Among the Trees by StarSpray

Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
- “When I am Among the trees,” by Mary Oliver

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Melian was long gone, but the forest remembered her. In places the enchantments of the Girdle lingered, all twisted roots and confusing shadows to ensnare those who strayed from the main pathways. When the Noldor came in the dead of winter, many were lost in such places, and never found again. In turn they welcomed those of Menegroth who fled the fire and the slaughter, and thus they passed safely through the forests of Neldoreth and passed away unseen down Sirion to the shores of the Sea. So went Elwing, Dior’s daughter, with the Silmaril tucked into the folds of her cloak like a star shrouded in storm clouds.

And so it was that when Melian’s remaining grandchildren were left in the snow near the river, amid the gnarled roots of an ancient willow tree tree that had grown up long ago alongside Lúthien, it stirred from its deep winter slumber. Its neighbors also stirred, roused by the soft sounds of the children’s cries. Whispers passed through the barren branches, and the roots shifted—slowly, carefully in the frozen ground—drawing the boys in closer, until they found a hollow in the tree’s ancient trunk and entered into it. Wood and bark closed around them, shutting out the danger and the cold. The remnants of Melian’s power stirred also, gathering around her children in warmth and comfort, bringing sleep and pleasant dreams so they could forget, until spring, the horrors of that night.

There was one the Girdle could not contain. He passed through the forest, too and fro, calling for the children until his voice was hoarse. Blood stained his cloak and his armor. His hair spilled from beneath his helm in tattered red tangles. The Doom that lay so heavily upon him was too great for old enchantments to hinder, and the Oath that drove him cut through them like a scythe through summer wheat. But the trees had returned to their winter dreams, and they did not wake again, not for interlopers and strangers. Eluréd and Elurín remained curled up like squirrels in their winter nest, dreaming of white flowers on green grass, and of sunshine and blue skies. Maedhros passed them by, and at last he departed, his remaining brothers trailing behind through the snow.

Silence descended upon Neldoreth, unbroken even by the flowing of the Esgalduin, a black ribbon beneath the bare black branches of the trees.

Then spring came, bringing green grass and new leaves, and birds and animals. The river woke to the new season’s music, though it was quieter than before, and there were no fair elven voices to harmonize with it, or with the nightingales that sang uncertain songs, hopping from branch to branch in search of their friends of old who were not there to greet them. The trees woke with the warm rays of the sun—and with the footsteps of an Ent come down from the north, singing in his low, slow, sonorous voice a mournful song for the lost pine woods of Dorthonion, and now the silence that reigned among the beeches of Neldoreth.

Eluréd and Elurín crawled out of the shelter of the willow’s trunk, and looked around in amazement. Snow lay in scattered clumps, turning brown with the mud and shrinking fast. It all looked so very different from the night they had been left out there in the deep snowdrifts by the cruel Noldor. Yet still they were lost; they did not know the way back to Menegroth—and they knew that even if they did find their way, they would find no one there. Time and long sleep had dulled the pain of that awful night, but still they remembered the heavy smoke in the air, and the cries echoing through the halls of Menegroth.

Around them the forest stirred, and the trees whispered to them. This way , they seemed to be saying, and when they looked, Eluréd and Elurín saw a path where they did not remember seeing one before. Hand in hand they ran down it, unheeding of the mud. It followed for a time the winding river, and they glimpsed a badger emerging from its den, snuffling in the new-growing grass. Behind them, though they did not turn to look, flowers peeped out of the earth, and pale leaves unfurled in their wake.

There was little to eat in the woods in early spring, but before they had been separated their mother had tucked piece of way bread into Eluréd and Elurín’s pockets, wrapped in leaves, and so for a time they nibbled on the wafers and drank the river water, and were content. Fear had slipped away from them with the winter, and in the forest there was much to see and explore. Deer wandered through the meadows, and squirrels were busy in the trees, chattering to each other and seeking out the nuts they had hidden away in the fall. Eluréd found a store of such nuts, and he and Eluréd feasted on walnuts for an afternoon as they wandered, giggling as they worked together to crack open the tough shells to get to the meat inside. And all the while the trees guided them, whispering and opening paths for them, and blocking ways that might be treacherous, or that turned back where they did not want the boys to go.

All of a sudden, the forest ended. The land opened up before them, and Eluréd and Elurín shrank back into the tree-shadows, feeling like rabbits afraid of hawks that might be circling. The skies were wide and blue, without a cloud to be seen. And while Eluréd and Elurín whispered together, unsure what to do, the trees about them shivered and broke into a chorus of whispers as the breeze passed through their branches. With the breeze came a voice, deep and old, sonorous and slow, singing a song that was both mournful and hopeful. Eluréd looked at Elurín, who leaned forward, listening hard.

They had met Ents before, who had come to Tol Galen in their wanderings. They had stood in the river or beneath the flow of Lanthir Lamath for long hours, drinking deep and letting the water flow over and around them. They had sung with Lúthien, and swayed like trees with the music while she had danced on the green grass. Now one came striding up along the tree line, moving quickly with long strides. But he slowed as he neared them. In appearance he was like an old and gnarled tree, with leaves and moss growing in a sort of beard about his face, which was solemn. His eyes were, as all Ents’ eyes, deep wells of green, reflecting the sunlight in the way of pools of deep and still water. The trees called to him as he passed by, telling him of two small elf children hidden in a small thicket of honeysuckle, beloved of the lands of Menegroth and of Ossiriand.

He stopped, and stooped a little, peering at them through the budding leaves. “Hoom, hrum, ” he said, in his deep, slow voice. “What are little elf children doing all alone in the wild?”

“Our home was attacked,” said Elurín, stepping out of the brush. Eluréd followed a step behind, and they bowed deeply to the Ent in the elven fashion, small hands over their hearts. “And we were lost in the wood. The trees saved us, and led us here. I am Elurín, and my brother is Eluréd.”

“You should not be so hasty, telling your names to the first strange Ent you see,” the Ent told them.

“But you are not strange,” said Eluréd. “The trees know you, and you have been here before. You are Fangorn, eldest and wisest of the Ents.”

“Will you help us, please?” Elurín asked. “We do not know where to go.”

Fangorn regarded them with his deep green eyes. Then he turned his gaze to the sky, and stood for some time thinking and watching and listening. The wind blew out of the north, bearing a bitter chill in it that made Eluréd and Elurín shiver and press closer together. There might have been voices on that wind, too, just beyond the edge of their hearing. At last, Fangorn stirred, sighing deeply, and stooping to pick up Eluréd and Elurín, one in each enormous, gnarled hand. “A storm is coming,” he told them, “and this land will all be swallowed by it. I can feel it in the earth, smell it in the air. My people are already moving—many have already gone, passed over the Ered Luin into the eastern woods. I have lingered only to say farewell to the lands I have walked for years accounting. The pines of Dorthonion are already lost. The willow meads of Nan-tasarion and the elm-woods of Ossiriand remain, and the beeches here of Neldoreth—ah, the sighing of the leaves in autumn in Taur-na-neldor! They will be lost ere long, to darkness or to fire or to deep water. It is grievous. I do not know what will become of the Elven folk, or the Men. They will fight their wars, I suppose, but war is not the province of the Ents, and so we leave these woods for those beyond the mountains, and the Entwives who have gone before us.”

“Where will you take us?” Elurín asked.

“East,” Fangorn said. “There are Elves there, wandering the deep woods, and perhaps Men, too. You will be safe in their company, away from the Enemy.” He turned to the forest, then, and began a long and musical speech to the trees in his own tongue, a lament and a farewell. When at last he ended, he turned away.

“Farewell!” Eluréd and Elurín called, raising their hands to the trees that had sheltered and guarded them. Farewell to Neldoreth, and farewell to Menegroth, and those who had been lost in its halls. Fangorn’s long strides ate up the miles, and soon the forest sank over the horizon and out of sight. Far ahead, a shadow on the horizon, marched the Ered Luin, and beyond them lay the whole wide world. They did not feel afraid. Fangorn’s hands were large and strong, and there were few who would dare assail even a lone Ent as he went striding through the world.

So passed Eluréd and Elurín out of the tales of the First Age, and out of Beleriand. Where they wandered in after days, no tale tells.