Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 30 - Wherever We May Roam

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The last departure of the Evenstar from the Hidden Valley of Imladris was a silent, sombre procession. Trees that once danced with the laughter of elven-folk now stood unmoving beside the road, their young spring leaves green but still. Even the birdsong seemed somehow lacking to Arwen's keen ears; a cheery sound, but without the magic it had once held in her younger days. 

They had left Elladan and Elrohir standing upon the bridge over the Bruinen, their arms upraised in mirroring gestures of farewell. Before the coming of summer the sons of Elrond would be gone, departed for the Havens, leaving Rivendell to at last take its place among myth. None would ever inhabit those fair halls again. Even so, for centuries to come the common folk would tell stories of a secret valley of the elves, and children would search for it while at play.

One horse and rider hesitated at the last, stopping at the crest of the road to turn back and gaze upon the rooftops of Imladris. Long did Eruthiawen watch the light of the rising sun set the Last Homely House all aglow. Then she turned away. 

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It was some time before any in their party felt like speaking again after their departure from Rivendell. As they traveled west past Weathertop though the land turned merry and green, and with it their spirits. They spent a very pleasant night at Bree, where Bartie Butterbur - the old innkeeper Barliman's son - of the Prancing Pony kept them entertained with stories of dancing halflings and wandering wizards. 

"And it's at this here table that the future King of Gondor used to sit and watch the room, back when he was called Strider. 'Course you'd all be knowin' that already, wouldn't you, my good lords and ladies?" said Bartie, bowing deeply before them once again and nearly upsetting the tray of drinks he carried. 

"You told us as much the last time we were here, Bartie," Almárëa reminded him. 

"Pshaw, and that being nearly nine years ago! I'm lucky if I can remember what it is I've said yesterday!" 

Arwen smiled kindly at the innkeeper. "Be that as it may, Aragorn remembers your father to this day. He has always praised the beer of the Prancing Pony as one of his favourite taps." 

Such praise from the Queen of Gondor sent poor Bartie into transports of delight, and for the entire rest of the evening he could be heard loudly making plans for a sign on the door, proclaiming his beer to be the king's favourite above all others. Although Aragorn's visits to the Prancing Pony remained few and far between for the remainder of his reign, from that day forward all folk west of the Misty Mountains knew Bree to have the best beer in all the land. At least, so Bartie told them. 

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From Bree, the road to the Shire was not so very long, and before May-Day they were turning off the road at the Brandywine Bridge and onto the road to Brandy Hall. Well within the borders of Buckland, they could scarcely see the Old Forest over the towering line of The Hedge. The Old Forest had not troubled them on their journey; indeed, Faramir was openly sorry to leave it behind. 

"It's a strange place, no doubt, but in some ways it reminds me of Fangorn," he said. 

Thoughts of twisting paths and watchful trees were soon to be forgotten though. Arwen had written to Merry and Pippin of their coming, and the whole of Bucklebury it seemed was waiting to greet them. The two hobbits in question stood at the head of the noisy gathering, their bellies quite properly straining beneath finely stitched waistcoats and their cheeks rosy beneath mops of curly hair.