Harry Potter and the Ring of Doom

One Black Rider bursting into flames had highlighted the others, and several Incendio spells had made short work of them. The one Hermione hit burst into nearly invisible blue flame, and the others had looked at her in astonishment, and then some fear when they saw the look in her eyes. Strider had commanded them to move Harry by the fire, and then lit out after the Riders. That had been some time ago.

Near the fire, Harry had regained a semblance of consciousness, still gripping the Ring tightly in his right hand. "Where is the pale king?" he murmured, but it was all but ignored in their delight that he was not as badly hurt as they had feared. They had put blankets over him to warm him, and had bandaged the shoulder as best they could. Hermione was hovering near him, gently holding his left hand.

"Don't you die on me, Harry Potter," she said. "Not before we have a chance to work this out." Tears fell onto his chest.

"I've made you cry again," he whispered so quietly she barely heard him. "I'm sorry." A shiver of cold pain went through his shoulder and he cried out, "Ai!" At that moment, a noise came from the entrance of the dell, and the three students spun, wands at the ready.

"I am no Black Rider!" Aragorn quickly said, and their wands lowered. "I have been trying to discover something of their movements; but I have found nothing. I cannot think why they have gone and do not attack further, but there is no feeling of their presence anywhere at hand." He came over and knelt by Harry. "How do you feel, Harry?"

"My shoulder and upper arm feel cold, Strider," came the weak response. "I thought a stab wound was supposed to feel hot." Strider started at this revelation and looked carefully at the wound, probing it gently.

He stood and walked to the other three. "You have done well to keep him warm. Heat water and be sure to bathe the wound with it." In a lower voice he continued. "I think I understand things better now. There seemed only to have been five of the enemy. Why they were not all here, I don't know; but I don't think they expected to be resisted. They have drawn off for the time being. But not far, I fear. They will come again another night, if we cannot escape. They are only waiting, because they think their purpose is almost accomplished, and that the Ring cannot fly much further. I fear that they believe that the wound he has will subdue him to their will. Guard him well; I shall return."

Harry dozed fitfully, as the pain of his wound kept him from getting too deep, as did his shivering. Hermione's face jumped between anger and worry, anger always aimed out toward the entrance to the hollow they were in. Finally, coming to a decision of some sort, she climbed under the blankets with Harry and pressed her body against him, and he seemed to relax, or at least shiver less. Draco and Ron sat by the fire, brewing something in Draco's cauldron, Ron handing Draco what was needed as it was needed, without a word between them.

As dawn began to fill the dell with grey light, Strider returned and approached the group. Hermione was sleeping as fitfully as Harry, with the hint of a worried smile on her face as her head lay on his shoulder. Draco and Ron had finished whatever they had been brewing and were pouring it gently into a bottle. They left some in the cauldron, however, and walked to Harry with it. Hermione awoke, but they motioned her to stay where she was for the moment.

As he stepped closer, Strider suddenly stooped and lifted a long thin knife. A cold glean was in it, and the tip of the blade was notched, with the point broken off. "Ah!" cried Strider. "The knife that wounded Harry!" As they looked at it, the blade seemed to melt into smoke and disappear into thin air, leaving only the hilt in Aragorn's hand. "Alas! It was this accursed knife that gave the wound. Few now have the skill in healing to heal that which a Morgul blade causes," he said, again rolling the 'r'. "But I will do what I can."

He sat down on the ground and set the dagger hilt on his knees. He began to sing over it; a slow song in a strange tongue. He then set it aside and turned to Harry and spoke in a soft tone words that even Hermione could not catch. Finally, he reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out the long leaves of a plant.

"These leaves I have walked far to find; the plant does not grow in the bare hills; but in the thickets away to the south of the Road I found it by its scent." He crushed a leaf between his fingers, and it gave a sweet, pungent fragrance. "It was fortunate that I could find it, for it is a healing plant that the Men of the West brought to Middle-earth. Athelas they named it, and it grows now sparsely and only near those places where they once dwelt or camped. It is not known in the North, except by those who wander in the Wild. It has great virtues, but over a wound such as this its powers may be small." He threw the leaves into a pot of boiling water that they had left over the fire, and bathed Harry's shoulder. The fragrance of the steam refreshed, and the unhurt felt their minds calm and clear.

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It also apparently had some power over the wound, because Harry felt the pain and some of the sense of frozen cold leave him. Use of his left arm did not return to him, however, and he cursed himself for falling under the spell of whatever had 'suggested' that he don the Ring. Will this maim me for life? And how will we get to Rivendell? I feel too weak to move.

Draco looked into the cauldron and said, "Does this stuff last, or is it only good for this one use? I mean, if we were to save the rest of it, would it do any good?"

"It will not be as effective the second time, but it will have some use left to it. If you can store it for later use, then by all means do so." Draco reached into his pack and pulled out another miniature bottle, which he quickly enlarged and into it poured the athelas tea. With a grin, he stuffed the leaves in as well. "Couldn't hurt to leave the leaves in to steep more. The more of whatever is in it that does the job that gets into that water, the better." He paused. "I want seeds of that when we finally leave here. Professor Sprout would love that stuff, and can you imagine using that in a proper healing potion?" He realized what he said and looked up at Strider, who smiled.

"If it will work in your world for healing, I would be happy to know that it still lives somewhere. I believe you cooked up some broth or such for Harry?"

Draco snorted, as did Ron. "I don't think he'd want to drink this stuff. It's meant to be applied the same way yours was." He knelt by the cauldron with their potion in it and pulled out a cloth, and began to gently swab it onto the wound. Harry sighed, and Aragorn was pleased to see him lift and flex his left hand.

Hermione squeaked, "Harry!" He jumped as best one can while lying down and turned his head to see her for the first time. She kissed him on the nose and said, "You flexed both hands, Harry, and your right one is against my... umm... my rear end. You basically just pinched my rear, since you have something clenched in that hand." Her smile told everyone that she wasn't angry with him.

Harry threatened to have his face turn the same colour as Ron's hair. "Hermione, I..."

She smiled at him and cut him off with a grin. "At least next time do it like you mean it." She laughed and hugged him. "We were so worried about you."

They got to their feet and broke what existed of their camp. Harry was still a bit weak, but he was able to walk with them, although he did slow them down somewhat, not being as active as he had been the previous days. The Hogwarts students' banter showed their relief during that day of travel, though.

"Hey Hermione!" Ron laughed. "If I get cold will you warm me the same way?"

She chuckled and laughed back at him, "I'm too much woman for you, Ron!" in an overacted vamp voice.

"Better believe it, Ron," Harry quipped. "I was unconscious by the time she was done with me!"

Draco simply looked at Strider and said melodramatically, "I'm surrounded by comedians."

"It is certainly better than previous days, I must admit," came the response from Strider. "I do not wish to be the voice that brings the joy to a halt, but you must realize that Harry's wound is not truly cured; it is simply in abeyance for a time. We must still make for Rivendell with all haste." He smiled at the group. "However, we can make excellent time for as long as he is doing well. How do you fare, Harry?"

"I'm fine, if still a little weak, Strider. I'll do fine for now. Let's keep going." The Ring had gone back into his pants pocket, and he had no intention of removing it again. By the end of the first day, his pain had returned, but he said nothing, even when they made camp.

Each night for the next several nights, the wound was bathed in the athelas tea and then the potion that Draco and Ron had brewed. By the end of the twelfth of October, six days away from Weathertop, they were not as effective as they had originally been. Harry's arm was becoming useless again, and the cold was creeping back down to his hand. "I am afraid that we shall have to go back to the Road here for a while," Strider said. "We have now come to the River Hoarwell, that the elves call Mitheithel. It flows down out of the Ettenmoors, the troll-fells north of Rivendell, and joins the Loudwater away in the South. Some call it the Greyflood after that. It is a great water before it finds the Sea. There is no way over it below its sources in the Ettenmoors, except by the Last Bridge on which the Road crosses. The river visible in the far distance is the Loudwater itself, the Bruinen of Rivendell." He sighed. "I have not considered how we shall cross that water. One river at a time! We shall be fortunate indeed if we do not find the Last Bridge held against us." He sighed again. "Sleep as best you can; we shall move early in the morning."

Early in the morning of the next day, they came to the Road. Strider and Draco checked the area, but saw no signs of travellers or riders. Here there had been rain; two days prior, Strider judged, and none had passed since that time.

They hurried with all the speed they could muster, Hermione determinedly helping to hold Harry up, since he was tiring easily. After a mile or two, the saw the Last Bridge ahead, at the bottom of a short steep slope. To their joy they did not see Black Riders, as all expected, but before they could rush to the Bridge, Strider made them take cover in a thicket near the Road while he checked the Bridge.

He came back shortly in a hurry. I see no sign of the enemy, and I wonder very much what that means. But I have found something very strange." He held out his hand to display a single pale-green jewel. "I found it in the mud in the middle of the Bridge. It is a beryl; an elf-stone. Whether it was set there, or fell by chance I cannot say; but it brings hope to me. I will take it as a sign that we may pass the Bridge; beyond there we dare not keep to the Road without some clearer token."

They crossed the Bridge in safety, hearing nothing but the sound of water against the three great arches that held the bridge. A mile further they found a narrow ravine that led northwards, to the left of the Road. Strider turned them here and soon they were lost in a sombre country of dark trees winding amongst the feet of sullen hills. They were glad to leave the Road behind them, but this land seemed threatening and unfriendly. They walked slowly through this pathless land, where the hills began to shut them in, and were two days in when the weather decided that they had been dry for too long. They camped both nights on the damp ground, with insufficient room for tents, the only thing coming close to breaking the bleakness being the small fires that they set on the rocks, much to Strider's great amazement. Harry was unable to sleep, as the cold and wet made his shoulder and arm hurt that much more, and only added to the sense of deadly chill that permeated his being.

The next morning broke to find that the rain had stopped. The clouds were still thick, but breaking, and pale strips of blue sky could be seen between them. Strider told them to wait while he checked the area, and his eventual return did not bring good news. "We have gotten too far north. We must find some route southward, or we shall find ourselves in the Ettenmoors far to the north of Rivendell. That is troll country, and little known to me." They spent the day scrambling over rocky ground, and found a passage between two hills that headed the direction they wished. Near the end of the day they discovered their route blocked by a rocky wall that would require climbing, or return whence they came.

"We need to climb it," Harry said with as much strength in his voice as he could muster. "We've lost too much time as it is. I'll make it over. Somehow." He made his point by walking to the rock and starting to climb, slowly and extremely painfully, having only his right hand to grip with. He did not complain during the long climb that he occasionally would feel a hand at his back when he seemed about to lose grip. The light was failing as the last of them reached the top, and Harry threw himself to the ground as if dead. His left arm was lifeless and cold, and the cold had spread to his side and shoulder. He lay shivering, and even Hermione lying against him for warmth didn't help. Draco used the last of the potion on him, and stubbornly insisted on working into the night brewing more.

Morning dawned bright and fair; the air clean; the light pale and clear in the rain-washed sky. They were all encouraged, but they wished to feel the sun on their faces again. Strider disappeared for a short time, and returned with news, neither good nor ill. "We must return to the Road again. We have no hope of a path through these hills. Whatever dangers may beset it, the Road is our only hope of the Ford."

As soon as they had eaten they set out again. The southern side of the ridge was an easier climb since the slope was gentler on that side. Harry was weak still, but the sunlight made him feel better. He was sure that the potion that Draco had been making was what had been helping him hold out this long; he hoped that it would keep him going until Rivendell. He'd asked Draco why he was working so hard to make the new batch of potion, and Draco had said simply, "I'm Slytherin. We think of ourselves. I don't want to carry that damned Ring again, so I make the potion. Now lay back, Harry, and get some sleep."

Ron was slightly ahead of the group, but not so far as to get out of sight, or even in trouble, when he said, "There's a path up here!" When they reached him, they found that he had not mistaken what he saw; it certainly was a pathway. They chose to take it, since it seemed to take the direction they wished to go. It rose and dipped, and grew faint in places, but it was obviously the remnant of an oft-used track, built by strong arm and heavy foot. They travelled cautiously, and their anxiety about the path increased as they entered dark woods, and the path grew broader and plainer. Suddenly coming out of a belt of fir trees it ran steeply down a slope, and turned sharply to the left around the corner of a rocky shoulder of the hill. When they came to the corner they looked and saw that the path ran on over a level strip under the face of a low cliff overhung with trees. In the stony wall was a door hanging crookedly ajar upon one great hinge.

Strider, Ron, and Draco managed to get the door open, and a simple Lumos from Draco's wand showed many old bones, broken pots, and large empty jars. "It appears to be a long forsaken troll hole. I think we have nothing to worry about from them, but let us travel warily, and we shall see."

The path continued, turning right and plunging down a thick wooded slope. Ron continued to walk ahead, wand at the ready. Strider walked slightly ahead of Harry, who was leaning more and more on Hermione and Draco over these last few days. Ron came tearing back up the path as quietly as he could. "Trolls! There are three of them ahead! They're huge!" he stage whispered to the group.

Draco and Hermione's eyes went wide, while Strider picked up a stick and said, "We will go look at them." They walked through the forest with the sunlight streaming down, making gentle patterns of light on the forest floor, and stopped at the edge of the clearing where the trolls did, in fact, stand. Strider walked forward unconcernedly.

"What is that maniac doing?" Hermione said, her voice strangled by her fear for their guide's safety.

"Get up, old stone!" Strider said with a laugh, and broke his stick over the stooping troll before him. He walked back to them and said, "You don't know about trolls, obviously," he said, still laughing. "It is bright sunlight in this clearing, and you try to scare me with a tale of trolls in the clearing. Trolls cannot bear the light of the sun, friends. These trolls have been stone for sixty years if a day. Frodo's uncle met them during his travels. "

They all sighed deep sighs of relief. "Where we come from, they don't have that problem," Hermione said. "Ron and Harry here defeated one in our first year at school," she finished proudly, smiling broadly at Ron and hugging Harry, who was leaning on her and laughing, remembering the way that scenario had actually turned out; sheer dumb luck saving the day.

They continued along, reaching the Road by early evening, the sun making long shadows on the Road. There was no sign of other travellers. Since they had no other choice, they climbed down the bank, turned left toward the Ford, and went off as fast as they could manage. Harry was stumbling more, and a mist had overtaken his sight. His friends were more and more indistinct, as if in a half-world. They were looking for a place to camp off the Road when they heard a sound that terrified them; the noise of hooves behind them. They looked, but could see nothing due to the windings and rollings of the Road. They scrambled from sight as quickly as possible into the heather and brushwood on the slopes above. The hoof-beats continued, but soon seemed to carry another sound with them - the tinkling of bells. The students felt fear at the possibility of the Riders, but Strider was different; he knelt to the ground, leaning forward, stooped to the ground, with a hand to his ear, and a look of joy on his face.

The rider came into view as the light faded - a white horse, gleaming in the shadows, running swiftly. The rider's cloak streamed behind him, and his hood was thrown back; his golden hair flowed shimmering in the wind of his speed. It seemed to Harry that white light shone through the form and clothes of the rider, as if through a thin veil.

Strider sprang from hiding and dashed toward the Road, leaping with a cry through the heather; but even before he had moved or called, the rider reined in and looked up at Strider. Upon sighting him, the rider leapt from his horse and ran to him, crying "Ai na vedui Dunadan! Mae govannen!" The voice alone told the students that this was no Black Rider, but his tone carried haste or fear. He spoke urgently to Strider.

Soon Strider beckoned to them, and they came to meet the rider, awe on their faces. "This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond, in Rivendell."

"Hail and well met, travellers! I was sent from Rivendell to meet you. We feared for your safety upon the Road."

"Forgive the impertinence, good sir," Hermione said somewhat breathlessly, "but what are you? You are no human that I have seen, and you are certainly not of the hobbits, or halflings, that my compatriots met."

A silvery laugh answered her, and she blushed. "It is not impertinent to seek knowledge, young one. I am of the Eldar, what the Humans call Elves. I would tell you more, but that must wait until Rivendell. We must away."

The sun had set by this point, and the weariness struck Harry as a hammer strikes an anvil. He sagged against Hermione, and Glorfindel stepped forward to help her as her strength failed her. Taking Harry into his arms, a look of concern and anxiety crossed his face. Strider explained of the attack upon their camp at Weathertop, and of the Morgul-blade. He drew the hilt and handed it to the Elf. Glorfindel shuddered as he took it, but looked intently at the remains of the knife.

"There is evil written on this hilt," he said, "though maybe your eyes cannot see it. Keep it till we reach the house of Elrond! Be wary, and handle it little! Alas! the wounds of this weapon are beyond my skill to heal, but I will do what I can. All the more do I urge you to go on now without stopping for rest."

His fingers probed the wound at Harry's shoulder, which looked to be nothing but a cold white mark now, and though his face grew graver, Harry felt the chill lessen as warmth crept down his arm to his hand, and the mist cleared slightly from his eyes. He felt hope return.

"You, Harry, shall ride my horse. You need not worry about falling; he will not let any rider fall that I command him to carry. He has speed that even those mounts of the Black Riders cannot match."

"I will not leave my friends in danger and be carried to safety," Harry said hotly.

Glorfindel smiled. "They will not be in danger, doubtless. They do not carry that which the Riders desire. It is you that puts us all in peril."

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They travelled on by night, Glorfindel pushing them on until the dawn's light. They fell into the heather and slept immediately. It seemed but minutes later when Glorfindel woke them. The sun was high into the morning. He poured them each a small amount of a liquor from his leather flask and bade them drink. It was clear and had no taste, but strength and vigour flowed into them again. They ate a small meal, which, after that draught, tasted better than all they had eaten to this point.

They took to the Road again, and Glorfindel gently drove them on, getting them almost seven leagues before nightfall. The day had been hard enough on them that they were simply unable to travel further. Harry's pain had returned, and with a vengeance. The world about him seemed to be naught but shadow. He welcomed night, for the world seemed less pale and empty.

They were still weary when they set out in the morning. "I fear that our danger will be greatest ere we reach the river, for my heart warns me that pursuit is swift behind us, and other danger may wait by the Ford," Glorfindel had warned.

It was late into the afternoon they came to a place where the Road passed into the dark shadows of tall pine trees. As they hurried through it, the sound of footfalls seemed to echo behind them, as if many people followed them. The reached the end of the pine tunnel and could see down the flat mile to the Ford of Rivendell. The footfalls continued to echo behinds them.

Glorfindel turned to listen one moment, and then sprang forward and cried "Fly! Fly! The enemy is upon us!" The white horse leapt forward, with Glorfindel and Strider following as rear guard. Harry turned to look behind him and the horse slowed. Harry saw the Black Riders come from the trees and motion to him, and he somehow knew that they commanded him to wait. He felt anger explode within his breast, and he reached for his wand, but Glorfindel cried "Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!"

The white horse erupted forward with terrifying speed, and the Black Riders gave chase. Others began to come from copses ahead of him, and he despair of reaching the Ford before ambush could bring him down. He closed his eyes and gripped the mane as best he could, and felt deadly cold pierce him as Asfaloth passed immediately before the foremost Rider.

He heard the splash of water at his feet, and felt it foam about him. He felt the surge and leap as the horse left the River and reached the opposite bank. He looked back as the horse climbed the bank and saw Nine Riders. He tried to wield his wand, but they merely laughed. The foremost Rider motioned, and Harry's right hand went numb, the wand dropping to the ground. He could do nothing to stop the Riders; they were all in the river; the closest almost to his shore. He heard a roaring and rushing sound, and saw the river below him rise. With his last vision, it seemed as if the waters rose and swallowed the Riders, but he fell from Asfaloth and knew no more.