“Isildur, my friend, I also grieve with you. Your father was a great man. He was a good king and warrior. He was my friend, and I shall forever mourn his passing.” Elrond stood in the center of Isildur’s tent and studied the new King. Throughout the campaign, Isildur had stood at Elendil’s side, fighting the evil that poured from Mordor like a foul poison. Isildur’s blow was doubled, for he also lost his brother, Anarion. So many had been lost during those seven years and there were those who now wondered if the cost was not too high.
Oropher had perished because he advanced before Gil-Galad had given the order, and Thranduil, his son, was nearly inconsolable. Elrond himself had lost Gil-Galad in a horrible way, watching helplessly as Sauron’s mace had had slammed into the beloved body.
Isildur’s brown eyes lifted from the gold circle he was turning over and over in his hand. He possessed the ring because he was the one who picked up the pieces of his father’s broken sword and cut the ring from Sauron’s hand. He was dazed from the aftermath.
“I cannot believe both my father and brother are gone.”
Elrond knelt at Isildur’s feet. The battle had only ended hours before but it felt like days. Healers tended the injured. Funeral pyres were being made ready by relatives and friends of the slain. Elrond had followed Isildur to his tent, hoping to talk to the man.
“Give yourself time, Isildur. The sacrifices made here have been harsh, but we have defeated the darkness that threatened our lives and our kingdoms. Nor are we done.” Elrond hesitated to bring up this last, most important bit, but he knew he must, for there were no others who could.
Wearily, Isildur looked up. “What, Lord Elrond? What is this that you speak of? I am weary of following the edicts of the elves, so speak your peace and leave.”
Taken somewhat aback, Elrond hesitated yet again, loathe to anger Isildur further. He drew a deep breath and steeled his resolve. “The ring, Isildur. You must destroy it.”
A surprised frown crossed Isildur’s features. “Is it possible to destroy this accursed thing?”
“You must cast it in to the fires of Mount Doom or all that we have wrought here, all those who have died, will be in vain. The One Ring has no master but Sauron, and though you have destroyed his body, his spirit still lives because the ring is not yet unmade.”
Isildur scrubbed at his face and smeared the layers of grime and orc blood. Neither Elrond nor he had removed their armor, or even their cloaks. “Is this the only way then? Destroy this that so many have died for? Shall I destroy an heirloom of my kingdom for the sake of elvish paranoia?”
Elrond’s heart constricted. Already the Ring was trying to ensnare Isildur, desperate to save itself. The ring’s sentience would ensnare all but the strongest. “Isildur, I beg you, listen to me; hear my counsel. I do not ask this for the elves, but for your people. If you keep this –heirloom—as you call it, you will succumb to it. You will be twisted by it, you will become its slave and you will pass unto the shadows as the ancient kings did.”
Isildur nodded reluctantly. Part of him understood what Elrond was trying to tell him. He knew, on one level, that the elven lord meant neither he nor his people harm. Still he could not help being suspicious. The Ring was a powerful weapon, and Isildur could not see how it could not also be turned into a powerful tool. His kingdom was in ruins. Sons and fathers would never again see Gondor’s borders. Famine always followed war and he knew his people were in for many years of hardships before they were fully recovered. But with the aid of the Ring?
“How do we unmake this thing?”
“Come with me, Isildur.” Elrond stood and held out his hand. He had feared Isildur would refuse him. He still might, and Elrond wanted to hurry lest the King change his mind. “I will lead you to the heart of the mountain and stand with you as you do this.”
“Do you think me incapable, Elrond?” Isildur’s anger was back and he did not know from whence it came.
“Nay, I do not. I am fully aware of the power the Ring and I know how much it wants to save itself.”
Isildur placed his hand in Elrond’s and rose wearily from the camp chair. “Let us end this thing,” he said as Elrond led him through the tent flap.
Every step towards Mount Doom was sheer torture for Isildur. His feet grew heavier as did his heart. This is wrong, his mind screamed. The ring was not a force of evil. The ring could be used for the good of the people of Middle Earth. All that was needed was for a strong man to take the ring and wield it.
Elrond held tight to Isildur’s hand, feeling the man’s tension and the drag of his feet. The elf did not allow them to slow down, knowing in his heart that to falter was to risk losing all. He could almost hear the Ring whispering in Isildur’s mind.
Dust, thick and black, rose up around their feet and clogged their mouths and noses. The volcano rumbled and spewed gray smoke, as if sensing the return of the Ring to its molten heart. The heat was stifling and the red glow from the mountain was like another sunset. Isildur’s trembling transmitted to Elrond and the elf lord hardened his resolve. The ring would never ensnare another.
Thranduil looked at this decimated ranks and despaired. His father’s body lay on a pyre with those who had come from Mirkwood to fight with King Gil-Galad and King Elendil against Sauron. Oropher was now dead and Thranduil was left with only a third of his troops to lead back to, and defend, Mirkwood. His heart was heavy with more than grief for the loss of his father and friends. Mirkwood would more than likely fall simply because he did not have enough troops to defend it.
He watched as Elrond and Isildur made their way to Mount Doom and he knew that Sauron’s Ring, the one thing that could ensure Sauron’s return would soon be destroyed. He found his heart lightened. At least, he thought, some good would come from all their losses.
At the cavern entrance, Isildur dug in his heels. “This is wrong. The Ring is more than a weapon. Men will be its master now.”
Whipping around, Elrond clutched fistfuls of Isildur’s tunic. “Nay, my King, the Ring will be the master of men if you do not destroy it now. Already it speaks to you, twists your thoughts. Think! Isildur, think of all the men who have already perished because of the Ring. Hear me, understand what I am saying to you. This object of evil cannot be controlled by you.”
Sweat poured down Isildur’s face and dripped into his eyes. His rage grew beyond normal proportion. The elf wanted to destroy the one thing that would save the mortal race, the only hope they had of surviving. How dare Elrond tell him he should destroy it? Who was he—a mere standard-bearer to a king—to tell the King of Gondor that he must destroy what was his by right?
He slapped Elrond’s hands away and pushed with all his strength, forcing Elrond further in to the cave. A red mist hung at the edges of his vision. In his gauntleted fist,the Ring seemed to glow with a golden fire.
“You want to see the fall of men. You fear us; fear what we can accomplish. You know that one day we shall rule Middle Earth and you cannot bear to think of your precious world lost to mere men.” He stalked forward. “What are you, but an elf? I am a man; I could own you, break you!”
Stepping back, Elrond was amazed at how quickly the Ring had taken hold of Isildur. His only hope was to overpower Isildur and take the Ring from him. But did he have that right? Logic warred with need and before he could reach a decision, Isildur attacked.
With strength borrowed from the Ring, Isildur bowled Elrond over and they rolled through the dirt and ash. Each scrabbled for supremacy over the other. For a moment, Elrond found himself astride Isildur and he tried to pin the wriggling man’s shoulders. Isildur was a warrior and had a warrior’s strength, but he would not have been able to best Elrond had the Ring not intervened. Elrond knew he’d have to take the Ring, but his heart would not let him harm his friend.
The sun was sinking below the horizon when Thranduil was approached by another elf looking for Elrond. No one could find the lord of Imladris and he was desperately needed. He was, for all intents and purposes, Gil-Galad’s heir and the elf’s counsel was sorely needed.
Thranduil realized that the last time he’d seen Elrond was when the lord had been escorting Isildur up the mountain. His heart skipped a beat. Surely it did not take over two hours to cast a ring into a lava filled pit.
“I’ll find him,” he said as he started towards the mountain.
Isildur’s rage was beyond control. Part of him, buried deep beneath the Ring’s influence warned him, but he paid no heed. He raised his fists and brought them down hard on Elrond’s neck. Elrond released his hold and rocked back, allowing Isildur to buck his hips and throw the elf off of him.
Elrond rolled away and quickly gained his feet, knowing that to linger on the ground would be to leave Isildur a deadly opening. He turned as Isildur’s hands tried to wrap themselves around his throat.
“Take your hands off me!” Elrond shouted as he knocked Isildur’s arms aside. He looked into the man’s face and realized he had lost.
Dark brown eyes were filled with lust. Not a sexual lust. No. A deeper, more evil lust glowed in the dark brown orbs. A lust that only could be induced by the Ring. A slow evil smile spread over Isildur’s handsome face. He looked at Elrond from beneath his brows.
“The Ring belongs to me, now, Standard-Bearer.”
Elrond blinked and allowed the insult to slide past him. “Cast the Ring into the fire!”
Isildur’s evil grin only grew wider. He shook his blond head. “No.”
He turned then, and walked towards the cavern entrance.
“Isildur!” Elrond shouted desperately, hoping to turn Isildur around one last time.
Thranduil rushed up the narrow path, his heart racing, and an ache deep in the pit of his stomach. He feared what he would find, though he hoped that his fears were ungrounded. He rounded a curve in the path and collided head on with Isildur. The man barely looked up at him; all his attention was focused on a shiny metal band.
“Where is Elrond?” Thranduil pulled at Isildur’s arm. “Isildur, where is Lord Elrond?”
Isildur jerked away with a snarl and continued on without answering.
The warrior in Thranduil wanted to run to Isildur and shake him. As King of Mirkwood, he knew he could not assault another King. Concern for Elrond ended his internal debate and he rushed on shaking knees to the opening in the mountainside. He stopped when he saw Elrond standing at the edge of the precipice.
“Elrond?” He called, rushing towards the older elf.
Elrond did not turn around. He continued to stare deep into the heart of the volcano. Cinders floated through the air setting lose little sparks in his dark hair. His shoulders were slumped, but Thranduil could see how the proud elf shook. As he drew closer, he heard soft sobs and the muffled voice and his blood chilled in his veins.
“Please…” Elrond murmured. “Gil-Galad, please forgive me.”
Thranduil placed his arm around Elrond’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, you are exhausted. Let us return to camp.”
Elrond shook his head. “You do not understand, Thranduil. I have failed. All that Gil-Galad, your father, and Elendil died for is as this ash. I have failed the ultimate task. I could not make Isildur destroy the ring.”
Thranduil pulled Elrond close and embraced him. Elrond’s head rested on his shoulder and he stroked the streaked face. He wanted to tell Elrond that he had not failed. He wanted to offer comfort to his friend. Thranduil could not. The words stuck in his throat.
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