Rolling from the depths, great swells of the ocean rolled toward the red coast, pealing into glassy waves of glacial blue fringed with a stinging white. An off-shore wind blew icily, hollowing the waves into roaring gullets that gnashed into frothing ruin with a final roar. And white winged gulls banked and careened on the reckless gusts, their harsh cries bright as the flicker of swords. Vastly deep eyes watched all of this; and an ancient, quiet soul was well pleased.

Presumably ripped from a riverbank many years ago, from far inland, the vast bole of a stunted conifer remained on the stony shore, its form as hunched as any one of the boulders all about it. But this ancient pine was not dead; nor was it any ordinary tree. Any that chanced upon this hunched form would find its bark remarkably warm to the touch; for this was a kind of Ent such as the world had never beheld. For countless eons it had lain imprisoned, but was at length released. Quickened into a new Age, the Age of the Sun, and of Men.
Where the Ents' kindred had been quickened by the prayer and intent of the Lady of Nature; this Ent was animated by the grace and good will of the sun; not the blazing heat, nor the consuming furnace of that mighty star; but rather, like the moon, which only reflects the sun and possesses none of its fire, the Ents' inner-light and life force was something soft, and glowing.

The remarkable eyes were bright, and very solemn, such as one who stands before the altar of an overwhelming temple; and so it was to the Ent: there was nothing more alive, nor whose endless song was of such magnificence as the ocean. This was Indhíthaun, of the Pine-trees when the world was only newly fashioned; Ent of the long-lost coast. Ever had his robust and sturdy people dwelt upon the icy seashore; hardiest of trees, and he had loved them. He had allowed himself to die for them; but was given the gift of new life.
Now he looked on at the ceaseless dance of the sea, and remembered his beloved trees, and his kindred Ents, and a deep sound, almost too deep, and too quiet but for the sharpest of hearing to perceive was thrumming upon the air; and the slumbering trees were attentive, and the voice was spread through the leaves of every tree, a whispred rumour breathing across the land.
But so it was, and if not for the new kind of life animating him, Indhíthaun might have been unable to move, turning steadily more tree-ish, his thoughts and hopes digging down into the lifeless dark, eating only his memories until even they were spent, so that truly he had forgotten himself, or his fate to move and speak.

But the tireless light of the sun was interlaced with his sap; he was now something nearer to the Kin of Men, who are likewise beings of the sun. Indhíthaun was now a creature of the Age of Hope, for in his short time amongst men, Indhíthaun had perceived this remarkable quality amongst men, and he deemed it their particular gift, and most admirable attribute; he had named their Age thusly.

The bowed head lifted, on a vastly thick neck, and rising up, seemingly viciously from the thick head of hair, feathery pine-needles of the deepest green, were two curving and pointed horns. For out of Indhíthauns' own flesh the race of Trolls had been bred. And even now, the similiarities could be easily drawn. The vast rounded shoulders, and curving brow, the great squat nose in a broad face. But the living and limpid eyes looked out from beneath bristling brows, and from above the deepest, and lushest beard of the same hair-like needles. No troll had ever retained enough of their true essence to possess these. In a very short time Indhíthauns' foliage had grown back; to begin with he had been skeletal; his frightful teeth grinning crookedly from a shriveled mouth. Now, albeit tree-ish, Indhíthaun was remarkably man-like and strangely handsome.

He stood, now, and turned to face inland. For he had come to this pace with a dual purpose. To mourn and lament his kindred, who were now gone; but also to put them behind him. To step out, into the bright new world, where nothing was the same, and in which even he was changed. Far away, may thousands of ent-strides away, he had perceived the rumour of another Ent; whom Indhíthaun set out to find. He longed for the comfort of a proper Wellinghall, and to slake his thirst with Ent-Draught; even to hear the Old-Speech as only Ent-kind speak it.

Indhíthaun hummed steadily to himself, for he was soon enveloped, tireless as his stride was, with the heady scents of the more gentle inland climes. The tang of crushed grasses, whose little voices were the quietest of choirs; strung with the wild claxon of bees-wings, amidst the orchestra of the all-encompassing selfless whole of the countryside. Long ago this had been farmland, though only the ancient apple-trees recalled such a time; their trunks more than half rotten, but their speech as meek, and polite as if they were still slender seedlings. Indhíthaun tarried long in that countryside, bemused by the kindhearted fruit-bearing trees, and the ancient hedge-trees, who were like very old soldiers now. Leaning over each other in camaraderie, the wind like chesty laughter in their boughs. Indhíthaun thanked them all for their cheer, and their company, and pressed on, in search of his brethren still far away.

There could be no doubt about it; everything in this mystic wood was alive. From the faeries lightly fluttering in the calm breeze passing through, dancing with each other in their own way to the sound of their own tune; to the buzzing of the insects as they swirled around and carried on the duties that only the insects themselves knew the true purpose of; to the flowers coming fully into bloom, a myriad of joyful colors that even the hardest heart could admire; to the tall and commanding trees, with leaves full of vibrant shades of green, brown, orange, and gold; no, there could be no denying it. When all of the elements of the forest came together, united in their unadulterated intensity and charm, they seemingly brought about a character all of its own. The Mystic Wood had its own personality, the sum of its collective parts, and each day brought new surprises. Yes, the wood was alive.

So alive, in fact, that some travelers wouldn't even have been surprised to discover that some of the trees here were more than they appeared. Though a tall specimen of rowan seemed to be just as tree-ish as any other piece of wood in this place, only the most curious of faeries had discovered its true purpose. An Ent called this magical wood home.

He was both impressively tall and decidedly skinny, especially for a tree. His bark was gray in color, dull and plain. It was gnarled, forming tough, unbreakable knots around his body, with twigs and branches forming his arms, his feet being the roots that supported him. He was a shepherd of the forest, his duties handed down to him from the highest of powers, his responsibilities clear.

But he was a tired tree, slumbering through most of the long minutes that he spent standing straight and unwavering through the sparsely packed herds of trees. His eyes became hidden underneath the tough bark that covered his body, lost to all sight. His eyes had lost the spark that they had had so long ago, when the world had been in a different age. His mouth became smothered by twigs and leaves of his own making, stemming from his own roots, masking his true identity. Over the years, he had resigned himself to be just like any other tree in the region; and although this was a magical wood full of untold wonders, he was doing himself an injustice.

He had not altogether lost himself to time; he still stood strong and sturdy through the storms, and he still conversed with the faeries when they came to his branches, begging to hear stories from the beginning of the world. He would oblige, telling the tales at his own pace, which the faeries might have considered unbearably slow, and they would have been right to. But their patience was rewarded with the most marvelous of stories, that only the shepherds could be capable of telling. And he tended to his trees, from time to time, when he felt the desire to regain mobility. They were all his charges, handed to him, taken under his branches, as he offered them protection and care. Never in his lifetime (which is to say, quite a long time) had any tree in this part of the wood been felled by the axe of an overeager woodsman. He had exceeded in his role. But now, he did not feel as if he had the strength for it.

What felt like seconds to him were truly whole days in the eyes of men as he drifted into a restless sleep. He would wake every once in a while, only to feel exhausted once more. He abandoned everything; his cares, his worries, until all that was left was his memories of a greater day. Until one day, even those too had been taken from his grasp, passing into an ancient void that swallowed everything he had ever known.

Indeed, he was becoming more like a tree with each passing moment.

He hung his head low and let himself be taken back into that realm of living that isn't exactly living. The wood around him continued to prosper in these dark times, continued to press on and make the best of it, while he felt the most intense longing he had ever felt; the longing to sleep only one last time.

The faeries chirped around him, ever ready for another tale from the impressive being, but he would not wake to be bothered with it.

Without its guardian, the forest seemed all that much more deathly. This foreboding feeling threatened to overtake the jubilant passion that had characterized these parts of the world for so many ages since the dawn of time.

The stocky Ent turned his back to the north, and allowed the narrowing valley to steer him east and west alongside the ever more noisy waters of the river, until he had followed it to its utmost root among the craggy heights, where the river-root spilled seemingly out of the living stone with a shout, and a froth of white-water. Indhíthaun now leaned his hands against the sheer stone wall, and as tree-roots will do over a vast stretch of time, his great hands bound onto and delved into the solid rock, then his feet, and he scaled the mighty wall of the mountainside with slow deliberate steps.

High up the mountain levelled into a narrow pleateau, where slender firs were growing, their foliage a remarkable pale fallow gold, as if they had soaked up the alpine sun, and were giving it forth. And the Ent stood upright, and let the rain fall upon him, and where the water trickled off him, it fell to the ground like sparks of red and green light. He delighted in the Firs, whose voices were like those of flower-girls at a grand wedding. But they were also deep-rooted and wise, and stood at a height over the world where they saw and heard much; and were willing and able to speak at length with the newly-awoken Ent of the changed world, so that Indhíthaun was wont to tarry there a time, and he sang a song, in memory of them as he left.

Lady Fir, sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly!

Let it fly as unconfined
As its calm ravisher the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th' East,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light
In ribbands, and o'ercloud in night,
Like the Sun in 's early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day!*

And even in the Old Entish did he sing this song, and indeed he had spanned the breadth of the Ered Annon before he had concluded it; and though the life of the sun was quick within him; so was all of the ancient patience ad dark-love of the old world. Indhíthaun arrived at the woods where he had perceived the presence of his brethren-ent, and yet he stood outside, raising his hands to his mouth, and made a long call; for if the Ent had decided to pass into sleep, and deigned not to answer, then Indhíthaun would not trouble him. But he called at length, giving his name in full, in the Old-Entish.


*My Love to Mr Richard Lovelace, whose poem was the inspiration for this.