Not Quite a Maia

Not Quite A Maia

Chapter 10

Third Age: 17th-24th February 3019

River Anduin

The days passed by slowly as the Fellowship occupied themselves with either rowing or keeping an eye peeled for pursuers.

Neville appreciated the need for caution and had himself been staying more alert since Sam mentioned the evening before that they were being followed by a 'log with eyes'. The little gardener had been referring to the creature Gollum, who was concealed behind a log he was propelling after the elven boats a small distance behind them, but there had been no obvious sign of the slippery creature since. So by the fifth day after the departure from Lothlórien, the sheer tedium of their journey was beginning to get to him.

Among other things.

Gimli was still harping on about the absence of his true love and Neville (although a big fan of the lovely elleth) thought that if he had to listen to one more word about Galadriel's endless virtues, he might charm the Dwarf's hair to strangle him.

It wouldn't have been so annoying really, if his stomach hadn't slowly discovered that the Great River was not nearly as harmless as the merry Silverlode. The current of the much larger body of water had been making his insides roil since they'd left the serenity of Lothlórien and it was difficult to concentrate on anything other than the gurgling of his protesting innards.

Boromir's boat drew even with them and, hoping for a distraction from his misery, he looked over to smile at Molly. She seemed to faring better than him and was laughing at the antics of the younger hobbits as they teased the man of Gondor about his rowing skills. Neville wished he felt well enough to join in their fun.

As the boat passed them, he could hear Merry proclaiming that the hobbits of Buckland were used to the water (unusual among hobbits in general, apparently) and to the teenager's dismay, the Brandybuck began to sway back and forth and side to side in the boat to prove his hardiness.

Of course, Pippin just had to emulate his idol and soon, as if commanded by a higher power, Neville's head was swaying back and forth, side to side, in synchronicity with their movements.

It was too much for his stomach.

His mouth began to water in that all-too-familiar way that precedes a right royal chucking-up and before he knew it, he was hanging over the edge of the Elven boat and spewing for England.

"Master Longbottom!" cried Legolas in dismay. "Are you well?"

Whatever happened to that superior elven vision that Haldir had bragged about back in Lothlórien? Clearly he was not well!

"I...I'll be a lot better if...if you stop calling me that and...just call...me Neville," he gasped after the worst of it was over. Chilled sweat rolled down his back and he shivered. Blimey, he thought for a moment there he might throw up his actual stomach.

The river must have had it in for him, though. As they passed by the thinning trees on the banks, the boat bucked slightly, skimming over a submerged trunk and although Legolas and Gimli managed to calm the vessel back down, they were unable to do the same for the miserable teenager. Head over the side once more, he heaved and retched for Wales (having done enough for his home country).

Gimli was shaking his head in bewilderment. "Can you not cast a spell or something to end your misery, lad?"

What? Like Avada Kedavra? That ought to do it.

The shaking wizard slumped into the back of the boat. "I'm not a medi-wizard. I don't know the right one."

"We will be stopping soon for the night, Neville," advised Legolas. "Once we have made camp, either Aragorn or the Lady Molly may know how to ease your discomfort."

A blanket was thrown over his shivering form and he managed a nod of thanks in Gimli's direction before falling into a restless dose. He didn't awake until some time later, when a hobbit's cry pierced his slumber and he cracked open his eyes to see a flock of swans flying overhead. The sight had sent Pippin into an excited frenzy and he was pointing at them in glee.

At least he and his cousin had stopped swaying about in the ruddy boat!

Unfortunately, the thought of their earlier spot of riverdancing stuck in his mind, making his mouth water again.

Oh, no.

This time, his fancy took a trip across the Scottish border and he heaved for the Highlands as the boat passed the lands of Rohan on the western bank.

Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he sank back into the boat and fervently hoped that Northern Ireland would be good enough to spare him. How was it possible to throw up so much? He didn't think there was any fluid left in him!

It was with great relief that he disembarked on the western shore half an hour later (with Gimli and Legolas grabbing an arm each and hauling his slack form off the boat onto terra firma).

"Neville, dear! Gracious, you look dreadful!" Molly cried, rushing over to him and brushing his plastered hair off his face.

"I get that a lot," he mumbled, too tired to protest when Legolas threw him over his shoulder and carried him further inland. The elf laid him carefully on the ground as Molly hastily opened her knapsack and pulled Cirdan's lovely blankets out to wrap him up in.

"There you go, dear. Sam's getting a nice fire started, so you'll soon be warm and dry."

"'S'nice," he said and closed his eyes again. He didn't wake up for the rest of the night.

*~*~*~*

The next morning dawned dull and grey, and Neville woke up with a pounding headache. Aragorn spotted his return to consciousness and left the smouldering remnants of the fire to join him.

"Are you feeling better, young Neville?" he asked, his kind grey eyes assessing him as he laid a calloused hand on the teenager's forehead.

"Well, I'm not feeling sick anymore, so that's an improvement," he replied. He didn't want to mention the headache, already mortified at creating such a fuss over his own health when he was supposed to be looking out for everyone else's.

"I am glad to hear it. However, the paleness of your face and the manner in which you narrow your eyes would lead me to believe that you now suffer an ache of the head - is that not so?"

Surprised at the man's astuteness, he confirmed that he did indeed have a headache.

Aragorn smiled gently and reached over to an adjacent rocky ledge. "The Lady Molly has advised that you drink plenty of fluids to replenish your lost stores - wisdom which I wholeheartedly agree with."

The ranger produced what could only be one of Molly's flowery cups and helped him sit up so that he could drink from it. The cool, clear water flowed down his throat and after a few minutes, he soon began to feel much more like his old self.

"Thanks, Aragorn. That's helped to clear the cobwebs away a bit. Where is Molly, by the way?" he asked curiously, for the matronly witch was nowhere near the camp.

"The Hobbits wished to stretch their legs before we set off again, and I thought it a good idea for her to accompany them."

Neville was impressed. Trying to convince the concerned mother to leave her sickly charge would have been a mammoth task. "How did you manage to talk her into that?" he asked, grinning.

"I reminded her that I am a healer of sorts and more than able to tend to a sea-sickened seventeen year old. And I may have suggested that Frodo would feel safer with the benefit of a powerful Witch to guard him during his walk."

"So you appealed to her common sense, her protective streak and her vanity, eh? Good one!"

Aragorn laughed. "Come, young Wizard. Let us see if we cannot entice your stomach into a light meal before we resume our travels. A little lembas to start with, and perhaps a little more water. We do not want to line it with anything heavier at present until you have accustomed yourself more to the demands of the river."

"I'm really sorry about making such an idiot of myself," said Neville guiltily. "You must think I'm a right disappointment as a protector when I can't even control my ruddy stomach."

"Do not be so harsh on yourself, Neville. Even the doughtiest of warriors is susceptible to the small protests his body can make of him. You cannot change the fact that, Wizard that you are, you are still very much a mortal Man, and as such are rendered as fallible to the workings of your internal organs as I or any other person is."

A grateful smile at the ranger's generosity pulled at the teenager's lips.

"And, if I recall correctly, even the immortal Gandalf was prone to a slight cough or two, in his time, although that may have had more to do with his fondness for a pipeful of Old Toby than any real ailment of his lungs."

"Gandalf smoked?"

"Oh, yes," said Aragorn, handing him a corner of lembas, which he chewed warily. The ranger took a seat beside him and leaned against the ledge. "Gandalf discovered the joys of the leaf when he first visited the Shire, many years ago. Old Toby is one of the more popular leaves from the Hobbits' homeland. In fact, the morning after your arrival, when I told the Hobbits your full name, they were extremely...keen...to meet you."

Yeah, well, he sort of worked that out after Pippin's excited voice had woken him up that morning. But what did his name have to do with leaf? He was Neville, not Toby.

"Why's that then?"

"Because the other popular pipe filler is Longbottom Leaf," answered the ranger in amusement. "So you can imagine their excitement at finding a Wizard named for their esteemed crop. They believe you must have some Hobbit blood in you and were very taken with the idea of bringing you back to their home to introduce to the local farmers. Indeed, in your honour, they have renamed the beloved pipe-filler Neville Longbottom Leaf."

Neville choked on his lembas.

"I thought you might like that," laughed Aragorn as he thumped the teenager on the back to help him clear his throat.

"Blimey! That's, er, very nice of them," gasped Neville.

He wondered how Gran would like that. After his impressive turn at the Battle of Hogwart's, she'd been hoping the Ministry named a hospital wing after him or something equally daft, and spent hours envisioning the statue that would be built before it in his honour, perhaps showing him posing proudly with the Sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the head of Nagini in the other (he'd been mortified and had threatened to blast it to pieces if anyone even dared so much as try it). But to have tobacco named after him instead?

Oh, well.

"Funny though that they haven't mentioned anything about it." He saw Aragorn's quizzical expression and elaborated. "I mean, Merry and Pippin, at least, are not exactly backward about being...forward, if you understand me."

"If you understand me?" The ranger chuckled. "You reminded me a little of Sam when you said that, young Wizard. But yes, you are quite correct: Merry and Pippin are often very gregarious, which is why I warned them not to trouble you with pleas to visit the Shire until after we complete our task. You should have peace from that particular request for a while yet, I deem."

Thank goodness for that! He really enjoyed the duo's company and their ability to elicit a laugh from the Fellowship despite the dire mission they were on, but Molly was better at dealing with their persistent badgering than he was and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to fend them off if they ganged up on him (at least, not without using his wand on them).

His gaze flickered over the remainder of the little camp and he noted that all the travellers' supplies had been packed in readiness for a speedy departure. But he and Aragorn were the only two left sitting by the smouldering fire.

"Where is everyone else?" he asked.

"Legolas and Gimli are exploring the greener lands on this side of the river, for we have seen little of that colour since we left Lothlórien. As for Boromir, I know not. Perhaps he wanders a distance behind them, alone with his thoughts. He will return in time for our departure, of this I am certain."

The man's face looked somewhat tense as he spoke and Neville couldn't help feeling a little awkward.

"Boromir doesn't seem like the life of the party does he?" offered the teenager with a sympathetic smile. "But he's got a lot on his mind and probably doesn't have much to smile about these days."

"Which only makes his peculiar behaviour in Lothlórien all the more inexplicable," replied the ranger, frowning. "I had not thought he felt at ease in the Lady's lands, but he shattered those suspicions a few nights before we left."

Ah, Molly's Cheering charm. Should he tell him?

Then he remembered that the witch had used the same spell on him too and thought that, in this case, discretion may be the better part of valour.

"That happens to a lot of people after a few helpings of Molly's cooking," he said evasively. "Wouldn't worry about it."

"Perhaps you are right. After several weeks of waybread and what ever limited game a ranger can find on his travels, a hearty meal in a safe haven is often enough to improve one's mood. Yet, I wish that his good humour had accompanied him down the Anduin..."

"Well, he's on his way home now, isn't he? And from what I understand, Minas Tirith has more than its share of trouble at the moment, what with the threat of Sauron," offered Neville. "If his dad sent him all the way to Rivendell in the hope of getting help and he comes back empty-handed..."

Aragorn's frown deepened. "The Steward of Gondor is a proud Man who believes that only the might of arms may quell his foes. He will not pay tribute to the thought that we attempt to subvert the Dark Lord's threat with what he would no doubt perceive as an illicit gamble. Nay, he would demand that we use that which we carry against its Master! But such a thing is impossible. The weapon will never betray its creator, for much of his will is within it. Were it to fall into the hands of Denethor, or any of his ilk, then the fate of the West would be sealed."

One of the smouldering logs popped, then sizzled, sending a plume of black smoke into Neville's face. He waved his hand before his nose to ward off the worst of it.

"Sounds like Boromir's in for a right old grilling when he gets back home, then. No wonder his face is like a wet Wednesday. Still, his dad doesn't know about the...thing...does he?"

"Not yet. But that will change when his son arrives home. He is bound by duty to tell the Steward of his journey and all that occurred during it. Denethor will condemn our actions as folly and lament the loss of the weapon. He would not condone our journey into Mordor with it, lest we were to take the forces of Gondor's armies with us. But such action would only draw the attention of the Eye, and that would be fatal to the quest. We would not last two minutes in the Black Lands without Sauron's forces attacking us and recovering his prize - and that would bring doom to the West."

"Maybe Boromir will talk some sense into him, though: make him see that, strategically, it's better to try and destroy both it and its master, than keep it so close to Mordor that Sauron's bound to find it without much more effort."

A wry laugh. "Nay, Neville. Boromir has too much of his sire in him. He shares his belief in the power of force and, even as we speak, wanders the hills lost in thoughts of how to encourage our Fellowship to take the road to his City, no doubt."

No doubt. The teenager recalled the Gondorian's desperation when they argued in the archery field. The Ring must seem like a gift to him after all the years his country had spent fighting a losing battle against Mordor. Still, he firmly believed that Boromir was a noble man and would do what was right in the end. The love in his eyes as he spoke of his family and people, and the brief moment of humour they had shared at the thought of a grandmother's fury, was all the proof he needed of this.

A twig snapped off to the right of the pair and he turned his head to see the man himself watching them. Boromir's face was stony, but his eyes flashed.

Uh oh. Had he heard them?

"Hello Boromir," he offered with a squeak in his voice. Aragorn rose, nodded at the man and walked to the travelling packs to begin transporting them back into the boats. "Did you have a nice walk?"

"I see you are well again," Boromir replied gruffly, ignoring the question. "Good. We have no time to delay in nursing a poorly youth. If you possess arts to rid yourself of any further water-sickness, I suggest you employ them, for we cannot afford to waste time tending to your delicate stomach when the fate of the West hangs in the balance."

He walked passed the blushing teenager and grabbed his own pack before heading to the boat he shared with Merry and Pippin.

Well, that was just great. Obviously, the moody Gondorian had heard and chose to take his bad mood out on the nearest target. Burning with embarrassment, Neville picked himself off the ground and was just brushing himself off when the rest of the company returned. The younger hobbits were delighted to see him up and about and their enthusiasm to greet him carried them over even faster than his relieved Guardian.

"So, you're feeling better now, are you?" asked Merry brightly. "That's good."

Pippin was beaming up at him. "I've never seen anyone being so sick before! Is this your first time on a boat?"

"Er, no. When I first started school, all the First Years had to take one to get across the Lake..."

"Were you sick then too?"

"Well, no. But I didn't have to..."

"So why were you so sick now? Do you not like the water?"

"It's very nice - in a glass..."

Pippin laughed. "That's funny! You sound like Sam. He doesn't like water much either unless he's drinking it or pouring on his flowerbeds. But even he hasn't ever been as sick you were yesterday! Do you think that'll happen to you again today?"

The curly-haired youth was watching him in fascination, debating whether or not the teenager still had enough fluid left in him to provide as much entertainment as he had the day before. Neville was too startled to answer, but Merry intervened, thumping his cousin and dragging him off to their boat as Molly approached with her hand rifling through her knapsack.

"There you are dear! Thank goodness you're looking a bit more like your old self. I want you to drink this before we go."

She pulled out a vial of blue fluid and offered it to him. "It's Philip Frenetic's Anti-Emetic potion and it'll help keep the worst of your nausea at bay. Go on now, dear. Drink up!"

Smiling his thanks, Neville unstoppered it and swallowed it down in one, trying not to gag as the bitter liquid hit his much-abused stomach.

"Thanks," he choked out as she took the vial back off him and put it back in the first-aid kit.

"You don't happen to have any more of them, do you, Mistress Molly?" asked Sam hopefully as he and Frodo stopped beside her. Frodo was trying not to grin.

"Of course, dear! Why, I should have thought to ask if anyone else might be in need of them. There you go!"

The little gardener took the eagerly proffered vial and swallowed the contents (doing a much better job of hiding his revulsion than the wizard).

"Thank you very much, Mistress Molly. I feel much better already," Sam said, looking thrilled to have drank a wizard's potion. "I'll bet I could swim the whole way to Mordor now and not think twice about it!"

Now Frodo did grin. "I don't think you'll have to worry about swimming anywhere once we leave the Anduin, Sam. I don't believe there are any rivers between this one and Mount Doom."

His face fell slightly as he mentioned the Ring's birthplace and Sam, catching sight of it, tried to cheer him up. "That's a good thing, then, Mr Frodo. We'll be able to move much more steadily on foot without you worrying that your Sam's going to be as sick as a Wizard every five minutes."

As sick as a wizard? Excellent...

"Come on now, sir. Let's get back to the boat. We mustn't keep old Strider waiting any longer."

Taking the Ring-bearer's arm, the stout hobbit gently guided his friend towards the riverbank.

"Poor dears," said Molly. "It must be terribly difficult for them, knowing what lies ahead."

Neville nodded his head in agreement as he watched their forlorn figures heading for the boat. "I know. That's why I'm going to make sure that their road is as clear and safe as possible."

She handed him his cloak and pinned the Lórien brooch to it after he threw it over his shoulders. "You're a good boy, Neville Longbottom. Your mother and father will be very proud of you - just like I am."

Her brown eyes were sparkling up at him suspiciously and he fervently hoped she wasn't going to burst into tears or something (Gimli would kill him if he saw).

"Thanks Molly. I can't tell you what that means to me."

"Neville! Lady Molly! Come - we must tarry here no longer. The eyes of the Enemy are everywhere and we must move swiftly to avoid their gaze."

Aragorn was beckoning at them to join the rest of the Company in the boats, so shouldering their knapsacks, they turned towards the bank and split up to take their seats on the elven vessels. Less than a minute later the boats were carrying them south down the Anduin towards their destiny...

*~*~*~*

The land on either side of the river was becoming progressively rockier as the current carried them ever closer to the Falls of Rauros. Cold winds swept over them, chilling the company through the long, bleak days and making them yearn for the warm fire that waited for them during the evening's rest. Neville hadn't seen or heard any further sign of Gollum following them, although he didn't doubt the erstwhile Ring-bearer was lurking somewhere behind them, biding his time until he could make some sort of attempt to regain his treasure.

Flocks of birds had been flying in the air above them for most of the day and as they made their camp later, Aragorn cast his eye on them doubtfully. "It may be that word of our travels is spreading amidst the wildlife of the Emyn Muil - the result of some mischief on the part of our elusive friend, no doubt. It is best that we take what rest we may during the remaining light, and travel only in darkness while the birds sleep: that we may better evade their prying eyes."

But as they were beginning to break camp that evening, Aragorn drew their attention to a massive bird wheeling in circles farther south. It seemed to be searching for something.

"Is it looking for us?" Neville asked, frowning.

"I cannot say for certain, yet what else would draw its curious gaze so far south in Winter? It may be an agent of the Enemy or another foul creature of Saruman's, sent to spy for a sign of our location. We must not allow it to see us."

"Do you want me to take care of it?" the teenager offered, gripping his wand in readiness.

"Nay," said Legolas beside him as they crouched behind a rock. "That may draw further attention from other prying eyes. It would be wiser to allow it to fly off unharmed."

The elf had a point, so Neville slipped his wand back into the holster secured to his hip that Galadriel had gifted him with.

Aragorn continued to watch the bird as it circled, dipped and soared, before moving further south. "We will not start until it is fully dark," he said firmly and with that, all three made their way back to the others to tell them what they had seen.

*~*~*~*

On the eighth day after they left Lothlórien, the ranger suggested that they should make one more journey by dark. Fortunately, the sky was clear enough in the west and the starlight bright enough to aid their vision down the river, and Neville was happy enough to follow this plan. His stomach hadn't given him any more trouble since he'd drank Molly's potion and he'd been able to accustom himself to the river's flow.

But he'd discovered that something else was beginning to take the place of his former discomfort.

The Ring.

It had started pushing against his mind the day before and he'd dismissed it as no more than idle thought as he lay resting his eyes by the camp. But the insidious voice of the Ring persisted; tugging at his consciousness insistently, trying to seduce him with its siren call. He wondered how Frodo managed to ignore the ruddy thing's endless whining. Did anyone else hear it too?

Well, obviously Boromir did. The Gondorian still threw longing glances at the hobbit's neckline when he thought no one was looking, but no one else seemed to hear it - or if they did, they were doing a great job of pretending they didn't.

Still, at least the Valar had given him a better idea of what it was capable of. There was no danger of him trying anything stupid when he knew the Ring would only use his abilities to get it back to its master as quickly as possible.

Once night fell, the boats slipped back onto the Anduin. They drifted for many hours upon its surface, when suddenly Sam, who was acting as lookout in the lead vessel cried out. Neville craned his head around Gimli's bulky form and saw dark shapes ahead.

"What are they?"

"Rocks," replied Legolas. "We are nearing the rapids of Sarn Gebir."

The swirl of racing water confirmed the elf's words and as the boats were swept aside towards the eastern bank, they could see the row of rocks gleaming in the starlight like a row of sharp teeth.

Boromir was busy voicing his disapproval at attempting to pass them, and for once, Aragorn agreed. He shouted out to the others to turn the boats around as quickly as possible and all hands were soon busied trying to fight against the swift moving currents before it drove them onto the shoals.

"It's no good!" yelled Merry. The current's too strong!"

"Row harder!" shouted Boromir as the little boat bobbed dangerously against the waves.

"I can't!"

Neville watched in horror as their boat drifted further and further towards the rocks.

"Molly!" he cried. "Do something!"

But the witch was too quick for him and already he saw the flash of colour as her wand worked its magic. Before the disbelieving eyes of the company, the boat rose slowly in the air and floated away from the rocks.

"I'm flying!" yelled Pippin in delight as the grey vessel floated towards the other two boats which were making better headway up the river.

No sooner had the astonished hobbit voiced his pleasure, than a twang was heard from the banks.

"We are under attack!" called Aragorn. "Get the boat back in the water lest the arrows find their marks!"

Molly lowered the boat and conjured a powerful Shield charm to protect them from the worst of the black projectiles, allowing Neville to scan the banks for their adversaries. The limited light available was making this more difficult, but he was still able to spot some dark shapes moving over the rocks.

Which pleased him greatly.

"Oppugno!" he cried, as the next wave of arrows flew towards them. The missiles stopped in mid-air, turned, and headed back the way they had come. Shouts of confusion and muffled screams were heard as they hit the archers. His Guardian caught on to the clever idea as another wave headed their way and soon the night air was filled with hidden screams of pain and fury as the other members of the Fellowship steered the boats back into the middle of the stream and away from the rapids.

"Make for the western shore!" called Aragorn.

The teenager let Legolas and Gimli do the paddling as he kept his wand trained for any further attack. No more arrows were forthcoming, but the shrill, infuriated cries of orcs could be heard ringing through the darkness. No doubt they were a little confused at their weapons inexplicable behaviour.

He grinned.

The boats reached solid ground and they disembarked, hurriedly pulling them farther inland out of unfriendly reach. Legolas sprang up the shore and lifted his eyes skyward. Wondering what he was looking at, Neville followed him, but his sight wasn't as keen as the elf's and he couldn't discern what had caught his attention. He really hoped his friend hadn't decided to choose this moment for a little of that much-beloved elvish stargazing.

"Legolas, what're you looking at?" the young wizard asked urgently.

"Elbereth Gilthoniel!" he cried aloud and Neville rolled his eyes. Really, this was no time to be thinking about girls!

Suddenly, the teenager was aware of a change in the air. A chill gripped his body as Legolas made a grab for his Galadhrim bow and his eyes were drawn to the rolling dark clouds moving towards them from the south. But something wasn't quite right...

The chill increased and he heard Frodo gasp in pain. Alarmed, he looked towards the Ring-bearer, but the hobbit was not under attack, merely crouched in fear as the others bundled him behind the reeds. A harsh cry from above pulled his vision skywards again and he saw...

What the bloody hell was that?

A huge creature with an enormous wingspan was speeding towards the company, with something - or someone - apparently sitting on its back. Every metre it closed in on them increased the dreadful chill that coursed through Neville's body and he knew the others must be feeling the same way. Loud, harsh cries of greeting called out to it from the eastern shore and he realised it must be an ally of the orcs. His skin was crawling with cold and tingles of fear as it brought its cloying darkness their way. It felt almost like a Dementor. The realisation made him point his wand at it, but before he could utter a word...

"Expecto Patronum!"

A burst of light erupted from Molly's wand and the silvery figure of a huge lioness sprinted through the dark night towards the dreadful creature, causing it to let forth a ghastly screech of terror. It swerved violently to the right in an effort to escape...only to meet the swift arrow of the Prince of Mirkwood. Ten pairs of eyes watched as it fell several leagues farther down onto the western shores.

"Nice shot - both of you!" said Neville, very impressed.

"'Twould have been a better shot if the creature had landed on the other side of the river," said Boromir darkly.

Molly glared at him. "You're welcome!" she snapped and, gathering Frodo and the other hobbits, followed Aragorn further inland where they could better conceal themselves from the screaming orcs.

They remained on the western shore for a while longer as the orcs across the water cursed and wailed at them, before, finally, silence fell.

After a while, Aragorn led the boats back upstream and they crept their way along the water's edge for some distance until they found a small, shallow bay. They moored the boats close together and huddled inside.

"It is better that we await the dawn here," declared the ranger. "Sauron's Orcs will not dare follow us while the light of day blesses the lands, for it is painful to their eyes. We shall travel no further by nightfall."

"What was that thing, anyway?" asked Neville, curious about the quasi-Dementor.

"It may have been a Nazgûl," replied Legolas. "One of the Nine Kings of Men who are enslaved by the Dark Lord to do his bidding. They are drawn to his weapon and seek to return it to their master. If it had seen us creeping through the night this close to the eastern shore of their Master's lands, it may have been calamitous for the quest."

So that was a Nazgûl? Neville remembered the Valar's description of them, but the Black Rider had been too far away for him to get a really good look at it (thank goodness). He really wished Manwë had said something about their Dementor-like ability to make someone fill their trousers...

"Good thing you're so handy with that bow then, eh?" the teenager said thankfully.

"Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand and eye of Legolas!" declared Gimli, shoving a corner of lembas into his mouth. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!"

The elf bowed his head in thanks at the praise.

"And praised be also to the glowing spirit-creature which Lady Molly sent forth to ward it off."

Boromir was regarding the matronly witch with a touch of humility as he offered this thanks. "I beg your pardon for my earlier remark, my Lady. We are all in your debt, too."

She blushed and beamed at him. "Oh, think nothing of it dear. Even the best of us can get a little short-tempered in a moment of peril."

The Gondorian nodded his thanks at her graciousness, then assessed her curiously. "What was that strange creature that you conjured?"

"That was my Patronus. Where I came from, we have many creatures similar to your Nazgûl, called Dementors, and a good Patronus is the only way to protect yourself against them before they can kiss you."

Gimli sprayed his half-chewed lembas over an unfortunate Legolas. "Kiss? What manner of dark creature is it that runs about kissing its enemies?"

A wide grin spread across Neville's face as the company began to discuss the dark side of snogging in hushed tones.

"What she means is that Dementors suck your soul out through your mouth and swallow it."

A gasp of horror from Pippin made his grin stretch wider.

"I don't think I like the sound of that!" said the tweenager, completely disgusted.

"Me neither," said Sam, blanching. "I might even rather take my chances with one of them Nazgûl. Leastways, I won't have to worry none about them trying to get too familiar with me, if you take my meaning."

The company shared an uneasy laugh at the thought of Sam unwillingly locked in a passionate embrace with an ardent Nazgûl.

"I'd much rather avoid both of them altogether," whispered Frodo softly, and the laughter died down as they saw him rubbing his shoulder.

Neville frowned in concern. "Is it still sore?"

"No, just an echo of an earlier hurt. But the appearance of the Black Rider made it flare up again for a moment, as if it senses when they are near."

This sobering thought extinguished the Fellowship's dark humour.

"Regardless of Nazgûl or other strange creatures, whatever it was it is gone for the moment. But we must make our way forward now with caution, for if it was one of the Nine, it will not have perished with its steed. We must stay alert for signs of it as long as we remain within reach of the Anduin. It may labour to rejoin its allies on the eastern shore, or return to its master - or it may linger in wait for our company. Have your weapons close to hand and be ever on your guard, my friends."

Aragorn's sombre words rang in their ears as the group slept with their swords by their sides. Neville and Legolas were the appointed lookouts for the night, but the thought of a Nazgûl patrolling the western shore was enough to keep even the sleepiest of the company awake for several hours.

*~*~*~*

Neville was pulled from sleep the following morning by the sound of raised voices. Boromir had taken his place through the night as lookout and it was his petulant tone as he spoke with Aragorn that disturbed his fitful rest. Yawning, the teenager propped himself up and gazed at Gimli in curiosity.

"What's all that about?" he asked, indicating the huffy Gondorian and the glowering ranger.

"They discuss which path is best for us to follow to smoother waters and where we go after we come to them. Boromir would that we made for his land before we pass the Rapids, but Aragorn is more taken with the idea of travelling past them to Amon Hen, that he may take the high seat of his ancestors before making his final decision."

The high seat of his ancestors? Neville could fully appreciate the need for a decent seat (his own backside was killing him from hours of sitting in the cramped boat) but really, how would a comfy chair help him make up his mind?

"Eh, right. Okay."

In the end, it was decided that Aragorn and Legolas would travel ahead to find a path across the shore by which they could carry the boats. Frodo's face was a picture of dejection as they slipped up the steep bank and were swallowed by the swirling fog and Neville felt sorry for him.

"Don't worry. They'll be back as soon as they can."

The Ring-bearer gave a half-hearted smile. "I know. I just don't like to see the Fellowship sundered, even for a day and for such a necessary task."

But the hobbit's smile returned when they reappeared a few hours later.

"We have found the track, and it leads to a good landing that is yet serviceable. All that remains is to carry the boats and our provisions through it. Make haste."

A chorus of unhappy groans from the hobbits made the young wizard smile.

"Why don't you just carry your packs, while Molly and I see to the boats?" he said cheerfully.

"Are you going to make them float, like Lady Molly did when we almost hit the rocks?" queried Pippin hopefully.

"Indeed we are," confirmed Molly briskly. "And no, you may not sit inside them while we do so! Pick up your supplies, young man, and follow the others. We'll be right behind you."

Merry grinned at his younger cousin's glum expression and threw an arm around his shoulder. "Come on Pip. Let's go and annoy Boromir for a while, see if we can't cheer him up a little."

And off they trudged, leaving the wizard and witch to cast a quick Locomotor Naviculae on the three elven vessels and steer them through the air after the group.

Gimli was shaking his head in wonder.

"A floating boat!" he mumbled as he gave the vessels a wide berth. "Whatever next - a Dwarf on a horse?"

Legolas laughed at him. "You should not discount the possibility, my friend. It may be that we have need of such transport before the quest is over."

"I tell you now Legolas, that sooner would I extol the virtues of the trees which you so admire, than place my Dwarven rump on the back of such creatures!"

Now everyone listening laughed.

The ten walkers made slow progress up the bank, across the waste of grey limestone boulders, through dells and past boggy pools. Even with Neville and Molly's magic sparing them the burden of carrying the boats, everyone still had to step cautiously due to the foggy veils hanging over the crumbling rocks. Neville could hear the rapids rushing and swirling off to his left and was grateful that Aragorn had found an alternate path to spare them the trial of negating them.

Some time later, the teenager could feel the ground sloping gently downwards and the Fellowship arrived at the shallow edge of a little pool. Beyond them, the shore rose sheer into a steep cliff and they could make no further progress by foot.

"We shall rest here tonight, for dusk draws near and we must gather our strength if we are to remain alert enough to slip past our friends on the eastern shore tomorrow."

Great! Neville was knackered. It had taken a lot of concentration to keep the boats floating beside them during the trek, even with Molly's help. The two visitors lowered the vessels onto the shore, but just as he was about to take a seat and catch his breath, Aragorn informed him that he'd be taking the first watch with Boromir.

"Off you go dear," said Molly. "I'll make us all a little something to eat and bring you both over a plate while you keep watch."

So the teenager trudged tiredly to the prominent ledge which jutted out from the shore and took a seat next to the Fellowship's happiest member, hoping to draw the moody man into conversation so that he wouldn't fall asleep at his post.

"I'm knackered," he announced.

Boromir gazed at him in slight confusion.

"Tired. I mean I'm tired," corrected the teenager.

"Ah. I see. 'Knackered' - such a peculiar word. Do all speak as you do in your lands?"

Thinking of his very articulate grandmother, he shook his head. "No. It's just the way teenagers speak to each other."

"Indeed? I have not seen my teen-aged years for over two decades, but even then, my father would not have been pleased if I used anything other than proper diction to express myself."

Hmm. Denethor had something in common with Augusta Longbottom, then.

"I know - my Gran's a bit like that. She always says 'The Queen's English is your gift and your duty. Do not abuse the privilege of its beauty'. She's a bit of a stickler for decorum, is my Gran."

A slight grin graced the man's face. "And quite the poetess."

Oh. That never occurred to him before, but Boromir was right: it did rhyme.

The dark-haired man fell silent, his eyes sweeping the shores of the eastern banks for tell-tale signs of the enemy. Several minutes passed without any further communication from him and Neville gave up hope of trying to draw him further into conversation. He fingered his wand idly as he studied the nooks and crannies on both sides of the river for any hidden spies.

Suddenly, Boromir's voice broke the silence.

"Tell me of your grandmother, young Wizard. I find that every mention you make of her brings a smile to my face, however fleeting, and I would know more of her - if you are willing to share your memories. It would do much to lift the darkness of this day."

Wow! That was a surprise. Boromir initiating a conversation? Thrilled at the progress, Neville began to speak about the phenomena that was Augusta Longbottom.

"Well, Gran's a bit scary, if you don't know her too well - well, even if you do, actually. She's got set opinions and tastes, a mind of steel and an endless supply of clever spells that can unhinge even the most determined opponents."

"She is a powerful Witch?"

Thinking of poor Dawlish (who was likely to spend the rest of his natural life in St Mungo's), the teenager smiled.

"Oh yeah! If you saw her, you'd think she was nothing more than a harmless little old lady - with really strange taste in hats - but, if someone is stupid enough to cross her..."

Neville remembered the time when she'd taken him to Diagon Alley to collect his supplies for his first year at Hogwarts. They'd run into Goyle senior, who'd laughed when he spotted Neville being measured for his robes in Madam Malkin's...

"What's this then? The last of the Longbottoms getting measured for robes? I didn't know Hogwarts admitted Squibs into their halls!"

Eleven year old Neville flushed with embarrassment, but Gran was not so easily intimidated.

"A rather foolish supposition on your part, don't you think? After all, they admitted you," she snapped. "And, unlike you, my grandson is not a Squib. If, however, you are keen to laugh at those less gifted than yourself, you need look no further than your own unfortunate child."

She pointed disdainfully at the wiry-haired boy glaring hatefully at her.

"It appears that he has inherited his father's primate appearance, so no doubt he will be as equally untalented with his magic. A waste of a good wand, if you ask me."

The elder Goyle turned crimson at the slur on both his offspring and himself.

"Don't you dare talk about my son in that way, you miserable old hag! He got into Hogwarts 'cos he's a gifted Pureblood wizard - not 'cos his old Muggle-loving, blood-traitor granny slept with the Headmaster!"

Little Neville's eyes widened in shock. Oh dear. Mr Goyle shouldn't have said that...

Augusta was outraged at the man's gall. "How dare you say such a thing, you miserable little man! How dare you impugn the characters of Albus Dumbledore and myself in such a graceless fashion! And in front of children, too! Have you no decency? No respect?"

Her eyes narrowed as she stormed towards the ape-like wizard and Madam Malkin paused in her measurements of Gregory to shake her head in despair.

"Perhaps you need a lesson in manners?"

Goyle grinned and twirled his wand carelessly. "And who's going to teach me, then? You? From what I've heard, you can't even teach your own son how to sleep without slobbering down his face. How is Frankie-boy these days? Can he eat his solids now - or do you still have to feed him through a straw?"

Gregory laughed at his father's wit as Neville clenched his fists in anger. But no one was angrier than Augusta...

Before the much larger Goyle could stop twirling his wand long enough to take the threat she presented seriously, Gran barked a spell the eleven year old had never heard before and waved her wand at the man's throat.

Nothing happened.

"Now what do you have to say for yourself?" she asked, supremely confident with her work.

Neville didn't know why she sounded so happy: Goyle was almost doubled over with laughter because nothing had happened.

Or had it?

The guffawing man finally took control of himself and sneered at her, before opening his mouth and saying:

"I love Muggles."

Little Neville shook his head in confusion. That's funny, he thought Mr Goyle said...

"I love Muggles?"

The startled man's eyes boggled in dismay as he stared at the little old woman in disbelief.

Gregory gasped in shock and rushed from the stand, pushing his way past a very anxious Madam Malkin.

"Dad! What're you saying?"

Goyle looked horrified. His face clouded with anger as he tried to bark his outrage at a very satisfied Augusta.

"I LOVE MUGGLES!"

The formidable matriarch smiled politely. "Yes, I know. I love them too. Wonderful, isn't it?"

"What've you done to my Dad?" screamed the furious Gregory as his father clutched at his throat like a strangled cat.

She regarded the mini-Goyle with arched brows. "Why, the only proper thing one can do with an ill-mannered, uncouth Death Eater: I've given him a taste of his own medicine. If I were you boy, I'd see to it that he gets home as quickly as possible, before he bumps into Lucius Malfoy and makes a complete fool of himself."

Spotting a piece of lint on her blue jacket, she brushed it off daintily while the astonished boy grabbed his father's hand and pulled him towards the door.

"Mr Goyle! Gregory hasn't been fully measured yet," exclaimed Madam Malkin as he yanked open the door to the shop. The man spared her a glance and tried to tell her to finish the job another time, but all could say was:

"I love Muggles!"

And with that, the very distressed pair left the shop as fast as their legs would carry them.

Neville finished the tale and was pleased to see Boromir's shoulders shaking with mirth.

"'Tis a pity you have not brought the lady with you!" he said through his laughter. "I believe she would be a formidable ally in our fight against the Dark Lord's forces."

"Yeah, well, Goyle certainly never made the mistake of crossing her again. She told me later that that charm she used was one of her own inventions and would've lasted several weeks. There was no way to lift it, so Goyle would've had no choice but to let it run its course. No wonder his son never liked me much at school."

"And he, no doubt, followed his father's dark path?"

The teenager nodded in confirmation. "He joined Voldemort's ranks when he turned seventeen and believed all the rubbish he spouted about trying to make the world a better place. As far as I know, he's sharing a cell with his dad in Azkaban, the Wizarding prison."

"Foolish child," said Boromir, shaking his head. "The words of tyrants can never be trusted, and only a simpleton would pay them any heed. They are so easily seduced by empty promises that they blindly follow orders in the hope of prevailing over their enemies. They do not realise that they are enslaving themselves to their master's will as surely as they enslave others. Such is the way of evil."

"Do you really believe that?" Neville asked, thinking the man was trying to make a point.

Boromir regarded him with steady grey eyes, a sad look on his face. "I am many things, young Wizard. But I am not a simpleton. Nor am I deaf. I heard the words Aragorn shared with you. He thinks me weak."

Bloody hell! This wasn't exactly the conversation he wanted to have.

"No he doesn't! That's rubbish!"

"Is it? He believes me incapable of stealth or cunning; that I would storm the Dark Lord's lands like a mindless brute, secure with the might of my father's armies at my side, yet all the while endangering the quest with my folly."

The young wizard groaned. How could he argue with that?

"That's not exactly what he meant..."

"Nay. Perhaps not. Perhaps he meant only to say that I am not to be trusted near the Dark Lord's weapon. That I, being my sire's child, am too concerned with the force of arms as an answer to all evils and cannot comprehend the subtleties of subversion, nor withstand the lure of the weapon's seduction. I am a Man of action - I do not deny it. I speak as I find and do as I must. But I am not a fool. And I am not a thief!"

A thief? Who said anything about...

Boromir's gaze was now burning intently as it held his own. "I see the question in your eyes when you look at me, young Wizard. I feel your gaze upon me when I so much as glance at the Ring-bearer. I know your thoughts!"

The man's voice rose accusingly, drawing curious glances from the others (and a very suspicious frown from Molly).

"Be quiet, for heaven's sake!" hissed Neville. "Do you want to bring them all over here?"

Aragorn was beginning to rise from the camp, but sat down again when the Gondorian attempted an apologetic smile. Boromir returned his gaze to the eastern shore.

"For your information, it never crossed my mind that you'd try to steal the ruddy thing!" the very annoyed teenager said. "But I know that its been messing with your head. I'm just worried about you. I am allowed to be worried for a friend, aren't I?"

"Friend, you say? Are you being friendly when you whisper with others behind my back? Are you being friendly when your gaze assesses the risk I may pose to Frodo?"

"Don't be so bloody stupid! I never said a ruddy word against you and Aragorn just doesn't think it's a good idea to take the...thing...into Gondor. He knows that its effect on humans is more powerful than on other races, or aren't you aware that the ruddy Nazgûl are the Nine Kings of Men? If its got such a hold over the minds of nine once-proud leaders, what do you think it'll do to one war-weary Steward?"

"My father is a powerful Man with the gift of foresight! He has learned much since the battle for our borders began - enough to withstand the might of Sauron for many years," spat Boromir. "His is a will of iron, that is not so easily swayed by a mere trinket."

Neville rolled his eyes. "That mere trinket you speak of would've helped Sauron conquer the West over three thousand years ago if Isildur hadn't cut it from his hand - and even then, the stupid git didn't chuck it into the fire like he should have. Oh no. He knew better than even the wisest elves in Middle Earth, didn't he? He thought he could master it, control it, bend it to his will, didn't he? And how did that turn out, exactly? Oh yes, that's right - it slipped off his finger of its own accord and left him exposed to a group of orcs...orcs that riddled him with arrows and left his dead body floating in a river like a whipped dog!"

A heavy silence followed these words, but Neville couldn't regret them.

"How do you know it has been...what did you say?...'messing with my head'?"

The question came out of the blue, so Neville thought the answer should too.

"Because it's been messing with mine too."

Boromir turned sharply, his eyebrows raised in shock. "What?"

He shrugged. "What did you expect? I may be a wizard, but I'm still only human - just the kind of person the ruddy thing's fond of."

"I do not understand..."

"I've felt it pushing against my mind for the last few days now. It whispers things about me being king of the world and crushing Sauron while it sits prettily on my finger. But that's utter rubbish. It's only trying to seduce me. Because if I ever did slip that thing on my finger, it would make me its slave. Oh, it might let me believe I was doing some good for a while, but by the time it had me convinced it was the best thing since the Sword of Gryffindor, I would be completely unable to fight its pull on me and I'd be trapped: living a lie of invincibility while it plotted a way to get me to take it to its real master."

The Gondorian was obviously affected by the revelation. His hands were shaking and he had to grip the rocky prominence to still them.

"Can you imagine the damage I would do with that thing on my finger?" Neville asked softly. "A wizard, unlike any Middle Earth has ever seen, corrupted by the pull of such a dark object? I'd be a bloody nightmare."

"Yet you resist its pull," the man whispered. "You fight its malice where I cannot."

The teenager leaned forward slightly. "That's because I have the benefit of the Valar's knowledge. They told Molly and I all of its dirty secrets. And don't forget, I've faced liars before. Voldemort, Fudge, Umbridge... When you've heard one lying bastard going on about 'a better life' and how they 'only want to improve society for the greater good', it's easy to recognise the same deception in others - even if it is a stupid bit of gold."

"I see. But Aragorn is a Man also; he does not share the benefit of your experiences, yet he manages to resist better than I."

"That's because he's got something to prove. How do you think he feels, knowing his much-touted ancestor - famous for causing Sauron's downfall the first time - was stupid enough to think he could control his weapon and kept the ruddy thing, instead of destroying it? Because of Isildur's greed, the Dark Lord's been able to recover and is now in a position to kick the stuffing out of all the Free People's of Middle Earth. The thing can try to seduce him all it wants, but my bet is that he wouldn't touch it with a bargepole, not if he didn't want to make the same mistake as his long-dead relative."

Boromir bowed his head and sighed. "Then I am an ideal target for its seduction, it seems, for I have no stain to wipe from my family's ancestry. I am merely a desperate Man who wishes to save his people and destroy my enemies, that my City may once more enjoy the peace and beauty of its glorious past. I am weak."

Oh crikey, this was not the time for a crisis of confidence!

"You're not weak, you daft beggar! That thing's been working on you for weeks but you've managed to withstand it - despite the fact that your city's in the most immediate danger of anywhere else, despite the fact that you and Aragorn are always at each other's throats and despite the fact..."

Perhaps he shouldn't say the next bit...

But Boromir was gagging for the punch line. "Yes?"

Oh well. In for a penny...

"Despite the fact that you're a right miserable git at times."

The Gondorian's eyebrows rose up into his hairline.

Probably a good idea not to give him a chance to respond to that...

"What I'm trying to say, is that despite everything, you haven't given in to it. Even though you could've made a grab for it weeks ago and been well on your way to Gondor by now, you've resisted. You must be really annoying it! After all, Isildur took one look at it and couldn't slip it on his ruddy finger fast enough! But you've managed to fend it off for ages!"

To Neville's surprise, Boromir laughed. He actually laughed!

"Ah, you are a strange one, young Wizard. With one breath you call me miserable and with another, you paint me as honourable as kings of old."

"With the exception of the Nine Kings of Men," said the teenager impudently.

Another chuckle.

"I will not deny that I hear its insidious call and that it disturbs my rest. There is no use in doing so now. But I take strength in knowing that I do not face this battle alone."

He placed a hand on the youth's shoulder. "Thank you, my young friend, for your words. I cannot say that they will shield me from the weapon's dark arts, but I know they will strengthen my resolve to fight."

"Oh, it's lovely to see you two boys getting along so famously!"

Startled, they spun around to see Molly walking towards them with two plates of steaming hot food. Fortunately, she was still on her approach and couldn't have heard their low voices, but it still rattled the pair enough share a conspiratorial glance.

A silent promise to each other not to reveal their conversation to anyone else.

And while both of them lived, they never did.

*~*~*~*

25th-26th February 3019

The lawn of Parth Galen was not nearly as impressive as the Argonath had been the day before. Neville's jaw had dropped when he spotted the two towering figures of kings on either side of the river, holding out their hands in warning and frowning up at the north.

Which he'd found a bit odd, actually. Hadn't their father ruled the northern kingdom of Arnor? Perhaps there had been a family tiff and this was their way of telling Dad not to visit until he'd apologised for being a git?

Bit extreme though...

Next to the Pillars of Kings, the much touted lawn of Parth Galen was little more than a wide stretch of grass and a tree-covered hill.

Aragorn was gazing at it in wonder as they stepped off the boats, and he only tore his eyes from it long enough to seek the youth's opinion. Not wanting to say how disappointed he was, he plastered a smile across his face and gave the man two thumbs up. The ranger looked a little confused, but took it as a positive sign and smiled briefly.

The company drew the boats up on the shore and made camp for the night. Aragorn set a watch and Gimli and Frodo took their positions. But Neville was awakened In the small hours of the night by whispering and he rolled over to the side, opening his eyed to see Aragorn and Frodo studying a little sword that was emitting a faint blue glow.

Curious, he dragged himself from his bedroll and walked over to them.

"What's wrong?" he asked the man.

"Orcs."

Alarmed, Neville whipped out his wand and circled the area.

"They are not yet near, young Wizard," assured Aragorn.

Ruddy well near enough if Frodo's sword was glowing like a beacon.

"It may be that Sting senses them on the eastern shore. If not, and they are on our side, then they are not yet near enough for us to mount an armed defence. Nonetheless, we must go forward with caution on the morrow."

Right. If you say so. The teenager wasn't too thrilled with the idea of shrugging off the threat and was in two minds whether to wake Molly and get her to set up the tents. They hadn't used them so far because they agreed it was a bit time-consuming to pull them out, erect them and then ward them against unfriendly eyes, especially when there wasn't always the time (or the space) to do so. Most of the company preferred to sleep in groups by the fire anyway. However, Parth Galen was certainly large enough to pitch both tents and the Fellowship surely wouldn't object to the lingering smell of Ron's old socks if it meant they'd be safe?

In the end, he decided to trust the ranger's judgement. Aragorn hadn't led them astray so far, so if he said the orcs were too far off to trouble them that night, then he'd take him at his word.

He returned to his bedroll and lay down, trying to get back to sleep. But he was unable to shake the disquieting feeling that the next day would bring a significant change to the group's dynamics.

For good or ill...

*~*~*~*

It was a very determined Neville who woke the next day. Before breakfast, he marched up to Legolas and Aragorn and hit their quivers with an Ever-Full charm.

"Just in case," he said gravely.

He really wished he could do the same for the others, but the elf and the ranger were the only archers in the group: everyone else used axes, or swords.

Which reminded him...

Grabbing his knapsack, he yanked it open and pulled the Sword of Gryffindor free.

"Do you really think you're going to need that, dear?" asked Molly, alarmed at the steely glint in his eye.

"Dunno. But I should've had it out from day one. There's no point in me getting lessons from Boromir if all I'm going to do is keep it stuffed in my bag."

Gimli nodded in approval. "Wise words, lad. There is no telling when an extra weapon may be required - especially in these dark times."

The dwarf marched off to join his comrades for breakfast and Neville decided to be a little more forthright with his Guardian.

"There may be orcs nearby. Aragorn's not sure if they're on this side of the river, or the other, but you'll need to keep your eyes peeled. We have to protect Frodo and the hobbits."

He paused as he remembered one of his visions. What was it he saw again? Boromir, Merry and Pippin in some strange woods?

But there were no woods nearby. His eyes swept the flat lawn and rolling hills, flicking over Aragorn's much loved Amon Hen...

The trees! The hill was covered in trees which marched away westward down the shore. Was he blind?

"Molly, stay close to Boromir and the younger hobbits," he said urgently, kicking himself for his idiocy. "And when we get back home, remind me to get my eyes tested."

The matronly witch looked alarmed. "Orcs? Boromir and the younger hobbits? Your eyesight? Neville dear, are you quite well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Look, last night Aragorn said there were orcs nearby. And one of my visions in Galadriel's Mirror was of Boromir, Merry and Pippin fighting off a huge number of them on their own. One of us has to stay with them, to make sure they're alright."

Molly shoved her hands on her hips. "And what about you? In case you have forgotten, I'm supposed to be your Guardian! Who'll be looking out for you while I'm busy looking out for them?"

"Oh, I dunno: me and the other five members of the Fellowship, perhaps?" he whispered desperately. She frowned, but he ignored it. "Look, there's no time to argue about this. I'm fairly handy with a wand you know, but even I can't be two places at once. It makes sense that you watch out for them if we get split up. I wouldn't be much use to the Fellowship if I didn't plan their safety using all the resources to hand. And you can't really mean that you'd abandon the others just to keep an eye on me?"

She flushed in annoyance. He knew it was a low blow, but he could still hear the echo of the Horn of Gondor and see the terrified faces of Merry and Pippin as they bravely fought the charging masses of the enemy.

"Please Molly? I'll be no use to the others if I'm too distracted by the cries of the younger ones. Please?"

Begging wasn't very dignified.

But it was very effective.

"Oh, alright then," she said. "It's not as if I could bear to see them hurt, either. But let me warn you, Neville Longbottom - if we do get attacked by a horde of rampaging orcs and you don't take care of yourself, I'll hunt you down and hex you into the afterlife myself!"

Hex him into the afterlife? His eyes followed her as she joined the others. Molly had been spending too much time around a certain dwarf...

It was after breakfast that Aragorn gathered the company together and spoke to them.

"The day has come at last," he said: "the day of choice which we have long delayed. What shall now become of our Company that has travelled so far in fellowship? Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor; or turn east to the Fear and Shadow; or shall we break our Fellowship and go this way and that as each may choose? Whatever we do must be done soon. We cannot long halt here. The Enemy is on the eastern shore, we know; but I fear that the Orcs may already be on this side of the water."

There was a long silence in which no one spoke or moved.

"Well, Frodo," said Aragorn at last. "I fear that the burden is laid upon you. You are the Bearer appointed by the Council. Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you. I am not Gandalf, and though I have tried to bear his part, I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour, if indeed he had any. Most likely it seems that if he were here now the choice would still wait on you. Such is your fate."

Frodo looked pensive and he didn't answer immediately. Neville couldn't blame him. What a choice to have to make. But then the dark-haired hobbit finally spoke.

"I know that haste is needed, yet I cannot choose. The burden is heavy. Give me an hour longer and I will speak. Let me be alone!"

Aragorn's gaze was sympathetic. "Very well, Frodo son of Drogo. You shall have an hour and you shall be alone. We will stay here for a while. But do not stray far out of call."

Neville heard Sam muttering under his breath, but couldn't catch his words. Frodo rose silently and walked away. The remaining Fellowship did him the grace of not staring at him as he left.

Except Boromir...

*~*~*~*

The rest of the Fellowship milled about for over half an hour discussing their course of action. Boromir, having made his decision before leaving Rivendell, returned to the shore and began to ferry the packs and other supplies into the boats while the others talked.

Gimli was all for following Frodo, stating that he'd travelled so far with that intent and even abandoned his heart's treasure in Lothlórien to keep to his word. Legolas agreed, as did Sam, Merry and Pippin.

But Aragorn thought that it may be best to split the Fellowship up, and the younger hobbits were very vocal about his plan to pack them off to Gondor with Boromir while everyone else made for Mordor.

Neville didn't blame them for being upset. They'd come so far to help their cousin already, and they were not completely thrilled about abandoning him at the final stage of the quest. He'd feel the same way, if he were in their shoes. Merry asked why they didn't try and stop Frodo from heading off into the Dark Lord's lands and Pippin agreed that they must indeed stop him.

"If we can't stop him, we shan't leave him!" he declared defiantly.

Sam begged his pardon and informed him that they didn't understand his master at all, then asked what the good of Minas Tirith was anyway, referring to Aragorn's plan to send Merry and Pippin there.

"Begging your pardon, Mr Boromir," the little gardener added apologetically, turning around to address the Gondorian.

Which was when they discovered that he wasn't there any more.

Sam, deeply suspicious of the moody man at the best of times, seemed slightly agitated but dismissed his absence as Boromir leaving for his city without offering farewells, before explaining what was probably going through Frodo's mind. He told the assembled company that his master knew what he had to do, but was afraid of taking the first step and that when he did, he may very well choose to slip into Mordor alone. Neville thought the gardener was making a lot of sense. So did Aragorn.

The ranger was just agreeing with Pippin that the hour must surely be up, when Boromir reappeared. He came out from the trees and walked towards them with a sad look on his face.

"Where have you been, Boromir?" asked Aragorn warily. "Have you seen Frodo?"

Boromir hesitated for a second. "Yes and no."

"What does that mean?" demanded Neville, annoyed that the man had slipped away without him noticing. "And what the ruddy hell were you doing up there anyway? I know you heard Frodo saying he wanted to be left alone!"

Grey eyes flashed at him in anger. "How quick you are to accuse, friend," the man said in a dangerous voice.

"Enough! Tell me what else you have to say, son of Gondor," demanded Aragorn, looking at the man rather unfavourably.

Boromir relented, tearing his gaze from the disappointed teenager and casting his eyes on the ground. " I found him some way up on the hill, and I spoke to him. I urged him to come to Minas Tirith and not to go east. I grew angry when he refused and after a while, he left me. He vanished. I have never seen such a thing happen before, though I have heard of it in tales. He must have put the Ring on. I could not find him."

"Is that all you have to say?" said Aragorn, whose gaze had turned as hard as rock.

"Yes. I will say no more yet."

Neville was absolutely fuming at the arrogant twat. What the hell was he doing trotting off to confront Frodo while the rest of them of them were safely out of reach? Hadn't he listened to a bloody word he'd said?

Molly laid her hands on his arms and faced him. "What's done is done, dear. Let's just see if we can't find the poor boy now, hmm?"

Aragorn asked how long it had been since Boromir had last seen Frodo and the Gondorian replied stiffly. "Half an hour."

Half an hour! Merlin knew where he was. Breaking free of his Guardian's grip, he rushed into the woods after the others. "Stay with the younger ones" he cried as Merry and Pippin dashed ahead crying Frodo's name. He quickly overtook them and ran up the hill. Aragorn had his hands full trying to contain the frantic gardener of Bag End, while Legolas and Gimli ran in a different direction, trying to head the Ring-bearer off.

Trusting that Molly would stay true to her word and protect Boromir, Merry and Pippin, he wove through the trees trying to find any sign of Frodo. The Sword of Gryffindor was thumping away on his left hip, where he had secured it with an old school tie (much to Boromir's amusement), but he had his wand tightly gripped in his right hand as he ran up the hill.

Which was just as well.

No sooner had he climbed ten metres, than a wave of arrows came whistling towards him.

"Protego!" he cried, dismayed that their pursuers were so close by after all. He thought the Fellowship had more time before they located them. The arrows bounced off his shimmering shield and he fired a few Blasting charms amidst the trees when he caught sight of the first flat-faced, sneering enemies. Several orcs flew backwards into their comrades, but it wasn't effective enough to stop all of them.

A few of the larger creatures were armed with some sort of crossbow, and the arrows they shot flew faster down the slope than the ones fired by hand and bow. They were easy enough to ward off with the others, but the sheer speed and number of them was becoming a problem. Any that missed his shield travelled further downhill, where the rest of the company was.

Time to take them out.

Ducking behind a tree, he tried to get a better view of the larger creatures and started firing Reductos at their crossbows. The ugly contraptions exploded in the arms of their bearers (and one unfortunate orc was speared through the eye with his own arrow - shaft first), causing a lot of confusion amidst the ranks of the enemy. But it didn't stop their descent. On the contrary, the sight of their fellow warriors being pierced by the splintering wood only angered them and they yelled in fury as the came rushing down the hill towards him.

Oh for goodness' sake! He didn't have time for this. Frodo was wandering Merlin knew where, with the ruddy Ring on his finger acting like a beacon for the flaming Eye of Sauron, and these idiots wanted to play Spot The Wizard?

Alright then...

Firing off a volley of Petrificus Totalus spells, he shoved his free hand into his very well protected left pocket and pulled out some squirming Bubotuber pods. The nearest orcs, hit by his multiple Full Body-Bind curses, had toppled to the ground, unmoving. This resulted in enough confusion amidst their friends to give the teenager time to slip out from behind the tree and throw the pods in their direction. Just as the pods were about to hit the creatures, he blasted them with Reductor curses, so that the thick, yellowy-green liquid they contained exploded into the faces and eyes of his astonished enemies.

Their screams of agony as the undiluted pus made direct contact with exposed flesh was like music to his ears. Orcs were stumbling about, clawing at the huge sores that suddenly appeared on their faces in terror. A few of them had been rendered blind as the pus struck their eyes and were screeching in agony as they ran about like headless chickens, running into trees and knocking themselves out.

An unexpected, but very welcome, side-effect.

Neville grinned. What a great idea to have the pods so close to hand! Gran would be very proud of him!

With a wicked smile on his face and a gleam of mischief in his eyes, he broke his cover behind the tree and ran up the hill, throwing as many pods at his enemies as his pockets still held (which, thanks to Molly's handy Enlargement charm, was a lot) and his path suddenly cleared as the remaining orcs fled in horror after watching the devastation he had caused to their ranks.

Thank goodness for that! Now, if only Frodo had had the sense to hide himself somewhere when these idiots had appeared...

But he was unable to spot any sign of the dark-haired hobbit.

"Frodo!" he called desperately. "Frodo, it's me, Neville! Where the ruddy hell are you?"

No answer. He could hear the distant shouts of the others some way down the hill as he neared the summit and it was with some dismay that he realised they hadn't found him either.

Where was he? Had he been captured? The thought of the gentile hobbit in the hands of the coarse orcs was enough to fill him with anger.

But the anger changed once again to dismay as a familiar chill of fear washed over him. A chill which grew steadily the closer he came to the top...

Cold sweat popped out on his forehead as he reached the summit of the hill and hid behind one of the last remaining trees. Frodo was not there. But someone else was...

A tall, terrible figure in black stood before the seat of Amon Hen, surveying the progress of the orcs as they barrelled their way through the trees, screaming in murderous rage at his friends. Potent, dark malice oozed its way from the figure's form, inciting the remaining dozen or so orcs at the base of the stone structure into an eager frenzy. They were chomping at the bit to follow the others and cause some serious damage to innocent people, and they were, without a doubt, the biggest orcs he had seen yet.

Massive, actually.

"Let us go after 'em, my Lord," said one of the orcs in a guttural voice. "We'll find yore 'alflings for yer."

A chorus of agreement followed this, but the dark figure did not answer.

Neville thought this would be a good time to slip off and warn the others. Clearly, this was the Nazgûl Legolas and Molly had shot from the sky two days ago. It had survived and lain in wait for them. Although this was a blow, it was not as bad as it could have been as the creature obviously didn't have Frodo, or else he wouldn't be standing there. Still, it wouldn't do any good to tempt fate and give it the chance of finding the elusive Ring-bearer.

Taking a few cautious steps backwards, he turned, ready to slip back down the hill and find Aragorn, but before he could, a harsh cry from the summit froze him in his tracks.

"Manflesh!"

Whirling around, he saw that he'd been spotted. The black figure was making its way down the steps - practically gliding, actually - as two of the delighted creatures sped towards him, teeth gleaming wickedly.

Neville lost sight of the Nazgûl for a moment as they blocked his view, waving their long swords in anticipation of the kill.

Oh, bloody brilliant! His skin was crawling with unpleasant tingles at the proximity of the Black Rider and he could barely focus his panicked mind with the dread and fear it was sending in his direction. But he still managed well enough to hit them with a few of the last remaining Bubotubers. The Reducto that followed wasn't his strongest, but it was enough to burst the pods just before they came into contact with the orcs' faces.

Large, ugly sores appeared on their flesh and they wailed in pain, running around the hill in agony before finally crashing into each other and knocking themselves senseless.

If the circumstances hadn't been so dire, he would've liked to have stayed around to finish off the others, but that ruddy Nazgûl with its Dementor-like powers was seriously affecting his ability to focus. He was desperate to get away from its pall of terror.

But he had lingered too long already. While he had been taking care of the first two orcs, the Nazgûl had despatched the rest to block his exit, so that when Neville turned to stumble back down the hill, his escape path was cordoned off by at least four enormous orcs leering up and him and forcing him back up the incline.

He tried to ward them off with his wand, but the growing chill on his back told him the Nazgûl was getting even closer and he couldn't so much as mutter a Stinging hex as black dread crawled up his spine and consumed him.

"Leave the boy. I will deal with him," came a terrible hiss from less than a metre away.

Get a grip, Longbottom! Get a ruddy grip! It's not a Dementor!

Neville's mantra seemed to have some effect; at least, enough to help him turn and face the new threat like a man.

However, he couldn't see the creature's face from beneath the cowl of its robe.

Which suited him just fine, actually. He didn't need to look into the git's eyes to know he was every bit as bad as a self-deluded Riddle. Giving up on his wand, he holstered it and freed the Sword of Gryffindor.

Time to see if Boromir's lessons had paid off...

But before he could raise it to take a shaky swipe at the malicious entity, it spoke to its minions again - and the words made him gasp in confused horror.

"Find the Halflings. Secure the Witch. Kill the others."

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