October 12, 3017

The stairs were long and steep, the smooth stone of each step worn down the center by the tread of uncounted feet. Gripping his staff in cold, stiff fingers, Gandalf came to a stop on the last raised block of stone and hesitated, staring out at the lamp-lit scene, the futility of his search an ache deep in his heart. Before him was a room full of words, yet none there were to offer comfort or courage unless he uncover them with his own two hands.

He drew in a breath so deep his chest ached, holding it as long as he could before slowly exhaling. Too long had they searched in vain, his careful friends with their age-won lore, ever vigilant, ever hopeful that at the least, tenacity, if not skill, would lead them to their prey. Of all creatures to pin their hopes upon, Gollum should not have mattered at all. But his possession of a marvelous ring so many years ago had made him their best hope for answers in a storm of questions even the wise were loathe to utter. Gandalf sighed, his shoulders sagging beneath the heavy cloak. Every nook, every cranny, every mile of forest and river they'd searched knew only rumor of his passing and the occasional cold track of his thin, bare feet. The wizard had been so sure they would find him that he'd spent little time himself in the search, and had called upon the most skilled of his friends not at all.

And that decision had been paid for with dismay and misgivings. For even now, rumor and death were spreading slowly up the Anduin, slipping out of the darkness behind the Mountains of Shadow, and Gandalf's fears, not only for the safety of one dear hobbit in his snug hole in the Shire, but also for the simple object that same hobbit had in his possession, had made him realize that so many years' delay had been a terrible mistake.

For Gollum was nowhere to be found.

After years of fruitless action, the realization of his own failure hit Gandalf hard, and with none close by to give him council, he was long in deciding what should next be done. At the last, even as the beginnings of fear prickled his gut, the swiftness of despair lent speed to his thought and he realized that there was yet a test of his surmise that did not require the finding of Gollum to prove or disprove what he feared most. But it would require the ring itself and a description of what must be done. At this point, Gandalf decided against speaking with Saruman once more, for the Head of the Council had professed to tell them everything he knew, when last the Council had gathered together. A moment's further reflection and Gandalf had chosen his course: it was to Gondor he must go, to Minas Tirith, with its hoard of ancient scrolls and precious books in which he would surely find his answer.

He'd begun the journey not long after leaving the Shire, while his uneasiness and worry for Frodo had been greatest. The scent of danger was everywhere, yet Gandalf found no sign of the enemy during his journey to Gondor. But it was only a matter of time. And so much was still hidden, so much that required knowing, lest all chance of victory be lost before war had ever begun.

He was many long days on the road, for wizard though he was, he could travel no faster than the laws of human flesh allowed. At last, weary and sore to the bone, he had been brought before Denethor, who had proved no more than civil, addressing Gandalf with little courtesy and even less respect.

"If, as you say, you search only for records of ancient days and the beginnings of Gondor, then read on! But take nothing with you when you go. And go soon. I seek not the company of wizards. They say little and mean less."

Since Gandalf had no words that could possibly matter to this man, he had simply nodded.

Denethor had gone silent then, studying Gandalf from above the peak of his fine, proud nose before finally speaking once again. "For me, the past holds no darkness greater than what is to come, and unless you have more skill than Saruman, who has studied here long, you will find nothing that is not known to me, who am master of the lore of this city." He had made to turn away, but then hesitated a moment, the ghost of a sneer upon his face. "You need not take your leave of me when you are ready to depart. I will know."

And with a swirl of heavy grey robes, he was gone.

Frowning at the retreating figure, Gandalf had pulled his own robe closer. Denethor's hospitality might be lacking in warmth, but at least he had not refused access to the records even he himself valued beyond many a thing of gold or silver. A soft footstep had sounded behind him and Gandalf looked around, offering a smile to the servant come to lead him to the record rooms. The smile was returned, albeit hesitantly, and the young man had bowed low, saying, "Please follow me," and Gandalf had followed him toward a door on the far side of the room.

And now, here he was, surrounded by the history of Gondor in all of its ancient tatters.

Though a large number of lamps burned brightly enough to fill the room with light, still Gandalf felt the need to set as many as possible around the table. The record rooms were hidden deep within Gondor, the rags and scatters of scrolls and ancient books piled haphazardly on every likely surface, not to mention the dusty corners of the room, and the wizard wished to overlook nothing in careless patches of shadow. He sighed at the sheer impossibility of it all, but there was no time to lose: even now he felt the shadows creeping forth from their hidden lairs, through every crack and crevice previously denied them, and it weighed heavily on his mind. If what he suspected was true, if the Darkness now had reason to expect victory after long ages of exile and defeat...

Gandalf closed his eyes for a moment, then slipped off his cloak, turning to hang it on a peg in the wall. Grunting a little, he pulled an old wooden stool up to the table and sat facing the piles of ancient scrolls. So much depended upon the knowledge contained in this room, in one scroll in particular. If he could just lay his hands on the damn thing without losing his store of precious patience. Heaving a deep sigh of equal parts hopelessness and determination, Gandalf set about reading his way through anything remotely connected to the time of the Last Alliance.

It took him two days and a total lack of sleep, as well as the good will of Denethor's servants, who cheerfully provided him with both hot meals and a seemingly unending supply of lamp oil, but Gandalf found that for which he had sought with but the vaguest of hopes: The Scroll of Isildur. As unassuming as it now looked, tied up with a rotting leather strip, it was still worth more than all of the gold or silver collected by Smaug upon which to bed his great belly, deep in the cellars of The Lonely Mountain. For buried within in the curled length was the information that Gandalf sought.

Carefully unrolling the aged parchment, Gandalf skimmed over the smug self-praise and the obligatory wartime platitudes until his keen eyes caught the description he was looking for. Barely two paragraphs long it was, yet it smote the wizard's heart in a way that no event, no story had done since first he'd set foot in Middle Earth. Written in the careful hand of Isildur himself, it read:

'The Great Ring, that same ornament with which Sauron would rule all within this fair land, is now mine. And I proclaim it for all time an Heirloom of the North Kingdom. Let the heirs of Elendil be ever aware of the record I leave, for should it be forgot, then all that we have fought for, all that we have gained, as well as all that is lost, shall be as nought.'

A lamp guttered out near his left hand and Gandalf blinked. "...shall be as nought." Lifting his eyes from the blurring letters, he rubbed them absently for a moment, knowing that Isildur had somehow divined the truth even then. If only he had chosen a different course...

Lowering his hand, Gandalf smoothed the bottom of the scroll with gentle fingers, come at last to Idildur's description of the ring itself and the words the wizard had most dreaded to see. The letters burned themselves into his mind as he read them. But worst of all, knowing as he did of Bilbo's pain before leaving for Rivendell, were the last few sentences:

'...and maybe were the gold made hot again, the writing would be refreshed. But for my part I will risk no hurt to this thing: of all the works of Sauron, the only fair. It is precious to me, though I buy it with great pain. And none shall touch it, for it is mine alone.'

Gandalf sat back and closed his eyes. He was weary beyond measure and though he had found what he sought, it served only to deepen his pain. '...It is precious to me...' How familiar those words, and how terrible. Rolling the scroll into a tight cylinder, Gandalf retied the leather about the center. He had messages to send. There was far too much to be done and far too little time in which to do it.

The lamps flickered briefly and Gandalf started. From behind him, a light step sounded on the stair and the wizard held his breath as a sudden flush of warmth spread through his chest. Spinning round on the high wooden stool, he caught sight of his visitor and rose from his seat with a cry of joy. "Even in this hidden place, I cannot escape your graceless form, you miserable excuse for a wizard!"

Planted on the last step but one stood Radagast the Brown, his long careworn face a study of light and shadow. "What a poet you are, my Olórin. Unless I miss my guess, you will sing me a song of welcome next." The corners of his mouth curled upward in a wicked grin. "And if the weight of age has not improved your voice, I fear I may have to swiftly withdraw." But laughter overcame the last of his words and with a silent shout, he jumped the final step and threw his arms round Gandalf, caught in turn within an embrace no less filled with joy as it was compounded by desperation.

The stood thus for many long minutes and much of what was said would have gone unheard by the keenest of Elvish ears. But time has a way of moving forward whether wizards will it or no, and Gandalf finally pulled back just far enough to study the thin face.

"You have been sleeping far less than you ought, my wizard of the woods and streams. And I suspect you have lately spent far too much time in the guise of your beasts than is good for you."

Radagast smiled, a gleam of gold flashing briefly in his eyes. "No, my love. But nearly. And events have taken most other choices away. You know I must go where my heart leads and do that which it says I must do."

"Then I expect I should be flattered it has brought you here, should I not?" Gandalf's eyes lit with a quick smile. "No, no, don't raise your hackles at me, Radagast the Brown. I promise you, I am impervious to such things. Although there are other things I might desire that heed not the impervious nature of wizards."

Radagast chuckled softly. "My dearest Olórin, when you string the words of men onto the thread of your tongue, you set my ears to dancing. No..." He placed a hand over Gandalf's mouth. "If we begin this, we must finish, and there is no time and this is no place." He smiled sadly, running the tips of his fingers over Gandalf's lips. "Instead, speak to me of why my heart called me here in this time of sudden dangers."

Gandalf nodded and sat back down on the high stool. Peering up at the slender wizard through eyes lined with weariness, he said softly, "You come unlooked for, but I think I know your errand. I must ask a boon of you and it is not a pleasant one." His eyes sparked from beneath the bushy brows. "We must find the creature called Gollum. He is far too elusive for both the Elves and the Rangers, and I must question him. And we must move quickly, although it may yet prove too late."

"Gollum, eh? Bilbo's creature from under the mountain? He always did sound a bad sort."

"Perhaps," Gandalf mused. "Although his part in this story is not clear to me." He snorted softly. "As though all the rest of it were."

"My dear Gandalf." Radagast spoke seriously, but a smile hovered in his eyes. "Once again, you try to read the writing before it is written." Ignoring Gandalf's gentle glower, he continued. "Even as the quill drops great blotches of ink along the spidery words, before you can read between the lines, you berate yourself for the mistakes that follow." Slipping the fingers of both hands gently through the long, white beard, Radagast tilted Gandalf's face into the light. "You are far too hard on yourself. We are only as wise as we are meant to be. And mistakes will happen and yet seem not to be mistakes when the story is done." His voice faded to a whisper as Gandalf's eyelids fluttered lightly, then closed altogether. "If what you read is read in pain, then of pain you shall read. And although there is pain to come, the story need not end in pain."

Radagast stood for a moment, his thumbs rubbing softly over Gandalf's lips and cheeks, his own eyes closed. Then, for a little while longer, he hummed a curious melody that set the lamps to flickering and dancing, their flames gone purest silver. The air was filled with the scent of flowers never seen within the borders of Middle Earth and peace settled slowly upon the room.

In time, Gandalf drew a deep breath and sighed, opening his eyes. Within their depths lay worlds upon worlds that even the Elves would have found strange. "Aiwendil. My love...your gift is precious but I have not told you all. You come unlooked for and most opportunely, it seems, for I have found something in this ancient place, something that offers both hope and sorrow. A moment only will it take to read it and you will understand what I must do."

Untying the ancient paper once more and holding it up to his face, Gandalf read aloud the words that Isildur had written so many years before, in a voice soft and crystal clear in the quiet of the dusty room. When there were no more words to read, he lowered the scroll back to the table, his fingers betraying the smallest of tremors.

Radagast's face was grave and it was a moment before he spoke. "So, you have found a way to prove..." His voice died away.

Gandalf nodded. "Yes. But I am sure now that Bilbo's ring is the One Ring and that Frodo is in very great danger."

"And you would have me help you find Gollum. Do you fear that the ring still holds him in thrall?" Radagast hesitated, then lowered his voice. "And that he will seek the one that possesses it now...?" He drew in a sharp breath, his face grown suddenly pale. "But that is not the worst you fear, is it?"

Gandalf stared into the bright flame burning near his hand. "No, not the worst, for Sauron surely suspects the Ring is found and will set all of his mind to seek his own and any who possessed it. But the time has come for the ending of things and my heart quails within me." His shoulders drooped and he whispered, "So many mistakes..."

Radagast laid his hand upon the weary shoulder, but remained silent as Gandalf spoke again.

"It is far past time to play our parts, but much is missing that we need to know." Gandalf's fists tapped lightly against the table. "Gollum may prove to be very important. Too many years have been spent in fruitless search and I fear we have not done enough to find that creature. Call your friends of woods and fields, of air and water, and discover his whereabouts. I will consult once more with Saruman. He is the wisest of the Council and may yet provide answers that elude the rest of us."

Radagast gripped the bony shoulder and smiled grimly. "It will be as you desire. Gollum shall be found. This I can promise."

"Your search will not be easy, my friend, for Gollum seeks the deep, dark places." Blue eyes stared deeply into gold-flecked brown. "As soon as I am able, I will join you, though all plans may come to naught in a war such as this."

Radagast's face clouded once more, but still he smiled. "Do what you can and it will be enough, my love." With strong, gentle fingers, he grasped Gandalf's arms and pulled him to his feet. "For you know, Gandalf the Gray, that what shines within you will yet burn bright enough to blind the Shadow should it burst free of its bounds." He caressed the folds of Gandalf's robes with trembling fingers. "And your color shall not always be gray..."

Gandalf chuckled and stepped closer. "And what of you, Radagast the Brown?" The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he smiled, slipping long fingers through the thick, feathery locks. "These dull earthen colors cannot hide you from my eyes. For I have seen you in Autumn, when you are the blue of the Anduin flowing deep and strong over its bed of living rock." His smile was echoed on Radagast's face. "And I have held you with the coming of Winter, when you wear the silver of the high clouds beating swiftly over the Gap of Rohan."

As close as lightning to air they stood, lit by a roomful of lamps gone to burnished gold, blazing still and hot on table, chair and floor. "And when I touch you in Spring, you bloom with the green of the vastness of Mirkwood and the rolling carpets of the Shire." With reverent fingers, Gandalf traced the fine lines shadowing the corners of Radagast's mouth. "But in Summer..." One trembling finger caught a tear from the lean, brown cheek and placed it upon his own lips. "When I lie with you in Summer, you are the gold in the eye of the eagle and the wolf, and always shall I love you beyond all measure possible in this place and time."

Nostrils wide with the breath of his effort, Radagast leaned his forehead against Gandalf's and laughed softly, a flurry of thrush wings at sunrise. "Olórin, my own, my love, how can I possibly..." Another breath of soft laughter and he lifted his head, shivering in the heat of the flames. "Until our time here draws to a close and we are called home, whether a thousand years pass or one, you will do what you must and it will be the right thing. And I love you." Dropping his hands, he stepped back, the light of endless suns shining through his eyes. "If you have need beyond what I now seek, my heart will know. If my power were greater..." A rueful grin tugged at his lips. "I will find you." Then turning swiftly, he leapt up the dark worn stones, and was gone.

For a very long time, Gandalf stood motionless in the silvered flicker of the lamplight, gazing into the shadowy depths of the empty stair, a fine rain of crystalline sparks trailing slowly down his cheeks.