~ Content warning: angst and minor character death ~

Chapter 54. In the aftermath, we count our losses... and Something else

I once heard the Master explain to Youngest how ponies can see in the darkness. At least, we can see in the darkness better than most hobbits can. After the Company left the marvellous Valley, it seemed to me that the Master could see better in dark conditions than the other hobbits. Quite possibly, or so it seemed to me at times, the Master could see better after we left the Valley than was the case after we left Bree. I have no idea why that would be.

In any event, I think I must be able to see better than the Man and Hobbit walking before me. Lifting my head, I can see beyond them to where young Bert sits on the ground, cradling another hobbit in his lap.

Yet the innkeeper calls out, 'Who's there?'

At the same time, the Nob-hobbit is asking, 'Bert? Is that you, lad? Bob? What's happened?' To the Man, he says, 'A moment, Master.' He eases the innkeeper's arm from his shoulders, but the Man does not seem able to stand unaided, and sinks to the ground.

Nob hesitates but a moment, and then he says, 'Wait here but a moment, Master...'

'Where are you going, you woolly-pated...?' the innkeeper's complaint peters into silence. I don't think the hobbit hears him, for he has already reached young Bert and his limp burden.

And so I move forward carefully so as not to step on the Man, and I lower my nose to him and administer the gentlest of nudges.

His hand comes up and finds the rope still hanging from my neck. His grip tightens, and he tries to pull himself up but falls back once more. So I lower my head still further, feeling his fingers fumbling across my neck until they reach my mane and take hold.

Ready? I say to him, forgetting for a moment that he will not hear or understand me.

Yet as if he does understand, he nods, either in acknowledgement to me, or perhaps in response to his own thoughts.

I slowly and cautiously lift my head, and he rises with me. Regaining his feet, he staggers and catches himself against me. I bear up under his weight, and we stand together for a breath or two before, as if of one accord, we move forward.

Foot by foot. I breathe encouragement, just in case he is somehow understanding me. And step by slow step, we close the short distance to the small group of hobbits on the ground before the stable door.

'Nob...? Bob...?' the innkeeper mutters.

The Nob-hobbit, smelling more strongly of fear, grief and distress than he did in the midst of battle, lifts his head and peers up at us. 'He's hurt, Master, hurt bad...'

The tween's sobbing interrupts him.

I feel the innkeeper's grip on me tighten as he pushes himself more upright. 'What...? How...?'

'Trampled, perhaps, when the horses...' the Nob-hobbit says.

I shake my head and snort vigorously. Never!

The tween argues. 'No, but I found him lying here, face down, not a mark on him except for the back of his head – all bloody!' He lifts his hand, covered in black blood – It is only the darkness, the Voices whisper to me in reassurance though I have no fears that this-Bob might be an Orc somehow. He gulps down sickness and adds, 'A horse wouldn't do such, nor a pony, neither!'

Belatedly I notice the broken lantern lying just beyond him, explaining how the stable lad was able to see "not a mark" on this-Bob before he dropped or knocked over the lantern and extinguished its light. 

I whicker softly, thankful that his accident did not happen in a straw-filled stall or loose-box or the hayloft, starting a fire.

The Nob-hobbit looks up at the sound, blinking as if he is having difficulty seeing me. Perhaps he is hampered by the tears welling in his eyes and then spilling over, to run down his cheeks.

Beside me, the innkeeper speaks, and the note of command is back in his voice as when he told my Ranger-guide, "Bob will see to him" and, a little while ago, when he was issuing orders to Nob about stuffing cloth in the windows and making lots of sandwiches and hot drinks. 'Let's get him up on the pony... carry him to the common room...' Releasing me, he shuffles forward and, belying his weakness, bends and lifts this-Bob in his arms, staggering a little as he stands upright. I move forward to save him the trouble of turning and bearing the injured hobbit to my side.

'Are you certain...?' Nob says, but before he can get the words out, I feel the ostler's weight settle on my back, and so I stand as steady as I learned to do after the Shadow Ones wounded the Master, and I carried him in our desperate quest to reach safety and aid.

Keeping one hand on the limp hobbit, the innkeeper pats me with the other. 'Steady as a rock,' he praises. His voice grows stronger as he continues – as if the act of issuing orders brings with it confidence and strength. 'Bring all the injured into the inn, together in one place to make it easier for the healer to work...' 

Without prompting, I ease myself around and begin walking slowly towards the inn's entrance, sensing rather than seeing one of the hobbits behind me helping the other to his feet.

The group of horses and ponies parts before us, and I issue quick orders of my own. Stand, and wait. Someone will come. Have no fear; the rogues are well-gone. I am not sure whence comes my feeling of confidence. Though I saw the townsfolk roughly herding the ill-doers towards the West-gate, might not one or more have escaped in the darkness?

But then... All of the trouble-makers and ill-doers are gone. The Voices are in complete agreement with my feeling that no evil remains within the protection of hedge and dike. 

Perhaps, in addition to my other senses that allow me to see, hear, smell, taste and feel, I have acquired a new sense during my time in the Valley, or my association with the Fair Ones, both those in the Valley and the One who travelled with the Company, not to mention Tall Hat... 

Curiously, in my mind's eye, Tall Hat is no longer grey-clad, slightly bent with age and trouble, seeming careworn and weary, by turns irascible and benevolent. No, but when I try to think of him, I am only able to see blinding white light – well, it ought to be blinding, and yet I can look, unblinking, into the shining face of my dear friend who gave me these Voices to bring me safely where ever I wished to go, and who sent aid to me when I most needed it. Suddenly I am very sure of that last part. No longer does he wear a tall hat, and his hair and beard are no longer grey but brilliant white. He is Light – not The Light, if you take my meaning, but of The Light.

I will have to find a new name to call him by.

In the midst of this trouble, with Men and Hobbits dead and dying in the street, windows smashed, the town in an uproar – in the middle night! – my perception of the Voices has a quality of lightness; they are both light of weight and shining brightly within my inner eye, somehow, even as I hear them speaking from the depths of my mind. The name 'Gandalf' will do, they are saying. And is it possible that they laugh a little within me, sounding almost gay, as if encouraging me to cast off at last all doubt and care and fear? I think that they do.

You have grown enough to remember the name your hobbits know and love him by, 'Gandalf'. You have even grown enough to remember 'Mithrandir' or 'Olórin' if either might suit your intent. That said, in all likelihood, you will doubtless prefer to call the wizard by the same name that your hobbits recognise and understand.

My hobbits...

The Light will prevail, even though the fate of Middle-earth still hangs in the balance, the Voices whisper, and it seems to me that I hear the deep, rich tones of both wizards of my acquaintance blending together with them, sounding in harmony, almost as if we are all parts of a great Song. And whether the Uncrowned King should succeed in his endeavours, or this Age should culminate in darkness and ruin, the Light cannot and will not be denied in the end.

These thoughts hover a little above my head as I pace my way slowly, innkeeper at my side steadying my burden even as my hobbits, for a time, walked to either side of me to ensure that the Master did not fall from my back after the terror that was Weathertop. 

And so, though this message of the Voices is beyond my ken, somehow I understand – in a way that is beyond my understanding – that things will come out right.

No matter the outcome.

*** 

Author's note: Bill's perception of the Voices in this chapter borrows from Pippin's thought when he was under the troll at the Black Gate.

***