Of Isildur and the White Tree

I

Tis told that as    the time grew near

and Sauron set  his schemes in place,

Ar-Pharazôn was    filled with pride. 

Yet he knew not    that no thing said

or deed then done    in his domain

by that time was his own.    The tree of white,

Nimloth the Fair,    would not be spared—

for Sauron’s set resolve    had sworn its end.

Verily, to Valinor    its vision turned the mind

and heart, and how    he hated every thought

of that undying land.    Under guise of flattery,

for subtle Sauron planned    and saw at last

the way by which his will    would come to pass,

he coaxed the king.    “Why keep you

this reminder of such rulers    in your realm?

You owe them no allegiance,    for ever do they seek

to supplant your power    and your people.

Cut down and cast away,    it cannot help but show

those watching in the West    that we will not

bow our heads,    nor bequeath to them

such servile scraping    as these self-called lords require.

Show forth the fierce    and fair design

of your own will.    Why do you wait?”

His voice was soft as silk,    as smooth as glass his tone.

No man of might could surely    mount defense against

such reasoned cause,    or raise the riot

when the axe was aimed    against the tree.

Yet Ar-Pharazôn at first    refused his urging.

Little did he love    the Lords of the West,

and deep was his desire    to divide his realm

from their sway.    But superstition held him,

though wisdom would have    warned the same

had Pharazôn not long ago    forsaken such an aid.

Too far he fled from grace,    and from his folly

no plea nor prayer    nor power could hold him.

Still, he harbored deep a fear    his house would fall

if did the tree.    Deciding not to dare the chance,

he sent no sign.    But Sauron waited.

II

Tormented by temptation    and that towering rage

which drove desire    to dominate

all Men and Elves and     even immortal Valar, 

the king kept not   his own counsel,

as one more prudent may    perhaps have done.

Few the Men who full with drink    can fetter tongues,

and Pharazôn was wont    to wine and boasting

‘fore his own, so fierce    the force of his desire

for admiration and acclaim.    So Amandil,

lord of Andúnië, long loyal    and beloved

(could Pharazôn yet find    that feeling in his breast)

heard rumor of approaching ruin,   and was wroth.

For seasons long ere Sauron    sat behind the throne

the king had kept Amandil’s words    as close as any other’s,

and all the long years of their lives    this lord had

urged Ar-Pharazôn upon    another path.

Elf-Friends were the Andúnië,    that ever-dwindling 

folk. The Faithful,    who fought to 

yet uphold the vows    for which the Valar had

bestowed so great a gift.    Andor—how glad

had been the hearts of Men    to hear that name

in times before the blessing    became bane to those

who refused to receive,    but would only rule.

Striving always, soft in word    and subtle hint,

Amandil pursued a path    of patient stealth,

hoping that his king in time    would hear

and understand—until Sauron    undertook the counsel

of the king. So quickly    Pharazôn came under thrall,

Amandil now saw his nuanced tones   availed him naught.

Should he have spoken    in a stronger voice,

or debated directly ‘gainst    the dozens who

supported Pharazôn with sword    and shield and

held but little love for    Elvenkind and Valar strong?

Perhaps. He asked himself    and heard no

sound reply. But small now    seemed the purpose of such

query, with word of Nimloth’s danger    in the wind.

Foretelling time was short    before the tree’s demise,

Amandil opened up his mind    to Elendil, his son.

III

Long the lords of Andúnië    had lived upon the

Western shore and welcomed,    where the sunlight

waned, the Elven emissaries    from Eressëa in

vessels white, and friendship    found for long bright

years. Elendili, Elf-friends,    and ever did their

loyalty stay strong and    straight their course.

But as the bitterness    toward the Blessed Realm

did grow and gain    a grasp upon Armenelos

and many who might trace    their line to Tar-Minyatar—

Elros, he who though   Half-Elven freely chose

the Doom and Gift which did    his own descendants flee—

the friendship of his people   with the Firstborn failed.

Loathe were king and council    to countenance

the wisdom of the words    which sent the Valar

to urge understanding    and assuage the growing

madness of the Men    who meant to conquer

death—though this was not    a thing that could be done.

The Elendili stood apart    as all their kindred bent

themselves upon the path of power    and of pleasure 

and of domination by defeat    of more defenseless Men.

Then by the word of Gimilzôr,    the grandfather of Pharazôn,

the Elf-friends were uprooted    and sent unto the eastern shore.

Andúnië! Your silver spray    of salt and sea and

mountains looming large    above the lanterned bay

replaced by lower, louder    Rómenna of loyal King’s Men

and the many massive ships    which made their way to Middle-

Earth to take tribute    for its tireless new lords.

Yet Elendili they remained. For though    the Eldar came unto their

friends no more the Faithful    kept the flame of Eru and the

Valar in their hearts, and heeded    both the things they heard

and things they saw as seasons    passed and sanity did

leave their land. And at the last    Amandil was their lord,

and Elendil the Tall, who took    his father’s tasks in times

he was away. Wise they were in    planning and in waiting

for some sign to show them    something of their fate—

and with the news of Nimloth    did they know that time

had come to put in place    such plans as they had made.