Disclaimer: I believe everyone knows the drill. I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien. I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them. I hope he forgives me this.
A/N: Sorry, this one is short. Remember: Patience is a virtue.
Being the Seventh Part of . . . .
With The Rising and Setting of Anar
That night, Gandalf the Grey spoke with two hobbits in their small smial that was lit with naught but a single, very tired looking candle.
"I know a way," Gandalf said quietly, for the darkness was thick and foreboding--it seemed to dislike voices. "Today at the crossing young Milo put my misgivings to ease. Tomorrow night you, Drogo, and your dear wife will go out as for a midnight jaunt, to walk and talk beneath the stars." Drogo merely nodded at this--many was the occasion when he and his wife did such. Another reason why Asphodel regarded him with distaste. Oddities--not a common Hobbit characteristic. "But you will not come back--"
Primula barely contained a sob as her eyes flew to the darkened doorway that led to young Frodo's room. He slept contently, unaware of what transpired about him.
"--but get into a boat and cast off out into the Brandywine."
"A boat, Gandalf?" Drogo wondered weakly. He could not believe this was happening.
"Yes," the wizard nodded. "I leave in a short while to go to the Old Forest. Elves are common in that wood and I would ask for their aid. They will meet you in the very center of the Baranduin. From there, you will know what to do."
"One night?" Primula's voice was so very quite, hardly heard by either gentlehobbit or wizard.
"I am afraid that is all we can afford, my dear," Gandalf said. "I dare not wait any longer, for the sooner we do this the better it will be. I know you may take this wrongly, but it is perhaps for Frodo's best if we do this now. He is still so very young . . ."
Drogo looked at the wizard sharply, his gaze heated with pain and grief. Reaching to his wife, he enveloped her in a warm embrace and, silently, she cried against him. "One night," Drogo gritted, his stony gaze fixed on the wizard. They regarded each other for a time before the hobbit crumbled and buried his face in Primula's long curling hair.
Weary with grief, Gandalf rose to his feet to make the slow and tedious march to the Old Forest, where he would talk long with the Elves, far into the dawning of a new day. He never said ought to the two grieving hobbits nor saw again the sleeping child for many years to come. Indeed, not until, as he foresaw, the Shadow's rise in the East.
A Company of Nine would set out to cast it back.
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