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Chris Widger
Author of 8 Stories |
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Chapter 3: Strangers in a Strange Land
Ginny became aware of an incessant buzzing sound near her right ear, which faded in and out at irregular intervals. It was an insect of some kind. She groaned, weakly flailing at the air with her right arm, but the buzzing persisted. Growling, she rolled over, opening her eyes. The horsefly flew straight at her face, and she slapped at it, missing the pest and smacking her nose in the process. Still, her effort was enough to convince it to seek easier prey.
Ginny fell back to the ground and closed her eyes, regretting it as the blazing midday sun team up with her closed eyelids to give her a serious headache. Finally, she forced her body into a sitting position, shading her eyes with her hand. After blinking a few times, she could finally see properly. What she saw utterly baffled her. All around her, for as far as the eye could see, were rolling green hills and craggy boulders. Where on Earth am I? she wondered.
It took just a second for her memories to come flooding back to her, and it was then that she realized she wasn’t exactly on Earth anymore. At least not the Earth she knew.
But where are the others?
Ginny staggered to her feet, drawing her wand out of habit. It had survived the trip undamaged. She completed her survey of the area, and spotted a spot of black. She hurried over to find Hermione, semi-conscious, also lying facedown in the grass. She groaned as Ginny shook her shoulder. Then the redhead heard a rumbling in the distance, but realized that it could not possibly be coming from the cloudless sky.So where…?
A dust cloud was billowing from her right, coming over a low ridge, some distance away but getting close. Ginny wondered what kind of wind could possible be causing it when she began to make out dark silhouettes. Men on horses, she guessed. Hermione’s groan redirected her focus. The Gryffindor was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. “Ginny? Where are we?”
“Dunno, but we’re about to have company,” Ginny replied. She hesitated for a moment, and then stuffed her wand back in her robes. “Don’t take your wand out,” she told Hermione.
The other girl nodded. “Good thinking,” she said, spotting the riders. “We shouldn’t make them feel threatened.”
“I also think it’s best we don’t reveal that we’re witches until we know what’s going on,” Ginny continued. The hoofbeats were getting louder now, and there was no doubt that the horsemen had spotted them. “Get up,” she told Hermione. The older girl complied, wincing slightly.
They waited anxiously as the formation got closer, standing almost stock still as they were enveloped and surrounded on all sides. Ginny felt like she’d landed in the middle of a recreation of the Battle of Hastings. She counted about 20 of them. The men around them wore mail armor, some with a hood of mail and others with cone-shaped helmets with a nose-guards. Many of their horses also wore protective armor around the head. The riders swarmed about them, holding their weapons menacingly as the two frightened girls stood in the center. Finally, they stopped, and one horse came away from the rest of the group. Atop it was a tall man, a long ponytail of dark blond hair trailing out behind his helmet. His eyes were hard. Ginny supposed it must be the leader. “What business have two young maidens out alone in the Riddermark?” the man asked loudly.
“We…” Ginny began, trailing off. Her heart was pounding. “My name is Ginevra Weasley, and this is my close friend, Hermione Granger. We are travelers in your land, but we have gotten lost.”
“I am Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark,” the man said, keep his horse moving around them. “Travelers, you say? From where have you come and for what purpose?”
Ginny hesitated, and Hermione finally made her presence felt. “Kind sir,” she said, bowing her head. “We are refugees from the North. Our village was burned to the ground by bandits and we were forced to flee for our lives. We have no kin left, and we have been walking for many days. We request aid, if you would grant it.” Hermione lied so convincingly that Ginny wondered for a moment how she’d possibly escaped Slytherin. She’d even managed to change her accent and use less contemporary sentence structure. Needless to say, the younger girl was impressed. It remained to be seen if she would be believed.
“The North? Then it is true? The black hand of Sauron reaches forth from Mordor?”
“Aye, sir, I’m afraid it is,” Hermione replied without skipping a beat.
“Please help us,” Ginny added.
“You dress in a strange manner,” Éomer commented, indicating their robes. “What proof can you offer that you are to be trusted?”
“Our word will have to suffice,” Hermione replied. “We have nothing else to offer.”
Éomer considered it for a moment. He galloped over to another rider, and they spoke animatedly for several minutes. They seemed to be having an argument. Ginny stared around at the other horsemen, but they avoided eye contact. They still held their weapons, some uncomfortably close to her back. Hermione looked at her helplessly. “We have come to an agreement. We will take you back to Edoras, and brought before my uncle, Théoden King of Rohan. There your fate shall be decided. We have no unladen horses, so you will have to ride with us. I will take one of you, Éothain son of Thémas shall take the other.”
Ginny made her way to Éomer’s horse, a magnificent brown creature with a white streak above the eyes, down to the snout, which bowed to allow her to get on. She quickly realized that Éomer was avery tall man; he seemed to tower over her as he helped pull her onto the horse. Ginny had never ridden a horse before, though she’d dreamed of it at times when she was a little girl. Actually, a horse had usually been involved in her juvenile fantasies of Harry Potter. Well, sometimes it had been a unicorn…
Hermione seemed to be having even more trouble, but finally she was settled behind the man who seemed to be Éomer’s second in command. “We ride for Edoras!” he commanded. Ginny wrapped her arms around his middle as the horse began to move, quickly gathering speed and bouncing her up and down as she struggled to hold on. After what seemed like an eternity, and several moments where she thought she was going to fall off the horse and be trampled by the rest of the Riders, she felt the horse slowing.
Opening her eyes, which she’d kept closed much of the ride, she struggle to look around Éomer’s massive frame. She caught glimpses of a walled set on a hill, thatched-roof buildings surrounded by a palisade fence, set against a magnificent mountain backdrop. They began moving again, finally stopping in what seemed to be a marshalling area. “Dismount,” Éomer instructed her. Nervously, she unlinked her arms, twisted her body, and fell off of the horse, landing on her hands and knees. Blushing, she got up, dusting off her robes. She heard laughter from above. Éomer smiled. “You are no rider, that is certain.” With considerably less difficulty, he swung himself off his horse. Patting his steed on the head, he turned to her as his horse was led away by another soldier. Hermione came up to her, alone. “Come,” the towering rider said.
They followed him up a narrow road, moving past many wooden buildings, used as homes, armories, blacksmiths, and stables. They continued up stone steps to the largest building in Edoras, located atop the hill that the city was built on. Banners flew in the wind, each featuring a white horse. Éomer led them past the guards, who could not help but stare curiously at the newcomers. He pushed open the doors, which opening into an anteroom of some sort. The tall rider was about to push open another set of doors when he was stopped by the sound of a woman’s voice.
“And who have you brought us, brother?” the young woman asked. Older than Ginny and Hermione, probably in her mid-20s, Ginny guessed, Éomer’s sister was shorter, though still taller than Ginny or Hermione, with long blond hair and sad blue eyes.
“Refugees from the North,” Éomer replied.
The woman frowned at them. “They are dressed in a most peculiar fashion. A fashion not to be expected of refugees, to be certain,” she said. Ginny looked down. So much for that lie.
“I thought as much,” Éomer said. “Where do you hail from? And why have you attempted to deceive us?” he demanded.
Hermione tried to say something, but Ginny cut her off. “We were not dissembling when we said that we were lost, and far from home. We are no threat to Rohan, or its king.”
“Why do you refuse to tell us where you hail from?” the woman asked.
“It’s…complicated,” Hermione said.
“So it would seem,” the woman said with a bemused smile. “I am Éowyn. You have nothing to fear here. Whatever your reasons, we will respect your secrecy.”
“Sister…” Éomer warned.
“You would force their secrets from them?” Éowyn demanded. “They are but children, not old enough to be a threat, and unarmed at that. But they might arouse suspicion. Might I suggest that you shed those robes and wear something more befitting of a pair of desperate refugees?”
Ginny looked at Hermione, who shrugged. “Come with me,” Éowyn said. “Wait for us here, brother. We will return before long. Come,” she said. She led them down a side corridor, into modestly sized bed chamber. Éowyn called out a servant, a young woman wearing worn clothing and darker hair. Éowyn explained to them that Méla was the only survivor of a raid by Easterlings on the border of Rohan, found by her cousin Théodred after they slew the raiding party. Together, they helped Ginny and Hermione out of their robes, shirts, and skirts, and into more traditional clothing, in plain grays and browns. Both wore tan tunics, Ginny with a brown sleeveless dress, and Hermione with a gray dress of a similar design. Hermione wore a cloak, and Éowyn gave Ginny a rag to at least partially hide conceal her long red hair, which the Weasley girl quickly learned was extremely uncommon in Rohan, where blond and light brown were the most common hair colors. When they were finished, the two could pass for weary travelers. Éowyn led them back to where her brother waited, speaking with Éothain.
“A fine job indeed,” he said, smiling at his sister. “Perhaps a bit clean for desperate travelers, though.”
“It will have to suffice,” she said. “You should bring them before the King.”
“Théoden is not well,” Éomer said. “His many years on the throne are not all that is to blame. That snake of a man, Wormtongue, has exerted his influence as my uncle’s health has failed. In no time at all he will control the entire Kingdom. Tread carefully, strangers. You may not find welcome in his presence.”
Ginny swallowed hard, but nodded. Éomer pushed the door open, and led the two girls, now less auspiciously dressed, into what seemed to be a large throne room. An aged, decrepit man sat on the throne, his eyes unfocused, and his skin wrinkled and blotchy. His once blonde hair was now a pale white. The man was clearly not healthy, looking more ancient than elderly. At his side was a man with pale skin and dark hair, who Ginny thought might have passed for Snape’s long-lost brother. He looked upon Éomer with contempt, but his eyes widened when he caught sight of Ginny and Hermione. In the shadows stood another man, who also looked surprised, although somehow depressed. Tall and handsome, he appeared to be a far younger version of his sickly father, though he was clean-shaven in contrast to the King’s scraggly beard. His face was weathered and marred by worry lines, marking him as older than the brother and sister than Ginny had already met. “Who are you?” the man on the throne groaned. “Why have you come here?”
Hermione gave a small curtsey. “My Lord,” she said quietly. “We are merely refugees who wish…”
“Refugees..?” Théoden asked. “From where have you fled? Why have you come here? What do you want from us?” His speech was slow and tired, and he appeared a tad distracted, his eyes dull and glassy. Something was seriously wrong with this man. But that didn’t mean they weren’t in danger from him, and his devious advisor.
“From the North, my Lord,” Ginny said. “We would like to be given shelter in Edoras, if you are willing to grant it. We have nowhere else to go.”
“Is it not suspicious that two young maidens should turn up in the middle of the Riddermark just after a patrol was dispatched to look into those unsubstantiated rumors of Orc activity?” Wormtongue asked, as much to the King as to the others in the room. “We should be cautious, my liege.”
“We pose no threat, Théoden King,” Ginny said quietly. “We will not bother you. We merely wish to have a place to stay, a place to eat, to sleep with a roof over our heads.”
“Tell me,” the other man said abruptly, stepping out of the shadows. “If you are refugees from the North, does this mean that Sauron has struck at last? We have heard rumors that he has moved against Gondor, and that he may set his sights on our lands if we do not swear fealty to him.”
Ginny had absolutely no idea what any of it meant, but they might as well be consistent. “Yes,” she said. “They came without warning, slaughtered our entire village. My friend and I were fetching water when we saw the smoke coming from the burning buildings. We hid in the fields, and went back when the Orcs had departed.” She looked down, trying to put on the best acting job of her life, forcing emotion into her voice. “They left none alive,” she said. “We have been on the run since, and we are tired. We have heard of the generosity of the people of Rohan, and hoped we might find welcome. We ask for nothing more.” Just to be sure, she also curtsied. She saw Hermione’s brief look of astonishment and quite possible envy before the Gryffindor caught herself.
“You think you ask little,” Wormtongue said, getting up and walking toward them. “You ask us to risk much, little girl.” The man reached out and touched her chin. Privately revolted, she forced herself to hold still, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted.
Éomer’s temper snapped first. “Remove your hands from her, or I shall remove them” he roared, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. At that instant, Ginny’s anger boiled over, and she felt a brief flare of magic. Wormtongue drew back as if burned, shaking his hand and staring at her.
“Perhaps these two should be thrown into the dungeons until they are willing to tell us who they are and where they come from?” Wormtongue suggested with a foul look at Ginny.
Hermione shivered at the thought. “You will do nothing of the kind, Grima Wormtongue,” Théodred snarled. “These are our guests, and they will be treated accordingly.”
“Perhaps we should ask the King what he thinks of this…predicament?” Wormtongue replied evenly. “My Liege, should these…intruders be allowed to stay. They may be spies for the enemy.”
“What enemy?” Éomer demanded, stepping forward. “First you deny that Rohan is threatened and now you accused these two young girls of being spies to an enemy you will not acknowledge exists?”
Théoden mumbled something. “What was that, my Liege?” Wormtongue listened closely, frowning.
“What is the King’s decision?” Éomer demanded.
“They may stay…for now,” he groaned. Wormtongue’s face fell. “Watch them. We must be wary of visitors in these dark times. All is not as it seems.” he told his advisor.
“Of course, my Liege,” Wormtongue said. “We should keep them close at hand until we know more. They shall be in the custody of the King’s sister-daughter.”
Ginny privately couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome; she liked Éowyn. Hermione looked anxious. Ginny bowed, and Hermione quickly copied her gesture. Wormtongue’s glare might have burned a hole in Ginny’s back as she turned to leave.
Théodred spoke again. “Father, I wish to take a force of Rohirrim to the North, to investigate these tales of burned villages and murdered families. If there is a threat to be met, we must be aware of it.”
Théoden muttered something to Wormtongue. “The King says that it is not your place, and that he will not risk your life on such a foolish endeavor. Permission is denied.”
Éomer led them out of the throne room, where Éowyn waited. “What is our uncle’s decision?”
“They are to stay with you,” Éomer said. “But be cautious, sister. Wormtongue is suspicious. He may stop at nothing to discover the identity of our guests, and their origin. He eavesdrops from behind pillars, watches from doorways. No man of honor would behave in such a fashion. He poses a danger to all of us.”
“Not to I,” Éowyn said defiantly. The fire in her eyes faded a bit. “But I worry about the King. His health is failing, earlier than is to be expected. Grima is setting himself up as regent in his place.”
“That seems to be his plan,” Éomer agreed. “His ambitions can not be allowed to come to fruition. Grima Wormtongue serves another master, that much is certain. I will not allow Rohan to become a puppet of some distant power.”
“The King’s son seems anxious to fight,” Ginny observed. The King’s niece and nephew looked at her in surprise.
“It is true. Théodred lusts for battle. He has little experience in combat; the King rarely allowed him to ride into battle even before this shadow fell upon him. He is old, but at heart he is quite young. He walks with the enthusiasm of a child trapped in the body of a man. He has not been allowed to see the world. He is Théoden’s treasure, and he has grown weary of such treatment. With his father no longer there to reign in his aggression, I fear he will disobey Théoden and place himself in mortal danger,” Éowyn explained.
“I should like to join him,” Éomer replied. “Too long have we been passive, crippled by inaction.”
“We are not yet at war, brother,” Éowyn reminded him. “The story of raid by the Orcs was but a deception. We are at peace.”
“For now,” Éomer said. Ginny watched the argument unfold in fascination.
“For now,” she said. “But if war should come, and Théodred should fall with you at his side, where will that leave us? The line of succession will be broken, and Rohan will fall into shadow. Grima Wormtongue will rule unchecked. We will be ruined. For the sake of Rohan, I beg you to be reasonable.”
Éomer stared into his sister’s eyes. “I will remain silent,” he said at last. “For Rohan’s sake.”
The two suddenly seemed to remember the presence of their guests. Éomer excused himself. “Let me take you to your room,” Éowyn offered. “We have little in the way of guess accommodations, but…”
“We require little in the way of luxury,” Hermione told her. “Whatever you have managed will suffice.”
Éowyn gave them a relieved smile. “Very well. Come.”
Blaise Zabini, not far behind her, replied, “Is this really her fault? I mean, you had no reason to follow us. And yet you are here.”
“True. I suppose it is Potter that must die, then,” Daphne said. Finally she stopped, sitting down on a shelf of rock next to the trail. Blaise joined her.
“Why are we stopping?”
Daphne turned to glare at him. “Do I really need to detail the reasons? We are lost, we have no food or water, we’re in an area that is completely unfamiliar to us, and I’m tired of walking in what I suspect may be circles.”
“This seems like a place forsaken by the Fates,” Blaise said. “I’ve never seen a landscape like this except in pictures. The rock around us is volcanic, I think.”
“I’d realized that. I also think it’s likely that orange glow over the horizon is an active volcano.” There was just a touch of sarcasm in her voice. Blaise ignored it.
“Makes sense. Any idea why that Gaterial woman sent us here, of all places?”
“Galadriel,” Daphne growled. “And no, I haven’t the slightest clue. Navigation Charms are utterly pointless because we don’t know what we are looking for. They seek out where we want to go, but we have no idea where that actually is.”
“I get the feeling we’re being watched,” Blaise admitted, dropping his voice to a whisper. “There’s something creepy about this place.”
“Oh, get over it,” Daphne snapped. “If it wasn’t for you, we might not be in this situation.”
“Real pleasant, aren’t you? How exactly is this my fault?”
Daphne stopped. “Are you listen-”
“Why should I listen to you? You treat me like some disobedient child…”
“Quiet!” she hissed. “Listen.” She cocked her head in the direction of the ridge. Her eyes widened. “Hide. Now.”
They scrambled down the rocky hill, trying not to dislodge chunks of rock and make additional noise. Finding a small cave, they ducked inside. “What did you see?” Blaise whispered.
“I didn’t see anything. I heard and smelled it.”
“Smelled?”
“Do you want to get us killed?” Daphne hissed at him. “You’re hopeless!”
She drew her wand, making her way slowly to the entrance, peering out. Quickly, she hurried back to the outcropping where Blaise hid. “Someone’s coming!” she whispered. “Draw your wand.”
Blaise did. Now he could smell it, whatever it was. It smelled like rotting flesh left out in the sun. It smelled like death.
A shadow come into view, twisted and hunched. Its owner followed, an armored goblin-like creature with leathery dark brown skin, pointed ears, and beady eyes. It carried a curved scimitar of black steel, which looked to be stained with blood. It also carried a small shield, bearing a roughly drawn red eye.
Coming closer to their position, it peered at the outcropping, and Blaise ducked out of view, stilling his breathing, keeping his body absolutely still. When he risked another look, the creature was turning to leave, apparently satisfied that there was no one else in the cave.
Daphne sneezed, and the sound was like a small explosion in the silent cave. Of all the ways they could have given their presence away, Blase hadn’t been expecting that one, not from Slytherin’s Ice Queen (a nickname whispered behind her back by those not brave enough to say it to herself; Blaise was not among them, but he thought it a fitting moniker). The creature came at them with a growl, raising its weapon to bring down on Blaise’s head. He dove out of the crevice, and the heavy blade smashed into the rock. Blaise scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, fumbling with his wand, paralyzed by the sight, the stench, and the sound of this inhuman monster of a creature.
There was a flash of light from the outcropping, drawing their attention. The creature spun around with a squeal, shading its eyes. When the light faded, Daphne stood there, proud and upright. She drew her wand back, and the creature charged.
“Abrumpo!” Daphne hissed, slashing her wand downward. The Slicing Curse ripped into the goblin-creature, tearing it open from snout to gut. Blaise was hit with a spray of black blood. The creature looked surprised as it toppled backward. Blaise cast a Levitation Charm on the scimitar and the body, preventing it from clattering to the ground and drawing more attention. He looked to Daphne, whose pale face was flushed with exertion, her eyes wide with adrenaline. She blinked, taking several small, deep breaths, her composure returning. She looked at the body and weapon, slowly descending to the ground.
Daphne favored him with an approving smile. “Good thinking,” she whispered. Slowly, she moved forward, kicking the body with a booted foot. It didn’t stir. She exhaled sharply, and then backed away.
“You killed it,” Blaise said, in awe.
“Yes, well…?” she snapped sharply, her voice higher than usual.
“You killed it,” he repeated, indicating the body.
“It was going to kill us…stop looking at me like that!” Daphne snapped. “We should wait here in case there are more of them. Help me drag the body out of sight. And keep that weapon. We might need it.”
“Alright,” Blaise said, hefting the heavy weapon. He had to force himself to hold onto it after he saw the dried blood on he blade. This weapon had killed before. He swung it around, trying to get a feel for the weight and balance of the weapon. It was quite heavy, but good for short, powerful cuts and slashes.
“You’ve used swords before?” Daphne asked, sounding surprised.
Blaise nodded. “Dad’s had me practicing for years. It’s a tradition in our family.”
Daphne nodded. “Aiden has said your family had…unusual traditions.” They used a combination of magic and brute force to shove the corpse into the grotto, well out of sight. The two Slytherins waited for what seemed like hours, hearing the crunching of footsteps above them. The dead warrior’s comrades were probably searching for him. Fortunately, none came into the cave. Finally, Daphne ventured outside, and gave the all-clear. Blaise came forward. In the meantime, he’d fought his revolting stomach and searched the body, but found nothing usable (except a small sheathed dagger) or edible. Carrying the goblin’s sword, he followed Daphne out into the open. It was dusk, with the sun beginning to sneak below the horizon. It was going to be cold, Blaise could tell. Neither one of them was really prepared to deal with a chill. Their robes offered little protection.
A fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, then.
Eventually, they found another cave, and wandered in, exhausted. They fell asleep on the cold dirt floor, their stomachs empty, their throats dry, and their muscles screaming for rest. The two Slytherins were on their own, lost, and desperate.
And though they didn’t know it, they were also stranded behind enemy lines, miles inside the rocky terrain of Mordor.
He traversed a strange and alien landscape, moving along a forest floor that saw little sunlight break through the thick canopy of majestic trees that reached high into the sky. Neville had never seen trees that large, but though they were nice to look at, they didn’t make navigating this forest any easier. He kept his wand out, alert for danger, hoping that he might come upon some of his companions.
Though he could not see much of the sky, the fading light and growing chill in the air told him that night was fast approaching. He was hungry, tired, and frightened. He heard a loud crack behind him and spun, wand drawn, the incantation for a Stunning Spell on his lips. He found himself staring down a rabbit, which took one look at him and fled, bounding away into the distance.
Neville’s face burned with embarrassment. Once more he wondered how he was ever sorted into Gryffindor, the House of the Courageous and Bold. He was a coward, no one’s idea of a leader, and useless on his own. He didn’t have a chance of surviving unless he found help. He didn’t know what to do alone in the wilderness. His experiences with nature were mostly limited to the greenhouses. He hadn’t ventured into the Forbidden Forest since his First Year, and he had no desire to repeat that experience. He wished for Hermione’s presence. She’d been a tremendous help to him, and she was one of the smartest people he’d ever met. He hadn’t really done much to pay her back for her efforts, but she didn’t seem to care. She’d know what to do in this spot.
He wondered about his other friends. Were they also wandering about this strange world, lost and alone? Had they found food and shelter? What were the people like here? Would they take him in, accept him as one of their own if he gave them a reason to trust him? Would they shun him as an outsider? Neville wasn’t very confident in his abilities to advocate for himself, if it came to that. He could only pray that he wasn’t in any real danger. But he couldn’t get the words of that Galadriel woman out of his head. She’d spoken of a great Darkness, another Dark Lord, one more terrible and fearsome than Voldemort. What could they do to help? Why were they even here? Why was Harry even here?
Neville thought about finding a place to rest for the night, but decided to keep going. He tried to keep walking in a straight line, hoping that he might either find his way out of this forest or find some sign of civilization. Most importantly, he wanted to avoid walking in circles.
Neville was spooked by strange noises more than once during his trek, aiming his wand at owls, more rabbits, and sometimes nothing at all. The moon created an odd glow about the branches of the trees. Neville took note of the unfamiliar foliage as he continued his trek, noticing a number of unusual flowering trees and bushes. He was just passing one such tree when he heard…was that singing?
It seemed to be coming from some distance away, but the gentle melodies that drifted along in the wind gave Neville hope that he might find somewhere to rest before the night was over.
There was something hauntingly beautiful about these woods, nothing like the gnarled and twisted roots of the Forbidden Forest. Somehow, though it could not be any farther from the truth, Neville felt strangely at home. Ultimately, he decided that it might be best to find shelter, and resume walking in the morning. He found a nice hollow in the trees, and settled down. He was asleep in minutes.
Neville awoke and opened his eyes. Golden streaks of sunlight reached down through the thick canopy of trees. It was early morning. Neville stretched, wincing at the tightness in his neck. Sleeping in a sitting position against the trunk of tree wasn’t great for one’s body.
Then he heard the singing again. It seemed to be coming from much closer this time. Actually, it couldn’t be more than a hundred meters away. He moved in that direction, careful not to draw attention to himself. Stealth was exactly his strong suit, but he didn’t make too much unnecessary noise as he moved. He scrambled over a small ridge, and peered into a clearing ahead of him. He froze, blinking as he processed the sight before him. A procession of maybe twenty individuals was moving through, wearing long robes and moving with a remarkable grace and self-confidence. All of them were fair-skinned with long blond hair, even the men. Some of them carried banners and flags. Most of them were singing in a language that Neville did not at first understand.
He listened closely, and the words became clear. The song told of a great journey, many farewells, and ran the gauntlet of emotions from sadness to anticipation to hope. It was beautiful. The procession moved out of the clearing, and Neville moved to keep them in sight, when he suddenly felt something poke him in the back of the neck.
Instinctively, he rolled over, pulling out his wand and aiming it up at his attacker. He saw nothing. Scrambling away on his hands and knees, he desperately scanned the immediate area, searching for threats. He got up, and moved back into the forest. He saw a flash to his right, and then to his left. Then he found himself staring at the tip of an arrow, resting on a cocked bowstring. The man holding the weapon stared down at him, tall and blond, with cold blue eyes and pointed ears. Neville looked to both sides, and found himself facing archers on each. He stuffed his wand into his robes, raising his hands in surrender. The one in front of him lowered his bow, although he did not return the arrow to his quiver. “What business have you in the Golden Wood?” he demanded. “Speak quickly.”
“My name’s Neville, and I’m lost in these woods. I’m just looking for a way out,” he said quickly. “Please don’t hurt me,” he said, wincing.
“A way out, you say?” the archer asked. “For what reason did you first enter Lothlórien? It is not our custom to welcome strangers, much less in these troubled times.”
“If you’ll just let me go, I’ll be on my way,” Neville offered. “I really appreciate if you could tell me where I might find a settlement or village.”
The archer frowned at him. “You will find not but one here. You are indeed far from home, stranger. How did you come to be our lands?”
Neville opened his mouth to say something, and closed it just as quickly. He could hardly tell them the truth. They’d think him mad for sure. “Please just let me go,” he pleaded.
The archer looked at his companions, who nodded. “I am afraid that I cannot allow you to leave.”
Neville’s blood ran cold. “Pardon?” He really didn’t like the sound of that.
“You will come to no harm, I assure you,” the archer said. “I am Haldir, one of the elves of Lórien. These are my kinsmen. You do not seem to be a threat, but we have followed you since this morning, and you have seen a great deal that we wish to remain hidden. Do not resist.”
“Cover his eyes,” Haldir instructed one of his companions. He turned back to the frightened Gryffindor. “I am sorry, Neville, but there are things here that are not meant for the eyes of men. We will not lead you astray.”
Neville stiffened, but allowed them to wrap a blindfold around his forehead. “Forward,” Haldir told him. The...hadn’t he called himself an elf?...grasped his shoulder and steered him along the trail. He walked for a long time, though the journey passed quickly as he listened to the beautiful voices of his captors. It seemed that singing was a common form of expression here. Though it was strange, Neville didn’t mind it. It was relaxing, somehow, that though he was effectively a prisoner, his companions were so civilized, polite, and cultured. Clearly, they felt threatened, which explained their unwillingness to allow him to leave. But true to his word, Haldir did not allow Neville to stumble or fall.
At last, the blindfold was removed. Neville’s jaw dropped as he took in the scene around him. They’d reached some kind of city, but it was unlike any settlement that Neville had ever seen. He was led up a staircase that wrapped around a great tree, into a magnificent courtyard, surrounded by beautiful curved architecture and more trees. But all of that was nothing compared to the man and woman that waited for him.
Welcome Neville, Galadriel’s voice said in his mind. We’ve been expecting you.
I hope I got the characterizations right. I liked what I did, and hopefully you will as well.
So Ginny and Hermione are on their own in Rohan, currently home to quite a bit of treachery and intrigue. It is in their best interests to keep their talents hidden, as I'd suspect the Rohirrim to be a suspicious bunch, and not to take well to the possibility of teenage witches. Fortunately they've got the King's nephew and niece on their side, but things aren't that great for them. Still, they have a lot to gain from a long stay in Edoras. And much to lose, of course.
Yes, I dumped Daphne Greengrass and Blaise in Mordor. A tad cruel, I suppose, but as I pointed out before, they've yet to learn how to survive outside of their comfort zones. This is as good a test as any. They are relatively near possible safety, but they don't actually know that.
Oh poor Neville, alone and on his own in the middle of the Golden Wood. Still, you can imagine just how much he could learn from the elves of Lothlórien, and how much his character could develop by the time that he encounters some of his friends.
Yes, they can all understand and speak the various tongues of Middle-Earth. Communication would be a tad difficult if they couldn't do either. Galadriel has her ways. I mean, she's been around for a really long time. Like about as long as the race of men has been around, if I'm remembering correctly. She's the only original Ringbearer that is still alive. That's quite remarkable.
This is probably not going to be updated at lightning speed, but I promise to keep things moving as best I can. I don't have as much time to write and edit at college as I did when I was home.
Thanks for the reviews and encouragement.
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