Chapter 3

It was in the battered remains of his hooded cloak that Gandalf the Grey had to admit, if only to himself – for he was alone and it was a wizards' prerogative to speak only to the most sensible of company – that he had slightly miscalculated. Not horribly – or, perhaps, horribly; it was so hard to tell when one was battered, bruised, and soaked to the bone whether one has made a smart decision or a decidedly poor one. Going by the singed brim of his hat alone, he would say he'd made a poor one; there really had been no reason why he'd had to travel the steep and sheer passages of Caradhras.

Orc-infested and deadly, most travelers knew not to traverse its byways and Gandalf was no different. He had planned, in as much as he ever did, to avoid Redhorn Pass, the narrow and dangerous passage that connected Rhovanion and Eriador, and instead journey west from Mirkwood, following the natural border the mountains made until he reached well-known and well-traveled roadways. It would be a long trip – the journey back to something was always so much longer than the journey to it – but it would be worth it.

At least, it would have been, had he not allowed his own damnable curiosity to get the better of him. Which it had. Unfortunately.

Weathered hand lifting to pat half-heartedly against his robes, Gandalf sighed, bruised fingers catching clumsily against his cloak as he pulled from the depths of his pockets a pipe, a bag of pipe-weed, and a match. They were all a bit battered from the journey, scuffs and hairline scratches marring the beautiful wood surface of his pipe, but no less serviceable and he wasted no time filling the bowl and lighting it. Almost immediately, the smell of Southern Star permeated the air, dulling some few aches and pains that he hadn't quite been able to take care of in his haste to be free from the mountains perilous paths.

It hadn't been easy to do, getting himself free of the mountain in such haste. Named the Cruel by the Dwarves, its reputation for being merciless to even the most well prepared travelers was well founded. At least, it was in Gandalf's eyes.

He hadn't expected, when he first began his ascent, to find quite so many Orcs in residence, nor for the pass to be quite so difficult to navigate. Filled with steep inclines, sheer drop offs, and scattered Orc-camps, he had barely made it halfway up before he'd been plagued by problems. The first of which had almost sent him back down the mountain, curiosity be damned, before he'd realized with a sinking gut that it would nearly double his trip and add even more time to his already long journey.

The only thing to do it had seemed was to continue forward, pressing his advantage when and where he could and fighting his way onward otherwise. It had been a trying business – rest had been hard to come by and the final fight then flight from a large and surprisingly well organized Orc pack had left him with more than a few aching injuries – but he was finally through and on his way. Only, he was behind schedule – very behind schedule.

He had hoped to reach the boundary line of the Shire days ago and now, if his own mental calculations were to be trusted, it would take him nearly a week to make-up for the time he had lost while crossing the pass. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have minded the additional time on his journey – wizards tended to arrive exactly when they meant to, regardless of whatever plans others might have for them – but this time was different.

This time, he was headed to the home of a very dear, very important friend. One, who would, undoubtedly, be furious with him once she found out exactly how much of a part he'd had to play in the events that were soon going to be foisted upon her. If they hadn't been already, that was.

Chapped lips twitching into the faintest of smiles, Gandalf puffed absently on his pipe, blue-gray eyes twinkling at the road stretched out before him. It would take some little time to get back to the Shire, to the familiar hills and dales that made up one of the most peaceful places in all of Middle-Earth. Hopefully, in that time, his dear goddaughter's temper will have had time to cool and he would be able to make his case. Or, rather, not make his case, as he had no intention of giving the dear girl any more ammunition than he absolutely needed to.

In the halls of the great mountain, where the rough tongue of Khuzdul met the sweet song of stone, there was very little to be said about that state of Thorin Oakenshield's mood. That it was sour was inevitable. That it was black was to be expected.

That it wasn't likely to change unless she did something about it – well, that was entirely predictable.

Grip shifting around the hilt of her practice sword, Dís bore down on the irritation she felt towards her older brother, a childish curl of pique making her bump the curve of her shield accidentally on-purpose against his shoulder as she dodged past him. It wasn't a particularly nice thing to do –though her strength would never be a match for his own, she had always made sure to time her jabs just so, maximizing their sting to utter perfection – but she was well past coddling him. He was being utterly ridiculous.

"You're being utterly ridiculous," she gibed, voice reedy and rough from exhaustion. They had been sparring for the better part of the mid-morning and her limbs ached with it, the jarring impact of her brother's stubbornness making her back twinge and her stomach grumble. If she had loved him any less, she would have made Dwalin, his shield-brother, suffer this, if only to spare herself from his sour visage, but she, unfortunately, didn't. "Stomping around our halls like a bear with a sore paw, growling at everyone like it's their fault that you're such an idiot."

A low irritated growl was her brother's only reply, fierce blue eyes flashing as he feinted left then right, booted feet nearly silent as he forced her to take several quick steps back. Sighing, she parried, evading his quick strikes as best as her aching body would allow. Mahal preserve her from this stubborn fool, he really was being difficult.

"You're going to have to accept this someday, brother," she pointed out as they circled one another, slower now than before. Perhaps she wasn't the only one getting tired. "Sooner rather than later, in fact. They will be here soon, you know that."

Another low growl and she grimaced, sword and shield drooping as she dropped out of her defensive stance, shoulders screaming with the sudden change in weight. She was done with this – done.

"You're acting worse than my boys when they were dwarflings, Thorin, and that isn't saying much considering how they act now." Carefully, she dropped her shield onto their impromptu training ground, sword sagging until the tip rested against the floor. "Mahal knows I love you, but you must stop this. Not only for my sake but for our people's."

Trembling hand lifting to run over the sweaty tangles of her beard – she could hit him over the head for that alone, she sighed, dropping her sword onto the back of her shield. It thumped softly, a quiet underscore to their harsh breathing, before sliding to the floor. She toed it gently.

"You are our King, brother. Our King, and our people take their cue from you and you alone. I know that you are not looking forward this; it's not what any of us expected. But," her tired eyes lifted to meet his own. "You and I both know that this is bigger and more complicated than either of us combined. We need to make the best of it – I need you to make the best of it. After all, you will not be alone in this. My boys – they will be right there with you."

Fingers curling, she swallowed, some of her irritation bleeding out and giving way to true exhaustion. She was going to be feeling this tomorrow, if not for the rest of the week, and she still had her boys to deal with. Slumping, she groaned; that was going to be – fun.

"I'm going to bath, Thorin. I stink and I still have much to do before I leave for the Blue Mountains. No," she said sharply, eyes narrowing at him when he opened his mouth to undoubtedly say something annoying. "Do not give me that look. We both know I must make the journey, regardless of its timing, and anyway, I won't be gone long. I can't leave my boys to babysit you for too long; you're an awful influence."

Turning sharply on her heels, she left the hall quickly; eyes catching the twin blurs that hurriedly made their way out of sight.

She sighed.

Her sons truly were as idiotic as their uncle was.

Notes: Many thanks to everyone who has given this a follow, a favorite, or reviewed. It means a lot to me and I apologize for any delay between chapters. Speaking of delays, the next chapter will likely be a little long in comes as I'll be out of town from the 10th to the 16th.

Before anyone gets too excited, Thorin's appearance in this chapter is in no way an indication of my future pairing choices. I'm just laying the groundwork for future chapters and characterization. Sorry if this dashes anyone's hopes!

I've taken some liberties with Gandalf's relationship with Bilbo seeing as I've made her his goddaughter, however, I use the term in a very loose and unofficial sense here. He has no real meaningful rights over her, but he does have influence. Especially over her future and future happiness. *hint hint*

On a different note, I'm drawing a lot of inspiration for Dwarvish culture from a blend of Nordic and Scottish culture. They're obviously not going to be exactly the same or follow the same practices but there's going to be some undeniable parallels. I'm doing this with purpose, one that will become more and more obvious as time goes by.