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Gandalf stands off to the side, out of the immediate din of raucous celebration. He sees Merry and Pippin take twin swigs of their pints of ale and grin at each other before climbing onto one of the tables, pushing aside forgotten dishes and empty cups with a quick swipe of their large hobbit feet.
“A song! A song!” some drunkenly bystanders shout before the two hobbits break into a jaunty tune about the Green Dragon. It reminds Gandalf of another song in another life. At a different celebration concerning a very different sort of dragon.
There was certainly less food. Little could be spared with winter under way and a large host of men, dwarves, and elves to share it. But it made Thranduil’s Dorwinion vintage that much sweeter and the casks of dwarven ale that much more potent. In fact, Gandalf the Grey had not had a drop of wine since Rivendell, and none so good since that dinner party at Bag End. (No slight intended to the Lord Elrond, but as with many simple pleasures like good food and pipeweed, Hobbits excelled in the brewing of ales and arts of wine-making.)
A haggard, but happy-looking man in singed clothes from Laketown bumped into Gandalf, sloshing some of the contents of his drink onto the wizard’s grey robes.
“S-sorry ‘ bout that.”
“Quite alright. I’m afraid there’s not much harm you could do to them that’s not been done already.”
The man returned Gandalf’s kindly smile with a grin, short of a few teeth, and raised his dented stein before taking a not entirely well-advised gulp. But it was a party and every man, elf, dwarf, and hobbit should enjoy it how they liked after the hard-won victory at Raven Hill.
A deep bellow of laughter sounded from one corner as Glóin scoffed at a particular embellishment in Kíli’s story. The two sister-sons of Thorin Oakenshield had been regaling a growing crowd with tales from their quest that seemed to become more exaggerated with every new set of ears joining in to listen.
“By my beard! I’ve not heard something so outlandish since I read Faërie stories to my wee lad Gimli before bed.”
Some of the other members of the company chuckled and a rare grin was seen from Dwalin. “Aye, as I recall ‘twas you two tha’ got us into that mess.”
Fíli chimes in, his face set with mock seriousness, “sure as the braids in my moustache, it was Kíli here who—” “What?!” Kíli squawked as he whacked his brother’s shoulder. Before the two could start another dwarven brawl (the third that night), Bofur stepped up.
“Lads! Lads! ‘Tis a time for celebrating, no’ fightin’! Now,” Bofur pulled out his flute and gave a wink. “How ‘bout a song? Perhaps recounting the fall of Smaug the Calamitous.”
The dwarrow started with a fast melody, more suited to dancing than any solemn epic, and some of the Company began singing a well-known, but bawdy song—the words changed to a resounding refrain of “Smaug the Slug.” The two brothers laughed and clamoured up onto the table, kicking away tin plates and other debris with haphazard grace.
Two overly-full mugs of ale were passed through the crowd and handed up to Fíli and Kíli. They slammed their mugs together in a toast, a generous amount sloshing over the sides, before taking a swig, clasping arms, and dancing in time to the music. The audience cheered as ale rained down on them from the dancing brothers’ cups.
Gandalf chuckled merrily at the scene, glad to be a safe distance away. Indeed, dwarves knew how to celebrate a victory.
“It is good to see them up and about again,” says a deep baritone to Gandalf’s right. Thorin Oakenshield looks fondly at the boys. Relief clearly written on his face along with the dark lines under his eyes. “I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay, Gandalf.” He turns his sober attention back to the wizard. “You renewed my faith in this quest when I had lost hope, gave me the tools, appointed my burglar…” Thorin’s face flushes before turning grief stricken. “Stopped me before I could do the unthinkable—”
Gandalf halts the dwarf’s speech with a hand on his shoulder.
“My friend,” he says kindly. “There is nothing to repay.”
Then the wizard's expression hardens to match Thorin's dour one. “And there may yet be dark times ahead, though I know not yet when nor what form they shall take. I only wish to see Erebor restored, with both her and her king back to full strength.” Gandalf raises his eyebrows pointedly at that last statement. “Now,” he glances back to Thorin’s nephews. “Will you not join them?” Thorin opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Bilbo scolds as he makes his way over to stand by Thorin and half-heartedly glares at Gandalf. “Thorin is not to take part in any dwarvish brawling or merrymaking or whatever they like to call it until this,” he taps lightly on Thorin’s side and the dwarf winces, “is finished healing. Oin’s orders.” The hobbit turns a stern look on Thorin who appears vaguely guilty.
Gandalf laughs, “my dear Bilbo, it seems some time in Erebor has been very good for you after all.” Bilbo waves away the compliment with a flustered hand while Thorin looks at the hobbit proudly. And most amusing for me.
“No news of Frodo.” Aragorn says, a question in his voice.
Gandalf’s heart falls as he blinks away the scene. He is standing next to Isildur’s heir, not the King Under the Mountain.
“No word."
Thorin Oakenshield. Fíli. Kíli. Bilbo. Now Frodo. They had all paid too much. And for what? “Nothing.”
“We have time,” says Aragorn. “Every day Frodo moves closer to Mordor.” Now Gandalf turns to Aragorn. To Estel.
“Do we know that?” Gandalf asks, the doubt in his voice unmistakable.
“What does your heart tell you?”
Gandalf puts aside visions of the past. Of an alternate history. And casts his sight on another young hobbit who volunteered for a dangerous quest because the Grey Pilgrim once asked it of him.
He smiles slowly, but truly, in relief. “That Frodo’s alive…yes, he’s alive.”
Gandalf turns back to the celebration in front of him. Yes, there was time yet to make things right.