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Nimloth...this tree planted in the gardens of the palace of the Golden City, Armenelos on the island of Númenor. Isildur had always been fascinated by the White Tree of Númenor, not surprising given the tree's origin and strong symbolism. The plant linked him to the moon, his star, and above all to Tillion, Isil's bearer, a fruit of the Telperion tree. Everything was connected.
Isildur had not forgotten his first visit to the palace of the King of Númenor, when he was just a child still clinging to the tunic of his father, Elendil, then visiting King Tar-Palantir. He had escaped Elendil's watchful eye to run to the gardens and pause before the immensity of Nimloth. He had never seen anything as beautiful as the white tree standing proud and regal before him. Isildur detailed every inch of the plant, its white trunk and magnificent white flowers a symbol of purity and immortality. Its leaves, sometimes green, sometimes silver, glistened in the bright sunlight of this magnificent day. He touched its trunk and instantly felt the warmth of the Valar and the importance of their mission as Faithful. Isildur had been immersed in this culture ever since he was a child, seeing the elves docking on their shores or moving around the island. He could feel the spiritual bond between himself and the Valar, but also the pulsing of the sap and, above all, Telperion, even more majestic than its descendant.
The sweet, heady scent of the flowers soothed him, and Isildur felt at home again, at ease with the White Tree. He didn't know what to say when faced with this symbol of his people's elven heritage and blessing. All was happiness and serenity, and he forgot all his worries, as well as all the political problems his grandfather Amandil and, to a lesser extent, his father, had always told him about.
“White Tree, Nimloth, descendant of the Elder Tree of Valinor,
I promise to protect you and your symbol,
No one will cut you or kill you.
I am forever your most devoted protector for what you represent:
Purity, the link with the Valar and their blessing.”
“Isildur ! Isildur!”
His father's voice. He had been called by the tree during his escape from the affairs of grown-ups. Reassured to see his son safe, Elendil embraced his son and looked at the White Tree at the same time. A light breeze blew only through the branches. Elendil had the impression that the tree was speaking in a faint whisper, most likely his imagination.
“I have become the protector of Nimloth and its symbolism! Nothing can pierce or cut it, I'll always watch over it!”
“Oh dear, our intrepid Isildur has been entrusted with a divine mission. Let us thank the Valar for this realization, but also Nimloth,” replied Elendil, amused by the fervor in his son's heart.
With a solemn gesture like a soldier, Isildur drew his feet together, clicked his boots and placed his right hand on his heart. Elendil ruffled his hair and smiled, pleased that his son had found a purpose in his life as a child, and perhaps even as an adult. Who knows what the future would hold if Nimloth had appointed a guardian to preserve him, the symbol of their blessing from the Valar and their link with the elves, the light.
For several nights now, Isildur had been unable to sleep, troubled by nightmares of burning Nimloth and growing chaos in the capital. The shadow was growing larger, gripping the new king, Ar-Pharazôn, and suffocating him. His nights were all flame and shadow, but also destruction. Each time, he woke up in a sweat and in total panic. The images of his oath at the age of ten came back to him. Thirty years ago already. Nimloth had never cried out his distress. The cries still echoed in Isildur, squeezing both his heart and his stomach. Could it be visions of what might happen to the White Tree of Númenor? What new whim would Ar-Pharazôn and, above all, Sauron come up with? What else had the Dark Lord planted in the king's mind? His mind was made up: he would leave as soon as possible to save Nimloth from Sauron's dark designs. Only a day's ride separated the port of Rómenna from the capital Armenelos.
Isildur rose from his bed with a blanket draped over his shoulders before opening his window to gaze at the moon. He breathed out before looking out over the road leading to the capital of Númenor. Sadness and determination kept him awake.
I promise you dear Nimloth; no one will touch a single leaf of yours, your heritage will be preserved through new growth and you will always be this symbol of hope and of the Valar's blessing for our people.
The former sailor enjoyed the freshness of this spring night before returning to his bed and trying to get back to sleep. No more nightmares came to haunt him, as if the message had got through and he needed all his resources to save this symbol of Númenor and ancient times.
Even if the nightmares hadn't nagged him, his eagerness to leave kept him awake. Isildur slept very badly that last night with his family. He had even prepared a farewell note in case the mission went badly. He hoped they would understand. With his sword in his hand, he quickly prepared a change of clothes in a leather bag. Isildur dressed quickly before grabbing his blue hood. Without a sound, he stomped down the stairs of the house he shared with his grandfather, father and brother.
“Isildur ! To what do we owe this flight like a thief?”
Anárion, his older brother.
Isildur reflexively rushed to his brother and stopped him from speaking with both hands over his mouth.
“Shut up, Anár! I've got to go and save Nimloth,” he muttered angrily.
“It wasn't childish nonsense after all... You've really been connected to the capital's White Tree ever since you saw it.”
“Did you doubt me, dear brother?”
Anárion didn't reply directly, but he minced his answer with a forced smile and a hard look. Isildur rolled his eyes in despair.
“You're risking your life in Armenelos, it's a suicide mission! The risks are so great that you'll never come back from there alive! Be reasonable!”
“No, I must do it alone and I've been far too reasonable. I have faith in unsuspected help. Then I'll see with my own eyes the decline of our people. “
“ But what will I tell Father?”
“The truth, Anár. And no matter how angry he is, I must do it for the hope of future generations. He'll surely understand.”
“He'll especially want to know about Míriel,” Anárion said.
“ I hope to run into her at the palace, because we both know how much she can help me in my mission and, above all, prevent me from getting killed”
Anárion moved closer to his older brother to embrace him, one last time as if in farewell. Isildur returned the embrace.
“May the Valar protect you, little brother. And may you return in one piece, and may your mission be crowned with success! “
Isildur nodded, looked Anárion in the eye one last time and rode off as fast as he could towards the capital.
After a long day's travel on his horse, Isildur finally arrived at the gates of the capital. Chills ran up and down his spine - there was no doubt that the forces of evil were at work here. He was lucky to arrive just before sunset, the hour when the city gates closed. It was better to play it safe and return freely to Armenelos than try to get arrested by the gate guards. In any case, he hoped that no identity checks were carried out to gain access to the city. Isildur was counting on his legendary luck.
The dark-haired man jumped off his horse, before taking the few provisions he had hastily prepared.
“Go! Find your way back to Rómenna! I'll have to go on alone if I'm not to raise too many questions.”
His heart was beating wildly, and his hands were getting clammy. It was time to be heroic, the hardest part was getting through that door. May the Valar be with me!
With fear in his stomach, Isildur walked up to the great gates of Armenelos. He tried not to look around so as not to appear even more suspicious than he really was. Fortunately, he'd brought his hood from the days when he still went into the capital from time to time. The guards weren't checking anyone... Perfect, Isildur just hoped they weren't checking anyone on sight and at random... He tried to copy the gestures of the inhabitants, between their hunched shoulders and also the fact of looking at the ground, in total silence. And he passed. He continued at the same pace, trying to find the old tavern where they used to refresh themselves. His plan would be all the more effective during the night, when stealth and means of infiltration were increased.
On the contrary, the capital's superb reputation had not waned. It had become much larger and more prosperous, with its various white towers and golden roofs. But the streets remained incredibly silent, as if the people were afraid to utter the slightest thought or say anything unseemly. People were held back by an invisible thread, as if bound, enslaved. Such an observation disgusted Isildur to the core. He couldn't look away, wanting to soak up this suffocating feeling to fight it even better from within, to become even more inclined to revolt. From the moment he entered, a dampness followed him with its gaze, oppressing him as if an evil power wanted to enter his being to control him and discover his darkest secrets. Sauron.
But he resisted this invading darkness, his goal was clear: Nimloth. He was still enthroned high up in the palace gardens. Flower petals fell again and again, like snow. The tree was dying, struggling to resist the omnipresent darkness. Several black stone temples had replaced those dedicated to the Valar and Oromë in particular. Stinking smoke radiated from the tower of Elros, which boded ill for the city's future. He had seen a huge temple in place of the citadel standing proud and menacing over all Armenelos just after Nimloth's downfall. The tree was burning on the great black altar with Sauron on his great black throne beside Ar-Pharazôn with an uneasy smile on his lips. This vision would not be long in coming. For the moment, Isildur could still see the silvery reflections of the Nimloth leaves. He'd arrived just in time, so much the better.
The tavern was not far from the palace, which he knew by heart, and Elendil had not failed to show them all the secret passages leading to it, knowing that they would need them one day. And that day was today. His footsteps led him to the tavern, which, despite being almost empty, he managed to order in without a hitch, and sat down in a deep alcove to wait for the night to break. No one counted him out, everyone was too busy in their corners like puppets, Sauron's puppets, may he never become one!
When the sky turned black, Isildur drank the rest of his beer before leaving the tavern for the palace less than five minutes away. The small staff entrance remained his best option, even if a stealthier approach to killing guards was necessary. He had not lowered his hood, passing for a mysterious passer-by. Guards surrounded the palace walls, making it impossible to reach any secret entrance. Stealth and infiltration were essential to the success of the mission. Armed with his dagger in his right hand, he crouched down to get as close as possible to the guards behind a low wall. He was anxious not to succeed; he'd never done a stealthy suicide mission like this before, but he hoped luck and the Valar would be with him!
Safe and undetectable from the soldiers, Isildur could observe their rotation and guard routing. After a good half-hour, he had memorized all their movement patterns, or so he hoped, but he couldn't afford to wait any longer. When a soldier's back was turned, he was able to leap to his feet and slit his throat from behind while placing his other hand over his mouth, making as little noise as possible. For a few seconds, he stood still, observing possible reactions, but nothing. He still had some time before the other soldier realized his comrade was missing. To continue on his way to the palace, he put on all the soldier's gear, even though it was small and he could barely fit into the armor's breastplate, and took his leather pouch. The advantage was still the helmet, to cover his face so as not to be more conspicuous.
Isildur ran almost to the rusty iron doorway. Fortunately for him, it was unlocked, and he was able to enter the tunnel. If all went well, the path would lead into the palace library directly opposite Nimloth. He breathed at last, but didn't allow himself to stop, for he knew he wasn't far from his goal. How much time did Nimloth have left? One fruit was enough to preserve the symbol of his people.
The crossing was somewhat long before he finally came to a bright spot. Crap. Someone was in the library! Let's hope it was Queen Tar-Míriel. The back door opened at the far end of the room in the half-light. Isildur tried to make as little noise as possible with his leather cuirass and metal helmet.
“Who's there?”
It was the voice of Míriel, his former mother-in-law - well, almost mother-in-law. The dark-haired man smiled at the thought. He was so happy to see her again, and in good shape despite all the gossip about her! The flames of the hearth and a candlestick danced on her brown skin. Her body was wrapped in a delicate but incredibly warm red satin blanket. Isildur approached Míriel in small steps.
“It's Isildur, son of Elendil,” he murmured.
-“What are you doing here? This is dangerous! I don't know how you managed to get in here!
She stood up to touch him, to be aware of every detail of his face so she could memorize it again, she smiled.
“ I'm here for Nimloth.”
“Hurry and join him in the courtyard before they cut him! Sauron has convinced them to cut him tonight, having noticed a strange presence in the city and urged Ar-Pharazôn to act quickly. I beg you, save our White Tree, save the symbol of our hope, save what's left of the Valar's blessing. For we are already lost. Be the hero you must be Isildur, son of Elendil, son of Amandil, may your ancestors be proud of you.”
She took his hands as if to give him her blessing and bid him farewell. Isildur had only to jump out of the window to reach the gardens. He landed in a grove of shrubs, only to note with dismay the gathering in the courtyard. A dozen soldiers from the king's personal guard stood all around the tree, with Ar-Pharazôn too close to the tree, as if talking to it. Isildur found it hard not to swear at him out loud and go headlong. He tried to analyze the situation to avoid an open fight with so many men while he remained alone. Stealth wasn't even an option in this case! He could already see a soldier's axe glinting in the moonlight. His blood was boiling, and he could no longer remain passive. Isildur drew his sword and leapt from his hiding place. Everyone was so surprised by this intrusion that they struggled to get organized.
“You will never extinguish the hope of the people of Númenor and the Faithful! The white tree will live! “
The dark-haired man had enough time to reach the White Tree and pick a fruit from the tree, a small, elongated, delicate fruit that held in the hand and emanated a soft white light. He quickly stuffed it into his leather bag and stood guard, ready to face the guards. They all pounced on him to touch him, or even kill him. Isildur was panicking, he had to flee and not try to fight them, so he scanned the entire garden in an attempt to find an escape route - an entrance, any entrance! He defended himself as best he could, parrying to push them back as far as possible to leave him an opening in the melee. He was quickly exhausted, unaccustomed to fighting with such urgency. Isildur dodged the soldiers' blows with chasing steps or rolls, enabling him to get ahead of them and escape from the melee.
The walls were too high to climb over. Already the palace warning bell was ringing. No time to look around, Isildur ran as fast as he could to reach any place safe, if that word meant anything here! Adrenalin coursed through his veins, driving him on and killing anyone in his path. Unfortunately for him, a guard, large, blocked his path to salvation.
“Well, little fella! It looks like you're going to have to fight me if you hope to regain your freedom!”
Isildur spat on the ground before putting himself on guard and preparing to face the difference in build. He had nothing but disadvantages, and was already exhausted from his run. But he held his ground in the various parries and ripostes against the soldier, all of which he missed. His adversary kept laughing at him and his ineptitude for combat. But Isildur had no intention of giving up! He was losing ground in his defensive position and could see no way out, when a cry echoed through the dark night.
Míriel!
What had happened to her? A diversion or real distress?
No time to find out, Elendil's son took advantage of the situation to strike the soldier over the head with his pommel, knocking him unconscious. Victorious, he continued on his way. Arrows rained down on his head, hoping to reach him. His run became disordered, in a broken line, as he tried to avoid the arrows. Alas, the first arrow lodged in the hollow of his knee, but he kept running despite the indescribable pain of his wound. Never stop, never stop. The underground wasn't far! But he was losing ground and the soldiers after him were catching up dangerously. A surge of energy came over him when he finally saw the iron door to the underground! He could only hope that it would lead him out of the city, soldier-free. But he knew he still had to fight for his life until he left the city for good.
A few meters before Isildur reached the entrance, another soldier stood in front of him and threw his spear to stop him, but he had no time to dodge it. The weapon lodged itself deep in his gut. The pain overcame him and he collapsed to the grass like a disjointed doll. Tears were already streaming down his grimy cheeks. He had failed in his task, soon he would be dead and all hope of saving the White Tree would be gone.
Forgive me Nimloth. Forgive me dear Valar. I have failed as guardian of hope.
As he closed his eyes, he felt himself being carried away from this hell. Isildur reopened his eyelids to hear the crash that would stay in his heart forever: Nimloth had just fallen, completely cut off. White flower petals and leaves fell on him, the Tears of the Valar. In addition to weeping, he cried out with all his heart at the terrible pain, as if his heart had been torn from him, his life. His severe stomach wound hurt less than this nightmarish spectacle.
“Isil, there's nothing more you can do for Nimloth! You saved him with the fruit you possess! Let's get out of here!”
Anárion.
It was the last face he saw on that night of total chaos. But his heart soothed at the thought that he had saved the symbol of his people, of hope, of light over darkness. He closed his eyes for several weeks between life and death.
Thanks to his courage that night, the symbol of Númenor, the reminder of the gift of the Valar and their blessing, of light still beating darkness, remained alive and well for centuries and centuries to come in his kingdom of Gondor. And where the arrival of King Elessar Telcontar promised a new Golden Age for Gondor and Arnor. The white tree once again triumphed bright and beautiful in the wondrous city of Minas Thirith, the ancient city of Minas Arnor. And so the legacy of Númenor lived on like hope.