Pippin awoke to a strange noise in his ear, something between a whine and a
snuffle. He opened bleary eyes and looked around. Nothing seemed to be
amiss. The sky above was dark, and Gandalf was only a wrapped bundle lying
a few feet away, the blanket rising and falling with the steady rhythm of
his breaths. But Shadowfax was not easy. He was turning his head from
side to side, sometimes nudging Pippin with his smooth nose, as if to ask
something of him. "What is it?" Pippin asked fearfully. The horse snorted
quietly and waved his head in the direction of the trees. Pippin looked in
the direction indicated but could see nothing. Nothing except... a sudden
glance of moonlight touched on mail in the shadow of a large oak. Pippin
knew that if he made any sign that he had seen, he would be overcome
quickly, as the enemy would take Gandalf by surprise. He had an idea.
"You're just thirsty, aren't you?" he said to the perplexed horse, stroking the white mane and rising slowly, as if it were a great bother to him. "It figures. The one moment I can actually get a wink, and you're thirsty." He walked over to where Gandalf had dropped his pack, and lifting the clasp, made a great show of searching for the canteen. "Where is it?" he muttered, sifting hurriedly through the contents of the bag, making sure to generate enough noise that the wizard would awaken and not be able to ignore him. Sure enough, it was only necessary to rattle around for a few more seconds before a gruff, deeply annoyed voice muttered from behind him: "Pippin, what on earth are you doing? Get out of there and go back to bed." "Shadowfax is thirsty," Pippin snapped plaintively. "I have to get him some water or he won't let me alone."
The wizard was on his feet in a moment, searching the hobbit's face quickly, then grabbing up his staff, he sent a beam of light shooting into the cover of the underbrush. As the light landed on the faces of ten very angry and lost-looking Orcs, Pippin grabbed his own dagger from the pack and stood beside Gandalf. The Orcs hesitated for a moment, but seeing only an old man and a Halfling matched against them, they snorted with amusement and charged into the clearing. Gandalf quickly shoved Pippin behind him, drawing the brunt of the attack on himself. Pippin was hurt, seeing that Gandalf did not expect him to be able to defend himself in battle, and he fought in a haze, ducking and tumbling to avoid axes, scimitars and sharp claws, but the mist disappeared in an instant when he saw an Orc who had apparently circled around the ring of trees sneaking up on Gandalf from behind. The wizard was completely occupied with three Orcs, swinging his staff in almost invisible movements, and did not see him. Pippin watched, frozen in horror, until the Orc had almost reached them, and then with a cry of fury, he flung himself on the Orc's back, dagger stretched out in front of his body like a shield. He had apparently struck a blow, because the Orc howled in pain, and the howl fueled Pippin's anger. He stabbed unseeingly, finally collapsing on the ground with the Orc lying still beneath him.
His arm hurt like fire, and he was vaguely aware of a stinging sensation on his right temple, and of the sudden stillness. It meant, of course, that the battle was over. He was safe. But he couldn't move. His arms were shuddering horribly, but he couldn't make them stop or raise himself up. His vision was blurry, but he felt himself being lifted off the Orc and into the air, suddenly wrapped in something soft. When he was set down again, he felt something moving next to him and breathing on him. Suddenly, something large and wet lapped his face. He placed the strange being instantly. "Shadowfax?" he asked softly. The horse grunted and licked his face again. "Don't," he protested, shoving the nose away and moaning as a giggle sent a fresh jolt of pain flashing through his chest. All of a sudden, the presence that had picked him up returned; he had to close his eyes against the bright light and sighed with relief as it was hurriedly covered. He knew that light. "Gandalf?" he said wonderingly. He was dead, wasn't he? 'No, no, Pippin, you silly hobbit,' he thought, 'if he's dead, why is he here? Perhaps I'm dreaming. But I'm not such a masochistic dreamer as all that. My arm hurts.' He gasped as the tongue licked his cheek again, and he remembered. 'Of course, Shadowfax. I didn't know Shadowfax when I thought Gandalf was dead.' "Oh," he murmured, as everything flooded back at once and memories drifted back to their proper places in time.
"Lie still," said a voice from above him, and he felt a wet cloth on his head, then another on his arm, and then the one on his forehead was sweeping over his face and neck. Everything still hurt, but he felt much better. He opened his eyes again, and his sight was now only blurry on the edges. There was an herbal smell in his nostrils, and the pain had stopped spreading through him and had settled in his arm. He saw Gandalf bending over him and stared, fascinated, at the wizard's face as he tended to the hobbit's injuries. It was as if a mask had cracked, as if he were looking at Gandalf as he would appear without wisdom or experience, without guile or strength or confidence. He saw what he imagined Gandalf had been at the first moment of his existence, not hard or worn, but clean in spirit as the first shower of spring. He looked frighteningly vulnerable. Pippin hurriedly closed his eyes again.
His arm burned horribly, and he groaned. "Is my arm going to fall off?" he murmured sleepily. "I shouldn't think so," said Gandalf with equal solemnity. "But I am not surprised that you wonder. I'm sure it is very painful. But simply try and sleep. You need rest to recover your strength. I shall keep watch for what remains of the night. You will be quite safe."
"Very well," said Pippin sleepily. "Goodnight, then. I'm glad my arm will not fall off. Eating with one hand is rather difficult. One must choose between a knife and a fork, for example."
"Yes," said the wizard in an amused voice. "And there is already an abundance of hard choices, since one must also choose between eating and chattering. But now that is enough of the latter, Peregrin Took. Sleep. Now."
"As you wish," murmured Pippin, and as he drifted into sleep, he could have sworn that he felt a hand stroking his hair.
"You're just thirsty, aren't you?" he said to the perplexed horse, stroking the white mane and rising slowly, as if it were a great bother to him. "It figures. The one moment I can actually get a wink, and you're thirsty." He walked over to where Gandalf had dropped his pack, and lifting the clasp, made a great show of searching for the canteen. "Where is it?" he muttered, sifting hurriedly through the contents of the bag, making sure to generate enough noise that the wizard would awaken and not be able to ignore him. Sure enough, it was only necessary to rattle around for a few more seconds before a gruff, deeply annoyed voice muttered from behind him: "Pippin, what on earth are you doing? Get out of there and go back to bed." "Shadowfax is thirsty," Pippin snapped plaintively. "I have to get him some water or he won't let me alone."
The wizard was on his feet in a moment, searching the hobbit's face quickly, then grabbing up his staff, he sent a beam of light shooting into the cover of the underbrush. As the light landed on the faces of ten very angry and lost-looking Orcs, Pippin grabbed his own dagger from the pack and stood beside Gandalf. The Orcs hesitated for a moment, but seeing only an old man and a Halfling matched against them, they snorted with amusement and charged into the clearing. Gandalf quickly shoved Pippin behind him, drawing the brunt of the attack on himself. Pippin was hurt, seeing that Gandalf did not expect him to be able to defend himself in battle, and he fought in a haze, ducking and tumbling to avoid axes, scimitars and sharp claws, but the mist disappeared in an instant when he saw an Orc who had apparently circled around the ring of trees sneaking up on Gandalf from behind. The wizard was completely occupied with three Orcs, swinging his staff in almost invisible movements, and did not see him. Pippin watched, frozen in horror, until the Orc had almost reached them, and then with a cry of fury, he flung himself on the Orc's back, dagger stretched out in front of his body like a shield. He had apparently struck a blow, because the Orc howled in pain, and the howl fueled Pippin's anger. He stabbed unseeingly, finally collapsing on the ground with the Orc lying still beneath him.
His arm hurt like fire, and he was vaguely aware of a stinging sensation on his right temple, and of the sudden stillness. It meant, of course, that the battle was over. He was safe. But he couldn't move. His arms were shuddering horribly, but he couldn't make them stop or raise himself up. His vision was blurry, but he felt himself being lifted off the Orc and into the air, suddenly wrapped in something soft. When he was set down again, he felt something moving next to him and breathing on him. Suddenly, something large and wet lapped his face. He placed the strange being instantly. "Shadowfax?" he asked softly. The horse grunted and licked his face again. "Don't," he protested, shoving the nose away and moaning as a giggle sent a fresh jolt of pain flashing through his chest. All of a sudden, the presence that had picked him up returned; he had to close his eyes against the bright light and sighed with relief as it was hurriedly covered. He knew that light. "Gandalf?" he said wonderingly. He was dead, wasn't he? 'No, no, Pippin, you silly hobbit,' he thought, 'if he's dead, why is he here? Perhaps I'm dreaming. But I'm not such a masochistic dreamer as all that. My arm hurts.' He gasped as the tongue licked his cheek again, and he remembered. 'Of course, Shadowfax. I didn't know Shadowfax when I thought Gandalf was dead.' "Oh," he murmured, as everything flooded back at once and memories drifted back to their proper places in time.
"Lie still," said a voice from above him, and he felt a wet cloth on his head, then another on his arm, and then the one on his forehead was sweeping over his face and neck. Everything still hurt, but he felt much better. He opened his eyes again, and his sight was now only blurry on the edges. There was an herbal smell in his nostrils, and the pain had stopped spreading through him and had settled in his arm. He saw Gandalf bending over him and stared, fascinated, at the wizard's face as he tended to the hobbit's injuries. It was as if a mask had cracked, as if he were looking at Gandalf as he would appear without wisdom or experience, without guile or strength or confidence. He saw what he imagined Gandalf had been at the first moment of his existence, not hard or worn, but clean in spirit as the first shower of spring. He looked frighteningly vulnerable. Pippin hurriedly closed his eyes again.
His arm burned horribly, and he groaned. "Is my arm going to fall off?" he murmured sleepily. "I shouldn't think so," said Gandalf with equal solemnity. "But I am not surprised that you wonder. I'm sure it is very painful. But simply try and sleep. You need rest to recover your strength. I shall keep watch for what remains of the night. You will be quite safe."
"Very well," said Pippin sleepily. "Goodnight, then. I'm glad my arm will not fall off. Eating with one hand is rather difficult. One must choose between a knife and a fork, for example."
"Yes," said the wizard in an amused voice. "And there is already an abundance of hard choices, since one must also choose between eating and chattering. But now that is enough of the latter, Peregrin Took. Sleep. Now."
"As you wish," murmured Pippin, and as he drifted into sleep, he could have sworn that he felt a hand stroking his hair.