Old and calloused with raised pink scars on the knuckles from unfriendly encounters with black blades. He remembered the insignificant stings and the blood that had seeped from those tired veins which flowed all the way back to his tired heart, strained from the centuries of both grief and joy, yet still remained strong. The dirt that rested beneath his nails held miniscule accounts of all the places he had been, all the places he had worked. Every imperfect triangle-shaped crease of skin that shifted with each gesture or movement seemed to him a single memory in a flood of times long passed, as if the entire story of all his long life was contained in the palms of his hands.
One time-worn but steady hand gripped Glamdring whilst the other gingerly wrapped its fingers around the simple wooden pipe. Pondering over ancient memories he thought, not for the first time, of the sea beyond the cold mountaintops and green grass fields. Would he go there? To that Valhalla, that immense watery hall of waiting, Mithlond? Surely he would then be able to see his fallen brethren, his kin. For it must be a lonely sort of existence, to be a single anchor in an ever-changing world that passes by with no time for eternity. But mortality has a bittersweet bite.
Would it be better to burn like Elendilmir, forever across the cold mountains and rolling hills and deep forests, shining brightly as the only fixed light in a world of growing darkness? Or should he, like all others, fade away into the abyss of uncertainty and incompletion, to let the white waves wash over him, breathing life into a new star?
A leaf crunched beneath my foot and he acknowledged my presence, although I guessed he had sensed it and my questions long before even I myself was aware of where my feet were leading me. Timidly I paused, unsure of whether to turn back or continue my half completed intrusion. I stood there awkwardly, with my hands limp at my side, my mouth opening to speak yet looking back I have no idea what I might've possibly said, for the unformed words died in my feeble throat when he spoke.
"Do not fret, Master Bilbo," his low voice said from somewhere far away, as he stared fixedly at the same rotting tree trunk that had captivated his gaze since before my arrival. A pale ring of blue smoke sailed from his aged lips that turned up into a small smile that glittered in his mischievous eyes as he glanced over at where I stood. "The time has not yet come for that…" he said with a hint of laughter.
"Ah, well I…" I said, turning back to look at the immense dark forest that lay beyond the golden fields but I was unsure as to what he meant. I started to ask, but then stopped, deciding against it. After all, wizards are rather cryptic fellows and I sensed that I would most likely find myself even more confused and perplexed than before if I had.
Just a short little peek into what might be going on inside Gandalf's crazy deep mind...
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