BY BRIAN K. CRAWFORD
The identity of this early editor is a subject of great debate among scholars. He was obviously very knowledgeable in the events of the tale and fluent in Sindarin, for some of Ohtar's errors and idiomatic expressions have been accurately translated. For this reason most authorities have identified the probable editor as Elrond Peredhil, Bilbo's longtime friend and host. The present editors, however, detect what we believe to be a Mannish outlook and attitudes in these marginal notes, and a strong case (see An Analysis of The Journal of Ohtar and Related MSS, by the editors) can be made that this may be the only extant sample of the hand of Elessar Telcontar, First King of the Reunited Kingdom.
Bilbo produced this manuscript during his residence at Rivendell, and there are numerous indications that it was completed before the War of the Rings, for there is no reference to the eventual fate of the One Ring nor his nephew Frodo's pivotal rôle in that war. This would place the manuscript between the years 3002 and 3018 Third Age. In translating Ohtar's work, Bilbo was in a position few historians enjoy. He enjoyed full access to the extensive library at Rivendell and also to its master, Elrond Peredhil, who of course was present at many of the events described. He could also consult his friends King Elessar (known as Aragorn or simply Strider in those days before his coronation) and the wizard Gandalf Greyhame, two of the greatest historians of his age.
Bilbo's scroll is a relatively short work, a condensation and translation into Westron of a very old book Bilbo had found in Elrond's library. In a foreward, Bilbo describes the original as "a small black hide-bound volume, much worn and stained and with the back cover missing. On the front cover is written in a different hand: The Journal of Ohtar Kingsquire." It was in the format of a journal, though whether Ohtar actually carried it about and made daily entries, or if it was copied down later from the original journal, Bilbo was unable to determine. It was either brought to Rivendell by Ohtar or written by him soon after his arrival there. From other sources we know that Ohtar and his two companions arrived at Rivendell in the late summer or early fall of 3 Third Age and left with Isildur's son Valandil for Annúminas some months later, probably early in the year 4. As far as can be determined, Bilbo's is the only copy of it ever made. The original journal is assumed to have been included in Elrond's belongings when he went Over Sea with all the other surviving Ringbearers in 3021, bringing the end of the Third Age.
The present editors have had the privilege of examining these records at first hand. As we pored over the dusty archives in the laborious task of translating a fragmentary work in a complex and long-forgotten language, a fascinating tale began to emerge. Here was truly the stuff of legend. The heroes of that time seem like giants to us. Their joys and sorrows thrill us again as they did when the stories were read to young hobbits in the fire-lit halls of the Great Smials so many thousand of years ago. It occurred to us that these tales would also merit novelization and publication in the manner (if not the skill) of Professor Tolkien. But what should be the theme of the book; where should it begin and end? It needed a central character as a focus for the narrative.
Of all the heroes of those days, none stands out so clearly, none catches our attention and curiosity more than Isildur Elendilson. Remembered now chiefly for his fatal flaw -- his ill choice on Orodruin that doomed the world to another long age of struggle against Sauron -- he was nonetheless a remarkable man, a shrewd general, and a mighty king. He was of the House of Elros, greatest of all lines of Men, but in his veins flowed also the blood of both Elda and Vala [Elros was the great-grandson of Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Thingol Greycloak of Doriath and Melian the Vala]. He was a Númenórean prince, Lord of Ithilien, King of Arnor, and for two brief years the High King of the Realms in Exile. He founded a dynasty of kings that ruled the Dúnedain for five thousand years.
By nature a strong and resolute man; by training a powerful and canny king; born in the fires of civil war; tempered by the loss of his native land and the hard early years of the founding of Gondor; and hardened to adamant by a long and bloody war, Isildur Elendilson was not a man to be disregarded, even by Sauron himself.
He was a man of contradictions and paradoxes: a valiant and merciless warrior but also a loving husband and father; esteeming virtue and honor above all things but intolerant of the weaknesses of others; of noble lineage and demeanor but also comfortable with his subjects and beloved by them. Even the great error that doomed him and marred the age that followed was not due to weakness on his part. It was his very nobility and virtue, his confidence in his ability to control Sauron's Ring, that brought about his downfall.
His contemporaries heaped all praise and honor on him as a paragon of royal virtue, but his heirs had reason enough to curse his name. What sort of man was Isildur, the only Man to wear Sauron's One Ring? We decided to concentrate our research on this remarkable figure.
Of Isildur's early life we know very little. He was born in 3289 Second Age in Dol Elros, the chief city of Andúnië. His father was Elendil, the Prince of Andúnië and the spiritual and political leader of the Party of the Faithful. In 3285, Elendil married Aldamirë, a woman of southern Númenor, and she gave him two sons, Isildur in 3289 and Anárion in 3296. Amandil was elderly by this time and the people rallied around the handsome and charismatic young prince Elendil, just as they would gather to his eldest son many years later. In 3310, the aging king Pharazôn, urged by Sauron, resolved to assail Valinor to acquire the immortality of the Valar for himself. He began building ships and engines of war to Sauron's designs. The Faithful tried to dissuade the lords and people of Númenor from their blasphemous course, but Pharazôn punished all dissent with death. A religious and patriotic fervor developed against the Faithful and Andúnië was isolated from the rest of the kingdom, an embattled fiefdom.
In 3319, the Great Armament sailed for Valinor. Elendil believed that all of Númenor would be destroyed when the Ban was broken, and he began preparing for a hasty evacuation. His father Amandil attempted to repeat Eärendil's feat by enlisting the aid of the Valar, but his expedition was never seen again. Pharazôn landed in Valinor and the Valar enforced their Ban by withdrawing their gift of the island of Elenna. The island crumbled and sank forever beneath the waves. Of the Great Armament, its hundreds of ships and thousands of men, no trace was ever found.
Elendil and his sons and hundreds of their followers escaped the destruction in a fleet of nine ships, taking with them the treasured relics of their ancient line: the Scepter of the Lords of Andúnië; the Ring of Barahir; a seedling of Nimloth, the White Tree; the nine Palantíri or seeing stones; and the great sword Narsil -- all gifts of the Eldar to the Lords of Andúnië.
Isildur was a young man of thirty as he stood in the prow of his ship and watched the domes and towers of his homeland torn asunder and cast beneath the waves. The forlorn little fleet was borne away by a terrible storm and became separated. Elendil at last reached Mithlond, the Grey Havens of the Elves of Lindon, and was taken in by his friend Gil-galad, King of the Noldor. Later he was granted land east of Lindon and he and his people removed there. They founded a realm with its capital at Annúminas beside lake Nenuial, and named the land Arnor, the Royal Land.
Isildur and Anárion landed near to the one haven of the Faithful in Middle-earth, the port city of Pelargir near the mouth of the Great River Anduin. They began the ordering of a great realm along the Anduin. They built their capital Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars, where the mountains drew close to the river on either side. The fair lands along the River became dotted with farms and vineyards and orchards and the rocky land soon began to yield its richness. They named their new land Gondor, the Land of Stone, and divided it into two provinces separated by the River; Ithilien on the east under Isildur, and Anórien on the west ruled by Anárion. Isildur built a fortress city high in a pass of the Ephel Dúath and named it Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Rising Moon. On the slopes of Mindolluin, the easternmost peak of the Ered Nimrais, Anárion built Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun. For many years Arnor and Gondor, the Realms in Exile, prospered and grew in power and wealth, and the Great North Road was busy with many travelers and wagons bearing produce and goods between the sister kingdoms. In 3409 Isildur married Vorondomë, daughter of the Captain of the Ships of Ithilien. She gave him four sons between 3412 and 3429: Elendur, Aratan, Ciryon, and Valandil.
The future looked very bright for the young lord Isildur: a fair land to rule; a beautiful and loving queen; a growing family; and the prospect of one day becoming King of the Realms in Exile and ruling the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth. Then in the autumn of 3429, disaster struck. A huge force of barbarians, trolls, orcs, and many other fell creatures swept over the mountains out of Mordor. They were led by Sauron, in a new and even more powerful form, dead and yet not dead. All had thought him killed in the fall of Númenor, but he had escaped with his hatred for the Dúnedain unabated. His savage hordes swept across Ithilien and besieged Minas Ithil. After a brief but bitter struggle, the gates were breached and the enemy spread through the city, destroying all in their path. The defenders formed a wedge around their families and drove desperately through their attackers, eventually reaching Osgiliath.
The wave of the Black Host pursued them and swarmed around the walls of Osgiliath. The city withstood the siege, though the eastern portion was much damaged. That night, with Minas Ithil lost and ringing to the harsh cries and foul revelry of the orcs, Isildur stood helplessly on the walls of Osgiliath and watched the crofts and villages of his kingdom going up in flames. His wife Vorondomë was so shaken by the loss and horrors of that night she became a frightened, broken woman, never again in her life to laugh. Isildur looked out on his suffering realm and vowed to avenge the evils done that day.
Leaving his brother to hold the River and defend what remained of their kingdom, Isildur and his family fled down Anduin to the sea and eventually to his father at Annúminas. There they secured the help of their old ally, Gil-galad of Lindon. Uniting the armies of Arnor, Gondor, and Lindon, and drawing many volunteers from other neighboring realms, they formed the Army of the Alliance and marched against Sauron's hordes. Slowly they pressed their foes south and east, driving them back to the very doors of Sauron's own land of Mordor. There, in the wide fenny plains known as Dagorlad, was fought perhaps the greatest battle of ancient times. Tens of thousands fell on both sides, but eventually the allies prevailed and the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor was broken and taken. Sauron and his forces withdrew to the south and took refuge in his impregnable fortress of Barad-dûr. The Úlairi, the Nine Kings of Men turned into Ring-wraiths by the Great Rings they wear, ruled in Minas Ithil and launched frequent raids into Anórien. The allies besieged the Dark Tower but could neither force the gates nor draw Sauron out. Unable to prevail and unwilling to depart, the vast Army of the Alliance remained camped about the Tower for seven long years. Many attempts had been made to take the Tower, but all had failed. Finally, the Lords of the Alliance formed a bold new plan; one last desperate attempt that would end the stalemate and ensure either victory or total defeat.
The mariners had feared the sun would draw the wind after it, as their saying goes, but it held and even increased, so that they fairly flew up the River. Even with reduced sail, their progress seemed more swift at night, for they could hear the water rippling along the side and the creaming wake rolled out astern, and they could not see the shore creeping past so slowly. The yard was braced nearly square now as the River bore more to the north.
The fleet swept on through the night, parting the black water with a white rush of foam. The great lanterns in the prows had not been lit, so the other ships were mere curling white waves astern. The smaller ships were falling back in the formation, though Cirdan was careful not to let the larger corbitas outrun them and divide the fleet.
Amroth stood on the aftercastle, just behind the two helmsmen at their steering sweeps. Gilrondil stood on the gallery at the stern, beneath the long curving neck of the swan. He leaned long on the rail, silhouetted against the glowing wake. At long last he climbed the ladder to the aftercastle.
"We are making a goodly speed, Master," said Amroth.
"Aye," said he. "The log gives it as nearly eight knots, even under reduced sail, though the River must be taking back at least three of that. We should reach Pelargir before midday if we come not upon a battle before then."
"Is it not most strange that the Corsairs have seemingly met so little resistance?" asked Amroth. "The River is swept clean. We sail through the heart of one of the largest and most populous nations in Middle-earth, yet we might as well be at sea for all the signs of life we see. Where can the fleet of Pelargir be?"
"I cannot guess. By all accounts the River should be full of ships. Besides their main fleet, their patrols along the coasts, and the pickets always at the Ethir, there are many smaller craft that always patrol the River, protecting trade and preventing crossings by the orcs that now infest southern Ithilien. And there is always much commercial traffic on Anduin, for it is not only Gondor's South Gate, but also bears the cargos of Pelargir and Lebennin, and even some from your lands far to the north, portaged around the falls of Rauros. The River is never empty, so we are told.
"I like it not," he said. "The pirates could not have swept the River clear of all traffic so quickly. There is no sign of battle, no wreckage. It is as if the entire nation of Gondor has been swept away to the moon. No, there is much we do not know here, and that makes me most uneasy."
He lowered his voice so that the helmsmen should not overhear. "I have had another thought which sore troubles me, but I am loath to speak of it, for it involves a most evil chance."
"Speak, my friend," said Amroth. "I would know your fears, lest they prove true in the end."
"Very well then. What if the Corsairs have already taken Pelargir some time ago? If they rule in Pelargir and their fleet guards the River, that would explain the absence of shipping or people on the shores."
Amroth's heart chilled and he drew his cloak more closely about his shoulders. "Then we would be hurrying to our doom. But what of the fires yesternight, the wreckage we saw?"
"If the Corsairs held the city and the River, would they not station their own pickets at the Ethir? And if ships of Pelargir returned unknowing from some long voyage?"
"Ah," said Amroth, seeing again the blackened timbers in the pellucid water, "they would have been unprepared for an enemy lying in wait in the Ethir."
"Aye, and they would have lighted the night for us."
"But we saw no pickets, Corsair or otherwise."
"But we came there at dawn, looking into the rising sun. The light would have lit our sails long before we could see the Ethir clearly. And if a Corsair picket sighted an Elvish fleet approaching?"
"Would they not have attacked us as we entered the River?"
"A handful of picket galleys would be foolish to attack us. But if they concealed themselves among the myriad islands of the Ethir and allowed us to enter the River, they could even now be following us, waiting gleefully for us to meet their main fleet. Then we would be trapped between their forces."
"If that is true," said Amroth, "then the trap is already sprung, and we are already in its jaws. There would be nothing we could do."
"Aye," he said. "That is why, when all other eyes are looking up the River, I look down it."
Amroth looked astern with a shudder and imagined low sleek galleys pulling toward them with muffled oars, their brazen rams gliding along in the Elves' wakes. "Ah, Gilrondil," he sighed. "You have not brightened this night for me."
Isildur woke lying on his back, staring up at a sky streaked with smoke. He became aware of a crackling sound nearby. He rolled over with a groan and discovered that he was badly bruised and his face had been burned. He struggled unsteadily to his feet and looked around. A few yards away lay Elrond and Cirdan, both motionless, their eyes wide and staring. His heart sank at the sight. Two noble Elf-Lords, slain at one stroke. Then he turned and saw something burning fiercely near the mouth of the tunnel. He stumbled to it and saw to his horror that it was a body, perhaps two. Then he saw a blackened head wreathed in flames, and it bore the crown of Lindon.
"Gil-galad too? And Sauron escaped." Then he looked around wildly. "Father? Father?!" There was nothing else to see on the stone platform. Then he remembered that last glimpse of his father darting forward with Narsil before him. Fearfully, Isildur went to the mouth of the tunnel and, shading his hand against the glare, peered within. A figure lay sprawled in the tunnel. It was his father.
He stumbled in and fell to his knees beside the broken body. "Dead! They are all dead! Oh, this the end of all our hopes! Oh, my father, I would have died for you. I should have died for you." And he put his head down on his father's chest and wept, great racking sobs that shook his body.
When at last the sobs stopped, he sat back on his heels and looked at his father's body. He saw Narsil broken beneath him and he pulled the broken shards free. He looked at the beautiful blade, still as sharp as a razor. For a wild moment he considered throwing himself on the blade and ending his pain. But then he knew that he had to find Sauron. It was up to him now. He was alone, and he had no ring and no enchanted weapon.
He pushed himself to his feet. Still carrying the broken sword, he stumbled from the Sammath Naur. Gil-galad's body was still burning, but the flames had gone down enough for him to see that it was indeed two bodies entangled. But who could it be? The others were all dead. Was it Malithôr? He bent and looked more closely. And then he saw a blackened hand protruding stiffly from the fire, closed like a talon. And on one smoldering finger was a golden Ring, bright and unsullied by the flame.
He stared for a long moment before it made sense. This was the One Ring. Then the second corpse was that of Sauron. But even now his Shadow was unbroken.
Dumbly, still hardly comprehending, he was suddenly filled with a rage. He raised the broken blade of Narsil high above his head and slashed down, severing the finger. The Ring dropped to the ground with a musical clink. Immediately the thing that had been Sauron crumbled into dust, and the terrible fear and despair that was his Shadow fell away and was gone. The Mountain gave a convulsive tremor and a bright gout of flame gushed from the Sammath Naur. Freed of the Shadow at last, Isildur straightened up.
"Now Sauron is no more!" he hissed, kicking disdainfully at the heap of grey dust, already being scattered by the wind. Then he saw the Ring lying there on the stone. Suddenly it seemed to him the most beautiful and desirable object he had ever seen.
"This I will have," he said, "as weregild for my father's death, and my brother's! Was it not I that dealt the Enemy his death-blow?" But even as he bent to pick it up, a voice rang out behind him.
"Touch it not!"
He whirled around, and there was Cirdan standing before him. Just beyond, Elrond was struggling to his feet. Their faces were blackened, their hair and clothing singed, but they were alive.
"My Lords! I had thought you dead."
"Not dead, as you see," said Cirdan with an effort, "but held in thrall by the power of the One. When you cut the Ring from his hand, its power was broken and we were released."
"The others were not so fortunate. Gil-galad and my father are dead."
"We know," said Elrond. "We saw it all, but could do nothing to help. Sauron was too sure of himself. He thought Gil-galad was bound by Vilya and he bent close to gloat. Though Gil-galad was mortally wounded, still he struck upward with Aeglos and slew him, as was foretold so long ago. But Sauron fell across him and they were both consumed. I think the king died in the same stroke that slew Sauron. But even then I was still held bound by the One. I could do nothing but watch."
"I thought you and Elrond were dead," said Cirdan. "I was afraid that we would die up here, lying helpless as the Mountain destroys itself. Before you roused, I saw Malithôr creep out of the tunnel, take one horrified look at his master, and slink off as fast as he could go. I was most happy to see you stir." He stepped on Sauron's severed finger and ground it into black ash. "So passes Sauron the Enemy. May his like never be seen in this world again."
But Isildur could feel no joy with his father's body lying broken and lifeless before him. "And so pass the greatest heroes of our age, both Elf and Man," he said.
"Aye," said Cirdan, "and so too passes the One Ring, that should never have been made."
Isildur knelt there looking down at the shining thing in the dust, and again there came that strong urge to possess it. "No," he said at last. "Sauron was the source of the evil, not his Ring. It is still a Great Ring of Power, and the mightiest of them all. The Three survive and will continue to do good works. I will take this unto myself. With it I shall cleanse Minas Ithil and Osgiliath, too. I shall purge the evil from all of Ithilien."
"That would be a grave error, Isildur," said Cirdan firmly. "The One was made by Sauron and he imbued it with all his black arts. Whatever you wrought with it would be tainted and stained with his evil. It was forged here in the Sammath Naur. Let us cast it back into the Flame from whence it came." But Isildur's desire suddenly crystallized into resolve in his heart.
"No!" he said. "It is mine. It has cost me my home and my brother, and now my father. I claim it as his weregild, and as recompense for all the losses suffered by Gondor and its people."
"Isildur, pray think again," urged Elrond. "This was the focus of all of his evil. Let us destroy it now, while the flames are near at hand. Give it up. It can never be used for good, only for destruction."
"Then I will use it to destroy the Barad-dûr and all the works of Sauron. That alone would be a noble deed. It is mine, I tell you. It is precious to me!" And he snatched up the Ring.
Instantly he screamed and let it fall again. "Aieee! It is hot!" He clutched his wrist and looked at his hand in agony. The Ring had seared into his flesh, burning a bright red circle deep into his palm.
"It glows still with the heat of Sauron's body," said Cirdan. "Let it be destroyed, Isildur. It is not for mortal Men."
Isildur looked up sharply. "No more is it for Elves, Shipwright. You would not seek to take it from me?"
"I have no desire for it myself, save to see it destroyed."
"But you shall not take it from me," growled Isildur, his eyes wild. His hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.
"If you mean take it by force, no, of course not," said Cirdan soothingly, looking at him curiously.
"We do not wish it for ourselves, old friend," added Elrond. "But I agree with Cirdan. It is too dangerous for anyone."
"Well, it is not too dangerous for me. I will keep it and it shall become an heirloom of my house, like the seedling of the White Tree, and like these, the shards of my father's sword."
"Let us not argue amongst ourselves here at the end, my friend," said Cirdan. "Take it if you will. But I counsel you to wield it rarely, if at all, and let it never fall into lesser hands."