Not Quite a Maia

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

Neville's blood froze in his already chilly veins as the orcs raced down the hill in their haste to obey the Nazgûl's command. Their ugly roars of glee rebounded through the morning air, and he prayed the Fellowship would hold them off until either he returned or Molly took care of them.

What the ruddy hell did it want with Molly anyway? And how the ruddy hell did it know she was a witch? The answer came to him immediately: the Patronus!

The Nazgûl walked slowly towards him, raising a long black sword and the teenager fought against the grip of fear that threatened to consume him. Steeling himself for battle, he moved to the left, arcing away from the creature and on to the more even terrain offered at the summit of Amon Hen. He held the Sword of Gryffindor in two hands, ready to lift it in defence at the Nazgûl's first strike.

"What do you want with her?" he asked, his voice shaking as the dark creature followed him across the flatter surface.

A low hiss. "You need not concern yourself with that, child."

Child? Despite the waves of evil the Nazgûl emitted, Neville frowned slightly in irritation. What did it mean, child? He was of age!

It took its first swing with its sword and he jumped back, feeling the swish of air as it missed his abdomen by inches.

"Sorry, but I beg to differ. I concern myself with it very much. What do you want with Molly?"

Another swipe of the Nazgûl's sword, but this time he managed a clumsy block.

"It is of no matter to you, for you will be dead."

Dead? Not ruddy well likely! Gran would kill him if he popped his clogs in some foreign land!

The thought of Augusta Longbottom's ire was enough to make him pull himself a little straighter and take some sort of action against his hissing opponent. He feinted with a step to the left before drawing back quickly and thrusting his sword to the right of the Nazgûl's chest, using the weight of his upper body to create momentum. The silver blade cut through the air, but not through the Nazgûl. A horrible rasp rent through the morning air and he knew it was laughing at him.

Git.

Okay, so he wasn't exactly Daffyd the Dastardly (who, three hundred years earlier, had single-handedly slain forty wizards with his enchanted sword during the Battle of Llandidrydumpfl and then - as legend had it - bedded all their widows in a week of what Gran would call 'unregulated fornication') or even Filibert the Fortunate (who made headline news during the first war with Voldemort when, after losing his wand to a Death Eater, he still managed to fend him off by shoving his Muggle-born wife's wooden spoon up the man's left nostril - handle first. The Death Eater died instantly).

"You are ill at ease with your sword, child," it sneered.

It was taunting him, and the teenager couldn't really blame it. He was bloody useless with a sword. But he couldn't use his wand at the moment either, what with all that dark malice...

Wait a minute - it might feel like a Dementor, but it wasn't really acting like one. Dementors didn't need swords and words, they just went straight for the kill (or kiss). But the Nazgûl wasn't making any sort of romantic overtures (thankfully), despite the fact that it was obviously off its rocker (one of Dean's favourite Muggle sayings which he'd adopted). In fact, for all the doom and gloom its proximity afforded, it still needed a weapon to wound him.

With this heartening thought, the young wizard began to fight against the pall of fear threatening to envelop him.

"No, I'm ill at ease with you, actually," he replied sarcastically. "Don't suppose there's any chance of you letting me shove a wooden spoon up your left nostril?"

It answered with another vicious lunge which he only just managed to dodge.

Perhaps baiting it wasn't such a good idea?

He blocked another thrust with a twist of his wrist, the clash of the Nazgûl's weapon and the Sword of Gryffindor ringing loudly in his ears as they locked. The dark cowl of the Black Rider ventured mockingly over the unholy union of swords as it hissed at him menacingly. Neville only managed to avoid what was surely the worst case of halitosis in any world by ducking to the right. He pulled the Sword of Gryffindor with him and used the momentum of his sudden turn to swing it behind the Nazgûl and take a swipe at its back. A rip of cloth greeted his ears and he stumbled backwards as the creature swivelled around in anger.

"So, you think yourself a match for one of the Nine, boy?" it rasped harshly. "Foolish child! If you pierce my form with your blade, it will do no harm. For I am already dead - yet not. There can be no pain you inflict that I cannot already feel. Surrender yourself willingly and I will allow you the mercy of a swift death by sword. If you do not..."

The creature drew a short dagger from its belt and waved it maliciously before the sweating teenager's face.

"...then you shall know the agony of the slaves of Mordor. Choose wisely!"

Neville did. Death by complete and utter nutter (he mentally thanked his Gran for the catchy turn of phrase), or death by Maniac from Mordor?

"Tempting," he gasped, trying to fend off the Nazgûl as it advanced again, swinging with its sword and swiping with the dagger. "But I'll have to decline your kind offer, if it's all the same to you." They danced around the field for several minutes, locked in battle.

Or rather, the Nazgûl danced; Neville lumbered around swinging wildly with his weapon, trying to keep it at bay while not falling on his arse. He was just beginning to wish he'd spent more time learning to master his sword, as opposed to his wand, when a cry distracted him.

"Neville! Do not let it touch you with the dagger - it is poisoned!"

Aragorn's voice carried across to his ears from the other side of the hill and he let his attention be drawn by it for a split second - which was enough for the Black Rider to pierce his sword arm.

Fortunately, it wasn't with the poisoned dagger. Yet the teenager still yelled in agony as his opponent's long, black sword blade sliced through muscle and sinew, causing him to release his grasp on the Sword of Gryffindor. He stumbled backwards and tripped on the lower step of the Seat of Seeing, not feeling anything other than the red hot pain that lanced through his arm. Aragorn yelled at him to move and when the Nazgûl's heavy clanking boots drew nearer, he realised why.

Fighting to remain conscious through the fog of pain and nausea, he rolled away from the step just before a heavy blade crashed into it, sending sparks flying through the air. Gripping his left hand over the ugly, dripping wound on his right arm, he pulled himself shakily to his feet and saw it turn slowly towards him. Evil intent fairly flowed from it as it advanced threateningly and lunged towards his chest with its weapon.

"Move away, Neville!" cried Aragorn as he raced across the hilltop towards him.

Stupid thing to say, really. He wasn't exactly going to stand there and let it finish him off! Neville jumped to the right out of harm's way, wincing as he jarred his wound on landing. "Get to the others!" he yelled at the loping ranger. "It's sent orcs after the hobbits and Molly!"

Spying his weapon, he lunged for the Sword of Gryffindor as the Nazgûl came up behind him, but his left hand was slick from the blood that was flowing freely from his arm. The sword slipped from his grasp once more and he had to duck to avoid being beheaded from behind. Unfortunately, the sudden movement, coupled with the ever-increasing loss of blood made him dizzy and he toppled over a few feet away from the sword...

"Now die, foolish child!" came the triumphant hiss of the creature at his back. Neville heard the swoop of the Nazgûl's weapon before he could see it and had to roll over quickly in order to avoid the death blow.

"That was your last stroke of fortune, boy. Your friend will never make it to your side in time to prevent your demise."

It loomed over the fallen teenager victoriously, poised to raise its sword while Neville grappled wildly in the grass for his silver blade.

"Do you have any last words for me to share with the Man before I slay him too?"

Neville was feeling increasingly light-headed as his right arm turned ever more crimson and his left flailed about uselessly for Gryffindor's sword. Where the bloody hell was it?

"No?" it mocked. "Very well, child."

It raised its arms and the black blade rose with them.

"NEVILLE!" screamed Aragorn from thirty feet away.

But the teenager had just found his own sword, and his mad grappling over the grass had wiped most of the blood from his hand...

As the Sword of Gryffindor came to rest once more in his palm, he gripped it tightly and with one mighty swing, thrust it into the crowing Black Rider's belly.

A shriek of unimaginable disbelief rent the air as the Nazgûl began to smoulder from the abdomen outwards. Its black robe caught fire and it wailed in agony as the venom of Salazar Slytherin's basilisk flowed through its veins. It doubled over and fell to the ground just as Aragorn reached the young wizard's side and pulled him clear of it. They watched in horrified fascination as it jerked and twisted violently on the grass for almost a minute before black flames finally consumed it. Soon, all that remained of the former King of Men was a burning corpse, that twitched every two or three seconds, before exploding into a cloud of ash.

And so it was that the Nine Riders became Eight.

And Neville would have been absolutely delighted if he wasn't too busy chucking his guts up. It seemed that Northern Ireland was not predisposed to leniency after all...

"Lay still for a moment, young Wizard while I bind your wound," said a clearly relieved and very astonished Aragorn.

"Can't," croaked Neville. "Its soldiers are after Molly and the hobbits."

The ranger frowned as he pulled a strip of cloth from his pack. "That it seeks the Hobbits is clear. But Lady Molly?"

Sitting up rather inelegantly, Neville used a shaky left hand to pull his (thankfully) intact wand from its holster.

"This is no time for magic, my young friend. We must bind your wound and move quickly to aid the others. Save you arts for the flight down the hill."

It was no use explaining what he was about to do to the ranger; they didn't have time. Pointing his wand at the ugly gash on his right arm, he mumbled the only first-aid spell he knew. "Episkey." The deep gash glowed briefly, then closed over.

"A most useful spell, young Wizard," declared Aragorn, impressed despite the gravity of their situation.

Neville was busy releasing his knapsack from his back, his stiff arms hindering his progress. The ranger saw his discomfort and assisted the teenager, and soon it was free. He opened it and rifled through the contents for the flask of Miruvor Cirdan had gifted them with back at the Grey Havens. Upon finding it, he took a deep draught and immediately felt the benefits of the sparkling liquid. His head cleared and his stomach settled.

"We have to go," Neville said, packing the flask back into his bag before shouldering it once more.

The words had barely left his lips when a loud, deep blast resounded across Parth Galen...

"The horn of Boromir!" cried Aragorn. "He is in need!"

"Let's go!" Neville shouted, taking off at a galloping pace in the direction of the sound echoing from the Horn of Gondor.

They rushed down the hill on the west side of the river, following the deep-throated call of the Horn of Gondor as they descended the wooded slopes. Cries of orcs, loud and shrill as they fought their friends, rang through their ears and suddenly the blare of the horn ceased.

Neville picked up his pace, fuelled by the grace of Miruvor and brandishing his wand in his still tender, but mercifully healed arm. All he could think about was running faster, faster if he were to reach Boromir, Molly and the hobbits on time. But the cries of battle died the closer they drew to where the last blare of the horn had come from. As the wizard and the ranger reached the last slope at the foot of the hill and turned left, they had to strain their ears to hear the faint cries, and then they were gone altogether.

Aragorn drew his shimmering sword and cried 'Elendil! Elendil!", before crashing through the remaining trees.

Neville, thinking it was some sort of tradition in Middle Earth to declare allegiance before running into battle, gripped his wand and raised it too, yelling "Gryffindor!" as he stormed after his friend.

They ran for almost a mile without catching sight of any more orcs. Which was odd. Where the ruddy hell were they?

"You don't think they've found Frodo and left, do you?" he wheezed behind Aragorn. The Dúnedain hadn't even so much as broken into a sweat as they galloped through the trees. Neville wondered idly if he worked out or something.

"Let us hope not. If the Ring-bearer has been captured and these Orcs make for Mordor, the quest has failed!"

Mordor! If the hobbits were being carted off to Mordor, then Sauron would get the Ring! Middle Earth would fall.

He would have failed in his duty.

Determination gripped him as the awful possibility of a dark age for his friends and their families became an ever-increasing reality, and a fresh burst of energy carried Neville almost to Aragorn's side as they flew through the woods. They came bursting out from the trees and into a little glade not far from the lake...

And found Boromir.

"NO!" yelled Neville in horror as they spotted the man of Gondor sitting slumped by a tree on the other side of the glade. Bodies of orcs were scattered around the clearing, and many of their filthy corpses lay near the feet of their fallen friend. They rushed over to him and the teenager fell to his knees.

"Boromir! Boromir! What the ruddy hell have they done to you?"

Several black shafts had pierced the man's chest. Blood flowed freely and profusely down it. His face was waxy and pale, sweat dripped down his neck to mingle with the bright red fluid on his tunic. He turned his head and smiled weakly at the wizard.

"It seems...my friend...that ev...even the mighty fall, in the end."

Aragorn was assessing the damage with his healer's eye. The ranger gingerly tore the tunic around the entry wound, but even the slight ministration was enough to cause Boromir pain and he gasped weakly.

"Nay, Aragorn. It...is too late for me."

"No! No it bloody well is not!" cried Neville, devastated at the thought of losing his moody friend. "I can Summon the arrows out and heal the wounds with the same spell I used on my arm."

"Explain!" barked Aragorn in full Madam Pomfrey mode.

"I'll basically summon them out with my wand," he replied, raising his wand to point at the long shafts.

"Nay! You cannot. It will tear the wounds further. He has lost too much blood already and cannot afford to lose more, unless your arts can quickly replace it."

Neville knew the truth of it even as Aragorn spoke the words. He would not be able to replace the blood with an Episkey, merely close the wounds as he had done with his own. And he was not an accomplished medi-wizard either. Molly may have packed some Blood Replenishing potion in her first-aid kit though...

"Molly! Molly might have something we can replace it with," he said eagerly, looking at Aragorn hopefully.

"The Lady Molly has...has been taken with...with Merry and Pippin," Boromir gasped. "I could not stop it...there were too many of the Enemy. For...forgive me, my friends. I have...failed you."

"Nay, Boromir. You have not failed us. You have fought bravely!" declared Aragorn vehemently.

Boromir seemed to collect his strength for the effort of further speech and his voice was admirably more steady as he faced the would-be king of his land.

"The Orcs were numerous, but we fought them all. Merry and Pippin...battled bravely against a much larger enemy. I am proud to call them brothers-in-arms." He took a shaky breath before continuing. "Lady Molly slew many with magic that I have never before seen in my life! She was wondrous, Aragorn, Neville! But...there were simply too many. We were surrounded on all sides and...an Orc gained ground behind her, near enough to slip a cloth over her head. It...was enough to...distract her and allow...allow them to capture her staff. They know she is a Witch! I do not know how, but they...know. They bound her arms and carried her off with the little ones..."

"I don't understand," said Neville. "Why didn't she just use the Light of Varda to disable them?"

Boromir smiled weakly, apologetically. "There was...no time to un...unbutton her mantle. The battle was over in...a very short time."

The teenager reeled with shock. "Then she's off to Mordor with the hobbits," he mumbled in disbelief.

A clammy hand grasped his own and he looked up to see the Gondorian gazing at him, regret in his deep grey eyes. "Nay, not...Mordor. I heard the leader shouting. They take them to Isengard. Lady Molly is to be executed by Saruman himself for...her great affront to him."

Isengard?

"But we've never even met Saruman! What the bloody hell is that all about? I thought they knew she was a witch because of the Patronus! But Isengard?"

"Did you meet anyone other than Cirdan on your journey from the Grey Havens," asked Aragorn, puzzled.

"Except that bunch of orcs from Moria at the border of Lothlórien, no."

"Then it is a puzzle - but one for another time. Boromir, what of Frodo? Have you seen aught of the Ring-bearer or Sam?"

Boromir was growing weaker with every passing second, his breathing was becoming more laboured and there was a blue tinge to his lips. Neville wanted to scream at the unfairness of it.

"Not since...I spoke with him in the woods earlier. You must...know, Aragorn, that I...I went to him to convince him to bring the weapon to my City, but...he refused. I grew...angry. The dark arts of the Ring were working upon me and...I wanted to take it from him!"

The effort of speaking and the content of his revelation was clearly agitating the mortally wounded man. Aragorn laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Peace Boromir. Speak at peace: we will not judge you."

A loud rustling interrupted the man's confession and Neville glanced up, wand aimed, to see Legolas and Gimli crashing through the trees and into the glade. Their faces were etched in sorrow as their eyes fell upon their fallen comrade.

"I wanted...to take it from him," continued the bleeding man as he rolled his head towards Neville. "But I did not. Our talk, you see, was...not in vain, my young friend. I...realised what it was...doing to my mind and...I bade the Ring-bearer flee before it...consumed me."

His faltering gaze returned to the face of the ranger. "I know I am weak, heir of Isildur. But Neville...helped me retain my honour in my darkest hour. I do...not know where Frodo is now, but I suspect you shall not...see him until this war is ended: for good or ill. Forgive me...if I acted hastily - I meant only to...save the quest and preserve his trust in both...my people and myself. Perhaps it was selfish..."

"Nay, Boromir. You are neither weak nor selfish and your honour is ever intact. Long will your people sing of your brave deeds this day!"

"I'm sorry, Boromir," whispered Neville. "I should have been quicker, I should never have left you. I should never have doubted you. I've failed you."

"That is...not true...Neville Longbottom. You have saved me from a battle greater...than what took place in this glade. A Man's honour is...greater than his life and...none have taught me this lesson better than you: a warrior Wizard...from another world. Meeting you...has been one of the keenest joys my soul has known. Do not regret that...which you cannot change, for even the greatest of Istari cannot fight the...inevitability of fate. Know that I will always count you...as the truest of friends, young Wizard."

Tears flowed freely down the teenager's face as he held the man's hand and bowed his head to it in a mark of respect.

"Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people. I have failed."

"Nay!" said Aragorn, taking his other hand and kissing his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

Boromir smiled.

"Which way did Frodo go?" the ranger asked the fading man urgently.

But Boromir did not speak again.

It was with great ceremony that they buried the Lord of Gondor. Aragorn had intended to lay Boromir in one of the elven boats and send his body over the Falls of Rauros, as there was not enough time to build a cairn. But Neville took care of the hard labour with a wave of his wand and soon a tall, circular mound of stones graced the middle of the clearing. He transfigured an ebony coffin lined with red silk and a soft pillow from one of the larger rocks (it was, much to his shame, rather basic and - in his opinion - not good enough for his friend; but the others were too grateful to offer critique). Solemnly, the four carried his lifeless form into the cairn and paid their last respects.

Once the deed was done, they left the cairn and Neville sealed it with more rocks. He erected a few basic wards to protect it from unfriendly forces and pillagers, then conjured a shiny bronze plaque and affixed it to the face of the mound with a Permanent Sticking Charm. All four stepped back and bowed their heads in respect as the inscription glowed, then cooled:

"'Tis a fitting sentiment for a Lord of Men," stated Gimli firmly.

"Indeed," said Legolas sadly. "It is a fitting sentiment for a Lord of any race."

"You have done well, young Wizard," said Aragorn kindly as he laid a sympathetic hand on the teenager's shoulder.

Neville shook his head. "If I'd done well, he'd be alive and Molly and the hobbits would be safe." He fingered the Horn of Gondor, which he'd repaired and held on to afterwards, intending to hand it over to Boromir's next of kin. Aragorn said it was a treasured heirloom passed from eldest son to eldest son in the Steward's line, and he believed it should be returned to its home.

Though, Boromir's brother was the eldest son now...

He fought to control his roiling emotions.

Aragorn sighed. "Do not allow yourself to wallow in sadness, son of Longbottom. I know you feel his passing keenly, but Boromir was friend to us all. Although his death is a serious blow to our hearts, we must bury our pain for the present and concentrate on recovering our other friends. They too are in need of our aid and your arts will be required if we are to rescue them."

The ranger made a lot of sense, and Neville, being no stranger to burying friends, shook himself from his sorrow. There would be time to grieve later. Before that happened, though, there were others who needed his help.

And orcs to wreak his vengeance upon...

Raising his head, he gave a firm nod to the ranger who smiled in appreciation.

When the funeral of Gondor's noblest son was over, man, elf, dwarf and wizard debated the next course of action. Should they follow Molly and the younger hobbits, or keep searching for Frodo, who had fled to Merlin knew where. And where was Sam? Neville hadn't seen the affable little gardener since they'd discovered Frodo was missing.

They made their way past the orc corpses to the camp on the lawn of Parth Galen, to see if any of the two had returned there, but there was no sign of the Ring-bearer or Sam. Aragorn noticed that two of the packs were missing: a smaller one, and the large one with all the cooking pots which belonged to the gardener. He let his gaze wander to the river and saw that one of the elven boats was gone too.

"It seems that fortune smiled brighter on Samwise than any of the other searchers," he said thoughtfully. "He appears to have located his errant master and has joined him on the other side of the river."

Neville frowned. "But that's the east bank. The only thing over there is the Emyn Muil and the road to...Mordor!"

Oh bloody hell! Frodo and Sam had given the Fellowship the slip and were off to the Black Lands on their own. What the ruddy heck were they thinking?

"We can't let them go off to Mordor by themselves!" he said in alarm. "They'll be caught and killed!"

"I do not believe so," replied Aragorn. "Hobbits are a very surprising and most resilient people."

"Aragorn, you are not thinking of allowing them to travel into danger without the protection our Fellowship affords?" asked Legolas incredulously.

The ranger let his steady grey eyes settle on the others. "Our Fellowship is sundered, my friends. Boromir has taken his road, Frodo and Sam have taken theirs. Now we must decide our own. Do we follow the Ring-bearer and Sam into Mordor, where the presence of a Man, Elf, Dwarf and Wizard will no doubt draw attention to our mission at some stage and will surely endanger the quest? Or do we trust them to steer the fates of us all and face this task alone? I have learned much of the hearts and minds of these two Hobbits and I tell you that theirs is a determination like none I have ever seen. They will not fail us. Which leaves us with Merry, Pippin and the Lady Molly. I believe they are in the more immediate danger. If they reach Isengard, Saruman will torture them with his Wizard's arts for the whereabouts of the Ring. We cannot allow that to happen."

Gimli spoke. "But Lady Molly is a Witch! She will save the Hobbits from certain death."

"But she's been separated from her wand," interjected Neville. "Saruman knows she's a witch. I've no idea how, but the Nazgûl ordered the orcs to 'secure the witch' along with the hobbits. They snuck up behind her and captured her when she was busy blasting their friends into smithereens."

"Nazgûl?" echoed Gimli in dismay, brandishing his axe and scowling fiercely at the trees, as if one of them was going to pop out for a neighbourly chat at any time.

"How do you know this?" cried Legolas simultaneously, eyebrows raised in alarm.

"Because he fought it at the top of Amon Hen not two hours since," Aragorn said, allowing himself a small smile (beaming like a proud father).

Neville flushed uncomfortably as elf and dwarf looked at him speculatively.

"And how did he fare?" enquired Gimli, addressing the ranger but staring at the teenager.

Excellent! If that wasn't an opener for a hugely embarrassing spiel about how he gave a great big girly scream when he got stabbed by the ruddy thing, or how he fell on his arse and spewed for Northern Ireland (which was now off his holiday hotspot list), then he didn't know what was. Trying to stave off the worst of it, he mumbled: "I lived. Can we go now?"

Aragorn ignored him. "He slew it with his mighty sword."

Legolas nearly fainted. "Slew? A Nazgûl? How is such a thing possible?"

"Lucky swipe," said Neville, mortified at the admiring gazes of his friends. "Now, about where we're going next..."

"There was more than mere luck involved, my friend," said Aragorn with a very McGonagall frown. "When I came upon the hill, he was locked in battle with the foul creature..."

Yeah, stumbling about like a drunk while the Nazgûl moved with the grace of a ballerina.

"...which then drew a Morgul blade from its belt..."

Elf and dwarf gasped in shock. Neville shrugged - he'd thought it was a kitchen knife.

"...and threatened to use it..."

True, he couldn't deny that.

"...but then it wounded his arm with its sword instead and he stumbled..."

Ah. That wouldn't been round about the time he'd let out the great big girly scream. He hoped nobody else had heard it.

"...but he bravely leapt to his feet and yelled for me to leave and rescue the others..."

Sort of true. He'd staggered to his feet like a Hog's Head regular.

"...and avoided decapitation with a well-timed duck of his head..."

Which had sent him toppling onto the grass in a fainting fit.

"...and as the Nazgûl raised its arms to slay him..."

He'd nearly filled his trousers in fright.

"...his arm found the blade of Griffadore and smote the creature down!"

Gryffindor. Gryffindor!

"A mighty victory! But how is it that the creature perished?"

Neville's face was flaming red as he squeaked an answer. "Um, it's impregnated with basilisk venom, which is one of the most powerful poisonous substances in my world. It'll kill anything."

"And indeed it did!" said Aragorn. "The Nazgûl was wreathed in black flame which consumed it from the inside out. A terrible thing to hear, were its cries of pain! But I am glad to have witnessed its destruction."

"It is heartening indeed to know that those evil creatures are not infallible," said Legolas. "Truly we have been blessed by your presence, young Neville. With such a weapon to hand, we now have a sturdy defence should our paths cross more of its kind."

Oh crikey! There were another eight of the ruddy things! If they came across any more of them, Neville would be happy to leave the Sword of Gryffindor to the elf and let him get on with it (while he ran screaming for cover).

"Er, thanks."

Gimli gave him a resounding thwack of (presumably) admiration on the back, which robbed him of breath for a full ten seconds. "Boromir would be proud of you lad. As are we all."

"Thanks," he wheezed, not really knowing how to reply to that. "I'm, er...proud of you too."

"Whatever for?" asked the dwarf, staring at him in confusion.

Good question.

"Well, for eh...you know."

Beady brown eyes regarded him in growing mystification. "Nay lad. I do not."

"Well, for...em, all that running and er...all the fighting you did!"

"Alas," said Legolas sporting a very unhappy frown, "but we did little fighting. The Orcs were not content to remain near us when the Hobbits were still at large."

Oh.

Gimli raised his brows at Neville in a silent question.

"Well, then, I'm proud you managed to stay out of the thick of the action. Great work!"

Now Gimli scowled. "Are you implying we hid amongst the trees like cowards?"

What? That wasn't what he meant!

"No! Bloody hell, Gimli, I'm just glad that you're alright - that's what I meant."

Neville wondered idly why he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut. Gran was always telling him 'If you can't think of anything to say, then don't say anything at all: it makes one appear much more intelligent than one actually is.'

"Because if I thought you were..."

Oh, would someone please get rid of the hairy horror!

Aragorn took pity on him with a call to attention. Gimli gave the young wizard another glowering glance before turning to the ranger.

"Come, my friends. Let us now decide our course: Mordor, or Isengard? As for me, I will follow the Orcs."

This was a difficult choice for Neville. He had sworn to the Valar that he would protect the Fellowship so that they could complete their quest and bring about the downfall of the Dark Lord Sauron. But the Fellowship was broken and the One Ring now travelled through the bleak land of Emyn Muil under the protection of one weary gentlehobbit and his best friend. He had promised Molly he would keep their path safe, so really, he should go with them.

On the other hand, the fate of the quest rested in more hands than those of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. He knew that the lure of the Ring on such a prolonged journey may eventually prove too difficult to ignore for the remaining party. All present were strong-minded people, but he of all people knew the danger of a wizard's magic. Sometimes, it required more than a mind of steel to resist. If any of the four present fell to its influence, he couldn't guarantee that Frodo would be lucky enough to escape, as Boromir had bid him to.

Perhaps two small hobbits, armed with their unwavering determination and courage, and the magic of the same elven cloak that now graced his own shoulders, could prevail where a larger party could not? Hobbits did appear to be more resilient to the Ring's lure than the other races of Middle Earth and there was every chance they could make it to the Black Lands with their minds intact and their hearts untainted.

As much as he hated the thought of them struggling through the rest of the journey on their own, Neville knew he would have to place his faith in their courage, for he had seen it with his own eyes. Silent, pensive Frodo, fighting an evil which plagued his every hour as it whispered its seductive treachery to his mind, yet was still able to smile or joke with his cousins - he was a formidable opponent and would not lightly succumb to the Ring's arts. As for Sam: modest, unassuming, whose devotion to his beloved plants was second only to that of his master - he had no desire for power or glory. He just wanted to get his master to Mordor and back in one piece so they could all go back to Bag End for a nice cup of tea and a slice of seed cake.

The Ring was safe in their hands.

With his mind made up, Neville spoke: "I vote we follow Merry, Pippin and Molly, too," he said. "We can't let them fall into the hands of this Saruman bloke. He's the biggest threat just now. If he uses his magic to make them talk, then he'll probably let Sauron know right away and that means he'll be on the lookout for Frodo and Sam. Anyway, I don't know how good Molly's wandless magic is, but if it's not as good as my Gran's used to be, and she can't get her wand back, then they're done for."

Well, actually, Merry and Pippin were done for. Molly would be okay because of the Light of Varda, but he couldn't bear the thought of the young cousins being cruelly tortured for information while she was forced to watch. That alone might kill her.

Legolas and Gimli agreed with Aragorn too and soon they were packing provisions and stashing the boats behind some of the trees where no one would spot them.

Once all were ready, they left the lawn and returned to the glade where Boromir had fallen. The cairn was a reminder of their recent loss, but they had no time to dwell on their pain as Aragorn searched the ground for the trail of the orcs who had carried their friends off. It was a task quickly completed, for the heavy indents of orcish boots were easily visible on the mossy ground.

"No other folk make such a trampling," said Legolas in disgust. "It seems their delight to slash and beat down growing things that are not even in their way."

Neville grunted as he spared a final glance at Boromir's last resting place. When he caught up to his friend's killers, he'd be doing some slashing and beating of his own.

In fact, he was looking forward to it. Gran would highly approve.

"But they go with great speed for all that," Aragorn remarked, "and they do not tire. And later we may have to search for our path in hard, bare lands."

Oh great. A nice bit of never-ending cross-country sprinting! Good thing he was an accomplished sports-wizard...

Neville stomach fell slightly as he looked at his seriously out of condition form.

"Well, after them! Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than Orcs. But it will be a long chase: they have a long start."

Brilliant! He'd be trailing behind the world's fastest man, the world's most athletic elf and the world's most self-deluded dwarf. Neville kicked himself for putting the Miruvor back in the knapsack instead of pocketing it. He didn't want to bring it out now and take a massive swig in case he looked like the world's most intimidated wizard.

Which, come to think of it, would have made Boromir laugh. The thought brought a sad smile to his lips.

"Yes," said Aragorn, "we shall need all the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter!"

Woe indeed. He didn't know about the others, but when he got his wand on the greasy mutants, he was going to carve them up like Muggle pumpkins on Hallowe'en and owl-post their intestines back to Saruman the Fright.

Once he found a decent Wizard's Owl, of course.

Aragorn continued: "We will make such a chase as shall be counted a marvel among the Four Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves, Men and Wizards..."

Hah! The marvel would be if he lasted longer than half an hour.

"Forth the Four Hunters!"

"You hear that, lad?" said Gimli with a menacing gleam in his eye as he clapped him (a bit too heartily) on the back. "We go to avenge our friend and retake the Hobbits and Lady Molly. It shall be a chase worthy of a song!"

"Oh no, please don't sing!" Neville begged before he could stop himself, imagining the suddenly ebullient dwarf breaking into a truly ear-shattering chorus. "My earmuffs are still in my knapsack."

Legolas smiled. "Come, Gimli. Come Neville. Let us make the Enemy answer in blood for their folly this day."

And steeling himself for the journey ahead, the teenager broke into a run behind his friends as they raced to save the lives of their captured companions. If these orcs were as fast as Aragorn said, he might be running for hours, but never mind. He'd do it to save his friends.

He'd do it for Boromir.

The first stop they made was during the still hour before dawn - and Neville had never been so grateful to fall on his rump in his life. They had passed through the forest and over some of the ridges of the western Emyn Muil, and while the others were tired, they didn't seem to be as utterly knackered as the young wizard. His head was spinning and his breath came in great gasps. Much to his mortification, Gimli was walking calmly towards him looking as fresh as a spring daisy.

"You do not fare well, lad," he said as he took a seat next to the exhausted youth.

"I'm...fine. Honest."

A complete lie.

"Nay, I do not think so. Your skin has a deathly pallor to it. Do you suffer yet from the hurt to your arm?"

Neville flexed his right arm tiredly. "No, not really. I just lost a bit of blood, that's all. The spell I used healed the skin, but it didn't replace the fluid."

Gimli nodded in understanding. "And how is it you have fared so well thus far?"

"Miruvor. Cirdan gave us a flask before we left the Grey Havens."

"Ah, I see. Well lad, you cannot sustain yourself on naught but that. Its grace is but a temporary gift."

The dwarf rummaged in his pack and pulled out some lembas.

"Eat," he commanded gruffly, offering a healthy corner of his own supply.

"Thanks, Gimli." he popped it into his mouth and chewed, savouring the flaky honeyed food.

Aragorn and Legolas returned from the peak they had been peering over to join them.

"No sign of the Orcs, I fear."

"Which way would they turn, do you think?" queried Legolas as Gimli handed out more lembas. "Northward to take a straighter road to Isengard, or Fangorn if that is their aim as you guess? Or southward to strike the Entwash?"

"They will not make for the river, whatever mark they aim at," said Aragorn, chewing thoughtfully on his waybread. "And unless there is much amiss in Rohan and the power of Saruman is greatly increased, they will take the shortest way that they can over the fields of the Rohirrim. Let us search northwards!"

"Let us give the lad a few moments more to recover himself first, Aragorn," said Gimli, much to Neville's embarrassment and relief.

The ranger peered at the teenager closely. "You are yet pale, young Wizard!" he exclaimed. "Why did you not call for a halt earlier? Do not forget the blood you have spilled this day!"

Neville refrained from rolling his eyes. It wasn't like he was going to forget that in a hurry. "I know, I know, don't worry. I just need some food and fluids to replace my energy and I'll be fine."

"See that you drink just now then, my friend. We shall wait another half hour, but then we must strike out again."

He nodded. Knowing just the right thing to make him feel hale again, he opened his knapsack and pulled out some of Molly's flowery orange and yellow mugs. Legolas smiled.

"What cheerful colours they are! They remind me of their mistress."

A sudden pang of loneliness swept the teenager. Despite the fact that he was sitting with three of the best people he'd ever met, it was the first time he and Molly had been parted since they arrived in Middle Earth. She hadn't been gone for very long, but already he missed her motherly fussing and slapping of (usually Gimli's) hands as they reached for a dish of her delicious stew, or Sam's mouth-watering bacon and eggs.

"Yeah, they're Molly all over, aren't they?" he said with a sad smile.

He pointed his wand at each of them in turn and a steaming, rich brown liquid soon filled them up. The scent went up his nose and round his heart. Picking up a mug, he took a sip of his hot chocolate.

"Well, tuck in you lot, before it gets cold."

Gimli, always eager to show what a fearless warrior he was, picked up a second mug. His eyes were gleaming with anticipation as he savoured the aroma and he took a cautious sip of the strange new beverage.

"Mahal's beard!" he cried in giddy delight after the first swallow. "'Tis a drink fit for the very Valar themselves!"

This robust endorsement was enough to encourage Aragorn and Legolas to take their own mugs and soon, four beaming faces graced the slopes of the lonely hills.

"I tell you now, were Sauron himself to come crashing over the hill this instant and deprive me of my head, I would die a very happy Dwarf!" declared Gimli, licking his lips appreciatively. "'Tis a jewel of a drink I have found and it will grieve me greatly when you leave and take it with you, lad."

"Well, if you're good, I might let you have some more tomorrow," joked Neville.

"Ah, then Gimli will never taste his treasure again, I fear, for he is as wicked a Dwarf as I have ever met."

They laughed at the good-natured teasing of the elf and Neville's sense of loneliness dwindled a little.

"Why you pointy-eared, glossy-haired, pouting Elf princeling! 'Tis a wonder you manage to leave your wooden halls to fight at all with all the preparation that must go into tying back your tresses!"

Legolas raised a smug brow. "I need not spend any time 'tying back my tresses', jealous one. I was born with them already perfectly arranged."

"Hmph," grunted Gimli in disbelief. "That tells me only that you have not dressed your hair in several thousand years, elfling. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Now the group was laughing in earnest and they finished their hot chocolate in a better mood than they had started it. Soon, the half hour was up and Neville packed away his mugs and stretched his muscles in anticipation of the next round of running.

"Well lad, are you feeling better now?" asked the not-so-gruff dwarf.

"Yeah. Yes I am actually," said Neville. And he meant it too. The dwarf nodded his approval and told him to keep as near to him as he could during the journey, which made the teenager smile.

"Gimli?" he called after him as his friend moved to collect his own pack.

"Aye, lad?"

"Thanks."

"Bah. No need for thanks, lad. What are friends for?"

Neville's smile stayed on his face for a full forty minutes after that.

Despite the fact he was knackered...

For three full days the Four Hunters raced across the lands of the West. They had left the hills of the Emyn Muil behind them after the first day and had been running over the wide, green plains of Rohan ever since.

Near the start of their journey, the trail they were following forked, and they had stumbled across the corpses of five orcs. It seemed that a scuffle had broken out and the soldiers of Saruman had started to turn on each other.

Which was heartening news. If the greasy gits were fighting amongst themselves, it gave Molly and the Hobbits a chance to escape. Perhaps they'd run across them coming in the opposite direction?

It was a heartening thought and it put a smile on Neville's face as he trudged after the three Olympic sprinters who were making him look really bad. When he got home, the first thing he was going to do was ask Dean to tell him more about that Muggle Jim Nasium his stepdad was so enamoured with.

Though, why Muggles could only go to a bloke called Jim Nasium (and there must be quite a few of the men if Dean was to be believed) to see about losing a few pounds was beyond him. Didn't they have public parks to run in?

Much to Neville's dismay, they had not bumped into his Guardian, Merry or Pippin and indeed, they even lost the orcs' trail a while later. It had taken some searching before Aragorn found it again near a winding stream in a valley deep in the heart of the Emyn Muil. And so they had raced on taking only short respites before dawn each day.

Once, Aragorn had spotted a trail left by bare feet on the sweet grass of Rohan and he raced ahead. He came to a halt and surveyed the ground before swooping down to pluck something from the grass. When he returned, he showed them a sign which filled the group with hope and dread.

"Pippin's footprints left this trail, for they are too large to be Lady Molly's and too small to be Merry's. He had a purpose when he ran - and his purpose was this."

His fist opened to reveal a small leaf that glittered in the sunlight.

"The elven brooch!" cried Neville.

"Indeed. Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall. He left a trail for us, but at what expense to his well-being, I cannot say. Come, let us go forth!"

And off they went again, eyes scanning the ground for any further clues dropped by their captive friends, but much to their disappointment, there were none.

At dusk of the third day, they halted briefly and the young wizard sagged gratefully onto the grass.

"Those ruddy orcs are gonna be the death of me," he wheezed tiredly. "Don't they ever stop?"

"They run as if the very whips of Sauron were behind them," Legolas declared, looking annoyingly fresh. "I fear they have already reached the forest and the dark hills, and even now are passing into the shadows of the trees."

Brilliant. That was the part Neville was most looking forward too - a possible trek through the Middle Earth version of the Forbidden Forest. Which reminded him...

"Are there any werewolves in Fangorn?"

"What is a werewolf?" asked Aragorn, rubbing his stiff calf muscles. "Is it like a wereworm?"

A wereworm?? Neville sprang from the grass in horror, suddenly fully alert, and began to inspect it gingerly with a look of the utmost revulsion on his face. He whipped out his wand and cried "Lumos!"

The wand's light glowed softly in the dusk as the young wizard searched frantically through the tall grass for signs of flesh-eating earthworms.

"What is he doing, do you think?" he heard Gimli ask the others curiously, but he was too busy hunting through the grass for ravenous monsters to let them know what he was up to.

"I know not," came the equally curious voice of Legolas. "Perhaps he seeks the answer to some Wizardly puzzle that may only be found in the grass by moonlight."

"'Tis very odd then that he did not seek it yester-eve, for the moon was as full then as I have ever seen it."

Neville ignored them.

"True," came the sage voice of Aragorn. "But then, who but a Wizard may truly know the ways of their own kind? Perhaps the moon was not quite in the right position for this strange ritual."

Neville was almost bent double, grunting with effort as he ripped blades of grass from the ground.

"Alas that this ritual sees the destruction of the beauty of Rohan's grasses," lamented Legolas.

A gruff snort of dwarven laughter. "Tree coddler! Only an Elf could despair of the loss of a few blades of grass. 'Tis a good thing that Elves do not keep cows or they would be weeping constantly."

Aagh! What the bloody hell was that?

Something had skimmed over his foot and Neville, in a blind panic, began to hop around trying to dislodge it.

"See? Now he dances. What manner of Wizard's business is this?"

His foot was mercifully flesh-eating-worm free and cautiously he put it on the ground again.

But wait? Why cautiously? Wereworm or not, it was still only a worm, surely?

Heartened by the realisation, the young wizard began to stamp furiously on the grass and the eyebrows of his audience shot into their respective hairlines.

"Take that!" he cried with fervour. "And that, you evil little gits! Sod off and die!"

"Master Longbottom?"

"Go on, get lost!"

"Master Longbottom?"

Aagh! Something ran over his foot again!

Fed up with it, Neville pointed his wand at his unseen assailant and cried: "Reducto!"

There was a squeak and a splatter as his enemy exploded into several fragments.

"Master Longbottom!"

Neville whipped around to face the others with a very victorious grin on his face.

It was difficult to tell, not being daylight, but Gimli did not look very happy. He stuck his glowing wand in the dwarf's direction and saw that he was scarlet with temper.

What was his problem?

"Neville," enquired Aragorn, as he cautiously approached the youth and put his hand to the tip of his wand, forcing it gently down. "What exactly were you seeking?"

"Well...you said wereworms, and I thought..."

"Yes?"

"Well, you see, werewolves are really nasty things in my world and they rip you to pieces and eat you. Only, sometimes they don't quite manage to kill their victims, and the victims turn into werewolves too."

Gimli was puce with anger, but Legolas and Aragorn knew where the teenager was going with his explanation and they valiantly tried not to laugh.

"So you thought that wereworms may be of the same ilk?" suggested the ranger in a rather strangled voice.

Neville hesitated. "Yeeess..."

The ranger spoke patiently, as if he were addressing a skittish child (which he was). "Wereworms are creatures of Hobbit imagination, my friend. Legends they tell their children by the fireside on a cold Winter's night. If they exist at all, then it is in lands far east of the one we now stand in."

Oh no.

"You mean, there're no flesh-eating worms here that'll turn you in to one of them if they can't finish you off?"

"Nay, my friend." Aragorn was finding it more difficult to control his amusement and Neville saw him bite down hard on his lower lip.

"Then what the ruddy hell did I just blast into bits?" he demanded, very confused.

"A MOUSE!" yelled Gimli, making him jump.

The teenager raised his wand in the dwarf's direction again and saw that he had, indeed, slain a mouse...

...and its tail was clinging to the very unhappy dwarf's beard.

Oops.

"Crikey! I'm really sorry Gimli. Honestly, I thought the place was crawling with flesh-eating worms..."

This statement was so ridiculous that Aragorn and Legolas couldn't hold in their laughter any more. The ranger's roars of mirth mixed with the tinkling music of the elf's laughter. Soon, even Gimli saw the funny side as he plucked the deceased field mouse's tail from his beard and shook his head in disbelief. His hearty bellows even induced a few embarrassed chuckles from the mortified wizard.

And as he lay down for a short nap that night on wereworm free grass, Neville could still hear the occasional snort of laughter from one or other of his companions.

The next day was more of the same, only this time, to Neville's relief, they marched as opposed to ran. Gimli's back was almost bent with his valiant efforts to remain in pace with the taller man and elf, and Neville had blisters on his heels. And toes. They popped and reformed every few miles and he was unable to stop and heal them in case he lost sight of the others, so he was relieved indeed when Aragorn suggested the brisk march instead.

The night grew cold as they ascended a hill and finally took their rest. Legolas kept watch as the others slept, covered in the scant warmth of their Lórien cloaks. Neville had tried a Heating charm to make everyone a little more comfortable, but it didn't last too long in the cold night air and finally he gave up renewing them every half hour when Aragorn insisted he get some rest.

It was the next day that brought the Four Hunters signs of life other than their own. To the banks of the Entwash, flowing out from the forest of Fangorn, they followed the orc trail, where Aragorn suddenly stopped them. His eyes travelled from the river's edge to the forest off in the distance and he spotted a dark, swift-moving blur. He threw himself to the ground and listened intently, but Legolas, with his (superior) elven vision, called out first: they were horsemen.

Aragorn smiled. "Keen are the eyes of the Elves."

"Nay! The riders are little more than five leagues distant."

Neville wanted to cheer. Horses! Thank goodness. His legs were killing him. Perhaps they'd be interested in a swap? A dwarf for a horse?

He chuckled mischievously as he glanced fondly at Gimli.

"What are you laughing at, lad?"

"Nothing."

"That is well. I would not like to have to tell Lady Molly about your little adventure with the flesh-eating worms," he growled, eyes twinkling.

Git.

Aragorn decided it was best to wait for the passing of the riders, when they could hail them and ask for signs of their quarry. It was a little over forty minutes later that the riders approached, the hooves of their steeds thundering across the ground as they drew near the downs.

Clear, strong cries carried on the wind towards their ears and the Four Hunters were suddenly swept up in a noise like thunder as the leader passed by them; a long line of men clad in shining mail with flowing blond hair under tight helms followed in his wake.

Neville shook his head in disbelief. What was it with the men of this world and their long hair? Had barbers not been invented yet?

The men held tall spears, painted shields were slung over their backs and long swords hung at their sides. They rode by in pairs, seemingly not noticing the four strangers watching them.

Well, if they were the Rohirrim, they were very impressive. A bit aloof (because it was just plain rude not to acknowledge someone else's presence), but still, a lot friendlier looking than the ruddy orcs.

The host of riders had almost passed them by. Only a few were left at the end, brandishing their spears and looking really quite ferocious, actually. Neville wondered if their intimidating appearance had made Aragorn change his mind about hailing them, when all of a sudden, the ranger stood up.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

Apparently, Isildur's heir was not so easily scared. Excellent! Because Neville had spotted three riderless horses near the front that had his name stamped all over them.

But his happy mood quickly turned sour when the riders checked their steeds with astonishing speed and wheeled around to surround the group in a running circle. They pointed their spears at the Four Hunters, moving in ever tighter circles towards their captives, Neville drew his wand and brandished it threateningly.

He was fed up with people pointing spears at him and his friends. Why couldn't they just shake hands? Were the Rohirrim under Saruman's evil spell after all? Well, if these rude gits were spoiling for a fight, he was in just the right mood to give it to them.

And as their leader closed in, aiming his spear at Aragorn's chest, Neville fired...