Not Quite a Maia

Chapter 24

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Helm's Deep to The Gap Of Rohan

Third Age 4th- 5th March 3019

When Neville regained consciousness, he was floating through a forest amidst the ranks of a small group of riders.

Oddly enough, the forest appeared to have sprung up in the Deeping-coomb.

Hmm. Could that be?

His eyes flitted groggily from side to side and he saw the unmistakable cliffs of the White Mountains rising up forbiddingly.

That was weird. Where had an entire forest come from overnight? It hadn't been there on the way in, he was sure of that.

Too exhausted to attempt the question of his companions, the teenager allowed his eyes to droop closed once more and fell asleep.

It was a dark when he roused again. The company was camped roughly half a mile from a shallow gorge. Soothing voices surrounded him and the unmistakable pop of a campfire crackled a few feet away. As his eyes opened, he saw Molly sitting close by. To his left was Aragorn, with Legolas and Gimli on each side of him. Several more riders were scattered in small groups nearby, talking in low voices and staring out at the night. Neville heard the faint trickling of water somewhere to his right by the gorge.

Feeling alert enough to rise, he began to pull himself into a sitting position, but before he could so much as raise his head, Molly threw a concerned glance in his direction and sprang up to meet him.

"Don't even think about it, Neville Longbottom!" she snapped. "If I so much as see you stir from that stretcher without my permission, I'll Stun you!"

Blimey! What was wrong with her?

"Molly, I only want to ..."

"Don't you 'Molly' me!" the red-haired witch barked (in an alarmingly scary voice). "I left you in those caves to recover from your injury, and what do you do? Drag yourself outside to let the orcs inflict more!"

Her indignant tone drew the attention of their companions and he squirmed in embarrassment as several heads swivelled in his direction.

So, she was angry with him, eh? Not that he could blame her. Dashing frantically after his friends when he was only half-recovered had been a fairly stupid thing for him to do.

"Sorry, Molly. I only wanted to help. Anyway, the orcs didn't inflict any more injuries, did they?"

Perhaps that wasn't the smartest comment to make...

Indeed it wasn't. The Weasley mother's face was now almost as red as her fiery hair.

"That's hardly the point! Blood Replenishing potion isn't an instant cure - it takes time to work. You can't just spring out of bed a few hours after getting it! You're supposed to rest. You almost died!" she hissed, jabbing a disapproving finger at him. "Do you think I patched you up just to let those horrible creatures take another shot at finishing you off?"

"I'm really sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to worry you. I won't do it again, honest," he promised, feeling incredibly guilty for alarming her. She glowered at him for a few seconds more and, uncomfortable with the attention, he averted his gaze, letting it scan the countryside instead. The light of several small campfires illuminated the dim night for several yards and he could almost swear he saw bodies lying near the gorge. "Are those orcs? Have we been fighting again? Where are we?"

"Yes, they are. No, we have not. They were there when we arrived, casualties of an earlier battle. Their number is too great to move at present, for all are fatigued and neither your Guardian nor I wished to leave you to see to the unhappy task until we are both assured of your recovery," supplied Aragorn, answering his first two questions with a gentle smile. "As for where we are; we crossed the Fords of Isen this very morn and shall arrive at Isengard no later than noon tomorrow. How do you feel, young Wizard?"

"Confused. Why are we going to Isengard?"

"To treat with Saruman."

Oh. Of course.

"Er, why?"

"We go to accept his unconditional surrender."

That came as a surprise.

"What? Are you saying he's surrendered? What've I missed?" demanded Neville, ignoring Molly's frown and pulling himself up on the litter to stare at the ranger.

There was a snort from behind and the teenager twisted his head to see Éomer sitting a short distance behind him (mere feet from Fælu, he was disappointed to note).

"It matters not if he offers," said the blond man darkly. "We have defeated him in battle. He has no option but to surrender himself to us."

"Among other things," added Aragorn mysteriously. He smiled at the teenager once more. "But you have not fully answered my question, Neville Longbottom. I asked after your well-being."

"I'm fine."

Another snort, this time from Molly.

"That's what you told that nice young woman in the cave before you sprinted after us and collapsed," she said accusingly, making him fidget uncomfortably. Fortunately, Aragorn intervened before she could berate him further.

"Does your arm ache? Or your stomach roil?"

Neville shook his head, feeling rather stupid that he was half-reclining in the company of kings and princes (kings and princes! If Gran knew he was best mates with royalty, she'd combust with the pride of it).

"No. Arm's fine. A little stiff, but nothing I can't handle. Stomach too - though it is rather empty. I'm starving." He gave Molly a cautious, wide-eyed look. "You don't happen to have anything to eat on you? Maybe a bacon sandwich or something?"

His gaze was half-hopeful, half-imploring and he wondered what his chances were of being fed in the next five minutes (the fact that several dozen dead orcs lay less than a hundred yards away didn't quash his appetite in the least. In fact, if Molly didn't feed him, he might pop over and find a nice meaty one to roast on the fire...)

"Bacon sandwich? I'll bacon sandwich you! If you ever do anything so recklessly stupid again, I'll turn you into a bacon sandwich!"

Oh. Not good, then. Orc was coming dangerously close to the top of the menu.

He sighed despondently, then glared at Gimli when the dwarf urged Molly to carry out her threat.

"I feel the need of a little sustenance myself," the hirsute dwarf added, grinning at the scowling teenager from behind his smouldering pipe.

"I beg that you would spare our young friend such a fate, Gimli," said Aragorn lightly. "We have lembas aplenty if you need to sate your hunger."

Gimli sniffed in disdain.

"Lembas? As much as the taste of it is pleasant, it cannot compete with a goodly slice of red meat!" the dwarf declared, eyeing the wounded boy hungrily.

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, I'll turn you into a ruddy bacon sandwich and eat you myself," vowed Neville grumpily.

Legolas' musical laughter filled the air when Gimli fumbled for his axe (all the better to carve the impudent youngling into sandwich-sized slices).

"Gentlemen, there will be no bewitching of friends to feed the hungry this eve," said Aragorn (smirking). The ranger looked over at the (still glowering) Weasley witch. "What say you to allowing our foolish young companion to sit astride his horse for the remainder of the morrow's journey, my Lady?"

Molly briefly pursed her lips and, for a moment, Neville thought he was condemned to the floating litter for the next few days. Thankfully, she relented.

"As long as he does nothing more strenuous than sitting, I might be alright with that."

Oh, great. Whether or not he did anything more strenuous than sitting depended entirely on whether or not the ghastly nag Théoden had gifted him would chuck him off her ruddy back!

No sooner had the thought of his mare passed through his mind, than a shadow loomed over his head and he looked up just in time to see a huge glob of drool falling from her whiskery lips to land on his forehead.

"Yuck! Geroff!" yelped Neville, wiping furiously at his face and glowering at the chestnut horse (who had pulled herself free of her picket and charged past Éomer in order to check on her erstwhile rider).

"She misses you," remarked the blond man, grabbing her reins with a large hand to pull her away. He scratched her ear fondly. "It is little wonder. She has not known your company in nigh on two days, due to the battle and your subsequent ... erm ... incapacitation."

"You fainted like a maiden on the battlefield, lad," supplied Gimli (with a broad grin).

"Dropped like a rock from the Deeping wall," added Éomer.

"Fell like a Summer's rainstorm over the Westfold," announced Théoden grandly (who had just completed a circuit of the camp's perimeter and now wandered over to see how the teenager fared).

Great. He was the laughing stock of Rohan.

"Yeah, well I was a little dizzy," Neville said in his own defence, plucking absently at his elven cloak.

"And whose fault is that?" demanded Molly. "You can't expect to be up and about in a matter of hours after an injury like that."

She jabbed a finger in the direction of his arm.

"I said I was sorry, Molly."

"That may very well be. But I am supposed to be your Guardian. I'm supposed to protect you. Keep you alive. Not let you get seriously wounded and then allow you to endanger your recovery by running about as if nothing happened in the first place. You could have died!"

And with that, the matronly witch choked back a sob, grabbed her broom, mounted it and sped out of sight. Dismayed, Neville watched her swiftly retreating form until she was a mere speck in the darkness.

"Do not worry, lad. Lady Molly is more angry at herself than you. She blames herself for not preventing the arrow from finding its mark in the first place, and then for not remaining with you as you healed, thus preventing your too hasty rise from your sick-bed."

The news surprised the teenager.

"But that's not her fault! She can't be expected to be everywhere at once! Or just to watch my back when there's a massive battle going on! Surely she knows that? And anyway, I can take care of myself!"

Gimli and Aragorn snorted in unison.

"Of course you can, lad! That is why you spent the better part of the night in the Glittering Caves, recovering from an injury that would have killed anyone else."

Rubbish! He'd spent the better part of the night trying to make the Rohirrim open Helm's ruddy Gate so half of Saruman's army couldn't spear him on the causeway...

"Then foolishly rushed back into battle when you should have remained in safety to recover," remarked Legolas pointedly, sparing him a remonstrative glance.

Neville turned scarlet.

"Do not allow the Elf to irk you too much," said the dwarf magnanimously. "He is still upset that I won our bet at Helm's Deep and lays the blame for that at your feet. Or rather, at the ineffectiveness of his pretty crown. You were not the only one to faint like a maiden that night, you know."

Legolas leaned around Aragorn to scowl at the dwarf.

"Er, sorry about that. I should've taken the cliff walls into account," mumbled Neville apologetically, offering his (probably former) elven friend a sheepish grin.

"Think no more of it, Neville," said Legolas, relaxing beside the ranger once more. "I bear no grudge for the small misjudgement. I, too, should have realised the proximity of the mountains may have caused an echo that would challenge even the snuggest of ear coverings, yet I did not. Let us call it a lesson learned, shall we? And the night was not a complete loss. Despite my ... incapacitation ... I still felled over forty Orcs."

Legolas smiled at him, then scowled again when Gimli (who was fingering his enchanted axe lovingly) added:

"Only one hundred or so less than my own total. Not bad, for a pointy-eared princeling. You may improve upon it yet, though, when next we meet the Enemy. Mayhap, with good fortune, you may even exceed a score of fifty!"

The dwarf wore a look of such undeniable smugness, that Neville had to laugh.

"Come, young Wizard. Let us tell the happenings of the battle that you missed while recovering from your wound," Éomer said, handing the chestnut mare to a rider and settling comfortably next to the boy. Aragorn threw him a wafer of lembas, which Neville munched on with relish.

For the next half hour, the ranger related the orcs attempt to blow up the Deeping Wall with explosive powder, and their subsequent chagrin when Molly 'enchanted' the metal orb and threw it back amidst their own filthy ranks, blowing up 'a goodly number' of their remaining forces, instead. He learned of her anger as she hexed, cursed and jinxed every snarling orc in sight (which had been a lot) after her charge had suffered at their hands, and the fear her 'coloured lights of wrath' had instilled in Saruman's archers when she jinxed them to fly back and hit their owners instead.

"Blimey, she didn't leave much for you lot, did she?" mumbled the teenager, gazing in the direction his Guardian had whizzed off.

"There were plenty of the Enemy for us all, lad," Gimli contradicted him. "Indeed, thanks to my magical axe, I slew almost two hundred Orcs. What do you say to that?"

The dwarf raised his eyebrows in question and Neville suppressed a snigger at the weapon he so lovingly caressed with his meaty fist.

"I'd say you're about two seconds from snogging your axe," he replied.

Éomer's barking laugh mingled with Legolas' tinkling one. "The word means 'to kiss', does it not?" queried the blond man in amusement. Neville nodded, then shifted his gaze when Gimli frowned at him.

"It may interest you to know that, after you swooned your way into senselessness, we met with a contingent of those moving trees you seemed so keen to meet back at Fangorn," Gimli informed him slyly.

Neville's jaw dropped. "What? The hopping Ents?" he gasped, dismayed to have missed them.

Gimli's expression softened. "Aye, lad. But do not fear; you did not miss much. Indeed, in all the years of my life, I cannot remember witnessing a more unnatural sight."

"Then you have not been witness to your own reflection at dawn's first light," Legolas remarked.

The dwarf growled, but Legolas ignored him to speak further.

"They were not 'hopping' Ents, young Neville, but herdsmen sent by Treebeard, I deem, to aid us in our fight at Helm's Deep."

"And mighty work they wrought there!" declared Théoden. "When the Orcish forces fled our charge, they ran straight at the trees. None have been heard of since!"

"What, you mean they got lost in the forest?" asked (a still peeved) Neville.

The king shrugged. "I know not. When we passed through it, there were none left to see. Perhaps they were crushed under the mighty limbs of the Ents, perhaps they were...devoured by them. None can tell, and the herdsmen did not elaborate as to their fate. Indeed, they did not speak at all."

"Then how do you know Treebeard sent them?"

"It could have been no other," mused Aragorn. "Lady Molly left the Hobbits in his care and they must have related the tale of their struggles after fleeing their captors. We have much to thank them for. Were it not for the arrival of the Ents, we may have struggled to rout the Orcs from the valley."

"And we have Hama to thank for finding Erkenbrand and his forces so swiftly, and for their timely return to the Deep. They swept down the western side of the valley, smiting those Orcs that fled the loving embrace of the tree-herders. Saruman's army is utterly crushed!" declared Éomer passionately, and a roar of approval swept the small company as every man cheered for the Lord of the Deeping-coomb.

Great. So he'd missed all the excitement. The end of the battle, the hopping trees, the much-admired Erkenbrand ...

Wait a minute. Erkenbrand!

"Hold on a minute: did this Erkenbrand bloke say anything more about our mysterious magical friends? You know, the ones that helped the Rohirrim the day before?"

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged an odd look before the ranger answered.

"Indeed he did. The Elven lord who so graciously aided our allies was none other than Glorfindel of Rivendell."

"Rivendell? You mean Imladris?"

Aragorn raised his brows in surprise. "You know its Elvish name?"

Neville shrugged. "Yeah. Varda showed us it on the maps back in Valinor. It was marked as Imladris, but she said that non-elvish people know it as Rivendell."

"Ah, how easily you speak of Varda and Valinor!" said Legolas wistfully. "As if they were but a stone's throw away and open to all who cared to visit. You are blessed indeed, Neville of Yorkshire, to have known such honour! Mortals are not intended for Valinor, as a rule, let alone in the Halls of Ilmarin itself, and none before have been there and come back to Middle Earth to speak of the honour!"

The elf's eyes misted suspiciously and he lost himself to a flight of fancy (that took him across the Sundering Sea, no doubt).

"Er, okay," mumbled Neville. "But, to be fair, Molly and I didn't 'come back' to Middle Earth. We stopped off in Valinor first, then we came here."

Legolas ignored him, still lost in a daydream about the Undying Lands and the young wizard frowned in concern. If that's what the elf was like now, what would he be like if he heard those gulls Galadriel told him about in his dream?

He shifted uneasily on the litter, determined to keep an eye on his immortal friend.

"Anyway, Rivendell: this Glorfindel bloke - he's a friend of yours?"

Aragorn nodded. "Glorfindel dwells with my foster-father in Imladris. I have known him almost my entire life. He is an honourable Elf and a skilled warrior, yet -"

The ranger trailed off to study the ancient highway, then resumed his narrative.

"- yet, powerful in the arts of his kind as he is, even the mighty Glorfindel cannot make himself invisible to all eyes."

He was referring to the information provided by Céorl three days previously, but his pensive mood still puzzled Neville. Why was that a problem?

"But the scout from two days ago said he called his aunt a witch. He must've been under the influence of a spell cast by her."

"Ah, yes. The 'aunt'."

Legolas, finally roused from his daydream, turned his eyes to the ranger and, once again, they shared a look.

Which was beginning to annoy him, actually. Why couldn't they just come out and say whatever was on their minds?

"What? Why did you say 'aunt' in that funny voice?"

"Because, young Neville, Glorfindel has no aunt. At least, none in Middle Earth."

Oh. Right. Well, that was a little strange.

"And what is more," continued Aragorn, "Erkenbrand claims that the 'aunt' in question is Half-Elven. Again, this is impossible. There are no Half-Elven Witches in all the lands of Arda."

"But how does he know she's a half-elf?"

"He said she had more the look of a Child of Men, than an Elf, though Glorfindel addressed her often as 'Aunt'. When first I heard this, I thought she may have bewitched him for some reason unknown to us, until Erkenbrand allayed my fears. They share a familial bond that cannot be denied, or so he says. And therein lies the mystery, Neville Longbottom, for I would deny the existence of such a bond. But, without having met the lady in question, I cannot refute Erkenbrand's report. As it is, the lady, whoever she may be, was of great aid to the Rohirrim and I would gladly meet with her to thank her for that, if nothing else."

Crikey, Aragorn was a bit of a suspicious git at times, wasn't he? Still, he had every right to be, Neville supposed. If one of his lifelong friends suddenly produced a heretofore unknown relative out of thin air, he'd probably be a bit suspicious, too.

The teenager attempted to distract him from his pensive mood by cheerily drawing his attention to the lady's (known) redeeming qualities.

"Well, whoever she is, at least she's on our side. And we'll probably run into her and Glorfindel if we're going to Gondor later. We are still going to Gondor, aren't we? After we pick up Merry and Pippin, that is?"

The mention of their erstwhile companions pulled Aragorn from his contemplation and he answered with a smile.

"Indeed we are, Neville. Once we have 'picked up' the Hobbits."

Great! He was desperate to see Merry and Pippin again. Not to mention pay a visit to Boromir's city. Plus, he had a horn to hand over to his dead friend's little brother (what was his name again? Farmers-ear? Ruddy odd monikers these Middle-Earthlings had), something he was not looking forward to. How was he going to tell Farmers-ear that Boromir was dead?

Lost in thought, he allowed his gaze to stray to the gloomy valley. It seemed to shy from the touch of the waning moon. Deep in its shadow rose a vast spire of smoke and vapour.

"What's that up there?" he asked of no one in particular, trying to discern the cause of the fire.

"'Tis the Wizard's Vale," supplied Éomer with a frown. "There is ever a fume above that valley in these days, but I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us. Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the river runs dry."

He jerked a thumb to the right, indicating the shallow gorge.

"That's a river?"

"It was when last I saw it. And it shall be again!"

With that, the blond rose, bade them fair dreams and left to take his rest.

Neville allowed himself to ponder that particular dilemma as the company laid to their rest for the night. With a stomach full of the magic of elven bread and the crackle of a warm fire nearby, he, too, bade his friends 'goodnight' and dropped his weary head on his knapsack (which someone - probably Molly - had seen fit to make use of as a pillow). Soon, his eyes fluttered closed and he was asleep, his own snores lost amid the rumble of Gimli's deafening ones.

XXX

Neville was awoken by cries later in the night. He jerked into wakefulness to find riders running about in confusion. Legolas, Gimli and Molly where nowhere in sight, but Aragorn stood quietly a few metres away from his litter, one arm crossed over his chest, the other rested upon it with the hand stroking his bearded chin. Still rather groggy, Neville pulled himself to his feet and stumbled across the grass to stand next to him.

"What's happening?" he demanded, staring into the night. A blackness seemed to be creeping across the ground on both sides of the river, rolling towards them, then going northwards.

"I do not know," admitted the dark-haired man soflty. "The night is darker than I have ever seen, yet I feel it bears no malice towards us."

Excellent. Nothing worse than a malicious night, was there?

"Is Molly still out in that?"

"Nay. She returned an hour ago and patrols the perimeter on her wooden steed."

Which was just as well. It was starting to get misty and he'd hate to think she was out getting lost in it.

The Rohirrim began to take their seats on the grassy plain, resigned to waiting helplessly while the strange phenomena passed, though none of them dared to sleep. It was obvious that they were afraid, but neither Legolas nor Molly returned to make any reports of an impending attack on the small camp. Later in the night, a wind rose about them and the ground shuddered nearby, as if with the coldness of it. Neville shivered, glad for the use of his elven cloak. The fire had been extinguished hours ago, partly out of fear that it might draw unfriendly eyes. Personally, he was all for going out there to find out what in Merlin's name was going on, but Aragorn insisted he not exert himself too forcefully before he was ready for it.

"Lady Molly would not thank me for sending you out there while you continue to recover, and, as a healer in my own right, I would scarce permit it myself."

"But, Aragorn, I'm fine! I feel loads better. Come on - just five minutes?" he begged, desperate to nip across the darkness to investigate the rumbles. The noise was tantalisingly close, he could almost reach out and touch it! Whatever it was, it was near the empty river - five minutes was all he'd need...

The ranger held up a firm hand. "Nay. Have I not already said that the night bears us no malice? But that may change if you ride forth to challenge it. Leave it be. Tomorrow we shall know more of these strange happenings."

Frustrated at the restriction, the young wizard reluctantly took to his rest under Aragorn's watchful eye (glare), but he slept only fitfully for the remainder of the night.

XXX

In the morning when he awoke, his astonishment at the scene before him was as great as everyone else's.

The orcish corpses had completely disappeared.

Not only that but, most astonishing of all, the unmistakable roar of a river caught his attention.

The Isen flowed strong once more.

"Isn't it wonderful, dear?" exclaimed Molly, making him jump as she walked up beside him and threw her arms around him for a quick hug.

"Yeah. Not half. What happened?"

"Aragorn thinks that more of the Ents passed by in the night and tidied things up a bit."

Tidied things up a bit? He shook his head in amusement. Molly Weasley, housewife supreme. Only she would call the wonder of the Ents ridding the landscape of foulness and letting the river flow...

Neville froze mid-thought and whirled round to face her.

"Ents? Did you say Ents?"

She nodded, beamed, and walked off to collect her knapsack before they departed, leaving the youth to simmer in frustration.

He'd missed the ruddy hopping trees again!

Honestly, was there some sort of conspiracy against him? Were the Valar having a private joke at his expense?

This was probably Manwë's doing. Some sort of celestial revenge because he'd lusted after his wife!

Grumbling in annoyance, he traipsed back to his litter, shrank it and collected his few belongings, too annoyed to eat the lembas Gimli offered, or admire the new stone-covered hill that covered the corpses of the orcs (as Legolas claimed - some of them had done the Rohirrim a similar service back at Helm's Deep. This only served to remind Neville that he'd missed the ruddy Ents there too, and he scowled at the bemused elf before stalking away).

After the others had partaken of a quick breakfast, the company disbanded the camp and mounted their horses to travel up the highway. Molly flew up to him to check he was alright, still a little skittish at leaving him without her for more than five minutes, she said (he suppressed the desire to laugh - she had left him for several hours the night before).

Satisfied that he was well, his Guardian left before everyone else to make a quick sweep of the road further ahead before the riders set off, returning to inform Théoden that it was clear and no enemy forces waited in hiding to spring a surprise attack on them.

"Not that there's anywhere to hide," she added, sweeping the landscape with her sharp brown eyes. "Nothing in sight for miles but road and grass, until we get nearer the valley."

Great. No chance of meeting an Ent again then, eh?

The party set off, travelling northwest up the curve of the ancient highway for over an hour without any incident. Occasionally, they passed large boulders (and the matching dents they had made in the road), which he either Levitated away or they navigated around.

The work of the mysterious Glorfindel and his half-elven aunt no doubt. Bet Saruman hadn't seen that coming.

Suddenly, Neville grinned. He was looking forward to seeing the (colourful) wizard again. He rubbed absently at his left arm, anxious to make the git squirm for inflicting it upon him (albeit by default).

Molly caught the gesture and was all over him in a flash.

"Is your arm sore, dear?" she asked, whipping her first-aid kit from her knapsack before he could so much as reply in the negative. She fished out a vial of green liquid and held it out hopefully, desperate to relieve his non-existent pain. Unwilling to deny her the chance of being useful, Neville nodded once and accepted the vial, unstoppering it and swallowing the contents whole.

"Merlin's beard!" he gasped, trying not to gag as he handed (a very satisfied-looking) Molly the empty flask. "That was horrible!"

"Medicine's not supposed to taste good, dear," she admonished. "It's just supposed to help."

"It would've helped a lot more if it didn't taste like an old sock," he grumbled unhappily.

"Oh, don't be such a fusspot! Did it do the trick or not?"

He flexed his arm (just to appease her) then nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, that's wonderful, isn't it?" The witch beamed, delighted to have been there for him in his moment of need.

Oh, yeah. Wonderful. Now she'd be pouring everything in her first-aid kit down his throat if he so much as twitched.

And if it cheered her up, he'd let her, too.

Early morning turned into mid-morning and the sun made its relentless way westward across the sky. Neville had to admit that it made a nice change to take a pleasant, almost carefree ride through the lands of Middle Earth now that the threat of Isengard's army had been dealt with (if not the wizard himself - yet). As the company rode up the (pock-marked, boulder strewn) highway, he wondered how Frodo and Sam were faring. Were they enjoying the warmth of the sun with as light a heart as the rest of them? Or were they too busy clambering over the rocks of the Emyn Muil, hiding from possible pursuers by day, journeying only at night? It was frustrating, not knowing what was happening to them, or if they were okay. Once again, he cursed his idiocy at not having put an Ever-Full spell on all the water-bottles before leaving Lothlórien. How trustworthy could the plumbing in Mordor be, after all?

Knowing it was pointless to let himself worry when he couldn't help them at that time, he shook the unhappy thoughts from his head and concentrated on the task of staying atop his (oddly cooperative) mare. The Misty Mountains were already visible in the distance, and Orthanc was supposed to lie at the foot of the Last Mountain, so it shouldn't be long before they arrived to 'accept' Saruman's surrender.

Something he was looking forward to.

Neville stole a speculative glance at Molly (but was careful not to twitch, in case he was forced into another potion-swallowing marathon). Saruman, for some reason, had wanted her dead - before he'd ever met her in Fangorn - and he, Neville Longbottom, had every intention of finding out why!

"Riders! To the left of the highway, all!" cried the voice of Théoden, and Neville automatically nudged Fælu at the command. The king's order had been a necessity for the past several miles, due to the condition of the oddly paved road they travelled upon. Fælu carried him away from it on to the grass when a sharp cry of disgust roused his interest.

"'Tis the foulest road I ever trod upon!" exclaimed Legolas, pointing elegantly at the highway. Neville's gaze followed his finger and he saw the elf indicating what appeared to be several small rocks lodged in the road itself. Rumbles of agreement swept the company and his face twisted in disgust as he noticed that the 'rock' was, in fact, a head.

An orc's head.

Bloody hell! How did that get there?

He tugged Fælu's reins to the right and she carried him a little closer to the road to investigate.

Yuck! It was a head. What happened there?

As they travelled up the Gap, they encountered many more of the macabre decorations. In some places full heads were evident, their faces twisted into expressions of horror; in others only the conical tops of helmets peeped through the warped paving.

But it was clear what lay beneath.

"D'you lot usually decorate your roads with your enemies' bodies?" he asked, casually cocking a brow at Aragorn.

"Nay. I have never seen its like before," the dark-haired man replied, grimacing as his gaze fell upon the death mask of an uruk. The creature's mouth was opened in a silent scream.

Thank goodness for that. He didn't much fancy having his head stuck on a busy road somewhere between Mordor and Orthanc, if Sauron ever got a hold of him.

Not that he planned to let that happen.

"You know, it looks almost as if they sank into the road," he said, running his eyes over the warped slabs between the heads. "As if the road melted, then the orcs got sucked in. You don't think Glorfindel's aunt could've been responsible?"

Aragorn thought about it. "Erkenbrand did name her the 'Green Witch'. And they did travel this way to assist the Rohirrim. It could be no other, I think."

"Yeah, well, Glorfindel's aunt or not, she's a bit of a scary old girl. At least, if you're an orc. Imagine traipsing down this road in the dark - you'd never know what hit you before you were sucked in. Sucked in... Yeah! It's like she turned the road into quicksand, or something."

He looked as the ranger for confirmation.

"I know of such quickening sands, as you call them. They are common in the Dead Marshes. But I never thought to see one outside of that place, and certainly not in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. The Green Witch must be powerful indeed, to have worked such magic."

"Yeah. Funny thing is, we've got a spell just like it where I come from."

"Is that so? And why should this cause you amusement?"

Neville grinned. "No, not 'funny, ha ha'; 'funny, strange'."

"Ah."

A look of understanding crossed the ranger's noble features and he grinned in turn.

"Anyway, it's funny because, when I fought Saruman, his magic seemed so ... foreign. So I just assumed that the magic of all wizards in your world was slightly different to ours. But apparently not."

He let that realisation sink in, debating it silently for a few moments. Molly whizzed by on her ancient Cleansweep (having assured herself that he wasn't going to drop dead from his horse) to chat with Théoden.

Did all magic share similarities, no matter which world it stemmed from? After all, he and Molly had wands, and Saruman had a staff, so it was clear that, in their two worlds at least, something was needed to channel the magic. And now this 'quicksand' in the road - another similarity from back home. Of course, there were disparities, too. Saruman, for instance, hadn't spoken when he was firing off his spells at Fangorn, something which - at the time - Neville had assumed to be the norm for wizards in Middle Earth. But perhaps that wasn't the case? Maybe he'd just been proficient in non-verbal magic? Which would mean that, as wizards, they had more in common than he'd first thought.

Interesting ...

"Professor Dumbledore would have loved it here," he mumbled.

"Professor Dumbledore? He was the chief instructor at your magical institution, was he not?"

Neville nodded absently and returned his gaze to the orc-ridden road. "Yeah, he was. Bit of a scholar, too. He'd would've enjoyed exploring the mysteries of Middle Earth and discovering the different types of magic. Pity Varda didn't send for him. He could've written a book about it. And probably have worked out the differences between our two magics."

Aragorn smiled gently. "You think highly of him."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes. Yes, I did. Still do, even though he's...dead."

Somehow, it still felt wrong to say that.

"I miss him. He was the greatest wizard we've had in centuries; it was a privilege to have lived in his lifetime. Not only was he the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever known, but he was the driving force behind the resistance that finally crushed Voldemort. If it wasn't for him, we'd all be dead, or slaves under Voldemort's rule."

He pondered that for a second or two before adding more decisively: "No. I would definitely be dead."

"Indeed? How do you come to such a conclusion, and with such assuredness?"

"'Cos I wouldn't have been able to step aside and let Voldemort have his way. Murder all my Muggle-born friends, just because he doesn't like them. Warp my society into a parody of civility. No, I'd have resisted with every last breath. He would've had to have killed me to make me stop," he said softly.

Firmly.

And he knew it was true. He would rather die free, than live under the rule of tyranny. It was what got him through the war back in his own world.

It would be what got him through this one, too.

"Well said, Neville Longbottom."

The teenager drew his gaze from the ugliest road in Middle Earth to find that Éomer had drawn level with him. He flushed at having spoken so freely.

"Nay, be not embarrassed by your words. They were spoken with conviction and also with the courage I have come to expect from you. Lady Molly tells me that you were a leader in your war and if I doubted it before, I doubt it not now."

Molly had told him what? Is that what she had been doing back there, before she flew up to Théoden?

Oh, no! Was she feeding that line to the ruddy king as well?

Alarmed, the teenager shook his head furiously and attempted to set the record straight.

"I wasn't really a leader. Just one of many students having a slight difference of opinion with their school management."

To put it lightly.

Éomer and Aragorn frowned in tandem.

"Then you did not defy the servants of your Dark Lord time and again?" asked the blond in confusion.

"Er, well ..."

"Or allow yourself to be subjected to a curse of terrible torture on many occasions, to save your friends from enduring it in your stead?"

"Actually, I wasn't the only one ..."

"Or see those to safety that were being hunted for death - children, no less - by the very people who should have protected them against such evils? And at great risk to your own life?"

"Well, strictly speaking, we were all at risk ..."

"And did you not stand in glorious defiance of the Dark Lord himself? Writhe in pain while he set your very face aflame for your insolence? Strike down his last link to an unnatural immortality, that Harry, son of Potter, could end his evil reign once and for all?"

Neville was beyond crimson. He was puce. Apart from his flame-and-Cruciatus-scarred cheek, of course; a fact not lost upon his interrogators. Éomer and Aragorn smirked at his discomfort.

"As I thought, young Wizard. A leader you are. 'Tis a great responsibility for any to bear; having the rule of others, seeing to their care and safety, ensuring that their good is placed ever above your own. Though I have met many leaders who fulfil these duties admirably, I have never yet met one who fulfilled them at such a young age. Nay, be not offended. I know that from whence you hail, you are now a Man of your people, but even there, leadership found you before Manhood ever did and you bore it better than most. It is an honour to ride with you, to fight with you, and to call you friend."

Neville, feeling like a bit of a fraud, swallowed thickly, unused to such open admiration and deep sincerity. Personally, he thought they were overreacting a little bit. Yes, he'd done his bit in the war - just like everybody else had. He hadn't done anything more than that, and, though there had been some close shaves and a good bit of drama, it wasn't nearly as grand as Éomer made it sound. Fair enough, war had made him stand up and be counted. He was more confident and proficient with his magic; but he was still Neville. Still awkward, still that little bit clumsy, and still vastly grateful just to have survived the war in the first place. All his friends were heroes, dead and living. They deserved their praise just as much as he did.

But they weren't here and he was. So he'd have to accept it graciously on behalf of all of them. Still, to know that people as noble and brave - and so ruddy superior to him in every way - as these future kings of men thought so highly of him...

His eyes misted slightly and he froze.

Oh, crikey. Was that a tear? Merlin's beard, if he started bubbling like a toddler in front of the new Prince of Rohan and the Sort-Of-Prince-Of-The-Whole-Ruddy-World, he'd die of shame!

What he needed was a diversion. A Neville Longbottom-style diversion.

"Ouch!" he yelled theatrically, making his companions jump in alarm. He smacked a hand to the offending eye and grimaced (also theatrically). "Cripes, think I've got something in my eye. Probably an orc tooth, knowing my luck. Bet the wind blew it over from the road."

Aragorn frowned. "I do not believe the gust was nearly powerful enough to have dislodged a tooth from the mouth of an Orc, nor clever enough to have blown it in the exact direction of your eye, Neville."

Oh, great. Trust the ranger to spoil it.

Desperate to leave before he dissolved into a gibbering wreck, the teenager nudged his chestnut mare past Aragorn and up the grassy plain, leaving the two men staring after him in blank confusion.

"Might've been a hair, then. They're easily dislodged. And take a look at those ugly gits - d'you think they've ever washed their heads? I don't. Bet the hair was filthy. Probably infested with lice, or something. I don't really want a colony of lice setting up home in my eyeball, so if you don't mind, I'll just nip up and let Molly have a look at it."

"You need not go so far for aid. I learned the art of healing from the Lord of Imladris himself. Allow me to assist you," called the ranger as the teenager barrelled up the line of riders.

"Er, maybe next time. And anyway, Molly can just Summon them out with her wand. Thanks!"

And so he left them to stare after his fleeing back, and to mumble about the strange ways of wizards everywhere - regardless of which world they hailed from.

XXX

Although the Ents had cleared most of the corpses by the river, the company occasionally came upon the odd few lying face down in blackened craters, or in the grasses, several dozen yards away on the opposite side of the road to the now swiftly flowing waters.

Sometimes more.

Many of them were limbless, headless or charred to a crisp.

Hmm. It must have been quite the party, as Gran would say.

And, with the added benefit of a strong sun, they were decaying beautifully.

Théoden called a halt every time they passed the fallen enemies and Neville or Molly (and sometimes both together, if the pile was significant) would Levitate them and pile them up together in a single crater, along with any others the Rohirrim had gathered from the plains, before burying them in it forever. It was slow, but necessary, work.

Not to mention absolutely stinking!

For the umpteenth time, a halt was called and he and Molly trained their wands on a clump of bodies fouling the landscape. They collected almost two dozen burned and broken corpses from it and deposited them in a pile, before covering them with earth. The stench of so many hung heavy in the air, making him want to gag.

Ugh! It was all he could do not to lean over Fælu's flank and empty his stomach. He was desperate to cast a Bubble-head charm but refrained because, unfortunately for him, he was in the company of the manliest men he'd ever met, and they all bore it like the testosterone-fuelled warriors that they were. Much to his disgust, Gimli was actually inhaling deeply through his nose as if he was enjoying every second of it.

"You're having a laugh, right?" he asked the dwarf in disbelief.

"Nay, lad. I see no humour in death."

"Then why are you taking great lungfuls of air as if you've almost drowned?"

"Ah. That is because there is no smell in all of Arda to compare with decaying corpse of an enemy. A decaying Orcish enemy, that is."

Neville and Legolas swapped a knowing glance and rolled their eyes in unison. Clearly, the dwarf was barking ruddy mad.

"I disagree, friend Gimli," said the fair elven prince. "I much prefer the pure, sweet fragrance of a rain-dampened forest."

"Trust an Elf to bring trees into the conversation!" retorted his bushy companion. "No doubt you will soon break into song about them, too. Gah! Neville! Sing for us a song of your home instead - one without trees, if you please. Even the torture of your mangled voice raised in song is better than one about the fairness of the oak, the beech, or the ash."

Torn between affront at the dwarf's remark of his singing prowess, amusement at the offence registering on Legolas' face, and growing horror at the speculative looks he was getting from his other companions, the teenager cringed.

"Er, no. You sing one."

Gimli narrowed his eyes. "You would deny me this small favour?"

"No. But, as you so eloquently put it, my 'mangled voice raised in song' will be a 'torture' for everyone."

"It will also be a distraction from what they consider the unpleasantness of the smell," the dwarf pointed out. "And, do not forget, they have never before heard a song from your lands. The Rohirrim are great lovers of song, are they not?"

Gimli made the appeal to Théoden, who nodded. "That we are, Master Dwarf. Come, Wizard of Awes. Sing for the King of the Horse-lords. We shall forgive the quality of your voice, if it gives us a better idea of your home lands."

Oh, great. Just great. A royal command. Brilliant. And if he said 'No, sod off," Théoden would probably have him beheaded.

Excellent!

Molly beamed in encouragement. "Go on, dear. Give us a song while we travel. How about a nice Celestina Warbeck tune, hmm? I know all her songs. Have all eight of her albums, as a matter of fact. Why don't we do a duet, eh? Maybe, A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love?"

"NO!" Neville exclaimed in horror, trying not to imagine the reaction that particular tune would elicit from the grand company of brave (but strangely proper) warriors. Already a few of them eyed the witch as she swayed from side to side on her broom (eyes closed, humming dreamily and no doubt thinking of her astonishingly fertile husband). At his shout, all eyes swivelled back to him and Molly opened hers (looking rather crestfallen).

"I mean, yeah. Okay. I'll sing something."

If only to stop Molly from breaking several dozen rules of staid Middle Earth propriety with her musical masterpieces. Arda was not ready for Celestina Warbeck.

"But not while everyone's sitting there watching me."

"The lad is shy," announced Gimli to a strapping blond Rohirrim with a deep scar across his left cheek. The rider grinned in amusement and Neville glared at them both.

Gits!

"Yeah, that's right. I'm shy. So, let's all push off and I'll 'distract' you with a tune, okay?"

Satisfied with the compromise, Théoden grinned broadly and, with Aragorn and Éomer at each side, led the company back up the plains to the ever-nearing lair of Saruman. Neville nudged Fælu behind them, pausing only long enough to scowl at Gimli, and soon he was being escorted up the Gap by his Guardian.

Legolas drew up beside him and both elf and dwarf watched him expectantly.

"I'm thinking! I can't just pull one out of a hat, you know. It has to be -"

Appropriate. In other words, Warbeck-free.

"- to be interesting."

"I am certain that whatever you sing of will be of interest, if lacking in melody, young Neville," offered Legolas with a twinkle. Gimli roared with laughter.

Neville scowled at the elf, too, then racked his brains for an 'interesting' tune.

"Al lright then," he informed them a minute later, having selected one of Seamus Finnigan's own compositions. "Got one. Here goes."

Gimli and Legolas beamed in anticipation. Neville wet his lips nervously, opened his mouth, and hoped for the best.

"There once was a wizard who got lost in a blizzard

And bemoaned his lack of a coat

He tripped on his tassel by the walls of a castle

And fell head first into its moat ..."

Before he could launch into a second verse, Gimli interrupted him.

"Why did he trip upon his tassel?"

Bemused, Neville shrugged. "Dunno. Must've got in his way."

The answer did not satisfy the dwarf. "In his way from where, lad?"

Who cared? Honestly?

He shrugged again. "Dunno. Maybe he had one on his shoe..."

Which would make the foolish wizard a bit of a ponce, actually. Tassels on shoes were so...Gilderoy Lockhart.

"But what was he doing outside in a blizzard? And how could he be lost, if he was by the walls of a castle?"

"You know, Gimli, sometimes you remind me of Pippin. He asks a lot of pointless questions, too."

Legolas actually snorted with laughter (something Neville had never heard the elegant elf do before). Gimli, however, glared at him.

"Very well, Wizard. I shall let you sing the next verse of your interesting song."

Legolas snorted again, joined by Aragorn from further up the line.

"Thanks, Gimli. That's really big of you," drawled the teenager sarcastically (Molly swiped him on the back of the head for his cheek).

"Alright. Second verse:

There once was an old witch who was a bit of a bi..."

"What happened to the Wizard?"

Neville broke off again to look at the perplexed dwarf.

"He fell into the moat, remember?"

"But did he not climb back out?"

"Couldn't have or he'd be in the second verse, wouldn't he?"

"Why did he not climb back out?"

The teenager sighed. "Because he fell head first into the moat. Probably struck it on a rock and died, or something."

Gimli huffed in annoyance. "'Tis not much of a song about a Wizard, if he died in the first verse."

"You didn't actually ask me to sing you a song about a wizard; you just asked me to sing a song, and this is it. Would you prefer if I stopped?"

Please say yes ...

"Nay. On you go, lad. Sing more."

Brilliant.

He was about to relaunch into the verse about the witch, when he remembered the end of the first line.

Crikey! And he'd very nearly let that slip, too! Maybe it was just as well Gimli had interrupted him - he'd have to modify it.

Using all the artistic licence he possessed (none), and hoping Seamus would forgive him, he made the mental correction and started again.

"There once was an old witch who was a bit of a she-dog

And she was much-loathed in her town

She spread lie and rumour like a fast-growing tumour

'Til she fell ill and died on her own."

"There is a lot of falling about and dying in this song," grumbled Gimli. "And the Witch in question does not sound half so honourable as the Lady Molly."

"Why, thank you, Gimli, dear!" trilled Molly, flattered beyond belief.

Neville clenched his jaw and looked ahead, desperately wishing that Isengard would suddenly pop into existence before him.

"The next verse is a bit better," he growled.

"Then sing it, lad," ordered the dwarf gruffly. "And let us hope it cheers us up a bit more than its predecessors."

Mastering the impulse to lean over and shove him off Arod, he nodded once at Gimli and continued.

"There once was a house-elf who was in love with himself

And he gazed in his mirror all day ..."

Gimli's booming laughter filled the air (completely drowning out Legolas' offended huff). Neville ignored him.

"His mistress' vexation with his self-fascination

Made her throw Wonky's mirror away."

By the time Neville was finished, Gimli's laughter had spread to every rider in the company (except for Legolas, who looked affronted at the slur on his name-cousin).

"Ah, lad! That was the best verse, yet. It could have been written about someone I know, I tell you!"

"You take your life in your hands, if you are referring to me, son of Glóin," hissed the elf.

"Er, no, Legolas. I was referring to ... er ..."

"Yes?" demanded his irate friend impatiently. "I am waiting."

Gimli flushed (and the Rohirrim laughed harder). "To that pretty elf in Lothlórien. The one with the scowling brothers."

He could only mean Haldir, and Neville said so.

"Aye, lad. Haldir. That is the very one!" exclaimed the dwarf, almost sagging in relief. "I see he struck you as the vain sort, also."

Er, no. Haldir just struck him. Usually with a heavy glare. Or a cutting remark.

Legolas (still miffed about the last verse) turned his golden head towards the teenager. "I do not see the point to your song. It tells no tale of beauty or valour. Indeed, it relates only tales of foolishness, vindictiveness and vanity. Do you not know something more pleasing? Perhaps a tale of love? I would be more inclined to listen to that with pleasure, at least."

What a stroppy git.

Molly didn't share his feelings about Legolas. The redhead jumped at the opening before Neville had a chance to whip out a witty retort.

"Ooh, you want a love song, dear? Well, I know hundreds of them! Would you like to hear one?"

The smile that crossed the elf's face would have stunned Professor McGonagall herself into a lovesick stupor. Molly was absolutely beaming with delight. Her gaze swept the assembled company, catching the eye of brawny riders everywhere. Many nodded back at her eagerly (obviously assuming she was going to start warbling some syrupy Aragorn-esque number - what a crowd of poncy sods). It was all the encouragement the witch needed.

Well, weren't they in for a surprise. Neville smirked, briefly debating whether or not to step in and save the company's blushes.

Then again, why spoil Molly's fun? She was glowing (almost brighter than Legolas) with pleasure at the thought of exhibiting her vast wealth of lyrical delights, and he didn't want to ruin it for her. She had more than earned the right to it, after burying a son (and almost losing him, too).

Plus, it would be a right good laugh to see everyone's expressions when she let rip...

Neville relaxed in his saddle, having absolutely no further intention of stopping Middle Earth getting its first taste of the mighty Celestina Warbeck.

Whether Middle Earth was ready for it or not.

Putting a hand to her mouth, Molly coughed into it delicately and set the beast loose.

"You put the Fire in whisky ..."

She pointed coyly at Scarface of Rohan (not Yorkshire - thank Merlin).

"Baby, you're burning hot ..."

Molly raised a finger to her lips, wet it, and gave a loud 'tssss'.

"I'd like to fly into your arms ..."

Arms opened. Then closed.

"And show you what I've got!"

She wiggled her shoulders at Éomer and waggled her brows suggestively (the blond nearly collapsed).

And so it continued. For the next ninety minutes, the Weasley mother belted out musical madness to all and sundry, from popular golden oldies such as You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me, to the more obscure (and, frankly bizarre) numbers like You make Me Scream Like a Banshee! (which, luckily, was a tale of spurned love, as opposed to a scorching tribute to a sweetheart's virility). Finally, Molly ran out of steam, begging leave of the (completely) shell-shocked King of Rohan to catch her breath. Théoden nodded (dazedly), offering a gallant 'Er, thank you,' and she whizzed happily off to relieve the guard at the rear of the company, leaving over twenty stunned warriors and one sniggering teenager in her wake.

XXX

The ancient highway turned ever north and the Misty mountains rose on their left as the riders passed into the Wizard's Vale. It was a sheltered valley, open only to the south. Most of it was a wilderness of weeds and thorns. Brambles trailed upon the ground, or clambered over bush and bank. Neville and his friends had left the last of the dead orcs far behind them and none now lay scattered on the highway (or in the highway).

There was evidence of violence in the valley, though. His eyes fell often on the axe-hewn stumps of what must've been ancient trees, given their sheer circumference. The sorry sight made the young herbologist sigh in frustration.

What a git Saruman was. No wonder the Ents had helped to crush his forces at Helm's Deep: he had murdered their relatives!

Actually, if Ents had been at Helm's Deep, and Ents had passed them the night before, too (not that he had noticed them - on either occasion), then maybe they had paid the multi-coloured maniac a visit too?

In fact, maybe they were still here?

Excited at the possibility, he kept an eye peeled for a fifty foot tall (possibly) hopping tree. But he never saw one. They rode through the valley for some miles without meeting any other living being, much to his chagrin.

What a disappointment. If they had been here, then they had already left.

Typical. Manwë was probably wetting himself with laughter.

Git.

Eventually, the highway became a wide street, paved with great, flat stones which had been laid (orc-head-free) with obvious skill. There was not even a blade of grass to been seen now; instead, deep gutters filled with trickling water ran down either side of the street.

"Cheery sort of a place, isn't it?" he asked, curling his lip in distaste at his surroundings.

"Once it was, no doubt," replied Aragorn. "But that was long before you were born. Or before I was, I suspect. Saruman's plotting has been long in the making."

"Not that it did him any good, in the end," Molly remarked. "What a miserable spot for a house though, don't you think? Cold winds blowing down the valley, no moon at night, not a garden in sight! It's not a very nice place to raise a family."

"I doubt that Saruman was keen to raise any family other than his unnatural servants, my Lady, and for that, this place was ideally wrought. Yet once it was a place of beauty. A guardian watchtower on the West, it was."

"Yeah, well it's just a blight on the landscape now, isn't it?" muttered the teenager, raising his eyes to look at the tall pillar that now loomed up before them. It was a huge, black monstrosity, and set upon it was a great stone, carved and painted in the likeness of a long white hand.

"That's his mark, isn't it?"

Aragorn nodded solemnly.

Not that he needed the confirmation. He remembered it from the helmets that had lain strewn around Boromir's dying body.

Neville clenched his teeth in anger. Saruman's time was up. He was going to make him answer for killing his moody Gondorian friend. For kidnapping Molly and the hobbits.

For being an utter git.

Up ahead, a ring of dark stone rose several feet high and formed a great circle, curving its way around the gloomy dark tower. As Théoden's company drew nearer, they saw that there was only one way in. Massive iron doors were flung open, allowing what light there was to filter through and give them sight of a tunnel leading into the main courtyard beyond.

But, before any of the riders could pass through the gates, someone came riding out of the tunnel to greet them. Legolas gasped in shock and Neville glanced at his elven friend in concern. But the fair immortal had pulled his horse to a halt and sat stiffly upon it (with a very disgruntled Gimli grumbling behind him).

"Legolas, what ails you? Is it Saruman? Has he come to pay us welcome?" demanded Aragorn urgently, ready to draw his weapon and brandish it in warning.

"Nay! Aragorn! Aragorn, the White Wizard approaches!"

The White Wizard? Well, that was Saruman, wasn't it? Why would Legolas say it wasn't?

Neville was torn between anxiety for the elf, and a sudden need to spear the approaching 'White' Wizard with the Sword of Gryffindor. His hand travelled to the weapon's hilt, resting upon his hip, and he readied himself to draw it at the first provocation of their 'host'.

Then, to his utter confusion, the ranger suddenly cried out and raced forward on Hasufel with a shout of joy.

He watched the future king barrel across the paved road, galloping ever closer to the white figure on the tall, silver horse, then gaped as he pulled his mount to a stop beside him. And his jaw dropped when the ranger threw his arms around the enemy and pulled him into a big, blokey man-hug.

But it was nothing compared to the thrill of shock that raced through his body when Aragorn yelled one, simple word that changed everything.

"Gandalf!"

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