Chapter 43. Awakening 

Young Bilbo Baggins woke and found himself lying in bed. At first he thought that he had slept late, after a long unpleasant dream that still hovered on the edge of memory. Or perhaps he had been ill? But he couldn't seem to fit the ceiling to any of the rooms in Bag End, least of all his own room. Nor did his own familiar bedroom have a hearth; and yet, even as he lay wondering, he clearly heard the pop of a log followed by a spray of sparks. 

The room was dim, lit only by a turned-down lamp and the light of the cosy fire that had made itself known bare moments ago, burning on a small hearth to one side of the bed where someone had tucked him in and piled the covers high. He lay a little while longer, warm and drowsy, watching the play of firelight on the wall and listening to the crackle of the fire, though he couldn't help cringing when a burst of wind roared in the flue, momentarily flattening the flames. 

From the shadows on the other side of the bed, someone spoke, though so low, he wasn't sure who was sitting with him. 'All's well, lad.'

Bilbo moved uneasily. 'Who's there?' he said, a little fretfully, to be honest. Strangely, his voice did not seem to sound like himself.

'All is well.' A larger shadow moved – someone got up from the chair next to the bed, and next thing the tween knew, a widening crack of door-shaped light appeared, and the Someone who had offered him reassurance was now saying in a low tone to another someone just outside the room, 'He's awake.'

And then the door closed again, and the shadowy figure resumed his seat. With some difficulty, Bilbo turned his head and, blinking, strove to see the owner of the voice. Dad? Isen? Uncle...? 'Where am I, and what is the time?' he said aloud.

'You're safe in the infirmary at the Great Smials, and it is after second-breakfast time but not quite time for elevenses. Three days have passed since you saved the life of a Baggins and those of all the Old Took's remaining sons into the bargain, if you want to know.'

'Isen!' cried the tween, abruptly sitting up a little straighter. Or trying to, at least. Alarmingly, his voice croaked, and the single word turned into a cough, followed by several more.

All through the coughing fit, Isen held him securely, and when the tween was able to bring the coughing more or less under control, the uncle held a cup to the nephew's lips and encouraged him to sip. Sweet and soothing, the draught was, with honey that eased and quieted the cough, complementing a brew of medicinal herbs most likely aimed to do the tween the most good. After a few swallows, Bilbo nodded and turned his face a little to the side. Obligingly, the cup was pulled away and then was set aside on its saucer with a soft rattle.

'Slowly, slowly lad; make haste a little more slowly,' crooned his beloved uncle, easing him back against his pillows.

'Uncle Isen,' the tween whispered, reaching out a trembling hand, which the uncle closed his own hands around before administering a gentle squeeze.

'Yes,' Isengar said, 'I am here. And you are lucky to be here, too, after all the absurd things you have done since we departed from the Smials early on a frosty morn.' 

Bilbo lay back again, relaxing into the pillows that propped him and seemed to ease his breathing. He felt too comfortable and peaceful to argue, and in any case he did not think he would get the better of an argument. He was fully awake now, and the memory of his journey was returning: the intensifying cold... the treacherous layer of ice under the snow that mandated a relatively slow pace... the enormous wolves...

The tween did not realise that he'd stiffened and was scarcely breathing until Isen's voice broke through his churning thoughts. 'Steady, lad! Steady now...'

Somehow Bilbo managed to steady his breathing, though too deep a breath threatened to set off the coughing again.

At last, the tween ventured, 'Where are my parents? And Uncle... Uncle Grim, is he...? ...did he...?' Unable to finish the awful thought, he said instead, 'Are the others all right?' 

'All the walking party are here safe at the Smials,' his uncle said, adding emphasis where it would do the most good, 'with more than a little thanks due to you. Though I'm sure you deserve a round scolding for setting out alone – a tween! – into the wilds of the Green Hill country, I sincerely doubt you'll hear anything to that effect now or in future.'

'You just did,' retorted Bilbo, perhaps a bit nonsensically, meaning that his uncle's observation had served as a minor scolding in itself. But he was feeling sleepy again, whether from the weakness of his body, or perhaps some quality of the honey-laced draught he'd just imbibed. His eyelids seemed weighted, drifting closed of their own volition.

Despite the fog that was creeping in to fill his brain and obscure his vision, the tween sifted through Isen's words and opened his eyes again to scrutinise his uncle's face. 'Safe, you said,' he croaked. 'Safe... and sound?'

Isen blinked a little at this, but to his credit, his expression remained bland and pleasant. 'Well,' the uncle hazarded. 'Sound will take a little longer, perhaps. But for my part, safe is quite enough in itself, considering the alternative.'

Bilbo wanted to ask Isen what he meant by this odd riddle. He opened his mouth, but no words came to him. On top of that, his eyelids were not cooperating at all with his intentions.

The bedcovers weighed him down, and he seemed to be sinking into the featherbed that cushioned him in warm clouds of comfort. 'Clouds aren't warm,' he protested, barely hearing his own voice in his ears.

'What's that, Nephew?' Isen asked.

But Bilbo had already floated away. 

*** 

1 Novembre. And so, dear Journal, I am able to write at last that the seemingly unceasing rains have ceased. Last night, Da came in to say good night and saw me writing, and I saw his glance take in the page I had just written, after which he asked me about you, and I told him how Grandfa had started the whole business. And he told me of his own trials in keeping a Journal, as well as Uncle Dobby's!

And yet he assured me that this journal-writing is a worth-while endeavore endeavoure undertaking, for he found that Uncle Dobby's account-books in the North-lands were very easy to read and understand when Da had to take up Uncle's place for him. May be he was able to return home sooner, as a matter of fact, cos he could leave clear entries in Uncle's record-books for Uncle to follow, and thus he did not need to stay longer, to explain.

At first, Uncle Isen's voice sounded far away, but with returning consciousness, his voice came closer, and the words took on a certain familiarity. Bilbo blinked and drew a deeper breath that – wonder of wonders! – neither hurt his chest nor sparked a coughing fit.

The tween listened to the steady flow of words, his mind fitting pieces together. He opened his eyes more fully to see the lamp on the bedside table had been turned up to reading brightness. Moreover, Isen held a book in his hand and was reading aloud, presumably for Bilbo's benefit. Hobbits sitting bedside watch often sang or told stories; reading aloud was a kind of storytelling, as well, the tween mused.

As the story went on, Bilbo finally recognised the storyteller: Great-grandfather Fortinbras.

I thought, per haps, that Da would take up Grandfa's place in wanting to see my Journal, day by day, and correct my spelling. I must admit I did not like the idea of someone reading these pages!

It has been something of a relief that Fanny does not read, and does not care to read but considers reading something of a waste of time. One of the priviledges of being one of the Thain's grands is that my minder, tho she may hold sway in all other areas of my life, cannot forbid me my books.

It may be that my face said to Da what I could not bring my lips to betray. For he looked at me a long while in silence, and I began to fear I had made some trouble or other for myself. And so I asked if I should bring my Journal to him each day, as I had been doing with Grandfa before...

before...

But I do not want to say more about that. And I do not have to worry! For Da said only that I ought to date each entry, for pos-ter-i-ty (and he spelt the word for me so that I should know how to write it). When I asked him what he meant, he smiled and said that some day I might wish to read about these days...

...boring as they may have been, lately, day after day of dreary rain...

He said I might forget when something happened if none of the entries bore a date, just as a road without signposts can be difficult for a traveller to follow. The dates add sense and – another new word that he taught me to day – con-text. Just as a signpost tells one where one is on a long stretch of road, so a date tells one where one is in the story.

This is not a story! I protested. But he only smiled and shook his head. 'This is your story,' said he in reply. 'Therefore, I urge you to write it well. And all the better, 'tis a true story, so you ought to do it justice.'

And that was all he had to say on the matter.

*** 

Author's note: The structure of this chapter is based on Frodo's awakening in Rivendell as told in the chapter 'Many Meetings' in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. A fair amount of phrasing was also borrowed for the purpose of creative licence, with all credit going to the Professor who wrote the original work.

***