This is a belated birthday present for Daw the minstrel…with no spiders, no pets, but best wishes for a long, productive and successful year. Happy birthday, Daw!   

Advice from a tree.

Ossiriand, First Age, 510 years of the sun.

“Ada, the trees are speaking!” the young elf stumbled hurriedly in camp, breathing raggedly and looking quite dishevelled.

His adar made a sharp gesture with his head and continued scraping off the flesh and fat from the hide of the adult deer he had downed early that morning.

“You can start the fire while I finish this,” his naneth’s gentle voice cut in before the young elf’s disappointment became all too clear. “There will be time for tales later.”

He knelt obediently by the half completed circle of flat rocks and quickly set himself to the task of building a stone wall that would keep their  fire from fleeing into the forest. He awoke it with his strike-fire and fed it with a handful of beech-bark tinder and dry, dead wood, encouraging the new born flames with a gentle blowing.

“Come, help me bring the water…” His naneth was done with salmon gutting, it seemed, so he eagerly stood up and caught the waterskins while she placed the last salmon on the basket and wrapped the bloody mass of innards in big chestnut leaves. The young elf frowned briefly, knowing that it would be his task to dispose of them at some distant point from their camp and by the river. He escorted his naneth to the nearest river bend and stood watch over her as she got rid of the grime on her hands and makeshift apron.

The flames jumped happily in their stone prison when the young elf returned to camp with the waterskins, his grim task fulfilled. He stopped for a while outside the comforting circle of light, watching his parents as they made ready for dinner.

His naneth busied herself around while his adar, his task finished in his sure, efficient way, was now sitting by the fire, looking clean and almost relaxed, yet vigilant and silent. The youngster knew that the bigger pieces of deer meat now dangled from a tall branch, out of night predators’ reach. The entrails -as well as the smashed brains that would be used to cure the skin- had been carefully set apart, as had been the bones and sinews. He would be very busy for some time, splitting bones for fishing hooks, arrowheads and needles, and turning tendons into fishing lines or sewing threads, he thought in dismay. On the following days their neighbours would come to help and would be granted their share in the big creature. Nothing was wasted; that was the way of the forest, and there would be a merry feast to celebrate the abundance of the season and the deftness of the hunter they all looked up to as their natural leader. The boy grinned proudly, anticipating the looks on his friends’ faces at the sight of that magnificent prey hunted by his adar.

“Is it you, Thranduil?”

Startled, the boy could not help wondering whether his adar could hear him smile, and he walked grudgingly into the fire lit area, dropping the waterskins inside a hollow chestnut trunk and taking seat by his adar.

“Take this, my son, you must be hungry, you walked far today, I’d say!” With a quick smile to his naneth he reached out eagerly to receive the roasted salmon on the chestnut leaf and almost immediately blew his burnt fingers, frowning in feigned outrage.  “Easy child! It is still too hot!” she scolded him with a warm smile.

“But I’m starving!”

“That is no reason for losing your manners.” His adar’s harsh voice cut their playful exchange.

“I apologize, Adar.”

He ate in silence for a while, barely paying attention to his parents as they exchanged news on food supplies and the safety of the area. His adar’s severe face look even sterner in the flickering light of the flames, his golden hair blazing bronze, like that fire devil’s who had appeared one night out of nothing leading a host of demons with blazing eyes… with effort, Thranduil forced his mind from those terrifying memories. It was five years since that treacherous force of murderous elves led by a red-haired had slaughtered most of their people and forced the survivors from their home,  turning them into wandering refugees. He had not seen much of the events, but he had heard detailed accounts from the other exiles. But, above all, he knew that the deeply seated sadness that had overcome his adar and had chased away the merry, warm, affectionate and playful Elf he had known for all of his childhood had its roots in those dreadful, doomed days of the fall of Doriath.

As every time that he felt hurt by this short-tempered, irate, grieving adar of his, Thranduil closed his eyes and allowed his memories of better times to smother down the anger and resentment. He knew that the other elves looked up to Oropher for counsel and guidance, and he suspected that his adar felt responsible, and somehow guilty, for whatever had happened to the young princes. That was the reason why a group of refugees led by him still roamed as far as the dense forests of Ossiriand, in the vain hopes that the missing sons of Dior could be still found alive, perhaps fostered by the secluded green elves.

“You cannot ask me to give up…”

His adar’s voice dragged him from his musings. It always ended up like this, his naneth pleading uselessly and his adar stubbornly refusing to abandon a search that weighed more heavily upon him as the sun-rounds passed and the futility of his efforts became clearer. Moved by the quiet desperation that rang in his adar’s voice, Thranduil gathered all his courage and took advantage of the heavy silence that had fallen between his parents.

“The trees were speaking today, Adar…”

No one spoke for some time, until finally Oropher answered quietly.

“And what were they saying, child?”

That was the ritual refrain that preceded every tale-telling in their family. It was usually the other way; Oropher would begin and the child would answer in eagerness. There was such sad tenderness in the way his adar now accepted his clumsy attempt at comforting him that Thranduil almost felt that his heart would break, and had to breath in deeply for a couple of times to steady his voice before continuing with his tale.

“We started very early, shortly after you departed. I went with Geldoron and Maerlag. We were supposed to be gathering wood for the arrowshafts, and we wandered truly afar, eastwards and northwards, beyond the river crossings. The woods get even thicker there, and we followed a clear stream to its fountain, up on a small hill. And we heard it, then.”

“And what did you hear?” Oropher’s voice sounded soft, affectionate as he remembered it form his childhood, and he felt comforted by his naneth’s encouraging smile.

“At first it was like a Harrumm, Barraroum…and it startled us. We took to the trees and Maerlag and Geldoron fled away…and I... followed them a bit more slowly…for it suddenly began to sing in our language, Adar!” he added eagerly, fearing that Oropher would scold him for his imprudence.  His parents now looked at him in curiosity.

“Do you remember the words?” his naneth asked. Thranduil nodded.

“There are those who stand tall and proud, like oaks unyielding, and are never bent, but broken,” he began in a voice that gained firmness and force as the words appeared on his mind as clearly as if he were hearing them all over again.  

“There are others, like bay or reed, who curve before strong winds but stand their ground and hold fast to their roots.  

Who shall be there to share shade and shelter, fruit and wood, when the storms are gone and misfortune is overcome?” His father shot him a fiery glance at hearing this, and Thranduil almost gaped at his intensity, but his naneth motioned him to continue and put a restraining hand on Oropher’s arm.  

“Let your boughs sway in the winds while you sink your roots deeply into the Earth, but allow your fruits to wander free.    

Reach with your limbs to the sky, reflect the light of a greater source, feed it to those who thrive under your shade and protection.  

Stretch your arms to embrace the changing seasons, for there is plenty to savour in each of them, according to the will of Yavanna:  

Gather your strength in springtime, as life pulses anew.

Join in the song of living things, as they grow and are content to be while the Summer days are long.

May you never lack the wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall; grieve not over unavoidable losses and eternal change.

Hide not from the quiet mourning and painful renewal of every winter, for there has always been a Spring following a Winter, and an Autumn after the plenty of Summer; and such is the way of things.

Forget not that, tall as you may grow, falling leaves shall always return to your roots. 

Be like the trees you love, you Wood-elf, who offer shelter and protection to those who trust them. But try not to ride the storm winds.  

Let the river flow away, never to return, for the trees know not of the water’s doom. Let those who are gone be gone: The sea is full, yet not a drop is lost to the One."   

Oropher’s hoarse breathing mingled with the crackling of the flames as a warm spring breeze began to play among the leaves in the fire lit glade. Then, Thranduil stifled a yawn and the spell was broken.

“A wise tree indeed,” Oropher commented in a croaky voice, stretching his long limbs and trying in vain to look unconcerned. “Did you see whence the song came?”

“Yes, Adar, and that is the strangest thing, for as I was standing there, listening to its song, suddenly a couple of eyes appeared before me…and I almost fell from the branch! It was the strangest face I’ve ever seen… rugged but young, and eyes as deep as were those of the Queen..” his voice faltered here at the pained wince on his adar’s face. “He was tall as Hírilorn, with branches and boughs all around.. and when he finished singing he bowed to me. “Tell your Adar, sapling,” he said. “He will know better than to ignore advice from a tree…” He stretched then to his fullest size, towering above the other trees and walked away in three huge strides…what was that, Adar? Geldoron said I dreamed of it…”

“I do not think, son, but now it is too late for more tales,” his naneth said wisely.

Oropher looked as if a heavy branch had hit him on his head and had stunned him for a while, gaze lost in what distant places his son could not know. He put a soft kiss on his adar’s golden head and walked away to his small alcove. His adar had made a snug shelter of living trees for him when they reached that clearing a couple of days ago. He had found three saplings protected by a tall, straight ash-tree, and had bent them inwards, lashing them together and threading fallen branches into the resulting alcove. Then they had covered it with moss and pieces of bark and weighed it down with more branches. Together they had piled a bed of last autumn leaves inside until it looked as comfortable as Thranduil's chamber in Menegroth, the child had produly announced. With a last look at the fireside, where his adar and naneth sat in close embrace, Thranduil entered his living refuge, knowing that his adar would spend the night on the tall tree above him, watching his sleep and protecting him from evil and dangers.

***  

Let those who are gone be gone: The sea is full, yet not a drop is lost to the One.  Oropher sighed heavily, turning the tree’s words on his mind for a long time. Finally, he lifted pained eyes to his wife’s serene face. “Do you think he met one of the Onodrim?”

“And one who knows you well enough, don’t you think?” she said softly, pressing his hand and placing a soft kiss on it. “What do you intend to do now?”

“They are lost, then,” he whispered, and his pain bled fresh again in his soft voice.

“At least they are out of our reach, Oropher. And yet look around you, there are many more who need you, your strength and your courage and your guidance. Will you ignore advice from a tree?”

“Do you actually believe me to be so stubborn?” And then, “no, do not answer me…” and they chuckled softly, holding each other tightly.

“I do not want to go to Sirion, though…” he said after a time. “Can we remain here, in the forest?”

“I’m a wood elf, my love, and I think our son too loves the freedom of the woods. So unless you tire of this rustic way of life…” His deep kiss cut her words most successfully.

“Never. From now on I shall bend with the winds and give shelter and protection to those around me..”

“And will you try not to ride the storms?”

“Unless they threaten to overwhelm us, my love…”

“Oropher…”

“I am a warrior, Sîriel, I cannot promise to stand aside while my people are threatened.”

“But I would not wish to see you swept away by a strong wind…

“I have deep roots, my love, do not forget that…”

“Let us hope that we are strong enough then,”

“Stronger than the foundations of Arda, Sîriel, never doubt me, no wind or fire shall uproot me.”

Dawn found them still embraced, standing guard over their sapling from the branches of the mighty ash who lulled them with its steady song. As the first rays of morning crowned the heads of the trees, it felt to Oropher that he had finally found his peace and his place, among the trees, away from courts and machinations and reassured by the presence of his loved ones.

“How could you ever thought that I would disregard advice from a tree?” he murmured against his half-asleep wife’s dark hair, wet with fresh droplets of morning dew. And he knew that he would treasure those wise words for all his life.

The End 

A/N The fall of Doriath happened around F.A 505. Nothing is known of Thranduil’s birth date. So I chose to have him born in Doriath for the purposes of this tale.

Hirilorn is the tall tree where Thingol kept Luthien.

The Onodrim are the Ents.