Not Quite a Maia

Neville had never been so glad in his life to fall on his rear.

Really.

If he had thought the few hours' ride towards Fangorn had been uncomfortable, then it was nothing compared to the mad dash across what Aragorn called the Eastemnet, through grasses that reached up to his knees or over hidden pools (which, of course, the ruddy horse dumped him into - twice). The young wizard was damp, sore and chaffed beyond reason before the ranger called a halt for a few hours' rest.

The sun had long since sank into the west as he slithered off Fæleu's back and sagged to his knees. He didn't even object when Gimli grabbed him by the scruff of his elven cloak and literally dragged him across the grass to where Legolas was starting a small, but welcome, fire.

"Oh, really, Gimli dear. You could have just pulled him up and put your arm around his waist to help him over. Look at his lovely cloak! And his trousers!"

Molly waved her wand over Neville's mucky clothing while gifting the dwarf with a scowl of disapproval.

"It was my intent to assist him to the fire, Lady Molly, not beg him for a dance," replied the dwarf in surprise.

Hah! Dance! He'd be lucky if he could so much as stand on his own two feet by his eighteenth birthday, let alone take a waltz in the middle of nowhere with a grumpy dwarf.

"'S'alright Molly. It's not that bad - you've got the worst of it off," he said, attempting to brush the remaining smears of dirt from his front. Not having had the opportunity to cast a Drying charm after the callous beast chucked him into the water (Aragorn had been adamant that they maintain their pace), he had literally had to dry out as he rode, much to Molly's chagrin. Of course, he could have accepted her offer of flying overhead and hitting him with a nice Heating charm, but he didn't want to lose face with the others. The power ranger hadn't so much as flinched when - after the teenager's first fall - he'd sprang lightly off Hasufel's back, waded into the pool to yank him out, then sprang (dripping wet) back on to his (beautifully docile) horse. And Legolas looked like a male model in a Witch Weekly wet t-shirt competition when it had been his turn to pull him out of the next pool. As for Gimli, well, the dwarf would rather cuddle a tree than admit he was any less hardy than his other two macho companions.

Aragorn stood sipping on a warm cup of something Molly had offered him a few moments earlier and gazing into the darkness as Neville pulled himself into a sitting position. The teenager gratefully accepted his own cup from the matronly witch.

"There, dear. Get some of that hot soup down you and you'll soon feel a whole lot better. There's no point in making anything more substantial than that though if we've any hope of getting a few hours sleep, but it'll warm you up nicely and take the edge off your hunger."

Smiling his thanks, he sipped on his tomato soup and gazed at the dark-haired man standing a few feet away.

"How much further is it, Aragorn?" he asked.

"With fleet foot and good fortune, we shall be in Edoras not long after sunrise."

Very thankful that he would be able to get a few hours' sleep before they set off again, he rubbed at his aching thighs and sipped his soup. It occurred to him that this might be a good time to get the tents out, having finally the space to set them up. But when he voiced his idea aloud Aragorn simply shook his head and said that with a little luck, they may have the comfort of a real bed at Edoras the next day. Resigned to another night in the open, the teenager found just enough energy to pull out his bedroll from the knapsack and throw himself on it, pausing only long enough to scowl at Fæleu (who was happily munching at the long grasses and therefore ignoring him) before closing his eyes. He fell asleep instantly.

It was still dark when they set off several hours later, and though Legolas had kindly offered to keep watch for the entire time his friends slept, the elf was the only one among them who looked fresh.

It was sickening really.

Neville gave an enormous yawn and nearly choked when Arod - who was directly in front of him carrying the elf and the dwarf - kicked up a small clod of soggy earth which hit him in the back of the throat. Molly whizzed by on her Cleansweep just as he was turning blue and hit him with a quick Anapneo before he had the chance to curl up his toes and die.

Blimey! Maybe Gran had a point about covering the 'enormous void in the middle of his face' - though he'd die before admitting it to her (he ignored the fact that he had almost done exactly that).

Determined to stay alive until they (at least) reached the capital of Rohan, the teenager kept his mouth firmly shut and clung to his horse's back, idly wondering if Merry and Pippin were having a better night's rest with the Ents than he'd had. Thinking of Merry and Pippin drew his thoughts to Frodo and Sam. Where were they? Were they safe? Had they managed to elude capture by the remaining Nazgûl? Did they have enough food and water? If only he'd cast an Ever-Full charm on their water-bottles before they'd left! But it couldn't be helped now. He'd just have to trust their resourcefulness to provide them with whatever provisions they needed.

As dawn broke and the air grew more chilly, the peaks of white-tipped mountains rose before them on the horizon. A short while later, Neville was able to discern dark valleys cutting into them as the horses raced across the grassy lands. Suddenly, Arod drew to a halt directly in front of him and Neville was forced to jerk his own reins to the side before Fæleu ran up the other horse's back. Legolas lifted himself up in the stirrups and shaded his eyes against the newly risen sun.

"What do your Elf eyes see, Legolas?" shouted Gimli (highly unnecessarily, of course. The elf was right in front of him).

"I see a white stream that comes down from the snows," replied Legolas.

Great. More water. He'd have to remember to keep the stupid horse away from it in case he had the pleasure of yet another cold bath.

"Snowbourn! The White Mountains are nigh!" cried Aragorn.

"Is that good, dear?" asked Molly, hovering beside him.

"Indeed, Lady Molly. For it means we come soon to Meduseld. It lies on a tall hill yonder at the foot of those very mountains."

"So we're nearly there?" asked Neville hopefully.

The ranger turned his head and gave the youth a weary smile. "Yes, young Wizard. Your trials on horseback are almost at an end, for the present. But we must exhibit caution from this moment on. The Rohirrim are a proud and honourable people, but with Saruman's Orcs roaming freely across their lands, they will treat with caution any stranger that seeks audience with the King if they are in company of a Wizard. It would be better if you hid your staff until we are inside the Golden Hall and have won their trust."

"But, wait a minute; we met Éomer and a group of Rohirrim soldiers two days ago - they would have told them that I'm friendly."

"Mayhap, lad," said Gimli gruffly. "But do not forget that Éomer and his Eored were abroad against the King's wishes. Théoden may not be inclined to pay his Marshal much heed."

Well that was just great, wasn't it? Another confrontation. Another my-wand-is-bigger-than-yours contest. And he'd have to prove himself - again. He shoved his wand beneath his shirt for safekeeping.

"Lady Molly?"

The witch turned to look at the ranger. "Yes, dear?"

Aragorn smiled at her mode of address. "It would be better if you dismounted your flying broom and took your seat before me. The warriors of Rohan are noble and gallant, but even they would take issue with a woman of such ... unusual ... taste in transport."

"Oh. Well, if you think it's wise, dear. But I don't want to be a bother to your poor horse - I'm not as thin as I used to be you know."

"You do yourself a disservice my Lady. Hasufel will barely notice your weight. Come." The ranger dismounted and extended his hand to her.

With a sceptical look on her face, Molly landed, packed her Cleansweep in her bag and allowed him to boost her onto Hasufel's back. Aragorn took his seat behind her and advised her to grip the horse's mane while he slid his arms past her waist and grabbed the reins. When they were all ready, the three horses carried their riders down the Westfold to Edoras.

Just over an hour later, the travellers crossed a stream at a well used ford on the lowest banks and followed the wide rutted tracks leading towards the uplands. Edoras loomed before them, with Meduseld sitting tall and proud at the peak. The sun was already beginning to reflect off its thatched roof and the teenager realised why Aragorn had called it the Golden Hall. At the foot of the walled hill were several tall, grassy mounds covered with little white flowers.

"These are the barrows of the dead kings of Rohan. The blooms are called simbelmynë, or Evermind in Common Speech. They flower all year round and are found where the dead are buried."

Neville silently counted the numerous barrows. Rohan had a lot of dead kings, that much was certain. But, crikey, their people couldn't think very much of them if they dumped them outside the city wall like that. There wasn't even a guard in sight to protect the graves of such important people. He was about to ask Aragorn why they didn't have a nice plot in a graveyard, when the ranger burst into song.

Oh great. Not again.

What was it with these people and their fondness for a song? First Galadriel after they'd left her on the riverbank back in Lothlórien (probably singing for joy at seeing the back of them - the hobbits had nearly eaten her out of house and home), then Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli - who sang a verse each at Boromir's cairn before the Four Hunters set off on their mammoth cross-country marathon.

He cringed as he remembered that particular song. After his three friends had each sung their verse, they had looked to him for a fourth, but he was the worst singer he knew and didn't have the slightest hope of coming up with something as poignant or elegant as they had - certainly not something fit enough to sing at the grave of his friend. However, the others had stared at him so sombrely and expectantly that he'd had no choice but to 'pull something out of the hat', as Granddad used to say. In the end, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping Boromir would forgive him, he did the best he could with:

In retrospect, it was probably fair to say that Parth Galen wasn't near Minas Tirith at all (or so Aragorn informed him later). And, unlike Odo the Hero, Boromir hadn't had a hat to speak of. Fortunately, Neville had at least been able to repair the broken horn and now wore it slung over his back. But a sidelong glance at his companions proved how willing they were to listen to his tribute (they had been stunned into silence) and therefore, because everyone else's verse had been twice as long as his, he added:

Not very elegant at all, really. In fact, Aragorn had been apoplectic with shock, but the teenager hadn't known if that was because he'd called Boromir a king (instead of the ranger himself) or because he'd managed to sing a rather jolly song about the son of the Steward resisting temptation a mere hour after the man's death. Still, he thought his Gondorian friend would have liked the eccentric tribute. Boromir had not been completely without a sense of humour and his noble friend would probably have slapped him heartily on the back and rolled his eyes at the teenager's gauche attempt to honour him.

Then, of course, there was that ruddy tune about Gondor that Aragorn would belt out (especially if they were near any mountains that looked South). Which was nice, Neville supposed, except that the last time the ranger let rip with it, he had been trying to get to sleep.

And now this rather depressing song about a bygone age as they walked amidst the graves of kings. It was not exactly heartening.

Resigned to the fact that he would have to grin and bear it, Neville followed his friends as they passed the silent mounds and rode up the slopes of a large hill until they finally arrived at a large gate in the great wall encircling its perimeter. By this time, the ranger had finished his musical tribute, but now a new threat loomed on the horizon in the form of armoured men guarding the entrance to the town. They challenged the weary travellers in their own language, and Neville saw Molly frown in confusion, but to his surprise, Aragorn was able to speak with them in their native tongue.

It wasn't enough to stop the suspicious guards pointing first at the horses, then Molly. What, had they never seen a woman before? One of the Rohirrim hovered at the witch's leg and stuck a finger dangerously close to her thick woolly tights and knee-length skirt (which made Gimli growl in warning) but Molly slapped it away and gave him the sort of heated reprimand which was clear in any language. There was a rapid exchange of words as the ranger argued with the guards, then a messenger left through a smaller opening in the gate and disappeared from sight. They waited almost twenty minutes before he returned then finally - reluctantly - the guards stepped aside. The large gate was unlocked and drawn back and the travellers followed one of the Rohirrim through it as he led them up the hill on his own mount.

The hill was dotted all over with wooden structures that Neville assumed to be homes, and the wide stone path led them passed the dwellings. The whole town had an atmosphere of gloom and depression, reinforced by the empty streets and wary guards back at the gate. A few suspicious heads peered at them behind coarse, yet colourful curtains. But he wasn't interested in hidden spectators. Overtaking Legolas and Gimli, he drew his horse next to Aragorn and Molly.

"What happened? What did the guards say?"

"We are fortunate that I am familiar with the language of the land and was able to convince them of our good intentions, young Wizard, or we would not have won entry to their City," replied the ranger, looking grim. "It appears the Théoden King will allow no other than his own folk or allies from Gondor to pass his gates."

Well, that made sense really. Any self-respecting leader wouldn't exactly open their door to a band of orcs and tell them to make themselves at home.

"And did Éomer tell them about us? That we're friends?"

Legolas and Gimli were listening intently to their conversation, trying to glean what information they could.

Aragorn's forehead gathered into a quick frown. "He did, or so it would seem. But it does not appear that we may count on that recommendation for a friendly welcome. Our guide was not forthcoming on his fate, but I suspect he is not in favour with his uncle at present."

"The King is his uncle?" asked Molly, turning slightly in her seat. "Well, surely that would make him more apt to listen to him?"

"I know not, Lady Molly. All I can say for certain is that much has changed in Edoras since last I enjoyed its hospitality. No longer are these people as welcoming as once they were: their King is ailing almost as fast as the Shadow grows and his son and heir lies dead at the hand of Saruman's agents, or so our guide has told me. And soon we may encounter this 'craven counsel' which Éomer claims to whisper in Théoden's ear, the same counsel which would have turned us away at the gate. We must exercise caution until we have the lay of the Court. Neville?"

The teenager raised his brows in question.

"It is known that you are a Wizard. You may meet with hostility when we enter, for Gandalf was little loved by Théoden, and those who are aware of Saruman's treachery will not trust those of your kind after losing their Prince to his plotting."

"What do you mean: 'those who are aware'? Isn't the King aware?"

The dark-haired man shook his head as they passed a sparkling fountain and neared the green terrace which housed the long court of Edoras. "It appears he is not as willing to believe in the Wizard's betrayal as others - due in no small part to the machinations of his counsel, no doubt. Grima Wormtongue's influence over his liege is uncommonly absolute. We must be wary of him."

Wormtongue? The King had an advisor called Wormtongue? How the ruddy hell could he take someone with a name like that seriously? If Aragorn's words about the shady bloke hadn't already unnerved Neville, then that name alone would have put him on his guard.

"Fortunately," continued Aragorn, "Lady Molly is not known to the Court, nor would they suspect a woman of power equal to a Wizard..."

"Chauvinists," snapped Molly, still peeved that the guards at the gate had (apparently) attempted to cop a feel of her leg. Neville grinned.

"...and her innocent countenance will be to our advantage if matters become heated enough to warrant her intervention."

"What exactly did you tell them about her down at the gates?" Neville asked, curious to know how his friend had explained Molly's strange attire to the locals.

The ranger allowed a smile to grace his lips. "I told them that she is Gimli's sister."

The dwarf almost choked. "Sister? Aragorn, the Lady looks naught like me - nor any Dwarven female. She is much too delicate and hairless for that, as any one who has ever seen a Dwarven female would know."

"Ah, but no Man or Elf has ever seen a Dwarven female, least of all the Rohirrim. Who are they to gainsay my claim? The Lady Molly is markedly shorter in stature than all of us, except you. And her hair is a similar shade to yours, and abundant enough to afford more than a passing resemblance."

Neville was gobsmacked (to say nothing of Molly, who had flushed to the roots of her hair at the thought of being hirsute enough to pass for a dwarf). "Bloody hell, Aragorn, I had no idea you could be so sneaky."

Legolas laughed. "That is because you do not know him as well as I, my young friend. But our wily ranger has the right of it. It could seem to an untrained eye that the Lady Molly and my bushy Dwarven friend here are kin, though it would appear that she alone has inherited the beauty in the family, for her craggy brother is not as pleasing to the eye."

Gimli glared viciously at the elf's back while his 'sister' laughed nervously. But before the affronted dwarf could reply, the small party reached a set of stone steps leading up to a wide paved terrace. Their guide called a halt and spoke with Aragorn, pointing to the top of the steps before turning around and riding back down the way they had come. Two watchmen stood silently by stone-carved seats, gazing down at them expectantly.

"We must make our own way from here, my friends," said Aragorn, swiftly dismounting and helping Molly down from Hasufel's back. The others followed suit, leaving their horses to the care of a wary stable-hand who had seen their approach up the long path.

Unluckily for Neville, his legs were still shaky from all the hard riding he'd done and it was almost impossible for him to negate the steep steps leading up to the door of the large court without assistance from Legolas.

Why hadn't he thought to put a Cushioning charm on the stupid animal's flanks too? Now his thighs were chaffed and sore and he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

In fact, as he climbed the steps, it became apparent that he couldn't even do that. The friction it caused on his raw skin was too much to bear, so he sort of waddled up the steps, gripping on to the elf's arm like a drunk gripping on to the bar at the local pub.

Which was typical, really. After all, why should he want to impress the natives with friendly overtures and powerful magic, when he could awe them with his ability to simply stand on his own two feet?

Brilliant.

He was relieved when they reached the final step, which opened on to a paved area before the doors. But just as he pulled himself up it, his unruly foot caught its edge and he tripped, flying across the landing and falling on his stomach at the foot of one of the enormous blond men.

"Oof!"

"Neville, dear! Oh, for goodness' sake. You really should watch where you're going."

"It wasn't me, it was my foot," he squeaked to his Guardian in mortification as Aragorn and Legolas yanked him unceremoniously off the ground.

"Let us hope your foot recovers its sense of direction long enough to get us into the Golden Hall," remarked the ranger dryly.

Git. Just because he was an expert horseman and tracker extraordinaire, didn't mean they all were. But blimey! This new guard was a scary bloke. And enormous - at least as tall as Aragorn and Legolas. What did they feed people here?

The guard spared him a fleeting glance before addressing them in the Common Speech.

"Hail, comers from afar! I am the Doorwarden of Théoden. Háma is my name. Here I must bid you lay aside your weapons before you enter."

Legolas was the first to comply, handing over his knife, quiver and bow. Háma handled them with reverence when he heard they were gifts from Galadriel. But Aragorn was reluctant to part with his weapon.

"It is not my will to put aside my sword or to deliver Andúril to the hand of any other Man."

Neville didn't blame him. And if Isildur's heir wasn't parting with his sword, then he wouldn't be parting with his own goblin-made one either.

"It is the will of Théoden," said Háma.

Ha! He dared the King to come out and try to wrestle it from the imposing ranger's grip. There was no way Aragorn would part with the-sword-that-used-to-be-broken.

"It is not clear to me that the will of Théoden son of Thengel, even though he be Lord of the Mark, should prevail over the will of Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elendil's heir of Gondor."

Blimey! Aragorn wasn't pulling any punches, was he? He'd just told the grim Doorwarden that his boss didn't measure up to his own Númenorean legacy - and right outside the front door of the King's house, too! Come to think of it, that might not go down too well ...

"This is the house of Théoden, not Aragorn, even were he King of Gondor in the seat of Denethor," Háma replied, looking less than pleased as he stepped before the doors to the hall and barred their entry. The Doorwarden's sword was now in his hand and he pointed it towards them.

Molly intervened before the two men launched themselves at each other, taking a step towards the Rohirrim and crossing her arms in disapproval. "Now really, dear. There's no need to be like that. It's a family heirloom, for Merlin's sake. It's not really surprising that he's reluctant to give it up. And you ..."

She turned to point a finger at the ranger. "... it's not very nice to go strutting about as if you're king of the world. You're a guest in his country now. How would you like it if I came to visit your home and said that I was better than you? Hmm?"

Aragorn coloured slightly and Molly gave a nod of satisfaction. "That's what I thought. Now, play nicely boys. We're all friends here."

Slowly, Aragorn unbuckled his belt and laid his sword against the wall. "Here I set it, but I command you not to touch it, nor to permit any other to lay a hand on it. In this Elvish sheath dwells the Blade that was Broken and has been made again. Telchar first wrought it in the deeps of time. Death shall come to any Man that draws Elendil's sword save Elendil's heir."

Háma stepped back and looked at Aragorn with amazement. "It seems that you are come on the wings of song out of the forgotten days. It shall be, Lord, as you command."

"Well, if it has Andúril to keep it company, my axe may lay here, too, without shame," said Gimli gruffly. "Now then, if all is as you wish, let us go and speak with your master."

But Háma's eyes skipped over Molly, deeming her no threat, and came to rest on the Sword of Gryffindor, still hanging from Neville's waist by the red and yellow tie he'd used to secure it at Parth Galen. "There is one sword yet that must be surrendered. That of the Wizard."

Neville tensed. What? Walk in to a room full of hostile half-giants without his sword? And how did Háma know he was a wizard?

He remembered the guard at the gate speaking of Éomer. Of course - the King's nephew would have told Théoden that Isildur's heir travelled with one. Still, it didn't mean he was as ready to give up the iconic sword as quickly as the others had given up theirs. Professor McGonagall would flay him alive if he lost it.

Ignoring Molly's frown, he said: "You're joking, aren't you?"

"I do not jest on such matters. You are about to enter the Court of the King. If you come in friendship, it will be of no matter for you to leave your weapon in my care, for you will have no need of it. Will you not honour your host with this sign of respect? Or do you perhaps harbour ill intent after all - as is the manner of Wizards of late?"

Offended by the slur on his character, Neville glowered at the poncy git in his knee length mail shirt and shiny helmet. He was about to make a scathing retort about leaving them to fight their own battles when he remembered that the prince of the land had recently lost his life at the hands of a dark wizard's soldiers. Perhaps it was no wonder that the bloke was a bit touchy?

"Erm, right. Fine. Here you go," he said, loosening the Sword of Gryffindor and placing it in the corner next to the others' weapons. "But don't touch it, especially the blade: one nick of your finger and it'll kill you. It is a wizard's sword, after all."

Surprised that the teenager had acquiesced so willingly, Aragorn nodded at him to show his approval. He wasn't the only one to be impressed.

"I thank you for the warning, young Wizard. Perhaps not all of your kind are as callous as some."

Neville bit his lip at the double-edged compliment. At least the bloke was trying to be decent. But then Háma went and ruined it all.

"And your staff, Wizard."

No! Absolutely no way was he giving up his wand! But then again ... maybe he didn't have to? After all, the bloke had asked for his staff and Neville didn't have one. Technically.

Anyway, Háma didn't know him well enough to know if he was lying or not.

Not that he would lie, of course. He was rubbish at it (as Gran consistently reminded him). All he would do was pick out elements of truth and marry them up.

With that in mind, he squared his shoulders and gave the most convincing rueful sigh he could.

"I don't have a staff."

Háma's brows shot up his forehead in disbelief. "No staff? Would you have me believe you are a Wizard, yet bear no staff?"

"Well, do you see one on me? We got into a fight with Saruman at Fangorn forest the other night, and I sort of dropped my magic stick and couldn't find it."

Which was true. Sort of. He had said 'magic stick', not 'staff' or 'wand' so he couldn't be accused of lying. And Háma needn't know that he'd found it again. So far, so good.

"You fought the White Wizard?"

"Yeah."

Which was not entirely true. He'd put out the odd fire Saruman had shot at them, but Molly had done most of the real fighting because he'd been too busy trying not to crash face-first into a ruddy big tree.

Háma was still doubtful. "And he took the staff from your hand to punish you for your boldness?"

Er, well, no actually. Neville squirmed. Háma was looking at him with a deal more perception than he'd credited the man for, and he couldn't answer the question without being caught in an outright lie. But there was no other choice. He felt rotten for leading him on like this, but what else could he do? He was not parting with his wand, end of.

However, fate intervened in the guise of his Guardian.

"Oh, you should have seen him, Háma, dear! He rescued me from the horrible wizard's orcs, then cursed the man himself with a nice pair of antlers, amongst other things. But unfortunately, Saruman did manage to pinch his staff. Still, we should be grateful that Neville got in a last curse before that happened - the stupid man was too busy scratching his particulars to bother about finishing us off."

Every last pair of eyes had settled on Molly as she reeled off the outrageous half-truth. She looked so pleased and proud (probably with herself) as she grinned at the teenager that Háma began to soften.

"So he bravely championed your rescue at the cost of his own staff?"

"Oh, absolutely. I mean, he had to really, didn't he? After all, it's not as if my own flesh and blood could get anywhere near the wizard." She shot the shocked dwarf the same look of fond exasperation she normally reserved for Ron whenever he moaned about getting yet another hand-me-down Hogwarts' robe from one of his elder brothers. "Gimli was too busy being flattened by Legolas. And Aragorn was stumbling about like he'd swallowed a barrel of beer after the spell Saruman set off. Did I mention that Neville turned the wizard green? Oh yes, literally. He's not the White Wizard any more, that's for certain!"

Gimli was puce with embarrassment that Háma might think him too delicate to fend off a slip of an elf, and Aragorn rubbed his forehead in vexation after being likened to a hardened alcoholic. Only Legolas and Neville were able to admire her tactical diversion as she stood smiling at the Doorwarden and looking very much like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"The Dwarf is your kin? The messenger did not tell us this before he spoke with the King," gasped Háma, swapping a look of astonishment with his fellow guard.

"Yes. My brother. Older of course, but you can probably tell that just by looking at him. I have warned him about the effects of too much exposure to the sun, but he just won't listen. Typical male really. He won't even smear his face with a little moisturiser to fight off the worst of those wrinkles ..."

Gimli balked and clutched his cheeks (eliciting a snigger from Legolas).

"... not even for the sake of his poor, dear sister. Which is not very nice of him, is it? But you look like a nice big brother. I'll bet on my father's best walking axe that you would do it if your sister asked you. Well, you probably do - I mean just look at that baby soft skin of yours!"

Háma, who was becoming increasingly bemused by the turn of the conversation (and unwilling to admit whether or not he slapped cold cream on his face every morning) attempted to regain some sort of control.

"Forgive me my wonder, but I have never seen a Dwarven lady before. I had no idea they were so ..."

He struggled for words and both Gimli and Molly glared at him (Gimli because he was waiting to cut him down if he said anything unfavourable about Dwarven women, and Molly because she was waiting to hex him if he said 'hairy').

"... so tall," finished Háma, much to the collective relief of everyone. "Is it the norm for Dwarven males to be shorter than the females?"

Mortified at the sudden attention his stature was gaining (and livid that Molly had brought the subject up in the first place - not that he would tell her that in case she hexed him), the dwarf pulled himself up to his full, (almost) five feet of height and glowered at the Doorwarden. "Dwarves do not divulge such personal matters to strangers, Master Háma. And it is hardly a topic to be discussing when your King awaits us. Now, if you are satisfied that all is well, we would be glad of entry to the hall, for our journey has been long and arduous, and my sister feels the cold easily. 'Tis her unnatural lack of hair, you know. You would not keep a lady waiting outside much longer in these bitter winds, would you?"

Háma finally conceded to Neville's staff-less presence (looking very sorry that he had challenged the boy in the first place) and he and his fellow guard finally lifted the heavy bars on the doors and swung them inward, allowing the visitors to pass through.

With a beaming smile of thanks, Molly stepped up to Neville and followed him through behind the others.

"Thanks, Molly," Neville whispered, grateful that he hadn't been subjected to a strip-search for his 'staff' by Háma or his equally fierce-looking friend.

"My pleasure, dear. I couldn't very well let them take your wand away, now could I? Anyway, once I got over the shock of Aragorn's little fib to the guards at the gate, I found the idea of having a 'brother' again very nice."

"And I would say the idea pleased me too, if you had not accused me of being as aged as my own father," muttered Gimli from directly in front of her.

"What, you mean that little comment about the wrinkles? Well of course I don't think you have wrinkles, Gimli dear. How could anyone tell anyway - there's far too much hair on your face. Have you considered a decent shave? I know a very good spell that would trim the worst of that off, you know."

Gimli actually glanced back at her in disbelief, but was unable to reply because Aragorn hushed them with a wave of his hand, leaving them to walk the rest of the way in silence. It gave Neville the opportunity to look at his surroundings. After his eyes had accustomed to the dim light, he could see the hall was large - almost the same size of the great hall in Hogwarts. Woven cloths lined the walls, mostly depicting white horses on a green background, except one really big one, where a young man sat on a horse, his long yellow hair flying behind him in the wind. The horse's head was lifted and its nostrils were wide and red as it neighed, giving it (in Neville's opinion) a very eerie look.

Probably related to the nag he'd been lumbered with by Éomer, now that he thought about it.

They passed a long hearth in the middle of the hall, and he was beginning to think there was no one in the room when he saw the raised dais at the end. On top of it was a heavy, carved throne upon which sat possibly the oldest person he'd ever seen in his life. It was a man, bent with age and wearing a thin gold crown over long white braided hair. In the centre of the crown directly over his forehead was a large diamond which shot little beams of colour about his head as it caught the dim light of the hall. A few feet behind him was a woman in a long white dress, but the teenager couldn't see her face properly. On the steps leading up to the dais sat a thin, pale man with heavy-lidded eyes who regarded them warily.

That must be Wormtongue. Blimey, he was a right dodgy looking bloke. No wonder Éomer was suspicious of him.

They came to a halt several feet away from the dais and Aragorn spoke.

"Hail, Théoden son of Thengel. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn. I come to offer you counsel in this your darkest hour."

Théoden rose (slowly) and leaned on a short black staff. He spoke in a quivery voice that was heavy with age. "I greet you, son of Arathorn, though I admit to surprise at your presence. I would have thought the line of Isildur to be long gone, had not my sister-son told me of your existence yester-eve. But tell me, is it true that Gandalf is fallen?"

"I grieve to say that it is."

"Grieve? Each to their own, I suppose. But I for one do not grieve, for of late his visits to my hall brought naught but ill news. The kingdom of Rohan has suffered much since last he graced us with his 'wisdom', not the least of which is the death of my heir."

Neville was confused. How was that Gandalf's fault? Was the old man a bit mental?

Aragorn seemed to agree. "It was not by the work of Gandalf that Théodred perished. But I think you know this, Lord."

The King seemed to sag a little, before he rallied. "Perhaps. But what of this counsel that you come to offer? In case it has escaped your attention, my own trusty advisor sits by my feet. What counsel can you offer me that he cannot - lest it be to tell me the whereabouts of Shadowfax, for the Lord of the Mearas has deserted his home not eight days since."

Who the ruddy heck was Shadowfax? And why did he have a name that sounded like one of Arthur Weasley's dodgy Muggle machines (which Mr Weasley had insisted on showing him and Gran during a visit the summer after his adventures in the Department of Mysteries)?

"I come to counsel you on matters of war, not the missing chief of the Mearas, though I mourn his loss for your sake, Lord."

"You seem to forget I have counsel already. Why should I trust yours over his? Especially given that you consort with a foreign Istar, one who is unknown to even the wisest of my minstrels."

The old man turned his watery blue eyes toward Neville. "Do you deny that you are a stranger to these lands?"

The young wizard shook his head, until Legolas nudged him and whispered that he vocalise his answer.

Oh, right. How embarrassing.

"Er, no. It's a fair enough comment, sir."

"And from whence do you hail?"

Deciding it best to be economical with the truth (in case the King accused him of being completely barking and had him flung him in some sort of medieval loony bin) he said: "Valinor, sir."

There was a slight shaking of the King's shoulders. He was laughing at him! The old man was laughing at him!

"Do you expect me to treat that answer in good faith?"

Neville gritted his teeth and refrained from answering that he expected the King to keel over dead in the next five minutes, given his advanced years. He really did want to help these people, because Éomer and his men had seemed quite decent (despite the fact they'd lumbered him with a ghastly nag of a horse) and if they could get rid of Saruman, then they'd only have to worry about Sauron.

And whether or not Frodo and Sam could avoid his grasp.

"It's the truth, sir. I can only tell you the truth. I can't control how you treat it."

"A good answer. It is not beyond the bounds of reason that you would be sent to aid where others have failed. Yet, let us set it aside for the moment and address another issue. You are of uncommon youth for a Maia. Surely if the Valar themselves sent you here, they would have given you the guise of an old Man? One who would engender trust instead of scepticism?"

Well, he wasn't quite a Maia. Time to be economical again ...

"I chose this guise myself ..."

Which was not true. If he'd had any say in what he looked like, he would have gone for a dashing Oliver Wood-esque sort of figure.

"... you know, all the better to move around. Wouldn't want to be constricted in the body of an old man in a time like, this after all. Can you imagine me not being able to cast spells at the enemy because my fingers were crippled with arthritis? Or run to help a friend because my gout was killing me?"

Aragorn groaned, and it was only then that Neville realised the King's fingers were crippled with arthritis ...

Oh dear.

Hoping to correct his gaffe, he soldiered on. "Not that there's anything wrong with arthritis, if you've lived long enough to earn it. And if you've got problems with gout too, I'm sure there's something in Molly's first-aid kit than can help ..."

He was cut off when the ranger clamped a hand over his mouth. Probably a good thing, really. Théoden was not thrilled at being called crippled, however indirectly.

"Perhaps a greater age would have suited you better, child, for your youthful impertinence will garner few allies. And you are to be the successor to Gandalf Stormcrow? Well, so be it. You are well suited to follow in the steps of such a harbinger of ill tidings, as he ever was. Now I have the measure of you, I know to bid you leave my hall, for if the heir of Isildur takes guidance from one such as you, calamity cannot fail to follow in its wake. I want no more dealings with the guidance of foolhardy Wizards, or the counsel of Aragorn son of Arathorn - counsel which he no doubt has from you."

As mortified as the teenager was at possibly compromising Aragorn's good reputation with the King, he was unwilling to allow the slur on the Grey Wizard to pass when Gandalf had sacrificed his life to fight for the freedom of men like the one that stood in front of him.

"Look," he began in a firmer voice after pushing away the ranger's hand (which stank of horse), "I'm sorry if I offended you, sir. I didn't mean to. But that's no reason to take it out on Aragorn and definitely no reason to speak ill of the dead. You may not have liked Gandalf, but the news he brought you - whether you liked it or not - he brought only with the intention to help. That was all he ever wanted to do. Your problems wouldn't have just disappeared if he hadn't come to visit at all. They'd have gotten worse because you had no warning."

"They are worse! My kingdom is beset with enemies and my son is dead!"

"And is that because you took Gandalf's advice or ignored it?"

The question rang through the hall and Theoden staggered back in shock. Neville felt rotten for being so blunt, but as the King sagged into his chair, he knew what the answer was. The old man had dismissed Gandalf's counsel.

A delicate hand rested upon Théoden's shoulder and the woman behind the throne bent over to whisper into his ear. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but when she straightened herself she moved closer to the old man, keeping her hand on his shoulder comfortingly and gazing straight at the young wizard. Her new position allowed him a better view of her face.

Bloody hell! It was the girl of his dreams! Well, maybe not dreams, but ... vision at least. She was the very one he saw fighting the man in black when he'd looked into Galadriel's mirror!

And what a corker she was too! All ivory skin and big grey eyes, wavy blonde hair down to her waist.

Mind you, she didn't look too thrilled to see him (which was a shame. If he'd known she was going to be there, he'd have washed his face and combed his hair, Possibly rode Fæleu naked to the Snowbourn in the hope the stupid animal would chuck him in. He'd have relished even a cold bath if it made himself presentable for the beauty on the dais).

It was just his luck to make a bad impression on every girl that grabbed his fancy. Despondent at the realisation that he'd probably killed her passion for him before it was even born, he dragged his eyes back to Théoden, who had straightened himself somewhat in his chair.

"I will not validate your question by answering it, young Wizard. But I do respect your defence of your friends, however unwise your words are."

The pale man in black, who had been observing the strangers silently, grimaced slightly and turned to look at the King. But his master ignored him for the moment.

"And while we still speak of unwise words, you have not denied that Isildur's heir's counsel, whatever it be, comes directly from your own lips. Why should I heed it at all when you are an unknown element who has, in only a few short minutes, burdened me anew with the reminder of my loss?"

Aragorn took a step forward and addressed the King. "The counsel I would offer you, Lord, comes not from the lips of a Wizard, but from the Lady Molly, who was for a short time a prisoner of the agents of Saruman before her liberation. She herself has heard directly of Saruman's plans to attack your lands with an army of great strength."

At that, the skinny man in black rose from his seat on the steps and began to pace idly back and forth.

"My Lord King spoke justly in refusing such counsel, be it from one who claims to be Elendil's heir or a foreign Wizard," he said in a calculating voice. "But now, when his decision has been laid bare before you and you realise that your ally's guidance will be righteously dismissed, you would regroup and offer instead the word of a homely Dwarven female as your authority? I am sure the lady is an expert in the domain of hearth and home - that is plain for all to see - but you would have my Lord believe that this common wife was of such interest to these alleged agents of our good friend Saruman, that they held her hostage long enough for her to gather supposedly valuable intelligence and flee with it? You sport with the patience of the King!"

Why that oily, greasy, smarmy git! If Neville disliked the man before, he absolutely loathed him now.

A feeling shared by all his friends, apparently. Gimli and Legolas moved to flank Molly on each side (shoving him out of the way) and glowered hatefully at the smirking weasel on the dais.

But Molly, as grateful as she no doubt was for the allegiance of her friends, was more than capable of taking care of herself. She stepped forward so that she stood in full view of Théoden and grasped each side of her skirt, spreading it wide as she curtseyed (something she'd been practising ever since Aragorn had told her they were going to visit a 'King of Men').

"Hello, your Majesty. My name is Molly Weasley and it's very nice to meet you. Hello, dear - yes, you at the back. What a pretty girl you are, though you might try smiling on occasion ..."

The blonde beauty's mouth dropped in surprise.

"... and you, Grimworm, or whatever your name is, I suppose it's only polite to say hello to you, too - not that you deserve it for being so rude ..."

Grimworm? Oh that was great! Neville and Aragorn snorted in unison.

"... Anyway, I may only be a - what did you call it: common wife? - yes, a common wife, but that doesn't mean I don't know a bad sort when I see one. Or when I hear one. I was captured by Saruman's orcs. When I was ... out walking. I have absolutely no idea why I was of such interest to them, or why they didn't kill me straight away, but I'm very lucky that they didn't. In fact, you're very lucky that they didn't, and any advisor worth his salt would at least hear what I have to say before dismissing me as an insignificance."

Neville grinned at her. She had just announced to all and sundry that she thought the greasy git was a bad sort and a poor advisor. What a woman! And 'Grimworm' was really peeved. He probably hadn't expected the 'homely dwarven female' to give as good as she got.

Indeed he hadn't, which was why Wormtongue had stopped his lazy pacing and faced the witch, scrutinising her more carefully with his cold dark eyes.

"It seems the Wizard child has placed this poor creature under an ill spell of sorts, Lord, for she not only believes what she is saying, but would have you doubt the word of your own counsellor. Do you not agree, sire?"

He turned his dark head to the King, who nodded tiredly.

Which was odd, actually. Théoden had been happy to voice his opinions mere moments ago. Granted, he was probably older than Bathilda Bagshot (even if she was dead), but still ...

Before Molly, or anyone else, could reply to Wormtongue's accusation, the odious man spoke again.

"And any who come before this Court offering counsel, but use Wizardry in an attempt at subterfuge - who would go so far as to utilise their magicks to have you believe Rohan's mighty ally Saruman was working against us - is, in fact, a greater enemy of ours than any they would thrust upon you."

Again, the King agreed, muttering: "A greater enemy than any they would thrust upon me."

The teenager narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Théoden had practically parroted the last words Wormtongue had used.

"Therefore, my liege, it would seem only reasonable to dispose of such an enemy in the same manner as we would any other, would it not?"

Wormtongue's face broke into a grin of triumph as Théoden once more 'agreed'. He raised a scrawny arm and cried: "Guards!"

From out of nowhere, several (huge, of course) guards descended on the visitors, making a grab for Gimli and Aragorn who were at the edge of their line. But none of the Four Hunters (or one very angry witch) had any intention of making it easy for them. The smile slipped off Wormtongue's face as the would-be captives each held their own against a dozen determined Rohirrim.

One of the soldiers, believing Molly to be the easiest target, crept up behind her before she could draw her wand and grabbed her by the shoulder, but the Weasley mother was not likely to be captured that way a second time. Whirling around, she pulled the surprised man towards her and lifted her knee sharply in the timeless feminine defence against male aggression.

Neville would have almost crossed his legs in sympathy for the poor bloke if he hadn't been occupied with fending off his own would-be captor. Dodging around Legolas (who was nimbly eluding capture with graceful twists and twirls), speeding by Gimli (who had managed to fell one of the guards and was using a foot to anchor him to the ground while taking swings at another with his heavy fists) and almost crashing into Aragorn (who kept yelling: "Do not kill the guards! Incapacitation will suffice!"), he finally managed to reach an area wide enough to stick his hand in his shirt and pull out his wand.

"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"

Three of the guards toppled to the floor, unconscious.

"No! Did I not counsel you, Lord, to forbid his staff? That fool, Háma has betrayed us! The Wizard has his staff! The ... the homely wife has a staff? GUARDS! MORE GUARDS IMMEDIATELY!!"

Wormtongue was livid at the scene unfolding before him and his furious calls for back up were answered instantly. Over a dozen more men came rushing into the hall wielding long swords.

"The Wizard! Get the Wizard - and the Sorceress!" screamed the counsellor.

Aragorn, spotting at least three heading for Molly, grabbed his opponent by the arm and swung him round with such force that the man went sprawling across the floor and crashed into two of his brothers-in-arms, leaving Molly to deal with the final one (who stood frozen less than two seconds later).

"Thank you, dear. It wasn't necessary, but it was very chivalrous," she called out sweetly, before turning towards the dais with an expression that would sour milk, and yelling at the top of her lungs.

"You hear that, Grimworm? CHIVALROUS! That's a lesson I'll be teaching you when I get my hands on your sorry excuse for a neck! Better start running!"

"Hah, Lady Molly! You are a credit to Dwarven women everywhere, I tell you!" barked Gimli in approval as he dodged a left uppercut (which the guard had to crouch to almost floor-level to deliver) and thumped the offending man on the helmet with his balled fists.

A wave of soldiers sped towards Neville from the right wall, trying to encircle him and give him more than one target to concentrate on. However, the teenager's attention was caught by something on the wall.

Excellent! Just what he needed ...

"Waddiwasi!"

The enormous tapestry showing the golden-haired rider on his (eerie) horse flew from the wall and dropped onto the soldiers, completely covering them. Confused, they fought to battle out from under it, giving him plenty of time to Petrify them one after the other before turning his attention to the rest of the hall.

Or, to be more precise, to the dais. Wormtongue, sensing his forces to be on the losing side, was actually trying to slip out the hall using an exit behind the throne. And he was dragging Dream Girl behind him by the sleeve of her dress!

The git!

Furious, Neville gripped his wand and twisted on the spot, imagining himself speeding towards the back of the throne and arriving to knock the stuffing out of the greasy animal. With a loud Crack! he Disapparated from the side of the hearth.

Unfortunately, he still had to work on his aim.

He landed, not on the dais, but on the step, twisting his ankle and stumbling when his (still traitorous) foot slipped off the edge, and the cherry and unicorn hair wand flew from his grasp to land at Wormtongue's feet.

Horrified, he tried to make a grab for it, but the smirking man swiped it neatly off the floor and gave him a mocking bow before straightening up ...

... only to collapse in agony when a dainty fist crashed into his nose.

"No longer will you poison my uncle or lay a covetous eye on me. You are defeated, Grima son of Gálmód. Bested by a boy and a woman."

Two woman, actually. And one of them was his Dream Girl (which, he thought, if not exactly accurate, had a much nicer ring to it than 'vision girl').

The beauteous lady grabbed his wand out of Grima's slackened grip and watched the teenager scramble to his feet. Neville winced as he rested his damaged foot on the floor, but he gamely held his hand out to receive his wand back - only to see her shake her head in refusal.

"Why should I return your staff, Wizard boy, when you have attacked my fellow countrymen?"

What? She was joking, surely?

"In case it escaped your notice, they attacked us first, and on the orders of the very same foul git you just punched. He's trying to crawl off by the way."

She whirled around to see the sneaky man scrabbling away on all fours. With a well-aimed (and very unladylike) kick of her pointy cream shoe directed right between his legs, Wormtongue collapsed in exquisite agony, fully incapable of doing much more than squeaking in pain.

The not-so-great-escape attempt of Grima distracted her long enough for Neville to make a lunge for his wand. Caught off guard, his new opponent brought her fist around to take a swipe at his face, but she wasn't quick enough to prevent him yanking the wand from her hand and pointing it at her. His breath came in gasps, his left ankle was killing him and sweat poured off his face after all his exertions. But her stormy grey eyes, widened in defiance despite the fact that he had her at a disadvantage, made him smile.

Their tussle on the dais had not gone unnoticed. In all the excitement of the last minute, he had missed the great yell of surprise from a stunned Rohirrim soldier after he Disapparated in front of him. The crack of his Apparition on the dais had caught the attention of more of the locals and, slowly, they began to cease fighting. Two or three had made a dash to surround the King (who sat in total bewilderment on his throne), but they made no move to attack Neville after they saw him liberating their Lady. Only when the teenager freed his wand and pointed it at her, did they dare step towards him.

"Don't even think about it!" snapped Molly, shoving her way passed two burly soldiers and training her wand on them. "Or do you think he's actually going to harm a woman?"

Dream Girl's eyes widened in question as he stared at her. "Well? Are you going to harm a woman?" she asked in a voice of gentile authority.

Neville flushed. "Don't be daft. I won't hurt you - well, as long as you promise to keep that shoe away from me, that is." He indicated her feet with a nod of his head.

"I believe it is within my power to give you that assurance."

Couldn't she just have said 'alright then'? Still ...

"Great. Excellent. That's really good to hear."

Cor, she was stunning.

"You are still aiming your staff at me," she hissed, not impressed in the slightest.

Oh, crikey, so he was!

"Sorry!" he mumbled, dropping his hand and flushing beet red. Why was he so stupid when it came to girls?

"So, Wizard: is it your intention to addle my Lord's brains with your magicks, now that we are rid of Grima's sorcery?"

Her frosty accusation was like a bucket of cold water in Neville's face. Annoyed, he scowled at her. "You're confusing me with Saruman. I've never used my 'magicks' to addle anyone's brains."

"As I am not familiar with you, I have only your word for that. The word of a stranger who has held me at the point of his weapon."

"A weapon you tried to deprive me of. And for your information, it's not very clever to go around grabbing wands - staffs - when you don't know what you're doing with them."

"Something I shall keep in mind if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation. But I would still know the answer to my question: what are your intentions?"

"To offer our help, for crying out loud," he snapped in exasperation.

Actually, now that he thought about it, exasperation was becoming more and more familiar to him the longer he spent in Middle Earth.

"We've been trying to tell you for the past half hour that Saruman has amassed an army of orcs. And he's probably marching them towards Rohan this very minute. We came to warn your King, but he seems a bit ... off colour ... and not very receptive to assistance."

Finally, the woman broke her unnerving glare. She sighed deeply and shook her head in sorrow. "My uncle has aged greatly in the last five years. He listens to none that do not agree with his craven counsellor."

"You said you thought him poisoned by Wormtongue, my Lady?"

Neville and his companion looked down to see Aragorn approaching them.

"I believe Grima must have poisoned him, yes, wicked Sorcerer that he is."

"Poisoned, dear? Well that's terrible! But don't worry - I've got just the thing for that!"

Molly dropped her knapsack and rummaged through it for a moment before producing her first-aid kit.

"Molly, what're you doing?"

"Oh, don't worry, Neville dear. It's just a little thing I always tend to pack in the first-aid kit since Ron was poisoned with Professor Slughorn's mead. Do you remember that?"

It took Neville a few moments to recall. He hadn't been present in Slughorn's office at the time, but the news had travelled around the school like Fiendfyre and students had been talking about it for days. Lavender Brown had been almost unbearable to live with, what with her dramatic screeching and gushing concerns over 'Won-Won'.

"Yeah, that's right. Harry saved him with a ..."

"... bezoar!" Molly pulled a shrivelled, kidney-shaped stone from the opened kit and held it triumphantly between her fingers. "If we're lucky, dear, this should do the trick nicely."

She marched up to the dais and climbed the steps. But before she could approach the King, the blonde girl strode across and stood before him.

"Do not take offence, Lady. But why should we trust that you mean no harm to our Lord?"

Bloody hell. Dream Girl may be a stunner, but her constant suspicion was beginning to wear on his nerves. Why had she bothered saving him if she thought he and Molly were only out to try and pull a fast one?

But Molly was not deterred. She aimed her wand at the Petrified and Stunned guards, freeing them. They shook their heads in confusion, but made no move to attack when they witnessed the calm that had fallen in the hall. Once her show of good faith had been accomplished, Molly turned to address the young woman.

"Because, dear, we came here of our own free will to help you save your people when we could have just trotted back to the safety of Lothlórien and left you to it. And if saving your people means starting with your uncle, then we're quite prepared to do that. Unless, of course, you'd rather leave him as he is? In which case, I'll be happy to pack my little miracle cure back in my bag and be on my merry way."

The woman assessed the witch shrewdly, then turned her eyes to her ailing uncle. "I would give much to see Théoden King restored to his senses, that he may once more lead our people into the battle that - if what you say is true - seems now inevitable."

There was a pause, then:

"So be it. You have the authority of Éowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden, to proceed. And I bestow it with gratitude."

"Éowyn? That's a lovely name, dear. And how nice to be able to finally call you by one. Well now, if you'll just step aside, let's see if this little thing will work."

Éowyn moved to the back of the throne and every Rohirrim in the court held his breath as Molly approached their King. It was all Neville could do not to snigger when she executed another curtsey.

"Hello again, your Majesty, dear. This won't hurt a bit. Open wide."

"Sister-daughter! What is this magic that she would thrust upon me?" demanded Théoden, suddenly finding his second wind.

Aragorn answered. "Do not fear, my Lord. The Lady Molly is an able healer as well as a powerful Witch. She will not harm you - indeed she aims to cure you of your infirmity. Let her aid you, Lord, for if any has the power to do so, it is she."

"He speaks truly, Uncle," said Éowyn, giving the ranger a gentle smile of gratitude (which annoyed Neville no end - she'd only glared at him). "I have seen her power with my own eyes, and its might cannot be denied. Please, accept the aid she offers. Do it for me."

Her soft plea was enough to convince the King. With a weary nod, he opened his mouth and Molly popped the bezoar in.

"If you'll just swallow that. There you go."

Pleased that he'd done as she said, the matronly witch stepped back and everyone waited to see what would happen.

"Do you really think it'll work, Molly?" Neville asked quietly.

"Why shouldn't it? If it's only poison he's been swallowing then we're in with a very good chance. On the other hand, if it's some sort of Middle Earth spell that was cast on him, then I couldn't vouch for its success. But we don't have to worry about that, do we? After all, Grimworm's not a wizard, is he?"

Casting a quick look at the man still curled up a few feet away, he shook his head. "No. Éowyn called him a sorcerer, but he's a gifted Muggle at best."

Actually, now that he thought about it, it was probably a good idea to immobilise the man before he recovered enough to make another bid for freedom. Neville Petrified him then returned his attention to their unwilling host, who had begun to tremble in his chair.

"What is happening to him?" asked Legolas, alarmed at the rapid shaking.

"I think it's working!" cried Molly in delight. "Look!"

All eyes in the hall watched as the King straightened slowly in his chair. He dropped the black staff clutched on his lap and stretched out his crooked fingers. They tapered long and straight once more - not quite without all their age spots, but markedly clearer than a few minutes before. Wonder was on his face as he held them up to admire them. When he dropped them, everyone could see that his eyes were sharper than before and his face was less lined. Théoden gripped the arms of his throne with his hands and pulled himself up. Slowly, he left his chair and Éowyn rushed to aid him down the steps.

Aragorn walked beside them as the King stepped first cautiously, then with growing confidence down the hall.

Molly was beaming in pride. "I feel like I'm watching my youngest take their first steps!" she said to the nearest person - a Rohirrim soldier who was watching in wonder as his King walked with renewed majesty down the Golden Hall to the doors. "Isn't it marvellous? And who would've known he was quite so tall after being all bent like that? Why, he looks half his age!"

And with that, she trotted behind the party heading for the doors to make sure her 'youngest' didn't fall on his rear.

Théoden had, by this time, reached the doors with Éowyn, Aragorn and just about everyone else in tow. Only Wormtongue (who would not have been welcomed) and Neville (who would've been happy to tag along if his ankle had been up to it) remained. Aragorn banged on the great wooden entrance.

"Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"

The doors opened and wind whistled down the hall, blowing Éowyn's long hair about her face.

"Send your guards down to the stairs' foot, that they may call your people to witness this joyful moment," suggested Aragorn in a clear, loud voice which carried through the hall. "Then we must talk, Théoden son of Thengel, for my counsel will wait no longer."

The King nodded in agreement and several of the soldiers filed passed him, bowed respectfully, then headed for the foot of the stairs and beyond. He then spoke to his niece. "Go, Éowyn sister-daughter. Have food and wine brought for our guests. I will return presently."

Éowyn, clearly unhappy at being dismissed, began to protest. "But Uncle ..."

"Do not be alarmed. I am in the company of friends now. The time for fear is past. Go."

She left him to the care of Aragorn and walked back to the hall. Neville felt a bit sorry for her. She looked quite sad as she paused to throw a wistful glance over her shoulder, before resuming her journey towards the dais where he stood, then passed it to use the corridor Wormtongue had been trying to haul her through earlier.

It seemed he wasn't the only fostered child fighting preconceptions ...

Once everyone else was gathered on the terrace, the teenager thought it a good time to take the weight off his foot. His ankle was killing him and he wanted to inspect the damage. But the only chair in sight was Théoden's throne.

Hmm. Would the King mind if he sat down on it for a minute? After all, he wouldn't need any longer than that to take his shoe and sock off, get Molly to fix the sprain, then put them back on again. He watched the party at the door, debating whether or not he should dare.

After a few seconds he decided against it. Molly was outside with the others and he didn't want to spoil her fun by calling her back. Anyway, it would be rude to use the King's throne like that and Gran would probably kill him if she found out he'd been cheeky enough to leave his unwashed sock on the arm of it while he sat down to check a bruise (she was a fervent supporter of the Muggle monarchy - something he'd found out at an early age when he stumbled across a cup and saucer celebrating the long-ago wedding of a couple called Charles and Diana at the back of the kitchen cupboard).

With a sigh, he resigned himself to the position of peasant and took his seat on the steps. He unlaced his shoe, pulled it off, then yanked off his sock (which was absolutely stinking) and ran his hands over his ankle.

"Does it pain you, Neville?"

Surprised, he looked up to see Legolas approaching.

"Why aren't you with Théoden and the others?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Because," replied the elf, taking a seat next to him on the steps, "there is one here who requires my aid. I would not abandon one who is in need - least of all a friend."

"Oh."

Oh no! his putrid sock was less than a foot away from where Legolas sat. The elf - with his superior sense of smell - couldn't fail to notice it soon. So, how to get rid of him before that happened?

"Erm, that's nice of you. But I'm alright. Why don't you go and watch Théoden running up and down the stairs?"

The elf gave him a blank look. "Why would the King of Rohan wish to do that?"

"Dunno. Maybe he's happy to have full use of his legs again. It's what I'd do if it were me. Course, I'd maybe be a bit more vocal and start shouting something like 'I can walk! I can walk! It's a miracle!', but I expect he's far too regal for that."

A tinkling laugh. "I think he is also far too regal to run up and down stairs, young Neville, though I admit it would be amusing to witness. But at present, he is seated on the carved stone directly outside the hall doors speaking with Aragorn, Gimli and the Lady Molly. He has more than enough company to keep him occupied."

Which basically meant the elf wasn't leaving any time soon.

"Don't you want to hear what they're talking about?" he asked with a note of desperation as the air rushing into the hall brought another whiff of his stinking sock to his nostrils. Perhaps he could discreetly lean over Legolas, grab it quickly and stuff it in his pocket?

"If I did not know any better, I would say that you are trying to be rid of me, Neville Longbottom. Is my company so disagreeable to you?"

Yikes! Legolas thought he hated him! Horrified, he tumbled over his words as he tried to reassure his friend.

"No! Course not! Your company's great. You're really nice and friendly, not at all stuck up - despite the fact you're a prince and, well, a bit of a Malfoy look-alike actually. I mean, not that princes aren't normally nice, though I wouldn't know 'cos you're the first one I've met. Apart from Aragorn. He's a sort of prince, isn't he? I mean, he's a king-in-waiting, but that's what a prince is. My Gran does have a cup with a Muggle prince on it, but I've never met him, either. Although she told me he likes to talk to plants, which is good, because I love plants. Got a greenhouse full of them back home. Not that there's any princes in there either ..."

"Peace, Neville!" cried Legolas, shaking with laughter. "I do not really believe that you are trying to be rid of me. I only wished to see if you would admit that you had been attempting to divert my attention from this."

He plucked the (stinking) sock from beside him and dangled it before the mortified teenager.

"Oh. Right. Well, I didn't want you passing out on me. Elves have a stronger olfactory sense than humans, don't they? Sort of like dogs - their sense of smell is over forty times stronger than humans, or something. Did you know that?"

Legolas was nonplussed and Neville groaned in embarrassment as he realised he'd just compared the Prince of Mirkwood (and all elves) to a dog.

"Sorry. Sometimes I just open my mouth and rubbish pops out before I can stop it."

His companion gave a smile of genuine warmth. "Do not distress yourself, Neville. I know you meant no offence. Indeed, Elves have an excellent sense of smell, but even theirs is not comparable to that of the noble hound. Still, I take your comment as the compliment it was intended and thank you for it. Now, let me see to your ankle."

Neville stuck out his foot and allowed Legolas to examine it. He winced slightly as the elf's fingers probed the delicate area.

"Forgive me, mellon nin. The ankle is sprained and will swell if we do not bind it, but the bones are intact. Do you have a cloth in your travelling pack that we may use to wrap it with until the Lady Molly returns?"

It seemed a shame to go to so much trouble when Molly would be back in a minute or two, but Neville thought he should humour his friend (especially after the dog remark), so he shrugged off the knapsack and opened it. There was a pyjama top in there somewhere that he could sacrifice for the sake of his ankle (and his friend), so he stuck his arm in up to the shoulder and fumbled his way around until his fingers met cloth, then pulled. Fortunately, his aim had (for once) been accurate and the bold blue top with duelling Aurors was handed to Legolas.

"This is a most intriguing garment," commented Legolas, watching two wizards casting Jelly-Legs jinxes and Hives hexes at each other.

"Yeah, well, my Gran's going through a bit of a phase at the moment. Trying to encourage me to join the Aurors - that's the Wizarding law enforcement. Everything she's bought me for the past two years has got some sort of duelling theme on it."

"Ah, I see." The fair elf ripped a length of material from the top and started winding it about Neville's ankle. "But you do not wish to join these Aurors, is that correct?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Have you told her this?"

Neville laughed somewhat bitterly. "I've tried. But you've never met my Gran. She makes Saruman seem warm and friendly."

Legolas tucked the edge of the cloth under a fold and pulled the (stinking) sock back over the teenager's foot.

"Is your mutual relationship so tenuous?"

"No, that's not it. I love my Gran and she loves me. She's kind and strong and the best person I know. She raised me when my parents ... well, when they couldn't and she'd probably kill anyone who tried to hurt me. It's just that, well, she wants me to be more like my dad."

"And your father was an Auror," concluded the elf.

He nodded.

"But your heart lies elsewhere, does it not?"

"Yes."

"What is it you wish to do with your life, Neville Longbottom?"

Legolas was staring at him curiously.

"I think I'd like to work with plants. They're great. I love getting my hands mucky in the earth when I'm planting or potting, and watching something grow that I've tended since it was a seed. My Great Uncle Algie gave me a Mimbulus Mimbletonia for my birthday a few years ago - they're really rare - and you could've held it in your hand when I first saw it. But now, it's enormous. It's practically taking over my greenhouse and now there are cuttings of it in the school greenhouses too. Some people say its ugly, but they just don't know any better. It might not be pretty to look at, but its really interesting and can do all sorts of amazing things."

Legolas smiled brightly at his enthusiasm. "Perhaps you could teach these people who do not know any better? Show them the wonder of growing things as you see them."

Him? Teach? Stand in front of dozens of people every day and give lessons?

"I couldn't do that! I'd be useless."

"Are you so certain? I have heard the Lady Molly say that you were the brightest scholar of plants that this ... Hog-warts ... has known for several years. According to her, you excelled even over her son's beloved, who is one of the brightest scholars of all things that your school has seen in many years. And it is obvious you have a passion for the subject - something you have in common with our noble friend Samwise."

Hmm. Maybe he had a point. The thought of sharing his love of plants did have a certain appeal. Still ...

"But I'm not exactly a people person. You need to be able to command some sort of authority and respect in order to keep a classroom in control; be firm, but at the same time be approachable and sensitive to the needs of others."

"Yet you have all these qualities in multitude, or do you not realise this, Neville Longbottom?"

That drew his head up and he stared at Legolas in wide-eyed surprise.

"Me? Command respect? Sensitive to the needs of others? Didn't you see me shoving my foot in my mouth when I accidentally called King Théoden a cripple? A king! Or when I accused him of not listening to Gandalf? Not to mention that ridiculous song I sang at Boromir's funeral. Then there was the time when I went to the Department of Mysteries with Harry and the others and broke the very prophecy he was trying to protect. And I'm not exactly Mr Popularity back home either. I've always found it a bit difficult to talk to people. So, no. I think it's fair to say I don't realise it."

"Then allow me to bring the realisation to your attention," said Legolas firmly as the teenager turned his glum face to the floor.

"You and Lady Molly both have won the respect of all the Fellowship - and no doubt the Valar themselves - with your commitment to fighting a war not your own, especially as your own war ended mere days before you came to Middle Earth. You have shown your strength of character time and again by defending us against the evils of Saruman and Sauron. You imply that you speak unwisely - if I have interpreted the foot in your mouth comment correctly - but that is not a phenomena particular to you alone. Many have made unwise remarks, but you do not utter them with malice and they may be excused for the most part because of your youth. Théoden King will understand this, for he strikes me as a person of good reason. And what you said to him regarding Gandalf may have been blunt, yet it was necessary. He will no longer close his ears to the counsel of a friend and speaks earnestly with Aragorn at this moment of his intentions to save his people. You have helped bring this to pass. You may be a little reserved at times, but your courage is undeniable and you grow with confidence as each day progresses."

Legolas paused, then: "As for your tribute to our fallen friend, I, for one, enjoyed it. Perhaps you are not the most gifted of singers, but the song was unique and despite the no doubt unintended humour within ... surprisingly moving. Boromir would have been honoured as much as he would have been amused, of that I have no doubt."

Neville lifted his head to see his friend grinning at him. "You liked the song?" he gasped in disbelief.

"Indeed. Particularly the line about the hat."

Now the teenager grinned. "Because he didn't have one?"

"Of course. Though I wonder at what sort of hat a Wizard from another world would have imagined him in - and whether or not he would have worn it."

They laughed at the image of Boromir prancing around in a wizard's hat and it lightened Neville's mood considerably. Perhaps Legolas was right. Perhaps he already had the raw qualities needed to teach a subject that he had always loved best, and that all he had to do was to believe in himself. When all this was over and he was safely back in Yorkshire, it might be a good idea to sit down with Gran and have a nice, long chat about what he wanted to do with his life. Not about what she wanted him to do. He loved her dearly, but he would never be his father. It was time she let him just be himself.

"Alright. I see what you're trying to say. You make it sound a bit more impressive than it is, but I get the general idea. Thanks for helping me with my ankle, and for making me see a little sense."

The elf sprang lightly off the step and extended his hand, pulling the teenager up beside him. "It was my pleasure and my honour, Neville Longbottom. I enjoyed our talk. It is something we should do more often, if circumstance permits."

"Yeah. You're right. We've spent weeks in each others' company, we've spoken on a daily basis, but this is the first time we've really talked. Sorry about that."

"As am I. But let us think no more on regrets. Let us instead look forward to the many discussions which lie ahead where you once again refer to me as 'stuck-up' or compare me to a snuffling hound!"

Oh, great. He just couldn't resist that, could he? Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he joined the laughing elf as they made their way to the doors in the hope that they would catch Théoden running up and down the stairs after all.

Once outside, Neville spotted the King standing at the top of the steps, clasping a sword, as he spoke with both a familiar looking blond rider and Aragorn. Gimli and Molly stood behind the Doorwarden's stone-hewn seat watching and listening, so he and Legolas made their way quietly over to their friends.

"Neville, dear! Why didn't you come out earlier? You've missed all the fun. Théoden has just had his nephew released from prison by that nice man, Háma; do you remember him?"

Er, yeah. It had been less than an hour since he'd met the scary bloke, after all.

Molly accepted his nod with grace and continued to update them in whispers. "Well, now Éomer - such a lovely name for a boy - has been welcomed back into the bosom of the family and he's told his uncle all about the things that that dreadful Grimworm has been doing. And Aragorn has just mentioned the army of orcs Saruman's sent his way, so we should hear what his decision is any moment now."

As if he had heard her words, Théoden turned to face them. "Legolas of Mirkwood, Gimli of the Lonely Mountain; I am much in your debt for your endeavours here this day. I thank you both also that you refrained from causing serious injury to the guards who, in their obedience to one they mistook as my loyal counsellor, did accost you."

Legolas bowed in graceful acknowledgement and Gimli thumped his axe handle on the terrace in approval.

"And to you, Lady Molly Weasley, I offer my humble gratitude for the restoration of the vigour left to me. Dark have been my dreams of late, but your generosity in lifting the shadow from my mind - even though I had earlier doomed you to the death of an Enemy - will never be forgotten by this foolish old Man."

"Oh, that wasn't your fault, your Majesty, dear. You didn't know what you were doing. It was that rotten Grimworm's fault for poisoning you." Molly's face clouded in anger as she mentioned the erstwhile counsellor, but Aragorn and Éomer were trying to stifle their chuckles when she mispronounced his name (again).

If Théoden objected to being called 'Your Majesty, dear', he was gracious enough not to say so. "Still, I would have you know that I am grateful. Grima named you Sorceress, but that is an injustice - one of the many he has shown you. You offer your aid in the defence of my people and have already gifted them with the return of their King; therefore, I name you Shieldwife of Rohan."

Molly was blushing furiously, but Neville beamed. At this rate, his Guardian would soon have more titles than Aragorn (which was saying something).

The smile slipped off his face, however, when Théoden turned to acknowledge him.

Oh, excellent! This would be the part where he got a right Royal rollicking for calling him crippled, offering him something for his gout (if he even had any) or lambasting him for criticising Gandalf. Yeah, what would probably happen now was that he'd motion for Háma, the scary Doorwarden, to come and march him all the way down to the miserable, damp dungeon that Éomer had just vacated.

Though, maybe if they were really quick about it, the spot on the bed (or whatever it was down there) that the hairy blond rider had so recently sat on would still be warm?

Well, at least that was something to look forward to.

Aiming for an air of the confidence Legolas had so recently claimed he possessed, Neville drew himself up straight and offered a tentative smile.

"So you are the Wizard boy who defied a king?"

Oh, no. Things were not off to a good start.

"Who accused him of ignorance in the face of wisdom?"

Merlin's beard! The bloke was laying it on a bit thick, surely? He hadn't called him ignorant ... not really.

"And who used subterfuge to gain entry to my hall with his staff?"

Neville paled. Crikey! He'd forgotten about that! He shot a sidelong glance at the other stone seat and saw Háma glaring at him.

Which was unfair, actually. Molly had been the one to employ subterfuge (and Gimli, too. He allowed Háma to believe she was his sister). Had Théoden reprimanded her? Oh, no! She was a Shieldwife of Rohan (whatever that was).

He stifled a grimace as Théoden glowered at him, getting ready, no doubt, to shout 'off with his head' or some other equally awful king-thing.

"To you," said Théoden in a voice of grave authority, "I offer also a title ..."

What? A title? Neville gulped. If he said, 'The Headless Wizard', then the teenager's fate was clear.

"... I name you the Wizard of Awes, for that is what you are. You displayed cunning in retaining the staff which helped free this Court, honesty when you spoke the truth of my folly where others would not, and great power when you magicked yourself across my Great Hall to save my sister-daughter from the clutches of a traitor."

Neville was stunned, but recovered himself enough to speak. "Well, to be fair, she more or less took care of that herself. But does this mean you're not going to chuck me into the dungeons?"

Théoden allowed a smile to play across his lips. "She did indeed incapacitate him ... most successfully. I must not forget to commend her. Yet if you had not distracted Grima long enough, who knows whether the opportunity for her to act would have presented itself in time for her to escape whatever foul fate he had in store for her. I would reward you for that, not punish you. And my reward is this: Aragorn has told me of your fondness for horses, and of the special bond you share with Fæleu in particular ..."

No! No! Not the bloody nag! Please!

"... therefore, I can think of no more fitting gift to bestow upon you than the lifelong loyalty that she will afford you. Fæleu is yours."

With that, Théoden gave him a beaming smile, but all Neville could think of was how he was going to kill Aragorn. He grimaced at the King who, fortunately, mistook it for a smile of thanks, then tipped his head to the side to see the ranger with his hand over his mouth and his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

What. A. Git.

"And now, the time for judgement is come. Bring the traitor Wormtongue to me!"

The King's command was obeyed instantaneously when Háma and another guard rushed into the Golden Hall, then lumbered back out a few minutes later with the stiff form of the pale man in black. A sword was gripped tightly under Háma's enormous arm while they carried the advisor across the terrace and laid him at Théoden's feet.

"Oh, you'll probably want me to lift that spell so you can talk to him," said Neville. "Finite!"

Háma - who hadn't seen the Wizard of Awes at work - was duly impressed when a jet of coloured light sped from his 'staff' and struck the motionless form of Grima. The former counsellor sprang to his knees and rubbed furiously at his clothes, as if trying to make sure the spell that had immobilised him was gone, then cast a wary glance at his surroundings (probably assuring himself that Éowyn was nowhere in sight). Only then did he realise that he was bent before the feet of his monarch.

And that the monarch was standing tall and proud and looking several decades younger.

"Your ancient blade, Herugrim, has been found in his chest, Lord," declared Háma, freeing the sword and glaring accusingly at Wormtongue. "Among other things that Men have missed.

"You lie," spat Wormtongue. "And this sword your master himself gave into my keeping!"

"And now he requires it of you again," Théoden said, almost thoughtfully. "Does that displease you?"

"Assuredly not, Lord. I care for you and yours as best I may. But do not weary yourself, or tax too heavily your strength. Let others deal with these irksome guests. Your meat is about to be set on the board. Will you not go in?"

Neville was disgusted at the simpering man. Did he really not know when the game was over?

"Irksome guests?" muttered Molly, glaring daggers at the counsellor.

Théoden heard it. "Ah, but you offend the Lady with your careless words, Grima."

"She is a Sorceress!"

"The Lady Molly has restored vigour where your leechcraft would see it moulder. Or do you deny the change which has come upon your master with her intervention?"

"Ever have I sought to serve you, Lord, to the best of my knowledge. But she and this Wizard-boy would cast a shadow over your eyes with their lies. And this Aragorn, self-proclaimed heir of Elendil's throne - who are we to know he is what he claims to be? It is clear that the boy has ensorcelled his mind and those of his foolish friends, but to what end we do not know! You must allow me to see them banished from this land."

"I will not banish those from my land who have done me more service in one hour than you have in five years!" barked Théoden. "Aragorn is the heir of Elendil - of that I am more certain than I am of your loyalty. And he has told me of the threat from Isengard which rides towards us this very moment. An army of ten thousand Orcs!"

"Lies, Lord! Lies! Saruman the White is now, and ever shall be, your friend!"

Oh, for crying out loud. This was pathetic. The snivelling weasel had obviously found the only Alihotsy leaf in Middle Earth and swallowed it whole. He was clearly hysterical.

"Saruman the White may be your friend, but he has never truly been mine. Tell me, Wormtongue, whenever you rode to the Wizard, did you rub your hands in glee as, together, you plotted the slow downfall of the Mark and her Lord?"

Wormtongue paled even more, and shot a look of pure loathing at Aragorn.

"Is that what this deceiver would have you believe, my King? That I am in collusion with Saruman the White? For there, at least, he is correct - but only in respect to our mutual love of the Lord of the Mark, and our shared goal to see Rohan prosper under your rule."

"Those are the ravings of a coward whose duplicity has been unmasked," grumbled Gimli beneath his breath. Neville couldn't agree more.

Neither, it seemed, could Théoden.

"Cast your eyes around you now, my faithful advisor," drawled the King, whose scorn made Wormtongue quake. "See what you have wrought! Your Lord is hale again and no longer without an heir."

He pointed towards the steps, surprising the object of his attention immensely. "Éomer, sister-son, shall sit in Meduseld as its king when I pass - and he will never harken to such a one as you. Indeed, he has ever sought to save these lands from your foul clutches. So you have failed to rid the Mark of its leader. As to its downfall, there is this left to say."

Théoden turned to the crowd which had assembled at the foot of the stairs to watch their newly risen Lord. "The host rides today. Send the heralds forth! Let them summon all who dwell nigh! Every Man and strong lad able to bear arms, all who have horses, let them be ready in the saddle at the gate ere the second hour from noon!"

Excellent! Saruman was in for a shock when he found out the Rohirrim were aware of his plans - and that Théoden was more than well enough to counter them.

Relieved that the long ride over the Eastemnet had been worth it (but dismayed that Fæleu was now his for life), Neville studied the grovelling git at the King's feet. If Grima could have turned any paler when Théoden ordered the troops to assemble, he probably would have.

But the erstwhile advisor had a few things left to say ...

"Dear Lord! It is as I feared. The Wizard has bewitched you. Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your treasure? None to guard the Lord of the Mark?"

"If this is bewitchment, it seems to me more wholesome than your whisperings. Your leechcraft ere long would have had me walking on all fours like a beast. But do not fear, none shall remain here to enjoy the ravaging of Saruman - not even you. For I offer you an honourable death in battle, which is more than you deserve. Go! Take up your sword and clean the rust from it. If you are as loyal yet as you claim, you will be proud to offer your life in the service of your land."

What? Was he joking? Wormtongue would be heading for Isengard before the forces of Rohan were assembled before the gates of the City!

"Mercy Lord! Have pity on one worn out in your service ..."

Neville rolled his eyes - again.

"... Send me not from your side! I at least will stand by you when all others have gone. Do not send your faithful Grima away! Who will protect you from these usurpers or their Wizard if I go? You will be at the mercy of both him and the Sorceress."

"Enough!" boomed Théoden. "I am weary of your lies. And no longer will I look to others to protect me, for I ride to war with my Men ere the day is out. As for my guests, you will no longer speak ill of them."

"Oh, I'm so glad you said that, your Majesty!"

Before the King, his people, or his guests could object to her interruption, Molly pulled her wand from pocket (stunning Éomer so much that his jaw dropped) and pointed it the grovelling advisor.

"Silencio!"

Wormtongue flinched as the beam of light hit him, but frowned in confusion when nothing happened. He opened his mouth to demand what she had done to him, but made no discernible sound. Confused, he tried again, and when that met with no success he started screaming (silently).

"Lady Molly, you should not have intervened," gasped Legolas, slightly shocked. "It is for the King to order his silence, not yours to enforce as you wish."

Looking slightly put out, Molly favoured the elf with a slight glare. "In case you missed it, dear, the King of the land made me a Shieldwife of Rohan, so it's my duty to protect the people from harm. And believe me, if that spineless idiot Grimworm had rambled on about his particular brand of love and loyalty for very much longer, the good people of Rohan would be overcome by a wave of mass nausea. I couldn't very well let that happen, could I? Not when they need to keep their strength up for what's to come."

A shout of laughter met her quick reply and Neville and the elf swapped an incredulous glance as Théoden rocked on his heels (causing a very alarmed Éomer and Aragorn to dash up the step in case he tipped over backwards).

"Truly you are a secret child of the Mark, White Witch. Yes, White Witch I name you also, for the power of your good heart shines with so bright a light that it shames the darkness into retreat."

Neville made a mental note to sit down at the earliest possible moment and seriously tally up his Guardian's titles against the ranger's. Poor Molly was blushing to the roots of her hair.

"My Lord," said Éomer from behind his uncle, "what is to be done with the traitor Grima the Wormtongue?"

Wormtongue stopped his silent screaming and watched the monarch with bated breath.

"Well, Grima? Will you redeem yourself by riding out to war?"

There was (of course) no answer. Not even a nod or a shake of the head. Instead, the pale man regarded his judge with glittering eyes.

"I thought not. So you are indeed a traitor to your people. Was the thought of power so alluring to you that you would sacrifice your honour for it? Or was the power to be Saruman's? Then what of you? What was your price for this betrayal? That you would have your pick of the spoils? But then, you answered this already ..."

The furious man took a dangerous step towards his former counsellor.

"... when you attempted to flee with the daughter of my heart! For this alone I should pluck out your liver and roast it!"

Éomer (and every other Rohirrim within hearing distance) looked ready and willing to do just that.

"But you are fortunate that I am a Man of mercy. I will not slay he who cannot defend himself. For you cannot. Gimli the Dwarf had the right of it - you are a coward."

Slowly Wormtongue rose. He looked at the people around him with narrowed eyes. Théoden opened his mouth to speak once more, but the former advisor had, by this time, pulled himself to his full height and scrutinised the older man's face, hands gripped in fury by his side. There was a look of such malice in them that everyone who saw stepped back in surprise. Wormtongue bared his teeth and hissed before spitting at the King's feet. Then, darting to one side, he fled down the stairs.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?" yelled Neville, firing a Trip jinx at the fleeing man.

Wormtongue stumbled and fell, and there was an audible snap! as he used his arm to cushion his head from the force of the blow against the edge of the stone stairs. He screamed (silently) in agony, but pulled himself up, cradled his right arm in his left, and made another bid to flee down the path towards the gates.

"After him!" said Théoden. "See that he does no harm to any, but do not hurt him further or hinder him. Give him a horse, if he wishes it."

"And if any will bear him," added Éomer dryly.

"But, sir, he'll go straight to Isengard. Saruman will know what you're planning - and who'll be helping you."

He was answered, not by the King, but instead by Aragorn. "Do not forget, Neville, that Lady Molly has cast a spell of silence on him. He will not be able to tell him anything - even if he were to reach Isengard before the battle begins."

"Yeah, but he can still write, can't he?"

Neville was nonplussed at the ranger's shrug. "The histories of the Mark are told in song, are they not, Lord?"

They turned in question to Théoden, who was still gazing thoughtfully after the fleeing figure of Wormtongue. The monarch answered their question with an air of distraction.

"Indeed. Very few know the art of the written word in Edoras, or in much of Rohan."

Well, that was relief!

"However, as my advisor, Grima was one of them."

Oh no! They were doomed!

"Fortunately for us ..."

Théoden pulled his gaze back to the terrace and smiled at Neville.

"... he favoured his right hand for the use of his quill."

Excellent! They were saved!

"So, my friends. What say you all to a bite of food and a sup of wine before our journey begins? We have much to plan before we engage the Enemy."

"'Tis good counsel, Théoden King. We would be glad of the chance to sit at a friend's table and replenish our strength. And I will be glad to offer you any counsel you may seek as to where we may best strike at the Enemy. Once we have rid ourselves of Saruman, we shall be more able to deal with the threat in the East."

With that, Aragorn and the King of Rohan walked into the hall, closely followed by Molly, Legolas and Gimli. Neville, who was thrilled at the thought of a hot meal (and his very first glass of wine) was just about to follow when a large hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Not so fast, young Wizard."

He whirled around to see Éomer glaring down at him.

Crikey! What was he so upset about?

"You will sit next to me in the hall. That way, you will be better able to explain to me why you called my uncle a cripple and held my sister at the point of your staff."

Neville paled. How did he know about that?

Well, it was bound to be Aragorn again, wasn't it? Who knew the ranger had such a twisted sense of humour?

"Come, son of Longbottom," said the Éomer in determination, throwing his arm around the youth's neck in an affable manner (so he wouldn't make a mad dash for the stairs and run screaming for the stables). "I look forward to our talk. Let us eat!"

The teenager allowed himself to be led (dragged) into the Golden Hall for his lunch.

Still, maybe if he was really lucky, the horse that Grima chose would be Fæleu!

It was enough to bring a smile to his face. Suddenly, his upcoming chat with the enormous Rohirrim didn't seem so bad...