The first swallow of summer

Bronze-edged leaves skittered across all the terraces. Wind blew through the pillars and the open porches. When Bilbo looked up from his window, he saw swallows flying south for the winter. "I wonder where they go," he thought, "and if anyone watches them arrive when they get there, and wonders where they came from." He waved to them, wishing them good fortune and a safe journey.

He was often cold. Sometimes he wore a second jacket on top of the first, or wrapped himself in a blanket as he sat by the fire. He went outside less and less, although often he watched it through the window.

"I think I'm getting old," he confessed to Aragorn, as they sat side by side with mugs of warm mulled wine, a few days after he had watched the swallows fly. "Or maybe I've been old for a long time, but kept forgetting. One day soon, perhaps, there will come a winter without a spring that I will see."

"Not for a long time, I trust," said Aragorn.

"We'll see." Bilbo had both hands wrapped around the mug, although it was almost too hot for that. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the steam. "I don't fear that time. It will be just like falling asleep. In Rivendell, how can you be afraid of falling into a dream? But I would like to finish my book first, and I still have so many poems to write, and so many songs."

"I know you have." Aragorn raised his mug in a silent toast.

Bilbo echoed the gesture, and took a drink. The rich spices blended perfectly with the deep red wine. "What are the spices called, and where do they come from?" Bilbo wondered.

"Cinnamon and cloves," said Aragorn, "nutmeg, mace and star anise. Some come from Lothlorien, and some from southern Gondor, but most spices come from much further away. It has become increasingly hard to trade with such places in recent years."

Bilbo breathed them in deeply, and savoured the thought of those distant places. "Have you been there, to the places where the spices come from?"

"I have."

Bilbo blew across the surface of wine, setting the spices swirling. "Tell me," he breathed. "No, don't tell me yet. I was wondering where the swallows go in winter. Have you been there, too?"

"I have." Aragorn took a long swig from his mug. "The spices come from further east, but the swallows travel further south. They had arrived before I did, and were gathering to leave again on the day I left. After a day, they had left me far behind, and I walked on alone beneath empty skies."

He said no more about it, though, and Bilbo did not ask. For years, Aragorn had been painting him pictures of the places he had seen, and Bilbo cherished each and every one of them, but today he had no idea what sort of picture he wanted to see.

Bilbo took another drink, feeling the warmth spread through his body. He wriggled his shoulders out of the blanket. "What's the best wine you've ever tasted?" he asked.

"Old Winyards," Aragorn replied, without a moment's thought.

Bilbo laughed. "I won't fall for such tricks, you know. We hobbits like it very much indeed, but we are a simple people with simple tastes. It is not a wine for the heir of kings."

"I mean it," Aragorn said. "I have drunk ancient wines in cold stone towers, and precious wines that speak of the glories of the world that is gone. But the wines of the Shire are made for friendship and fellowship. They make no greater claims than those, but what claim could be greater? There are many men who could stand to learn some lessons from the hobbits of the Shire."

Bilbo shook his head. "You're still teasing me."

"I am not," Aragorn insisted. "You Shire folk are a lesson to us all. You might seem shallow to someone who does not know you, but you run deep, and the things that you value are some of the truest, most important things of all."

The warmth of the wine had seeped through Bilbo's whole body. He pulled off the blanket, and stood up, still clutching the cooling dregs of his drink. Dry leaves swirled against his window, and the swallows had all gone.

"Do you often visit the Shire?" Bilbo asked. His window faced the west. In winter, when the trees were bare, he could see the high slopes on the far side of the valley. "Oh, but I think you do. I've seen things and heard things and read things. I know that you and your people labour endlessly to keep us safe, us silly, heedless folk who never think to wonder why the terrible things from stories never come to our own front doors. Why do you do it?"

He heard Aragorn moving behind him. "Because you are worth protecting."

"No." Bilbo shook his head. Putting down the mug, he pressed his hand against the window. It felt shockingly cold against his wine-warmed palm. "Why do you do it? But I already know. You are the rightful King of Arnor, and your people are its lords. You take upon yourself all the responsibility of kingship, but none of its glory. It isn't fair."

Aragorn gave a soft laugh. "What else can we do, my friend?"

Bilbo sighed. "What else?"

The window began to steam up from the warmth of Bilbo's breath. With the tip of his index finger, Bilbo began to draw in it, just a simple circle.

A ring.

"Paint me a picture, Aragorn," he begged. "Somewhere. Anywhere. I don't know what I want."

"Then I will tell you about green hills," said Aragorn. "It was the middle of spring, but as warm as summer. I stood in a quiet lane with tall banks on either side, scattered with primroses and cowslips and violets. An orange-tipped butterfly was passing from flower to flower, but found none to its liking. I know not what it was seeking."

"Bluebells," said Bilbo, "or red campion. That is, if it's like the orange-tipped butterflies we have at home."

"It was," Aragorn said. "At the top of the bank on my right, there was a hedgerow. It must have been laid by somebody, once, but it had been untended for many years. A cherry tree grew in it, heavy with blossom, and all the thorns in the hedge were wrapped around with bindweed."

"Bindweed! How the Gaffer used to complain about bindweed!"

"But on the other side," Aragorn said, "there was an old fence. There was a fox trail going under it, with orange hair caught in splinters of the wood. Are you familiar with the smell of foxes?"

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. "Oh yes."

"The hills were beyond the fence. They were rounded and gentle, and sheep were grazing on the slopes, keeping the grass smooth and green. It was a beautiful day: did I tell you that? A thrush was singing, but when I looked up, I saw not a thrush, but the first swallow of summer."

"The first swallow of summer!" Bilbo clapped his hands together. "Oh, I think I like this best out of all the places you have painted for me. It sounds like somewhere I have seen in dreams."

"In dreams?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"No. No." Bilbo brought both hands to his face, breathing into his palms. "Somewhere I've been. I've walked that lane. I've seen those hills. Green Hill Country, not far south of the road." He turned to Aragorn, his eyes brimming. "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, my dear friend."