The stars shone above, the brightest gems in the midnight valleys, as brilliant as they had been when Elbereth of the Valar had first re-kindled them, the sacred memory of the two trees. Through the oaken boughs of the forest the moon did not shine, yet the night bird sang it’s meloncholy lament of love, of faith, of hope.
The dark night of the forest was undisturbed as the trees sat, engrossed in memory or dreams, for now both were mingled, as into legend passed all that had once been, remembered by few, save the mountains bone and the forests.
Yet even they were becoming forgotten, as the tide of men took the wood to build houses, cities, expanding their idle thought onto all that remained of old. The orcs came too, slashing and hacking at the trees, burning that life, that was seen as precious, once.
For times had changed, and in the secret silence only one wandered. His race was failing, passing as only a legend in elven lore, and so very far from the understanding of this modern ignorance.
The heavy footfalls did not disturb the dreams of the trees, as the oldest of the race of the ents walked the paths of the mountain’s root, and the forest shook in its sleep.
How was it different now? Only the brooding anger that festered in the air could tell the difference of all the ages tht thoes trees did stand, guided by their shepards, knowing speeck and loving song.
But this place was feared now, not loved, for few remembered that, as the new concept of mortal life drifted away from the sword to the hiararchy of kings and lords.
And as the stars shone above in the midnight valleys as they had been re-kindled, the sacred memory of the trees was forgotten. Through the oaken boughs of the forest the moon did not shine, yet the night bird sang, and only the oldest ent could hear it.