Not Quite a Maia

Augusta and Glorfindel rode for many days through the lands of Rohan. With the danger from Saruman's army gone, there was no longer any need to stay Disillusioned and they remained visible to any and all that cared to look in their direction.

Not that there was anyone looking in their direction. In fact, they hadn't met another living soul in all their travels through Rohan. After crossing the Gap, they spotted the occasional group of riders heading southwest (presumably to Helm's Deep), but their own path lay not in that direction, so there was no opportunity to speak with them. There were also several charred huts and fresh graves, too - a testament to the bloody path of the orcs, as well as to the grieving Rohirrim that had found their slain landsfolk afterwards. But apart from that, there was no sign of life other than their own.

"Remarkably few people out and about," observed Augusta a day after passing what could only be the empty city of Edoras. It stood on a hill by the mountains and was ringed with a large wooden fence. Its gate remained firmly closed and there were no sentries standing guard, as she might have expected.

"Word will have reached them of the impending battle with Saruman's army," replied Glorfindel as they navigated their way across the little stream that flowed down the plain from the mountain. "Théoden would have sent warnings for all to retreat to whatever strongholds they have prepared for such an event. No doubt we shall find any villages near the highway as deserted as his City, for none shall be content to remain where once they were safe with such a threat abroad in their lands."

Hmph. The sooner Erkenbrand and all his splendid soldiers chased off the remaining legions of Orthanc, the better! Imagine not being able to enjoy a Sunday roast without the threat of malodorous miscreants barrelling through the door and ruining one's appetite? Disgraceful!

The days fairly flew by as they rode down the Westemnet, through the Eastfold and over the marshy borderland of the Fenmarch, passing from Rohan into Gondor as the Great West Road marched ever southwards before them. It led them through the dense trees of Firienwood, then out into Anorien, a province of northern Gondor.

"'Tis only a day's ride now until we reach Minas Tirith, Aunt," Glorfindel informed his elderly companion.

Augusta sighed gratefully. Thank Merlin for that! As delighted as she was to see the sights of New Zealand by horseback, she couldn't wait to reach civilisation once more. Oh, for a hot bath! And a proper loo!

A proper loo...

It was at times like these that she wished she were a man. How very handy it must be to spring off one's horse, unleash the plumbing, water the plants (or write one's name in the snow. Men! What pigs they were!), then set off again without a care in the world.

But was it that easy for a woman? Of course not! She'd had to subject herself to the embarrassment of asking Floor-kindle to stop at least twice a day so that she could dismount and seek out a private spot to Conjure one! Fortunately, her nephew was always discreet enough to wait (well out of sight) for her. Unfortunately, it seemed that his hearing was every bit as excellent as his eyesight - a fact that was verified after she experienced a bout of post-digestive mayhem one afternoon and almost blasted herself right off her magnificent loo and straight into orbit. When she'd returned (hobbling) to her lovely horse, he had rushed over to her to ask if she was quite well. It was to her very great mortification that the dashing chap had admitted to hearing some rather alarming noises coming from the tree she had chosen to conceal herself behind.

The aged witch flushed as she remembered trying to convince him she'd just been blowing her nose.

Ever since that unfortunate incident, she'd been forced to cast a Muffliato whenever she had to answer nature's call.

Oh, well. The journey was almost over.

"Wonderful news, my good fellow. I can't wait to lie down on a proper bed in a proper house for a change."

One with a proper, closeted, sound-proofed loo.

On past the (never-ending) White Mountains they rode, with Floor-kindle giving her a detailed narrative on all the points of interest from King Elendil's grave on the Hill of Awe to the history of Anorien and Ithilien. She learned a good deal about the Stewards of Gondor and how they became Ruling Stewards after the last King, Earnur, foolishly accepted a challenge by the Lord of the Nazgûl (whoever he was) and rode into enemy territory, never to be seen or heard from again.

"The line of Stewardship passes from father to son upon the Ruling Steward's death," her nephew informed her. "The current Steward, Denethor, is the son of Ecthelion II. Ecthelion was a wise and valiant Man, or so Aragorn says. He fortified the defences of both Cair Andros and Pelargir against the growing threat of Mordor. Let us hope his son has been wise enough to see to their upkeep, or Mordor's foul master will find it easy to strike the White City from both sides."

"It must be a dashed nuisance having such unpleasant neighbours," remarked Augusta. "I've never had any myself, living in a rather quiet village as I do. Everybody minds their own business and nobody intrudes on anyone else's privacy. Apart from Mrs McAvoy across the street, that is. She's always peeking over the hedges into our back garden. Nosy woman. But she's never tried to invade it, or sent a battalion of orcs over to rip up the rosebushes. Which is just as well, really. Neville doesn't take kindly to people fiddling about with his carefully arranged displays."

For the life of him, Glorfindel could not understand how she had managed to get from a mass invasion of Minas Tirith to garden displays, but he had learned by now to offer a diplomatic response whenever his aunt digressed into the ridiculous. After all, it would not do to openly question her sanity when she possessed the power to curse him.

"Ah. Indeed. The destruction of one's blooms is a thing of sadness. I am certain the Lord Denethor will be guarding them as valiantly as he guards his city walls," he said amiably (not really believing that Denethor would be wasting precious manpower simply to protect his roses). "We should arrive in the City by noon tomorrow. It would be wise to introduce ourselves to the Steward before we seek a residence for the duration of our stay."

"Do you think that's wise, young man? We are supposed to be incognito, you know. That means not telling anyone that I'm a witch, in case we alarm the Muggles. And not telling the Steward we're waiting for Neville and Aragorn - the very fellow who is going to put him out of a job in the very near future. I don't think he would take too kindly to that."

"I am aware of that. Nevertheless, I will not be able to remain long in the City without word of my presence reaching his ears. I shall be easily recognisable as a...visitor...and he may take offence that I have not paid him the courtesy of an introduction."

Take offence? What the deuce was he talking about? He would be just another face in the crowd, for Merlin's sake! As would she. Why should the (temporary) ruler of the land care if he was there or not? A city the size of Minas Tirith must surely have plenty of tourists coming and going. Did the Steward demand an audience with all of them? Heavens, he'd never get any work done if that was the case!

"I don't quite understand why our presence should spark his interest, young man. He'll be far too busy opening supermarkets and decapitating reporters."

This she knew because she had a (secret) subscription to the Daily Telegraph, a Muggle newspaper, and there were usually (eerily still) photographs of Prince Charles or Princess Anne performing similar duties (the princess was often to be found swearing at reporters who'd followed her onto the 'under-ground' train to take pictures. Not that she blamed the poor woman for being annoyed at them. However, as a member of the House of Windsor, it was her duty to comport herself in a more regal manner. Instead of swearing, she should simply order their heads chopped off. The Beefeaters at the Tower of London would surely jump at the chance to get back to their roots and resume guarding prisoners, as opposed to acting as overdressed tour guides).

Glorfindel nearly fell off his horse at the thought of Denethor decapitating anyone, let alone a reporter (whatever that was. Perhaps a scout of sorts?). He recovered himself enough to answer his eccentric new relative.

"His interest shall be piqued because..."

He wondered how to describe the furore his presence would cause without mentioning the fact that he was an elf. The elderly witch had still not come to the realisation that this was the case - though that may very well change when they entered Minas Tirith - but he would prefer that it dawned on her naturally as opposed to having it forced on her. He did not wish to cause her any alarm by revealing the true state of her predicament before she was ready.

"...because there are not very many fair-haired people in the City!" he finished triumphantly, feeling very pleased with himself.

The news came as a surprise to Augusta. Her face creased into a frown and she threw him a look of some concern.

"What? No blonds in Minas Tirith? You can't be serious!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"I am in earnest, Aunt. The good citizens of Minas Tirith are descended from Númenoreans and they were all dark of hair."

Merlin's beard! Why hadn't he told her that before? Gracious! If what he said was true, then with his pretty face and golden head, he'd be a magnet for all sorts of unsavoury attention. Women all over the city would be lusting after him, following him everywhere he went, begging him for a kiss (or worse). He'd create a riot every time he stepped foot outside the hotel. What if some love-struck lady had him abducted by her many brothers, then imprisoned until he agreed to marry her and father her children?

She looked at her nephew with new eyes. What a fine fellow he was to risk his virtue just to see her safely to Gondor! He must have known what terrible danger it would put him in, but it hadn't stopped him from volunteering.

"I could fix your hair for you, you know," she offered kindly. "One handy wave of my wand and you could be as dark as Elrond."

The elf was horrified. "Nay! Many thanks, Aunt, but that will not be necessary."

"But what if you're ravaged by a horde of screaming teenaged girls? And their mothers? Not to mention the odd chap or two..."

Glorfindel eyed her in horror.

"...and then, of course, there'll be the dozens of unhappy husbands you'll have to contend with, if they think you're waltzing about the city seducing their wives. And daughters. Possibly their grandmothers, too, depending on how well-preserved they are."

"I do not believe they will imagine any such thing!" protested her companion hotly.

Hah! That's what he thought. He'd obviously never heard of the Italian Rapscallion, Fabrizio Tucci: a late seventeenth-century wizard who moved to Muggle London and spent the better part of two decades using his Mediterranean good looks (and several Seduction charms) to bed the ladies of the royal court (regardless of age). Fortunately for Fabrizio, he survived the many assassination attempts by their infuriated husbands (with the aid of several hundred Notice-Me-Not charms). Unfortunately for Fabrizio, Charles II - a renowned womaniser himself - grew tired of the competition and ordered his arrest and subsequent castration. After the deed was done, Fabrizio was promptly released and spent the remainder of his days in a drunken haze, trying unsuccessfully to forget the loss of his virility and cursing the very mention of the Casanova King (in a very high-pitched voice).

What if that happened to Floor-kindle?

But despite all her protestations, her dashing companion would not allow her to fiddle about with his hair colour and Augusta spent the rest of the day compiling a mental list of the spells she would need to defend him from the amorous women (and enraged men) of Gondor.

*~*~*~*

The next morning after breakfast (which, for her, was now reduced to a simple slice of lembas and a cup of Earl Grey. Muffliato charms notwithstanding, she had no desire to eat the cold meat Elrond had packed for them after her digestive dynamics two days since), Augusta brushed down her coat, donned her hat (yet another replica - she'd lost the previous one to an arrow somewhere along the Gap of Rohan) and mounted Celebrithil with her companion's aid (such a gentleman, he was!). They set off on the last leg of their journey down the Great West Road and soon found themselves following its curve round the numerous White Mountains to their most easterly peak: Mount Mindolluin.

"Behold, Aunt: Minas Tirith!" cried Glorfindel an hour later, pointing a tapering finger directly ahead. They stopped their horses long enough to get a good look before approaching it further.

At the foot of the mountain was a hill almost seven hundred feet high. A rocky spur connected it to the mountain proper. The city itself sat on the hill and consisted of seven circular levels. A high, dark, stone wall encircled it at its base, but other than that, the city appeared to be made of white rock. A stone outcropping rose up to the sixth level and formed the battlement of the seventh. Augusta could see several towers dotted around the perimeter of the top level and a taller white one rose three hundred feet into the air at its centre.

Gracious! It was all very pretty, but she had to admit it wasn't quite what she'd been expecting from a Muggle city. Where were the high-rise buildings? The telly-fone poles? The electra-city pile-ons? The peeping horns of those ghastly motor-cars, which she should have heard even from here? Why, there couldn't even be a public park for walking a dog behind those stone walls!

In fact, Minas Tirith looked almost medieval.

"Come, Aunt. Let us put this long journey behind us. Soon, you may know the comfort of a warm fire."

A warm fire? Well, medieval or not, the city should at least be able to provide that. And she was very much looking forward to it!

"That sounds like a splendid idea. Let's go then," she said, nudging her horse into motion.

They raced across the road towards the city's outer wall. Augusta caught the glint of the Sun's rays reflecting off water from the corner of her eye and swivelled her head eastwards to study the source.

"Is that the...oh, what was the name of that river, again?" she asked, attempting to recall the name from the maps she had studied before leaving Imladris.

"The Anduin. Yes, it is. Upon its banks lies Osgiliath, which you may not see from here, but which should be visible from the higher levels of the City. I fear it will be the first place to fall when Sauron's forces attack, if it has not already fallen."

"Well, let's hope it hasn't," said Augusta firmly. "Though I suspect we'll find out soon enough once we reach Minas Tirith."

They continued on their way for over half an hour, giving the horses free rein to gallop across the road. As they drew nearer the outer wall of the city, they crossed to a smaller road which Glorfindel informed her was the North-way. The beat of hammers and clink of trowels greeted their ears as they approached and the Longbottom matriarch could now see that the wall had sustained damage to its structure. The North-way led to a gate around which were grouped several tall (dark-haired - her nephew wasn't exaggerating, after all), heavily cloaked men.

"Halt!" cried their leader, stepping away from his colleagues and holding a hand up in warning when he spotted them. "Who goes there?"

Augusta and Glorfindel pulled their steeds to a halt a few feet away.

"I am...Archibald...of Imladris," said the elf (sounding pained). "And with me goes my Aunt Augusta."

The sentry's eyes widened as he took a proper look at the noble warrior.

"By the Valar! Forgive me, lord. I did not expect to see one of the Eldar on this road! But what brings you to the White City at such a time?"

"I bring the greetings and goodwill of Elrond Half-Elven to your Steward," replied the elf.

"Indeed? I am Ingold, Guard of the Gate of Forannest," declared the sentry. He offered a bow (which impressed Augusta), before addressing Glorfindel again.

"Did I understand correctly when you said the lady is your kin?" asked Ingold, sparing the elderly witch a sceptical glance (which did not impress Augusta - and why was the stupid fellow staring at her tights?).

"I did."

"Truly we know of your kind, Lord Archibald, but I cannot say that we have ever known one to be kin with a mortal woman. Aunt or nay, we wish for no strangers in this land, unless they be mighty Men or Elves of arms in whose faith and help we can trust."

Why, that uncivilised cad! Was she to be refused entry because she was neither a man nor a house-elf?

But her foster-nephew saved the day (and the sentry's life) with a quick rejoinder. "That cannot be so, Ingold. Many is the Dúnedain woman who can trace her ancestry back to Elros and beyond. They are distant kin to the Lord of Imladris as much as their husbands are, or would you refute that?"

It was enough to give the man pause. "I beg your pardon, lord," he apologised with a gracious nod at both the travellers. His eyes rested once more on Augusta, travelling from Spot, down her green coat, over the dress (which barely covered her knees while she sat astride Celebrithil) and over her woolly tights, before resting on her sensible brown brogues.

Gracious! Was he ogling her?

Whether or not Ingold was 'ogling' her, he was not the only male present to be doing so. All his shifty friends had stepped forward to investigate the new arrivals and now five pairs of eyes were flicking between her dashing companion and herself (or, more specifically, her tights).

How rude!

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" she barked in irritation. "Or is it the norm for Gondorians to gawk at an old woman's legs?"

There. That was enough to make the lascivious chaps avert their gazes!

Ingold and the others flushed. "Forgive us, lady. 'Tis merely that your manner of dress is most unusual. And what an...interesting...hat. I have never seen its like."

Several of the men loitering in the background sniggered and Augusta glared hot coals at Ingold, convinced she'd heard him mumbling 'fortunately' under his breath. Lucky for him that she was a woman of her word or, promise or not, she would have gladly revealed her identity as a witch with a handy Horn Tongue hex!

The sentry spoke with Glorfindel again.

"Emissary of Imladris or nay, I fear that you may not travel farther into the City than the Pelennor Fields if you do not have the pass-words of the Seven Gates."

"I know all the pass-words, Guard of Forannest," replied Glorfindel, not the slightest bit fazed.

"And how is this when you have never before set foot upon the Hill of Guard?"

"I know one who has. Mithrandir entrusted many of those who are friends of Gondor with this information. I am counted as a friend of Gondor, am I not?"

He asked the question casually enough, but the challenge was unmistakable and Augusta was pleased to see how very tall and stately her new nephew looked, sitting upon his horse and smiling benignly at the guards below. All of a sudden, there seemed to be a brightness about the statuesque blond (probably a trick of the light - it was a beautifully sunny day) and the Gondorians all bowed en masse.

"Indeed you are, lord. A most honoured friend. Allow me to delay you and your aunt no longer. Ride forth to the City at will and bring the greetings of our noble ancestor's kin to our Steward. It shall no doubt be welcomed, for there have been may strange portents here of late! Pass on now quickly. The Lord of Minas Tirith will be eager to hear news from the lands his son journeyed to so many months ago."

With that, he stepped aside and the crowd of men parted to make way for Asfaloth and Celebrithil. Augusta and Glorfindel passed through a narrow gate (after she threw a final, disapproving glare at the men who continued to stare in fascination at her withered legs) and out into a wide expanse of grassy fields which ran in a slope towards the great river. A few trees rose in the distance and there were barns and pens visible in some areas, but there were no signs of life among them other than a few soldiers making repairs to the main wall. The wall was highest several miles away from the main city gates, and towers guarded the passage from the Pelennor to the city of Osgiliath, which lay on the banks of the Anduin.

The aged witch viewed it all with interest as Celebrithil carried her closer to the tall gates of the lower circle.

Well. It all looked like a rather expansive front lawn, in her opinion. True, a lawn of exceptionally great proportions, but then it was the front lawn of a (soon-to-be) king's house. It was only natural he would boast an enormous garden.

Augusta followed Glorfindel to the large iron gates that barred entry to the city proper and he spoke with (yet more) guards (who couldn't stop staring at her legs. What was wrong with these people?). Her companion obviously gave the correct password, for they opened the massive gates and allowed them into the lower level without any further ado.

The city itself was half-empty. Even in the lower levels, not many people wandered the streets. Those that did stopped to stare in wonder at the tall, stately elf and the indecently clad elderly woman with the strange hat. Augusta, having no idea that they were scandalised by the shortness of her dress, glowered at those who pointed in her direction before deciding that they were all quite mad.

Up through the levels they rode, passing through gates situated at various points. The witch's eyes wandered over the impressive houses and courtyards, noting that a few were falling into disrepair. This was true throughout the first six levels. When they reached the seventh, the travellers were stopped by black-robed guards with gleaming helms and informed that no horses were allowed in the Citadel.

Huffing in annoyance, Augusta dismounted and handed the reins of her horse to a waiting youth, who led Celebrithil and Asfaloth to (presumably) the stables.

"I do hope they remember to give her an apple or something," she remarked, watching the (dark-haired) boy lead her pretty mare farther away until they rounded a bend and were lost to her sight.

"Do not fear, Aunt. They will be housed in the Royal Stables during our sojourn with the Steward. They will find no better quarters in all Minas Tirith, of that I am certain," assured her companion.

The royal stables? How very impressive!

Pleased that her mare was about to be treated like an equine aristocrat (and relieved she couldn't speak - wouldn't do to have her going all 'Princess Anne' on the locals and turning the air blue with her language), she accepted the offer of Floor-kindle's arm and approached the guards. But word of their arrival seemed to have travelled up the levels before them, for the guards did not challenge them for a password, instead allowing them free entry up the sloping path and through the gates where they passed into a white-paved court.

In the centre of the court was a merry fountain that sparkled prettily in the Sun's rays. A sward of green lay about it and over the pool drooped the most miserable excuse for a tree Augusta had ever seen. Falling drips of water splashed from its barren and broken branches back into the fountain.

What a jolly good thing Neville wasn't here. He would have an absolute fit if he saw that! If the Steward insisted on having a tree in his courtyard, the least he could do was see that it was taken proper care of!

She shook her head in vexation as they passed it and came to the doors of a great hall, which sat beneath the gleaming white tower she had seen from miles away. More guards waited there, but - again - they silently allowed them entry and soon the two were walking down a long, paved passage.

"We must be careful of our words here, Aunt. I do not know much of Denethor, but we cannot afford to give him word of Frodo's task, or the burden he bears. Nor must we speak of Aragorn until we have the measure of him. He may rejoice to know that the King returns, or it may be that he fears it and views our arrival as a herald of his own duty's end."

"Gracious! Weren't you at Elrond's meeting, young man? Didn't you hear me say I'm not in the habit of divulging other people's secrets?"

Glorfindel had the grace to flush.

"Forgive me. Of course I heard. I am merely anxious that he not discover our true purpose in his City."

Augusta gave his arm a fond pat. "Don't worry. I won't so much as open my mouth. Mum's the word, and all that."

A cloud of confusion passed briefly over her dashing nephew's face, but he accepted the odd phrase as another of her harmless eccentricities and moved on with his conversation.

"You should also be aware that - being of Númenorean descent - Denethor may very well be unusually perceptive, for a mortal..."

Good grief! Now Floor-kindle was obsessed with mortality. Would she now have to start suspecting him of sharing Elrond's penchant for Glamour charms? What a pity!

"...therefore, I urge you to guard your thoughts."

Wonderful. New Zealand was apparently riddled with Muggle Legilimens. What a jolly good thing she was a superb Occlumens.

"Say no more. He'll not get passed my defences," she said briskly, tapping her forehead with a bony finger.

The fair being sighed in relief and offered her a warm smile. A minute later, they came to a tall door of polished metal. Glorfindel raised a hand and knocked upon it. The door opened, though neither could see who was responsible for doing so. With a final smile at each other and a collective squaring of shoulders, the witch and the warrior entered the domain of the Ruling Steward of Gondor.

*~*~*~*

Into a great stone hall passed Augusta and her dashing foster-nephew. It was lit by large windows at either side and tall black pillars rose up to support a roof laid with dull gold and colourful floral tracings. There were no paintings of kings or stewards of old, but between the pillars were the carved stone likenesses of the supposed monarchs and rulers.

At the far end of the hall was a series of steps leading to an empty throne, which sat under a canopy of marble that was (rather pretentiously, in her opinion) shaped in the form of a crown. Behind it, carved into the wall, was the image of a tree in flower, its entire form made of precious stones. Upon the broad lower step at the foot of the dais was a black stone chair, and on it sat an old man gazing at his lap. In his hand was a white rod with a golden knob. He did not look up as they covered the distance towards him and drew to a respectful halt three paces from his seat.

"Mae govannen, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion," stated Glorfindel boldly, preparing to once more swallow his pride (and thrill his aunt) with his next words. "I am Archibald of Imladris and I bring you greetings from Elrond, Lord of those fair lands."

At that, the old man finally raised his head and focussed his dark gaze on Glorfindel. There was a distinctly odd gleam in his deep eyes.

"Archibald? Are you in earnest?" he asked with the faintest tinge of amusement in his aristocratic voice.

Augusta frowned in confusion. What in Merlin's name was wrong with 'Archibald'?

'Archibald' flushed in embarrassment. What in Varda's name was right with it?

"I see that you are," the Steward added when the elf clenched his jaw in mortification. "'Tis an unusual enough name for your kind, but I will not increase your discomfort by dwelling upon it. So, Lord Archibald, do you bring news of my son, Boromir? He left for your lands these eight months past, and eleven days ago I heard the Horn of Gondor blowing dim upon the northern marches. But there has been no sign of him since! What know you of his fate?"

"Alas, lord, I can only say that he left to return to your side not three months since. If he has not returned to you yet, then I know not where he is or what has become of him."

The old man sagged a little. "Ever since I heard the call of the Horn, I have dreamt that he is lost to me. If you say he left your lands so long ago, yet he has not returned here, then it can only be that he has perished, as I fear. My Boromir! Now when we have need of you. Faramir should have gone in his stead! His loss would not have wounded me thus."

As much as the fellow's distress at the possible loss of a child affected her, Augusta couldn't help but be shocked by his last words.

Was this 'Faramir' another son? And was his own father wishing him dead? What a dreadful thought for Denethor to entertain - let alone voice in front of two complete strangers!

Fearing that that was exactly what the Steward meant, Augusta was overcome with a rush of sympathy for Faramir and a wave of irritation at his possible father. She narrowed her eyes and harrumphed in disapproval, a sound which drew Denethor's attention to her. His neutral gaze swept her from head to foot and she bristled at the impertinence.

What a horrid man! Not so much as a 'Hello', or a 'How do you do', let alone a 'May I offer you a refreshing cup of Earl Grey and a Ginger Newt after your weary travels?'. What did the fellow mean by gawking at her like that?

"Mayhap you will be kind enough to furnish me with the name of your lady companion," said Denethor, returning his (unwelcome) attention to the fair elf. "Though, I hope for her sake it is a deal more flattering than your own."

Floor-kindle flushed and Augusta frowned. Why, that snowy-haired scoundrel! How dare he slight her excellent nephew's name when all the poor chap had done was say hello! Before Glorfindel could open his mouth, she opened hers.

"I am Augusta Longbottom. I trust that that name meets with your approval?" she asked in a polite (but clipped) voice.

Denethor transferred his gaze back to her.

"It is not for a woman to introduce herself when the question has been put to her protector, madam. It would be more becoming of you to practice silence until you are called upon to speak."

Glorfindel shut his eyes and groaned.

Augusta's eyes, however, almost popped out of her head.

Why, she had never been so offended in all her life! At least Saruman had offered her refreshments before insulting her!

She clenched her fist, itching to forgo civility and shove it into her coat pocket to withdraw her wand, so she could Avada Kedavra the man well into the next century.

"If you imagine for one second that I require someone else to speak on my behalf, you are very much mistaken, my good man! I am more than capable of speaking for myself and certainly well able to say my own name!"

"And a good deal more into the bargain," observed Denethor dryly, cocking a brow at her. "Very well, Mistress Longbottom. As you are so adamant that you speak your own turn, perhaps you may explain to the lord of this City why it is that you cavort through its many levels adorned as a woman of ill repute?"

"I beg your pardon? What on earth are you talking about?" she gasped, genuinely surprised.

Denethor extended a thin arm and pointed at her calf-length green dress.

"Your robes, madam," he said coldly. "You have been seen on every level of this City baring an indecent amount of flesh for a woman of your age. Indeed, for a woman of any age. This manner of dress may be the custom from whence you hail, but in the lands of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, no true lady would show her form so wantonly unless she was seeking the comfort and custom of strangers. Better would it be for you that you throw yourself from Mindolluin's peak, than seek to venture into my land with the intention of plying your trade."

Was the horrible man actually accusing her of being an old slapper? A wrinkly harlot? An aged tart? A trollop? A hussy?

A prostitute?

Cold fury seared through the scary granny's veins as she glared at the frowning man in affront. How very dare he accuse her of being a lady of the night! And in front of her (sort of) nephew, too! Whatever happened to diplomacy? Respect? Chivalry?

She drew herself up straight and tall (or as tall as her five feet one inch frame would stretch to) and prepared to teach the odious chap some manners.

"I 'hail' from England. You have heard of England, have you not? No? Well, perhaps you should employ more reputable cartographers. In any event, where I come from, no true gentleman would dare address a lady in the manner you have just used with me. I am a subject of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II and a well-respected member of society, and I have never plied my trade in any corner of the world! As for these lands, from what I've heard, they are most certainly not yours. You are little more than a glorified caretaker - and a dashed uncivilised one at that!"

Denethor practically sprang from his chair. "You dare chastise me as you would a recalcitrant child?"

"Well, if you stopped acting like a recalcitrant child and started acting like a responsible adult, you might find I'd address you as such!"

"Madam, you test my patience!" snapped the Steward angrily.

"Lord Steward, I beg that you would but calm yourself. You must understand that you caused the lady great offence. A lady who is held in high esteem by Elrond of Imladris."

"Indeed? And is that because she successfully plied her trade with him? Truly she must be a 'lady' of some skill to please such a noble Elven lord!"

"Enough!" cried Glorfindel angrily. He took a furious step towards the dais and glowered at the old man. "Never in all my days - and they are many in number - have I heard such wicked accusations against a noblewoman. Or indeed any woman - be she low- or high-born! Steward or nay, your father would be ashamed of you! I have heard much of the greatness of Ecthelion and I hoped to find that same greatness in you, also. Alas, but it seems that I was mistaken!"

"And what know you of my father? From whence have you reports of him?" demanded Denethor, retaking his seat and studying the elf coldly. "Is it from the one who would usurp me as ruler of Gondor? Oh yes, word has reached me of the hope of Imladris. The orphan child of a Ranger of the North who would lay claim to the throne of Gondor. I know also that he was raised by your lord to stride into this very hall and ensconce himself as a King of old. Do you deny this?"

"I neither confirm nor deny it."

A harsh laugh.

"As I suspected. And what of you, bold mistress? What word has Elrond's esteemed lady friend of the Ranger, Aragorn?"

What she wanted to say was: "He and Sir Neville will both be along in five minutes to evict you from his pretty palace, you ghastly fraud."

What she actually said, was: "There is no such person."

It was an outrageous lie - and she uttered it without so much as a flicker of conscience.

"You deny that a child of Men was raised in Elven lands with the sole intent of sitting in yonder chair?" barked the Steward, pointing an imperious finger at the throne behind him."

Child of men?

"There have been many 'children of men' raised in Imladris, my good fellow!" retorted Augusta. "Why, I dined with three of them just over a week ago..."

Though the children she was referring to were Elrond's own, and all fully grown.

"...and not one of them expressed any interest in moving to Gondor with the sole intent of usurping you. So it rather appears that you have been gravely misinformed."

"I think not, madam. My source is very reliable."

"What 'source' would that be?"

"That is not your concern!"

Gracious! How rude!

"I know for a fact that one known as 'Aragorn', lived in Imladris for several years and was reared by the lord of the lands himself!" insisted Denethor.

It was a surprise to both Augusta and Glorfindel to find the man so well informed. In fact, the Steward spent several long seconds studying her dashing nephew carefully for any telltale flicker of his features that would confirm his report. But the older man didn't know her companion as well as she did and Floor-kindle was much too clever to betray his emotions so easily to a stranger. Nevertheless, she knew the handsome fellow well enough by now to recognise that he was rattled.

Oh, dear. How very bothersome of Denethor! Still, perhaps she could save the day?

Adopting her best Sunday face, Augusta casually put her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers (so that the - absolutely massive - lie she was about to tell wouldn't really count).

"I'm sorry to have to repeat myself, but you are mistaken. If your source got wind of any child in Imladris, it must have been one of the other Rangers' sons. Elrond is a very friendly chap and he plays with all their children when they ask it of him. He's also a firm favourite with them at story time, thanks to his enormous library. In fact, they often re-enact the histories of Gondor and Rohan. Little boys do so like to play at being kings. My own son was much the same. As for this 'Aragorn' person; well, your source obviously only heard his name in passing, because they've mispronounced it. The person they were probably referring to is Aragog."

Both Steward and elf looked at her in wide-eyed surprise.

"Aragog?" queried Denethor, thrown by the easy manner in which she offered the information.

"Yes. Aragog. Bit of a black sheep. Refuses to visit his father in Imladris. They've had a bit of a falling out, apparently. Haven't spoken in years! It's quite the scandal. Something to do with Aragog marrying a hag. Well, someone's got to, haven't they? Anyway, Aragog's father is not Arathorn - that poor chap died a bachelor - it's Halbarad..."

Glorfindel almost choked.

"...and Halbarad was none too pleased when his wayward son jilted Elrond's daughter, Arwen, and ran off with Hilda the Horrible instead. Elrond was rather furious himself. Banned poor Aragog from his home because he upset his pretty daughter."

The Steward's brow crinkled in suspicion. "I am certain you said that this...person...refused to enter Imladris of his own volition, not that he was banished by the lord of the land."

Oops.

Augusta did some furious back-pedalling.

"He can just as easily refuse to go back, as stay away because he was banished, can't he? Elrond banned him for breaking Arwen's heart, and Aragog refuses to return to the place anyway because his father called his fiancée a 'hairy brute'. Nasty business, if you ask me."

Glorfindel nearly collapsed.

"I have never heard of this Aragog," declared Denethor in mounting irritation.

"Then it seems to me that you need a more reliable source. One that investigates these matters a bit more thoroughly," insisted Augusta. "In fact, depending on when you sent him, he may even have seen the poor fellow! Of course, if your source is so unreliable with names, then chances are that he's equally unreliable with faces; though how your spy could have missed him is quite beyond me. Aragog is a big chap. Bulging eyes. Lots of bristly hair. Very leggy."

"I know of no such person. My report was most specific. It is Aragorn," drawled the Steward.

"No, it jolly well isn't. It's very definitely Aragog. And, believe me, he hasn't set one foot in Imladris in years..."

Let alone all eight.

"...and he most definitely isn't on speaking terms with Elrond..."

Which was the absolute truth.

"...let alone ever been a ranger..."

Although he might have eaten a few.

"...No. Aragog now lives the hermit's life in the forest with his family and, as an unofficial ambassador of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, I can solemnly promise you that he has never harboured a desire to be the King of Gondor. I don't even think he knows where Gondor is. Well, he wouldn't, would he? He rarely leaves the forest these days. He and Hilda live in marital bliss with all their...striking...children."

Well, she couldn't say 'pretty children', could she? Who knew how hideous the offspring of a spider and a hag might be? 'Striking' was a much more diplomatic adjective.

Denethor was, by this time, completely two-footed.

"Forest? Which forest? And who is this Queen of whom you speak? I have never heard of her!"

"Merlin's beard! What do you mean, you've never heard of her? She is the Queen of Great Britain and Northern Ireland! One of the longest reigning monarchs in the world! As for Aragog, he lives in the Forbidden Forest."

Oh, dear. They wouldn't have a Forbidden Forest here, would they? Dash it all! What a silly mistake to make! And Denethor was now glaring at her more suspiciously than ever.

"My aunt means Fangorn Forest," supplied Glorfindel pleasantly. Denethor transferred his glare to him, but the towering blond simply smiled beatifically.

"You know of this 'Aragog'?"

"I do," lied Glorfindel (every bit as smoothly as his 'aunt').

"Yet you thought not to mention it when I enquired about the hope of Imladris?"

"I thought it impolitic to correct your mispronunciation of his name, and even more impolitic to give details of the private anguish of those I call friends..." retorted the elf (with a wry glance at his aunt), "...especially to one not of their immediate circle. Though, I must admit to curiosity: from whence does the Steward of Gondor have this curious report of Imladris?"

"That is of no import. What is of import is that I have your absolute assurance that this...Aragog...and his offspring will remain in their forest for the rest of their natural lives."

"You have the word of not only myself, but of Elrond of Imladris on that," said Glorfindel (not realising how very truly he spoke).

Denethor nodded curtly in satisfaction.

"Very well," he drawled, allowing his canny gaze to flicker back and forth between his two guests. "Yet, now that we have established that Aragog has no claim on Gondor's throne, it does appear that your long journey to my City has served little purpose."

The old man let his gaze fall on the elderly witch, placing extra emphasis on the words 'my city' (no doubt to annoy her - how very childish). But Augusta stood ramrod straight and stared right back at him, refusing to be cowed by his intense scrutiny (and grateful he wasn't gawking at her legs).

"And why is that?" she enquired politely.

"As welcome as the greetings of Elrond Half-Elven are, they will not still the evil which flows towards my gates from the Black Lands. Therefore, if you are not come to Gondor with an army to our aid, and you seek not to spy for a false King, I fail to see why you have come at all."

A very good point. Dash it all, the old chap was shrewd.

But so was she.

"I insisted on coming."

"Indeed? And may I enquire as to why?"

No, you may not, you egotistical, paranoid, chauvinistic, power-mongrel!

"Certainly. I've heard a great deal about Minas Tirith and its hospitable ruler and I very much wanted to see it."

It was obvious to any fool that her host was struggling to suppress a sneer.

"At such a time?" he demanded. "When the wolves of Mordor bay at our very gates and their evil master plans his greatest assault on this City - an assault that will surely bring its downfall?"

Gracious! Whatever happened to positive thinking? No wonder the few people of Gondor they had seen on the way up had been scowling so fiercely. Their tin-pot ruler had no backbone!

"It's not an ideal time for a holiday, granted. But there was nothing available in Blackpool - it's always busy at this time of year, you know," said Augusta matter-of-factly. "Gondor was recommended to me by a friend as an alternative and I thought it might be nice to see the sights before it was overrun with orcs."

Glorfindel groaned (again).

Denethor scowled (again).

"Then I am happy we were able to resist the Dark Lord long enough to be able to oblige this yearning, madam," snapped the (not very pleased) Steward. "Tell me; what friends do you have that speak so highly of my City?"

Oh dear. None. She couldn't exactly say 'Aragorn' after the fuss she'd made about a forest-dwelling Aragog (not that she'd ever actually met this Aragorn chap, anyway), and she didn't know anybody else outside the borders of Imladris who may have visited the city (with the exception of Saruman, whom she did not count - though it might be interesting to see Denethor's reaction if she told him the rabid scoundrel had sent her).

Hmm. What to do?

Be creative, of course!

With as pleasant a smile as she could muster (which almost killed her), she prepared to lie (yet again).

"It was Bilbo Baggins, of course."

Of course.

Denethor favoured her with a sceptical look. "Bilbo Baggins? I have never heard tell of such a person."

"Well that's hardly surprising. It was a while ago. Minas Tirith is rather a big city and Bilbo is rather a small fellow. It would have been very easy for you to miss him. Why, he probably spent all his time in the restaurants, eating the proprietors out of house and home! He has an enormous appetite, you know."

To her immediate right, Glorfindel fought desperately to control the desire to sink his head into his waiting hands and shake it in despair.

"I see," said the Steward, clearly unimpressed. He turned to his other guest, who plastered (what he fervently hoped passed for) a serene expression on his face. "And you have accompanied the...lady...as a protector?"

If he called her 'lady' in that dubious manner just one more time, she might very well completely forget that she was one and slap his patrician face!

"Indeed, lord," answered her new nephew with a touch of ice in his voice. "Lady Longbottom is my aunt. As such, it is both my duty and my pleasure to accompany her wherever she wishes to go."

Ah. She knew her smashing young relative would defend her honour!

But Glorfindel's comment had piqued the Steward's interest. He leaned forward in his obsidian chair and gazed intently at the elf.

"Your aunt? How can that be? She is..."

Denethor didn't get the chance to finish before Glorfindel interrupted.

"She is kin from my father's line," said the elf with an elegant arch of his eyebrow, silently daring the Steward to contest the claim.

The Steward did not contest it. Instead, he reclined back in his seat with a half-smile hovering on his lips. "Is she, indeed? If you claim it is thus, then who am I to argue? No doubt you know the lineage of your own kin better than I, unusual though it be."

Unusual? What the deuce was the silly man talking about? There was nothing unusual about it! People were known to have elderly aunts. Why, she had three of them herself!

Well, perhaps not three. Not anymore. Aunts Margaret and Elspeth had both succumbed to old age more than twenty years ago. Only Aunt Agnes was left. Her decrepit relative was still going strong at the ripe old age of one hundred and forty nine; a feat the ancient witch attributed to living in a clay hut in Namibia with her seventh husband, Nangolo Shipanga (a marriage which, upon its revelation five years earlier, had caused scandal in the echelons of the Knitting Bee; although less so for the groom being a dewy-eyed foreigner with a charming accent, than for him being forty years younger than his not-so-blushing bride).

"Unusual?" echoed her strapping nephew. "Only for those who live not in Imladris. For those who do, 'tis the most natural thing in Arda."

A lie. But Augusta had to give the younger chap credit: he did it well.

Not well enough for the far-too-astute Steward, unfortunately.

"There are many things in Arda that are natural. It is natural that a son follows his father and rules upon his death, or that a daughter follows her mother's example and weds young to provide her husband with an heir," he said (incensing the now-glowering granny with his blatant sexism). "But it is not natural for a lord of reason to submit to his aged aunt and follow her halfway across the world during a time of war, placing both their lives in danger and indulging her selfish need to 'see the sights'."

It was an outrageous slur on both their characters and neither Augusta nor Glorfindel were happy to hear it, but their miserable host continued before they could object.

"I think it likely that you have another agenda for your visit to Minas Tirith, one which you choose not to reveal to its lord. I also think it likely that, were one of you not of the Firstborn, you would have been able to conceal your presence in the City more easily and would not be standing before me now. You may count your fortunes rich indeed that you are what you are, Archibald of Imladris, for all know that your kind do not look favourably upon Sauron. Were this not the case, you and your...aunt...may have found yourselves enjoying Minas Tirith from the less loftier position of its dungeons."

The air in the hall grew suddenly chilly. Denethor grasped the arms of his chair with his hands and leaned forward once more to glower at them.

"Do you think that the eyes of the Tower of Ecthelion are blind? They are not! Do you believe that its lord sits in the years of his dotage and misses all the workings of the world outside his borders? He does not!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" demanded Augusta.

"I talk of this, madam: eight months ago my eldest - most cherished - son left these halls to visit those of Imladris and has not returned. The threat from Mordor has grown exponentially since his departure. Osgiliath is about to fall, no thanks to Gondor's Captain. Sauron advances from the east and his wicked allies from the south. The days grow darker, though Spring knocks at our gates. The doom of the West is upon my people and now - in our darkest moment - strangers from the north risk their very lives merely to 'visit' Minas Tirith, as if she knew no more immediate danger than the threat of an autumnal breeze. Do you imagine I am so foolish as to believe this a coincidence?"

"A coincidence to what?"

"You sport with my intellect, madam. Do not pretend you know not of what I speak."

Augusta clenched her jaw and eyed the insufferable man with a frown. "Clearly I have no idea what you're talking about! So unless you imagine I have the power to read your mind..."

Which, damn it, she didn't! She wished now that she had studied Legilimency, as her father had suggested. What the deuce was the stupid fellow babbling on about?

"...then I strongly suggest that you elucidate on the matter!"

"I speak of the rumours that another has entered the West: one with the power to stand against the Dark Lord himself! One whose allegiances are as yet...disturbingly unclear. To me, at least."

The Steward rose and glared at the silent couple.

"One who possesses a weapon of such terrible power, that it is able to slay a servant of Sauron himself!"

Glorfindel took an urgent step forward. "Of what weapon do you speak?"

"I speak of a weapon that has reduced the Nine to the Eight! A weapon that has the strength to smite a Black Rider of Mordor."

"Impossible!" stated the elf firmly. "There is no such weapon."

The lord of the land gave a bitter smile. "Ah, but you labour under a misapprehension. There is."

"And what know you of it?"

"I know that my guards have already captured at least two enemy agents who successfully infiltrated my City and were searching for the one who wields it. Sauron has set a high price on the head of the one who slew his Nazgûl."

"If that is true, then we should rejoice that such a weapon exists and praise its bearer for his exacting aim."

"No doubt I would, if the Dark Lord's agents had not already murdered five of my people in their fruitless efforts to apprehend both weapon and bearer," snapped the Steward. "Yet it seems that this slayer of the undead is reluctant to show his face in the cities of Men. But perhaps this is not true of the cities of Elves? What say you, Lord Archibald? Have you a pet Sorcerer secreted in Imladris?"

"Imladris keeps no pets, son of Ecthelion. Only friends. But I will answer your question: there is no such Sorcerer in my home, nor has there ever been. Nor have I heard of such a one in Lothlórien or Mirkwood, or even in the Grey Havens," Glorfindel informed the Steward honestly. "Yet, as saddened as I am to hear of the death of your people, I do not understand why you would treat reports of such a champion with open hostility. Surely you must view the demise of a Nazgûl as a victory for the West?"

"That may be. Yet as fair as the report was when it fell upon my ear, fey was the realisation that such a weapon exists! If its bearer is a friend - and not an enemy - to the West, why has he not openly declared himself?"

"Lord, one of the Nine Riders is dead - beyond the power of recovery of even its master. What further declaration of friendship do you require, lest it be for him to march into your hall and swear allegiance to yourself? But perhaps that is indeed the point? You would have this stranger ally himself with Gondor before all others?"

"I would have him ally himself with those that are most in need of his aid!" declared Denethor, angry that the elf had seen through him so easily.

"If this person exists, then there are many who are in need of his aid, not merely Gondor."

"Yet Gondor it is that faces the most imminent threat from Mordor!" exclaimed the old ruler. "Too long have we stood alone against the power of the Dark Lord, bearing the brunt of his malice while others languish under the veil of their own blissful ignorance. Too many have we lost already to the Orcs that flow through Ithilien! Why should more Gondorian blood flow to protect the likes of Rohan and all the Elven havens, when they send none but a lone warrior and an old woman to do little more than visit us in our hour of need?"

"Gondor stands not alone against the threat of Mordor, Lord Steward. That your people perish faster is a matter of geography, not abandonment! Your land borders Sauron's, Rohan's and those of the Elven havens do not! And if the eyes of the White Tower were so far-seeing, they would know that Théoden already faces war from further west, for Saruman has grown an army of his own and unleashed it upon the horse-lords not five days since!"

Denethor narrowed his eyes and studied the elf, then the witch, before stepping back and resuming his seat. He thumped the rod against his knees as he digested Glorfindel's news and the two visitors watched him silently, waiting to see if he would speak again. Finally, he did.

"Perhaps this champion has rushed to the aid of Rohan's King instead?" he suggested. "But then, you would know the truth of this already if you passed through his lands. You cannot have failed to have heard report of this mysterious avenger."

"We heard nothing of the kind," announced Augusta firmly.

The Steward locked eyes with her. "Then it is strange indeed that you journeyed through Rohan without incident when Saruman the White sent an army to crush it. How comes this to pass?"

"We were lucky, I suppose. Rohan is rather a large country. We must have missed the army altogether on our way through it."

Which was a lie. They had successfully hit the army several dozen times, if not more.

"You managed to avoid the path of an entire army? What great fortune you enjoy!"

"Fortune favours the bold," replied Augusta sagely.

"Bold indeed, madam!" declared Denethor, watching her carefully. "But it can be no coincidence that you are here at this time when there are reports of such happenings abroad. A Nazgûl is slain, and days later a woman of strange speech and manner - to say nothing of dress - appears in Minas Tirith, claiming to be the...aunt...of a lord of Imladris and expressing a desire to see the sights! Who is to say that that the mysterious avenger is not a woman? For none that I know have seen him."

Good heavens! Did the crusty old goat actually believe that she was the one prancing around New Zealand slaying the local troublemakers?

Oh. Actually, he may have a point. She had taken care of several hundred stinking orcs along the Gap of Rohan (not to mention uruk-hai, wargs and a few unlucky Dunlendings). But she hadn't so much as sniffed in a Nazgûl's direction (whatever the deuce that was).

But it was apparent to her who had.

Neville!

Yes! Her boy was cutting a swathe of terror through the maniacs of Mordor with the help of the Sword of Gryffindor. There was no other explanation for it! And - if she hadn't been so busy trying to navigate the minefield that was an audience with the Steward of Gondor - she might very well have hugged the miserable old codger for sharing the splendid news with her!

Or perhaps not. Denethor was about as warm and cuddly as Grodek, and she would have disembowelled herself with her own wand before she ever hugged that disgraceful mutant. But, as proud as the news of Neville's spectacular victory made her, she would never admit to her host that she knew the identity of the 'mysterious avenger' in case he made the connection to Aragorn as well.

So she arched an eyebrow and addressed the man with a tone of incredulity instead. "If you are suggesting for one second that I am the very same person who finished off the nose-ghoul..."

"Nazgûl, Aunt."

"...yes, yes. Thank you, Archibald..."

The elf turned crimson at the reminder of his shame.

"...then I'm sorry to have to disappoint you. I am not responsible for the demise of the silly creature. As you can see, I have no 'weapon of terrible power' on my person, other than my sharp tongue, of course - though I'm certain that you're far too intelligent a person to believe that I'm capable of scolding a nose-ghoul to death."

Although, perhaps not. After all, she was probably the only person alive capable of accomplishing such an impressive feat (as her grandson would very shortly be able to testify to. When she got her hands on that boy...).

"Furthermore, I am no more likely to go dashing through the wilds of Rohan dealing out death and destruction to all and sundry, than you are to throw yourself off the Citadel. I am an old woman, you know. And a grandmother!"

"And a most beloved aunt," added Floor-kindle, taking her hand and settling it protectively on his arm as he stared at the Steward in challenge. "My aunt. Or would you name me as liar, son of Ecthelion?"

So firm and steady was his declaration, that Denethor finally capitulated.

"Nay. Mayhap you are right. I could not deny such a bond, even were I wont to do so," admitted the man (with great reluctance), watching the elf smiling fondly at his (rather bemused) relative. "Very well. I accept your claim to kinship. As to your purpose in Minas Tirith? Whether you be the spies of a benevolent Elf or innocent travellers, the hour is late for any true mischief on you part. Any friend of the Lord of Imladris can harbour no ill will towards Gondor. And so, allow me now to bid you both welcome to the White City. As foolish as I hold the lady's travels to be, I will turn none from its gates who are held in such high esteem by Elrond Half-Elven, when he in turn offered the hospitality of his own home to my dearly missed son."

"You are most gracious, lord," said Glorfindel with renewed affability. He offered the Steward a bow (and Augusta attempted a smile, though - after the man's remark about her 'foolishness' - it was more of a pained grimace).

"Gracious? I would not be so quick to call it that. You may or may not know that the eastern bank of Osgiliath has fallen. It will not be long now until the Orcs do find a way across the Anduin and take the western bank. And when they do..."

The Steward bowed his head to stare at the white rod of his office.

"...when they do, then next it shall be our turn to taste their terror. It seems that your desire to admire this City of the Kings of old may result in your own doom. You will not think me so gracious at that time, I fear."

He pulled his gaze from the rod and settled it once more on them.

"Rooms are already being prepared for you both. The Lord Herion's home on the sixth circle is at your disposal. It is currently unoccupied, for his lady wife stays in Belfalas during her confinement and he is in the company of Ithilien's Rangers."

It was a great relief to Augusta that she and her foster-nephew had finally navigated their way to some sort of a truce with the Steward of Gondor - uneasy though it was. And, for his part, it was certainly decent of the dreary chap to offer them the use of an entire house during their stay (especially as she only had a single Knut with her, and had been debating whether or not she should ask Floor-kindle if he'd thought to bring any money for a hotel - something which would have caused her a great deal of embarrassment). But, heavens! Wouldn't this Lord Whatshisname's wife object to her home being invaded by strangers when she wasn't there to supervise?

"If you're sure the lady of the house would have no objections," she said, a little reluctantly.

Denethor didn't so much as bat an eye.

"The Lady Isilbêth would be glad to offer it for your convenience. It is but their City home. They live mainly in Ithilien, though that is abandoned at present because of the danger from Sauron's forces. She would not object to your making use of it, especially as you voiced concern on her behalf. Though, if I may suggest that you do her the courtesy of clothing yourself more suitably. She may otherwise be vexed to think that her home has become little more than a house of ill repute in her absence."

Merlin's beard! Just when she had begun to think a little more favourably of him, the blasted fellow had gone and ruined it all by insinuating that she was about to turn a respectable woman's home into little more than a brothel!

"I shall see to it that my aunt is furnished with more suitable apparel this very afternoon, lord," said Glorfindel pleasantly (holding the lady's twitching wand hand in a death grip).

"That would be wise. I bid you good day, Archibald of Imladris, Mistress Longbottom."

The Steward raised a hand to his right and a tall, burly guard stepped from behind a pillar to show them from the hall.

With one final scowl at the sexist old misery guts on the black chair, Augusta allowed herself to be led (dragged) from the hall by Floor-kindle (before she triggered a major international incident by hexing the Steward) and through the polished doors, back out into the long corridor.

"Do not allow yourself to be too distressed by his manner, Aunt," said Glorfindel in a low enough voice that their guide could not overhear them. "Denethor is a Man with many troubles. He faces the threat of war and has no allies at present to aid him still the tide of darkness flowing from the east; his once-glorious City is falling into ruin around him; its people are fleeing from Mordor's onslaught and his heir may more than likely be lost to him. The days are not kind to him of late."

Augusta spared her nephew a glance, then returned her gaze to the long stretch of corridor that would lead them back onto the grounds of the Citadel.

"You may be right. He's obviously got a lot on his mind and I do feel sorry for him. It can't be easy having to deal with so much on his own. But, heavens! What an insufferably dour fellow he is! And so very suspicious!"

"Indeed. But as awkward as our meeting was, we have learned much from it. We now know that he is aware of your grandson's presence..."

Ah. So Floor-kindle had reached the same conclusion as she had about Neville.

"...and desires his allegiance. He is not aware that young Neville travels with his greatest rival, which is fortunate for us. However, it appears that the Steward is a proud Man and will not be willing to relinquish his office so easily, which may make matters difficult for Aragorn when he comes to Minas Tirith. We also know that he has gathered disturbingly detailed intelligence from as far away as Imladris, though we know not how he has achieved this."

Glorfindel trailed off, looking troubled. Augusta patted his arm briskly in an attempt to draw him from his worry and he smiled briefly before continuing.

"Be that as it may, I have you to thank for your quick thinking in that regard. But perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me if there is such a person as Aragog, or if you called him into being merely for the purpose of outwitting the Steward?"

Now Augusta smiled. "Of course he exists! Though he's not so much a person, as he is a spider."

The elf stopped short, forcing her to come to a sudden halt and he stared at her incredulously.

"A spider?"

Augusta casually brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from her sleeve. "Yes. A very big one - at least as tall as you, if not taller. And he really does live in the Forbidden Forest."

"You allowed the Ruling Steward of Gondor to believe that a spider is the Heir of Elendil? That a spider shuns his role as future leader of the West? A spider that abandons the beauteous Arwen to live in a forest with a hag?"

"My Lord, my Lady, is aught amiss?" enquired the guard, who had stopped a few metres away to stare at the curious couple, wondering why they weren't following him anymore.

"No. Everything is perfectly alright, my good man," answered the witch, pulling the astonished elf back into motion behind him. The guard nodded in satisfaction and continued to walk ahead of them.

"I really don't see why you're so upset, old chap," she hissed, as the guard opened the main doors and led them out onto the open courtyard. "Wherever the Steward got his intelligence from, I've managed to convince him that it's not quite what he thought it was. Aragorn could walk right into the Citadel this very minute and Denethor wouldn't so much as bat an eyelid - as long as he introduced himself as something other than Aragorn, of course. Perhaps Walter? Or Cecil? I've always liked them, though not as much as Archibald."

Glorfindel's fair form shook with merry laughter (drawing their guide's attention once more). "Ai, Aunt Augusta! You never fail to lighten my spirits," the elf said. "I do not believe that our absent friend would take to your suggestions for alternate names. Nay, be not offended! Only imagine: King Cecil of Gondor! It has not the same ring of authority about it, though it is vastly more amusing."

Augusta huffed in annoyance. What was he talking about? It was a perfectly splendid name!

The elf's chuckles (slowly) subsided enough for him to continue. "Let us say no more of these matters at present until we are in the confines of our new quarters. We may talk at length there and with a deal more privacy."

He indicated the guard, who had slowed his pace in an attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Very well," she replied, glaring at their silver-and-black clad guide in disapproval. The man flushed and quickened his pace once more.

"Once we have talked, we may explore Minas Tirith," Glorfindel added brightly. He favoured his aunt with a sidelong glance. "And we must also acquire new garments for you before the day is gone, lest the Steward think you are still intent on seducing those Men that remain within his City walls."

He waggled his eyebrows, then laughed at her outraged expression.

"Can you believe the gall of the man?" she demanded angrily. "Me - Augusta Longbottom - a prostitute! I've a good mind to go back there and hex his clothes off! Oh, perhaps not. He might think I'm looking for business..."

Glorfindel laughed even louder.

"...but still! He can jolly well count himself lucky that he's a Steward and I'm a lady, otherwise I wouldn't think twice about Transfiguring him into a toilet bowl. Plying my trade, indeed!"

And with that, the merry elf led the incensed witch over the courtyard and down to the sixth level to begin the taxing process of making a 'respectable' woman out of her.

*~*~*~*

The rest of the afternoon passed a good deal more pleasantly for Augusta. She and her dashing nephew were escorted to Lady Isilbêth's beautiful townhouse. It sat a mere hundred yards from the stables (which was very handy - if the locals were as scandalised by her manner of dress as their miserable Steward, she might have to make a quick getaway) and boasted a small fountain in its wide courtyard. The house was a two-storied building with large arched windows, a wide balcony that extended around the perimeter of the first floor and a spectacular, Continental-style gabled roof.

How very French château!

The guard gave a brisk introduction to the housekeeper, Mistress Írildë (who practically fainted when she saw Augusta's hat, and actually gasped at the length of her dress), before he bowed and left to return to the Citadel.

Mistress Írildë was an attractive, rosy-cheeked woman in her early forties, wearing a simple black dress with a plain grey girdle-belt that hung just below her protective knee-length apron. She had dark hair gathered under a lacy white cap and sparkling grey eyes with thick dark lashes, which (much to Augusta's irritation) the lovely lady batted prettily at Floor-kindle (after recovering from the shock of the floozy grandmother). The elderly witch stuck her hand in her coat pocket and grasped her wand, ready to throw the very first curse in protection of her nephew's virtue if the woman so much as puckered her lips.

"My Lord, my Lady; follow me, if you please," said the housekeeper with a smile (aimed at the stunning blond, of course).

They were given a tour of the lower floor, which boasted three fully-furnished reception rooms, an elegant dining room and a truly enormous, old-fashioned kitchen. Ladles and whisks hung from hooks over the main preparation area; a huge open fireplace was already lit and the servants before it abandoned their rotation of the spit (which held an entire pig) to curtsey at them (and ogle her companion). A generous pantry was stocked with smoked meats, baskets of fresh vegetables and sacks of rice and potatoes.

Next, they were led away from the kitchen (much to the servant-girls' disappointment) and through a short corridor to a study reserved for the private use of Lord Herion. Stacks of parchment filled a series of wooden alcoves at the far wall. Directly before the alcoves sat a mahogany writing desk with a heavy silver inkpot (shaped like a little ship) and two feathered quills sticking out of it (looking very much like sails). Shelves stocked with tall, ancient-looking books lined the right wall and Augusta stepped over to them to see what her absent host's reading preferences were.

"An Etymology of Númenorean Dialects. Great Battles of Gondor and the Outer Realms. Tactics and Strategies of Warfare. 1635-1637: The Years of Plague," she mumbled, tracing a bony finger across the spine of each book.

Hmm. Nothing like a little light reading to pass the idle hours of the day...

"Your employer is a very learned fellow, isn't he?" she asked absently of Mistress Írildë (who was taking full advantage of the old woman's distraction and had already cornered a rather alarmed Glorfindel by the window. She was busy flashing him her bare left hand - all the better to show him that she was very much on the lookout for husband number two).

"Aunt, perhaps we should not pry so into Lord Herion's private matters. Shall we not leave for the noon market to collect your new garments?" asked the elf (in a curiously high-pitched voice).

Augusta glanced up from the copy of Periannath: Fact or Fiction? she had been browsing through to check on her nephew. He stood at the corner of the room by the window and Mistress Írildë, she was pleased to see, stood a demure five feet from him (the housekeeper having sprung back as soon as he'd addressed his aunt).

Excellent! The housekeeper had obviously decided against him and his virtue was safe, for the moment.

"I'm only looking at his books, my good fellow, not 'prying into his private matters'. And the shopping can wait a little bit. You don't mind if I browse, young woman, do you?"

"Nay, lady," said Írildë with an innocent smile. "Lord Herion would be delighted to know that another shares his interest in the lore of Middle Earth. I beg that you would take all the time you need to explore what you will."

Glorfindel paled, but Augusta was very impressed.

How spiffingly accommodating of the young woman!

"Thank you. I might just do that," the witch said, turning back to the shelves and allowing her gaze to wander over the pristine forms of Herion's numerous volumes (while Írildë's not-so-innocent gaze wandered over the pristine form of her nephew).

A fat book with a red-and-gold-embossed cover caught her eye next. She pulled it from the shelf and skimmed the title: The Ancientry of the Elder Children of Ilúvatar.

Hmm. A book on childcare, no doubt. How very odd to have it next to books about warfare and maps of the world. Still, he was an expectant father. Perhaps it wasn't so very unusual after all. She placed it back on the shelf. Childcare manuals were not things she would ever need again (not that she had ever needed them before. As far as childcare went, she had already written the book!).

"Does your employer have any other children, young lady?" she enquired of the housekeeper while skimming one of the lower shelves.

"Nay. The Lady Isilbêth carries their first. Both are highly anticipating the babe's birth, though I believe the Lord Herion may be a little nervous," stated the younger woman in a oddly breathy voice. "I have told him not to alarm himself. Fathering a child is the most natural thing in the world. The most natural thing..."

Augusta's brow crinkled slightly. What an odd comment. Surely the chap couldn't be nervous about that? He had done the 'fathering' part already! Obviously, the woman had meant to say 'being a father'.

She shrugged absently. "Oh. Well, the first time is always the worry, but he'll soon get used to it. Don't you agree?" she asked, using both hands to remove a two-feet-long volume of Celestial Bodies and their Heavenly Arrangements.

"I could not agree more, lady," replied Írildë (who had, by this time, backed her own 'celestial body' into the mahogany desk and was scaring the life out of him by running her tongue across her lips).

"That's what I thought," said Augusta, balancing the book on the edge of one of the shelves and studying a map of the constellation of Orion (which the book called Menelvagor: Swordsman of the Sky). "Do you have children of your own?"

"My husband gifted me with three boys before he was killed last October, but they are all grown and now in the service of the Rangers of Ithilien."

Augusta broke from her study of the map to raise her head a little and frown. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, young woman. What a dreadful thing for you to lose your husband at so young an age."

"You are most kind, lady. But I have weathered the grief as best I must and look now to the future. Indeed, I hope to wed again one day. 'Tis no easy thing for a woman to spend her elder years alone."

Nonsense! She hadn't felt at all lonely since Mr Longbottom died, what with raising Neville and attending the Knitting Bee every week.

Deciding not to dispute the point, Augusta returned her gaze to the three stars of Orion's Belt. "Well, I'm sure a woman as attractive as you won't have any trouble finding a new husband very soon."

There was a strange sort of strangled moan from behind her and she looked up once more, twisting her head to see Floor-kindle sprawled across the desk and the pretty housekeeper (who had jumped away from him as soon as he'd whimpered) arranging the parchments in the alcove behind it.

"What on earth are you doing, draped across the desk like that?" she demanded.

"Ah, forgive me, Aunt," he said, flushing and pulling himself upright to straighten his ivory cloak. "I appear to have stumbled over the edge of the rug."

Gracious! She hadn't thought him to be such an oaf! Oh, well. Nobody was perfect.

Rolling her eyes at his clumsiness, she turned back to her book.

"I hope to find a new husband before this very week is gone," said the (still-breathy) Írildë somewhat belatedly.

The elegant drawing of Mintaka, Orion's westernmost star, was witness to the lift of Augusta's eyebrows. Heavens! She was keen, wasn't she? She'd only buried her poor husband a few months ago. Still, the Muggles of New Zealand were proving to be a rather odd bunch of people, living in the dark ages as they did. Customs must be somewhat different in this part of the world. Who was she to scorn them, tourist that she was?

"So, you've met someone already, have you?" she enquired politely, tracing the delicate drawing of the star with her index finger. What a pretty book! Such elegant script and detailed artistry!

"Oh, yes. I have met one who robs me of breath whenever I gaze upon him..."

The witch emitted a sigh of disgust. If the silly woman was going to give her a detailed description of the wondrous fellow's dubious charms, she may very well vomit.

"...who has the power to send my weeping widow's heart all a-flutter once more with the joy of love..."

Oh. Good. Grief.

Augusta tried to lose herself in the Girdle of Orion - while the housekeeper fiddled desperately with a girdle of her own. Glorfindel was in full panic mode: how to escape the woman's attentions (she was circling the table towards him) without alerting his aunt (who would surely kill her) and shaming the lady into the bargain?

"...and the hope of finally bearing a daughter."

"A daughter, eh? That's nice," said the witch, closing Celestial Bodies and their Heavenly Arrangements and shoving it back into place between Minas Anor and Annúminas: A Tale of Two Cities in the Years of Elendil and Rhûn: The Undiscovered Lands.

Heavens! How did Lord Whatshisname ever find the right book at the right time when they weren't even ordered alphabetically? Look at those shelves! Higgledy-piggledy and all over the place! A quick wave of her wand could fix it for the poor chap, of course. But not just now. Wouldn't want to tip off Miss Lovely Lashes to the fact that there was a witch living under her employer's roof!

Well. That was quite enough browsing for the moment. She'd have to come back later and go through the rest.

"Shall we go upstairs and look at the rest of the house?" she suggested, giving the books a final pat before turning round to face the others. The pretty housekeeper had returned to the window and stood with her hands clasped across her abdomen (holding her loose girdle in place - she hadn't had enough time to both fix that and dash to the window before the peculiar foreign woman turned away from the bookshelves), while Floor-kindle stood at the other end of the desk with his hair in disarray, his cloak firmly wrapped around his body and a nervous tic making itself known below his left eye (it looked very much like he was winking at her furiously).

"I say; are you quite well, Archibald?" Augusta asked with a little concern. She had never seen him looking quite so...dishevelled.

"Yes, Aunt. I am merely anxious to leave...leave the study," he replied (avoiding eye contact with the love-struck housekeeper).

"Well, then. Let's do as I suggested and investigate the rest of the house," she said, heading for the study door. "Would you be so kind as to show us our bedrooms? I would like to wash my face and run a brush through my hair before we leave for the shops."

Írildë smiled sweetly.

"I would be delighted to show you to your bedroom, my Lady. And you to yours, my Lord."

The Gondorian woman - thrilled at the possibility of being (alone) in a bedroom with the statuesque elf - was already beginning to select a pretty elven name for their future daughter (who they would hopefully begin conceiving in about, oh, five minutes or so). She put extra emphasis on 'my Lord' and shot Glorfindel a meaningful sidelong glance (which Augusta missed completely).

The fair elf turned ashen.

Írildë exited the room ahead of the travellers, giving Glorfindel the chance to recover his equilibrium and rejoin his tiny aunt. He offered her his arm (more for his own sake than hers - the amorous housekeeper wouldn't attack him when his prim companion was hanging off it) and Augusta patted it fondly.

"See? Didn't I promise that I'd watch out for you? You made it through an entire five minutes in a very small room with a pretty young woman, without her so much as taking a take a step near you! And I'll make sure that none of them do! Shall we go, Archibald?"

'Archibald' gritted his teeth and resisted the (overpowering) temptation to slay her on the spot. Instead, he offered his most convincing smile. "Yes, Aunt."

And off they went; she to her bedroom, he to his doom.

*~*~*~*

Fortunately for Glorfindel, Augusta was very understanding (if rather bemused) at his insistence on waiting for her (in her bedroom) to finished her ablutions (behind a lovely tapestry screen). She accompanied both him and Írildë to view his room afterwards (much to Írildë's dismay - baby Isilmë would have to wait another few hours before she came into being, it seemed).

"It's a lovely room, isn't it?" commented Augusta, admiring the sunny yellow chaise longue sitting by a window at the rear end of the room, and the elegant tapestries on the walls. A set of glass-panelled doors opened onto the balcony, where a table and two chairs sat.

Marvellous! One could enjoy either breakfast in bed, or al fresco! How very Continental!

"The bed is exceptionally soft," said Írildë with a hopeful glance at Glorfindel. The elf moved with astonishing speed to the safety of his aunt's side (she was still admiring the balcony).

"I prefer a firm mattress, myself. Much better for the back," Augusta declared, opening the balcony doors and stepping outside.

"As do I," added Glorfindel firmly (lying through his teeth).

The pretty housekeeper gave the elf's back a longing glance. "I can arrange for the mattress to be changed," she said hopefully.

"That won't be necessary, young woman. I'll just stick with the one that's already there. Wouldn't want to put you to any trouble," Augusta replied, not realising the offer was aimed at her stunning nephew and thinking how very obliging the housekeeper was.

"Aunt Augusta, I believe we ought to leave for the market soon, before it disbands for the day. Do not forget our host's warning," cautioned Glorfindel (rather desperately - his admirer had taken a seat on the bed and was gently bouncing up and down on it, patting the space next to her in open invitation).

"Oh, alright. If we must. But, heavens, I do detest shopping. All that rushing around for hours on end, looking for something to wear. Spotting something barely passable in the very first shop one enters, but abandoning it in the hope that there's something better further up the street, only to end up back in the same shop hours later and buying the stupid thing because everything else is infinitely worse! What a dreadful waste of time it all is."

Írildë had, by this time, abandoned the bed (and straightened it back down) and she stood demurely next to it when a very irritated Augusta (and a hugely relieved Glorfindel) left the balcony, closed the doors and passed back over the room.

"Well, young lady, we'll be off now. No doubt you'll see us again later - much later, if my experiences with shopping are anything to go by. What a blasted nuisance! Do you know where the nearest clothes shop is?"

"Mistress Mirwen has a large selection of fabrics and sundries at her stall on the second circle."

All the way down in the second circle? Botheration.

"Is there nothing a little closer?"

"Nay, lady. Not at present. Most of the seamstresses left the City this very morn on the last of the wains. Mistress Mirwen is the only one left. She refuses to leave her home of sixty years, lest it be ransacked by the foulness of Mordor."

Augusta highly approved. Mistress Mirwen sounded like a kindred spirit if ever there was one, and she could certainly walk all the way down to the second level and back again just to meet the spirited woman!

Oh. But wait a moment.

She stuck her hand in her dress pocket and pulled out the single Knut to stare at it balefully. Would the sorry looking article be enough to buy her respectability?

Glorfindel noticed her frown and stepped forward to her rescue. "I have the purse of coins you gave into my safekeeping earlier, Aunt. There shall be more than enough to purchase whatever you may require."

Of course, she had given him no such purse, but he would gladly pay for all the fabric in Arda if it got him safely out of the same building as the hormonal housekeeper.

"Purse?" echoed the elderly witch, sparing him a confused glance. She took note of the firm (desperate) look in his eyes and smiled warmly.

Why, he was sparing her the awkwardness of admitting she was penniless in front of the housekeeper. And offering to furnish her with anything she needed at the cost of his own pocket!

How very gallant!

"Ah, yes. Purse. I'd forgotten all about that! In that case, we'd best be off. Thank you for your hospitality, young lady. We shall see you again, shortly," declared Augusta, suddenly eager to leave the house. She straightened her coat, angled her hat and patted her hair firmly before exiting the room with (an almost ecstatic) Glorfindel in tow.

"I shall await your return as eagerly as the blossoms await the morning dew," Írildë promised, moving swiftly after them to favour her (not-so) beloved with a bat of her pretty lashes.

"Really? My, that's...very nice to hear," remarked Augusta, a little confused at the lady's declaration. "It's always pleasant to have someone waiting at home to keep the hearth warm for one's return, I suppose."

"My hearth burns already, eager to warm the feet - or any other part - of a weary traveller."

Glorfindel gulped heavily.

Augusta nodded thoughtfully. Yes, well that would be the fire in the kitchen the woman was talking about. She had seen it earlier and, if she wasn't very much mistaken, there was a nice bit of roast pork awaiting them on their return from Mistress Mirwen's stall.

Excellent! No doubt she would be famished after spending a good chunk of Floor-kindle's money.

With a thin-lipped smile at the (really, very pleasant) housekeeper, Augusta bid her a final 'Cheerio', took her nephew's arm and marched across the landing, down the stairs and out of the beautiful house, ready to put a dent in his (very tight) pockets.

Augusta spent the afternoon on the second circle looking for Mistress Mirwen's stall so she could begin selecting fabrics for her new clothes. It took half an hour of searching before they finally found it, for there were a mere half dozen stalls tucked into a corner of the broad street and not very many shoppers milling around them. In fact, the few people she and her nephew did see were very grim-looking indeed (even before they saw her state of dress). The stallholders made only half-hearted attempts to engage their custom, most of them far too busy peering over the wall that circled the level and out into the direction of the distant Anduin.

"They fear the coming assault," Floor-kindle explained discreetly. "Most of the Men have left to defend Osgiliath; those that remain are too old or too young to fight. Those ladies and children that have family elsewhere have already departed the City."

"Heavens! However do they hope to defend Minas Tirith if there's nobody left to man the city?"

"I suspect the Prince of Dol Amroth shall send those Men he may spare. But his land lies on the southern coast of Gondor, in the fiefdom of Belfalas. The coasts of Belfalas have a long history of strife with the Corsairs of Umbar, who ally themselves with Sauron."

"Ah. So they may very well have their hands full already, given that the stupid fellow is bent on ruling the world."

"Indeed. There are other regions with Lords who may despatch troops: Lossarnach and Lebennin, to name but two. But, again, they lie in southern Gondor and may also have trouble with the Corsairs or other Haradrim - particularly Lebennin. Lamedon, in western Gondor, may send Men to the City's aid, but they shall take longer to arrive as they are further away. We can but hope that Denethor has already sent for them, or they may not arrive in time."

"Is the danger from Mordor so imminent?"

The elf sighed. "I fear that it is. Denethor has already told us that the eastern bank of Osgiliath has fallen to Sauron's forces. I can but assume that Ithilien's Rangers have destroyed any bridges which connect the two halves of the City, as the Orcs stand not yet before Minas Tirith's walls. But it cannot be long before they find a way across the Anduin. It seems we may have to engage in battle once more, Aunt, before we see your Neville returned to you."

Not that that came as a surprise to either of them.

"I'm sure we'll make the best of a bad situation, if the worst comes to the worst. After all, I still have plenty of stones in my pocket, and there'll no doubt be even more of the deuced miscreants to aim them at. And don't forget: we'll have the advantage of height..."

She pointed to the ascending spirals of the city walls.

"...and they won't, so it will be an uphill struggle all the way for those smelly orcs."

Her nephew grinned. "Once again, you have lightened my heart, Aunt. I begin now to wonder how I managed to endure the long years of my life so well, ere you came to Arda."

Or how he would endure them once she left it.

"Long years of your life, indeed!" muttered Augusta, wondering if 'Arda' was (yet another) name for New Zealand. "You're not a day over thirty and we both know it!"

Glorfindel grinned even wider. If only she knew...

"But you don't have to endure your life, young man. It seems to me that what you need is a wife to occupy yourself with. Once you have one of them, you'll find the years simply fly by!"

"Then perhaps you would do me the honour of becoming my wife?" he suggested impudently. "For I have found that, in your esteemed company, the days pass as if they were mere seconds."

She blushed. "Why, you cheeky young scallywag! I ought to fry your toes off for that. I am a grandmother, you know! And a widow! Although, widowhood wouldn't automatically rule me out, I suppose. But I am far too old for that sort of nonsense!"

Her companion was shaking with mirth.

"If you're so keen on a widow, though, you're in the right place for one, what with all these poor young fellows marching off to die on the front lines. Take that lovely young housekeeper, for example. Her poor husband isn't even cold in his grave and she's already got her eye on someone else! Personally, if I were in her shoes, I would have waited at least a year. But, each to their own, I suppose. What a pity she found someone else so soon. She is a beautifully mannered, considerate and exceptionally pretty young woman. She would have made you an ideal wife!"

Oddly enough, Floor-kindle was not as amenable to that idea as she was. The smile left his face instantly and was replaced by a look of...well, horror, actually.

Oh, dear. She hoped she hadn't gone and offended the poor fellow. She hadn't meant to suggest he was a widow-worrier (which, as everyone knew, was the human Muggle equivalent of a sheep-or-goat-worrier, only without the shady Aberforth Dumbledore element attached). Fortunately, he soon recovered his good humour.

"Perhaps I shall wait a few years more before I commit myself to the path of wedlock. It may take me that long to find the lady who is suitable enough to replace you in my affections."

Replace her in his affections, indeed! If she'd accepted his jolly proposal in the first place, he would probably have died of fright (making her a widow again - sort of).

With an imperious sniff and another shake of her head at his nonsense, she allowed him to escort her to the only stall selling the much-needed fabrics for her new dress.

A portly woman of elder years smiled at the couple as they approached and Augusta assumed her to be the stalwart Mistress Mirwen. The lady was a very efficient woman who took one look at her customer's scandalously high-cut dress and whisked her into the safety of her own little house (directly behind the stall - how very handy) to take measurements before the witch even had the chance to view her wares. Floor-kindle waited outside, politely fending off the sudden gaggle of swooning maidens, matrons and old bats (the news that an elf was in the city had done much to cheer up the remaining female population) and Augusta shooed them all off when she exited Mistress Mirwen's minute home (they fled as soon as they spotted...Spot).

"Heavens! I am sorry, young man," she said to the harried elf. "I would never have left you alone if I suspected that would happen. Where the deuce did they all come from?"

"It appears the guard from the Citadel overheard our conversation with the Steward and told his sister you would be purchasing materials," he answered, straightening his hair and cloak (yet again). "She told her cousin, who in turn told her friend and they all spread the word that I would more than likely accompany you here. They arrived but minutes ago."

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I must admit that the thought of remaining under you Disillusionment charm becomes more attractive the longer we stay in the City."

Gracious! They had only been in the city for two hours and already the poor fellow wanted to disappear!

"Don't worry. I'll see if I can't come up with some sort of modified Muggle-Repelling spell for you the next time we leave the house. That should keep you safe."

Satisfied that she had solved his problem (and not realising that his biggest threat was still inside their temporary home), she allowed the stall-keeper to lead her to her wares and they spent over an hour selecting bolts of fabric (all in various shades of green), girdle-belts (which she balked at, but both Mistress Mirwen and Floor-kindle insisted upon) and shawls. The friendly Gondorian woman (whom Augusta was very impressed with) promised to have the first gown delivered to her quarters the following morning (though how she would manage to whip it up so quickly without the aid of magic was beyond the elderly witch) and have the rest delivered before the week was out (if the city was still in one piece).

Happy that the task was done (though still rather miffed that her respectability had been called into question in the first place), Augusta took Floor-kindle's proffered arm, bade Mistress Mirwen a very good day, and allowed herself to be led back up through the circles of the city (glowering at any and all who dared to gawk her legs). The thought of Mistress Írildë's very nice meal of roast pork was already making her mouth water and she had every intention of enjoying it. Perhaps she could borrow one of Lord Whatshisname's books afterwards and have a nice read in front of the living-room fire? With a nice cup of Earl Grey?

What a splendid idea!

In fact, the thought of an evening spent in a such a civilised manner was enough to make her forget the worry of her gallivanting grandson for a while. She strolled through the city levels listening to her charming companion's delightful conversation as if she had no other cares in the world. For a few precious hours, the impending threat from the east and Neville's dangerous adventures faded from the surface of her mind, and she allowed herself to simply enjoy both the novelty of her surroundings and the company of her dashing (if outrageously impudent) foster-nephew.

But all that was about to change. For in less than two days time, Augusta Longbottom would once more be languishing in the dungeons of a madman's home.

And not even Floor-kindle would be able to help her...