Little House on the Prairie
Gandalf x Randomly Assigned Mythical Being! Reader
Count: 2k
CONTENT: Weirdly sweet actually, don't ask how many kids Gandalf has you don't want to know, his sons are wearing more jewellery than your net worth, Boromir dies (RIP), implied ... things (as per usual)
Here is the MASTERPOST
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Some of you may be wondering what I have done. I don't know either.
If people can write 900 pages about whether or not Balrogs have wings, then I can do this.
This isn't even the damn start I have a whole Saruman series ready to frickin go.
And don't even get me started on Denethor (smash).
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The Fellowship crosses into the mountains just before dawn. By sunrise they have crossed the valleys, and reach the sea. One of the Hobbits - Pippin, of course, rushes immediately into the water, taking gulps of it as he goes. A moment later he is dragged out by the elven prince, spluttering.
“It’s salt!” He says, near tears. The old wizard scoffs,
“Of course it is salt, it is the sea.”
Pippin pouts for four miles.
The sea disappears behind them into nothing more than a puddle, and they are back into lush green forests. There is no intelligent life for miles, and little more to eat than moss, and the occasional woodland rodent. Light dies so far into the brush - It could be day, or night, winter or summer, and no one but the gods would have any way of knowing.
When the Fellowship reaches a clearing, the air is cold and light is dim. Morning. Early morning. Legolas, and the dwarf, carry two Hobbits on each shoulder. Gandalf marches ahead, the only one to keep a decent pace. Even he is exhausted, of course, but there is a time and place for rest.
It is Sam who notices first, jumping from the back of the prince and rushing ahead with a sudden burst of entirely inexplicable energy.
“Porridge!” Yelps the little man, jumping suddenly, “I can smell porridge! Porridge with sticky syrup -”
He is scooped up by the elf again, shushed like a child; But, sure enough, as they pass the next clearing, there is a single cauldron over a smouldering campfire, filled to its brim with bubbling, golden porridge.
“A Hobbit always knows by his nose.” Sam says, lunging for the pot, “It looks good. Fresh, too.”
Only the Hobbits dare touch the porridge. The three others are too focused on monitoring for traps, for some Man-eating beast to jump from the trees. Instead, Gimli pushes away a particularly heavy tree to reveal a little path, littered with sparkly things hanging from the trees and stuck in the grass. Pink, and purple and blue glass, dotted in silver.
One of the bushes near shakes, Legolas reaches for his bow, Gandalf gathers the Hobbits in a little pile around the cauldron. And from that bush hops out a single little rabbit, with droopy ears and black patches over his eyes.
“No, Hilldren!”
A moment later, a little girl jumps out from the same brush. Dressed wholly in silver, with blue diamonds hanging from her ears,
“You’re supposed to stay in the cage! Oh, Mama will be so cross with you, Hilldren!”
Hilldren the rabbit hops all the way over to Gimli’s feet, where he stops and begins grooming himself. The child lifts him without a second thought, disappearing back into the brush without so much as a look to the company.
“That was…”
“Strange.”
A moment later, they hear the child’s voice pipe through the trees,
“Mummy! There’s strange men in the garden again!”
The brush ruffles again with something much larger than a rabbit and a little child. The tree is pushed away again and there you are, in all your glory, still clad in a patterned nightdress. You do not look very happy.
Your eyes scan from elf, to dwarf, to hobbit, to wizard. You land on Gandalf, and you sigh,
“For the love of all, Olórin-” You lift your hands up as if seeking combat, Legolas raises his bow again, “Put that down, Thranduil-Boy!” You snap, and it falls out of his hands from mere shock.
You sigh, lift two of their packs on each arm, and turn to leave,
“I have six bloody children to feed, the least you could do is send a letter!”
As you begin to trudge up the glittering path, you move your head back to them.
“Come on, then - Are you all just going to stand there?”
They follow immediately. You are quite frightening.
The house is much larger than they would expect to be reasonably hidden by tree and bushes. It is large, too large for just one woman. Yellow, with ivy of red and green climbing up the sides. There is a little pond out the front, covered in lilypads and water flowers, and around the house is miles and miles of lush grass and crops - The Hobbits count endless varieties of fruits: peaches; and plums; and pears - And all of those things that young Hobbits simply love to eat.
There is grain as well; Wheats and barleys, and plots of vegetables hiding in soily graves. It is a paradise, a place where any living thing would be happy to gorge itself on fresh foods and die.
Merry is nudged gently by something, and he screams. It is a cow, quite a small one, with a yellowy-gold fleece. To a Hobbit, it is some fearsome beast. The others realise there are quite a few animals about the place, the cow’s gold sisters and black-and-white cousins, the odd pony, farm dogs, sheep and goats. There is even a patch of piglets fenced off in a corner. As they near the house they find a very fat, ginger cat, you lift it immediately off the step.
“This is Tomcat. Watch yourself around him, he isn’t fond of strangers.”
True to your word, Tomcat attempts to swipe at Gandalf. The wizard merely chuckles and pats the animal’s head.
An hour later the Fellowship are sat around a comfortable fire, on white and grey fur carpets, quietly drinking soup from painted ceramic bowls. Around them are four children - The little girl and her identical counterpart both dressed in blue and silver, and two boys in gold tunics. One has pierced ears, sporting a fine pearl in each, the other wears a variety of silver and bronze bangles up his arms. The children do not appear to notice their finery is in any way odd.
You appear with more broth, and a babe fastened onto your back with bright scarves sewn together. They do not know if it is a boy or a girl, and they do not ask. It is merely referred to as ‘Baby’.
“Didn’t you say there was six?” Pippin says eventually, “I can only count five…”
“Mh? Oh - Brianny is asleep upstairs. She has a fever.”
“A fever? Why, is she alright?”
“She will be fine. Fever in our people is not like fever in dwarves. She will not die from it, it is just an inconvenience. Some lemon tonic and she will be right as rain.”
By nightfall, the Fellowship is tucked up comfortably in the stables, on mattresses stuffed with straw and woollen blankets. They do not know where the horses are, and do not care to ask. Frodo sits up suddenly,
“Where’s Gandalf?!”
True enough, the old wizard is nowhere to be found.
It is only the Hobbits who appear to be even mildly concerned as to his whereabouts. Both Gimli and Legolas follow them back into the house, the latter much better at sneaking.
The sitting room, when not filled with bejewelled infants and strange visitors, is warm and cosy. The lamps are lit now, the fire clinging to life. Gandalf, somehow, has changed clothes, into a plain silk shift, and brown trousers. The hat is off, the cane is by his side, and for once, the great wizard simply looks like a tired, old, man. His head is bowed, you are on the other side of the sitting room, sewing.
“You should be angry…”
The voice which comes from the man is not his own. It is the voice of a little boy caught with his hands in the sugar jar. Yours, to contrast, is just as short as usual.
“Why? Would that ease your burdens, if I was angry? Would that make you feel better, Olórin?”
He sighs, he is powerless.
“How are the children?”
“Quiet, well-behaved.” Gandalf looks up, a thin smile crosses your face, “Oh, I jest. They cause a ruckus and you know it.”
“They always have done…”
“Always.”
It is quiet for a single moment, until you look back at him,
“Why Hobbits? Why four Hobbits, a Dwarf and a prince of the Elves? Even you could pick better than a merry bunch of randoms.”
“They are not random.” He appears to gain some of his old self back, “Gimli is a talented fighter, Legolas gives us the aid of the elves - And as for the Hobbits. Well, one is a Baggins.”
“You did not bring Him here!”
Gandalf jumps, physically, as though you have hit him.
“You did not bring Him to this house! Olórin! You promised me never again.”
He is up too, holding both of your hands together in his own,
“No- No- It is not here. I left It in the company of Lady Galadriel.”
“I can feel when He is near. He is my babe, Olórin - I bore Him from my own flesh. If I find out you have lied to me, Olórin, so help me, the gods will not find what I leave of you.”
There is a beat, and then it is calm again. He bows his head, you sigh.
“What now?”
“We lost one, along the way.”
“Lost a what?”
“... A son of Gondor.”
Your sewing is dropped in a moment, flat onto the ground. Your arms are around him, his head rests upon your chest. You kiss his forehead,
“Oh, my firefly… What have I told you? You grow so attached… The others on this soil are not built for your obligations - What was it to? Poison? Battle?”
“Battle - He… Died by arrow fire.”
“My poor little adventurer. Is that why you come here for refuge, mh?”
“You always - You - You are a comfort. You know that much.”
“I know.”
He can almost breathe in the silence. No Hobbits to worry about, no orcs to fend off. It is a still night in the farmlands, and he is safe. A moment later you are stood again, holding both his hands and forcing him up.
“Come, come.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To bed, Olórin. I have been entertaining myself with a bedpost for nine years.”
A small smile crosses his face.
“That is not very long. The elves can go years-”
“Oh, do not start about the elves. The elves this, the elves that - The elves don’t see the bedchamber for anything but sleep. Gods - I don’t even think the half of them know what a cock is.”
“You are an odd woman.”
“Mh.”
You turn to leave, flicking the tips of your scarf so it hits him lightly in the face,
“Share your rest with the Hobbits, then.”
Surprisingly fast, he attempts to catch up with you. You rush up the stairs, giggling like a maniac, and the door into your bedroom slams shut. The house is peaceful again.
-Epilogue, The Following Morning
The Fellowship awakes from the calmest sleep of their journey, and slowly trundle themselves back into the farmhouse. There is not enough space for six extra men, of course, and yet somehow you have made room. The children, although it is just the two girls and another child in a purple garment who are awake, have been sat outside, enjoying fruit. Baby has been passed around, and is sat comfortably on Gimli’s lap. All dwarves love babies.
Gandalf appears in his silk shirt and brown trousers, hair pulled up with coloured string, and beard trimmed significantly. He answers no questions about his appearance.
When you emerge, you scoop Baby up and pretend that the child is fully capable of speech, talking it through exactly what you are doing. Eventually, it grows tired, reaches its chubby hands out towards the old wizard and lets out a tremendous squeak,
“Baba! Baba!”
He is across the kitchen in a moment, twirling the infant around and disappearing outside to see the three girls.
“What was that?”
You look over at the pile of Hobbits, slowly making their way through months of foodstock. You smile.
“Didn’t he tell you? I’m his wife.”
You leave them in astounded silence and go to wake the boys.