Rocks scrabbled on the slopes above and they whirled to face the shifting clouds of smoke, blood-drenched swords at the ready. A figure appeared, trudging slowly with downcast head and weary step. Just behind came two tall Elves, their bright eyes gone dim with a great sadness. Ohtar recognized his master, whom he had lost sight of when Sauron's Shadow fell upon them, and for whom he had been searching among the living and the dead.
Ohtar hurried forward to meet them and Isildur cast such a look upon him as he would never forget. There was a grief in his eyes to stifle the soul, but a strange light also glowed there, of grim determination, Ohtar thought at the time. It seemed to him that Isildur had never looked more royal, nor more alone. His voice rang out clear and strong across the plain, so that many thousands heard his first words.
"Sauron is overthrown. He is no more."
Though this had been their goal for so many long and weary years, there was no rejoicing at the news. They were too dazed and battle-weary to fully appreciate the import of his words. Then too, there was neither triumph nor joy in the face of he who spoke them. They knew that he bore ill news as well, and they waited in silence for his next words.
"He was slain by Gil-galad of Lindon, King of the Noldor, who will be seen no more this side of the Sundering Sea. With him perished Elendil, High King of the Realms in Exile."
For long moments no one moved or spoke. Then a man dropped to his knees in the dust, and others followed. One by one they all did the same. The mighty army that all of Sauron's hordes had been unable to bow, now knelt in wordless awe. Cirdan and Elrond too bowed under their emotion. Then, last of all, Isildur too bent his knee and his neck. And in all that vast and bloody field, every living person knelt in homage, in gratitude, and in mourning. Knights and squires, hostlers and healers, Elves and Men and Dwarves; all knew that they had both gained and lost much that day and that the world would be changed forever.
Isildur's first deeds as High King were no joyous ceremonies of coronation. The first task was to tend to the many thousands of warriors who lay wounded, many of them grievously. The healers and leeches worked feverishly and even Isildur, whose royal hands could heal many wounds, labored day and night in the hospital tents. But in spite of their efforts, many survived the battle only to succumb to their wounds in the days that followed. The fetid fumes and filthy conditions took their toll, and many died of wounds that had at first seemed minor.
At the same time, others were gathering up the fallen. Men and Elves and Dwarves were laid upon the huge pyres, shoulder-to-shoulder as they had fought. The remains of Gil-galad and Elendil were brought down from the mountain and many wept for them, the greatest kings of Middle-earth. It was not their custom to burn kings, but the twisted basalts of Gorgoroth denied them a howe, and they were laid on the biers alongside their subjects. Many a fair Elf and brave Man burned those terrible first days, far from their homes and families. The smokes of their burning shrouded the sun and even Orodruin seemed dimmed. Indeed the eruptions ceased after the battle and the almost constant trembling of the ground subsided.
The day after the battle a contingent of Elves under Gildor made their sad farewells and rode back to Minas Ithil to bear word of the battle to Galadriel and Celeborn. The Dwarf Flár led the few survivors of his band back to Khazad-dûm. Isildur yearned to return to his city and his people, but there was yet so much to be done in Mordor. The surviving prisoners had been gathered into a huge enclosure at the upper end of the valley. Thousands had fled in fear when the battle turned against them, and now they were being chased down and rooted out of their holes by the scouting parties that were scouring all the plains. The prisoners were put to work dragging off the bodies of their dead, though they showed more interest in robbing the corpses than showing them any care or respect. They built an immense bonfire as near as Isildur would permit and made a great show of bearing off their fallen comrades, but many of their honored dead ended up dumped in ditches and fissures on the way.
On the second day after the battle, messengers arrived from Minas Ithil. They reported that at dawn on the prior morning the Ring-wraiths had made a sudden concerted attack from the Citadel. As she had feared, Galadriel and Nenya were unable to withstand their Shadow and the Elves fell back before them. But the Ring-wraiths had no interest in fighting, save to reach the gates of the city. They and their few remaining subjects raced through the gate and fled into the wild high country south of the city. Searches had been mounted, but no trace had yet been found. Isildur cursed the delay that had kept him from returning to help the Galadrim, but he could see nothing that could be done now.
At last the field was cleared and the long trains of wagons bearing the wounded creaked slowly away toward the Morannon and home. But Isildur led the rest of the army not home, but east, back to the Barad-dûr. With Orodruin quiet at last and the reeks of the burnings dissipated, the noisome air of Mordor was gradually clearing. When the army marched again into their old despised camp, they found the sun shining brightly for the first time on Sauron's vast fortress.
The jet black stone gave back no glints, returning nothing for all the sun's glare. But the Tower liked not the light, for from its yawning gates a stream of fleeing orcs boiled like black blood. They were the former servants of Sauron but they served him ill now, for they bore with them all they could carry of his treasures and stores. They sent up a great wail at the return of the allies. Many dropped their burdens and dashed wildly away to the south or east. But Isildur was swift and resolute. He sent companies of the fastest riders sweeping around them and cut them off, trapping them between the unscalable walls of the Ered Lithui and the bottomless abyss that surrounded the Tower. They were gathered together and driven shrieking and cowering to where Isildur sat upon a hill, grim and stern. There they were joined by the prisoners they had brought from Orodruin and they all trembled as they waited to learn their fate.
They eyed the ring of bright lances hemming them in and the sheer chasm at their backs and looked upon Isildur in terror and despair. He glared cold-eyed over the host there assembled, and they quailed at his majesty.
"I am Isildur Elendilson," he cried, his voice booming out across the plain. The orcs' frightened jabbering ceased.
"By the strangest of dooms I am become lord of this land, and of yonder Tower, and of all of you. I do not mean to slay you as you deserve, but it is my will that you who served the Tower and its master should now serve to destroy it. Long ago I swore that the Barad-dûr should be pulled down stone by stone and thrown into the abyss. When all sign that it ever existed is erased from the land, then you too may go. This is the penance that I lay upon you. So it shall be done. Go now and begin, for you have much labor before you."
Jostling and muttering, the orcs were driven back across the bridge and their former fortress became their prison. The walls were now lined with hard-eyed archers, their longbows and crossbows always at the ready. Under their direction, the orcs mounted to the highest pinnacles of the Tower. There, with bars and picks and much hard labor, they broke the mortar and tipped the immense blocks over the edge. The stones plummeted down, glancing off walls and smashing parapets, until they disappeared into the chasm. It was slow and backbreaking work, but the orcs kept at it, driven by their new masters and by the knowledge that their long servitude would be ended when the task was done.