over his nose against the dust and fumes, but he had long since ceased to notice them. For seven long years he had lived in this place of death and decay, so long that the memory of gentle breezes and running water and green growing things was like a lost scent from a beautiful dream, but dimly recalled.
Elendil stalked on with head bowed, deep in thought, until a shadow fell across him, chilling the unclean air. He shivered then, stopped, and looked up. There, looming above him, blocking out the wan and sickly disk of the sun, stood a monstrous mountain of somber stone rising from a black chasm, as if the earth had vomited it up in some unimaginably violent paroxysm. And yet it was not a mountain but a made thing, built up over many centuries by the toil of hundreds of thousands of slaves. Walls and battlements and many steep-gabled roofs rose tier after tier into the dizzying misty heights. And above them all a blackened tower like an uncouth finger pointed toward the pallid and cheerless sky. Over all lay a darkness, even in the pale morning light, a shrouding of detail so that the immense whole confused the mind with its complexity. The eye could not follow its lines, but became lost among its countless angles and overhangs and impenetrable shadows. Such was the Barad-dur, the Dark Tower. And somewhere within that impenetrable mass of stone brooded the evil that was Sauron.
Elendil gazed silently at the monstrous structure as he had so many times during the seven weary years the Army of the Alliance had laid siege to it. That vast army lay deployed as it had for the last few years, in a huge semi-circle a short distance back from the precipitous edge of the chasm, from which the foundations of the Barad-dur sprang smooth and unbroken for hundreds of feet. Three roads converged on the western rim of the chasm. One led northwest toward the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor, long since broken and cast down. The second wound south and east across the slag heaps stretching away to the murky horizon, leading eventually to the bitter inland Sea of Nurn. The third, paved with slabs of hewn stone, ran arrow-straight into the west, past the great volcano of Orodruin a few leagues away, and on to Minas Ithil in the Mountains of Shadow. This road leaped across the chasm to the tower on a massive iron bridge without rail or parapet, ending at the Gate of Adamant, through which nothing passed, save with Sauron's leave.
Many Men and Elves had died trying to cross that bridge and breach the gates, but none had ever succeeded. Now it stood silent and empty, for to set foot upon it was to invite a rain of huge rocks from the battlements above. Elendil thought bitterly of his younger son Anarion, who had fallen on the Iron Bridge, struck by a great stone as he stooped to help a wounded comrade. Then, as usual, his thoughts flew to his elder son Isildur, who had been constantly in his mind these long months since he had set out on his mission.
Elendil had feared much for him, well knowing how dangerous were the roads he must tread. He had been overjoyed to hear from him at last, when they had spoken through the palantiri three days ago. But Isildur's news was not good. It seemed that all their careful plans were coming unravelled, thwarted at every point by the will of the Enemy. They had thought to drive his forces out of Minas Ithil and reclaim all the kingdom of Gondor. But now Pelargir was under siege, and Osgiliath would be next. Their kingdom was under attack and he was not there to defend it. While his people fought and died, he languished out here on the burning plain of Gorgoroth, idle, useless.
Midyear's Day was now two days past, and if all their plans had gone well, Isildur should have attacked Minas Ithil the prior afternoon. Elendil stared off to the west, burning to know what was happening there. Would Isildur's daring dash across Ithilien succeed? What if they were delayed? What if the Ring-wraiths knew of the attack and had had time to prepare? They could have secretly built up their force in East Osgiliath. Then when the Arannon was thrown open for Isildur's attack, the orcs would have poured into Osgiliath instead. Could anything stand against the combined force of the Nine? He had encountered them himself at the battle of the Morannon, and he well remembered the shadow of fear and despair that had enveloped him, shutting out all light, all hope. He shuddered to think of the Ulairi striding into the Dome of Stars, sweeping all before them. And what then of the Three? Angry with himself for the doubts gnawing at his resolve, he turned abruptly and walked back to the camp. He made his way among the tents to a large pavilion set up on the highest mound of slag, commanding a view of the area.
Entering, he found a figure tall even for an Elf, bent over a map on a table. He was dressed in mail of mithril like the other officers, but his cloak was royal purple. His hair was the color of old ivory, once fair and golden, now streaked with silver. His face, save for his delicate Elvish features, could have been that of a Man in his late prime, an experienced warrior-king; perhaps sixty winters had cut their tracks in it. But Elendil knew full well that he had been Feanor's lieutenant in the Sailing of the Noldor to Middle-earth over four thousand years ago. In his grey eyes dwelt the imperturbable wisdom that comes only of many centuries of the contemplative Elvish life. There shone also the light of pride and command, the confident strength of one long used to leadership and responsibility. Elendil was two hundred and twenty-seven years old, and had founded two mighty kingdoms, but he still felt like a child in the presence of Gil-galad, King of the Noldor.
Elendil stepped up the the table. The map, much yellowed and worn, was of Mordor. Gil-galad was peering closely at the depiction of Minas Ithil, and Elendil knew his thoughts too were on the events now occurring in the Ephel Duath.
'Has aught been heard?' he asked. Gil-galad looked at Elendil's pale face, read the concern there.
'No, my friend, nothing yet. But we could hardly expect to hear so soon.'
'Perhaps if we sent a small party to the mountains, on our swiftest horses. They might need our help.'
Gil-galad shook his head. 'No. They come to help us. Their task is perilous indeed, but ours is of the first importance. We must do all in our power to keep Sauron here until they have taken Minas Ithil and ridden to us here. We shall need every Man and Elf here with us. Now above all, we must marshall our greatest strength, for the end is drawing nigh. If Sauron has as we suspect some means of seeing that which occurs far away, he will soon know of the attack on Minas Ithil, if he does not already. And he will be filled with rage. Then the long stalemate will be broken and he will come forth to do battle. We have never fought against Sauron in open battle, army to army. The prospect is daunting in the extreme. I will not weaken our circle by sending more of our people against another foe.'
Elendil bowed. 'I know, but still my heart misgives me. So much can go amiss. So much already has.'
Gil-galad nodded. 'I know. And your son leads them. This is why you are so anxious. But that is exactly why I have every hope for their success. Your son is a wise and noble man. One day he will be a great king of Gondor and his name will be sung when the mountains have crumbled into dust.
'Even we Quendi look on Isildur with great hope, for we know that our stewardship of Middle-earth is coming to its end, that we shall wane even as the races of Men increase. One day Men alone will rule and protect the world. Great leaders will be needed, Men of courage and strength and wisdom. Isildur could be their Sire. He has given you four strong grandsons. If we do succeed in casting down Sauron, it may well be that you have founded a dynasty of kings, my old friend. Kings that will rule this land for ages to come.'
Elendil smiled. 'You flatter me, Sire, but your words bring comfort.' His eyes went far away. 'I had such great hopes for my sons. I had thought that upon my death Isildur would go to rule in Arnor and Anarion would become sole king of Gondor. The two lands would remain sister kingdoms, ruled by brothers, united in peace forever. That would be a legacy indeed for the dispossessed Last Lord of Andunie to leave to his people. The glory that was Numenor might live again in the Realms in Exile.'
His face was alight and he trembled with emotion as he remembered his dreams. But then he sagged.
'But such was not to be,' he went on. 'Just as the Realms were coming into good order and life was settling into a peaceful routine, Sauron fell upon us and wrested our lands from us. Minas Ithil fell and Isildur and his family fled to Arnor.' Elendil's eyes turned from sad to cold.
'And then he stole from me my greatest treasure: Anarion, the brave, the gentle. How can a life so full of strength and vitality, so full of promise, so much future before it, be suddenly crushed beneath a stone? How can mere dumb rock erase such a life, create in an instant a father and a brother bereft, a widow and an orphan grieving? By all the Valar, I swear that deed will be avenged. If by dint of might or strength of arms or lore or magic I may come against Sauron, I shall slay him, though I die in the deed!'
Gil-galad said nothing for a few moments, seeing the father's pain swelling in his friend's eyes. Finally he spoke. 'The fall of Anarion is a tragic loss that will ring in history. Thousands will weep at the tale. He was a Man like no other. He was always laughing, always smiling. The younger Elves, especially, were more than fond of him. Perhaps because he was so like them.'
Elendil sighed. 'He took great pleasure in life. That is why it is so unjust that it is denied him. He was the happy one, carefree, ready with a joke. Isildur was always the serious one. He loved his younger brother, but he thought him too… frivolous, Isildur would call it.'
