Chapter 18. On Eagle's Wings

There seemed to be precious few notes left in Pickthorn’s song. He lay in the great bird’s grasp, frozen with fear.

 ‘Still twitching?’ the mother said in astonishment. ‘Not carrion? You brought that one some time ago!’

 The father nudged Pick with his wicked beak, and the hobbit gasped. ‘Hear that?’ the great bird said. ‘Fresh, I tell you.’ He tightened his grip and took aim. He might enjoy a bite of this one, himself, what with the babes nearly finished eating, and it was big for a rabbit. Surely there’d be enough to go around. But what was this?

 ‘No... Please!’ Pick was whispering, staring fixedly at the hovering beak. There was no hope in him, but still he gasped out his plea. He cried out as the claws loosened their grasp and took hold again. Somehow he could not look away from the great dark fathomless eye that stared down at him.

 ‘What is it?’ the mother said. ‘Why did you stop? Is it diseased?’ She half rose from her crouch. ‘Throw it out!’

 ‘It... talked,’ the father answered, turning his head to gaze at Pick with the other eye.

 ‘Food doesn’t talk,’ the mother said, shock in her voice.

 ‘This food did,’ the father answered. Even the babes fell silent at his tone. He tilted his head again to bring the first eye to bear on Pick. From the top of the sky he could see a rabbit in the grass, but it was not so easy to focus on what he held within his grasp. He squeezed a little with his claw, and the creature gasped again. ‘Here, you,’ he said. ‘You did speak just now, or am I losing my wits?’

 ‘Please don’t eat me,’ Pick said, and was reminded of another encounter when the great bird answered.

 ‘I am not in the habit of eating food that talks.’

The mother bird’s eyes were wide and if Pick could have read her expression, he would have seen consternation and alarm there. ‘You haven’t gone and taken a child of Man, have you? Men will make war upon us! You know how determined they can be!’

 ‘It was falling from the sky; I simply swooped to catch it before it was wasted upon the rocks,’ the father answered. ‘Probably fell from a path while travelling. Its companions, if any, would already be counting it dead.’ His grip tightened again as the enticing smell of blood rose in his nostrils from where his claws had pierced the creature.

 The mother bird was frantic with fear and the babies set up a shrilling. ‘We may not eat it!’ she said. ‘It is a speaking creature!’

 ‘But it smells wholesome,’ the father argued. ‘Not like the ill-smelling twisted ones that we are allowed to drop upon the rocks to break them. They may be killed; they’re just not good to eat.’

 ‘No,’ Pick said weakly. ‘I am not a gobble-un.’

 ‘No, you’re a rabbit,’ the father said in frustration. ‘But I’ve never run across a talking rabbit before.’ He looked to his mate in sudden alarm. ‘What if all the rabbits begin to talk?’

 ‘Then we’ll eat deer,’ she said firmly, hopping closer. ‘You’re hurting the little thing! Let it go.’

 ‘I am not a rabbit,’ Pick said, drawing a painful breath as the claws loosed him.

 ‘That’s a relief,’ the father said. ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to haul sheep and deer exclusively.’ He hopped to the rim of the nest, the better to see Pick. ‘What are you?’

 ‘I’m a hobbit,’ Pick said, putting a hand to his side to staunch the welling blood.

 ‘A hoppit? Sounds like a rabbit,’ the mother said dubiously.

 ‘Hobbit, it said,’ the father answered. ‘What am I to do with you? We cannot eat you, that’s for certain, for we may not eat talking creatures.’

 ‘You sound like the grey one,’ Pick whispered, closing his eyes as weakness washed through him.

 ‘Grey wan!’ the mother said brightly. 'Do you suppose it means the Grey Wanderer?'

 ‘He’d know what to do,’ the father answered with a nod. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

Pick gasped as the cruel talons seized him once more, but no claws pierced him this time. The great bird held him as if he were fragile treasure. In the next moment, the enormous wings had lifted them to the edge of the nest, and with a shriek the bird dropped into the void.

***

Two gnarled figures sat by a small fire in a forest at the base of the Misty Mountains. They sat in companionable silence, for they had known each other of old and had just finished a filling meal and a long discussion, and soon it would be time to sleep.

The brown one looked up at a faint cry in the sky. ‘Eagle,’ he said, raising one eyebrow. ‘But that is not a hunting cry.’

 ‘Why does that surprise you?’ the grey one answered.

 ‘Hunting is about all they do this time of year,’ the brown one said.  ‘Voracious appetites to feed, with a growing family in the nest.’

The eagle’s scream came again, closer. ‘Is it a warning?’ the grey one said. ‘Do orcs approach?’

The brown one cocked his head to listen to the birdsong in the surrounding trees. ‘The other birds are going about their business,’ he answered.

The scream came from just above them, and then the great bird landed before them, unclenching its claws to release a limp bundle.

 ‘Grey Wanderer,’ it said, nodding its head. ‘This one fell from the mountain; I thought it a gift from the heavens, to feed my young. But we do not eat talking food.’

 ‘Talking food!’ the brown one said, rising. Eyeing the bundle, he added, ‘Too small to be an orc.’

The grey one rose as well. ‘One of the Little Folk!’ he said. The eagle hopped back as he hurried to bend over the still figure. Turning it over, he said, ‘Pick!’

 ‘You know it?’ the eagle asked, cocking his head.

 ‘I know him,’ the grey one said grimly. Looking to the other wizard, he said, ‘Help me. He’s bleeding badly.’

 ‘At least he’s still bleeding,’ the brown one answered, taking a clean cloth from his bag and pressing it to Pick’s side.

The hobbit’s eyes opened, widening when he saw the large faces bending over him. Recognition came into his countenance, and he gasped, ‘Grand-alf!’

 ‘Grand-alf?’ the brown one said quizzically.

The grey one shrugged. ‘It is the name his People have for me.’ He brushed the curls back from Pick’s forehead. ‘You’re safe, Pick. The eagle said you fell from the mountains. Your people are making the crossing?’

 ‘Ell Adan told us to go to Imladris,’ Pick said, his eyes glazing with shock and pain.

 ‘Come, let us warm him by the fire. Some of these wounds will have to be stitched, and I’ll make up a strengthening broth,’ the brown one said. ‘We thank you, Windfather, for bringing us this little one.’

 ‘It was nothing,’ the eagle said, shuffling his feet uneasily. ‘Well,’ he added, straightening, ‘I have mouths to feed.’ Without further courtesies he launched himself into the air, flapping heavily to gain height. Once more they heard his scream.

 ‘Now that’s the cry of a hunting eagle,’ the brown one said absently as he dug healing salve and bandages from his bag.