Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 4: Gandalf the Grey, December 1392

It was near the end of the year, on the day that the hobbits would have reckoned as December 26, 1392. There was no snow on this raw grey evening, only leaden skies and many a gust of icy wind, as I trudged up the stone path to the round green door of Bag End. As was my custom, I knocked with the end of my staff, and waited, my breath swirling in puffs of steam before me.

I have come to know the hobbits of the Shire very well over the centuries, though they have no idea who I truly am. To them, I am simply Gandalf, the mysterious wandering conjuror who pops in and out of their land purely at whim. If I have other business, they neither know nor wish to know.

Yet they hold an odd fascination for me. Though their lives now are so peaceful that they do not even remember having had it any other way, I have been among them during harder times, and have seen their paradoxical strength. They are at once innocent yet possessed of their own kind of earthy wisdom; comfort-loving yet astonishingly tough; humble yet heroic at need. (Their pipeweed is admittedly another attraction.)

Bilbo Baggins is at once an example and an exception. When I first met him, during his childhood, I heard his melody, his part in the Great Music, and knew it would be a significant one. He has proved me right. I was most impressed by the way he acquitted himself as part of the successful venture of Thorin Oakenshield to win back the Dwarven kingdom of Erebor. If not for Bilbo, Durin's Folk would have no king, Dale would still be abandoned, and Smaug would still be ensconced in the Lonely Mountain -- a weapon that the Enemy would most assuredly have wielded against the north in the war I felt certain was coming within the next few decades.

Bilbo and I have remained friends, though at the time of this visit, it was now over twenty-five years since we had spoken. I had been neglecting him rather shamefully, especially given the fact that although, as I note, Bilbo had done remarkably well in his travels and returned a much wiser and better (and richer) hobbit, still there was something that bothered me about just what else he had come home with. I was not certain what I hoped to find now: that he was the same, or that he had changed.

The door finally opened, yet it was not Bilbo who stood there. It was a young, dark-haired hobbit, who blinked at me in astonishment.

"Gandalf?" he gasped, his jaw practically hitting the floor.

I had to take a moment to master myself. I was as startled as the lad, although for different reasons. I hid it by favoring him with my most imperious gaze, sweeping up and down his diminutive form. "The same," I said at last. "Is Mr. Bilbo Baggins at home?"

Closing his mouth and swallowing hard, the lad shook his head. "He is at the Gamgees'. Um...but please, come in. You must be very cold."

"Thank you, my lad," I replied. With as much dignity as I could, despite the fact that I had to remove my hat and stoop, I entered Bag End.

The place was no different from when I had seen it last. The only thing unfamiliar to me was the lad. He looked to be in the midst of the changes leading to adulthood, which would put him in his early to mid-twenties, if I recalled such things correctly as his people reckoned them. He seemed a bit dazed still, but took my hat and staff when I offered them to him, and set them nearby.

"Er, would you like anything? There's plenty of food left over from supper."

"Anything you have will be most appreciated," I said. "But first, might I inquire as to whose kindness I am enjoying?"

The lad flushed. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Frodo Baggins, at your service." He bowed slightly.

I smiled. "Then I am pleased to meet you, Frodo. It seems that I, at any rate, am known to you. Bilbo has told you stories, no doubt?"

"Yes, sir, he has," Frodo replied with a jerky nod. I followed him to the kitchen, and carefully lowered myself to sit at the hobbit-sized table. I had forgotten how uncomfortable it was, yet I ignored the awkward angle of my legs and watched Frodo as he scurried about fetching plates, mugs, and silver. I noted with amusement that he set out two places, though surely he had already supped. It is the height of rudeness by hobbit standards not to join a guest in a meal, but in truth I suspect this is because they never miss a chance to eat, given the least pretext.

Something occurred to me. "Pardon me for asking, but might you be Bilbo's son?" Bilbo had been a confirmed bachelor for as long as I had known him, but enough time had passed since our last meeting that it was entirely possible for him to have changed his mind, married, and raised a child to the age Frodo now appeared to be.

For some reason, Frodo seemed to hesitate, but then he shook his head briskly as he reached up to a high (for him) shelf. "No, sir. I, well, I suppose you could say I'm a nephew of his, of sorts."

I know how hobbits love to explain their family relationships, so I decided to put him at ease -- I could see his hands trembling with excitement from where I sat -- by asking for elucidation. "Of sorts?"

"Yes. Actually, my father was Bilbo's second cousin, and my mother was his first, so Bilbo is my first and second cousin once removed either way. But it's simpler to call each other 'uncle' and 'nephew', so that's what we usually do." Frodo dished out what proved to be a hearty beef and mushroom stew from the pot on the stove. It smelled delicious. "Would you prefer wine or ale?"

"Ale, thank you."

The stew was filling, just what I had needed, accompanied by bread, butter, cheese, and a generous slice of blueberry pie. Frodo served himself as well, though I noticed that he didn't actually eat much of his; whether because he wasn't hungry (a hobbit not hungry?) or because my presence made him nervous was difficult to tell. Several times I caught him surreptitiously watching me, as if he couldn't quite believe I was there in the flesh. His manners were impeccable, however: he must have been bursting with questions, but he refrained from pestering me while I was eating.

I studied him as well. He did not bear much family resemblance to Bilbo; in fact, I had never seen a hobbit who looked quite like Frodo. Where most hobbits his age were already rounding out, their faces broad and cheerful rather than beautiful, Frodo was comparatively slender and fair, his appearance attesting to a strong dose of Fallohide blood. His hands were delicately boned and refined in shape, though the nails were chewed almost to the quick. But unquestionably his most striking feature was his eyes. Not that blue eyes are terribly unusual among hobbits -- they run in some of the larger families such as the Hornblowers and the Brandybucks. Yet somehow, on Frodo, they looked positively exotic.

"When do you expect Bilbo home?" I asked at length, when my second bowl was finished.

"Oh, very soon now. Shall I clear that away, or do you want more?"

"No, I am quite satisfied. Thank you. That was the best meal I have had in weeks," I said sincerely.

Frodo's eyes became even wider, if that was possible. "But surely not!" he blurted, then flushed again as if realizing he was being impertinent. "I mean, well, Bilbo told me you travel all over Middle-earth. You must meet all sorts of people and get to have much grander things than this."

I smiled. "I do travel a lot, yes, and I also meet many people. However, most of my time is spent on the road where there are no towns, and no food available except what I take with me, or manage to forage. Believe me, after a month of nothing but waybread, jerky, and the last berries of the year, a bowl of Shire stew seems finer than an Elven feast."

For some reason, that seemed to break the ice. Frodo leaned forward, his earlier awe of me seemingly forgotten. "I imagine a wizard would be able to turn anything into any kind of food he wanted. But no, I suppose not," and his face fell slightly, "or else you would have done it during Bilbo's adventure with the Dwarves. I'd think he would mention that."

Only among hobbits, and sometimes Man-children, have I been on the receiving end of such frank curiosity about the more pragmatic aspects of wizardry. "No, you are right, my power is not of that sort," I agreed.

"What sort is it?" he asked promptly, eyes alight with eagerness.

I chuckled. "You are related to Bilbo, no doubt about it!"

I was still shaking my head in amusement -- and wondering how to answer his question in a way he could understand -- when the sounds of Bilbo's arrival drifted in from the foyer. A door opening, a rush of wind, the latch closing, the click of a walking stick, and a voice. "Frodo, I'm back! Have you left me any of that stew -- oh, my stars! Gandalf!" No doubt he had spied my hat and staff where Frodo had put them. There was the rapid patter of running feet, and Bilbo appeared.

"Gandalf!" he cried joyfully as his little arms embraced me tightly. "How delightful to see you again! It has been such a long time! You haven't brought any Dwarves this time, have you?"

"No, I am quite alone," I reassured him with a laugh, remembering that bizarre night when thirteen Dwarves had shown up on poor Bilbo's doorstep, a little over fifty years ago.

"Well, that is a relief, I must admit, not that I wouldn't be delighted to see Balin or any of the others again, as long as it was only one or two at a time! I do have a growing lad to feed now, after all." Bilbo chuckled and indicated Frodo, who ducked his head with a slightly embarrassed smile.

I raised an eyebrow. Frodo hadn't mentioned that he lived here; I had assumed he was visiting. "So you do," I remarked mildly, as if I'd known all along (I do have a reputation to keep up). "It seems as if things have changed for you, Bilbo. Some things, at any rate," I added, observing now -- with a chill I was hard pressed to conceal -- that indeed he seemed barely older than the last time we had met, though he would now be just over one hundred years old.

If my expression had changed at all, Bilbo did not seem to notice. "Well, I had been rather looking forward to introducing the two of you, but it looks as if you are already becoming acquainted. I trust Frodo has been a good host and has not been badgering you for stories, as he does me?"

As Frodo rolled his eyes behind Bilbo's back, I smiled. "No, we have been getting along quite admirably. I am rested, warm, and full of stew, after a long, cold, and weary day. And I think that that deserves a story, as a reward. What would you like to hear, Frodo?"

Without hesitation, as if he had already been pondering that question (which could partially explain his courteous silence while I ate), Frodo said, "Well, Bilbo has told me many things about you and the journey you took together, but he's never told me the story of how you met."

Before I could say anything, Bilbo jumped in. "That's because it's a terribly boring story," he said, a little too quickly. "You don't want to hear that one, I'm sure it'll put you straight to sleep, and you don't want to miss any of Gandalf's visit while he's here, do you?"

"I can cope with being bored, Uncle. I've sat through some of your birthday speeches."

I suppressed my laughter by busying myself hunting for my pipe. This was a quick one.

"The cheek," Bilbo grumbled. "Buckland will never be the same, and how Hobbiton will survive, I've no idea. Well, we'll let Gandalf decide, shall we?" Without waiting for Frodo's response, he turned to me. "Which shall it be? Our first meeting, or how you tricked the trolls? Yes, that's a good one. Dashedly clever, that was." He set the pipeweed jar beside my hand and sat, looking at me expectantly, obviously hoping to appeal to my sense of mercy, or, barring that, vanity.

I made a show of deliberately packing my pipe with just the right amount of leaf, and lighting it. Finally, I spoke. "It was old Gerontius Took's hundred-and-eleventh birthday party, and Bilbo here was just a snip of a lad..."

I continued, blithely ignoring Bilbo's groans of embarrassment as I related our first meeting. I had been sitting under a tree, the morning of the party, resting from the journey and enjoying the view into the Green Hill Country from the Great Smials, when a branch above me snapped, and suddenly I had a lap full of hobbit.

"...As a matter of fact, it was the memory of that meeting that caused me, years later, to think of Bilbo when Thorin needed a burglar for his expedition. For even though the branch had broken and ruined his attempt to get a look at me without me seeing him, still the fact that he had gotten so near in the first place spoke much for the stealth of hobbits."

"Or for the inattentiveness of wizards," Bilbo muttered. Whether or not he had meant me to hear was debatable, but I chose to let it pass.

Frodo was smiling. It was hard to tell which had delighted him more, the story or Bilbo's discomfiture at my telling it. Bilbo saw his expression and scowled at him. "If you don't wipe that smirk off your face, lad, I might decide to tell a few stories myself. Now off to bed with you."

"I'm not tired," protested Frodo, from behind his fist.

"Then you can read rather than sleep, if you prefer, but I haven't seen Gandalf since before you were born, and I'd like a talk with him without being interrupted for stories every ten minutes."

"I will be here at least a few days," I assured Frodo. "And something tells me I had probably ought to personally keep more of a eye on the Shire than I have been recently, so you will have plenty of chances."

Reluctantly Frodo rose, conceding defeat, and came over to kiss his uncle's cheek. "Good night, Uncle. Good night, Gandalf."

"Good night, Frodo," I said. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

He smiled, and for a moment it seemed almost as if there was a light shining, not on him, but through him. I blinked, startled, then looked more closely, but it was gone, and Frodo was leaving the room.

I turned to Bilbo, who was smiling after him. Probably his grumbling had all been a show to amuse his nephew, for there was genuine fondness and contentment in his eyes.

"I had never thought to see you as a parent, my friend," I commented. "It suits you."

Bilbo sighed happily. "It does, doesn't it?" He looked at me. "What did he tell you of the circumstances?"

"Nothing, only that you and he were -- how did he put it? -- first and second cousins."

"Once removed either way." Bilbo completed the phrase automatically; hobbits are sticklers for accuracy when it comes to their family trees. "I adopted him and made him my heir, three years ago."

"What of his parents, if I may ask?"

"They drowned in a boating accident when he was twelve." Bilbo sighed again, heavily this time. "His mother was a Brandybuck; it was her family who raised him afterwards, in Brandy Hall. They treated him kindly enough, I suppose, for the most part, but it was not the right sort of place for him. Too busy, too crowded, too easy to get lost in all that bustle. Finally, I convinced myself to do something about it, and give him a real home. And here we are."

"He seems to be thriving in your care, from the little I have seen so far," I commented.

"He is doing much better," Bilbo agreed. "Unfortunately, he had no one to truly unburden himself to for the better part of nine years, so he's learned all too well to hide and to keep everything bottled up. There are times when he gets into a certain mood and it's like pulling teeth to get more than two words out of him. Yet at other times he can charm the birds out of the trees. He's extremely bright, loves to read and walk, has quite the knack for languages, and -- I'm not sure how to put it, but he just has a way about him. You'll see once you get to know him. His younger cousins all adore him, and Sam, my gardener's lad, thinks the sun rises and sets with him. I don't know how I managed to deserve such luck, Gandalf, but I think I've got the best hobbit in the Shire here, under my roof."

I was glad beyond words that Bilbo had at last found someone to care for and to love, but as always, my mind was sifting through the ramifications. For some reason, I had the feeling that Bilbo's choice of heir might have a significance beyond his life and Frodo's, if what I suspected and dreaded turned out to be true. "I am happy for you, Bilbo," I said at last, gravely and carefully. "So, how much do you plan to leave to him when the time comes?" I deliberately did not say "when you die".

Bilbo looked at me as if he couldn't fathom why I needed to ask. "Why, everything, of course. Bag End, my remaining fortune, the family headship, all of it."

"And the things you brought home from your journey?"

"Well, yes, except perhaps for some small oddments."

I pulled a couple more times on my pipe, and let out the smoke. "And your ring?"

Bilbo puffed out an annoyed breath. "Yes, perhaps that too. Why do you want to know?"

"Peace, my friend," I soothed. "I am merely curious. Does he know that you have it?"

"Of course. I've told him everything. We have no secrets."

I nodded, and let the matter drop. The ring had been a rather delicate subject between us in the past, and I had no wish to end the evening by arguing with Bilbo. For now I had to content myself.

We went on to other topics; I caught him up on news of the outside world, or at least as much as I thought would be of interest to him, and he told me what had been happening in his own life -- much of it, of course, involving Frodo.

Eventually we both went to bed, I in a special room that Bilbo had made up years ago to accommodate me or any other taller visitors he might have. Yet, weary as I was, I could not sleep. Restless, I got up and prowled through the hole, quietly opening doors, until I saw a bed with a dark head barely peeking out from a mound of blankets. As I stood there, Frodo turned over in his sleep, and I could see his young face.

Though I have many limitations placed on me, limitations which I accepted when I undertook my charge, I do still have some means of perceiving things that are beyond mortal understanding. It is also given to me that I shall know -- not directly, but like a humming in my bones -- when I have met someone who may play an important role in my task.

I had had that feeling when Bilbo dropped into my lap, all those years ago, and now, I had it again, even more strongly. I opened myself to the Great Music, seeking to hear what it might tell me of Frodo Baggins.

A moment or an eternity later, I came back with a start and a gasp. Such a melody this one had! Bright with hope, heavy with sorrow. Unfinished, yes; its completion would be built on his choices. But a deeper or a more complex and bittersweet song, I had not heard even in the presence of the eldest Elves; at least, judging from the notes that I heard, and they were just the beginning.

How was this possible? What could it mean? This was a hobbit, after all. A creature of quiet sunshine and tilled meadows, meant for peace and laughter. Was this why I had felt drawn to make the acquaintance of this gentle folk -- because it was from among them that one would come who could change the fate of Arda?

It could be no simple coincidence that this youngster was Bilbo's kinsman and heir, or that we should meet, on the night I had chosen to pay my first visit to the Shire in more than a quarter of a century.

I must find out more about Bilbo's ring. But how?

Without making a sound, I closed the door and left the hobbit to his dreams. I, however, did not sleep at all that night.