Of the days in Cormallen

A Tolkienian reflection

Men are wont to deem that, once the clamour of arms is stilled and the darkest shadows are scattered, the world forthwith returns unto its former course, as though naught had befallen. Yet those who have passed through grievous seasons know well that it is not so. For after great trials there cometh a quieter hour; not an hour of defeat, but of mending, wherein life endureth whilst hearts learn, little by little, to bear less fear and greater memory. Such a season hath of late lain upon these lands.

These were not days meet for sudden merriment, nor tales that called for loud songs beneath the hall-roof. Daily labour went onward still, marked by simple tasks, by absences keenly felt, and by a weariness abiding; not born of one grievous blow alone, but of many small burdens long borne with patience. For most folk it was a hard season; not wholly dark, in truth, yet heavier by far than had been looked for when the struggle was ended.

And yet the greatest battle had indeed been fought. There were moments of solace, brief and precious. Shared tables, kindly words, and reunions that reminded wanderers of who yet they were, despite all that had passed. But even these moments bore the sobriety proper unto those returned from a long road who have not yet found full rest; living and thankful indeed, yet wary still, as though joy itself must relearn the way among them.

Certain hopes came not to fulfilment in the fashion once dreamt of. Others took shapes unforeseen, asking acceptance rather than gladness. Some disappointments entered in silence and there remained, demanding time. Days there were when the question concerned not distant destinies, but only how the journey might yet continue without the loss of heart.

Then it was that small things revealed their true worth. Steadfast friendships, that required neither laughter nor vows. Faithful presences that slowed their pace when weariness grew plain. Those who remained when there was neither haste nor answer nor any clear design before them. No great matters in the eyes of the world, perchance, and yet upholding more than many loud victories.

And above all there endured an ancient certainty, shared even by those who seldom set such things into words: that the tale had not ended with the battle.

Great indeed was the burden, yet it was not final. The signs stood plain for those with eyes to mark them. These were not days of surrender, but of waiting; not of defeat, but of preparation. Even as a city that, after long siege, beginneth quietly to make itself ready for a crowning promised from elder days.

The trumpets have not yet sounded, and the banners remain furled. Yet it is known that the King liveth, and that His return shall not fail. And that certainty, though quiet, shapeth every step now taken. Thus do we press onward.

Perchance more slowly than before, marked by the road already trodden, mindful of losses and of scars, yet still we walk in hope. Not the naive hope that heedeth not suffering, but that firmer hope which is born after the struggle, when it is known at last that victory dependeth no longer upon the strength of travellers, but upon the faithfulness of Him who reigneth.

These are, therefore, days of watchfulness and trust. Not of war, nor yet of feast, but of faithful waiting. And for those who know the ending of the Tale, that alone sufficeth, until at last the Crown be revealed and the long-promised rest fulfilled.