Autumn in the Shire
Mithrandir took off his sword and sat in the horizontal light of sunset, savoring a bowl of Old Toby with his back against a tree. He was feeling the weight of centuries in his bones nowadays, but Autumn in the Shire had a way of settling his spirit.
Nearby, he saw Balin and Bilbo at a trestle table that had been hauled out onto an open field used for parties - which were frequent. The pair were poring over a map that was held down at the corners with empty ale cups and half a wheel of cheese from their picnic.
He heard snatches of conversation, "...and Bard has rebuilt Dale. You'd not recognize the place..." and "...I need to put that in my book, don't you know..."
Mithrandir smiled, content to savor the bird song as he blew a small smoke-dragon to pester Bilbo. The hobbit laughed and, using his ink quill as a sword, did battle with the smoky replica. Bilbo was a small, remarkable fellow in a too-large world (though his waistcoat had expanded a bit).
But something still nagged at the back of Mithrandir's mind. There was more coming. More darkness. He knew it as sure as the snows follow the Beaver Moon.
But that was tomorrow's worry. Today, he closed his eyes and just breathed.
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