Genesis
Apple

They had argued over the first apple. Erestor, who had once tried to eat holly berries when he was very young, observed the strange fruit’s rosy skin and decided that it was probably poisonous. The red so vividly revealed by the recently arisen Sun struck him as a warning. Bauglir had scarred the starlit world too deeply to walk incautiously in this bright dawn; not all new saplings unfurling into daylight were to be trusted.

“It’s delicious,” said his incautious companion, ignoring him. “Try it.”

Juice dripped from her knife. She offered him half in the palm of her hand.

Shadow-Tree
Yew

When Erestor was young, he had seen birds eating berries from that tree, scarlet berries from a tree whose every part was poison. The shadow-tree, the elders said, and told of a Dark Rider whose hooves had thundered before the Sundering. Terrors invading every glade and twisting thorns and snakelike vines that throttled Elves in flight. That was when the tree whose every part was medicine became a thing of death. And yet the birds still ate the scarlet berries and did not die.

Ages later, he saw Men burying their dead beneath the shadow-tree and wondered what it meant.

Tol Galen
Willow

This was a memory that Dior Eluchíl treasured in later years: his laughing father teaching him, one-handed, to spar beneath the green leaves of Tol Galen with willow staves. “Not like that!” and “Keep your foot in!” and “Very good, you’re improving!” While Dior ducked and danced and swung, seeking to imitate his father’s effortless precision, aware of his mother’s smile when she passed by.

At last, “This is for you,” said his father and held out an exquisitely sheathed sword. “From your grandfather.”

Dior balanced his stave thoughtfully. “What of these?”

“We’ll plant them,” said his father. “Maybe they’ll grow.”

Afterwards, Doriath
A New Leaf

The King was dead. So said the messengers sent to Tol Galen. His blood blackened the stone of his own city. The Queen had passed from Middle-earth and Doriath lay ungirdled, Melian’s shadow-webs unspun from sunlit Neldoreth and Region and nightingale-haunted Nan Elmoth, where Melian and Elu Thingol had entranced each other beneath the silent stars.

Hence the Dwarven war-host spilling down from Ered Luin. The messengers blanched. No warnings had come to Menegroth.

“Sarn Athrad,” said Beren. “We’ll fight at the ford.”

Dior brushed an unfurling willow leaf. “Afterwards, Doriath.”

“Yes,” said his mother, almost steadily. “A new age.”

The Land of Gift
Mallorn

From Tol Eressëa had come already evergreens to blossom across the bay: fragrant oiolairë and slender lairelossë, red-berried yavannamirë graciously lowering its fruit-heavy branches, nessamelda and sweet vardarianna and the pale, peeling bark of taniquelassë. Now the white ships brought nuts to raise silver pillars to the sky. Malinorni, the trees were called, or mellyrn in a more familiar tongue. The budding beech-like leaves glistened in the summer sun. In five hundred years, said the Elves of Eressëa, this new gift would brush the stars.

Erestor remembered nightingale-haunted beech groves from a different age. But he dreamed of golden woods.

News From Abroad
The White Tree

“A fair tree grows in Armenelos,” said his visitors. “It flowers in the evening. They say Yavanna grew the first of its kind in the likeness of Telperion, the Tree Bauglir destroyed. Galathilion, that one was called, and from Galathilion came the White Tree of Tol Eressëa, which is named Celeborn.”

“‘Tree of Silver’,” said Celeborn, amused. “An inventive people, the Elves of Eressëa.”

He saw the glance his visitors shared. “The White Tree of Númenor is called Nimloth. From Ninquelótë, they say.”

Nimloth.

Her screams echoed in his ears again, slaughtered amid smoke and stone trees at Dior’s side.

Lamenting Lúthien
Pine

“How sorrowfully he laments her,” sighed Goldberry and tipped her head to listen while her hands gathered lace-white mushrooms without pause. “How sadly he plays! The flute was well-made, dear one.”

“Eh, no hard task!” said Tom Bombadil. “If the Elf’s singing pleases my fair Goldberry, naught be too much trouble! But he is a woeful fellow. Why, my merriest songs cheer him not at all!”

His eyes glinted in the shadows beneath the pine boughs. Goldberry threw him a reproving glance. “You should not tease him so!”

“Nay, and I shall not,” said Tom, laughing, “for Goldberry forbids it!”

Omnia Vanitas
Holly

Storm clouds darkened above the pallid cliffs, edged with sulphurous yellow as the last of the day burned off in a smoky blaze. The new road with its serrated hedges stretched alongside the Sirannon’s sunset-bloodied waters. “I tried holly berries once,” recalled Erestor. “Not a good idea.”

Melinna flicked a glossy leaf. “I remember. It wasn’t.”

“I was young.” He glanced up the valley. The doors of Hadhodrond stood open in the distance. “So are the Jewel-smiths. They think their work will last forever.”

“Of course they do,” said Melinna. “Why bother, otherwise?”

“Noldor!” said Erestor. “You’d think they’d learn.”

A Satisfactory Approximation Anyway
Oak

All around, the walls of what was very nearly Imladris arose in jutting jigsaw pieces above the rushing Bruinen. The builders were working slowly as the light faded and the savoury smells of dinner began to drift through the valley. Far overhead a couple of early stars glittered against the deepening indigo evening. Erestor lounged in the green shadows of a spreading oak and contemplated invisibility.

“There you are,” said Melinna, appearing unexpectedly. “Did Elrond find you earlier?”

Erestor yawned. “No.”

“Thought not.” She sat down beside him. “This tree comes down tomorrow. They want the wood to make doors.”