Farewell Feast
He had been free of his cold for some days, but somehow, he wasn't feeling any better. And tomorrow! Tomorrow they would be off into the unknown again, to begin the culmination of this altogether foolhardy adventure; and Mr Baggins sincerely wished he had never heard of Smaug, or the Lonely Mountain, or indeed Dwarves and their wretched treasure.
They were gathered in the same great Hall where they had been taken the first night they came to Lake Town, and once again a feast was underway. On this occasion, however, the Master had made them his special guests, and on their arrival the Dwarves had been conducted to the High Table to sit with him. Both Thorin and the Master gave unusually gracious speeches before the serious revelries began, punctuated with much bowing and much drinking of friendly toasts. Bilbo, on the other hand, had been overlooked as usual, and he was still searching around for a vacant seat when a deep voice near at hand addressed him.
"Master Baggins! Have you no place, lad?"
The speaker was Madig, a large (though to Bilbo they were all large) and genial fellow whom Bilbo had encountered a few times around the town, and who seemed to harbour the impression that the beardless hobbit was some kind of youngling Dwarf.
"I don't wish to make a fuss," began Bilbo, when he suddenly found himself raised bodily into the air and plonked down onto a nearby bench - like the merest fauntling, he thought, flustered. Straightening his tunic, he turned to thank his friend, but Madig had already disappeared into the press of carousers.
Bilbo surveyed what he could see of the unfolding festivities with no great enthusiasm. It seemed the Master's relief at the Dwarves' imminent departure was making him an expansive host, for the tables were piled high with food, the flow of ale (and stronger drink) was liberal, and a band of minstrels played merrily under the brightly flaring torches. It should have been a sight to gladden a hobbit's heart, but Bilbo, tucked away in his far corner, felt only misgivings; largely centred around his possible, and fast approaching, fate. He could do little more than pick moodily at the platters within his reach - some slices of boiled venison here, a couple of fat capons and a dish of peas there. He was sipping small beer awkwardly from a large tankard, when a fearsome slap on the back caused him to cough and splutter. As he wiped his face, the bench sagged and creaked and Madig sat down heavily beside him, sloshing a more hobbit sized mug under his nose.
"Drink, Master Halfling!" he cried. "Be merry while ye may, for tomorrow...!" He raised his own tankard and downed the contents, noisily and with much spillage, Bilbo noted.
Bilbo looked at the offered beverage, and was surprised and disconcerted to see flowers floating in it.
"What is this?" he asked, fishing out a bedraggled blue bloom. "Your serving men should take more care, I think."
"Nay, little master!" laughed Madig. "It's put there a-purpose! We call it borage, and 'tis wonderful for putting courage in a man. Our fighting men take this drink before a battle, to give 'em spirit!" He slapped Bilbo heartily on the back again, making him wince. "And 'tis spirit you're wanting this night, I'll wager, for tomorrow - "
"Yes, yes," interrupted Bilbo. "Thank you very much." He took a cautious sip, and then another, and then a really quite generous swallow. "This is good!" he said, wiping his mouth. "What is it?"
"'Tis cider cup - the best in all the land!"
Bilbo, swirling a mouthful around on his tongue, didn't disagree.
"How is it made?" he asked.
"Why, let's see - there's apple cider for mirth - a dash of sack for strength - lemon juice for sharpness - and brandywine to put the fire in your gut. All mixed with honey to make it slide down nice and sweet."
"And don't forget the flowers," added Bilbo, but his companion had turned and in a belching roar was calling for more dishes to be sent up. Then seizing Bilbo's empty trencher, he began piling it with food.
"Here, young Master Goodhobbit, eat your fill, for this is warrior's fare, and 'twill make you think naught of the perils ahead. Eat! Drink! We'll have no more of your long face skulking in the corner."
Maybe it was the hearty conviviality of the occasion, or maybe it was the heady cider cup that Madig continued to press upon him, but Bilbo found that his accustomed appetite was indeed returning. He started to feel more cheerful than he had since arriving in Lake Town (indeed probably since leaving his much missed Bag End), and he applied himself to the goodly provender placed before him with something approaching gusto. There were such delicacies as roasted quails and larks, apple and cheese fritters, and quince dumplings; and further warrior favourites in the form of faggots well flavoured with thyme ("Bard's Balls," Madig informed him, "they'll put a beard on your face."), and a dish of rice in a highly spiced sauce that made Bilbo feel that he could breathe fire as effectively as Smaug.
The merrymaking around him was becoming wild and unruly, as men and dwarves forgot their mutual distrust and pledged themselves lifelong friends. The minstrels had given up playing sometime ago, Bilbo realised, and had either gone home or joined the increasingly drunken throng. Now and then some singing would break out, off-key and fractured, only to be lost again in the general hubbub. Bilbo's mood had turned decidedly mellow, with every single one of his corners well and truly filled, and his chest swelling with pride in his hobbithood and love for his fellows; and he was beginning to feel it would take a fierce and cunning dragon indeed to get the better of Mr Bilbo Baggins with his dander up.
Nevertheless, he was the first to dive for cover under the table when the fighting started.
They were gathered in the same great Hall where they had been taken the first night they came to Lake Town, and once again a feast was underway. On this occasion, however, the Master had made them his special guests, and on their arrival the Dwarves had been conducted to the High Table to sit with him. Both Thorin and the Master gave unusually gracious speeches before the serious revelries began, punctuated with much bowing and much drinking of friendly toasts. Bilbo, on the other hand, had been overlooked as usual, and he was still searching around for a vacant seat when a deep voice near at hand addressed him.
"Master Baggins! Have you no place, lad?"
The speaker was Madig, a large (though to Bilbo they were all large) and genial fellow whom Bilbo had encountered a few times around the town, and who seemed to harbour the impression that the beardless hobbit was some kind of youngling Dwarf.
"I don't wish to make a fuss," began Bilbo, when he suddenly found himself raised bodily into the air and plonked down onto a nearby bench - like the merest fauntling, he thought, flustered. Straightening his tunic, he turned to thank his friend, but Madig had already disappeared into the press of carousers.
Bilbo surveyed what he could see of the unfolding festivities with no great enthusiasm. It seemed the Master's relief at the Dwarves' imminent departure was making him an expansive host, for the tables were piled high with food, the flow of ale (and stronger drink) was liberal, and a band of minstrels played merrily under the brightly flaring torches. It should have been a sight to gladden a hobbit's heart, but Bilbo, tucked away in his far corner, felt only misgivings; largely centred around his possible, and fast approaching, fate. He could do little more than pick moodily at the platters within his reach - some slices of boiled venison here, a couple of fat capons and a dish of peas there. He was sipping small beer awkwardly from a large tankard, when a fearsome slap on the back caused him to cough and splutter. As he wiped his face, the bench sagged and creaked and Madig sat down heavily beside him, sloshing a more hobbit sized mug under his nose.
"Drink, Master Halfling!" he cried. "Be merry while ye may, for tomorrow...!" He raised his own tankard and downed the contents, noisily and with much spillage, Bilbo noted.
Bilbo looked at the offered beverage, and was surprised and disconcerted to see flowers floating in it.
"What is this?" he asked, fishing out a bedraggled blue bloom. "Your serving men should take more care, I think."
"Nay, little master!" laughed Madig. "It's put there a-purpose! We call it borage, and 'tis wonderful for putting courage in a man. Our fighting men take this drink before a battle, to give 'em spirit!" He slapped Bilbo heartily on the back again, making him wince. "And 'tis spirit you're wanting this night, I'll wager, for tomorrow - "
"Yes, yes," interrupted Bilbo. "Thank you very much." He took a cautious sip, and then another, and then a really quite generous swallow. "This is good!" he said, wiping his mouth. "What is it?"
"'Tis cider cup - the best in all the land!"
Bilbo, swirling a mouthful around on his tongue, didn't disagree.
"How is it made?" he asked.
"Why, let's see - there's apple cider for mirth - a dash of sack for strength - lemon juice for sharpness - and brandywine to put the fire in your gut. All mixed with honey to make it slide down nice and sweet."
"And don't forget the flowers," added Bilbo, but his companion had turned and in a belching roar was calling for more dishes to be sent up. Then seizing Bilbo's empty trencher, he began piling it with food.
"Here, young Master Goodhobbit, eat your fill, for this is warrior's fare, and 'twill make you think naught of the perils ahead. Eat! Drink! We'll have no more of your long face skulking in the corner."
Maybe it was the hearty conviviality of the occasion, or maybe it was the heady cider cup that Madig continued to press upon him, but Bilbo found that his accustomed appetite was indeed returning. He started to feel more cheerful than he had since arriving in Lake Town (indeed probably since leaving his much missed Bag End), and he applied himself to the goodly provender placed before him with something approaching gusto. There were such delicacies as roasted quails and larks, apple and cheese fritters, and quince dumplings; and further warrior favourites in the form of faggots well flavoured with thyme ("Bard's Balls," Madig informed him, "they'll put a beard on your face."), and a dish of rice in a highly spiced sauce that made Bilbo feel that he could breathe fire as effectively as Smaug.
The merrymaking around him was becoming wild and unruly, as men and dwarves forgot their mutual distrust and pledged themselves lifelong friends. The minstrels had given up playing sometime ago, Bilbo realised, and had either gone home or joined the increasingly drunken throng. Now and then some singing would break out, off-key and fractured, only to be lost again in the general hubbub. Bilbo's mood had turned decidedly mellow, with every single one of his corners well and truly filled, and his chest swelling with pride in his hobbithood and love for his fellows; and he was beginning to feel it would take a fierce and cunning dragon indeed to get the better of Mr Bilbo Baggins with his dander up.
Nevertheless, he was the first to dive for cover under the table when the fighting started.