When the ship drew in and lay quiet beside the pier, a group of Elves in robes of soft grey-white came forward to meet them.
Their hair was silver-pale, their eyes clear as still pools beneath forest boughs, and in their hands they bore garlands woven from fresh flowers.
"Welcome to Minhiriath," said the foremost, bowing with the light grace of a woodland bird. "The land of Doriath has awaited you for a long while."
The road that led toward the chief city of Doriath was paved with smooth white pebbles. On either side grew low shrubs covered in small blue blossoms, and as the wind moved through them, the petals fell in tiny shining flecks that drifted like motes of light.
Now and then they saw Sindar Elves working among the trees. Some were trimming branches, others were gathering herbs. Children chased after bright birds through the grass, their laughter chiming like silver bells beneath the leaves.
"These Elves are nearer to the soil than the Vanyar," Gandalf said quietly to Aragorn at his side. "The Sindar lived in Middle-earth for thousands of years before ever they sailed West. They learned long ago to speak with the earth and growing things. Even their brief time in Aman never drove that gift from them."
They passed beneath an arch formed by two mighty trees whose branches had grown together overhead. Beyond, the wood opened like a curtain drawn aside.
A great palace stood in the clearing. Its walls were built of crystal stone so clear that all within could be seen from without. Everywhere Elves moved back and forth, each occupied with their own work, some painting frescos, some playing instruments whose music drifted like soft breeze over water. The air itself seemed to hum with harmony.
In the broad square before the palace a great fountain had been raised. Water sprang from the beaks of carved swans, scattered into glimmering droplets in the air, then fell as a spray of tiny lights that danced before they touched the basin.
Suddenly the tall doors of the palace swung inward. A company of Elves robed in silver came forth, forming a half-circle around another figure who stepped into view.
His hair was silver-white, his eyes deep as the night sky, and the staff in his hand was crowned with a great white gem. This was Elurín , King of Doriath.
"Master Gandalf, welcome to Doriath," Elurín said. His voice was steady and kingly. His gaze travelled over the members of the expedition and at last came to rest upon the bundle in Denethor's arms. "You have borne so much hardship for this. Your road has not been an easy one."
Denethor stepped forward and lifted the wrapped seed in both hands as if he carried a crown. "Lord Elurín , this is the seed of the Starborn Sacred Tree. It bears the blessing of King Kaen Eowenríel and Lady Arwen. We..."
"Young one, I know well what it means," Elurín said gently, cutting off his words.
As he took the seed, the crystal walls of the palace shone with a soft radiance, answering the faint starlight that flowed over the seed's surface.
"The Sacred Tree of Laurenandë has already taken root," he said. "Now it is Doriath's turn."
He turned to Eluréd . "Make all ready for the rite. It shall be this very night, under the witness of the stars and the earth."
...
The feast was held in a great hall beneath the palace.
As Elurín led them down the spiralling stair, Gimli's eyes widened, for the world below was broader than he had guessed.
A wide corridor ran under the hill, linking many chambers carved from living stone. The walls of the passage were set with glowing ores that lit up painted murals and carved reliefs in warm shifting light.
"This is the underground palace of Doriath," Elurín explained as they walked. "When we came here, we resolved to rebuild the old glory of the Sindar, even the halls beneath the hills. The work is not yet complete, but there is enough to show."
The murals along the walls told of the wars of the First Age. Elves and Men fighting side by side against Morgoth. Beren and Lúthien winning a Silmaril from his iron crown. Túrin standing against Glaurung the Dragon.
Each picture was wrought so finely it seemed ready to move, as if the heroes might step free from the stone and speak.
"These are painted with the dust of star-crystals," Elurín said, his hand resting lightly upon a mural that showed the Doriath of old. "Their colours will never fade, as those tales will never be wholly forgotten."
Gimli's attention was caught by one chamber packed with raw stone. The ores within gleamed in many hues, some of them slowly shifting as if a fire moved inside their hearts.
"Are these… living ores?" he breathed. He reached out a hand to touch one.
"Do not," Eluréd said quickly, catching his wrist. "These ores have been wakened by Elven magic. They can mend themselves when they are wounded, yet they are easily unsettled by any foreign force. The presence of Dwarves can make them restless."
Gimli withdrew his hand with visible reluctance, though his gaze still clung to the stones. "When I go back," he muttered, "I will drag my old father here if I have to, and show him that Elves know a thing or two about the secrets of rock."
The feast was laid in the largest of the underground halls. The vaulted ceiling was set thick with luminous ores, shining like a host of stars.
Elves brought forth many dishes: cakes made of nuts and honey, wines pressed from forest berries, and soups brewed from the waters of hidden springs and the fish that swam there.
As they ate, Elurín spoke of the road by which Doriath had come to stand again. "When we left our ancient home, we were fewer than a tenth of what we had been," he said.
"It was King Kaen Eowenríel that gave us hope. The power of light he bore cleansed this defiled land and roused it again to life."
Aragorn raised his cup. "To the greatness of Eowenría," he said, "to the endurance of the Sindar, and to the Sacred Tree that will soon put down roots here."
Cups rose all around, and the clear ring of glass on glass echoed off the stone, as though the ancient rock itself answered their toast.
...
At midnight the ceremony was held upon the hill behind the palace.
This was the highest point of Minhiriath. From there the forests and plains spread out below like seas of silvered shadow in the starlight.
Upon the hilltop a vast circle of runes had already been drawn upon the ground. Golden liquid ran in the lines, shining faintly. It had been made from the powder of star-crystals mingled with the life-essence of the Elves.
Elurín stood at the centre of the rune-circle, bearing the pale-blue seed in both hands.
Around him the Sindar gathered in a wide ring. They were clad in simple white robes and held in their hands, staffs fashioned from living leaves and boughs.
"In the name of the earth, and with the stars as witness," Elurín cried, his voice carrying out over the sleeping woods, "let light take root in this land. Let darkness find no hole to hide in."
At his words the Elves began to sing.
The language was that of the Sindar, heavy and deep as the echo of stone. It was as if the land itself had found a voice and joined in their song.
The golden liquid in the runes began to move, flowing along the lines and drawing together at the centre until, beneath Elurín 's feet, it formed a whirling vortex of light.
He set the seed into that golden whirlpool. The moment it touched the shining essence, blue radiance burst forth.
The blue mingled with the gold and together they rose in a single pillar that shot into the sky, turning the night above them bright as day.
The ground trembled softly. From within the rune-circle countless new roots thrust downward, spreading outward beneath the hill, piercing stone and sinking into the deep soil.
Where the roots passed, the slumbering plants of the forest woke. Grass and saplings broke the earth and glowed with a soft green light under the stars.
"It is speaking with the earth," Legolas whispered, his eyes alight with reverence. "The magic of the Sindar is helping it to know this land more swiftly."
The pillar of light burned for the space of half an hour, then slowly faded.
When the brilliance at last died away, a sapling half the height of a man stood where the seed had lain.
Its trunk was silver-white, its leaves bright green, veined with fine lines of living gold. It resembled the Tree of Laurenandë, yet there was in it a different breath, one that belonged more to earth and soil than to distant stars.
Beneath the hill, its roots had woven a vast network. Through the crystal stone beneath their feet they could see countless points of golden light pulsing along the roots, like blood in the veins of the land.
"It is done," Elurín said, laying his hand upon the smooth bark. A smile of quiet joy touched his face. "The Sacred Tree will drink strength from earth and starlight, and it will cleanse every span of soil here, every river that runs through this realm.
"It will not be long before the forests of Minhiriath spread all the way to the Misty Bay, and the purified lands of Laurenandë and Doriath join into one."
The Elves around him broke into cheers. They danced in circles about the Sacred Tree, white robes rising and falling in the night like a field of blooming flowers.
The five companions of the expedition stood and watched, and a thought came to all of them: every danger on the journey, every wound and fear, had been worth this.
Night wind flowed over the hilltop, carrying up the scent of leaves and rich earth. The branches of the Sacred Tree stirred, and the sound that came from them was clear and sweet, as if it answered the resolve in the hearts of those who had brought it here.
...
At that same hour, in Minas Tirith, the white city of Gondor, the aged Steward Ecthelion II received urgent reports from the southern seas and South Gondor.
Before the gathered nobles and ministers of the realm, an official unrolled the dispatch and read aloud.
"Corsairs are mustering. The Haradrim are mustering. Thousands of great ships have assembled. Led by the Dark Númenóreans, they have turned from our coasts and are sailing north..."
"Lord Steward," one of the ministers said gravely, stepping forth, "in the western lands there are only two harbors that can bear so many ships. The Grey Havens, and Lond Daer."
"They must be sailing for Lond Daer," said an older Dúnedain among them. "The Elves of Doriath have but lately taken that port. Its walls are not yet fully repaired. Their aim could not be plainer.
"We must aid our allies. Whether Doriath or Laurenandë, they may be newly crowned realms, but they are our best hope in the struggle against the dark."
Upon the high seat Ecthelion II sat shrunken somewhat by age, yet the eyes in his worn face still shone keen and thoughtful.
He listened in silence to the talk of Gondor's nobles and officers, then rose slowly to his feet.
"King Kaen of the North foresaw this stroke long ago," he said. "Word reached us not many days past, warning that we must not clash openly with this fleet if we can avoid it.
"The Dark Númenóreans have inherited the finest arts of Númenor's navy and her shipwrights. To challenge them upon the sea is no wise choice."
He paused, letting the murmurs die away.
"So we will do this," he went on. "We shall send our swiftest messengers to Laurenandë and lay all these tidings before the Vanyar. Then, together with Rohan, we will dispatch twenty thousand horsemen to the aid of Lond Daer.
"If we are weaker at sea, we must change our way of war. Let the black hosts come ashore. Once they tread the earth, we shall ring them round and cut them down.
"As for the sea itself..." A faint, grim smile touched his mouth. "In Lindon, the returned Elven King will lead the fleets of the Grey Havens, and he will see to it that no dark ship finds an easy road back."