Chapter Text
The night is beginning to fade into pale dawn, dew glistening on the roses, and Gandalf has yet to sleep, choosing instead to suck on his pipe and blow smoke rings into ships and butterflies and dogs. He is confident that Bilbo Baggins will come around and accompany the Dwarves on their journey, and as he stretches his legs out, he idly wonders how such an adventurous child grew into this homebody of a man. Perhaps, he muses, it has something to do with the brutal deaths of his parents. That would shake even the most steadfast of souls. But no matter. He is here now, sitting on a bench in front of Bag End and waiting for the sun to rise and the Dwarves to stir and for Thorin to lead them into the wild and the future. Bilbo has time and the betting pool Nori started the night prior will pay off in Gandalf’s favor.
“Mithrandir.”
Gandalf startles out of his thoughts and turns at the sound of his name, choking on the smoke from his pipe at the sight of a small Man standing at Bilbo Baggins’s gate. They are clad in dark, worn travelling clothes and carry a sword at their hip and a bow across their shoulders, a travelling rucksack slung over their back. He vaguely recognizes them, and while he is rather bemused by their presence, he is unsurprised by it. Rumors and stories tell of a slight half-Elf with a talent for being exactly where aid is needed, and over the years, Gandalf has learned to connect those whispers to the being in front of him.
“Runner.”
They dip their head in greeting, silver-brown hair falling in front of their face and obscuring their expression. Gandalf rises fluidly, tucking his pipe into his robes and tightening his grip on his staff.
“Well met.” And yes, that voice belongs to the Ranger he’s encountered barely a handful of times.
“Indeed.” Gandalf’s eyes narrow in suspicion and he strides forward to meet them at the gate, stopping just short of it and staring down at them. “Forgive me, but what brings you to the Shire?” Runner’s eyes flash in the golden light from Bilbo’s windows and their grip tightens around the hilt of their sword as Gandalf extends his right arm towards them.
“Your…Company,” they settle on finally, warily clasping forearms in greeting. “They will be needing a guide through the harsher wilds, should they survive long enough to reach them.” There is no malevolence that he can sense in either their words nor their intentions, and Runner is not known for their duplicity nor malice.
“How came you to know of this journey?” asks Gandalf regardless. Their mouth twitches almost in amusement and they cock their head to the side, considering him for a long moment. Their eyes grow distant and Gandalf is convinced they are not going to answer.
“It matters not.” Despite their abrupt proclamation, Runner’s voice is steady, and they spread their arms, dipping into a mock bow. “I am here to offer you my services, free of charge, should you require them.” Gandalf chuckles and swings the gate open, stepping off of Bilbo’s property and into the road in front of Runner.
“You reside in Imladris, do you not?” he asks, changing the subject. Runner smiles politely back at him. “Does the Lord Elrond know of your whereabouts?”
“Lord Elrond,” says Runner evenly, “knows only that I have left on a journey of a few months and will return in due time.” They lift their chin and hold his eyes, flashing brown to twinkling blue. “Although I fail to see how that is relevant.”
“The Lord Elrond is a friend of mine,” Gandalf says innocently, “I simply wish to confirm that his subjects are—”
“The Lord Elrond’s subjects come and go as they please, wizard,” hisses Runner. “Do not presume to hold the low standards of the rule of kings to that of Imladris. Not all realms follow a line of conquest and control, dominance and fealty.” There is fury and force in their voice and Gandalf notes their defense of his friend for later. Runner takes a steadying breath. “Many moons have passed since last we spoke,” they say softly. “The shadows grow darker with each passing day and still the White Counsel ignores it. Saruman is the one to blame for this all and for that, I do not trust him.”
“Saruman is the greatest of the order of Istari,” Gandalf says lowly. “Do not speak ill of him. He is simply preoccupied by—”
“Do not make excuses, Istar,” Runner spits. “Your order are not the only ones watching over these realms.” They snarl something in a language Gandalf has never heard before and does not understand, and in the distance, thunder rumbles. “Have you traveled east, into the Greenwood as of late?” they ask after a moment.
“No,” Gandalf says slowly. “Why? What have you seen?” Runner shakes their head in disgust, turning away from him and striding down the road a few paces. “Runner. What have you—”
“Darkness, more foul than I have seen,” they spit. “It is like a wound, seeping and festering, and all that grows either withers or thrives, and you do not want to know what can grow in such vile conditions.” They fall silent and shiver violently, and Gandalf does not know if he wants them to continue. “The old fortress grows more powerful and evil things are drawn to it. Horrible, unholy things, creatures that hiss in languages better left forgotten.” Runner’s voice grows hoarse. “I do not wish to think of it, but I must, if—” they cut themself off, shaking their head. “It matters not.”
Questions fill Gandalf’s mind, but he doubts Runner will answer any of them.
If what? Why have you come here? What has struck such fear into you? What have you seen? How came you to know of this meeting? How came you to know of anything at all? From where do you hail and to where do you return? Why do you offer a band of strangers aid in a journey to what may be their demise? Who are you Runner? Who are you, really? And what has brought you to travel the world like a lost soul?
“This is my home as much at it is yours, Mithrandir,” and there is a hidden meaning in their words that Gandalf senses, yet does not understand. “And if you do not do something, I will, and you do not wish to witness the power whispers hold.”
It is a clear threat and Gandalf does not know what to make of it.
Wordlessly, Runner starts down the road out of Hobbiton and vanishes into the dawn.
Part of their path lies through Greenwood, and if things are as bad as Runner seems to think they are, there is a danger the company might not survive the journey.
Failure and death are not an option.