There Was A Time. . .
By Talking Hawk
The dawn rose up over the hills that seemed as numerous as that of the waves of the sea, rolling across the land as far as the eye could see. The light shone yellow, and seemed to cast a spell upon the long mythical land of Fangorn Forest - even young Merry had heard a tale or two of its supposed horror from that of well meaning servants prior to their kidnapping, in Lothlorien. Though to the hobbit, Lorien's - as well as its Lady's - beauty was unsurpassable, Fangorn held a beauty of its own; Merry had a gift for loving things that were untamable - whether it be Buckland ponies or lasses.
Above him, riding on a branch protruding from Treebeard's back, his cousin stretched out his arms and yawned. Their Ent friend had no reckoning of time, or at least hours, passing, and had not stopped to think that the two halflings might have needed some rest during their previous nocturnal conversation. However, Merry supposed, one does not need sleep daily if one can live thousands of years - like unto Elves, who live the same lifespan, but can go without food or sleep for days, even weeks, at a time.
However preoccupied the master of Buckland attempted to keep his mind, he always found himself slipping back to his memories of the Shire - the simplest, and yet, most wonderful, memories that he now possessed. The Elven and Dwarvish kingdoms all had their own magnificent splendor, but none of them could.well, they could probably do anything had they the mind for it, but.they didn't have hobbit holes! No, they did not.
Meriadoc puffed up with pride, chuckling a bit. No one could build a hobbit hole like that of the intricately constructed Brandy Hall! He welcomed Elrond and Celeborn to try it. 'They probably don't know which end of a shovel to use,' Merry thought to himself, and finally feeling a slight sense of superiority - rather than inferiority - he leaned back in his organic "seat."
'Nope, no Elves are ever going to out-do Brandy Hall. . .'
Peregrin let out a chuckle as well. "What are you laughing about down there?" he asked slyly. "Come now, share! We need a good story."
The Took expected to hear a story of a long forgotten, yet especially ingenious prank of his cousin's during their younger and more carefree years. After their previous encounters with the dreaded Uruk-hai - Pippin hated even thinking of their name - their years had progressively added up, as though they had grown older in years when only days had passed.
The memories sounded like different hobbits, hobbit children that had sprung out more of their imagination than their own reckoning. More than anything, Pippin wanted to be little Peregrin Took again that always got into trouble - but never had to die for his mischief, as the Uruks might have seen fit.
"A good story?" Treebeard instead crowed. Merry's parted lips closed once more, and the two hobbits gave the Ent their full attention. "Why, I'll tell you a story. . .little orcs. . ." Merry and Pippin exchanged furtive, somewhat annoyed glances; however, they had grown used to their new identification.
"I suppose, comin' from Isengard, you two have met the White Wizard. . ."
"But we're *not* from Isengard!" Merry protested. "We're *hobbits* - hobbits, I tell you!"
Merry was determined that something was growing in Treebeard's ears - fungi or mushrooms, perhaps - that did not enable him to hear. For, Merry's cries of protest went unheeded and unchecked.
"You see, little orcs," Treebeard continued, and Merry gave up the fight left in him and released it in the form of a sigh, "there was a time when Saruman, the master of Ooorthanc, wasn't the way he was now, barroom."
"What do you mean?" Pippin intervened, grasping two other branches to lean forward. "You mean, he wasn't always. . .bad?"
"No, no!" the Ent cried out, then settled down a bit. "No, little orc, he was not always 'bad,' as you say. . ." Merry and Pippin exchanged glances once more, this time more out of shock than anything else.
Curiosity overtook Pippin. "So. . .tell us Treebeard, what was he like?" was the anxious reply.
Treebeard's voice changed, lessening in its deepness into his reflective voice that often accompanied his story telling - however, the hobbits noted, his voice had never been this. . .*sad*. . .when he recalled the past. Usually, the Ent's voice was an indifferent one, that of someone who had often let the world do what it pleased with itself, but this time. . .
It seemed to run deeper than that.
"There was a time. . ." Treebeard began with a sigh, "when the White Wizard loved all things living.
"There was a time. . .when he would go out to tend his own gardens, rather than asking his servants to go out and tear it up! Roots they tore up, that ran deep! Harumph!"
The hobbits felt a shudder in the tree creature's branches, shaking the leaves at its ends. Merry frowned impulsively as he looked into its face, now drooping and his great yellow eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. Finally, when they did retreat up, his eyes alone told the sad tale.
"There was a time, little orcs, when he would walk through these woods, and visit with me. He would ask questions about how to make his trees grow, what to feed them, and how to keep them happy.
"As you can imagine, little orcs, I don't get to visit with many people in these parts. And when I do, they'd rather know the way out, harrumph, than how to make their own plants happy.
"'Happy?' I said. 'Baroot, no one has ever asked me that before. . .' I thought for a couple minutes, and then I said, 'Talk to them. Ask them what they want.' He thanked me and he went on his way.
"As rude as it was, I couldn't help but laugh. 'The poor fool!' I thought to myself. 'No one can hear the trees except for we Ents. How could some silly wizard ever hope to learn their secrets?' Never, or so I thought.
"A few moons later, he came back. He said, 'As hard as I might try, I have not yet found a way to speak with my trees.' I chuckled a bit to myself.
"Then, he went on, '- But, Treebeard, one of my trees have become dreadfully ill! I'm afraid it will not live out the week.' He sighed a bit, and I could tell the next part was a bit hard for him to say, with his reputation and all. But, his pride didn't get the better of him, no, harrumph.
"'I. . .need your help, Treebeard.'
"To think, a *wizard,* asking an *Ent* for help. . .
"What was I to do except help?
"So I went with him, to Orthanc, where now smoke rises and orcs crawl, and visited his tree. 'What seems to be the matter?' I asked it in Old Entish. It took me quite awhile to get down to the bottom of it, but as a wizard, he knew that patience was a virtue; the tree eventually told me, rather begrudgingly actually, that it was a cold that some of the other trees had gotten, and had passed it along to him as well.
"I gave him a bit of mashed up Long Grass from the Northern border, and I was on my way again. Before I left, I told the White Wizard - he was fairly worried, actually - that all he needed to do was to give Orenthnen water, but to make sure that he does not give him too much.
"A few nights later, I came back. . ."
* * *
Night had fallen upon Isengard, and had nearly swallowed it up in its vastness. A shower had begun, the raindrops growing steadily larger as they fell onto the grass. Yet, a white figure still moved down the steps of Orthanc, the hem of its robes up in one hand, and a faintly glowing lantern held out by the other. Draped over its head was a white hood, and as the man quickened his pace and stepped out into the night, a bitter wind took up his cloak and made it ripple in the cold breeze.
Yet, he still journeyed on.
* In a place and time far from this one, two hobbits traveled along, side by side, the darkness of the world set against them, desiring the trinket they carried. "I don't like anything here at all," said one of them, his eyes blue as sapphire and his voice drowning in the misery of the world, "step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid." *
Leaving his treasured staff far behind in the tower above, the man ducked his head beneath the beating rain, and used his free hand to wrap his white cloak about his body. Still, the storm beat down ever harder, as if it would never cease until it won the battle against him.
'No,' he seemed to say, while continuing on, 'I will not yet yield. My task is not yet complete!' So, through the water and swamped ground he continued to tread.
'I shall endure the storm, as well as conquer it. I merely must endure for the time being. . .' The light in the lamp continued to glow strongly, flickering at times, but never waning.
Soon, he came up to the sickened tree. "Orenthnen!" he cried out, just as a crack of thunder sounded. The place lit up fleetingly, then drew back into darkness. More heavily the rain fell, and the wizard had to lower his head to it; the hand he held above his head would not stop it, nor protect the flame in the lantern.
"Allow me to assist you! I can help!"
The bark of the tree was a sickly color, paled by the exhaustion it was falling into. Feeling ill, it could not absorb all of the excess water flowing into its roots, and it groaned softly as it began to drown in what used to give it life.
Gaping in horror, the wizard - not heeding his own needs - threw off his outer cloak onto the base of the tree, and attempted to absorb the water that now threatened Orenthnen's health.
* "But I expect," his companion spoke, "they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn't." *
Coughing from the cold, the wizard looked about frantically as the water level began to rise. He reached out and hung the lantern on a low branch, and went on to try to soak up the ever-rising water.
When this had failed, he fell to his knees. Exhaling and inhaling more deeply, and more rapidly, the man bent forward and tried to toss out the water as a fox uses its forepaws to bury a dead muskrat.
However hard he tried, the water only rushed back to the tree's roots.
* "I wonder what sort of a tale we've fallen into?" the second pondered aloud.
"I wonder," said the other, the carrier of the trinket, "but I don't know. And that's the way of a real tale. . . . You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don't know. And you don't want them to." *
Saruman let out a cry of near-defeat, full of both anger and sorrow. He allowed himself to growl once more, then carried on with his work. Discovering that trying to dig the water away was unsuccessful, he crawled a bit of a ways from the tree, and began constructing a sort of trench around it, so that it might not soak up the impending flood that was about to overtake Isengard.
His back turned away, the tree began to moan loudly - a sound often mistaken for the wind by those who do not know better.
"Hold on, tree, hold on!" the wizard shouted, panic racing through his heart. Then, as soothingly as his fear allowed him to speak, he whispered, "Hold on, just a few more minutes. . ."
Mud stained his white garments, once clean and pure - unaltered by the changes of the world.
* "Tell me Sam," the hobbit spoke, in a half-whisper. "What are we fighting for?" *
Against time and fate he waged battle, his nails growing stained and breaking off into the seeping mud that threatened to overtake all.
* "For what good is left in the world. For what good is left in us. . ." *
The lantern's light went out with a single, lethal raindrop.
Darkness fell.
There was a great silence - even the rain had seemed to stop making sounds as they fell upon the earth and water. Then, a roaring began. Louder, and louder, it grew, until its wrath was upon him.
Slowly, the wizard turned round.
Then, he was swallowed up.
* * *
Gnarled fingers took up the drenched figure, hanging limply in the Ent's hand. Then, with a cough and a sputter, the old wizard opened his eyes - as if awakening from a terrible dream speaking whispers of the future.
"W. . .what happened, old friend?"
"A wave overtook you, barroom. I fear that Isengard's flooded."
Saruman blinked once, then understanding all the clearer, his eyes grew wide with worry. "And, Orenthnen, what of him?" The Ent, the wisest and the oldest of them, had - even in all the ages he had lived and endured - not yet found a way to keep knowledge from mirroring across his aged face. His bark-like lips pressed together in thoughtful guilt.
"You see. . .uh. . ." The sadness that shone in Saruman's eyes, hardened by ages filled with what might have been called *too* much knowledge - too much for a heart to be allowed to remain soft and uncalloused, was almost too much for the Ent, whose knowledge did not absorb nearly as much of the sadness and horror of the world. Sympathy welled up in his heart for the man.
"He is. . .dead, my friend. Dead."
A single tear shone in the wizard's eyes, quickly blinked away by his pride.
* "It's still worth fighting for." *
* * *
Both Merry and Pippin were unusually silent, and this time, when they exchanged glances, their eyes reflected the same mourning and the burden of "too much" knowledge that then shown in Treebeard's eyes.
"There was a time, little orcs. . ." Treebeard continued on, his voice sad and tired, "when he cared. *Before* his mind began filled with metal, and wheels. . . There was a time, young ones, that he still fought for the good left, rather than letting the evil win.
"There is still good in him yet, I suppose. Enough to fight for, should the evil not let him."
By Talking Hawk
The dawn rose up over the hills that seemed as numerous as that of the waves of the sea, rolling across the land as far as the eye could see. The light shone yellow, and seemed to cast a spell upon the long mythical land of Fangorn Forest - even young Merry had heard a tale or two of its supposed horror from that of well meaning servants prior to their kidnapping, in Lothlorien. Though to the hobbit, Lorien's - as well as its Lady's - beauty was unsurpassable, Fangorn held a beauty of its own; Merry had a gift for loving things that were untamable - whether it be Buckland ponies or lasses.
Above him, riding on a branch protruding from Treebeard's back, his cousin stretched out his arms and yawned. Their Ent friend had no reckoning of time, or at least hours, passing, and had not stopped to think that the two halflings might have needed some rest during their previous nocturnal conversation. However, Merry supposed, one does not need sleep daily if one can live thousands of years - like unto Elves, who live the same lifespan, but can go without food or sleep for days, even weeks, at a time.
However preoccupied the master of Buckland attempted to keep his mind, he always found himself slipping back to his memories of the Shire - the simplest, and yet, most wonderful, memories that he now possessed. The Elven and Dwarvish kingdoms all had their own magnificent splendor, but none of them could.well, they could probably do anything had they the mind for it, but.they didn't have hobbit holes! No, they did not.
Meriadoc puffed up with pride, chuckling a bit. No one could build a hobbit hole like that of the intricately constructed Brandy Hall! He welcomed Elrond and Celeborn to try it. 'They probably don't know which end of a shovel to use,' Merry thought to himself, and finally feeling a slight sense of superiority - rather than inferiority - he leaned back in his organic "seat."
'Nope, no Elves are ever going to out-do Brandy Hall. . .'
Peregrin let out a chuckle as well. "What are you laughing about down there?" he asked slyly. "Come now, share! We need a good story."
The Took expected to hear a story of a long forgotten, yet especially ingenious prank of his cousin's during their younger and more carefree years. After their previous encounters with the dreaded Uruk-hai - Pippin hated even thinking of their name - their years had progressively added up, as though they had grown older in years when only days had passed.
The memories sounded like different hobbits, hobbit children that had sprung out more of their imagination than their own reckoning. More than anything, Pippin wanted to be little Peregrin Took again that always got into trouble - but never had to die for his mischief, as the Uruks might have seen fit.
"A good story?" Treebeard instead crowed. Merry's parted lips closed once more, and the two hobbits gave the Ent their full attention. "Why, I'll tell you a story. . .little orcs. . ." Merry and Pippin exchanged furtive, somewhat annoyed glances; however, they had grown used to their new identification.
"I suppose, comin' from Isengard, you two have met the White Wizard. . ."
"But we're *not* from Isengard!" Merry protested. "We're *hobbits* - hobbits, I tell you!"
Merry was determined that something was growing in Treebeard's ears - fungi or mushrooms, perhaps - that did not enable him to hear. For, Merry's cries of protest went unheeded and unchecked.
"You see, little orcs," Treebeard continued, and Merry gave up the fight left in him and released it in the form of a sigh, "there was a time when Saruman, the master of Ooorthanc, wasn't the way he was now, barroom."
"What do you mean?" Pippin intervened, grasping two other branches to lean forward. "You mean, he wasn't always. . .bad?"
"No, no!" the Ent cried out, then settled down a bit. "No, little orc, he was not always 'bad,' as you say. . ." Merry and Pippin exchanged glances once more, this time more out of shock than anything else.
Curiosity overtook Pippin. "So. . .tell us Treebeard, what was he like?" was the anxious reply.
Treebeard's voice changed, lessening in its deepness into his reflective voice that often accompanied his story telling - however, the hobbits noted, his voice had never been this. . .*sad*. . .when he recalled the past. Usually, the Ent's voice was an indifferent one, that of someone who had often let the world do what it pleased with itself, but this time. . .
It seemed to run deeper than that.
"There was a time. . ." Treebeard began with a sigh, "when the White Wizard loved all things living.
"There was a time. . .when he would go out to tend his own gardens, rather than asking his servants to go out and tear it up! Roots they tore up, that ran deep! Harumph!"
The hobbits felt a shudder in the tree creature's branches, shaking the leaves at its ends. Merry frowned impulsively as he looked into its face, now drooping and his great yellow eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. Finally, when they did retreat up, his eyes alone told the sad tale.
"There was a time, little orcs, when he would walk through these woods, and visit with me. He would ask questions about how to make his trees grow, what to feed them, and how to keep them happy.
"As you can imagine, little orcs, I don't get to visit with many people in these parts. And when I do, they'd rather know the way out, harrumph, than how to make their own plants happy.
"'Happy?' I said. 'Baroot, no one has ever asked me that before. . .' I thought for a couple minutes, and then I said, 'Talk to them. Ask them what they want.' He thanked me and he went on his way.
"As rude as it was, I couldn't help but laugh. 'The poor fool!' I thought to myself. 'No one can hear the trees except for we Ents. How could some silly wizard ever hope to learn their secrets?' Never, or so I thought.
"A few moons later, he came back. He said, 'As hard as I might try, I have not yet found a way to speak with my trees.' I chuckled a bit to myself.
"Then, he went on, '- But, Treebeard, one of my trees have become dreadfully ill! I'm afraid it will not live out the week.' He sighed a bit, and I could tell the next part was a bit hard for him to say, with his reputation and all. But, his pride didn't get the better of him, no, harrumph.
"'I. . .need your help, Treebeard.'
"To think, a *wizard,* asking an *Ent* for help. . .
"What was I to do except help?
"So I went with him, to Orthanc, where now smoke rises and orcs crawl, and visited his tree. 'What seems to be the matter?' I asked it in Old Entish. It took me quite awhile to get down to the bottom of it, but as a wizard, he knew that patience was a virtue; the tree eventually told me, rather begrudgingly actually, that it was a cold that some of the other trees had gotten, and had passed it along to him as well.
"I gave him a bit of mashed up Long Grass from the Northern border, and I was on my way again. Before I left, I told the White Wizard - he was fairly worried, actually - that all he needed to do was to give Orenthnen water, but to make sure that he does not give him too much.
"A few nights later, I came back. . ."
* * *
Night had fallen upon Isengard, and had nearly swallowed it up in its vastness. A shower had begun, the raindrops growing steadily larger as they fell onto the grass. Yet, a white figure still moved down the steps of Orthanc, the hem of its robes up in one hand, and a faintly glowing lantern held out by the other. Draped over its head was a white hood, and as the man quickened his pace and stepped out into the night, a bitter wind took up his cloak and made it ripple in the cold breeze.
Yet, he still journeyed on.
* In a place and time far from this one, two hobbits traveled along, side by side, the darkness of the world set against them, desiring the trinket they carried. "I don't like anything here at all," said one of them, his eyes blue as sapphire and his voice drowning in the misery of the world, "step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid." *
Leaving his treasured staff far behind in the tower above, the man ducked his head beneath the beating rain, and used his free hand to wrap his white cloak about his body. Still, the storm beat down ever harder, as if it would never cease until it won the battle against him.
'No,' he seemed to say, while continuing on, 'I will not yet yield. My task is not yet complete!' So, through the water and swamped ground he continued to tread.
'I shall endure the storm, as well as conquer it. I merely must endure for the time being. . .' The light in the lamp continued to glow strongly, flickering at times, but never waning.
Soon, he came up to the sickened tree. "Orenthnen!" he cried out, just as a crack of thunder sounded. The place lit up fleetingly, then drew back into darkness. More heavily the rain fell, and the wizard had to lower his head to it; the hand he held above his head would not stop it, nor protect the flame in the lantern.
"Allow me to assist you! I can help!"
The bark of the tree was a sickly color, paled by the exhaustion it was falling into. Feeling ill, it could not absorb all of the excess water flowing into its roots, and it groaned softly as it began to drown in what used to give it life.
Gaping in horror, the wizard - not heeding his own needs - threw off his outer cloak onto the base of the tree, and attempted to absorb the water that now threatened Orenthnen's health.
* "But I expect," his companion spoke, "they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn't." *
Coughing from the cold, the wizard looked about frantically as the water level began to rise. He reached out and hung the lantern on a low branch, and went on to try to soak up the ever-rising water.
When this had failed, he fell to his knees. Exhaling and inhaling more deeply, and more rapidly, the man bent forward and tried to toss out the water as a fox uses its forepaws to bury a dead muskrat.
However hard he tried, the water only rushed back to the tree's roots.
* "I wonder what sort of a tale we've fallen into?" the second pondered aloud.
"I wonder," said the other, the carrier of the trinket, "but I don't know. And that's the way of a real tale. . . . You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don't know. And you don't want them to." *
Saruman let out a cry of near-defeat, full of both anger and sorrow. He allowed himself to growl once more, then carried on with his work. Discovering that trying to dig the water away was unsuccessful, he crawled a bit of a ways from the tree, and began constructing a sort of trench around it, so that it might not soak up the impending flood that was about to overtake Isengard.
His back turned away, the tree began to moan loudly - a sound often mistaken for the wind by those who do not know better.
"Hold on, tree, hold on!" the wizard shouted, panic racing through his heart. Then, as soothingly as his fear allowed him to speak, he whispered, "Hold on, just a few more minutes. . ."
Mud stained his white garments, once clean and pure - unaltered by the changes of the world.
* "Tell me Sam," the hobbit spoke, in a half-whisper. "What are we fighting for?" *
Against time and fate he waged battle, his nails growing stained and breaking off into the seeping mud that threatened to overtake all.
* "For what good is left in the world. For what good is left in us. . ." *
The lantern's light went out with a single, lethal raindrop.
Darkness fell.
There was a great silence - even the rain had seemed to stop making sounds as they fell upon the earth and water. Then, a roaring began. Louder, and louder, it grew, until its wrath was upon him.
Slowly, the wizard turned round.
Then, he was swallowed up.
* * *
Gnarled fingers took up the drenched figure, hanging limply in the Ent's hand. Then, with a cough and a sputter, the old wizard opened his eyes - as if awakening from a terrible dream speaking whispers of the future.
"W. . .what happened, old friend?"
"A wave overtook you, barroom. I fear that Isengard's flooded."
Saruman blinked once, then understanding all the clearer, his eyes grew wide with worry. "And, Orenthnen, what of him?" The Ent, the wisest and the oldest of them, had - even in all the ages he had lived and endured - not yet found a way to keep knowledge from mirroring across his aged face. His bark-like lips pressed together in thoughtful guilt.
"You see. . .uh. . ." The sadness that shone in Saruman's eyes, hardened by ages filled with what might have been called *too* much knowledge - too much for a heart to be allowed to remain soft and uncalloused, was almost too much for the Ent, whose knowledge did not absorb nearly as much of the sadness and horror of the world. Sympathy welled up in his heart for the man.
"He is. . .dead, my friend. Dead."
A single tear shone in the wizard's eyes, quickly blinked away by his pride.
* "It's still worth fighting for." *
* * *
Both Merry and Pippin were unusually silent, and this time, when they exchanged glances, their eyes reflected the same mourning and the burden of "too much" knowledge that then shown in Treebeard's eyes.
"There was a time, little orcs. . ." Treebeard continued on, his voice sad and tired, "when he cared. *Before* his mind began filled with metal, and wheels. . . There was a time, young ones, that he still fought for the good left, rather than letting the evil win.
"There is still good in him yet, I suppose. Enough to fight for, should the evil not let him."