"Fly, you fools!"
And he was gone.
Down, down to Goblin-town below, my lads!
But this was to be much further, much deeper than any dark holes where the goblins hid. This was the chasm spanned by Durin's Bridge, and not even the dwarves who had long ago carved Moria from the earth knew how far down it went. The Balrog was far below him, his flames fanned into a dazzling fireball as he plummeted.
The walls raced past dizzyingly, endless gulf beyond gulf. Now and then a blind passage would loom, and be instantly gone as the Wizard hurtled past. Once he saw a large plateau, ringed with sputtering torches and crowded with jostling orcs along the edge, wailing in terror that the Balrog had just fallen to his Doom.
But even in the stretched instant in time that Gandalf could see the orcs far below the main levels of Moria, as night was falling outside and the rest of the Fellowship were racing for the Silverlode, he knew that time had changed somehow.
He could see the chains on the walls behind the orcs, and the clubs in their hands; he could hear the tales of horror taught to their young, he could feel the despair of their lives. They were the orcs of Moria, and their Lord was now fallen- the Power of their dark dreams was destroyed. Still on and down he plunged.
And then the world stopped.
An immense cavern, old as Middle-Earth itself maybe, and far below was water which had collected since the first stars had been seen in the skies outside. No shafts penetrated to these depths; no chance ray of the sun could find its way to the very heart of the world beneath Khazad-dum. But other lights there were: strange, luminous growths covered the walls and produced a twilit darkness of twisted shadows.
Far below Gandalf saw the Balrog strike the surface of the water with a tremendous splash and the fireball went out abruptly. A pall of steam rose from the water with a great hiss. His grip tightened on Glamdring, which still glittered ghostly white, for he knew that though his dark fire was quenched, the Balrog still lived. Such a thing could not be destroyed by a simple fall: far off were its beginnings, in the lands beyond the seas, and mighty it had been in its making. It was not of Middle-Earth, and as such was invulnerable to the tests of time and happenstance which could befall any of its natural inhabitants.
Gandalf remembered the days of the downfall of Thangorodrim, and the chaining of Morgoth. The Hosts of the Valar had thrown down the walls and laid bare the eyeless dungeons, but in so doing, the lands of Middle-Earth had been broken. He had been sent by Nienna to care for the sick and the wounded, to offer hope in despair. Eonwe, the Herald of Manwe had come to him for counsel.
"We have ended the Realm of Morgoth. Tulkas himself has laid the bonds on his limbs. But is our task ended? Many of Morgoth's lesser servants were scattered upon Middle-Earth before we came, and of his greater servants we have not yet accounted for all. I would not have them escape, but for their capture I would not see the destruction of all this Middle-Earth."
Olorin (as Gandalf then was called) looked around at the ruined lands: great smoking fissures scored the earth, and with the sight of far-vision that was given to him he saw far off the devastation in other lands. Kingdoms had been set ablaze under a great rain of fire from the sky, cast up when the Towers of Thangorodrim had fallen. Crops had burned. Many a field lie now burned and barren, and many an innocent child would now die of starvation. Lifetimes of men would pass before Middle-Earth again would be green, and the creatures who dwelt here could again breathe clean air. He knew that far beneath the wreck of Thangorodrim there must be passages delved, far beyond light, where evil things had fled.
But to pursue them would rend the very earth, beyond all knowledge and foretelling.
"We must weigh here the lesser of evil. We know that the Power of Morgoth is broken forever, yet evil has not been completely ended. Sauron himself has escaped your wrath, O Eonwe. Yet my cares are with those who still dwell here: we have not been appointed to end all that is here. My heart tells me that our task, for the present, is accomplished- but that I myself shall perhaps rue the evil choice we now face."
Eonwe had ceded to his wisdom long ago, and the Hosts of the Valar had left Middle-Earth.
As the black waters below seemed to race upward, he knew that he now faced the test: a challenge to the wisdom of counsel given long ago.
But just as he took a deep breath and prepared for the impact, there was a tremendous flash and a great woof!- ing sound, and Gandalf was in the middle of a fireball forty feet across. Suddenly he felt the fiery grip of the thongs about his knees, and realized he had been duped: the Balrog had held him close, and even in falling had cast some dark spell which had altered Gandalf's perception.
Old fool! He thought to himself.
This is no simple foe. This creature has powers you do not guess! Be wary!
The Balrog's sword had been broken on the bridge, but its very fire was a fearsome weapon in its own right. Gandalf was horribly burned, but his clothing remained mostly intact, for it had been made in Valinor, and the garments of the uttermost West withstood the flames. But Gandalf's body was that of a mortal man: it could be destroyed.
With a desperate downward stroke he severed the bonds of the whip, and kicked violently away, just as a shadowy hand reached towards him. He emerged smoking from the top of the fireball, but still plummeting into the chasm and writhing in the agony of his burns. Then all went black as Wizard and Balrog plunged into the water at the bottom of the world.
Strange images.
Bilbo Baggins!
The Eagles are coming!
And cold, like he had never before known or imagined- and he knew it was saving his life. In the half-state of consciousness he was in, several days passed in the world outside.
Dark thoughts.
Nightfall in Rivendell.
No Eagles are coming. Frodo must face the Fire alone. He has not the strength. This I know in my heart.
A vision came to him then, hazy at first, then hard and clear, but far away: Frodo stood upon the brink, above the very Cracks of Doom, and claimed the Ring for his own.
Middle Earth is lost. It shall become a place of fear and fire, and only the Elves can escape.
I have failed the Fellowship.
Wakefulness drifted slowly back to him as he lay floating in the dark. He opened his eyes. He was in an immense cavern, whose walls were twilit with strange light cast by luminous growths. Off in the distance he could see the remains of the Bridge of Khazad-dum: it had crashed into the gulf a short distance from where he had landed, and a short segment of it stuck up out of the water at an angle. Other ruins there were also, short pieces of wooden scaffolding which must have fallen in when the mines of Moria were young, and the mithril-lust ran hot in the ancient dwarves.
Gandalf willed his hands to move, and they did, barely, though they were so numb that he could not feel them. Slowly he made his way to the ruined bridge, and with difficulty managed to heave himself out of the water. Waves of pain washed over him from his burns, which the intensely cold water had allayed while he was in it. But he knew that he must endure the pain, and try to think of some way to survive. He had no idea whatever how he could escape from this place.
And as he sat, at the bottom of the world, the full blackness of the fate of Middle Earth lay heavy on his shoulders. His staff, the very emblem of his Power was broken, and he had failed of his purpose. There was no escape. A great sadness and weariness came upon him, and Gandalf the Grey, Istari of the West, wept.
A tear rolled down his cheek and fell
(Take)
seemingly in slow motion, and he beheld it as it slowly drifted downwards,
(this)
towards his hands, which lay folded on his lap, and his eye fell upon
(Take this)
...his Ring.
Take this Ring, Master...
The words of Cirdan long ago, in what seemed a different world.
...for your labours will be heavy, but it will support you in the weariness you have taken upon yourself...
And it seemed to him that he heard, far away, laughing voices of hobbit-children, and cool water running in streams under sunny banks, and leaves rustling on branches to gentle breezes of long-ago days, and days yet to come...
For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world grown chill.
...and underlying all the subtle sounds of Sun, Moon, and the Stars of Varda, and Middle-Earth and all it contained, he could hear a great Music which played on, unbounded by deed or fate.
The Secret Fire sparked into being within him then, just a pinprick of spirit at first, but then welling up, a great wonder and joy which his burned and battered body was unable to contain. Light began to emanate from Gandalf, subtle waves of Power drifting on the dank airs of the deeps.
Despair is ever the weapon of the Enemy, Gandalf thought.
Now I have hope.