Short A/N : In the last chapter, the 'trailer line' for Gandalf was : 'So tell me! What does it take to steal the kiss of an old man?' But I am afraid that particular line has been deleted from the story. :( Long story short - Gandalf gave me the writer's block, then I decided to approach the story from a whole new angle, and then the story became something very different from what I had originally planned. I guess this is what happens when you tackle writing without a well-thought-out plan... (I tend to be rather impatient, and this series of oneshots doesn't have any preplanned plot : only vague ideas. I post the 'trailer' line on whim and then write the story to match it. :D )

Hopefully you like this oneshot well enough to forgive me. Enough said, please enjoy!

Gandalf

A tale told in three moments

The first time we met, I figured we could be friends.

Several meetings later, I figured we might be more.

The last time I see him, he's leaving.

I never even knew his name.

The first time we met, I figured we could be friends.

I had just finished giving a piece of my mind to a group of young rascals. To be honest, I'd grabbed them by their ears, given them the spanking of their lives, shook them until they mumbled out drunken apologies, then dragged them out and thrown them out into the snow. No funny business in my tavern, that's for sure. Everyone knows well enough not to mess with the old barkeep of the Grey Pilgrim – the results are always messy.

I know I can be intimidating, if anything. I've got me broad shoulders that dwarf most men, I tower over most of the women in town, and the village children swear that my booming voice could be heard all the way to the mountain peaks. I've weathered the ages well. My hair is white but wiry, my skin is wrinkled but tough, my cheeks as ruddy red as ever.

That's why I am surprised when I spot him laughing at me. His eyes twinkle under those bushy grey brows of his, and he laughs long and hard, a throaty chuckle that makes me want to join in at once. He sweeps his long, pointy hat off and gives me an amused look.

"String them up naked by their boot-laces and make them lick their toes backward? That must have been the most creative threat I have ever heard in my whole life."

"You don't like it, Old Master, you leave," I shrug. "I don't tolerate no nonsense in the Grey Pilgrim."

Life is not kind to an old widow with no children. I know I am not refined, or womanly, or anything of the sort – but you ain't solve any problems with drunkards by sweet-talking them. Heaven knows I've had enough experience with that.

But he doesn't look offended, not one bit, and he laughs again instead. There is that twinkle in his eyes again, and for a second I figure that he might just be more than he seems.

"Oh, no, my good woman," he says, and draws a long breath from his pipe. "I liked it very much. I liked it very much indeed."

Several meetings later, I figured we might be more.

The old man with the pointed hat visited several times after that, and if I dared say so, we got along famously. He had at least as much fire in him as he did, and for the first time since my old man died, I found myself going on about my daily business with a smile on my face. Drat that pointy-hatted fool. I'm far to old to go gamboozling about with mysterious old men with long sticks - and I know it, well. I'm beginning to feel stiff and aching on rainy days and if I'm not getting old(er) Eru can have my head.

But, well, he is enjoyable... so I let my heart run away. I hear that he's someone to be reckoned with, a wizard or some such, and people talk funny about him. I don't care one bit, since he hasn't bewitched anything in my tavern and that's more than enough for me. In fact, I manage to tell off most people when I catch them gossiping behind his back and I'm darn not peaceful about it. Several more spankings and ear-shakings later, he laughs at me again – that dratted twinkle in his eye! - and thanks me for defending him.

I just huff and turn away. And no, that heat rising to my cheeks is because of the fire. What else could it be?

Then he just has to go ahead and save my life.

I had wandered a bit farther than I was accustomed to. I'd run out of herbs for my famous stew, and it was a rainy day, and stew was an all-time favorite in foul weather. On top of that, my errand boy had got sick and couldn't work, so I'd gone into the forest myself.

I had this strange foreboding, a cold tingle down my spine that told me all was not right, and I'd hurried, nearly ripping out the herb in chunks. I had gathered the last, strong-smelling green clump into my basket and turned around...

...And come face-to-face with the foulest creature I had ever seen in my whole life.

I take in the ugly, yellow eyes, the stench, and the hideous countenance, and realize that I've gotten myself into a fine mess. If that isn't an orc - then I'm a rabbit. But if I am going to die anyway, I want to go down fighting, so I let out an impressive roar and swing a thick branch around me – a makeshift cudgel.

But deep down I know that this might be the end of me, and moments from my life flash across my eyes in a blinding mix of colors. The images still, and I'm treated with a fond mental picture of that darn wizard, bushy eyebrows drawn low in mirth, that dratted twinkle in his eye.

My old man will have my head, I think fondly, and brace myself for the end. But it never comes.

There's a fearsome flash of light, a blast of concentrated, pure power, and a faint sizzling fills my ears. The air smells terrible, and I turn around, and see the foul beasts that had surrounded me lying on the ground dead – charred to a crisp.

My wizard stares at me, a wild light in his eyes, and for a split second I am afraid of him. He really is a wizard, I realize, and he's something much more than what a simple barkeep like I can understand.

"Are you alright?" he asks, half breathless, and I realize he's worried for me. This – being, old man, wizard, friend, whatever, worried for me. He's saved my life. Then my heart skips a beat, and I turn away, scowling fiercely, because powerful or not I'll be caught dead before he sees me blush.

And I realize – we're sure friends, but maybe, maybe, we might be a little more.

The last time I see him, he's leaving.

"You're leaving," I state incredulously. The business's done for the day, since it's well past midnight and all the drunkards have been chased out to find themselves some sense. He'd just opened the door, strolled in like he owned the place, plopped himself down on a bench I'd been cleaning, and just like that – announced that he was leaving, never to come back again.

To be frank, ever since that night he'd saved my life with his magic, I'd known he would have to leave one day. He was something mysterious, different, and beings like him and common people like me just didn't mix. Plain and simple. So I'd tried to make the most of the time with him. Whenever he'd visit, I would take out my pipe and smoke with him like there was no tomorrow. I would jest, laugh out loud, make good-natured jabs (with both words and elbow). We would storm the Grey Pilgrim's store of ale and drink well into the morning, and he would take a look at the inn's sign-board and burst into laughter, and refuse to tell me just why he was laughing - yet again.

But I'd never imagined our farewell to be so... abrupt, and I am taken aback. For once, I am at a loss for words.

He takes me in, his gaze so old and wise and sad and melancholy that I almost feel like a child. (Which is absurd, because I'm the oldest woman in the village, and that is a considerable feat with the town's abundance of elders.) He reaches out a hand and pulls out his clay pipe, toying with it, never taking his eyes off mine.

"You are a good friend," he says, and I wonder if I am reading more into his tone than I should. Or does he really mean something more than a mere friend, a mere acquaintance? Again, his eyes are old, so old, and unreadable, as if a wall stands before me and him. I grunt in frustration.

"You were, too," I say. "But you're leaving, you old fool. You could have told me earlier."

"I could have," he admitted, bowing his head a tad. His grey locks and beard tumbles all over the place at that, "I could have."

"You should have." I correct him. He raises his head and rests his arms upon his knees.

"Mayhap I should have. But I could not. But before our farewell – you may ask me one boon, anything you wish. You would find quite a lot is in my power."

I could have asked for riches beyond measure, carts full of gold, a nice old man my age I could court, fine silks and spices from foreign lands... but all I wish to ask him is to stay, to tell me how he really feels about me, and this irks me – I am no lovesick damsel pining over her knight. And I am not daft – I know he is someone very important, powerful, and he has things to do – his place is not by my side.

But I cannot help what escapes my lips.

"Give me a kiss, then." There, it is said; it cannot be undone, and I put my hands upon my hips, face set in stubborn lines. Oh, my bones creak so... I am getting older by the day. And, well, I suppose I could ask that much. It's not anything grand anyway.

My wizard, for a second, looks as if he's for once at a loss what to do.

Then, before I can do anything, he's pulled me in close and pressed my lips to his. It's nothing mighty romantic, mind : his lips are rough and chapped, he smells faintly of pipeweed and something else, and it stops at that – a chaste brushing of lips.

"-I must go," he says abrubtly, and I wonder at what I see upon his face. Is it lingering fondness? Regret? Mortification?

But before I can say anything, he mumbles a hurried farewell and he is out of the doors before I know it. Snapping out of my daze, I rush towards the doors and throw them open, but all is quiet and not a shadow is in sight. Drat that damned wizard and his magic. He had to vanish into thin air, too. And – and I might never see him again, and that thought somehow echoes hollowly in my mind.

Did I love him? I ask myself. Well, love is an awfully serious word, with implications of all sorts of deep, mushy things and sacrifice. Mayhap I didn't really love him. But I do know that I'd been awfully fond of that wizard of mine, and given time my feelings might've grown into something much, much more.

I'll never see him again. He's said farewell.

I feel hollow and sad and strangely content and awfully weird all at once, and I slap myself upside the head. I'm getting sentimental in my old age, I mutter angrily, and slam the tavern doors shut. The room still smells of pipeweed.

I never even knew his name.

Next Up : Pippin

'I wanted to hug her and clock her over the head all at once. Terribly confusing, really; I guess the moment I figured it out was the moment I asked her to marry me.'

Another A/N XD : As always, many, many thanks to those who have read, reviewed, favorited, and/or followed this story so far! I have fun writing these, so really do hope you have fun reading these as well. Reviews and constructive criticisms receives my double thanks, but I won't blame you if you don't review - heaven knows I'm guilty of 'lurking', a lot of the time. I am just too shy. :)