The Last Green Leaf - by Nieriel Raina
Part One
The oak stood for many a year, growing tall, sturdy and full of life. Birds nested in its mighty branches, singing and flitting among the leaves. Squirrels played on its limbs, chasing one another in a dance around the great trunk and down among the roots peeking up through the ground. Lynx crouched on the branches while hunting the many deer that gathered to eat the acorns strewn under the broad spread of its boughs. Spring brought a myriad of new green leaves and catkins, covering the tree in a magnificent dress, and the tree gloried in being alive, lifting itself to the sun. In the heat of summer, animals and oft times Men sought refuge in the shade of the grand oak, and before the darkness fled evil creatures from the Shadowed Mountains also took shelter there. Autumn found the oak long arrayed in dark green before changing its attire to brown and kept itself clothed for the coming winter, its dry leaves rustling and singing in the blustery wind and rain. And beneath many a winter moon, the tree lay sleeping under a blanket of white snow, its roots pushing deeper into the earth. Even in rest, life resounded within the tree, a steady hum of song that few could hear.
But immortal life is not granted to all things, and death for some comes sooner than anticipated. For the oak, it began when lightning struck the tree near the base, splitting part of the trunk and killing a goodly portion of the timber. With the bark burnt away, the tree became vulnerable. Beetles made swift work of the weakened places, boring holes into the smooth timber. Again and again, woodpeckers drilled holes into it, the rat-a-tat ringing throughout the forest as they sought out the bugs burrowed inside. A colony of ants moved in, making a nest. They carved criss-crossing tunnels in the fragile and decaying pulp, until finally, the paths collapsed in on themselves, leaving a significant hole.
The oak, now a mere shadow of its former splendor, became a new sort of home to many creatures over the years. And though it weakened, and more branches and boughs succumbed to become dry, brittle sticks, the oak rejoiced in the life still reverberating through it.
Birds still nested in the thinning branches. Squirrels still played chase around the trunk. And in the hollow formed by lightning and insect damage, a family of dormice moved in. Using claws and teeth, they smoothed out more of the innards of the tree, lining the opening with leaves and fur. Though for many years the family made the tree their home, they dwindled in numbers. Finally, the last breeding pair was parted when a hawk seized the male, making a quick snack of the small rodent. Life still flittered amid its branches, but with the activity and warmth missing from within it, the oak felt alone, until one day, a fox found the hollowed out spot near the base of the tree. He scratched and dug down into the earth amid the roots, expanding the crevice, and making it his home for over a year. But one day, he too did not return.
Again and again, year after year, the hollowed oak became a home for another creature. The tree suffered from the damage of time and decay, its demise brought closer by the critters that made the oak their abode. Each rooted deeper, digging into the living center of the tree. The oak did its best to renew itself, but it could not replace all that had been lost. Its leaves grew more sparse. Dead limbs littered the ground near the trunk, and when the rains came, the oak groaned and creaked in the wind. But it never begrudged the creatures who lived in it; the lively beasts that sapped its life away.
Late one autumn, a bear ripped a good portion of the trunk away at its base, leaving a large enough hollow for him to climb in and sleep away the Winter. In the Spring, he moved on, leaving the tree empty, broken and closer to death than it had ever been before. And yet the oak mourned the loss.
Seasons passed, and while a few creatures sought temporary shelter in the deeply hollowed tree, none stayed over long. With the onset of Winter, the oak lay dormant, snow covered and alone, and come Spring, only a single branch reached up to the sky with new green buds. The rest of the branches creaked and squeaked, rattling and oft times falling to the ground in a strong wind.
But though Spring had come, this year an unseasonably late storm arrived one night, bringing with it driving snow that piled against the trunk and laden the oak's branches. Though the warmth of the morning sun would banish the white blanket, during the dead of night, the wind howled, and the temperature dropped, and the tree shook. Under a new moon, darkness reined with the stars blotted out by the heavy clouds. And in the deep black of night, something crawled into the tree, curling up inside the hollow and using the old bedding of many long dead creatures to help keep warm. Though weak and only a skeleton of its former glory, the oak offered what comfort it could, sensing this creature was different, and not at all whole. Like itself, the life curled inside the trunk faded with each beat of the creature's heart.
The unseasonable deep freeze robbed the life from the new leaf buds, leaving them frozen and stiff. No leaves would spring forth with the new day. Death would come. But the oak took comfort that it would not die alone. And if they passed together, forever would their bones mingle in the earth.
The wind died down, and the snow ceased to fall.
In the grey light of early dawn, the tree sensed another's approach. It came haltingly, but steady, as if searching, its spirit speaking to the trees of the wood. Frantic, it sought for something. Long had it been since the oak had felt such a touch, and what life left within it rejoiced and cried out. Questions rippled through the treetops among the oak's neighbors, and the tree groaned in response.
Here! Here! He is here!
Legolas slipped through a copse of trees. He threw his senses wide, seeking and searching for what he knew must be there. The trees of Ithilien responded to his pleas. Their rustling whispers guiding him on through the black night.
Three days. Legolas pulled his cloak more firmly around himself. How could Elessar be missing for so long? Legolas understood the king's need to escape his duties, even for a short time. But a hunting trip alone? When the wild boar were rutting? And without a spear!
Only yesterday Legolas received the news that Aragorn had failed to return to Emyn Arnen in the allotted time. One day late was not much cause for concern, not when it came to a man of Aragorn's experience in the wilds. But by late afternoon of the second day, Faramir began sending out search parties – and a request to the elves of Ithilien to aid the search, asking their lord in particular to join the hunt for the missing King of Gondor.
For over a day Legolas had sought for his friend. He sensed the king had not yet been found, for the trees would alert him if that happened, but no ripples of joy moved the air. Only waves of concern. The trees were anxious and urged him onwards, over a small rise. Just a little further.
Legolas quickened his pace, his feet running lightly over the surface of the snow.
There.
Before him loomed an old oak tree, its gnarled, dead branches dry and brittle. Yet a thread of life remained, for the oak summoned him, a single limb quivering in the still night.
The oak's condition grieved Legolas as he ran to it, laying a hand on the decaying bark. He sent comfort and thanks to the tree, even as he found the large opening to the hollowed inside. Fear at what he might find wrapped its cold arms around him, and he felt the tree try to comfort him. He could see something curled up inside the space, and reached in, his fingers touching soft cloth and worn leather.
"Estel?"
Silence.
"Aragorn!" No movement or sign of life came from within the tree. Frantic, Legolas reached further in and shook the man, until to his relief, a low murmur resonated from within the oak.
Standing, Legolas thanked the tree again for its protection of his friend. The oak welcomed him, accepted his thanks and granted the request made of it. As the sun rose over the horizon, Legolas made quick work of gathering dead branches from the dying tree. Setting them nearby, he cleared the ground of snow and used the dead branches to build a small fire near the hollow. The oak trembled at the orange glow, and Legolas reassured it that he would bring no harm to the forest.
Stooping down, Legolas crawled into the hollow tree with his friend, singing softly to himself. The oak rejoiced as his voice echoed within its core. With what space he had, Legolas did his best to evaluate the man. He could smell blood and sensed the injury though he could not see it with Aragorn curled up as he was. Running his hands under the cloak Aragorn had bundled himself into, he felt his way along, starting at the man's neck and chest, then moving down his stomach. He found minor injuries as his hands traversed: cuts, bruises and abrasions, and rips in the cloth. Those were no cause for concern and would not have prevented the king from returning on time.
He searched further, running his hand down the right leg, encountering something bulky. There. The leg was covered in a makeshift, bloody bandage just above the greatly swollen knee. As he prodded, Aragorn moaned and shifted. "Easy, Estel. I have you." Legolas found the man's shoulder with one hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "You're going to be all right."
Ascertaining it safe to move him, Legolas eased Aragorn out of the tree and lay him on a blanket he had pulled from his pack. Aragorn groaned and shivered, and Legolas removed his own cloak and covered the king with it, tucking it around him. The rising sun already had the temperature climbing. Soon the snow would begin to melt. Picking up a small pot, Legolas filled it with snow and set it on the fire to melt and heat.
Standing, Legolas threw his senses wide again, calling to the trees, sending word that the king had been found, and a plea for help to come. The trees around him began to rustle and sway, their leaves whispering the news on through the wood. Help would not be long in coming.
As the water heated, Legolas checked his friend's fingers, toes and face for frostbite, but though they were chilled, they had not frozen. Satisfied that the only injury he need concern himself with was the gore wound and a badly injured knee, Legolas drew his knife from its sheath and cut off the bandage. Then he slit Aragorn's trousers from above the wound all the way down to the ankle. He sheathed his knife and reached for a small pack containing healing supplies, setting what he'd need beside him, then checking to see if the melted snow had warmed enough.
With slow, meticulous care, Legolas eased the material away from the wound, soaking it with warm water when needed where the blood stuck it to the skin. He found what he had suspected: a gore from a wild boar. The beast must have been huge judging from the size of the gash in Aragorn's leg. Legolas was amazed that the leg had not been broken, then winced as he looked at the hot, swollen knee. This far afield, alone with such an injury and with such unusual weather… Legolas shivered. Aragorn had been lucky to find the hollow oak. Without a doubt, the shelter had saved his life. He sent his thanks once again to the once mighty oak, and smiled when the oak creaked in response.
Cleaning the wound proved a challenge. Aragorn woke cursing and writhing. Legolas, having endured many such wounds in his life, did his best to be gentle, while at the same time efficient. Such work was tedious, and Legolas did his best to ignore the groans and twitches coming from his friend. When the task was finally complete, Legolas applied a poultice and bandaged the wound, taking care to wrap the knee to keep it from excessive movement until a qualified healer could ascertain the extent of that injury.
Aragorn rested with his eyes closed, his face strained from exhaustion and pain. Legolas heated more water, removing it from the flame when it had come to a boil. Taking out several leaves from his healing supplies, he crushed them into the water, adding some willow bark for the pain. He let the brew steep, singing softly while he cleaned up the mess he had made of his pack. Once the tea had cooled enough, Legolas helped Aragorn drink it down, then cooled the man's face with a wet cloth and sang while his friend drifted to a more restful sleep.
A creaking drew his attention up to the dead branches above. He stood, stretching his limbs to the morning sun. His gaze lingered on a single branch – the only one with buds, and those he feared had not survived the cold. Casting a quick glance at Aragorn who slept comfortably, Legolas moved to the trunk of the tree, feeling and testing the dead wood. He climbed up into the oak, taking care as he moved among the dead branches until he reached the one limb still showing signs of life. He straddled it, sadly, touching the dead buds. "The cold has been too much, my friend."
The oak groaned in agreement. It was weary, and accepted its time had come. Legolas sighed. The tree should have lived many more years before succumbing to this slow decay of death. And yet, looking closely at the trunk in the early morning light, he noted the oak had in all probability lived longer than it should have, crippled by decay as it was.
The oak would die, and soon. This year would be its last.
But Legolas felt the last thread of life pulse in the tree. He felt its joy at being alive. Its joy at having an elf among its branches, and a tear slipped down his cheek. He ran a hand lovingly over the rough bark of the bough. "Thank you for your care of my friend. I feared for him. But now… Now, I think he will recover."
Stepping down to another branch, Legolas leaned his forehead against the live bough. "I fear the last Greenleaf has graced your proud boughs."
Aragorn limped into the hall, filled a plate from the sideboard and took his seat beside Faramir, greeting him and Eowyn with a smile. The couple was speaking earnestly over some matter Aragorn made no effort to follow. Once seated, he slipped his hand discreetly under the table and rubbed his aching leg and knee. With the coming of winter, the ache had set in, no matter that a fire blazed cheerily in the hearth. His leg seemed to know that outside the wind howled. It seemed his body did not heal quite like it used to back when he wandered the wilds of the world.
He reached for his cup and a lock of hair fell over his brow. As he moved his hand to brush it back, Aragorn noted the silvery grey streaking the once black strands and grinned to himself. He supposed he was getting old, though he still felt quite young inside. Too old to hunt alone, or so Eldarion insisted. Since his son had had reached the age of fifty, he had gotten strange notions of what the king could and could not do. After the incident with the boar, Aragorn conceded Eldarion's thoughts of having a hunting lodge built for the family was a much better way of taking his leisure than tramping about the woods alone. The long recuperation from his injury had been enough for him to accept his son was correct.
He rubbed his knee a bit more. More than half a year had passed since that notorious hunting trip, which could have ended tragically if not for Legolas. He left off his rubbing to butter a slice of toast, glancing around the room for his friend. The elf was no where to be seen.
"Where has Legolas run off to?" he asked as Faramir turned to him with a smile.
"Ah." Faramir's smile turned a bit puzzled. "I'm not sure. He left word that he was called away late last eve, and would return when he could. But his note said nothing about where or why he had to leave." He picked up a piece of fruit and chewed it thoughtfully. "Strange, and yet I've come to expect such things over the years." He chuckled and reached for another piece of sliced fruit.
Aragorn grinned at that. "Yes. Only one of his peculiar habits. We'll know soon enough, I suppose."
Legolas's song ended, but he sat long in the dead branches. The life had slowly ebbed away till no pulse or thread of it existed. The oak had died. But it had not died alone.
The cold eventually drove Legolas to seek out the hollowed trunk. By morning, the opening had drifted closed with snow, but he had no trouble digging himself out. He stood a long time on the snow, staring up at the tree that had moved him so greatly. This one had loved life, loved the wood and everything in it. It deserved more than to just be left to rot.
An idea formed in Legolas's mind, and he smiled. "I'll return," he promised the tree. There was no answer.
Elven song filled the air. Aragorn halted a moment, listening to the beautiful sound, then he resumed walking, quickening his pace to catch up with his guide. He sniffed at the air. A faint odor reached him. Not the most pleasant smell, but neither offensive. The sound of mallets and saws complemented the fresh Spring day, causing Aragorn to feel alive and free.
"Just a little further," Saelon commented without turning back to look at him.
"Lead on," Aragorn said, stepping over a broken limb.
A few minutes later, and they could see the elves singing and moving about at work. At first, Aragorn had no idea what he was seeing, then slowly, it dawned on him. The tree.
The oak that had saved his life had been cut down several feet above the opening to the hollow Aragorn had slept in a year ago. But the trunk was covered with a platform of some sort, the planks oddly shaped and fitted together. The smell, much stronger here, came from a bubbling cauldron over a cheery fire, being stirred by an elf Aragorn did not recognize. Most likely he was a new arrival from Eryn Lasgalen. Some of the elves came to dip buckets into the goopy mix, before taking it to the tree and brushing it on the tree and platform.
"Preservative," Saelon told him. "To keep the tree from decaying further." He gestured to another elf standing with his back to them and then joined in the work.
The tall, golden-form of Legolas stood watching the work. His arms were crossed against his chest, and his clothing a mess. Clearly, the lord did not hesitate to get his hands dirty alongside his people. Aragorn loved the elf for it, as the elves of Ithilien. Legolas must have sensed him, for he turned with a smile.
"Come," he called over the singing and rapping of mallets and saws.
Aragorn walked closer, wondering what Legolas could possibly have in mind for such a place. "What are you making?" He pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from his braid. "Better yet, why are you making it?"
Legolas grinned at him. "You said you needed a retreat in Ithilien, did you not?"
Aragorn glanced back at the hole in the tree covered with the strange roof. He pointed. "I am not staying in that again."
Legolas threw him a hurt glance. "I would not expect you to!"
Aragorn blinked. "Then what… Legolas what are you up to?"
The elf threw back his head and laughed, the merry sound eliciting many birds to chirp back at him. He placed a hand over his belly, chuckling and then pointed at Aragorn. "You should have seen your face!"
Aragorn narrowed his eyes and frowned. "Legolas."
"All right." He waved to Saelon and motioned for the elf to do something, then pulled Aragorn through the trees to a clearing. On a rise, stakes had been driven into the ground, marking the site of a new building. "There shall be your retreat. Once Gimli arrives, the dwarves will join our efforts and build you a fine hunting lodge of both wood and stone." He motioned with his head over his shoulder, "Back there shall be your kennel and a falconry."
"The tree?"
Legolas nodded. "The oak loved the wood, Estel. It wanted only to be alive and give shelter to those in need. Now that it has returned its spirit to the world, I thought it should be preserved. We are using all the wood we can from the tree itself to build the falconry above the hollow. The hollow itself will serve as one of the shelters for the hounds. We're building more."
"An unusual set up."
"It will work," Legolas reassured him with a smile. "I'll make it work.'
Aragorn grinned. "I'm sure you will."
"And I'll call it Dorombar," Legolas said as he walked back down the path towards the work.
"I don't get to name my own hunting lodge?" Aragorn called after him.
"No."
They both laughed.
"Miriel!" the woman's voice was frantic. "MIRIEL? Where are you?"
"Here Nana!" the small voice called back.
"Arathorn!" His deep rumbling voice answered her from somewhere to the right. "I found her! She's over here! Miriel? Keep talking, love. I'm coming to you."
Nienna pushed through the heavy undergrowth following her daughter's calls. She broke through into a clearing just as her husband broke through a few feet away. Both of them paused, looking in awe at the ruin before them. A stone structure stood on top of a rise, it's walls overgrown with ivy. "What is this place," Nienna asked, her eyes scanning the building for some sign of her daughter.
"The king's lodge," Arathorn remarked, his voice full of awe. "I thought it was a myth."
"Naneth?" a small voice called to her. "Nana? Come see!"
Nienna turned to see her daughter a little ways from where she stood, waving frantically for her to follow. "Miriel, wait!" But the child had disappeared down a broken trail. Nienna huffed and lifted her skirts in pursuit. Arathorn surprised her by taking her other hand. "Slow down, love. She'll be fine."
"Ha! You don't know how much trouble that child can get into!"
He grinned and led her to the path, if it could be called a path, that Miriel had taken. They did not walk far when the came upon another strange structure. Miriel stood pointing at it, a smile on her face. "Look Ada! Look Nana!"
A stone wall surrounded several low buildings. Steps led to a bridge over the wall and up to an unusual structure that appeared to be a hollow tree trunk, chopped off, with a platform and a dilapidated wooden building atop it. She glanced at her husband at a loss as to what she was seeing.
"A kennel, and falconry perhaps. Quite an unusual set up." He brushed back a lock of dark hair from his face that had slipped loose from his braid. "But I suppose it worked." Flashing her a grin, he took a few quick strides to the wall and bounded over it.
"Arathorn! What are you up to?"
"I'm just looking around. This place is in remarkable condition, considering its age! It could be easily restored and put back into use."
"You want a hunting lodge?"
He leaned against the wall, and nodded. "But not just any hunting lodge. Do you not know what this place is, love? Who it belonged to?"
Nienna shook her head. She had never been on to study up on lore or history. That was the love of her husband. She looked at the structure as objectively as she could, trying to judge the age of the buildings and running in her mind over what she know of Ithilien's history. "Could it have belonged to Elboron, you think?"
Arathorn shook his head. "Older." His eyes shone with a rare light.
She gasped. "Surely you don't mean…"
He nodded again, the light growing in his gaze. "I do. It's Dorombar." He looked over at the strange tree building. "And that is the old oak."
Nienna had no idea what he was talking about. But it might be nice for the king to have a lodge in the wood, a lovely if remote place to retreat from Minas Anor. She glanced down at Miriel who played with some leaves and stones, then placed a hand on the slight swell of her belly. She looked back at her husband, but he had moved to wander the kennel yard. She smiled. Let him restore the place. He loved history so. Finally, he would get a chance to preserve a piece of it.
She looked back in the direction of the lodge. I wonder how many rooms it has… Picking a green oak leaf from a nearby branch, she twirled it between her fingers and smiled.
Dorombar – Sindarin. 'Oak Home'
