Secret Fire

A/N: First of all, most of this story takes place early in the First Age.  Some knowledge of The Silmarillion is almost essential for full understanding and appreciation of this story.  If you don't want to read the whole thing, at least read Ainulindalë and Valaquenta, and that should give you a pretty good idea of things.

I haven't seen many Gandalf romances here, and thought I'd try my hand at one.  Be patient, for updates will most likely be slow.  This story is slightly AU in that Gandalf quite clearly says that the Balrog is a "he."  However, I changed this minor detail (maybe not so minor to the Balrog ;-)) for the sake of the story.  Other than that, I am attempting to stay true to canon.

Prologue: An Old Flame

"Fly, you fools!"

Even as the words issue from his lips, his grasp on the crumbling stone bridge weakens, and he falls.  Into a long black abyss he falls, not knowing how long he will continue to fall, or what will meet him at the bottom.  The departing cries of his friends follow him, taunting him, tormenting him with the thought that despite all his efforts, he has not been able to do it at the last; he can protect them no longer.

At least the Ringbearer is leaving this place, he thinks.  He has met with far too many dangers upon the road already.  I only hope that Aragorn can protect him from the rest.  I know he will try.  For a time his thoughts linger upon the Ringbearer, that simple yet amazingly strong hobbit who stole his heart many years ago.  He can remember clearly the first time he ever saw him, before he knew of the Ring's evil, before the Shadow that had fallen upon his heart when Bilbo had found It materialized into great fear and great temptation.  He recalls the day when he was in the Shire, and the lad was seven, and Bilbo brought the lad to meet him.  The lad's excitement was contagious; the wizard felt nearly young again, listening to him chatter with excitement about his life, only to sit down at the wizard's feet and beg for stories.  The wizard talked until he could talk no more, and still the lad clamored for tales of adventures, with a stubbornness that was both annoying and endearing at once.  Bilbo told the lad firmly, "Now listen here, Frodo.  Your parents are good folk, they are, but a little suspicious of what they don't understand; and they'd not let me see you again for a good long time, if they knew that you'd seen a wizard.  So this is to be our little secret, understand?"  The lad nodded, and never had trouble keeping the secret, though the wizard had seen few that could do so at such a young age.  He knew from that day on that the boy was special.

His desire for the Ringbearer's safety, then, is not merely for the sake of the Quest.  It is a very personal desire, born of a great love and affection for the hobbit.  Although, he reflects, even that did not keep him from being tempted along the road, at least in Moria.

It was in Khazad-dum that the temptation proved its strongest, for there he came up against a foe greater than he.  When he realized the nature of his enemy, it became alarmingly clear to him that by his own strength, he barely stood a chance.  Only with the Ring could he truly hope to defeat the enemy.  And then the Ring called to him, called with that sweet, seductive voice which sounded eerily familiar, as if It whispered to him of a past life.  He wondered about this, but did not have time to ponder it closely, for he had to lead the Fellowship across the bridge.  With a struggle he rejected Its offer, and turned to face his foe.  And then he smote the bridge, and his enemy fell, and he began falling…

It has been long now, and he is still falling.  The fire of his enemy has been extinguished; but he can still sense it beneath him, a living shadow, darkness personified.  The whip which curled about his knees has released him; but he can see it still shimmering in the darkness, a hint of flame still left.  Fire against fire…  Eru save us; who shall win this battle?

Something has changed in the air; he can sense it.  He begins flailing about, trying to slow his descent, then suddenly pulls his arms in close beside him, to prevent them from breaking upon collision.  He lands noiselessly on wet rock, while he hears a splash beside him.  There is an underground pool here which has moistened the ancient stones.  He lies there, still, for a moment, then cautiously stretches out his hands to feel about him.  Grabbing hold of a ledge, he pulls himself slowly to his feet, feeling the weight of many mortal years upon his withered body.  He looks from side to side, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. 

Then he sees his enemy.

Its fire has been extinguished from landing in the pool; droplets hang from it, teeter, and fall to the ground.  A foul stench rises from it—the stench of a drowned animal, or of something worse; the stench of a fire that has been quickly put out.  Smoke still hangs in the air, surrounding it, unwilling to depart so soon.

He takes a step toward it—always the proactive one, always full of fire and life.  "Who are you?" he asks, though he knows it is a useless question.  "What do you want?"

The voice that answers is startlingly soft and silky, feminine yet strong.  "Do you not know me, Olórin?"

He gasps.  "Melarië…"