In Dreams Gandalf
Rose G
Gandalf pulled his battered cloak tighter around himself and wondered whether he dare increase the fire without giving their location away. He sat there for a while, willing his eyes to stay open. Eventually, he saw a dark shadow stand up from nearby and walk over to him.
'Gandalf?' It was Aragorn, his voice cloudy with sleep. 'My turn on watch.'
The Mair didn't speak, simply lying down in silence and pulling the blanket that Aragorn gave to him up to his face. He was dimly aware of Aragorn pacing around, humming the Lay of Luthien under his breath. 'Gandalf, go to sleep. I'm on watch.' The Ranger resumed his pacing and humming, his weariness wearing off.
Able to relax now, Gandalf allowed sleep to take him. A few minutes later, Aragorn paused again in his pacing, wondering at the smile on that old, lined face. What are you dreaming about, my friend? he wondered, and then continued on his endless walk though every stiff muscle screamed in protest.
Gandalf dreamt of the West. He sat astride Shadowfax and the great white stallion cantered over the Sea, his hooves touching water in the wake of the last ship to sail. His old tired body felt strong now, the energy that he'd always felt in his mind infecting his body. Voices, known from some distant past that he did not fully remember, rang in his ears, telling of affection and friendship.
And as Shadowfax cantered on, the last hurt of his rider's mortal existence was eased – the burning on his skin, the smell of death from his body. Ageless, young again, immortal and unharmed, astride the white charger, Gandalf was borne into the West.
Aragorn raised them early from sleep and for the last morning, all nine of the Fellowship left dreams behind and walked in the dawning light of day.