The Orcs at the foot of the ridge began to break. Those who still urged their Wargs forward in a last effort to resist were struck down in an instant, pierced cleanly by a few bright shafts.
In less than a quarter of an hour, the shadows on the wild plain were gone. Only the bodies of the slain and the guttering torches remained, casting a wavering red upon the torn earth.
A tall Elf climbed the ridge toward them. He wore a long white robe embroidered with patterns of stars, and his golden hair fell like a shining waterfall in the moonlight. In his hand he bore a longbow inlaid with sapphires.
When his gaze found Gandalf, he inclined himself in a slight bow. "Master Gandalf," he said, "warned by the Valar, King Ingwion foresaw your peril and sent us to your aid."
"Thanks be to the guidance of Manwë," Gandalf answered, a smile of deep relief softening his features. "We came close to losing our chance of ever meeting you again."
The Elf's eyes passed over Aragorn and the others, and when they came to rest on Denethor a glimmer of understanding showed in them. "Young man of Gondor," he said, "your courage does you honor. Come with us. Laurenandë is ready to receive you."
The warriors of the Vanyar shone with a golden sheen in the darkness, like messengers of the stars, noble and mysterious.
They led the five members of the expedition across the wild, and for two days they journeyed, crossing many ridges and steep heights. At last they came to a valley wrapped about in enchantment.
The hollow was sprinkled with countless crystal lamps that shed a soft, gentle radiance. Houses of pale moonstone clung to the slopes, their roofs covered in moss so that they blended with the surrounding forest, as if grown rather than built.
This was Annordlós, the Elven home that Ingwion and his three hundred thousand Vanyar had fashioned for themselves. Here they had raised the kingdom of Laurenandë, a realm that proved the Vanyar no longer belonged only to the memory of Valinor.
When the five of the expedition reached the valley, Ingwion was already waiting upon the steps of the highest hall. He was older than the Elf who had met them on the road. Stars were stitched upon his robe, and his eyes held the deep, clear light of the heavens.
When Ingwion's gaze fell upon the five, it seemed to pass over them and beyond them, as though he looked through a thousand years.
The hem of his robe was edged with flowing stars, every star picked out in silver thread trembling faintly, in answer to the true stars that glimmered above the valley.
When his eyes came at last to the bundle that Denethor held close against his breast, a soft warmth stirred in that star-deep gaze.
"Denethor," he said, and his voice was like chimes in a soft night wind, "the light you carry in your arms shines brighter than the beacons of Minas Tirith."
Denethor stepped forward and lifted both hands, cradling the velvet-wrapped seed as if he bore the crown of Gondor itself.
"King Ingwion," he said, "this is the seed of the Sacred Tree. It bears the blessing of King Kaen Eowenríel and Queen Arwen. We have braved many perils and crossed the wild lands for one purpose alone, that it might take root here in Laurenandë."
The moment Ingwion took the seed, the outer layer of velvet shimmered with a sudden silver light.
He brushed his fingertips lightly over the star-marked patterns on its surface. The radiant lines seemed to wake beneath his touch, running along his fingers and up his wrist, forming a fleeting star-map upon his pale skin before fading again.
"It has waited too long," murmured the Elven king, and there was a gleam of memory in his eyes. "Since the Two Trees of Valinor withered, Elves have not looked upon such light."
Gandalf stepped forward, the smoke from his pipe curling before him into a small, turning whirl. "But its flowering must be sealed in ceremony," he said. "Sauron's shadow is still spying from afar. Only if the power of the stars is brought into harmony with the seed can it grow into a mighty tree."
"Tonight is a fitting hour," Ingwion answered, lifting his face to the sky. At that very moment a lone shooting star drew a bright line across the darkness and fell westward, trailing a golden tail. "Varda, Queen of the Stars, has spoken in prophecy. This night the strength of the stars is at its height."
...
The nights of Annordlós were never truly silent.
When Ingwion's command went forth through the valley, the light of all the crystal lamps brightened together, as though a thousand thousand stars had been wakened at once.
The Vanyar Elves stepped out from their houses of moonstone. They were clad in white robes embroidered with stars, and in their hands they bore berries wrapped in silver leaves and flasks of clear spring water. In ordered lines they climbed the winding stone steps toward the summit.
At the top of the hill lay a broad, round court. In its centre rose a great block of milky-white stone, hollowed into a basin filled with morning dew and blended flower-honey.
Ingwion took his place before the stone and, with reverent care, set the seed into the basin.
The instant it touched the honey, the pale blue shell split with a fine crack. A single thread of silver light slipped out and shot straight up into the dark sky.
"In the name of the stars, and by the witnessing of the stars," Ingwion cried, lifting both arms high. His voice rang like a bell through the mountains. "Let the light return. Let the darkness be driven back."
The Elves around him began to sing as one.
It was not the speech of Middle-earth. The syllables were old and airy, like the whispers of newborn stars.
As their song swelled, the Pleiades above them blazed suddenly bright. The seven chief stars sent down visible rivers of gold, seven shining streams that seemed to pour into the stone basin on the hilltop.
Gimli stared wide-eyed and tugged at Legolas's sleeve. "Elven spells always sound like that?" he muttered. "Far better than my father's mining chants."
Legolas did not look aside. His gaze was fixed on the seed within the stone trough, which was already beginning to change. Awe filled his eyes. "This is no mere spell," he said. "It is a speaking with the stars. Elves are children of the stars. The Vanyar most of all can understand the language of starlight. They are asking the heavens to pour their strength into the Sacred Tree."
Before he had finished, the seed in the basin burst into dazzling blue radiance.
The glow was not hot like fire. Instead it flowed with a coolness that eased the heart, like melted moonlight washing across the court.
The blue light followed the rim of the basin, spilled out over the stones and traced a great map upon the ground, each line matching the paths of the constellations above with perfect grace.
"Take root," Ingwion whispered, and there was a slight tremor in his voice.
The crack in the seed widened. A tender green shoot thrust its way out, growing upward so swiftly that the eye could mark every inch.
Its roots bored through the hollow stone and down into the heart of the mountain. Every root glimmered with blue light, like threads of silver woven in secret through the rock.
The young trunk rose higher and higher, branching into seven slender boughs. At the tip of each bough unfolded a single translucent leaf, and across every leaf starlit patterns flowed as though a piece of the night sky had been cut and laid upon it.
In the time it takes a single stick of incense to burn, the seed that had been no larger than a dove's egg had become a sapling half the height of a grown Elf.
Its bark shone with the soft sheen of pearl. The leaves trembled gently in the starlight, and with every motion they shook down a fine spray of blue motes.
These motes did not vanish when they touched the ground. Instead they rose again like mist and gathered above the kingdom of Laurenandë, forming a vast dome of light.
The dome was a soft blue, its rim inset with flowing star-lines, and it spread out to enfold the whole valley.
Where its edge met the darkness at the valley's bounds, the cold of the lurking shadows fled as ice before a forge-fire, melting away without a trace.
"It is done," Gandalf said, puffing out a ring of smoke. As the smoke drifted upward and touched the dome, it scattered into glittering points of light. "From this day forth, Sauron's shadow will find it hard indeed to set foot here."
Denethor gazed upon the Sacred Tree and suddenly thought of the banners upon the walls of Minas Tirith. Those banners, bearing the emblems of Gondor, had always snapped bravely in the wind, yet they had never given him the peace that filled him now. It was as if the very ground under his feet were guarded by some enduring power.
Hundreds of thousands of Vanyar Elves went down upon one knee. They looked up at the star-crowned tree with eyes full of unshaken devotion.
Ingwion laid his hand upon one of the branches. The leaves rang with a clear, delicate sound at his touch. "So long as the stars do not fall," he proclaimed, "the Sacred Tree shall endure. When it has grown to stand as high as the mountains, its roots will reach through all the lands of Enedhwaith, and even the shadows of the White Mountains will be cleansed."
The Elves on the court began to dance their ancient dances.
They joined hands and swirled around the tree, white robes wheeling in the blue light like a ring of blooming silver lilies.
Gimli, caught up by the sight, found himself stamping his feet in time. The clatter of his mail joined the Elven song and, to his surprise, fit the rhythm well.
Legolas laughed and stepped into the dance. His movements were light as the breeze, every footfall landing exactly upon the points of the star-map inscribed on the stones.
Aragorn leaned against a rock at the edge of the court, watching all that unfolded before him. He remembered the words Kaen Eowenríel had spoken atop Orthanc.
"The seeds are more important than your lives."
Now at last he understood the full weight of that charge. This was no simple seed. It was hope itself, a foundation on which the Free Peoples might stand firm when the darkness closed around them.
"What do you ponder?" Gandalf came to his side and handed him a skin of wine.
Aragorn took it and drank deep. "I am thinking of the road ahead," he said. "Nargothrond and Doriath. Will they also need such a ceremony?"
"They will," Gandalf replied. His eyes rested on the outline of the valley, now etched against the night by the shining dome, deep and distant as outer space. "But Sauron will not grant us another hour of leisure. He will learn that the Elves of Light have come, and he will know that one Sacred Tree has taken root. The remaining two seeds will become thorns in his eye. From Enedhwaith to Minhiriath, the way will be more perilous than it was coming here."
Aragorn nodded and said no more.
He could feel that the faint malice in the air had not truly vanished. It was merely held at bay by the dome of light above. It was like a venomous serpent pinned beneath a stone, gathering its strength in the dark as it waited for the moment to strike.
At that same time, in the far North, Kaen Eowenríel had just returned to his realm, only to be met at once by two troublesome tidings...