The characters, settings and quotations are Tolkien's. I share the love for trees.

THE LONG DEFEAT

He was tired beyond measure.

He pressed his body against the tree trunk, his head resting against the rugged bark, his eyes closed, listening to the last breaths of the mighty oak.

He was too weak to climb his ancient frame, so he was contented there, nestled between two protruding roots, hugged and comforted by his last friend in this side of the dividing waters, remembering…

He did not know how long it had been since the last ship had sailed, when he had stubbornly decided to remain there.

The forest had been bigger then, leafier, luxuriant, resonating with different voices; nimble poplars, colourful beeches, sturdy oaks, showy willows and faithful chestnuts, their proud canopies raised at different levels, their shades of green glistening under the playful rays of Anar…

But those trees were long gone, their voices lost forever.

HE could not remember when he had last walked the dense red carpet of an early autumn, the joyous promise of a blessed spring that would bring new songs, and new voices, and renewed hope to the world.

The forest was losing ground to pines and other fast, hurried trees, that strove to grow fast, that took no time to learn the voices of their older neighbours, that eased the path of flames, that shed no leaves before the long winters and offered little comfort for nesting birds.

The forest had become silent. When the trees sang, they sang of despair, of loss, of goodbye. But most of the days they were quiet, as if waiting.

The tree-shepherds were getting closer to the heart of his ancient forest.  But these tree-shepherds were very different from the mighty, gentle creatures he remembered from his youth.

These were men, of little minds and greedy hearts, which planned and managed the forest as if it were one of their stone walled cities, felling what suited their fancies and planting what they considered best, disregarding the needs of the forest, of the soil, of the waters and the hills.

The forest had been besieged for ages, and now, after a long battle, it was finally, slowly, hopelessly conceding defeat.

But it wasn’t better in other places.

He had fought, long and hard, travelling around bent Arda, mingling with men, trying to bend their hearts, fighting in the open; but everywhere he went, the same destruction was lurking.

Barren lands. He had seen those, wastelands greater than Dagorlad, mountains of fire mightier than Thangorodrim, expelling foul vapours that killed trees faster than the dreadful shadow of Dol-Guldur, oil marshes quenching life several feet below surface, and deserts, wide-open plains of concrete where once the mighty forests of Middle Earth had thrived.

“He has dwelt in the west since the days of dawn, and I have dwelt with him for years uncounted. Together through the ages of the world, we have fought the long defeat.”º He turned his face and pressed it against the bark, hoping to smother the wail that threatened to escape his lips as he remembered her words, and the memories they held: Doriath, Ossiriand, Nenuial, Eregion, Lothlórien, Belfalas…

When the day came, after three ages of the world, and they discovered that they had been fighting different battles, he wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Not yet. He had hoped to protect his beloved forests and keep them alive for the children of their children, even after the elves had been forgotten.

She had sailed.

But his road was meant to be longer than hers. And his defeat more devastating.

Now, after ages of seeing rotten, burnt trees, visions of decay that haunted his days and nights, he had become a shadow of himself, a fragile presence no longer perceived by those of mortal blood.

He had tried then to take the Straight Road. He had travelled south, to the place where once the Grey Havens had stood. He hoped to hear the call that had ever eluded him, to be shown a way that maybe was not for him to take…

He had stood there, alone, unseen, a cold, midwinter breeze tugging at his silver hair, eager to feel a music that had never before echoed in his mind.

All had been in vain. To his ear, the sea repeated a dull rhythm, the gulls’ cries were angry shrills. The Straight Road was no more. Maybe it had never been for him to tread.

And now, despite all his toils, he was lost in a world of grey.

That night, as he accepted his fate, the last of the Quendi in Middle Earth, doomed to fade and remain there, he suddenly felt the call of the great oak, whose song had filled his days for the last centuries.

The oak was his last friend, the last witness of the forests of old. He was dying now, and Celeborn hurried back to him, forsaking the white shores.

And now he sat there, in the embrace of the mighty tree, feeling the powerful heart that still drummed within the bark, hearing the deep voice that sang of things long past, and the elf felt that his heart would break.

He raised his voice then, and sang of the forests of old, of a country beneath the stars, and the moonlit glades where the elves danced and the trees sang and the world was new and young. Slowly, their voices became one, and then faded away, carried by a night breeze, and he knew no more.

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“You took your time, my lord.”

The voice was rich, calm, and it held a hint of amusement that didn’t manage to conceal a deep emotion.

Celeborn was confused by the sudden assault upon his senses. He felt the warm rays of Anar upon his skin, he heard the song of the wind rustling on many happy leaves, he smell ten different fragrances he thought had been lost forever, and he heard her voice speaking into his ear, as if she were there, right by his side, patiently waiting for him to wake up.

He opened his eyes carefully, and immediately drowned in the grey gaze of his wife.

“But it was worth waiting,” she added softly, as she extended a long hand and traced the line of his cheek carefully.

Dumbstruck, Celeborn looked around. He was resting on the grass, under the foliage of an ancient oak, whose lower branches provided a secluded alcove, so close they bowed to the ground.

And Galadriel was by his side. But she was not Galadriel the care-worn, drained elleth that had sailed a lifetime ago, but a young, renewed Galadriel, as if the weight of exile, doom, loss and wisdom had been lifted from her, and all that was left was a beautiful maiden full of joy and light. 

“I..” he stumbled upon words “ I’m sorry..”

She put a finger upon his lips and smiled.

“Come”

And together they walked out of the alcove of leaves and lo!  they were upon a green hill crowned by ancient oaks, and all around and beyond the reach of their sight, they were surrounded by thick masses of trees the likes of which Celeborn had thought he’d never see again.

He fell to his knees, crying in joy, his eyes drinking in the sight of greens that were yellow, and blue and grey, as they once had been, and of forests as wide and healthy as in the tales of Elwë, and of light that was new and bright and pure. 

“This is your doing, Celeborn of Doriath” a resonant voice pronounced, “And the result of your toils. Behold your long defeat!”

He turned around to see a tall woman of the deepest green, who seemed to come out from within the trunk of the oak that had sheltered him.

She waved her hand gracefully, and all of a sudden, the mingled voices of the trees filled his ears with their song.

“For every tree and every forest that you tried –and failed- to save in Middle Earth, a new sapling was brought to life in Valinor.“

Still in awe by the words of Yavanna, Celeborn held his wife’s hand and started down the hill towards the beckoning trees.

He was at home.

A/N We may yet live to see the day when no forests shall remain for our children to roam, unless they are granted passage to Valinor. Take care of them. The trees are alive, too. 

º The Mirror of Galadriel. LOTR