The window was high, so high that the flock of white doves flying over the roofs of the Second Circle looked as small as snowflakes.

Suddenly the snowflake birds swirled in panic and the boy, watching from the window, saw the great falcon hurtle past him, a living arrow, keen and deadly, its talons outstretched to seize one small, desperate bird out of the flock.

His father said that the falcons who lived in the crags of Mindolluin were the swiftest, fiercest, and noblest of all birds, save only the eagles of the northern mountains who knew the speech of Men. One day the boy would see the eagles. His father had promised, and what his father promised, good or bad, always came true. Meanwhile, there was the splendour of the falcons, and the glory of the window.

The room to which the window belonged had once belonged to the boy’s father, and to his uncle. His uncle’s things were still kept there – weapons and trophies and prizes, all kinds of interesting things that the boy was allowed to examine, so long as he treated them with respect. There were things belonging to his father as well, but not many. His father wasn’t very interested in owning things, except perhaps books. But, wonderful as the things in the room were, the most wonderful thing about it was the windows. One looked southwards, towards the silver gleam of the Great River and the hills beyond, that were the boy’s real home. It was good to have them in sight. The other looked northwards, towards Mount Doom in Mordor. When his father had been young, that window had disclosed a terrible menace and the first thing his father and uncle had done, every morning, was to shake their fists at it to show they weren’t afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of there now, but the boy still shook his fist in that direction every morning, to show that he wouldn’t have been afraid either. 

The window was unglazed, but the wall it was set in was so thick that not much draught came through, only enough air to make the room pleasantly fresh and cool – in spring and summer, at least. It must be bitterly cold there in winter; there was no fireplace. The boy had never been there in winter; he’d only just been given sovereignty over the room, after the soft years when he’d had to sleep below in the nursery. If they came to the town house again next winter, the boy would keep to this room, abiding the cold, and never complain. His father and uncle had been hardy and had scorned mollycoddling, and the boy would not be outdone in this.

The light from the northward window flickered suddenly, cut off by a winged shadow, and the boy realised it was the falcon, flying back upwards with its catch. It must be going back to its nest, where perhaps it had young, fierce and eager for blood. The boy was  exasperated at the way the thickness of the wall limited his vision of the bird.  The window embrasure was wide; he found that if he crawled into it, he could get closer to the outside and see much further. He wriggled forwards until his face was almost outside in the air. He felt like a badger in a burrow. Even so, he couldn’t look up so as to see the falcon on its nest.

But he could see something that wasn’t apparent from anywhere else. Just below the window was a ledge, quite a wide one, wide enough to stand on. He didn’t know why it was there; perhaps the builders, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, had made it so they could stand and build the wall even higher.

If he stood, or sat, on that ledge, he would be able to see everything, above and below and on every side. He would see right up to the top of Mindolluin, above the Hallow, where even the King dared not go. Only the falcon dared. From the ledge, the boy would be able to see the falcon on its nest. Perhaps the bird would look at him and own him for an equal. They were both princes, princes of the air. Together they would look into the sun without blinking.

The boy wriggled back and forth with infinite care, until he had his feet on the ledge. His hands scrabbled on the rough stone of the wall. He got to his feet and inched along the ledge to a point a few yards away where it was broader. It was broad enough to sit there, out in the air. He was careful not to look down. He looked up at the peak of Mindolluin, into the blinding whiteness of summer snow. He couldn’t see the falcon’s nest, or the falcon. Perhaps it had flown even higher, into the sun. He felt he could do the same. There could be no greater freedom than this, out in the air with the falcon. The ledge was firm under his feet. The stone at his back was sun-warm and solid. He was light as air, free as air.

Then the falcon plunged past him again, appearing as it seemed out of nowhere. Its young were fierce and hungry and needed food, so it was hunting again, a deadly bolt loosed against the doves on the city roofs. The boy’s eyes followed the falcon automatically, unthinkingly. He looked down, and his senses swam. The ledge was narrow. It heaved and tried to throw him off. The rough stone rasped at his hands. The air came at him, angry at his intrusion. The window was a million miles away, he would never reach it. He tried to cry out, but his throat was too tight. Who would hear him, who would see him, small as an ant as he must be from below? Even if somebody came to the window, they wouldn’t see him unless they put their head right outside, as he had done, and who else would think to do that?

Only the falcon could see him, and the falcon did not care. It had stooped on another dove. The boy heard the dove’s thin death-cry.

The boy wondered how much it would hurt when he fell.

It was hours later. Or perhaps only minutes. Or perhaps a day and a night, or many, had gone by and his senses could not tell the difference. He thought he heard someone call his name, but it must be a dream, unless the falcon had found a voice. But there was someone at the window, looking towards him, not around and around but straight at him as if the someone knew exactly where to look. Then there was someone on the ledge, someone who walked along it as if it were a pavement as wide as the world. Two strong hands locked under his armpits and carried him back towards the window with his feet brushing the ledge. He felt he should walk, but his legs were like string. The strong hands thrust him back into the embrasure, like someone pushing a cork into a bottle. With stone all around him, he found the strength to wriggle through and land in a heap on the floor.

His rescuer followed more slowly. For him, the embrasure was a tight fit. The boy staggered to his feet just in time to be sent sprawling again by a thunderous box on the ear. It hurt, but it shook the world back into focus. He could see his father’s face; it bore the grim expression that meant a lot more was in store for him than a mere box on the ear, but more than that, it was dead white, white to the lips. He realised that his father was frightened. That frightened the boy more than the prospect of a plunge to the ground had done.

He waited for his father to speak, but his father said nothing, only looked at him. The silence was torture. The boy had to break it.

‘I  - I’m sorry, Father.’

‘Sorry? So you should be.’ His father’s voice was hoarse, quite unlike itself. The next words were a hoarse whisper. ‘Or rather, so should I be.’

The boy did not understand.

‘H-how did you know where to find me?’

His father smiled bleakly. His face was not quite so white now.

‘Because there was only one place you could get to, from that room. My brother discovered that many years ago. I followed him out there because I always followed wherever he led. I don’t know which of us was the bigger fool. It seems that folly runs in our family.’

The boy asked timidly, ‘Weren’t you afraid of falling?’

‘Oh yes. Only he never was. The first time, he carried me back inside as I carried you just now. After that I got used to it.’

‘You went out there again?’

‘I went out there again because I was a fool and so was he. How much of a fool are you?’

The boy didn’t know what to answer. He hung his head.

‘I think,’ said his father judicially, ‘that I should give you a good hiding.’

That at least was understandable. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘And I should forbid you to go out on that ledge ever again.’

‘Yes, Father.’ The boy spoke with relief. If he was forbidden to go out on the ledge, he would never have to ask himself whether he dared do it again.

‘But,’ said his father, ‘in view of the folly that runs in our family, I think I shall do neither. I shall leave it to you to decide how much folly you can make room for in your life.’

‘You mean I may go on the ledge again?’  The boy shuddered.

‘You may, if you are fool enough. Just bear in mind that I have no love for fools.’

The boy was emboldened. ‘Except Uncle Boromir?’

‘Maybe,’ said Faramir, ‘but that was a long time ago. Things are different now.’

‘I think,’ said the boy slowly, ‘that I shan’t ever go out on the ledge again.’   

Then his father held out his arms and the boy went to him joyfully.     

Unnoticed by either of them, the falcon’s wing darkened the window again as it returned to its nest. The sun was sinking, and the falcon would not fly again that day. Enough, the falcon knew, was enough.   

*****

Author's note: this was inspired by a discussion on my blog about how much risk children should be allowed to run. Thanks to Phyloxena for the discussion, and to Chmiel for the sketch that supplied the situation.