The Last Story by Aldwen

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The Last Story

January 3018, Third Age

It is the middle of winter, and the land is quiet. Very quiet. Yet this is not the silence of peace and restfulness. Eregion holds its breath in fear. Dark shadows creep from the East, just like then, centuries ago.

Spending my last days in this World, I care little for darkness. I shall be gone ere it fully descends. My life force lies in only one still living branch; I am weary and mostly asleep now.

Today, however, I suddenly wake to a sound of voices. Curiosity stirs faintly in the corner of my still sleepy mind. What do I hear? Who could it be?

The days when a company of Dwarves or a lone Ranger would seek shelter amid the cliffs are long past, and none has journeyed here for years. But now, nine travellers have set up a camp beside me, amid the moss-clad stones that are in truth remains of mighty buildings.

This is a strange company. Four Halflings, their cheerful voices driving away the gloom of late winter afternoon. Two Men, strong and tall, somewhat alike, and yet unlike at the same time. The third one much older, in a weatherworn cloak and pointy blue hat. A Dwarf with the steadfast bearing and deep eyes of the mountainfolk. And an Elf, one of the woodland people, unless I am mistaken.

His words confirm my guess. “The Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the Silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not remember them,” he says in reply to a question one of the Halflings has asked. “Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. They are gone,” he repeats sadly.

Sleepiness leaves me. The Elf speaks of things he does not know, does not understand. How can one of the woodland people be so blind and so deaf? But irritation soon fades to sadness. What is there to notice, to listen to? An old, almost withered holly-tree with but few green leaves left and voice so quiet that perhaps even the ears of the Fair Folk cannot hear it any longer?

The travellers light fire and share a meal; after that, most of them rest. The one in the pointy hat sits down to watch, thoughtfully gazing in the flames. Smoke rings rise in the air, shadows dance upon his wrinkled face, but his eyes are keen and piercing. I was mistaken; he is not of the Secondborn. I have met his kind before: creatures clad in flesh, but holding a hidden power, a memory of Light and Shadow before the beginnings of Arda. Recalling one of them still sends shivers through me. Golden hair, blue eyes, fair face… and heart as black as a starless night. But this one here is very different. He does not feel evil. He is like an ancient cherry-tree that may still clothe itself in a cloud of white blossoms in spring.

The Elf does not sleep, either. He walks around the camp singing softly. He sings of flowers opening under a canopy of mighty trees in northern lands. Of forest creatures, graceful and wary amid the thick undergrowth. Of birds flitting from branch to branch.

Longing and memories stir in my soul. I recall brighter days when flowers swayed in the mountain-meadows, when swift-footed deer ran over the plains, when birds nested and sang amid the leaves… But there are no birds in Eregion anymore, only the black crebain with harsh voices. I remember days when hammers and fair voices rang within white stone buildings… But the proud walls have crumbled, and the voices long fallen silent.

The song fades. The Elf’s palm is warm against my trunk; his spirit glows with a steady, unwavering light, so alike to the spirits of those others. And yet so unlike at the same time.

“You do remember those who dwelt here?” He smiles pensively. “My words were rushed. Forgive me, ancient one.” His fingers trace the ridges of my bark. “Will you tell me of them? Please.”

I do not reply at once. After such a long silence, speaking seems like a great effort. Do I feel like talking at all? Do I have the strength? Going back to sleep seems so tempting. But... no. I will talk. I do not mind sharing with the Elf the memories his presence has stirred.  Likely they will be the last thing I will share with someone. My last story.

“I do remember, child of the forest. I have seen many years of the Sun. I will tell you.”

The Elf sits on the ground beside me, and I start my tale.

I am a young tree upon a hill that stands higher than all others. My bark is smooth, and my branches are strong and straight, covered in dark green leaves. There are many of us here; many holly-trees grace the land west of the Misty Mountains.

The days are bright and the Sun – unveiled. I have no memory of darker times, of the menace that once dwelt in the north. That shadow was vanquished ere my coming to life; only some older trees still whisper of it, and the servants of the defeated enemy do not come here. Time passes; years of the Sun exchange one another. Flowers blossom in the valleys. With the peace and hope for the future, the trees grow tall and strong and dwell in fellowship with birds and beasts of this hilly land.  

They come in early spring, the Firstborn Children of the World, tall and glad, with bright eyes. Suddenly valleys and hills ring with their clear voices. They look for a dwelling place, a place they would call home.

They set up camps and go about, swift and busy, charting and measuring the land. The one who leads them is called Celebrimbor. Most often he works together with the others, but sometimes he stands alone upon the hill beside me and looks around, and his eyes shine brighter than stars. Some weeks later, on one such occasion, another Elf approaches him.

“Lord Celebrimbor, we have finished charting the land and found places for quarries. The building can start.”

Celebrimbor smiles. “Yes. Yes, we shall start tomorrow.”

“Should we clear away the trees, my lord?”

Sudden terror shoots through me. Will these people with starlit eyes destroy us?

“No.” Celebrimbor lays his hand on my trunk. “The trees shall remain. It has been their home before we came, and it will remain so. We shall build around and in-between. Growing things and crafted things shall dwell in harmony here, and we shall call this land Eregion.”

The new city soon rises upon the hill, Ost-in-Edhil, the City of the Elves, with white-walled houses, with gilded roofs, with fountains sparkling in the squares. Celebrimbor is its lord. He keeps his promise, and his people fell no tree to make place for a building of stone. There is plenty of green amid the white – the Elves plant gardens, and bright, fragrant flowers blossom in the shade of the trees.

Now I stand in the courtyard of the House of the Guild as they call it. It is the house of their brotherhood of craftsmen where they work with metal and precious stones. There, hammers ring, and voices sound every day as more and more people come seeking skill and knowledge, and apprenticeship with the lord of the city who is a renowned jeweller, praised far and wide for his gift with precious stones.

Ost-in-Edhil is but recently built when strange visitors appear. Dwarves of the Misty Mountains. They are short and stocky, with long beards bound with gold, with deep voices and dark glittering eyes. Lord of Eregion makes friends with the folk of Dúrin. Soon a road runs smooth and straight to the Dwarven city of Khazad-Dûm, and Elves and Dwarves travel back and forth exchanging wares – ore and unworked stones, crafted things, cut and polished gems. Celebrimbor has an open heart and friendship for everyone. His city thrives and grows in beauty, and his people grow in skill.

Mirth and celebration often sweep through Ost-in-Edhil. On clear summer evenings music drifts from the gardens. Bright lanterns are hung on my branches, and the lord of the city sits in the courtyard with his friends. They speak together and laugh and jest, and dream. In the circle of Celebrimbor’s closest friends is a lady he always calls Artanis, even though she shakes her golden head and corrects the name to Galadriel. There is the lady’s husband, Celeborn, calm and strong as an ancient oak tree. Sometimes, when the others are carried away in conversation about gems and metals, he sits and talks to me, for, unlike the others, he knows my language.

Me and other trees, we thrive in the city of the Noldor. We come to love these fair, proud people with starlit eyes, and they hold us in reverence, like strangers whose ways are too foreign to comprehend but enough to respect. I grow tall; my roots reach deep in the rich soil beneath the white flagstones, my branches rise towards the Sun, and berries ripen in them like beads of red gems these Elves so love to craft.

In Ost-in-Edhil they speak often of craft: of smithwork, of jewellery-making, of building and other things. I understand little of their conversations. I only realize that Celebrimbor wants to bring beauty into this world, that he wants to make Middle-earth as fair as some other land he recalls. At whiles I feel his impatience at the small steps he is compelled to take. Sometimes, his impatience borders on anger, and sometimes it frightens me. But his irritation always fades swiftly. There is peace and mirth again, and joy of creation as hammers ring in the House of the Guild and sounds of music wind around flowers in moonlit gardens. And amid all that glows the warm fire of Celebrimbor’s spirit.

Then, a stranger enters the city.

Tall, fair, with bright eyes. One of the Eldar. He calls himself Annatar, saying he is a craftsman seeking a place where to create. The Elven smiths accept him into the Guild.

But one day, he walks past me. I freeze, like in the coldest winter. All of my branches and leaves shiver... although there is no wind. This is no Elf. This body of a Child of the One hides a fëa so much more powerful. He is Other. And he is corrupt. He is like a fair and tall tree, but with a core foul and rotten.

I fear he has evil designs for Ost-in-Edhil and its people. I scream all this when Celebrimbor or someone of the smiths pass by. But the Noldor do not hear me, and the stranger grows in esteem among them and in friendship with the lord of the city.

I am not the only one to distrust Annatar. Dúrin’s folk visit the city no longer. Lady Galadriel quarrels with Celebrimbor; she, too, is suspicious of the newcomer, but Celebrimbor waves away her warnings. He defers to Annatar more and more. Annatar teaches the Elves new things, and the work of the Guild becomes secret. There are no more feasts in the gardens. Annatar and lord of the city sometimes walk in the courtyard speaking of things I do not understand – of secret lore, of power, locked in rings. But I understand the malice in Annatar’s eyes as he sometimes watches Celebrimbor unseen. He watches him with the eyes of a cruel mountain-cat stalking its prey. I shudder whenever the creature passes me by, but all my warnings are merely a rustling of leaves in Celebrimbor’s ears. There is none other I could warn. Celeborn, the only one who would understand me, has left a while ago, before the stranger’s arrival. After another exchange of words with Celebrimbor, lady Galadriel leaves also, and I remain alone with my fears.  

Then, Annatar suddenly departs. It is as if a dark cloud was suddenly lifted. Mirth and light-heartedness return to Ost-in-Edhil; Celebrimbor visits the Dwarves again, and the mountain folk return to exchange wares. It is almost as before.

Yet some shadow has fallen on the lord of the city. Sometimes he stands on the top of the stairs leading to the House of the Guild and long looks westward. Sometimes he walks in the garden alone, deep in thought.

“Speak to me.” I rustle my leaves as he sits in my shade. “Tell me of your dreams and your cares. I would listen to you, even though I would not understand. Still, I would listen.”

But he does not hear me. He is of the Deep Elves; he talks to mountains and stone, to metals and gems of the earth. He does not know the language of the trees.

Sometime after one of his journeys to the Misty Mountains, Celebrimbor works in the forge for several days in a row. When he enters the courtyard in the grey morning twilight of the third day, his eyes shine with a strange light, and brighter yet shine gemstones set in the rings he holds. Powers shaping Arda are bound within them: the heat of the Sun, the breath of wind, the cool touch of water.

The lord of the city sits on the bench under my branches and long gazes at the rings upon his palm. “Long I resisted making them,” he says softly. “But I could not, in the end. Light must have guided me, not Darkness. So I hope.”

I sense doubt in Celebrimbor’s voice. Does he not see, or does he not trust in what he sees? He should not doubt. His creation is pure, free from any stain. Yes, they are of the Light. They are pure. They are beautiful. They are free. I repeat this over and over.

Maybe something of what I say reaches him. Moments later, he leans against me. “They are of the Light,” he whispers. “Somehow, I know this.” His doubt and fear fade. His breath grows calm and deep, his spirit flees to the realm of dreams. Celebrimbor, lord of Eregion, sleeps in his garden under a holly-tree, holding in his hand the Three Rings, his greatest work.

His repose is short. The Sun has just risen when Celebrimbor springs to his feet, hand clenched in fist, pressed to his heart.

“Betrayed…” he whispers. “Deceived… But… who…” His eyes widen. “Annatar! Sauron!” He spits the name out like a poison.

Others run into courtyard, frightened, looking to their lord for guidance. And for their sake, Celebrimbor silences his own horror.

“Take off the rings of power, whoever has them!” His voice rings calm and cold. “Spread the word, at once! Annatar, the one we admitted amidst us and took for a friend, is a liar and a deceiver! His true name is Sauron, Morgoth’s lieutenant, whom the Valar did not find after the War of Wrath!”

Those around him gasp in horror, some sway. A dark wave of terror obscures the brightness of the new day. Despite the sun, it is cold.

But the Elves act swiftly. They destroy some of the rings of power. Some are too powerful to be destroyed: these they hide. The Three Celebrimbor keeps secret. A few days after the disastrous discovery he travels away, alone, and returns without them.

Dark days descend. Ost-in-Edhil turns into a fortress. The lord of the city sends away women and children, and anyone else who would go. Yet few men leave, save for the soldiers assigned to guard the refugees. The Noldor love their city. They are ready to fight for it.

The assault comes on a winter night. Ground trembles under the heavy feet of the enemies. Torches flicker in the darkness, shouts and clamour of weapons ring out. Throughout the night rages the battle, throughout the night the Elves defend the walls. But the enemies are too great in numbers. Shortly before the dawn Ost-in-Edhil falls. Dark shapes pour within, killing, burning on their way.

My leaves tremble. Cursed evil creatures!

Will they cut me? Will they burn me?

Will it hurt?

Grim and silent stands Celebrimbor, sword in hand, eyes like steel. He is the last to resist the dark creatures that surround him. Then Orcs step back before Sauron, and Celebrimbor fights the fell being before the doors of the House of the Guild. But wounds have already weakened the lord of the city. He collapses on the stairs. The Orcs drag him away, and I can only lament his defeat in a voice nobody hears. I am only a tree, helpless to defend him.

And again, I can only tremble later, in helpless grief, when Celebrimbor’s screams echo within the white walls he himself has built. At last, his voice falls silent.

The enemies prepare to march forth to war. Sauron stands on the top of the bloodstained stairs, fell fire burns in his eyes.

“Bring forth our banner!” he orders.

Several Orcs emerge from within the House. They carry Celebrimbor’s lifeless body, chained to a pole, pierced with many arrows. The host cheers wildly. Sauron laughs. Something snaps in my core, and the world goes dark.

When I am able to see, hear or feel again, the city is empty. The enemies have wreaked destruction when leaving. Dead bodies lie in the streets. Smoke hangs heavily in the air, ruins of houses still smoulder. My lower branches are severed, a deep axe-wound on my trunk reaches nearly to the core. Many other trees lie lifeless on the frozen ground, others bear injuries. Our wails of pain and despair pass through the once-beautiful city unheeded. There is none to hear us.

Spring comes. Trailing plants cover the remains of the defenders of the city. Pale blue flowers blossom in the streets like pools of tears spilt in lament. With time, the wound on my trunk closes. But the wound in my soul does not.

Slowly, the city around me falls to ruin. The proud walls and high towers crumble under the weight of years, and the grass and the moss claim them. The trees last longer than houses, yet they, too, succumb to old age and wither one by one. I am the last of the hollies of Ost-in-Edhil. And soon I, too - the last keeper of memory of the place and its people - will be gone.

The Elf weeps, his cheek pressed to my bark. I regret I have saddened him with my story of times and people none perhaps remembers now.

“No.” He raises his head and wipes away tears. “Those who later fought Sauron’s evil preserved the memory of Eregion and its lord. And the Three Rings Celebrimbor made – the Enemy never found them. These rings… they were put to good use. They kept elvish lands safe, much as he intended.”

I am glad of this. But I cannot banish grief. I grieve for the proud, fair people with starlit eyes, people who made stone and metal sing. I grieve for Celebrimbor, their lord, for the warm fire of his spirit, now quenched forever.

“They are not lost.”

He has a kind, compassionate heart, this Wood Elf. His attempt to console me moves me deeply. But I saw it. I saw them all die.

The Elf embraces me. “They are not lost. It is not so with the Elves. When body is destroyed, the soul goes to a place in the West. There, in time, it may be rehoused if it so wishes.”

A tremor of cautious hope runs through me. So Celebrimbor and his people – they might live again? Walk under the trees, laugh with friends? Craft and create?

“Yes.” The Elf smiles. “They might.”

But even if that is true, I shall never see them again. My life on this earth is nearly at an end.

“I do not know where the spirits of trees go after their housing withers. But maybe you too shall pass into the West and be reborn in the Gardens of Yavanna? Who knows?” The Elf settles among my roots and starts to sing again.

Who knows, indeed? For I moment I imagine myself in a sunlit glade, with birdsongs in the air and fair voices from my young years ringing around. These musings even drive away the cold that creeps up from my very roots and takes over my trunk and my branches. I feel sleepy, far more sleepy than before. Slowly I drift away in a slumber from which there will be no awakening.

But I do not regret. I have told my story. And to be accompanied by an Elvish song into the last journey… it is a gift I never even expected.

 

~ The End ~

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