Saving Durin {Hobbit/Thorin}

Chapter 1: Are they gray panties?

Part 1

Chapter 1:  Are they gray panties?

     I hear him from a mile away, smell him from 500 yards and see him as he turns the corner in the barely worn path.  His gray robes swish around his feet as the winds of Mordor pick up all remaining good spirits.  His smile, however, tells a different story: his good spirit can not be vanquished, even in death.  It is a dear friend of 100 years.  It is Gandalf the Gray Wizard.

The gray ensemble continues to swing as he approaches my lookout, his hat magically staying on his head.  I always thought he would look better in white, but alas the Valar gave him grey.  I smile as he spots me walking towards him.

"My dear friend, are you lost?  Or did you willingly walk into Mordor just now?"  I address him, before pulling him into a warm hug that dramatically contrasts to the climate we stand in at that moment.  Indeed, it is winter in Mordor, and despite the fiery volcano to my back, it is far from warm.  Small frosty particles coat the ground, as the snowfall failed to overtake the terrain.  I walk a bit away from his side once we pull away so that I may look over the misty land lying below us.

"Oh how I have missed your sarcasm and company, my dear Rue.  No, indeed, I have purposely walked into Mordor...looking for you to be exact,"  he speaks before grabbing at his hat which the winds seem determined to take.  The wind of this valley seemingly has a mind of its own, though I would not doubt such a notion, as only the surreal and extremely manipulative live here.

"Me? Oh well I guess I am great company.  But you could have just sent a message by moth and saved yourself a trip to hell." I smirk as I turn from from the boulder I am perilously crouched upon.  It is my lookout post that gives a full view of the desolate land. From there, Mordor lays out to my South, West, and East in sprouting peaks of minuscule beauty and terrains of rocky gore.  To be clear, these lands are not known for their beauty, but evil tendencies.

"I wanted to speak with you in person.  For I believe a moth could not accurately communicate my plea to you," he tells me.  My eyebrows raise in question as I doubt that Gandalf has ever been this straightforward with a companion.  Indeed, this wizard is a master of subterfuge, though not for bad intentions.  Gandalf likes his secrets and never was one to relinquish them to small friends, as am I.

"What is it that you want and plan to plead about, old friend?" I ask from my surprised state.  It has been a great long time since Gandalf has asked for anything, around seventy years to be exact.  Last time, the wizard requested that I deal with the chipmunk problem in Rivendell, as none of the elves seemed competent enough to deal with the rodents.  Of course, being a decent person, I helped him.  On the inside, however, I laughed at the whole ordeal, reasoning that the elves were too afraid to touch the pests.

"I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.   And I believe you are the he perfect companion,"  his old, yet wise voice speaks.  Honestly, I am confused to why he could not just send a moth; he knows I can never say no to an adventure. I shake off the question for another time, though doubt I'll remember it in the future.  This adventure is far better than dealing with the pests of Rivendell.

"No need to plead. I will gladly accompany you.  I was getting tired of watching over this land anyway.  I feel a great evil brewing in the heart of Middle Earth, Gandalf." My eyes scan the surroundings once again, to find nothing, as usual.  It is not my eyes nor any of my senses that tell me that evil is lurking in this valley.  It is my intuition, my common sense.  But since I cannot see the source of darkness, I cannot do anything to stop it. This is a struggle for a later date, and one I may never solve.

"Indeed, I feel it as well. But, never the mind, that is a problem for another day.  Let us travel onward, for we have much land to cover and not so much time." I nod my head before beginning to follow him, down the perilous path I travel on a daily basis.  I am the only one who lives in Mordor, and thus the path is unworn.  Then again, a great evil lurks in the corners of this land, another persona of great power.  But at heart, I do believe said person to be a heavenly creature of evil intentions, not so much a mortal of footsteps.

"Where to Gandalf?" I shout over the wind and his shoulder, as he is leading the way down. It's as though the wind has the intention of keeping us within Mordor's borders, never again to set foot in the Eastern lands.  But as the goodwill of wizards go, we pass freely through its grasping hands and tug onward with the light of day.

"Bree, by three days from tonight." I nod my head at his words, though he cannot see me.  The three days is an odd number of days to place on our travels, but as wizard's go, there must be a reason behind the due date of arrival.  It will be a miracle to arrive in such a time, but if Gandalf is concerned, our arrival will be timely and certain.  And even if we are a small bit late, Gandalf will simply claim he came "right on time."

"Well I could just fly, but that would be too fast for you, old man," I sass him. You can say that I am a very interesting travelling companion, never mind an excitable one.  Gandalf takes great joy in my presence, however, so I don't go about changing my ways.

"I take back that comment about missing your company.  Your sarcasm always seems to be at my expense." I laugh at his words, knowing fully well that they are true. Indeed, my sarcasm often is directed at one person, who may or may not take joy in the attention.  Gandalf usually does.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, dear friend," I respond.  He turns his face, shocked at the fact that I referenced his "panties." Of course, this sends me into a fit of giggles that will not cease.  But the real question: does Gandalf wear undergarments?  This is surely a discussion for a later date.

We speak no more words as we trudge down Mount Doom.  For an old man, Gandalf travels well down the slope, taking no fault in tripping and hopping.  He could be a mountain goat, for all I know.  My light blonde, hip-length hair swings out behind me as I take each careful step.  My grey eyes are sharp as I narrowly avoid the slippery slopes of slate that riddle the volcano's side.  By contrast, my people, the Phoenicians, typically have red or brown hair with brown eyes.  However, my dwarven heritage on my mother's side, seemingly, mixed up my genes, giving me uncharacteristic traits of both races.  Phoenicians can shift into their bird forms, or Phoenixes, within seconds, and we are able to fight with fire while staying in our dwarf-like form.     

The Phoenix people were once a well-known, yet under-recognized race, of Middle Earth. Stemming from the race of skin changers, the Phoenicians lived in these Eastern lands since the First War of the Ring.  Indeed, it was these people that helped vanquish Sauron in the first place.  Time discovered a pattern in the actions of the Phoenix, as they always joined the side of light in battles with evil.  They were recognized for their superior intuition, even in the face of crisis.  For these reasons, Phoenicians were prized assets on councils of various races.  That was, at least, the case before the destruction of the Phoenician race at orc hands.   

I think of all this as I slowly move from Mordor towards Bree with my old friend, Gandalf the Gray.  At heart, I know this journey will change my life, but I don't know the extent of the change until much later.   

And so, this is how my unexpected journey begins, trudging down Mount Doom towards my future home.

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Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story except for Erudian, Sidel, and Typhon as well as any events or dialogue I have added.  The remaining content is credited to J.R.R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson. All pictures belong to their respective owners