With Fine Frost and Untouchable

Chapter One

The Wizard's Companion

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Under the cover of night, Gandalf the Grey silently crept towards the resting place of a dear old friend, wizened eyes narrowed to see through the thick mask of falling snow. It was a worthwhile hindrance and the surest sign that he was going in the proper direction (though only time would tell if it would prove to be the right and fruitful one). His fingers wrapped around the base of his staff and the peak of his nose had long since gone numb, but there was only a small ways left and little time to spare before the dawning of the next day, yet so much still to be done.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he came upon the sound of heavy rhythmic breathing and nearly startled at the sight of two reptilian eyes glinting through the white; familiar eyes—pupils darker than the blackest cavern slitting through orbs of golden green. A low growl cut through the howl of the wind before the blizzard increased in momentum, blinding him to the world as the storm wailed higher and higher until—it was quiet.

Gandalf lowered the arm he had raised to shield his face, a genial smile spreading across his withered lips as he spotted her, "Bellinda…Tiid staadnau, wruth fahdon. (Common: Time unbound, my friend.)" He addressed her with the alternative Draken greeting, the only one he was capable of performing since drakes normally roared to greet one another—a power play to decide whom was superior, which often ended in dominance battles, one of the many reasons they were notorious for being a volatile race.

A decidedly human voice answered, "Tiid staadnau, Sadonrovaaniik (Common: Time unbound, Gray Wanderer [Draken form of Sindarin 'Mithrandir'])." A woman, outwardly human, emerged from the whiteout, a loose, colorless robe draping her slender form. She moved with the grace and whimsy of a wraith, a ghostly apparition of an age thought to be long passed. Her appearance only attributed to this image—skin as fair as milk, lips a light blue-gray hue, hair silver and ashen—the snow and ice and frost embodied in human form.

"It's good to see you, my dear. I trust you have been well?" Gandalf inquired politely, more out of courtesy than curiosity. He knew of her circumstances, of the secrets only a lucky few were aware of, and as such, he also knew it was a waste of both his time and her own to be asking of petty pleasantries.

She tilted her head regally, stepping forward, movements personified with the elegance and refinement all creatures beholden by ancient magick seemed to possess. There was only one other who surpassed Bellinda in both matters and she currently resided in the trees of Lothlòrien, but the cold-drake reigned supreme otherwise.

"As well as can be, Sadonrovaaniik, but you and I both know my wellbeing is not why you traveled so far and through so much to see me. Speak your piece; ask your questions," she ordered, voice smooth and as beautiful as the rest of her, but somehow lacking, hollow, toneless.

"Ravens fly towards Fin Enarah Strunmah (Common: The Lonely Mountain); the time of reckoning is upon us," he declared with a doubtless severity, words firm in belief. A spark of ferocity lit up her eyes, shadows pirouetting about the contours of her face in a savage dance of anticipation. He had expected no less after sixty years ceaselessly spent cultivating her hatred. "The Company of Thorin Oakenshield marches for Erebor come morning."

Silence passed for several moments, long enough for him to grow worried, before he heard her, "Where?"

Gandalf merely smiled in satisfaction and replied, "If we wish to recover the thing you covet most—which coincidentally happens to be in concurrence with the desires of our leader—we will need the skill of a burglar, a talented one. Whom can only be found in the quaint town of Hobbiton in the far reaches of the Shire. I have engraved his door with the symbol of the thief, but I assume your keen sense of smell with lead you right to it if you happen to miss the mark."

Bellinda nodded once, pursing full periwinkle lips, and agreed, "Hi lost dii jusk (Common: You have my claws)."

Gandalf bowed slightly and turned to leave, pausing as he heard her voice once more, "I will not let the dwarf king retake what is mine, Sadonrovaaniik; I can exist like this no longer. If he resists, I will kill him. Do not try to stop me."

His shoulders sagged tiredly, for he knew what she spoke was only the truth; she had no reason to lie. "I understand. You will do what must be done."

"And no less. Erei borii, Sadonrovaaniik (Common: Until the next, Gray Wanderer)."

.

.

Later on, Gandalf found himself amongst the company of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit, a merry band of misfits to be sure, but incomplete. The chilling rendition of Over the Misty Mountains Cold had set a grave mood in Bag End, a heavy atmosphere of foreboding settled on each and every stout head, including the curly-topped crown of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, their burglar. He knew the heart of a hobbit would prove to be tremendously important during this journey, perhaps even the deciding factor of its failure or success, but perhaps the consequences outweighed the benefits. Only time would tell.

With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes, wrinkles becoming more prominent as he frowned. Bellinda had not come, not yet, at least. However, Gandalf was almost completely assured that she would make an appearance soon. She said she would, and a dragon's promise was nothing if not guaranteed.

A shiver coursed down the length of his hunched spine, creaking through his aged bones with a callous rigorousness. He heard what sounded like a heavy thump outside the window and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, goose bumps prickling along his arms.

Gandalf inconspicuously hobbled to his feet, slipping past Thorin to head out the door. He could feel the dwarf's suspicious gaze on his back, but paid no further attention and stepped outside. She stood unmoving and grandiose beside Mr. Baggins' remarkable garden, a thin layer of frost coating the rose-shaped Camellias from her breath.

"I did not expect your appearance so promptly, Sadonrovaaniik. Do they yet sleep?" Her voice nearly startled him as it cut through the peace of the night.

"Not all, but most," he replied amiably, "I would not keep you waiting, Bellinda."

A mirthless smile tilted her lips, jagged and sharp like cracks on a porcelain doll forced to feel. It pained him merely to look at it, so he did not, instead turning once more to the thawing flowers.

"I have been waiting for a very long time already; what are a few minutes more?" He refrained from answering, knowing there would be no suitable response to such a question. Thankfully she continued, "I would join this quest, but not so apparently. You will journey with them; I will follow behind and only interfere should I be of dire need."

Gandalf hummed thoughtfully, sliding his fingers through his beard in consideration, "And what if we—I should need of you and you were unaware of it?" In truth, he needed a reason to summon her in front of the others. They were yet ignorant to the long line of guardians that watched over Erebor and far too jaded against her race to easily come to terms with Bellinda's aid. Their newfound knowledge—and acceptance—would be required should the succession of the treasure of Erebor and its halls be acquired with some amount of trouble unforeseen.

She seemed to ponder the question for several seconds, olive eyes narrowed slightly. At last, the dragoness raised a pale hand to her mouth, blowing into her cupped palm steadily. She outstretched her arm and placed something within his grasp, sending an icy shock up his wrist. Gandalf looked down to find a small sphere of ice sitting tenderly in his palm, no thicker than his thumb, completely opaque and smooth.

He raised a thick eyebrow in curiosity. "If you should need me, crush this beneath your heel and I shall come," she explained, voice growing deeper as she continued, "Nunon waan hi kend, Sadonrovaaniik, ahrk nunon ruz (Common: Only if you must, Grey Wanderer, and only then)."

Gandalf shut his eyes to her inevitable transformation; he had watched it once and would rather not again. Although exceptionally well-versed in the varying magicks of this land, there were some things of the natural world that went wholly against what was right and real: changing corporal form beyond simple physical characteristics did just that. Witnessing such an event a single time was enough to shake the reality of even one as old and sage as he.

When he looked up again, it was to see the shadow of her massive form part the clouds and disappear behind their canopy.

He conceded that the sight of her vanishing into the veil was indeed a tragic one. She would always be a creature of solitude and loneliness. It was her duty, though, as with every Guardian preceding her.

He pitied her; he somehow knew the ending of this tale would not be a happy affair.

For any of them.

She had things that needed to be done; as did he. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder where she would go, who she would see. The dragoness had been in isolation for numerous years, meditating and practicing on her magick for the coming unavoidable battle. Before that, she had stayed close to the mountain, though it was obvious someone of her years would have comrades and acquaintances all across the map. Well, he supposed, who am I but a lowly wizard to ponder the happenings of Bellinda the Wintry?

The wizard rolled the ice-beacon once in contemplation, before closing it in his fist and placing it steadfastly in the folds of his worn robes. He would not use it until all options had been exhausted—for the Company's sake as well as his own—though his fear didn't stem from wariness of her wrath, it couldn't, but from caution of possibly ceasing the occurrence of certain necessary events. Some things needed to happen if his plans were to come to fruition. Her presence would undeniably prove the catalyst to striking knowledge of the real danger and consequences of this mission into the Company's hearts.

Returning to the now quiet Bag End, Gandalf was greeted with the sight of Thorin waiting impatiently by the door, arms folded across his chest. The distrustful glint in his eyes alerted Gandalf to an imminent interrogation and the old man prepared to answer all the coming questions with half-truths and riddles, as per usual. He knew the almost-King would be infuriated, but he cared little—it was for his own good. Forewarning would only serve to leave the idea festering in his mind, a distraction that could prove fatal. In the case of dwarves, actions would always conquer words; it was best to throw them in a situation headfirst, so they wouldn't have time to think for long on the matter.

"Where were you?" Thorin questioned him, though his gruff tone demanded answer.

Gandalf hummed, "Why, outside, of course." He pulled out his pipe, striking his fingers to light the weed inside. The smoke rose and fell in a swirling dye like the aurora lights seen above the far mountains.

"Do not play games with me, wizard," the dwarf growled, taking a threatening step forward.

Gandalf noticed the shrewd, calculating look he wore, and continued, "Preparing: in peace. This journey will need to be undertaken with a thought-out plan, mind you."

Thorin narrowed his stormy eyes, silent for several moments, "Alone?"

Gandalf made a show of sighing heavily in exasperation, voice weary and mildly patronizing, "We are never alone, Thorin, son of Thrain. I often find advice from the strangest of sources."

The Durinson grunted before shaking his head in vexation, turning from the wizard while muttering something unseemly under his breath in Khuzdul. Gandalf breathed evenly in relief, putting the pipe to his lips once more.

This quest would not be one for the faint-hearted.

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A/N: This has been done for so long but I haven't posted it. Hope you enjoyed? Sorry for the wait?

Review if you can, please!

A Whisper None Can Hear