I don’t own the Lord of the Rings or any of Tolkien’s works.

The Plateau of Gorgoroth was not, by any means, a pleasant place to be. The darkness there was eternal, and it was dry, oh so very dry. The very air seemed to suck the moisture from a man’s body.
And there was dust. There was always dust, swirling in twisting little devils of air incessantly. It was everywhere, in the tents, in the clothing and even in the food and drink. No, Gorgoroth was a place that any man that kept some semblance of wit would avoid at any cost.
Yet, Anárion was there, and he deemed that he kept a great deal of wit about him. He had to have, to survive in these desolate, orc-infested plains for six years. He wiped a hand across his brow as he looked up at the looming pinnacle of the Barad-dûr, the fortress of the Dark One, Sauron the Deceiver.
The grand view of its black turrets and crested summit filled Anárion’s heart with doubt. The Barad-dûr looked unassailable, and it had proved to be such in the past six years of toilsome siege, in which the only thing gained was more corpses. How, with the weariness of six years upon their hearts and bodies, could the leaders of the Last Alliance possibly hope to overcome the awesome might of Mordor?
As if he could read Anárion’s thoughts, Isildur came up and stood beside him, sweat pouring down his unshaven face. He gazed with him at the dark tower looming far above their heads.
“I grow weary of these plains,” said Anárion softly, “And I grow wearier still of this hopeless siege. Ever our numbers decrease while His are replenished by new creatures, foul and terrible. We might do well to quit the field of battle, for against His power I can foresee no victory. No victory for the Free Peoples while He still wields His Ring.”
Isildur considered these words silently, mulling them over in his mind. After a moment he looked down upon his brother’s pinched face,
“He is not invincible. Do not forget that he is but the servant of a greater evil, and the valor of elves and men brought that evil low an age past. His fortress may be stalwart, but Angband and Thangorodrim were mightier. His servants may be fell, but his master’s were greater.” He clapped a hand on Anárion’s armor-clad shoulder and spun him so that their faces were mere inches apart,
“And forget not brother that the blood of the Edain runs in our veins, and we have dwelt in Nùmenor, fairest of the lands beyond Valinor. Forget not that we too are a fell people, far more dangerous than any orc or thrall. We are of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur, who was born of Eärendil and Elwing. We will vanquish Sauron, as our fathers of old vanquished the Nameless One to the void. We will not fail.”
Anárion looked up into his brother’s face, and for a moment each stared into the other’s eyes. In Anárion, Isildur saw a heavy shadow of fear and doubt, and this frightened him greatly. He would not have his brother lose faith, and be broken in mind. He nodded his head down so their foreheads met.
They stood like this for several moments, and then Isildur threw an arm around his brother’s shoulders and smiled.
“Come,” he said, “You have stood within view of this foul tower too long. You are weary, and need rest. Let us take what refreshment as possible and go rest before the council.”
“Council?”
Isildur smiled genuinely this time, “You must be more weary than I had guessed brother! Our Father and Gil-galad have called a council of the captains, I thought you had heard.”
Anárion laughed, “Alas!”
Isildur laughed as well, “Yes, alas that your memory seems to wane brother!”
Anárion grinned impishly, “Nay! Alas that you reminded me; I was hoping to escape this time!” He then grew serious once more, “What is it this time? Another plan to attack the Barad-dûr I guess.”
Isildur nodded, “You guess correctly brother. Elrond Peredhil believes that he has located the weak link in Sauron’s chain.” He looked about him, as if to see if anyone was about, “I will speak no more of it here. Sauron has watchers all about, and some have sharper ears than others.”
Anárion nodded in agreement, and as one they turned their back upon the dark tower, walking towards the dust caked group of tents, where banners of famed houses flapped in the hot wind that blew up from Orodruin.

The pair stumbled over the loose stones and dust drifts that made up the floor of this desolate land. Even the small physical exertion dried Anárion’s mouth and left a bitter tang on his tongue as he breathed heavily in the sweltering heat. He tugged at the metal collar of his silver chest plate in an effort to let out some of the heat, but to no avail. He was sweating profusely as he came up to the two men on guard, who looked as uncomfortable as he in their chain-mail, but neither dared to cast off their armor while within sight of the Barad-dûr. They snapped to attention as their lords passed, spears held straight as great fir trees, shields held close to their chests. Their winged helms glinted dully in what small light there was.
He nodded to them, and passed through into the sprawling camp. After some minutes of walking through its ordered pathways, he came to a great tent that he and Isildur shared. Pushing aside its flap, he went through.
Anárion cast off his mail-plate and helm, and unbuckled his sword belt. Clad now in a loose-fitting tunic and pants of black, he turned to his cot and rummaged through a chest of small treasures he still kept.
Isildur removed his helm, but left his mail-plate on. He laid down on his cot and closed his eyes, dreaming of fair Minas Ithil as it had been before Sauron’s return. He often dwelt on the past these days. He thought of his home in Nùmenor, the hills and fields through which he roamed, the steel-gray sea that he loved so much. His thought then turned to fair Ithilien, his city Minas Ithil, his dwelling in Annúminas beside the shores of Lake Neunial, the greatness of the towers of Amon Sûl and Orthnac, the White Tree in its court in Minas Anor.
The White Tree. At times it pained him to look at, remembering the steep price he had paid for the delivery of that sapling. He pressed his eyelids more tightly shut. He could still hear the screams of the guards, could still feel the cold bite of their swords, could still see the rage in their eyes.
He turned on his side. Clear in his memory was his flight from Nùmenor; the raging seas that had tossed him about like a leaf in the wind and the blinding fear that Ulmo would drown them as punishment for the deeds of their fellows. He remembered also the look of hopelessness and sadness upon his father’s face as he stood on his flagship and watched as Amandil’s ship dwindled into the west. That was worst in Isildur’s mind, to see his father in despair.
He was pulled from his reverie by Anárion’s hand upon his shoulder. He turned to his brother, who knelt by the side of the cot. He offered a leather flagon to Isildur, who took it gratefully. He swallowed a long draught from it; it was a sweet elven wine, and it brought life back to Isildur’s tired limbs. He passed the flagon back to Anárion, and wiped his mouth clear of stray dribbles of wine. He smiled as Anárion took a long swig from it.
“Where did you get this?” Isildur asked.
Anárion shrugged, “I have found that it is always best to keep a few hidden dainties in one’s gear.” He passed the bottle back to Isildur and smiled, “This is one of them.”
Isildur smiled and took another draught from the flagon. He sat up and clapped Anárion on the shoulder.
“You had better get some rest before we go to the council.” Isildur said as Anárion stood, “I think that there will be much debate, and you will need all your wits about you.”
Anárion nodded and walked over to his cot. Without covering up, he fell onto the cot and into a deep sleep. Isildur smiled down on him, thinking of when Anárion was a small child, and how he had come to watch their father sing him to sleep. He leaned over to his small stack of possession and pulled out a small harp.
He played it softly as he sang in his deep baritone voice, made scratchy by the dryness of his throat. Not even elven wine could completely nullify the affects of Mordor’s dry air.
He found himself singing from the Lay of Leithian, from the point where his forefather Beren had stumbled upon Lúthien dancing amidst the trees of Doriath.
“A night there was when winter died;
then all alone she sang and cried
and danced until the dawn of spring,
and chanted some wild magic thing
that stirred him, till it sudden broke
the bonds that held him, and he woke
to madness sweet and brave despair.
He flung his arms to the night air,
and out he danced unheeding, fleet,
enchanted, with enchanted feet.
He sped towards the hillock green,
The lissom limbs, the dancing sheen;
he leapt upon the grassy hill
his arms with loveliness to fill:
his arms were empty, and she fled;
away, away her white feet sped.
But as she went he swiftly came
and called her with the tender name
of nightingales in elvish tongue,
that all the woods now sudden rung:
‘Tinúviel! Tinúviel!’
And clear his voice was as a bell;
its echoes wove a binding spell:
‘Tinúviel! Tinúviel!’
His voice such love and longing filled
one moment stood she, fear was stilled;
one moment only; like a flame
he leaped towards her as she stayed,
and caught and kissed that elven maid.

As love there woke in sweet surprise
the starlight trembled in her eyes.
A! Lúthien! A! Lúthien!
more fair than any child of Men;
O! Loveliest maid of Elfinesse ,
what madness does thee now possess!
A! lissom limbs and shadowy hair
and chaplet of white snowdrops there;
O! starry diadem and white
pale hands beneath the pale moonlight!
She left his arms and slipped away
just at the breaking of the day.”

Isildur trailed off into silence, still plucking at the small harp. Anárion smiled in his sleep; his thoughts bringing him back to Nùmenor when he was a boy. Isildur gazed in wonder upon him, for not since the Minas Ithil had fallen had he seen his brother sleep as serenely as he did now.
He set the harp aside and laid himself down upon the narrow cot. Gazing up at the ceiling he quickly fell asleep from weariness. Anárion sat up suddenly, and he pondered the song, thinking of the great deeds wrought by Beren and Lúthien, against a greater enemy than the one he faced now. Perhaps he would have a part in bringing down Sauron, or perhaps, like many in the Lay of Leithian, he would fall, and ne’er again walk the face of this Middle-earth. Still pondering this, he lay down and drifted into sleep.

Anárion was roused from his slumber barely an hour later by a Nùmenorian warrior, dressed in full battle array. He rolled off his cot, stretched, and began to dress himself in his armor. The soldier gently shook Isildur, who groggily sat up, and he blinked like an owl in broad daylight.
“What is the hour?” he asked in a voice laden with sleep.
“It is near high noon,” the soldier replied, “And your father awaits your presence at the council of the captains.”
With that, the soldier ducked outside the tent flap, leaving the brothers alone in their tent. Isildur yawned, took his helm from where he had left it upon the floor and put it on. Anárion finished with his armor, and he buckled his sword-belt back around his waist. His helm he tucked under his arm. The two strode out into the hot air of Gorgoroth.
Another windstorm had blown up, and the banners flapped wildly in the near-gale. It would have been welcome as a relief from the heat, but the wind itself blew up from Orodruin, and it was every bit as hot as the air. And it brought with it new dust-devils of foul earth and ash. Anárion could taste the bitterness of Mordor’s earth even when breathing through his nose; the taste seemed to permeate everything.
They kept their heads bent against the heavy winds as they walked through the ordered streets. Everywhere they went, men bowed to them, sons of the King. It always made Anárion uncomfortable to be bowed to on the field of battle. He did not understand why, as he was perfectly fine with the custom when he sat upon his throne in Minas Anor. He shook the matter from his mind; it was best to focus on the subject at hand.
With a final turn, they came to the largest tent that housed the elven king Gil-galad. At the entrance stood two of the Noldor, golden armor caked with dust and grime. Planted to either side of the flap were the banners of Gil-galad, un-changed since his father Fingon bore them to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad an age before.
The elves bowed as they passed through, into a crowded tent with many maps and weapons scattered about. In the center, there was a long table and at one end sat Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, and at the other sat their father, Elendil the Tall, High King of the Realms in Exile. Anárion and Isildur bowed low, first to Gil-galad, then to their father.
Gil-galad nodded in return and gestured that they should take seats. The two sat on either side of the table, both next to their father and across from each other. On either side of Gil-galad sat Elrond Peredhil and Círdan the Shipwright. Also in attendance were Thranduil of Greenwood, Glorfindel of Imladris, several Nùmenorian captains, several elven captains, and one grizzled dwarf called Nalí Bloodtooth, who commanded the few dwarves that had come to the aid of the Last Alliance from their halls in Khazad-dûm.
When all was quiet, Elrond Peredhil stood from his seat at the Elven King’s left hand. In his hand, he held a large rolled up scroll of paper. He unfurled the scroll onto the table in such a way that all, including Elendil, could see the scale drawing of the Barad-dûr. He pointed to a shallow gully on the northern edge of the map,
“This gully, which was recently discovered by our scouts,” he said, “comes directly up to the north face of the Barad-dûr, and it offers sufficient cover to move a large force to the rear-gate of the tower.” He paused, “Provided that there are no watchers upon the upper levels.”
As usual, Elrond wasted no words. The others were silent for a moment as they mulled over this new information and what it meant to the strategy. After a moment, Isildur spoke,
“And if there are watchers upon the upper levels, the plan is folly. Our force will be set upon and there will be a battle that neither side will win,” he looked pointedly at Elrond, “We cannot afford to have another failed assault. This next one must be the end of the Dark One and His tower, or it must not come at all.”
“We have sat idle long enough,” said Glorfindel, “The enemy regains his strength, while ours merely decreases. We must strike hard, and strike soon.”
“And if we fail in this attack, what then?” asked Círdan, “His forces may serve to weaken ours so severely that he may break our leaguer and ravage our lands at our back.”
“I tell you that the key to this attack is the gully!” Elrond said.
“You cannot guarantee that there will be no watchers!” shouted Isildur, “It would be folly to assume that the Dark One knows not of this gully! These are his lands, and he has long scouted them out.”
Thranduil stood, “If we wait but a few weeks, new strength is arriving from Greenwood, and from Lothlórien. We may then have enough to destroy Sauron’s tower utterly.”
All flinched at the mention of His name. Elendil stood,
“Nay, Glorfindel speaks truly. We must strike hard, and strike quickly. Our scouts report that Sauron is building up His forces, they are coming daily up from the lands beyond Mordor, where the Black Nùmenorians take hold over the swarthy men. I have seen in the palantír His plans, He will attack soon. We must attack first.”
The High King of the Realms in Exile slammed his fist down on the table, “If we move quickly we may yet have time to counter His actions.”
“But Father, to counter Him, we must rely upon this unreliable plan of attack that Lord Peredhil has laid before us,” Isildur said hotly.
“And even if this did work,” called an elven captain from down the table, “It would not be the final victory. He takes refuge in Orodruin, trusting his servants the Nazgûl to hold the Barad-dûr.”
“It is our best course of action,” said Elrond, “And the only one that has yet presented itself. We must risk discovery, in hopes that we might defeat the mightier of his two fortresses.”
A Nùmenorian captain down the table called out, “Can we be assured that if he discovers us, he will not pour his strength out the front gates, and come sweeping down upon the sick and injured in this camp, and then go on to pillage Gondor and the lands behind?”
“Do not believe I have not prepared for such an opportunity,” said Anárion sternly, speaking for the first time, “I did not leave all my fortresses unguarded when I marched to the pass of Cirith Gorgor.”
The other nodded and backed down. Elrond cleared his throat,
“Unless any man or elf should come up with a better plan, my choice lies with the plan I have fashioned.”
“Perhaps we should have a small force go down it, to test the water, so to speak,” suggested Nalí Bloodtooth.
Isildur shook his head with disdain, “Nay, if He is not already aware of this avenue of attack, a feint will merely alert Him to our plans.”
“Our plans?” Elrond said incredulously, “You mean to say that you are accepting the plan?”
“Nay, I did not say that,” replied Isildur, “And I will not go along with it, unless the vote of the whole council is against me.” He sat down.
Nalí snorted, “I say that Lord Peredhil’s plan suits our needs best. The vote of the dwarves is with him.”
“Such small comfort as it is,” muttered Thranduil under his breath.
Nalí rose from his seat and raised his axe high above his head with one hand, and the other he pointed at Thranduil, “Master elf, I did not come to war to cleave elf-necks, but I swear this, if you should so blatantly insult my people again, my axe will cleave one!”
“Is that so dwarf?” shouted Thranduil, “I might have been frightened if your axe could reach so high as to cleave my neck. I think that if you can draw near enough, you will have to settle for my legs!”
“Baruk Khazad!” screamed Nalí, jumping at Thranduil, who swiftly drew his long knife.
Anárion leapt to restrain Nalí, while Glorfindel wrenched the knife from Thranduil’s fingers. The two struggled, but their larger captors kept a hold on them.
“And so we see our enemy’s greatest asset: His power to sow hatred within the ranks of our people. Nalí, Thranduil, stay this madness!”
All heads jerked about to gaze at Gil-galad, who had spoken. Nalí and Thranduil ceased to struggle, such was the power of the King’s voice. Gil-galad stood, and pushed the dark hair from his eyes.
“While this debate has raged, I have considered our courses of action. While Lord Peredhil’s suggestion,” he gestured towards Elrond, who bowed, “Has merit, the points of Isildur cannot be ignored. Sauron’s watchers may very well espy our armies and endeavor to break our leaguer about his fortresses. However, this is one of the many risks that must be taken in war, and I say that we should try this thing.”
With that, the High King of the Noldor sat back upon his chair. There was silence amongst the members of the council. After a moment, Isildur spoke,
“Alas! you do me grievous hurt, my Lord, but I shall hold to my oath to vote against this plan until the entire vote of the council is against me. I say nay!”
And Isildur returned to his seat. The rest were silent, mulling the prospect over in their minds. Anárion, after a few minutes of thinking, spoke thusly:
“If there was some way to distract the Dark One’s watchers, I would suggest that we do such.”
Glorfindel nodded at this new council, “A small, well-armed force of our mightiest warriors may be able to distract the enemy at the front gates, while the rest of our army moves in to attack the back.”
Gil-galad smiled at Anárion and nodded, “This is a good plan, and I believe it will break the Barad-dûr. My vote lies with Glorfindel and Anárion’s plan.”
“A vote then,” said Elrond, “My vote lies with Glorfindel and Anárion also.”
Elendil nodded, “Who am I to refuse my own son’s plan? My vote lies with them as well.”
Nalí Bloodtooth shouted quickly, “And the axes of the Dwarves are with the Elf Lord and Nùmenorian Prince!”
Thranduil frowned at the dwarf, who had shouted just as Thranduil opened his mouth to speak. He said through clenched teeth, “I vote with Glorfindel and Anárion.”
Círdan the Shipwright frowned. He was a peaceful elf, and his current attitude gave no credit to the great deeds he had done in ages past in the defense of Brithombar and Eglarest upon the shores of the sea. After a long moment, he nodded, “I believe that this is the best course of action, and I will not hinder it.”
The Captains of Nùmenor stood as one and cast their vote with their king. The Elven Captains did the same. At last only Isildur had not voted. He stood slowly, as though it pained him. He looked gravely at Anárion.
“We Men of Nùmenor are men of our word. I said I would not vote for this unless the whole of the council was against me. And it is. I vote with my brother and Glorfindel, though my heart warns against it.” Isildur returned to his seat and rubbed his nose-bone between fore-finger and thumb.
Gil-galad smiled grimly, “Then I declare this council finished. Elendil and I will put together the plan of battle, and who will go with the diverting party.”
“I will go,” said Glorfindel quickly, “Only he who is faithless will not carry through on his own plan.”
“Then I will go as well,” said Anárion, “As will the men of my household.”
“The axes of the Dwarves go with you as well!” said Nalí Bloodtooth hefting his axe above his head.”
“More comrades will we choose later,” said Elendil, “Go now and take what rest you can.”
As one, all those who were seated rose and bowed to first Gil-galad and then Elendil. They filed out slowly, and Anárion, last to leave, was held by his father.
“My son,” he started slowly, “You are a man now, and a noble one at that. Are you committed to this? I would not have my son risk his life needlessly.”
Anárion nodded slowly, “I would not have it otherwise father. I go for not only our people, but for all the peoples of the west, so that good may still flourish outside the Blessed Realm.”
Elendil brought his forehead to that of his son’s and for a long moment they stood there, silent. At last Elendil released him,
“Go with my blessing Anárion. May Ulmo protect you.”
“Thank you father,” Anárion said solemnly, and walked from the tent.

Once outside the tent, Anárion was waylaid by his brother. He stepped from behind a tent, and pulled his brother back into the alley. Isildur gripped him by the shoulders and said,
“Anárion, I fear for you. I fear that the Dark One will see through this deception, and you will be slain with Glorfindel and the Men of your House. And it will all be in vain as well.”
“Do not think that your concern is unappreciated, brother, but I must do this. My honor demands it.”
“To Udûn with your honor! I would have you live through this war, so that we may dwell again on opposite sides of the River Anduin, and ride to each other’s cities ever and anon once more! Do not go! I beg it of you, as a boon for me.”
Anárion shook his head and cast his brother’s hands from his shoulders, “I would go, even if honor did not dictate it.” He looked meaningfully into his brother’s eyes, “For too long I have sat idle, for too long I have watched brave men fall and have been unable to do anything, for too long I have raged against the nameless menace the haunts us. I will not be idle any longer!”
Isildur lowered his head, “Then I fear that you shall never see Minas Anor again my brother.” He rested his forehead against Anárion’s for a few long moments. He wrapped his arms around Anárion in a loving embrace, and Anárion returned it.
When they separated, Isildur wiped tears from his eyes, “Farewell brother, and may the grace of the Valar protect you.” And with that, Isildur turned and left, leaving his brother standing in the growing darkness.