Not Quite a Maia

Not Quite A Maia

Chapter 19

Third Age: 2nd-3rd March 3019

Edoras

In the Great Hall of Edoras, the tables that Neville and his friends had shared with the King during the noon meal had been cleared of all plates and goblets. In their stead were the numerous Stupefied plants that the teenager had freed from the customised container in his knapsack.

In fact, there were so many plants, that the table wasn't large enough to hold them all. Both Neville and Molly had to clear a large area around it to settle the overspill vegetation on the floor, giving strict instructions to all present that no one touch a thing.

"Venomous Tentacula: eight. Devils Snare: fifteen. Bubotubers: two hundred and fifty ..."

"You brought fully-grown Mandrakes?"

Molly's incredulous voice interrupted Neville's inventory.

"Yes."

The witch frowned in concern, tugging at her dragon-hide gloves as she eyed the long green leaves sticking out of a row of tightly-wrapped, dampened cloth bundles.

"Neville, dear; you know how dangerous they are. You've not even got them potted!"

"Dangerous?" queried Legolas in fascination, hovering as near to the array of plants as they would allow him. "But they move not."

"That's because I Stupefied them ... I mean, put a spell on them to keep them still. Anyway, it's not their movement that's dangerous - it's their cry."

The fair elf looked sceptical. "They cry?"

"Yes. When exposed from the soil, the fully-grown Mandrake's screech is fatal to all who hear it."

"I see," replied the elf, taking a few discreet steps back in alarm.

"And I couldn't leave them potted, Molly. When we're in the middle of a battle, there just won't be the time to take them out their pots before I'll have to use them."

"I suppose you're right," she said. "But I hope you're really good at Banishing charms, because you'll need to make sure they're far enough away from the Rohirrim that they don't take out our own boys."

Neville grinned. An army of experienced, fully-grown warriors - and she still called them 'boys'. The grin slipped a little as he remembered that Théoden had called for 'every man and strong lad able to bear arms'. Perhaps her concern was not so unwarranted.

"Don't worry. I'll be using Harry's cloak to go to the rear half of the orc army before I chuck them in."

"And how, son of Longbottom, will a mere cloak help you to slip so far unnoticed into the Enemy's ranks and disable them?"

The teenager turned to see Éomer and his uncle approaching him with Aragorn and Gimli in tow. They halted a couple of metres away.

"Well, it's an Invisibility Cloak. It'll hide me completely - the orcs will never know I'm there."

"Unless you trip over your own feet again, lad, as you did on the steps when you came to the Lady Éowyn's aid," remarked Gimli, peering at a multitude of spiky, dark-red plants arrayed on the floor by the dais.

He flushed. "Erm, yeah. Well, don't worry, I'll be careful."

"How is it that you were able to store so much in your pack?" asked Théoden in fascination.

"He shrank them, of course," answered Molly, industriously counting the Snargaluffs on the table. "And the knapsack is treated with an Extension charm. There's plenty of room for this lot and more."

"Truly, you are a Wizard and Witch of great power to achieve such! Do you believe that these ... plants ... will be able to afford us assistance?"

"Oh, yeah!" exclaimed Neville. He took a few steps towards the little audience, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "You see those ..."

He pointed to the gnarled stumps Molly was counting. The man nodded.

"... they're Snargaluffs. When attacked, they spring to life and shoot out large, bramble-like vines that ensnare and disable their assailants. I've got fifty of them, so that's fifty less orcs we have to worry about once we throw them into their ranks. And those ..."

His finger indicated the plants Gimli was currently frowning at.

"... they're Venomous Tentacula. See the feelers protruding from the base? They shoot to enormous length to capture prey, drawing their victim to the red part. The spikes on the main body are teeth and, well, you can guess what that means."

"Do you mean to say that they eat flesh?" demanded Gimli, springing back from his inspection of them. The bushy dwarf drew his axe and glowered suspiciously at the slumbering Tentacula.

Neville nodded. "Yes. And, luckily for us, they're not particularly fussy about what kind of flesh they eat. I imagine Saruman's ugly friends will taste just as good to them as a human would."

"'Tis unnatural! A flesh-eating plant! Who ever heard tell of such a thing?"

"Don't worry, Gimli. We'll make sure they're kept well away from our lot," chirped Molly, attempting to soothe the ruffled dwarf.

"And these are Mandrakes," continued the teenager, before his irate friend could say another word. "There are only twenty-two left - we used a lot during the Battle of Hogwarts - but once I throw them into the mass of orcs, their shrieks will kill a few hundred. Possibly more."

Aragorn's brow furrowed in concern. "But then they will also kill you, Neville. You will be close enough to hear them. I cannot say that the thought of that comforts me. Also, how long do these killing shrieks last? What if they fell our own forces during a battle which may last for many hours?"

Pleased at his friend's concern for his safety (and relieved that he'd already considered the possible dangers to their own men), the teenager smiled.

"Oh, don't worry. I've treated them with a Hear-Me-Not hex that'll automatically kick in after an hour. They can shriek all they want after that, but no one will hear them. I used it at Hogwarts during the final battle and it worked just fine. As for me, I'll be wearing earmuffs when I throw them, so I'll be fine too."

He navigated his way through the plants to the table and pulled his knapsack from it, producing a pair of fluffy brown earmuffs. Placing them over his head, he walked back to his friends grinning triumphantly.

"They'll stop any dangerous cries filtering through," he announced proudly (not realising he was shouting until the others flinched).

Pulling them off his head, Neville gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Anyway, I have an extra pair of these for Legolas."

"For me?"

"Yes. 'Superior elven hearing' and all that. We don't want one of our best fighters floored by a plant before the battle really begins. Here, try them on. They're quite comfortable."

Aragorn and Gimli broke into wide smiles when he proffered the earmuffs to the elf (who was eyeing them with a strange mixture of relief and disgust).

"That is most ... thoughtful ... of you, Neville. However, I believe it shall suffice if I wait until they are needed."

"Come now, Legolas! You will have to familiarise yourself to the feel of them on your head, lest the strangeness of them distracts you in battle. 'Twould be a pity for you to be saved from the cry of the Man-drake, only to be felled by an Orc arrow while you accustomed yourself to their contours."

The elf glared at Gimli in defeat before graciously accepting the earmuffs. He placed them over his head and they settled snugly into place, with only the pointed tips of his elven ears evident above them. Gimli roared with laughter at the sight of the normally elegant elf sporting the fluffy brown protection.

"A prettier crown for an elven princeling I have yet to see!" gasped the dwarf, shaking with mirth. "'Twould perhaps be best if you did not stand next to me when we engage the Enemy, my friend, for I fear a stray arrow from them may also fell me, so consumed with laughter would I be by the sight of you!"

"I may fell you first myself," muttered Legolas, tearing the earmuffs from his head and handing them back to a grinning Neville who, along with his companions, had been highly amused at the vision of ear-muffed-elf.

Aragorn clapped Legolas lightly on the back. "Nay, my friend. Save your wrath for our foes, for we shall have need of Gimli's axe during battle. You may slay him afterwards."

That remark effectively stopped the dwarf's chuckles and Gimli glared at the ranger in affront. Aragorn ignored him. "What are these, Neville?"

He pointed to a series of large, frond-like plants with jagged spikes at the tips of their leaves that the teenager had also freed from pots and arranged in a dozen rows of five. Their roots were covered in the same damp cloth as those of the Mandrakes.

"They're Flaming Ferns. Extremely dangerous plants. The spikes at the end of their leaves shoot off and embed themselves in anyone or anything they perceive as a danger, injecting the enemy with a combustible poison. It takes about a minute for that to get into the victim's system and then, well, basically, it sets them on fire - from the inside out."

"Helm's hammer!" said Éomer, looking at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "And you cultivate such dangerous plants?"

Neville shrugged. "They're actually pretty rare. Normally you only find them in extreme mountainous regions. Their poison is a natural defence against predators such as mountain goats. Very few wizards would dare to go near them. But I have a rather eccentric uncle who has connections in Switzerland, and he was able to get me a few dozen seedlings, which have grown surprisingly well in my greenhouse. I wanted to bring a few back to school with me at Christmas to keep in the greenhouses there - they would've been useful when we fought the Death Eaters - but all our belongings were subject to spot searches by Filch and the Carrows. I'd have never managed to smuggle them in. Still, at least that means we can make use of them now. There are sixty of them there - that's the largest supply anywhere outside of Switzerland - and each plant has about twenty poisoned spikes, so that's roughly twelve hundred orcs taken care of. Unless a few orcs are unlucky enough to get pierced by several spikes at once. Then we'll probably have Middle Earth's ugliest ever fireworks display."

Both Éomer and Théoden looked greatly surprised, but not at the revelation of the Flaming Ferns effectiveness in battle.

"I did not know that Wizards had families," said the younger Rohirrim in confusion.

"They do where we come from," said Molly, who watched Neville through narrowed eyes. "And I would say that I'm surprised your uncle sent you such a dangerous plant, if I didn't suspect it was the same idiot who dangled you from a first-floor window when you were eight just to scare the magic out of you."

Blimey! Was she still annoyed about that?

"Your uncle hung you from a window when you were a child?" exclaimed Aragorn, looking absolutely livid.

Neville shot Molly a frown.

"Look, he was only trying to see if I was a wizard or not."

Molly huffed in scorn. "It's a good thing for you that you were, otherwise you would have died when he dropped you!"

"He dropped you?" barked the ranger. Gimli was scanning the hall angrily (in the vain hope of finding Neville's unfortunate relative lurking behind a column, so he could cleave him in two with his axe).

"It was an accident!" replied the teenager firmly.

"Accident or nay, your uncle may count himself fortunate that he is not now present, or he would know the wrath of Isildur's heir!"

"And that of Gimli, Glóin's son!" declared the dwarf (appearing to be very put-out that his search of the Golden Hall had not produced the elderly gentleman).

"And let us not forget the scorn of the Prince of Mirkwood," added Legolas, incensed at the insult to his friend.

Molly (who was delighted to have so many share her wrath against Great Uncle Algie) nodded in firm approval. "Don't you worry, boys. I'll be having words with him when I get back."

What? Crikey, she'd kill him!

"No, Molly, leave it. It was almost ten years ago now and he never actually meant to hurt me. I don't want you to go barging up to him and giving him a piece of your mind for something that's ancient history!"

"I'm sorry, Neville, dear, but I absolutely cannot ignore such reckless stupidity! He could've killed you!"

"But he didn't kill me, did he? I'm alive and well," Neville said, gazing at her earnestly. "Please, Molly. I love my Uncle Algie, and he loves me. He might have been pleased that I turned out to be a wizard, but he still got a fright when he let me go. And he still apologises whenever the subject comes up. I don't want you confronting him about it. It would upset him - and that would upset me."

His pleading tone had the desired effect. The witch's eyes still flashed in anger, but she took a deep breath and nodded in compliance. "If that's what you want, dear, I won't mention a thing. But only because it would upset you, mind!"

Her words came as a great relief. "Thanks. Anyway, Gran's already punished him for it, so there's not much you could do that would make him regret it any further."

"Indeed? And what did your grandmother do to punish him, young Wizard?" asked Éomer, who had quickly come to terms with the shocking revelation that Istari could reproduce.

"She hexed his clothes off and kicked him out the house without his wand. He spent two days begging to be let back in until he was arrested by Muggle police - they're non-magic law enforcement - for 'indecent exposure'. That was half an hour after Mrs McAvoy across the street caught him sleeping stark naked in her hydrangea bush. Gran left him in Muggle prison for a week before she got him out. And even then, she made him volunteer to work at the Hideous Hags Appreciation Society for a month. He spent the entire time fighting off the advances of Hilda the Horrible, a woman whose entire body is covered in knobbly, fist-sized warts. She looks a bit like she's covered in bark, actually. Luckily for Uncle Algie, the warts weren't contagious, or he might have resembled an oak himself after she cornered him one Friday afternoon in the Leaky Cauldron and snogged him to within an inch of his life. Gran didn't even feel sorry for him when he came home with half his clothes ripped, complaining that he'd been ravished by a hag. She just said it served him right. Poor Uncle Algie avoids the Leaky at all costs now, just in case Hilda stills harbours a fancy for him, and is lying in wait."

"'Snogging' means 'kissing'," added Molly helpfully.

A wave of laughter erupted.

"'Tis a pity your grandmother did not accompany you both here too, lad, for I would be honoured to make the acquaintance of such a formidable woman!"

The thought of his prim, fastidious grandmother happily accompanying him into battle was enough to make Neville laugh. "I don't think Middle Earth's quite ready for Gran. She can come over a bit strict if you don't know her. But she has a heart of gold, though. Come to think of it, she'd probably give the enemy pause for thought - she's pretty powerful when she's provoked."

"I do not doubt it for an instant," said Aragorn with a smile. "However, we shall soon depart for the Fords of Isen. If you are satisfied with the condition of your impressive weapons, it would be wise to return them to their resting place until necessity demands their presence once more."

"We're almost finished. Another few minutes and I'll have them all packed up."

The teenager was true to his word. Within ten minutes, he and Molly had completed their inventory and split the plants between both their packs so that they each had some at hand to hurl into enemy lines. Neville took the Invisibility cloak from Molly and laid it on the plant container which sat at the top of his knapsack, before joining their companions.

Shortly afterwards, Théoden called for his men to bring supplies from the King's hoard and soon the teenager, Aragorn and Legolas were clothed in armour. Gimli politely refused when the Rohirrim tried to offer him a coat of mail too, stating that his dwarven corslet of rings was better suited to his stature than the longer hauberks of men. He chose instead a small iron cap and a small green shield with the picture of a running white horse, which the King said had belonged to him as a boy.

"I am proud, Lord of the Mark, to bear your device," he said, bowing. "Indeed sooner would I bear a horse than be borne by one. I love my feet better. But, maybe, I shall come yet where I may stand and fight."

"It may well be so," replied Théoden, turning to Molly, who stood in her tweed coat and clutching (to Éomer's confusion) her Cleansweep. "And what of you, White Witch: will you choose no armour for yourself? For though you be possessed of magical arts, the sheer number of our Enemy may weaken even as noble a lady as you."

"Oh, don't worry about me, your Majesty. I'll be perfectly alright - safer than everyone else, in fact. Isn't that right, Neville?" she said, favouring her charge with a sidelong glare that let him know she was still irked at his machinations back in Valinor.

"Er, yeah. That's right. She's as safe as Gringotts, sir," he informed the King, thinking it best to ignore his Guardian's glare. "So, eh, are we off now?"

"There are some small matters of Court that must be dealt with first, young Wizard. Sister-daughter!"

Éowyn stepped forward bearing a goblet of wine which she offered to her uncle. "Ferthu Théoden hál! Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

Théoden smiled at her and drank from the cup, then she proffered it to the other guests, all who took a ceremonial sip of friendship from it. Neville watched (a little jealously) as her gaze lingered longingly on Aragorn's face.

What was it about the bloke she fancied so much anyway? Okay, he was tall, well built and sickeningly handsome under that beard (Molly had been trying to get him to shave it off ever since they left Fangorn, but the ranger steadfastly refused), but that was just packaging. Neville wasn't exactly hideous - in fact, he was more presentable than, say, an orc. Admittedly, there was an intelligent, regal air about Aragorn that the teenager would never possess. Then again, Neville didn't have to worry about running a country at any point in the future. There was a lot to be said in favour of that. Admittedly, the ranger was altogether more elegant than he was;

but was that really any reason to fancy the bloke?

Probably.

He huffed. Girls. Why did they always go for the obvious? Really, it was just too predictable for words. If Harry Potter, or any of the Weasley boys (with the possible exception of Percy), or the disgustingly dashing Oliver Wood had committed the faux pas he had at lunch, he bet a thousand Galleons that Théoden's gorgeous niece would have found it charming ...

But him? Oh, no.

Neville sighed in remembrance, utterly relieved that the brief meal with his new Rohirrim friends was over.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed his food - what he'd managed to consume of it. The sliced meats were hearty and filling, the bread crusty and still warm from the oven. Even the wine wasn't bad.

The wine ...

He flushed in embarrassment. That had been the point at which his fantasy of wedded bliss with Dream Girl had collapsed in ruin. Éomer (who'd insisted on sitting next to him) had spent ten minutes grilling him on why he'd called his uncle a cripple (much to Aragorn's amusement) before the impressively built bloke had finally accepted his claim of 'foot in mouth' syndrome. The heir to the Rohirric throne had slapped him heartily on the back with one of his enormous hands afterwards, in a gesture of camaraderie - barely thirty seconds after the young wizard had decided it was safe to take a massive bite of his tasty chicken leg.

The half-chewed mass had flown across the table (with Legolas deftly dodging it) and landed smack in the jug of wine the lovely Éowyn had been holding.

Typical, really.

Still, she had been very nice about it (after shooting him a look of extreme disgust) and accepted his awkward apologies graciously enough (at least he thought she accepted them: he hadn't really heard what she'd said over Gimli's and Éomer's loud guffaws). However, his chances of winning her heart were not looking as favourable as they had before lunch.

Never mind. That might not be a bad thing. It would be very unlucky if she fell violently in love with him now, only to have her heart broken if he was slaughtered in battle. And, to be fair, it didn't look like Aragorn was encouraging her either - the ranger looked troubled at her open adoration, and didn't offer her so much as a smile.

Suddenly, Neville felt sorry for the young woman. She was obviously smitten with Aragorn, but he knew that his friend was in love with some elf maiden called Arwen (whom he often sang songs about - usually when the teenager was trying to get to sleep). As the lady stepped away from the ranger and offered him the cup next, he smiled at her with as much warmth as he could (without drooling openly - Éomer was eyeing him suspiciously) and took a (rather noisy) sip from it.

"Hope that wasn't the wine from earlier," he joked, trying to elicit a smile. "You know, the one I polluted with half-eaten chicken?"

"Nay. That I gave to the pigs," she replied politely, before moving off to Molly.

He flushed, slightly embarrassed that his attempts to break the ice had failed so miserably.

And who knew pigs drank wine?

Shrugging the moment off, he straightened his back and lifted his chin. It didn't matter that she didn't fancy him. After all, it wasn't as if he could take her back to Yorkshire when his journey in Middle Earth was over, even if she did want to come. He'd just have to save his affection for a dream witch back home.

Deciding to waste no more time mooning over unattainable females, he followed the others outside, sparing Molly's Cleansweep a dubious glance.

"Aren't you sharing a horse with Aragorn?" he whispered, distracting her from Théoden's declaration that Éowyn to be the leader of the remaining Rohirrim in his absence.

"No, dear. We'll have to move quickly if we're to make it to the Fords in time to meet up with Grimbold's men and stop Saruman's army. I don't want to weigh poor Hasufel down when he'll already be carrying Aragorn. I've already told both him and the King that I'll be flying - Théoden thought I was a bit mad at first. He's never heard of a flying broomstick. But Aragorn assured him it was perfectly normal, and now he's interested to see the Cleansweep in action. The others will just have to get used to it. Not that I think they'll object if Théoden's happy enough. Anyway, they're much less likely to be hostile now after we took care of that ghastly Grimworm for them."

"S'pose your right," agreed Neville, allowing his gaze to settle on the royal party. "Éowyn doesn't look very happy for someone who's just been named Princess Regent, does she?"

Indeed she didn't. The lady was resplendent in a silver corslet gifted to her by the King, which she wore while accepting the charge of leading her people to Dunharrow. In her hand, she held a long, shining sword which caught the Sun's rays and gleamed dangerously. But as deeply impressive as Éowyn's garments were, her lovely face was a picture of discontent. Her gaze settled briefly on Molly during a heated conversation with her uncle; her normally pale cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes flashing.

Molly shook her head. "From what I understood from her brother, Éowyn's quite handy with a sword. A Shieldmaiden, in fact. She's a bit headstrong and no doubt wants to follow us, but it doesn't look like either her uncle or her brother are having it. Can't say I blame them. They've suffered enough without having to bear the thought of losing her too, even if she can fight as well as any man. Her poor, dead cousin taught her to fight, you know - or at least that's what Éomer told me. Such a lovely name for a boy: Éomer. I wonder if I could persuade Bill and Fleur to christen their firstborn son that. Éomer William Weasley. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Erm, no.

"Yeah. Sounds great," he replied (lying smoothly - for a change).

She beamed. "I thought you'd like it."

Content with his answer, she left him to follow the others down the stone stairs and mounted her broom, flying off the ledge and scaring the life out of the unsuspecting locals.

"Observe: the White Witch flies!" cried Éomer in disbelief as all eyes followed her flight.

"A mighty feat, Lady Molly!" called Théoden, looking highly impressed. "Never had I thought to see such a thing in all the ages of Elves or Men!"

"Oh, do you like it?" said Molly, hovering beside the Rohirrim, who had all paused in wonder at the sight. "It's not one of the faster brooms you know, but then, they're very expensive. Still, my old Cleansweep has never let me down yet, and I'm pleased at the opportunity to be able to give it another airing, instead of letting it moulder unused in the garden shed."

She gave it a fond pat, then turned around in mid-air and hovered beside them as they resumed their descent. The line of warriors moved briskly down the stairs, then down the hill to the open gates. A host of over a thousand men and boys awaited their monarch, all clad in shining mail, and armed with spears and shields. Neville heard their loud, cheerful cries as Théoden approached.

Blimey, they were keen, weren't they? Not that he could blame them. A familiar sort of current was racing its way through his own body at the thought of engaging the enemy in battle. It was the same current that had charged through him when he'd tumbled out of the secret passageway and into the Hog's Head to find Harry, Ron and Hermione with Aberforth Dumbledore.

When he'd realised the final battle to save his own world was upon him.

And now, he was here in Middle Earth, about to help others realise the same victory he and his friends had known at Hogwarts. Neville looked at the keen, youthful faces of the Rohirrim forces. Hopefully, they would achieve that same victory without losing too many of their own noble people. Not that he was naïve enough to believe there would be no casualties - the very number of orcs awaiting them would dictate that the numbers of wounded or dead might be heavy.

In fact, come to think of it, they were outnumbered roughly ten to one at the moment.

Concerned, he sought out Éomer. "How many of your people are already at the Fords?"

The blond man answered immediately. "Two thousand, or a little more."

"So when we get there, there'll be three thousand. That's just over three orcs each. Which are better odds than I thought, yet still a bit of a tall order. Is there any way you could round up more?"

"Alas, but we lost many at the First Battle of the Fords of Isen over a week since. Gamling keeps watch at Helm's Deep with perhaps a few hundred spears and, as that is our last line of defence should the Enemy prevail at the Fords, we cannot afford to relieve him of those Men."

The news was not exactly encouraging. However, he mustered a reassuring smile for the king's impressive nephew.

"Never mind. We've still got magic on our side. And unless Saruman's leading his army through the Gap of Rohan in person - which I doubt, 'cos I've seen the git in action - the orcs don't. Plus, our little friends here should take care of a good deal of them."

He patted his knapsack, which was slung over one shoulder.

"I'll use my cloak to penetrate their defences and chuck the Mandrakes in at their rear lines. With the Light of Varda protecting her, Molly will be able to fly over them and drop some of her plants nearer the front. Aragorn and Legolas are deadly with their bows; Gimli will probably throw himself off his horse so he can get to the orcs before anyone else does, and then there'll be three thousand massive Rohirrim, baying for the blood of a dark wizard's servants. Let's face it: the orcs probably don't stand a chance. They'll never know what hit them."

Which was technically correct. He'd bet none of them had ever heard of Flaming Ferns or Mandrakes before, let alone seen (or heard) any.

"I am not sure that I understand your magic or the customs from whence you hail, son of Longbottom. I know that neither you nor the Lady Molly hail from Valinor, for your arts could not be more removed from those of Gandalf the Grey or our enemy Saruman," said Éomer, halting him in his tracks with a massive hand on the wizard's shoulder. The blond man stared at him intently. "But know this: ever will you and your friends be honoured by Rohan's people, both for the service you have already shown us, and for the one which you are about to undertake on our behalf. If this battle spares me, my children and my children's children shall sing of these days for many years to come, my young friend."

Neville was a little embarrassed at his high regard, but also touched by the sentiment. "Erm, thanks. That's nice. But if we're friends, you really should call me 'Neville'. As opposed to 'son of Longbottom', that is."

Éomer grinned. "Then let it be thus. Now, if you will excuse me, Neville, I must speak with Gimli, and see if I cannot persuade him to make peace with me and share my horse. Háma holds your own faithful Fæleu yonder and she awaits you eagerly."

He clapped the teenager heartily on the back (Neville almost choked - again) and strode off to pester the dwarf. The teenager's gaze wandered a few feet to his left and he saw the forbidding figure of Háma holding his 'faithful' nag's reins.

Great. Why hadn't Grima the Git chosen her? He had successfully managed to forget about her for an hour or two and now he'd have to climb back on the ruddy mule. Knowing his luck, she'd toss him in the Snowbourn in front of a thousand experienced riders, before galloping off into the distance without him. He'd be the laughing stock of Rohan!

Clenching his teeth, Neville marched towards his horse and accepted Háma's helping hand to mount her.

"Thanks."

"You are most welcome, young Wizard," replied the Doorwarden, looking as fierce as ever. "And you may also be pleased to know that I have forgiven your little deception earlier regarding your staff."

Neville flushed. "You mean my wand. We call our staffs 'wands'. So I wasn't lying when I said I didn't have a staff - well, not really. Sorry."

The man grinned and thumped him soundly on the calf (making Fæleu paw nervously at the ground). "'Tis of no matter. I would gladly bear Théoden King's wrath for not performing my duties properly if it meant he was his true self once more. Ride well, young deceiver!"

With that, Háma strolled off leaving him feeling more than a little bit guilty for getting the guard into trouble.

Oh, well. At least he had his king back and was merrily riding off to his (probable) doom at Théoden's side.

A sudden cry among the host made Neville look up, and he saw Molly whizzing overhead to the amazement of a thousand pairs of eyes.

"Behold the White Witch, Shieldwife of Rohan!" cried Théoden, successfully manipulating his people's alarmed murmurings.

Molly waved cheerily down at the army as they echoed their King's seal of approval, throwing encouraging smiles at some of the younger faces she circled.

"This day sees the return of your King," continued Théoden, speaking to the now silent masses at large. "It also see the arrival of Aragorn, Isildur's heir of legend. With him, this noble Man brings Legolas, Prince among Elves, and Gimli, Lord of Dwarves, to aid in our fight. These are hardy warriors, skilled in battle and stout of heart. Already have they done me great service this day, both in their unmasking of the traitor Grima Wormtongue, and in delivering the news that our Enemy would strike at us like a thief in the dark."

A great thudding of long spears on the ground heralded this announcement. "Hail Aragorn, Isildur's heir! Hail Legolas, Prince of Elves! Hail Gimli, Lord of Dwarves!"

Théoden held up his hand to silence them after a few seconds. "Above you, flies the White Witch, the Lady Molly, on her wondrous ..."

The King faltered, temporarily lost for a word to describe the Cleansweep, before saying:

"... wooden steed."

Neville clutched at his nose to stifle a snort.

"It was she who cured your King of his illness, even though - under the evil spell of Wormtongue - I had earlier doomed her to the death of an Enemy. She has already been victorious in battle against the traitor Wizard, Saruman. Let her example of bravery and purity of heart be an example for all of us!"

More thuds. "Hail the White Witch, Defender of the King!"

Although she hovered a few feet overhead, he could still see Molly blush.

"And here is another who has fought the fallen Istar: Neville Longbottom, Wizard of Awes, slayer of Nazgûl ..."

A gasp of shock rose from the crowd as everyone stared at him in amazement. Neville cringed. Did Aragorn have to tell everyone he met about that? He could only hope the ranger hadn't described in too much detail how he'd screamed like a girl after being stabbed.

"... and defender of the Light. He is a Wizard of great power! I saw with my own eyes as he disappeared from one end of the Golden Hall, only to reappear a second later at another to save my sister-daughter - your own Lady Éowyn - from the foul clutches of Wormtongue."

"Hail the Wizard of Awes, Nazgûl's Bane!"

Crikey! This was embarrassing. They were all looking at him like he was Harry Potter or something. How did his fellow Gryffindor put up with this nonsense on a regular basis?

Neville offered the crowd a weak smile and a half-hearted wave, wishing that Théoden would hurry up and finish so he could concentrate on bribing Fæleu not to chuck him off her back and ruin their high opinion of him.

"And now, Men of Rohan: with these new friends as our allies, we ride forth to counter the boldness of Isengard with a strike of our own. Let the Enemy answer in blood for all their affronts to our people! Let them answer in agony for the loss of Théodred Prince! Let them answer in death for the betrayal of their fallen Master! To War, Eorlingas! To War!"

A thousand voices rang out in fervent, bloodthirsty approval.

"To War!"

And with that, the great host thundered after Théoden and his noble company on the start of their journey to the Fords of Isen. Billowing clouds of dust rose in the wake of their galloping steeds, which occluded from their sight the lone figure standing outside the Great Hall that gazed after them in longing.

*~*~*~*

Five hours later, the great host of riders came to a halt forty leagues into the Westemnet. Night was closing in around them and Théoden deemed it unwise to travel farther in the darkness despite the urgency of their mission. The riders made camp in a great circle, though no fires were built in case they attracted the attention of spies. A guard was set around the perimeter of the camp as the Four Hunters and Molly drew to a halt and dismounted.

Théoden joined them as they picketed their horses and unloaded their bedrolls. Éomer and Háma followed in his wake.

"I can take watch for a few hours, sir," Neville offered, when their host stopped to speak with Aragorn.

"A generous offer, young Neville, and I thank you for it. But my Men will be happy to undertake this duty in your stead. You and your friends have already two long days of riding behind you. I believe you all deserve whatever rest this night may afford us. Take to your bedroll while you can, for we will need the Wizard of Awes at his full strength when dawn breaks."

Grateful for the reprieve, the teenager nodded and followed Molly, Legolas and Gimli to a small clearing amidst the other weary riders. The wind blew at his hair and rustled the long grass as he settled the bedroll. He loosened the shiny new scabbard from his waist and dropped the Sword of Gryffindor on the grass next to it.

"I think I'll put the tent up tonight," said Molly. "You can take the other bedroom, if you like. It'll be a nice change to sleep on a mattress instead of the ground."

Neville debated it briefly before refusing. "No, thanks. I'm too tired to bother with all the fuss. I'll be fine on the ground. I'll give you a hand to set it up, though."

"That's alright dear. I'll manage perfectly well on my own. How's your ankle?"

"It's fine. Your lotion and the bandage has stopped the swelling nicely. I can hardly feel a thing," he replied as he dropped his knapsack next to his sword.

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, I think I'll pop over and see if the King wants to use the extra tent. After all, he's had a very trying day and could probably use the comfort of a nice soft mattress. Sleep well, dear."

She gave him a wonderful motherly hug and walked off to find the King, leaving him to grin at her back as he imagined Théoden's reaction to a Wizarding tent complete with kitchen, bath and two bedrooms. He was still grinning as he flopped onto his bedroll and bid Legolas and Gimli goodnight. Finally, blissfully his eyelids drooped and he fell into sleep.

Into the most peculiar dream he'd ever had in his life...

*~*~*~*

Neville sat at the familiar wooden table in Lothlórien where he and the Fellowship had shared their meals, patiently awaiting the appearance of his new dwarven acquaintance. Gimli was keen to instruct him on the proper method of brandishing a wand and he was anxious for the lesson to begin.

"Good morning, my son," said a warm voice.

He swivelled his head to see Saruman of Many Colours walking arm-in-arm with Gran towards Galadriel's talan.

"Oh, hello."

"It's 'Good morning, Grandfather', not 'Oh, hello'!" barked Gran. "Haven't I taught you any manners?"

"Er, yes. Sorry. Good morning, Grandfather."

The green, yellow and orange man smiled, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.

Which explained why Gran had married the bloke.

Married the bloke?

Hmm. That was a bit odd. He didn't remember any wedding. And wasn't Saruman supposed to be his enemy? But how could he be if he was his grandfather? And why hadn't he been invited to the wedding? Perhaps they had eloped to Gretna Green without telling him, to enhance the romance of it all?

That must be it.

Satisfied that he had solved the mystery, he waved them goodbye as they walked off into the distance (and hastily averted his eyes when he saw a large green hand resting lightly on Gran's bottom).

A few minutes later ...

"Fair morn, young Wizard!" cried a deep baritone behind him.

Neville turned to see Boromir of Gondor strolling past with Professor Dumbledore. He shot out of his seat and gaped at his old headmaster. Wasn't he dead? In fact - weren't they both dead?

"Won't you join us for a glass of wine, Neville?" enquired Dumbledore, whose blue orbs twinkled merrily at him from over the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose.

"You ... you ... you can't drink wine," spluttered the teenager.

The men paused to stare at him in amusement.

"Whyever not, Neville?" asked the headmaster curiously.

"Well, 'cos your dead. And so's Boromir."

Dumbledore and Boromir exchanged an amused glance.

"If that is true, then Boromir is the healthiest looking corpse I have ever seen."

"And Albus is the healthiest one I have ever laid eyes on!" agreed the Gondorian with a chuckle. "Perhaps our young friend is ill with a fever of the brain?"

"I think that must be it," conceded the older man. "Fortunately, I have just the right medicine to cure him!"

Reaching into his long blue robe (decorated with spinning celestial bodies), Dumbledore pulled out a fistful of small yellow objects and pressed them into Neville's hand. "Take one a day for the next ten thousand years and you'll soon be as right as rain. Good day, my boy. Give my regards to Trevor!"

The two men walked off in the same direction as Granddad Saruman and his lovely bride, leaving the young wizard to stare blankly at the oval objects he now held.

Hmm. Dumbledore's cure for brain fever was a sherbet lemon? Could that be right?

Shrugging, Neville popped one into his mouth and retook his seat just as another couple emerged from the trees ahead.

"Hello, Neville Longbottom Leaf! Aren't you joining us for a glass of wine with Galadriel and the others?"

"Er, thanks Merry. But I'm waiting for Gimli."

"No doubt to brush up on your lamentable Defence Against the Dark Arts skills," sneered Severus Snape (who was as surprisingly - and lamentably - alive as his former headmaster). "Though why Professor Gimli should waste his time on a lost cause I will never know."

The teenager balled his fists in anger. "Sod off, you greasy git, before I get him to hack your ugly head off."

"Any more of your cheek, Longbottom, and you'll be doing a month's detention in the dungeons of Orthanc. I have heard from a very reliable source that there are some highly suspicious biological stains on the walls that need removing."

The man stalked past him with his black cloak billowing in his wake and (for some unknown reason) a very eager Merry Brandybuck running at full speed to keep up with his new friend's long strides.

Git.

What was he doing here anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be dead, too? And why had Galadriel invited him over for a drink?

Honestly, the standards of the elven haven weren't half slipping.

Too annoyed by Snape's presence to hang around any longer, Neville picked himself up and walked towards the archery field, knowing that the dwarf would probably look for him there. He stormed across the glade and through the Mellyrn trees, but instead of exiting into the large field, he found himself entering the Gryffindor common room. A roaring fire was burning in the hearth and two empty, red-and-gold armchairs were arranged before it.

"Welcome, mortal Wizard."

Neville jumped in surprise, scanning the room for other signs of life, but there was no one there. The voice, however had been familiar. In fact, it sounded just like Galadriel.

No sooner had the thought popped into his mind when the graceful elleth appeared in one of the chairs.

Blimey! That was bizarre.

"Er, hello, Lady Galadriel," he said, taking the seat opposite her. "Aren't you supposed to be throwing a party?"

She regarded him in some confusion. "I do not believe I have ever 'thrown' a party in the entire course of my life."

"I mean, I thought you were having guests over for a glass of wine."

"Ah, I see." She smiled softly. "Your manner of speech is ever peculiar, but not unpleasant for it. Nay, I have but one guest this eve and that guest is yourself."

She looked around the cosy room with its moving portraits on bright red walls and thick woollen carpet. The windows on the left were closed, but the curtains were open and he saw it was dark outside. Snow fell across the grounds of Hogwarts, but it was snug and warm by the fire.

"'Tis an interesting chamber."

"Yeah, it's the Gryffindor common room. It's where people from my house come to socialise after lessons, but before bedtime."

"Ah, your place of learning. How charming it is."

"Thanks. Er, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what are you doing here?"

"You are not pleased to see me?" she asked, watching him carefully.

Mortified that he may have offended her, the teenager shook his head furiously. "No! That's not what I meant. It's just ... well, this is my world. You're not supposed to be here. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think I'm supposed to be here either. I'm supposed to be in yours. What's going on?"

"Peace, Neville Longbottom. All is well. You are merely lost in a dream. 'Tis the reason I am able to speak with you."

What did that mean?

"Hold on; aren't you part of my dream?"

"Yes and no."

Well that wasn't much help.

Galadriel watched him puzzling over her answer. "You lie in slumber in a place - I know not where - surrounded by friends old and new. For the present, you know enough peace for me to visit you."

"But how can you visit me? You're in Lothlórien, aren't you."

"I am. In truth, you hear only my voice, but your mind knows it for my own and has provided the illusion of a form to house it for as long as I remain."

Which was handy, he supposed.

"Though I cannot remain long, mortal Wizard. I come only to bid you give news to your friends. I had hoped to send another with these tidings, but he has been delayed elsewhere and may not arrive until it is too late."

Another? She was sending someone to see them? Oh, great - knowing his luck, it was probably Haldir.

"Erm, alright then. But you should know, my memory's not exactly the best - even when I'm awake. Expecting me to be able to recall a message from a dream might be asking a lot."

"I have faith in you, my young friend. You will not forget what is important. Now, listen carefully. This is what you must tell Aragorn:

Where now are the Dunedain, Elessar, Elessar?

Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?

Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,

And the Grey Company ride from the north.

But dark is the path appointed for thee:

The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea."

A poem? She wanted him to recite poetry to a bloke? Still, it could have been worse - it could've been a love poem ...

"Have you committed it to memory, Neville Longbottom?" enquired Galadriel patiently.

"Yes. Wandering Dúnedain; lost coming forth; people riding from the north; Aragorn needs a torch; dead folk watching the sea. Got it."

She smiled mysteriously. "And for Legolas, I have this message ..."

Another one? Bloody hell!

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree

In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!

If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,

Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."

Hmm. That was a bit grim.

"So I've to tell Legolas to avoid the sea at all costs or he'll drown?"

"Nay, young one. He will never find peace in Middle Earth again if he hears the gull's cry. Instead, he will know years of torment here for as long as he denies his fate."

"Right. I'll tell him to stay clear of the sea."

"That is not what I meant. Whether Legolas avoids it or nay must be his own choice. You must merely relay the message as is and allow him to choose for himself."

"But I can't let him spent the next thousand or so years in torment! He's my friend!"

She favoured him with an intense look so reminiscent of Gran, that he gulped. "Eh, alright then. I'll tell him."

"You have my gratitude. To Gimli son of Glóin, give his Lady's greetings and say: Lockbearer, wherever thou goest, my thoughts go with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right neck."

Ah. Well, that was straightforward enough - tell the axe-wielding ladies' man not to hit the wrong target.

"Got it," said Neville with a grin.

"To Molly, daughter of Prewett, say this: quarrel not over what thee already possess, for confrontation may see thee both lose it forever."

That was cryptic. What would Molly be quarrelling over, and with whom? What did she have that someone would fight her for? His brow furrowed in confusion. Galadriel opened her mouth to say more. Crikey! Maybe he should be writing all this down? If only he had a quill ...

"And lastly for you, who are not least in my thoughts, mortal Wizard ..."

Oh, well. He shouldn't be surprised really, she had already given him messages for everyone else.

"... I bring you words of warning ..."

Well that was just typical, wasn't it?

"... listen closely:

Beware of the crimson that flowers the field,

Where courage and honour their lifeblood will yield.

Beware of the Shadow that falls from the sky,

Let evil not bring thee to dark places high.

If malice doth take thee for evil intent,

Despair not, for aid thee will surely be sent.

If foulness engulfs thee and fear holds thee still,

Another may wield thine own weapon to kill."

Neville's jaw dropped.

Bloody hell!

Why couldn't he have gotten a nice, warm, fuzzy message like Gimli? Or a warning not to visit the Middle Earth version of Blackpool beach, like Legolas? In fact, he would even have settled for the dark road Aragorn was going to take past a horde of dead holidaymakers bent on a visit to the seaside.

But this?

"What does it mean? Am I supposed to avoid nightfall? How am I supposed to do that? And how can I avoid blood on a battlefield? And what's that bit about despair and fouln ..."

She held up a lily-white hand. "I cannot tell you what I do not know."

"But you must know! You just made up a flowery poem about it. Well, not exactly flowery. A bit creepy, actually. But surely you know what you're talking about?"

"Alas, I do not know all. My warning is given to you with the little knowledge I have, for only in glimpses will the Mirror reveal the mysteries of the future, and even then, they are not carved in stone. Remember your own experience with the Mirror, and use both that and this warning to guide you when the time comes. And now, I must depart, for soon you will rouse from your rest and our connection will be broken. Fare thee well, mortal Wizard. Do not forget to share my news with your companions."

"No, don't go!" cried Neville, who still had a million other questions on the tip of his tongue. "You haven't explained that last line. Galadriel? Galadriel!"

It was no use. Both the voice and the illusion of her body that his imagination had provided were gone and the Gryffindor common room was flickering out of existence before his eyes. Darkness was closing in ...

*~*~*~*

At dawn, horns roused the company and Neville awoke slightly confused. He'd had the maddest dream of his life about Gran marrying Saruman. And his least favourite Potions professor had been in it too, he was sure of that.

Ugh. Was he to be reduced to dreaming about Snape? That was just cruel.

And there was something else, too. A series of rhythmic chants had disturbed the latter part of his sleep, repeating over and over, like a Celestina Warbeck record caught in a loop on Gran's gramophone. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember what the words were.

"I see you are now truly awake, Neville. Are you well?"

Legolas stood before him, looking strangely concerned, so he pulled himself up and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why? Is something wrong?"

"For the last half hour you have been talking whilst you rested. Uttering the same words over and over again. Riddles, I thought them at first, until I realised that they were not."

"You were listening? What did I say?"

"Come, mellon nin," said the elf as he crouched to help Neville gather his belongings. "I will reveal to you what you spoke of when we have gathered Aragorn, Gimli and the Lady Molly to us, for I believe they should hear this also."

That made him frown. What had he been talking about in his sleep that would interest them?

Oh no! He hadn't been fantasising about girls, had he? Perhaps declaring his affection for Éowyn or Varda (a married woman) in his sleep? It wasn't unknown for him to do that. Gran had caught him once, when she'd come in to wake him up on his fifteenth birthday, and found him spouting poetry about Ginny Weasley. Talk about embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as the time six months prior to that, when she'd caught him practising his snogging technique on a pillow, but still. And now Legolas was about to entertain all his friends with another embarrassing ...

Wait a minute.

Poetry?

Hadn't he been dreaming about poetry? And, if he wasn't mistaken, there was nothing remotely romantic about it ...

There was no time for further thought as he followed the blond elf through the sea of Rohirrim springing from the grass, and across the field towards their friends. Aragorn and Gimli stood watching Molly dismantle her tent.

"'Tis a wondrous thing, Lady Molly! That such a creation be larger inside than outside. Your magic never fails to astound me!"

"Oh, I'm so glad you liked it, dear. We don't have our own and I had to borrow this one a while ago. I'm glad you and Aragorn enjoyed sleeping on a real bed for a change, even if they were only bunk beds. Merlin knows you deserve it after all the running and riding you've done."

"And such beds they were! Ah, Legolas! You did not see the wondrous tent. Beds upon beds, I tell you. And space to wash and cook!"

"Fair morn to you, Gimli. I am pleased that you knew the comfort of a softer resting place yester eve," said Legolas, unable to stop a smile spreading over his face at the dwarf's enthusiasm.

"Neville! Legolas! Good morning. I'm just about to make a quick breakfast, though it won't be much because we're leaving as soon as everyone's ready. How does tea and toast with a little strawberry jam sound, hmm? I've got plenty left in my bag, though not enough for a thousand, unfortunately."

Neville grinned. She looked genuinely upset at not being able to feed the entire army.

"I think they'll probably have a few things with them, Molly. Enough to survive until we can get to the fords, anyway."

And after that, who knew? There might not be enough of them left to worry about where the next meal was coming from.

Shrugging the thought off, he helped the witch pack the tent (Gimli was sorry to see it disappear into her knapsack) and pulled several mugs out of his own to fill with tea, adding another two as Théoden and Éomer joined them. Before long, all seven were gathered with their small meal and Legolas related what Neville had been saying in his sleep. The news astonished them all and brought the shadowy fragments of his dream back to the young wizard.

"That's really weird. I thought it was just a mad dream, but yeah, I do remember sitting with Galadriel in the Gryffindor common room. How is it that she could talk to me in my sleep, though?"

"I know not. Has your family the gift of foresight?" asked Aragorn.

"I wish we had," muttered Neville softly, thinking of his parents. "Things could've been dif ... Never mind. No, we don't."

"Perhaps it's because some of your magical signature is still in Lothlórien?" suggested Molly.

"You mean the tree? How does that explain it?"

"Well, she is using her elf magic to keep it that lovely shade of pink ..."

He blushed as three males sniggered and another two eyed him dubiously. "It was an accident," he informed the macho Rohirrim.

"... and she can speak to the trees herself. The two types of magic must have melded somehow to allow her to speak to you as well. Although, it must be rather limited if she can only reach you while you sleep."

Thank goodness for that. The last thing he needed was Galadriel popping into his head for a chat when he was trying to fight the minions of Saruman. And if all she had to share with him were dire warnings of foulness and malice, he could really do without the elleth's presence (no matter how gorgeous she was).

"I was a bit anxious about forgetting everything she told me, so I must've kept repeating it over and over to try and remember it all."

"Then it is a good thing I decided not to share the tent with our friends and kept you company on the field instead, for I heard everything you said that you may not have recalled upon regaining alertness," said Legolas.

"And does everyone know what their messages mean? Legolas' and Gimli's were more or less clear, but yours was a bit dodgy Aragorn. Not to mention mine and Molly's."

But Aragorn was not giving much away. "No doubt they will become clearer to us in time, and most likely when we have the greatest need of them. Do not allow them to consume you with doubt at present, for we have not the time to spare for such a luxury. We must ready ourselves for battle and will need all our strength for that alone."

"Well said, Aragorn. Let us take leave of this place now and ride to the aid of Grimbold and Elfhelm. There will be time for reflecting on our dreams after we have vanquished the Enemy back from our borders," declared Théoden, rising and beckoning for his horse.

Within another half an hour, the entire host was riding north across the Westemnet. The day was clear and surprisingly warm for the beginning of March. Neville was soon sweating underneath his chunky jumper, heavy hauberk and elven cloak, but there was no time to stop and take something off (even if Fæleu did decide to oblige him by slowing down. So far, the nag had behaved herself, but that was probably because there was no room among a thousand other horses to chuck him off, and he didn't fancy giving her an opening just so he could cool down).

Ahead, he saw Aragorn lean over to speak with Legolas. The elf peered into the distant north-west for a few seconds before answering him. Neville urged his horse to a faster pace and drew up beside Éomer and Gimli on Legolas' left.

"What did you see, Legolas?"

"I saw a great darkness with many moving shapes far away upon the bank of the river, but what they are I cannot tell. It is not mist or cloud that defeats my eyes: there is a veiling shadow that some power lays upon the land, and it marches slowly down stream. It is as if the twilight under endless trees were flowing downwards from the hills."

"Well that's got to be the orc army. But if you can see them from here ..."

Oh, no!

"... that means they've breeched the Gap of Rohan already!" exclaimed the teenager in dismay.

"There are many miles between us and them. We may not yet be too late to come to our allies' aid."

It was a little comfort, but there wasn't much he could say in reply. Gripping his wand tightly, Neville resisted the urge to comment further and concentrated on getting to the Fords of Isen as fast as his miserable nag could carry him.

For many hours the company rode north. Dark clouds began to billow overhead, overtaking them and making it difficult to see Molly on her broom. She flew ahead to scout a little while the light lasted and they rode on, ever northwards to reach their goal.

The Sun sank in the west, its dying rays tipping the riders' spears blood-red as it bid them goodnight. Moments later, Molly flew back by the light of her wand and hovered before the King.

"There's a rider coming from the north-west, your Majesty! I think he's one of your men; he's got similar armour and long blond hair. But he looks exhausted. He must be riding with news from the Fords of Isen."

"Then let us ride out to meet him and hear whether they are good or ill tidings he brings," declared Théoden, nodding his thanks.

They only had to ride a few minutes more before the King held up his hand for everyone to stop. A black speck rode towards them and everyone waited with bated breath to hear what he had to say. The man drew up his horse next to the head of the company and dismounted. Molly had been correct: the poor bloke looked knackered. His cloak was dusty, his helmet dented and he had to stand for a while, gasping heavily, to catch his breath. Even the poor horse he had ridden looked close to collapse. Finally, the stranger straightened himself and walked the few steps to the company leaders.

"Is Éomer here?" he wheezed. "You come at last, but too late, and with too little strength. Things have gone evilly since Théodred fell. We were driven back yesterday over the Isen and with great loss; many perished at the crossing. Then at night fresh forces came over the river against our camp. And fell they were! But not all came with intent to slay us. Nay; many surged as if running from a horror greater than even themselves! I can scarce imagine what may be worse than the sight of a sea of Orcs flooding the plains of our fair lands, but it cannot be good. They were screaming and yelling in terror, making such a sound as to chill the blood in our veins! Where is Éomer? I must relay my news to him!"

"What mean you; screaming and yelling in terror?" demanded Théoden, emerging from his position behind Háma. The soldier's words had caused a rumbling of whispers amid those nearest him. "Come, stand before me Ceorl. I am here. The last host of the Eorlingas has ridden forth. It will not return without battle."

Ceorl's face lit with joy and wonder. He drew himself up, then knelt, offering his notched sword to the King. "Command me, lord. And pardon me! I thought ..."

"You thought I remained in Meduseld bent like an old tree under winter snow. So it was when you rode to war. But a west wind has shaken the boughs," said Théoden without accusation.

"I see that now, lord. And it is a joy to know the wind blows yet in favour of my King!"

"I thank you for the fair words, Ceorl. But tell me now of the Orc forces; you said they ran from unknown horror?"

"Indeed, sire. The main body of Saruman's army has successfully crossed the Isen, despite heavy resistance from the forces of Grimbold and Elfhelm both. Erkenbrand of Westfold has drawn off those men he could gather and ordered them towards his fastness in Helm's Deep. But he remains at the Fords, facing the horror that made several hundred Orcs and Dunlanders alike flee the greater force of their own company! I saw grown men with eyes rolling in their sockets as they rushed passed, so possessed of fear were they! And many Orcs slew their own kind in their determination to escape their own ranks. A wild hillman of Dunland, dying from the loss of blood that leaked where his right arm once was, collapsed at my very feet, though none of our soldiers had engaged him in battle. He said a mighty Sorceress, wicked and foul, shadows their flank. She set flaming rocks upon their numbers and crushed them, burned them in their dozens!"

"A sorceress?" queried Neville urgently, sharing a look with Molly. "Did you get a look at her?"

Ceorl, too tired to notice who spoke, shook his head. "Nay. But he said there is another with her - a servant most foul who is invisible to all eyes and delights in slaying innocents where they stand. He hacked many to death before they crossed the river."

"Innocents? Orcs and their allies are not 'innocents', regardless of the claims of a dying man," spat the King in disgust.

Neville wasn't listening. His mind was whirling and racing over all the information he had read at Varda's hall in Valinor. In none of the many parchments he read had he made note of a powerful sorceress. "Molly, did you read anything about a sorceress back at Varda's?"

The red-haired witch was sporting her own look of confusion. "No, dear. Perhaps it was someone they hadn't heard of. They never told us about Grimworm."

"Yeah, but he wasn't really a sorcerer, just a Muggle with a few tricks up his sleeve. This woman can shoot burning rocks into a teeming mass of people. And she has an invisible accomplice - a genuine sorcerer, perhaps? If Saruman's armies haven't heard of either of them, then it's a fair bet the mental git himself doesn't know them."

"He certainly made no mention of them when I eavesdropped on him back in Fangorn forest."

"Aragorn, Legolas: have you ever heard of them?"

"Nay," replied the ranger with a frown. "We are as surprised as you. It would have been possible at first to mistake them for the Blue Wizards come to our aid - but for the presence of the female. There are no Sorceresses or female Istari in all Middle Earth, except the Lady Molly. Which means we may have a problem."

"Exactly. We don't know her, you don't know her, the enemy has never heard of her: so who is she? Who is her invisible friend? And whose side are they on?"

"If she has attacked our Enemy, then perhaps we may call her friend?" suggested Éomer, looking heartened at the thought of another powerful ally, despite the ill news of the lost battle at the Fords of Isen.

Gimli agreed. "Indeed. It seems we have the aid of another Witch and Wizard. Are you certain you and the Lady Molly came alone from the Halls of Ilmarin, lad?"

Molly answered first. "Of course we did. We would've noticed if we hadn't and the Valar didn't mention anything about sending reinforcements after us. It took enough out of poor Varda just to get us here."

Well, that ruled out the possibility of one or two of his friends having popped along for the ride, Neville decided. Varda couldn't possibly have given any more of her Light to another traveller: if she had yanked in Harry and Ginny, or Ron and Hermione, he knew the boys would not have allowed the girls to come along without similar protection to that enjoyed by Molly (although Ginny would probably have Bat-Bogied Harry for having a hero complex, and Hermione would have read Ron the riot act for just being a plain old chauvinist pig).

He spoke his next thoughts aloud to the others.

"Whoever they are, we don't know what their intentions are. They might have struck out at our enemies, but Ceorl couldn't hang around long enough to see if they left his comrades unharmed."

"Wise words, young Wizard," said Théoden, who had been silent during their debate. "We may hope for the best, but we should expect the worst and make suitable preparations. One thing is clear: the Fords of Isen are lost to us. We must now make for Helm's Deep, for we still have the dark army of Saruman to contend with. If these magical strangers are following the Orcs, no doubt we shall make their acquaintance there and may better judge their intent. But as troubling as the news of their appearance is, we have at least one thing in our favour: we know of them, but they do not know of us - and they are not yet aware that we have the aid of a Wizard and Witch of our own. If their aim is to befriend us, we may welcome it with open arms. But if their aim is to destroy ..."

"Then me and Molly will have to take care of them once and for all," finished the teenager darkly.

"Indeed." The King beckoned to a figure behind him. "Give Ceorl a fresh horse and guide his other at careful pace behind you."

"Yes, lord." The rider left to carry out his liege's command.

"Háma?"

"My lord?"

"Take six of the swiftest riders and go with stealth to the Fords. Seek out Erkenbrand, if he lives yet, and gain knowledge of our mysterious visitors. Bring him, and any of our forces you find hale and well, to the Deeping Coomb. By then we shall know better the intent of the strangers and, if it is ill, we will have need of the extra spears."

The huge blond straightened in his saddle and nodded firmly. "It shall be as you command, lord." He turned his mount and rode a few metres down the ranks, pointing at several men and gathering them to him before issuing his orders and riding past the remaining host.

"Éomer, let it be known to all that we ride now for Helm's Deep," said the King to his nephew. Neville shuffled his (still surprisingly well-behaved) nag out the other man's way to let him carry out his commander's orders, watching as he rode off with Gimli clinging tightly to his back.

"And you, Neville Longbottom, Molly Weasley: do you believe that that you will be equal to the task of battling this Sorcerer and Sorceress, as well as the hordes of Isengard?"

Théoden, Aragorn and Legolas watched them intently, but neither of the two were the least bit offended at the impertinent question. In fact, Molly had a downright feral glint in her eye.

"I'm a grieving mother with a score to settle and I'm not particularly fussy about the target I hit, as long as they're enemies. If either of them so much as blink at me the wrong way, they're history!" she declared fervently.

Bloody hell! She meant business! And the men approved - they were grinning from ear to ear after her passionate declaration.

"Same goes for me," Neville stated boldly. "I've fought in a war before - and I wasn't too bad at it, if I do say so myself. I'm more than ready to do it again. That's why I came here. I'll be happy to hex the collective arse of anyone who threatens my friends; orc or otherwise."

"Language, dear!"

He laughed along with everyone else.

"So be it," declared Théoden in approval. "Then let us ride forth to wrath or ruin. There will be a reckoning this night and I am not of a mind to miss it. To War!"

"To War!" cried all within earshot, and the cry broke like a wave across the eager ranks behind them until a thousand steeds and one old (but sturdy) Cleansweep carried the cries of those they bore - not to the north as originally planned - but bent to a southward course.

Towards Helm's Deep.

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