At midday, Gandalf declared that they would stop and rest. The sky to the west had been clear all morning, the unremarkable grey clouds revealing nothing of what had transpired in the night. A small campfire was allowed, and Sam busied himself preparing breakfast. Conversation was sparse, limited mostly to Merry and Pippin discussing the storm and interrogating Gandalf on other phenomenon of a similar nature. A thoroughly exasperated wizard finally stated that he could recall no other such instance and that to his knowledge this was a completely singular occurrence. If there was a strange shadow in Gandalf's eyes, or if he looked somewhat haunted and distracted, no one seemed to notice.
"So... you're certain you've never seen anything like this before?" Pippin asked, either genuinely confused or doing an excellent job of faking it. His cousin slapped him over the back of the head, deciding that, either way, it probably wasn't an intelligent idea to push a wizard too far.
From his place by the fire, Gimli laughed at the expression of long-suffering patience on Gandalf's face. His good humor soured however, when he realized the elf was smiling as well. Settling his axe so it lay across his knees, the dwarf glowered at nothing in particular, his hand unconsciously running along the axe blade.
The axe was a special weapon, one he'd made himself after the disappearance of the company of Thorin Oakenshield. On its head, he'd carved the names of the thirteen missing dwarves in ancient Khuzdul runes. It was a memorial he carried with him always, for the grief was still near, even after sixty years.
In those sixty years, the missing dwarves had become immortalized in legend and song. Their's was a tragic tale, of desperate men who had sought to retake their home, and had been foiled by the most unexpected circumstances.
Gimli listened to the songs and stories and internalized them, writing down the words on his stony heart with a hammer and chisel. He would never forget them. Everything he had become was a result of that one event, that one moment in his life that overshadowed all others. The course of his life, all of his aims and purposes, had shifted dramatically when Gandalf had delivered that shocking message so long ago.
Over the years, Gimli had meticulously groomed an outward façade of being a stern and serious dwarf, never one to laugh quickly or lose his temper easily. Unconsciously, he'd developed a cautious wisdom, standing in for the leaders they'd lost. Without dwarves like Thorin and Balin, the exiles of the Lonely Mountain floundered and young dwarves like Gimli had to fill the gap.
When he'd been chosen to go to Rivendell, Gimli had attired himself in his finest clothes and mail. If he was to represent his father, it was best to do it properly. Let all who looked upon him know that the dwarves of Erebor were still a strong and proud people.
The others perceived him as being grim and sparse with words and conversation, and the dwarf did not know what he thought of that. Certainly, he did not like that the younger Halflings seemed half scared of him, but there seemed little he could do to change things.
Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, and Frodo did not seem to care whether he laughed or spoke or barked like a dog. Well, that last one might cause a few raised eyebrows… Gimli suppressed an amused chortle and schooled his features into a mask of boredom.
Then there was the elf. The dratted elf. The natural strife between their two peoples had guaranteed that there would be little friendship between them, but the elf seemed to enjoy making it worse. With one cocky smirk Legolas could perfectly unravel Gimli's carefully cultivated patience. The elf was a flighty nuisance, an overgrown child that delighted in watching the wind blow and listening to flowers talk to each other.
Gimli felt odd even thinking about such things.
Merry and Pippin's childish behavior was bearable, for they were young; but Legolas had at least a thousand years to his name, and apparently hadn't learned any sense in that time. Even though Gimli had become proficient at masking his temper—well, for a dwarf anyway—he found himself engaged in verbal sparring matches quite often.
The fire was most welcome, for the wind blew almost constantly and there was no sun to provide any warmth. Gimli had gone on many journeys in his life, so he was mostly unaffected by the chill, but the hobbits didn't seem to be taking it well thus far. Truthfully, Gimli didn't think the Halflings had the fortitude for a quest like this.
The two youngest hobbits had now chosen to occupy themselves by snitching food behind Sam's back, since the lack of meals on this quest was a matter they lamented loudly and often. In a moment of joviality, Gimli had made a bet with Aragorn, wagering that Sam would never catch them at it. Grinning slyly, the ranger had taken the bet.
Across the fire from Gimli, Frodo sat idly toying with the chain around his neck whereon hung the small golden ring that was responsible for them being out here in the first place. Knowing that Frodo's cousin had been a part of Thorin's company had piqued Gimli's interest, but he didn't ask about it. The matter was a sore point with the dwarf, and possibly with the hobbit as well.
Frodo's thoughts were indeed far away from his present company. Around his neck, the Ring hung like dead weight, reminding him of the past. When his parents had drowned, he had gone and lived with his mother's relations, the Brandybucks, in Brandy Hall.
That was the first time he met Gandalf. The wizard had not visited the Shire in a long while, and had immediately taken the adventurous young hobbit lad under his wing. Frodo smiled fondly as he remembered all of the fireworks and wild stories he had enjoyed during Gandalf's many visits.
He had just entered his tweens when Gandalf first told him the story of Bilbo. How he had run off on an adventure, forgetting his handkerchief in the process, and had outwitted trolls and fought orcs, goblins, and wargs. The wizard spoke fondly of the thirteen dwarves who had been Bilbo's companions, chuckling as he proclaimed them a "merry gathering", and describing how the thoroughly flummoxed Bilbo had reacted when they had all showed up at Bag End and invaded (and emptied) his pantry without proper invitation.
With sadness in his wise eyes, Gandalf had regretfully reported that the entire gathering had vanished mysteriously and had never been heard from since. The wizard himself had searched earnestly, but had uncovered no clues as to their fate.
Frodo had grieved over their disappearance as though he had known them personally; due, no doubt, to the way Gandalf had brought them to life for him. The tale made him wish for adventures of his own, far away from the peaceful green hills of the Shire.
Over the years, Frodo had taken to viewing Gandalf as a close relative. Closer than most of his blood kin. Nothing like a father or grandfather, of course, for those were a little too commonplace for a wizard, but rather an eccentric old uncle that the rest of the family considered to be very disreputable and whispered about behind his back. Gandalf's influence on Frodo's life was tolerated by the other hobbits, for many of them assumed that Frodo would turn out to be another Bilbo anyway.
Declaring breakfast now ready, Sam pulled his companion's from their dark thoughts by happily dishing out the food. The little gardener waited until everyone else was served before he began eating, despite Aragorn's protests. After all had eaten and the dishes had been cleaned and repacked, Gandalf advised them to sleep if they could.
The wizard took the first watch, staring absently into the fire and puffing slowly on his pipe. His thoughts were leagues away, thinking of the one other instance on which he had heard of a storm like this. Feeling no need to share with anyone else, Gandalf turned his mind back seventy-seven years, and tried hard to recall everything he had been told about a mysterious black storm on the outskirts of Mirkwood.
/
As a cheerless dawn replaced the gloomy night, Bilbo awoke to discover that he felt absolutely miserable. Bones ached, his head pounded, and his stomach flipped and flopped inside him unhappily. He had also contracted a head cold. And I still don't have a handkerchief, the hobbit mourned.
Judging from the assorted gripes and grumbles around him, Bilbo was one of the last to awaken, and definitely not the only one feeling unwell. Although the boulder they had slept beside was at the bottom of a small, bowl-shaped indent, Bilbo could see enough of his surroundings to recognize their location. Sitting up as quickly as his queasy stomach would allow, Bilbo glanced around in astonishment. "Hold on, isn't this the same area we traveled through before we arrived in Rivendell? Are we near Rivendell again?"
Unperturbed by his lack of a 'good morning' the dwarves all acknowledged him balefully. "We've been... discussing the possibility, yes." Balin replied, ever tactful, though Bilbo could tell the older dwarf's patience was wearing thin.
"And I say it isn't possible! How could we have gone all the way from Mirkwood to the other side of the Misty Mountains?' Dori queried rather impolitely.
"Well, we're obviously nowhere near where we were before, we seemed to have lost an unknown amount of time, and the season has gone through a rather improbable change. I'd say that there is little left in the realm of impossibility!" Bilbo snapped, currently too ill and too frightened to put up with dwarven manners. Which meant a lack of manners in general.
Ignoring the hobbit's outburst, Balin turned to their leader with a grim expression. "I have to agree, Thorin. We should be prepared to face any possibility, no matter how strange it may seem."
Thorin took the solemn warning with a faint nod, his face grey and drawn. The dwarf was quiet and detatched, even compared to his normal demeanor. In his pursuit to mask all emotion and appear strong for his people, Thorin had become like stone.
Swift footfalls caused the company to fall into a defensive stance, weapons drawn and ready within seconds. They all relaxed when they saw it was only Fíli and Kíli. According to Thorin's edict, the two had gone scouting at first light, with the stern command from their uncle to "See if they could spot any landmarks that might tell us where we are. Stay hidden and come back if you see anything suspicious. Under no circumstances are you to investigate on your own."
Faces flushed from the wind, the brothers wasted no time giving their report, breathlessly telling of what they had discovered. "We found a hill close by and from there we were able to see everything." Fíli began. When he stopped for breath, Kíli jumped in, his eyes wide in amazement.
"The Misty Mountains were to the east of us. Somehow we've ended up on the wrong side of them!"
Chaos erupted immediately, each of the dwarves feeling the need to raise verbal expressions of disbelief and shock.
"Quiet!" Thorin bellowed, silencing them. Glaring at them for emphasis, he waited till they looked properly chastised before asking Fíli if they'd seen anything else.
"Nothing of interest. All the land nearby is the same as here, although the ground becomes more uneven closer to the mountains."
Mulling over this latest information, the dwarves fell silent. Their map had been of little use, telling them only that they were somewhere in the wild.
"What are we going to do now?" Ori asked innocently.
"We could head north and we might run into the river, that'd tell us for sure where we are." Balin suggested, pointing at the line on the map.
"Unless of course the river happens to be to the south, then we will have spent precious time getting ourselves even more lost. We'll head east and search for a proper crossing over the mountains." Thorin replied.
"We barely survived our last venture into those wretched mountains!" Gloin protested stridently.
"Aye, and we may not have supplies enough for the journey. Perhaps we should make for Rivendell. The elves may have some news from Gandalf." Nori mused, looking slightly shamefaced that he was suggesting they go to the elves for aid.
"Sounds well enough, except we have no way of knowing whether Rivendell lies to the north or to the south!" Dwalin growled, tiring of this pointless discussion that only led them in circles.
The subtle hope that flared into being at the mention of returning to Elrond's home was quickly snuffed, and Bilbo felt more disgruntled than before. A small, illogical part of the hobbit wished they would simply guess at a direction that they thought Rivendell was in and go that way.
"Eating a bite before we go wouldn't be a bad idea." Bofur suggested, causing Bombur to visibly brighten.
"Very well, but the food must be rationed. We have little idea of when we might find some next." Thorin cautioned, his voice grim.
Despite his complete lack of appetite, Bilbo forced himself to eat a small breakfast of dried fruits, and was pleasantly surprised to find himself feeling much better for it. Revived, the company divided the packs and set out, making for the mountains.
While the area around them did look very similar to the land they had traversed before, there were several differences. Less trees grew here, and there were more ravines and uneven ground. Sadly, this was no indication of of their location.
Trying to hold back a sigh, Bilbo trudged along beside Bofur. Frustration at having to cross the mountains once more was compounded by the uncertainty of what they would find on the other side. Pieces of overheard conversation also caused the hobbit worry, for he had heard Balin whisper to Thorin that Durin's day might have passed already, and they may have missed their opportunity to retake the mountain.
"Don't you think I have thought of that?" Thorin had hissed, his voice edged with anger. "I have thought of little else since that cursed storm."
Realizing now just how far they might have been set back, Bilbo wondered if all the perils he had faced since leaving the Shire had been for nothing.
/
Gusts of a fretful wind blew sharply across the ground, bending the blades of grass under an invisible hand. The afternoon had passed slowly, most of the fellowship wrapped up in their cloaks and sound asleep. Complete silence blanketed the world-except of course, for the sound of Gimli's snoring.
Suppressing a sigh, Aragorn rolled over and sat up. He was closest to the dwarf, and therefore subjected to the awful noise the most. Sleep seemed an impossible goal at this point. Seeing Gandalf still sitting on guard, deep in thought, prompted the ranger to go to him.
Nothing was said for a few moments, not until Aragorn spoke quietly, his voice nearly silent. "You did not speak truthfully earlier."
"Oh?" Gandalf asked, an amused gleam lighting his eyes.
"When the hobbits asked, you said you had heard of no such storm. Why did you not tell them the truth?"
"I saw little reason to trouble their minds with the truth. Whatever is responsible for that storm is a great evil, Aragorn, and I fear how it might affect the outcome of this quest." The wizard's face was as grave as his words. "There was a lingering darkness in that place, something nameless and dreadful had been at work outside of Mirkwood that day and whatever it is has returned. It is no coincidence that the ring has been involved both times."
"Was there no sign of violence then? No sign that something, or someone had harmed the company in some way?" Aragorn asked, knowing that the wizard would have examined the area carefully.
"There was nothing. It was as if the wind had borne them away." Gandalf's gaze became distant and melancholy as he remembered that day. Beorn's animals had gone to Radagast, and it was the other Istari who had brought word to Gandalf that trouble had found the company of Thorin Oakenshield. By the time he had arrived, there was nothing to see save a few packs sitting forlornly beside the forest.
"What happened there was not your fault." Aragorn consoled urgently. "There was no knowing what was to happen there, and I am sure that it will not happen again."
Gandalf smiled at his friend, the shadows of self-recrimination not banished from his eyes. "Who can say what is to happen, Aragorn? Even those with the gift of foresight have said the way ahead is unknowable."
Before the ranger could reply, Legolas slipped into the camp silently from whatever hidden place he had been keeping watch from, his eyes alert and his bearing on edge.
"There are others coming." At the elf's grim announcement, Gandalf and Aragorn acted immediately. Those who were still asleep were awoken and told of the danger. As the others prepared to either fight or flee, Legolas stood at the edge of their camp, head tilted to the side as he listened.
"How far?" Aragorn asked, his voice a wary whisper.
"They are close, and they are moving steadily towards us from the west. But they do not attempt to hide their presence. They are quite noisy actually, despite being few in number." For his part, the elf seemed merely curious, and looked about to go and investigate on his own.
"Perhaps we should keep moving. We do not know their number, and they could possibly be spies of Sauron." Aragorn counseled.
But Gandalf was curious as well, and intent on finding out who else would be wandering about in the wild during the middle of winter. "If their company is small and they make no attempt at stealth, then they cannot be very good spies."
Boromir slowly drew his sword. "Perhaps Gandalf should wait with the Halflings while the rest of us proceed?"
The wizard 'harrumphed' softly and raised his bristling eyebrows. "Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas shall wait with the Halflings, while Aragorn and I shall look ahead."
"Just the two of you?" Gimli asked incredulously.
"Yes, now you three keep watch over the hobbits. If anything were to happen to them, I would be most displeased." With a final glare coming from under his bushy brows, Gandalf took his leave, Aragorn trailing behind him.
Looking only a little disgruntled, Boromir herded the hobbits behind a boulder, Gimli bringing up the rear. Legolas placed himself a little farther away, bow ready and every sense on alert.
Aragorn wondered about this strong compulsion of the wizard's to investigate this odd phenomenon. It was more than idle curiosity, Aragorn knew, that drove the wizard to investigate. This interest was an old one, connected to the past.
Leaving the rest of the Fellowship behind, Gandalf and Aragorn followed a narrow, twisting path that led them through stones that towered above them and concealed the path ahead. From ahead came the sound of footsteps drawing closer. Legolas had been right, whoever this was certainly wasn't proficient in the art of stealth.
"Now then, I think the element of surprise would be beneficial here." So saying, Gandalf raised his staff with a strong upwards thrust as he stepped out from behind the rock that had concealed him. With sword high the ranger stepped to the side of the wizard.
Brilliant white light flooded from around Gandalf, washing out all color and sending the band of people in front of them to the ground, covering their eyes. An arrow sped past Aragorn's face, the shot going wide.
The plan was ridiculously simple; stun and confound the unidentified party, determine whether they were friend or foe, and take appropriate action. Aragorn knew that Gandalf most have done this hundreds of times.
But Gandalf didn't follow the plan, Gandalf did nothing. Still holding his staff high, the wizard looked down at the surprised company and did nothing. Surprise deeper than any the ranger had seen upon the wizard's face was there, mixed with disbelief.
"Thorin?