Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's works, however all original characters and story concepts solely belong to me.

Author's Note: Many apologies again for the delay in posting. Unfortunately this horrible year has not finished with me yet. My youngest son is being made redundant and I've spent the last week or so trying to support him and also trying to looking after my grandson during his half term. So not much time for myself at the moment. Anyhoo...after a fairly serious beginning, I decided to have a bit of fun with the Valar in this chapter. They've been awfully quiet so far and after all, they do have a vested interest in the whole shebang!

" A drunk was in front of a judge. The judge says 'You've been brought here for drinking.' The drunk says 'Okay, let's get started.' ”

Henny Youngman

Dark Power Arising

Chapter 24 – The Wolf in me

Jeff Harris was only vaguely aware of the preparations for battle going on in the outside room. His newly honed Lycan instincts informed him that battle was approaching; as were those who had previously hunted him. Their siren call had alternatively beseeched and promised many wonderful things but now sent out a screeching demand for him to come to them, however his exhausted and confused brain was blocking out the imperious summons.

Try as he might to close his eyes to it, Lily's face kept floating in front of him like an accusing banner and he dared not even begin to think about his nephew. Nobody had answered his question as to whether Lily and her son were still alive and all Jeff's brain could do was to constantly roll out his worst imaginings in front of him with sickening repetition. Grief and pain sat behind his eyes like a curtain of molten lava and he could hardly swallow past the lump in his throat.

He hunched in his chair, wrists and legs in restraints and although on some level he knew that if he gave into the now insidious whispers in his brain he could probably snap the restraints as though they were nothing more than strands cooked spaghetti, something was stopping him. So instead he drew in a series of shuddering breaths and stared at his grim-faced guards with eyes that were hot with muted rage and stinging with exhaustion.

What was the point of trying to escape? His guards weren't idiots, they were highly trained Special Forces soldiers, he knew they would fire at him without hesitation if he broke free and he knew, even without being told, that their weapons held ammunition that could, and would, kill him.

So why didn't he just do it? Why didn't he just break free and greet death with relief? He was desperately tired, scared out of his wits and he knew that he didn't want to live on like this. Certainly not with Lily and her son's death on his conscience. He could just transform and end the whole bloody nightmare once and for all.

He shifted uncomfortably on the chair and flexed his fingers, a movement that didn't escape the eagle-eyes of his guards who both also shifted into a more alert position, if that was at all possible. A deathly silence had fallen over the room outside and he knew that it was the deep breath before the plunge.

It was into that silence that another voice sifted through the incessant noise in his brain.

The two SAS soldiers stared at their captive, fingers always hovering over the trigger. Their orders from the Brigadier were quite clear. If things went badly and those outside were unable to hold their own against the oncoming enemy, they were to immediately terminate their captor's life and they both held capsules of a mixture which they were to sprinkle over his remains. Neither had been told what the mixture would do to human remains and both were too good a soldier to ask. They would simply obey orders, especially from this particular senior officer.

And for Jeff the new voice persisted. It promised nothing other than peace, which sounded rather comforting to Jeff, but even as he listened to this new voice in his terrified brain, an horrific snarling sounded outside and the eerie howling that sprang up from the approaching Lycans lifted the hairs up on the back of the SAS soldiers' necks even as it sent a bestial thrill through Jeff's veins as they throbbed and pulsed with the almost overwhelming desire to metamorphose.

Only the calm tones of the voice kept him from actually doing it.

ooOoo

Animal Reception area, Heathrow Airport, England.

Dr Xavier du Pree watched as the British DEFRA official cleared Rasputin and Bob through the procedure that would allow them entry to Britain without having to go through quarantine. The animals looked tired and wobbly from the mild sedative the vet in Canada had given them to see them through what for them would be a difficult longhaul flight, but otherwise they seemed okay. Bob managed a croaky bark when he saw Xavier, but Rasputin merely sat in his cat carrier and glowered at all and sundry.

Once free of their part of immigration control Xavier would travel to the English Brigadier's house in Hampshire and deliver them to their owner.

It wasn't that Xavier didn't wish to look after the animals, he would miss their company, but he had just been called to an important archaeological dig in Switzerland. Normally it would have taken a considerable amount of C4 explosive to shift him from Kitsilano, but this request for his services had come from very high up indeed. Hal had immediately told him to bring the animals on over.

Not for the first time he found himself wondering why he had been chosen for position on the team in Switzerland. He wasn't an archaeologist, he was a linguist and also an expert in plant lore, but he suspected that there were probably tablets and scrolls perhaps of some kind that needed to be translated and deep in his heart the idea of finding something utterly undiscovered in this jaded world still sent a thrill through him.

So here he was, at Heathrow Airport, waiting for the officials to clear Hal's two pets. Once this was done they would travel to their final destination and be reunited with their real owner. Once he had discharged that duty, it was back to the airport and a flight to Geneva where he would be met by the people who were heading up the dig.

As the official completed the last of the paperwork and the animals were loaded onto one of those nifty little vehicles that usually took luggage and passengers through the terminal, Xavier took out the letter he had been sent and read it through again. Once he had reached Geneva, he would then be travelling in the company of a group of carefully selected Archaeologists, Anthropologists and technicians to the town of Martigny where they would be based during the excavations.

It was utterly intriguing. What on earth could have been unearthed in the mountains between Switzerland and Italy? He knew the area well from a long acquaintance with travelling in the area. He also that extensive maintenance work had begun on the Great St Bernard Pass, but the fact that the maintenance had apparently uncovered something of huge archaeological interest had not been publicised. He felt a sudden lurch of excitement in his gut which was strong enough to also quell an underlying unease. The Alps were an extremely ancient mountain range and hadn't always looked as it did now. There were deep cave systems within the mountains which had never ever been explored in modern times.

Who knew what was still in there, deep in the bowels of the earth?

He folded up the letter and pushed it back into his overnight carry-on bag without reading the small print at the bottom of it. Even if he had read it, it would not have immediately alerted him to anything, but it was to be an omission that he would regret later on.

“They're all clear Mr du Pree.” The cheerful tones of the DEFRA official broke into his reverie. “You can board the vehicle and the driver will take you through the terminal to your car. You do have some form of transport to get you where you're going?”

Xavier glanced at him over the top of his half moon glasses. “I believe there is someone waiting for me...and it's Dr du Pree.”

The official's eyebrows rose slightly. “Well then Doctor du Pree...welcome to the United Kingdom. I hope you have a very pleasant stay.” His words were welcoming, but his tone and demeanor were stiff.

Xavier sighed, he had forgotten how brusque and touchy British officialdom could be, However it was probably best if he let discretion be the better part of valour, so he merely nodded at the official and jumped onto the little vehicle without saying anything further. After all, a huge adventure awaited him and he couldn't help but be very excited. After a long self-imposed exile in the west, he was finally going home.

The animals seemed to catch his mood. Bob barked again, this time less croaky since he had been given some water. Rasputin still glowered around him, as though everything that had happened to him since leaving Canada had obviously been directed as a personal insult, but he did manage to purr when Xavier gently stroked his ear through the mesh on the cat carrier.

“You'll soon be with your daddy.” He said softly. Rasputin remained unimpressed despite the purring so Xavier settled back in the front seat and watched the busy airport and the mass of human beings all either going somewhere or meeting someone who had come back trundle past them.

The vehicle driver discharged his cargo efficiently but fairly abruptly at the Arrivals exit. He did it so speedily that Xavier was left blinking in bemusement with his luggage and two large cat carriers on the pavement. All around him people were scurrying here and there, hailing cabs, waiting in queues for the Hoppa buses or the Railair coaches. Here and there a few were getting into private cars but there was no sign of any vehicle of the description he had been given. Xavier glanced up at the exit signs just to reassure himself that he was in the right place and settled himself to wait. He was tempted to get his pipe out, but resisted the temptation. Someone was coming for them, he knew that, it was just that the someone was late.

Finally, after about twenty minutes or so, and as Xavier was beginning to get impatient and more than a little anxious, a white minibus pulled into the side of the road near to where he was standing. A young man dressed in army greens and a black beret jumped out and approached him.

“Dr du Pree?”

Xavier felt a wave of relief sweep over him. “Yes?”

“Brigadier Matthews sent me sir. He asked me to give his compliments and his sincere apologies and to let you know that he's been unavoidably delayed. I'm to take you to his residence. Mrs Matthews is expecting you.”

Xavier chuckled. “Then lead on young man, I bear precious cargo and I have another flight to catch this evening. I'd like to get these two settled and some food in my stomach before I head out again.”

The soldier grinned in answer and started to load the pet carriers onto the vehicle carefully placing them on the floor where they wouldn't slide around. Finally he put Xavier's cases in the trunk of the vehicles and gestured for Xavier to get in the front passenger seat.

Moments later they had left the airport and were bowling southwards along the M25 heading towards Alton in Hampshire.

ooOoo

The Halls of the Valar, Oiolosse, Mount Taniquetil in Valinor

Varda sat down beside her husband who was currently slumped with his head in his hands in his favourite marble chair with the blue velvet cushions.

“Is this a wise decision beloved?” She asked softly, placing her slim white hand on the sleeve of his deep blue heavy silk robes.

Manwe was silent for a moment. Wise? Was it a wise decision? He heaved a sigh. No decision he or any of the Valar had made during these days of modern Arda Marred could be construed as having wisdom. They were more...what was the word he was thinking of....necessary. Iluvator had decreed that the Valar were to take an interest in Arda...an interest that actually stopped short of direct intervention.

And just when they had all settled into a nice peaceful retirement with the Eldar all nicely safe and settled as well.

Now here they were sending Elves back over to that abominable place, to Eru knows what dangers and possible death. Namo had been no use at all when Manwe had protested that the Halls of Waiting would be full of dead Elves again. He had merely smiled and walked serenely away; no doubt to go and prepare rooms for the influx. Manwe felt a wave of irritation sweep over him and then downright annoyance as he heard an echo of the rich, dark, chocolate laughter of the Doomsman of the Valar in the back of his mind.

Varda could see her husband's thoughts and bit back a gurgle of laughter at the mental vision of Namo cleaning out chambers in the Halls of Waiting and standing like Mine Host, awaiting his ghostly guests. In fact she knew that Namo was no more enamoured of the fact that Elves had once again travelled the straight road back to the East despite the decree that none of them would be allowed to than anyone else was.

Apparently, however, where Arda Marred was concerned, everything was, once again, up for grabs.

Manwe sighed again and patted Varda's hand. Before lifting it, turning it over and dropping a light kiss on her palm. “No my love, nowhere near wise. Downright stupid in fact, but necessary. They need all the help they can get in this battle and will probably need more before the end. These Werewolves are only the start.”

Varda gracefully rose from her seat beside him and gestured to Ilmare who brought over a tray of the light sparkling honey wine made by the Teleri and which was a favourite in Oiolosse.

“So much for our non-interference, isolationist policies.” She remarked.

Manwe glared suspiciously at his wife. “Have you been sneaking a peek at those Mortal news bulletins from Arda? You sound just like a modern politician.”

Varda's laughter bubbled out of her like silver bells. “Sorry my love.” She tried for contrite and only managed to sound vaguely apologetic. “It just seems to me that when it comes to the Dagor Dagorath, the blessed Iluvator does love to move those goalposts.”

“Move the goalposts?” Manwe's question was filled with confusion. “What do goalposts have to do with the Battle of all Battles and the remaking of Arda? It's not a game of football you know.”

Varda poured out a glass of the pale golden wine and handed it to Manwe. “I'll tell you what I think. I think there is no bloody battle of battles. I think it's all a huge con to keep Tulkas and Turin happy. After all they spend an inordinate amount of time sharpening swords. Of course it does keep them out of mischief.”

“Varda!” Manwe couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. “Not so loud...”

Varda raised her delicately sculpted brows. “Oh for heaven's sake Manwe. He can hear us whether we talk loudly or whisper. I think the Dagor Dagorath is a fudge. Why else would Eru have changed his tack mid-stream and start interfering in the affairs of Arda? Arda isn't going to fizzle to an end just because Melkor says so.”

“Did Melkor say so?” Manwe sounded interested. “I can't even remember who said there was going to be a final battle.”

“It was Mandos who said it.” Irmo materialised in the room beside them and immediately raided the fruit bowl. “I fully recollect the moment. When Arda was formed finally to Atto's satisfaction Namo jumped up and rabbited on about the breaking of Arda and Melkor tearing down the Door of Night. He destroys the Sun and the Moon and Earendil then puts his horn in. After that, all hell breaks loose, everyone is fighting, the Silmarils appear and Feanaro comes out of the Halls to give them to your lovely lady wife here. I get a bit hazy after that. My eyes start to glaze over when Namo rambles on like that.” He bit a huge chunk out of a juicy apple with a satisfying crunch.

Manwe sank back down into an attitude of gloom, doom and despondency. “It all sounds far too hectic. I vote we send whatever help we have available in order to avoid the Dagor Dagorath. After all Atto obviously doesn't want there to be a new Dark Power arising, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered sending Eönwë in the first place.”

Varda smiled sweetly at her husband and Irmo. “Oh goody, it's nice to have my question answered so succinctly.”

She inclined her head and de-materialised, muttering something under her breath about garrulous old idiots who could never get to the point.

Manwe glared at the empty space where his wife had previously stood. “Is she being sarcastic again?”

“Only a lot, brother.” Irmo patted Manwe's arm sympathetically. “Only a lot. Wives are like that you know.” He lifted the delicate cut glass decanter of wine and gestured towards Manwe's half empty glass. “Have another drinkie-poo. Everything looks better after a few glasses of the old vino.”

Manwe held out the glass and watched while Irmo carefully aimed for it and slopped more wine on the marble floor than actually went into the glass. Irmo finally managed to fill it up and then beamed at Manwe owlishly.

“Looks like you've already had a few Irmo.” Manwe said dryly. “You must have started early.”

Irmo collapsed onto another of the marble, velvet cushioned chairs. “The shun...sun's always over the yard-arm somewhere in the world.” A cryptic statement that only served to confuse Manwe even more than he was already.

“Ereinion Gil-galad.” Irmo continued gloomily. There followed a moment's silence during which Manwe struggled to comprehend what Irmo was actually talking about.

“Do what?” Manwe finally gave up.

“Gil-galad, Fingon's boy. He'sh..he's been rehoused.” Irmo peered into his wine glass before downing the contents in one swallow. He was obviously having trouble enunciating his words clearly now indicating quite an advanced stage of inebriation.

“And this supposed event of great joy has driven you to hit the bottle?”

Irmo stared at the now empty bottle of wine as though he could will it into being full. Ilmare made to approach with another bottle but Manwe grabbed her arm before she could.

“Not the wine.” He hissed at her. “He's had enough. Bring some of that nice apple juice Ingwe loves so much. He's so far gone he'll never know the difference.”

Ilmare inclined her head and hurried off to find some apple juice, while Manwe attempted to distract Irmo from his obvious intention to drink them out of house and home.

“So what's the problem with young Ereinion?” He asked

Irmo fixed him with an owlish stare which told Manwe that the wine had gone straight to his head. “You know how the reborn alwaysh come out of the Hallsh not knowing who they are really and have to learn to live again?”

Manwe nodded.

“Well...Er...Erein...whatever hish name is, came out demanding to be sh...sent back to Middle-earth.” Irmo hiccuped. Ilmare came in with a decanter full of pale golden fluid which Manwe hoped and prayed was apple juice. She placed it down beside Irmo and poured him out a glass.

“On what grounds?” Manwe asked curiously. Usually the Reborn weren't all that much trouble, being very confused and unused to having a corporeal form. Also most of their memories of their past life were muted. They had to learn to live in the real world again and were frightened of their own shadows. Apparently Fingon's boy had come out raring to go and spitting nails. He giggled softly to himself at the mental picture this conjured up.

“On the groundsh that he has unfish..unfinished...bishnesh there.” Irmo downed the apple juice in one go.

“Bishnesh?” Manwe echoed, now thoroughly confused.

Irmo glared at his empty glass. “Thingsh shtill left to do. Bushinessh. Something wrong with your hearing old boy? I shay Manwe, thish wine tashtesh a bit odd. I think I need to lie down for a while.”

He struggled to his feet and attempted to de-materialise, but for some reason seemed to lack the correct focus to achieve it. Manwe sighed and gestured to two of the Maia warriors assigned to duty in the Halls of the Valar. They came over and each took Irmo gently by an arm.

“Oh my, did you know that the ground ish shwaying? Could be an earthquake.” Manwe watched with fascination as Irmo's complexion turned a little green around the gills. The Vala of dreams smiled lopsidedly at the Maiar. “Thanksh awfully dear boysh.”

The three of them started to de-materialise just as Manwe realised that Irmo still hadn't explained about Gil-galad.

“Wait a minute.” He shouted just as all three disappeared, upon which Irmo's face suddenly popped back and hovered in mid-air in front of the Elder King.

“Yesh?” He asked.

“Ereinion... Fingon's boy. He is quite safe in Lorien?”

Irmo squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated so that all that was left of his face was his smile, rather like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. “Oh dear me no. He wash far too dish..dish...dishruptive. Lorien hash become quite a haven of peash you know, can't have people running around shouting at the top of their voishes, waving sh...shwor...uh... weaponsh all willy-nilly. He rushed off to the coasht babbling on about boatsh. I tol' him to go and shee Olwe. Fine fellow. He'll sh...sh...sort him out with a nice little boat.”

Manwe groaned loudly and Olorin appeared in front of him quite abruptly. “It's fine my Lord.” He said gently. “I sent four of the Maiar after him. They overtook him on the road to Aqualonde and took him straight to Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. They will calm him down and see he doesn't do anything rash.”

Manwe shuddered with relief. “Thank god. Look after Irmo will you Olorin and see that young Gil-galad is brought here to me, along with that Celebrimbor chappie. I may have a task for them.”

Olorin bowed. “I will my Lord.”

He de-materialised and Manwe reached for his wine glass.

ooOoo