Pippin stood with the others at the entrance of the Prancing Pony. The inn
was crowded with men and hobbits. So many strangers that Pippin was
unnerved. At least Butterbur seemed friendly enough.
"I've got some nice hobbit-sized rooms," he was saying, "but you'll be wanting supper first I've no doubt. This way now." He let them across to a private parlour, but as they reached the door it seemed that a strange pressure filled Pippin's head. Pippin found his head turning, without ever deciding to turn it. He was glad he did, when he saw who it was who had just come in.
"Frodo," Pippin said, causing Frodo to look as well.
"Strider," muttered Frodo.
"So you know Strider, do you?" asked Butterbur, "A strange sort, those Rangers. I wouldn't have anything to do with them if I were you. And that one's stranger than most. He'll disappear for a week or a month or longer, and then appear with no warning or explanation. He seldom talks, but can tell a rare tale when he does." During this monologue, the pressure disappeared from Pippin's mind, but their delay had given Strider enough time to see them and come over.
"Well met, Mr Underhill," he said with a smile, "I was hoping to see you here." Without waiting for invitation he strode into the parlour, followed by the four hobbits, with Butterbur fussing around trying to make things comfortable for them.
"Do you know where Gandalf is?" Frodo asked, once Butterbur had left the room.
"No," Strider replied, "I last saw him in the spring. He told me about his business with you, but I had some business of my own to attend to. When I returned and heard that he had disappeared and black riders had been seen, I began to listen anxiously for word of you on the roads."
"Do you know who the black riders are?"
"They are the Nagul, ringwraiths. They are slaves to the will of Sauron and are hunting you and the ring. If they find you they will destroy you." Pippin remembered the rider they had seen and shuddered. Seeing Strider here now reminded him of the last time they had met, and those dark figures that had held him prisoner. He wondered if there was some connection, but dismissed the idea. How ever frightening the figures had been, they hadn't been able to send fear straight to his heart with the very thought of them the way the riders did. And he doubted the riders would have been so merciful with him.
"What will we do now?" Merry asked.
"We must get you safely to Rivendel. I will guide you. I know the lands around Bree well, and can take you be routes the servants of the Enemy will not suspect. We cannot outrun them, but we can slip by. All we can do is hope that Gandalf will reach us somewhere along the way."
"Do you think the riders are why Gandalf didn't come?" Frodo asked.
"I can think of nothing else that could have hindered him, save the Enemy himself."
Their conversation was interrupted again, by Butterbur coming in with trays of food. "Will you be joining the company?"
"No," Strider said, before Frodo had a chance to say anything. Butterbur looked as if he was about to say something, but left again, allowing Strider to explain. "The riders will be on the look out for hobbits leaving the Shire. You have been seen coming into Bree, so it is better that you should be as hidden as possible during your stay here. I would also advise that you do not go to your rooms. The riders would not often attack a lighted house, but we can take no chances."
"How do you know so much about them?"
"I have fought the servants of the Enemy all my life," Strider replied, "I know the way they act, and how to defend against them." That was enough for the hobbits, who began to attack the food on the table eagerly. Pippin felt better about this whole thing now that they had a friend of Gandalf to help them, but there was a strange feeling eating at the back of his mind. He couldn't help thinking about the similarity between Strider's voice, and the voice that had spoken most often in that dark place. Were they connected somehow?
As they went to sleep that night, on the floor of the parlour in the Prancing Pony, Pippin listened to the darkness. It might have been his imagination, or he might have heard voices, on the cusp of hearing, too faint to hear any words. Somehow Pippin knew they were talking about him.
"I've got some nice hobbit-sized rooms," he was saying, "but you'll be wanting supper first I've no doubt. This way now." He let them across to a private parlour, but as they reached the door it seemed that a strange pressure filled Pippin's head. Pippin found his head turning, without ever deciding to turn it. He was glad he did, when he saw who it was who had just come in.
"Frodo," Pippin said, causing Frodo to look as well.
"Strider," muttered Frodo.
"So you know Strider, do you?" asked Butterbur, "A strange sort, those Rangers. I wouldn't have anything to do with them if I were you. And that one's stranger than most. He'll disappear for a week or a month or longer, and then appear with no warning or explanation. He seldom talks, but can tell a rare tale when he does." During this monologue, the pressure disappeared from Pippin's mind, but their delay had given Strider enough time to see them and come over.
"Well met, Mr Underhill," he said with a smile, "I was hoping to see you here." Without waiting for invitation he strode into the parlour, followed by the four hobbits, with Butterbur fussing around trying to make things comfortable for them.
"Do you know where Gandalf is?" Frodo asked, once Butterbur had left the room.
"No," Strider replied, "I last saw him in the spring. He told me about his business with you, but I had some business of my own to attend to. When I returned and heard that he had disappeared and black riders had been seen, I began to listen anxiously for word of you on the roads."
"Do you know who the black riders are?"
"They are the Nagul, ringwraiths. They are slaves to the will of Sauron and are hunting you and the ring. If they find you they will destroy you." Pippin remembered the rider they had seen and shuddered. Seeing Strider here now reminded him of the last time they had met, and those dark figures that had held him prisoner. He wondered if there was some connection, but dismissed the idea. How ever frightening the figures had been, they hadn't been able to send fear straight to his heart with the very thought of them the way the riders did. And he doubted the riders would have been so merciful with him.
"What will we do now?" Merry asked.
"We must get you safely to Rivendel. I will guide you. I know the lands around Bree well, and can take you be routes the servants of the Enemy will not suspect. We cannot outrun them, but we can slip by. All we can do is hope that Gandalf will reach us somewhere along the way."
"Do you think the riders are why Gandalf didn't come?" Frodo asked.
"I can think of nothing else that could have hindered him, save the Enemy himself."
Their conversation was interrupted again, by Butterbur coming in with trays of food. "Will you be joining the company?"
"No," Strider said, before Frodo had a chance to say anything. Butterbur looked as if he was about to say something, but left again, allowing Strider to explain. "The riders will be on the look out for hobbits leaving the Shire. You have been seen coming into Bree, so it is better that you should be as hidden as possible during your stay here. I would also advise that you do not go to your rooms. The riders would not often attack a lighted house, but we can take no chances."
"How do you know so much about them?"
"I have fought the servants of the Enemy all my life," Strider replied, "I know the way they act, and how to defend against them." That was enough for the hobbits, who began to attack the food on the table eagerly. Pippin felt better about this whole thing now that they had a friend of Gandalf to help them, but there was a strange feeling eating at the back of his mind. He couldn't help thinking about the similarity between Strider's voice, and the voice that had spoken most often in that dark place. Were they connected somehow?
As they went to sleep that night, on the floor of the parlour in the Prancing Pony, Pippin listened to the darkness. It might have been his imagination, or he might have heard voices, on the cusp of hearing, too faint to hear any words. Somehow Pippin knew they were talking about him.