Chapter Text
Ithilien, year 3399 of the Second Age
When Isildur first walked in this land criss-crossed by mountain streams, he lost the path and was caught unawares by night. Wading through the ferns, he saw how the large, bright moon rose from the east beyond the mountains. It smiled its silver smile at him, and wrapped the ashes and cypresses, heathers and bell-flowers in a bluish veil. The droplets splashing up from forest brooks glinted like diamonds, and then he noticed the path which shimmered pale among the undergrowth like a belt woven of stardust.
He spent the whole night looking at and wandering through the land, and understood that he had found the Land of the Moon, and it was the duty for him, the Servant of the Moon, to take care of it. He named the land Ithilien and built a home there for himself and his family.
Many decades later the moon still rises as bright as on that first night. The White Tower built to the side of Ephel Dúath greets it, glinting in the light. Perhaps some wanderer of the night on the other side of the mountains glances westward at just that moment, sees the tower shine defiant between two grim slopes, and crawls in fear to cower under some thorny bush.
Many guess that Isildur had the castle built so near to the Black Land so that he could climb to the tower and stand there watching the east and the terrible Barad-dûr day after day, planning vengeance against those servants of Sauron the Deceiver who still lurk in the land beset by shadows. The truth, however, is different. The Tower of the Rising Moon was built in Imlad Ithil to guard the pass, Cirith Dúath. The king himself looks east only rarely, for the sight is not a beautiful one. He merely wants his opponents to see that he is not afraid.
This night Isildur does not sleep. He stretches himself out by the side of Ithilduin in the midst of white flowers that open their petals in moonlight, and watches the dark sky that peeks between the tops of the bay trees. Even though the autumn is well underway, the forest grows and flourishes, for the gentle sea-winds blowing from the south warm the land all year round. Isildur is not tired, although he has every reason to be. The last few days have been full of tasks to get done, and tomorrow will be even more important. The guests would arrive, and everything would have to be put in order for the day after tomorrow.
A nightingale sings and trills busily and the river gushes and bubbles as actively as in daytime. Nature does not sleep at night either. So why should the king, when it is not even dark?
At last he rises and continues his nightly walk. He meets no one. The roads outside the white walls of Minas Ithil are empty of travellers. Not that he is expecting Elendil to arrive at night, but he knows that he is not far away now. For a moment he toys with the thought of going to meet them, as he would have done as a child, but rejects it immediately. His father would not wonder, but it is important to maintain dignity in the eyes of his entourage.
Isildur is dressed in his usual disguise: the green and brown costume of a woodsman, with a hooded cloak. With it he can move as an almost invisible figure under the branches, or as a citizen among the rest on the street, although he only uses the costume when he wants some peace — not to spy on his people. For sometimes the king misses the times when he was free to roam, a carefree youth whose days were filled with swimming and riding competitions, ships and sailing, archery, and long treks to the countryside, with his only worry being whether the beautiful maiden that passed him would return the smile he had just given her. It is long since those days, and they only lasted a brief while, but whenever the king thinks of the Land Under the Waves, he remembers first the sunny days of his youth, which turned into darkness and sorrow all too quickly.
He paces along the Ithil road built on the side of the river, which goes through the valley between two mountains. At the end of the valley there is a pass leading into Mordor, but it has been blocked with a high wall, on top of which soldiers walk on watch night and day.
There is, however, another route here from Mordor: a steep and dangerous path over the mountains. High up there is a tunnel inhabited by a dreadful creature, an incarnation of horror and evil: Shelob, a descendant of Morgoth’s Ungoliant. People who have lived long in Ithilien know horrifying tales of reckless youths who with great effort climbed the mountain to catch a glimpse of the giant spider. She stung them unconscious with her venomed sting, drank their blood, and ate their still-living bodies.
It horrifies Isildur a little to think of it. Not because he would be afraid of the creature: so long as she stays in her cave and does not come down, she is useful, because the orcs of Mordor will not dare to travel by Cirith Ungol into Ithilien. He is more horrified by the thought that if he had come to this land as a youngster, he would surely have ended up as one of those reckless youths. He would have climbed the mountain to be able to brag of his deeds to his friends and impress some maiden, and he would have met his end in Shelob’s cave.
Age has brought some wisdom with it, however. In the last decades his greatest fear has been that one of his sons would get it into his head to try his luck in Cirith Ungol. Elendur is too sensible for it, though, and Ciryon too timid, but Aratan is unpredictable and too insubordinate.
Isildur turns to the long bridge that crosses the Ithilduin and goes right to the gates of the city. At the end of the bridge there stand white sculptures in the shapes of animals and men, and both the bridge and the sculptures glimmer in the moonlight. The gatekeepers stand up straighter when they see the comer.
“Beautiful night”, one of them observes.
“True enough”, Isildur replies, huffing a soft laugh. “No need to stand there idly. Take out a game. Nothing will happen tonight.”
Isildur walks along the road paved with white stones that goes through the city. Everything seems to be asleep. Only a grey stray cat comes across him, and stops for a moment to watch the king’s going. Maybe she has come early to the breakfast table, to wait for the boys of the city to wake up and catch fish for her from the river.
The king continues his way up towards the castle built into the mountainside. The castle is encircled by stout white walls, and the king’s black-and-silver flag hangs motionless in the still night. Two soldiers stand on watch at the gate. They are already used to their lord’s nightly wanderings, and his return does not startle them.
“We thought that perhaps you were stricken by regret, and went to catch a boar to be the centrepiece of the feast-table after all”, one of them jests.
Isildur chuckles. “I would not have the audacity to ruin my son’s high day even if I wished to. We respect his will, and there will be no meat on the table in this feast.”
“Good thing I have not been invited.”
“Careful, Tarion. There may still be free seats at the table.”
The moon has already almost set behind Mindolluin, but its last rays still make the walls and battlements glow. The day after tomorrow, if the weather just stays clear, they will continue the feast outside after dinner, and everyone would see the magical shine that lights the courtyard when the wall around it catches the moonbeams within itself. It would be as though night and day at the same time. Nothing like it could be experienced anywhere but Minas Ithil. They would ask how Isildur has managed it, how he makes the marble walls glow like ithildin, and without any words of magic at that, and he of course would not say.
Isildur stops beside the White Tree planted in the centre of the courtyard. He walks around it, looking carefully under the silver leaves. Still no fruit. What happened to those many flowers that in spring were full of promise? He sighs and heads for the front door.
The castle sleeps. Isildur walks past the white pillars and the statues depicting the Lords of Andúnie in the entrance hall, turns into the southern corridor, passes the alcove where the large painting of Tar-Míriel has been placed. Passing it used to make him sad, but now he chuckles, because the memory has been replaced with a new one. Ciryon used to sit on the ground in front of the painting and stare at the picture with as earnestly longing eyes as only a boy a little ways into his second decade can. Many a time Isildur almost tripped on the little figure as he was hurrying to run his errands. Ciryon, his youngest, loves “old stories” as he calls them — to Isildur they are events of the near past. The boy was born too late to be able to understand, but that’s not his fault.
But Tar-Míriel none of them could save. She was left under the waves, the true Queen of Númenor who would have become the High Queen of men in Middle-Earth, the mightiest lady of all time, if she had been allowed to live. Míriel was beautiful and strong, but love and power alike were stolen from her. She had been the only heir of the righteous King Tar-Palantir, but the king’s nephew Pharazôn had forced her to be his wife even though law forbade marriage between cousins, and even though Míriel had been promised to the younger brother of the Lord of Andúnie — Isildur’s great-uncle Elentir. And after wedding Míriel, Pharazôn had declared himself the sole ruler of Númenor, and the Faithful had been able to do nothing, for they had been too few and the King’s Men too many.
That story had once broken young Ciryon’s heart.
Isildur arrives in the royal suite. He takes off his overclothes and leaves them on a chair for the valet to clear away. He pulls off his boots and steps into the dim bedchamber. Outside the sky is more blue than dark, and the moon that was travelling westward is no longer visible.
Isildur casts a brief longing look at his wife, who is fast asleep. Sometimes she wakes up when he arrives, but today she lies unmoving on her side of the bed, the blanket bunched up at the foot of the bed. He would like to wake her up, but he knows it would not be wise.
He settles on his side of the bed and pulls up the blanket to cover both of them. Her back is to him, and he touches the dark locks of hair that have spread across the pillow. They are soft and fine as skilfully woven silk.
At last the king forgets the moon and falls asleep.