"Yet some things there are that they cannot see, neither alone nor taking counsel together; for to none but himself has Iluvatar revealed all that he has in store, and in every age there come forth things that are new and have no foretelling."

-Of the Valar, from Ainulindale, The Silmarillion

He was surrounded by glorious white, standing on a far green field of flowing grass, a literal ocean of earth that danced in the wake of a delightful wind. A living, breathing, laughing world, and he suddenly laughed with it. He was home! The urge to go running across that perfect plain filled him with joy, and he took several halting steps forward. Thoughts of the Fellowship and the Ring fell from his mind. He looked down over the vast expanse of Valinor, and saw the great city Valmar gleaming like a beacon, drawing his gaze, and then his feet. He could hear the distant cry of the sea-gulls as they wheeled over the water. It would be so good to see everyone again, Manwe, Nienna, and his fellow Maiar.

Olórin… A deep presence filled his mind, and he turned in wonder. The voice fired his longing to be there at his side, serving and learning. Manwe, greatest of the Valar and Olórin's teacher, stood several feet away on the grass, his lighted eyes solemnly regarding the trusted, faithful Maia.

Olórin laughed with joy when he saw Manwe, and dropped to his knees in reverence. "My lord Manwe, it is you! Then I am home? Am I called back over the sea?" Say it is so, he silently begged.

Manwe chuckled deeply and pulled Olórin to his feet. Your joy in the good of life is blessed to see, my dear friend. Would that you might remain, but the will of Iluvatar speaks otherwise.

Olórin was dismayed. "Then I am to be sent back?"

You are not truly here, Olórin. You are only dreaming deep in the dreamworld, Manwe chuckled again at the baffled expression on his servant's face.

Olórin raised an eyebrow. "It seems so real, I had hoped…" He considered the recent events of Middle Earth. Memories flooded back to him, the Ring in the air, his jump to save it, falling into blackness. "Those seem like the dream. The fall, Manwe; it wasn't in the script to my knowledge."

Nor to mine, Olórin, but all is within the 'script' of Iluvatar. For a reason vague even to the Valar, a great test has been set before you.

Olórin's heart went cold. He knew now that this was indeed a dream, for had he been in Valinor, he could never have felt fear. "Test? You mean the Ring? My lord, I fear this test greatly. I fear the power of the Ring. Why has this terrible choice been set before me?" He searched the Vala's face. It had to be a joke, but Manwe rarely, if ever joked. Olórin had learned his sense of humor from others.

Manwe shook his head. No joke, my friend. The test is laid before you, and you will have to make a choice. A hard choice, but I trust you Olórin. You are the wisest of the Maiar. I trust you will make the right choice.

"I don't feel wise, Master," the truthful statement tumbled out with force. "I do not know what will happen, if the test will be too great for me. I told Frodo it would be so. I cannot say my feelings have changed immensely."

Ah, Frodo, the Ringbearer, Manwe recalled. He trusts you as well, and the rest of them, mortals and elves alike. You may not know, even I may not know, but Iluvatar knows. Let this comfort you.

The Maia bowed his head. Inside, he was comforted, but not by much. Before being sent to Middle Earth, he would never have doubted. Ever since he had walked as an old wizard in man's form, doubts had endlessly gnawed at him. His flesh and blood body was not so confident. He knew fear, pain, betrayal now, the lust for power, the abhorred pride. And now he was to be tested with the Ring, his greatest weakness?

Manwe watched his servant struggling to accept this information. Peace to you, Olórin. It pains me to see you so despondent. The true Olórin will come in the end, of depthless joy and laughter and compassion. Even a sword must be passed through the fire in order to become stronger. Perhaps more than once, but each time refines it. Remember this, Olórin. The Vala seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun, as if he were fading. In fact, the whole of Valinor was darkening, and Olórin felt himself pulling away. He had no wish to return, and clutched tightly to the dream.

"Please, I don't really want to go back. Can't Aragorn lead them?" He asked the shadowy form of Manwe.

The king is not yet ready to lead, and your task is far from over. Remember, Olórin, they need you still. We will always be waiting here for you, but it is not yet time. Farewell, dear one… Manwe slipped from his vision, along with the rest of Valinor, and Olórin found himself sinking into the quiet darkness once again. He did not struggle anymore, now that he knew what he must do.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He was cold, awfully cold. It was all around him, up his sleeves and in his beard, pressed against his face-cold, sticky, and wet. Nasty… He had to get up, or freeze. Slowly, one eye pried itself open and peered out. The ancient blue gaze saw white, and nothing else. I'm lying in snow then. A soft groan split the silence of the air as he painfully lifted his head. The white snow reflected the sunlight directly at him, making him squint.

In the quiet that followed, the fuzzy shapes began to take form, snow drifts, boulders, scrub brushes, an occasional tree. The sun was past overhead, on its way down for the afternoon. He was lying on his front in a large chasm of Caradhras. Steep, sheer cliffs rose on both sides, a score of feet from his prone and aching body.

The air was so quiet. Down here there was no whistling wind or other voices. Other voices. It began to come back to him, the Quest and the Fellowship. He had fallen from the trail.

Without thinking, he struggled to sit up, and put his weight on his left arm. The wrist burned with a sudden fire, and he hissed a sharp intake of breath, pulling the arm up against his chest. Such biting pain! He wondered if it were broken or sprained, knew he needed a splint at the least. Carefully he sat up and pulled his thoughts together. I am still alive, bless the Valar; I don't know how I escaped such a fall with only an injured wrist. He tentatively stretched out each remaining appendage, one after another, and found with relief that they all worked. Thank Manwe for that miracle. His head was a bit sore; it felt like a dwarf pounding his hammer in a forge.

A small trouble though, compared to his other predicament. He gazed up, and up…and up. The cliffs seemed to have no end, but snow swirled about a few hundred feet up, obscuring the walls. He had come from up there? The walls were angled but too steep to climb, especially one-handed. I will have to go forward then, or back. The trail down the mountain looked more perilous when he turned to inspect it. It narrowed greatly, a broken path overhung with loose boulders. Forward it is, then. What I wouldn't give for some Longbottom leaf, and my staff. He couldn't use his pipe without tobacco, and his staff lay on the upper trail, with the Fellowship. I hope someone sensible is taking care of it, and not Peregrine Took. His hat lay in the snow beside him, and he donned it once again.

He almost stood, and then realized his right hand was still clenched in a tight fist, numb and unresponsive with cold. Within, he could feel the cool metal band, and he forced his hand open. Yes, he had caught it all right; remorse shot through him, as remnants of his dream resurfaced. A test, Olórin…I do not know…Iluvatar knows…a test…pass through the fire…Gandalf squeezed his eyes shut, and a single tear slid down his worn face. Why was it only a dream? Why could I not have gone back? Why must I be tested so? There was no answer.

The Ring shone brightly in his open palm. Gleaming gold glittered up at him, whispering promises, of power, freedom, safety…The Grey Wizard stared at it, mesmerized as doubts began afresh, poking him like so many painful knives. This Ring is in my grasp. I could right so many wrongs. Is it wrong for me to use it? He jerked in horror as he processed his thoughts. NO! I cannot. It is wrong. It must be destroyed. I must get this back to Frodo, as soon as possible.

He forced himself to look away in a small victory. He was appalled at the strength of the Ring's pull. More power, greater temptation. That's why Frodo was chosen, an innocent, young and powerless, but so much stronger than even the Maiar. Poor Curumo, did he even try to resist?

Saruman had fallen; Gandalf could not afford to do so. He had to resist, if the Valar would give him the strength. He stood up, brushing the snow from his heavy grey robes with his good hand. He reluctantly slid the Ring into his empty tobacco pouch (he'd run out of leaf several days ago) and pulled the drawstrings tightly shut. Don't open it again, he warned himself. Or you may not be able to resist.

"Now for a way out," he gravely told a nearby scrub tree. "The forward path will be my path. I do wonder if Aragorn chose the same. Along the way, I shall look for a suitable stick with which to make a splint. You, my dear friend, are too spindly."

As Gandalf the Grey wearily limped forward, the Ring sat, patiently plotting its next attack. It was pleased with the initial introduction. Doubts had been renewed in the creature's mind. The part of Sauron in the Ring had finally recognized the wizard as Olórin, a fellow Maia. Olórin had always been known for his loyalty, mercy, and mirth, as well as wisdom. The way to his heart was through pity. Olórin cared for others far too much; it would eventually be his downfall.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Are you all right, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked for the tenth time in the hour. The snow storm had been steadily growing in power, and the Fellowship had stopped to catch its breath. Huddled in a tight circle to conserve warmth, the eight walkers sat in gloomy silence.

Frodo gave Sam a tremulous smile. "It abandoned me, Sam. Can you believe it? It just up and left…I couldn't stop it." There was a dazed look in his eyes. Sam patted his shoulder.

"There, there now, Mister Frodo. We'll get it back, and Mister Gandalf too. He is a wizard, and wizards are infamous for getting out of tight spots. Remember Mr. Bilbo's tale about the orcs and the flaming trees?" Sam chuckled at the mental image of grave old Gandalf stuck in a tree.

His laughter was infectious, and Frodo joined in, earning puzzled looks from the others. Sam told the story and soon all were smiling. "Gandalf certainly makes good use of the eagles," Frodo admitted. "Made…No, still makes. He's alive."

"He is alive," Strider said confidently. "We're going to find him. Stick close for now, and share your warmth. This wind carries a fell chill…" he trailed off.

"Almost unnatural," Legolas whispered beside him, too quietly for the others to hear. "I do not like this turn of events, Aragorn. I feel the Enemy is moving. I fear for Mithrandir." He shook a fine layer of snow from his shoulders.

"So do I, but do not speak of this before the little ones. They are frightened enough." Aragorn sighed deeply, and Boromir turned towards him in alarm.

"Do you mean then that the Grey Pilgrim might take the-"

"Hush, he will not," Aragorn's eyes were hard steel. "He may be tempted, but he will not. Speak not such evil here."

"How do you know? We all know-the temptation is strong," Boromir's eyes took on a strange gleam. "And would it be so terrible if he did? Victory would finally be assured. Gondor would be safe." His voice grew passionate. "I see no folly in fighting fire with fire."

Legolas pierced him with a stern elven glare. "Nothing is safe when the Ring is wielded," he replied heatedly. "Mithrandir knows this."

"He knows, but does he believe it? I know what you say, but is it the truth?" Boromir pressed. Aragorn joined Legolas in glaring at the Steward's firstborn.

"Leave off this fruitless argument," he ordered, and did not notice when Boromir rankled under his command. The hobbits looked up in surprise at his sharp tones, and Pippin leaned forward. The young tweenager was worried.

"What's wrong, Strider?"

Aragorn forced a smile. "Nothing, Pippin. We were only discussing the storm. The temperature is dropping."

The storm of the Ring, Frodo realized. They worry for Gandalf and the Quest, I can see it in their eyes, but they would not have us worry. And the temperature is dropping; everyone is on edge, snappish, cold inside. I feel empty and aching inside. The Ring is gone. His thoughts ran franticly over and over in his curly head. "Perhaps we should go on, to find a better shelter for the night?" he called over the howling wind.

"Will the shelters grow better or worse?" Gimli wondered, fingering Gandalf's staff and staring up at the sky. "This mountain grumbles at us. We are not wanted. Yet Frodo is right; we will freeze if we remain."

Thank you, Gimli, Frodo accepted the dwarf's hand and pulled himself up. The big folks rose and helped the hobbits, but their icy gazes to each other were as cold as the falling snow. Frodo hated the dissonance that the Ring created, and was helpless to stop it. With Legolas leading the way, they resumed their trudge through the snow. The storm grew steadily worse.

Thanks for reading again; drop a review if you'd like to and tell me how I'm doing. Apologies for the strange methods to break up the chapters. This site and my story have differing opinions on how to do so.

I'm going to try something a little different and review my reviews, so…

Dear MaryRose Brandybuck---Thanks for the kind review, and being interested in more. I do intend to continue the story, but the mistake you pointed out isn't really a mistake at all. The Istari were Maiar sent to Middle Earth to indirectly combat Sauron. Gandalf, or Olórin, was known as the wisest of the Maiar. He is a Maia, just like Sauron. I've done as much research on Gandalf as one possibly can, from the Silmarillion to the Hobbit to the Lord of the Rings, to all those other books that are pure notes by Tolkien. There's not a lot on Gandalf out there, but it's a fact that he is a Maia. Like the Ring thinks at the end, Gandalf and Sauron are of the same original make. Sauron was originally a Maia under Aule, and Gandalf was under Manwe and Varda. Again though, thanks much for the review.

Dear Julestripe---Thanks for the encouragement to continue. I hope you've liked the latest installment.

Dear Foo---Evil Gandalf? I've entertained the idea for some time, but who knows? I've actually considered making two versions of this story…