowers, stood the White Tree. It was as tall as the mightiest Oak, but there its resemblance to an ordinary tree of the mortal lands ended. Its smooth bark was as white as snow, its leaves dark green where they faced toward the Sun, but bright silver on their undersides. Smooth white fruits grew here and there from the branches of the tree, which swayed gently in the breeze.
It was to obtain one of these fruits that Isildur had embarked on this mission. Amandil had concluded it was inevitable that Sauron would have his way, and that the Tree would be destroyed. Moreover, he and Elendil had recognized with sorrow that it was impossible to save the Tree from the King's Men. Amandil had realized there was but one hope. If they could save a single fruit, then the prophecy need not be fulfilled – for planted elsewhere, a new White Tree could flourish, and the line of Elros might not perish utterly.
Yet, Amandil and Elendil had vacillated. They knew any attempt to penetrate the Palace of Armenelos as a thief involved fearful peril, and might well end in death. Amandil also feared that the King might use such an attempt as a pretext to declare the Lords of Andunie outlaws. Who then would protect the faithful of Romenna, those who had rejected the worship of Melkor, from the wrath of Sauron? The Lords of Andunie seemed to be caught on the horns of a dilemma, and to face a bad end no matter which course they chose.
Isildur did not have the patience to persuade his elders to take action. He decided to strike out for Armenelos on his own, and either rescue a fruit of the White Tree, or perish in the attempt. Anarion had come across the preparations for his departure, and wrung his secret plan from him. Anarion had then insisted on accompanying him, but Isildur flatly refused. Isildur could keep a lower profile if he traveled alone, for he and his brother had always acted together in the past, and might be recognized together where they would not be individually. Moreover, Isildur, who was well aware of the rashness of his plan, had no wish to have his beloved brother's death upon his head. He could not imagine returning to Elendil with a fruit of the White Tree, only to have to report that Anarion had perished in the attempt to rescue it. No – he would go on this quest by himself, and either succeed or fail alone.
Having shaved his beard to alter his appearance, and disguised himself as a sailor, Isildur had journeyed to Armenelos, and made contact with Minastir while the Admiral was conducting his weekly inspection of the harbour east of the capital. The Admiral, having been urgently informed of the object of Isildur's quest, agreed to help Isildur in whatever manner he could. He soon arranged for a uniform of one of the Palace servants to be delivered in secret to the tavern where Isildur was staying. Now disguised in the black and brown tunic and of a Royal servant, Isildur had managed to gain entry to the Palace without arousing the suspicion of the sentries. He had then made his way to the Palace Garden.
However, it seemed that the easy part of his quest was at an end. For the Tree was surrounded by a score of the Royal Household Guard, spears at the ready! Cursing under his breath, Isildur felt himself half-wishing that he had accepted Anarion's offer of assistance. Admiral Minastir himself would have tried to help Isildur directly if he could, but his face was so well known that he could not approach the Palace Garden without being detected. Isildur knew that was on his own.
What was needed, thought Isildur, was a distraction, if only for a few moments. But what?
He looked around. A hundred feet away, behind some bushes, was a wooden shed, where the Palace gardeners kept some of their implements. The ground around it was littered with straw and wood shavings. It had not rained in some days, and the whole structure looked very dry.
Smiling, Isildur crept towards the shed. No one was around. Reaching into a leather pouch attached to his belt, he removed a flint and tinder. Praying he would not be heard, he struck them as quietly as possible, while blowing gently on the straw that covered the ground. A few sparks flew from the tinder. Instantly, the straw caught fire, and a several small flames crept towards the shed. As Isildur retreated to his hiding spot, he could see that the flames were quickly arcing up the sides of the shed, which suddenly turned into a blazing beacon.
"Ho! A fire!" shouted some of the guards around the Tree.
"Quickly lads" said one, who appeared to be their captain, "we must look sharp and put it out! It wouldn't do for the King to find that his gardens had burned to the ground while we merely stood here and watched. You two stand guard by this tree – the rest of you, follow me, and we'll fetch buckets of water!" There was a clattering of iron-shod feet, and then most of the guards were out of sight. Only two remained by the Tree, gazing intently at the burning shed.
Isildur smiled grimly. Creeping behind a bush, closer to the Tree, he gave out a queer, high-pitched cry, like that of one of the agile, spotted jungle-cats of Far Harad which the King kept as pets.
"By Melkor, one of the King's pets is loose!" said one of the guards. "Dorlas! Go over there and grab the mangy beast by the scruff of the neck, and hold it 'till our comrades return! It seems chaos runs rampant this night."
Swearing, the other guard strode over to the bush, searching for the beast. To his astonishment, he found Isildur instead. Noting his black and brown robes, the guard was about to ask this fool of a servant why hiding in the bushes, crying like a cat – but he never got the chance for, quick as a flash, Isildur plunged a dagger into his throat.
As the man's body slumped to the ground, Isildur picked up his spear and, quickly judging his aim, threw it at the other guard like a javelin. It struck home at the unarmoured base of the man's neck, and the guard let out a short gurgling cry before he dropped to the ground, twitching.
Isildur wiped his dagger clean on the tunic of the first guard he had slain, and quickly sheathed it. With no wasted motion, he dashed towards the Tree and, as he neared its base, withthrew from his pouch a rope tipped by a grappling hook, which he tossed into the branches. Climbing up the smooth bark, he soon came upon a fruit on one of the lowest branches, while supporting his weight on the limb beneath him. He took out his dagger, and severed the curiously perfumed, firm white fruit. Holding the dagger in his teeth, he quickly stowed the fruit in a small woolen valise also attached to his belt, and hid the valise inside his tunic. He sheathed his dagger, and was about to scale down the Tree when he heard shouts from below.
"Bregor lies dead under the tree, one of our own spears in him!"
"Look, who is that knave up in the branches? After him!"
Cursing his ill fortune, Isildur looked about, frantically searching for an alternate exit from the Garden. He spotted a ledge projecting from the nearest tower of the Palace, some three-score feet above and away from him. Quickly, he tugged at the rope, which came undone, and caught it just below the grappling hook as it tumbled down. He swirled the rope, and tossed it towards the ledge. The grappling hook took hold, and Isildur swung off from the Tree towards the tower, narrowly avoiding being skewered by several spears tossed in his direction.
As his body slammed against the tower wall, the wind almost knocked out of him, he scrambled desperately to maintain his hold on the rope. As the guards raised the alarm, several more spears clattered against the smooth stone near to him. One of them grazed his unarmoured back, and he stifled a cry. The wound burned like fire, and yet Isildur knew that he must make haste. Within minutes more guards would be swarming through the Garden, doubtless some armed with crossbows rather than spears. Summoning all his fading strength, ignoring the blood spurting from his wound, he quickly pulled himself up the rope towards the overhanging ledge, some of the guardsmen's remaining spears missing him by barely a handsbreadth. Grasping the ledge with his hands, he swung his legs up, and then pulled his body over the side. Exhausted and in pain, he had just secured himself on the ledge, which projected from the base of a large, open window, when he heard a clatter of many iron-shod feet from the gardens below. Then, a great, ringing voice cried out:
"Fools! Can you not guard a mere tree for an evening without bungling?"
The voice belonged to none other than Sauron himself, dressed in flowing robes of sable and crimson. In his hands he bore a mighty, single-headed axe. Sauron looked from the burning shed to the spear-struck body of Bregor, slumped in front of the Tree, and his ruby lips curled with disdain.
"My lord..." said the man Isildur took to be the captain of the guards, but Sauron, with a snarl, lunged at the man and struck off his head with the axe!
As the head rolled away, and the body, spurting gouts of blood, crashed to the ground, Sauron turned on the now thoroughly cowed guards. "Gaping lackwits! Speak quickly, or you shall all burn for this! Whom did you see, the one who carried out these deeds? Where did he go?"
"He...he was up in the tree, my lord" stammered one of the guards. "He seemed to have cut one of the fruits from it, then he swung a rope up into the Queen's tower. He is up on yonder window now."
Sauron whipped his head up, staring at the window, and caught sight of Isildur before he could duck inside the tower.
"One of the whelps of Andunie!" shouted Sauron. "Too long have I allowed Romenna to sit as a dung-heap that attracts the flies of this land. Quickly! Summon the Guard to the Queen's tower at once! We must catch the heretic, all the more so if he has any of the Tree's fruits with him!"
Most of the guards scurried off, but Sauron ordered a score of them to remain. Some of them doused the burning shed with buckets of water, while others collected the body of their comrade Bregor, soon finding that of Dorlas as well. They avoided looking at their slain captain, fearful that Sauron's wrath might next be directed at one of them.
Meanwhile, Sauron turned his attention to the Tree. "At last, I have persuaded Ar-Pharazon to sentence you to death, Nimloth the Foul" said he. Isildur felt his blood run cold. "Too long has your rotten trunk stained this land with the essence of the accursed Valar, and their Elvish lackeys. But no longer. The hour of judgment is upon you!"
Sauron then addressed the guards, who now watched their High Priest eagerly, their fear replaced by desire for revenge against the false Valarian Gods. "I shall claim two victims for Melkor tonight" said Sauron, "first this foul Tree, and second Elendil's gutter-dropped brat!"
Raising the axe high above his head, Sauron brought it down upon the Tree. He must have been far stronger than his slender arms suggested, for with a single blow of the axe, the White Tree was severed from its base! With a low moan, almost like a cry of pain, Nimloth toppled over and crashed to the ground.
Sauron turned to the guards, shouting "Quickly, bring ropes, and drag the White Tree's carcass to the Temple of Melkor! The odour from its burning shall be a sweet balm to Him. I shall go to the King and inform him of the latest treason of the Lords of Andunie!"
Isildur felt a tear roll down his cheek as he gazed at the corpse of the beautiful White Tree, and contemplated its terrible fate. The pain of his wound was, for a time, damped by his grief at such evil. "That a gift from the Undying Lands should fuel the fires of the Great Enemy", he said to himself.
But, Isildur realized he had to flee the Queen's tower and escape the Palace, and quickly! He still carried a single fruit of the Tree within his tunic, and he had to bear it safely from the Palace if his mission were not to have been in vain.
He turned away from the window, and found himself in a large, vaulted room, illuminated by glowing candles scented with lavender, and decorated with many rich, brightly-coloured tapestries, and with rare and delicate furniture. As he looked about for an exit, he heard a voice behind him.
"It is long since I have had any visitors, apart from my servants."
Turning, he saw Queen Miriel standing before him, dressed in a long gown of cloth of gold and silver. Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side – a legacy of the King's assault upon her of five years before. In her slender right hand she held a curiously carved silver key.
"Come, young Isildur" said the Queen, "for despite your garb and having shaved your beard, I recognize you. Follow me. It may be that fate yet smiles on you before this terrible night is done."
From his own chambers, which offered him a distant view of the Palace Garden, Admiral Minastir saw the drama unfolding below him, culminating in the destruction of the White Tree. The White Tree, Nimloth the Fair! Child of Eressea, grandchild of Valinor! Never more would it grace the Palace Garden of Armenelos!
Minastir had always been a practical man, little inclined to mysticism. Yet, he knew that to destroy the White Tree was not merely an act of blasphemy. It was a symbolic repudiation by the Men of the West of their ancient heritage, of their proud and dignified history. Even more than the cruel sacrifices by fire, even more than the construction of the foul Temple of Melkor, the murder of the White Tree was a mockery of everthing Minastir held sacrosanct.
Minastir was thankful Isildur had managed to rescue a fruit from the Tree that very night, just in the nick of time, and that he had escaped Sauron's clutches. Yet, Minastir's thankfulness did not lift the cloak of despair he felt enveloping him. He had been present when the King had pronounced his sentence of death upon the Tree, a few hours before. The courtiers present had laughed. Yes, they had laughed! Men and women both, as if it were the latest cynical joke to make the rounds of the Palace. Their corruption so disgusted him that he had not spoken to any of them since. He had fought all his life for Numenor, and for what? So that a host of vampires could bleed it dry, and vultures feast off its carcass?
His eyes burning with tears, he thought of those most responsible for the vile slaughter of Nimloth. Sauron...but how could mortal Man like Minastir strike against that foul demon? And the King...the thought of the King's haggard visage and madly-gleaming eyes turned Minastir's sorrow into white-hot anger. Pharazon the Usurper! It was he who had brought the Enemy to Numenor, who had allowed the Keepers of the Hallow to be slain, who had ordered the destruction of the White Tree! It was he who had enslaved his own people to the worship of Morgoth Bauglir! Had Queen Miriel sat upon the golden throne as she was meant to, none of this would have come to pass...
Minastir felt a steely resolve build within him. He was an old man, whose life was bound to end in time...but before it did, he would do this one thing, so that he might not be ashamed to stand in the presence of his ancestors when his soul was delivered up to them.
Leaving the door to his quarters open, Minastir stalked down the corridor towards the private chambers of the King...
"You have lost much blood" said the Queen. "I will succor your wound as best I can, but we must be quick. The guards will be here within minutes." The queen placed the silver key in her hand on a table, and then opened a small laqquered box on a credenza, which contained an ointment fragrant with the scent of the medicinal herb Athelas. Isildur knelt before her, and she reached through the tear in the fabric of Isildur's tunic and smeared some of the ointment on the wound across his back. Isildur gasped at the stinging ointment, but within moments the sharp pain subsided to a cooling sensation, and the bleeding had stopped. The Queen then poured an exlir from a curiously carved bottle into a bejeweled cup, and gave it to Isildur, who quaffed the contents thirstily. A pleasant warmth surged through his veins, and he began to feel more than half-alive again.
"Those are very crude treatments", said the Queen, as she retrieved the silver key from its tabletop. "I am still worried that you have lost so much blood, but there is nothing we can do about that now. You must follow me, and make haste."
Isildur walked behind the Queen, noting with relief that her chambers were empty. "My servants seldom spend time with me when they are not needed" she explained, tucking the silver key into her bodice. "They would rather amuse themselves in the decadent practices of those who worship the Great Enemy. Melkor, Giver of Freedom indeed...his worshippers are free to do evil, and nothing more."
The Queen sighed. "I am still faithful to Eru. One of the few, for even the greater part of those who once worshipped Morgoth out of fear have now sunk into degradation alongside their fellows. The King does not seem to know that I still reject his false idol, or he does not care, for in his arrogance he thinks that no woman can pose a serious threat to him. He said that my outburst in the Throne Room, on that dark day five years ago, was mere 'womanly weakness'. Apparently, that I was the only one present who could resist Sauron's spell makes me weak."
She frowned. "And Sauron pays me little heed, for his power has grown so great that he knows that I dare not oppose him openly, as I once did. I believe Sauron spares me from assassination only as a ploy, to maintain the appearance of a proper King and Queen in the Palace, and disguise from the people the fact that he is the true power behind the throne. "
Miriel's face twisted with bitterness. "For it has become all too apparent that Pharazon barely has any thoughts, but those that Sauron places in his addled head. However, it would not serve Sauron's purposes for the people to know the truth – the fiend still maintains a charade of being the King's loyal servant, and I am still paraded before the people alongside the King on ceremonial occasions. I would prefer death to such humiliation, but Eru forbids us to take our own lives."
She then smiled, wryly. "Since you surely seek to harm Sauron and his puppet King, and save what light is left in Numenor, I choose to risk my own life in order to save yours. I saw you cut the fruit from Nimloth the Fair, and know as well as anyone my own father's prophecy concerning its significance. My line has come to an end, for I shall be the last of it. But perhaps through the Lords of Andunie, the line of those descended from Elros Half-Elven shall not fail utterly!"
"Your Majesty..." said Isildur, but she silenced him.
"Come quickly" she said, leading him through an alcove to a great Oaken door. "Already I have consumed too much time with idle words." She opened the door, and peered out. "The corridor beyond is empty, but shall not be for long. Look you – there is a series of caves and tunnels that lead from under the Palace and past the accursed Temple of Melkor, to the open fields well east of the city. Only the true heirs to the throne know of the secret door that connects the Palace to the caves – Pharazon does not imagine its existence. I shall guide you to that door, and beneath the city, though once you are in the open you must find your own way back to Romenna."
Isildur nodded, and followed the Queen. She walked a short distance to a narrow doorway cut into the wall of the corridor, which was dressed with walls and floors of marble, and illuminated by silvered candelabra that reflected light from the mirrored ceiling. The Queen paused in front of the doorway, and gestured at it. "We shall take the servant's stairs – they descend straight into the kitchens. We shall then have to pass along a hall near the King's chambers, at the base of his tower – that is the greatest danger – and then another flight of stairs leads down to the crypts and the secret door. The King's guards will doubtless come for you up the main stair, so with luck we shall elude them for the time being."
The Queen walked quickly through the door and down the spiral staircase. Isildur followed her, his hands groping against the wall to be sure he did not trip and fall in the gloom. As they descended, they heard the shouts and iron-shod feet of many guards echoing along the corridor above. The guards went past the entrance to the servant's stair, however, straight for the Queen's chambers.
Isildur and the Queen soon came to the kitchens, which were deserted at this late hour. She led Isildur through the kitchens to an alcove which stood by the open archway to the corridor beyond. This corridor was like that which led from the Queen's chambers, but broader and higher, carpeted with rich red felt, and illuminated by giant golden candelabra. "Yonder lie the doors to the King's Chambers" said the Queen. "We must go past them if we are to reach the next flight of stairs. There are always two guardsmen detailed at the entrance to the King's Chambers – I pray they have not yet been placed on alert, or at least that they will not recognize you. How we will disguise the wound on your back, I know not, unless I can somehow distract them."
Isidur nodded, feeling worried. He looked down the corridor to the carved oaken doors, before which stood two heavily-armoured Royal Household Guardsmen, armed with wicked-looking pikes. He knew that even were he not wounded and exhausted, the fact that he was armed merely with a dagger, and lacked any body armour, would tilt the odds heavily against him if it came to open combat. He could not hope to dispatch them with a ruse, as he had their counterparts in the Palace Garden, for he knew they were under pain of death not to leave their posts by the doors to the King's Chambers during their watch.
Isildur had just focused his mind and body for a confrontation with the guards, when a sudden commotion echoed from the doors behind them ...
"Who goes there?" The bored guardsman, charged with guarding the doors to the King's pleasure rooms, knew perfectly well the identity of the giant man before him, but protocol required him to make the challenge.
"Admiral Minastir, of the King's Navy. I must see the King at once on a matter that is most urgent."
"His Eminence the High Priest came before you, on an errand to see the King" said the other guardsman, who appeared more alert than his comrade. "The Royal Steward, Lord Nuphkor, is also with them. His Eminence gave orders they were not to be disturbed."
"The Lord Admiral of the King's Navy does not take orders from the High Priest where military matters are concerned!" shouted Minastir. "Let me into the King's chambers at once, or I shall have you court martialed for obstructing one of the King's Ministers in the performance of his duty, and endangering the safety of the realm!"
Reluctantly, the guards summarily searched Minastir's robes for weapons and, finding none, opened the doors.
Minastir strode inside. As the doors closed heavily behind him, he stopped for a moment, staring with disgust at the scene in front of him. This, the lowermost of the King's chambers in his tall tower, was a large room with marble walls trimmed with gold, and lighted by braziers of polished bronze. Soft cushions of silk lay piled about, and on them lay many of the most comely youths and maidens of the Palace. They were in varying stages of undress; some appeared drugged and stupid, while others were engaged in acts that Minastir cared not to contemplate.
Towards the far side of the chamber, on a great pile of cushions, sprawled the King, who was dressed in gaudy robes of purple and cloth of gold. He appeared to be in his cups, his head lolling back and forth, a stupidly-satisfied smile on his aged face. Above the King stood Nuphkor and Sauron. Nuphkor, who five years ago had been appointed Royal Steward, was dressed in the black and cloth-of-gold trimmed robes with silver-medallioned chain that denoted his office. Sauron, who had ascended from the ancient rank of Steward to the novel station of High Priest, was dressed in robes of black and red, unadorned apart from his golden ring. The strange letters engraved on the ring gleamed brightly even from a distance, as they seemed to whenever Sauron was particularly excited or angered. Nuphkor appeared distracted by the decadent tableau formed by the youths and maidens, but Sauron was utterly indifferent to the scene. His passions were aroused only by his own purposes, and his attention was directed at the King.
"...their whelp Isildur," said Sauron, "whom I recognized, has not only murdered two of your guards, but has stolen a fruit from the accursed White Tree, no doubt to plant it in the soil of Romenna, that nest of heretics! It is an act of blasphemy against Melkor!"
Sauron stared grimly at the King. "Melkor will not look with favour on you if you allow this slight against Him to go unpunished! Isildur has escaped your guards, for the time being, but no matter. If he escapes Armenelos, then send emissaries to Romenna, and demand that they turn Isildur over to us, so that he may face justice for his crimes!"
"My leige" offered Nuphkor hesitantly, "Romenna has been well fortified over the past few years. If Amandil refuses your order to hand over his son for judgment, it may come to war. The army of Amandil pales in comparison to your own, but our troops are dispersed worldwide, and many of those stationed in Numenor are needed to maintain order across the land. With the troops we could spare, it would take a siege of some days or weeks to break down the city walls of Romenna, heavily defended as they are, and in so doing we would lose many of our loyal Men. Perhaps an assassination mission..."
Suddenly the King's bleary eyes turned from Eumendias to Minastir. "Eh? Minastir? What are you doing here, man? Come for some amusement?" he asked, cackling, gesturing to one of the comliest maidens on the pillows strewn in front of him. Without comment, Minastir strode over the prostrate forms of several drugged youths, and approached the King.
Sauron stared at the Admiral, his clear blue eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you want, Minastir?" he asked coolly. "I gave orders to the guards outside that we were not to be disturbed. This had better be important. Has there been some delay in the latest fleet of ships bearing slaves from Middle Earth for sacrifice to Melkor?"
Ignoring Sauron, Minastir focused his attention on the King. Gently thrusting one hand beneath a fold of his blue and gold robes, he said "My liege, I bear an urgent message for your ears alone. Lean closer."
Frowning, the King leaned towards Minastir.
Quick as a striking snake, Minastir unsheathed a small dagger he had hidden in the folds of his robes. "For Earendil!" he shouted, thrusting the dagger at the King.
Nuphkor, who stood beside the King, had received military training in his youth. He grasped his hands together in a fist, whipped his arms up swiftly and deflected the Admiral's stroke, then seized Minastir's wrists and tried to wrench the blade from his hands. Minastir, who was as large and strong as a bear, quickly broke Nuphkor's blocking move, thrusting the Steward's arms below his waist. Slashing upward, he gutted the man with his dagger. Nuphkor crashed to the ground, screaming in his death agony, while a growing river of blood flowed out from under him. The youths and maidens below – those who were not drugged into a stupor – looked up from their amusements and screamed shrilly. Minastir turned his attention to the King, who lay whimpering on his pillows like a dog cringing before its master.
But Sauron, who had been as still as a statue, intervened. With a move faster than the eye could see, he knocked the dagger out of Minastir's hand. Then, with his other hand he seized the Admiral by the throat and lifted him two feet above the ground! Minastir struggled vainly, his huge arms trying to break Sauron's grip, but Sauron's slender wrists and arms seemed as though forged of steel. He contemplated the Admiral coolly for a moment, and then flung Minastir across the room, sending him crashing against the wall. Minastir slumped to the ground and lay there, unconscious. Some of the youths and maidens were now whimpering, while others sobbed hysterically.
At that moment the guards, who had heard the screams echoing inside, burst through the doors. Sauron glared viciously at them, and pointed at the corpse of Nuphkor. "Is it customary for the King's bodyguards to allow armed men to enter his chambers?" he asked.
Before the terrified guards could answer, the King rose from his pillows, frothing at the mouth and howling at the top of his lungs. "Traitor!" he screamed, pointing a shaky arm at Minastir, who lay motionless on the floor. "Assassin! Fiend!" He turned to the guards. "You Fools! How could you have let him in here, bearing a dagger aimed at my heart? " spat Ar-Pharazon.
"Calm yourself, my liege" said Sauron, his voice clear and smooth. Ar-Pharazon subsided, although his body was still trembling. "You were never at risk of harm, with me standing beside you" said Sauron assuringly. He looked at the wretched corpse of the former Steward, which lay twitching at his feet. "'Tis a shame that Nuphkor perished in his attempt to save you. His loyalty was admirable, though I fear his ardour had waned as of late."
"Yes" said the King. "He feared war with Romenna? Bah! A cat might as well fear war with a mouse! Nor shall I demand anything of Amandil. Should Elendil's brat escape Armenelos and return to Romenna, there is no need for him to be surrendered for trial and judgment. I hold him guilty of murder, theft and blasphemy, and proclaim his sentence now; for slaying my guards, and stealing a fruit from the White Tree, I name Isildur Wolf's Head, an outlaw. Any Man who wishes may slay this Wolf's Head with impunity, and for the slaying he will receive a reward of five-hundred gold pieces, and my gratitude."
"A wise decision, my liege" demurred Sauron.
"And then there is this traitor, Minastir" said the King. "How can it be that I have held this viper at my bosom for so long? I know he was once friends with Elendil, yet he had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Sovereign of Numenor. He has less honour than a common thief."
"As for that infidel, your Majesty" replied, gesturing at Minastir, "I have long known he is disloyal to us." The King looked at Sauron with surprise.
"His treasonous intent was clearly evident in his mind, even though I could not grasp every detail of his thoughts" explained Sauron. "He has an Elvish bauble in his chambers, which he uses to communicate with Amandil or his vassals. He displayed it openly on a pedestal, thinking no one would recognize the thing for what it was. None of the servants or guards did, naturally, but did he really think I would not know one of Feanor's seeing stones when I saw one? The fool! I shall find this Palantir a most intriguing object of study, now that Minastir no longer has any use for it."
"In any event" continued Sauron, "He has been very useful to me, for unwittingly he has fed those arch-fiends in Romenna much false information, which has undermined their strength within this land. Thanks to that false information, they failed to take advantage of the weaknesses in our position, before we consolidated our hold on those faithful to Melkor."
Sauron frowned ruefully. "Perhaps I misjudged Minastir, for I did not think he would dare to strike openly. Though, if I have made a mistake, I confess it was in trusting the Royal Household Guard to do their duties properly, whether in guarding the White Tree or protecting your person. In truth, they are as stupid and useless and the lowest Orc." He glared at the guards once again, and they turned pale upon realizing they had incurred the wrath of the High Priest of Melkor.
"Still" smiled Sauron, "I can suggest a better use for Minastir than leaving him to rot in a dungeon, or sending his head to the chopping block. Melkor always finds the scent of burning heretics to be sweet."
"Yes, yes!" cackled the King. "Guards! Drag this traitor out of here and to one of the stable carts! We shall take this swine Minastir to the Temple of Melkor, and Lord Sauron will know how to deal with him! I shall accompany you myself, so that I may watch Minastir burn along with the White Tree!"
Isildur was horrified at the words he heard issuing from the King's chambers. He would have sprung from the kitchens and down the corridor to help his father's old friend, but the Queen restrained him.
"No!" she said. "Minastir is a brave man, but you cannot help him. I heard Sauron's voice in that room, and I have seen at other times that he is far stronger than any mortal Man, for all his lithesome build. If a great bear of a man like Minastir could not best Sauron, how could you? Remember you came here to rescue a fruit from the White Tree. Let not Minastir's sacrifice be in vain by throwing away your own life, and the last fruit of Nimloth the Fair as well! Your duty is to Numenor, whatever your own wishes may be."
Isildur frowned, but then nodded reluctantly. He knew the Queen was right, although he felt great shame well up within him at the thought of abandoning Minastir to his fate. He looked at the Queen. "Your Majesty" he said, his voice laden with sorrow, "I know what you said of the route to the crypts below, but I must ask you if we can make a diversion first. There is something in Minastir's chambers of great value to my father – the seeing stone mentioned by the Dark One. It would be disastrous for it to fall into Sauron's hands. I must seek to reclaim it before leaving here, if at all possible."
The Queen looked towards the corridor. "Wait!" she said, drawing back into depths of the alcove.
Two guards walked past slowly, dragging the body of Minastir, now as pale as death. Sauron and the King followed. Isildur was tempted to leap out with his dagger and try to finish what Minastir had started. But, he knew that with Sauron present, his attempt would end just as vainly as Minastir's. His eye caught the gleam from Sauron's Ring, which Elendil had told him embodied the essence of the Dark Lord's power. Isildur, vowing to avenge Minastir, swore the day would come when he would cut the precious bauble from Sauron's foul hand, even if it cost him his own life.
After they had disappeared down the corridor, the Queen whispered "Now that the corridor is unguarded, it is possible. Minastir's chambers are but a short distance from here. I shall lead you to them, so you may take this object you seek – but then we must make for the stair to the crypts, and quickly!"
Isildur and the Queen followed the stairs down to the dark crypts below. It had not taken long to retrieve the Palantir, for as Sauron had said it was displayed quite openly in Minastir's chambers. Apparently, Minastir had felt that no one would recognize the Palantir for what it was, merely thinking it some exotic gem, and so felt that there was no need to keep it hidden. Yet he had underestimated Sauron's esoteric knowledge. Isildur thanked himself that Sauron, in his arrogance, had not bothered to collect the Palantir before proceeding to the Temple.
Still, Isildur, in his wounded condition, found the Palantir to be a heavy burden. For all his youth, he had to struggle to keep up with the Queen's pace. At length, reaching the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a series of large, dank corridors carved out of the living rock, and dimly lit by occasional torches mounted in brass holders along the wall. "These are the crypts beneath the Palace, connecting the dungeons to each other" said the Queen. After walking for a short distance, the Queen stopped, and moved her right hand along the wall of rock. When she pushed at a slight protrusion, it shifted aside, revealing a small keyhole.
Smiling, the Queen took the silver key she had kept tucked inside her bodice, and pushed it into the keywhole, turning it. With a low groan, an entire section of wall, twice the breadth of a man, swung back, revealing a secret passage that stretched ahead into darkness. A gust of stale, musty air blew out of the passage, causing the torches along the walls of the corridor to flicker. Motioning to Isildur to take one of the torches out of its holders, she retrived the key, stepped into the passage, and waited for him. Torch in hand, he followed her. She tucked the key back inside her bodice, felt with her hand along the nitre-encrusted wall inside the passage, and pushed at another protrusion. The door swung back into place with a dull thud. As the Queen led the way, Isildur held the torch so that they could see amidst the inky blackness.
"This passage is below the level of the Sea" explained the Queen, "which is why it is so dank. It leads into a series of caves that lie under the city. The route we must take used to lead directly under the city into the open fields. Now it also leads past the accursed Temple of Melkor, lying as it does in the heart of Armenelos. When Sauron built the Temple, some of his workers came upon one of these caves. Knowing nothing of the connection between the caves and the Palace, they simply added a few ventilation slits in the temple walls and attached them by tunnels to the caves. Thus Melkor's worshippers need not die from lack of air, which the flame of his altar would otherwise draw out of the windowless building. 'Tis a shame they had such foresight, for not only do the shafts allow Men to live within the Temple, but we must pass within a stone's throw of the accursed place before you reach the surface." Isildur shuddered at the thought, but said nothing.
Isildur lost all track of time as they walked through the twisting passages and caves, threading their way through the maze with the Queen's guidance. He felt an increasingly strong gust of wind, as if air was being sucked out of the passages. More ominously, he began to hear a dark, deep chanting in many voices, a sound resonant with ancient evil. It seemed to Isildur as if the very darkness of the caverns were alive, and watching him with malevolent intent.
"The chanting of Melkor's priests" said the Queen. "Sauron established his priesthood five years ago, as you know. Until recently they oversaw the public sacrifices at the altars Sauron had established throughout the city. Now, they are to conduct all sacrifices within the Temple. Since its completion, some weeks ago, the priests have spent all their time within its thick walls. From down here, I have heard them chant new blasphemies that they had not uttered in public, and watched them at work on fell sorceries they believe hidden. Though the disciples of Melkor are cruel and decadent in public view, it is behind closed doors, and now within the Temple, that the true abominations are practiced."
"I have already seen those abominations carried out in the Throne Room" said Isildur, recalling with a chill down his spine the ghastly scene of five years before.
"Aye" said the Queen, "the burnings are now to be carried out within the Temple, but since its completion I have seen even worse things, of which I will not speak." Isildur regarded the Queen with pity, but said nothing.
As the chanting grew louder, Isildur noticed a fiery light pouring down from a gap in the cavern walls, upwards and to his left. "One of the ventilation shafts" said the Queen. "Will you tarry and look at what goes on within Morgoth's Temple? Or shall I lead you past it, so that your sleep may remain free from new nightmares?"
Isildur's heart told him to walk past the shaft without a second glance. Yet his mind could not resist the temptation of curiosity... "I will look, though only a brief glance" said Isildur. Smiling grimly, the Queen took the torch from him, and he crept up the shaft.
As he climbed, Isildur had the sudden fear that the Queen had abandoned him, and that he would be trapped forever within the dark maze of tunnels. But glancing back, he could still see the flickering light of her torch. Ashamed of himself, Isildur continued crawling up the shaft, until at last he came upon a window of sorts, sealed with solid bars of iron.
The noise from the chanting, echoing along the shaft, was almost deafening. Looking though the window, Isildur saw a vast, circular room of white marble, covered by an immense silver dome. He had seen the Temple from the outside on his journey into Armenelos, and for all its foulness he had marveled that anyone could construct such a vast edifice so quickly. Truly, he thought to himself, Sauron's power, or that of his magic Ring, was beyond the reckoning of Men. Ar-Pharazon was to fool to believe he could a control a dark being of the elder world.
The sanctum of the Temple was dominated by an immense flame that seemed to grow out of a hole or bowl in the centre of the floor, as if it came from the very bowels of the earth. Thus, even though it was nightime outside, the whole interior of the building was bathed in a reddish glow, although shadows could be seen behind the massive pillars that supported the base of the dome. A number of ramps led from the temple floor down the sides of the bowl to the flame. On the near side of the room, Isildur could see hundreds of priests of Melkor bent on their knees, their robes black, their heads shaven, chanting words of nameless evil in their low, deep voices.
Now that Isildur had reached the upper edge of the shaft, the chant was not quite so deafening as it had been farther down, where its echoes seemed amplified. Within the vast space of the Temple, the chanting was an everpresent, ominous sound. But other sounds could be heard. To his horror, Isildur saw that countless victims were manacled to the walls of the Temple. All bore the scars of varying degress of torment, and all were doubtless aware that they were soon to be sacrificed to the Lord of Darkness. Of those whose tongues were still intact, some screamed hysterically, and some wailed with despair. Others laughed shrilly, the balm of madness having overcome their sorrow.
Sick to his stomach, Isildur was about to turn around and crawl back down the shaft, when he heard new sounds over the chanting of the priests. These sounds belonged to the figures he could see striding toward the flame, accompanied by more of the priests of Melkor. With his Elven-keen eyes, Isildur could clearly see the figures of the King, Sauron, and the two guards from the Palace, still bearing the body of Minastir. He now also saw the White Tree lying on its side, on the far side of the flame. Apparently, it had been hauled into the Temple by the priests after the King's guards had dragged it from the Palace Garden. Sauron's high, clear voice echoed throughout the vast room, which seemed designed to emphasize the pitch and tone of his voice in particular.
"...too harsh with this traitor in your chambers, my liege. It appears he expired as his carcass was being dragged here by your guards."
Silently, Isildur gave thanks that at least his father's old friend Minastir would not be thrown alive into the flames.
"More's the pity" said the King, his voice sounding muffled by comparison. He seemed to stare viciously at the guards.
"I'm afraid it cannot be helped, your Majesty" replied Sauron. "In any case, let us turn our attention to happier thoughts. You have long lamented the enslavement of your ancestors to the Valar, symbolized by the accursed White Tree. Melkor has broken the chains that bound you to the Valar, and returned to your freedom and dignity. Now, witness the destruction of the last emblem of Numenor's shame, and the birth of a proud new era!"
He gestured at the priests, who held the White Tree on ropes. They pulled on the ropes and, with some difficulty, dragged the Tree to the edge of the vast flame. Pushing at it with all their might, they caused it to slide down the ramp, into the fire.
As Isildur watched the great pillar of fire consume Nimloth the Fair, he felt a lump in his throat, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. The leaves and fruits were devoured immediately, but the bark took some minutes to disappear, its smooth skin wrinkling and singeing horribly in the hellfire that surged up from the pit. A high pitched hissing and screaming filled the air, blending with that of the victims awaiting sacrifice, as if the Tree were issuing its death cry. Vast clouds of thick, inky black ash and smoke now rose up from the flame and out through the hole in the domed roof of the Temple, staining the dark blue of the night sky.
Over the noises from the Tree, Isildur could hear Ar-Pharazon's deranged cackling, a throaty, disgusting sound. Sauron said nothing, but the look of triumph on his face was unmistakable even from this distance. Isildur clutched the cloth bag hidden in his robes, the importance of his mission driven home to him now more clearly than ever. In spite of the efforts of Sauron and the King, one fruit of the White Tree still lived. Isildur vowed that when the time was right, he would plant it himself, and the line of Elros and the people of Numenor would flourish once again.
At length, the Tree was utterly consumed. "Well done" said the King, still cackling, "well done. Another blow to the false oracle Eru, and the treacherous Valar! Now my House has been freed from the false prophecy of my thrice-accursed uncle, Ar-Iziladun! I decree that henceforth, the heraldic design of my House shall no longer be the absurd white tree on its black field, which I repudiate utterly: it shall be a black snake on a red field, symbolizing the smoke curling up from the eternal fires of Melkor! Shadow and flame!"
"An excellent idea, my liege" said Sauron, nodding approvingly. "And now that the fires of Melkor have been whetted, the time has come for the first sacrifice of Men in His sacred Temple! We shall begin with this carrion" said Sauron, gesturing at Minastir's body, "for while Melkor prefers living victims, he will not spurn dead ones." He turned to his priests. "Throw him in!"
Without a word, two priests of Melkor took the body from the guards, dragged it to the edge of the great bowl and, in a maneuver at which they appeared much practiced - though most likely upon living and bound victims - they cast Minastir's body down a ramp that led into the flames. It was enveloped and consumed within moments.
"Good riddance" spat the King. "Such will be the fate of all those who violate their oaths to me."
Sauron then nodded at the guards. "And what of these two fools, your Majesty? Were they not sworn to protect you? And yet their carelessness nearly cost you your life." The guards shrank away from Sauron, aware that they were greatly outnumbered by the priests of Melkor.
"Indeed" replied Ar-Pharazon coldly, "A life that Melkor shall preserve eternally, so long as I serve Him well. And these dogs nearly deprived me of it! Do with them as you see fit, Lord Sauron."
Smiling, Sauron signaled to his black-robed priests who, quick as lightning, knocked the guards' weapons away, and bound them hand and foot with black ropes. As they dragged the screaming guards toward the flame, and the King's cackling once again filled the Temple, Isildur turned away, soul-shaken. He had seen enough horror this night to last a dozen lifetimes.
Trying to ignore the briefly higher-pitched screams behind him, which were suddenly cut short, Isildur crept back down the shaft, the evil chanting of the priests again echoing loudly in his ears. He could still see the Queen's torch, a beacon far below. At length, he stepped out of the shaft and stood once again in the tunnel, in front of the Queen.
Queen Miriel smiled ruefully. "You seem to have aged ten years in the past half an hour, Isildur. Yet now you know why I still worship Eru in my heart, even if all my servants and courtiers have given themselves up to Morgoth. No one who has seen what takes place inside that Temple could ever worship the Great Enemy, unless he were born with the soul of a fiend. I would rather live what time is left to me cleanly, than defile myself in pursuit of a false promise of eternal life."
Isildur nodded, silently. Reclaiming the torch from her, his voice hoarse and shaken, he said "Lead me from this place of horror, my leige."
She turned, and he followed her for some hours, the breeze now strongly in front of them, as the chanting from the Temple diminished behind them. His wound was beginning to throb with pain once again, and he began to doubt that he could endure his ordeal for much longer. Yet he pressed on, aware that his duty mattered above all else.
At length the sound of the chanting faded away entirely, the breeze grew ever stronger, and the passage began to lead uphill. Ahead Isildur could seen a thin gash in the darkness, through which poured the clean light of the stars and the Moon. Sighing with relief, Isildur came at length to the exit. He and the Queen found themselves at the edge of a narrow opening, no wider than a man. They passed though it, and found themselves on the ledge jutting from the top of a hillock perhaps fifty feet in height, in the middle of fertile plains that stretched for twenty miles east of the capital. The dark shadow of the mountains that separated Armenelos from Romenna lay on the Eastern horizon. Here and there on the plain, cottages and smallholdings showed as dimly flickering lights. Isildur was appalled by the mocking tranquility of the homely scene, for he could look with nothing but horror on those who worshipped Melkor.
Turning to the Queen, Isildur said "Your Majesty, I beg you not to return to the Palace of Armenelos! For it has been stained forever by the worship of Morgoth, and is now a place of evil. We could easily steal a horse or two from an inn on the plain hereabouts, and then ride hard for Romenna. Within two days time I could have you safe and sound in the palace of my father and grandfather, and you would never have to submit again to that fiend in the guise of a Man who styles himself High Priest – or the one who calls himself your King!"
Miriel stared silently at Isildur, and he saw a tear running down her cheek. Sadly, she replied "You can see for yourself, Isildur, that I could have escaped from the Palace at any time, and still could at any time in the future if I wish it. But I am the last of the direct line of Kings and Queens flowing from the elder sons and daughters of Elros. My place is in the Palace, and the city, that has ever been the home of my line since the foundation of this land. My destiny does not lie with you, son of Elendil, though I admire your courage and trust in your victory. I foresee that the day will come when you are a great King in your own right, and your name will rebound throughout the ages. Yea, I foresee that from the seed of lost Nimloth that you bear in your cloak shall someday sprout forth a new White Tree, even as the blood of Numenor shall purge itself of this evil and renew itself in the light. But my duty, my place lies in Armenelos, and there I shall remain." Leaning towards Isildur, she kissed him gently on his forehead.
"Now go, brave Isildur!" she cried, "for you are still hunted, and far from home, and your mission is not complete until the last fruit of Nimloth lies safely within the guarded walls of your grandfather's palace at Romenna!"
Isildur would have tried again to persuade the Queen to accompany him, in spite of her words. Yet, he could see in her eyes that her heart was already set. Wordlessly, he took her right hand and kissed it with devotion. Then he pressed the torch into her hand. "Farewell, your Majesty" said he. "I pray you are not the last in the direct line of Kings and Queens. Whether you are or no, you have shown your true character is no less than that of our ancestors, Earendil the Mariner and Elros Half-Elven! Farewell!"
His face lined with sorrow, Isildur turned away from the Queen and descended the hill towards the plain below. He never saw her again as a mortal Man.