XXII

Family and Friends

When Pippin first entered the sleeping chamber and saw Olórin apparently napping, his first impulse was to leave again and tell Munwy that maybe this wasn't the best time for the patient to eat.  His curiosity, however, was always stronger than his sense of propriety, and he used the opportunity to carry the tray with the food to the bedside — and thereby get a closer look at the person he was certain had to be the former Wizard in disguise.  When the not-hobbit didn't stir or even open his eyes as he approached, he saw the excellence of his chance, and took it.

What struck Pippin most strongly when he took his first close look at the person on the bed was how very much he looked like a fairly ordinary hobbit — a Fallohide, he decided, given the fair skin, moderate build, and curly golden hair.  Of course, that shouldn't have surprised him, since in most ways, Gandalf had looked like a fairly ordinary old Man, unless one had a chance to look very closely, to see beyond the disguise.  At first, he didn't see any resemblance whatsoever between this fellow and the Wizard he had known, but there was something elusively familiar about his face....

He was trying to work out the puzzle in his thoughts when he heard Olórin's stomach grumble.   He chuckled as he set down the tray on the small bedside table, chattering as much to determine whether the patient was awake as to provide information.  But when he turned back to the bed and saw Olórin open his eyes, the last of his doubts vanished.  The color was unfamiliar — not the dark gray that he had known of the Wizard, but a vivid, clear, dark blue — and yet the gaze itself was one he knew, as well as any young Mortal could.  His own name, softly spoken in recognition, was added confirmation.  He had heard that voice utter his name so many times in so many varied tones between merriment and anger that even without the gruffness, he could never have mistaken it.

Pippin knew that his greeting was a bit cheeky — in his own mind, at least, since he couldn't recall if he'd ever told Gandalf of his personal reaction to their first reunion amid the wreckage of Isengard — but he couldn't help himself.  And the way those familiarly unfamiliar eyes widened in response made it worth it.  Though for a long moment, no other reaction followed, a moment that dragged on just long enough to again stir the hobbit's doubts.

But then, Olórin laughed, not loudly and with due caution for his injured head.  The merry sound was just as Pippin remembered of Gandalf, especially after the burden of his long tasks had been lifted and he could laugh wholeheartedly, and the smile was definitely the same as had belonged to the Wizard.

"Impertinent Took!" he chided, though his smile was wide and eyes bright with humor.  He'd considered denying his identity for perhaps two heartbeats, but he had never lied to Pippin — had avoided many a direct answer, yes, but had never deliberately misled him — and he had no intention of starting now.  "However did you come to this conclusion — or were you told?" It was entirely possible that Manwë might've done so and had said nothing of it in their earlier mind-speech so as to surprise him.

The confirmation of his suppositions and the light-hearted manner in which it was offered brought a beaming grin of relief to the hobbit's face.  "I wasn't told, not in so many words.  I heard your traveling companion call you Olórin, and I remembered that years back, you'd told us it was your name in the West."

One golden eyebrow arched.  "And from one word alone, you concluded that I'm not what I appear to be?  It didn't even occur to you that it might be a mere coincidence of a similar-sounding name?"  The young Took was bright, but such a leap seemed too extraordinary for belief. 

The color rose in Pippin's cheeks.  "Well... not exactly.  Here, let me help you sit up so you can eat your supper.  Tansy had the broth sent in a mug, since that'll be easier for you to handle with one arm. She figured you wouldn't want to be spoon-fed, and I agreed completely!  The bread is fresh from the oven, and I'm told the butter was churned just this morning...."  He chattered on as he carefully assisted the not-hobbit into a more upright position, fluffing extra pillows and tucking them behind his back to help prop him comfortably.  

He was about to bring the tray and set it on the invalid's lap when Olórin caught his arm with his good hand, staying him.  "You needn't be so nervous, Pippin," he said with gentle reassurance.  "I couldn't be angry with you for guessing who I am, not even if I were of a mind to try!  I am glad to see you again, though I admit, I hadn't planned nor expected it.  So come, bring me that delicious smelling meal Mistress Tansy prepared for me, have a seat, and tell me just how you did manage to realize — and believe — who I am."

The kindness in the disguised Maia's manner touched Pippin, just as it had in those moments in the past, when the Wizard who could be so stern and gruff and impatient with foolishness let show the caring heart that lay beneath the facade.  "It really is you, Gandalf, isn't it?"  He was sure of it, now, but a part of him needed the direct confirmation.

Olórin chuckled and nodded.  "Yes, it really is me, though I think perhaps that name doesn't suit my current appearance, does it?"

The hobbit laughed.  "No, it doesn't, does it?  If I were to call you Gandalf in front of anyone else in the entire Shire, they'd think I was either totally potted, or had gone the way of Mad Baggins!  The others have been calling you Olrin, since that's what Dewi Cotterill thought Munwy had called you, but I heard him say Olórin, plain as plain!  Of course, I'd heard you say it before, years ago, and I don't have a cousin named Olrin, as Dewi has."

Ah, that explained it.  If one name had been misheard and a more familiar one substituted, it was likely that both had been.  "You may call me whatever name you wish — although, if the others here have already come to think of me as Olrin, it might be wise to use that, when they're about."  His expression became thoughtful as he watched Pippin fetch the tray.  "I will admit, I'm surprised that you remembered the name.  I don't believe I mentioned it that often, in your presence."

"You didn't," Pippin admitted while he settled the tray so that Olórin could reach the cup of broth and the cloth-covered plate of warm bread.  There was also a small crock of butter, and another of a soft pale cheese, flavorful but mild.  Before he took a seat on the bedside chair, Pippin also took the liberty of unfolding the provided napkin, then tucking it at the not-hobbit's throat, so that it would catch any drips or crumbs that might fall.  "But I also heard it from Faramir, while we were still in Gondor, and from Frodo, after things were settled here in the Shire, before he sailed. He is all right now, isn't he?  He didn't go West just to... die?"  That was something that had troubled him ever since Frodo had departed, regardless of everything he had read in the books of lore that had been left behind.

Olórin carefully shook his head.  "No, he didn't go West to die," he assured the young hobbit after swallowing a mouthful of the delicious broth.  "I promise you, both he and Bilbo are alive, and much better than they would have been, had they stayed."

Pippin let loose an immense sigh of relief.  "Oh, I am glad to hear that!  I truly wanted to believe that would be the case, but with no word able to come back to Middle-earth, I couldn't help but wonder, at times.  Do they still think of us?  Have they a proper place to live, and do you see them often...?"

The erstwhile Wizard interrupted before the rush of questions could become a torrent.  "Yes, they think of you often, and I see them quite regularly.  I can tell you more — after I've finished eating.  In the meantime," he added, bright blue eyes twinkling merrily, "I'd like to hear more of how you decided I'm not a true hobbit!"

Pippin drew the chair nearer the head of the bed; while he spoke, he made himself useful by carefully cutting the warm bread and spreading it with the butter and soft cheese, to spare his injured friend the awkward and potentially painful effort.  "Well, hearing your name surprised me, especially that name, not Gandalf.  But it was really the walking stick that got me to thinking."

The Maia's brow furrowed with puzzlement as he lowered his cup.  "The walking stick?"

The hobbit nodded.  "One of the lads who was helping clean up over at the old inn found two of them in all the clutter, and he gave them to me to bring back to you and Munwy.  I wouldn't've thought anything of them, if one of them hadn't looked exactly like Bilbo's favorite, the one I saw him using when he boarded the ship at the Havens.  And I could've dismissed even that and all its scars and dents as a coincidence, if I hadn't found the marks I'd made myself, when I tried to carve my name on it, back when I was a small lad learning to write his name."

That revelation brought a moment of stillness, followed by soft laughter.  "Did Bilbo know of that?  He never mentioned it to me, though I heard all about the tales he gave you youngsters to explain the various other marks on the wood!"

Pippin grinned.  "Oh, he knew, and scolded me for it, in his own way.  But I was little and so put upon by my big sisters during that visit, I suppose he didn't have the heart to tell my parents, and risk having them punish me.  I knew the look of that stick almost as well as Bilbo ever did, and I was positive he took it onboard the ship with him.  But when I saw it here, with the marks I'd put on it myself a good thirty years ago, I could only suppose that someone who could return from the West had brought it."

Olórin's eyes danced as he took another sip.  "And so you concluded that only I could've done so?"

"Oh, no," came the assurance with the wave of a butter knife.  "I know that the Elves can't come back anymore, but you and the other Wizards came from the West after that route was closed to the Elves.  You told us that yourself, during our stay in Minas Tirith."  He lowered the knife and set the prepared bread onto the edge of the plate nearest Olórin. 

The Maia gave him a nod of thanks as he set down the cup to sample the bread.  He savored the mix of flavors and textures, and swallowed before speaking.  "I suppose I did.  But I don't recall ever telling you that I was able to change my appearance this drastically.  As I was then, it was quite impossible."

"Really!"  The word was not a question;  its sauciness was softened by an impish smile.  "I know that I can recall at least one occasion on which you seemed to grow as tall as a tree.  And even if the incident in Hollins was just an illusion to scare off the wolves, there were just too many things about you that didn't add up to what you looked to be.  You obviously weren't an Elf or a Dwarf or a Hobbit, but you weren't a Man, either, not really.  I figured that much out by the time you and I arrived in Minas Tirith."

Olórin chewed on another mouthful of bread while he listened.  "Oh, you did, did you?" he asked, affecting an imperious air that hid his amusement.

It did not fool Pippin one tiny bit.  He rolled his eyes in equally feigned exasperation.  "Of course I did!  Men don't live for thousands of years, the only magic any of them have ever been said to work is the bad type that they learned from people like Sauron, and outside of old stories that most hobbits don't even know, they don't come back from the dead!  And let's not forget the fact that it was you who had the third Elven ring — and I have it on very good authority that you used it!  Are you going to deny any of that?"

The not-hobbit maintained his air of aloofness for slightly longer than it took to finish his piece of bread.  Indeed yes, this young Took might have been a scamp and a bit of a fool and sometimes a nuisance — but how could Olórin hold those qualities against him when he himself had been so in his own youth?  Especially now, when he had just shown how bright he could be, and how much he had grown.  His haughty air melted into a chuckle.  "No, I daresay I couldn't, not without resorting to brazen mendacity.  So, were you ever able to put a name to what you do think I am?"

Pippin cleared his throat.  "Ah... well, yes, I was, but I didn't figure it out on my own," he admitted sheepishly.  "After you visited the Shire for the last time before you sailed — on the Midsummer just before, I'm sure you recall — I stayed on at Bag End for a few days after you'd gone off, I think to Rivendell.  What you'd done to make the lights from the bonfires shine like living gems on the grasses and trees all night long started me wondering about you again.  So I asked Frodo if he knew, since he was closer to you than any of the rest of us.  He said if I wanted to know, I should do some studying on my own, and he gave me one of the Elven books that Bilbo had translated."

Olórin nodded while he sipped more of the broth.  "Bilbo did excellent work, especially given the difficulty of the language and the age of the texts.  There were some inaccuracies, but no more than there were in the accounts of the Elves who wrote of events they had not witnessed firsthand.  Did you actually read it?" he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes.

The hobbit whuffed out an expansive sigh.  "Not right away, I'm sorry to say.  The title was so long an Elvish word, I couldn't get past it!  Frodo laughed and said that wasn't the part I should read, but it put me off for a while.  I didn't understand why he couldn't just give me a straight answer, but he didn't, so I took the book but didn't read it until after he'd sailed."

"But you did read it.  Time was, you would've sooner let your sisters talk you into cleaning the Great Smials from stem to stern, all on your own, rather than settle down to any kind of studies."

It was difficult to argue with that truth; instead, Pippin laughed.  "Too true!  And yes, I did read it.  I'd thought that Frodo might've pulled a joke on me at first, because it didn't seem to have anything at all to do with what a Wizard might really be.  It wasn't like the stories we heard in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, the ones I could understand, at any rate.  It was older than the Elves, about the beginnings of everything.  I wondered if any of it was true."  He hastened to explain, not wanting to give the impression that he didn't believe any of it.  "I mean, I know that some things had to be real.  The first time I ever met Elves, they were singing about Elbereth, and she was in the stories.  I knew about the Valar and Ilúvatar, too, in a general way, but so much of this was unfamiliar, I couldn't tell if I was reading history or just a story based on it."

"As I said, there are some inaccuracies, which began with the Elven bards," the Istar said as he attempted to tear another bit of bread off the small loaf.  "But by and large, the tales are true.  Most of the errors were in certain details that the Elves knew nothing about."

That appeared to please Pippin.  He politely brushed aside Olórin's hand, then took up the bread knife to cut another slice from the loaf.  "I'm glad to hear it.  Because I finally understood why Frodo gave me the book when I read the part that began with, Wisest of the Maiar was Olórin.  After that, I went back and re-read all the parts about the Valar and the Maiar and the making of the world.  And I realized that you had to be the Olórin the book was talking about.  Was I wrong?"

Olórin shook his head.  "No.  I've argued with that particular description, but the Elves who wrote it remained quite firm in the accuracy of their assessment."  He shrugged his good shoulder.  "I have managed to be wiser than some of greater rank and power, so I suppose there is some merit to it, after all."

The hobbit was delighted to have had his conclusions confirmed.  "So you're one of the servants of the Great Powers.  Splendid!  I knew you weren't just a very, very old Man!  I suppose that means Saruman and the other Wizards were, too."  He shuddered expressively.  "That explains why Frodo said he was of a kind we wouldn't have dared raised a hand against when some of us were all for cutting him down after the old villain tried to stab him.  Is Munwy a Maia, too?  I know he's called you his brother, but I was beginning to have a notion that he might be a hobbit you knew from before you sailed, perhaps someone descended from one of my Took ancestors who ran off to adventure...."

Pippin's barrage of chatter along with his irrepressibly cheerful nature brought a wide, fond smile to the disguised Maia's lips.  "Bless me, but I've missed you and your ceaseless curiosity, my dear young Took!  Your notions are quite intriguing, but I'm afraid my companion isn't one of your distant relations, and he is no more a hobbit than I am."

A look of disappointment flickered across Pippin's face while he finished buttering the bread; then he gave another little sigh.  "I suppose that was a bit farfetched," he admitted.  "But I rather liked the idea that someone who called you his brother might be a relative of mine, however remote, which would make you a relation, after a fashion.  Family is family, after all, no matter how slight the connection."

His wistful explanation stirred Olórin's pity, as well as his humor.  He was about to mention how Frodo and Bilbo had already taken him into their family of the heart, and thus had already created that connection to Pippin, when the brush of Manwë's mind against his own interrupted.  

The Vala had finished his ablutions and wanted to know if he should come and send Pippin on his way, lest he start asking questions the incognito Maia could not evade without revealing his true identity.

He already knows, the Istar replied in osánwë.  Realizing that his brother was unaware of this, he swiftly shared with him their conversation, and bid him join them.

A moment later, a gentle rap at the door was followed by its opening.  After another moment or two, Manwë stepped inside, bearing a small tray on which was set three mugs of a steaming drink.  The windlord himself was dressed in borrowed clothing, a soft woolen nightshirt like Olórin's, with a warm house robe of plush dark green over it.  His shining clean skin was still pink from the warmth of the bath, his silvered white curls still faintly damp, but fragrant with the lingering scent of an herbal soap.

"Mistress Tansy sent this," he explained as Pippin hurried to relieve the "elderly hobbit" of his burden.  "If you had no trouble with the meal — which you clearly haven't, and I was sure you wouldn't — she felt it might help all of us relax and sleep better.  Yourself included, Master Peregrin.  I'd told her you were in here, helping my brother."

"Oh, thank you!" the young hobbit said most earnestly as he took the heavy tray over to the bedside table.  "Tansy's secret brew is famous, but she doesn't share the recipe with anyone, and she offers the drink only to family and special guests.  Since I'm not family, I usually only rate when she's in an unusually generous mood."

He chuckled as he set down the tray and took Olórin's now empty broth mug and exchanged it for one of the fragrant drink. "But then, I haven't spent the night here very often, with this inn being so close to Tuckborough and Whitwell.  Not unless I felt the need to escape my sisters!"

"Which happened often enough, as I recall," Olórin remarked drolly.  "While I understand quite well what it's like being the youngest, I have no sisters as such, and yours could be unusually bossy."

"To say the least!" Pippin agreed.  He passed "Munwy" one of the two remaining mugs; he offered him his chair, but the Vala refused with a polite shake of his head.  Pippin glanced between the two of them, looking for telltale signs of their kinship.  The most obvious was their eyes, the same strikingly vibrant yet deep blue, with depths of age and experience that made even Elves like Galadriel seem terribly young.  "So you're really brothers?  The book I read didn't have much to say about you, Olórin.  I know it didn't mention that you had any siblings."

"We only discovered proof of our kinship very recently," Manwë explained, after taking an appreciative sip from his cup.  "Olórin always suspected, but his suspicions weren't confirmed until only a few months ago."

The hobbit whistled softly.  "If I properly understood what I read, that must've been a terribly long time to wait!"

"It was," the windlord acknowledged, smiling warmly at the bedridden Maia.  "But it was well worth the wait."

Pippin considered this as he took a drink from his cup.  He licked his lips as he swallowed.  "So, your name isn't really Munwy, any more than his is Olrin."

Both Ainur shook their heads.  Olórin gave his brother an enquiring look over the rim of his mug, to which Manwë replied with a small nod.  "Peregrin Took," the Maia said formally after lowering his cup.  "Son of Paladin, knight of Gondor, and future Thain of the Shire, allow me to make known to you my lord Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King of Arda, he who stands and speaks for Eru Ilúvatar within Eä, and by the design and will of the One, my elder brother."

 At this revelation — for Manwë was a name he remembered well from the book Frodo had given him, and even from some of the poems Bilbo had written — Pippin's eyes widened.  His swallow was more of a gulp.  "Ah... the Elder King?  As in Bilbo's poem about Eärendil?  He came unto the timeless halls where shining fall the countless years, and endless reigns the Elder King in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer...?  That Elder King?"

Manwë nodded.  With an impish twinkle, he added, "And, by way of Bilbo and Frodo, who have taken me and my Lady Varda into kinship as their cousins, your cousin as well."

Pippin's eyes couldn't grow any wider with astonishment, so his mouth fell open instead.  Only small, inarticulate sounds escaped him as his mind tried to grasp the implications:  that the tenuous connection to the former Wizard for which he'd wistfully wished was not only more than a wish — for Hobbits considered one's chosen kin to be as real and precious as those of blood — but that with it came kinship to the highest king of all, save One.

Given all the extreme surprises he'd encountered in the span of a few short hours, it was no wonder that the young hobbit's mind couldn't quite deal with this last and greatest surprise.  Nor was it any wonder that, with his head spinning so, Pippin's legs decided they couldn't support him an instant longer.  He flopped back into his chair, wobbled in his seat for perhaps two moments, then promptly fell out of it as he fainted.

Next:

A Merry Meeting

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Story Note:  The mention of Gandalf's presence in the Shire (and Pippin's description of what he did to the fires) can be found in HoME IX: Sauron Defeated.  "At midsummer Gandalf appeared suddenly, and his visit was long remembered for the astonishing things that happened to all the bonfires (which hobbit children light on midsummer's eve).  The whole Shire was lit with lights of many colours until the dawn came, and it seemed that the fire ran wild for him over all the land so that the grass was kindled with glittering jewels, and the trees were hung with red and gold blossom all through the night, and the Shire was full of light and song until the dawn came."  Although Christopher Tolkien dismisses this deleted passage as meaning that Gandalf never returned to the Shire before sailing West, I prefer to think it was left out not because it didn't happen, but to simply shorten what was an otherwise lengthy denouement to the entire story.

Author's Note:  Once again, I must humbly beg the pardon of my reviewers for not responding to their much appreciated comments on the previous chapter.  November has been a very busy and very difficult month for me, and I do thank each and every one of you for both your kindness and your seemingly infinite patience.  This being Thanksgiving Day, I give thanks for all of you, and all who have been reading this story.  I hope all of you have a bountiful, happy, and safe year ahead!