Part 2: Under the Golden Sun
Isildur sits alone in the dark, not noticing the cold for the warmth of the fresh tears on his cheeks. The tent flaps are tied closed, but it matters little, for here in the heart of Mordor the sun never pierces the darkness of Sauron's sorcery.
Six years. Six long years it has been since this terrible siege began. How many more until it ends? How many more men must give their lives to see Sauron defeated? Or have these long years been only in vain?
Six years ago Isildur had a great hope: the Battle of Dagorlad had been long, terrible, and bloody, yet the Last Alliance had seen the victory, though at a great cost. Sauron had been driven back to his fortress of Barad-dûr and Minas Ithil had been reclaimed. Isildur had been confident that they would soon see Sauron's downfall, but his father Elendil had warned him to be patient, for Barad-dûr would prove to be stronger than Isildur had ever imagined.
Yet today with the death of only one man, his hope is quickly fading: for that man was Anárion, his only brother. Isildur thinks back to the many years they had shared together: their childhood on the fallen isle of Númenor, their time of ruling Gondor from their thrones in Osgiliath and from their separate towers of Minas Anor and Minas Ithil, and finally these last six years of battle. Yet Sauron had always been there, a constant threat to the descendants of Eärendil. Isildur and his brother had fought Sauron all their lives, for their battle began when Isildur stole a fruit of Nimloth as a young man in Númenor. They spent their years in Númenor rejecting Sauron's false religion and avoiding the King's Men who sought to capture them and sacrifice them on the altar to Melkor.
When they escaped to the shores of Middle-Earth after the Drowning of Númenor, they thought that they had finally escaped from Sauron's persecution, but they soon discovered that it was not so. For the next century, their rule in Gondor was constantly threatened by Sauron's attacks and the watchful vigilance of the Red Eye. Even after Minas Ithil fell and Isildur escaped to the North, his brother stayed behind and held Sauron at bay for five long years until the Last Alliance arrived and drove the enemy back during the Battle of Dagorlad. Without Anárion's strength ere the battle, Sauron would have taken over all of Gondor, and indeed, his rule may have even reached Arnor and Imladris in the North before he met any challenge. Oh, how Isildur and his brother had longed to see the defeat of the Second Dark Lord after so many years of battle! Yet now it was not to be: Anárion is gone, and Isildur wonders if he too will pass away while Sauron lives on to torment their descendants.
Isildur suddenly slams a fist into the hard dirt below him, angry that Sauron has claimed one of his own family. Anárion was first; who would be next? His sons, his father? Even his wife and youngest son, safe in the valley of Imladris? For if this siege fails, will there be any place in Middle-Earth that is safe from Sauron's terror?
Yet suddenly, Isildur realizes that his brother is not the first: his grandfather Amandil also met his fate defying Sauron's evil. It seems so long ago now that Amandil set sail for Valinor to repeat Eärendil's pleas, a task that none knew would succeed but had to be attempted. At least with his grandfather, Isildur had always held hope that Amandil had found peace at the end of his life, even if his task had failed.
But Anárion! New tears fall from Isildur's eyes as he remembers the fate of his brother just earlier today: a troop of strong Orcs, equipped with new armor and fueled by their rage against the Eldar and the Edain, poured from the steps of Barad-dûr. Isildur and Anárion, along with many of their men, quickly met their attackers in the slopes below the dark tower. Soon the brothers were separated in the battle, but neither feared for the other, for had they not survived six years of battles here in Mordor, and many attacks in the fair land of Gondor the century before? Yet as Isildur slew Orc after Orc, he suddenly heard a sickening crash: the sound of grinding rock, shattering stone, and crushing bones. He turned right and left, searching for his brother in the chaos, but could not find his bright helm amongst the dark Orc heads and swinging black swords. Suddenly he knew: he knew that his brother had fallen, with no warning, before Isildur could even say goodbye. Isildur could not even lay his eyes on his brother's face one last time before it was forever crushed by the stones of Mordor. Tears had nearly blinded his eyes but he fought on, hewing down Orcs at a great speed in his rage, dodging the immense stones being thrown from Barad-dûr only by the grace of Eru.
Finally, the battle was over, the Orcs all slain or hidden back within the darkness of the tower. Elendil then found his surviving son, and together they embraced and wept in the destruction and gore of the battlefield. Later that day a great funeral pyre was built, for no grave could be dug in the hard dirt, and no righteous man should lie in the blackness of Mordor for eternity. There before the bright flames, father and brother bid farewell to youngest son and only brother.
O, bright Anárion, Son of the Sun! The flames that bore your body to Eru were truly bright enough to rival Anar herself! Isildur closes his eyes, trying to imagine the sun after six years in the darkness of Mordor. Lienilde had always told him that the light of the moon shone like silver in his eyes, but Isildur had always thought that the light of the sun shone even brighter in Anárion's eyes. How could two brothers be so similar, yet so different? Like the sun and the moon -- both lighting the world, but in their own way, and at their own time.
And now the sun's flame is quenched; only the moon remains. The glimpses of the golden sun that Isildur had seen in Anárion's eyes had brought him comfort in this dark land, and now that light was gone. What shall come next? Isildur finally forces himself to think of the future under only the light of the moon. He knows he must bring these terrible tidings to Anárion's wife, who now stands watching the black clouds of Mordor from the heights of Minas Anor, waiting for news of the war. Even his own wife Lienilde will be heartbroken, for she has known Anárion for as many years as she has known her husband. Yet would news even reach them? Throughout the siege, Isildur occasionally sent messengers bearing letters from the soldiers to wives and children in Osgiliath and Minas Anor, even as far as Imladris and Arnor. Yet not all of the messengers returned, and Isildur wonders how many widows still hold hope that their beloveds yet live.
The thought of his wife suddenly brings an altogether different longing: he wishes that she was here with him, that he could feel the warmth of her body against his, and hear the musical notes in her soft voice. For if he and his brother were the Moon and the Sun, Lienilde was a Star, for she stood strong and still throughout the horrors she had witnessed. Lienilde had always said that her husband was a comfort to her in all of the terrible times they had experienced in their years together, yet what he had never had the courage to tell her was that she was a great comfort to him, as well. He wondered if she knew this. His pride had prevented him from telling her, for in a corner of his mind he still wished to appear as the strong, supportive husband. If he could not be strong for his wife, how could he ever be strong for his soldiers, his kingdom? Yet Lienilde had always been perceptive of his thoughts, and he hopes that she understands. He suddenly resolves that if ever this siege should end, if ever he could return to his wife in Imladris, he will tell her. He will tell her that she provides him with strength as well, that she has helped him through as many dark times as he has helped her. Most of all, he simply longs to tell her that he loves her.
Lienilde had even offered to come with him, to leave the safety of Imladris for the destruction of Mordor, to use her healer's skills to help the many that were to fall in battle. While Isildur longs to see her face again, he could never have let her come here, for he had seen the fear in her eyes as Minas Ithil fell even as she led her family to safety, and he could not bear to see that fear cloud her eyes again. Of course Lienilde did not expect her husband to agree when she asked to come: for if she left for the war, who would care for their new son Valandil?
Valandil! Isildur's thoughts suddenly shift to his youngest son. Valandil was barely more than a babe when Isildur marched to war six years ago. He wonders how his son has grown, and hopes he is still the innocent, happy child that he left behind in the shelter of Imladris, safe from the horrors of war that his father has seen every day since he left. Does Valandil even remember his father? His elder brothers? Or is his quiet life with his mother all that he remembers? Does Valandil remember stories about his uncle Anárion, whom he never met, and will he grieve when he hears of his fate at the steps of Barad-dûr?
Finally, after many long moments -- or hours, he knows not -- the tears stop falling from Isildur's eyes, and he wipes his face clean. He stands and walks to the door of his tent, and after a moment, musters the courage to open the flap.
The sight before him is not unexpected, yet it still pains his heart: the black plains are covered with makeshift tents and campsites, torn and battered after many battles. The few healers rush to and fro, trying to tend to all of the injured. Soldiers sit and wipe black Orc blood from their weapons, or talk to one another in low voices, or simply stare blankly at the heights of Barad-dûr above them or the dark clouds and mountains surrounding them. Elves and Men dwell together, yet the light in the Elves' eyes seems fainter than it was a few years before, and even less light shines in the eyes of the Men. Elendil and Gil-galad are not to be seen, but a light burns in Gil-galad's tent and Isildur knows his father is taking council with the Elven King, even on the night of his youngest son's death. Isildur wonders where his son Elendur is, and Anárion's son -- surely the young men grieve for the loss of their uncle and father -- but they are hidden among the many folk who walk through the camp. He will seek them out later, but for now he wishes to simply stand here alone.
Isildur glances to the sky, longing for the light of the sun, or even the moon, but knowing he can see neither until the Enemy is defeated. But with that thought, Isildur suddenly knows what he will do: if he survives this war, if Sauron is defeated, he will bring Nimloth's seedling to Minas Anor. The Tower of the Moon may have been defiled by Sauron's evil, but the Tower of the Sun yet stands watchful; and the white seedling, memory of distant Telperion, still lives in Osgiliath, where Isildur left it guarded before the Battle of Dagorlad. There in Minas Anor Isildur will plant the seedling in memory of his brother, so that as long as men yet live who defy the Darkness, the golden Sun and the silver Moon will dwell together, a vision of hope for the Men of the West.
Author's Notes:
I could not find any information in Tolkien's writings about what happened to the White Tree's seedling between the time that Isildur took it to Arnor and the time that he planted it in Minas Anor. Obviously he had to bring it south when he went to war, and I am only guessing that he would have left it in Osgiliath while he fought in Mordor.
Also, a few quick notes for anyone who may have forgotten:
Minas Ithil ("Tower of the Moon") - former name of Minas Morgul ("Tower of Sorcery")
Minas Anor ("Tower of the Sun") - former name of Minis Tirith ("Tower of Guard")
In case anyone is wondering why I only mentioned Elendur at the end of this chapter, Tolkien notes that Aratan and Ciryon (Isildur's middle two sons) stayed behind to guard Minas Ithil after it was reclaimed in the Battle of Dagorlad.