Blooming by Lbilover

IndianLaburnum
IndianLaburnum
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They begin gathering just before dawn, hobbits old and young who stand, hushed and watchful, in a great circle around a tall, graceful tree with smooth silver bark and leaves of gold.


Slowly, so slowly that it seems no sunrise has ever taken so long, the first rays of light reach across the fields to touch the tree.


There is a collective gasp as the mallorn’s tightly budded flowers begin to unfurl under the sun’s blessing, opening their petals gladly to the light, until the entire tree is crowned with gold. And even as the blossoms grow, leaves begin to fall, drifting lightly downward, covering the hobbits’ feet in a blanket of gold.


“Oh, ain’t she beautiful!”


“A wonder and no mistake.”


“But why does the mallorn bloom on the same day each year?” someone asks. They all know, of course, but they never tire of hearing the explanation.


“’Tis old Sam Gardner’s birthday,” an elder explains, “him as planted the mallorn many and many a year ago. He went over Sea, so they say, to live with the Elves.”


“Elves!” The word is an exclamation of wonder, for Elves are only legends out of fireside tales, and no one in living memory has ever seen or met one.


“Aye, though ‘tis likely just a tale, without a scrap of truth to it…”


***


Frodo awakens Sam with a loving kiss. “Happy Birthday, my beloved,” he whispers.


Outside, the sun is rising over the beautiful green isle they now call home.


~end~