In which the dwarves think up a new way of trying to convince Gandalf to meddle with the weather... An explanation of how it all began.

Rain

By the time they were a few weeks away from the Shire it had already become an established tradition. Collecting gold, treasure and trinkets had always been a favourite pastime of the dwarves, and they were never ones to turn down a good bet. Of course, the first one of the journey had led to substantial holes in some purses, but for the majority this only whetted their appetite, and half an hour later a chance comment of Nori's was seized upon eagerly:

"I bet Mr Baggins will fall off that pony soon."

Several minutes of fierce bargaining and one bruised Bilbo later several basic guidelines were established:

1. Consider the wording and phraseology of the bet very carefully before proposing it.

2. Take particular consideration of agent/cause.

3. Never accept a bet of a week's worth of ale from anyone who is trying hard not to grin manically at their brother.

4. Don't upset Thorin.

But, as certain younger members of the company have oft been heard to remark, 'where's the fun in that?'


However, the range of things one can do whilst riding a pony is limited, and accordingly a series of smaller, more mundane bets also arose. A good hour every morning could easily be spent by the older dwarves discussing the likelihood of rain, the amount of cloud cover and how cold it would be when they finally set up camp that night. Up until recently, at least. Currently, no one had any doubts at all about what the weather held for the near future.

The rain dribbled down the back of Dori's neck. Technically his hood should have stopped it, but his hood had been sodden for two days now. His socks squelched between his toes, water pooling in his boots. He would tip them out when they next stopped, though it would do little good. The trees they were plodding along under served only to divert the drizzle for a little while, before dripping it back on top of them. Up ahead of him, in the grey, he could just make out huddled shapes, and the leaking rat-tails of someone who'd given up on their hood. Dori can see why. He has the distinct feeling that he couldn't be damper if he was wearing nothing at all.

Over the past two days they have tried numerous strategies to prompt Gandalf into providing some more clement weather. They have hinted at it, suggested it, asked pertinent questions about his weather-related abilities, asked him politely, asked him straight out, wheedled, reasoned, begged, cajoled, pleaded and finally threatened – a strategy they are never, ever going to try again with any wizard. Ever.

But, Dori realises, there is one strategy they have not yet tried.

He reined his pony in next to Gandalf. "Mister Gandalf?"

"Yes?" The wizard's bushy eyebrows appear to be perfectly dry under that wide-brimmed hat – a hat that also appears to be dryer than it should be. Dori tactfully doesn't mention this.

"Care to place a small bet?"

"What on?"

"The weather."

Gandalf peered out from under the hat to survey the unforgiving skies. "Are you sure that is wise?"

"I have a reasonably-sized bag of Southern Leaf I picked up in Hobbiton. Still dry and the best going."

The wizard's expression brightens. "Then what is your bet, Master Dwarf?"

"That when we stop to rest it will be sunny."

A frown appears. "It will be eventide before we stop. I will bet you a bag of tobacco-leaf that we sleep on dry ground tonight instead."

Dori accepts. Whatever happens, he has won this bet. Either he will gain a good pouch of tobacco-leaf or Gandalf will make the rain stop. At the moment he would rather the latter.


A cheery chatter arose around the fire, as the thick smell of bubbling stew pervaded the air. It was still not quite enough to drown out the aroma of the rows of steaming, greying socks drying out next to the fire however, and for that reason Dori slipped out to the doorway. It was a cosy little place Gandalf had found them - a small abandoned cottage tucked away in a valley, the roof and walls still intact. And just as well. Dori doesn't need to go outside to see – or hear – that the rain shows no sign of abating. All he has to do is watch the smoke rings floating gently past through the doorway, each one neatly pierced by the heavy droplets falling from above.