* Giles bowed thanks as Carl handed him a cup of tea, cupping the cup within benumbed fingers. Indeed, Giles was one who shivered with cold, for the warg had torn his wool cloak to shreds. The resulting brown unravelled knotted yarn of rags and ribbons was completely unsalvageable as a garment. Nothing else he had could match or fully replace his cloak in terms of warmth and comfort. The best Giles could do was rummage around for spare clothes in a sack he'd slung on Puddlejump the Pony. At last he fetched an extra sweater and a loose-fitting blue Dwarven hood that flopped about in the breeze . If the mood hadn't been so subdued on account of Celandine's death, his fellow hobbits would surely have laughed merrily, pointed, and called him "Giles Bluehead" or the like. As it was, one or two smiled faintly with their eyes while maintaining a proper air of respect for their fallen companion. *
* Giles battle against the warg he'd leapt up onto had ended with the creature flicking its head, flinging Giles onto the ground, and retreating towards the woods after a runaway pony. The cloak, as mentioned, was lost. His beloved pepper shaker, gone missing. Fortunately, he'd been able to recover his round metal barrow shield. *
* Giles had been glad when Bullroarer gave him a part in the task of toting wood and building the pyre for Celandine, along with Carl and Lotho. Fighting the wargs, he'd felt, wouldn't bring Celandine back. In the midst of the business of defending himself and everyone left in camp, in the midst of reminding himself that they had to defeat the wargs if they were ever going to return with food for a hungry Shire, "but Celandine ... " he held the thought carefully, like holding his breath, as though to forget her in the heat of battle would be to do her further harm. Giles was glad he hadn't been present to witness the first death that had befallen his group. He hoped against hope not to witness any more. *
|