Hobbit-bot

They were alone in a grey formless world without mark or measure.

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He felt old, terribly old, yet less timid, and he was mortally hungry.

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“This most excellent and audacious hobbit—may the hair on his toes never fall out—“

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Pippin never forgot that hour in the great hall under the piercing eye of the Lord of Gondor, stabbed ever and anon by his shrewd questions.

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Stone-hard are the Dwarves in labor or journey, but this endless chase began to tell on him, as all hope failed in his heart.

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“I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was _meant_ to find the Ring, and _not_ by its maker.”

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“We like the dark,” said the dwarves. “Dark for dark business! There are many hours before the dawn.”

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“I have not ridden hither from Isengard, one hundred and fifty leagues, with the speed of wind, only to bring you one small warrior, however courteous.”

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He could sleep, if sleep it could be called by Men, resting his mind in the strange paths of elvish dreams, even as he walked open-eyed in the light of this world.

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“I am not going to give an account of all my doings to _you_.”

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Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold.

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“We shall have need of all folk of courtesy, be they great or small, in the days to come.”

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“Well let us go on,” said Gimli. “My legs must forget the miles. They would be more willing, if my heart were less heavy.”

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“A Ring of power looks after itself, Frodo.”

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First one and then another began to sing as they played, deep-throated singing of the dwarves in the deep places of their ancient homes.

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“I see that strange tales are woven about you.”

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“Awake! Awake!” he cried. “It is a red dawn. Strange things await us by the eaves of the forest.”

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“There was a little corner of his mind that was still his own, and light came through it, as through a chink in the dark: light out of the past.”

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Dori, Nori and Ori brought out flutes from
somewhere inside their coats.

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Pippin looked the old man in the eye, for pride stirred strangely within him, still stung by the scorn and suspicion in that cold voice. “Little service, no doubt, will so great a lord of Men think to find in a hobbit . . . yet such as it is, I will offer it, in payment of my debt.”

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“I distrust even the pale moon.”

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“The Ring was trying to get back to its master.”

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“Tea? No thank you! A little red wine, I think for me.”
“And for me,” said Thorin.
“And raspberry jam and apple-tart,” said Bifur.
“And mince-pies and cheese,” said Bofur.
“And pork-pie and salad,” said Bombur.
“And more cakes—and ale—and coffee, if you don’t mind,” called the other dwarves.

“I see that strange tales are woven about you.”

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But now all the land was empty, and there was a silence that did not seem to be the quiet of peace.

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“You ought to begin to understand, Frodo, after all you have heard.”

He was blowing the most enormous smoke-rings, and wherever he told one to go, it went.

Pippin looked the old man in the eye, for pride stirred strangely within him, still stung by the scorn and suspicion in that cold voice.

So the third day of their pursuit began. During all its long hours of cloud and fitful sun they hardly paused, now striding, now running, as if no weariness could quench the fire that burned within.

“He hated the dark, and he hated light more: he hated everything, and the Ring most of all.”