By Zimrahil
Tendrils of ivy trailed off above the tower’s base, unable to climb higher on the sleek ancient stonework. Beneath was a verdant explosion of growth—delicate moss, scarlet-capped mushrooms, laughing wildflowers and tiny saplings just beginning to learn the song of the forest.
Quickbeam felt their high-pitched humming, reaching out to reassure the young trees that this was a safe, nurturing oasis. They had not known the fire and iron of orcs or the crashing majesty of dam break when Isengard was cleansed of its poison.
Distant warbling of thrushes mingled with buzzing insects and the quiet slumber of Fangorn. The war was over, the danger had passed. Now was the time for long lazy years in the sunlight. Perhaps the free peoples would forget that ents even existed, and they would only live on in stories and better yet, in song. When he opened his thoughtful eyes once more, the moon shone on the crevices of Orthanc, flickering in and out of patterned shadow. Perhaps a day had passed, or longer. Time meant little to ents, even hasty ones such as himself.
“Haaaruumm.” Quickbeam voiced, to no-one in particular.
“Baaariiimm.” An ent responded from the distance, striding with oddly decisive focus. He had not seen such speed from one of his kind since they marched into battle. His serenity vanished, and Quickbeam lounged into action, terrified that there had been an attack. Since the King had returned, there had been occasional raids of evil creatures, perhaps they were getting bolder.
“What news?” He called out in the common tongue. The response may have been considered rude; he knew the other ents despaired of him at times, but if his trees were in peril, there was no time to waste.
Quickbeam’s headlong rush into the woods startled a pair of rabbits, unused to trees dashing about, and he slowed his pace, taking a moment to observe the other ent. Even at a distance, there was an elegance that seemed—different. Mottled slashes of dark brown ringed a slender form, striding eagerly forward. It was not an ent familiar to him, perhaps from deep in the mountains.
A voice began to sing, warm and rushing like a bubbling brook in autumn, calling out a friendly greeting, or at least that is what it seemed to be. Many hours would pass in the woods before that word would cease.
There was no fear in the newcomer, and Quickbeam relaxed, allowing his twigs to soften from their clenched weapon-like fists. He stood, swaying in the breeze, listening to the soft “huuuuuuuuuuurrriiiiiiiiirrrrrrraaaaaaaaaauuuu” carrying in the wind. His eyes drifted closed, and when the song vanished, he opened them to the chill of early evening.
The figure before him was no ent.
“Impossible…” he whispered in common speech.
She smiled, lowering a branch to settle on the leaf cluster at his shoulder. “Tell me. Where is my love? Where is Fangorn?”
In that moment, Fimbrethil lifted her gaze to the mossy hillside. Framed in the moonlight stood Treebeard—his wise, ancient countenance transfixed with mingled grief and joy.
A rumbling stirred in the earth, as he began to hum her name. Slowly they reached for each other, melodies intermingling into magnificent harmony of heartbreaking elation.
Quickbeam quietly retreated into the oak and redwood grove surrounding Saruman’s ruined fortress, tears forming in his beautiful eyes.
The entwives had returned.
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