Post by Admin on Jan 10, 2021 18:10:09 GMT
Author: StarLight
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: Old friends meet after a long time, but not in the usual way.
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters or places mentioned.
The sun was already setting as the hunched grey figure made its way through the forest. There was no one to observe his slow progress, and this was well as the lone traveler desired solitude. After a short while, he reached a small clearing and smiled as he spotted what he was looking for.
“It is good to be able to speak to you again, my friend,” the wizard said with a warm smile. “Our roads have split and taken us to different errands once again, as they had done many times in the past. I hope you have been well since last time we talked. Should I build a fire?”
Without waiting for an answer, the wizard started on the task. The night would be warm, but perhaps a fire would be needed to prepare a warm meal later. “Would you share a smoke with me?” Gandalf asked, when the flames rose up merrily. “It has been so long since I have done this. None of my present companions appreciates the joy of pipe-weed.”
The wizard slowly stuffed and lit his pipe and inhaled the fragrant smoke. As he let it out, a small figure of a ship sailed across the sky. “Ah, ships,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Many find ships fascinating. They can take you on journeys to lands so far away, that you can never reach them on your own two feet. They can take you to the place where you are supposed to find home and peace.”
Gandalf paused, as if lost deep in thoughts. When he continued, his voice was soft. “I have never told you this, my young friend. In fact, I do not believe I have told this to anyone, but the truth is I cannot remember if I had ever had a home or a family before coming to Middle-earth. I know not if I have had parents, and I know not if I have ever been a child. No, worry not, this is not something that grieves me. Still, I have often wondered – if I have ever been a child, if I have ever been a young man, what would I have been like? But now I believe I know the answer.” He smiled affectionately. “If I have been a younger man, I would have been much like you. What you believe in, what you fight for, what you hold dear, what mistakes you make – that must have been me, many ages ago, before I have become who I am now.”
The old wizard sighed and tossed a piece of wood into the fire. “Yes, yes, do not laugh! I must have made mistakes as a boy too, to become the wise man I am now.” He frowned in thought and stared at the dancing flames. “Ah yes… wise. Many call me wise. And yet, many believe that true wisdom comes only when you separate yourself from all earthly attachments, so that all your choices would be objective. And this I can never accomplish. After I arrived in Middle-earth, I grew to love all its inhabitants – the plants, the animals, the people – Men and Hobbits, Dwarves and Elves. More, I made true friends – friends, whose joys I shared, friends, whose sorrows I felt as my own. And this is not what a wise man does.”
Gandalf closed his eyes and allowed the smoke to fill his lungs, relaxing his body. When he opened them, he noticed that the flames had began to die out, but he made no move to feed them. “It is not that wise men should be heartless,” he explained. “We still feel sorrow when darkness spreads, or at a meaningless loss of a young life, and we still feel joy at seeing life reborn. And yet, we are not supposed to grieve for the death of something, that is supposed to die. We are not supposed to doubt Eru’s will and feel hurt when He presents Men with His Gift.”
Silence fell as the wizard stopped talking. He was about to make a confession; a confession, about something not expected of a wizard. And he knew it would pain him to say it aloud. “And yet, I did grieve, Aragorn,” he finally said. “When the last ship arrived in Valinor, and Legolas and Gimli came, bearing the news, I did grieve.” The wizard raised a hand to his face and brushed a stray tear. “Call me unwise, if you must, my friend, but I would not give this grief away for any of the wisdom of the world.”
Gandalf reached for the pouch he was carrying and took out a freshly picked flower. He laid it gently in the little pond next to him, where many other flowers floated, many of them placed there not longer than a few hours ago.
He had discovered this pond only recently. One day he had heard Legolas singing and had followed the sound to this clearing. As he had arrived, he had seen the Elf placing stones around the pond and decorating it with flowers. And when the wizard had questioned his friend and Legolas had turned around, Gandalf had been surprised to see tears in the Elf’s eyes.
And then Legolas had explained. He had discovered this pond, in which the water had been of an unusual quality. Flowers dropped in this water would stay fresh and alive for many days. And then, the Elf had thought, what better monument for the Man who had captured the hearts of so many immortals. Not a cold, stone statue, not even a wood carving, nothing would do their friend as much justice as something full of life and beauty.
After that day, Gandalf had often seen Legolas, and sometimes Elladan or Elrohir, or even Elrond, walking towards this glade, carrying flowers, coming to honour the memory of a friend, a brother, a son. Gandalf himself had come here for the first time today, but he knew that he would likely come again.
The wizard looked at the pond once again and gasped, suddenly startled out of his thoughts. The setting sun and the dying fire had created a play of light and shadow over the smooth surface of the water. And for a single second Gandalf thought that he had seen something different from his own reflection. A face, younger than his, but just as wise, smiling at him with friendship and affection, as if wanting to say that he had enjoyed the company and the pleasant evening by the fire; as if wanting to say that there is no reason to grieve as he is happy where he is now. But then the fire died out completely and the illusion was over. Dark hair turned into white and once again Gandalf was staring at his own image.
With a tired sigh, the wizard stood up, letting the grey mantle slide down, revealing his shimmering white garments underneath. Gandalf the Grey had no place in Valinor. He had come to visit for a day, but now had to leave, making place for his white counterpart. But perhaps, a year from now, on the first of March next year, Gandalf the Grey would return once again to spend a quiet evening by the fire with an old friend. Ah, yes, he would like that very much.
“Happy birthday, dear friend,” he whispered, and with a last glance at the pond, disappeared into the night.
Ranking: 3rd place
Summary: Old friends meet after a long time, but not in the usual way.
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters or places mentioned.
The sun was already setting as the hunched grey figure made its way through the forest. There was no one to observe his slow progress, and this was well as the lone traveler desired solitude. After a short while, he reached a small clearing and smiled as he spotted what he was looking for.
“It is good to be able to speak to you again, my friend,” the wizard said with a warm smile. “Our roads have split and taken us to different errands once again, as they had done many times in the past. I hope you have been well since last time we talked. Should I build a fire?”
Without waiting for an answer, the wizard started on the task. The night would be warm, but perhaps a fire would be needed to prepare a warm meal later. “Would you share a smoke with me?” Gandalf asked, when the flames rose up merrily. “It has been so long since I have done this. None of my present companions appreciates the joy of pipe-weed.”
The wizard slowly stuffed and lit his pipe and inhaled the fragrant smoke. As he let it out, a small figure of a ship sailed across the sky. “Ah, ships,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Many find ships fascinating. They can take you on journeys to lands so far away, that you can never reach them on your own two feet. They can take you to the place where you are supposed to find home and peace.”
Gandalf paused, as if lost deep in thoughts. When he continued, his voice was soft. “I have never told you this, my young friend. In fact, I do not believe I have told this to anyone, but the truth is I cannot remember if I had ever had a home or a family before coming to Middle-earth. I know not if I have had parents, and I know not if I have ever been a child. No, worry not, this is not something that grieves me. Still, I have often wondered – if I have ever been a child, if I have ever been a young man, what would I have been like? But now I believe I know the answer.” He smiled affectionately. “If I have been a younger man, I would have been much like you. What you believe in, what you fight for, what you hold dear, what mistakes you make – that must have been me, many ages ago, before I have become who I am now.”
The old wizard sighed and tossed a piece of wood into the fire. “Yes, yes, do not laugh! I must have made mistakes as a boy too, to become the wise man I am now.” He frowned in thought and stared at the dancing flames. “Ah yes… wise. Many call me wise. And yet, many believe that true wisdom comes only when you separate yourself from all earthly attachments, so that all your choices would be objective. And this I can never accomplish. After I arrived in Middle-earth, I grew to love all its inhabitants – the plants, the animals, the people – Men and Hobbits, Dwarves and Elves. More, I made true friends – friends, whose joys I shared, friends, whose sorrows I felt as my own. And this is not what a wise man does.”
Gandalf closed his eyes and allowed the smoke to fill his lungs, relaxing his body. When he opened them, he noticed that the flames had began to die out, but he made no move to feed them. “It is not that wise men should be heartless,” he explained. “We still feel sorrow when darkness spreads, or at a meaningless loss of a young life, and we still feel joy at seeing life reborn. And yet, we are not supposed to grieve for the death of something, that is supposed to die. We are not supposed to doubt Eru’s will and feel hurt when He presents Men with His Gift.”
Silence fell as the wizard stopped talking. He was about to make a confession; a confession, about something not expected of a wizard. And he knew it would pain him to say it aloud. “And yet, I did grieve, Aragorn,” he finally said. “When the last ship arrived in Valinor, and Legolas and Gimli came, bearing the news, I did grieve.” The wizard raised a hand to his face and brushed a stray tear. “Call me unwise, if you must, my friend, but I would not give this grief away for any of the wisdom of the world.”
Gandalf reached for the pouch he was carrying and took out a freshly picked flower. He laid it gently in the little pond next to him, where many other flowers floated, many of them placed there not longer than a few hours ago.
He had discovered this pond only recently. One day he had heard Legolas singing and had followed the sound to this clearing. As he had arrived, he had seen the Elf placing stones around the pond and decorating it with flowers. And when the wizard had questioned his friend and Legolas had turned around, Gandalf had been surprised to see tears in the Elf’s eyes.
And then Legolas had explained. He had discovered this pond, in which the water had been of an unusual quality. Flowers dropped in this water would stay fresh and alive for many days. And then, the Elf had thought, what better monument for the Man who had captured the hearts of so many immortals. Not a cold, stone statue, not even a wood carving, nothing would do their friend as much justice as something full of life and beauty.
After that day, Gandalf had often seen Legolas, and sometimes Elladan or Elrohir, or even Elrond, walking towards this glade, carrying flowers, coming to honour the memory of a friend, a brother, a son. Gandalf himself had come here for the first time today, but he knew that he would likely come again.
The wizard looked at the pond once again and gasped, suddenly startled out of his thoughts. The setting sun and the dying fire had created a play of light and shadow over the smooth surface of the water. And for a single second Gandalf thought that he had seen something different from his own reflection. A face, younger than his, but just as wise, smiling at him with friendship and affection, as if wanting to say that he had enjoyed the company and the pleasant evening by the fire; as if wanting to say that there is no reason to grieve as he is happy where he is now. But then the fire died out completely and the illusion was over. Dark hair turned into white and once again Gandalf was staring at his own image.
With a tired sigh, the wizard stood up, letting the grey mantle slide down, revealing his shimmering white garments underneath. Gandalf the Grey had no place in Valinor. He had come to visit for a day, but now had to leave, making place for his white counterpart. But perhaps, a year from now, on the first of March next year, Gandalf the Grey would return once again to spend a quiet evening by the fire with an old friend. Ah, yes, he would like that very much.
“Happy birthday, dear friend,” he whispered, and with a last glance at the pond, disappeared into the night.
The End