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"You looked like you wanted to kiss him!" Pippin breathes, eyes wide with shock.
He takes another pull from his pipe, the resulting smoke drifting upward to add to the thick haze around his head.
"And what if I did?" You challenge with a laugh, settling cross-legged and laying your blade across your thighs with the intention of honing it.
"I'd say that's a bad idea." Merry asserts, shaking his head hard enough to make his curls bounce.
You dig through your pouch for your flat stone while your compatriots share a worried look. The younger pipes up first, raising his voice to be heard above the rasp of stone on steel.
"A very bad idea," Pippin concurs, "Could turn you into a newt just for tryin' it."
"And the two of you aren't really close in age..."
"Oh, yeah. There's that, too."
You scoff and throw one hand toward the sky in exasperation, regarding the hobbits with no shortage of disbelief, and announce, "I'll have you know that I turned 20,056 this year."
There's a loud clatter as Pippin's pipe slips from his fingers and tumbles most of the way down the rocky outcropping the three of you are resting on. Merry, to his credit, schools his expression into one of mild astonishment and wishes you a very belated happy birthday. His cousin, it seems, is unable to keep his curiosity in check.
"You're... You... But you look-"
"Two hundred at most." Merry interjects, holding out a placating hand.
"Precisely," You exclaim, returning to your work, "Much nearer in age to our dear wizard than you think. The physical form is purely for aesthetics- a conscious choice on my part."
"So, Gandalf chooses to look like... Like that?" Pippin squawks, rising to his feet and wandering away to retrieve his precious pipe, "And you still want to kiss him? Wait… do you really want to-"
Both hobbits startle at the sound of the wizard's booming voice as it fills the air, seeming to come from every direction at once.
"Hobbits should learn to keep such personal questions to themselves, lest they lose the favor of their companions."
The halflings gather their belongings and make a hasty retreat, shouting apologies all the while. You watch them run back to camp and chuckle at the frightened glances that they cast over their shoulders, knowing their fear will be forgotten by tomorrow. Or by supper, knowing their nature. Gandalf speaks again, and this time, you can trace the source of his voice to one of the trees that stands at the edge of the rock face. The wizard's form seems to materialize out of the tree itself- the trunk was much too narrow to hide someone of his size- and you snort at his antics while you hold your sword to the light to check the angle of the blade.
"Forgive the intrusion, my dear," Gandalf murmurs, producing his pipe from his robes as he approaches your seated form, "But I sensed that the conversation was straying into uncomfortable territory."
"The rescue was much appreciated, though I'm sure I'll be subjected to further interrogation once their fear dissipates."
"They are nothing if not tenacious," The wizard remarks, seating himself to your left with a soft grunt, "Hobbits are quite determined creatures."
"And... Have they asked you such questions?" You inquire, forcing yourself to work slowly and focus on your blade instead of hurrying through it like your nervousness demands.
Gandalf glances at you out of the corner of his eye while he lights his pipe, eyes sparkling with hidden amusement, and chortles, "Oh, they've tried, but after so many millennia of dealing with such questions, you begin to master the subtle art of misdirection."
He purses his lips, and the smoke that pours from them takes the shape of a gigantic question mark that lingers in the air for much longer than is natural. The wizard chuckles- a low, pleasant rumble that immediately puts you at ease- and you let out a huff of your own as you check your work. The blade is decently sharp and straight enough, so you sheath it and set it aside, satisfied for the time being.
"When we reach Edoras, I shall have Théoden's smith tend to that blade," Gandalf remarks, gesturing to your sword with the bowl of his pipe, "How long have you had it? Eight, ten thousand years?"
"Eleven. Almost as long as I've known you."
The wizard lets out a thoughtful hum at that, eyes becoming distant as he seems to ponder something. You sit with him, the two of you turning to look over the edge of the cliff at the wide expanse of the West Emnet plains. Gandalf takes his time turning something over in his head, and you sit in companionable silence while he smokes, watching the grass in the distance ripple like water in the wind. The sun begins to set behind you, lengthening your shadow and casting the plains in a fiery orange light. The breeze cools with it, raising goosebumps on your arms and making you curse yourself for leaving your cloak at camp. You wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to keep warm, and your uncomfortable huff pulls Gandalf from his daze. He taps out his pipe against the rocks and pockets it before he offers his hand to you, palm up. You lift your own hand to accept it, but before you can touch him, he mutters something under his breath. A cold spot appears between your palm and his before your cloak materializes in the space, neatly folded.
“Your flippancy with magic will cost you one day.” You chide, unfurling your precious cloak and draping it over your shoulders.
“The consequences are quite… inconsequential, I assure you,” He quips, “And well worth your comfort.”
He waits until you’ve resettled before speaking again.
“What say you to the hobbit’s questions?”
Even after so many millennia of walking this earth, his question manages to shake you to your core. You tense, fingers curling over the edges of your cloak, and force yourself to answer before the silence stretches on for too long. You keep your eyes trained on the lengthening shadows of the mountains, following their slow spread over the grassland below you.
“Well, I… I’d say their suspicions were correct. I’ve developed a kind of fondness for you that gets worse every year.”
You end your sentence with an awkward little titter, leaning backward to rest your weight on your hands, and your attempt at humor doesn’t go unnoticed by Gandalf. The smile he gives you is thoughtful but amused as he remarks, “How curious.”
“What about you?” You boldly ask, eager to remove yourself from the spotlight, “What would you say if they asked you the same?”
Gandalf quirks a brow and murmurs, “I would say that wouldn’t object to a kiss.”
The hand that alights on yours is battle-worn and slightly cold, and Gandalf makes a point of catching your gaze, lips curling into the faintest of smirks as he clarifies, “But, that all depends on who delivers it, of course.”
Your heart feels like it’s trying to burst out of your chest. Your voice sticks in your throat, and you have to clear it before you’re able to croak, “I hear the consequences involve being turned into a newt.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t believe such rumors if I were you,” He chides, cheeks dimpling with a conspiratorial smile, “But, you’ll never know unless you try.”
The world seems to go quiet around you. Gone is the rustling of the trees, the faint whisper of the grass as it waves in the wind. In fact, the breeze itself has all but disappeared. All that remains is the sound of your heart pounding in your ears and the feeling of Gandalf’s fingers tightening reassuringly around yours. You lean forward before your fear gets the better of you, and to your surprise, the wizard meets you halfway. Your senses return to you one by one as you share a soft, tender kiss that conveys thousands of years worth of quiet admiration. The wind picks up again, ruffling your cloak, and the birds in the trees resume their last songs of the day. You break away from Gandalf to see a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks and ears. You grin at the sight, and he returns it with a contented smile of his own, taking your hand in both of his and pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles.
“Seeing as how you have not been turned into a newt,” He starts with a chuckle, “I believe it’s high time we rejoined the group for supper.”
“And what shall I tell the halflings?” You inquire, grabbing your sword with your free hand and starting to stand.
Gandalf quickly mirrors you, your hand still in his, and shakes his head with an exasperated sigh, “They’re a trig lot. I’m sure you won’t be able to get a word in edgewise as it is.”