Feveren's wandering feet had carried him far from the Green-elf camp nestled in the wooded eaves of Ered Lindon, where his clan dwelt in the warm seasons of Spring and Summer. Each year in Echuir, ere the year's Last-day, they returned to their abode beside the deep mere carved by the falling waters of swift Brilthor, where in a glittering torrent the river fell foaming from the rocky heights of the mountains' feet. The tribe had long called it Nen Echui in jest,¹ for they deemed it their own Water of Awakening where the Green-elves of Ossiriand began their lives anew in Harlindon after the ruin of Beleriand.

   Further to the south the scarp sloped into a narrow fir-clad dale, up which the young elf climbed until it brought him onto the shoulder of the mountain that loomed above his home. He halted and gazed westwards with unseeing eyes, heedless of the marvellous view over the treetops in the dell below, for his thought was clouded and his heart heavy with the shadow of memory.
   Twelve years had passed since Faethurin, his friend and sworn brother had departed the circles of the world for the Lonely Island in the Uttermost West; twelve years since Dimaethor father of Faethurin had perished in these very mountains; twelve years of sorrow and loneliness. And in his grief Feveren had become aloof from the clan that loved him, forsaking their mirth to oft wander forlorn in the greenwoods, mourning the merry company of his lost love-brother.
   
   Indeed, today marked Iestor,² the First Day of Spring and the beginning of another coranor, and at home his tribe would be making merry. But Feveren had not yet the heart for mirth: not today, nor once in the twelve years that had passed, for ever did such feasting bring to his mind sad memories of bygone merrimaking and joyful mischief he had made together with his friend. (And a dozen years is not a long count in the reckoning of the slow lives of Elven-kind, even for one as young as Feveren.)³
   He looked back over the vast sprawl of Eryn Milbar below. Everything looked fresh, and the new green of Spring was shimmering in the treetops. His heart should be joyful he knew, and he wished he could dispel the dark cloud that had fallen upon it. The noonday sun had climbed above the mountains, and she beamed gaily in the clear blue sky as if in mockery of his dour mood; far above the white peaks were shining, smiling in the sunlight.

   On the young elf went, clambering up a rocky ridge, his pack joggling on his back; onto it he had fastened his unwieldy staff, and it swung to and fro behind him like a stiff wooden tail as he climbed. He halted to peer up at the sheer rock face, then down past his heels whence he had come, his long hair whipping in the wind. Feveren guessed the cliff's height to be about ten fathoms: not overhigh, but for a moment, when he had stood stretching up on the tips of his toes only to fail reaching a high handhold, he cursed his small elven form: for he had inherited the slight willowy stature of his Nandor forebears -- together with their honeyed hue -- and he had seen but three and thirty years, and stood therefore a few inches shy of only five feet tall.⁴
   At last he came to the brink, and breathing hard he hauled himself up onto the grass. Turning to look northwards he could see the glittering silver ribbon of the Brilthor ere it plunged down into Nen Echui. But still he felt no joy kindle in his heart, and he wondered sadly at that; for this was not the first time he had followed this path, and each time before he had delighted at the sight. Feveren heaved a sigh. 'I was but a merry elfling, then,' he thought gloomily, 'and Fethurin was by my side.'⁵
   Leaning on his staff, he stumbled down the steep overgrown slope of a wide vale that lay between two great arms of the mountains. Long ago the Duilwen had bubbled merrily along this river-valley, but that river had long ceased to flow when the lands were changed in the Great Battle of the Powers. However, the ancient wood that grew there had endured, fed by many small streams that trickled down from the melting snow-clad peaks; his kin named it Taur-na-Chardhîn, Forest of the Southern Silence, in remembrance of the dark and gloomy forest west of Lindon, Land of Song,⁶ in Beleriand long ages before.

   It was in this forest that Dimaethor father of Faethurin had perished, slain by a giant mountain-troll; the first to be seen in Ered Lindon since Torogarch of the Elder Council slew the great fell creature that earned him both his byname and the troll-tooth necklace he wore girt about his neck. Why Dimaethor had assailed the monstrous troll single-handed, no elf could say, for ever was it the hunters' custom to call for aid ere giving chase to prey -- or foes -- they deemed beyond their skill.
   The ill tidings of the death of Dimaethor had been swiftly brought to the clan by the woodland birds, sent forth by an Onod of the old forest; a message known only to the Elders of the Council and Aeweneth his wife. But neither Faethurin or Feveren were given leave to accompany the hunters who went to recover Dimaethor's body, for the two elf-boys had but lately past their twenty-first year and the Elders feared more trolls might yet be lurking on the mountain-side, for it was not the creatures' wont to prowl alone. They would not risk the lives of the clan's children in the wild, or so they told the pair; for while this was indeed the truth, they sought also to shield the boys from a doubtless gruesome sight. Besides, no elf had perished in their short lives, which was grief and fear enough to bear for their young hearts.
   Now it was Feveren's purpose to seek that old Shepherd of the Trees, though he could not say what need drove him: a forgotten dream, perhaps, or a faint yearning in his mind. All he knew for sure was that Dimaethor's passing was the reason Aeweneth, mother of Faethurin, had chosen to forsake Middle-earth together with her son. He bore her no ill will, for two sons she had already lost long ago in the kinstrife at the Havens of Sirion in the Elder Days. Too much of her family's blood had been spilled in Middle-earth, she had said, and she would not risk losing her last-born child to the perils of the Hither Lands.

   But the hearts of the two young friends were filled with dismay, and in despair they appealed to the Elders for Faethurin to remain. No matter how the elf-boys begged her, Aeweneth would not abjure, and the bitter words of Selcheneb the Lore-keeper rang in Feveren's dark memory:
   'It is decreed by the Council that Faethurin son of Dimaethor is not full-grown, and is therefore yet the ward of Aeweneth, his mother. We must, alas, abide with her choice.' She had looked down at the weeping faces of the pair with sadness and pity in her eyes. 'I am sorry,' she had said, while a tear ran glistening down her own cheek. A scant hundred days later Feveren and Faethurin had bade their final tearful farewell upon the rainswept quay of the Grey Havens, and the grieving young Green-elf had watched the white sails of the hallowed elven-ship dwindle as it took his heart along the Straight Road of no return.
   Feveren wiped his eyes with the back of his small hand, and strode down to the eaves of the dark wood. Beneath the boughs shadows lay deep and thick, and his elf-eyes could see no further than twenty yards into the tangled forest. It was also pathless, and as he lightly picked his way though the undergrowth between the boles, he could feel the trees watching; not with wariness or wrath, just a drowsy heedfulness that felt more friendly than perilous. The close air was still and silent, save for the soft whispering of leaves, though there was no breeze to stir them; no birdsong could be heard, nor singing waters. Leaving his pack and staff at the foot of a massive oak, he clambered onto a great low branch, and with his feet dangling above the sward he began to sing in his high clear voice.
   It was a song he had learned from Gladlin his father, the tree-singer, when he was but six years of age, and they -- together with Dimaethor and Faethurin -- first came to Taur-na-Chardhîn; it was a song in the Ossiriandren tongue, and it was a song of calling.

*      *      *

   'Hrum, I know that song!' a deep voice rumbled from the silent shadows. There came a loud rustling of leaves, and on long creaking legs a tall figure stepped stiffly out onto the turf beneath the oak tree. Three times the height of Feveren, it was covered in a thick skin of grey-brown oaken bark and dark green oak leaves crowned its hoary head; with deep solemn eyes it gazed at the young elf sitting in its favourite tree. It was one of the few Onodrim of Ossiriand⁷ who yet dwelt on the green shoulders of Ered Lindon, one whom the young Green-elf knew well. But though the Onod had remained unchanged across the span of a score of years, Feveren was an elfling no longer, and the ancient eyes peered thoughtfully at his face.
   'Hrum, hoom, the voice seems familar to my ears, but the face is strange to me! Nay, not strange, but changed in the wearing of of the swift years of Middle-earth, I deem.' He nodded his long leafy head, then his eyes slowly widened with delight.
   'Root and twig!' the Onod boomed. 'Feveren Tawardil, is it you?' Raising his arms to his head, he hooted happily and rustled his leaves. 'Hoo ho, young Feveren! It is you!'
   From his perch the elf-boy dropped lightly to the ground. 'Gi suilannon, Rhossolas!' he cried, and he ran to clasp his arms around Rhossolas' gnarled knees.
   'Hoom! Why, I haven't seen your fair face since you and Faethrurin were but fresh green shoots,' the Onod said, patting the young elf on the back with his large knob-knuckled hand, 'and now you are grown into a slender sapling! But tell me, where is your friend today? Never were you apart before, when you visited my wood as elflings, and it makes me wonder to see you now alone.'
   Feveren stepped back with a groan. 'You do not know?' he asked. 'Twelve times have the red leaves fallen since we buried Dimaethor father of Fethurin, whom you found lifeless upon your forest floor, and soon thereafter Aeweneth, his wife and mother of my friend, took sail with Fethurin to the Lonely Island in the Uttermost West.'
   'Hm, ah, so she did it then, eh?' Rhossolas sighed. 'Hoom, hrum, I don't know what to say, for I fear the fault is mine!' He glanced down at Feveren's unhappy face, and to the young elf's wonder the Shepherd bent his stiff back in a creaking bow.
   'Hrum, it was he who said his beloved wife should flee, lest Faethurin whom they named Amdirchir, their Renewed Hope, come likewise to harm in the middle lands. Thus I repeated his words in my tidings to your kin.' He downcast his eyes. 'Hoo! It was my hope his wife wouldn't heed his counsel.'
   'Alas!' cried Feveren, 'she did indeed, and my friend is gone and my heart is broken!'
   'Hoom, hm, ah well. We can't have that, now.’ He paused, looking long at the elf-boy, 'but first I deem you should know his tale, lest your blame be laid on him.'
   'What do you mean, old friend?' asked the young elf grimly. 'He said go! and so she went. You were but the messenger, and therefore blameless to my mind.'
  'Ah, hrum, hearken first and then decide.' The Onod closed his eyes as he thought back to that fateful day twelve years before.
   'Hoom! Dimaethor was yet unscathed when I heard the sound of battle beneath the boughs, and following the clamour I found him fiercely fighting with the burárum! evileyed-blackhanded, morimaite-sincahonda⁸ ... hrum, hm, the fell troll. Curse it, root and branch! His foe was tall and broad -- taller and broader than any mountain-troll I'd seen before -- and it was pierced by many elven-arrows; but alas! it smote the elf-hunter a deathly blow. Ra-hoom-rah! With a fallen limb I stabbed the troll in its broad back and slew it, but alas! I was too late.' He sighed again and opened his eyes to look deeply into Feveren's. 'Dimaethor was not yet dead when I came to him, though his body was broken, and to me he uttered his last words. The troll, he said, was a scout from faroff  Tharbad. Hoom! The grassland plains of Minhiriath are too easily crossed these days, now that the ancient forests are no more.'
   For a moment Feveren's dismay overcame his gloom. 'Alas! What became of them?' he cried.
   'Ah, hm, hrum, they were in ages past cut down by the Men of Númenor for the building of a great fleet of ships, but they did not replant the forests they razed!' In the Onod's slow brown eyes a green flame kindled. 'Selfish-short-sighted-short-lived men! Haroom! Aye, time was when a squirrel could go from tree to tree from the Baranduin to Gwathló and as far to the west as Sîr Angren.⁹ But now they are gone, and under cover of darkness evil things cross the open land.'
   The young Green-elf snorted in disgust. The Secondborn were also children of the green earth, thus their heedless deeds seemed a folly to his mind.

   'Hm. But that is not the tale you need to hear, my friend. Brum, hrum, you see, Dimaethor's foe had discovered your hidden home beside the Brilthor, and was hastening with tidings to whatever dark master it served in Tharbad. Knowledge of a secret and unguarded haven of free Elves would be a great prize! Hrum, with this news it taunted the elven-hunter, for it thought its size and strength had daunted him. But Dimaethor attacked regardless, for the secrecy and safety of your tribe -- and his wife and son... and you -- were at stake.' Rhossolas sadly shook his head and his leafy crown rustled. 'Alas, alas, I came too late and he died in vain, but with his dying breath he told this tale. Hoom, and also he said it was no ordinary mountain-troll, for it spoke the Common Tongue and it named itself Olog-hai in the Black Speech, and it could endure the light of day! It is a mark of evil things that came in the Great Darkness that they cannot abide the Sun,⁸ thus it seemed to Dimaethor's mind some new breed of troll. A fell and perilous foe, doubtless bred in the Black Land, for the Eagles tell me that the  -- burárum --  Dark Power has returned again to his Dark Tower!
   'Hm, well, there you have it, young Feveren; Dimaethor feared for his family in a world where the Enemy -- which breeds black evil -- is growing its strength, and reaching out its long arm beyond the Ered Lindon. Hoom! He feared another great storm is coming!'
   'I should be dismayed and alarmed by such tidings of evil and war,' muttered the elf-boy, shaking his head, 'but in my heart I feel naught but my own sorrow, and there is a cloud of shadow on my mind.' He sighed and clenched his fists. 'O, Rhossolas! I am undone!' he said softly.
   Rhossolas looked sadly at his elven friend for a few moments, then his deep eyes brightened. 'Hoom! Come now! Come home with me, and we shall see to your riven heart, young Feveren. Aye, aye, we shall see! Baroom! ’

   He stretched forth his arms, but Feveren swept up his pack and staff, skipped onto Rhossolas outstretched six-fingered hand, and sprang nimbly up to sit on the old Onod's shoulder. Rhossolas smiled grimly. 'Hm, a time there was when I had to lift you up to reach your perch,' he said. 'And with but one hand, too! Ah, hm, merry days they were, much merrier. Hrum! ' He strode solemnly into the shadowed trees, heading eastwards up the silent vale towards the slopes of the mountains, making hardly a sound with his great feet. All the while, as he walked, he hummed thoughtfully to himself in a long running stream of musical sounds: boom, boom, rumboom, boorar, boom boom, dahrar boom boom, dahrar boom...⁸ Feveren wondered what was passing in the Onod's mind, for he well knew that such humming was a sign that Rhossolas was thinking hard about some cunning plan he had devised.

*      *      *

   At last they reached the foot of the mountains, and came suddenly to an opening in the trees, leading to a coomb of short green grass growing between shrubs of fragrant herbs. No trees grew there save three tall silver-birches that stood in the middle of the hollow, clustered around a mossy stone, and the glen was open to the sky; the afternoon sunlight gilded their bright green leaves. Amidst the silence bees hummed loudly, and big blue butterflies fluttered over the lawn. In the mountainside a shallow bay was hollowed into the sheer rock-wall, and about its threshold small pale flowers blossomed in the turf. A small stream spilled down in a fine curtain of silver drops across the high arched bay, to be caught in a long stone basin, thence it spilled away into the forest.
   Feveren leapt down, went inside and unburdened himself of his pack and staff. The Onod followed, and with a Hoom! Ho!, he stood for a moment under the rain of the falling spring. The westering sun cast rainbows in the spray.
   'Hm,' he said, his deep rumbling voice filled with concern. 'Will you not wash off the stains of travel, eh, young Feveren?'
   The elf-boy shook his head. 'I care not that I am begrimed,' he shrugged, and sprang to sit upon the table, a great stone slab six feet above the ground. He did not meet the Onod's eye, but stared down at his dirty dangling feet. 'Indeed, I deem the stain without reflects well the taint within!' Rhossolas gave him a slow thoughtful look.
   ‘Well, well, now we can talk again,’ he boomed as he strode in dripping. Each large foot had six long toes and left wet prints on the rock floor. ‘You are thirsty, I expect,' he said. 'And your heart is heavy. Drink this!’ From a tall stone jar he filled two bowls, one much larger than the other, and passed the smaller to the young elf. In the shimmering sunlight the clear draught seemed to glow with a faint green light.
   'Onod-draught!' Feveren exclaimed. 'Long has it been since I tasted it upon my lips.'
   'Hrum, one and twenty summers by my count,' replied the Onod, and he slowly drained his bowl in one long, slow draught. Feveren took a grateful sip, then gulped down his bowl. He burped, and gave a giggle. Then he felt refreshment and vigour coursing upwards from his toes; it rose steadily through every limb, right to the tips of his ears. A sudden warmth and gladness touched his heart, and swelled until it felt as if it would break his heart with joy. For the first time in days uncounted mirth rose to his lips, and he gave high clear laugh like the elf-child he had been when last he was in the house of Rhossolas.¹⁰ Stripping off his travel-stained clothes, he danced laughing under the falling shower in the archway.
   The Onod watched him gladly with a broad smile beneath his mossy beard. Then he lay down upon his great low-legged bed -- to prevent the drink from rising to his head and sending him to sleep, so he had told the two elf-boys before. Feveren shook himself dry and garbed himself in fresh breeches from his pack, then he nestled beside Rhossolas as he had as an elfling; in those days Faethurin would lie on the Onod's other side, each of the elf-children snuggled into the bed's deep covering of dried grass, bracken and fern. But, to the young elf's amazement, loneliness did not pierce his heart, for the draught had washed it clear of anguish; his grief yet remained, but no longer did it feed the despair of his heart that had overthrown his mind. The cloud of shadow had been swept away!
   For the first time in a dozen years the elf-boy's heart was untroubled and he felt glad and easy in his mind. His thought took shape in song, and he sang of his joy refound and of his thankfulness to Rhossolas, who it seemed could shepherd elf-children just as well as he did trees.

   'Good! Good!' boomed the old Onod when the young elf's song had ended. 'Hm, hoom! By root and twig, it brings joy to my heart to hear you sing thus, Feveren, merry as a young leaf! And I'm glad to have aided you at last. Aye, I only wish you had come sooner, for long have I called out to you. Hrum, from far away I felt your gloom, though I didn't know its cause; hoom, hrum, it puzzled me, for ever has your heart been gay and joyful.'
   Feveren rested his damp head on Rhossolas' gnarled shoulder, and oak leaves brushed across his face as the Onod turned his long head as far as his thick neck would allow, so he could look askance at the elf-boy.
   'Alas,' the young elf said, 'I fear that grief and despair veiled my heart and mind, and I could not hear your thought. One-and-twenty years you say? We had seen but twelve autumns when last we were here, and it is strange to my mind that time seems to have passed by in a twinkling since!' He shook his head, and Rhossolas' leaves rustled against his cheek. 'I also wish I had come sooner, for little did I know the true virtue of your drink. Before you told us only that it would keep two elflings green and growing, and I knew not that it could also heal a broken heart.'
   'Aye, aye,' the Onod replied, 'hearts and minds and spirits, too. But only, I deem, in those who are true forest-friends with hearts of green, and so I made my guess. Hrum, I am glad I guessed aright!'
   Feveren smiled at him fondly. 'And I have missed your friendship, dear Rhossolas.'
   'Hoom, hrum, well, I've missed watching you grow from sprout to sapling, young elfling.' His thick beard of moss twitched as he smiled in return. 'It is my hope I shall not have to wait another score of years before you come again!'
   'And mine, also!' laughed the elf-boy. 'Though my folk seldom venture east into the mountains these days, for they deem it is foolhardy and perilous. But I am unafraid!'
   'Hm! And what of your plan to one day wander abroad with Faethurin?'
   'I shall do it,' said Feveren, 'but Faethurin will be in my heart rather than at my side, for I have promised him to take with me a journal and chronicle my journey hither and thither in the world.' He gave a shrug. 'But it is yet wellnigh a score of years ere I might be deemed full-grown by the Elders. So Selcheneb the Lore-keeper has said.'
   'Good, good! Maybe time enough to visit again, then. Hm, and to grow some more, root and branch, for you're still only a little elf that reaches but to my knee!' Rhossolas boomed a laugh and Feveren joined in his laughter. The Onod's leaves rustled with his rumbling mirth, and at the door the curtained fountain tinkled merrily, its melody blending with the elf-boy's high clear elven voice.

   Feveren sat up suddenly. His mind was keen and clear once more, and a thought had come to him. 'Rhossolas, what became of the troll-corpse?' he asked.
   'Burárum! I left the troll where it lay. No beast would go near, not even the wolves. Its flesh has returned to the earth to feed the trees, there's naught now but a few old bones half-buried in the turf.'
   'If you will, I should like you to take me thither ere I return home to my kin.'
   'Hm, eh? Whatever for, I'd like to know?'
   'I would claim a tooth from its skull, a trophy of bone from which I shall carve a trinket for a charm. It should make a strong ward against fell beasts, and I will not suffer the sad doom of Dimaethor!'
   Rhossolas cast a thoughtful eye at the many charmed bracelets on the elf-boy's wrists, many more than he wore before as a carefree elfling, and he understood his young friend's need.
   'Well, well, aye, then I'll take you,' the old Shepherd agreed. 'But wait at least until the morrow, for I should much like to share your company tonight. Hoom, the day is growing old and soon the full Moon will be rising over the mountains into the cloudless sky, and it is my wish to sing to him together as we used to do, eh? Hrum, and I deem another draught or two would not go amiss!'
   'That would lighten my heart, Rhossolas!' Feveren exclaimed. 'For I much desire to once more see your enchanting hollow glow green and golden in the dark.¹¹ And afterwards we can welcome the merry dawn, and the first bright Sun of Spring. Too long has it been since I sang with joy... or with a friend I love!'

*      *      *

1. "... [the First Elves] came to a lake dark in the twilight; and there was a great cliff about it upon the east-side, and a waterfall came down from the height, and the stars glittered on the foam."
      -  The War of the Jewels, "Quendi and Eldar, The legend of the Awaking of the Quendi (Cuivienyarna)"

2. Iestor* = Yestarë "First-day" (S.R. 6 April)
The first day of the year. It was the first day of spring and the renewal of nature.

* Note: Tolkien did not give the Sindarin words for these holidays in Appendix D. These translations from the Quenya were provided by Sindarin expert /u/Elaran in the /r/sindarin subreddit."
      - Shire Reckoning, "Rivendell Reckoning Notes: Rivendell Holidays"

3. "‘Nay, time does not tarry ever,’ [Legolas] said; ‘but change and growth is not in all things and places alike. For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they need not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.’"
      - The Fellowship of the Ring, ''The Great River"

4. At 33 years of age Feveren resembled an 11-year-old Man-child, and stood 4'9" (1.43m) on his bare feet. (Concerning Age in Relation to Appearance)

5. Ever had they in jest named each other in the fashion of their line's elvish tongue. (Doriathrin and Danian)

6. 'For which reason the Noldor named that land Lindon', with a footnote '[The Country of
Music >] The Land of Song'
      -  The War of the Jewels, "Quendi and Eldar: The Clan-names..."

7. "Thus it came to pass that when the Dwarves of Nogrod, returning from Menegroth with diminished host, came again to Sarn Athrad, they were assailed by unseen enemies; for as they climbed up Gelion’s banks burdened with the spoils of Doriath, suddenly all the woods were filled with the sound of elven-horns, and shafts sped upon them from every side. There very many of the Dwarves were slain in the first onset; but some escaping from the ambush held together, and fled eastwards towards the mountains. And as they climbed the long slopes beneath Mount Dolmed there came forth the Shepherds of the Trees, and they drove the Dwarves into the shadowy woods of Ered Lindon: whence, it is said, came never one to climb the high passes that led to their homes."
      - The Silmarillion, "Quenta Silmarillion: Of the Ruin of Doriath"

8. The Two Towers, "Treebeard"

9. Cribbed from The Fellowship of the Ring, "The Council of Elrond"

10. The Red Book of Westmarch records that Hobbits who drank Ent-draught grew noticeably taller. This, however, did not happen to Feveren Tawardil ("forest-friend") of Nandorin blood, nor Faethurin of the Iathrim. Perhaps it's an Elven thing?

11. "Treebeard lifted two great vessels and stood them on the table. They seemed to be filled with water; but he held his hands over them, and immediately they began to glow, one with a golden and the other with a rich green light; and the blending of the two lights lit the bay, as if the sun of summer was shining through a roof of young leaves. Looking back, the hobbits saw that the trees in the court had also begun to glow, faintly at first, but steadily quickening, until every leaf was edged with light: some green, some gold, some red as copper; while the tree-trunks looked like pillars moulded out of luminous stone."
      - The Two Towers, "Treebeard"

xxix