Chapter 4

Erestor had been presumptuous in setting this up, Elrond mused, but he had also been wise. The forest was not at all what he had expected - and it was exactly what he needed.

Estel's presence at his side was a balm for his aching spirit. His had been the strength that had helped Elrond cross over the threshold and into the Twins' Wood, and now that Elrond was here he felt that his son was right - the forest was glad for their presence. It sang of joy, of hope, of peace. The trees did not resent him, did not mourn Celebrian's absence, not beyond sharing in his grief about her fate at least - and there was strength in their slow, reverent lament, there was support.

Their song was calming, reassuring, unwavering. And for once, Elrond found it easy to speak of Celebrian, of her deeds and of the marks she had left on the valley. The trees lent him their strength, their memory, and their song, as he strove to answer all of Estel's questions, tried to conjure an image of those happy times spent under the protective boughs of this wood.

He reached out a hand to lay on the nearest trunk, an oak he remembered his wife planting at least four yen ago, still strong, with deep reaching roots that sang of waterfalls high up the valley, of light beams on treetops and mountain highs, of deep caverns and clefts in the rocks of the Misty Mountains. These trees belonged to this valley; they were a part of its history. A mark that had been set for the birth of his children, had been crafted and directed by the loving hand of his wife and that had become an integral part of his realm. And despite Celebrian's absence, it was still hale, still whole, enduring like the memory of her that he carried in his heart.

Estel, though he could not hear the song of the trees, seemed to have a sense for their spirit regardless; an understanding far beyond his years, beyond his race - he could feel the trees' intent. And in the face of the joy of the trees, he too was glad. And as always, he was unrestrained in showing his joy. With the vigor of the very young he raced through the forest, looking at fallen leaves, at acorn and chestnut, at squirrels and bunnies that were too slow to flee the exuberant child. His laughter filled the entire forest.

Together they made their way deeper into the forest, walking beneath the radiant canopy and upon the gold-speckled floor of the vibrant forest. The air was warm, filled with the sweet smell of meadow blossoms and sap, of living soil and fresh leaves. But more than that it was filled with the sweet sound of the trees' song, never waning, never faltering, urging him on, begging him to stay.

"Ada?" Estel asked, breaking his focus, and Elrond turned to him.

"Yes, ion nin?"

"How are these trees - awake?" He had faltered a bit, clearly trying not to say 'alive' again but unable to find a word that better fit to describe these trees. He had settled on a good choice.

Elrond mused about his answer. Where to begin? How to capture the essence of trees with mere words, how to describe the powers that had been invoked to wake them from their slow slumber when the world was young? How to explain the difference between slumber, wakefulness and awareness? Did he even know where those lines were truly drawn?

In the end, he started at the beginning. Weaving a tale of the coming of the stars, about the elves that lived among the twilit boughs of Middle Earth, walking its vast forests, talking to its trees. Of how that friendship had been formed, had turned into kinship and sparked a transformation in the creations of Yavanna, an echo of the melody she had woven during the creation of the world. He talked of Ents next, shepherds of the trees and once roaming the vast forest that spanned from Beleriand to the east of the Misty Mountains.

"Walking, talking trees?" Estel asked, his eyes alight with curious excitement.

"The ents are not trees, Estel," Elrond corrected patiently, "though many do look like the flocks they guard."

Estel's eyes darted left and right, searching between the boughs of the forest as if expecting to see one strolling across this path at any moment. "Are there any ents here?"

Elrond chuckled. "No, ion nin. There are no ents in Rivendell, nor indeed anywhere west of the Mountains. Not any more."

"Not even in the Old Forest?"

There was something crestfallen in Estel's voice, not just disappointment, but worry. For all his excitement and his joy, Estel's worry for his older brothers was still hovering close. It combined with Elond's own unease, teased at the edges of his awareness, at the warning of a vision that still hovered there, a foreshadowing of danger that might never manifest. Elrond pushed it aside, trying instead to focus on the song of the trees once more, on the calmness they had shared so freely before.

It was only now that he realized the forest had stilled. A sudden cold gust of air blew around them, rustling through dry leaves on long-dead branches. They had reached the center of the forest, its heart - and it had withered.

-o0o-

The farther he and Elladan walked, the heavier the air seemed to be getting, thicker somehow. Dense with purpose and evil intent, and interwoven with a nigh irresistible song. One that spoke of weariness, of heavy limbs, of resting on the soft ground of the forest floor, enshrined in moss and leaves. A fragrant pillow it would be, a soft blanket, a suffocating shroud.

Elrohir blinked his eyes furiously, fighting against the sudden invasion of thought, the heaviness of his lids. "The willow must be close," he said through clenched teeth and his voice dropped into the stillness of the forest, drowning amid the flutter of leaves. There was no reply.

He snapped his head forward, noticing for the first time that the path ahead of them dipped, dropping into a shallow vale, the Withywindle loud as it rushed down the slope, its cheerful, lively gurgles so out of place in the deathly quiet vision the tree had tried to conjure. Elrohir saw the Willow now. Just beside Elladan's arm he caught a glimpse of it at the bottom of the vale.

But he paid it no heed, his attention was on his twin.

Elladan did not move. He barely even seemed to breathe. At his side his hands were balled into tight fists. His entire posture spoke of tightly coiled tension, a stormcloud before the first clap of thunder. And more than just his brother's stiffness radiated this feeling - Elrohir could feel the darkness of his twin's emotions reverberating in their bond, a roiling mass of anger, of hatred, of anticipation.

Elrohir would be lying to himself if he had thought the emotions alien. In truth they were all too familiar, a reflection of the flames that drove them to destroy orcs, to hunt the infernal servants of Morgoth into their very caves, to rid all of Arda of their foul existence. But there were no orcs here, and the intensity of the darkness that emanated from Elladan was not only not warranted, it was tainted. Something was stoking the flames of his twin's anger, exacerbated the hatred and suffering he felt. Elrohir's eyes came to rest on the Willow again. Remembering the whispers it had spoken to him, he could imagine what falsehoods it would sing to his brother, what lies it whispered in rustling leaves carried on stale air.

Elrohir reached out a hand, hesitatingly placing it on Elladan's shoulder. "Elladan?" he queried, his voice betraying his concern. Elladan jerked; Startled, Elrohir realized, by the sudden contact, but the motion was all it took to dispel the tight tension he had wound through his back and sides. Elladan blinked suddenly, turning his head, briefly looking at Elrohir before his gaze slid to the Old Man Willow, pieces of a puzzle falling into place. A new kind of anger replaced the one conjured by the willow, a righteous one. How dare it?

Elladan's gaze returned to that of Elrohir, filled with grim determination, and he gave him a nod, a silent answer to an unspoken question. It was time. The Willow had fallen silent, its branches unmoving, its leaves silent. Its trickery had failed.

With Elladan at his side, Elrohir moved forward, preparing to call upon his inner strength, to sing the song Iarwain Ben-adar had taught them, to send the Willow back to sleep. Back to digging soil and drinking water. The first of its massive roots rose from the ground before him, forming a shallow arc, gnarled and bent, harboring an ancient dormant strength. Beside him Elladan started singing, his melodious voice cutting through the staleness of the air, invoking an image of sunlight, of tranquility, of peace. Elrohir raised his hands and took another step - straight into darkness.

Light ceased to be. Elladan's song faltered. And suddenly Elrohir was alone in a mire of black. No light reached him, no sound of song or spoken word. Just cloying darkness and a chilling cold. And the terrible, instinctive knowledge that he was alone.

He whirled around to make sure. Darkness surrounded him. Where was Elladan? What had happened to his twin? The first grips of panic threatened to take hold as the question cut through him. How could he not know where Elladan was? His twin was as good as a part of him, a shared piece of his soul - and he was still… The sudden realization, the spark of Elladan's presence in the corner of his mind, right where it had always been, calmed him instantly.

He took a breath, then a second, clinging to his innate awareness of his twin. Elladan was close. This was merely an illusion. An image wrought by the ancient tree or spirit in front of them. And as if it was summoned by his realization, by his thought of it, the tree suddenly appeared from the dark. A huge looming shade of gray that blotted out all else, towering above him, pressing down on him with wicked thoughts and a song of its own, a song of ancient strength.

Far from being defeated, the Old Willow had gone on the attack.

Wind whipped past him, strong gusts with razor edges, but Elrohir was not cowed. He raised his hand again. Calling on his fëa and willing his lips to shape the song Tom Bombadil had taught them, Elrohir stepped forward. Light sprang forth, a channelling of his spirit into a brilliant flame, into a weapon against the spirits of the shadow realm. In the face of it the willow's branches seemed to retreat, its leaves quaking in a different kind of storm now, and Elrohir pressed his advantage. This was the tree they needed to calm, this was the enemy that Elladan had chosen to face rather than to circumvent. He took another step, his voice strong and even, his moves determined as he pitted his spirit against that of the tree. A fight of the fëa; suppressing the willow's call to sleep and surrender and making his own plea instead, an offering: Rest. Peace.

The tree did not want those.

With garish suddenness daylight returned, the world righted itself, and then upended. Faster than thought the tree's roots had moved, shot upward, then rammed down - tripping him and catching his falling legs beneath them. Wood cracked and split, straining in protest against the sudden movement. But it was moving, and it was clamping down, pressing on Elrohir's trapped legs, threatening to split them in two like small, dry branches. Elrohir bit back a scream, his song faltering, his concentration shattered. Desperately he tried to catch his breath, to marshal his resistance and resume the song, but new roots crawled across his chest, pressing down, and Elrohir gasped, losing precious air from his ailing lungs. Darkness taunted at the corners of his vision, swallowing the failing light.

In his head he could hear the Old Willow's laughter.

-o0o-

A/N: 'muhahahaha' - cue the evil laughter :D As always, thanks to everyone who left a review - your messages mean so much and keep me going/posting! Thank you