Fic: The Old That is Strong
Title: The Old That is Strong
Author: nicnac918
Fandom: Sherlock, The Hobbit
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Word count: 806
Summary: Gandalf takes care of his new charge.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit
AN: First in the From the Ashes a Fire Shall Be Woken series and in the Many Intersecting Planes series.
AN2: Response to this kink meme prompt by, uh... me. This fic is just the set-up, though, the majority of the prompt takes place in the next fic.
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Gandalf’s footsteps hurried toward The Last Homely House, though in truth there was no urgent matter pushing him forward save his own guilt and the hope that this time might be the one it was assuaged. Elrond’s greeting once he’d arrived was warm but quick, knowing where Gandalf’s mind was. He made only a quick jest that the people of Rivendell would be sad to see their patient well again, for they had not had Mithrandir as a guest in their halls so frequently any other time within memory. Gandalf was certain to return Elrond’s welcome with his own gratitude for Rivendell’s continued hospitality, leaving unspoken but implied his additional gratefulness at the way some of the particular oddities of the ‘man’ they were helping him to care for went deliberately unnoticed. But as soon as courtesy allowed Gandalf was off, down to a hallway full of bedrooms.
It wasn’t until he was standing in the open doorway of one room and looking at the magnificent creature sprawled out on the bed that Gandalf had to acknowledge that, no, it wouldn’t be this time. Because the magnificence wasn’t that of one of the last creatures of its kind (though he still was that, and nothing that Gandalf, with some help from Radagast, did to his outward form could take that from him), but a more commonplace magnificence, one of a body with long pale limbs, a body that could, if the rounded tips of his ears were covered, belong to elf or man, despite being neither. It was magnificence of sharp cheekbones and ice blue eyes - closed at the moment - that flickered orange and red in the depths of them and curly hair, darkened from the brightest white of a white-hot flame that it had been immediately after his transformation to the blackest of ashes and smoke. Gandalf had chosen his charge’s new name based on that fair hair, but had let it stand even as the color changed. He felt what the name had lost in accuracy, it had gained in appropriateness. It was contrary, just as Gandalf was sure its bearer would be once he woke for longer than it took to swallow down a few spoonfuls of broth at a time.
Then, as though his thoughts had made it happen, the blue eyes flickered open. But much to Gandalf’s surprise, they did not close again immediately. Indeed after a moment or two the open eyes were accompanied by a faint croaking noise that may have been an attempt at speech.
“Don’t try to talk,” Gandalf admonished, crossing the room. “And don’t try to get up either. You’re still recovering from a near fatal wound, and beyond that it’s also going to take you a while to get used to your new body.”
It quickly became apparent that an inability to speak was not going to be a deterrent to communicating; the expression of disdain turned on Gandalf held volumes more meaning than any words could, and he could not help but chuckle in response. “I’m sure you aren’t as easy to kill as all that,” Gandalf agreed, “but it was a near thing. It’s hard to say what would have happened if I hadn’t stumbled across you on the lake shore.”
Confusion now, tempering the disdain. Gandalf shook his head and began unwinding the bandages on his patient’s chest. “I will not try to claim I would have mourned you had man’s aim held a bit more true, but neither will I deal out death to any defenseless creature.”
Gandalf had expected some protest at being called ‘defenseless,’ orders to silence or not, so he was surprised when none was offered. Contrariness, he thought at first, but after a few moments he glanced up from the nearly healed wound to a face slack with sleep. So not as awake as all that, then.
“It would have been a very grave mistake of mine not to mourn you,” Gandalf continued conversationally as he applied himself to his task of healing. “A worst mistake than I’ve made in a long time, so I’m glad to be spared making it.” Because beneath the ordinariness that had been hung over him like an ill-fitting cloak, Gandalf saw in the being before him potential. Potential like that he had seen, not overly long ago, being squandered on a hillside outside of a round green door to a particularly comfortable hobbit-hole. And wouldn’t that be an interesting turn of events!
“It won’t be in this war, or, I think, the next or the next, but you still have a part to play before all is said and done.” Gandalf took a step back and allowed himself a small, fond smile at the peacefully sleeping form before him. “The world is not done with you yet, Smaug the Terrible… Sherlock.”
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Next part is here.