Come May

Written for the Teitho challenge "Moments of Transition," where it came joint 2nd. With thanks to Thranduil Oropherion Redux for beta reading. Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien.

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And so she is changing, as the battle is over. The forges lie cold at first and then their fires are rekindled to bring forth ploughs and pruning hooks and all the tools of life. She feels the different hue in the glow of the flames, the different ring of the blacksmiths' stroke. It is a tune that has always been there – for she could not have lived without it – but that has been overpowered for so long, far too long, by the clamour of swords.

She stretches out her senses into all the distant parts. The fertile plains whisper with the soft growth of the new grain. Apple blossoms hang like pale stars in the moonlit nights; peach and cherry blossoms make the orchards blush. In the fields, women and children stand with bent backs to pluck earth's sweetest gift, succulent strawberries, and drop them gently into their baskets. Swallows dive under the gables like fleeting caresses. The old men linger outside their houses in the evenings and watch the sun sink below the Western horizon, afraid no longer to turn their back on the darkness in the East. The cattle shift in the barn, drowsy and content, the sheep, the goats, the horses are settled for the night and mothers tuck in their little ones, able to say truthfully at last: No need for fear.

All along the coast, on the pebbled beaches and glaring white cliffs, eggs shells crack open, delicate membranes are torn and the sea birds' chicks lie, exhausted from their efforts, for the first time under open skies. Waves wash over the shores, be they sand or rock, and they, too, have changed their tune, singing no longer of doom. From the harbours emerge the fishing boats, freshly painted green or red. They set out cheerfully and bring home the ocean's bountiful harvest, ready to roast or smoke or grill. No more anguish troubles them other than the exuberance of the weather; no more black sails darken their horizons. The smell of salt and seaweed is invigorating like never before. The young women send off their sweethearts onto the glittering waters in the mornings with kisses that promise more on return.

The woodlands, too, feel the change. Where shadows have long fed on nightmares, kinder spirits now drift. The fungi that rise from the litter on the ground are wholesome and firm, free from the sickly green poison and spongy decay. The forest floor rustles with tiny creatures. Hunters pass under the boughs that hang lush with new leaves. Old wives come in search of firewood or healing herbs; their steps are still slow but more confident than before the winter. In the clearings, the charcoal burners watch their clamps for signs of cracks that need a swift cover of soil. A tree that falls in the wood this spring makes not a noise but music, and she hears it and sighs.

And in all the little towns there is a susurrus, an excited twittering of voices as all her children – and she has many – talk of the times that are gone and the time that shall come. They fix their roof tiles and paint their shutters, they sweep their streets and wash their steps, for who knows who might pass through soon? From house to house they string bunting and garlands of green branches to mark their feasts of farewell to the children who return to the city of white stone. There are fiddlers and pipers playing up for the dance past the middle of the night and the morning sun finds some of the townsfolk still sitting on the walls and benches and new lovers seeking a pillow on the other's chest.

High above all this preside the mountains, snowcapped and serene. These, surely, remain in their frozen silence? But no, even here a sudden thaw transforms what was rigid and harsh. The ibex clambers on rocks shiny with meltwater. Small, starry flowers cling to the crannies. The peaks raise their voices. They call to the young and the stout-hearted, who tighten their bootlaces and set off on narrow paths, up, up and further up till the air feels thin and the heart is pounding. Why would they exert themselves like this, why risks their limbs, their very lives to reach the summit? There is something to see from up here, something the mind sees better than the eye. She lies in a new-found light; she is changing.

She is changing, she knows she is changing, the clouds that race over her bring tidings of thrilling new ways. And then the clouds open and bathe the woodlands and the plains, the towns and coastlines and mountains until all is cleansed off the very last dust. The sun rises in the East, paints pink the walls of the city and sparkles on the dripping countryside. A scent rises with the mists of this damp dawn and all who smell it feel gladness lift their hearts.

For a moment, a precious, breathless moment, a hush lies over all the land.

Gondor receives her king.