Title: An Unexpected Detour
Author: Mathonwy
Rating: K+
Characters: Gandalf
Summary: Gandalf waits in Valinor, impatient to return to the Fellowship. But reincarnation has a habit of turning complicated ...
Disclaimer: The world of Middle Earth and all characters contained therein belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. I hope that the indignities heaped upon his favourite wizard here will not cause too many revolutions in his grave ...
The whole situation was becoming very annoying. Perhaps, mused Gandalf, being dead had something to do with it.
In fairness, there were some advantages to the loss of his mortal state. He stood atop the summit of Taniquetil, in a courtyard filled with arctic shrubs: the only flowers that could survive at these icy heights. Everlasting winds whipped at his threadbare robes, and flurries of snow danced across the garden in the pre-dawn light. But Gandalf noticed neither the wind nor the cold. He had eyes only for the Lord and Lady seated before him.
"I will confess," said a perplexed Manwë, "that I am as surprised as you. I cannot claim to know the mind of Ilúvatar in full, but my understanding was that after vanquishing the Balrog, you were to return as the head of the Order."
"Nay," replied Varda, "His will is constant, though His means may change. Be at peace, Olórin: the Fellowship shall not want for guidance."
"B ... but!" Gandalf was almost hopping from frustration. "I am needed there! The elf and dwarf are at each other's throats, Boromir's going crazy, Aragorn doesn't have a clue where he's headed and both Gondor and Rohan are falling into ruin. They need a wizard!"
"And they shall receive one," said Varda. "As Mandos has foretold, the White Wizard will return to head the Order and bring hope to the peoples of Middle Earth. But it appears that the White will not be you." She gave Gandalf a sympathetic look.
Manwë frowned. "Then who ...?" Sudden realisation struck him and Gandalf at the same moment.
"Oh, no!" moaned Gandalf, and buried his face in his hands.
"Radagast the White shall lead the Fellowship now," said Manwë, much cheered. "He has been a stalwart against the forces of Sauron for many centuries, and this will be his greatest test." He turned to his wife. "Why could we not see this? It is so obvious now!"
Varda nodded. "Yes, and Rhosgobel lies but a few leagues up the Anduin. He can find the Ringbearer in no time, and ... do you have something to say, Olórin?"
Gandalf gave a few experimental groans. "Are you quite sure that ..." he managed at last, and paused.
"Yes?" prompted Manwë.
Gandalf shut his eyes and sighed deeply. "He is a very worthy wizard." He then returned to his muttered monologue, in which only the word 'nincompoop' was clearly audible.
"Then all is well," said Varda. "And I am sure that you do not begrudge your friend a leading role at the final test." She smiled warmly at the last comment, and somehow managed to miss the wizard's mutinous glare.
"But what am I meant to do in the meantime?" wailed Gandalf, and flung his arms out in despair. "For two millennia, I have travelled across the face of Middle Earth and battled Sauron's minions wherever I found them. Now the final act of the drama has begun, and I have leapt off the stage! What purpose can I possibly serve in Valinor, while the world hangs in the balance?"
"It is a puzzle," mused Manwë. "Shall we not send for Mandos?"
"He has come," called a rich, baritone voice, and a cowled figure stepped into the courtyard. Mandos was clad in robes of deep grey and black, and a sombre, bearded face peered out from underneath his hood. He sat on a bench next to Gandalf and glanced up at him keenly. "Such matters are always complicated, Olórin. After the business with Glorfindel I had hoped for an easier life. But do not fear: your path has already been chosen, though you may not see it yet. Your journeys are not at an end. You will return to Middle Earth."
"Then I am to rejoin the Fellowship?" cried Gandalf joyfully.
Mandos paused, deep in thought. "Yes," he said carefully, "you will see them again one day: I have seen this in Vairë's looms. But your time has not yet come." He smiled briefly. "For now, you must rest awhile. Your labours have been long and wearying; let Valinor heal your spirit."
Manwë nodded. "See some old friends."
"Catch up on your reading," added Varda.
"Get a haircut," muttered Mandos.
Galdalf exhaled deeply and allowed himself a smile, his mind calm at last.
Manwë rose from his seat and gave the wizard an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "I am glad that we have set your mind at rest, Olórin. Now, come and join us in my halls! We have much to talk of, and I suspect one more used to the gardens of Lórien may find this weather somewhat inclement."
Gandalf bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord." He then bowed in turn to Varda and Mandos. "I shall see them again?" he asked the last.
Mandos nodded, and waited as his companions filed out of the garden. He then adjusted his robes and pulled the cowl down over his face, hoping that no-one had seen his worried grimace.
Peregrin Took lazed in his favourite armchair, full and content. Well, almost content. He had everything that a respectable gentlehobbit could wish for: his belly was full of mushroom pie, his toes wiggled in front of a cheery fire, Diamond bustled happily in the kitchen behind him and sleepy little Faramir lolled on his lap. But something was nagging at him, just the same. He looked down and caught his son's gaze, the oddly profound expression that babies sometimes have. Little Faramir was a joy and a blessing, but that afternoon had been unsettling nonetheless. However you looked at it, eight months was awfully early for a hobbit-lad to start speaking. And didn't they usually start off on simple things like "mama"? Not fully-formed sentences.
Just what did he mean, "Tom-fool of a Took"?
THE END