So fickle and fleeting are the affections of men – they may love or have all the seeming of it oft times throughout their mortal life, whilst we would profess our love once in an eternity. And, perhaps, then once again.
As I look out across my land this night, over Imaldris, my home, I see my daughter. She stands with her love, and I know her heart; she would give herself to him. If I could, I would stay her hand as she reaches for the jewel about her neck, yet as I cannot, I will wish her well. Her voice carries on the breeze and I smile. She will give herself to him and they will live as one. She will be happy. For now, and if he can be constant against his nature, for the rest of their life. I wish her everything I could not have.
I once loved a man, as does sometime come to pass amongst those of my kind. He was a noble man, a king amongst his people, and to me a dear, close friend. It was he who defeated Sauron, took up his father's sword and cut the ring from the finger of the Dark Lord himself. He was a man, a mortal man; he was Isildur, king of Gondor, chief of the Dúnedain. And he wounded me more deeply than any creature ever has.
Yet this was three thousand years ago. Some wonder that I bear the memory still after such a passing of time. I have seen whole generations pass, and yet still I remember him and everything he was to me. Men do not comprehend the means by which the affection may remain so near, so keen in me when by their reckoning I should have long since forgotten. But they are not of my kind. They cannot understand.
For there is no time for us, or if time there is we are unaware of its passing. There is no old age, with no ill health and no infirmity. There is only existence, nature with all its beauty and its sorrow. There is no death, unless we choose the road less travelled. Unless we forsake the immortality which is ours by birth, set it aside and choose a mortal life, to live with numbered days ‘til at last we wake no more. Few have I known to do this, to take on mortality willingly, to live amongst men and assume their habits, their customs, their constraints. Few would forsake this life.
To lie upon the forest floor with eyes cast skywards, the bed of lush green moss beneath cradling your form; to gaze into the stars hour upon hour, day upon day, as your heart weeps with the beauty of the night... To feel a part of endless nature, kin of the rivers and mountains which are perhaps not then even as old as you yourself – these are Elven things. To watch the sun rise one morning and be unaware of its setting until a month or more is passed. To dedicate yourself completely to the learning of an art and to see it through for a century or more. To understand the meaning of forever. These things are immortality.
Yet for Isildur I half-learned to see the world through mortal eyes. I see seconds and minutes, hours which stretch into days which stretch into months into years. I see the ages passed between his time and today, and each instant I have lived since then has been empty with his absence. I am torn between the knowledge that I shall go on forever and this terrible awareness of the passage of time. It has been hard to bear and it does not serve me well, for I feel it fuel my mistrust of men and great sadness at the loss of one who was so dear. Still I would not wish it gone, for then how should I remember? I should rather have the pain than forget him. I shall bear it for all time.
The life of my people is that of immortality. Yet this I would have lain aside for Isildur.
I would have given him my soul, my very life, my whole existence. I would have bound myself to him. I would have given up forever to be with him. My life would have ended by his side. I believed then that he wanted this as well as I, and perhaps for a time he did. But this was before the battle, and before the Ring.
I feared him dead as I stood upon the battlefield, ‘til I saw him take up his father's sword. And even then I feared for him, lying before the Dark Lord, as Narsil was shattered in his hands. Yet I watched on as he cut the ring from Sauron's finger, and in that moment my heart rejoiced. For our peoples and our lands were free. And this unholy Ring, which should never have been, would at last be destroyed. I believed so then.
But Isildur's great strength fled him when faced with the power of the One Ring. As we walked together inside the very heart of Mount Doom, the very place whence the Ring had sprung, I felt a change come over my lover. He was tempted. His weak mortal heart was drawn in by the promise of powers untold, and I could do nothing to prevent him as he took it for his own. I should have taken it from him forcibly and cast it down into the fires myself. I should have, but I did not. I could not. I knew in my heart that he must choose his own fate, even if it should lead to the end of us all. I believe I knew we should be given another chance. And I let him go.
As he marched north along the banks of the Anduin, he was attacked. He would not surrender the Ring and as he fled, as he died, it abandoned him. A great shadow was cast over me that day. A great man was lost from Middle Earth, a great leader, and my one love. Yet a part of me rejoiced. For my love, my Isildur, was then free of the Ring which had so poisoned his mind. I had lost him, yet he was free.
Had he destroyed the Ring I believe Isildur would have ruled as his father before him, just and true. He would have led his people well from the White Tower and I would have stood by his side until the end of my days. Yet he made a simple choice all those years ago, which changed what might have been into what was. And we have all since suffered for it.
Many grieved for Isildur, though none so deep as I. And I took on the task of fostering his heirs. I am not myself certain even now of why I chose to do this, yet this I have done. Throughout the years Rivendell has been home to the chieftains of the Dúnedain, and the symbols of their rule. The shards of Narsil, the star of Elendil – they lie here in Rivendell. And I remember Isildur.
His memory pains me. When I wish to I can recall each moment he was with me. I remember the joy of being near to him. Yet try as I might I cannot escape the fact that each precious second we shared is tainted by my resentment of his ultimate weakness. He could not resist the temptation of the Ring, and selfishly I remember that Ring as being little more than what came between us.
It hung on a chain about his neck. I would not let him wear it as we walked together, or hold it or touch it. I would not even have him let it lay against his bare skin beneath his tunic, so on the chain about his neck it hung, there against the leather of his coat. But he would touch it. When he thought I did not see at first, yet as our journey wore on he would place his hand upon it even under my disapproving, anxious gaze. Even before we reached the fires of Mount Doom, I had come to believe he would not destroy it, could not.
It was a feeling which grew within me as we travelled, born of the changes I saw in Isildur. His behaviour, his affections – they altered both slow and swift together as he seemed a new man entire yet still the same beneath, ‘til a nameless dread consumed my mind and my heart. If I asked him to choose I knew he would choose the Ring and leave me.
It hung between us; a question unanswered and unspoken, it hung between his heart and mine. Even as we neared the heart of the mountain, amidst the fires, it hung between us. It burned hot against my skin and his as our bodies moved together in the night, when he would not remove it and lay it aside even for that time. That was when I knew I had lost him, when even our most intimate moments were tainted with the touch of the Ring. Then he held it in his hand. And I though I knew the answer to my question, I had to ask. I had to ask him to destroy it.
He did not.
I reached out, I touched my hand to his cheek; he flinched and stepped away. He told me he would not. And he walked away.
I followed him, though I knew no good would come of it. Though I could not ask that he reconsider. I merely followed. And there was one moment we shared then, one moment in which I could almost believe he was the same man he had ever been. He turned to me as we sat by the campfire, his face brilliant in the firelight, his eyes glowing gold as the ring about his neck.
And he reached out to me, brushed the hair from my forehead and looked at me. He did not utter a single word and he had no need to do so. I could read in the look in his eyes the pain in his heart. He was saying he was sorry. He was saying goodbye.
I left him in the morning without looking back. Soon after I received word of his death.
I cannot forgive Isildur his weakness. I cannot forgive him his failure. And he did fail. When he failed, so in my heart did all men. I was there the day the strength of men failed. Not for one single moment has that belief I once held rekindled. But I have begun to doubt in my conviction.
The Ring, which I had believed lost for so long, is found. The Ring must be destroyed, and here is our chance come again. This time we cannot fail. This time to fail would mean the end of all we hold dear. And this time we must trust in the strength of men. I should feel dread at this thought. I should feel overwhelming sadness that I will bear witness to this second trial. Yet I do not, and I cannot give a reason why beyond that which I near fear to name.
It is not that we will entrust this quest to a hobbit and not to the hands of man. It is not the Fellowship. These are not reasons I feel we shall prevail. It is a member of the company, a man I know and have know each day of his whole life. Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And there is something in him which makes me question myself.
I see a quiet dignity in him. I see in him a worthiness and a reverence which stirs me to disquiet. I cannot quite believe that this man can truly realise our hopes for the future, and I would not put my trust in him for all the world. He does not stir me from my beliefs. Yet everything about him would have me question them. Is he perhaps more than I find him to be? I would wish him to be. I would wish him to calm my soul and restore my faith. Yet for all my wishing I cannot believe in him. I think if I asked this of him he would promise it to me in all good faith. Yet I will not ask. He would say this to me out of duty to my daughter and I would not wish to hear it.
I love Aragorn as I loved Isildur, though I can never reveal this to him. He would come into my arms and into my bed if I asked this of him, yet I do not, I cannot. He may look upon me with the same appreciative eye as in his youth he did, as I look upon him still, yet... no. I will not give my heart again and have it broken; I am reconciled to this. My love I give, yes, and my friendship, and if he should prove his worth, perhaps my daughter. Yes, above myself I would have them happy.
But when I look at him... I see so much and so little of the man I once loved. I cannot say I would love him as I have loved before. I cannot say I would give up the existence I know for him. And yet, unbidden, I love him. Against my will and against my better judgement.
The lovers part below, go their separate ways. Arwen will wait for him. I believe they will be married. And I will be content with knowing that his line and mine will be forever tied.
So when morning comes I will watch him leave. I will see him turn and nod his farewell to me. And he will not know how much of me goes with him.
I would only hope that inside Aragorn there is less of Isildur than I believe there to be. I hope he can restore my faith. And I would hope that he will not be the first creature in three thousand long years to pain me as Isildur.
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