Sylvan. by hennethgalad

Sylvan.

Thranduil looked up from his papers at the knock on the door. Celeborn, who was reading "Pride and Prejudice" on the chaise longue, did not stir, he was laughing silently and wriggling his toes in amusement. 
   "Enter." said Thranduil, and a guard put his head through the door.
   "Sire, riders approach in the colours of Maglor, even now they climb the hill path."
   "Thankyou. Set forth refreshments, and discover their purpose."
   "Sire." said the guard, and closed the door.

   Thranduil smiled at Celeborn, who only then looked up. "What news?"
   "Riders, from Maglor."
   "Is he still walking round and round that cold northern isle?"
   "Doubtless we shall soon know."

   The letter was in Maglor's own hand. They had been forced to write in Latin, their own tongue taken for the codes of spies. Elves had been lost, messengers tortured, at times to death...
    Thranduil skimmed through, looking for the cause of the rare missive. After the personal and polite beginning, he found it "They are digging up The Shire! There is one who seeks knowledge of the lost past, but those with him seek only gold and treasure. I have told them that there is no treasure to be found, but they think that I myself seek treasure! Oh Thranduil, it is unbearable that those valiant people, of whom I often sing, should be treated this way. Do we not mourn their passing even now? Will we not sing their praises until the stars of Varde Elbereth fade?
   Thranduil, and Celeborn, I urge you to journey now to England, where I reside, and aid my quest in ridding the Lost Shire of these rapacious orcs."

   Thranduil looked around at the high stone walls, hung with glittering tapestries, the tall windows all around the tower, open to the sweet summer air, and the great stone fireplace full of bright flowers, where the bear hounds sprawled and scratched. He would miss Caras Andreth, and the mighty Eryn Brŷg, where he himself had faced many bears. 
   It amused him that the country was called Transylvania by the mortals, it seemed apt for both himself and Celeborn... But the countryside reminded him of home, of the mountains of Rhovannion, the high valleys turned to oceans of roaring green in the errant wind. And like another layer of the sea, translucent and fine, the green smell filled the bowl of mountains around Eryn Brŷg, enriching their spirits as the Light of Melian had enriched Doriath long before. 

  "Celeborn, we must to England! Maglor calls for aid, the mortals are digging up The Shire, in their ignorance and folly."
   Celeborn rose swiftly "No! We must stop them!" he paused and pressed his lips together, suppressing a smile "Though I should like to see the damp northern island, after reading so much of it. Is it truly as green as you have said?"
   "Greener." said Thranduil with a laugh.

   The coaching inn was good, and they were able to hire horses for the last of the journey to the great house of mortals where Maglor posed as a mortal musician and endeavoured to put in some poor rhythm or wrong notes. On more than one occasion his inhuman skill had drawn the gaze of keen musicians, and their patrons...
   The house itself was of smooth, pale stone, with a pleasing symmetry. Their host, rich as a dwarf from mining, was Sir Jeremiah Sydney, with impressive white whiskers. Maglor hurried them upstairs to a small sitting room, crammed with folders of music and lined with instruments. 

   Maglor cleared a pile of music sheets from a couch and gestured to them to sit down. He poured brandy and slumped into a chair with a sigh of relief. "At last! I thought you would never get here!" He sat up suddenly "But I have devised a scheme... 
   There is a weakness in Sir Jeremiah, he gambles, and of course he is cheated by everyone in society dress. We might persuade him to sell the land, and plant trees to cover the graves of the lost hobbits. Then there is the scholar, I have promised to take him to places I know will interest him, lost cities and tombs of mortals. And you, I urge you to address those who seek treasure here, where there is none. Tell them of the gold in your land, let them dig there, or become lost in the mountains, or go whither they will, do they but leave this place!"

   His voice had risen almost to a shout, his face pale and his eyes burning. This was not the anger of one offended at the digging up of graves, this was the wrath that burned at the spirit, reaching the surface like the steam of hot springs. Thranduil drank his brandy and held out his glass, Maglor refilled all three, then sat back with another sigh. "Forgive my anger, I am as impatient as ever. But will you help me do this thing?"
   Celeborn laughed "We did not spend weeks in that dreadful coach, with weeks more to come in the journey back, to tell you no!"
   Thranduil nodded, "Your plan is good. Shall I send for saplings from Eryn Brŷg?"
   "Yes, do. And some bears! That would discourage treasure hunters!"
  Celeborn leaned back and looked up at the elaborate plaster on the ceiling "Do you think so? I fear it would rather draw those whose pleasure it is to kill, to hunt the bears."
   "Well, not bears then, but saplings, yes, fruit trees, nut trees, useful trees that the people would defend against intrusion, let us grow things, to honour those who loved things that grow. Almost as much as do we." he added in a changed tone, as though reaching a new perspective on the hobbits. 
   Thranduil smiled, remembering once more his first meeting with a hobbit, and the Arkenstone in his hand...