Gandalf threw another twig on the fire and scowled. Even in this hollow they'd found amidst jumbled rocks, the wind was cutting and icy. Of all the confounded times to set out, why did it have to be in winter? If they'd been able to wait until spring, it would've been better. Of course, Sauron had never exactly had the best of timing, though it tended to get lost amongst the rest of his faults. Bloody disembodied eye. What does he care it's too cold to have a war? Probably listening to Angmar again. Damned witch-king always did love the snow and ice.
With an ever-so-slight application of magic, Gandalf coaxed the flames higher. Next time I come to Middle-earth, I'm choosing a body with fur. Or self-generating heat. Maybe a dragon. That had appeal. I bet dragons never get abandoned in the cold by their lovers and companions.
I bet dragons can count. He glared darkly over the sleeping forms of the rest of the fellowship. The hobbits lay more or less in a tangled pile under their collective blankets, looking like a grotesque, four-headed lump. A warm, grotesque, four-headed lump. Well, after all, Merry and Pippin could hardly keep their hands off each other awake, and Frodo and Sam were practically married. It was hard to be too grumpy at them, in any event. Take three hobbits just to keep one man warm. More trouble than it was worth, really.
Dwarves weren't much bigger, but they put off tonnes of heat. Not most people's first choice of blanket-partners, either, so Gandalf had figured he might have a shot at Gimli. He snorted at the blanket roll to the right of the hobbits. Legolas? They don't even like each other! But apparently that didn't stop them from a little bit of fun. Or a lot of it. If their axe and arrows aren't worn thin by the time we finish this quest, I'm a hobbit.
Not that their nightly activities seemed to bother the Men any. The largest pile of blankets earned the wizard's most furious scowl. At the very least, he should have been able to count on Aragorn for a bit of warmth. But no! Waggle those pretty blond eyebrows at him, flex a meaty fist a couple of times, and he was Boromir's. Traitor. "Well, Gandalf," Aragorn had explained, "he's not in awe of who I am, and he doesn't mind taking the lead." He'd got a dreamy look in his eyes before snapping back to reality. "And he's really just a kid, so Arwen doesn't mind me sowing a few wild oats."
His defected blanket-warmer's apology still ringing in his head, Gandalf realised with satisfaction it was time for the watch to change. Give or take a few minutes. He restrained himself from kicking the ranger awake, but toed him a little less gently than strictly called for. And was it really his fault Aragorn's shirt had ended up halfway across the camp this time?
Gandalf briefly considered bunking in with Boromir himself, but he roused when Aragorn left, and the look in his eyes was not pleasant. The Steward's son had a rotten temper, and was clearly not a morning person. Or a late-night person. Or an afternoon person, for that matter. Grumbling, Gandalf wrapped his blanket around himself and settled as close to the fire as he dared without setting his beard and eyebrows on fire.
Damn Saruman for joining Sauron. I haven't had a good shag now in ages. And damn Sauron for making us start out in winter. And damn Elves for not having the sense they were born with. What on this green (snow-covered) earth had made Elrond think nine was a good number? It might work for the Nazgul, but they all shacked up together anyway, and the less said about that, the better.
Gandalf shuddered and turned over, trying to get comfortable. He had thought the elf-leader would understand his winked suggestion, but he was either oblivious or being wilfully blind. Leader's duties, my frozen arse. Next time I'm dragging him with me!
He was almost looking forward to Moria. At the very least, they would be out of the wind. And with any luck, maybe he'd finally get warm.
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Last modified 30 December 2007