by Llwyden ferch Gyfrinach

The wind breezing over the plains of Rohan whips around Edoras on its high hill, and his cloak and robes billow around him unceasingly. His hair streams out silver-white in the sun, gleaming brighter than Meduseld's golden roof behind us.

I still search for signs of the Gandalf that was -- Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, hair the colour of stormclouds and experience mapped in his face and hands. But as he looks out over the plains, his face is hidden from me, and the white wizard at my side could as easily be Saruman. I do not know this new, white wizard as well as I knew the grey. Saruman wore the colour as both badge and shield, keeping from him the grit and the sweat of humanity. I cannot think of him drinking beer in a tavern, muddy feet on a stool, blowing many-shaped smoke rings. Will his successor?

Then he sighs and shakes his head, turns from his contemplation, and he could be no-one else. The wry humour that twists his mouth, the fondness and life twinkling in those still-grey eyes -- this is my beloved friend.

"North, you said?"

I nod, and point out Eomer's path to him, near as I can make it from our vantage point. "But exiled or not, I think it likely he will keep to the trails of orcs and wild men. He did not strike me as one to flee from a fight."

He nods in return and squeezes my shoulder. His hand stays there as our eyes search for any hint of the exiles, though even Legolas could not find them now. But perhaps this new Gandalf, the white wizard... He has used more power openly on this day than ever I have known him to before. I think, perhaps, the last and greatest days of his task are coming. This war with Sauron must end soon, and he will either fall or return whence he came. Almost, I could wish this conflict would continue, so long as he would remain with us. With me. I do not want to lose him again.

Yet he returned. I close my eyes to remember the moment, the joy that froze me in my tracks. Not the same as before, but he is with us. Perhaps. We have been on the move since the grey dawn of morning, no time for comfort, and indeed I do not even know if this new Gandalf has need of any.

I open my eyes to find him looking at me. His brow creases as if in pain, a look I am familiar with. Often the same look would chide me when I had missed something painfully obvious. I am tempted to laugh; I hold it in, but my lips still curl. No matter how many times he is sent back to us, he will still be Gandalf. The creases of his face may not show all his years, but that does not mean those times have been erased. He could appear as young as the children playing in the city, and that would not change who he is.

I was raised in the house of Elrond; I know the truth of the Istari. Had I become acquainted with Saruman as a child, perhaps that knowledge would have overawed me, but learning the ways of Mithrandir only made me curious, hungering for more of his knowledge and company. Much of what I learned of the world, I can trace to his wisdom. Or to his foolishness.

He lifts his hand to hail one of Theoden's guards, and I miss its presence almost immediately. The man hurries over to us, bowing before the great wizard, and I hide my smile at what my friend would undoubtedly call senseless flattery, given this same man denied us entrance earlier, with little courtesy.

"Which villages to the north still stand?"

Too few, as it happens. The wild men have done their master's work well. Yet fewer of the Rohirrim have died than I would expect. He dismisses the guard and we are on our own once again. He sighs. "How far Saruman has fallen." His voice is deep and weary, and I curl my hand around the one on his staff, taking the other in a strong grip.

"We will not fail. We must not."

He smiles at me, and his smile is the same I remember from childhood, my mentor approving of some new skill learned, and from my adulthood, my dearest friend sharing confidences or a blanket. And that is a comfort we've not had in too long.

It was not a smile I got when first I stroked him as a lover, I remember; it was a laugh. Never have I been refused so courteously! But as Lord Elrond may attest, I am a stubborn suitor. A child I might be next to one of the Maiar, older than the world, but was Elu Thingol any less so to Melian? Yet I stand as proof of that union, proof that whatever heart may beat in their chest, their blood can still be stirred as ours. But in these darkened days, the delight of men must give way to necessity. I stroke his hand where I hold it, the only pleasure we can take at this moment.

"We will prevail," he agrees, but I know he has not seen it. He speaks from the same hope and fear that I do. We can allow no other outcome here, not even in our thoughts.

He lays a hand on my cheek for a moment, then turns to go. I follow him to the stables, unwilling to part sooner than we must. So little time since I thought him dead, and all our times since then spent in company; these few moments are the nearest we have come to quiet conversation, and time is too precious to squander on the confirmation of his being my body and heart would have. Instead, I will trust to him as I always have, and fight for him and with him.

I have no kingdom, and he would tell me to keep my sword for my own use. War is no time for the giving of hearts. My body he may have again, if fate is good, but that will wait. All I can offer him in these hours are my allegiance and my promise: Rohan's defences will hold until his return.

And, I promise him silently as he rides off, lit by his own light as well as that of the sun, so will I.

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Last modified 13 March 2004