The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 89

The canopy above rustled gently in the breeze, dappled light spilling across the mossy ground as Merry and Pippin pushed through thick undergrowth. Their breath came fast—half from the run, half from the panic that had barely begun to subside.

They had escaped the orcs.

For now.

Stopping at the edge of a clear, shallow river, Pippin dropped to his knees with a gasp. “This must be the Entwash,” he panted. “Clean water at last!”

Merry joined him, cupping his hands to drink. “Tastes better than anything I’ve had in days,” he said, gulping the cold liquid gratefully.

After quenching their thirst, Pippin dug into his pack and pulled out the last of their lembas cakes, the Elvish bread gifted in Lórien. “This is all we’ve got left,” he said grimly.

Merry broke off a corner and shrugged. “Well, better than nothing. But we can’t last long like this.”

Pippin nodded, taking a bite. “I wish Aragorn and the others find us soon. Or better, we find a place where orcs don’t roam.”

As they sat in quiet exhaustion, a low rumble echoed through the woods.

Not a growl. Not thunder. A voice.

“Hmmmmm… what are you two, hmm? Little orcs? No. Not orcs. Too soft. Too round. Too… hasty.”

Both hobbits leapt to their feet.

From behind a tall thicket of vines, a great figure emerged—a towering, bark-skinned being with long limbs, mossy hair, and deep-set eyes like glowing amber. He walked not with the grace of an elf nor the stomp of an orc, but with the ancient weight of a mountain taking a step.

“Stay behind me, Merry,” Pippin whispered, brandishing a stick that looked more like a toothpick next to the giant.

Merry blinked in awe. “It’s not trying to eat us… I think.”

The enormous creature bent low, peering at them with curiosity.

“I am Treebeard, also called Fangorn by some. And you… are hobbits.”

“Yes!” Pippin exclaimed, dropping the stick. “We are hobbits of the Shire. I’m Peregrin Took—Pippin. And this is Meriadoc Brandybuck—Merry.”

Treebeard let out a long, slow “Hooooooommm”, a sound that made the leaves tremble.

“I have heard of your kind… once, long ago,” he said. “Little folk, with large feet and larger hearts. Rarely do any come through Fangorn Forest. And even fewer leave it.”

Pippin gulped. “That’s… not terribly comforting.”

“But you are not orcs,” Treebeard continued. “And that is reason enough not to crush you underfoot.”

“Much appreciated,” Merry muttered, trying to catch his breath.

Treebeard’s expression softened, if such a thing could happen on a face made of bark. “Come, little hobbits. You have wandered far, and you are tired. Let me carry you. My home is not far, and there is drink and food—more than bread and water.”

With surprising gentleness, Treebeard lifted the hobbits onto his wide shoulders. They clung to the branches and ridges of his body, amazed at the view from so high up.

“Are… are all trees like you?” Pippin asked, peering at the forest below.

“No,” Treebeard replied. “Many are trees. Some are Ents. We are the shepherds of the forest. We guard the woods, speak to the green, feel the breath of the roots.”

Merry looked down. “It’s beautiful here… but eerie too.”

“Many of the trees sleep now,” Treebeard said, voice low. “They have become slow and still. Some are forgetting what they were. The world of Men and Orcs has grown loud and fast. The trees—we Ents—have fallen silent.”

“What happened?” asked Merry. “Where are all the Entlings? Your children?”

Treebeard let out a sad sigh that sounded like wind blowing through the treetops. “There are none. The Ent-wives—they wandered away. Long ago. They sought order, gardens, rows of growing things. They loved the tame lands.”

“And you…?”

“I loved the wild woods,” Treebeard said. “The rivers and cliffs, the untamed trees. So we parted. And in time… we lost them. No one has seen an Ent-wife in many ages.”

Pippin sat quietly for a moment. “That’s… really sad.”

“Yes. It is.” Treebeard’s steps slowed. “Without them, we have no children. The Ents grow fewer and older. We are fading, even as the world changes around us.”

Carried gently in the crook of Treebeard’s arm, Merry and Pippin swayed like bundles of leaves as the great Ent strode steadily through the winding forest paths of Fangorn.

Even in daylight, the forest felt ancient and shadowed. Towering trees loomed overhead, and not a bird sang. The quiet was deep and old, the kind of silence that spoke of forgotten ages and long-dormant memories.

“I still don’t understand something,” Merry said, adjusting his grip on Treebeard’s mossy bark. “Back in the Shire, we used to hear stories—about how terrible Fangorn Forest was. Folk said trees could trap you, twist around and swallow you whole.”

Pippin nodded quickly. “They said it was cursed. No one ever returned the same, if they returned at all.”

Treebeard let out a long “Hoom-hmmmmm”, as if considering the thought carefully.

“Yes, I have heard such tales,” he said, eyes narrowing beneath his leafy brows. “Fangorn is not a tame wood. It is not a garden of neat rows and soft grass. It is... what remains of the world before Men tamed it. Some trees here are older than the towers of Men or the walls of Dwarves. Some are half-asleep, and some—” his voice dropped low, “—are angry.”

“Angry?” Merry asked, brow furrowed.

Treebeard nodded. “The trees remember axes. They remember fire. And the name of Saruman echoes now through every root and leaf like poison.”

“But we made it through without being eaten or strangled,” Pippin said.

Treebeard glanced down, bark lips curling into a slow smile. “That is the part I find most curious.”

After some distance, Treebeard reached a hollow grove where the trees arched inward like cathedral pillars. A stream ran through the center, feeding a shallow basin lined with stone. Roots coiled gently across the mossy floor like resting serpents.

“This is my house,” he said simply. “No doors. No windows. No roof but the sky.”

He set them down with care and produced two wooden cups carved from ancient tree-knot.

“Here,” he said, dipping them into the basin. “Drink. This is Ent-draught. Deep and nourishing.”

The hobbits sniffed the golden liquid cautiously, then took tentative sips. Their eyes widened.

“It tastes like… spring rain,” Pippin said. “Or dew on a warm morning.”

Merry drained his cup and gasped. “And I feel like I’ve eaten a whole feast.”

Treebeard chuckled. “You will not go hungry here.”

As they rested on beds of moss and lichen, Treebeard sat nearby, watching the trees sway gently.

“Saruman once walked these woods,” he said darkly. “He listened to our language, learned much. But he twisted what he learned. Now he fells trees, poisons rivers. He makes mockeries of Orcs—Uruk-hai—creatures of the dark who can walk in sunlight and feel no fear.”

“Uruk-hai…” Merry repeated. “We saw them. They captured us. They fought differently—stronger, faster.”

“And they do not fear the sun,” Pippin added. “We noticed it.”

Treebeard’s wooden fingers clenched. “That is what makes them dangerous. Orcs were once bred to the shadows. But these new beasts… they are weapons. Made in Isengard. Made by Saruman.”

“Then he’s truly turned against all that is good,” Merry said. “He was supposed to be a wise wizard. One of Gandalf’s kind.”

Treebeard grunted. “Wise he was. But prideful. He watched the world through his tower windows too long and forgot to walk among trees and stars. Now he serves the Eye.”

“So what can be done?” Pippin asked, voice small.

Treebeard leaned closer, lowering his voice like a whisper through bark and branches.

“We Ents are slow to anger. Slower still to move. But the forest is stirring. The axes are louder. The smoke blacker. The roots twitch. It is nearly time.”

“Time for what?” asked Merry.

“A gathering, little hobbit. A moot of Ents. We shall decide whether we go to war.”

“Can we help?” Pippin asked eagerly. “We’re not big, but we’ve seen a lot. Maybe we can convince the others.”

Treebeard nodded slowly. “Perhaps. Your tale may be what stirs the sleepers.”

He stood and looked to the treetops.

“Saruman must be stopped. And I believe the time has come for the Ents to march. But not alone. We will need Rohan. We will need your friends. We will need Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”


The first light of morning crept through the towering canopy of Fangorn Forest, and Merry and Pippin awoke beneath woven curtains of moss and leaves, tucked in beds of living grass. The sweet taste of Ent-draught lingered on their tongues, and their limbs felt stronger—strangely stretched, as if the forest had begun to change them from within.

Treebeard—Fangorn himself—stood nearby in stillness, his eyes opening slowly like the dawn.

“Come, little hobbits,” he rumbled, voice like the groan of ancient wood. “It is time.”

“Time for what?” Merry asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“To moot,” said Treebeard. “The Entmoot begins today.”

The journey to the Entmoot took them deep into the heart of the forest, to a wide, sun-dappled glade surrounded by massive stone roots and watchful trees. It felt like standing inside the ribcage of a forgotten giant.

Merry and Pippin watched in amazement as one by one, Ents arrived from every corner of the forest—tall and squat, shaggy and smooth-barked, dark as mahogany or pale as birch. Some moved slowly, others with surprising swiftness, and each with a unique shape: some with limbs like willows, others thick as oak.

The Ents greeted Treebeard in long, creaking tones of ancient Entish, a language so deep and slow that Pippin whispered to Merry, “They’ll still be saying hello by nightfall.”

Treebeard placed them gently upon a mossy stone.

“Do not be troubled by the slowness,” he said. “We are deliberate. For matters of war, even more so.”

Then he walked into the circle of Ents, and the murmuring began.

For hours the Ents stood in solemn conversation, voices like wind rustling through countless leaves. The hobbits could barely understand a word, but the weight of the moment was clear. A decision of great consequence was being shaped—carved not with haste but with ancient patience.

As dusk approached, Treebeard returned to them with another Ent beside him, this one lighter and younger-looking, with bark like silver ash and an eager gleam in his deep eyes.

“This is Bregalad, though some call him Quickbeam,” Treebeard said. “He is one of the hastier among us. He will keep you company.”

Quickbeam bowed with a rustle. “Come, friends. My home is near, and I have food and fresh spring water to offer.”

Merry and Pippin followed him through quiet trails to a grove of rowan trees, where a stream danced over smooth stones. As they sat beside him and shared the last of their lembas, Quickbeam told them his story.

“I once lived near the edges of the forest,” he said, voice trembling with old grief. “There, the Orcs came. They did not come for battle or defense. They came with fire and axes. They cut down trees that were not theirs—our friends—and left their trunks to rot.”

He looked to the horizon, eyes dark. “Some trees had names. Had memories. Now they are gone.”

Pippin swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

Quickbeam nodded slowly. “We Ents have long memories. And long grudges. That is why I voted quickly today.”

“Voted for what?” Merry asked.

Quickbeam did not answer with words.

A great roar, like a storm sweeping through the valley, rolled over the treetops.

Merry leapt to his feet. “What was that?!”

Quickbeam’s face turned eastward. “It has been decided.”

From the trees, movement began.

Not animals. Not wind.

The trees themselves were walking.

At first, Pippin rubbed his eyes. “I must be dreaming…”

But it was true.

Across the glade and beyond, Ents moved in formation, their great root-feet pounding the ground. Branches twisted into fists, and limbs swung like hammers. The very forest marched.

Treebeard stood tall at the head of the column, face grim with purpose.

“The Ents go to war,” he said.

“War against Isengard?” Merry asked.

Treebeard nodded. “Saruman has torn up the earth and burned the woods. He has bred monsters in his pits. The white wizard no longer serves balance, but destruction. He must be stopped.”

“But... how?” Pippin said, eyes wide. “Isengard is a fortress. Stone and iron, not wood. How can trees reach it?”

“We shall find a way,” said Treebeard. “And if not… then we shall fall trying.”

The Ents moved in long, slow strides, each step like the thud of drums. Quickbeam joined the line beside Treebeard, and Merry and Pippin rode upon the great shoulders of their ancient friend.

Looking behind them, the hobbits saw hundreds of Ents—some slow and lumbering, others swift and furious—marching from the forest like an army of the earth itself.

Treebeard pointed toward the south.

“There lies Isengard,” he said solemnly. “The tower of Orthanc, ringed by stone, guarded by flame and metal. But even stone cracks… when roots find their way beneath.”

The march began.

And the world would never be the same.