1. Ale and Conversation

A full moon was shining down on the Court of the Fountain of the White Tree. Two small, tipsy figures, one in Rohirric brown and green, the other in the black and silver of the Citadel, stood before the fountain with tankards in their hands. They had been attempting conversation for quite some time, first in low, polite tones, then louder as their patience grew thin. The White Tree, descendant of Nimloth the Fair, blossomed and filled the air with a sweet scent, and had nothing at all to say.

Merry yawned, then hiccuped. "Oh drat it all. Let's go back to the feast, Pip. Or better yet, to bed. I'm sleepy."

"She's just being stubborn, that's what!" Pippin said, glaring blearily at the tree.

Merry frowned. "How do we know she's a she?"

There was a pause. "Because she is," Pippin said firmly at last, with undeniable drunken logic.

"Then perhaps we're not addressing her correctly," Merry said. "A highborn lass might be snippy about that." He put one hand on his breast and bowed low, nearly tipping forward on his nose and sloshing the dregs of his ale all over Pippin's foot. "O Fair one, Queen of trees, we greet thee-"

Pippin gave Merry a poke. "In Entish, Merry."

"Oh, yes, quite right." Merry cleared his throat, filled his chest with air, then let loose with a long, rumbling stream of syllables that resembled an avalanche of logs rolling down a hillside. He went on until he ran out of breath and had to lean against Pippin until he recovered. "Bother, that doesn't sound right at all," Merry gasped. "I suppose I told her she had a lovely case of woodworm or something."

A voice called to them across the courtyard. Pippin turned at the familiar sound and swung his arms wide, avenging his sodden foot-hair by splashing his ale on Merry's surcoat. "Frodo! Look Merry, it's Frodo!"

"What are you both doing out here?" Frodo said. "You disappeared after the last toast and Aragorn has turned the banquet hall upside-down looking for you."

"Talking to the Tree," Merry said. "But she won't talk to us."

"Not one word," Pippin said. "Stubborn, that's what!" A sweet night-breeze came up suddenly and made all the leaves shiver, and white blossoms fell down like snow. Pippin pointed an accusing finger. "See there! She's laughing at us now!"

"Ah," Frodo said sagely. "Yes." Very smoothly, and with an ease borne out of long years of practice, he moved forward and put an arm around each cousin. It was a bit of a strain, since they had grown taller than himself, but he gently turned them to face the tree. "Look here, lads. I've never seen an Ent, but from what you've told Sam and me they're enormous, great shaggy things, all rough and mossy and even the young ones look as old as the hills. This is the White Tree, and as noble and fair as, er, she is, she's no taller than a large Man, and very slim and beautiful. Does she look like an Ent, cousins?" Merry and Pippin had to agree that she did not. Frodo gave them both a fond squeeze. "There's my good lads. Now, I think it would be best if we go inside, give our regards to Aragorn and everyone and get you both off to bed-"

"More feast!" Pippin said.

"More ale!" Merry said, tipping up his tankard for a healthy swallow, then stared with bafflement down into its empty depths. "Where on earth has all of my ale gone, anyway?"

"But she could be an Entwife!" Pippin cried suddenly, and he was so excited by this conclusion that he would have turned back had Frodo not tightened his grip.

"Bed, lads," Frodo said firmly, and tried not to laugh. "You can try again in the morning."

"Bet she won't talk then, either," Pippin grumbled, and he would have leaned his head on Frodo's shoulder if it had been high enough. He had to settle for resting his cheek against his ear. He sighed and put his arm around him. "Dear old Frodo."

"Dear old Frodo," Merry echoed, yawning in the other ear.

"Dear old foolish lads," Frodo said, and this time he did laugh, a clear and lovely sound in the dark. If he had not been so busy steering Merry and Pippin across the courtyard he might have heard a strange echo of his own laughter behind him. It was much lower and more musical (more tree-ish, Pippin might have said,) but sweet and merry as a child in spring. One could almost think that it had come from the White Tree as she stood swaying in the wind, and bathing her white limbs in the cool waters of the fountain. 

***

the end

(of this, but more to come, of course...)

Shirebound's plotbunny that grew into this ficlet looked like this: After spending so much time with the Ents, Merry and/or Pippin pick up a few words of “Entish”, or tree-talk. Do they try it out on the White Tree of Gondor? Or perhaps the Mallorn of Hobbiton? What is the result?

Thank you, Shirebound!

It is also archived under the Free Peoples of Middle-earth category at her Shirebunnies website. Plenty of bunnies left in the hutch there, so feel free to adopt:)