Gandalf did not, in truth, remember much of his long, long fall through the depths of Moria; he retained only disjointed images of combat, blows given and received. More clear in his mind were the sensations: wind rushing through his beard and garments, the weight of Glamdring in his hand, seemingly never-ending burning with all too brief respites of cold and wet. It was, he likened to himself in the privacy of his thoughts, as if he had been a weapon being tempered in the fire of the Balrog, made strong for what lay ahead.
At first little had remained to him of who he had been and what he had done before his great battle; all was lost in the flames, burned to so much ash. Yet those vanished memories returned from time to time, unlooked for, but very welcome, though often descending at the most inconvenient of times. More than once he had been forced to struggle with the weight and meaning of what came, undoubtedly giving him the appearance of being very foolish to anyone who should be present.
At the moment, however, Gandalf was mercifully unwatched, and could deal with the sudden, nearly overwhelming desire for his pipe with something resembling privacy. It had ever been his wont, he realized, since his first discovery of the Halfling's pipeweed, to smoke when he needed to think long, deep thoughts, and apparently the habit was so deeply ingrained that a tiny part of him could not conceive of one without the other. Resigning himself to the small irritation of custom ignored, he wrapped his tattered, travel-stained gray cloak tighter around himself and leaned back against the stone wall of the Great Hall of Helm's Deep, going completely still to make himself invisible to all but the most discerning eye.
Around him the people of Rohan went about their business in a confused rush, and a great deal of it there was indeed in these first hours after the rout of the Orc horde that had almost been their deaths. Many bodies, both friend and foe, waited to be taken to their final rest; the wounded of the first wanted tending to, as did the latter in an entirely different way. Hot food and drink were needed by the survivors, as was comfort, and those that could not provide one often found themselves trying to give the other, if not both at the same time.
In the midst of this near chaos, he watched Aragorn move confidently from person to person, acting now as the healer and not as the warrior. This Man who he had watched grow from boyhood to youth to adulthood had finally come into his own in a way that Gandalf had always foreseen as possible, and it gave him great hope to see it now with his own two eyes. He silently 'hmmed' to himself in satisfaction, thinking that a King with a healer's touch was what Middle Earth would need most of all if Sauron's great evil could be driven out.
An errant motion on Aragorn's part as he tended a dying man caused the jewel he wore around his neck to flash and sparkle, but as brilliant as that light was, it was a pale candle to the love Gandalf could see illuminating the care-worn face above it. These were not Aragorn's people, but he treasured them for the valor and steadfastness they had shown, and glow of that eased the man's spirit as he breathed his last. Aragorn tenderly brushed his fingertips over unseeing eyes to close them, then looked away, looked to the East as if to seek his own comfort from memories of the one who was parted from him.
Gandalf could not help but marvel at how much brighter the love in Aragorn burned at the mere thought of his Evenstar. When he had confided to him that he had chosen to free Arwen from their betrothal and send her to the safety of Grayhaven, Gandalf had feared for him - feared what the loss of his heart's desire would do to his strength of will and ability to endure. Yet with Man's typical contrariness, Aragorn gained from that choice, becoming ever more determined to hold to hope and honor. It was not precisely how Gandalf had expected Aragorn's love to serve their quest, but it *did* serve, and with more power than he had dared imagine when he had begun to piece together all that would be needed for Sauron's final defeat.
From the very beginning he had known it would take more than arms to bring about that fall. Sauron's evil extended beyond the physical, destroying heart and mind as surely as steel and might devastated the body. Any war against him would have to include a weapon against the darkness that insinuated itself into the very soul of Middle Earth, and love in all its forms and expressions was that weapon. The Elves' love for what was growing and green, Man's love of honor and bravery, Dwarves' love of the bones of the world, even the Hobbits' simple love of hearth and home - all these were shields to be used against evil's corruption, but it was love in its purer, more potent forms that he truly believed would be Sauron's undoing.
In part the Fellowship had been formed with that in mind, though Gandalf doubted seriously that any of them, even Aragorn, suspected. Though all had been volunteers, if it had been in the mind of Elrond and the Council that any one of the companions should not go, they would not been allowed, no matter what, so vital was the success of the quest. As it was, Gandalf had had to argue long and hard for the inclusion of Boromir, so plain his longing for the One Ring had been. It had been Gandalf's firm conviction though, that if given the chance, the son of Gondor might well find more in the journey than company as he traveled toward home.
Despite his wish to go unnoticed for the moment, Gandalf nearly chuckled in amusement at himself. He had thought to encourage the growth of love between Aragorn and Boromir as comrades in arms, if not the out and out devotion of a Captain to his King. Not that he had failed, but it had been those confounded predictably unpredictable Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, who had truly won through to the guarded heart of the too-burdened Man. The obvious love between the two cousins and the ties of kinship between them and the Ringbearer had been the primary reason for their inclusion in the Fellowship, from Gandalf's view of things. Subtle though that bond was, it was a formidable one, and when they had cheerfully, willingly extended it to include Boromir, Gandalf had been pleasantly surprised and encouraged. He had thought it just possible that the uncomplicated affection and pleasure the three of them shared could be the saving of Boromir.
Humor turning cold and empty, Gandalf closed his eyes in grief. In the end, it hadn't been enough. When Treebeard had deposited Merry and Pippin at his feet, he'd scarcely begun to scrounge through his mind for their names when they threw themselves at him, hugging tightly and babbling so frantically, he'd been quite unable to make a single bit of sense from any of it. Instead, he did the sensible thing and sank down to the earth to sit, letting them talk, then cry themselves out, and eventually they calmed enough to tell everything that had transpired since they had been parted from him. Their grief slaked, they fell asleep while still curled against him like small children, and he left them to Treebeard's care to seek out the other members of the Fellowship to learn their fate.
Gandalf had had absolutely no doubt that if Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were still alive and whole, they would be following the Urak-hai who had taken the hobbits to rescue them, so finding them had been child's play. It was during the ride to Erodas that he had learned the rest of Boromir's tale, as Aragorn knew it, and Gandalf could only be thankful that the Man had had the comfort of true companions and friends in the last days and moments of his life. Nor could he completely dismiss the possibility that it was the gift of friendship from Merry and Pippin that had allowed Boromir to come to his senses before it was too late, giving him the redemption - in Boromir's own eyes - of an honorable death.
No one else had thought redemption necessary. Aragorn had forgiven Boromir the moment Frodo had confessed to him what had happened, nor had Legolas ever held anything but sorrow for the loss, considering the lapse only a different kind of wound laid upon a warrior by Sauron's will. Gimli had been less willing to dismiss the attempt to take the One Ring, but Legolas had teasingly chided him until he had grudgingly conceded that the Ringbearer's place to assign blame on the issue. If Frodo held no grudge, understanding what had been at the heart of the matter, he could do the same.
Legolas' amusement at this lofty pronouncement had been a delight to see, but more delightful for Gandalf had been Gimli's grinning willingness to be the source of that amusement. That, at least, had gone as he had planned, or so he had thought at the time. Both the Elf and the Dwarf had taken to heart his plea at the door to Moria to be friends, and he had not over-looked the effort the two of them put into that request during their trek through the mine.
It had not been until he had accompanied Theoden King back to his hall after the battle that Gandalf had realized that what lay between Gimli and Legolas had gone far, far beyond his devices. Legolas had ridden ahead of the rest of the party as Theoden had gathered his able riders to his side for praise and commands, and when Gandalf had followed the elf short time later, he had been blessed with one of the most beautiful and astonishing sights in his life. At one side of the shattered door, out of sight and mind of those who were too harried to notice, Legolas knelt in front of Gimli, head on his shoulder, hands clenched into his jerkin. Eyes closed, expression calm, Gimli smoothed Legolas' long hair from scalp to shoulder, muttering Gandalf knew not what in a soft, quiet voice.
At first glance, it was only one friend giving succor to another - so many of Legolas' kin had been lost during the night, it was a reasonable supposition - as startling at it might be to find a dwarf consoling an elf. But to those who truly knew how to *see,* it was obvious that it was not comfort at all that either sought. Legolas' grip was possessive and demanding, and the utter motionless of his body spoke of passion restrained, not grief outpoured. Despite the peace on his face, Gimli's hands trembled faintly in their journey over the golden locks, and his voice held the tenor of command and control. Gandalf knew it very likely that if there had not been so much left to be done, the two of them would have been in search of privacy to slake the passion vibrating between them. Instead, after a last hidden touch of palm to heart, they had risen and gone about their duties.
For all the lust so plainly riding them, it could not overshadow the powerful love brightening them both to nearly painful intensity in Gandalf's sight, even as they parted. Given the many difficulties of culture and nature they had had to overcome simply to speak of what they felt, it could scarcely be otherwise. Anything less would not have been able to endure.
It had been that unexpected revelation that had driven Gandalf to step aside for the moment himself, the need for reflection on this facet of the quest outweighing any other consideration. What Gimli and Legolas shared could only aid them and the remnants of the Fellowship. Indeed, it could make a marked difference in the outcome in all the battles ahead; not just theirs, but the larger one for Middle Earth itself. How, he could not at this juncture speculate, and there was no opportunity now for the deep meditation that could give him answers. There was no choice but to trust the Good that had been drawing them all together from the very start.
Oh, but it was a hard thing to do at times, and even harder when his own heart was intimately concerned with the outcome! Unbidden his thoughts turned toward two small, much cherished hobbits wandering far from home and into ever greater danger. Gandalf would have spared any being the terrible burden of the One Ring, but most especially the one who carried it now. At the same time, he could think of no other who he *would* have chosen, not just because of the hidden resources that hobbits seemed to have, but because of the extraordinary thing he had found existing within Frodo and Samwise - love binding them together, mind to mind, heart to heart, spirit to spirit.
Soulmates were so very, very rare. In all his long, long years, Gandalf had only seen that remarkable relationship a handful of instances, and always in times of great need for the world. Seldom were such pairings the ones history and song spoke of; never were they great leaders of men or fierce warriors in battle. Instead they were the quiet ones at the edge; the healer moving among the wounded, her mate standing guard against those who had no respect for such, or the wise, trusted counselor whose companion always was near, watching, acting as the eyes and ears against foul intrigue.
To find Soulmates in the Shire, unknown to each other but with the bond still there, growing all unaware, had first struck Gandalf as a rare and wonderful opportunity to witness first hand the blossoming and maturing of such a marvelous thing. Then he had begun to worry as to why soulmates had been born in the Shire at all. What great strife could they be foreshadowing?
Lastly, and most unhappily, he tasted sharp fear. For as years sped by for him, though most probably creeping to the hobbits perspective, Sam had never looked up from his gardens to seek what his heart told him was his. And Frodo had never turned his gaze toward the very thing that his restless heart was urging him to find.
Gandalf wanted to dismiss Sam's reticence on the excuse of a strong cultural pressure for him 'to keep his place' and not 'act above his station.' Both restrictions were nonsense as far as Gandalf was concerned, but could not deny they were a powerful force within the Shire. Still, it should not have been strong enough a barrier to resist the demands of soulmates.
Likewise, he wanted to believe that Frodo's blindness was caused by the painful loss of his parents at such a tender age. Added to that wound were the years spent lost and alone in the crowd of hearty, merry Tooks where he had been raised until Bilbo saw that he was languishing. To make matters worse, once he was in Bilbo's care, Frodo seemed to think what he so desperately needed was beyond the Shire's borders, a notion unintentionally fostered by his uncle, Gandalf had often thought in mild exasperation at the old tale-bearing bachelor.
Even those painful emotional blinders should not have been enough to keep Sam and Frodo apart, but apart they were, for all they saw each other every day and valued each other as friends and companions despite their respective social positions. To Gandalf's mind that could only portend a great need for the power inherent in soulmates; so great they were being hoarded away like a dragon's cache until the vital moment was at hand.
All his doubts and fears had come to fruition when he had found Sam eavesdropping outside the window at Bag's End. What else but necessity could have driven him to be there that time of the night and for no other reason than the one he had given when pressed? "Summat told me that I needed to look in on him, be sure he was safely abed," Sam had unwilling told Gandolf in a stolen moment as Frodo had seen to some small errand just before they left.
With no other choice open to him, Gandalf had pinned all on what had not yet had a chance to thrive and taken a promise from Sam that he hoped would suffice to bridge what was to what should have been. In Rivendell it seemed that his gamble had been successful; he was sure that at some point Frodo and Sam had finally become intimate. But the Ring was between them, strangling what should have been a joyous and vibrant, and it was all too possible that it would prevail for that one reason.
Regardless, what lay within Sam and Frodo was the best hope of Middle Earth, and Gandalf thought it a good one for all that the two of them were all but innocent of what they could share. Or perhaps because of it. Who could truly tell until the deed was done? Not he, for if he had any wisdom at all, it was enough to know that the matter was out of his hands. All he could do was worry, and that he could not escape no matter how he tried.
For there was one inexorable fact that had to be taken account in their struggle against Sauron and the foulness he gathered to himself; chaos was easier than order, darkness more natural to mortal things. Too often to overcome that advantage it was necessary to make sacrifices above and beyond what was called for upon the battlefield. Too often that sacrifice was the very thing that caused that battle to be waged in the first place.
Wearily, sorrowfully, Gandalf opened his eyes and looked for Aragorn, finding him as he moved to his next patient, jaw set and determined. A few steps beyond him Legolas was reverently covering up the body of the man who had just passed away to help move it to the burial site, Gimli at the other side, head bowed in respect. In his mind's eye Gandalf could see Merry and Pippin riding on Treebeard's shoulder to the Entmoot, faces filled with a combination of delight and wonder, though their eyes were shadowed by Boromir's death. And, as always, his heart ached with longing to know that Frodo and Samwise were safe and well.
Which of these, he painfully asked himself, would be the ones sacrificed? Some? All? What love must die that Middle Earth could live?
Forcing grief away from himself until its time came in full, Gandalf spared a last wistful wish for his pipe, and stepped away from the wall. There was much to do and little time to do it all before he rode to Isengard. finis