In the Bitter Rain by Zdenka

Chapter 1

The Entmoot went on for three days. It was a hasty conclave, but they knew there was not time to wait for the slow growth and unfolding of events. An army of Elves and Men was coming southward down the Anduin—so said the voice of the river-currents—but Sauron’s armies were moving north towards them from Mordor, and would reach them first.

For perhaps the last time, the Entwives made speeches in their own language, musical and rich in words, debating back and forth in a long slow murmuring and humming. At the end, they were not fully in accord; how could they be, when all choices were evil?

To flee, to save themselves, but to leave their beloved trees and gardens behind, abandoning them to the Orcs’ fire and axes; knowing that if the chances of battle and Sauron’s cruelty spared their fields, a brief time would undo the work of centuries: deer and rabbits would nibble on their berry-bushes, the wilderness would grow back around their orchards until everything was all one tangle, and their neglected trees would suffer from insects and fire, hunger and disease, like the wild trees that no Entwives tended. Or to stay and fight, setting the strength of their hands against biting steel, to hold back the might of Mordor as long as they could. In the end, this was their decision: a small group of the younger Entwives would flee in secret, taking with them what seeds and cuttings they could carry. The rest would stay, to fight for the lands they loved and the trees that trusted them.

As they left the Entmoot, Riwelyth fell into place beside Lumúrin. Lumúrin reached to take her hand, gripping it with her strong knobbed fingers, and Riwelyth found it a comfort. Ever since they were young Entmaidens, she had loved Lumúrin’s sturdy strength and clear laughter, her smooth brown skin and the deep wells of her eyes, better than all the Ents in the forest. When Lumúrin approached her to say, “We are going East to make a garden in the lands across the Great River. Will you come?” she had said yes almost before Lumúrin finished asking the question, earning laughter for her hastiness. In these rich vales watered by the Anduin, they patiently nurtured garden and orchard through long years, seeing their trees grow from seed to sapling and from flower to fruit. Here they had dwelt together in love, rejoicing in the beauty of their orchards and sharing their bounty with all around them. If it was now to end, it was good that Lumúrin was with her.

Together, they went through orchards and gardens and the sloping lawns by the river, revisiting every place they most loved. They opened jars of sweet Entdraught, that tasted like sunlight and fruit ripening through long summers, and poured it for each other to drink. One last time, they set their feet in good earth and rested side by side. And when the warning call sounded from the south, they were ready.

Side by side, Riwelyth and Lumúrin walked with long swift strides to the southern edge of the Ent-gardens and took their places. By ones and twos, the Entwives came, until the green field where they stood resembled a moving grove.

Fimbrethil, the eldest and strongest, was there to lead them. She stood a little in front of the others, silent and patient. Riwelyth could tell that she was listening for the messages of earth and air and water. Riwelyth tried to listen herself, but the air was dull and heavy. Even the voice of the Great River was choked and muffled.

Fimbrethil moved her head slowly from side to side, her deep eyes troubled. “There is something in the wind that I don’t like,” she murmured. “Does the wind blow from the south at this season? Hoom! Let them come, these hackers-of-trees-and-burners-of-fields. We are here to meet them.” Another warning call came from the Entwives stationed as lookouts, and the dark lines of the marching Orcs came in sight.

Riwelyth expected the Orcs to be armed with swords and axes, sharp-edged for the marring of wood and flesh. Instead, they held lit torches, as if for some strange festival. Another line of Orcs stepped forward, armed with bows and arrows. They dipped their arrows in the fire, and at once the arrows blazed up; they had been treated with something that smelled acrid in the burning. At a harsh shouted command, they released their arrows all together. The arrows hissed in their flight, falling like a bitter rain. There seemed to be no end to them. Riwelyth braced herself for the impact, but the arrows were falling short of the Entwives, in the green field between the battle lines. And everywhere they fell, the grass blossomed with flame.

The wind was blowing towards them, stirring the flames higher. A gust of wind blew past Riwelyth’s face, smelling of smoke and something darker; like wood-rot and decay. A sound of dismay moved through their line, like leaves rustling together. Then Fimbrethil stepped forward and gave a high, fierce call. The line steadied.

All around them, the war-song of the Entwives arose, many voices together like a consort of trumpets, with a steady resonant beat like drums beneath. Riwelyth reached for Lumúrin again; their hands clasped and parted. And then they were surging forward, through the flames, over the rich earth they had tended. The Orcs dropped their bows and drew their swords. Riwelyth could see they were dismayed by the speed of the Entwives’ charge; those in the first few ranks recoiled and tried to retreat. But there were many more ranks behind them, and those held firm. Riwelyth began to sing again; Lumúrin’s voice joined her in harmony, strengthened by the Entwives on either side. The Last March of the Entwives, Riwelyth thought, one last flowering of glory . . . And then there was no more time for thought.

Chapter End Notes

I hesitated over whether to call these characters Entwives when they’re not all married to (male) Ents, but “wife” originally just meant a woman, so I thought that Entwife could be the word for any adult female Ent. (And Tolkien seems to use it that way; he wrote of the Ents, “The males were devoted to Oromë, but the Wives to Yavanna.” (Letter 247))

Concerning the fate of the Entwives, Tolkien wrote: “I think that in fact the Entwives had disappeared for good, being destroyed with their gardens in the War of the Last Alliance (Second Age 3429-3441) when Sauron pursued a scorched earth policy and burned their land against the advance of the Allies down the Anduin . . .” (Letter 144) But he also suggests in the same letter that some of them may have survived, and I prefer to think so.