Not Quite a Maia

Not Quite A Maia

Chapter 7

Third Age: 10th February 3019

Lothlórien

Blimey, these Malfoy look-alikes weren't much for conversation!

After Neville and his Guardian woke up the next day, Haldir and his two brothers had accompanied them to Caras Galadhon, leaving the others to patrol the forest edge. It had taken a day and a half of marching, climbing and crossing streams before they had finally followed the white path around the city borders, across a bridge and through the gates of the city.

But they hadn't spoken much at all except to point out views of note, such as Cerin Amroth, and make polite enquiries about their guests' comfort - which was a shame, because Neville really wanted to get an idea about the people he was to meet and protect.

"Never mind, dear," Mrs Weasley had consoled him as they crossed the Celebrant (on a magically conjured and very broad plank of wood - the others could keep their rope-bridge). "It's probably for the best. The elves are trying to get us there as fast as they can, so we'll have to make allowances for the lack of conversation. Anyway, we don't want to arrive with any pre-conceived notions of people, and this way, we'll be able to judge them for ourselves."

She had a point, he supposed, although when they had passed through the city gates late the next evening, he did regret not pressing the brothers for a bit more detail on the Lord and Lady at least. All Haldir had said about Galadriel, was that she was fair, wise and powerful.

Which was not much to go on, really.

The 'heart of Elvendom on earth' - as Haldir had wistfully described it from Cerin Amroth - was like a great, circular expanse of the enormous, silver-barked, gold-bedecked trees that had been prolific throughout the forest, only much taller. Mellyrn, they were called. In their branches, far above ground, were tree-houses of sorts, but very grand and intricate and sturdy enough to support the weight of many people and all their furnishings.

Neville and Mrs Weasley had been led up a broad, white ladder on the tallest of these, passing through several dwellings on either side as they climbed. By the time they reached the oval chamber at the top several minutes later, he was feeling a bit exhausted - and poor Mrs Weasley looked like she might collapse.

"Blimey," he gasped, sweat pouring down his face. "You lot never heard of staircases?"

Too tired to admire the silver and green walls or the golden roof of the natural chamber, and far too winded to pay attention to the many elves watching in curiosity, he opened his knapsack and removed one of the jars Cirdan had given them. Conjuring a cup, he poured some quinberry juice into it and offered it to the scarlet-faced witch.

"Th...thank you...Neville...dear. Good heavens!"

She gulped the tart liquid down in one while he offered Haldir and his brothers a taste.

"Nectar from the Grey Havens - a rare delight! This was the Shipwright's gift to you, yet you offer it freely?"

"Well, he gave it to us to perk us up on our travels," replied Neville, "and if climbing halfway to the moon doesn't require perking up, then I don't know what does! Anyway, it's our pleasure to share it - especially after you were all so kind to lead us here."

A voice interrupted him. "We may talk of refreshments after introductions, young Wizard."

Neville looked ahead and saw, standing before two very elegant chairs, two of the tallest elves he had yet seen. The male was silver-haired, the female golden and both were dressed in shimmering white garments. They were almost as regal as the Valar and bore a similar aura of ageless wisdom. Embarrassed at being caught pouring drinks before he even said hello, he hastily sealed and stuffed the jar of quinberry juice into his bag (much to Haldir's disappointment) and allowed himself to be escorted to the Lord and Lady of the forest alongside Mrs Weasley.

"Er, sorry about that, it's just...well, we don't do much climbing of trees where we come from, and Mrs Weasley was knackered - I mean, a bit done in after that climb."

"Your concern for your Guardian and the selfless manner in which you offered the Lindon delicacy to others touches our hearts, mortal Wizard. It bodes well for the Fellowship that he who claims to be their new protector should be so considerate," replied the Lord. "I am Celeborn, Lord of this Realm, and this is the Lady Galadriel, my wife." He indicated the ageless beauty before him while Neville chewed over his words.

Claims to be their new protector

? Did the bloke not believe him?How did he know what Neville was here for anyway - he hadn't had the chance to explain himself yet. Had the Valar managed to send a post-owl after all?

"Nay, son of Longbottom," came the ethereal voice of the Lady. "We have other means of gathering information, not unlike your messenger birds. The Eagles sometimes call upon us with news of import - and there is also the Mirror."

This Middle Earth lot weren't half fond of their magic mirrors. And how did Galadriel know what he'd been thinking?

The beautiful lady smiled at him and, suddenly, memories of the past few months flashed through his mind with rapid-fire quickness, leaving him a little dizzy until, finally, a new image appeared: he saw a vicious battle being fought by a great wall with gaping holes. Hundreds lay dying or dead around it; orcs of all sizes poured through the breaches slaying men and...were those boys?; fire raged in stone halls and the screams of people trapped within their chambers echoed through his head. He felt an overwhelming desire to rush to their aid. But then, a road appeared out of nowhere offering him a way back to his own world, where he saw Gran poking her head through the bedroom door to make sure he wasn't being troubled by nightmares; his greenhouse stood tantalisingly accessible, with its myriad of plant life eagerly awaiting his green-fingered attentions; the new-found calm of a hard won peace was a step away on the road to home, if he moved his foot in the right direction.

And then he realised: the elf woman was testing him!

He hovered for a split-second, torn between what was and what may be, before shaking his head and dispelling the vision. "That's enough! I'm not going anywhere. Mrs Varda asked for my help and I agreed - if my help's good enough for her, then, with all due respect, it should be good enough for you. Or did you test Gandalf like that?"

Grey eyes studied him solemnly and he found that he was annoyed at her intrusion. He was tired of having to prove his character to strangers whose deities had asked for his help. As a guest in her home (and an uninvited one at that), he knew that it would not be polite to challenge her outright, but that didn't mean he was happy to let her stomp through his inner mind whenever she felt like it - that was just plain rude.

"Gandalf the Grey was known to us, son of Longbottom. You and your Guardian are not. Or do you propose we blindly accept any that would seek to replace him? This world is at war and we must be cautious in whom we place our trust. I merely wished to ascertain that you have earned it - do not be so swift to take offence."

"I mean no disrespect to you, Lady Galadriel," replied Neville. "But where I come from, people who walk uninvited into other peoples' thoughts usually do so for questionable reasons. I know you're not such a person, because the Valar vouched for you, as did Cirdan the Shipwright - who says 'hello', by the way - but if you'd asked for my permission first, I would have said yes. I've got nothing to hide and neither does Mrs Weasley. It's just...unpleasant...not to have a choice in the matter."

He could almost swear she was trying to hide a smile, but didn't know if she was laughing at him or with him.

"As for your war, we know about that. It's why we're here," he continued. "Look, we're not trying to replace Gandalf - from what I've heard of him, nobody could. And I'm not saying we're as good as him, or better, or anything like that. From what I understand, our magic is completely different from his, so who knows if we're up to scratch for Middle Earth wizards."

Neville took a bold step forward and Celeborn raised his brow in surprise. "But we've fought a Dark Lord and his followers before and I can't begin to describe the elation that follows when he curls up and dies. To know that he and his kind are gone for good and that your family and friends - or what's left of them - can finally live their lives in peace and prosperity is a prize worth fighting for. It's worth dying for. I'm not saying I'm all powerful or all wise - I'm only human and I'm only seventeen. But I might have some skills the Fellowship could use, such as they are. The Valar asked for my help and I agreed. Now I'm offering it to you and those that want to destroy Sauron forever."

Galadriel didn't bother to hide her smile anymore - she positively beamed at him. "Mortals of this world call the Firstborn wise, and, perhaps we are. Our lives are endless Ages of time that stretch behind and before us and we have years untold to accrue wisdom that generations of Men could never hope to have. Yet for all our knowledge and lore, it never ceases to amaze me that a mortal, whose life is but a drop in the Sea compared to our own, can display the perception of our most Wise at a mere seventeen years of age."

She paused to look at her husband, who spoke next.

"What can you offer the Fellowship in their time of need?"

Good grief - hadn't he already told them that? Oh, well...

"We offer our wands and our commitment."

He hoped Mrs Weasley didn't mind him speaking for her too, but was relieved when she squeezed his arm in support.

"And why do you wish to do so when you both may return to the free world that you have already spilled blood for?"

"Because we were asked to - and it's the right thing to do. We have the chance to allow the people of this world to experience the same freedom that we've just won. Who are we to turn away when our help could mean the difference between liberty and darkness?"

Celeborn addressed the witch. "Daughter of Prewett: why would you fight when your heart still aches for the loss of a most beloved child?"

Neville could have happily punched the heartless git. But Mrs Weasley raised her head defiantly and refused to let her tears fall.

"I couldn't possibly let Neville traipse around a strange world by himself, dear! I may have...I..." she trailed off, trying to control her emotions.

That's it! The poncy blond Lord was about to spend the rest of his eternal existence coughing up slugs!

But Mrs Weasley regained her equilibrium with a Herculean effort and continued. "I may have lost Fred, but I can't allow Alice and Frank to lose their only child if there's anything I can do to stop it. He's not my son - unfortunately - but I'm still a mother. Losing a child is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and if I have to walk all the way to Mordor to finish the Dark Lord off myself and save my friend's son, or anyone's come to that, then I'll bloody well do it! I can't bear the thought of another parent living through this nightmare."

Her words resounded through the chamber, but Neville didn't notice the reaction of the others: he was too busy staring at her in awe.

"It's also quite fun to hex those smelly orcs into oblivion," Mrs Weasley added, raising a laugh in the chamber.

"Then I name you both Elvellon - friend of the Elves - for your courage and humility," announced Celeborn, making Neville change his mind about the slugs.

"That's very nice of you, dear."

Galadriel's grey gaze fell on the teenager once more. "Your eyes have seen struggles in your own world which compare to our own, and you have risen to every challenge thrust upon you with determination and purity of heart." She walked towards him and lifted her hand, tracing the scars on his face and making him extremely self-conscious. "Your valour and honour are written upon your very face. I will not intrude upon your thoughts again, young Wizard, or those of your Guardian."

Neville threw a glance at Mrs Weasley, who looked a bit alarmed at the near miss she'd had and he realised he'd been the only one to have the pleasure of the blonde beauty strolling through his mind. Thankful that he'd past the worst stages of adolescence and therefore not completely humiliated himself in the eyes of the lovely elleth, he threw the matronly witch a reassuring smile.

"Now that we are certain of your allegiance, there is one here who would meet with you, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett, both Favoured of the Valar," said Galadriel.

"Favoured of the Valar, dear?" asked the witch, puzzled.

Galadriel pointed at her breast. "You carry the Light of Varda with you. Its power was seen by all two nights since, when you banished the Enemy from our borders. This gift was bestowed upon you by one who would see you protected above all others."

"Well, actually dear, she did that for Neville," replied Mrs Weasley, glowering at him. "He asked that they protect me while I protect him, silly boy! As if I can't take care of myself. It should be him with this necklace."

So saying, she unbuttoned her coat, displaying the pendant and the elven lamps caught it in their glow, causing it to light the entire chamber with an ethereal haze.

"Praise the Valar! I had not thought to see such a sight this side of the Sundering Sea," declared Celeborn as all present glowed in response to the pendant - well, all present except the mortals (although Neville's face had quite the pink sheen to it as Mrs Weasley continued to mutter about his devious machinations in securing her safety).

"Yet, here it lays upon your breast," added Galadriel, attempting to lift the gem at the witch's throat, with no success. "It binds itself to you in a most peculiar manner, daughter of Prewett," she said, obviously puzzled.

"What? Oh, the Sticking charm!" A quick wave of her wand allowed the elf lady to hold the gem for a moment before she placed it gently back down on the witch's bosom. With an elegant turn of her heel, the elf stood once more at her husband's side.

"Come forth!" she commanded in a regal voice and much to the wizard and witch's surprise, a tall man with a dark beard and grey eyes stepped out from behind two elves at the back of the chamber. His long legs carried him over to the visitors, where he stopped before them. "This is he who would meet with you."

The man offered a polite bow, which Neville and Mrs Weasley responded to in kind. "Greetings, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, leader of the Fellowship you seek to assist."

"You're the heir of Isildur!" cried Neville. "Oh, it's really good to meet you, sir."

He thrust his right hand out and, grabbing the surprised man's hand, proceeded to pump it up and down enthusiastically. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally meet someone from the Fellowship. Honestly, it feels like we've spent forever trying to get here, though it's probably only been a couple of days, actually."

"It is a pleasure to meet you also, Master Longbottom. I have never before met a Wizard of such young years - and never in all my years have I met a woman of power equal to one." The man regained his hand from Neville and held it out to Mrs Weasley, but instead of shaking hers as the boy had his, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"Oh, there now, dear," said the woman, scarlet with embarrassment. "No need for that. Are the rest of your friends here, too? The sooner we meet them, the better. We'll need to introduce ourselves and get to know each other before we leave, after all."

"A wise idea, my Lady. But the hour is late and the Hobbits and Gimli are abed, no doubt Boromir shall soon follow. Legolas keeps watch over the city this night and will not return until morning, therefore, it may be better for you to seek your own rest. We may make introductions tomorrow morn, if that meets with your approval?"

It sounded like a good idea to Neville and he said so.

"Then, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett, allow Aragorn to show you your beds. It is our honour to offer Varda's Chosen One and his Guardian the hospitality of the Elves of Lothlórien, though it may not be for many more nights. Sleep well, mortal Wizard, mortal Witch."

With that, the Lord and Lady bid them goodnight and they left the chamber with Aragorn, very thankful to be going down the ruddy ladder this time.

*~*~*~*

Neville slept very well that night, thank you very much. Even better than he had the past two nights in the tent.

He and Mrs Weasley had been shown to a pavilion near the Mellyrn with several soft couches - some of which were already in use as beds. A few curly heads could be seen sticking out near the edges. Actually, Neville noted in astonishment as they tiptoed by the occupied couches, the owners' feet apparently had the ability to sport a bad hair day too. Were they hairy all over? It was hard to tell with all those blankets.

But despite the hirsute hobbits and ungodly noise of a snoring dwarf (which lead Neville to hit him with a discreet Silencio, much to Aragorn's astonishment and amusement), as soon as their heads had hit the pillows, both wizard and witch had fallen asleep.

The following morning brought a bright new dawn and it was with some trepidation that Neville began to rouse from his sleep. He would have been happy to carry on snoozing away without the threat of Gran banging on his bedroom door, but some very curious voices had woken him up and their lilting tones refused to let him fall back into slumber.

"Do you really think he's a Wizard, Frodo," said a curious voice.

Neville could feel the person close by, but let him hover undisturbed for a bit, before opening his eyes. It might be good to let them have a look first - that way, he wouldn't have to worry about their stares as much when he woke up.

"Pippin, move back. Can't you see he's sleeping. They got in very late last night or so Aragorn said, so he must be tired still. Let's go out and help Sam make breakfast. The Wizard can join us when he wakes."

"But, Frodo, he looks like a tweenager. How can he be a Wizard when he looks no older than twenty-five? At least Lady Molly looks old enough to be a Wizard."

Twenty-five

? Bloody hell! Neville may have lived through a war, but he didn't look that old. Whoever this Pippin was, he'd be happy to show him how much of a wizard he was - by turning him into a frog. Or maybe a toad - he missed Trevor, come to think of it.

"Lady Molly is a Witch, fool of a Took," replied the Frodo-voice in fond exasperation. "Or didn't you notice her womanly shape?"

What

? This Frodo was going on about Mrs Weasley's 'womanly shape'? Maybe he'd turn him into a toad as well!

"Of course I know she's a woman, Frodo. I've just never met a Witch before - I only meant that she looks to be about the right age for a Wizardly person. Well, okay, maybe even she doesn't look quite as old as Gandalf, but she looks nearer it than this boy. Do you really think he can do magic?"

The Pippin-voice was sceptical, and Neville had the sudden urge to laugh at the cheeky being, for he sounded even younger than him. Feeling about for his wand, he decided to have a little fun. Cracking open an eye, he saw a slender, fresh-faced youth hovering over the couch, investigating the new arrival. Behind him, the other one - Frodo - was tugging at the youth's elbow, trying to get him to leave the teenager alone.

Neville smiled as the youth lifted the blankets from his feet.

"Look at his feet, Frodo! He's got clothes on his feet - and they're moving!"

Ah, Pippin had apparently discovered his Gran's fondness for Auror-themed sleepwear and smalls - her favourite Christmas gift to him these past two years. Neville usually accepted them with a dutiful smile, but he'd never be joining the Auror's illustrious ranks, no matter how many hints she dropped.

"See? Look; Wizards casting spells on each other!" Pippin was hopping with excitement and tugging at Frodo's arm. "Get Merry, Fro! Go get him and Sam - we need to show them these...these...what are those things, Fro? Why does he put them over his feet? Do Aragorn and Boromir wear things like that - I can't tell for certain because I've never seen them with their boots off."

"Peregrin Took, put that blanket down now!" barked Frodo. "And they're socks. You've seen socks before, surely? Haven't you seen your Buckland cousins put them on under their boots?"

"Well, no," said Pippin, quite miffed that he'd been denied the chance of studying Neville's socks in more detail. "Only queer folk wear boots, you know, and Bucklanders that indulge in sock-and-boot-wearing are too queer to be related to me."

Oh really? Neville took aim at the cheeky hobbit's feet and before Frodo could denounce the youth's remarks, a great yell echoed through the otherwise empty pavilion.

"Aagh! Frodo! Frodo, look! My feet!"

The hobbit was now sporting the very socks he had been admiring a few seconds earlier, his large feet crammed into them, toes bulging at the seams, and it looked like the socks - although a decent size ten on an adult human male - were far too small for the otherwise tiny hobbit.

The youth whirled round (as best he could) and yanked the covers off Neville's feet, to find them bare. It was too much for the teenager - he sat up laughing heartily, pointing at Pippin's feet and saying: "Only queer folk wear socks, eh?"

The astonished hobbits, taken aback at the unexpected sight of a laughing Neville, soon joined in when they realised he meant no harm. Pippin waddled up to him and bowed smartly.

"Hullo there, I'm Peregrin Took at your service and your family's, and that's Frodo Baggins, my older cousin," the hobbit announced merrily, pointing at the other who also bowed. "Can I keep these?"

He pointed at the socks and eyed Neville hopefully, making him laugh again.

"Course you can. I'm Neville, Neville Longbottom. At your service, too." Neville stood and bowed at them. "Where's Mrs Weasley? And everyone else?"

"They're outside at breakfast. Lady Molly is making bacon and eggs with Sam," said the slightly more reserved of the Hobbits. Not that Neville was surprised at his solemn manner, given what Frodo carried - in fact, he had to admire the dark-haired hobbit for managing to function as well as he did, what with the evil of the One Ring desperate to get a hold on his mind. "And Pippin, you shouldn't ask such impertinent questions. Give him his socks back!"

Pippin looked crestfallen.

"Oh, that's alright, I've got plenty more where they came from," said Neville, making the youth brighten up immediately. Frodo appeared relieved that his cousin hadn't offended the wizard and didn't harass the youth any further.

"Well, then. I suppose we'd better go and join the others before they eat everything, don't you think? I don't know about you, but I'm starving!" Neville got up and straightened his clothes, determined to change after he'd fed his rumbling stomach.

The trio left the pavilion and walked towards a clearing set with a small table and benches, with Pippin chattering away happily and stumbling along with his feet encased in the Auror socks. Neville spotted Mrs Weasley dishing out bacon and eggs to several people, the scent of which was floating up his nose and circling his heart. She looked right at home, slapping eager fingers from the centre plates.

"Wait just a minute, dear. Neville and your friends are on their way - you can wait another sixty seconds, can't you? It's only polite."

"Forgive me, my Lady," replied a dark-haired man. "I have not smelled something this good since I left Gondor many months ago and was merely eager to taste your excellent fare."

Another hobbit, a round, fair-haired one paused in the act of placing a warm loaf on the table and shot the man a glare.

"I mean, I have not smelled something this good since Sam made sausage and eggs at Hollin," amended the man contritely, and the hobbit - Sam - gave a satisfied grunt before setting the loaf down.

"Good morning, Neville dear!" cried Mrs Weasley, spying his approach and walking round the table to envelop him in a warm hug. "Watch out for the dwarf, Gimli," she whispered in his ear. "Apparently you put a Silencio on him last night when you went to bed and he woke before you could take it off this morning. He spent almost an hour wondering why no one was paying any attention to what he said, before he realised they couldn't hear him."

Crikey! He'd forgotten about that...

He looked towards the dwarf, who presented quite the alarming picture. Gimli was clad in mail, armed with axes, full of bushy red hair and had brown eyes which were currently narrowed at him in suspicion.

"Eh, right, thanks." Neville approached the table and stood before the dwarf. "Erm, hello. I'm Neville. Sorry about that little misunderstanding. I should be used to snores, what with having shared a dormitory with Ron Weasley. I hope I didn't alarm you too much."

The hairy being looked mollified by the teenager's apology. "No real harm done lad. Mayhap that is the most unusual encounter I have ever had with a Wizard, and certainly, the spell could have been a lot worse."

"We should thank you, really," said another hobbit. "That's the best night's sleep any of us have had in weeks! I'm Merry, at your service and your family's."

"Hello Merry. And you must be Sam," Neville said to the remaining hobbit, who blushed and nodded, while Gimli glared at Merry.

The dark-haired man stood and bowed. "Boromir of Gondor, young Wizard. I believe you already know Aragorn. Legolas will join us presently, when he returns from his watch."

Aragorn offered a friendly smile from the top of the table.

"It's nice to meet you all," said Neville, a little embarrassed at being the centre of attention. He took a seat as Mrs Weasley placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

"Eat up, dear. We have a busy day ahead - I plan to teach you Apparition after breakfast and everyone is very interested to see how it works."

"Really? That'd be great!"

Which was, of course, a lie. Neville was not thrilled about the prospect of Apparition, but after the last two side-alongs had taken so much out of the matronly witch, he felt it was his duty to at least master the art and save her any further discomfort.

He chewed on a slice of bacon, relishing the salty taste and wondered when he'd get the chance to speak with the Fellowship individually to find out more about them. Aragorn seemed friendly enough and was currently engaged in conversation with Mrs Weasley. He hadn't really spoken with the man much the night before and wondered what he was like. Gimli had stopped eyeing him suspiciously, but was too busy tearing into his breakfast to offer any small talk. The other dark-haired man - Boromir - didn't look very happy to be there and Neville wondered why, although the man did raise a glass to the witch in appreciation of her culinary efforts.

Sam had finished bringing Frodo a heaped plate of food and was watching him anxiously to make sure he ate it. "Go on Mr Frodo. It's not often that we have breakfast cooked for us by someone as grand as a Witch, sir. I bet it tastes like magic!"

Neville grinned at the obvious admiration for his Guardian and the devoted care the hobbit was showing his employer.

"I'll eat when you do Sam, so sit down and take your own breakfast too," replied Frodo with a twinkle in his eye. Sam smiled and happily complied.

Merry sat down beside Neville while Pippin decided to entertain the gathering with his new socks. Gimli nearly spat his eggs out when the youth shoved a foot on the table next to him to allow the dwarf to better admire his magical garments, but Mrs Weasley rapped it sharply with a spoon.

"Sit down and eat your breakfast before I turn those socks into burning slippers! Feet on the table, indeed!" She shook her head in disgust as Aragorn and the others covered their mouths to hide their amusement. Pippin was unfazed and squeezed in beside Boromir and Gimli.

"So, you're here to protect us are you? Where do you come from?" asked the inquisitive youth.

"Eh, well..." Neville wasn't quite sure how to answer that. Would they know what he meant by 'the far reaches of Time and Space'? Or would it just be easier to say he came from a bed in Yorkshire?

"Well, I come from a place very much like this," he answered.

"What, like Lothlórien? You don't look much like an Elf, begging your pardon Mr Neville," said Sam shyly.

"It's just 'Neville', and no, not like Lothlórien: more like the land outside it. My home has hills and mountains, too. And there's a big forest near my school - but there's no elves of your kind in that. We do have our own elves in the school, though. They make all our meals."

Perhaps he shouldn't have said that last bit.

"What's a school? And why do Elves make your meals?" asked Pippin as all eyes fastened on the teenager in curiosity.

"A school is where people send their children to learn," replied Neville, slightly uncomfortable at all the attention. "And our elves usually work for Wizarding households, keep the house clean, make all the meals, that sort of thing."

"Elves working for Wizards?" came a cool voice behind him, and Neville nearly jumped out his skin. He turned to see (yet another) blond, regal elf standing with his arms crossed and frowning slightly. "Surely, you mean working with Wizards?"

"Hullo, Legolas! Did you have a nice time in your tree-house?" asked Merry...merrily.

"It is a talan, young Brandybuck," retorted the elf, whose piercing gaze never wavered from Neville.

Neville could have kicked himself. Why could he not keep his mouth shut? He was supposed to be ensuring the Fellowship worked as a team, not making enemies left, right and centre. "The elves in our world are completely different from here, Mr Legolas - in fact, the only thing you have in common with them is a name, and even that's not entirely true. In our world, they're known as house-elves. They're perhaps a bit smaller than hobbits and have overlarge, quite hairy ears and wear towels. They bind themselves to a family and spend their lives in their service."

A blond brow arched in disbelief. "An Elf, in the service of a family? Have they no free will? Do they not possess homes or families of their own?"

"Now, now, dear. Don't take offence. As Neville said, the only thing you have in common with them is the name of your race. Otherwise, you're no more like them than a hobbit is like a dwarf."

"It's true. And house-elves are magical creatures too; there are even a few who are free - in fact, I used to know a free elf: Dobby. But he died saving my friend..."

An unexpected pang of sorrow hit Neville in the stomach at the realisation he'd never see the effusive house-elf again. He'd got to know him quite well during the rare times he was able to smuggle food up to the Room of Requirement, before Neville discovered the passage that led to Aberforth's flat during his last year at Hogwarts.

"Dobby was my friend," he said, in a low voice. "He saved my life too. You see, house-elves, as a rule, don't like to be free. They prefer the stability of a life in service. It's what they live for; a matter of pride - and they don't care whether you or I agree with that or not. There's nothing worse for a house-elf than to be get a piece of their Master's clothing, because it's a sign of disgrace for them; it sets them free and leaves them feeling unwanted and useless."

The Fellowship was listening intently.

"But Dobby was different. His Master, Lucius Malfoy, was a right git and hit him all the time. Dobby wanted nothing more than his freedom. During my second year at school, Harry Potter tricked Malfoy into setting him free and I've never seen a happier house-elf in my life! He didn't care that his fellow elves thought he was mad. Professor Dumbledore gave him a job in the school kitchens and Dobby was thrilled because he got paid for it - he was treated like a free person. He worshipped Harry for liberating him and he was always happy to do what he could to make the rest of us comfortable - even when Voldemort's followers came to the school and started torturing us. He spied on them for us and brought us information that helped us beat them. Dobby was my friend, and I don't think I ever told him that."

He stumbled to a halt. "I should have told him, I should have said thank you, but I just took him for granted."

A hollow feeling had replaced the pleasant fullness that Mrs Weasley's breakfast had furnished his stomach with moments before.

"There, dear. I'm sure Dobby knew that you cared for him." Mrs Weasley patted his back and handed him a cup of tea while glaring at Legolas in a very disapproving manner, causing the elf to look rather sheepish.

"Forgive me, young Wizard, my Lady. I did not realise there was such a vast difference and did not intend to cause you pain. I am Legolas of the Green Wood, which some know as Mirkwood. Allow me to make amends by offering the hand of friendship."

He approached Neville and clasped his arm, smiling sincerely, then bowed elegantly at the witch.

"It's alright. I should have watched what I was saying: somehow I always manage to say the wrong thing at the right time."

"That's absolute nonsense, Neville Longbottom! Now, drink your tea."

With the air of discomfort dispelled as quickly as it had started, the renewed Fellowship spent a leisurely hour getting to know each other until Mrs Weasley declared the meal over. Sam was eager to help with the clearing of the table and everyone watched in fascination as he handed her dirty plates that she cleaned with Scourgify spells.

Haldir joined them as the dishes were finally cleared.

"Lady Molly, I have been informed by the Lady Galadriel that you are eager to train young Master Longbottom and require a secluded area. If you would follow me, you may make use of the archery field."

He led them through the trees and Neville's stomach roiled at the upcoming lessons. Brilliant. He got to make a complete twat of himself in front of the very people he needed to impress with his skill and resolve. Malfoy Junior would pay good Galleons to see this...

They left the trees behind them and entered the archery field minutes later. It was easily a mile long and half a mile wide, perfect for what was in store, actually. Mrs Weasley was beaming in delight and ushered the Fellowship and Haldir to the edge where they all either sat down or (in Boromir's case) lounged nonchalantly against a wooden fence.

Pulling the reluctant teenager some distance away, Mrs Weasley grasped him firmly by the shoulders.

"Now, then. I know you're nervous dear, but don't let the audience distract you. Pretend they're no more than the dummies in your hiding room at Hogwarts."

Dummies? Neville threw a dubious glance at the potential king, prince or two, dwarven Lord, Malfoy lookalikes and four very curious hobbits - he seriously doubted he could stretch his imagination that far.

"Pay attention, dear!" fussed the witch. "Now, do you remember the three 'D's'?"

Recalling Twycross's Destination, Determination and Deliberation he nodded. "Yeah - only the last time I tried this, I turned on the spot and fell on my ar..."

"Yes, yes, dear," she interrupted him before he could finish. "But you have to imagine yourself disappearing from where you are and travelling to where you want to go before you can ever hope to appear there. It's not just a case of turning on the spot. Let me show you."

She stood beside him and waved her wand before her. One of the targets from the other side of the field came sailing towards them before landing twenty feet away and Neville heard the gasps of surprise from the others behind them.

"Now: more than anything, I want to appear before that target. In order to do so, I have to imagine myself disappearing from here, travelling unseen across the distance and appearing at my goal." She closed her eyes, turned on the spot and with a soft pop was gone, before reappearing a second later with a cheery wave in front of the target.

The Fellowship was astounded: the men and elves were gaping, Gimli was shaking in his head in wonder and the hobbits were clapping and cheering.

He sincerely hoped he could earn a similar reaction.

Concentrating on the target, Neville closed his eyes and turned on the spot...

...before falling on his backside - on the very same spot.

Excellent! Gimli was having a right good chortle at his expense. Still, at least the others had the grace to refrain from joining him - for the moment.

With another pop, his Guardian reappeared at his side. "Try again, dear," she said as he picked himself off the grass.

So he did: for the longest half-hour of his life, he made a prize idiot of himself before the Fellowship for her sake, not wanting to disappoint her, but he was getting nowhere fast.

"It's no good, Mrs Weasley," he admitted, exhausted and filthy from landing so often on his back. "Perhaps you could just teach me some useful spells instead - you know, the ones you said your brothers taught you?"

"Why Neville, you surprise me! That's not the same determination that kept you out of the grasp of Death Eaters in your seventh year, is it?"

"Er, no..."

"Well, then, use your imagination. Your Destination back then was the Room of Requirement; your Determination was what brought you there time and again; your Deliberation was what made you, above all others, master of the Room's secrets - or was that just a load of old rubbish Ginny told me?"

"No," he stated firmly, realising what she was getting at. He could do all of those things - had done so often in the past. He only had to apply the principles differently this time.

"Good! Now, there's no point on focussing on where you're going until you can imagine how you're going to get there. See your target, imagine yourself spinning towards it, then turn once you're sure you can."

It still sounded a bit vague to him, but the memory of his flight through Hogwarts' halls weeks ago gave him a new conviction. He saw the spot he wanted to arrive at and imagined it was the Room. He remembered running through the halls and imagined he was running through the air towards the target, a feeling which sent tingles coursing through his body. Finally, he remembered the ease with which he'd been able to adjust the Room to do whatever he needed - including barring his enemies from it. If he could do that...

He turned on the spot and an almighty crack! filled the air as he Disapparated, re-appearing seconds later ten feet away from his target (minus a shoe).

Well, that could've been worse! Being squeezed into nothingness was not exactly pleasant, but what did that matter when he'd achieved his goal?

His audience was very pleased at his progress, with Merry and Pippin cheering wildly. Mrs Weasley rushed over to him (carrying his shoe) and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. "Well done, Neville! Oh, very well done, dear!"

Feeling enormously happy, he spent another hour practising under her guidance (in order to improve his aim) while the hobbits and Gimli watched. Aragorn and the others had departed for a meeting with Galadriel, but would join them again for lunch. Merry and Pippin had joined Neville on the field and were hopelessly trying to Disapparate from there and appear at the other end. It was quite funny to watch them screw their little faces up and twirl like ballerinas, before falling to the grass and dramatically lament at their inability to 'harness their inner wizard'.

"Just think how useful that trick would be at Brandy Hall," gushed Merry, eyes alight. "I could pop right into the kitchen, help myself to all the mushroom omelette I could carry, then pop back out again before Cook even knew for certain if it had really been me or not!"

"Then it's a very good thing you're not a wizard, dear. Do you think the poor cook spends all day slaving over a hot stove for your family just to have all her efforts pilfered before everyone can give them the proper attention they deserve?"

The Brandybuck offered her a sheepish smile as Frodo, Sam and Pippin laughed at the witch's remark.

"Spoken like someone who enjoys cooking, Mistress Molly," chortled Sam.

"Really?" asked Mrs Weasley, cocking an eyebrow at the little gardener. "Well, yes, that's true enough. My kitchen is my kingdom, after all. And I've rapped the knuckles of many a young rascal who tried to pinch my treacle tart before it had properly cooled. If you tried to Apparate into my kitchen to steal my mushroom omelette, I'd have no choice but to seal your lips closed so that you could never enjoy what you pinched."

"You could do that?" asked Merry in horror, fingering his lips worriedly.

She took a step closer to him and he blanched. "I could turn your legs into wheels so that you rolled down the hill far out of sight of my kitchen, make every mushroom that you ever ate from now on taste like ash, or have you discover an as yet unknown desire for eating every blade of grass in sight. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"No!" cried Merry (and Pippin) in utter dismay. "I believe you! I really do!"

"We really do," chimed Pippin in support. "We promise never to take anything from your kitchen that you don't offer freely."

Merry nodded in wholehearted agreement. "Absolutely! Eh, Pip, I think this would be a good time to take Boromir up on those sword-fighting lessons he offered. Shall we go?"

Neville, who had been laughing at their expressions of horror along with Frodo and Sam, wiped his eyes and asked if he could join them.

"Yes, yes. Come on, let's go." Grabbing the taller youth by the elbow, Merry dragged him along as fast as his short legs would carry, eager to leave the grinning witch as far behind him as possible.

The trio made their way through the trees and back to the main city.

"She's a bit scary, isn't she?" asked Pippin.

"Only if you mess with her food or her family," replied Neville, grinning at the two hobbits. "Don't worry, Mrs Weasley wouldn't really turn your legs into wheels."

"Or make mushrooms taste like ash?" queried a clearly worried Merry.

"No."

"Or make us like eating grass?"

"No."

"Or seal our lips shut?"

"She might do that if you didn't stop talking all the time."

The hobbits (for whom talking was second only to eating) looked distinctly worried and remained suspiciously quiet for the remainder of the walk.

*~*~*~*

For the second time that day, Neville was on the practice field, but this time he was in the company of Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas as well as the two (still not very chatty) hobbits.

"So, you wish to learn the art of sword play?" asked the sombre Gondorian nobleman.

Stupid question really - that was why he'd followed them out here in the first place. But he humoured the serious man with a firm nod of his head. "I do."

"Where is your weapon?"

"Oh, just a minute." Dropping the knapsack from his back, he dug through it and carefully pulled his 'weapon' from within its folds. The onlookers watched in silent wonder as he pulled the long, silver Sword of Gryffindor free of its home and took a few (very inexpert) swings at the air with it.

"A mighty weapon!" declared Boromir. "Are those jewels on its handle?"

"Erm, yeah. This was Godric Gryffindor's sword, made by Ragnuk the First. Goblins are quite fond of decorating their weapons."

"Goblins made this sword?" Legolas asked in disbelief.

Neville recognised that look. "I take it you have goblins here too?"

They nodded in disgust.

"Well, I don't think they're the same kind of goblins that we have. Ours are very powerful, very old and are very skilled at crafting weapons and silverware - their works are very highly prized."

He didn't tell them about the Wizarding bank, though. That was probably something they didn't have here, so there was no need to go into any further detail.

"'Tis a thing of beauty," the normally stony-faced Boromir said in admiration. "Have you had cause to wield it before?"

Oh, couldn't they just get on with the lesson?

"Just to cut the head off a really big snake."

The men and the elf eyed him in pity. "Well, let us see that we put it to better use than ridding the land of a few unlucky rodents."

Neville stifled a grin. Unlucky rodents...excellent. That was Nagini all over! He wondered briefly what had happened to the giant snake's corpse (Gran had been dropping hints about her upcoming birthday and he thought it might tickle her to have a new handbag made out of the 'unlucky rodent's' skin - it would go rather nicely with her stuffed vulture hat).

"Take your stance," said Boromir as the others withdrew to a safe distance.

Oh dear. What stance? The sharp command pulled him from his contemplation of Gran's millionth birthday and he stared stupidly at the Gondorian.

"Er, what?"

"Your stance. How do you stand in defence when an opponent attacks?"

"Well, usually I just whip out my wand and conjure a shield."

Boromir rolled his eyes. "And what if you have no 'wand' with which to defend yourself?"

The thought was so outrageous that Neville actually laughed. "Don't be daft. A wizard always has his wand."

The man didn't look too thrilled at that. Perhaps he shouldn't have laughed? Or called him daft? He was wielding a rather dangerous looking sword of his own, after all - and he knew how to use it.

"Imagine, for one moment, that you were without it," he said darkly, looking like he'd very much enjoy shoving his sword into Neville's stomach. "What would you do?"

Run

?No, best if he didn't say that out loud.

"Well, I have some very handy plants in my bag..."

"I do not think a rose will successfully defend you from a horde of oncoming orcs!" declared Boromir scathingly.

Neville scowled. What. A. Git.

"Who said anything about roses? I've got some very nasty Bubotubers in my bag that will make you break out in big yellow sores," he replied smugly.

Boromir looked momentarily nonplussed. "I know of no such plants. But that is beside the point - you will not have time to go digging around in your magical bag in the midst of a battle. You must learn to wield your other weapon effectively - that is why you asked for this lesson is it not? If I am in error, then perhaps you would care to seek out Master Gamgee? I believe he is as skilled a gardener as any these lands can boast. Perhaps he can teach you how to fight with roses?"

Neville didn't know who 'Master Gamgee' was, but he didn't like the man's tone - neither did Merry and Pippin.

"That's not fair, Boromir! Sam's not bad with a sword and you know it - he did hack a tentacle off the Watcher before anyone else even saw it back at Moria, not to mention the orcs he slew inside the Dwarf city," protested Merry, suddenly finding his voice again.

"Forgive me, Meriadoc. I meant no slur on your friend. Master Gamgee may never be a truly great swordsman, but he has the skill to make use of it when circumstance deems it necessary," offered the contrite Man.

He bowed his apology at the pouting hobbits, before turning back to Neville. "Let us see if we can do as much for you, Master Longbottom," he added, with a wicked gleam in his eye and a tug of his lips.

Gripping the Sword of Gryffindor as if his life depended on it (and it very well might), Neville faced the infinitely taller man and mentally kicked himself for calling him 'daft'.

*~*~*~*

Neville was officially knackered. Several hours spent trying to parry and thrust while wielding the (really quite heavy, actually) Sword of Gryffindor had worn him out.

It was all he could do to place one leg in front of the other as they returned to the pavilion, and his arms felt as if someone had hit them with a Floating charm, rather like Mrs Weasley's glasses as they lined up to be washed on the kitchen mantelpiece back at the Burrow.

He dropped his bag on the floor and flopped on to the soft couch. "I'm knackered."

A curly head popped over the side of the couch. "What's 'knackered' Mr Neville?"

He turned his head to see Sam watching him curiously. "Me. 'Knackered' is me. It means tired beyond all reason."

"Oh." A look of comprehension crossed the hobbit's face and he smiled. "I'm sometimes knackered too. 'Specially if I've been out in the garden in Summer trimming the roses. Bag End's got plenty of rosebushes that need looking after."

Normally, Neville would have been thrilled to talk shop with a fellow herbologist - even a non-magical one - but he could barely keep his eyes opened. "'S'nice," he mumbled tiredly, before falling into dreams.

It was a full hour later before he woke up. Gimli had come stomping into the pavilion and shook him by the arm. "Up you get, young lad. Time for lunch. Lady Molly was most insistent that you not spend any longer napping, lest it ruin your nightly rest."

Yawning widely, he rolled off the couch and landed on his abandoned knapsack. Brilliant. He was lucky he hadn't skewered himself with his own sword (Boromir would have laughed himself stupid).

Rising from the floor, he was delighted to find that he was in full command of all his limbs once more and gave himself a quick wash at the water-bowl before changing into fresh dark trousers and a stripy green and yellow jumper. He left the pavilion and walked outside to the table, where he took his seat.

"That's a very interesting...thing...you're wearing," said Pippin, fascinated by the jumper.

"It's a jumper. Don't you have jumpers in Middle Earth?" Neville asked, not entirely sure if the cheeky Took was genuinely impressed with his clothes or not.

"Oh, yes. But they're not quite as bright as that," declared the Hobbit, waving a pork chop in his direction.

"I hope you have different attire in mind for the journey ahead, young Wizard," said Boromir. "Otherwise any half-blind orc for a hundred leagues may make a decent target of you."

"I have some darker clothes that should be fine," he replied, somewhat embarrassed by the attention he was getting.

"Not too dark. 'Tis Winter outside the borders of this land, after all. The Enemy would still be able to make light sport of you - and it may lead them to other things," retorted the Gondorian, sparing a glance at Frodo - or rather, Frodo's neck.

Fortunately, the others didn't notice, but it still sent a chill down Neville's spine. He hadn't really felt the effects of the Ring since his arrival; but the dark look of longing on the man's face, although fleeting, brought the reason for his visit to Middle Earth into sharp focus.

"You needn't worry about that," he said firmly, causing Boromir to draw his eyes from the hobbit and settle his grey-eyed gaze on him instead. "I'm quite capable of rendering myself as unnoticeable as a wallflower."

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Boromir grunted and rose from the table, thanking Mrs Weasley for the delicious 'repast'. He'd have to keep an eye on the Gondorian, it seemed.

Which was a pity. Boromir seemed like a fairly decent bloke - if a bit prone to moodiness. He was good with the hobbits (especially Merry and Pippin) and extremely courteous to Mrs Weasley (which always scored points with him). He also seemed like someone who knew his own mind, if his performance during the weaponry lessons on the field earlier had been anything to go by.

Which could only mean that he was shouldering some stellar responsibilities - while trying to fight the dark call of the Ring and its insidious offers of help.

Taking a bite of his bread and cheese, Neville resolved to get to know the man a little better and see if he couldn't help him lighten the load on his mind a bit.

*~*~*~*

The afternoon was spent in the company of Gimli, Sam and Frodo. The hobbits were keen to show him more of the ethereal elven realm and Gimli was pleased to join them (Neville thought the dwarf might be hoping for a glimpse of Galadriel - he kept talking about her and the teenager sympathised, remembering the beauteous Varda).

The elves they passed were courteous; offering the hobbits genuinely warm smiles, nodding politely at the dwarf (who growled at them on occasion) and staring with frank curiosity at Neville. Not that he blamed them - he must look very peculiar to them in his dark canvas trousers and bright, stripy jumper.

Not to mention the scars on his face. Still, at least the scratch from the orc arrow had cleared up nicely - thank goodness for Mrs Weasley and her first aid kit.

Neville was enjoying his tour of the city. Frodo Baggins was an excellent guide and very eloquent, telling wonderful stories of some of the realm's history. There was an air of quiet determination about him, and although the teenager suspected that every day he held the Ring was more difficult than the last, the dark-haired hobbit did not let it show, preferring instead to dwell on more pleasant occupations while he still could. His fondness for his gardener was apparent - they were more like friends than master and servant. Frodo could certainly show that git Malfoy a thing or two about grace and humility. Neville liked him very much and knew that he would anything he could to protect him.

Gimli spent most of the tour surveying his surroundings intently and didn't say much. Whenever a female elf approached them he would straighten imperceptibly, causing Neville to hide a grin. Poor sod. The look of disappointment on his face when the elleth passing was revealed not to be the Lady Galadriel was quite amusing, but he would not laugh at the dwarf. Gimli may be a bit gruff, but he was affable and managed to make Frodo crack a smile now and again. It was difficult not to like him.

But the person he felt the most kinship with so far was Sam. He reminded him a bit of Dobby: always eager to please his master, always looking out for him. And then there was the whole gardening aspect to him. The tour was stopped several times so that Sam could show Neville the beauty of the Mellryn and he listened to the gardener's happy chatter as he ran his hands over the smooth bark.

"There's nothing like them outside of Lothlórien, Mr Neville, sir," he explained wistfully. "Which is a pity, really. Bag End would look grand with one of these beauties in its garden." The hobbit ran his hands over the bark lovingly and Neville could almost swear the tree swayed in appreciation.

"Not that Bag End doesn't look grand just now, of course. Best gardens in all the Shire, if I do say so myself."

"That's because they have the best gardener in all the Shire to care for them," said Frodo, smiling fondly at his friend and Sam blushed furiously.

"Well, I only do as I ought to, Mr Frodo, no more, no less," said the bashful hobbit.

"I'm a gardener of sorts, too, Sam. So I know exactly what you're talking about. But I bet Frodo's right - even Boromir says you're a talented gardener," offered Neville, refusing to mention that the man had suggested he fought orcs with flowers. He didn't believe he had meant it maliciously anyway - he seemed far too noble for such petty sarcasms.

Gimli grunted from behind them and Neville turned to see the dwarf had stopped looking at ground level in the search for his heart's desire and had taken to surveying the treetops instead.

"Don't you agree, Gimli," he asked mischievously, knowing the bushy-haired dwarf probably hadn't heard a word they'd said.

He was right.

"Agree? Oh yes, indeed. Not bad-looking - despite the fact that they are trees."

The others laughed at his answer, making him flush.

"Anyway, I have had enough trees for one day. Let us return to the others. It must surely be time for the evening meal," Gimli said, slightly flustered.

"Are you sure you're not part hobbit, Gimli?" asked Frodo innocently.

"What do you mean, lad?"

"Well, you seem to spend a lot of time thinking about your stomach - when you're not gazing at treetops. I didn't know you were as fond of growing things as you are of food. Perhaps there's some Gamgee blood in you?"

Sam laughed outright and Neville's eyed widened appreciatively at the cheeky remark. The deceptively soft-spoken and very gentile Frodo Baggins must have a will of iron to carry a Horcrux-Ring intent on destroying him and still be able to find the humour to tease a love-struck dwarf.

And instead of the gruff dwarf challenging him with a narrow glare (like he had with the teenager after the Silencio incident), Gimli showed his fondness for the Ring-bearer by answering: "'Twould be an honour indeed to call young Samwise family, noble Hobbit that he is, young Master Baggins. But I fear I could never be as enamoured with plants as he."

"Then why were you staring at the treetops? Is there something...or someone...there which captures your interest?"

Gimli flushed again. "Certainly not! I was merely, eh, looking at the sky and, eh, attempting to ascertain the lateness of the hour. 'Twould not do to miss Lady Molly's evening meal. She is making something called 'Sunday roast' and I am most eager to be at the dining area on time for it," he blustered. "If you are quite finished teasing this Dwarf, I suggest we make our way back to the good mistress's table. I, for one, have no desire to get on the wrong side of such a powerful Witch!"

And, laughing, they followed him as he stomped his way back through the trees to the pavilion.

*~*~*~*

The Sunday roast was a big hit with the Fellowship - as was Mrs Weasley herself. She was thoroughly enjoying all the appreciative comments and adoring stares from the hungry males. Gimli declared her the finest cook he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, next to Sam - high praise indeed, which caused both her and the little gardener to blush in unison.

Once the meal was over (all too soon for Neville's liking: the hobbits had scoffed an alarming amount of food that put even a dormitory full of Ron Weasleys to shame), Merry and Pippin sprang up to hold the plates while he and the matronly witch fired Scourgify spells at them. Everyone laughed at the delighted giggles of the soap-drenched pair - this improvised target practise looked like it might become the favourite part of their daily routine.

Of course, he knew the lighter moments couldn't last forever, but he was determined that they bond with the Fellowship as much as possible before they left. Aragorn had spoken during dinner of a departure in the near future, so everyone was taking advantage of the restful times while they still could.

Except Boromir.

*~*~*~*

As the days passed and the reality of the journey pressed down upon him, Neville found himself occupied more and more in the archery field, getting Defence lessons from Mrs Weasley. Two days after their arrival, he was walking towards it to begin more Offensive spells she'd been taught by her famous brothers, when he heard raised voices. Unsure of whether to continue on his path while the heated discussion was still underway, he stopped and slipped behind a tree, hoping whoever it was would leave soon so he could get to the field.

"Nay, Aragorn! It is folly! It would serve us better to wield it ourselves, I tell you. Are we not Lords of Men? Do we not possess the righteous courage to bend it to our wills and make it work for us instead of against us?"

"You do not know of what you speak, son of Denethor! The Ring is wholly evil - it serves no master who is not the Dark Lord."

"But without its power my people are lost! Shall I return to them and tell them that the one who claims to be their King is reticent to do that which is in their best interests? That they are doomed to suffer and die because you will not make the right choice?"

Neville blanched. The desperate words of the Steward's son cut right through him - he had not realised that Boromir was facing such a struggle of conscience. Clearly, the man was desperate to save his people, but it appeared to be at the cost of the Quest. Aragorn was not amused.

"Enough! I have made my choice, son of Gondor. The quest comes before all else. I know you love the White City and her people and I honour your commitment to them, but do not let your feelings cloud your judgement. Many suffer in these dark times - that is why we strive to rid Sauron of his evil trinket once and for all. Without it, he is doomed and the Shadow which encroaches upon your land will roll back into oblivion. I swear to you, that I will do all in my power to see your people free again, but I will not allow the Ring to enter through the gates of Minas Tirith. Frodo must complete his mission - and I will assist him!"

A pause, then: "Take heart, Boromir. With the company of a powerful Wizard and Witch, our quest has an even greater chance of success than before. Your people will be free again soon."

Heartened at hearing this testament to his talents, Neville peeped around the side of the tree to see that Aragorn had laid a comforting hand on the other Man's shoulder.

But Boromir was having none of it. "You place your faith freely in strangers, son of Arathorn, yet you would shun your own people. You claim to be Isildur's heir, yet not once have I heard you refer to my people as yours. What success do you think this quest has when all our fates are held in the hands of a hobbit - a myth straight from Gondor's legends? And the powerful Wizard and Witch you speak so highly of? They are little more than a boy and a homely wife, who appear to be good for no more than twirling on the spot and washing dishes! We are waging war against a Dark Lord and all the evil armies of Mordor, not a horde of angry cooks!"

"Why that ungrateful so-and-so!" whispered a heated voice directly behind him, making Neville jump out his skin.

"Mrs Weasley, what are you doing?" he hissed.

"Catching up on the latest gossip, by the look of things," said the woman, glowering unseen at the bickering men. "I've a good mind to hex him into the middle of next week."

"He's only worried about his people. I don't think he means to come across like a...a..."

"An ignorant git?"

Did Mrs Weasley just call the Lord of Gondor a git?

"Look, Mrs Weasley, let's just go back and wait for them to leave," he said, anxious to get her away from the Men before she forgot herself and hit Boromir with a Fire charm or something equally unpleasant.

"Neville, dear, I really think it's time you started calling me Molly. You can't go traipsing around Middle Earth shouting 'Mrs Weasley' every two minutes - it takes far too long to say it. Every second counts in a war, you know."

The fate of an entire world hung in the balance and she was concerned about the time it took for him to say her name? He rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine - Molly. Let's just go."

But before they could emerge from behind the tree, she pulled him back further into the shadows as Aragorn walked past, clearly furious.

Oh, dear.

Boromir was still by the field gripping the fence and muttering darkly.

"Look, you go and talk to Aragorn, while I see what I can do about him."

He pointed at the angry Gondorian.

"Why don't I go and talk to him, while you go and speak to Aragorn?" Molly suggested dangerously, fingering her wand.

"Because I'd like to see him live long enough to leave Lothlórien and right now, I wouldn't trust you anywhere near him!"

"Neville Longbottom!" she hissed in outrage. "Are you suggesting I would harm him?"

"Well, yeah, actually. Are you denying it?"

Molly glared at him and he wondered if he'd gone too far, but really, matters were balanced quite delicately at present and he couldn't risk the famous Weasley temper tilting the odds in favour of calamity. She sighed and offered a weak smile.

"Perhaps you're right, dear. I couldn't promise not to refrain from hexing his bits off in the next five minutes if I did speak with him."

"Thanks Mrs Weas...er, Molly. I'll go and see if I can make him see sense, or perhaps even smile a bit."

"You're a good boy, dear." She patted him fondly on the cheek and made her way silently back down the path in Aragorn's direction.

After allowing an extra minute for the angry Gondorian to get a hold of his emotions, Neville stepped out from behind the tree and walked the remaining steps to the fence on the field's borders.

"Hello, Boromir."

The dark-haired man spun round, face tight with apprehension, but he relaxed a little when he saw who it was. "Master Longbottom, good day to you."

It seemed the man was going to leave, something Neville didn't want.

"I'm just going to practice some Offensive spells - do you want to stay and watch? You've not really seen much of what Mrs Weasley and I can do with a wand."

"I have seen enough," Boromir retorted gruffly, before walking away.

"I heard what you said to Aragorn," Neville called after him and the man ground to a halt, but did not turn around. "I know what's bothering you."

The latter he added softly, which seemed to annoy the Gondorian. This time he did turn around.

"What mean you by that? Is it the way of Wizards to spy using unnatural arts?" he asked dangerously, taking slow steps towards the teenager.

"I wasn't using 'unnatural arts' - I heard you from over there," replied Neville, pointing at the trees. Boromir did not look any happier at this.

Time for some diversional therapy.

"You're worried about your city and its people falling to Sauron; about all your friends and family dying at the hands of a Dark Lord who only wants to kill every last man, woman and child in Gondor that doesn't bow to his will."

Grey eyes flashed and Boromir let loose a bitter laugh. "And what would a child know of such matters? Wizard or not, you are young and inexperienced. You know nothing of suffering and death!"

Neville ground his teeth together to keep from yelling at the angry man. "And you know nothing of me," he replied.

"Indeed? What is there to know? You grew up in a world of Wizards, where every Man, Woman and child has the ability to protect themselves against their adversaries with the aid of a magic stick. You have been nurtured and encouraged by loving parents and sent off to this 'school' under their guidance to increase your Wizardly arts. You spent a few days hiding in a room from your teachers while cheery Elves supplied you with food. And now you are here: summoned by the very Valar themselves to aid us in washing dishes, apparently - and your Guardian bears their particular protection...protection that would see better use on the Peoples of the West. Every breath you draw bears the Valar's favour as long as Lady Molly watches over you. Have I forgotten anything?"

Every cell in Neville's body was screaming out for him to call Molly back there and then and let her hex the git's bits off if she still wanted to. But more was at stake than his desperate need to chuck a wobbly. Still...

"You are a right arrogant bastard, D'you know that?"

"How dare you speak to me in that way, boy!" barked Boromir, rounding on him angrily. "I am the son of the Steward of Gondor, heir to my father's title and a Lord of my people. I am a leader of armies who has fought in many battles, a slayer of enemies and a future ruler of my father's land. My very station commands respect from all who know me and I will not listen to insubordination from a mere child!"

Boromir was seething.

But so was Neville.

"I've had it up to my back teeth with spoiled, pompous arses who think their money and station is a one-way ticket to admiration," he retorted angrily. "Respect is too valuable a commodity for your title to command it - or your money to buy it. You have to earn it honestly, with humility and integrity, and so far, I've seen very little of either of those things in you! You stand there, passing judgement on my character like you're some sort of people expert; but you don't know the first thing about me!"

He knew he should take a breath and calm down, but the anger express had left the station and was steaming its way toward oblivion: he was powerless to stop it now.

"If you did," the irate teenager continued, "you'd know that my parents did not have the opportunity to 'nurture' or 'encourage' me because they were tortured into insanity before I was two years old and have spent most of my life in a hospital with no hope of a cure! Every time I visit them, I know that when they see me, they won't have a bloody clue who I am!! And for your information, the reason they were tortured was because they were prominent defenders of the people of my own world, fighting against our own Dark Lord who wanted to kill everyone who wasn't a Pureblood. You see, not everyone is a Witch or Wizard where I come from and nutters like Voldemort want to kill those who can't boast Pureblood parents like I can. But even being a ruddy Pureblood doesn't guarantee you a hassle-free life because if you stand up against tyranny, you're as good as dead anyway. I spent the last year of my life before I came here living in the hell that used to be my most favourite place in the world: my school. Voldemort put some of his bloody followers there to keep all us kids in line and hunt down the non-Purebloods. Teachers made children torture children when they wouldn't bow down and worship the almighty Voldemort. And when the final battle came..."

Neville was gasping, cheeks wet with tears of utter fury as Boromir watched in white-faced shock.

"Tell me, Neville Longbottom," he whispered as the teenager slid down the fence to rest on the grass. Boromir joined him.

"When the final battle came, it came to our school. The Dark Lord Voldemort brought his army of Death Eaters, giants and werewolves and set them loose on a generation of children. He had already conquered most of the Wizarding World, you see. Wiped out entire families who posed a threat to him, kidnapped members of others so their parents would do as he asked. He put officials under dark spells and murdered Muggles - non-magic people - just for the fun of it. My parents grew up fighting him and they suffered for it. Then Voldemort disappeared. We all thought he was dead because the spell he cast on the one-year-old Harry Potter backfired on him, but he'd simply lost his body. He couldn't die because he'd split his soul into several pieces and put them in magical objects, so he only needed a while to regain his strength. When he did come back, he spent years hunting Harry down, even though Harry's only a day younger than me. He hunted a child down to kill him and prove that no one could defy him! That's why he came to the school that night - he'd finally found Harry."

Boromir was shaking with horror at what he was hearing, which filled the teenager with some relief. It may be hard to talk about this, but if he could make the man see sense, then it was worth it.

"Harry had spent a year in hiding, tracking down Voldemort's Horcruxes to destroy them - they're the things that held bits of his soul - and he was looking for one of the last two when he came to school last week."

"Last week? I do not understand..."

"For me and Molly, this only happened last week. The Valar pulled us back to the past of your world, but for us, it's still only a week after the end of our own war. Anyway, Harry came to the school and the students Ginny, Luna and I'd been training were so happy to see him. Hogwarts wasn't the same place anymore since the Death Eaters arrived: it had become a place of fear and rebellion. All the students sympathetic to Harry and the Light side had been training secretly, and we knew when we saw him that night, that the war would end before morning - whether for good or ill."

"Yet still you fought? Children, all of you, and still you fought?" the man asked.

"What choice did we have? Our parents fought them in their youth so we wouldn't have to. But it didn't turn out quite like they'd planned, so now it was up to us. I'd rather die a free man than live as a slave. We all would. They threatened us, tortured us, killed our parents, our friends and tried to kill our way of life - but still we fought. What kind of people would we be if we let this final opportunity slip through our fingers because we were scared to make sacrifices? Not that the sacrifices didn't hurt anyway. They always will..."

A hand rested on his shoulder. "The reality of your parents' ill health lives with you daily, does it not?"

"Yes," he replied, a hitch in his throat. "But what kind of son would I be if I rolled over and gave in to a madman after all they had done for me, after all they had done for the Wizarding World? It was my honour to stand and fight for what they believed in, because I believed in it too. So did all the friends whose bodies we cleared from the school grounds the morning after the battle. Some were teachers, some were parents, some were friends - not even seventeen years old."

"I owe you a grave apology for my unpardonable manners," said Boromir quietly. "It did not occur to me that eyes so young had seen so much, and I ask for your forgiveness, Neville Longbottom."

Neville took a deep breath and exorcised his ghosts. "You don't need to ask, you're already forgiven."

The man was taken aback at the speedy reply. "I have insulted you as none should insult another - yet you gift your forgiveness unreservedly?"

He smiled weakly. "We've both lived through wars, Boromir. We know what the fear and anxiety can do to a man: it can make him speak before he thinks, say things he doesn't really mean and spends a lifetime regretting. But I've learned that life is to short to spend it in regret and I think you know that too."

Grey eyes studied him intently. "You are a puzzle indeed, young Wizard. You have power beyond ordinary mortals and have fought and helped to win a war of your own not a week since. You could be enjoying the fruits of your hard won labours at home, yet you willingly travel to my world to offer your aid in a fight not your own. Either you are very reckless, or very honourable."

"Probably reckless, actually. If my Gran knew what I was doing right now, she'd kill me herself."

Boromir's shout of laughter echoed through the trees, and Neville grinned.

"I see the iron hand of a mother figure is still enough to put the fear of Sauron into any sensible person - even if he is a powerful Wizard," chuckled the Gondorian.

"My Gran could put the fear of Sauron into Sauron himself!" Neville stated wholeheartedly.

And he meant it.

"My own mother died when I was but a child," said Boromir suddenly, taking the grin off the teenager's face. "Ever since her death, my father has been a changed man, finding little joy in life. He even spurns my younger brother, Faramir, who is a good and noble Lord - unlike his brother."

"That's not true - I mean what you mean about yourself. You are good and noble. That's plain for anyone to see."

Boromir laughed again, but this time in self-derision. "Perhaps once I was, young Wizard, but I begin to harbour my doubts on that score now." His hand began to tug at the grass, pulling it out in clumps before discarding it and starting again. "Ever since the I became involved in this quest - nay, ever since I became aware of...it...I have felt a change come upon me, one which I do not like."

Neville knew what he was talking about. "When the Valar first brought me and Molly here, they told us about the history of the Ring."

Boromir stiffened, but Neville continued.

"They said it was created using the will of the Dark Lord, a bit like Voldemort created the Horcruxes using his own will. And just like the Horcruxes, it was made with purely evil intent. They said it can warp the mind of anyone who's near it and will eventually betray the one who bears it because its desire to return to its true master is overwhelming. No one can wield it for good, no matter what it tries to make them believe."

He didn't know if the Gondorian was absorbing this: his face had returned to its stony familiarity. But at least he wasn't shouting at him again.

"Its one purpose at this moment is to get back to Sauron - and it will use any means at its disposal to do so. It will taunt and seduce, trick and betray until it achieves its one desire: union with its only master. There is only one Lord of the Ring, and it's not Frodo Baggins. It can never be you or I either. It will never do our bidding."

Boromir sprang from the ground at that, pacing the grass furiously.

"My people will die; my City will fall!"

"They won't."

"How can you speak with such certainty?" barked the man. "Am I weak to wish for the aid it may bring? The aid you claim it will never bring?"

"It will never bring aid. And you're not weak, it's the Ring that's strong. It's poisoned with a magic neither of us can understand, that's its strength."

"Yet a Hobbit can defy it?"

"Hobbits are as different from men as men are from hobbits. You each have strengths the other lacks; you each have failings the other doesn't. There's nothing weak about being different - that was what Voldemort never understood. Don't make the same mistake as him, because you are by far his better."

The man stopped his pacing to face Neville. "Your faith in me is stronger than that I bear for myself. I thank you for it. But I do not think I deserve it." He held a hand up when the boy made a move to protest. "Enough, young Wizard. I have heard your words and will give them much thought this night, I promise you that. For now, let us return to our companions, lest they begin to doubt in our existence."

Oh, well. He supposed he couldn't hope for any better than that. He'd had his say and now only time would tell if he'd been heard. Nodding his agreement, he walked back to the clearing with the man, apprehensive at their reception from Aragorn. Molly should have had a chance to chat with him by now and he wondered what she'd said.

It appeared that he wasn't the only apprehensive one. Boromir was looking a bit glum himself, but forced his face into a blank expression when he caught Neville's glance.

Which was why the teenager was nonplussed, to say the least, when, upon exiting the trees and spying Aragorn smoking a pipe on a rock, Boromir offered a hearty greeting.

"Hail, son of Arathorn! Greetings to you this fine day! I have just spent a pleasant afternoon with our esteemed Wizard companion and am now in the mood for some fine Elvish wine and a tale from the Rangers of the North. What say you to a glass of the Lady's finest?"

And the Gondorian walked over to the ranger and slapped him heartily on the back!

"Come now, heir of Isildur. Will you not share a glass with your future Steward?" he asked merrily.

Aragorn choked on his pipe. "Er, I would be honoured to accompany you," he said upon recovering.

"Excellent! Let us see if we can find Gimli and Legolas, perhaps the Hobbits too - nay everyone should join us for a glass of wine! It may be the last we get before we trounce Sauron the Fool into the afterlife - and his miserable trinket with him!"

What the bloody hell??

Neville stood in open-mouthed shock as Boromir dragged a very confused Aragorn into the pavilion in search of a jar and some glasses. He stumbled over to Molly who was busy slicing potatoes for dinner.

"Hello dear, You seem to have done a splendid job of transforming our moody member."

"I didn't really think I had, to be quite honest," Neville replied, listening to the roar of laughter from the pavilion.

"Well, you must have done something right or it wouldn't have worked so well."

Forehead crinkling in confusion, he looked at the witch. "What? What wouldn't have worked so well...Molly, what did you do?"

Molly blushed and shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh nothing much, dear. You did all the hard work."

"Mrs Weasley?"

"Oh, why did you have to call me that dear? You were doing so very well with 'Molly'"

"What did you do?"

"Well, he looked so glum coming out of the woods..."

"And?"

"Well, I wasn't sure it would work so well - he had been rather angry earlier on..."

"And?"

"Oh, alright then! I hit him with an enhanced Cheering charm."

"What?"

"Obviously he needed it dear, if the lone ranger over there was anything to go by. It took me two normal Cheering charms just to calm him down. I had to do some rather quick thinking to come with a modified one for Boromir if he was going to be as difficult to control as his friend. But look!"

She pointed at the two men who were exiting the tent and swigging from a suspicious looking jar like a couple of hardened alcoholics heading off to the Hog's Head.

"Success! Oh I do like to see happy faces! Life's far too short to argue all the time."

He couldn't really argue with that without upsetting her, so he merely watched wide eyed as Boromir and Aragorn trundled merrily off into the distant trees in search of more drinking companions.

*~*~*~*

Saruman the White frowned at the sky, attempting to contemplate its mysteries. The air around Isengard was thick - but not with the burning of remnant trees pulled from the once magnificent gardens.

A tremor was in the very air.

It puzzled him. It had started several days ago around mid-afternoon, but he had dismissed it as the downfall of the fool Gandalf.

But the tremor remained.

And the White Wizard was slowly losing his ability to focus on matters of import that demanded his attention, such as the mounting of his army of Uruk-hai against the Rohirrim. He had plundered the resources of his lore books and star charts to glean some meaning from the heraldic vibrations that shook him to his core. Had Sauron found the Ring? Had the unthinkable happened and the Dark Lord been overthrown? But a glimpse in the Palantír had quickly quashed those suspicions.

What was it then? He moved to the iron railing of the balcony and surveyed his realm. No invading forces marched to oust him from his hard won Tower. His orcs were marching in formation around the Ring of Isengard, readying themselves for the journey ahead to the home of the horse-lords.

But this scene of tranquillity failed to soothe his rattled nerves.

And with good reason...

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