XII.) The Last Alliance
On a cool spring day in the year 3320, Isildur and Anarion retired to a marble-walled chamber within the fortress keep of Pelargir, on the western shores of the Mouths of Anduin, and enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath. As he leaned against the oak-lined tub, and relaxed in the warm water, Isildur reflected on the present position of their people.
When the mighty storm had whipped up, and Numenor sank beneath the waves before his very eyes, the nine ships of the Elendili had been separated. Four of them, including that bearing Elendil, had been driven northward, while the remaining five, including those bearing Isildur and Anarion, had been driven eastward. After many days of being tossed to and fro on the stormy seas, the Men and Women on board sick to their hearts as well as in their stomachs, the thunder clouds suddenly disappeared, the Seas became calm once again, and the green coastline of Middle Earth appeared on the eastern horizon.
Their ships unfurled their sails, and steered past the sheer cliffs of the Isle of Tolfalas, finding themselves by the mouth of the Great River Anduin. Snaking their way through its muddy channels, they came upon Pelargir, unsure of whether it would be held against them by the King's Men. When they arrived at the city, they did not see the accursed black serpent banner of the King's Men flying from its pink granite walls, but rather the traditional banner of blue and green. The ships then weighed anchor at the mud flats of the western shore of the river, beyond which lay green fields littered with the toppled trunks of Oak and Cypress trees.
As the refugees disembarked, a party of guards from the city came out to greet them. These guards had informed the brothers that the city had been largely abandoned by the King's Men when they received the summons to the muster at Andunie – only a skeleton force was left behind to maintain order. The guards explained to Isildur and Anarion that the citizens of Pelargir, perhaps because of their ancient ties to the Elf-friends of Romenna, had had adopted the worship of Melkor only under duress. Thus, amid the fury of the howling storms, they had risen in rebellion against those few of the remaining King's Men who had held the city. Many of the King's Men were slain by the rebels, and the rest had fled east across the Anduin.
Pelargir had not been untouched by the great cataclysm, for tidal waves had swept the many ships docked in its harbour to founder miles inland, after which the Anduin had shifted its banks, leaving the city's ruined piers and warehouses stranded some distance from the shore. Isildur was pleased to see that, now that the winter had passed, many of the refugees were helping the citizens of Pelagir build new docks by the river, even as others, encamped in the fields outside the city, were assisted by the Pelargirians in building new houses for themselves.
A strongly-built, grey-bearded man, Ulbar by name, was a native of the city who had long served in its guard, and the first citizen of Pelargir to hail Isildur when he set foot on the soil of Middle Earth. Since the rebellion, the citizens had appointed him Captain of those native-born guards who had been secretly disloyal to the King's Men. He and the other citizens of Pelargir had first reacted to the tidings of the fall of Numenor with shock and disbelief. Yet, they could not gainsay the pale visages, blank stares, and frightened expressions of the refugees from Romenna. Nor could they credit the earthquakes, raging winds, and tidal waves they had suffered through themselves as being anything other than evidence of divine wrath for the blasphemies of Ar-Pharazon.
Recently Ulbar, a look of distaste spreading on his features, had informed Isildur and Anarion of unwelcome events in the South. Several scouts who had been dispatched to the Southlands had reported that there had been no revolt in Umbar, and that the King's Men who held that city, joined by their counterparts from Pelargir, had heard the spreading rumours of the fall of Numenor. Soon after, they had changed their banner to a green serpent on a red field. This they held up as the heraldic design of their self-styled Empire of Harad, for they intended to bring the Men of the Southlands under their dominion.
"The Empire of Harad, indeed" Anarion had said. "Those Black Numenoreans will become nothing more than servants of the Black Land, whether they realize it or not."
But despite this ill fortune, Isildur and Anarion had also received some good news. Using their Palantiri, they had managed, after many failed attempts, to establish contact with Elendil. His five ships had been driven far to the North-west of Pelargir, and into the Gulf of Lune, landing at Mithlond, the home of Lord Cirdan of the Falathrim Sea Elves of Middle Earth. Elendil's friend Gil-galad, High King of the Elves of Middle Earth, had sailed from Forlond to Mithlond to meet with Elendil, and confer with Cirdan.
The Elves of Middle Earth had not escaped the troubles that had shaken the World, for a great surge from the Sea had swept through the Gulf of Lune, carrying away many of the more fragile buildings of the Elvish havens, drowning some unfortunate Elves, and forcing the rest to seek shelter high in the Blue Mountains, before the storm subsided and they could return to their ruined homes. In Forlond, Gil-galad's fair garden had been swamped with seaweed, and many of the wooden houses were in ruins. Even now the Elves of Lindon were hard at work, undoing the damage that had been done.
"My Lords Gil-galad and Cirdan" Elendil had said through the Palantir "feel it is crucial that all of us, and others besides, take counsel together. You must equip a suitable party for your bodyguard, and take with you some guides native to Middle Earth, who can show you how to find your way. Your escort must be small, for I do not wish to strip Pelargir of its defences, lying as it does so close to the Black Land. Ride west to the Gap of Angren, or Isen as some call it, and then north, until you come nigh to the Ford of Bruinen. This route is less direct than the route north along the Anduin and west across the Misty Mountains, but it is safer, for King Gil-galad tells me the Mountains are infested with Orcs. At the Ford of Bruinen, a party of Elves will meet you, and guide you to Imladris, which Men call Rivendell, the house of our distant relative Master Elrond, brother to our forefather Elros. Rivendell, thankfully, has largely escaped the calamities which beset the World. There you will find me, with High King Gil-galad and Lord Cirdan. Also you will find Queen Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, whom Master Elrond has summoned to his house from their hidden realm of Lothlorien. They will cross the High Pass over the mountains with a large armed escort, so if you earn their friendship during your time in Rivendell, you may with luck persuade them to permit your accompanying them on their journey home, speeding your return to Pelargir by the shorter path."
"At Rivendell" Elendil had explained, "we will take counsel from all these wise and mighty folk, and decide what is to be done. For neither Gil-galad nor Cirdan feel that Sauron has perished, even though he was present on Numenor when it fell. Through some sense beyond my ken, they are certain that his fell spirit has returned to Mordor. Therefore get you to the House of Elrond, and quickly!"
Isildur and Anarion had of course assented to their father's commands. Their bath this morning was the last one they would have for a good two months, since that much hard riding lay before them. Isildur looked at Anarion, and then scooped up a handful of water and threw it at him playfully. Anarion laughed, something that he had not done in a long time. Then he smiled wanly. "Well brother" he said, "while we won't be having any more baths for awhile, I for my part do not mind. I have seen enough splashing water to last a lifetime."
Two months later found at Rivendell Isildur, Anarion, Elendil, and the Elven Lords and Lady summoned to council; Elrond, Gil-galad, Cirdan, Celeborn, and Galadriel. It was a beautiful, warm late spring day. The sky was a clear blue, and occasional blossoms from the nearby orchards drifted on gentle currents of air, to touch the eaves of Rivendell.
Those present at the council were seated outdoors on a patio, by one of Elrond's elaborately carved wooden halls. From there, they could see the emerald-green forests of Oak and Beech that climbed the steep walls of the hidden valley of Imladris. They could hear the echoes of the rushing waters of the river far below, which blended with the sweet voices of Elvish minstrels, singing in joy and wonder of the morning of the year, the flourishing of trees and flowers, birds and beasts under the Sun.
Isildur took in the beauty of the scene, and realized that while it could never take the place of fallen Numenor, Middle Earth was not without its own charms. Someday, he hoped he would come to love his new homeland in this changed Earth as much as he had loved his old one. For he had heard Master Elrond say that with the downfall of Numenor, all the world appeared to have changed. The Elves were strongly bound to the Earth, and could feel that it now took the form of a giant sphere. The eastern and westernmost surviving mortal lands had been wrapped around this sphere so that they almost touched each other. A Man sailing west from Middle Earth would in time find himself upon the shores of what had once been the East of East. The Undying Lands appeared to have been removed from this new Earth entirely, although Lord Cirdan claimed that he could sense an invisible bridge that now led from the Gulf of Lune by his Grey Havens into the Sky. He believed that this bridge would allow those Elves who wished it to depart Middle Earth for Valinor, even if that journey now bore them into a hidden realm.
Isildur, cursing his tendency to let his mind wander at council meetings, turned his attention back to the matter now at hand.
"Then you believe we must forge two kingdoms in exile?" asked Elendil.
Master Elrond, dark locks held back by a circlet of silver, cool blue eyes staring at his distant kinsman, nodded his assent. "For" he said "the lands west of the Anduin are too vast, and your followers are too few, to easily control them from one capital. Therefore, this is my suggestion; you, Elendil, will be the High King of Numenor-in-Exile. But you will also form your own realm, here in the North if you like, of which you will assume day-to-day control. Your sons, Isildur and Anarion, are now thirty and twenty-five years old respectively. That is young even by the measure of Men, but old enough to deem that they have reached the age of maturity, and may be placed in a position of authority. They should form their own kingdom - in the South, if you choose the North - which will acknowledge your sovereignty, but over which they will assume day-to-day control. When the time comes, you should select one of them to rule the North Kingdom after you, while the other rules the South Kingdom."
"I see the wisdom behind your plan, and agree to it" said Elendil. "And I shall make my selection now. The North Kingdom I shall call Arnor, Land of the King, and its capital, which I shall name Annuminas, the Tower of the West, shall be by the shores of Lake Evendim, not far from the havens of Lord Cirdan. The mountainous South Kingdom I shall call Gondor, Land of Stone, and its capital shall be Osgiliath, the City of the Stars. I explored the lower Anduin years ago, after the so-called Great Victory against the Enemy. I know the perfect place for the capital of our South Kingdom, on a section of the river that lies between the snowy peak of Mount Mindoluin in the West, and the pine-forested vale that runs into the Mountains of Shadow in the East. We shall divide the Palantiri amongst our realms. There will be three for Arnor; another for the guard tower we shall build by the Ford of Angren, or Isen as some call it, which will sit on the frontiers of the Two Kingdoms; and three for Gondor. After my time, Arnor will be appointed to Isildur and his heirs, while Gondor will be appointed to Anarion and his."
"And mark you" he said, turning to his sons, "until we have defeated the Shadow from the East, the defence of the South Kingdom will be especially important. For your South Kingdom of Gondor sits on the western marches of Mordor. Therefore we shall also construct two fortresses to shore up the defences of Osgiliath. To the West, below the peak of Mount Mindoluin, we will build one fortress, which shall be named Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. Anarion shall have command of it. To the East, in the pine-forested valley of which I spoke earlier, hard on the very frontiers of Mordor, we shall build Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon. Since you, Isildur, are the more warlike of my sons, you will have command of that fortress, and from there you will keep a close watch on the Black Land. Only after the final defeat of the Enemy, and after my time, will you entrust that fortress to your brother, and remove yourself to your North Kingdom of Arnor."
"It shall be as you wish, my liege" intoned the brothers, bowing their heads. Silently, Isildur vowed that he would plant in their new land of Gondor the sapling of the White Tree he had carried to Pelargir, so that his father's prophetic dream would be fulfilled completely.
"And as to the Enemy", said Elendil darkly, while turning to Gil-galad and Cirdan. "Is there any doubt remaining that Sauron has returned to Middle Earth, even though he was in Numenor when it fell?"
"Of his return I am certain, I am sorry to say it" said Gil-galad, his blue eyes staring grimly at Elendil from beneath his golden circlet.
"The High King speaks truly" said Cirdan, a frown deepening the lines on his face. Cirdan was a curiosity among Elves, the only one who had allowed his features to age until his appearance was like that of a grey-haired, elderly Man. "There can be no doubt the Enemy dwells again in Middle Earth" he emphasized.
"But how can you be sure of this, my Lords?" asked Anarion, puzzled. He felt ashamed to doubt the words of such ancient and wise beings as Gil-galad and Cirdan, yet he also felt the issue of the Enemy's fate was too important to let pass. "The Dark One dwelt ever in his foul Temple at Armenelos, near the center of Numenor" he continued. "The cataclysm descended upon the land so suddenly, I do not see how he could have escaped. Even had he boarded a skiff, it would have capsized, or been dashed to pieces against the shore, before he could have reached the open Sea."
Queen Galadriel turned to Anarion. He stared at her in awe, for her golden hair shone in the light of the Sun, and the youthfulness of her radiant features was belied by her deep blue eyes, redolent with secret knowledge and ancient lore. Smiling gently, she said "The whereabouts of the Enemy are ever clear to us, to King Gil-galad, Lord Cirdan, and myself. For, as long as the One Ring rests upon the hand of the Enemy, ringbearers can feel his dark presence, even if they do not wear their own rings upon their fingers."
"You mean…" said Anarion.
Galadriel stared meaningfully at Gil-galad and Cirdan, who nodded at her. Each of them then drew forth, from thin golden chains about their necks, the Three Rings of the Elves which had lain hidden beneath their robes. The three Men present stared open-mouthed to see such objects of Power assembled in one place. Even Elrond and Celeborn appeared to be stirred by the sight. Each of the three ringbearers spoke in turn.
"This is Vilya, Ring of Air, mightiest of the Three, which heals the bodies and soothes the spirits of those in need of comfort and solace" said Gil-galad, holding up his blue-gemmed ring of gold.
"This is Vanya, Ring of Fire, which inspires courage and strength of will in the hearts of Elves, and perhaps of Men" said Cirdan, indicating his red-gemmed golden ring.
"This is Nenya, Ring of Water, which slows the ravages of time, and preserves from decay those things that else would fade under the Sun" said Galadriel, holding up her clear-gemmed ring of white gold.
The Elves and Men present could hear melodious tones, as the Three Rings greeted each other, delighting in each others' company. But then the ringbearers swiftly concealed their treasures beneath their robes.
"You are sure these Elven Rings cannot be used against the Enemy?" asked Elendil.
"We have discussed this before, my friend" replied Gil-galad. "Keeping these rings near our persons, we can sense his presence while he bears the One Ring on his own hand, yet he can only vaguely sense ours, for he had no direct part in the shaping of the Three. But if we wear these rings on our fingers, which we must to use their powers – for they were so crafted – then we will be fully revealed to him as long as he bears the One Ring. He will know all our thoughts, and all our secrets, and we will have no hope of besting him. Therefore they must remain hidden, and we must defeat him through open war."
"But how is that possible?" asked Elendil. "You yourself have told me of the strength of his armies. You could not best him in war, when your own armies were greater than they are today."
"There is more to war than the size of armies" said Lord Celeborn, the Sun shining off the silvery hair that contrasted with his smooth features. "We were defeated by Sauron in our last wars against him in no small part because he caught us completely unawares, and used the element of surprise against us. But for long centuries have we watched him, and we have developed many stratagems that could be affected against his forces. These will be easier for us to implement now that our armies are supplemented by yours, small as they are. And we can also seek aid from our kin in the Greenwood east of Anduin, who have recently sworn fealty to my cousin Thranduil; while for your part, you might try and rally at least some of the wild Men who live west of Anduin to your banner. But for now, we are not strong enough to assault Mordor, which at present lies under the control of the foul Ulari and their Witch King. We constantly watch the Black Land, but we must wait for the Enemy to strike at us beyond its iron-walled frontiers before we can engage his forces in battle. That may not happen for some time, for I suspect that Sauron's body was indeed destroyed, for the reasons that you noted, Anarion. In that case it could take him years to gather sufficient strength to forge a new physical form for himself. When he does, and moves openly against us, we must join together in an alliance of Elves and Men, if we are to succeed!"
Celeborn then smiled grimly. "'Tis a pity it cannot also be an alliance with the Dwarves. For there are many of them, and they are doughty warriors, whose axes have turned the tide of many a battle. But since the folly of the Elves of Eregion, who unwittingly served the Dark Lord's purposes, the Dwarves have broken off their friendship with us. They will defend their own mountain strongholds against Sauron, but they will not come to the aid of Elves for any price or plea."
"Then perhaps they will come to the aid of Men" said Elendil, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. "For they have no quarrel with the Men of my House, and I am certain we can offer them many prizes of value in exhange for their services against the Enemy."
"Perhaps" said Celeborn, doubtfully. "Though Dwarves are hard and crafty, and you are not likely to get the better of a bargain with them. But by all means, entreat their aid – perhaps you will succeed where we have failed."
"So be it" said Master Elrond. "Whether we have the aid of the Dwarves or no, we have formed today the foundations of what shall in time be an Alliance of Elves and Men. Perhaps the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. For should we defeat the Enemy, there will be no more need for alliances in war, and our two peoples can live their days under the Sun in peace and friendship, rather than mere alliance in the face of common peril!"
"And I have a gift for you, Elendil!" continued Elrond. He gestured towards his waiting servants, who brought a long, black velvet sack towards him. Rising from his seat, Elrond reached into the sack, and pulled out a great sheathed sword of steel. He pulled off its sheath with his left hand, and with his right hand swung it through the air several times. With each swing, the blade seemed to sing, as if with a clear, sonorous voice.
Turning to Elendil, he said "This sword is Narsil. It was forged for the Elves by Telchar, the master Dwarf-smith of Nogrod in Beleriand in the Elder Days, and enchantments were placed on its blade by our Elven-smiths. The Elves and the Dwarves were still friends then. Narsil can wound the Dark Lord and his Ringwraiths in battle, where mortal steel could not. Guard it well, and use it wisely. Let it symbolize the bond between your House and mine, for I shall always remember that you and your heirs are the descendents of my dear brother Elros, and I shall render such assistance as I can to you and your kin for all my days." Elrond then presented Narsil to Elendil.
Elendil took the sword by its hilt, and with it made a few passes of his own through the air. He looked at Elrond and smiled. "My thanks to you, Master Elrond, for this is indeed a regal gift. Between you and Gil-galad, I am spoiled by my friends. Narsil, which I deem the Sword of the King, shall henceforth be an heirloom of my House, and a symbol of the ties of blood and history that bind your House to my own. May it bear us to good fortune in the war that lies ahead!"
"War" said Isildur. "Aye, it's one thing to speak of it, but the winning of it will be the hard part, and that is yet before us."
In the Saamath Naur, those Chambers of Fire in the heart of Orodruin that Men called the Cracks of Doom, the shadowy spirit of Sauron began to assume its new form. For more than a century since the fall of Numenor, his spirit had dwelt within shadowy recesses of the Barad-dur. Lately, he had withdrawn to the the Sammath Naur, drawing strength from the Fires of the inner Earth. Now, he was ready to declare himself openly as the Dark Lord of the World.
The lake of fire far below bubbled and hissed, and cast its orange glow through the sulphrous air of the chambers, as a dark shape began to emerge above a precipice that jutted over the lake. The letters on the One Ring shone brightly as it did its master's work. Then, after many hours, the form that it had sought to fashion had taken shape. Sauron of Mordor was reborn !
He stared down from his new height, twice that of the tallest of Elves and Men. The One Ring had expanded to fit the huge, taloned third finger of his right hand. Coal-black, burning hot skin covered his massively muscled body. His fiery eyes, burning with ferocity and rage, reflected redly from his new armour, which lay in pieces on the ground below. That armour, forged of steel in the Barad-dur, had been fashioned by his finest armourers according to his own design.
He had communicated that design though his lieutenant, the Witch King of the Nazgul. The Witch King presently stood outside the Sammath Naur with a group of Orc captains, and chiefs of the wild Men of the East and South. They had been summoned to Orodruin to greet the return of their master Sauron. Though their armies had been decimated by the calamities that struck Mordor during the Change of the World, the survivors had swiftly multiplied, and were now more numerous than ever before. Also summoned were the Lords of the Black Numenoreans of the South, whose worship of Melkor had been displaced by that of Sauron, to them a living god. The Black Numenoreans had aligned themselves with Mordor against their hated kin, the Numenoreans of Gondor and Arnor.
Sauron picked up the cruel mace of steel that had been forged for him. He swung it through the searing air of the chamber a few times, and smiled, yellow fangs projecting over his coal-black lips. Soon, this mace would annihilate those fools who continued to oppose him! The very shape of the World had changed, and yet Sauron had endured this calamity, just as he had endured many previous calamities in many previous ages. The One Ring had indeed served its master well.
Sauron set down the mace, and clothed himself in his new armour, from the steel-shod boots to the horned helmet that masked his new, terrifying visage. His armoured form was intimidating enough – there would be little purpose in causing all Men who served him to die of fright simply by gazing at his exposed face.
He picked up his mace again, and strode out of the Saamath Naur to the narrow ledge that lay beyond its entrance, high up the slopes of Orodruin. Far below he could see the barren wastes of Gorgoroth, dark under the twilight sky of Mordor. On the Northern horizon, soaring a mile above a spur of the Ered Lithui, stood the magnificent Barad-dur, soon to be capital of all the World!
Sauron next turned his attention to the puny creatures cowering before him. Several iron-clad Orc-captains groveled in the dirt, their leathery, hideous faces contorted with fear. The fur-clad, black-bearded chiefs of the wild Men of the East and South, and even the handful of well-armoured Black Numenoreans who accompanied them, seemed terrified of the gigantic new form of their Cruel Master. Sauron could smell their fear drifting up from them, and to him it was a balm.
To the side of these terrified minions stood one being who was not afraid, did not even make a pretence of grovelling. Although only half his stature, the Witch King of the Nazgul simply stared at Sauron for a moment, then briefly bowed his head.
Undoubtedly, thought Sauron, having to spend half a day in the company of the Witch King had unnerved the Orcs and Men even before he himself had stepped forth from the Saamath Naur. For the armies of the East and South feared the one known them as the Witch King nearly as much as they feared the Dark Lord himself. To their eyes, Sauron knew, the Witch King was a seven foot tall giant, clothed in robes of sable and armour of steel, with only shadow under the cowl where his face should be. He was an ancient being of nightmare and legend.
Only Sauron knew his true identity, and saw his true form. Two thousand years ago, he had been Ar-Murazor of Numenor, younger brother of King Tar-Atanamir the Great, that monarch who had received the emissaries of the Valar with displeasure, and later severed relations between Numenor and the Elves. Barred from the throne of Numenor by the laws of inheritance, Ar-Murazor had directed his energies into the pursuit of lore instead, leaving his homeland when he had exhausted its vast libraries, and traveling far and wide through the wild lands of Middle Earth in his pursuit of esoteric knowledge.
In this fashion he brought himself to the attention of Sauron, who in those days still called himself Annatar, Giver of Gifts. Ar-Murazor's researches, as it turned out, had the twin objects of increasing his own sorcerous power, and of prolonging his life. Sauron favoured him by making him the first mortal to whom he granted a Ring of Power, one of the Nine Rings of Men. Ar-Murazor greedily accepted this gift, for Sauron had promised the Prince that the Ring would grant him both immense power and eternal life. Through Ar-Murazor, Sauron had learned that the Men of Numenor feared death above all other ills, and lusted for power above all other desires. By manipulating their fear and greed, he could control them completely. This lesson was the first of many ways through which Ar-Murazor had proved himself invaluable to the Dark Lord.
But alas for this Prince of Numenor, his power and seeming longevity had not come without a price. Within his robes and armour, his body was invisible to mortal eyes. But to Sauron he appeared an emaciated figure, wrapped in a tattered grey shroud of the style favoured by the Numenoreans two thousand years before. He bore upon his head a coldly-gleaming crown, festooned with sharp spikes that jutted upward. His ancient, withered visage, framed by deathly white hair, was drawn up in a permanent scowl. His face glowed with a pale corpse-light, a noisome light that illuminated nothing. His eyes were cold and blank, windows into emptiness. On the mouldering third finger of his right hand, he bore a curiously carved ring of silver and gold, set with a jewel of amber; his Ring of Power, symbol and instrument of his enslavement to the Dark Lord. Now he was simply the Witch King, first and most powerful of the dreaded Ringwraiths.
Staring up again at Sauron, the Witch King intoned, in his sepulchral voice, "What is thy bidding, master? Command us Sauron, Lord of the Earth, and we shall realize whatever thou doth desire. For what dost thou wish us to strive?"
"Dominon!" Sauron's voice, deeper than the lowest dungeons of the Barad-dur, was cold and hard. The Orcs were now gibbering with fear, while many of the Men appared to have fainted, and lay sprawled in the dust. Where they belonged, thought Sauron.
"How shall we attain Dominion for you, master?" intoned the Witch King's hollow voice. "Whom do you wish us to ravage and poison, to torment and slay?"
Sauron scowled beneath his steel helmet. From the Barad-dur, he had long ago perceived the landing of the Lords of Andunie and their followers in Middle Earth. Since then, his spies had kept a close watch on their misdeeds. Those fools had even dared to found their South Kingdom hard on the frontiers of Mordor, in mockery of his own power! Now that his armies were rebuilt, and he was incarnate as the Dark Lord, he would make them pay dearly for their insolence.
"Hunt the dogs of Gondor and Arnor, and their kennel-masters, the Elves of Middle Earth", Sauron rumbled in his deep, harsh voice. "Slay them all, down to the last mewling child."
"What our Cruel Master wills, we shall execute at once" droned the Witch King. Then he turned to the Orc captains, pointing his armoured finger down the path to the base of the mountain. The Orcs gibbered and whimpered. Dragging those Men who had fainted, while followed by those trembling Men who still retained their wits, they crawled back down the mountain to issue commands to their own followers.
The Witch King then turned back to Sauron. "My eight brothers and I have seen to it that your armies have grown strong, master. Though these vermin disgraced themselves with fear in your dark presence, they shall fling themselves with battle-lust and fury against the enemy."
"Of that I have no doubt" rumbled Sauron. "You have done well. We have only to fight this last war, and then our victory will be complete!"
The Witch King nodded silently, staring at the One Ring that gleamed brightly on his master's hand.
In the year 3441 of the Second Age, one hundred and twenty-two years after his ship had borne him to the harbour of Pelargir, Isildur the Strong lay sprawled in the dust of Gorgoroth, awaiting his doom.
In an instant, the main events of the previous century flashed before his eyes. Isildur and Anarion had built their South Kingdom just as Elendil had instructed. They had even carved mighty images of themselves in stone from the cliffs of Anduin north of Sarn Gebir, and the Pillars of the Kings formed an ominous warning to those who would trespass against the lands of Men.
For decades their South Kingdom, and their father's North Kingdom had flourished. Isildur and Anarion had both married, and raised sons of their own. Isildur had planted the sapling of the White Tree in the courtyard of Minas Ithil, fulfilling his father's prophesy. But always, the Shadow to the East glowered over their lands. They had kept a wary eye on Mordor, fearful of the unknown evils that festered behind its frontiers.
Then, twelve years ago, the Enemy had launched his assault against the Men of the West. Minas Ithil was suddenly besieged by the dreaded Ringwraiths, who used many terrible magics against its defenders. They took the fortress for themselves, renaming it Minas Morgul, the Tower of Dark Sorcery. Isildur and his family had barely escaped, taking with them only the Ithil-Palantir, and a Fruit and Flower of the Ithil Tree, rescued by Isildur just before the Witch King himself had taken the axe to that child of Nimloth. The Ithil-Palantir was now hidden on the western shores of Osgilitah, and Fruit of the Ithil Tree was stored under lock and guard in the highest tower of Minas Anor.
Isildur and Anarion's spies soon learned of the rumors amongst the Black Numenoreans of Umbar that Sauron had returned, openly declaring himself Dark Lord of the World. His capture of Minas Ithil was but the first phase of his end game for dominion. Soon he would launch his assault upon Gondor, and then sweep north through Arnor and the lands of the Elves. Gil-galad and Elendil, the High Kings of Elves and Men, consulted with each other, and formed their long-planned Alliance.
Through many clever stratagems, and many brave deeds, the Alliance of Elves and Men had done much to harass and weaken the Enemy. In this they had been assisted by a great host of the Wood Elves of the Greenwood, East of Anduin. These wild Elves had avoided previous wars against Sauron, but now they fought under the banner of King Thranduil, a cousin of Lord Celeborn who had recently tamed these sylvan kin. They were valuable allies, for the quick arrows of the Wood Elves had felled many a marauding Orc and wild Man of the East over the years.
Moreover, many wild Men from West of the Anduin had sworn allegiance to the High King Elendil and his heirs. They had long suffered from the depredations of their Eastern kin and of the Orcs, and they were eager to avenge themselves now that they had powerful allies. The Numenoreans-in-exile had moved swiftly to civilize and train them, and in time they formed the backbones of the armies of Gondor and Arnor.
The Alliance was assisted as well by the axes of the Dwarves, for Dwarf Lords of Khazad-Dum, who had spurned the entreaties of the Elves, agreed to enter into the service of the High King of Men - in exchange for much gold - until Sauron was defeated. In all, the Alliance had assembled a force two hundred and fifty thousand strong.
Set against them were the nearly one million troops in the service of the Enemy, including not merely the Orcs and the wild Men of the East and South, but also those Black Numenoreans controlling Harad, whom the Gondorians had named the Corsairs of Umbar. Even a few wicked Dwarves, who had become estranged from the Men of the West, served the Dark Lord. Yet, for all their superior numbers, the servants of the Enemy were driven solely by fear or greed, and their battle spirit proved less than that of those who fought for their freedom and honour.
At first, the Enemy ravaged the lower vales of Anduin, burning to the ground that half of Osgiliath east of the River. But then, for a time, it seemed as if the tide had turned in favour of the Alliance. They had smashed a mighty army of the Enemy on the Dagorlad, or Battle Plain, that stood in front of the Black Gate of Mordor, although many Men and Elves died along with the Orcs before victory was attained. The triumphant army of the Kings of Elves and Men had surged through the barren vale of Udun into the heart of Mordor. They encamped on the ashy plain of Gorgoroth, in front of the very gates of the Barad-dur itself. There, they had lain siege to the Dark Tower.
But there also, their good fortune was exhausted. For the Barad-dur, its adamantine battlements and pinnacles rising a mile above the plain, was the mightiest fortress ever built. Behind its fiery moat it sneered at every attempt by the Alliance to gain purchase on its walls. For seven long years it endured their siege. Elves and Men, and even the handful of hearty Dwarves who accompanied them, had grown weary of their encampments in the sterile, twilight plain of Gorgoroth, and longed for even a brief glimpse of the Sun, or the forests, or of glittering gemstones in secret caverns.
Fortune still favoured the Alliance now and again. A large detachment sent from the camp on the plains of Gorgorth had recently managed, with the aid of many Elves, to drive the Ringwraiths from Minas Ithil. Even now, they were seeking to cleanse it of the filth of the Orcs that had garrisoned the fortress. Three of Isildur's sons had led the retaking of Minas Ithil, and were there now, although his youngest son Valandil, who was still but a child, was safe behind the walls of distant Annuminas with his mother.
Yet, despite this victory, the siege of the Barad-dur, which appeared increasingly futile, continued, and matters went from bad to worse. One month ago, Isildur's family had been struck by tragedy when Anarion was killed by a stone hurled from the Dark Tower as he led a doomed assault against its adamantine walls. Now Anarion's son Meneldil had taken in his place in the throne room of Minas Anor as Co-Regent of Gondor. Elendil had almost seemed broken by the loss of Anarion, although he could not be seen to loose faith in front of his Men, or in front of his ally, Gil-galad, whose tent was next to his own.
Compounding this tragedy, when Isildur ordered a large host of the Men of the White Mountains of Gondor to help break the siege of the Dark Tower, they had betrayed their sworn oath to him, refusing to answer his summons to war. To punish them for their treachery, Isildur laid a terrible curse on them. In life, they would fade and diminish as a people, till they were no more than a memory. In death, the shades of their warriors would never find rest till they had fulfilled their oath to Isildur or to one of his heirs as King. Isildur was avenged against them, but the bitterness of loss, compounded by betrayal, further dampened the spirits of the Men besieging the Barad-dur.
Then, just this morning, events had taken a shocking turn. The steel-clad doors above the iron bridge of the Barad-dur had opened, and out had rushed a vast horde of Orcs! Elendil and Gil-galad could not fathom why the Enemy had abruptly reversed his strategy of drawing out the siege. It may have been because the Alliance had rashly dispatched so many warriors to retake and hold Minas Ithil, though it could also have been that even the vast stores of the Dark Tower were exhausted after a siege of seven years. The fact that the horde consisted entirely of Orcs, and was devoid of Men, was certainly suggestive in this regard, given the Orcs' tendencies towards cannibalism. But now the foul creatures surged across the plain, toward the very slopes of Orodruin, known to the Gondor-Men as Mount Doom, which had woken from its slumber and was venting a low pillar of red flame and black smoke and ash into the ruddy sky. At the foot of the mountain, the Orcs found a hurriedly-mustered army of Elves and Men ready to meet them; the Dwarves had held back to defend the Alliance's camp.
The Orcs had charged the shield-wall of the High Elves of Middle Earth, who were armoured with gilded steel, and their charge broke against it. Thousands upon thousands of Orcs were felled by Elvish arrows. King Gil-galad had slain countless Orcs with his enhanted spear Aeglos, and Elrond, who was acting as Gil-galad's herald and standard-bearer, slew countless more with his own Elven-sword.
Fleeing from the Elves, the Orcs had charged the steel-armoured Men of Arnor and Gondor, who wore black tunics emblazoned with the White Tree design that had been the garb of the elite warriors of Numenor before its fall. But the Orcish charge availed nothing, for they were cut to pieces under the swords of the wrathful Men. Elendil, bearing his enchanted sword Narsil, had slain hundreds of Orcs in revenge of his son Anarion, and Isildur's tally had not been far behind.
Then, just as victory seemed at hand, a shadow loomed over Elves and Men. Looking up, they saw a giant, steel-armoured figure, twice as tall as a Man or an Elf, wading towards them through the horde of baying Orcs. The figure bore a mighty mace of steel in its ebon hand. On the third finger of that hand, all who stood near approaching giant could see a golden Ring, its engraved script glowing fiercely. Sauron! At last, the Dark Lord himself had joined in battle against his foes. His monstrous form was a rude surprise to those Elves and Men who had known Sauron in the fair guise of Annatar, Giver of Gifts. Now he was Sauron the Dark Lord, Bringer of Death. He strode towards the captains of the Alliance, who stared up at him grimly. They noted uneasily that the Orcs had fled howling from his presence.
For a moment, Sauron stood still, and contemplated the puny Elf and Man creatures before him. Then, quicker than a lightning-bolt, he swung his mace at the Elves to his right. The mace caught Gil-galad squarely across the chest, snapped his spear Aeglos, and sent his broken body and those of a score of his followers flying through the air, crashing into the dust a hundred feet away! Horrified, the Elves stood rooted to the ground, crying out with despair at the death of their ancient High King and his comrades.
Shouting with rage at the death of their Elven friend, Elendil, Isildur and the Men of Gondor and Arnor had rushed forward and assailed Sauron. But they were like gnats attacking a pillar of stone. Their swords sent showers of sparks off Sauron's armour, yet both his armour and his coal-black skin were impervious to their mortal blades. Sauron swung his mace again, and again, and each time scores of Men were smashed and tossed through the air. Sauron waded into their army like a thresher harvesting a field of grain, only he harvested the lives of his enemies.
Elendil himself had charged at the Dark Lord, shouting "For Earendil and Elros!" and brandishing his enchanted sword Narsil. But Narsil meant nothing to Sauron. Quick as a flash, he spotted Elendil and smashed him full across the chest with his mace. Elendil's broken body hurtled through the air, crashed against a wall of rock, and clattered to the ground below. Narsil fell close by.
Screaming with rage and anguish, Isildur dropped his useless mortal sword, and rushed towards his father. He cradled Elendil in his arms, but the glassy eyes told him that his father's spirit no longer dwelt within its ruined body. Choking back his tears, Isildur could barely restrain his grief.
Then suddenly, a vast shadow loomed above him. Looking up, he saw the armoured form of Sauron the Terrible, who had brought doom to his island home, and ceaseless torment and death to his family and people. Screaming with battle-fury, Isildur had rushed towards Narsil, which lay on the ground not far from Elendil's body. But Sauron's giant steel-clad foot had stamped down on Narsil, shattering it into a dozen pieces. The impact sent Isildur sprawling to the ground.
And so now he waited in the dust for the Dark One's mace to descend upon him, and exterminate the last generation of his family who had dwelt in Numenor. He looked up, beyond all hope, and to his surprise saw that Sauron had taken hold of his mace with his left hand. The talons of Sauron's right hand, golden Ring gleaming from its third finger, reached down towards him. Did the Dark Lord mean to kill Isildur slowly rather than quickly, strangling the life out of him? No doubt, for Sauron bore an especial grudge against Isildur for twice saving the last Fruits of the White Trees. Isildur had escaped with his booty from both Armenelos and Minas Ithil. Now, at last, punishment was due.
Isildur gazed upwards at the golden Ring, bearing ever closer to him as the giant black hand descended. The Ring. Cut if off, a voice spoke in his mind. Cut if off his hand! Hurry!
Frantically, Isildur looked down, and saw that the hilt of Narsil, and a goodly length of sharp blade still adhering to it, lay only a handsbreadth away. With a desperate lunge, Isildur grabbed the hilt, turned towards his foe, and slashed blindly at him.
Whether by chance or fate, Isildur's stroke did not slice through empty air. Rather, it sliced through the very groping finger of the Dark Lord that bore his One Ring! The severed finger fell to the ground, and carrying the Ring with it!
Sauron reeled back, with an earth-shattering cry of agony and despair. He knew instantly what the consequences of Isildur's act would be. He had fashioned this body with the aid of the One Ring, and could only maintain it, or dissolve it in a controlled manner, as long as he bore the Ring. Now that the Ring had been severed from his hand without warning, he could no longer hold his body together. It was disintegrating, beyond his control, before his very eyes!
As the Elves and Men stared up at him in amazement, while the Orcs shrieked with terror and fled gibbering from the battlefield, a pale white light shone forth from all the joints and slits in Sauron's steel armour. From his gigantic body there issued forth a wind that grew stronger by the second. Suddenly, a blinding flash of white light shot out of his armour, and a mighty wave of wind blasted forth from it, knocking all the Men and Elves and fleeing Orcs from their feet. Glancing up, they were struck dumb. Sauron's body had vanished! His mace, his suit of armour, and then his smoking helmet crashed to the ground, empty.
While the Orcs shrieked and groveled, the Elves and Men began picking themselves up from the dust, awed by what they had seen. Then suddenly, their minds numb with joy at triumph unhoped for, they realized what had happened. Isildur had cut the Ring from the Enemy's hand, and now the fiend was no more. Sauron, the enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, had been defeated! As the Orcs fled in terror from the battlefield, the Elves and Men took up a mighty cry; "Victory! Victory! Hail to Isildur, slayer of fiends! Hail to Isildur, Sauron's bane! Hail to Isildur, who has brought us victory!" Their exultant cheers and cries echoed across the wastes of Gorgoroth, as far as the Barad-dur, which brooded sullenly over the realm of its vanquished master.
Isildur, who still lay on the ground, also stared in awe. But he was not captivated by the sight of the Enemy's smoking armour, or the cheers of his comrades. Instead, he found himself fascinated by Sauron's golden Ring, which lay on the ground just a few inches in front of him. Isildur had never before realized that it was so beautiful. As he watched, the black flesh of Sauron's finger crumbled to dust, and was blown away by the wind. Now only the Ring remained, its glowing letters rapidly dimming. Overcome by its allure, Isildur reached forward with his right hand and seized the One Ring.
Instantly he felt pain course through his hand, even though it was protected by a thick leather glove. The Ring, so long in touch with the Enemy's burning skin, was white hot! Isildur stifled a cry, yet could not bring himself to cast away his prize. To his wonderment, the Ring shrank rapidly in size, until it was as small as it had been when he had first seen it, more than a century before. Small enough to fit the finger of a Man's hand. His hand…Isildur noted that the glowing letters on the Ring's surface had faded away completely. He now held in his grasp a small, plain golden ring, though it was still hot to the touch through his glove. Gazing at it, it occurred to him that in the Ring's current, diminished form, one would not realize it was so precious…
"Isildur!" cried a firm voice from above, snapping him out of his reverie. Looking up, he saw Master Elrond. Isildur grimaced as his fist clenched protectively around the burning-hot Ring. He noted absently Elrond bore the blue-gemmed Ring of Vilya on his right hand - for with Sauron's defeat there was nothing to fear in wearing it. Elrond must have taken Vilya from Gil-galad's body almost as soon as the Elven-King had died. What Isildur did not know was that Gil-galad had deeded Vilya to Elrond, should he himself fall in battle. To Isildur, Elrond appeared hardly better than a grave-robber.
"Come with me!" exclamed Elrond, and without futher explanation he pulled Isildur off the ground and began to half drag him, half carry him toward a broad path that led up the ashy slopes of Mount Doom. Elrond led Isildur with ease, for despite Isildur's steel-clad bulk, Elrond's slender arms, like those of all Elves, were far stronger than they appeared. Isildur still clutched the burning Ring in his gloved fist, though it brought him great pain.
As they walked toward the path, they were approached by Lord Cirdan, who had distinguished himself in the battle by his bravery and skill. Cirdan removed his golden helm, and stared at them solemly, as Elrond and Isildur waited for him to address them. "Triumph and tragedy have we witnessed this day" said Cirdan softly. "The Enemy lies defeated, by your bravery Isildur, and by the keen blade of Narsil. Yet two mighty Kings have also fallen. Alas for dear Erenion Gil-galad! He should have lived under the Stars for age after age, until the Breaking of the World! Yet now he lies dead. His death is a bitter blow to our people. I fear the fading of the Elves from Middle Earth shall be hastened by his passing, for many of the Noldor graced these mortal lands with their presence solely for his sake. Now they will sail from the Havens over the Straight Road to Valinor, never to return." Cidan sighed. "And alas for poor Elendil. He was as brave and noble as any Man I ever knew. Though his days were numbered, as are those of all mortals, he should have lived to see our victory, and dwelt at Annuminas in peace and joy for many more years under the Sun." Isildur bowed his head, but remained silent.
Then Cirdan's voice hardened, and he spoke intently. "Yet our victory is not complete. One task still lies before us, and if that task is not fulfilled, then all that we have accomplished this day shall be undone, and all our sacrifices shall have been in vain. You know of what I speak, Master Elrond." Elrond nodded. "I shall not accompany you on your quest" continued Cirdan, "for as the eldest and most venerated of our people to survive the battle, it is my duty to conduct the body of our High King from this accursed place, and bear him to fairer lands, where he may receive a decent burial. And I shall see to it, King Isildur, that your father Elendil is taken up by your Men, so that he may be borne away for his final sleep in his own lands." He then stared meaningfully at Isildur. "But you cannot yet accompany his bier, for your duty lies now with Master Elrond, in the heart of Orodruin. There, you must do as he bids you, and rid this weary Earth of Sauron's evil!"
Cirdan bowed, and then turned to see to Gil-galad's and Elendil's remains. Elrond bowed in reply, and resumed his journey, guiding Isildur up the slopes of the mountain. Isildur, turning his head toward the departing Sea Elf, then realized that Cirdan also bore openly his Elven Ring, Vanya. Isildur frowned, but said nothing.
After perhaps half an hour, Isildur, still winded from the battle, disengaged from Elrond's grip, and continued following him up the path on foot. He dimly noted that the One Ring was cooling, and did not pain him as much as before.
At length they stood at the top of the path, in front of a great open doorway cut into the side of the mountain. A dim orange glow flickered within, while deep rumblings sounded forth ominously. The pillar of fire that had issued forth from the top of the mountain was now subsiding, although Mount Doom still spewed out vast, dark clouds of ash, staining the murky grey sky.
Turning to Isildur, Elrond said "This is the entrance to the Saamath Naur, the Chambers of Fire, called by Men the Cracks of Doom. Here the One Ring was forged, two thousand years ago. Follow me!"
Without speaking a word, Isildur followed Elrond into the dusky corridor. After some distance, the heat growing greater with every step, they came into a vast cavern, carved into the living rock. They stood on top of a narrow precipice that jutted forth above a lake of liquid fire. The fire, bubbling and gurgling, cast an orange glow throughout the chamber. The mountain rumbled, shaking the ground. The hot, dry, sulphurous air singed the skin and lungs of both Elf and Man.
For some moments, Elrond was silent, as he stared into the depths of the fiery lake. Then he turned to Isildur, and addressed him urgently:
"Hurry, Isildur!" cried Elrond. "Now is our chance to destroy evil incarnate, to rid the World of Sauron forever, just as long ago the Valar rid the World of his master Morgoth forever. The moment of your destiny is upon you. Cast the Ring into the fire!"
Isildur swung back his arm, ready to throw the One Ring into the fiery chasm below.
Isildur.
What? Elrond had not spoken again. Or had he?
Am I not precious to you?
Isildur lowered his arm, opened his fist, and stared at the One Ring. It was now quite cool, and gleamed appealingly in the reflected light from the fire.
"Why do you hesitate? Destroy it now!" cried Elrond.
Claim me for yourself, Isildur, and my power shall serve the King of Men forever!
Isildur looked up at Elrond, and stared at the Elven-Ring Vilya, which Elrond had so brazenly claimed from Gil-galad's corpse. How typical of an Elf, thought Isildur – the words almost seemed to be whispered into his ear. Yes, how typical. It was not enough that Elrond, the Elven Lord enjoyed the prospect of eternal life, while he, Isildur, was doomed to someday face the horror of death. Elrond wanted Isildur to cast the One Ring, mightiest weapon in the World, into the fires of Mount Doom. Yet he and Cirdan meant to keep their own Rings of Power! Ever had the Elves appeared fair-seeming, while manipulating foolish mortals for their own selfish ends. If Elrond had his way, this Ring – "My Ring" thought Isildur – would be cast into the fire, notwithstanding how precious it was, and Elrond, Cirdan and their Elvish minions would still laugh at Isildur, King of Fools, long after Isildur's body had crumbled to dust…
His Precious…
Isildur's hand closed about the Ring in a tight fist. He stared at Elrond with cold, hard eyes, although the trace of a smile showed on his lips.
"No."
Isildur turned his back on Elrond, and strode out of the Cracks of Doom.
"Isildur!" cried Elrond. His voice echoed across the empty chamber in vain.
In the second year of the Third Age, Isildur, his three eldest sons, and a party of three-score guardsmen were riding on horseback through the Gladden Fields, some five-hundred miles north of Gondor. The blue ridges of the Misty Mountains loomed in the West, while the broad waters of the Great River Anduin lay to the East. As the party rode through the quiet countryside, Isildur reflected on the events that had followed their victory over the Enemy, two years before.
After driving off the last of the Orcs, the armies of Elves and Men had parted company in Mordor. The Elves had seemed strangely angered at the Men of Gondor and Arnor, who for their part could not understand the sudden change in manner of their fair friends. Rumor had it that there had been an argument between Elrond and Isildur over some weapon of the Enemy that Isildur had claimed for himself.
It was soon learned that Isildur had taken the Enemy's magic Ring, which he now bore on a golden chain about his own neck. Incredibly, Elrond, with Cirdan's support, had urged Isldur to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom, claiming that Sauron would return if he did not. The Men found this claim to be absurd – had they not seen Sauron annihilated with their own eyes? Surely, Elrond and Cirdan were motivated by envy towards Isildur, who through his prowess had gained a magic Ring surpassing in power the Rings of the Elves. The Men were disappointed by the jealousy of their Elvish friends, but fully understood their King's decision to keep the Ring for himself. It was Isidlur, not Elrond or Cirdan, who had slain the Dark Lord, and so the One Ring was rightfully Isildur's as his blood-price for the death of his father Elendil, and his brother Anarion.
The Dwarves of Khazad-Dum seemed little interested in the fate of the Ring, for they deemed a quarrel between Elves and Men to be of no concern to their own kind. After the Elves had departed from Gorgorth, the Dwarves remained behind – in exchange for another princely sum of gold and silver coin – and put to use their knowledge as master builders in overseeing the rapid demolition of the Barad-dur. In but a few short months, that massive tower was leveled to its foundations, and the Dwarves returned to their cavern homes. Many of the Men of Gondor and Arnor had seemed more troubled than Isildur that the foundations themselves proved strangely impregnable to any assault, and still hunched over the sterile plain of Gorgoroth. But Isildur had waved his hand dismissively at the ruined fortress of the Enemy, and then led his armies northwest to the Black Gate, and south through Ithilien into the realm of Gondor.
Isildur had installed a large body of Men to guard the recaptured fortress of Minas Ithil. In that place, for the first time, he had put the One Ring on his hand, discovering its curious gift to mortals of invisibility. While wearing the Ring, he had wandered through the fortress, unseen by his Men, and had seen many foul symbols, glowing with a pale corpse light, that had been scrawled on the walls. This, he knew, had been done by the vile Ringwraiths and their Witch King, during their occupation of the place they had named Minas Morgul. The Ringwraiths had disappeared with Sauron, yet this trace of their presence remained. The evil glyphs were invisible to Isildur when he removed the One Ring from his finger, and his Men could not see them, yet they all felt a chill aura to the place. Isildur had suppressed a shudder, and then turned his back on Minas Ithil, where he could never feel at home again.
Isildur and his sons passed West through the ruins of Osgiliath, where the Men of Gondor were beginning to rebuild their fair capital. Together they rode across the Pelennor Fields to seven-tiered Minas Anor, which lay beneath the snowy shoulder of Mount Mindoluin. There, Isildur and his nephew King Meneldil of Gondor had seen to the proper burial of Elendil alongside the tomb of Anarion. Then, in the courtyard of the highest tier of Minas Anor, Isildur had planted the seed of a White Tree, which he had rescued from the Ithil Tree before its destruction by the Witch King. Planting the last remaining seed of a White Tree at Anarion's fortress was Isildur's tribute to his beloved brother.
For two years, Isildur had dwelt at Minas Anor, offering his council and experience to the young Meneldil, who had been eager to learn the mysteries of Kingship from his legendary uncle. When Isildur was satisfied that all was in order in the realm of Gondor, he and his sons had taken leave of Meneldil, and ridden northward along the western bank of the Anduin for many weeks. Isildur had sent the Army of Arnor through the Gap of Angren on the most direct route North-west to their home. However, he and his sons had one last mission to perform, and the most direct route to their destination led them along a different path. Accompanied by their score of guardsmen, they had skirted the forests of Fangorn and Lothlorien, and now had but a short distance to journey further before they came to the High Pass that led west across the mountains to Elrond's house at Rivendell.
Isildur had no intention of apologizing to Elrond for taking the Ring. But he did hope to mend the breach between them, and to persuade Elrond into convincing Cirdan to see reason as well. Isildur still bore anger toward the Elves for their attempt to deceive him into destroying the Ring, but he recognized that prudence demanded making one last effort to restore good relations with them. Isildur was now one-hundred and fifty-four years old, and had recently begun to feel stretched thin by the burden of his years; he did not wish to spend his old age enduring the hostility of Elven Lords who dwelt so close to his own realm of Arnor.
Once he had settled affairs wth Elrond, Isildur and his eldest sons would then journey west to their palace at Annuminas on the shores of Lake Evendim, where even now his wife and his youngest son Valandil were waiting for them. Isildur smiled at the thought of seeing them again.
Suddenly, Isildur was snapped out of his reverie by a scream from one of his guards. The man toppled off his horse, a black-feathered Orc-arrow protruding from his back. "Ambush!" shouted the other guardsmen, as hundreds of Orc-bandits of the Misty Mountains leapt forth from the bushes that lined the narrow trail by the river! Their hideous faces twisting with glee at the success of their trap, and with greed at the prospect of gaining loot from these reckless travelers, the Orcs rained a storm of arrows on the hapless Men.
Cursing himself for a fool for having taken the more direct, yet more dangerous route to Rivendell, and for his overconfidence in taking such a small number of guards with him, Isildur drew his sword and attempted to rally his Men. But it was no use; for every Man, there were at least a dozen Orcs, and their cruel arrows pelted the Men from all directions. Already most of his guards and their horses had been cut down, while other guards ran for their lives, pursued by groups of Orcs. Isildur's own horse was cut down beneath him, and he lept to the ground, sword in hand. His three sons were well armoured, and slew many Orcs with their long swords, but to his horror Isildur watched impotently as each of them was dragged down by a swarm of the filthy vermin.
"Othar!" he shouted. Othar, his squire, who was still mounted on his horse, was the only man within earshot who had not been slain by the Orcs. In his saddle pouch, he carried the shards of Narsil.
"Fly like the wind, Othar" cried Isildur, "and protect Narsil with your life! I shall use my Ring to outwit these beasts. Our revenge on them must wait for another day."
Othar, his youthful features pale with fright, noddled grimly, and then spurred his horse into the forest, trailed by howling Orcs who sought to prevent his escape.
As Isildur watched Othar's flight, he felt his blood turn to icewater. He was the only Man left standing in the fields, and the Orcs were running towards him, arrows, spears and pikes at the ready. Dropping his sword, he snapped the Ring off the golden chain about his neck and put it on the third finger of his right hand.
The Orcs halted their charge, some shrieking in bewilderment, while others gibbered accusations at each other. The last of their prey had vanished before their very eyes! While they squabbled amongst themselves, Isildur, cloaked in the invisibility offered by the Ring, ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the riverbank. He did not dare risk running on foot through the horde of Orcs, lest he crash into one of them. But if he could swim across the river, he would be safe on the far shore.
As Orc-scouts fanned out along the banks, searching for their prey, Isildur slipped quietly into the river, only a few small ripples showing his passage. The Orcs noted the ripples, but ignored them, convinced the prey must be hiding in the bushes. Struggling against the weight of his steel armour, and the strong current, Isildur swam several long strokes under the cold, dark water, hoping to get well away from the shore before surfacing and taking a breath that the Orcs might hear.
Suddenly, to his horror, the Ring slipped off his hand! It was as if it had decided to abandon him just when he needed it most! As he flailed about in the water, searching desperately for the Ring, one of the keen-eyed Orc scouts caught sight of him beneath the surface. Grinning evilly, the Orc fired an arrow straight at him, hitting him full in the back. Two of his companions then spotted their prey, and each of their arrows also found its mark.
Isildur's armour could not protect him against arrows fired from Orcish compound bows at such close range. Mortally wounded, he thrashed about briefly. Then his limp body floated to the surface, and was carried downriver by the current. Some of the Orcs ran along the riverbank, to despoil the corpse when it washed up on the shore.
The Ring settled gently in the mud of the river bottom, waiting to ensnare its next bearer.