Chapter 2 - Whispers

Frodo shook his aching shoulders and adjusted his pack, contemplating if it was possible that there was more mud and leaf rot stuck to his feet than there was on the forest floor. It certainly felt that way: with every step he seemed to be sinking further into the ground, pushed downwards by the growing weight of his pack. He looked up at the darkening sky and wondered if it would be long before tiredness overcame them and they would be forced to stop walking until morning. It wouldn't be long; Frodo could already sense the weariness of spirits that was setting in amongst the companions, and he berated himself once again for allowing them to accompany him. It was his task, and he would never forgive himself if something happened to one of the others whilst they were assisting him.

The four hobbits walked until a small clearing came into view, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight that had managed to push its way through the dense canopy. Pippin was the first to demonstrate his exhaustion, collapsing on a leaf bed though he had barely managed to remove his pack. The tweenager sat up and drew his cloak tighter about him, shivering in the night. Frodo eyed him sympathetically.

"There can be no fires tonight, dear cousin," he said, finding his own place to lay amongst the tree roots, "These trees are not to be angered by flames unless we are about to freeze to death."

"And what will they do if we do light a fire, Mr Frodo?" said Sam, cold now the warm weight of his heavy pack had left him, "Pull up their roots an' throttle us as we sleep?"

"Quite possibly yes, Sam," replied Frodo, seriousness glinting from his eyes, bright even in the dull night.

"Have you not heard the stories, Sam?" spoke up Merry.

"Stories..."

"This is the Old Forest, older than time can tell us, and many a tale has been told of strange happenings under the boughs."

A low noise filled the cool air: Frodo had begun to hum softly, fragments of a half forgotten melody. "You know the words better than I, cousin."

"We should not sing that here, Frodo. We should not anger them."

"The singing of an old Buckland yarn will hardly cause the trees to attack us, Merry. Now should we produce an axe....."

Merry cast a cautious look up to the many branches, as if to seek their approval, and began to sing, quietly at first but gaining confidence.

"Beneath the cover,

When the night falls clear,

The wood breathes life again:

Its life is fear'd.

With those who wander,

And ne'er return,

Souls in the forest -

What did they learn?

The trees they haunt them -

Though day they sleep.

As trees they linger

Their rest is deep.

They twist and live then:

Those trees who change.

Bark grows to skin and

Their sleep to rage.

What would souls tell us,

If they could return?

From woods so twisted

Escape is earned.

None now remember."

"But how did they get like that?" said Pippin as Merry ended the song on a mournful note.

"They used to say that it was because the firstborn were lonely: they desired other beings to join them in song..." Frodo began to explain, and then paused, looking up at the dwindling expanse of deep sky above the leaves. The trees were closing in; as if they were bending down so they could hear the tale. "But the arrival of Men and the many wars made the elves forget the tree spirits they had awoken, and few now are left who know to talk to them. They are becoming angry now; they wish for company and an end to the torture they are put through."

"Who would torture a tree?"

"Men, dwarves, hobbits, even elves. Think, Pippin, your meals are not cooked using nothing but sunlight!"

The stillness in the air dissipated, and a low, ominous rumbling could be heard.

"They have been listening to us," said Merry, "We must be more careful, else we shall be stuck here."