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When Winter Fell  by Lindelea


Chapter 21. Taking the Air

It seemed as if Isen’s steps grew lighter, the higher they toiled up the great Hill. His hobble grew less, and his weight on Bilbo’s shoulder eased gradually until he broke away entirely, dancing upwards, good arm thrown in the air and beaming face to the sky.

‘Doing some good already,’ Bungo panted, wiping at his face with his pocket handkerchief. ‘Come now, Bilbo-lad, help me with this hamper, there’s a good lad, and we’ll soon be skipping about on the hilltop with your uncle.’

Bilbo was glad to be free of his unclesome burden—the basket seemed light by comparison. But he put a good face on the matter, saying only, ‘It’s a beautiful day for a picnic.’

‘Beautiful,’ his father agreed. ‘Does me good to get out of that stuffy study.’

Bilbo might have pointed out that the study was hardly stuffy, with all the windows open to the garden, but he didn’t. It was taking most of his breath to trudge up the Hill, sharing the weight of the heavy picnic hamper, at the pace his father was setting, trying to keep up with Isengar.

His uncle might be crippled, but he was unburdened, and managing the steep last stretch at an astonishing pace, at last disappearing over the lip of the Hilltop.

At this, Bungo let down his side of the hamper entirely, and Bilbo heard him mutter something about “running halfway to Overhill” as he jogged upwards.

The hamper was very heavy, stuffed as it was full of good things to eat. Bilbo considered lightening the load by sitting down and eating something, but the better course seemed to be to struggle along as best he could. After all, his father had hauled the hamper most of the way, by himself, while Uncle Isen was leaning on Bilbo.

He was glad when his father reappeared, very red in the face and puffing hard, but smiling for all that. ‘Very good, lad,’ he said. ‘I knew I could count on you to hold up your end.’ And Bungo took more than half the weight from Bilbo and heaved himself, the hamper, and Bilbo by virtue of his hold on the handle, up and over the lip of the Hill.

Isengar was spinning slowly on the grassy meadow, good arm thrust outward, singing a song Bilbo’d never heard, something wild and sweet, soaring high like the hawk that floated high above, then fluttering soft as if it were merely a part of the breeze that blessed their hot and sweaty faces. He didn’t understand the words at all—but they formed images in his head, and though he’d never seen the Sea in more than dreams, somehow he seemed to smell the tang of salt on the air, to hear the cries of gulls winging overhead, and the rush of cool waves.

He realised he’d been standing still, transfixed, when his father tugged the hamper out of his hands, opened it up, and began to spread a great cloth on the grass. He hurried to help—the exercise had given him quite an appetite, and soon the cloth was spread with cold chicken and salad, bread and butter and pickles, jellies rather battered but still delectable, little cakes and sweet biscuits, and a jug of cool buttermilk with tin cups to drink from. At last the feast was ready, and Bilbo’s mouth watered at the sight as he awaited a word from his father, to begin to eat.

Isen’s song was done, but he still stood in the centre of the meadow, good arm flung out, face to the Western sky, eyes closed.

Bungo arose and went to him, stopping short of touching him. ‘Well, Isen,’ he began, as if the hobbit were a wild bird that might be startled into flight.

For Isengar murmured, and this time the words were something Bilbo could understand, and they struck a pang in his breast. He remembered his uncle’s grief at the wizard’s words, and now, without onlookers to marvel and pity at his uncle and cause a tween to suffer consternation, he could understand something of Isengar’s sorrow.

From the great rolling Sea the West Wind flies, past the Towers and the Downs;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and in my ear it moans.
What news of the waves, O sighing wind, do you bring to me this day?
Where sails the Gull, so swift and fair, since I have come away?

The sad sentiment trailed away in a sob, and the wretched hobbit drew his good arm across his eyes. Bungo reached, very slowly and tentatively, to settle his arm about Isengar’s shoulders, and stood steady as the hobbit turned to bury his head on the Baggins’ sturdy shoulder. Bungo reached up his other arm ever so gently, lest the embrace be perceived as prisoning rather than comfort, and loosely held fast.

Bilbo sat still, stricken at the sight, but his father caught and held his gaze, nodding slightly to his son in reassurance, or perhaps tacit warning, as he stood rooted, sheltering the grieving hobbit within the circle of his arms.

At last Isen stood silent, and Bungo slowly dropped his arms to his sides. Isen breathed deeply and lifted his head, a wondering smile on his face, but his next words had nothing to do with what had just happened, or so the watching Bilbo thought. ‘What a lovely view,’ the Took said, staring out over the landscape, the golden fields of grain ripe for harvest, trees heavy with rosy apples, smoke rising from stovepipes and chimneys, children chasing each other in a yard, a mother hanging out her washing, a farmer communing quietly across a fence with an old retired plough pony.

‘And the air,’ Isen continued, lifting his head higher to take more deep breaths. ‘The air here is so fresh... so free...’

‘It is that,’ Bungo agreed, with a deep breath of his own. ‘Take in as much as you will, Isen. Plenty more where that came from.’

Bilbo’s stomach rumbled, embarrassingly loud, and his father chuckled. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I suppose we ought to eat before a young hobbit dies of lack of nourishment!’

Isen smiled, too, and it was not the old mad grin, but the sort of smile one might surprise on just about any hobbit’s face, a good-natured look, springing from pleasant thoughts. ‘I suppose we ought,’ he said.

Bungo’s smile widened, just a little, for he didn’t want to alarm Isengar with too much approbation, and to hide his delight he bent at once to the feast, to heap all three plates high.

***

A/N: Isengar’s song is based upon the song of the Three Hunters in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien, in the chapter entitled “The Departure of Boromir”.





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