The Prancing Pony by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

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Bilbo had eaten so much that he almost wished he could loosen his breeches; even the gleaming new waistcoat, finest work of Bree, seemed to be growing ever tighter. Gandalf (Mithrandir ! Bilbo thought, and even that is not his true name...) was filling his pipe, which he lit, then stretched his legs out to the merrily crackling fire. The snug private dining room was far enough away from the common room to dull the sound of singing to a distant, cheery murmur.
 Gandalf sighed peacefully, lifted the flagon of Barliman's dark ale and took a deep draught. Beside him, the first smoke ring rose from the pipe of Bilbo. 

 'Really, Gandalf, Rivendell is the loveliest place that I have ever seen, but now that we are back' he settled himself more comfortably in the cushioned, hobbit-sized chair and continued 'back among homely places, with... well, among other hobbits, in truth... I really feel that my journey is almost over. I really feel that I shall soon be home.'
 Gandalf smiled but looked closely at the hobbit, at the light blue eyes gazing into the fire, the flames casting moving shadows across the once-open face. Gandalf had seen many, Elves, Men, Dwarves, and even hobbits, altered by adventure, battle, or worse, but none had ever returned so strengthened. Gandalf frowned, it was not a flourishing strength, the hobbit did not shine, as an Elf with a surfeit of light. It seemed closer to darkness, as though the spirit of the hobbit had become concentrated, boiled down to its essence a little, strengthened like a sinew. Of course, few hobbits of the Shire had ever laboured as Bilbo had been forced to, and he truly was changed, firm flesh had taken the place of the amusing plumpness of his dear friend, but it was the sinews of the mind of the hobbit that were engrossing the interest of the wizard. 
 Never had he seen one so altered in spirit. The timidity common to all hobbits had gone. Bilbo spoke with the open confidence of Men, and several times in Rivendell he had heard an Elf begin to reply as to another Elf, and then realize in astonishment that they were addressing a tiny hobbit. Gandalf took a deep draught of his ale; he too felt at peace in Bree, if not at home, the centuries of joyful relief felt by the thousands of weary travellers settling at last into the warmth of Bree had filled the air and seeped into the very panels on the walls, and the flagstones under the thick yellow rug. Bree, and most particularly The Prancing Pony, made everyone feel the warmth of home.
 He smiled, he had already forgotten his purpose, lulled by the rich food, the fine ale and the peace of the crackling fire. He blew a smoke ring and watched the hobbit from the corner of his eye.

 But Bilbo turned to Gandalf, his eyes gleaming, but a friendly smile on his face.
'Gandalf, Mithrandir... Who are you, Gandalf ? I asked everyone in Rivendell, Elrond, his sons, Lindir, Glorfindel, everyone, but they all said the same thing.'
 Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow 'Oh ? What did they say ?'
Bilbo stared into the fire, smiling fondly at the thought of Rivendell, then turned sharply to meet the ice-blue eyes of the wizard 'They told me to ask you directly. So I say again, Mithrandir: Who are you ? '
 Gandalf blinked, he knew the tones of power, the words of command, no hobbit had the strength of spirit to begin that steep climb, no mortal being could leave the plane of Arda for the realm of spirit, no living mortal... And no dead mortal either... He frowned, wondering at the power of Smaug, wondering if the dragon had altered Bilbo, remembering the fate of the children of Húrin...
 'Bilbo, how do you feel, my dear hobbit, is all well with you ?'
But Bilbo smiled and shook his head 'Oh no, do not change the subject, Gandalf, you know very well that I am perfectly fine, why, I have never felt stronger ! ' He stretched his legs and wiggled his hairy toes before the flickering fire, but turned to smile knowingly at Gandalf 'Out with it ! Who are you really ? ' The almost teasing voice softened, and a faraway, wistful look shadowed the bright hobbit eyes 'Where do you come from ?'
 Gandalf smiled remotely, the hobbit was still here, Smaug had been no Glaurung, and in seeing no threat from the little burglar, he had not deigned to exert his powers. But Bilbo was altered, there was no doubt of that, and the wizard blew three more smoke rings before he smiled again at the curious hobbit. 
 'Very well, my friend, you shall hear my tale, in brief, for I am old' his voice changed for a moment, he allowed a little of his time-sense to sound in his next words 'Older than you can imagine...' and was almost relieved to see the hobbit grip the arms of his chair in stunned silence. Gandalf smiled warmly at the hobbit 'But first, you shall tell me the true tale of your new ring.'

 There was a long silence, but the curiosity that had driven Bilbo all his life overwhelmed his caution. He poured out his tale, openly at last, with bone-slackening relief. Gandalf listened in silence, filling their goblets, and smoking in silence, while his thoughtful eyes studied the gesticulating hobbit. But the truth was so little different from the lie that Gandalf was almost disappointed, there seemed to be more here, something missing, something he himself, the great wizard, could not yet percieve. Were the hobbits all to become as Bilbo, bold adventurers, forming an army, taking Arnor back from the ruffians and trolls ? He looked into his ale, he himself was exhausted, his spirit drained as he had not felt drained in centuries. He must return to Rivendell, to heal his spirit in song...

 But the tale of the hobbit was ended. The hobbit tapped out the ashes of his pipe and settled back in his chair, pausing to fill his mouth with the foam from his fresh goblet.
 'So, my old friend, what of you ? Come, speak, or I shall pester you until you do !'
Gandalf laughed, then in his most serious voice, spoke 'Very well, impertinent hobbit ! I shall give you a brief glimpse of my tale, for I know that you will scarcely listen and barely remember, and that my secrets are safe with you !' but his wrinkled face split with a smile, and his grey beard waggled on his chin as he laughed at the astonished indignation on the face of Bilbo. 

'I am older than the world, Bilbo Baggins, for I was made by Eru Ilùvatar from the substance of his thought and the imperishable flame. I came into being as one among multitudes, and we knew each other by no senses that you have words for. As one who is behind you can nevertheless be felt, as you become aware of the gaze of another, though you do not turn, so we knew each other. And we moved in our formless dance around Eru, feeling our numbers grow until at last we perceived the beauty of ourselves, and how we reflected the greater glory of Eru himself. We were the ripples in the stream, the glitter on the water, and as one glorious whole we showed Eru to himself, and he was pleased. But that was not the purpose for which he had brought us forth from his own being. For soon the great Song began, the Music, which shapes the world and directs the course of those who would hear it. 
But I... I am a mere Maia, a little bell at the side of the mightiest orchestra, where Manwë, Varda, Ulmö and other mighty Valar sang songs of glory and power, bringing joy and exaltation, filling all with love. The strife of Melkor marred the Music, but still we sang, our whole beings seeming to dissolve into the Music, as though there were only one chord, only one note, only Eru, alone, crying aloud in the void. But we saw the anger of Melkor, the beating of his spirit against the walls of fate that he felt surrounded him, and his rage would have him attack the being of Eru who made us, and many joined him in fury. But Eru raised his hand, and Melkor fell silent, and we sang again, and Eru was pleased. 
  Then Ilùvatar showed us a vision, though we did not know sight, but the World was there, Arda, which is, and we rejoiced, each of us, for our own small notes in the great Music had helped to shape the splendid vision, and if even the least among us had remained silent, we knew that the World would have been diminished.
 And those of us among the created who truly loved the Music, and the vision, were sent here by Eru himself, to be a part of the vision, to bring the Music to completion, to act with "minute precision", to sing the last notes of the song of Eru from within the World Which Is. 
 And I, a humble Maia, of the following of Nienna, have been sent to Middle-Earth to continue in the long struggle, to end the discord of the echoes of the voice of wrath, to silence the screams of Melkor. 
 My name was Olórin, in Valinor, but that is not what I call myself.'

Bilbo, who was watching the wizard with a white face, and round, frightened eyes, heard his own voice stammer 'What... Wha... What do, do you, do you call... what do you call yourself ?'
 Gandalf looked at Bilbo, Bilbo could see the remoteness in the pale, shadowed eyes. The bristling brows met as the wizard frowned, but he smiled at Bilbo, almost mischievously, then stood up. Bilbo clutched the arms of his chair, the wizard seemed to grow taller, Bilbo thought of his ring, and fumbled swiftly in his pocket. He sucked in a deep breath as his fingers closed around the heavy gold, feeling the sharpening of perception the ring seemed to give though merely held in the hand.
 Gandalf stretched his bent back and filled his chest with the smoky air of the private dining room, the lantern light gleamed in his eyes, which looked straight ahead. Bilbo felt the time seeming to slow, the fire seemed to roar in the grate, and the creak of timber in the old inn echoed in his mind like the snapping of logs, but Gandalf opened his mouth, and to the astonishment of Bilbo, began to sing.

 The song, if it could be described thus, was brief, but of such intensity, such unleashed energy, such raw power that Bilbo was thrown across the room, where he slammed into a couch, overturned it and tumbled over his own heels until he came to a rest upside down in a corner. The sound of shouting and running footsteps drew near, and Barliman threw open the door, then stopped in astonishment. The room was in utter disarray, the furniture thrown to the walls or snapped like kindling on the floor. Mr Baggins was struggling to his feet in one corner, and a flagon of finest ale spread in a widening pool on the floor and soaked into the prized yellow rug from out East. Barliman watched the bubbles floating in the ale, struggling to control his temper, but Gandalf the wizard stepped in front of him and laid a kindly arm on his shoulder.
 'My apologies, old friend, the hobbit wished to see a little magic, and I could not disappoint the dear fellow after he has done so much for me. I shall make certain that you do not suffer any loss as a result of my showing off.' 
The kindly eyes were smiling warmly at Barliman, but the broken chairs and upturned tables behind him made the mind of the innkeeper linger on the word "magic". The terrible shriek, or cry or song he had heard, even muffled through walls, had brought the hairs on end and stopped his heart. It had been a sound of the roar of the furnace, the wildfire devouring the forest, vast as the fall of sunlight, yet piercing and sharp as the keening of grief, and sweet as the warmth of the kitchen. He trembled, almost glad of the hand of the old wizard, holding him up with hand and eye.
 'Oh ! ' he said, his voice still tremulous, but strengthening. 'Oh, well, never you mind, Mr Gandalf, what is a few breakages, why, your favour means more to me than, than any amount of old chairs, and that is for certain ! Would you like to move to another room while my lads tidy up this one, sir ?'

But the wizard shook his head and turned to the hobbit, standing beside him with his arms behind his back like a boy caught scrumping. 
 'Shall we join the common room, Mr Baggins ? I think it is time to hear some of the songs of Bree now, what do you say ?'