September 3, 3017

"Now, wait just a minute." Radagast tapped a large wooden spoon against the side of his old kettle. "It will do no good to work yourself into a dither. If something is meant to be..."

"What about frogs? Yes, I like that." Gandalf glared into the fire. "A rain of them, right in his garden, out of the clear blue sky. He would definitely have to send for Sam then."

"Oh, no. Please. Frogs?" Radagast was indignant. "From what you've told me, he'd probably never notice and there they'd be, sprawled among the eggplant and the peonies, croaking their hearts out, no possible way to get home, and what would you do then, eh?"

Gandalf sighed and shook his head. "It was merely a thought. And, I admit, not a good one." He nodded in the direction of the little fire. "Is the soup ready?"

Radagast eyed Gandalf a moment longer, then turned to stir the contents of the little kettle. Lifting the spoon, he sipped carefully and grinned. "Mmmm, wonderful. I believe I have supassed myself this time. Hand me your bowl!"

Gandalf obeyed, then settled back against the old stump, studying the strong face limned in the glow of the fire. Although years of wind and weather had left their mark, it was still handsome, with deepset eyes the color of thrush wings and secret sunlight on bottomless woodland pools; clean, high cheekbones bare of all trace if hair or whisker; and a fine, sharp nose arguably more at home with the scent of forest and river than the comforts of four walls and a hearth. Radagast glanced his way and grinned once more, and Gandalf knew his own heart would break should he never look upon that face again. But here came the brimming bowl...

"Here you are, my dear wizard." A hint of smugness hovered on the edge of Radagast's smile. "The best soup this side of the Misty Mountains and you damn well know it."

Gandalf chuckled and lifted his spoon, blowing gently before taking a first sip of the steaming broth. "Oh, yes." Another sip emptied the spoon and Gandalf scooped up several chunky vegetables, chewing carefully before dipping the spoon once more into the bowl. "Yes, indeed. Excellent. Truly a wonder." A small onion and several carrots, along with the dark savory broth, slipped neatly into his spoon. "Nay, a marvel. Why, not even Elrond himself..."

"Enough, enough!" Radagast's laughter rang through the little clearing and the sudden breeze gusting through the southern edge of the Chetwood set every leaf to dancing. "Just remember that you and your pompous words are no match for me, so beware!"

Lifting one bushy eyebrow, Gandalf drew himself up and snorted. "Then I and my pompous words shall both be silent and finish this lovely soup."

For some time, only the click of busy spoons (and the occasional "A bit more, if you please, my dear Radagast.") could be heard above the evening chorus from the surrounding woods, where crickets and night bugs sang to the stars in gentle counterpoint.

Finally, Gandalf swallowed a mouthful and licked his lips. "Perhaps..." He sent his spoon chasing the last carrot as he scraped the bottom of the bowl. "Perhaps a spate of unseated hinges. I'd be willing to swear that Frodo knows next to nothing about hinges. And Sam might have written the book, as they say. So..."

"Gandalf." Radagast plucked the empty bowl from the old wizard's hands and placed it to one side. "My love, you have been chasing turnips and ponies for years. The Shire means more to you now than you could possibly have anticipated. But is your vision still clear in this instance? And yes, I see plainly the pain in your heart. But you can do no more than you have already done."

Gandalf closed his eyes and sighed. "I know, I know all of this. But if you could see what I have seen, if you could know the power that moves against these innocent, undefiled creatures..." His voice caught in his throat.

"Hush." Slender fingers touched Gandalf's face, gently caressing the lines and creases, trembling feather-light over the tight lips. "And let me tell you what I see." Radagast's voice was tender and as strong as the roots of mountains. "Your role here, in this place and time, has grown dangerous and grim. Your part it has been to sift through things best left hidden to mortal eyes, even best left undisturbed, if you listened to those who know no better. And you go on, day after long and lonely day, preserving what is good and kind and innocent. Knowing all the while the price even they may pay."

His fingers found their way round the back of Gandalf's neck, pressing firmly against the knotted muscles along his shoulders. His voice was barely a whisper now.

"You are strong and you are wise. And above all, you have faith in those you have come to love, even though it seems I must convince you of this." The smile that flickered across Radagast's thin face spoke of sunlight and soaring and the song of birds. "We are as different as we were called, you and I, and yet not so different in what we both love and what we both see."

Gandalf looked down at his hands, clasped firmly now between long, slender fingers, and felt his fears, his worries, his heartache ease, until that part of him deep inside, the part that understood that all events must take the path most clearly marked and that it was his duty to encourage, to explain, to offer...

"Look at me, Gandalf, and let me tell you a thing. For I see the forest and you see the trees. Yet we both love every root, every branch, every leaf with equal fervor. I see the little bugs, the crawling things, the four-footed and the winged creatures. You see the road and the garden and the cold sunlight of Winter and the warmth of a bright summer day. Yet we both tend with equal care, raise the wounded and protect the weary and the weak from the wind and rain. And the heel of the enemy."

Gandalf trembled, held within the spell of the voice, the sound of words spoken truly and surely.

"Our work here is long, my own dear Gandalf. And painful. And so often fraught with peril, that perhaps it is hard to remember that the fate of hearts and desires is not ours to force." His quick smile came again and this time it spoke of rainbows and racing hooves and the strength of beak and talon. "Come, my love, let your heart rest. Your own battles will come later. As will mine. And for what it's worth, I think you need not worry for those two. Writing this chapter is beyond you, but not beyond them."

Gandalf lifted the the warm hands clasping his own and kissed them. "Ah, my Aiwendil. Ever do I miss thee when thou art far from my side. Ever dost thou know the nearest of my fears and the deepest of my dreams." He pressed his face against the warm fingers, chuckling softly. "You so often have the right of things."

"Beloved, be at peace in this place. And rest your burdens." The voice lifted and grew light, like a ray of sun piercing the darkest of thunderclouds. "We have yet to ascertain the part we play in this tide of war. That was for Manwë and our brethren to know. But we did not come bereft of all that was severed from us in that long journey."

Gandalf smiled and his heart surged with joy. "No indeed, not bereft of all. For we have each other." Standing in one swift motion, he drew the slender man to his feet, drawing him gently into his arms. "Aiwendil, thou keepest my heart and my soul and I would lie with thee, I would caress thee and call forth all that doth give these bodies pleasure." Gandalf watched as the slow smile turned to gentle laughter.

"Come then, Olórin that was, we shall lie together and I shall speak to you of the Light that once we knew and shall ever know again."

And from within the little clearing on the southern edge of the Chetwood came the sound of sweet words, the soft rustle of irrelevant clothing, breath caught upon soft breath, and the whispered music of a tongue no mortal and few elves had ever heard. And long into the deep hours, the wanderers shared all that they were now and as much of who they had been as was given to them in this time and place.

And somewhere in the night, between one memory and the next, between one joyous union and another, a vision came with piercing clarity to both, of a wise, old tree under which lay two hobbits, a vision of tears and joy and the wonder of love. And drifting within the vision, Radagast understood the cause of Gandalf's fears and the ultimate joy upon which all of his hopes rested. And he knew, in turn, as surely as he knew the ways of the winds, what his own path would be.