Work Text:
His mind was utterly blank as he stared into the Deeping-Coomb. Until yesterday, it had been the same old sight, but then came the silent forest, ominous and malcontent.
He and the other men had gaped in awe and uttered prayers under their breaths, for trouble seemed to be a shapeshifting multitude of danger.
There had been talk – legends, songs, children’s tales – of walking trees, but to see it with his own eyes, he still could not comprehend it.
Magic was not unheard of; maybe these trees had taken root by command of the White Wizard.
“Nay,” had the others said, “The White Wizard has other ways, but he would not take command of the trees.”
And they were right, for the trees had indeed not taken root.
At first, it seemed his eyes had been deceived, but with a measure of his thumb while keeping one eye shut, he confirmed it for himself.
The trees were retreating.
“By the Valar,” the young man said, aghast, “walking trees. What is next, the return of the king of Gondor?”