Brian Crawford - Isildur

The Ring also gave him great pain. The circular scar on his palm which he had received when he first touched it had never faded. Especially in damp weather it still pained him unmercifully. When he wore the Ring, the wound flared up anew and it seemed he could again feel the heat of it.

At last he had to admit defeat. Even the most dedicated settlers were giving up and moving away. Leaving a strong garrison of soldiers stationed there and at the much-strengthened fortress at Cirith Ungol, he and his sons prepared to depart for the last time.

But before he left Minas Ithil he had one important task to perform. The White Tree, seedling of Nimloth and the symbol of the House of Elendil, had been burned by Sauron's minions when they took the city. But even in the confusion of their flight that terrible night, Isildur had taken away a seedling of the Tree. Protected and carefully tended, the seedling had been carried with his family to Arnor. There it had grown in the court of Elendil's palace. Like all its line, the tree grew very slowly and it was still but a sapling in a pot ten years later. And when the news of the end of the war came, Aratan and Ciryon had carefully brought the tree to Gondor with them in a wagon especially built for that purpose.

Isildur had thought to plant the tree again in the court of his Citadel in Minas Ithil. But now he feared that the contaminated soil of Ithilien might harm the tree. He resolved to plant it in Anárion's memory in his city of Minas Anor, across the river on the slopes of blue Mount Mindolluin. And so one day, attended only by his sons and Meneldil, they stood in the great Court of the Fountain in the topmost circle of the seven-walled city of Minas Anor.

Isildur knelt and planted the tree with his own hands, patting the soil gently around it. Then he called Meneldil to his side.

"This is the White Tree," he said. "It is a seedling of the tree that grew in my court in Minas Ithil, and that was grown from the fruit of Nimloth the Fair that grew in the court of the King of Númenor at Armenelos before Sauron burned it. Nimloth had grown there since the founding of Númenor, for it had been given to Elros Firstking by the Elves as a memorial of their friendship for his aid in the first war against Sauron. And Nimloth was a fruit of the Tree of Tirion that grows in Elvenhome, and that is an image of the Eldest of All Trees, White Telperion, sung into being by Yavanna Kementári before the world was made.

"Tend and guard the tree well, nephew, for it is said that it is tied inextricably with the fortunes of our house, and that while it lives our line will rule. When it puts forth fruit, take the seeds up carefully and plant them in secret and untrodden places, so that if ever the tree fails, our ancestors yet might find its offspring and continue its line."

Then they went down to Osgiliath and called all the people to the city to witness Meneldil's coronation. Standing beneath the Dome of Stars, Isildur took from his head the old battered war helmet he had worn for so many years. He turned it slowly in his hands, his fingers running along the many dents, remembering the blows that had made them. Then he looked earnestly at Meneldil.

"I wore this helmet throughout the war. It saved my life at Dagorlad and many another time. These are the wings of a gull, to remind us that we came to these shores out of the sea. Anárion and I once spoke of dividing the realm into two when our father went to his rest at last. He would take Gondor and I Arnor. And we said there on the plains of Gorgoroth that if such should ever come to pass, our winged helmets would serve us for crowns, for our realms were born in one war and preserved by another. Alas, dear Anárion will never be King of Gondor. And even his helmet is no more, for it was crushed by the stone cast that killed him. But in his memory I give you my helmet, and declare that henceforth it shall be the Crown of Gondor, to be worn by you and your heirs forever. I give into your keeping all the realm of Gondor, its mountains and forests, its towns and cities, its crops and beasts, and its noble people, their language, culture, and history. Serve and guard them well, that they may long endure."

Meneldil knelt before him and kissed his hand. "My Lord Isildur, all shall be done as you have directed. Our two realms shall be friends and allies so long as the world lasts."

Then the people raised a mighty cheer. "King Meneldil! Long may he live! Gondor and Arnor, friends forever!"

It was but a week later that Isildur prepared to depart for the north, for he wished to leave Meneldil a free hand, without the complication of his uncle watching over his shoulder. With him were his three eldest sons, with the ever faithful Ohtar and twoscore of their housecarls, all that had survived the war. With banners flying from every tower and trumpets blowing from the walls, the little party rode out of Osgiliath and turned west into Anórien. Many friends followed them, for they were loath to see them go. Indeed some accompanied them for days, and the last made their farewells and turned back only when they crossed the Mering Stream. When they had waved farewell to the last well-wishers, they turned aside from the road to Angrenost and their horses waded into the long waving grass of Calenardhon.

They travelled thus for another week, meeting no travellers and seeing no sign of any settlements, for this was a lonely corner of the realm that had never been settled. Each day the Hithaiglin, the Misty Mountains, loomed closer on their left. They skirted the dark and ancient forest called Fangorn, for it had a strange repute. They crossed the River Limlight, and at last late on a hot still summer afternoon they topped a low rise and saw below them a broad forested valley with a river flowing through it. The trees glowed a deep golden color, their leaves like waving sheets of gold leaf.

"The Golden Wood," said Isildur with satisfaction. "And just across the stream lies Lothlórien, the realm of Galadriel and Celeborn." They hurried forward then and were soon under the eaves of the great trees. The cool shade was welcome after the long miles of open sunny grassland. The path wound between open glades, dropping gently down toward the Nimrodel Stream. The sun hid her face behind the mountains and the heat quickly went out of the sky. The air under the trees seemed cleaner, fresher, as if it had never been hot or dusty. A faint scent of flowers hung in the air, reminding each rider of some fair place he had once visited, though none could name the memory. At last the Nimrodel stream could be seen glinting between the white boles of the trees ahead. Just then fair voices floated out of the trees, singing an ancient Elvish song, though no singers could be seen.

They rode on in silence, listening to the music, until they came to the banks of the stream. There they were met by a company of Elvish archers, all dressed alike in green cloaks caught at the shoulder with silver clasps in the shape of leaves.

"Greetings, travellers," said one of the Elves. "You are come to the borders of Lothlórien and strangers may not enter without permission. What name should I announce to my Lords?"

Ohtar rode forward to herald the king, but Isildur waved him back. "Tell the Lord and Lady that Isildur and his sons have come to call."

The Elf looked at him in surprise. "You are Isildur, King of Arnor? My pardon, my lord. I did not realize; you bear no emblems of your rank."

"No. I wear no kingly armor for I have seen enough of arms and armor. And I bear no crown because it is yet in Annúminas."

"Crowned or not, my lord, you are welcome in Lothlórien. Your deeds in Mordor already are sung by our minstrels."

Isildur laughed. "Are they indeed? Your poets move more swiftly than do I."