The soft thumping of the horses on the grassy path was the only sound to disturb the calm and quiet.  It seemed the trees stood at attention as he passed, animals secreted themselves in the wild, even the air he breathed held him in regard as his company journeyed northward along the river.  Only the gentle rustling of the lilies thriving among the reeds on the banks of the Anduin dared shift, unmindful to his passing. 

And it was as it should be. Middle Earth had never seen such great leadership among men, unless one counted his own father.  Was it not he, Isildur, who cut the powerful One Ring from Sauron's finger?  From the first moment he held it, still warmed from the hand of its master, he knew.  It was then, with his father lying motionless nearby, when he, Isildur, son of that great Elendil, made his mark with one swing of a broken blade.  It was he who was destined to guide these people upon the face of the world.  Now that all men lived only upon Middle Earth, far from the beauty of his own homeland of long ago, they needed a leader, one with the lineage of Númenór to give hope to men.  No other bloodline could manage this feat, and now with the Ring in his possession, no other could cause his failure. 

The scent of the lilies became thick and Isildur smiled to himself.  Only his own blessed White Tree had more glory and purity than these late blooms.   As King he had given the powers of leadership to his brother's son in Gondor to rule and keep the family line in the South.  The tree he had planted would watch over them there; a reminder of the guidance he had given to his nephew as he led the people in wisdom. 

But he, Isildur true King of Arnor and Gondor, was headed first to Imladris, and thence to the North, where he would rule as his father had before him and to build up a great future and kingdom unlike any other.  There was not room enough in his soul it seemed to contain the feeling of pride and gratitude for the chance he had laid before him; to lead his people, to guide his sons in wise leadership, to give his people peace. 

Another rustle among the flowers on the bank reminded him of a long ago time, when romance was born amongst the most terrible of circumstances and thrived.  Even as these soft plants of beauty would yet thrive, unkept and unguarded save by the wilds of nature, yet always to bloom and grow here.  How he longed to see her again. 

She was now yet several days ahead in this journey but it had been far too long a time to leave her alone; far too long a time to be without her.   Her sweet smile, a soft caress, her tender counsel and loving nature; these were what he most missed as duties called him elsewhere.  His beloved wife would greet him with a twinkle in her eye, not unlike the winks of sun reflected upon the river.  How joyful a reunion they would have, to be in that safe haven of Imladris, reunited as a family.  His oldest three sons would surely weave great tales for his youngest boy, little Val.  Pride wrinkled the corners of his eyes as he looked up, seeing his sons ahead and beside him in their party.  How had he been so blessed?  

The battle that claimed the life of his father had passed, only a bright future remained.   Defeated, the armies of the Dark Lord had all fled before his rule.  Even now he had no fear of trouble, nor did his kin or those who served him. 

Isildur touched his chest softly, to check once more.  It was still there.  The Ring he had taken from Sauron; already he found it too dear to trust to others, even his sons, though in his heart he knew it would pass to them in turn.  It was special, almost as precious as his family to him.  With it he could feel the desire of others around him, he could see how things should and would be.  The power it possessed was great and he was pleased it was his own noble line that would wield it for good and wisdom.  For any other would not do it justice. 

The quiet was broken by a sudden shout from behind, wrenching him out of his reverie.  Turning quickly he caught sight of only blood and movement; his ears ringing with the screams of his rear guard falling to a band of Orcs.  Sudden panic and a wave of confusion swept over the group along with dozens of Orcs from all sides.  Scraping steel and clashing blades raked through the former calm and blood spilled all about him.  How had he not heard them? How had he not seen the evidence of their stealth?  Where had they come from? Why now?

His mind reeled with questions and chaos reigned in the moments that followed, but only one thought came with any clarity and burned with purpose.  The Ring; he must keep it safe; it must not fall to these foul creatures.   Blinded by a burning resolve, all fighting around him seemed to fade, his sons and men forgotten as the ring slipped upon his finger and he vanished from all eyes. 

Along the banks of the Anduin he ran.  The reeds parted to his unseen hands, the flowers trampled as sniffing Orcs set a pursuit of the unseen King.  "They cannot see you," he heard a voice whisper in his mind, "but they can smell you."  Quickly his thoughts turned to the river.  Only in the water would he be free of them.  Within moments, Isildur splashed in the shallows and moved toward the deep of the center and glanced behind him.  Orcs had paused to listen and sniff along the bank, they could not see him, and they would lose his scent.  He would live to keep the Ring protected from all evil. 

The current began to pull him away from the enemy and Isildur smiled to himself in triumph.  Though lives may be lost, he would remain.  But the soft voice in his head, so reassuring and proud before, suddenly seemed to laugh. The colors of the sky brightened, the rocks on the riverbed scraped at his boots, and the whistle of arrows screamed as loudly as their aim was true. 

He could not breathe; was it fire or ice that sliced through his chest? He was sinking under the water and he choked as he watched the glint of gold slip slowly down into the darkness below.  They had seen him, the Ring was gone.  His hands trembled as he felt at his chest.  Where the Ring had lain only minutes before, arrows now protruded, he would die quickly. 

The Ring, had it laughed, had it tricked him? With all his might he turned to float on his back, gasping for air as a dark pool of crimson surrounded him in the water.  Another arrow pierced his side and his arms refused to work, it was cold, so very cold.  The Ring had betrayed him, and only the lilies along the banks would notice his passing. 

He could bear one more breath and he would fade from this life; never again to embrace his love, far off in an Elven haven.  Would she know of his death, could she still feel his love for her?  As darkness crept over him the answer came in the last scent of a flower, his beloved Lily would know.   And her namesake would remain, guarding the banks for an age until the Ring would be found once more.