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Long ago, when the world was younger, it came to me that life would not always be as simple as it is now. A brief encounter with a stranger taught me the truth of that youthful realisation. I was not ready to undertake this journey, although my aged father had every faith in me. Little was I to realise that the fate of every soul on Middle Earth would hinge on the success of so little a thing as a Hobbit. If I had known then what I know now, I would have ridden Fairfax myself with the precious cargo we had to carry and been at our destination all the quicker. However, the learning is not in the destination, but in the journey, as I, in my ignorance, soon discovered.

I was born in the year 1000 of the third age, by the reckoning of man; since the Istari Order are not, as I will explain later, men. We take our appearance like their form, nothing more, although I was, which was unusual, born in Middle Earth. My father seemed somewhat disappointed according to my mother. He had wanted a daughter, to save him from having to lose a son to the Dark Lord. I never quite understood that fear until much later during the final years of the Third Age. I could have fallen like many of my fellows, including the head of my Order, but I believe my failure to do so was my unique upbringing. My father’s influence was foremost in all my choices and counsels, for good or bad I became more like him than I ever would have suspected in my youth.

I was at the age of 70 years of man that I made the biggest mistake of my life. One that I shall regret to the end of my days. It was not clear until that time that my father wished me to follow his order rather than another, although on hind sight I suppose it was inevitable. The abrupt attention to my studies was probably due to that mistake; my interest in a young woman of Rohan.

She and I pledged our troth and I had her in my bed several times that summer, and without my father knowing it I had packed her off to our next planned destination where we again met by moonlight. Upon our return to Minas Tirith there was no sign of her and I never saw her again. Word came to my father that a maiden of Rohan, wearing the mark of one betrothed of Gondor and baring his child, was set upon by thieves on her way to the city.

I said nothing to anyone, but my father knew me better, but I knew who it was they had spoken of. My heart ached for my loss, but I vowed never to take another to me again for fear of that loss being repeated. And so my father, knowing my heart and mind, set me to learning. It would be a long, lonely time. I learned through snippets and hints that I had been banished from our true home. I had to remain in Middle Earth until my debt to men had been paid in full. Even though I had no clue as to how I could do so, it would be more than 2000 years before I would complete that task.

I should never have allowed my heart to rule my actions. Diluting the blood of the Istari is not permitted, being next to revealing our true names in severity in our Ethos. We had to remain apart from the world of men though we lived in it. As a consequence of my actions, my mother’s life force was removed from her and my father became mortal. In short, I had cursed them both.

Once, I had stood as a brash young man of 105 years of age at the peak of the hills, the great falls of Rorus far beneath us. I had come to Amon Hen, the Hill of Sight. My father wanted me to see and learn as much as I could there of the path that I should take. I told him that there was much that I saw, but little that I understood. Understandably, although not to me, he became quite angry and whisked me back to our study halls deep inside Minas Tirith. He did not speak to me again for several days.

By 2285 I was heading towards another year’s end. At the age of 1285, I was still deep in my studies and would be for some years yet, I did not doubt it. Although I was a master of most Numenorean tongues, I could not grasp all of the various complexities of Elvish. My father despaired more than once for he was also my teacher. He always seemed to me to be in a great hurry for me to learn everything he had to teach me. And yet I wanted to ride horses, and run across the plains with all the other boys of my age, even though they grew up, grew old and died several times over before I tired of such childish fancies.

I was dimly aware of the differences between those of Gondor and our kind, who were so few in number. I did not know why, I never thought to ask. There were fewer and fewer of us with each passing generation, until I suppose I was the last born. I did not remember ever seeing another child of my race. These were mere trifles and did not concern me. Pleasing my father did. He instilled in me from an early age that I had to learn everything he knew and carry on his work. His urgency seemed on the verge of fanatical, almost desperate, although at the time his work seemed as important as the fate of my race.

For several hours I stood on the walls gazing out over the plain that stretched between the city and Osgiliath. Not much moved between them. A brave, or perhaps foolish, Orc would rush out now and then to test the nerve of the armies of Gondor, but they would never get very far. My father insisted that one day the entire valley would be black with their twisted forms, that Gondor would fall unless I stopped it happening.

I scoffed. Yes. In my youth, I often took such sound counsel as nought but vain boasting, to be laughed at and passed by. I wish I had not been so bold or so rash, but ours is not to question such things. And the time for wishing had long passed. We had enjoyed a tentative peace for several years, and I expected it to go on forever, although even as a young man I knew such things were fantasy. War was coming, and even I could see it.

My father became more thoughtful in this my final year in his presence, more subdued. I of course knew he was dying, but was in denial. My father was sick with a fever, which failed to respond to any of the herbs in the House of Healing. He told me to study harder, I would need it before the end and once he was gone I would not be able to sequester myself within any walls, anywhere, with such comfort and peace as I had enjoyed thus far. I did not know what he meant by that. If I had done, perhaps I would have run away and never looked out upon the plains that morning, and never seen the tiny figure stumbling towards the city gates.

At first I entertained the idea that it was a child, lost or left behind by some farming family travelling as they did between pastures. The more I watched the approach of the figure I realised that is was not a child at all, but a hobbit, which kind, I could not tell. In those days there were three kinds of hobbits, all very dissimilar to each other. In latter years of course they had either died out or had become merged. The fault of which was entirely my own, as you will see.

I was standing upon the outer wall of the first level. As the tiny thing stumbled towards the gates, I heard several men of Gondor call out for the gates to be opened. I, being curiously drawn to the being, rushed down the steps to catch a glimpse. What I got was much more than a glimpse, for suddenly I was in the middle of the street and the hobbit stopped right in front of me.

It barely stood on its feet, half dead from the journey it had made. It was dreadfully thin, having not eaten for several days I supposed. Its mouth was dry and cracked. It looked up at me with gentle blue eyes and I heard its rasping breath.

“Gandalf,” it said.

I had expected a male voice, but this was startlingly female. As she collapsed I caught her.

“Take her to your father, Greyhame,” one of the guards urged me.

“What is it?” I asked stupidly.

“A Hobbit, I don’t doubt,” said he. “We don’t have medicine for such as they. Your father is who she wants. Hurry, now.”

I picked up the now unconscious waif and carried it up the steps to my father’s dwelling. He was sitting in his chair, much as I had left him earlier that day. He lifted his head as we entered.

“Father, it’s a hobbit,” I announced. I noted the light in his eyes, but did not understand it. “It has fair perished from cold and hunger,” I continued, rubbing the minute hands in my own. “What shall we do with it?”

Father rose from the chair and lurched towards the cot where I lay the hobbit. “Fetch water!” he demanded and I rushed to do his bidding. He lifted to child-size head to press the ladle to her lips and she coughed. I supposed she swallowed some for her strength returned a little.

“What brings you so far from home, Hobbit of the Shire?” my father asked.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him and me with almost relief in her exhausted face. “I am the sole survivor of my clan. Our party were all killed, save for me. My husband was killed after hiding me from a brutal enemy.”

“Were they orcs?” I blurted out. I knew of no other enemy that would be so brazen, but then almost anything could overcome a creature as small as a hobbit.

She struggled for breath for a moment. “They were huge, black and breathed like thick wind,” she told us. “I don’t know what they were. We were taken by surprise. We ran, but were overtaken.”

I thought of it, and the only likeness I could equate her description to was the Nazgul. I fair shook with the terror. Could they be on the hunt again? I hoped it would not be so.

Tears filled her eyes for a moment as my father, as weak as he was, supported her thin frame. Beneath her grey cloak, clasped at the throat with a silver broach of green jade in the shape of a leaf, her hands moved to a small belt pouch. “I have important objects that my husband desired to be returned to his kin.” She lifted up a small glass vial, inside was a liquid of precious star light. “This must get to Lothlórien.”

“My son will see to it that you reach Galadriel safely,” my father promised.

“Me?” I almost burst. “But, I am not ready to journey so far from home.”

“You are as ready as fate will allow, Mithrandir of Gondor.”

I was startled. “Father! I am not ready to take the name Gandalf.”

“You have learned all there is to learn from me, my son. My time is over. The power of Gandalf must pass to you.”

“I am not ready,” I repeated, almost desperate.

Gently sitting the Hobbit on the edge of the cot, he turned to retrieve his staff. It was a mighty sapling, cut from Fangorn Forest long ago. He touched its hand-like top, its fingers reaching for his throat, and the colour drained from his skin. Stumbling on his weakened legs he gazed at me with watery eyes. “This is the journey that I have been preparing you for, my son. Don’t fail me. Don’t fail Middle Earth.”

I thought for a moment that this was pure vanity on his part, but the hushed tone of his voice convinced me otherwise. I grasped the staff and as I did so, my father fell dead at my feet. He was gone. I wished he hadn’t. I still needed his teachings, his guidance, but wishing was not the way of it. I had to find a way to make the most of the time that was given me, and taking this Hobbit to Lothlórien was my first task. I was Gandalf, as far as I knew the only Gandalf.

I did not know what to do at first, but then with clarity it was not a long list to choose from. I lifted my eyes from the body of my father to the small hobbit that sat on my bed. “I will take you to the ends of the earth,” I promised. “I am not sure we will succeed, but I have every hope of it.”

“I take none for myself,” she replied. “I must see the Thain safely home to the Shire.”

I nodded, not thinking what she meant. I was more concerned with the material things. I called for a guard to remove my father to the House of Sleep. His remains could not stay where they lay. Then I had no choice but to lock the papers away deep in the vaults of the city, passing the key to a rather unhappy looking scribe. I doubted that the man in question could even read, let alone write, but that was not for me to ask. I had pressing business elsewhere. I saw to it that food was sent to my house and for my horse to be saddled as soon as it could be arranged. The guards in the guardhouse were very willing to see to it. I was not well liked in Gondor. I suppose it was because for over a thousand years I had eaten their food and done little by way of payment in return. I reached inside my long cloak and gave the man there a small pouch of silver coins. Not waiting to see how much I had given him or if he would offer me change, I strode away.

Returning to the house, I found the hobbit lass eating and furnishing strength to her limbs. Hobbits, although small in stature, required frequent meals, and hearty ones at that. I was happy to oblige. I found her to be magnificent company, if a little sad. The loss of her husband wore heavy on her tiny shoulders. It was obvious to me that she had loved him very much, but something seamed a little odd. I recalled that she had said her husband’s kin were elves. If that were so, it was the first ever time that I had heard of an elf marrying one not of his own kind, other than Numenoreans. Perhaps this was commonplace. But then I was not very familiar with elves in that I had not seen one for many a year, and it was not in me to ask such personal questions as to whom they chose as their bed fellows.

I asked the hobbit to tell me all she could of her journey. She told me of places and people I had not heard of, of lands far beyond Harad. I asked for her name, but she eluded me. Of her reason for her journey she did not answer, simply repeating her urgent quest to take the Light of Elendil to Lothlórien.

Even so, I trusted that her reticence was due to her traumatic experience. I did not press further. She had lost her husband, that was enough. To then be questioned too thoroughly would be close to torture.

“Where will we meet the Thain?” I asked, as I rose from our short rest to pack a few essentials for our journey.

She was quiet for some time before answering me. “Not yet, I hope.”

I turned not quite catching her words, although I reflected on them much later. “When?” I asked.

She looked up and spoke a little louder. “I believe it will be at some point along our journey. I am not at all sure where or when.”

“I will need to find a volunteer to protect the Thain,” I noted, not expecting to succeed in that venture, let alone get to Eriador alive. “Who among the men of Gondor would want a Hobbit as a travelling companion?” I mused.

Men of late had become deeply suspicious of any not of their own, and I feared this would become worse as the years rolled by. The third age was not a good age for the world of men.

I collected together water pouches, food and clothing and other essentials for our journey. The hobbit had little more than what she wore, and that was drab, dirty and torn. I would need to find clothing, the best I could hope for would be child’s clothing. As it happened, as I stepped outside to seek the approach of my horse, a woman carelessly threw a bundle out of her window. It fell into my face with such force that I landed in the street on my seat.

Although no ill was meant by it, I was stunned for a moment. The poor woman tried desperately not to laugh as she pulled me apologetically to my feet, but gave up the task. Setting me right again, she shook her head and waved to the rag man to collect her rubbish. I jumped in quickly.

“Good woman, there are many a small child that could do with such things. Don’t throw them away needlessly.”

“Oh,” she said. “I had not thought of that. Did you see such children in need, Mithrandir?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I did,” I replied, not pausing at her address of me. My father, bless his spirit, would have been pleased to have seen it. “May I take it with me? I am on my way to see them this very day.”

“Gladly,” she said, passing the tied bundle to me without a second thought. I smiled. Even in Gondor where men were hastened towards harshness due to their lives so close to Mordor, there was still some kindness to be found.

“Thank you,” I said, and returned to my house. I could hear horses coming down the main street, but on looking I could not yet see them. There were twelve, and one of them was mine. I sensed a hidden danger. I had to hurry.

Shutting the door, my eyes met hers. “They are coming for you. We must leave immediately. We cannot wait for my horse. I believe he is lost to the Steward.”

Unfortunately the door was our only avenue of escape. I had to think quickly.

The Steward arrived at my door just as I was leaving, and with ten fully armed men at his heals, and demanded to know what I was doing and where I planned to go. I told him; to escort a Thain to his home in Eriador. Eriador was neighbours with Arnor, the lost Kingdom and the Steward knew this, thus he expected that the Thain was some lowly lord of what few men still inhabited that land and said so. I said nothing to dissuade him from this line of thinking, knowing that if I made too much of the ‘lowly lord’ he would have had him killed as a traitor. Since the days of Arvedui and his denouncement by the then Steward, I knew that any king’s welcome here would be a short one and his death swift and unnatural. To my surprise Turin offered his four bravest warriors to assist me.

I, carrying only a large bundle of provisions, was grateful. He, in turn, entrusted me with his greetings for the Thain and hopes that he may grace his Halls with his presence when duty permitted. He then relinquished his hold on the reigns of my horse, which until now I had not known he possessed. The Steward was a jealous Steward, not liking to be outdone by the unheralded entrance of a distant ruler into his city and not having met them himself. I feared several guards may have felt his wrath already that day for the lack of information forthcoming. How he had found out was a mystery to me.

“Do not trouble yourself, Steward Turin,” I said, bowing slightly, hiding my anger at the man’s audacity. As if he could think to fool me so easily. I knew that it was his wish to kill the kings of Gondor, as it was his father’s and his father’s before him. Turin, Steward of Gondor, planned no less for the Thain of the Shire. “The Thain is not in Minas Tirith,” said I. “But I will entreat him to visit with you upon his return South, should he make one.” A small lie, but one that went unnoticed. “I am to meet him in Osgiliath on his way north. There have been troubled times with him, and he carries urgent word home. He is also alone, his company all perished during an ambush by orcs. His appearance, I fear, may not be worthy of such an audience with the Steward.” I tried an embarrassed smile.

Turin nodded. “I understand. Send greetings still,” he said, his eyes blazing with untold depths of hatred and anger. “My offer of warriors stands. They will ride with you as far as Arnor. The lands of Middle Earth are not safe for any to ride unaccompanied.”

“My gratitude in his stead,” I accorded, although I doubted that his generosity was for my benefit, much less for the Thain’s.

Steward Turin accepted this with a regal if stiff nod and returned whence he came, leaving behind four men and my horse. Loading my belongings onto the horse with exaggerated care, I settled into the saddle and lead the four towards the outer gates.

For a while we rode in silence. After leaving even elven earshot of the walls, I struck up what would prove an interesting conversation.

It seemed that Steward Turin's best men were not much more than students of the arts of the sword and the bow, and poor ones at that. Worse, they had not so much volunteered as were volunteered to escort the Mithrandir from Gondor, although it escaped them that Gandalf was me.

It had also not concerned them much that they would be riding further than the boarders of Gondor. Their talents were in riding, strength and grumbling, as I was to discover. It was possible that their being on this quest was a way for Turin to rid himself of all his thorns in one go, myself included.

I had been dimly aware that the Mithrandir's presence was viewed with disdain, and his counsel with foreboding, but I had never given much thought to it. The saying water off a duck's back sprang to mind. If men chose to ignore my father's counsel and fell into difficulties why then should they have leave to blame my father? Evidently, logic was in short supply among the Stewards of Gondor of late, and it was bound to be their undoing.

“Of course, since Gandalf is dead, perhaps our job is done,” Lhunroth, the eldest and captain of my four guards said. I sat up alert in my saddle.

“True,” the others echoed. The bundle resting against my body shifted. My heart sank. It was likely that once my identity were known to them they would finish the job, but I said nothing, choosing instead to listen.

My other guards were Hafalad, Naruan and Taymar, all of them young and newly appointed to the guardhouse. Their training had been sufficient for sport, but I doubted that if we were set upon by experienced enemies our survival would be assured. In fact, later I was to retract this line of thinking. Their bravery and resilience were something to be proud of and grateful for more than once, if not enjoyed continuously.

They greatly wished to meet this Thain, as none alive in the citadel had ever seen a royal borne, and none would be alive to see one, I suspected. That matter was of deep distress to me, but I could do nothing for its appeasement as yet. Other matters had to be overcome and bare fruit before the King could return. I found myself visiting old songs and prose in the silence, wondering perhaps if any of Gondor, who for the most part used such songs for drinking and merriment in the taverns, really understood what the words meant for their survival. I doubted it.

It was perhaps an hour before we arrived at the walls of Osgiliath. The guards went ahead of me, bidding me to stay outside the walls lest I be mistaken for Gandalf and shot at. I swallowed the urge to laugh at their shortness of intelligence and agreed. Slipping from my horse, I made a show of stretching my legs as I waited for them to enter the city. I saw them smirk at my apparent lack of ability to take to the saddle for more than an hour at a time, and let ride their comments of how my crooked form would amuse them greatly by the time we left Wilderland for the East Road.

I gazed back across the plain to Minas Tirith, its steep walls gleaming white in the sunshine. She looked beautiful even now. It would be more than seven hundred years before I would see the city again with such gladness in my heart. My other short visits were not so pleasant or welcoming, so I will not mention them here. It would be about that time that I would return to the Tower of the Sun with another Hobbit, a descendent of the Thain I had pledged to protect that day, but that is spoken of elsewhere.

As soon as the guards were out of sight I quickly untied the bundle and released the hobbit from her hiding place. “Are you hurt?” I inquired, retrieving some items of clothing I hoped would fit her. I turned my back to afford her some dignity.

“No,” she replied. Some rustling of cloth later and she announced, “I am dressed. A fine ruse, the bundle,” she applauded, discarding the tattered remnants in the grass. She had donned a skirt of a girl of Gondor and a boy’s coat to keep herself warm and dry. They were in better condition than even I had hoped or expected “But I fear hiding in there all the way to the Shire will not be good for me,” she continued.

“It is well, then, that I planned to introduce you to the Thain’s guards upon their return.”

“Introduce us to whom?” a voice asked.

I turned to see the four already ridden back to join us. They looked down at what to them was a very small person indeed. “This is the Voice of the Thain,” I began, not thinking of what else to address her by. “A very important position in Eriador.”

“A child?” Taymar scoffed.

“Not a child,” I reproached gently. “She is a Hobbit of the Shire.”

“Hobbit!” Naruan suddenly laughed. “What does the Thain used them for? Jesters?” His laughter was a short lived for Hafalad fair knocked him from his arrogant perch to sit in the mud, his breath lost.

“Have respect,” he cussed. “I would not have you speak to my sons in such a way, so do not speak of the Thain in such poor light.” He turned to the lass and nodded to her. “I am Hafalad, my oath is to escort your party to the lands of the Shire, and protect the Thain with my life if needed. The Steward said nothing of how tall the Thain was,” he added with a glare to the downed man now getting back into his saddle. Naruan thought better of any response he might have proposed and kept his peace.

“Of course we have yet to meet or even see this Thain,” Lhunroth noted. “He is not within Osgiliath.”

“Then he will be on the road northward,” the Hobbit said quickly. “It has come to my attention that the Steward wishes him dead. The Thain, being an intelligent man, has probably already guessed this and gone on ahead.”

The guards looks at each other uneasily. This Hobbit knew more of their Steward’s mind than they did, and had heard more than they had been willing to say. It was not so much respect that she had earned at that moment, but a wary stance of ‘what is this creature we have in our midst that knows our minds but yet has not heard us speak?’

“She rides with me,” I announced before any of them could offer such and kill her to be rid of the burden. “Let us make a start.” I had retied my now smaller bundle to my saddle as the exchange filled me with a sense of doom. I looked up to see the approach of that doom in the form of a man on a horse. It was Turin.

“I have changed my mind,” he announced. “I cannot spare these men.”

“It has already been agreed,” I replied. “You cannot now go back on your word. How would that make you look before your men?”

Turin said nothing, but harrumphed several times. “This Thain, where is he?” he demanded. “If he is such then why does he not show himself to me now?”

“He is already away north, my lord,” Hafalad returned. “I beg that we be allowed to honour our oath, and follow him at once.”

“You beg to follow a false king. That line was broken. I am ruler here.”

The men sat in their saddles regarding him with a token of disdain. “We made an oath, Lord Turin,” Lhunroth spoke. “Why would the Steward of Gondor wish us to put aside our honour?”

“Do not question me again,” Turin roared. “Return to Minas Tirith for that is where your oath lies. Let this snake from the North die in the wilderness along with his deceit.”

I was pleased suddenly that the men made no move to join the Steward as he turned towards the plain. I was also aware that Turin had ridden out alone. Why was that? I wondered. Did he wish for no witnesses to his strange request?

After a few paces he realised that he was being disobeyed and stopped. Turning in his saddle he glared at them. “I order you to return, or I will forfeit your lives.”

“Then they are forfeit,” Hafalad responded. “We made an oath to see the Thain safely home, and no oath in Middle Earth shall superseded it ‘til our task is done.”

Turin sneered and shook with rage, and turned around, his sword ringing from its sheath as he made to lunge towards the Hobbit.

“Stop!” I cried, pulling her beneath my arm. I did not go for my hilt, I chose instead to speak Turin back to the path of wisdom, although a second thought might have persuaded me of the futility. “Only a King can oust a Thain from the Lands of his Realm. Do not think to overstep your bounds, Steward, for King you are not, and none of your line ever would be king nor would he have the authority to act as such!”

If it had been my intention to shut him up publicly, I could not have done so with more ease or success; as it was I had them both aplenty. A deep stirring of the air fair lurched with those words I found from who knows where and I recognised them as foreboding. I did not understand the warning at the time, nor why I had uttered it, but much later that moment came back to me with far too much clarity as I stood before a later Steward on the eve of the fall of the citadel, with one of the Thain’s descendents at my feet. A vision of it swam in my mind’s eye as I stood there, sword tip at my breast.

Nothing was spoken, and nothing moved for several seconds. The guards, horrified that a man should wish dead such a small and defenceless creature, did nothing being in deep shock.

At last, Turin withdrew a pace. “Note me and note me well, Mithrandir, do not seek for welcome here again while I still draw breath. Any Hobbit found in the land of Gondor will be viewed henceforth as an enemy and brought before the Steward of the citadel as a gift for execution. This will be the Laws of my House until the World ends.”

With that, he sheathed his sword and rode back towards Minas Tirith leaving us stunned with his harsh words. I sighed.

“I trust, you have made your choice?” I asked of the guards.

“It is made,” they chorused, without reservation. “We ride for Eriador.” Although they now knew who I was they made no move to take away my life. It is possible that they were more afraid that Turin had lost his mind and would kill them for their treachery upon their return, than they were that I could turn them into toads on a whim for their refusal to honour their oath.

Lhunroth moistened his lips. “So you are Gandalf?” he noted as I lifted my fallen felt hat and stuck it back on my head, its tall point reaching skyward like the cone of a mountain.

“I am,” was all I said.

“Which road do we take?” asked Hafalad. “Doubtless, the Steward will be watching the roads into Rohan.”

The Hobbit took out the vial of star light. “This is the light of Elendil. I am to return it to Lothlórien before we meet with the Thain. That is the road we should take.”

They nodded in agreement, noting that they hoped the Thain would do the same. There was nothing more to be said, but I doubted that the looks they sent the Hobbit’s way were meant in kindness.

I lifted the lass up onto my horse and mounted behind her. I did not look back at the city that had been my home for centuries, nor did I check to see if our less than willing companions were following. Much later I heard their horses behind us, but they spoke little and then only in hushed tones.

The hobbit rode with me along the banks of the Anduin, as it seemed more likely that the warriors would rid themselves too quickly of our burden and return home as quick as their horses would take them. I took our gentle pace northward and we stopped within sight of Emyn Arnen’s peak just breaking the horizon behind us.

We stopped in the evening to eat and sleep. Lhunroth caught a rabbit to cook for our supper, but not once did he, or the others who ranked below him, offer so much as a morsel to the Hobbit. Hafalad broke his portion in half and passed it to her, only to have his captain slap it from his hand.

I, smoking my pipe, waved a hand and had the flames of his fire play tig across his uniform, much to the amusement of his fellows. Lhunroth cried out, patting at the dancing flames for several minutes before I decided that he had had enough, even if his lesson went unlearned. I bade the flames return to the glowing embers, leaving Lhunroth unharmed.

Opening my own supplies, I gave the hobbit a large piece of dark grain bread and a few dried fruits. She was still hungry, unnaturally so I thought. I gave her several slices of salted pork, a favourite among hobbits. Pigs were their staple food source. Besides pigs, sheep, cattle, and chickens, hobbits farmed everything that was edible, nearly edible and most definitely inedible, as long as it was pleasing to look at, smelled nice or was green.

I observed the lass finger the green leaf at her throat on many a contemplative moment, a tear or two escaped her eye, but never a word was spoken. Sleep came all to quickly to her. I sat for an hour more raising smoke rings above the dying fire. That first night was a silent brooding one.

Waking on the second day of our journey I was pleased to note that the men were still with us, and the hobbit still alive. Their mood had lightened, but their attitude towards the hobbit continued. Only Hafalad, I noticed, would offer her a smile or a kind word, and he alone would come near her. The other three stayed on their side of the fire, never once crossing it.

Our second day brought us as far as Cair Andros. We could see the island’s steep sides where it sat in the middle of the fast flowing waters of the Anduin.

At nightfall, it was far behind us and we ended our day’s journey. The evening passed much as the first, but with the exception of light conversation. Hafalad joined my in a smoke ring contest, which of course he lost and sportingly so.

The wistful look in the Hobbit’s face was not lost on Hafalad, and he asked her about the broach.

“It was a gift,” she said. “From my husband’s kin in Lothlórien.”

“I did not know Hobbits inhabited that place,” Taymar ventured.

“Some say whoever goes in there never comes out,” Naruan spoke before the lass could respond. “I’ve heard tell of a sorceress more powerful than a white wizard who lives there, and she eats anyone foolish enough to enter the forest.”

“That is ridiculous,” the lass said gently. “I have been there.”

“So you tell us,” countered Naruan. “How are we to know if you speak the truth?”

“I cannot think of any way to prove it,” she agreed. “But then, I can think of no way to disprove it, either.”

Hafalad smiled to himself when Naruan fell silent unable to keep the counter argument alive.

“Is that where the piece of silver came from?” Taymar asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Along with the cloak it holds fast, and the light of Elendil.”

He too fell silent.

“She has you both,” Hafalad noted.

“Ah!” Lhunroth exploded. “Hobbit lover that you are, Hafalad, you’re more biased than a mother with her babe at a beauty contest.”

“Well, I think we should all turn in, don’t you?” I spoke suddenly, noting more balled fists than I liked the look of. “Our journey tomorrow takes us across the Mouth of the Entwash.”

The crossings were tough, each river deeper than the one before and there were seven channels in all. We had no choice. Going north by another route was out of the question. Even from the banks of the first fjord we could see the men of Gondor massing on the horizon, and we would be overrun if we attempted to turn north east towards the Merino Stream and enter Rohan. Without a boat, we could not cross the Anduin into Ithilien, a dangerous venture even if we had one.

We crossed the first fjord and rested before making for the second. The undergrowth was thick and thorny, scratching at exposed skin. The horses crossed the second channel with difficulty. The third was shallow at the edges, but the banks were a wide quagmire of thick oozing mud. I carried the hobbit across the near bank before setting her on the horse where it had found a flat rock to stand on, shivering with cold and caked with sludge. Holding on as best as I could, I sent Fairfax into the water, holding on to the lass as the water rose around us.

I was hoping it was my imagination, but beneath my hands the Hobbit did not seem as thin as I had expected. If she had been of men folk I would have sworn she was with-child, but my knowledge of hobbits was not enough to be certain. But then, what I did know of them led me to believe that their stature was more broad than that of men, being as they were in love so with food.

The lass said nothing as Fairfax set hoof onto dry land again. Breathless, soaked and exhausted I lifted her down onto the soft bed of leaves at the foot of a willow and sat down. The soldiers did the same. Our rest was not to be, as an arrow abruptly whizzed passed my feet to land right next to my knee. In horror I jumped up and looked back across the river. We were being pursued and we were defenceless. None of my men possessed a bow and I doubted that it was accidental.

“Hurry,” I cried.

And weary men rose and led their horses up and over the small hillock. Hafalad lifted the hobbit into his arms like a child and followed. His horse, in shear fright, brought up the rear. A rain of arrows marked our footprints as fast as we could make them. In a hollow on the far side, they looked at each other.

“They are firing on us,” Lhunroth noted in astonishment. He glared at the hobbit. “I hope the day comes swiftly when you prove that this is worth it.” The hobbit swallowed.

Crossing the fourth channel brought an unexpected bonus. Arrows appeared flying south from the far bank. At first we were afraid that we had been overtaken and were now surrounded. But on looking up through the trees I caught glimpses of bows of the Galadrim. The Hobbit fair leaped with excitement, and I saw the first smile from her since we met.

Seconds later we came face to face with the bowmen of Lothlórien who beckoned us down into the boats they had moored at the bank.

“Am I glad to see you,” I noted.

“As we are to find you, also,” the Elf replied. “Come, we must hurry.”

The horses were loaded into a large boat and we sat in the bottom of two smaller boats. We did not see the army of Gondor sent to kill us again. Once we had left the Entwash we travelled for two days up stream on the Anduin until we disembarked and walked for another six hours. The falls of Rorus loomed above us, drowning out any sound of voice or footstep. Passed the ancient ruins we again set ourselves upon the river.

At a point we faced rapids. Huge rocks jutted from the river bed and would have dashed even elven boats to pieces. We walked through the forest until the calm of the river met us again. Another two days and our journey changed. Still in the boats, the elves blindfolded us, all except myself unbeknown to the men. Even the hobbit was blindfolded. No one outside the elves were permitted to know how to reach their city. I of course knew where it was without ever setting foot there.

Leaving the boats behind they led us on foot into the woods of Lothlórien. Much murmurings came from the men, but the sounds that surrounded us soon put to naught their arguments. Elves were singing all around us, so much so that even the ground seemed to be singing. Once safely inside the city, we were unmasked and given food and told to rest. We had not slept in the boats along our non-stop journey up river, and sleep was foremost in everyone’s minds.

The following morning, as we thought it was, since time itself means nothing in the city of Galadriel, we awoke and availed ourselves of the food that had been left for us while we were still asleep. It was not until the food was gone that I noticed the hobbit was not among us. Hafalad was at once concerned, I on the other hand, did not fret. She was as at home here as she would be in the Shire.

While the men sat around resting and eating, and listening to the singing that surrounded us, I rose to find Galadriel herself. I found her in deep conversation with the Hobbit. The lass had been reverently washed and was being dressed again in fresh clothing.

Galadriel raised her head at my approach. She smiled, although I believe my intrusion could have been unwelcome.

“This Hobbit is of great importance to us, and to Middle Earth. Do you know how important?” she asked, her ethereal voice drifting around me like the aroma of a flower, each musical note wafting across my senses.

“I am not sure that I do,” I admitted. “My visions of the future only show me other hobbits, who are like her, carrying a burden so great that men are destroyed by it.”

Galadriel’s smile wavered and her gaze fell. “I fear that if you do not succeed in reaching Eriador, the world will end. War will come, and the world will be covered in darkness.”

I considered this. “Is it so important?” I asked gently. “What worth can the world place on her life?”

“The greatest tasks are set before the smallest of people,” she informed me.

I nodded. “Yes, that is true.”

Galadriel smiled then, as she brushed the Hobbit’s hair, which at each stroke sprang back into its coiled curls. Any one else would have despaired and given up. Galadriel honoured each one as a gift and kissed the creature. “Sleep,” she whispered and at once the lass fell into slumber.

Galadriel glanced my way and walked towards a stone stair. “Follow me,” she commanded, but not with voice, for I heard it within my mind. I followed.

Below the stair was a garden, green with life, and in the centre stood a large bowl of water set upon a columned dais. I new it as Galadriel’s mirror. She intended for me to look into its unfathomable depths, and I saw no reason not to, but every reason to do so. She poured more water into it and ushered me closer, explaining to me what it would show me. I looked in.

There was darkness. Then there was fire; a mountain was on fire in the vision before me. There are many fiery mountains in Middle Earth, but only one with an eye that overlooks it all. The eye was closed for now, quiet and brooding, waiting for a time when strength would return. Return?

It took a moment to recall the being that Sauron had once been, that his evil still endured despite his physical form being destroyed. I knew enough to allow men to believe that he was gone, even though ignorance was their greatest enemy I had to keep it secret.

Before me the images of the Shire worked through the water, hobbits of a new kind inhabited the land, a kind that I had not seen before. And others that were familiar to me disappeared. Their borders were closed and they became an insular if friendly people. I smiled, theirs was a peaceful existence, but my smile soon faded.

Four hobbits I saw, three were kin, and one of them carried the bane of the world on his shoulders. I saw him fall, the burden taking his mind and strength, and the world covered in darkness.

I audibly gasped. Although I could not see this burden I knew who these creatures were. The three kin were descendents of the Thain. The mirror showed me what would happen if he did not reach the Shire safely. The land was sick, and the hobbits dying. Eriador was filled with the dark forms of Wildmen and orcs and a white wizard ruled over them.

At once I was angry. None of our kind were permitted to wield such authority over others. By our own edicts, and by the command of Sauron himself, we were not to use our power so blatantly. Men must order their own footsteps, with counsel and guidance. And yet here was a white wizard tearing asunder the laws of nature.

I saw the ancient breed of hobbits dwindle into nothing, and the joy of Sauron grew. Without them, his power grew stronger than before. Finally the images faded. I was quite out of breath, it took great mental strength to endure the mirror. After a moment I had recovered.

“I understand, I believe, how important one small creature can be to the peoples of the earth.”

Galadriel’s smile faded. “I had hoped I could keep you here longer,” she said. “Time is running out. You must journey onward as fast as you can. I will send word to Elrond of your imminent arrival.”

“What of the Thain?” I asked. “Where is the being who changes the course of our future?”

Galadriel gazed at me long and hard. “He is closer than you think,” was all she said.

The men of Gondor had expected to have met the Thain by now, they grumbled about it late into the night, complaining about the burden of their charge who was no use for fighting. They spoke of orcs that inhabited the mountains we had to traverse. They did not look forward to the dangers. Grumbling, they cursed the Thain.

“Where was he? Where are the Thain’s warriors? We have fought our own men,” they said, “And yet all we had was a hobbit to protect.”

As I listened, it came to me. Yes, it was clear to me now, although I doubted that it was as obvious to the men, that this hobbit was heavy with child, and cared for with such reverence by the High Elves of Lothlórien.

The men were rebuked and silenced but the Lady of Lothlórien, and commanded to do that which they had pledged to undertake. So they obligingly took their charge from the woods and into the mountains, grumbling all the way saying that their journey had been for nothing. Still there was no sign of the Thain whom they were supposed to accompany to the safety of his Halls.

The hobbit said nothing, each time she tried, Lhunroth offered her the point of his sword, bidding her be silent before orcs heard us, or he would kill her first.

Deep in my contemplations, I spoke nothing of her importance. It would appear as vanity to them, and I doubted even Hafalad would understand the enormous responsibility that had been placed on a child as yet unborn. I was not sure that I did either.

I carried a small bag with me with items that he would need, once he was old enough to use them. I say he, although in truth it could have been a female Thain. Only time would tell.

Blindfolded once more we were led out of the woods of Lothlórien. I did not know which direction they pointed us, even I was blindfolded this time, until they brought us to a sudden halt. Our journey had taken many twists and turns and I lost all sense of direction. Then our blindfolds were removed.

Looking around me I saw nothing of the woods of Lothlórien. Indeed, at first I had no idea where I was. On looking north east I saw mountains swathed in mist, that was our road. Our horses were refreshed and laden with food and the men, save for Hafalad, mounted in sullen silence.

“We head for the mountains,” I said. Turning to our elven guides I nodded my gratitude. “Thank you. I shall return as soon as I can.”

“If it is possible, I should like to join you,” Hafalad requested.

“I doubt that it will be,” I told him. “None of us, not even I know what lies ahead, but in returning to Lothlórien, that is out of the question.”

Saddened by this announcement, Hafalad instead delighted in the sight of the mountains. It signified that our journey was almost at an end in his eyes. Little did any of us realise the dangers that were upon us, even as our elven friends returned to the city of Galadriel.

I was aware that we were not alone no more than an hour into our journey from the boarders of Lothlórien. At first glance our journey seemed relaxed, untainted by fear or intrusion, but the further we went it was clear to me that something was not quite right.

I noticed that the mountains had moved, and were now to the right of us. Further on, I noticed that the dark snow-capped peaks were behind us. I frowned. To test a theory, I turned Fairfax towards the mountains, causing some stir among the men. The Hobbit with me looked up at me, concerned. The concern turned to alarm when Fairfax refused to take the path towards the mountains.

“What is going on?” Lhunroth asked, suddenly aware, as if waking from a dream, that we were going the wrong way.

“I believe we are not alone,” I stated. “Someone, or something, is deliberately herding us towards Mirkwood or beyond.”

“Herding us?” the hobbit asked. “Like sheep?”

“Exactly,” I replied.

“If we continue on this path, where will we end up?” Hafalad asked.

“The deep gorge that hides the Anduin,” I replied. “The precipice is deep and too wide even for horses to jump.” I turned again towards the mountains, but Fairfax fought me. I was concerned that he might bolt from under me, throwing myself and the pregnant hobbit to the ground. I did not want that to happen, the result would not be in anyone’s best interests. Fairfax knew this, but by the flaring of his nostrils I could tell there was great fear in him. He trembled, silently begging me not to make our course and issue with him. I turned my eyes back the way we had come. At first I saw nothing, but then one by one our tormentors came into view through the trees. “Wargs!”

My shout brought the startled men to look at me, wide-eyed.

“What are wargs?” Naruan asked.

“They are,” I said, directing his attention to the monstrous beasts that had been following us. I turned slowly in my saddle and realised that we were surrounded on three sides. They were forcing us towards the precipice. One of the horses whinnied in fright as the creatures drew ever closer. “Stand your ground,” I said, as I thought quickly of what I could do. “Point your horses towards the mountains, and when I say, ride, ride hard and do not look back.”

The men braced themselves, looking fearfully at the huge animals. None of them had seen anything like these before. The wolves of the south were small, coming no higher than hip height to a full grown man, but these were as big as horses, if not bigger. Even from this distance we could hear them snarling, getting ready for the kill. It was obvious that our premature halt had surprised them, but wargs adapted quickly, and soon changed tactics to suit the moment.

Holding my staff aloft, I cried, “Ride!”

Spurred into a full gallop the horses had no choice but to move straight at the circle of terrifying teeth. In that instance I called up the good fire. My staff lit up and shone a bright light into our enemies eyes, blinding them. Then the light was gone, and I was surrounded on all sides by blind wargs. The hobbit looked all about us and whimpered. There seemed no escape. While the wolves howled and rubbed at their eyes I sent them on their way with a few tricks that my father had taught me. Small fire crackers whizzed about them, biting their rumps. Yelping, the wargs ran hither and thither, and unseeing ran into each other and into trees until finally they had all disappeared.

Satisfied, I said, “Fairfax, my old friend? Take us back to the mountains. Let’s see if we can find the others.”

Fairfax carried us along the trail of hoof marks for several hours when finally we came upon the tight knot of men and horses, arguing as to whether they should return home to Gondor or ride east and find us.

“We will die if we return to Gondor,” Hafalad put in forcefully.

“We will die all the sooner if we ride back into the circle of those beasts,” Lhunroth spat back.

“I suggest we rest for the night,” I put in, startling the men who were unaware of our approach. “In the morning, we will continue towards the pass of Caradhras. I would have preferred the High Pass, which takes us directly to Rivendell, but I fear it may already be blocked, or at least watched.”

Hafalad followed my lead and dismounted. “Won’t those things come back?” he asked.

“Oh, I very much doubt it,” I said with a measure of humour.

“I don’t see anything funny is being eaten alive by those things,” Lhunroth stormed.

The Hobbit grinned, and I winked at her, but neither of us said more.

We lit a fire and rested that evening, and spent an undisturbed night beneath the stars. Sleep came late and not without its constant companion, the mutterings of men. In the pretence of sleep, I listened to them.

“These pitiful errands,” Taymar groused. “We could be home by now if we had taken the West Road. Instead we’re stuck out here, goodness knows where, looking for a Thain. Well, where is he, I say?”

“Quite right,” Naruan’s voice drifted up. “We are warriors of Gondor. We have far too much to do in Osgiliath to be taking a holiday in these treacherous parts. And far too important to be chaperoning some fat hobbit into Eriador.”

“She’s not fat,” Lhunroth’s low voice rolled across the clearing. “She’s with child.” There was silence for a moment. “But, that does not change matters much,” he agreed. “We should still kill her and get it over with.”

“You can’t. The babe . . .”

“Is a burden,” Lhunroth snapped, interrupting Naruan’s opposition. “The longer it grows and she lives, our journey will be slow and unfinished by year’s end. I, for one, am tired of following the whims of the mithrandir.”

“There’s still no sign of the Thain,” Taymar noted.

“That’s because there never was a Thain, you fool,” Lhunroth retorted. “We have been duped.”

The night drew on in silence from that time and my weariness lulled me into the sweet arms of sleep. When I awoke the camp was dark and silent. The silence was unnatural, I sat up and looked around me. The fire smoked, the embers all-but cold. Beneath the tree two horses stood, at rest, ears flicking lazily as they dosed. Then it hit me; there were only two horses.

Whirling to my right, I found the hobbit sleeping and quite unharmed. I saw no reason to wake her at this point. To my left lay Hafalad. I shook his shoulder and he jumped to full wakefulness with a start. I pressed a finger to my lips.

Hafalad rose and looked around him and into the woods. He stared at me as he realised we had been deserted. I rose as he made for his horse, intent it seemed to ride after them and bring them back, but I placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It would be no use,” I whispered. “We are in troll country and in the dark of night only they know the paths through these woods. Three men on horses could possibly escape, one would have no chance.”

The men of Gondor had heard of trolls, at least.

We heard them long before we saw them, hooves thundering through the trees, and then we saw a small torch lighting their way. They were moving at great speed, as if something pursued them. Seconds later I lit up my staff and they approached and whooshed passed us before coming to a halt. Breathing hard, they looked on us embarrassed and afraid.

“Trolls,” was all Lhunroth could utter. “I’m sorry . . .”

“Yes, yes,” I dismissed. “Never mind that now.” I stooped to wake the hobbit. She stood up beside me staring out into the depths of night, too afraid to do anything else. Behind me I could hear them approaching, discussing the taste of roast horse. “Stand absolutely still,” I whispered, and stood before them waiting for the trolls to appear.

Abruptly rounding the hill three trolls came to a stop, blinking in the sudden light of my staff, totally caught off guard that such relatively small creatures would be waiting for them with apparent calm. Without warning, the horses reared up and threw their riders to the ground. Winded, the men could do nothing but watch them disappear. The trolls stood quite still, not knowing what to do next. After a moment they seemed to remember what they had come for and made a lunge for us with a guttural cry. I held up a hand to stop them.

“Wait!” I cried.

They stopped, looking down at me in confusion. I took out a small pouch from my robes and held it out to them. “You look hungry,” I said. “Here, this will help.”

The troll looked at me and the bag warily. “You’re givin’ me a bag to chew on?” he said.

“Not the bag,” I said. “But the white tablets inside are enough to fill your empty stomach for weeks.”

The trolls murmured amongst themselves for a moment, and then prodded the one in front to try it. “What if I don’t like them?” the troll asked.

“Then you may eat us,” I replied. By now the men behind me were nervous and sending me questioning glances.

The troll carefully plucked the bag from my palm and pulled it open. The tablets were mostly still whole, some had crumbled. He sniffed and licked it and tipped the entire contents down his throat. A slow smile came to his rugged face. “Tastes nice,” he said.

I waited, counting off the seconds in my mind as I watched his belly bloat before my eyes. The troll suddenly wretched dryly, and wretched again, white foam forming in his mouth, much to the consternation of everyone and everything around me. The troll lurched. Suddenly his stomach burst open and throwing innards in one direction and the now dead troll against a tree in the other.

The two remaining trolls took exception to this turn of events and turned on us angrily. With barely enough time to draw our swords, the trolls attacked, knocking the staff from my hand. Beyond the circle of now fading light I heard other sounds. The trolls instantly stilled, as if the sun had risen and turned them into stone. The sound came again.

“Orcs!” I hissed. As if our plight was not bad enough, we were now in worse trouble. The trolls fell dead before us in seconds, but we did not have the victory we desired. In the ensuing confusion we made our escape. Running north through the woods, we sought the passage. It was a long time before I allowed them to stop for breath. All was quiet as we leaned against tree trunks eyeing the pre-dawn forest.

“What did you give to that troll?” Hafalad asked, as he finally lowered the hobbit to the ground. He had carried her as we ran, and I had not noticed.

“It is a medicine of a sort,” I said. “I made it as a cure for too much ale.”

“So, how did you know it would kill the troll?”

“I didn’t, actually. But it does kill sea gulls,” I deadpanned. “I suppose, knowing how greedy trolls are, I should have had some idea as to what it would do.” I looked up as the sound of orcs died away, but the sound of gruff voices took its place. More trolls, and this time we had stumbled upon them. Drawing their short butchering knives they rushed at us, but fell before they reached us. In their backs were arrow shafts, lots of them. The orcs had arrived.

Once the trolls were dealt with the orcs turned their hungry, red eyes on us. We were cornered with no hope of aid or escape. I held the hobbit to me, my sword in my free hand. The orcs grinned, if it could be called that, and slowly advanced on us delaying the kill to torment us. A weapon flashed passed me from beyond sight and my sword fell useless to the ground. I shook my insulted hand and pulled the hobbit closer. I could feel her tremble with terror. This was now an even more desperate situation as my staff was now out of reach. The orcs stepped over it where it had fallen as they continued their advance.

Their weapons rose to deal that single and final blow that would end it when a voice whispered through the bank of mist that rolled up from the valley floor below us. The orcs whimpered in confusion looking around them to locate the source. In wordless yelps and screeches they rushed away into the dark recesses from which they had emerged. Arrows flew as if from several hiding places, but I could only make out one voice, singing as the arrows flew swift and sure to their goal. One after another orcs fell, shot by the unseen assailant. The men of Gondor that still remained with me froze in terror. Lhunroth and Naruan ran away, hoping to miss being shot at, or worse killed. Even Hafalad, who possessed more courage than all of them together, hid his face.

Suddenly, out of the mist, stepped a wood elf as calm as a pool of water and stood before me, as if he had known we were there and where we stood. His clothing was of the colours of the forest, browns and greens, his quiver full as if magically filled as fast as he could shoot, and probably was knowing Elf magic as I did. His hair, as with all his kind, was worn long; his half tied behind his head and braded above his ears. He was a fine young elf, but with elves it was nigh on impossible to judge their age; though I had heard one jokingly refer to the acquiring of a wife and children to be the cause aging. It was Elrond, I believe, who had made the remark. This Elf looked far younger than my friend of Rivendell, but his grace and wisdom belied a being of twice Elrond’s age.

“Greetings,” said he. “What are you doing here? There is no pass through the mountains for many a mile, if that is what you seek.”

“And what business is our errand to an elf?” Taymar returned stiffly.

The elf said nothing and his eyes dropped upon on the hobbit. At once he fell to his knee, head bowed and addressed her, “My lady, Princess Pellalomwen, I am glad of heart to find you unharmed.”

In astonished silence I and the men looked on, listening to the exchange in awe. Until that moment I had not the smallest clue as to our Hobbit’s identity. Now I had it in abundance. She was a princess, but her name was not of the Shire. And here stood before us, was a fair elf of the Woodland Realm, of high birth, I didn’t doubt, and he bowing to the smallest of the peoples of Middle Earth, clad in High-Elven address herself.

I stroked my beard in contemplation. “You know her?” I asked, noting that he could not have been in communication with Galadriel unless he were within the halls of his father. They had magic there that helped keep the three remaining pockets of Elves in touch with each other.

“Of course. Pellalomwen is known by us all.” He smiled at her and she smiled in return. “It is no surprise the orcs want you dead, what does surprise me is that men of Gondor would willingly aid a Thain and not kill him.”

“We have yet to meet the Thain,” Taymar almost sneered, as angry as he was the sneer never quite made it to his lips.

The elf spread his arms wide in supplication. “A Thain as yet unborn is still a Thain,” he said.

“All this time,” Hafalad whispered. “And we were sent to kill a man, a usurper in the Steward’s eyes, and here we find he is nought but a babe in the womb. Where is this babe?”

They still did not understand, and yet I was beginning to. I regarded their blank expressions with amused silence. “We are seeking the pass into Eriador,” I announced. “Our gratitude for your timely arrival, your Highness.” I bowed my head in deference.

The elf’s face pinched into a small but noticeable grimace. “Don’t call me your highness,” he said softly. “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, indeed, but my friends know me simply as Legolas.”

Startled, the men also rose from where they had been grovelling in fear. “A Thain and a Prince!” Hafalad knelt on one knee. “Forgive our impertinence,” he said. “It is not every day we have the honour of meeting royalty, let alone hear of two in one day.” A strike at the leg of his companion and Taymar followed him into the dirt to pay his respects.

Legolas pursed his lips together and sent me a sideward glance, half amused and half ‘why did you mention that?’. I suspected that he could get used to obeiscence, but vanity was not the way of the elves, and in particular this one. I had heard my father mention this elf. He had fought in the Great War along side him. As if reading my thoughts he clasped my arm.

“I know your father. Is he well?”

“He is dead,” I replied. “I am Gandalf.”

Legolas, hand to heart, bowed his head in deep hurt upon hearing this. “He has long been a friend to us. You must be Greyhame, the young boy he brought with him on his many journeys here?”

I smiled widely at the reference to ‘young boy’. “I am, although I do not remember you,” I admitted. Thankfully, in later years my memory would be less fleeting.

Legolas smiled regally. “Your father’s work and your tuition did not permit much time for play,” he recalled with a smile, hinting that his hours were spent frivolously, which I doubted. “Besides, I was more often away from home.” He turned to the men of Gondor with a question in his gaze. “I have given you my name, is it not custom for you to return the gesture?”

“I am Hafalad,” the first said, breaking his silence. “Son of Halad. This is Tamar, son of Tamar the Elder,” he added. Taymar merely nodded, still perplexed by the identity of our smallest companion. “We are guards of the Thain and his Voice.”

Legolas made no comment, simply nodding. It was clear to him that they did not know the Thain, and did not know where he was. “Come,” he said. “I will lead you through the Misty Mountains. There are few safe routes through, and only one that I would recommend.”

“We are short of two men,” I explained as we eagerly followed him, but not more than a minute later he brought us to their hiding place.

Rounding a boulder he called out, “Show yourselves, if you are men of Gondor and not orcs that flee from my voice.” A moment later two men appeared, wary and no small amount annoyed that they had been discovered in their cowardice. “Are these your men?” he addressed Hafalad.

Captain Lhunroth bristled at the implication.

“These are they,” Hafalad agreed. “Naruan, son of Halamfast, brother of Halad, and Lhunroth, son of . . .whoever his mother chose that night,” Hafalad finished.

Legolas lifted a brow at the now seething man, but nothing came forth from his lips. I doubted Lhunroth’s silence would last. Indeed, he did not disappoint me.

Legolas said nothing more of it, noting that both men were injured, but not gravely. He offered them healing herbs for their wounds, which was accepted with less than a air of gratitude. Elves were not viewed lightly by the men of Gondor, it seemed. In fact, no one was viewed lightly by the men of Gondor. It was a pity.

Lhunroth wasted no time in apportioning the blame. “It’s that Hobbit’s fault,” he growled through the tending of the deep wound to his side. “The orcs are after it, I don’t doubt it. And here we are, the band of fools who protect it. I say, kill it now and be done with it!”

“Hold your tongue, Lhunroth,” Hafalad retorted.

“I don’t take orders from you, boy!” Lhunroth shot back. Thrusting Legolas aside, he drew his sword to strike the Princess, but he was on his face before his sword could fall. Groaning loudly, he clutched his right arm, steal dropping useless to the ground. An arrow stuck out of his flesh, rendering his arm useless probably for the remainder of his life; which would be short if he persisted in his vengeful hatred of the Hobbit.

Breathing hard, spittle spraying from his gritted teeth, he glared up at Legolas who stood over him, bow already poised for a second shot should he proceed further. “Fine!” he forced out. “But even an Elf must sleep.”

Tearing the arrow from his flesh he grimaced, swallowing a grunt of pain. Getting to his feet he pushed Legolas away as the elf stepped forward to tend further to his wounds. Even with Lhunroth’s threat hanging in the air, the prince was willing to aid him. In that there is true nobility, and despair. I did not think Lhunroth’s skill was good enough to fulfil such a threat, but clearly Legolas was caught off guard by it. Also the men’s dislike to the princess was disheartening to him.

Legolas gave a long high whistle and moments later a large white horse appeared. Behind him came four others, one which I did not recognise. It bore no saddle or bridle and its flank was marked in Elven script of the House of Thranduil. It seemed Legolas had located all the horses that remained to us, one being lost along with all the blankets and food it carried.

“Fairfax,” I said in delight. “There you are.”

The horse turned his head towards me, eyeing me down his long nose as if to inquire what I wanted with him since I was not the one to command him, neither had I called him. Legolas hopped lightly upon his own horse and rallied us. “We must hurry. The orcs will not stay away very long now they know that there are so few of us.”

“Us?” Naruan wondered. “Since when did our party include an elf?”

“Since you pledged your oath to protect the Thain,” Pellalomwen spoke. “Do you now retract that oath to return home to die without honour?”

Teeth ground against teeth, but not one man uttered a response. Of all of them, Hafalad was the most honourable, but he was still silenced by his captain’s rebuke. He lifted the Hobbit onto Fairfax and I nodded my gratitude and mounted behind her.

“Lead the way, Legolas,” I called swiftly.

It mattered not that the men, now down to three horses between them, would squabble as to who would ride and who would not, but they did. Hafalad left them to it, shaking his head and choosing to walk beside me. The three men followed shortly afterward grumbling amongst themselves that the orcs were closer than they liked and that the Thain should be killed as soon as we came upon his mother. I sighed to myself, not liking the blatant stupidity of men, not to mention their dark designs.

The hour got darker with each passing minute and I feared for Pellalomwen. Legolas exchanged with me a worried glance as we rode on for several hours.

“We must reach Rivendell by the swiftest path,” he said.

“How long will your pass make that journey?” I asked.

“Another four days,” he replied. “If we continue at this pace.”

“To go any faster will endanger the Princess and the Thain,” I noted.

Legolas stared at me as if my speaking about her as if she were not with us was almost blasphemous, but then his look softened as he realised she had fallen asleep in my arms. Her skin was pallid, like that of a plucked fowl left for too long before cooking. “I fear she is already dying.”

“The journey is taking its toll on her. Much longer and she will be dead of it with no help from the men who accompany us,” I returned.

“Or else that storm will kill her,” he noted, nodding his head to the front of black clouds rolling southward towards us. “If that is not enough, the men of Gondor will finish it.”

“What we need is no more attacks, and a miracle,” Hafalad muttered quietly to himself. I had almost forgotten that he walked beside me. “I don’t suppose you have more of that white stuff, do you, Gandalf?” he asked rhetorically.

We were deep in the heart of the misty mountains, but did not expect to see more trolls. The sun was high, which meant even orcs were in hiding. Nonetheless, we heard a shout and looking up we saw on the cliffs above us several small creatures. My heart sank. They were dwarfs, and we had stumbled upon a nest of them. I heard Legolas beside me groan inwardly. There was little love lost between the two peoples, and here they had several advantages. We were surrounded, out numbered and in their territory.

Suddenly a roar exploded from our right and a single dwarf rushed out of hiding as the vanguard of yet another attack came racing down the hill towards us. The dwarf stood there glowering at his fellows, which quite took us by surprise.

“Nobody touches the Thain’s entourage,” he shouted.

I frowned. I wondered how he could have known or even suspected that royalty was among us. I said nothing.

“Step aside, Half-Axe,” another dwarf growled.

“Aye, that I will,” Half-Axe replied. “If it’s to kill you first.”

“They are men, of no worth but to plunder and kill. They are trespassing here.”

“I’ve been following them for three days. If anyone will kill them, then it will be me,” Half-Axe replied to our horror. “Orcs tried to kill them, and I say an enemy of orcs is a friend to dwarves!” He hefted his clearly broken axe at the ready and shifted his weight. “Come on, then,” he taunted. “Who’s first?”

The leader of the 50-strong band of feisty warriors lowered his axe and stepped toward the lone dwarf. The broken axe rose above his shoulder. “If you want us to let them pass, then you must go with them and keep them away from our mines. If you fail, we will kill you along with them.”

Half-Axe glowered and growled low in his throat. “I’ll kill any who try.”

The other sneered in his face. “See that you do,” he said, and turned away. With a gesture, the rest of the dwarves disappeared into the mountain recesses.

Alone, the dwarf turned to us, and with the expression on his face, I actually thought it possible that he would kill us anyway. Instead he lowered his axe and bowed.

“Ibun, at your service,” said he. “It is not every day we have a Thain’s host travel through here, even a very important one, at that.”

“Where did you get your information?” I asked.

“Overheard you talking,” the dwarf replied matter-of-factly. He eyed the elf with ill-concealed hatred. “I will forgo killing him if he will do me the same.”

The two glared at each other, but as yet, neither backed down. Finally, Legolas stood down. “Legolas, of the Woodland Realm.”

“Ibun Half-Axe.” His eyes flitted from the elf to me and back again. Then addressing me he named his terms. “I will see you to the other side of the mountains, if you know where the pass is, which I doubt. In any event, I will not permit you to take, touch or even think along those lines anything from this mountain that is ours.”

“And in return?” I questioned.

“I swear an oath to protect the Thain against any who would oppose his return to the Shire, his descendents and all their doings in Middle Earth.”

I raised both brows and shared my surprise with Legolas, who was equally surprised. It was a rather overbearing and puffed up oath, I thought in retrospect, and not one he would have made had he known the true depth of such an undertaking. However, his own descendents would honour that oath, however rashly made at the time, and two notable dwarves of that line, namely Gloin and his son Gimli, have been spoken of elsewhere. “And this Thain,” I said. “Do you know him? Do you know anything about him?”

“No,” Ibun replied. “Only that he is not among you.”

“And yet you still make an oath to protect him,” I noted.

“That I do,” Ibun replied, standing firmly by his decision.

I entertained the idea that Legolas had warmed slightly to this noble creature, but I was soon to realise that it was mere tolerance. But matters were soon to change that tolerance into anger and hatred. Legolas sensed that it would not last, and somehow I could too.

“These are dark days,” he whispered to me as we continued on our journey. “We cannot take him with us. He cannot be trusted.”

“And yet he has made an oath,” I pointed out.

Legolas fell silent for a long time. “It remains to be seen if he keeps it.”

We turned west towards Rivendell, following the sun.

During the afternoon of our eventful meeting with Ibun Half-Axe we were forced to dismount. The dwarf chose not to ride, him being not tall enough to sit a horse of the size we had with us. He was a cheery fellow after his kind, unless rankled, ready to fill an ear, every ear, should it be opened in his direction with stories of his people. He regaled us with tales of his fighting off a goblin attack of upwards of a hundred, and how he had denied them victory single-handedly.

Legolas shot me a glance, and neither of us made a reply.

“Of course, if I had not had my trusty axe, I would have been dead,” Ibun noted matter-of-factly.

“Rusty axe, I’ll wager,” muttered Taymar, bored of the boasting.

“What was that?” a sharp-eared dwarf whirled, axe ready.

“Is that how your axe came to be broken?” Taymar asked, innocently.

Ibun glowered at him. “It is,” he responded tightly.

Leading our horses through the narrow gorge, we walked for a long time. The icy wind blew passed us, tangling with our hair and throwing it in our eyes to stall us. It blew stronger and stronger until the breath was plucked from our lungs and we struggled to make any forward step at all.

Legolas lifted his head. “What is that voice?”

I listened and heard the voice, but wished that I did not recognise it. I had hoped I was wrong in thinking it was Saruman. His doings had caused more than one stir among my Order, but thus far his ways had been subtle and secretive, going unnoticed by the White Council. Suddenly the wind and the voice it carried stopped and a strange scent filled my nostrils.

Before I could call them to run, a barbed arrow struck the rocks above my head. Orcs were on the attack again. We ran, emptying out from the gorge into the woodland again. We could see none of them, but Legolas, his sight reaching further than ours, fired many times in quick succession.

Then slowly they came closer like an ominous smog and the fighting began in earnest. In the onslaught and commotion the horses were lost. Fairfax disappeared into the growing gloom. I thought him killed, but did not have the time to mourn his passing. I heard Hafalad cry out in pain. Thunder sounded afar off and all was suddenly silent. The forest around us was deserted, almost belying the Orcs presence there at all, except that the dead were heaped up around us and Hafalad’s arm was broken.

Legolas offered him herbs for his pain and the man accepted gratefully. While he was sufficiently woozy I snapped the bones back into place and bound the limb with a length of Fairfax’s reigns, which had snapped in my efforts to stop him from bolting.

Hafalad leaned on the elf for the hour it took to leave the smell of Orcs behind, and all the while the men complained at the loss of the horses and the burden of a hobbit. Ibun Half-Axe frowned at their words, but remained silent.

It was dark by the time we found a dry sheltered spot out of the wind blowing south along the eastern flank of the mountains. The men shivered with the cold and even I was smitten by its bite. I imagined horses nearby, turning their rumps northwards, but Legolas did not look up, in fact not once did he call for them. This made me fear that they were truly dead, their ghostly forms haunting our periphery. Deep down I knew these strange visions were induced by the cold and after a while I shut them out. Legolas shifted uneasily above us on a pinnacle of rock.

“What do you see?” I asked him as I touched a meagre pile of twigs and grass with my staff. At once flames sprang upward and warmed the space around me.

“Orcs are not far off,” Legolas called back as loudly as he dared. “I can smell them.”

“Harrumph!” Half-Axe snorted. “You can always smell orcs in the Misty Mountains.” He glowered at the silhouette of the elf outlined above us. “There’s no news like old news,” he muttered under his breath as he selected a prime spot and sat down. “Harrumph, I’ll not get much sleep with an elf around. Cannot trust an elf. Harrumph!” Then he was still and silent.

Legolas dismissed him. “The storm to the north is still gathering strength. It will break some time tomorrow.” As he continued to speak my fire grew and three men charged forward to crowd around it, blocking all sides from everyone else. In disgust I left them to it, and made up another fire, twice as big, and lit it for Pellalomwen and Hafalad. She smiled tiredly and I winked at her conspiratorially. She was shivering badly and I considered all that I knew of this diminutive breed. They could not tolerate the cold like other kinds and I was troubled by her violent shuddering.

“Forgive an old wizard his concerns, my dear, but you will catch your death. Come, sit in my lap before the fire. I shall shut out the draught and keep you warm.”

Pellalomwen hesitated for a moment, her thoughts flickered in her sad eyes, but she saw the wisdom in my words. Too tired and cold to argue she crawled into my lap like a small child and sat cross-legged, her back to me. Some time later she had fallen asleep.

I quietly smoked my clay pipe, blowing smoke rings across the clearing, regarding the flames before me, watching their flickering and ever changing shapes. The fire abruptly spat and crackled and a spark shot out over the circle of stones I had set there to hem them in. It ran across the ground making for the thicket back down the hill on short fiery legs.

“Hey,” I called softly.

It turned to look at me.

“Get back in the hearth,” I ordered, holding the end of my staff over its glowing body. The crystal on the top my staff glowed as well, a symbol of my service to the Good Fire. The little flame fair shook with fear as if I were wielding a cup of water.

It ran back into the circle obediently and troubled me no more.

I opened my eyes, having dozed off at some point. Almost everyone around me was asleep. The reason I woke was Legolas shaking my shoulder. He was offering me Lembas bread, way bread of the elves, for which I was grateful. The Hobbit had hers already half eaten in her hand. The men began to eat theirs warily, having never seen anything of the like before.

The wind, I noted, had not dropped at all. If anything, it was worse than it had been during our journey through the gorge, and was now whistling and howling through the trees around our relatively calm nook beneath the bows.

As we sat eating, gathered around the fire with blankets wrapped about us to keep out the wind, one of the men commented,

“I’d rather have tomatoes still on the vine.”

Pellalomwen, finishing her wafer, spoke dreamily, “I can taste roast chicken . . .roast potatoes, with five vegetables.”

The men licked their lips with the recollection.

The princess continued, oblivious it seemed of their approval. “Fresh gravy and stuffing . . .” She yawned, her eyes already closed. As she dropped off to sleep, she mumbled, “And if there’s room left, apple pie with whipped cream.”

Legolas smiled tenderly down at her, and pulled the blanket further around her. Rising, he stepped over to the still glowering dwarf, so like he had been hours before that I was inclined to believe he had become frozen as a statue, and offered him sustenance. Suddenly he grumbled in his throat and ate the proffered way bread. His steely gaze never wavered from the elf no matter where he moved.

I knew Legolas was as aware of it as I. A time or two in the pre-dawn light, he turned an irked glance in Half-Axe’s direction. The glare did not diminish.

I slept for another hour, allowing the sun to rise from its bed a little. In that place between awake and dreaming I felt a pain beyond my own existence. It troubled me, but I did not wake. Some time later that same pain burned in me again and this time I opened my eyes with a start. In my lap, Pellalomwen rolled out onto all fours and gasped.

“Princess?” I called softly.

She looked at me and shuddered. “A bad dream,” she whispered.

I smiled in comfort and patted her hand. Legolas came with more Lembas bread, offering us a wafer each, and yet Pellalomwen was given a full loaf, that is two wafers. She ate it amidst the grumbling of men. She spoke little as it was, but that day she was silent, as if far removed from us. Had I taken that as an omen, I would not have persisted with the march. Instead, I would have bid them to wait. As it was, I did not know what was to happen that day, and could not have changed the outcome even if I had. Fate has its own course, as it always will, and we were soon bidden to run for our lives. This time wargs were behind us and to the east, hemming us against the cliffs, stalking us, driving us to who knew what.

The pass was within sight, not more than two miles away, when the storm that had been brewing for days suddenly burst. The rain was relentless, drenching us to the skin within minutes, entering our mouths as well as our boots.

After walking on at a hard pace for several hours we finally stopped, both breathless and exhausted. The men oft times turned to hurl abuse at the hobbit, grumbling at her to keep up.

“Keep up!” Taymar blurted out abruptly as the Hobbit paused, breathing as hard as the rest of us. Further on we had paused a while. When she finally caught up with us we pressed on, not giving her the rest she should have had. In her already pitiful condition we should not have walked so quickly, but there was nothing for it. It would have been impossible for any of us to carry her, I regret to say. The rain water saturated the ground beneath our feet, sucking at our boots; we had to use our hands to steady us. On a later journey through those woods, in the face of those same wargs my party and I had climbed trees, but the trees at this point in time were far younger and would not have bourn our weight.

I was aware of Pellalomwen stopping for breath on the occasions that she was still in sight, leaning against the rocks or the odd tree that grew as we climbed ever higher up the slopes of the mountains. We could hear the wargs snarling close behind our heals and later orc voices joined in the chorus. They seemed to be almost upon us, but suddenly they were gone. Seconds later the lightening started, and the thunder rolled over our heads.

Breathless, I bade the men to stop. “The princess is far behind us. We must stop. One of us will have to go back and carry her.” I knew Hafalad would have done so, but his injured arm prevented it. The others remained in sullen silence, hoping someone else would volunteer.

“I do not want a Hobbit as a burden,” Lhunroth spat, as if the very idea had a foul taste.

“She has legs, she can run as good as any,” Taymar retorted.

“If she wasn’t so fat, she would keep up all the better,” Naruan added, obviously having dismissed Lhunroth’s suggestion.

I was angry and about to rebuke them for their foolishness and possibly reveal the Hobbit’s true state, but Legolas stopped me with a hand to my arm.

“I will go,” he said.

Suddenly we were surrounded by orcs who had come upon us hidden by the sounds of the raging storm, a small band of about fifteen or so. They were testing us, slashing now and then to gauge our strength. I took a grievous wound to my leg, snatching the breath from my throat. They were vicious, inflicting nasty wounds meant to tire us and make us weak with loss of blood rather than kill us quickly. Nonetheless, Lhunroth fell and did not get up.

Having slain the orcs the second wave was upon us almost before we had time to regain our breaths, much less staunch the bleeding. We felled them just as quickly as the first group. In the quiet that followed Hafalad bent on one knee beside his captain. Wordlessly he placed Lhunroth’s sword in his hand, laying it down his body in the tradition of Gondor, and stood. “Even if misguided, he still fought bravely and with honour,” he said.

A sudden cry shattered the peace, far below us.

“Pellalomwen!” Legolas cried.

“Where is she?” I urged.

He scanned the area with his eyes. “I can’t see her.”

“She must be found,” I said, holding a cloth to my wound.

Legolas leaped over the pile of orcs at his feet, but rushed back, pulling me against the cliff. Behind him a boulder shut us in. We were trapped, and for the moment we silently wondered at our options. Just then the round boulder began to roll and, picking up speed as it went, it careered down the mountain side and disappeared into the valley below. Taking our freedom we ran back down the hill, without a backward glance at the body of Lhunroth.

At that moment, smaller rocks fell from the sky and we dived beneath an overhang. Peering out between the huge drops of water we waited for the next flash of lightening to reveal what had caused the rock fall. What we saw were giants, high above us hurling rocks and fighting amongst themselves. They seamed oblivious to us, despite the closeness of the falling boulders.

Legolas jumped back again as another splintered in the air above us. He was anxious to get to Pellalomwen, but knowing he would be of no use if he were injured.

“Can you see her?” I called out above the noise.

Legolas gazed out into the distance beyond sight. “Yes. She is resting beneath a tree, a large oak some way down in a narrow rocky outcrop we passed.”

“Then she is sheltered from the giants and unhurt,” I said relieved.

Legolas turned his wide eyes to mine and my heart sank at the look in them. “Oh no,” I whispered.

“She is in great pain,” he said, making a run for it. Again he was forced back against the cliff. More orcs had arrived. He silently cursed the ill timing, but there was nothing he could do but fight his way out. And fight we did. Lightening struck a tree close by, splintering the trunk and throwing the rest across our pass, killing the orcs where they stood and blocking our escape. Even as the thunder rolled over us, splicing the air like an over-ripe tomato, leaving our ears buzzing and our skin tingling, I could hear a cry. Legolas bristled beside me, helpless and unable to act. More orcs leaped through the branches of the felled tree, keeping us busy. The noise and commotion separated us from the princess and finally the orcs stopped coming.

The thunder died down, which at first had drowned out Pellalomwen’s cries, but as the storm rolled south a distant thready cry rose to replace the thunder. Finally a window in the storm opened and we ventured beyond the overhang we had been stuck beneath. Crawling out from behind the fallen tree was harder that it had appeared at first, but we managed it. Broken shards of rock lay everywhere and many tree trunks smouldered.

On our escape we soon realised that we were much further from Pellalomwen than we first believed, and she was not in the place where Legolas had last seen her. That tree had been uprooted and the hollow at its bole was deserted.

With great urgency he tracked her steps, scanning for the foot prints that darted hither and thither across the forest floor between boulders and trees to her location. Finally we found her beneath the bows of a large fir tree, lying on a bed of dry pine needles.

Legolas raced to her side. Falling to his knees beside her he looked into her face. She seemed peaceful as if in sleep, but did not move. I knew from the tiny sound that rose in his throat that she was not sleep, but dead. He let out a sudden cry, unable to control his grief to the full. His slim frame shook and a tear rolled down his cheek as he held his hand to his heart and uttered the words of the Mourning Prayer.

His broken voice lifted up the sides of the mountain, reaching out across the valleys of Middle Earth like a veil of utter despair, for that is what it was. Our last hope for mankind and elf-kind and for all the creatures of the earth lay dead at our feet.

A tear escaped my eye and I wept silently as Legolas struggled to finish the prayer. A sudden whimper startled him, rising from beneath Pellalomwen’s cloak to become a full cry. The breath caught in his throat as he reached out and drew the cloak aside. There, blooded and wet, lay a newborn, one arm waving in the air, its mouth wide and screaming with the abrupt change in temperature; the rest of it was still buried in its dam. In utter astonishment he stared at it as I pressed forward to pull the child free of its mother and cut the cord that joined them. Pulling the Hobbit’s cloak free I wrapped the babe in it and stood. “A boy child,” I announced absently.

Half-Axe grunted in his chest. “He won’t survive long.”

“We must give him every opportunity to prove you wrong,” I said.

Half-Axe harrumphed. “Leave it to its fate. It is just a Hobbit. What good are hobbits when all is said and done? Besides, none of us can feed it.”

Legolas’s face twisted with rage. “How dare you speak with such ill-care for one so helpless. This child is of royal birth. You have made an oath, fulfil it.”

“My oath is with the Thain, not some Hobbit whelp!”

The dwarf stomped away back up the path towards the pass into the valley beyond the mountains. Legolas’s dislike for the dwarf would not be abated lightly and would simmer for centuries. The dwarves might forget as generations passed, but he lived to remember it only too well. It seemed impossible at the time, that one of Half-Axe’s own kin would turn aside that hatred and turn it into love.

“We will take the child to Rivendell,” I said.

Of the men, only two remained, one was dead and the other was missing, and we were cautious as to his survival. They, Taymar and Naruan, both disagreed with my plan.

“Ibun is right,” Taymar broke in. “Our oath was to see the Thain to Eriador, not to carry orphans. We cannot hope to keep it alive between here and Rivendell. We are lost. Kill it, and let it not die a slow death by starvation.”

Both men then turned and abandoned us to follow the trail of the dwarf.

“Stop!” cried a voice.

Our heads turned to see a blooded figure approach us. It was Hafalad.

“I urge you, recall what was said to us by Turin. If we leave our oath unfulfilled we must return to Minas Tirith, our lives forfeit. I am not willing to throw what little honour I am left with in killing an innocent. We have no choice, but to regain what honour we can and protect this child as if he was the Thain himself. He is, after all, of royal birth, and no royal deserves to die without due cause. I say, ‘to nought, the words of the Stewards!’. Let us be men first and dead men when it comes, but honour be with us either way.”

Naruan and Taymar lifted their chins and made themselves tall again. “Aye!” they chorused.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled. “If we hurry, we can be at Rivendell by Moon’s rising, and in Imladris by dawn.”

I sheathed up my sword and took my staff to my hand. The wound to my leg ached and bled through my clothing, but I ignored it. For the rest of my days I suffered that ache, keeping a limp with me when I walked. It served to remind me of that day on the high mountain pass, when Pellalomwen, last of the Fallohides, gave up her life.

As we turned towards the pass again I looked back. Legolas had remained, standing over the tiny body, having not said a word since Ibun’s dismissal of the babe. I watched him reverently arrange her curling hair about her face and adjust her clothing to cover her again before pausing for one last look at her face. I watched him, giving him the time he needed.

The infant in my arms began to cry. I hushed at it, worried that orcs would hear it. I was in two minds. I could not run with the child, not with my injured leg, and I could not leave him behind.

Finally Legolas turned away and stopped in front of me. Looking more closely at the babe, he traced a fingertip across the soft brow and along the point of his ear. The infant quieted at once. “This child is half-elven,” he realised, although it should have been obvious. “He deserves to live.” It sounded more like a plea.

We turned at the sound of approaching orcs. There was so many.

“I cannot run,” I said.

“Give me the child,” Legolas begged, holding out his arms. I wordlessly refused. “I can reach Rivendell well before you. It is his only chance.”

Suddenly the orcs arrived and Ibun was back, fighting the orc vanguard with a cry. “Well?” he demanded. “What are you waiting for? Run!”

As the orcs pressed forward I went for my sword. To my surprise Legolas snatched the infant from my arms and was gone before I could say a word. I, for my part, was too busy fighting off an orc to stop him. The men had deserted us, all except Hafalad who fought as best he could. He had killed a good many before I had a chance to turn his way again. But, most surprising of all, beside me the dwarf fought to protect the child.

Our defence was ferocious, and at last the orcs fled for their lives, leaving us free to make it to the pass. There we found Taymar and Naruan. They had been fighting off an attack of their own, which caused me to withdraw my thoughts of their desertion.

“Where’s the Hobbit?” they asked.

I paused, wading through my grief though I was I managed to speak. “She is dead.”

Nothing more was said as we continued on towards Rivendell. Behind us orcs came but they came only as far as the pass. We heard much activity behind us, the breaking of rocks and hammering, and we guessed they worked to block the pass as they had most if not all of the routes through the Misty Mountains.

We reached the western rim just as the clouds parted enough for us to see the moon lift its silver face above the mountains. Below us were the fair voices of an elven chorus wafting up to meet us. We had arrived precisely as I had planned.

We descended into the valley and crossed the bridge to find Elrond waiting for us. He smiled and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to Rivendell, Gandalf,” he said.

We made our introductions, receiving an offer of breakfast, which we accepted gratefully. He led us up into a huge dining room, already prepared with food and drink.

“Did Legolas arrive safely?” I asked.

At that moment in walked Legolas, carrying a small wrapped bundle. He smiled. “He did,” he replied. He was as relaxed as ever I had seen him, and the men noticed it as well.

“And the Thain?” Naruan put in as we sat at the table. “Is he here too?”

“Yes, he is,” Elrond replied, understanding that they did not know the true depth of their journey. “As men of Gondor, you understand the importance of each and every man who serves along side you. In battle if one makes an error many fall. And in times of peace, each man has his duties, if one fails then everyone is put out.”

“It is true,” Hafalad agreed.

“And if one so important, say the son of the Steward for example, is killed, what then?”

“The line of the Stewards ends and Gondor falls,” Taymar replied.

Elrond smiled. “Then you do understand the importance of the Thain of Eriador, why his life must be protected to safeguard all of us who reside in Middle Earth?”

“Tell us,” Hafalad urged gently. “I don’t understand how one man can change the course of the future.”

“A man?” Elrond inquired. “A man you say, and yet there are more creatures in Middle Earth than men. It is mere arrogance that dictates that you would look for a man to protect, even when you sought to take his life from him.”

Naruan grunted with anger. “We have travelled all across Middle Earth, running errands like some lowly messenger. We have been exiled from our homeland, lost our captain, our horses, been attacked by storm and beast, and starved of food and water. And through it all we have yet to even set eyes upon the Thain.”

Elrond sighed, his great patience tried to its limit and indicated the child that Legolas held. “This is the Thain of Eriador.”

The men looked at the small babe asleep in Legolas’s arms in astonishment. “A Hobbit?”

“Everything hinges on this hobbit’s survival. The rest of us, even myself, are already in this child’s debt, and yet all he has done thus far is come into this world. His work far surpasses any hope of glory you could dream of achieving in a thousand lifetimes.” Elrond turned to me and said, “I would have preferred that you reached my house earlier so that his mother could be spared, but you didn't and she wasn't.”

“It could not be helped,” I replied, with deep regret.

“There is much unrest in the southern lands. I fear there is little time left for you to find his parents,” he said.

“His parents?” I frowned.

“Galadriel has sent word that his parents are in the region called South Farthing. The land is poisoned but some still hang on in the hope that the famine will end. Look for the sign. You will know it when you see it.”

Legolas leaned in towards us. “A light in the window,” he murmured.

Elrond nodded slightly. “His father goes by the name Isembur Brandy, and his wife is sick. She has been cursed by a dark force I have yet to understand or to find its source.”

“I will help her as best I can,” I promised.

“What is her name?” Legolas asked.

“Lobelia,” Elrond replied. “Galadriel chose the couple herself; it was a difficult decision. They will question you long and hard; as is the way of hobbits they will not trust you nor trust your intentions. I fear there are still more dangers to meet before the end of your journey.”

On looking up, we found the men of Gondor asleep in their seats, and we decided to move them to beds that had been prepared.

We rested for a few days, giving the Thain a chance to strengthen before we had to take our leave of the elves once more. We had the most perilous leg of our journey ahead of us; into Eriador, where no one had been since the kingdom of Arnor was lost, and I knew placing the Thain with a loving family would stretch my abilities to the limit. Taking our leave of Elrond and his hospitality we headed across the plains, furnished with food and water for our trek. We heard wolves following our progress but they were out of sight. The men were silent. The elf and the dwarf did nothing more than eye each other for any sign of trouble that would be matched and bettered at a moment’s notice.

Finding our horses on that first day out did nothing to improve the fire in Taymar’s eyes. Despite the words of Elrond, I doubted that it would take much for he or Naruan to act on their desire to kill the Thain.

Riding for two days steadily eastward we forded the River Hoarwell and reached the first sighting of Weathertop in the distance. We rested for the night. The winds had dropped and I feared the weather was closing in on us again. During the night wolves howled, drawing ever closer to us. At dawn, we ate as we rode.

Legolas came to a stop as fog descended all around us.

“I do not like the look of this,” Half-Axe muttered.

“For once, you and I are in agreement,” Legolas replied, his eyes searching the dense cloud. “Wolves are nearby. I can feel them.” We were lucky not to have seen any, but I doubted it would be long. He turned to me and passed me the infant. “Take him. I will scout ahead for danger.”

I bundled him up beneath my cloak and watched Legolas disappear into the thickening mists.

We rode on, following the hoof prints left in the marshy soil. After a while the marks of the elf’s passing dwindled into nothing. He had vanished, apparently into thin air.

The men, even Hafalad, began to grumble. We were lost, and all sense of direction was gone. I kept the pale disc of the sun at our backs, but eventually even that was swallowed up by the fog. We stopped for a night under a starless sky. Legolas did not return, and I began to worry for my friend.

I gave the infant milk that I carried with me in a pouch. It was the last of the milk and even I was beginning to despair. Even my powers of persuasion could not make a stallion produce milk. In the morning, the fog had not lifted or thinned, and we journeyed on as best we could, our mood sinking into fearful and sullen silence. If nothing else, the land became firm again. That pleased us, the eerie silence did not.

Walking blindly through the thick fog we stepped out into the strong light of the westering sun and blinked. As sight returned to our eyes we were met by a line of armed and unfriendly-looking men. We had stumbled into a camp of the Dunedain. Only time would tell if our error would cost us our lives.

They stood, some three thousand strong, those in front gazing at us with a measure of disdain, cloaked in the brown leather of their kind and a hand poised should a decision be made as to what should be done with us. They waited upon the instant of their leader’s call. Nothing stirred.

I heard Hafalad swallow, clad in green and bearing the white tree of Gondor on his chest, which had not gone unnoticed by the sharp-eyed men of the Northern Kingdom. It was possible, to their thinking, that we could have been sent from Gondor to make an end of the line of kings in Eriador, and that would be justification enough to kill us. Still we waited.

Something was tickling my feet and I looked down, suddenly realising that I was standing in someone’s fire. The flames licked at my feet, but did not burn me. I had almost cast a cooking pot onto the ground, and I carefully stepped back before I did so.

The movement was not lost on the Chieftain. “A servant of the Good Fire,” he noted, with one eyebrow raised. “You might have asked before inviting yourself to breakfast, friend.”

Suddenly, before I could answer him, a newborn’s cry of hunger startled us. The chieftain alone did not flinch.

“Bring a goat,” he called.

The Chieftain bade me sit and share with him some food and water. I did so, only to have the infant plucked from my arms. My protests went unheard. One of the northern men milked the goat he had brought and offered it to the chieftain, whereupon he dipped a cloth into the warm, sweet liquid and offered it to the babe to suck.

“Strange weather we are having for the time of year, wouldn’t you say?” he asked me.

I thought his question strange, though I said nothing of the kind. It is customary that when meeting upon the road, you exchange greetings and name yourself, offer pointers on what to expect further along the way and part company. This greeting had fair taken me aback as it was, and now he was engaging me in idle conversation. I knew who he was, of course, and I expect he knew who I was, although it should be said that I was not the only wizard in Middle Earth, and mine was not the only Order.

“It is, and quite unexpected,” I agreed. “I was hoping to have fair weather for another few days, at least.”

“Won’t harm the crops much, though,” he added. “The rain being less than usual and the crops being so poor, and so few to tend them . . .”

His words stopped and I expected more, but none were forthcoming. “I have heard there is blight in the lands west of here. It must be hard,” I supposed.

“You have not travelled this way before,” he decided.

“No, not for many a year,” I agreed. “The land has change little, but then again it has changed a lot.”

“The wolves are on the move again,” he said, changing the subject yet again.

I then noticed that their calls had gone silent and had remained that way since Legolas’ disappearance, which disturbed me no small amount. “I suspect they caught what they were hunting.”

“More probable that we caught it first,” said he, sending me an unreadable gaze.

That disturbed me more. Had the wolves killed Legolas? I doubted it would have been an easy kill, but even an elf could not have much hope against a whole pack in thick fog. Did the broad-built man in front of me infer that they had killed the wolves, or had they killed the elf? What would the Dunedain do to an elf if they caught him alone far from his realm? Difficult to say. What would they do with a group of men of Gondor? That was far too easy to answer.

As it was, the men were given food and water, otherwise they were ignored. It was me they were far more interested in, the reason why eluded me for a long time.

We talked for a while, discussing many things, apparently at random, until suddenly he asked me a question that surprised me beyond any shock that I had ever received.

“I have a desire to take to me a wife,” he suddenly blurted out. “She is a distant cousin, by the name of Merinath. Her bloodline is true, her being a direct descendent of the daughter of Arvedui, the last king of Gondor.”

“I see.”

“If I marry her, thus remaking the line of kings, my sons will be of both lines once more, and heirs to both thrones. A noble quest, would you not say?”

“An interesting proposal,” I decided. “And one that should not be made lightly. I suppose you both love each other, as well as having the desire to unite the last of your kin?” I could tell from his long pause that love had not been taken into consideration.

“Then what do you suggest I do? If you command me to go hither, then hither I will go, but if you say take the thither road, then that is the road I shall take instead.”

I regarded him long and hard. “Well,” said I. “When you put it like that, I can only give you one answer, Arevir, Chieftain of the Dunedain, heir of all Eriador. I cannot command you to take either road.”

“What?”

“I am a wizard, Order of the Stewards if Light and Life. I cannot command men to do anything, least of all the right thing. I can only advise. So I advise you to do this; your marriage to Merinath is in Middle Earth's best interest, as is the Dunedain's watch of the borders of the Shire.”

Aravir looked at me blankly. “I don’t understand how they can be connected.”

“Allow me to explain. The fate of this child’s descendents and your descendents are bound together, for good or bad. Without one, the other has no hope. It is their strength and resilience that we all will come to depend on in our darkest hour. I do not know more at this point in time, but I believe that when the time comes it may be all too clear to me.”

Aravir looked down at the infant lying in his lap and back at me. “This is not a hobbit, is it, Gandalf?” he realised.

I regarded him, finally our identities were out in the open. I slowly shook my head. “No, he isn’t. Although he is of royal hobbit line he is also half-elven. More important than that is the tasks set for his descendents.”

Aravir sighed. “I agree that this half-ling (the first ever use of the term) is too important to be trifled with. Even without his blood line being as it stands he must survive. If his destiny is intertwined with my own, then his life is as important as my own.”

Abruptly getting to his feet he called his most trusted men to him, and they gathered around the fire with me on one side and them on the other. They talked for some minutes and I pretended not to be within earshot. Finally Aravir lifted his eyes to mine.

“The Rangers of the Dunedain pledge their everlasting oath until the world ending to protect the Thain of the Shire, and all his descendents and kin. We swear it, upon our blood, lives and honour.”

I was satisfied and content. “I must ask that this oath and the child’s existence and identity be kept secret until the true king returns to the throne of Gondor, not even to be spoken of between yourselves, except by the passing of fathers to sons. At the turning of the age will your oaths be tested to the full and only then will your oath be fulfilled.”

“Aye, we swear,” they chorused.

Aravir gazed at me in silence for a long moment. “You truly believe it possible, Gandalf? That the Last of the Numenoreans will again take to the throne of Gondor and unite the two kingdoms?”

“I have a hope,” I replied. “And it is a good hope.”

“Then I keep none for myself,” Aravir said. “My son’s sons after I am gone will hold that hope, but not I.”

There was much despair in his heart, even though with the wearing of the ring of his line on his finger I felt that he had hope deeper still than he thought. Why then would he wish to marry the descendent of Arvedui’s only surviving child? I slowly nodded and said nothing of my thoughts.

Aravir dipped the cloth again in the milk and pressed it to the infant’s lips. Sucking the cloth dry, even half asleep, brought a smile to Aravir’s lips as he stood up, still holding the infant to his chest. “His belly is full. It will be enough until Moon’s setting.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But our journey takes us for another three days into Eriador. I doubt that we will find another goat.”

Aravir smiled down to me where I sat. “No need to look for one, Gandalf. This one will go with you.” He then whistled.

From the shadows two Dunedain came forward bearing Legolas before them. His face betrayed nothing, but I gathered from the attitude of my host that the elf prince had been taken as a guest, pending a pleasing outcome of the conversation with me. I let out a long breath. Apparently, we would live after all.

“The sons of Gondor may tarry with us, recover their strength,” Aravir invited.

“My lord,” Hafalad replied. “We are grateful for your offer, but we must see the Thain safely home. We made an oath and are not fulfilled until it is done.” Taymar and Naruan stood beside him, at last of a single mind. It pleased me greatly to see it.

Aravir was pleased as well it seemed as he extended his hand to claps the arm of Hafalad in brotherhood. “Upon your return on the east road, we will be waiting for you. I have word that your lives will be all two short in Minas Tirith. Here, I have use of men of courage.”

Hafalad and his companions readily agreed to his offer and we took our leave.

Legolas rode along the narrow lane, but after a while decided to walk, his horse walking contentedly behind, chewing at a mouthful of grass that grew beneath the withering hedgerows. “This land looks sick,” the Elf-prince noted.

“What do you see ahead of us?” I called out from the rest of the party. We were some way behind him, weary and one of the men of Gondor had tied himself into his saddle to save himself the embarrassment, and the hassle, of falling out of it.

“The roads are narrow here, but nothing stirs. Much has been laid waste, and many have left this place,” Legolas replied. “Someone watches us. I feel a great fear.”

With that he was gone into the growing gloom of evening. Not far along the road he spied a small flame flickering in a window of a house so low that it seemed to have pushed up from the very earth itself like a root of an enormous tree. He had entered the house almost before his knock of inquiry had been answered. Two frightened Hobbits were within. “Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

“An elf?” the Hobbit master questioned. “What business brings you so far west?”

“I am on a quest to find a Hobbit couple. They are near here, I am sure, but I am having difficulty finding them.” he said, although he knew exactly where they were, that is no more than a few feet in front of him.

“We are all that is left,” the hobbit replied. “And I don’t see what you would want with us? We have nothing worth stealing,” he added. “All the land is blighted. There’s no food worth sharing, either.” His voice was friendly as could be expected for such an aged and wary hobbit, and one worn for over work and lack of good food, although otherwise, they seemed in good health.

“I am not here to rob you, my friend,” Legolas corrected him gently. “The two I seek are barren of children, and bare the name Isembur and Lobelia Brandy.”

There was stunned silence for a moment as the two exchanged glances. “What do you want with them?” the old lass asked.

“I have brought a gift from Elrond of Rivendell. It will change the fortunes of your kind; one that is the most precious to be had in Middle Earth, one that Sauron himself has tried and failed to destroy.”

Still somewhat nonplussed, not to mention honoured that they had been chosen to receive such a gift, the master responded, “Then found us, you have. What is the gift you bring from Rivendell?”

Legolas brought fourth a small box and gave it to him. He opened it at once to find it full of a fine, green-brown dust. “This will heal the land and make it whole again. It will also heal you. Within a year, this home will be filled with the sound of children.”

The Hobbit was confused. A box of dust was the priceless gift?

At that moment horses were heard on the road outside, and footfalls to the door. I entered first, behind me Half-Axe the dwarf. “Is this the place?” I asked.

“It is,” Legolas replied with a graceful smile.

“A wizard,” the old hobbit exclaimed softly in awe. “Who are you?”

I stepped towards the old lass who sat there, too much astonished and too sick to get up from her chair by the fire. “I am Gandalf, my friend. You do not know me as yet, but in days from now you will do.” Holding my hand forth towards the wife I uttered an incantation. She swayed slightly, gasped and a light returned to her countenance. Her husband rushed to her side, seeing the colour return to her cheeks. Tears shone in his eyes as he looked up at me, too choked to thank me. It was in his clasp of me that his words were felt rather than uttered. As he took her hand in his he smiled with joy. Then, in plain sight, I revealed the babe I carried beneath my cloak and laid him on the floor in front of her, its shawl fanned out beneath him, his thick mat of curling hair sticking out at all angles, and I entertained that there was a smile on his face as he gazed up at them. “Here is your son,” I announced without preamble.

“What?” the master almost died of a fright, even pleasant as it was.

“Just as I said, your son,” I repeated.

“Ours?” she said, in confusion, since it clearly wasn’t.

“No, no,” the master argued. “We are much too old, and we have no children.”

“You do now,” I replied with a smile.

“But . . .this babe is a Fallohide. We’re Harfoots,” she argued.

“His mother was the last true Fallohide,” I agreed. “From this time, Half-lings will you be known by, and even then few will know who you are. The memory of our deeds will have been forgotten by the world of men, if they are recorded at all.”

“Everyone will know he’s not our son. He is not Harfoot.”

“They will know,” I agreed. “But not for that reason.”

The old hobbit gazed up at me, defeated. “Why should we take him in? Why? All our kin are dead or gone from the Shire. The land is dying. There is nothing left for us here.”

“There is more to this child than meets the eye,” I mentioned gently. “But his descendents will understand. They have a great work to do.” With that, I placed the bundle I had brought with me from Lothlórien into the hands of Isembur. “These are his belongings.”

Legolas was becoming desperate with the situation. He could tell they were on the verge of turning the babe away. He had to speak. “To turn him away now will cost Middle Earth and everything in it. Please, he is also of my blood. Half-elven, and very precious to us. In Eriador he will be safe. This land will go unnoticed and ignored by men, and in turn your descendents will not concern themselves with the doings of men. In this, be assured that no harm will come to you.”

The hobbit lass lifted the wide-eyed child into her arms and gazed at him. “You cannot give us this child,” she sobbed suddenly. “It is too mighty a gift for one so old.” She was about to pass this stranger’s waif back to me, but her husband, having seen the look of instant love in her eyes, stayed her hand with his own. I knew then that Galadriel had chosen well. A Hobbit that accepted without question would worry me more than one who refused without question.

“I do not claim to understand, Mr Gandalf, and Elf-sir,” he began bowing to us from the waist. “But we are grateful. We will raise this child as our own. We are so old that neither of us dare expect more, but if it takes place as you say, then we will be happy. We have not had much dealings with Elven folk, but you have given me no cause to doubt your word. My wife is cured of the sickness and that is enough for me. That you brought us a child rather than passed us by, I dare say is a blessing to us.”

I smiled and beside me Legolas relaxed and smiled. “Thank you,” he accorded, hand to his heart.

“Will he know who he is?” the Hobbit asked. “Won’t he want to return to his real home when he’s grown?”

“It is likely that he will know,” I replied. “Elves, even half-elves, know by instinct who and what they are. It will be in him to travel, even when the rest of your kind are against such things, being comfortable in this beautiful land. And it will be beautiful, replenished and green with growing things.”

“What is his name?” the lass asked, just as we appeared to be taking our leave of them.

“Isumbras,” Legolas replied without a pause.

“Not a Hobbit name, that,” the master noted instantly.

“Better give the poor mite another one, gaffer,” his wife suggested gently.

“How about Took,” said he. “We took him from the Dark Lord’s clutches, and here he will stay.”

“He is Thain of the Shire,” the dwarf blurted out, leaning on his axe, surveying the scene. “That should be enough.” Speechless the Hobbits said nothing, indeed what could anyone say having been chosen to raise a prince at such short notice? He straightened up as if to stretch and regarded us all. “Now let’s get out of here, before the Orcs follow us and make to nought our fine promises.”

I smiled gently and shook my head. “No. The Dunedain will be watching the boarders from hereon in. Mark it well, no one will enter or leave the shire while the Rangers are guarding it.” I ushered them out the door into the night, and turned to the old couple. “I will return now and then when I can. Don’t look for my coming, it will be unlooked for.”

With that they were alone. They looked at each other and at the child lying in a heap of elven cloth in her arms. “Well, missus, best get him some milk,” he announced.

“Better get some wood, too,” she said. “You need to make a crib . . .or two.”

His eyes rose from the door handle to her face. Her eyes and smile said it all, and he lit up. Finally they would have the children they wished for.

We watched from a distance as the astonished Hobbit set about milking the goat he found in his shed. He had not a thought as to where it had mysteriously appeared from. And as he milked he eyed the split logs that were stacked by the front door. I smiled and nodded to myself. The boy would do well, and I was glad that my work took me to his door many times as he grew up with his many siblings.

As we turned eastward towards Rivendell, Legolas looked at me. “Tell me,” he said. “What is this cure for too much ale that kills trolls?”

I grinned from ear to ear and chuckled. “Ah, now,” I said, glad of any and all opportunities to boast of my successes. “I will tell you all about it, but mind you don’t use it on the white gulls. They will not like it.”

Legolas stared at me confused and alarmed, his blue eyes large and round. “I don’t understand.”

I laughed. “Listen, and I’ll tell you.”

I looked in on the day Isumbras Took became Thain at the age of thirty-five, some time after the Oldbucks moved into the land of South Farthing as they came to call it, bringing with them Bagginses amongst others. There were two small hobbit-lings at Isumbras’ feet, I noted, pretty things with large blue eyes and wildly curly hair. Their ears were more pronounced than other hobbits’ but I could see that no one seemed to take much notice.

“You’re late,” he regarded me with a stony glare.

“A wizard is never late, Isumbras Took,” I replied, equally stonily. “Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.”

Our glares continued, until I collapsed first into laughter. This had been one of our games since he was small. Whoever laughed first bought the first ale. This time, I lost. I hugged my dearest friend and we celebrated his election with much pipe weed, ale and song. I was very pleased with myself and with how he had grown.

Parting company was bitter sweet as I never saw him again, but it would not be the last time I was to meet his kin. In fact some of his descendents were more like him than their hobbit side would like. As Bilbo was often to mention, his grandfather, Old Took, was something of an adventurer, that there was something not quite Hobbitish about him. I would simply smile secretly and say nothing.

El fin

Zuleika von Fleuger © July 2004

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