As much as I dislike author notes being right at the top, as this one is, I thought this one warranted a bit of an explanation as it's quite far from my usual thing. This is a challenge set by Lindir's Ghost and was designed to take me a bit out of my comfort zone. I have only been able to work on it since I finished Paths but it has filled the void somewhat, and given me something else to agonise over. The challenge was as follows:

Must be in third person. Legolas and Treebeard only as key characters, other characters may make no more than a cameo appearance. Must be between 1,500 and 1,750 words.

I can tell you quite honestly, I struggled with both the tense and the wordcount on this one, and I genuinely believe that this is probably not quite what she was expecting. This has been very kindly beta'd by Emry Yew who has provided some wonderful feedback and told me exactly what looked a bit weird, what wasn't working and why. She hasn't seen it since then, so any mistakes are my own.

I'd like to reassure any who may be missing my weekly posts now that Paths has finished, that there is currently a half finished oneshot waiting in the wings, and a formative new multi chapter that I am in the process of battering into some sort of shape in my head. I am hoping to start writing this within the next couple of weeks.

So, without further rambling - I give you Legolas, and I give you Treebeard.

Ghost - I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you for putting up with me through Paths, my lost whining now it's not there any more, and the encouragement whilst I've been agonising over the next project.

The forest of Fangorn is haunted and dark and full of black things, or so it is said.

In truth it is deep and old and full of hushed voices, but there is little harm to be had for one that belongs there. For one who can hear it, the quicksilver Song of Iluvatar is like a heartbeat: like a river racing through the wood, and is overwhelming it its beauty.

The trees are tall and stately old men, weighed heavy with moss and with ivy. Bough and leaf are thick and hang low, filtering mighty golden columns of sunlight from the canopy down to the soft ground where gnarled root and tangled growth seek to trip the unwary.

It is a forest full of eyes and of voices, where the wind sets the trees to whispering and the thick branches creak and moan as they shift and settle in their sleep. Birds call deep in the mist between the trees, and each stray beam of sunlight plays and dances with the shadows to create such great beauty… such wonder that if any man were to see it he would be captivated for all of his days.

Here, in Fangorn, where the trees are the deepest and oldest sits an elf, hidden in the heart of a great oak tree. There where its branches split and open to the sky, where it is strongest and its voice is the loudest… there he sits as he has sat for a day and a night with barely a movement. He sits and he listens, and he is a part of the forest as much as the trees and the grasses, the wind and the rain. He is Silvan, and the forest sings to him. Sometimes he sings back.

The elf is late. He should be far elsewhere by now and his friend will be worrying, but he cannot leave. He cannot. For this awakened old oak – this sentinel of the forest… it is dying.

It rains, and he does not move – not even to shift his cloak tighter about himself. He sits in the tree and he listens to it, for it is right that he should bear witness; it is right that the tree should be granted comfort in the last of its days.

The voices of trees are like a dream; an endless stream of consciousness and colour, sound and sensation. They speak in a language of their own, and trees know only the joy of growth and passing seasons and of the lives they have harboured. This tree has known elves before; its voice is clear and was once strong indeed, but now it is fading and hushed. It is confused. It is stuck in the remembrance of ages past and does not know the season. It speaks of winter approaching, it speaks of the slowing of its sap and the long sleep soon ahead of it… but it is midsummer.

The elf sits in the tree and his hand touches the gnarled bark, the leafless branches where curled and delicate leaves of brittle brown drop and fall. He strokes the great old wood and whispers to it, and it responds in kind to him. It is delighted that one of the Eldar sits once again within its boughs. It calls him 'friend' and rejoices, but then forgets again, and turns to contemplations of the soil beneath it and asks: why it is so hard and cold already? Surely winter does not set in so soon? Do the seasons seem shorter of late, it asks? Is the sunlight not as warm or as bright as once it shone? The elf tells it to seek patience, for the summers will seem endless again all too soon. The tree is satisfied with that, for who would know better than an elf? It believes him, and for a time it slumbers.

The elf sinks his head into his hands, and for a while he weeps.

When the guardian of the wood arrives it is in the deepest part of the night. The silver mantle of Elbereth shines brightly above the canopy, a breeze sighs in the leaves and then all is still: a shadow moves and brings with it the smell of earth and of leaves, of ancient wood and all the secrets of the wild places. It is a thick and heady scent, but for the gentle sound of creaking wood and shifting greenery the visitor makes no sound.

Gimlet eyes shine in the darkness and the elf rises; bows, and is bowed to in turn. They are kindred, as much as any spirits can be – they are a prince of the ageless and the lord of this wood, but their Songs both sing of the forest: one tells of deep darkness and storms, and of roots deep within the heart of the world. One sings of the dance of fresh spring leaf, the dappled play of light in the dawn and the wild joy of running beneath the endless trees. They are a harmony.

The shepherd of the wood turns to the oak, resting one hoary old hand upon its bark and the tree shudders; its sleeping mind hitches once and its dreams turn languid and restful. It remembers its first storm, its first forest fire… it remembers the first year in which it bore acorns and the pride of seeing its progeny spread and proliferate through the wood. It remembers things that are good, and it sleeps. Its sap slows and a handful of leaves scatter upon a breath of wind.

The elf climbs, graceful and fluid back to his seat in the heart of the tree. There he sends his own voice to comfort this ancient, sprawling grandfather of the forest.

'Sleep,' he speaks. 'The dawn will come and the sun will rise, and it will shine upon a land better for having known you. You are magnificent, and you will be well remembered.'

The tree sighs again. It murmurs of its fondness for the warmth of the sun and tells the elf how grateful it is to have spoken with the Eldar one more time, but when the elf tries to reply it is to find only dead wood now beneath his hands. The tree is gone, its Song extinguished. Another leaf drifts to the ground.

The elf sits a while in the silent branches, noticing nothing of the shaking of his hands or the tears un-spilled. He strokes the old, dead wood and feels the emptiness in the Song where its voice once sounded. It is like a ringing in the ears, an absence of something vibrant and joyous and loud… its voice now silenced. He has heard this silence before and feels the same fear as he did the first time. How many more, he wonders. How many more times must he know that silence?

"Such fleeting things," sounds a deep voice, breaking his reverie. It is a rumbling in a cavernous chest, a creaking of wood and dust; slow and thoughtful and sad. "I recall its first year… such a sickly sapling… I did not think it would survive."

The elf leaves his perch again and emerges once more to sit closer to the tree shepherd. It is huge and still, alive in a way that the trees are not… but yet it is so similar. Starlight softens the edges of the vines and creepers and wood of its limbs, and its eyes shine so very brightly. There is age there, such great age. It mourns greatly but it cannot tell of it; the tongue of the elves is too unfamiliar for it to speak of its grief, and so it must make do.

"I shall miss my tree," the Ent says.

"It is the burden that we carry," the elf speaks finally. "Those who are fated to outlive all others must carry the memories of those we have lost. Who else, but us? It is a heavy thing to carry, but I do not mind the weight."

"Elves are wise," the Ent considers, long and slow and deep. "Elves are clever and quick… but who will remain when the elves are gone? It is us… who will carry your memory. We will carry it until the Ents are no more… and then the memory of elves and the tales of trees… will be forgotten and gone."

"Forgotten," the elf agrees, "but not gone. The Song will still sing, and the stars will still speak of us whether there are any left to know it or not. Take heart, Lord of the Listening Wood; for nothing is ever truly lost."

The walking spirit of this endless forest does not reply, and for a moment the elf touches upon the mind of the thing before him. It is a tree, in a way, and yet not a tree. He can hear its heart, he knows its soul, and for a moment he is overcome by the age and the weariness he feels. Endless miles of interlocking roots, a hundred thousand whispering trees and a sea of shivering leaves all with mind and thought of their own. All thrum and sing in this walking spirit, and the elf hears it all. He sits back heavily, because it is all that he can do to contain himself.

"I hope we meet again, Woodland Prince," the Ent speaks slowly. He removes his hand from the dead tree with one final, gentle caress and turns to leave. Its movements are deliberate and heavy… the elf cannot begin to imagine how much all of the forest weighs. "But if we do not… I will remember you. Thank you for being here… for my tree. I think you eased its passing greatly… although it could not tell you itself."

The elf watches the wood spirit leave but it is lost quickly to the wood; it is oddly silent and is swallowed quickly by the shadows, blending into the forest. The night settles back into place and all of the trees around resume their hushing and shifting, as though they have held silent through this meeting out of respect.

"I will remember," he promises to the silent wood, but he knows that he is heard. "As I remember you all."

END

Told you it wasn't my usual thing.

I really hope you enjoyed it, I've really missed posting and I hope to get back to it soon but until then have a lovely weekend. For those in the UK, enjoy the Bank Holiday. It's forecast rain. At least we're sticking with tradition.

Please drop a review. I like reviews. Even short or anonymous ones. I remember them every time I throw a 'Writing is Too Hard' strop, and they make me sit back down and try harder. And you want me to do that, right? So there it is, that box at the bottom. Go! :)

MyselfOnly