Not Quite a Maia

Not Quite A Maia

Chapter 16

3 days earlier (Third Age: 29th February 3019)

Imladris

Before breakfast on the morning after her arrival in Imladris, Augusta was escorted from her (biologically stain-free) chamber (such an improvement on the dungeons of Orthanc - not a bucket in sight!) to what Elariel, the pretty girl she had met the day previously, called the healing room. It was a large, airy room with several beds overlooking the courtyard and inside stood her smiling host, who welcomed her warmly and requested permission to check on the progress of both her ankle and arm.

Insisting that they were much improved, she nevertheless acquiesced to his gentle demands (he threatened to put her under the spell of 'elf-magic' and disrobe her himself if he had to - an odd threat actually for she hadn't seen a house-elf since her arrival) and allowed him to tend to her injuries. Once he was satisfied that she was in no imminent danger of expiring from them, the graceful man put a light bandage on her ankle for support and rubbed some pleasantly scented ointment on her bruised shoulder.

It was only as he was dressing her ankle that she noticed the pointed tips of his ears.

How strange. Why hadn't she noticed that last night? Still, it had been a very hectic few days and she had been excessively tired. Never mind. But how had the poor fellow come about them? Perhaps he had been hexed by some cad of a wizard (she immediately suspected Saruman)? Or maybe they were an unfortunate inheritance from his parents? She stared at them thoughtfully as he wrapped soft cloths around her foot. One quick wave of her wand could fix them, of course. But would it be indelicate to offer? He may have accepted his little misfortune and learned to live with it - the last thing she wanted to do was make him feel uncomfortable by drawing attention to it.

Once Elrond had finished his ministrations (and she had stopped staring at his ears), Augusta politely thanked him for his troubles.

"It was my pleasure, my Lady," he said, still smiling, before enquiring: "I hope that you slept well after you retired yester-eve?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. I must say, the accommodations in your charming abode are infinitely superior to Orthanc's! Such beautiful furnishings. Most impressive, young man. You are to be commended on your excellent taste!"

His smile widened and he dipped his head in a grateful nod. "You are most kind to say so, Lady Augusta. Here in Imladris, we always endeavour to see to the comfort of our guests."

Augusta highly approved. When she finally did write to the New Zealand Tourist Information Board, she would be sure to mention the outstanding quality of Imladris' accommodations and its exceedingly personable proprietor.

This thought reminded her of her intent to contact the country's Ministry of Magic, and she was just about to ask him its location, when the door behind them opened, heralding the arrival of a third party.

"A blessed morn to you, my Lord," announced a tall, blond man in a cream tunic and some rather shockingly tight trousers. He nodded his head respectfully at her host. The stranger's left arm was in a sling of sorts which was secured behind his neck.

"Lindir," replied Elrond, nodding in turn.

The stranger - Lindir - approached them and stopped before her.

"Mae govannen, Lady Augusta," he said cheerfully.

His 'govannen'? What on earth was a 'govannen'? Was it a bed? Was she perhaps sitting on his bed and he was asking for it back? Heavens! There were plenty of other empty beds available - why couldn't he sit on one of them and wait his turn to have his injury checked there? It was only polite, after all.

The new arrival spotted the confusion on her face. "Forgive me, my Lady. I mean 'well met'. It is a Sindarin greeting."

Ah. Local lingo. Well, that's alright then.

He continued. "I am Lindir, my Lady. We met yester-eve."

No 'we' didn't. She would have remembered such a chirpy, fine-looking fellow.

"I'm terribly sorry, young man, but I don't seem to recall being introduced to you at all," she said.

"We were not properly introduced at the time," he replied, still grinning. "You had just assisted us with a little trouble on the borders of our land and afterwards offered me your seat on the Windlord Gwaihir to aid me home."

Of course! The brave young chap with the arrow.

"Well," she said, rising from the edge of the bed and affording him a more thorough assessment with her sharp blue gaze. "You'll have to forgive me, young man, for not introducing myself properly at the time. My eyesight isn't what it used to be..."

A blatant lie. But it wouldn't do to tell the poor chap that she'd been too mortified to come any closer after getting the most unfortunate whiff of her unwashed armpits.

"...and I was excessively tired after all the excitement."

"On the contrary, Lady, I thought your eyesight to be excellent - as well as your aim. But you need not apologise for the lack of introduction. Your timely assistance was all the assurance that my companions and I required to know that you are Elvellon - that is 'Elf friend'," said Lindir with an elegant bow of his head.

Elf friend? Well, no one had ever said that to her before! Not that she wasn't flattered, of course - she was the most open-minded person she knew (apart from Aberforth Dumbledore: anyone who practised 'unnatural charms on a goat' was probably open to just about anything). But Merlin's wand! These New Zealanders were certainly fond of their house-elves. What was so special about the little creatures? And where the deuce were they hiding themselves? Surely if they were such a hit with the locals, there would be evidence of them everywhere? Perhaps one or two of them strolling through the grounds every now and then in silk tea-towels, airily fending off autograph hunters like the two chaps in front of her?

The formidable granny stole a brief glance out the window, but could see no evidence of the short-legged, big-eared house-elves who so impressed her hosts. Perhaps they were down in the kitchen making breakfast (and getting drunk on butterbeer)? That must be it.

Returning her gaze to Lindir, she offered a thin-lipped smile. "Well, it's very kind of you to accord me such a high honour, I'm sure, but I must take this opportunity to tell you what a very brave chap you are for keeping a stiff upper lip after being shot by those horrid orcs. And insisting afterwards that you were perfectly able to make your way home with your friends, too! Obviously, you were quite right about that, for here you are and healing nicely, I see. I am most impressed. No doubt you have English blood flowing through your veins somewhere."

Lindir beamed at her as if she had just awarded him a box of Chocolate Frogs after winning a Gobstones competition. "You are too kind, my Lady."

"Now, young man, enough of all the sentiments. Did you come to have your wound redressed?"

"Nay, I did not. I came in search of you, Lady Augusta; to thank you for your aid and also to escort Imladris' most honourable defender to breakfast in the dining hall, if you are amenable to the offer."

What a perfectly tip-top fellow! How utterly charming of him!

"Well that is exceedingly kind of you, my good man," she declared, glancing at Elrond. "If we are finished here for the moment?"

The dark-haired man smiled and gave another one of his elegant nods (very graceful these...Imladrians. Imladrisians? New Zealanders!). "After you have broken your fast, I shall send someone to escort you to my study, that we may more fully discuss the issue of your kin."

Excellent! Finally she would be able to see about getting that scallywag of a grandson found. When she got her hands on that boy...

"You won't be joining us?"

"I have already eaten, my Lady, and have some pressing matters that require my immediate attention."

"I see. Well, until later, my good fellow."

Giving her generous host a brisk nod of thanks, she took the arm offered by Lindir and left Elrond to the sanctuary of his pretty little hospital ward. The tall blond man escorted her across the long wooden terraces and under a marbled archway. They exchanged pleasantries as they passed through another hall and her companion mentioned a fondness for singing which perked her interest. It was most refreshing to hear that Elrond's people partook of such civilised pastimes. Perhaps this corner of New Zealand wasn't so very backwards after all!

She was just about to ask if he had heard of her favourite artiste, Celestina Warbeck, (and perhaps persuade him to give her a rendition of You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me later that evening, if he had) when they passed through a set of doors into a large, high-beamed room with a raised dais at its opposite end. Tall, arched windows on the left flooded the room with light, while brackets around the remaining walls held heavy, moulded candles, ready to be lit when dusk approached. A long table ran through the centre of the hall, with polished benches on either side and several men (some of whom were extraordinarily handsome) populated the far end of it. Near the windows, a breakfast buffet of sorts awaited hungry residents, allowing each to choose their own repast as befitted their own desire. A polite cough from behind heralded another new arrival and Augusta stepped aside to allow him passage. The smiling man nodded gratefully and walked past carrying a large, silver tray laden with freshly baked rolls to the window and set it down by the other trays of food.

Her stomach rumbled as the lingering smell of the tantalising bread wafted up her nostrils, and Lindir grinned broadly. "I believe it is time to sate the growling beast," he said, eyes twinkling merrily.

She threw him a suspicious glance, hoping (for his sake) he was referring to her stomach. It would be a pity to have to revaluate her high opinion of him...

Still smiling, he led her to the windows and indicated that she choose her desired dishes, which he (gentleman that he was) loaded on to a small tray. Soon, it was generously covered with a bread roll, soft cheese, butter, a delicate glass bowl with something similar to fruit compote and - much to her delight - a milky, oatmeal dish that could only be ... porridge!

How perfectly spiffing! It was comforting to know that, even in the far-flung reaches of magical New Zealand, some things remained constant.

Lindir attempted to lift her tray with his good hand, but she brushed it off. "It's very kind of you, young fellow, but I can't allow you to go to such trouble when I have the use of two arms and you don't."

"My Lady, I assure you that it is no inconvenience ..."

"No, my good man. I absolutely insist. Now, you go ahead, choose your own dishes, and I shall see to it that both our trays reach the table together."

He was about to object, but Augusta arched her eyebrow (daring him to argue) and he thought the better of it. Soon, he had selected his food and gallantly escorted her to the table while she charmed their trays to float ahead.

The sight of the two trays floating through the air was enough to still the activity of every last person sitting at the table, and grown men watched like wide-eyed children as the trays stopped in mid-air before it. Augusta flicked her wand discreetly and the plates and dishes of food hopped on to the table, and the trays whizzed back to their stand at the window and settled down once more.

"There. That wasn't so bad now, was it? she said to Lindir, before addressing the occupants at the table with a brisk "Good morning, gentlemen."

Several excited whispers and murmurings of 'the Green Witch' drifted to the newcomers' ears.

Ears. Hmm. How odd - Lindir appeared to be cursed with the very same affliction as Elrond. In fact, she noted as her eyes ran over the assembled company, several of them were suffering from it. Gracious, had Saruman hexed them en masse? The scoundrel!

Feeling very glad that she had managed to give the grubby wizard a taste of his own medicine, she moved to take her seat when a few of the men breakfasting nearby sprang up and bowed politely.

What a decidedly well-mannered bunch of fellows they were! It was not very often that the elderly witch was so impressed by strangers. In fact, for many years, one of her main grumbles was that she hadn't had the pleasure of meeting a true gentleman since the forties (her late husband, tired of hearing the mantra, had once asked if she was referring to the eighteen forties - she hadn't spoken to him for a full week afterwards). But this splendid company was beginning to restore her faith in the youth of the day!

"Lady Augusta, allow me to introduce Halbarad, one of the captains of the Rangers of the North," said Lindir indicating a tall, lean chap wearing a green shirt over dark trousers. He had shaggy, shoulder-length dark hair and grey eyes. "I believe you met briefly in the courtyard upon your arrival yester-eve?"

They had? Augusta peered at the smiling face of Halbarad for a second before it dawned on her. Ah, yes; the smelly fellow who had hauled her off Gwaihir's back as if he'd been some sort of lascivious Viking conqueror.

Halbarad bowed courteously. "Lady Augusta, allow me to welcome you to our company this fine morn. Would you do us the honour of joining us to break your fast?"

Her breakfast was sitting right next to his on the table - she was joining him whether he liked it or not. She stifled a smile as he offered her his hand.

"Good morning, young man. I am vastly relieved to see that you and your friends have had a decent scrub since we last met ..."

She indicated a row of damp heads and shiny faces around the table, and every man she pointed at flushed.

"... very relieved. It would be most inconvenient to lose my appetite before I even had the chance to sample my host's excellent fare. And I would be delighted to join you for breakfast - as long as you promise not to throw me over your shoulder again."

Those within earshot (which was everyone, given that she made no attempt to be discreet in her welcome) chuckled and Halbarad coloured (again).

"I will endeavour to resist the temptation, my Lady," he promised, taking her hand and assisting her as she stepped over the bench to sit down. Heavens - whatever happened to simple chairs? Her hips would not stand for this sort of abuse on a regular basis.

Lindir took a seat to her left and soon all the other diners were sitting once again, staring in fascination at the colourful new arrival. Augusta was vastly relieved she had decided to leave Spot in her bedroom - their curiosity was awkward enough without the conversation-stopper that was her beloved hat. What on earth were they staring at? One would think they had never seen a woman before!

Attempting to dispel their attention and shame them into leaving her to eat in peace, she waved her hand at their plates in one smooth curve and said: "Well gentlemen? Bon appetit."

But they merely frowned in confusion.

Apparently, French was not a common phenomenon in this remote area of the planet. Which, in her opinion, was not necessarily a bad thing. Any country that boasted a garden pest as their national dish was not to be trusted (no matter how pretty their language was). Not to mention the frogs legs. Or onion soup.

Deciding to forego any further listing of the dubious culinary exploits of her Gallic brethren (in case she really did lose her appetite), Augusta began to tuck into her lovely bowl of New Zealand porridge. But no sooner had she lifted the first spoonful, than it became apparent that her companions were still staring at her.

Oh, it simply wouldn't do! Was she to be gawked at by complete strangers for the next half-hour?

"Gentlemen, is something the matter?" she asked in a brusque tone, irked that she was not to be given peace to enjoy her breakfast.

"Forgive us, Lady," replied one of the men shame-facedly. Lindir frowned at them in disapproval. "We meant not to interrupt your repast. It is merely that we have never met a Witch before."

Well, that was hardly a wonder if all they did was stare at them all the time. They had probably frightened them away!

"Yes, well, I'm beginning to realise that I am something of a novelty in this corner of the world. Most irregular," she replied, shaking her head in disbelief and lifting her spoon to her mouth. But before she could taste her porridge:

"Are there many Witches from whence you hail?"

The spoon wavered, then dropped as she lowered her hand with an impatient sigh.

"Of course. Or do you imagine wizards procreate alone?"

There was a muffled snort of laughter from the end of the opposite bench and, hoping the answer would suffice for the present, she raised her spoon again.

"We have not encountered a Wizard that procreates at all, my Lady. Such a thing is unheard of these days in Middle Earth."

"Then that explains why there are so few of them left," she said in a clipped voice, frowning at the inquisitive man sitting across from her. "Don't you agree?"

Her tone brooked no argument, and the rather startled man (very sensibly) nodded.

Good. Now, porridge...

The spoon had almost reached her lips when:

"Is it true that you are a mortal Witch, my Lady?"

Oh for goodness' sake! At this rate, she would starve to death! What was wrong with the inhabitants of this pretty place? Mortal witch, indeed. What else would she be? Saruman's curse had obviously damaged more than their ears!

The (very hungry) witch dropped her spoon back into the bowl with a clatter and glared at her inquisitor. "Young man, if you don't allow me to eat my breakfast, then you will shortly discover just how mortal I am - for I will expire before your very eyes. Does that answer your question?"

Her response elicited more muffled sniggers from around the table and the mortified man flushed at her reprimand.

"Forgive me, Lady. I allowed my curiosity to overtake my good manners. Please, do not allow me to disturb your repast any further."

"Thank you, my good fellow," she replied, lifting her spoon once more and (finally) enjoying the delicious oatmeal goodness of her porridge.

The men settled into their own conversations, allowing her the time she required to finish her breakfast in peace. Only after the last bite of bread and cheese was swallowed, and the last spoonful of fruit compote was cleared from her bowl, did she realise that she hadn't brought a cup of tea to the table.

Botheration.

"My Lady, is aught amiss?" enquired Lindir as she huffed in annoyance.

"I forgot to put a cup of tea on my tray."

Halbarad, looked puzzled. "Tea?"

"Yes, tea."

Clearly, the ranger wasn't any the wiser despite her affirmation. Did the fellow not know what tea was?

"You have heard of tea before, surely?" she asked the table at large. Many of the (less pretty) men swapped looks of confusion and her astonishment grew.

Heavens! Never heard of tea? How completely bizarre! Perhaps she wasn't in New Zealand at all? Perhaps, instead, she was in America? After all, she hadn't met an American yet who drank tea (in fact, she had never met an American at all).

Which could only mean one thing - she would be forced to endure ...

... coffee.

No! Absolutely not! No Englishwoman in her right mind would indulge on that awful stuff at this time of day. It simply wasn't civilised!

"Forgive me, Lady Augusta, but rarely do the halls of Imladris see the leaves of the tea plant," offered Lindir, looking very apologetic. "However, I do believe that Master Bilbo has his own personal supply. I am sure he would be delighted to offer a cup of his favourite beverage to one who so obviously shares his appreciation of it. Shall I call at his chamber and make enquiries to this end?"

Augusta was sorely tempted, but she didn't have the heart to send the poor fellow off to beg for a cup of tea on her behalf at the door of someone she hadn't even been introduced to.

"That's very obliging of you, young man, but there's no need to go to all that trouble. I'll take care of it myself."

At his puzzled look, she pointed her wand at the table near the window. Several silver mugs sat next to a stack of plates and cutlery and many eyes in the hall widened as one of them lifted itself up and whizzed over to the table to land gently in front of her.

"May I offer you blackberry juice, my Lady?" enquired another of the men across from her. He rose swiftly and extended his hand towards one of the tall jugs dotted over the length of the table.

"Finthwael, Imladris' resident carpenter," whispered Lindir discreetly behind his own mug of (presumably) blackberry juice.

But before she had a chance to thank either Finthwael for being so courteous, or Lindir for his supply of the carpenter's name (not that she would use it), Halbarad turned his head and addressed the elderly witch.

"Or perhaps you would prefer ale, my Lady?"

Finthwael shot the ranger a quick frown, annoyed that the now pleasantly-scented man had stolen her attention, but Augusta was far too flabbergasted to notice.

Ale? Why, it wasn't even nine o' clock in the morning! What did he take her for?

"Gracious, no, young man! I am a grandmother, you know. Only a hardened alcoholic would imbibe on a mugful of ale at this time of day!" she declared righteously, using her hand to fan her face as the image of Neville jumping out of the secret entry at the Room of Requirement into the Hog's Head to find her trying to drink Hagrid under the table flashed through her mind.

"Alcoholic?" queried Halbarad in confusion.

If Augusta hadn't been sitting down already, she would have fallen down in shock.

"Yes, alcoholic," she repeated, almost aghast that the word was so clearly unfamiliar to him. "You know what an alcoholic is, surely? Someone who guzzles spirits, beers or wines at any and all time of the day? You can usually spot them a mile off: unwashed and malodorous types that drink their meals instead of eating them."

Several of the bearded men spluttered into their mugs before thumping them hastily on the table and pushing them as far away as possible.

The ranger turned a very unflattering shade of red. "Ah, I see. A lover of cups."

A lover of cups? What very odd vernacular these chaps used.

Lindir was gasping with laughter (as were several of the exceedingly handsome men) and she gazed at him in astonishment.

"Forgive me, Lady, it is just that I have rarely seen the Rangers of the North so ..."

Halbarad eyed the blond man murderously.

"... united in agreement with a guest." finished the elegant chap.

Halbarad relaxed.

Yes, well, was that any wonder? They were quite obviously as shocked as she was at the thought of lager louts popping over to join them for breakfast.

Augusta returned her attention to her own (alcohol-free) mug and studied the receptacle critically. It really was a deal too large for tea. Only philistines (and Americans) drank hot beverages from a mug. Ladies used cups. With that in mind, she pulled her wand from her pocket and Transfigured it into a blue and white china cup with matching saucer. Her audience gasped in astonishment.

And they nearly fell off the benches in shock when she pointed the tip at the base of the cup and a jet of hot, brown tea spilled into it.

Of course," she said to Lindir, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for wood to spout liquid (which, to her, it was), "it never really tastes quite the same this way. Still, we must do our best in these difficult times, I suppose."

"By the Valar!" declared Halbarad, deeply impressed as she finished filling her cup and pocketed her wand. "How is it you are able to store so much liquid in your staff, my Lady?"

'Staff' again. It was a good thing she was getting a grasp on the lingo of the land - the only good thing she could say about her stay in Orthanc.

"Magic, of course," she replied, taking a dainty sip of her favourite brew. Ahh! That was much better.

"You must be a powerful Witch indeed if you can turn solid silver into such a delicate object, my Lady," said the awed voice of the man who had been so inquisitive before breakfast.

"Not at all. Any bright twelve year old can do that, if they apply themselves properly. And you are ...?"

He was unable to answer, still fascinated by the blue and white, willow-patterned cup and saucer.

"Garathor," supplied Lindir helpfully. It appeared the wounded singer was one of the few present still able to verbalise. What jolly good luck that he had accompanied her to breakfast.

Augusta nodded her gratitude and addressed the young ranger once more. "Well, young man, would you care to try a nice cup of tea for yourself? In fact, I'd be delighted to introduce all of you to the wonders of this magnificent beverage," she announced to the table at large, thrilled at the opportunity of bringing civilisation to the masses. "No doubt you're all tired of blackberry juice - and I don't blame you: terribly cloying stuff."

At least four of the rangers made a grab for their mugs and cradled them protectively. The rest shared guilty looks with each other.

"Thank you, my Lady. You are most generous; but we have a great fondness for, em, blackberry juice," said Garathor, looking oddly concerned.

In fact, as her gaze swept the table, Augusta noted that many of those present were keen to avoid her eye and had taken to picking at the wooden surface or whistling casually.

There was only one way to deal with this ...

"Oh, come now, gentlemen: you're not afraid, are you? A group of strapping fellows like you, afraid of a cup of tea?"

A dozen sets of eyes swivelled to her instantly, each pair of them widened in outrage.

Men. So predictable.

"We do not fear a cup of this 'tea', Lady," declared Garathor hotly. "It is merely that ..."

He trailed off as he looked longingly at his 'juice'.

"Yes?" she asked impatiently, staring at him in challenge.

Halbarad intervened. "It is merely that we are so very fond of our ... blackberry juice."

Someone sitting next to him snorted and Augusta rolled her eyes impatiently.

"My good fellow, where is your sense of adventure? Now, why don't you set your men a fine example and be the first to try it, hmm?"

Before he could object, she waved her wand at his silver mug and Transfigured it into a matching cup and saucer. Five seconds later, it was filled almost to the brim with steaming hot Earl Grey. Halbarad's jaw dropped (though whether in wonder or dismay, none could rightly tell).

"Go on then," she encouraged bracingly. "Do give it a try."

The ranger gave a sigh of defeat and attempted to hook his fingers through the delicate handle, managing only to force one meaty digit into the tiny space. Tentatively, he held the opposite edge of the cup and raised it to his lips, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a cautious sip.

Augusta watched him with beady eyes, awaiting his verdict.

Placing the cup (rather clumsily) back in its saucer, he spared her a glance. "It is ... interesting. A most unusual flavour."

Interesting? Unusual? How very ambiguous!

Seeing her frown, he hastily amended his words. "I mean, it is a very aromatic, delicate beverage."

"Yes, but did you like it?" she demanded practically glowering at him as Lindir, Garathor and the others tried desperately to stifle their laughter.

"Most assuredly, my Lady."

Ah, excellent. She knew he would!

"Well, then, let's not deprive your friends of this little pleasure," she stated, wiping the smiles off everyone's faces as she briskly Transfigured every mug in sight and filled it with tea. Soon, Halbarad was the only man left with a grin on his face as his companions were subjected to the same grilling from the elderly witch he had endured minutes before.

Augusta was very pleased to see her new friends 'enjoying' their tea like civilised people. Of course, she should perhaps have offered them milk to go with it, but only a philistine (or a tea-drinking American - if there was such a thing) would put milk in Earl Grey and these strapping fellows were certainly able-bodied enough to enjoy the beverage the way it ought to be: pure and untainted by dairy products or sweeteners.

"So, young man, tell me: do you live in Imladris?" she asked the captain of the rangers between sips.

"Nay, Lady. I hail from the North, but duty calls me here to report to the Lord Elrond on matters of security," he replied, nursing his cup cautiously.

"Ah, yes: the war with that lunatic Sauron," she mused, thinking of her grandson and his probable role in their fight. Shaking her thoughts free of Neville until she spoke later with her host, she addressed the ranger again.

"No doubt your wife misses you a great deal when you're travelling. You are married, are you not?"

There was sadness in his voice when he answered. "I was, but alas, my wife has been dead for many years."

She could have happily kicked herself. The fellow obviously wasn't a day over forty, so he must have lost her at a very young age. "I am so dreadfully sorry for your loss, young man. I didn't mean to be insensitive. Do forgive me."

He offered a gentle smile. "There is no need for forgiveness, Lady Augusta. You could not have known. It was many years ago and, though I miss her greatly, I have accustomed myself to her loss as well as I must."

What a brave fellow he was!

"What of yourself, Lady Augusta?" enquired Garathor. "If you are a mortal Witch, are you then wed?"

"Yes, I was. But my husband died, too."

"I am saddened to hear it, my Lady," the young ranger said, looking rather uncomfortable at having posed the question in the first place.

"Nonsense, young man. It was a while ago now and I, too, have adjusted myself as well as I must," she said brusquely, giving Halbarad a knowing smile.

Garathor, ever inquisitive, continued his grilling. "Was your husband a Wizard?"

Augusta regarded the young man sitting across from her. He was more of a boy really, despite his whiskers. Couldn't be a day older than twenty-three. Ah well, she'd humour him and answer a few questions.

"Yes, he was a wizard. As are my son and my grandchild."

The table erupted into excited murmurings. Garathor was staring at her in wide-eyed awe.

"So many Wizards! What a wonder indeed!" he exclaimed, mightily impressed. Then: "Yet, Witch or not, it must have been difficult for you to raise your son alone after your husband's passing."

What?

"You must have misunderstood me, young man," Augusta cut in, eager to correct him. "My husband only died a few years ago. No more than a decade, actually My son was already an adult at the time."

Silence fell over the table as everyone ceased their murmuring and gazed at her in astonishment.

"He did not die in battle?" asked Finthwael in shock.

Mr Longbottom? Engage in battle? The thought was so absurd she almost laughed.

"Absolutely not. My husband was a pacifist at heart. He rarely raised his wand in anger."

Apart from the day Frank and Alice had been found Crucio-ed into senselessness. He had blasted half the furnishings into smithereens in his paternal rage, and would have taken out the unlucky Auror that had brought them the news, too, if she hadn't intervened.

Lindir and her other companions were muttering amongst themselves in confusion at the information. Garathor, the young ranger, frowned briefly, before his face cleared in understanding.

"Then perhaps he was ambushed by an enemy?"

A smattering of 'ooh's' and ah's made their way around the table in distinct approval of the suggestion.

"Certainly not," she answered tartly. There had never been anyone sly enough or quick enough to ambush Mr Longbottom (unless it was her).

She took another sip of her tea, frowning at Halbarad who was still nursing his pretty cup. The ranger quickly lifted it and took a healthy swallow.

But Garathor was not finished trying to determine the cause of her husband's death. Mystified, he scratched his dark head and scrunched his face in concentration while his colleagues continued to mutter among themselves.

"But of course!" he cried after a few moments of silent deliberation. "He was slain by a rival for your affections. He died defending your honour!"

The young ranger looked very relieved at having solved the mystery, but Augusta almost collapsed in shock.

"Are you suggesting that I was involved in some sort of illicit affair?" she gasped, half outraged, half amused.

Lindir's right elbow thumped on to the table and he dropped his forehead into the waiting hand and shook it.

The youth flushed like a toilet. "Nay, Lady! Forgive me, I meant no such thing!" he cried in horror as he read the shock on her face and realised his mistake.

"I should certainly hope not, you impertinent scallywag!" she declared. "Me, have an affair? Mr Longbottom, duelling for my honour? Not that he wouldn't have of course, but ... Merlin's beard. You make our marriage sound like a cheap novel!"

Having no idea what a cheap novel was, poor Garathor tried desperately to placate her (in case she turned him into a blue and white cup, too). But the youth, tripping over his own tongue in his haste, only managed to stutter that he was merely trying to ascertain the manner of her husband's death - a comment that earned him a smack on the arm from his neighbour and a harsh reprimand from Halbarad.

She finally recovered her senses (and normal sinus rhythm) enough to realise that Halbarad was speaking to her.

"Forgive him, Lady Augusta. Garathor is young and not used to such genteel company after his long travels. He has been learning the skills required for his duties as a Ranger for the past two years and is only in Imladris for short duration every six months before he must return to his duties in relative isolation."

Relative isolation? Where had they been hiding him?

Sensing her surprise, Halbarad elaborated. "As war approaches and we prepare for conflict, it is important that we ensure the borders of all free lands are protected. Therefore, Garathor - and many others here - has not known the warm embrace of his mother or the kind concerns of his sisters of late. He requires some time to reacquaint himself with the company of high-born ladies."

As much as Augusta was flattered to be considered a 'high-born lady', she very much hoped that Halbarad wasn't expecting her to leap over the table and start fawning over the boy.

"I am certain he meant not to offend you with his indelicate inquiry. I hope that you can find it in your heart to be gentle with him," finished the captain, giving her pockets a sidelong glance.

Garathor gulped audibly.

Merlin's beard! Did they actually think she was going to curse the poor chap just for putting his foot in his mouth? Had she really given them that impression?

Still, the poor fellow was looking exceedingly miserable, staring into his cup as if he wanted nothing more than to dive in and drown himself in his Earl Grey. It would be a tragic end to such a short life.

And a waste of a perfectly good cup of tea.

Oh, botheration! She was so dreadfully uncomfortable with sentimentality.

"Now, now, young fellow. Chin up," she said in what she hoped was an encouraging voice.

Garathor, thinking it was a command, snapped to attention in his seat.

Oh well.

"I don't mean chin literally up, young man. What I mean is ... take heart. I'm not in the habit of hexing innocents just because they trip over their own tongues. Think no more of your little gaffe. I know very well that you meant no ill by it. I was merely ... startled."

To say the least.

"Now, if you had said something really stupid and with genuinely malicious intent, I might have been tempted to teach you a lesson. But I doubt very much that you have a vindictive bone in your body."

There! A tiny little smile. But he still looked like a Malfoy with an empty Gringotts vault. She'd have to put a little more effort into it. Suppressing a sigh of impatience, she did her best.

"For instance, are you aware that I was held prisoner by Saruman?"

There were very few gasps of surprise, for almost everyone present had heard her cursing the brute's hospitality when she arrived the night before. But they had not been privy to the details she had shared with Elrond and Erestor later on, and it wouldn't hurt to give them a few now if it helped to cheer up Garathor (which would have the added bonus of saving Earl Grey from a fate worse than death).

"Well," she continued, "that frightful fellow said some despicable things to me. Absolutely no manners to speak of! So I jolly well taught him some!"

"And how did you do that, Lady Augusta," breathed Garathor, freed from his doldrums and gazing at her in wide-eyed anticipation.

It was easier to show him.

"Engorgio!"

The hall erupted into raucous laughter when the poor man leapt from his seat with a bellow of horror, clutching at his unnaturally expansive chest and attempting (uselessly) to flatten it.

"Don't worry, young man. I have every intention of removing them. Finite Incantatem!"

The spell lifted and Garathor almost fainted in relief. But the laughter rolled on and on as men all over the hall cried with mirth. Lindir could barely draw breath and the poor chap at the edge of the bench fell off his seat in convulsions of laughter.

"Of course, I never lifted the deuced curse off him," said Augusta primly. "He's probably skulking around his ghastly tower in an oversized coat, if he hasn't managed to strap them down yet. But my point, young man, is that you needn't worry about a mere slip of the tongue. Your manners are vastly superior to his, though perhaps it would be best if you reined in your youthful curiosity at times."

Garathor was nodding his head in violent agreement as he retook his seat, and the men on either side of him slapped his back cheerfully.

Pleased to see that he was no longer wallowing in misery (being far too concerned with assuring himself over and over again of the manliness of his chest), Augusta took a satisfied sip of her tea before revealing how Mr Longbottom had met his doom.

"In answer to your question, though, my husband died peacefully in his sleep."

"In his sleep?" enquired Halbarad in surprise.

"Yes."

"Peacefully?"

Augusta frowned. Why had he said it like that? It wasn't unheard of for someone to die peacefully in their sleep!

"Of course, 'peacefully'," she said irritably.

But her tone did not deter the captain. In fact, most of the men (having recovered from the sight of a full-bosomed Garathor), were now watching her speculatively.

"Do you mean to say that he died of natural causes?" Halbarad asked, gaping in disbelief.

She shot him a heated glare. What was that supposed to mean?

"Of course he died of natural causes - he was over eighty! Or do imagine I murdered him in his bed?" she barked, incensed.

Halbarad's hands automatically rose to cover his chest as she glowered at him, triggering another wave of hearty guffaws from his comrades.

"Nay!" he said (rather desperately). "Forgive the inquiry. It is merely that in these times of strife, for Men to live to such an age - especially a Wizard of good intent, as I am certain your noble husband was - is unusual."

"Ah, yes, well - oh, do put your hands down, for goodness' sake! - it's surely not that unusual. Not everyone is young enough or fit enough to head off to the front lines, you know."

Before he could respond either way, a voice behind her answered on his behalf.

"You must excuse our Dúnedain captain, Lady Augusta, for he does not think properly without his morning mug of ale."

Halbarad and the rangers clutched their teacups and paled visibly, but she missed it as she glanced over her shoulder to see two identical men with matching blue tops (and more tight trousers) grinning down at her. Unless she was very much mistaken, they had been at the forest edge with Lindir the evening before. Oh, why hadn't she asked for their names before rushing off?

"Well, hello again, gentlemen. How very nice to see you once more," she said, exasperated with herself for being in such a hurry to leave the night before and hoping they would overlook her rudeness by offering their names.

To her relief, they did.

"Well met again, my Lady," replied the one on the left. "I am Elladan, son of Elrond, and this is my brother, Elrohir. You were gracious enough to come to our aid yester-eve by the Bruinen."

He indicated the smiling figure to his right.

Which was completely unnecessary of course. Any idiot could see that they were siblings.

But what did he mean by 'son of Elrond'? She had left her kind host not an hour ago, and, unless she was very much mistaken, the fellow wasn't a day over thirty! Either it was a private joke between the Lord of Imladris and these two mischievous chaps (younger cousins, perhaps?), or something was afoot!

The imposing granny was so perplexed by their odd words, that their comment about ale and rangers went completely over her head. She swept her gaze over the room at large (and the rangers - believing their little deception had just been uncovered, and they were about to be hexed into oblivion - held their collective breath) and noticed that not a single one present - other than herself - seemed to be a day over forty.

Why, that was it! She had just discovered the reason for Elrond's admiration of the house-elves ...

Mass Glamour charms!

The sneaky Lord was using their elf-magic to disguise his wrinkles and receding hairline - and ordering them to afford the same courtesy to half his people!

Gracious! She had no idea New Zealanders were quite so vain. She sincerely hoped the house-elves were not being exploited by their (probably decrepit) master. Still, they were no doubt happy enough to do whatever he asked as long as he kept supplying the butterbeer. Pity they couldn't have fixed his ears though ...

Certain that she had stumbled onto something, Augusta nodded at them politely, deciding not to reveal her new knowledge to the population at large. After all, didn't she have her little secrets, too (such as her magically supported bosom)? Who was she to cast stones after he had been so hospitable?

"I'm delighted to make your full acquaintance, gentlemen," she said. "Do forgive me for leaving so quickly last night, but I was feeling the effects of all that cold night air and was quite desperate to warm my hands by a lovely fire."

Elladan answered. "You need not apologise to us, my Lady. Indeed, we are glad that the Windlord was able to bring you to comfort so quickly. Your swift flight from our company merely furnished us with the excitement of a mystery - something my brother and I are fond of - until our arrival a few hours later."

What a gentlemen he was! Smiling in approval, she invited them both to join her for breakfast, but was surprised when they declined.

"Our thanks, my Lady, but we have already broken our fast," explained the other brother apologetically. "We come only to escort you to our father if you are finished with your own meal."

Escort her to their father, indeed! Now she knew why the sneaky Lord kept fobbing her off with 'escorts'. Why, he'd probably been stuck in that pretty little hospital wing for the past hour rubbing ointments onto his arthritic hips!

She took one final sip of her lukewarm Earl Grey before accepting the hands they offered to aid her from the bench (Elrond wasn't the only one with stiff joints) and bidding her other companions a polite farewell. Lindir said he hoped to see her later and she smiled thinly in agreement (still determined to get him to rattle out a Warbeck tune that evening). The other men stood and bowed politely while the twin sons of Elrond took an arm each and escorted her to the door. But just as they reached it, Augusta stopped.

"Young man," she asked in a voice that was sure to carry to the table behind her. "What was that you said about a 'morning mug'?"

A groan of despair and several muffled snorts of laughter drifted over to her ears. Elladan halted beside her and grinned rakishly.

"That Halbarad does not think properly first thing in the morning without one, my Lady."

That's what she thought he'd said.

Pulling her arms free, she spun on her heel (alarmingly fast, despite her stiff joints) and glowered at the occupants of the table. Only the clean-shaven (exceedingly handsome) ones looked innocent. Every last bearded face in sight was gazing out the window in sudden preoccupation.

"Is that so?" she seethed.

Why, those furry-faced, wide-eyed, honey-tongued scoundrels! They had successfully diverted her with all their good manners and 'my Lady's' and fondness for blackberry juice! She ought to hex their bits off for their devious rascality! And Lindir - her one hope for a decent song in all New Zealand - aiding and abetting their crime! She narrowed her eyes as they landed on the blond bombshell and the grin slipped slowly off his face.

"In their defence, Lady Augusta," chimed in Elrohir beside her (and looking far too smug to be really concerned with defending them), "the ale on offer was but a very diluted version. It is often consumed by the Rangers of the North throughout the day in preference to blackberry juice or, indeed, the pure, fresh water that flows down the mountains yonder."

The Rangers of the North abandoned the lovely view out the window and glared at Elrohir in betrayal as her disapproving gaze swept over them. How shocking! And just when they had so recently impressed her with their squeaky clean skin and superb vernacular!

"Well, I hope you didn't object too much to swapping your blackberry juice for my lovely tea, Halbarad," she said, addressing the ranger by name for the first time (as if it were the worst possible insult she could think of).

The captain flushed. "Nay, my Lady. It was a refreshing change. The tea was ... is ... delicious."

He was, without doubt, the worst liar she had ever met (apart from Neville).

"I'm delighted to hear it, young man. So delighted, in fact, that I insist you and your hairy friends join me tomorrow morning for breakfast as well, if I am still here. That way, I can continue to 'refresh' you with it."

A dozen jaws dropped in horror and everyone else rocked with mirth.

"That goes for you too, my good fellow!" she barked at Lindir, who had the temerity to snigger at the rangers when he had been complicit in their crime.

"But I do not drink ale in the mornings!" he declared self-righteously.

She waved airily in the direction of Halbarad and his cohorts. "Neither, I was led to believe, do they. Now, if there are no more objections, I bid you all a very good morning, gentlemen."

And with that, she turned on her sensibly-shod heel and allowed herself to be 'escorted' to the decrepit, Glamour-ridden lord of the land, leaving the lager louts at the breakfast table to drown their sorrows.

In Earl Grey, of course.

*~*~*~*

Ten minutes later, Augusta was being escorted by Elladan and Elrohir, not to Elrond's study at all, but through passages she hadn't yet seen and down several flights of stairs out into a high garden above the steep bank of the river.

"Are we lost?" she asked in confusion.

One of the chaps (she had no idea which) laughed. "Nay, Lady. But there are more attending this Council than may be comfortably settled in our father's study."

Gracious! That many? How many people did it take to help her find one missing boy?

Then again, the boy in question was a post-traumatic, highly deluded, seventeen year old Longbottom. She would need all the help she could get.

"Ah, well, excellent. The more the merrier. As long as they haven't brought blackberry juice with them."

Both her (very dashing) escorts laughed as they showed her to a rather crowded porch at the east side of the building. Her host rose from his seat at her appearance.

"I hope you enjoyed your breakfast, my Lady?" Elrond enquired politely as he took a step forward to bow at her.

Augusta absently wondered if he really ought to be bending his back quite so much. With his arthritis, he could very well lock himself at the waist.

"Yes, thank you very much, my good fellow. It was most ... refreshing," she replied, eliciting a chuckle from his sons.

"I am glad to hear it. With your permission, I have requested that my sons remain for our council, and also joining us is Erestor whom you met yester-eve."

The advisor gave her a warm smile while Elladan and Elrohir took their seats, and she returned it as best she could (with a thin-lipped grimace).

"Allow me to present my daughter, Arwen," continued Elrond indicating to his left. An extraordinarily beautiful young woman smiled at her beatifically.

Not normally one to gush, Augusta couldn't help but admire the lovely woman, with her elegant red dress, waist-length black hair (longer than even all the men's, which was saying a lot) and sparkling grey eyes.

"Well, aren't you an exceptionally pretty girl, young lady!" she declared, shocked into uncharacteristic flattery.

"How very kind of you to say," replied a smiling Arwen, without so much as a hint of a blush.

Hardly surprising, really. She must hear that sort of thing all the time. Deciding not to remark on it again (in case the girl's ego exploded into the stratosphere - for all Augusta knew, she could be a raving narcissist or a vicious shrew), she schooled her features once more into their usual look of faint disapproval (which only made Arwen smile more, if possible).

"Arwen is wise and far-seeing, she may be of aid to us in this Council," concluded her host after depleting his (exhaustive) supply of compliments on the wonders of his daughter.

Far seeing? Did he mean 'far-sighted'? Oh really! It was very unfair of Elrond to point out her poor vision to all and sundry after singing her praises for the past five minutes. How would he like it if she stood there and extolled his many virtues as a host, then topped it off by saying "... he is a middle-aged arthritic, who is fighting the steady encroach of his Winter years with Glamour charms (for which he bribes the house-elves with butterbeer) and a toothy smile"?

Augusta had a sudden rush of sympathy for the girl and gave Elrond a disapproving glare (much to his astonishment).

"Is aught amiss, my Lady. Do you object to my daughter's presence?" he asked in deep confusion.

"Certainly not!" she retorted primly. "I am more than happy to have the young lady present. And I think her eyes are very fine, regardless of how well they do or do not function."

She gave Arwen's hand a comforting pat and the young lady laughed merrily as her father stood at a temporary loss for words.

Movingly swiftly into the next introduction (after recovering himself), Elrond indicated a very tall chap wearing a gold-coloured shirt (she refused to look any further down - if she saw another pair of tight trousers that day, her heart might give out) with long blond hair.

"This is Glorfindel, late of Gondolin," he said cautiously, with a measured glance at the little old woman.

"Very late, my Lord," remarked Glorfindel, moving forward to bow elegantly at her. "Lady Augusta, allow me to express both my gratitude and my wonder at your timeous arrival yester-eve. In all the days of my life, I cannot recall a single experience that rivals the memory of your magnificent wrath against our common Enemy. It is an honour to finally meet the Green Witch in person."

Well! What a thoroughly decent thing to say! What superb manners the fellow had!

Very impressed with the golden-tongued chap, Augusta offered him a brisk nod. "You are most welcome young man. I am very glad to have been of service to such a well-spoken fellow. You are a credit to your parents, no doubt."

Glorfindel positively beamed (while Elladan and Elrohir sulked in their seats - she had not said they were a credit to their parents).

As his was the last introduction to be made, Glorfindel ushered her to her seat in the little circle of chairs and she sank into it gratefully. How delightful to have a meeting outside, with the distant roar of a waterfall and the scent of pretty flowers. And not a bit cold either!

As if reading her mind, her host said: "I hope you do not object to holding council here, Lady Augusta. My study is not quite large enough to seat all of us comfortably, and no one will disturb us here with anything less than an urgent matter."

"I have no objection at all, my good man. I was just thinking how very pleasant it was."

He smiled in approval. "Then let us begin, shall we?"

An excellent idea!

"As you may be aware from their presence here, I have informed all our companions of your quest to seek out you grandson, the young Wizard Neville Longbottom."

Oh, really - if she didn't know her own grandson's name by now then what was she doing here?

"I have also informed our companions of your suspicions as to his presence here."

Yes, yes. Get on with it!

"But what you yourself are not aware of yet, Lady Augusta, is the most likely reason for his journey to Middle Earth."

Augusta ceased her mental encouragement and watched the (probably decrepit) Lord of Imladris suspiciously. There was a more likely reason for the boy's jaunt than what her host had revealed last night? Was the Glamour-ous man holding out on her?

Elrond regarded her gravely. "What I am about to reveal to you is known by few outside this circle, Lady Augusta. For the sake of Middle Earth, I ask that you respect the very great need to keep it to yourself."

Sensing that she was about to hear some very delicate information, she refrained from clobbering him for asking her not to spill his secrets.

"I am not in the habit of divulging other people's confidences, my good fellow, and certainly not if they involve my grandson. You have my word as a Longbottom that I shall remain tight-lipped on the subject."

He nodded in gratitude. "I had known you would reply thus, because I sensed from our very first meeting that you are a woman of honour. Nevertheless, I had to make the request. I hope you understand."

"Certainly. I am not offended. Please, do continue."

Within the next five seconds, preferably ...

Obeying her silent wish (not that he was aware of it), the well-preserved (by house-elf magic) Lord started his tale:

"Many years ago, before the dawning of this Age, the Dark Lord Sauron - a powerful and evil Wizard - created a weapon that would see him conquer all Free Peoples of the West and beyond. It was a weapon of such terrible power that none could hope to defeat him while he held it. And though many rose in defiance of his dominion, Men and Elves alike, it was but by chance that he lost his weapon and was defeated. Isildur, the ancestor of the Rangers of the North whom you met yester-eve in the courtyard of my home, won a victory many hoped for, but none believed would ever be possible. But though the Dark Lord was vanquished, his weapon remained, and as long as it existed, it would have the power to facilitate the return of Sauron. Isildur, flushed with victory and enthralled by the power of Sauron's weapon, did not destroy it in Mordor as he aught. Instead, he kept it for himself and thus it led to his doom. He was slain by Enemy agents and the weapon was lost to all for thousands of years, allowing the Dark Lord to slowly gather his strength and rise to power again. Long have I cursed the folly of Isildur's choice! Long have I blamed myself for not acting more definitively!"

Arwen reached out to lay a comforting hand on her father's arm while Augusta mulled over what she had heard so far.

Gracious! Halbarad's foolish ancestor let this mysterious weapon vanish when he should have destroyed it? And now this Sauron chap had the power to return? No wonder Halbarad and the rangers were a bunch of raging alcoholics - they were ashamed of him! And weren't the house-elves of New Zealand an industrious lot, what with all that cooking, drinking and dark wizard-bashing! But, for pity's sake, Elrond was being rather harsh with himself. What could he possibly have done about events that happened so long ago? Glamour charms and middle-age notwithstanding, he wasn't that old!

And what did this have to do with her grandson anyway? Had the man not said this ... weapon ... was lost?

Lost. Dark Lord's weapon ...

There was something vaguely familiar about that. What was it?

She tried to grasp the thought, but it was gone, and Elrond began to speak again before she had the chance to recover it.

"But the weapon has now been found, my Lady. Fortunately for us, it was recovered by an agent of the Light who knew not its true history or purpose. And now, it is being carried by his heir, also an ally, who will take it to the place of its birth and destroy it once and for all. It is the only way to ensure that Sauron's designs for conquering Middle Earth will never be realised."

The Longbottom matriarch frowned. "It's a very compelling story, my good fellow. Dangerous weapons, dark wizards, brave house-elves, men succumbing to temptation, allies setting off on a trip to set it all to rights again; but tell me - what does this have to do with my grandson? He can't be the heir of the chap who found it because he has no relations on this side of the world. So that rules out his carrying this mysterious weapon to Mordor. And the only reason I can imagine him being here, as I understood from our little chat last night, is that he is stepping in for this Gandalf fellow to fight against Sauron's Death Eaters, or orcs, or whatever else the stupid man has inflicted on the poor people of your lands."

To her surprise, it was Erestor who answered.

"We suspect that your grandson may be attempting both deeds simultaneously, Lady."

Both at the same time? How ridiculous! It was as much as her grandson could do to yawn and cover his mouth at the same time, let alone destroy a dark object and fight ...

"Just a moment," she said, as realisation hit her. "Do you mean he's fighting and carrying this weapon to its destruction? Why, he'll be as vulnerable as a broken Snitch!"

"Nay, my Lady," assured Elrond, intervening as her agitation rose. "He does not carry the weapon, nor is it carried openly, for the forces of evil are searching far and wide for both it anyone who bears it. Therefore, it must be carried in secret. What my faithful counsellor means, is that your Neville aids the fight against Sauron by fulfilling Gandalf's place in its bearer's journey. He is the protector of the Fellowship which accompanies the bearer of Dark Lord's weapon."

Power ... Lost ... Dark Lord ... Middle Earth ...

Oh dash it all! What was it she was trying to remember ...

There!

"I will have the power to find the Ring and overthrow the Dark Lord Sauron. Middle Earth will be mine!"

She gasped.

"Saruman!" she cried, leaping from her seat. "The weapon. The weapon is a ring, isn't it?"

Elrond and a few others had already risen in alarm at her gasp, but they all froze when she said 'ring', and she knew she had guessed correctly.

"That idiot wizard was rambling on about a ring just before we fought," she announced shrilly, half to them, half to herself as she paced back and forth. "Oh, I thought he was just prattling on about a new piece of jewellery, vain peacock that he is, but no!"

She stopped in her tracks and faced her host, face ashen. "He's looking for it, too! He wants to use it to overthrow Sauron and rule New Zealand - I mean, Middle Earth! That's why he held me captive. He wanted my wand - my staff - to help him find it! That scoundrel will be hunting your Fellowship, too. Which means he's hunting for my Neville! Why, I've a good mind to go back there and knock the stuffing out of him!"

Arwen rose swiftly and caught the agitated witch gently in her grasp. "Nay, Lady Augusta. You must not! For in your maternal anger, you may inadvertently show our hand. Saruman is not yet aware that we know of his evil scheme. We may yet prevent this disaster if we curry patience. Please, sit by me. Let me ease your mind, I beg you."

Ha! Her mind would be eased a whole lot faster if she just popped off to Orthanc and trounced that raging megalomaniac into the bowels of hell with the aid of her very first Killing curse! Hunting her Neville? How dare he! No one hunted her Neville!

Except her, of course.

Nevertheless, she allowed Arwen to lead her to the seat directly beside hers (forcing Elladan to move) and sat seething at the thought of the despicable despot while the pretty girl held her hand.

And the others talked.

"If Saruman searches for the Fellowship, he may well find them before Sauron's forces are able to, Adar. We know not how far their journey has carried them at this moment. They could very well be nearer Isengard than Mordor," said one of Elrond's sons, forcing Arwen to tighten her grip on Augusta's hand as the witch attempted to spring from her chair once more.

"And yet," offered Glorfindel sensibly, "we know that he had not found them when the Lady Augusta fled Orthanc, and that was but two days ago."

"I did not flee Orthanc, young man! I flew off at my own leisure with victory under my belt!" snapped Augusta (never too agitated to allow the allusion of cowardice on her part to go unchallenged).

Elrond rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Fortunately for him, Augusta was too preoccupied to notice.

Glorfindel nodded a rather bemused apology in her direction. "Yet you see my point, my Lady, do you not? If the Fellowship has eluded him thus far, so many weeks into their journey, then it is likely that they are beyond his grasp."

"Unless his agents have captured them farther afield," chipped in Erestor. "We know that he is in collusion with Sauron, but the Dark Lord may not be aware of his ally's scheme. Saruman is a powerful Wizard in his own right, after all."

"Not powerful enough to fend off an angry Longbottom - a lesson he learned two days ago. And I'll be delighted at the opportunity to teach it to him again, if he so much as touches a hair on my boy's head!"

Elrond was sitting quietly, allowing everyone to vent their ideas (and in Augusta's case, fury). But he ended everyone's speculations by standing and raising a hand, effectively halting their discussion.

"So," he began in a low, but firm voice. "We believe that young Neville is now the Wizard protector of the Fellowship, and is accompanying Frodo, Aragorn and the others to Mordor. We do not know that Saruman is yet aware of his existence ..."

He shot Augusta a questioning look.

"Well I certainly didn't tell the idiot about him!" she exclaimed in shock.

"It was an inquiry, my Lady, not an accusation," said Arwen gently.

"Oh, I see. I beg you pardon, my good fellow. There was no slight intended," the elderly witch said to her host.

"And none taken, my Lady. I know you speak only with fear for your grandson's safety in your heart," he replied with a nod, before addressing the assembled company.

"So, now we also believe that he is not yet aware of young Neville's existence. And finally, thanks to the unexpected intelligence we have from the Green Witch herself, we are aware that he plans to betray his ally's trust and seeks to find the One Ring for his own evil design."

Elrond took his seat, and Augusta waited for his grand scheme to use all the facts at hand and produce her grandson from among them. Her host steepled his fingers in concentration.

And deliberated.

And deliberated a bit more.

What the deuce was taking the fellow so long? Why hadn't Neville magically appeared before her (which would, in any event, have been unlikely. But very convenient).

Finally, she couldn't take it any longer.

"Have you thought of anything yet?" she asked impatiently.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Glorfindel's lips curved into a smile.

"Ah, would that I could produce a plan to save us all as quickly as a mortal's agitated heart can flutter," her host said ruefully.

Oh for heaven's sake! What did that mean? What was it with these pretty folk and their obsession with mortality (a stupid question given that she already knew Elrond himself was trying desperately to stave off his own)?

He sighed. "I fear that the matter will not be as easily resolved as you - or indeed we all - would have it, my Lady. For matters are, sadly, more complex than may serve resolution's swift ease. We can only hope, for the moment, that Saruman is not aware of the Nine Walkers ..."

Augusta frowned. Who the deuce were they?

"... and that their path has not been troubled by his intercession. We do know the Fellowship journey to Mordor, but we do not know their route and therefore it will make their location all the more difficult. That may be to our advantage and to our Enemy's folly. Yet, even if we were fortunate in our knowledge of their current position ..."

Here, Elrond took a deep breath as he gazed at her cautiously.

"... the question remains as to whether or not we should intercede."

The furious Longbottom matriarch flew out of her seat and everyone flinched as she gave them the dubious benefit of her impressive lungpower.

"Now you listen to me, young man," she cried (completely forgetting her knowledge of his impending mortality), "I did not come all the way out here to listen to you tell me that you're just going to sit there and do nothing to help me find my boy!"

"My Lady, his aid is required - has been requested by the very Valar themselves. And you are not alone in your concern for kin. There are many who fear for the safety of their kin in these dark times," replied Elrond, remaining remarkably calm (damn him!) despite her wrath.

"That may very well be - and believe me, I sympathise completely. You have no idea how much. But Neville has no idea that there are now two swaggering idiots out looking for this blasted ring. Dash it all, that makes him twice the target he should be ..."

Thrice, when she got her hands on him.

"... and that is unacceptable!"

"He and his fellow travellers are targets many times over without the influence of Saruman, for Sauron's agents are numerous and cunning."

That was not what she wanted to hear! She faced him with one hand on her hip and one finger waving at him in accusation.

"So what you're telling me is, that even if you knew where he was, and even though you're aware that he is in the most excessive amount of danger - you are happy to sit there and do nothing to help me recover him?" she demanded angrily.

"I am not 'happy' with any of these circumstances, Lady!" declared Elrond, finally losing his patience as he leapt from his seat and stormed towards her.

She did not back down when he towered over her.

"I would be happy if Isildur had destroyed the Ring those many long years ago! I would be happy if this desperate quest of gentle Hobbits was not required at all. I would be happy if Gandalf had not fallen and made the necessity of bringing a seventeen-year-old boy into this battle absolute! I would be happy if my son were not walking into danger beside your grandchild, for if this quest fails, he will be amongst the first to perish!"

The little company stared in shock at the tall, Lordly man and little (but scary) Green Witch as they glared at each other.

But Augusta was looking into the stormy eyes of her host, and it dawned on her that they mirrored her own.

They reflected her own fear for a child.

Sighing, she dropped her accusing finger and - surprising him completely - used it to grasp his hand and pat it in comfort.

But what really threw him off balance was her use of his name.

"I know what it's like to fear for your child, Elrond. I experienced it every time my own son left home to fight dark wizards; when they brought him home a shadow of his former self after being caught and tortured by his enemies, and again when my grandson was old enough to pick up his father's wand and fight in his stead. I know that fear more intimately than I've known anything else in my life. It is not my intention to accuse you of being callous or oblivious to my fear - and most definitely not when I see that same fear in your eyes. But Neville is my grandson, my boy. He belongs with me. Not with your Fellowship and not in your war."

"My Lady, he is in this war of his own volition. Whether he remains a child in your eyes or not, he has made his choice. To remove him from this quest - even were I able - may be disastrous. It could result in the downfall of this world which we have fought long and hard to protect. I cannot act against his sincere desire to aid Middle Earth, for one as noble as he would not thank me for it. And you would lose him if you attempted to intercede on his behalf."

The words were spoken softly, but with a ringing sincerity.

She would lose him if she attempted to intercede.

They resounded in her head as Elrond withdrew his hand and took his seat, leaving her alone in the middle of the company.

Neville would never forgive her. Augusta knew as it as sure as she knew that Saruman was cursing her very existence. If she chased after him and found him, then hauled him back to England before he could complete his noble (if deluded) quest, she would lose her grandson forever.

Taking a shaky breath, she raised her head and faced her host with all the Longbottom pride she could muster (which was a lot).

"Well, then, my good fellow. If that's the way things stand, there's really only one thing left to say ..."

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