He felt it, the call that so rarely pulled him from his wild state, the whistle that penetrated his soul, his mind, calling him, drawing him, towards it. He trotted towards the noise, his ears pricked to attention. He knew who it was, but he couldn't be certain. He would go slowly, if it was him he would continue for days, or nights if need be. But if the call was from an enemy it would soon stop. He trotted on carefully lifting his hardy feet over the rugged terrain. Then he cantered, he felt the soul who he had befriended. So near, so close. For years he had not let anyone touch him, to tame him, for he had found his true master. But he had left, promised he would return to reclaim him once more. He galloped, wild, free from the grasps of man towards the call, for he came on his own free will, not because he was forced, but because he was asked, Asked by the great magician himself. He passed from rock to grass, the green melded with his fast moving legs. He called answering, telling he was close, closer than the wind itself. He rose over a hill stretching his legs for the last few strides to his master. He stretched his finely bred face towards the hand, letting it rub his nose softly.
The owner of the hand breathed Shadowfax, for it was he, Shadowfax, the god of horses, stead of Gadalf the White. He had returned at last.