Chapter 11. What has happened to Tall Hat?

~ S.R. 1419, 15 January, Mid-day ~ 

The Sun is high overhead when the first scattered tufts of grass begin to appear. My companion throws his head high and laughs heartily as I pull up the first clump of grass, roots and all and, in my eagerness, swallow almost without chewing.

Plenty more where that came from! he says cheerily, tossing his head and then lowering his nose to the ground to nibble at a clump a little ahead of me. By the time the Sun slips down from her high place and kindly offers to lead us westward along our way, there'll be wide swaths of grazing.

Though my stomach is achingly empty, that mouthful of grass and roots – and yes, even dirt – is strangely heartening, and I break into a trot despite my somewhat stiff and painful shoulder. What are we waiting for, then?

The great horse catches up with me quickly, paces alongside me, and reaches over to nip gently at my withers, though it is the gentlest of nibbles and not a rebuke at all. You're limping.

It's nothing, I say. Just a little reminder left from the wolves.

One of them scored you? he asks, then orders, Stop. Let me take a look at that. 

It's nothing, I repeat, but stop obediently where several clumps of grass are growing close together within my reach.

He lowers his head to sniff at my shoulder. As he bends closer, his ears are pricked forward, but then I see him pin back his ears and...

The seconds that follow are frightening and confusing: he throws up his head and trumpets in alarm, then rears high in the air. I have a flash of memory, of a wound the Master suffered when the Shadow ones attacked us before we came to that marvellous Valley. Something festered in the wound, slowly weakening him – but worse, slowly changing him into ever-darker unfamiliarity.

...cut out his heart echoes in my memory.

Were those wolves somehow akin to the Shadow ones? Am I doomed to fade into a creature of Shadow? Or must they cut out my heart to prevent such a fate? Yet there is no one here excepting the great horse and myself. I shudder at the thought that my fate is sealed. I would rather die a clean death than wander the land as a wraith, casting fear into anyone I might approach.

Even my dear Sam. I would much rather that my hobbit should mourn me than shy away from me or even fall on his face in fear before me.

I duck out of the way of my companion's flailing forefeet that seem to be striking out at some unseen foe above my head, or so it appears to me.

As if my movement recalls him from a waking nightmare, my companion comes down again to stand on all fours, snorting and shaking his head and rolling wild eyes.

What is it? I ask, though I fear his answer.

His flanks are moving rapidly in and out; he is panting for breath as if he has run at top speed for a long way. His head droops to his knees, and at last he speaks. I cannot go.

Is the change in me already beginning? Has he smelt the darkness growing?

I bow my head. Go if you must, I whisper.

I cannot, he repeats, still panting for breath as if he cannot find enough air, and I worry for him. But his next words are confusing. He has gone where I cannot follow.

I stand quite still a moment as I puzzle through the words.

At last, I manage, Who?

What? my companion snaps, tossing his head.

No, who? I maintain. Who has gone? I think of my Sam, of the Master, of the younger cousins. Gone into the side of a mountain and the door shut behind them. Even if I could climb the steep stairway into darkness, the way is shut so tightly that only a blank stone wall could be seen when last I saw the place.

My companion's head droops nearly to the ground, but not because he is grazing. To my dismay, he seems in despair. Very low, he says at last, My Rider.

Well, yes. The two Big Men and the Dwarf and the Wood-elf and the Wizard also passed through that Door leading under the Mountain. At least, I hope they did. For the alternative, that they were taken by the monsters in the lake, is unthinkable.

When I told my companion my story earlier as we were walking, he was interested – but not distressed. Not as he is now.

Something has happened. But what?

Tentatively, I take a step closer, raise my nose, and nudge my companion. What has happened? I venture to ask. Even so, I am poised, ready to shy away from a sudden bite or hoofstrike.

He... fell, my companion falters, trembling. He emanates no essence of confident Chieftain among the greatest of horses at this moment.

Tall Hat is dead? Tall Hat is fallen? I ask carefully. 

He is falling still, my companion answers, confusing me further.

What is to become of us now?

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Author's notes: 

This chapter assumes it was about mid-day when Gandalf fell in Moria. According to the chapter 'The Bridge of Khazad-dûm' in The Fellowship of the Ring, the remaining Walkers emerged from Moria and 'did not halt until they were out of bowshot from the walls. Dimrill Dale lay about them. The shadow of the Misty Mountains lay upon it, but eastwards there was a golden light on the land. It was but one hour after noon.'

And yes (in case you were wondering), Shadowfax's "He fell" is an echo of Gimli's grief in the film when they think Aragorn has been lost in battle with the Orcs and Wargs.

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