Willow-Meads by Anérea, Narya

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Willow-Meads

F.A. 310
Nan-tathren

 

The butterfly was a small, fragile thing with wings like blue glass, and spots on its body like dabs of new snow.

“They came into the world here,” Finrod said, and then shrugged and smiled. “Or so Fangorn tells me.”

Maglor flexed his hand gently and let the butterfly take off. "Have you spoken with the tree-shepherds of late?"

"No." Finrod shook his hair back. "Galadriel and I met them here, once or twice, but they've wandered on now. They have all of the great forests to tend, and not just this place. Like us, they keep must keep watch over all of their lands."

"And yet this place doesn't feel empty." Maglor knelt down on the grass, feeling the damp from the ground seep into his clothes. He closed his eyes. The waters here echoed with Ulmo's presence, and the trees... "Something is here."

By their horses, Maedhros lifted his head, listening too. "Nothing we need fear."

"I should hope not." Finrod touched Maglor's shoulder and went to assist Maedhros. "Do you imagine I'd bring you out hunting and lead you into a dragon's den?"

"Your sister might," Maglor replied.

Finrod paused in his unloading of their steeds. "She might like to," he acknowledged. "But if it truly came to it, she would not. She understands what needs to be done, if we are to stand a chance of prevailing, and of building a life in these lands."

Maglor turned away and dipped his fingers into the pool. Overhead, the willow trees whispered, and the afternoon light caught in their delicate leaves. Dragonflies darted over the lily pads. Doves called from the shadow of the woods; sunlight danced on the water's surface, and the promise of summer sang through the air. “We will prevail. We must.”

Finrod did not reply. Maglor raised his head, and saw his kinsman stroking the nose of his chestnut mare.

“Cousin?”

As Finrod's blue eyes met his own, Maglor felt the familiar touch on his mind – sunlight on stone, and deep, still water. Are you asking me what I have seen?

His cousin's mind-voice was gentle, almost playful – but Maglor heeded the warning nonetheless. “No.” He returned Finrod's smile, and rose to his feet. “I will see what I can find us in the way of herbs and firewood.”

“Firewood may present a challenge, after last night's storms.”

Maglor knew this, but he did not respond directly. Instead he flickered an eyelid briefly at Finrod. “Try not to lose my brother while I'm gone.”

Maedhros lifted an eyebrow. “If you're referring to what happened at Ivrin, that was entirely your own fault.”

“Oh yes? When it was our own dear cousin who left the lamps with the packs and horses?”

“Maglor, go, if you are going at all,” laughed Finrod before Maedhros could reply. “I will not lose him; we will both be here when you return.”

But as Maglor left their little clearing by the water's edge, Finrod caught at his sleeve, and drew his cousin into a tight embrace.

Maedhros was right, Maglor thought, as he wandered in the dappled shade of the branches. Whatever dwelt here, it was nothing to be afraid of; it meant them no harm. In fact, the more he listened, the more he thought that it felt...amused, as though pleased and entertained by their presence. He had thought at first it was an echo of Ulmo's powers seeping into the land from the waters, but whatever was at work here felt more like Kementári, the lady of the trees. In the song of these wooded meadows, the green joy of life shone through more strongly than in any of the great forests they had passed through on their travels; there was the decay of damp leaves, yes, and the cling of lichen, and the slow ageing of trees, but if a place could laugh, Maglor thought, then this one certainly would. He closed his eyes and inhaled its scent – cool; verdant; soothing in his lungs and throat. A fair land indeed.

He was glad he had not asked his cousin about his visions. It had been an unspoken rule between them all, ever since the discovery of Finrod's gift. "If you are afraid of what you think these things mean, then it is entirely possible that you will bring them about by attempting to avoid them," Olórin had warned. "There are things that it is better not to know – and the whole truth may not be apparent until after the visions come to pass." A sharp flare in the old-young eyes. "If they come to pass at all."

A yearning ache rose through him like the shoots of a tree as he thought of his friend, and their forsaken home in the West – although he had wondered more than once, if he were to go back (if such a thing were even possible) whether it would still be their home, now that they were older, after all that they had seen and done, and with the light of the Trees forever extinguished. And he had grown to love these lands too – their precious impermanence, their fragility, the delicate balance that wound through the Song. To return would be no easy thing.

He stopped by a rivulet to was his face and drink. The sharp cold of the water braced him, and he looked up at the trees ahead, wondering which path take.

At first he thought he had been tricked by the light, or that he was weary from his journey, but it was unmistakeable – from the hanging branches of the willow trees, a face was smiling.

He blinked. When he looked again the face was gone, but it had certainly been there, watchful, teasing, impish, inviting. Curious and not at all afraid, he got to his feet and pushed aside the draping curtains of willow-vines, ignoring the droplets that ran up his sleeves.

There was nothing behind them, which was just as he had expected. But it seemed that he had been correct; there was something here, observing them.

"We mean no harm," he said aloud, though he guessed the creature – if creature it was – knew that already. He would have felt it in the land and water if the presence resented them, or had been afraid of them crossing its borders. It did not feel like one of the tree-shepherds; their sound was more rooted, and slower, and altogether lower in tone and pitch. No, this was something else, something akin to the spirits that danced through Yavanna's forests in Aman. He remembered Finwë's tales about the earth-powers that had dwelt around Cuiviénen before the coming of the Hunter – some mischievous, some wild, others solemn, a few dangerous and fell. Some had been little more than an essence, a breath of feeling tied to a place; others had walked in the forms of beasts or flown as birds. A handful even took shapes like the Quendi, and of these, a few were near in power to the Valar themselves.

“They were the most astonishing lovers,” his grandfather had said once, dreamily, deep in his cups during a family gathering at the summer house. Delighted laughter had exploded from the youngsters; he remembered Indis, torn between horror and amusement, and his father and Fingolfin, exchanging knowing glances. Apparently this had not been news to them.

Maglor knew, too, that some of these strange powers had gone into the service of the Enemy – though he feared no such devilry here.

For a while he wandered, no longer foraging, or searching for wood. Instead he followed the song-threads, the melodies of the brook, the whispering harmonies of the long, damp grass. The ground was springy under his boots, as though gently pushing him on, and in time he came to a glade completely enclosed by willow-branches. The ground here was dry, though not utterly parched; the canopy of willow-leaves clearly sheltered it from most of the rain. Beneath one great tree lay a log, and like the ground it was not damp, nor yet tinder-dry. Maglor ran his fingers over the bark, and felt the willow's song still thrumming inside. He wondered why the tree had cast it loose – or perhaps it had happened during the storm?

He felt a brush like light fingers in his hair, and lifted his head, but the glade seemed empty. It appeared he was quite alone.

After watching like a cat for a moment, he returned his thoughts to the log. It seemed a pity to take it for firewood. An idea came to him that the fallen piece would make a fine sound-box for a harp – though, he thought regretfully, it would be something of an encumbrance on their planned hunting trip.

I will watch it for you, if you like. The voice in his mind was like the tickle of a leaf's edge. You need not take it now.

So he was not alone. "Is it not best to let it lie, so that in time it may return to the earth?"

You wish to make it sing, do you not? There was no-one there that he could see, but he could have sworn he felt fingers taking his hand. That is a great gift indeed. I would like you to have it, Elf, if it would please you.

Perhaps they could come back this way, Maglor thought, running his fingers longingly over the bark. In his heart and mind he could hear the sound it would make – sonorous, and rich with story, and yet light and merry as well. "Thank you."

A hissing of the leaves that might have been laughter; a soft touch like lips on his forehead – and then quiet, and a sudden cooling of the sun. Moths flittered through the deepening gloom. Slowly, Maglor rose, certain that the glade was now truly empty.

When he returned to his brother and cousin they were both exasperated and amused.

“And I suppose there are no herbs, and no firewood?" Maedhros asked when Maglor explained what he had seen.

"No." It occurred to Maglor that he ought to feel guilty – but in truth he felt like a sleeper emerging from dreams, or as though he had been under a spell. His grandfather's tales came to him again. He understood now, a little, he thought.

Finrod and Maedhros exchanged a look.

"Come," said Finrod eventually. "We have the smoked fowl still, and lembas – and there are berries enough in this place. We can make do for tonight."

They set no watch when darkness fell, knowing they would wake in an instant if their camp was approached. The three of them lay pressed close together, arms and bodies entwined – and if Maglor half-woke to strange visions, and a whispering voice in his ear, the steady breathing of his brother and cousin soon pulled him back down into sleep.

 

 

F.A. 510
Nan-tathren

 

Tuor found Voronwë at the water's edge. He had rolled up his breeches and shirt sleeves, and was sitting with his feet in the pool's cool water. Lily-pads lapped and bobbed as frogs swam underneath them and hopped on top. Tuor had hoped to bring some comfort – wise words, perhaps, or a gentle embrace; a kiss to his friend's pale forehead. There was a quiet stretching of time here, among those who had fled Gondolin, and a sorrow as deep and still as a great mountain lake. He had never seen such grief from the Elves – though he had heard tales of their sorrows, and the scars of the journey over the Ice were evident in Turgon, Glorfindel, Ecthelion, even his own wife Idril.

Had been, he found a tired and tiresome voice in his mind correcting him. All those bright folk, except for Idril, had fallen with their great hidden city.

"There you are," he said eventually.

Voronwë turned, his eyebrows lifted in an expression that might have been quizzical, had their not been such a well of emptiness in his grey eyes. "And there you are."

A weak attempt at humour, Tuor thought, but it was an opening nonetheless. His friend had said almost nothing since they had escaped the city. He went to sit beside him, and dipped his feet into the pool.

"I loved this place when I found it during my wanderings." A poor beginning, but Voronwë showed no signs of pushing him away. Then again, that would not be like his friend at all. Voronwë had always listened, even when Tuor's thoughts were foolish, or ill-informed - or so addled by love of Idril that he could barely put three words together. "I think I would have stayed here, and not gone on to Gondolin at all, were it not for Ulmo's message." And there – he had done it already. Well, there were precious few ways to talk about one's grief without mentioning its object – and Voronwë had not moved. "I felt that there was something here, watching me – something kind and curious, that seemed to want me to laugh." Even at the memory, his mouth curved upwards. "That sounds so very foolish."

"No." Voronwë put out a hand, and covered Tuor's own. "You weren't wrong. Something is here." He closed his eyes as though listening intently, but shook his head after a few moments. "I do not have the great gifts in such measure as some of my kin. I cannot hear the stories of the land as they do. Although Maeglin -" He paused, and opened his eyes. "Forgive me."

"Maeglin knew the secrets of rock and stone well enough. I do not know that he had any great affinity with water and trees." It seemed odd to speak of him so – another life extinguished too soon, and yet Maeglin had wrought his own end. (An end that Tuor could not help grieving, even now, knowing all that he knew.)

"The method is the same, though it helps, as you say, if one has some natural...affinity." Voronwë smiled then, ever so slightly. “And do not forget where Maeglin was raised. He knew the songs of the woods well enough.”

The rebuke was gentle, but Tuor felt it nonetheless. “I wonder if we knew him at all.” The serious conversations by firelight; the quiet strategy games; the rare, brilliant laughter. He remembered sitting with Maeglin and Idril one night during a thunderstorm, how Maeglin had deftly explained where the storm's rolling voice and wild light-flashes came from – and later, how he had told Eärendil stories to soothe him, when the child had awoken with nightmares. How much had been real, Tuor wondered? How much had been a mask?

“I think we did know him.” Voronwë cupped the back of Tuor's neck, and brought his friend's forehead to rest against his own. “But his hurts ran deeper than we could heal.”

A soft wind lifted the willow tree branches. The beaded rain shivered and ran down their leaves, into the dark lily-pool. “And our hurts?” Tuor closed his eyes and turned his head, and felt Voronwë's lips graze his cheek.

“Let us rest here a while,” Voronwë murmured. “And then we will see what we may.”

They remained in Nan-tathren as autumn fell. There was plenty to gather and hunt, and the waters held whispers of Ulmo's powers; in time, the Elves found a measure of peace. A few of their company mentioned dreams of a dancing green woman, or visions of a face in the trees, but no-one was troubled. This land was wholesome, clean, untouched by the enemy's taint. Anything that dwelt here meant them no harm.

Tuor never saw her himself, but Eärendil woke him one night, talking excitedly about singing trees and a laughing voice, and a scent of spring leaves by his bed. When Tuor spoke of this to Idril and Voronwë, the two of them exchanged glances and shrugged. Among Elves, Tuor knew, stranger things were known to exist than a friendly spirit among the trees.

When they left Nan-tathren in spring of the following year, he asked Voronwë if the spirit-guardian would be angered if they took cuttings from some of the trees.

“I know it is not your way,” he added, feeling his cheeks flush. “But willow branches take root where you plant them, and grow into new trees. And I have found solace and healing twice in this place. I think...I believe...” A cool touch on his heart then, and knowledge that weighed like a stone. “I know that I will not come back here again. I would be glad to think that I had a little of the place with me where I'm going – and I don't think the lady would mind.”

Voronwë nodded slowly. “Somehow I think she would be pleased.” He smiled, and his eyes held some of their old light. “I will speak with Galdor. Perhaps her trees will bring us luck in our next home.”

 

 

F.A. 540
Amon Ereb

 

Maglor played, and Elrond dreamed.

The harp sang a threnody for days gone by. Its voice followed Elrond into his sleep, back to long summer days in Sirion, when he and his brother and the other children had raced through the glade of young willows that grew at the edge of their lands. "Take care! Take care!" their mother's voice cried – but what, he thought, could harm them here?

In sleep he saw a green woman with eyes full of mischief and joy – though when he tried to look at her, she was never quite there. She had watched them playing, he realised now; she had been there in the deep summer light, and the pale gold of autumn, and the whispering greens of the spring. He hadn't seen her, not then, but he had felt her; she had laughed with the children, and ruffled their hair with her fingers, and sighed soothingly when tempers ran high.

In his dreams, past and present were one. Suddenly, in the willow-glade, there were his kinsmen, Maedhros and Maglor – but they were as he knew them now, not as they had been on the night they first came. (He tried not to go near that, even in dreams.) They were soft of voice and gentle of touch, but the light in their eyes was as fire in a shattered glass.

"Heal them," he said to the willow-woman, but whenever he asked her, she vanished – and so did the others, each and every one. Elrond was alone by Sirion's shores. Even his brother had left him.

The harp sang on. Maglor played, and Elrond dreamed.

 

 

Third Age
The Withywindle Valley

 

In shady pools below the willow-roots, Goldberry was sleeping. It was rare for her to come here, now that she was wed to Tom - but now and again it made a pleasant change. She liked to feel the fish-fins brush against her skin, and chase the water-rats when they woke her from her dreams.

Today, though, no water-rat or dabchick disturbed her slumber. It was not even an old, strange being with yellow boots and a feather in his hat. Today, the intruder in her waters felt almost like kin.

She yawned, and stretched her limbs, and blew a few bubbles. The water was cool on her sharp, white teeth. It was a good day for finding things, she decided, and kicked up for the surface. It was a good day to learn more.

Most folk wouldn't see the thing that sat on the willow-roots, crooning softly in the light of the sun. Goldberry swam silently up to its feet – if feet they could be called, when they looked so very like the roots of her own dear trees – and listened as it sang. It – she – was an old thing, one of the oldest things in the land. Not as old as Tom, perhaps, but as old Goldberry herself. Maybe even older. And she was lovely, and sweet – oh, but she was sharp too, Goldberry thought as she listened, sharp like a berry, or a thornflower in bloom – and she found herself smiling. There was power in that song, and a joy that ran deep through the world.

When the song ended, Goldberry leapt from the water to sit beside this lovely old thing. "What's your name?" she asked eagerly.

Her visitor gave a delighted laugh. "Do you think I hand my name out here, there and everywhere, little river-daughter? I am. That is all you need to know."

Goldberry's smile deepened. "My Tom talks like that."

"Oh, yes. Oldest. That's him, isn't it?"

"Yes." Goldberry longed to touch the green skin, and to trail her fingers through the vine-like hair. "Where have you come from? I haven't seen you before."

"Where have I come from?" the tree-spirit mused. "From the same place as you, in a way. And I've been here before, many a time."

Goldberry studied her. "When?"

"Oh, often and often. I like it best in the summer." One branch like arm with long, thin fingers caressed the trunk of the tree.

“But where is your home?”

“Wherever my children grow.”

"The willows are your children," Goldberry realised. "Like the River is my mother."

"Some willows. Not all." The tree-spirit beckoned Goldberry closer, and showed her a handful of soft willow-seeds. "There are strange, dark things in these woods, and maybe you know more about that than I do, but these trees trace their roots to Nan-tathren of old. I dwelt there for a very long time indeed."

“Did you know the Elves?”

“Yes, some of them.”

Goldberry had known Elves too, many Ages ago. It was a long time since she had tasted Elf.

The willow-spirit hummed again, and blew her seeds out into the wind. Goldberry watched them drift away down the river, one at a time, going she knew not where. “Will you stay here now? With me, and Tom?”

“I come and I go as I please.” She smiled then, and Goldberry wanted to shout with laughter, and swim down to the river's bed and shoot up again, and splash about and leap for joy. “But I will stay for a while.”

 

 

T.A. 3020
S.R. 1420
Bamfurlong

 

“Ma! Da! MA!”

Daisy Maggot ran pell-mell through the farmyard, careened past the duck pond, threw herself into the kitchen, and skidded to a halt in front of the crackling fire.

“What's all this, then, girl?” her father asked her, folding his arms from the comfort of his rocking chair.

“I saw – I saw – ” Daisy panted.

“Catch your breath, child.” Mrs. Maggot ushered her daughter to a stool, and pushed a bowl of ham-hock soup into her hands. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“But I have seen a ghost.”

The elder Maggots exchanged puzzled looks.

“No such thing,” said Farmer Maggot at length. “There's no ghosts round here save those up on the Barrow-downs – and they've been quiet a good long while. Old Tom keeping them under his boot, I'll be bound.”

“There was that there Black Rider,” his wife reminded him. “What would it be – two winters past now? Looking for Mister Baggins and his friends.”

“That was no ghost.” Maggot shuddered, though the fire was dancing merrily and the sun had not yet set outside. “I don't rightly understand what that was, and I don't want to.”

“It was no Barrow-wight I saw and no Black Rider neither,” insisted Daisy. “It was a lady-ghost – a great green lady-ghost with hair like willow vines, and a smile on her face like she knows some joke that you don't.”

“Oh, her!” Farmer Maggot chuckled. “She's no ghost, my love. She's one of Old Tom's kind, though not so solid, if you take my meaning.”

“You've seen her before?” Daisy gaped.

“Once or twice. She comes and she goes. You were lucky – she hasn't been round here in a while.” He puffed thoughtfully on its pipe. “Maybe it's a happy sign. I always thought she brought good luck, myself. Perhaps that means things are coming back to the way they should be.”

 

 

Present Day
Toulouse

 

If he closed his eyes, Maglor thought, and willed away the sounds of the city, he might be able to convince himself that he was back in the Land of Willows with his brother and cousin, warmth in their souls and hope high in their hearts, laughing and teasing while the moths skittered back and forth.

He did not try. It would be a cruel trick to attempt.

Still, the park was very lovely. The great willows trailed into the lily pond, and the breeze stirred their branches, setting a murmur through the leaves. Insects skipped across the pool's surface, leaving ripples in their wake. The southern spring sun caressed his skin, and he slipped off his jacket and basked in its rays – though the old lady in a fur coat on the opposite bench gave him a disbelieving stare as he did so.

Maglor smiled back at her, and picked up his harp, and began to play. He was careful to turn himself slightly away from the path – in part to hide the burns on his hand, but also to make it as clear as he could that he wasn't busking. Yesterday a park warden had tried to move him on, despite Maglor pointing out that he had no bowl or upturned cap set out for spare change, and that there was no by-law against a music student taking his instrument to the park to practise. In the end he had used a subtle nudge of power on the man's mind – something he tried not to make a habit of, as it could easily get him into trouble, but the warden had been an irritating little busybody. Maglor knew he should probably feel guilty, but found that he couldn't quite manage it.

The scent of the trees filled the air as the sun hit them and their leaves grew warm. There was a splash and a shriek as a child leaned too far out over the pond, stretching for their boat – Maglor paused his harping then, ready to leap in if he had to, but the girl's older brother was there first, scolding her in furious French. Maglor thought of his own younger brothers and cousins, and the chaos they used to cause. He could smile about it now. It had not always been so.

In the playground behind him there was more squealing and laughter – youngsters racing each other along the monkey bars, or pushing themselves down greased slides, or kicking high on the swings, trying to go right over the top. A mechanised roundabout grumbled away, its painted horses creaking up and down, while the children riding it tried desperately to catch at a pom-pom the operator held over their heads. Maglor gathered there was a prize on offer for the one who caught it, and he smiled again at the cries of indignation and delight as the roundabout came to a halt.

As the sun climbed and the afternoon wore on, he ran through his repertoire, keeping it as varied as he could – gentle lullabies from Ages gone by; well-known favourites by Mozart; arrangements of Glass and Einaudi; his own works, which he noted (not without pride) drew fascination and enchanted stares from those who paused to listen; musical theatre; melodies from more unexpected sources, like television shows and the charts. He laughed as a trio of students, sharing some beers on a picnic blanket, bellowed along in heavily accented English to the tune of 'Don't Look Back In Anger.'

"Excuse me?"

He looked up, and saw a pair of small girls hand in hand – one with a round face, brown eyes, and curling dark ringlets, and the other with blonde hair and her thumb in her mouth.

"Please can you play 'Do-a-Deer'?" the blonde one asked.

Her companion nudged her. "En français, Lulu."

"Oh. Sorry. I mean, pardon." Lulu smiled. "I'm English," she explained.

"I can tell," Maglor said gravely.

"This is my cousin Stephanie." Lulu clung to her companion's arm. "I'm here on a visit. A long visit."

There was something behind those words, Maglor thought – a shadow of worry and fear. He wondered why she could not be at home. "I am too," he told her.

They sat on the grass beside him while he obliged them with 'Do-a-Deer', and 'Edelweiss', and then he slipped into one of his own compositions that he thought the young blonde girl might like – a song about longing, and being far from home.

As the piece drew to a close (and the gathered crowd applauded) she gasped and knelt up, pointing across the pond. "Look! Look! A face, there's a face in the trees!"

"Oui, je l'ai vu aussi!" her cousin cried.

Her aunt, who had been examining the scarf and jewellery stalls by the edge of the playground, now crossed to see what the fuss was about. On understanding, she told them both not to be so fanciful, and apologised profusely to Maglor for the girls having made a nuisance of themselves.

"They were nothing of the kind," he assured her.

When they had gone he picked up his hand-harp again, wondering. He improvised this time, plucking gentle chords that sang through the old willow sound-box. He had thought of Nan-tathren both yesterday and today, sitting in the shade of the willow trees; he had noticed how like it this place was, not just in its looks but in the feeling of it. That same sense of peace and joy ran all through the park, but it centred here, around the lily-pond, and the long grass at its edges, and the great leaning trees with their knotted roots and long, trailing fronds.

A tickle on his mind like a silvery leaf. There. The girl had been right – ahead, in the trees, smiled the face he had seen thousands of years ago, in the glades of Nan-tathren, before Beleriand fell.

Maglor smiled, slowly, and inclined his head. Well met.

A whisper of laughter through the trees; a light touch of wind in his hair. A butterfly with glass-like wings and a white-spotted body landed on his harp. It paused for a moment, as though looking right at him, then it beat its blue wings and took flight.

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