The others had slowed down, approaching the foot of the Weather Hills at a comfortable pace when Harry soared over them. No longer in immediate danger, the riders had loosened their formation. Frodo was riding alongside the other hobbits while Thorongil and Gandalf lead the way, seemingly deep in conversation. Glorfindel seemed to content to ride alone at the back, his face turned up at the sky. He saw Harry and waved, wrapping his left arm with some cloth before holding it out in invitation.

Harry spiralled down in large circles. Once, his shadow passed over Shadowfax's head and Gandalf turned to look up, the brim of his hat casting half his face in shadow. Thorongil too turned, something familiar in his grey eyes as he watched Harry's descent. Harry landed lightly and grasped onto Glorfindel's forearm as gently as he could, doing his best not to slice through the cloths and into the skin below. It wasn't easy, what with the movement of the horse, but he managed.

"You have drawn them away," said Glorfindel, bringing his hand back. "I sensed a Nazgûl ride south when you began using your magic. Wherever did you lead them to, Reviauron?"

Barrow-downs, Harry replied, lowering his guard to reach the elf's mind. Flashes of the Wights' valley, green mounds in white mist, and of treasure laid under sun passed between them.

"The jewellery will soon be taken by men once they have forgotten their fear of the Gorthad," Glorfindel commented, and Harry bobbed his head once in agreement.

Once the mists faded, some adventurous soul would enter the valley and find the wealth of gold. What they'd do with them was out of his concern.

"Is that Harald, Master Glorfindel?" Frodo asked, coming to ride on their left. "He can turn himself into an eagle?"

"Certainly," said Glorfindel, with a sideways glance at Harry. "He would spend many lifetimes of Man in this form if he could."

Frodo's eyes widened.

"Lifetimes of man," he echoed dubiously. "But he is not an Elf. You and Gandalf say he is a wizard. I do not understand; Gandalf is also a wizard, and yet Harald seems very different from him."

It was not quite a question, but Glorfindel took it as one.

Harry swivelled his head around, looking from hobbit to elf. He did not care for this conversation very much, but being currently of a non-talking species, it was a little hard to change the subject. He could fly away, but that was too obvious an evasion. Experience had taught him that people liked to ponder mysteries, and thoughts had the nasty habit of turning into actions. Sooner or later he'd have to field a barrage of probes, subtle or otherwise.

Playing dumb and mute in a mute form was an immensely easier choice.

Harry promptly twisted his head back and began to preen.

"–Mithrandir, though, has another purpose. He has been charged with a mission of a nature that is beyond us, and sent here to aid the Free Peoples. As such, their powers are of different kinds."

Frodo nodded. Peregrin proved that he had been listening in when he turned around and exclaimed, "So can Harald make fireworks like Gandalf's? Everyone in the Shire knows that Gandalf makes the best fireworks."

Glorfindel laughed. "What say you, Reviauron?" He asked amusedly, and Harry looked at him through translucent eyelids. "Can you produce better fireworks than Mithrandir?"

In response, Harry lunged at the elf's nose, snapping his beak shut a scant inch from his eyes.

Glorfindel tsked and leaned towards the hobbits. "Mithrandir has the better fireworks," he said conspiratorially, ignoring Harry's air of offended outrage. "Reviauron managed to burn down a tree with his last firework. How had the poor sapling ever offended you, mellon nín?"

Harry remembered that incident. He'd been testing firework trails for midsummer's day. Several bad decisions happened. When Elrond had returned, Erestor's new peach tree was merrily crackling firewood and Glorfindel in tears of laughter.

With a sniff, Harry flicked his tail at the elf (he would have been perfectly fine if a someone hadn't had ideas) and pointedly turned his head away.

Peregrin snickered.


Presently around noon, Thorongil suggested that they pause for the hobbits to rest and eat, pointing out a good, semi-hidden location among the dells not too far away. It was met with hearty approval from said hobbits. ("He's learning about elevenses," said Peregrin—"Pippin!"—to Meriadoc—"Merry, if you please."—delightedly, and exchanged a high-five.)

The hobbits were the first to dismount and they sat down together in a small circle, rummaging in their packs. Thorongil was more sedate, and he moved around the hobbits until he was assured that they all had something to eat. The last to approach, Glorfindel wheeled around the group, examining the small valley they were in until he was satisfied by the conditions. Harry pushed off his arm-perch as they drew behind Gandalf and dropped to the ground, straightening again as a human wizard. For half a heartbeat, he held himself perfectly still and adjusted to his new orientation.

The Istar turned, a pipe held to his lips. "It has been a while."

"A while," Harry agreed, stepping beside him. He watched as a small spark fell from Gandalf's fingertips and lit the pipe.

The last time they had a proper conversation was… Well. It's been nearly sixty years now, and charging through the countryside was hardly conducive to talk of the social kind.

"What have you been scheming in these past years?" Harry asked, glancing sideways with a grin.

"Both you and Elrond seem constantly to be under the impression that I am plotting something," Gandalf grumbled. He blew two smoke rings, one within the other. "Few others think of me as suspiciously as you two do."

"Ah, but we know you," Harry said wisely, waving away the retaliatory smoke dragon that dove for his head. "What are your plans now?"

For a moment, the Istar was silent, puffing on his pipe.

"Saruman's treachery has been a terrible blow," he said at last, looking into the distance.

Harry winced, and Glorfindel, who was talking to Thorongil, looked at them sharply without pausing in his speech.

"What is the extent of his dealings with the Enemy?"

"Saruman would sooner take the Ring for himself than have the Dark Lord reclaim it," was the heavy response. "But he would, I think, let us weaken Sauron before he makes his move."

Such a grim alliance built upon treachery.

Harry nodded stiffly. Did Saruman believe that Sauron would win this war or had he simply been drawn by the allure of being the master of Middle-earth? Surely he could not think that those in the West would look kindly upon him for such treachery.

A chill wind swept through the clearing and Gandalf sighed.

Harry bowed his head. He would question Saruman when he went to find the Istar.

"What of Radagast? Does he still hold true?"

He liked the eccentric Istar, who'd always been a good friend among the Eyries and cared greatly for the woods.

"Yes," said Gandalf, and he chuckled. "Radagast the Simple he may be to Saruman, but he is also the most honest. No, Radagast is with us."

And of the Blue Istari? Harry wondered but did not ask. They had long ago journeyed away and though he himself had traveled East, there was naught but ghosts and shadows that remained of them. Five had set sail from the distant shores. Now two were missing and one in darkness.

It was not a pleasant thought.

He curled his lips in a semblance of a smile and shook his head. "We should hasten to Rivendell."

"Indeed, Master Harald," Gandalf said, raising his voice. "We will be on the road once the hobbits have finished eating and eavesdropping."

The hobbits, who'd been steadily moving closer even as they were seated, startled and looked up guiltily.

"Who's Radagast?" Pippin asked, not at all ashamed at being caught.

"Radagast the Brown," said Gandalf as he helped Frodo and Merry to their feet, "is one of my order."

"He is a wizard?" Frodo looked from Harry to Gandalf, as if trying to imagine a third person with both their traits.

"Has Bilbo not mentioned him in his stories at all?" Gandalf questioned, bushy brows raised. "Radagast aided the Company shortly before they came to Rivendell."

The hobbits shared a look.

"I've never heard Mister Bilbo say anything about another wizard," Sam confessed. "But maybe I didn't remember his tales right."

"No, Sam," Frodo said, shaking his head. "I never did either, and I am sure I remember them correctly."

"Oh?" Gandalf gave his pipe another puff, "Well, I may have remembered it wrongly. It has been some years. Did Bilbo say if Thorin arrived on time?"

Pippin tried to suppress his laughter, but it grew to a full chortle when Merry said with great solemnity, "He was bottommost at the door."

The other hobbits joined in his laughter and Gandalf smiled, mirth in his eyes.

Evidently, Harry was missing something in the conversation. Beside him, Thorongil seemed similarly bemused. Must be a Shire thing, he thought, until he glimpsed Glorfindel from the corner of his eye. The elf was grinning knowingly.

Sensing his gaze, Glorfindel turned, still smiling. "The Erebor Quest as told by Bilbo Baggins, of late a guest at Imladris," he said in response to Harry's unasked question, voice only just loud enough to be heard.

Ah.

That was a story he hadn't heard yet. Gandalf's formal edition, told before the White Council, had contained little of dwarves, and his other version contained more grumbling about stubborn hard-headed fools than the quest itself.

Perhaps he'll meet the hobbit at Rivendell. It'll be good to hear the entire adventure from someone who'd been there the entire time.

"Mithrandir," said Glorfindel once the laughter had died away. "We must continue riding."

"Indeed." Gandalf switched his staff to his other hand and looked around, whistling a high note.

Across, Shadowfax pricked his ears up and cantered over, Ithilum and Asfaloth just behind. Harry reached for the faint bonds that linked his transfigured horses to him and pulled on them. The ponies raised their heads and moved over. Thorongil helped Frodo onto Ithilum and turned around to mount his own, a copper dun.

"Do not fear," he muttered, patting its side. He startled when Harry spoke.

"It's no use. These aren't real beasts; they do not feel. Once the transfiguration ends they return to the stones whence they were changed."

"It is not alive?" Thorongil asked, turning his horse around.

Harry shook his head.

"It is alive only in that it exist, as it had a stone. It's nature is unchanged. I have only given it a new shape and order." He smiled wanly at the man. "I do not create life, Dúnadan."

Once, he had. But those were times he missed little and thought less of, and it was all for the best, really.

Gandalf had started to lead the hobbits out of the dell, and Thorongil looked between them and Harry.

"You are not coming with us?" he asked, nudging the dun forward into a slow walk.

"I am," Harry said, "only perhaps not beside you."

"Nonsense," said a voice above him, followed by the jingle of bells. "Asfaloth is more than capable of bearing both of us. You shall ride with me."

Harry turned around and looked up, an eyebrow raised. "I am faster," he said in exasperation. "And I will only hinder your movement if we are both on Asfaloth."

"You can shield the hobbits and my left when you ride," countered Glorfindel. "Besides, you have already spent at least two years feathered."

Two years wasn't quite that long. Harry sighed as he mounted Asfaloth, and made sure to convey his utmost exasperation at the elf's insistence. Honestly, it wasn't as if he'd have the mindset of a bird by staying in the form of one for too long. Still, he conceded the point that staying close to the hobbits was probably better than keeping a lookout from afar.

At a nudge from Glorfindel, Asfaloth caught up and resumed his position at the rear of the group. The bells of his headstall caused Pippin to look back. Upon seeing Harry's raised eyebrow, the hobbit grinned cheerfully and turned away.

Thorongil drew up beside them, scrutinising.

"The bells," he said thoughtfully, "do not sound right."

"Oh?" said Glorfindel, and Harry hear his grin in his voice. "How so, Dúnadan?"

For moment the Ranger was silent, and the only sounds were the heavy tread of horses and the light ringing of bells.

"They sound after the movement," he said, brows drawn. "Not as you move. You have delayed the chimes in some manner."

"Indeed. Well spotted, Dúnadan," Glorfindel said proudly, as Asfaloth tossed his head. "Though it is not I who have delayed the bells. Reviauron enchanted them after they were made. Most people do not realise that they are listening to the bells and their motions are often misdirected."

Harry was proud of those. Even the Nazgûl, which do not usually rely on their hearing, were sometimes fooled by the delayed chimes. It's the small details that often mattered.

"It is useful," said Thorongil, a little wistfully, and dipped his head before nudging his steed forward to ride beside Sam.


They made it through the day without incident, and found a small area past Amon Sûl for the night. Neither Gandalf nor Glorfindel felt the ruins of the watchtower made a good camp, particularly when evidence of their fight against the Nazgûl two days prior was still plain to the eyes. They did not, however, stray too far from the watchtower, if only to prevent its occupation by other, less desirable beings. In the end, they set up camp in one of the larger crevices at the base of the hill facing the North, which was relatively more hidden from view.

Knowing what the other was thinking, Harry spoke. "I will keep watch on the tower. You are too visible."

Glorfindel drew his gaze away from the hobbits and looked at him.

"You must rest," he said firmly. The silver of moonlight shining down through a rift in the stones above casted his face in an unworldly glow, which only enhanced his air of disapproval.

"I will join Harald," said a new voice, and they turned to look at Thorongil. "We can keep watch in shifts so that both of us may get to rest."

"We can do that," Harry said, beaming. "Does that ease your mind?"

"It is an improvement," the elf admitted. "Very well, I will remain here."

He followed them to the entrance of the crevice and seated himself just out of sight of anyone who was looking in.

A cool breeze ran through Harry's hair once he had exited the rocky cleft. It seemed to be a cloudless night, and stars glimmered proudly in the sky. The Valacirca was particularly bright in the North, with all seven stars in full view. Perhaps tonight both the wraiths and their master would heed the warning and stay away, though Harry snorted softly at the thought.

The footpath to Amon Sûl was just preserved enough to make ascent possible, if not particularly easy. Some steps were shaky and others were completely worn away, leaving steep gaps between one and the next. They climbed in silence broken only by warnings of damaged steps.

"How had a Ranger like you come to meet the hobbits?" Harry asked, when they had finally come to the top of the hill.

Thorongil, who had seemed content to walk in silence, seemed a little surprised by the sudden question.

"Gandalf had told me something of Frodo's errand before he left," he said. "I only had to go to Bree, and it is close to where my men and I were dwelling, to verify it for myself."

"You are the Chieftain of the Dúnedain?" Harry asked, several suspicions in mind. Gandalf had a tendency to collect people of certain kinds.

Thorongil blinked. "Indeed. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, though men in these lands would recognise me sooner as Strider."

That certainly explained many things. Dúnedain do travel to a great many places, but few had ever served the King of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor.

"Well met, Aragorn son of Arathorn, who is also Strider," and Thorongil, Harry said with a small smile. "I am Reviauron, recently Harald, and infrequently—thankfully—Calahen."

Aragorn returned the smile and looked up at the sky. "The night is not young," he observed. "I do not mind taking the first watch. You may rest and appease Lord Glorfindel."

The last was said in jest, and Harry gave a light laugh.

"I suppose I have no choice," he said, sitting down crosslegged by the base of a crumbled wall. He leaned back and closed his eyes to the sight of starry sky.


It was three hours till dawn when Harry roused. Aragorn was crouching beside him, an arm extended as if to tap him. When he saw that Harry was awake, the Ranger withdrew his arm.

"There are three more hours to dawn," he said.

Harry glanced upwards and stood. "Thank you. I'll rouse you when the others wake."

They traded places. The eastern sky was still dark, though the moon had nearly completed its journey. As Aragorn settled down, Harry shook himself and changed, fluttering up to the peak of yet uncrumbled wall. The additional height was not quite enough to give an entirely new perspective, but it did allow him to see the base of the hill without moving to the tower edge.

Pale mist had crept over the land, covering the shrubbery with eddying white when the sun's light finally mustered itself over the Misty Mountains. Glorfindel exited the cave when the sun itself ascended the mountains. His hair was brilliantly gold, whirling in the air as he turned to face the hill-top.

"Good morning," he mouthed, and Harry turned his head to look at him with both eyes.

As he did so, he became abruptly aware of a shadow rising from a hollow to his left. It glided forward beneath the sea of fog, a dark mass impenetrable to even his eyes. Were it not moving with hurried urgency he would have missed it completely. Harry stilled, tilting his head. His eyes bled green, then slipped into something darker as he sank momentarily into the Unseen.

He was right.

Harry screamed, and at his cry Glorfindel jerked his head around. He stared at the shadow, which had stilled in the distance, and sprang into action. As the elf roused the hobbits, Harry leapt down the tower and found Aragorn already standing.

"They are here," he said to the Ranger, grabbing his arm.

Glorfindel was preparing the horses when they apparated down the ruins. Aragorn stumbled and nearly fell, were it not for Harry's tight grip on his arm. The elf grimaced, having no love for apparition himself, and led the Ranger to his horse. Few moments later, Gandalf led four groggy hobbits out from the hill, his brows drawn in worry when he looked south and saw the approaching Nazgûl.

"We must fly," he said to them. "A sorcery lies upon them."

Frodo looked at him, eyes wide, and was silent when he was helped onto Ithilum. This time, Harry did not protest and straddled Asfaloth, wand drawn.

In a short moment, they were away from Weathertop. When Harry glanced behind, the Nazgûl were fast on their heels. The sun had burned away their cover of fog and shadow, but they retained their unnatural swiftness.

Five were behind, and two were flanking them on both sides.

Harry raised his right hand. A jet of fire spewed from the Elder Wand, cutting before the wraith trying to overtake them. Its horse reared back in a manner that would have thrown a man off its back, but the wraith only screeched, quickly left behind in the chase.

Glorfindel exclaimed. A clash of metal on his left distracted Harry and he turned to see a Nazgûl alongside them, exchanging blows with the elf.

"Ware!" Harry called, and Glorfindel drew back just before the wraith caught fire. It fell behind, horse and rider shrieking.

Another wraith had taken advantage of their momentary distraction and surged ahead. Pippin cried out to see it beside him, and his pony fled right. Merry swerved to avoid crashing into him, causing Sam to peel away from the formation. Harry cursed and reached for the spell-threads of his transfigurations. The ponies shook off their instinctual terror, returning to their positions. His intervention came a moment too late; a black rider shot forward and Sam was cut off, sandwiched between two wraiths.

A hobbit shouted, but it was lost in the roar of wind and thundering hoofbeats.

The Nazgûl to Sam's right made a hideous rasping noise, as if a chuckle. A shadow came upon them as clouds covered the sun, and Harry glimpsed a ring on a skeletal hand.

"Witch-king!" he snarled, leaning over Glorfindel's bright arm. Flames shot from his hand and wrapped around the dull leg of the wraith's steed.

He pulled.

Sam gave a muffled cry and the chief of the Nazgûl tipped forward as his horse went down beneath him.

"Noro forn," Glorfindel called, with a soft curse under his breath, and Asfaloth veered to the right.

As he came upon the second wraith with all the blazing fury of an elf-lord with a grudge, Harry twisted under his arm and slashed his wand at the four Nazgûl still behind them. The horses cried out and fell, struck lame. The wraiths upon them screeched, but Harry was already turning away. To his right, Glorfindel had thrust his sword into the hollow of the wraith's cloak. It struck between ghostly ribs and the Nazgûl dropped away with a cry.

Harry shook his head, colours seeping back into his vision, and looked beside him. Sam was slumped forward, though from the side he could see no injury. Perhaps the hobbit was affected by the Black Breath.

Light flared ahead, and they passed by a riderless horse. The last of the Nazgûl.

Without cues, Sam's pony slowed. Harry fiddled with his spell and cautiously prodded it back into a gallop, wary of Sam toppling from its back.

For another few leagues they rode on, until Gandalf brought them to a slow halt when he deemed they were sufficiently far ahead.

"You are uninjured?" he demanded, wheeling around from the front.

"They did not touch us," Glorfindel replied calmly. "But I worry for Samwise."

The Istar too had saw Sam, and his brows pinched together. Harry slipped off Asfaloth, and went beside the hobbit. His eyes were closed, his face pale.

"Is he hurt?" Pippin asked, nudging his pony closer to look.

"I don't know," Harry started, before he saw a tear in the hobbit's coat.

Perhaps it was not the Black Breath that had overwhelmed Sam.

"The Witch-king held a knife," Glorfindel said, approaching with the ringing of bells. "I fear he caught Samwise with it when he fell."

"A Morgul-blade?" Gandalf rapidly dismounted to help Harry lay Sam onto the grass.

"If it was such a knife it would be gone now," Harry said, turning the hobbit. There was a single bloodless hole on his right side, marked by a small tear at one edge where the blade had nicked his coat while entering. He cut through the layers, exposing the injury, and heard a sharp intake of breath as Gandalf leaned forward over the small, deadly, wound.

"Morgul," Harry said softly.

It was better than being stabbed by the Witch-king's sword, but only in the sense that while one was a messy, bloody affair, the other was clean magical torment.

"I will go look for athelas," Aragorn said. "Some still grow south of the Road."

He exchanged a few words with Glorfindel and Frodo before turning his horse around. Hoofbeats signalled his departure.

"Oh Sam," Frodo said wretchedly, dropping by Sam's side to grasp his hand. "It shouldn't be you. It should've been me. I'm sorry."

"Do not say that Frodo," Harry said, raising his eyes to meet the hobbit's. "It should have been no one. This blame belongs to Sauron, for it is at his will the wraiths move and it is by him that all Morgul-knives are made."

Frodo looked at him with wide eyes.

"This is not your fault," Harry said, softer and gentler, but just as firmly.

When the hobbit looked away, he turned to Gandalf. "The shard must be removed quickly. Can you keep him from waking?"

The Istar nodded, face grave, and pressed a hand to Sam's forehead. Harry took a deep breath and stared down at the wound.

It reeked of sorcery and the slickness that was Sauron's signature. Dark globs of congealing blood stuck to his fingers when he probed the wound, and he vanished them as he withdrew his hands.

He lightly pressed the tip of his wand to the opening of the wound. Accio.

The shard retaliated, its sorcery not yet dispersed into the entire body. Sam twitched.

Harry grasped the shard, felt it grind against his magic, and pulled.

It broke with silent snap, and he drew from the wound a dark chip. Blood oozed anew, red mingling with sticky black. He set the piece onto the grass, and reached for the other fragment still within Sam.

It evaded him, slipping from his reach, edging further downwards.

With a growl, he flooded the wound with magic. Distantly, he was aware of Glorfindel singing a tune only faintly familiar. The shard halted, and Harry pulled.

Again, the piece broke, a small silver embedding itself deep. He snarled in frustration, dropping the piece on the grass.

Gandalf placed a hand over his as he reached for the new fragment.

"He cannot endure so many," the Istar warned, eyes grim. "This must be your last."

Wordless, Harry nodded.

For the third time, he laid the tip of the Elder Wand against Sam. "Accio."

The silver of Morgul-blade crumbled as he grappled with it. Pinpricks of fiery dark stood out amidst his magic and dark clumps bled from the wound. Harry vanished each as soon as they appeared with an angry flick. Removing all traces of the sorcery was impossible now.

As if in a taunt, a chill touched his senses and withdrew abruptly before he could seize it. He gathered himself and waited for it to strike again with the air of a starving predator.

Someone clapped his shoulder.

Harry started.

"The wound needs to be washed. You did well, my friend," Glorfindel said in a low voice, and stood up.

Harry sat down, legs stiff from kneeling for what seemed to be hours, and looked up. The visage of an elf coalesced from a haze of brightness in an almost dizzying swirl.

"I did not."

He'd failed. Elrond would do what he can, but the hobbit would always bear a shadow of Sauron upon him for as long as he lived.

"You have done what you could in such circumstance," protested Glorfindel. "You know how the Morgul-blades are; they mark all their victims. You have removed enough that Samwise will feel very little from what remains–"

"That would be comforting were I not the one who caused his injury," Harry drawled, and shook his head. "Sam was not their target. The Witch-king would not have spent his knife on him had I not tripped his horse."

"Had you not tripped his horse then the ring-bearer would have fallen into greater peril—a Ringwraith, Reviauron." Glorfindel looked appalled. "The Dark Lord would not look favourably upon him."

Harry shook his head again wearily and looked around, curling and uncurling his fingers.

The sun had escaped its cover of clouds and now shone down on them with a sort of wintry warmth. A camp had been set up behind him, and not too far away a fire burned. Only now did he register the sweet fragrance of athelas in the air.

The scent intensified as Aragorn approached with a bowl of water.

"His wound must be cleaned," said he, setting it down.

Harry nodded, noting the warmth emanating from the bowl, and scooted aside to give Aragorn space.

"The Black Riders would not attack again so soon," Gandalf said. "And many of them are also no longer Riders, if I have seen correcly. We can linger here a while."

"Three of them are still in possession of horses," Harry said, tilting his head back to look at the Istar after a quick tally. "Mitheithel is a good place for an ambush."

Gandalf considered it as he puffed on his pipe.

"Unlikely," he declared at last. "They are weakened and outnumbered without their horses. Rarely do the Nine strike when the odds are against them."

That was a good point. However…

"We must still travel with haste and caution," the Istar continued. "That the Nazgûl do not usually act thus does not mean that their master may not order them otherwise, for he greatly desires the Ring."

This was met with nods all around.

"How is he?" Harry asked, coldness still lingering in his fingertips, when Aragorn stood up after dressing Sam's wound.

Aragorn paused. "He will, I think, make a good recovery, now that the shard is removed. For now he shall continue to sleep."

In response, Harry smiled crookedly and looked into the distance. A breeze bent the grass on the side of the Road and shook the trees in the distance.

Abruptly, he stood up, feeling an urge to be left undisturbed. To Gandalf, he canted his head towards the field of grass and strode away. As he passed the unmarked boundary of the camp, Glorfindel's sharp gaze fell upon him, almost burning with its intensity. Without pausing, Harry raised the hood of his cloak and willed for invisibility.

The wind carried to him the sound of Aragorn's surprised murmur and Gandalf's low explanation, both of which he ignored as he left the camp behind him.


Uhhhhh hello err'bodies, welcome back to Chapter 3...? Really sorry about the long wait :/ I got caught up with a fair lot of stuff.

I've been scheduling my life a little bit recently, and the good thing is that I reckon that I have enough time to finish a chapter every two weeks, which should then mean that I can finally finish this fic ...next September. Good god. But it will be finished, WATCH ME, because I am very done with reading all my old incomplete writing. By hook by crook or by human sacrifice Wind Lord shall be made complete so ten years later future-me can come back to read this with full satisfaction and be proud of past-me for actually accomplishing something. Yes.

See you on the 11th (because of a spontaneous week-long trip oops) and happy holidays and a new year!

(wow this AN had very little to do with the chapter itself but I have no idea what to say so oh well. Am I rambling again? I feel like I'm rambling again alright nevermind full stop goodbye.)