The White Flame

Foreword:
It took me a while to go around the thinking process as to what to write as an answer to the challenge posed by @weisser-rabe.

In retrospect... I've read Lord Of The Rings some thirty five years ago and am not such a great fan of the movies, even though I consider them to be a fair representation of Tolkien's idea. Thirty five years since having read that voluminous work, I still wonder what the blip happened to Gandalf after the mines of Moria.

Passing time and having written a couple of books myself, I speculate that there comes a point when you can no longer deal with the complexity of what you got on paper, (and Tolkien did not have the privilege of excel spreadsheets and notes on his word document), and you have to meet the editor's deadline. I suppose Tolkien just played hooky to not have to face the writing of another hundred pages or so on what would end up being a rather uninteresting side story.

I also believe that, at the time Tolkien dropped the Gandalf Character into the chasm, he didn't have the faintest idea that he'd have to bring him back from the dead later. I say this because the mythology in Lord of the Rings does not once refer to the possibility of resurrection before Gandalf comes back in the Battle of Helms Deep. Having said this, I believe Tolkien just grafted the Fangorn scene into the book as a weak foreshadowing he came up with after writing the Helms Deep scene and discovering he needed one.

Anyway... That's just what I feel. Doesn't really mater, only serves to explain why I chose this episode to portray.

The White Flame

I felt the tremor and saw the thumbling stones before I saw the fire. The Balrog came striding from the shadows of Khazad‑dûm, its whip cracking, breathing out a furnace.

I stood upon the narrow bridge, staff in hand, sword gleaming faintly in the gloom. Behind me, the Fellowship waited, their hearts trembling.

“You shall not pass!” I said.

The creature laughed, if such a sound can be called laughter. Flame leapt, shadow coiled, and the abyss below seemed to hunger. I struck the bridge with my staff, and stone shuddered. The Balrog stepped forward, and the span broke beneath its weight. Yet as it fell, the whip lashed, coiling about me. I was dragged into the chasm, swallowed by darkness.

( Image: Gandalf fights the Balrog in the Mines of Moria )

We fell for what seemed an eternity. Stone walls rushed past, fire scorched my beard, and the roar of the abyss drowned all thought.

At last we struck deep waters, and steam rose in choking clouds. The beast rose before me, wings of shadow unfurled, and the battle began anew.

We fought in caverns vast and terrible, where pillars glowed red with ancient fire.

My sword clashed against its blade, my staff blazed with light.

Each blow shook the mountain.

We climbed stairways cut in forgotten ages, higher and higher, until the air grew thin and the stars wheeled above.

Upon the peak of Zirakzigil, we fought for days. Lightning split the sky, snow hissed against fire.

My strength waned, yet I pressed on, for all Middle‑earth hung upon this struggle. At last, I smote the Balrog, and it fell, broken upon the mountainside. Victory was mine, but so too was death. My body failed, and I drifted beyond thought.

There was no time, no place. I passed into a realm where silence was deeper than the void.

I was unclothed, a spirit only, borne upon currents I could not name. I felt the gaze of powers greater than I: the Valar who had sent me forth long ago.

They weighed me, judged me, and found me still faithful. I had not sought dominion, nor bent to pride, as Saruman had. My task was unfinished, and so I was sent back. Not as Gandalf the Grey, weary wanderer, but as Gandalf the White, renewed and strengthened.

I awoke upon the mountain peak, clothed in light. My staff was remade, my spirit aflame with clarity. The eagle Gwaihir descended, vast wings beating, and bore me from the heights. His flight carried me across leagues of Middle‑earth, until I lay in rest, gathering strength for what was to come.

When I rose again, I walked through Fangorn Forest. The trees whispered, ancient and watchful. There I met Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. They beheld me with wonder, for I was changed. My voice carried command, my eyes shone with fire, and the grey pilgrim they had known was gone.

“I am Gandalf the White,” I told them. “I have passed through fire and shadow. I have returned, until my task is done.”

Their hope rekindled, and so did mine. For though I had died, I lived again, not for myself, but for all the free folk who stood against the shadow of Morgoth.

Barreiro, 09.12.25
Hefestus