Song of Spring by StarSpray

Song of Spring

"In the North also there had been war and evil. The realm of Thranduil was invaded, and there was long battle under the trees and great ruin of fire; but in the end Thranduil had the victory." - The Return of the King, Appendix B

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Spring was returning at last, green creeping over the world like the thinnest of veils, this early in the year. Tiny leaves were budding on branches, and birds were returning from their southern sojourns, to find mates and build nests and splash in the little streams and bowls of water that Radagast left out for them about his house at Rhosgobel. It was a delightful time of year, and usually Radagast delighted in wandering about, be it in Mirkwood or through the fields beyond it, or up and down the Anduin.

This year it was more than welcome. Radagast had felt the moment the Ring was destroyed, as though the whole world had breathed a sigh of relief. And it had not been long after that that the Eagles had come, flying low over Mirkwood and the lands of the Beornings and over the Long Lake and Dale and the Lonely Mountain, proclaiming victory over Sauron and crying praises for the two small hobbits who had braved alone the journey to Mount Doom to bring it all about.

There were other bits like the returning of a King to Gondor, but Radagast had never paid much attention to all that sort of thing. He'd left that to Gandalf and Saruman, who were better suited to it. He had been of old one of Yavanna's people, and his task was different from theirs. It was not only Men and Elves and Dwarves—and Hobbits, evidently—who struggled against the growing Shadow. Now that it was gone his work could truly begin. In time he would make his way down the Anduin, to see what sort of mess Saruman had made of Isengard, and then he'd go on to Ithilien and even into Mordor itself. The land was resilient, and even the most withered of heaths would bloom again in time, and it was Radagast's work to help it along.

But before he could go south, he had plenty to do at home. So much of Mirkwood had burned—and Lórien, too. But even that was a blessing in disguise, Radagast mused as he crouched beside a blackened stump, scraping up a handful of ash and earth and letting it fall back through his fingers. Sunlight could reach where it had not been able to for many hundreds of years. The thick, twisted, choking growth had been all burned away, and now a new, healthier wood could take its place. Not to mention the toll that had been taken on the spiders.

Radagast stood and took up his staff, walking on until he came to a large fallen tree, not quite burned through and still sturdy enough for a seat. He sat down and looked around, watching and listening and breathing. The air still smelled strongly of smoke and burned wood. But in the distance he could hear a bird calling, and overhead steely clouds were rolling in, promising rain. Radagast smiled up at the clouds as he tilted his head back, before he closed his eyes and began to sing. He sang of budding leaves and blooming flowers and dewdrops on sweet grass, of sunlight on clear water and of rain falling on soft soil.

When he finished, Radagast sat for a while, eyes still closed, just breathing and listening. A nightingale trilled quite close by. He opened his eyes to catch a glimpse of it as it fluttered away deeper into the wood. He saw also a pair of squirrels, one black and the other pale grey, chasing each other up a blackened trunk. And when he looked down at his feet he saw a very tiny bit of green, a single leaf peeping bravely out of the soil. He smiled; it was a very good start.