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When Winter Fell  by Lindelea

Chapter 30. Golden Days

The weather continued mild, with chilly mornings (though no more frosts so sharp as the one that had painted pictures on the windows at Bag End, to grace Bilbo’s Birthday) and warm, sunny afternoons. The farmers were bringing in their harvests as quickly as possible, however; for they had been alarmed by that very frost, and the deep freezing weather that it portended. The old gaffers shivered in the warm autumn sun, predicting a harsh winter, pointing to such things as the thick fur coats the animals, both wild and domestic, were growing, the burgeoning nuts and acorns on the trees, the frantic gathering of nuts by squirrels, competing with hobbits…

‘…and the holly berries, see how thickly they’re growing,’ Gammer Goodbody said, gesturing to her garden. Bilbo and Isen stood before her door, having brought a basket of good things from Belladonna’s kitchen. ‘And that spiderweb above the eves of the shed – see how thick it’s woven? My Lemson knocks it down, and I warrant that spider spins it thicker each time she remakes it!’

She lifted the cloth that covered the basket and gave a pleased exclamation. ‘A roasted chicken! O but your mum ought not to spend so much time and worry on my account…’

Bilbo didn’t have to answer this, for the Widow, being lonely for company, went on chattering, releasing all the pent-up words she’d been saving. ‘And apple butter, fresh-made, I deem, and from the apples in Bag End’s orchards, I’ve no doubt…!’

Bilbo simply nodded, and Isen’s grin broadened at his nephew’s dilemma. It would be rude for them to simply turn and walk away, but the old hobbit gave Bilbo no chance to break in and begin his farewells.

‘But you must come in! Come in!’ Widow Goodbody said, recalled to her duty to visitors at her door. She turned into the smial, gesturing to Bilbo and Isen to follow, Bilbo still bearing the heavy-laden basket.

‘No, really, I…’ Bilbo attempted. He wanted to say that his mother expected him back directly, that his tutor would be arriving (for now that the Birthday celebrations were safely behind, it was time to resume his studies) and he did not care to keep that hobbit waiting – though in reality he wouldn’t have minded at all.

‘Come in! Come in!’ the old hobbit was still exclaiming. ‘Set the basket on the table there, and sit yourselfs down. I’ve just baked some lovely biscuits this morning, for my tea later today, and while they’ll be a bit soft and crumbly, this fresh out of the oven, well, they’re still tasty! As a matter of fact, I ate one or two just now – they smelt so good that I couldn’t wait until teatime…’

The smial was filled with the good smells of baking, and so as soon as Bilbo had put the basket down in the indicated spot, it didn’t take more than a nudge on Isen’s part for him to perch on a chair, expected tutor or not. In no time at all they were each served with a plate of warm, sweet and spicy biscuits, and cups of milky tea. The Widow sat herself down as well, happily sipping and talking without pause.

‘…and the mice! I tell you, the mice, the way they’re so determined to take up homes here – if it weren’t for my good Maisie, I’d be driven to distraction!’ The calico cat, reclining on a cushion, twitched her tail at hearing her name, but otherwise showed no interest in the conversation. ‘Why, she’s hunting all the night through, and leaves me a neat line of vermin on the doorstep each morning, to show me that she’s earning her keep.’

‘The mice are bad at Bag…’ Bilbo began, but he might as well have saved his breath, as the Widow went on to categorise that morning's bounty, ...and a vole, and two moles, and a rat! ...into the bargain...

Isen simply smiled through it all. He enjoyed a plateful of biscuits and two cups of milky tea, letting the Widow’s conversation flow around him. He quietly squeezed the woollen ball in his lame hand, enjoying the sensation of improvement that but a fortnight of consistent effort had brought. Why, he was halfway to making a fist!

There was no need for him to think of something appropriate to say, no worry that well-meaning relatives would jump in to stifle his very thoughts, lest he say something to embarrass them.

Come to think on it, there hadn’t been any of that at Bag End. He’d been allowed to say whatever he might wish to say, off the top of his head, conventional or outrageous. Bungo might have blinked a few times, surprised, but he never chided. Belladonna was so glad to have him there that she spoilt him shamelessly, as if he were still the toddling baby brother she’d adored, in their young days, amid the bustle that was the Great Smials.

Because Bungo was an upright and influential hobbit in the area of Hobbiton and Bywater, people tended to follow his lead. They might have begun with a little caution towards Bungo’s brother in love, but as Isen showed no dangerous tendencies nor overt signs of madness, they soon accepted him in their midst. He was no different than the Quick Post rider who’d been thrown from his pony some years ago, and could not walk unaided now, though he still rode to take messages. Or the gaffer with the withered arm, who’d fallen from a tree in his youth. And now that he’d left off the eyepatch, they could easily see the honest light in his eyes. A scar? What did that matter? It was simply a mark of life experience, to them.

And Bilbo – his nephew had resented him when he’d first come; he was sharp enough to realise it. Bilbo had been something of a difficulty, and Isen was sorry to have caused him pain, but that his own pain had been so overwhelming, he hadn’t time for Bilbo’s. Yet things had changed. The young hobbit had grown to accept him as he was (following Bungo’s example, it must be said), did not seem to wish to change him, or avoid him as a liability. They were good friends now, and Bilbo truly seemed to enjoy passing the time with Isen, taking long walks, observing the countryside, delivering Belldonna’s baskets to gammers and gaffers, taking messages for Bungo, to be sent by Post, or even Quick Post on a rare (but exciting!) occasion.

The other young hobbits of the area accepted Isen, simply because Bilbo did. They welcomed him into their social circle, which came in very handy when a prank went wrong and a responsible adult was wanted to smooth things over.

Isen did not quite realise it, but some of the healing he was experiencing came from the fact that he was enabled to be a tween among tweens, something he’d missed in his life. He’d been about Bilbo’s age when he’d run off to Sea. Working on a ship amongst the sailors, clambering up and down the rigging, helping in the galley (and eventually becoming the ship’s cook), and all the serious responsibilities of being a part of a ship’s crew had robbed him of the latter part of his childhood, though he would have denied any loss.

In any event, when he finished his second cup of tea, Isen stood to his feet.

Surprised, the Widow paused in her flow of words.

‘We thank you, Missus,’ Isen said. ‘The tea was delicious, the biscuits delectable.’

She beamed at this praise, and was slow to launch into another flow of words, lest she interrupt more delightful compliments that were about to fall.

‘Such a cosy smial, I might be tempted to while away the day,’ Isen continued, then shook his head with a rueful look. ‘But my young nephew is in danger of neglecting his studies,’ he added. ‘He has had a long summer holiday, very long, but my dear sister has told me to bring him home without fail, in time to take up with his tutor.’

‘Ah,’ the Widow said, but before she could speak further, about the importance of young hobbits obeying their parents, Isen persisted.

‘And if I’m reading the time right,’ he said, looking to the window at the bright morning sun, and back to the Widow, ‘he will be arriving within the half hour. For it’s nearly time for second breakfast, if I don’t miss my guess!’

Bilbo rose hastily from his chair as he realised the lateness of the hour.

Sweet biscuits! Before second breakfast? rang Belladonna’s dismayed tones in Isen’s ears, and his grin brightened.

‘O and I was about to invite you…’ the Widow said, but Isen shook his head regretfully.

‘Another time, perhaps,’ he said. ‘It would be my pleasure – for if your biscuits are any indication, Second Breakfast would be an absolute bliss! No less!’

The Widow sighed happily. ‘You’re too kind, sir,’ she began, but Isen held up his good hand.

‘You don’t have to “sir” me!’ he said. ‘I’m nobody special.’

Gammer Goodbody might have told him that he was, indeed, someone special. He was the youngest son of Gerontius Took, for one thing, and thus part of an old and distinguished family. He was something of a legend amongst Shirefolk, having run off to Sea (though the family had tried most diligently to hush it all up) and returned.

More importantly, he was the brother of Belladonna Baggins, possibly the kindest hobbit in the area, who did much good in the community. That’s what made him special, that, and his own natural kindness, his polite and gentle manner, especially with children and elderly hobbits.

But it’s not the sort of thing one would tell a hobbit, especially to his face.

So Gammer Goodbody’s face simply crinkled up in a smile, and she said, ‘Well, I’ll thank you for your visit, and tell you that you are welcome to come at any time you wish. Any time.’

Isen gave a bow, and nudged Bilbo to do the same.

‘I don’t know about my nephew here, but it would be my pleasure,’ he said.

‘Oh!’ Bilbo said. ‘Mine, too!’ Without thinking, he added, ‘Do you like to make seedcake?’

Both the Widow and his uncle laughed merrily, peals of laughter that could be heard clearly down the street, and hobbits passing by on their way to the market smiled at the sound.

‘I do, young fellow!’ Gammer Goodbody said. ‘Indeed I do! Come round for tea tomorrow, and I’ll let you sample more of my baking! Your parents are welcome, too, if they’re free.’

And Bilbo, who might at one time have been horrified at the idea of spending a pleasant, sunny autumnal afternoon inside a stuffy smial, chit-chatting with an old widow, grinned and echoed his uncle’s earlier words. ‘It will be my pleasure!’

‘And mine,’ Isen said. ‘Don’t forget, but I like seedcake as well as you do!’





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