Chapter XX

Complications

For the first time in his unimaginably long existence, Manwë truly grasped the Mortal perception of Time.  He understood what it meant for time to fly so quickly that dire events could happen before his eyes and be unable to do anything to prevent them, for the lack of time.  And he understood how it felt when seconds dragged on as long as centuries while he stood numb with shock, fearing for the safety of one he loved.  He was scarcely aware that he'd shouted, "Olórin!" when he saw their meager shelter collapse.  The cloud of dust that blinded him lasted only as long as it took for the rain to beat it down again, but it also damped the fire, and with it their only light.

The Vala's first impulse, to sweep away the debris with an errant wave of his power, struck a wall of frustration when he still could not do so while in this temporary but more restrictive hroä.   He was just about to throw aside all caution and revert to his natural form — a terrible danger for the truly incarnate hobbits — when Mardo and his brothers came running up.  The Shirrif had heard Manwë's cry and saw him about to plunge into the chaos, bent on freeing his brother.  He grabbed the "elderly hobbit" by one arm, holding him back.

"Have a care!" Mardo warned his three brothers, who were now scrambling to help those who  had been caught under the wreckage.  "We won't help anyone if we bring down even more rubble and bury ourselves, too!"

Manwë glared at him, a look that went unnoticed in the failing firelight.  "Olórin — my brother — is under there!  I have to help him!"

"We will, friend, we will," Mardo assured him in his best soothing tones.  "But we need to do this proper, or he may end up worse off 'n he is now."  He looked back toward the road and loosed a piercing whistle.  "Hi, lads!  Bring some lanterns over so's we can see what we're doing!"

It was a perfectly sensible plan, though in his presently diminished state, it took Manwë more than a moment to recognize it.  What he realized sooner was that Mardo, seeing him as an elderly hobbit who might easily be prompted to hasty action beyond his aging abilities, still had a firm grip on his arm.  Unconsciously, he had been resisting it, which made the Shirrif hold on all the more tightly.  Briefly befuddled, the Vala stopped his resistance, and instead reached out to Olórin in the only way left to him, through their thoughts.

He was reassured when he felt his brother's presence, as strong and bright as ever.  Yet when he called to the Maia in osánwë, he was strangely unresponsive.  He remembered that Olórin had said they could be overwhelmed by pain and injury in these forms, which reminded him how many of their people had taken permanent damage to their feär via dreadful injuries done to their temporary hroär, during the wars against Melkor.   Manwë had seen how hard the falling beam had hit the back of Olórin's head, how it had struck with an audible crack that could easily have broken the neck of a true incarnate....

Dear Eru, his thoughts whispered as his eyes closed in sudden anguish.  Had this unforeseen accident hurt his brother so seriously that he might never fully recover his natural strength?  These bodies they wore weren't as fully and truly incarnate as the one Olórin had been required to live within during the past age, but they were also much more vulnerable to actual damage carrying serious consequences than a simple, illusory fana.  It had taken the hand of the One Himself to give back a fully healed life to Olórin after his battle with a balrog.  Manwë had not that power, nor did he think their Father would do so again.  He prayed that he was wrong, that whatever harm Olórin had taken was not so severe, but unless he shed his current form and revealed himself before these Children, he had no way of knowing for certain.

"Don't you worry, now," Mardo said, his tone so compassionate, the Vala opened his eyes and saw the hobbit's expression of concern, and determination.  "We'll get your brother out and taken care of.  It's only proper, after the two of you got caught up in our plans — and we Hobbits look after our own."

Manwë was about to point out that they'd only just met, that they were strangers, when he thought better of it.  This loyalty was part of what Olórin had often said he admired in the Little Folk, as well as their generosity in a crisis.  Instead, he gave the Shirrif a shaky smile.  "Thank you," he said softly.  Mardo returned the smile, then set about directing his brothers and those who had arrived with lanterns and other implements to help free the trapped.

The sensations of nervous uncertainty that roiled the Vala's gut brought with them a sudden realization as he watched the others set to work.  This was a large part of what it meant to be a true Incarnate, and to be Mortal: not knowing what would come from one moment to the next, never certain of anything, yet carrying on in spite of it, relying on hope alone to provide the faith that things could be better, farther on.  As an Ainu, he knew that much of his faith about the future was grounded in a solid knowledge that Eru Ilúvatar existed and had a plan for the fate of all He had created, even though Manwë himself did not know what the ultimate plan might be. 

Even in his worst crises of faith, he had that certainty to anchor him and give him comfort.  The Children, especially the Mortals, had no such absolute knowledge, only the words they had been taught by those who had come before them.  They had never looked directly upon the face of the One, had never knowingly been held within His embrace nor been so directly aware that He, the Orchestrator of Creation, was the origin and eternal fount of Love, and Life.  They had doubts and uncertainties that sprang from their existence in flesh, within Arda Marred, and now, caught for the first time in a hroä that, though yet under his full command, was more firmly bound to the substances of Eä, Manwë understood. He understood, in all the myriad implications that understanding brought with it, and the weight of it made his body tremble, and his legs unwilling to support him.

Without conscious thought, the not-hobbit sank down onto a large stone, out of the way of those working.  Shock, something within him whispered.  This was what the Eruhíni meant when they used that word to describe another's condition in the aftermath of a traumatic experience.  Emotionally and intellectually, it was familiar to Manwë, but physically....  Oh, no, this was something very new and strange to him, the way the breath grew quicker yet more shallow, the heart racing and yet seeming not to provide enough to sustain the flesh, the body flush with the heat of anxiety while his limbs grew heavy and chill....

One of the lantern-carriers stopped beside him as he stepped into the now more ruined ruins.  "Cob," he called to one of those coming behind him, "you and your brothers hand off your lamps and help free whoever's trapped.   The rest of you, make sure they have good light — we don't want anyone hurt because they can't see what they're doing!"

Cob and several other sturdy hobbits willingly did as instructed.  "Don't you worry none, Captain, we'll get everyone out safe and sound.  We weren't named Burrows for naught!" 

Some of the others chortled at the familiar joke — which was true in its own way, as the Burrows brothers were known throughout the four farthings as the most skilled of hole-excavators and builders — then all settled down to work as quickly as possible. Manwë felt peculiarly detached from it all, until he felt someone settle a warm cloak around him.  

He looked up into the face of the one who had stopped beside him.  The hobbit Cob had called Captain had set down his lantern to doff his own cloak and wrap it about the "elderly halfling," to protect him from the chill wind and rain.  "There now!" he said with a cheerful smile as he pulled the hood up over the silver-white curls.  "It's not a fit night for friend or foe to be out, and Mardo told me you and your brother are very much our friends.  Stay here and stay warm, while we see to him and the others.  I'm sure he's fine — or will be, once we get that rotting straw and splintered wood off him!"

"Don't worry about us," Ferri called from outside the worst of the wreckage.  "We'll have some lovely bruises, but that bloody fool of a ruffian did us a favor, kicking us away afore he brought down what's left of the house.  We can get ourselves out."

"Aye," Talb agreed as he threw off the bits and pieces of smaller debris that had fallen on him.  He shook his dust-covered head, now getting wet with rain.  "See to the old one's brother first, he took a bad knock to the head, he did."

One of Mardo's brothers, who'd been working on removing the wreckage burying the brigand, snorted.  "Not as bad as this 'un did, I'll warrant."  He crouched for a closer look at what had been revealed when he and one of the others had lifted away the broken timber that had struck Olórin before it completed its crash.   He shook his head, grimly.  "We needn't worry 'bout digging him out first so's we can make sure he won't cause more trouble.  Bloody fool is right, swingin' that axe so hard, he came 'round and got himself with it."

"Then leave him," the Captain said crisply, though he shuddered at the description of the hapless Man.  "Robin and the others can see to getting the body out to the wagon after we've finished here.  Cob, you and Beldy get under that end of the beam and lift.  Carefully, now!  I can see a hobbit foot poking out from the thatch under the beam."  

While Cob and Beldy moved as directed, Mardo and another strong hobbit took hold of the opposite end of the fallen timber.  "He's luckier'n that ruffian, then," Beldy observed.  "Thatch this thick would've cushioned him from the worst of it."

Cob chuckled.  "Aye, and he's lucky he's just under all this and not pinned under a dead troll, eh, Captain?"

Some of the others laughed; the Captain sniffed.  "At the very least, this smells better!  When I give the word, you four lift.  Hal, Rollo, stand ready to help me get him free, quick.  With luck, we won't make things worse, but we need to move him to safety as fast as we can.  Ready, now?"

There was some changing of position and adjustment of lantern light before the workers signaled their readiness.  As he watched, Manwë felt some of his peculiar numbness melt away.     He knew Olórin was alive, no matter what the state of his current form.  And yet here he sat, paralyzed by shock — a kind that was quite alien to him, granted — while these true incarnates, who had no such reassurance, labored to free a trapped and injured stranger.  Shamed by his inaction, as forgivable as it might be, Manwë shook off his torpor, stood up, and went to do what he could.

As the hobbits clearly considered him to be at least somewhat impaired by age and the shock of seeing his brother hurt and buried under rubble, he made no attempt to assist in the physical labor.  Instead, he saw that the one the others called Captain had set down his lantern, in a place that while safe did not make the best use of its light.  He picked it up, and, carefully keeping out of the way of those doing the more important work, he held it up, above shoulder height, and at an angle that shed much better illumination on the area where Olórin was trapped.

"That's the ticket," one of those preparing to assist the Captain approved.  "Makes it easier to see what needs doing.  Looks like we'll just need to pull him free of the thatch, once that beam's away."

The Captain also gave Manwë an approving nod.  "Just be prepared to jump clear, if needs be," he warned the disguised Vala.  "No telling what else might fall, when something's shifted."

Manwë made no argument against such prudence.  As detached as he had felt but a minute ago, he was now fascinated by this new perspective of Mortals, especially these smallest of Ilúvatar's Children, with whom he had not labored, as he had with the Eldar and Edain of the First Age.  The staunch determination he had seen in Frodo and Bilbo was echoed here, perhaps not as strongly in all present, but the sense of community among them was clear, and touching.  The Vala did not delude himself into thinking that they would have all been quite so willing to assist strangers who were of other kindreds, but in some he saw a deep kindness of spirit that needed no great powers to be perceived.  The kindness in his own spirit responded to it, and was grateful.

The four who were to lift the fallen timber signaled that they were ready; Hal and Rollo nodded their readiness to the Captain.  "On three, then," their leader said.  "One...two...three!"

Amid loud grunts of effort, the four hobbits standing on either end of the downed beam got under it and lifted.  It had been a large timber of heavy oak, and though broken and partly burnt away by the fire that had ruined the inn, it still took hard work to raise it high enough for the others to free Olórin.  Smaller bits of debris shifted and fell as the beam was moved, forcing several of those holding lanterns to move back a bit, but Beldy had been right: the half-rotted thatch had given the disguised Maia some protection.  Unfortunately, it also made getting him out more difficult, as his left arm and leg were tangled with old straw and the rotting cords that had once been used to make the bundled yelms.

Two of those with lanterns set them down and went to help free the fallen not-hobbit.  After a few tense moments, they were finally able to pull him out.  They quickly moved him onto a cloak someone had offered, to use as a makeshift litter so that they could easily carry him away from further danger.  Manwë followed, bringing the lantern so they could better see Olórin's condition.

He was still limp and unconscious and covered with dirt and rubble, his exposed skin bleeding in places where he'd been scratched by broken thatch spars poking through the straw.  Why he remained unresponsive was a mystery to Manwë, who had expected that Olórin's ability to use his native powers while in this hroä would have let him avoid any real harm.  But Olórin was not feigning his condition, and his own inability to communicate with the Maia through mind-speech had Manwë greatly worried.  What was wrong?

Reacting instinctively, as any of the Children with injured kin might have done, the Vala followed those carrying the Istar to safety; he knelt beside him while one of the older hobbits did a quick but competent examination.  "Heart's beating strong, breathing's fine, and nothing seems to be broken, thank goodness," he reported.  "He's got a big lump on the back of his head — no surprise, that, from what Talb said — and his right shoulder might've popped the joint.  No bleeding or wounds, aside from those scratches.  He'll probably have a nasty headache when he wakes up, and I think a healer should have a look at his shoulder.  Might need to be bound or put in a sling for a while, but he should be fine before long."

The Captain, who'd been one of those who'd carried Olórin from the wreckage, nodded.  "That's reassuring, Dewi.  We should get him into a proper bed under a decent roof, then."  He touched Manwë's shoulder to get his attention.  "Were you expected by anyone tonight?"

The question caught the not-hobbit by surprise.  He blinked for a moment, then shook his head.  "No, we've been on a walking holiday, and we're far from home.  Olórin suggested going to an inn he knows in Waymeet tonight, but we'd made no prior arrangements for lodging, nor had we counted on this weather arriving before we reached town.  He remembered this place--"  He indicated the abandoned shell of a building around them.  ”--from the last time he came this way, so we took shelter here to wait until the rain passed."

The leader of the hobbits gave him an odd look when he mentioned his brother's name — obviously an outlandish one, by local standards.  Manwë winced, realizing that he should've considered other names for them to use when he'd decided on this course.  But then, he hadn't anticipated their current situation, nor his own peculiar disorientation, if such it could be called.

But then the Captain smiled crookedly.  "Then he hasn't been this way in almost a year, since the owner of this inn opened his new one just last Yule, and not half a mile farther north, around the next bend on this same road."  He cocked his head for a moment or two, his expression thoughtful.  "I think we should take your brother there; it's the closest proper shelter, and Master Caradoc's wife Tansy is a very skilled healer.  She wouldn't turn away anyone who's hurt, even were the inn full and she had to give up her own bed to help them. And they'll be pleased to give aid to the brothers who helped catch the louts who've been harassing their customers, and spoiling their business!"

He turned back to where some of the others were working to free the dead ruffian's body.  He called to one of the lantern-holders, who had brought some of the farmers and the Shirrif from the Tookbank area in his pony cart to help with the round-up of the highwaymen.  In short order, he went to fetch it so that they could move Olórin more safely and quickly, while the Captain went to give instructions to those who were loading the three securely restrained brigands into the larger wagon, for transport to Whitwell.

While they were gone, one of the workers brought over the cloaks and hoods Manwë had been collecting just before the collapse.  Dewi, the hobbit who'd examined Olórin, made sure the invalid was snugly wrapped in one of the cloaks, both to keep him warm and to protect his injuries from jostling when they moved him.  Manwë assisted, and when they were done, he touched the Maia's cheek, brushing away the dirt that marred it.  There was a kind of solidity to this flesh that was more than he was used to when they were in ordinary fanar, a warmth that was more real than illusory.  He attempted to whisper to his thoughts while he touched him, but still, Olórin did not respond.

"He's going to be fine, never fear," Dewi told the Vala, kindly, having seen the worry on his face and the affection in his gentle touch.  "Your brother — Olrin, did you say?  He's younger than we are, he's strong — and it's plain that the both of you are fighters.  It's them that give up who don't make it, and if I may be so bold, I don't see him as a quitter."

"No, he's not," Manwë confirmed, his own small smile thanking the hobbit for his compassion.  He didn't bother to correct his mistake about the name, since Dewi apparently considered it acceptable.  "He's been through worse than this—"  He shivered at the memories of his fight with the Balrog and his death that Olórin had shared so vividly at his final Reckoning.  "—but he may not be the best of patients, especially if he wakes with a bad headache!"

The hobbit chuckled.  "Aye, most of my own family's that way.  But Mistress Tansy will make him comfortable, and do all she can for him, and you.  They've suffered so because of these wicked Men, first Sharkey's that drove them out and burnt this place to ruins, and now these thieving brutes, harassing innocent travelers and farm folk.  It'll be their pleasure to give you help and hospitality, seeing as how you helped make sure they won't cause more trouble."

"We hadn't planned it, you know," Manwë said wryly.  "But once they came upon us, there was no question of what we should do.  Even so, it was fortunate that you and your fellows came along when you did."  Although he knew very well that such "fortune" was seldom mere coincidence, which made him wonder if perhaps more than met the eye was being directed by a Greater Power.

"I'd say 'tis the other way 'round," Dewi replied, now smiling broadly.  "Oh, Ned and Barlo are hearty lads, and brave enough in their own way, but the plan was to have 'em look like wealthy travelers coming down the road, posing as the bait to lure the brigands out into the open, where the Shirrifs and the Captain would close in to catch 'em.  You and your brother sent 'em running right into our arms, so to speak, and already half worn down from fighting.  It made our job much easier, with fewer injuries than we'd likely have seen, with our plan."  His grin faded.  "I would've wished for no one to be hurt, mind you.  Not even that lout over yonder."  He nodded his head toward the dead ruffian.

Though his powers were greatly limited at the moment, Manwë clearly sensed the hobbit's sincerity.  Dewi was a simple, gentle soul, who wanted only peace.  "You have a kind and generous heart," he said softly, his smile warm as he touched Dewi's arm in both a gesture of thanks and to give him what blessing he could.

Dewi's cheeks flushed at the words of praise, and a dim sense of the benediction that washed over him.  "And a soft head, according to my wife and children, though they mean no harm by it.  Some folk need to be more forgiving and giving, or we'd all live in a world worse'n things were during the Troubles."  

He cleared his throat as a small pony-drawn cart came clattering up the road, to stop as near to them as was practical.  "Ah, here's Aric, now," he said heartily, glad for the diversion to hide his embarrassment.  "Come along, lads, let's get Olrin safely in the cart."  Several of the hobbits immediately bustled about to do just that, with the diligent care that showed they had prior experience in helping to transport the injured.

Again, thinking that Manwë was as elderly as he appeared to be, the younger halflings insisted that they would do the lifting and carrying and settling, so he stood by watching when the Captain returned, leading a pony of his own.  

He stopped beside Manwë.  "Robin and the other Shirrifs will take the wagon to Whitwell, as soon as they have that one loaded on."  He motioned to where others were finally preparing to take the body of the luckless Axeman to join his cohorts.  "I have a feeling that riding with him for a few miles will keep the other ruffians from thinking of trying anything, even if they could. They've been trussed up more tightly than an over-stuffed holiday goose!"

"It was an accident," the not-hobbit pointed out.  Until now — what with so much of the work they'd done having been in crouched positions or while highly distracted — Manwë hadn't noticed that the Captain was markedly taller than the other hobbits.  He had a cheerful face, a luxurious head of dark brown curls with golden-red highlights, and bright, clear eyes of a woodsy hazel-brown.  

And his answering smile was charmingly impish.  "Indeed it was, but they don't know it, and I see no reason to tell them otherwise, if it'll encourage them to behave.  I'll be coming with you to the inn," he added, more seriously.  "Dealing with the brigands is rightly the job of the Shirrifs, so I'm not really needed, now that things are in hand.  But I do want to be sure you and your brother are well taken care of, since you did all of us a great service, even if it wasn't planned."

A cold gust of wind and rain blew back Manwë's hood, reminding him that the cloak he was wearing was not his own.  "You'll be wanting this back, I'm sure," he said as he reached for the clasp.  

But the Captain stayed his hand, and instead took the cloak that had been returned to the Vala.  "This will do quite well for now," he said as he put it on, smiling as he pulled up the hood, then did the same for Manwë.

Dewi and his helpers finished settling Olórin; as the younger workers climbed out, the elder hobbit gestured for Manwë to join him.  "You'll be coming along, too, Dewi?" the Captain asked as he helped Manwë up into the cart, taking care so as not to jostle the still unconscious Maia.

"Aye," came the ready reply.  "I want to be sure Olrin has no problems on the way, and my place is just a bit farther up the road.  Aric said it'd be no bother to take me on home after we've stopped at the inn."

The Captain considered it a sound plan.  Once Manwë was aboard, settled to one side of his injured brother with Dewi on the other, the tall hobbit closed the gate and signaled for Aric to start off.  He watched them get underway, moving out onto the wet road at a slow but steady pace.  When he was sure they'd have no trouble moving over muddy wheel-ruts with a heavier load, he mounted his pony.  He was about to follow when he heard someone call to him.  

"Master Pippin!  I mean, Captain Peregrin!"  One of the younger hobbits, a farmer lad from Tookbank in his tweens, waved for him to wait.  He came rushing up to the pony, a bit breathless.  "I think they left these behind," he explained, holding up two walking sticks.  "They're too small to have belonged to any Big Folk, and I heard the old one say that they'd been on a walking holiday."

Pippin thanked the lad as he took them.  "Did they forget anything else?  Packs or satchels?"  There hadn't been any taken onto the cart.

The youth shook his head.  "I haven't seen any, but they might've been buried when the last of the roof fell."

That was entirely possible.  "Have everyone keep an eye out for them.  They must've had some supplies with them, if they're on holiday.  I'm sure they'll appreciate having them back, if they weren't ruined by the collapse.  If you find anything, send it to the inn with one of the Burrows brothers.  They'll pass by it on their way home."

The lad acknowledged the instructions and went back to work.  As he settled the staves across his saddle bow, Pippin smiled to himself.  They were certainly of hobbit-make and size; one, in fact, looked very much like Bilbo's favorite walking stick.  It couldn't have been, of course, since he'd seen the old fellow use it and take it with him as he'd boarded the white ship at the Havens, over five years ago.  

Nonetheless, without thinking, he turned the wooden shaft in the flickering lantern light — and was surprised to see several marks on it.   When he'd been a boy, Bilbo had told him and some other wide-eyed youngsters that the marks had been made when he'd single-handedly driven off a wicked goblin that had tried to rob him during one of his many long tramps around the Shire.  Pippin had completely believed it at the time, and he'd still thought fondly of the story after Frodo, Merry, and even Gandalf had confirmed that the worst of the marks had come from beating on "goblin" that had actually been a pesky, unmovable rock in a poorly-chosen campsite that had had the sad fortune of coming into conflict with Bilbo's toes more times than he'd cared to count.

My, but he hadn't thought of that story in years!  That hadn't been young Pippin's first encounter with Bilbo's favorite walking stick, either.  Several days before he'd been told the tale, Pippin had found a little knife near the woodpile outside his home, and as no one had seemed to miss it, he'd kept it.  He had tried his hand at carving patterns and shapes into bits of wood, as he'd seen some of his elders do.  The knife had been small enough for him to keep hidden in a pocket, so he'd carried it around with him and practiced his new "hobby" whenever he found a likely looking (if often inappropriate) piece of wood.  

The morning after Bilbo had arrived for his visit, his sister Pearl had been exceptionally bossy, telling Pippin to do this and do that until he'd had quite enough and had decided to hide from her in the little cloak room off the front entrance hall.  It had been a safe enough hiding place, but also boring, so after a bit, Pippin had taken it into his head to try carving his name onto one of the wooden sticks propped in a corner near his chosen spot on the floor.  It hadn't been very well done, since the light was poor and he'd only started learning to write his letters a few months before, but he'd been very proud of the results.  

Oddly enough, Bilbo had never scolded him for it — although in hindsight, Pippin suspected that the story about the goblin — which Bilbo had told the very next evening, after returning from a walk in the Green Hills — had been a not-so-subtle hint that young Peregrin was never to try doing such a thing again.

The memory brought a fond smile to the now-adult Peregrin's face, and a hint of a tear to his  eyes.  His life had been very full since the ship had sailed, but he still missed Bilbo and Frodo, and even Gandalf.  The name by which the old hobbit had called his injured brother had sounded very much like a name the Wizard had once said he'd been called when he lived in the West, but of course that had to be nothing more than an odd coincidence.  After all, half the residents of the Shire had names that sounded much like those of the other half.

He was about to dismiss all these thoughts as nothing more than nostalgia when, just as he began to urge his pony forward to follow the cart, someone holding a lantern shifted it, so that for a moment, the light shone more brightly on the walking stick — and revealed the old, inexpert carving of his name in the well-worn wood.

In that instant, it felt as though time suddenly stood still, and Pippin's heart seemed to stop before abruptly restarting with a tremendous thump!  Bilbo had taken his stick with him; of that, Pippin was absolutely certain.  And yet here it was, in his hands, a piece of gear left behind by two strange, traveling hobbits, of one whom was called....

"Olórin," he said in a bare whisper, his eyes wide, now positive he'd heard the name correctly.  It had been long ago when he'd heard it, all of seven years back, when he and the rest of the Companions had lived in Minas Tirith, following Aragorn's coronation.  That had been an exciting time for him, when Gandalf had freely spoken of so many things, no matter how often he was pestered with questions.  But... was what he was thinking now even possible??? 

Pippin took a deep breath, then another, his heart and his thoughts now racing.  The memory of when he'd first heard that name called to mind all his days in the White City, even the days before the War had ended.  And he remembered that more than once during that time, he'd wondered where Gandalf had come from, how old he actually was — indeed, what he was.  In the years since, feeling keenly his unexpected status as a knight of Gondor and the future Thain of the Shire, he'd read many books:  histories of Middle-earth, of all the kingdoms of Men and Elves and even Dwarves, as well as some of the ancient Elven books of lore that Bilbo had translated.  Here and there, he'd pieced together some fragments of answers to his many, many questions, though nothing definite.

With a sudden rush of insight, he realized that perhaps tonight, Fate had presented him with an incredible opportunity that he might never have again.  Even if it turned out that his suspicions were just wishful thinking, attempting to find out the truth would be well worth the risk.  Heavens knew, he'd embarrassed himself often enough with some of his mistaken notions, just in the three years since he'd come of age, so it would be nothing new to discover that once again, he was wrong.

But this time, he was certain he was right.

He wouldn't find out, though, by sitting on the back of a pony, going nowhere in the rain.  So touching gentle heels to his mount, Pippin set off to follow the cart, toward the waiting inn and, with luck, to answers that might soothe at least a bit of his Tookish curiosity.

Next:  Questions and Answers