Edits: 11/30/15
Posted: 6/4/14
Words: 3,437
14: The Breaking of the Fellowship
"How long till we leave?"
Hermione twitched. Glorfindel pretended not to notice and patiently awaited an answer.
"Several hours yet," she forced out through a clenched jaw.
A few minutes passed before the Elf opened his mouth to ask the same question for the twenty-seventh time that morning. Hermione's hair stood up and began to emit blue and green sparks. The Elf wisely closed his mouth again and waited until the sparks had died down before murmuring (loudly enough that he knew she could hear him), "Several hours."
"Here we are!" exclaimed Aragorn with a bit more cheer than perhaps was warranted, purposefully interrupting Hermione before she could murder the Elf-lord, or worse. The witch grumbled death threats under her breath; judging by Glorfindel's smirk and Aragorn's pained expression, both heard her. That lightened her mood somewhat and she levitated their boat out of the water.
The Elf's surprised noise and the way he jumped half a foot into the air when their boat floated out of the water and onto the bank was more than enough to make up for his earlier nagging. She hopped out of the boat first and offered him a hand, mood now fully improved.
Quite honestly, she'd felt generally pleasant since the incident with Sméagol. It was nice to help someone, although it hadn't gone as she'd expected. For one, there was the layout of his mind: it was different from what she'd expect from a patient with multiple personalities. She attributed that to the magical nature of its cause. The other thing that ate at her was the dark presence she'd felt answer her order to "begone."
It was another consciousness, she thought as she pulled her Elf onto solid ground. But what? Who? How did it enter with me? And why did it follow my directions?
Whatever it was, it was benign. She put it out of her mind in favor of focusing on the events to come later that day.
The rest of the fellowship was arriving on bank, chattering about her levitation charm.
"How'd you do that, Hermione?" asked Pippin, as Boromir and Merry pulled their boat further up on shore.
"I cast a spell on the boat," she told him. "A simple thing, really. I learned it when I was only eleven years old."
The hobbit (all of the mortals in the company, actually, barring Aragorn) fell silent and pondered this thought; Hermione was generally classified with Gandalf in that everyone knew she was very, very old. They'd only ever known her in her current state, appearing as a 30-year-old woman. It was therefore strange to think of her as a youngling, like trying to think of a time when Middle-earth itself was young.
"That was quite a long time ago, Grandma," Glorfindel teased with no little sass. He ducked out of the way of the oar she tossed in his direction, a small smile playing on her face, and arranged his face into a tragically hurt expression. "Now that wasn't very nice."
"You wipe that fake pout off your face and help me with the firewood," she sassed him right back, amusement audible in her voice. "As if you have the right to call anyone old…"
"As far as I am concerned," cut in Sam, "Once you're over 100 there's not much use in keeping track."
Hermione held back a snort. "As you say, Master Samwise."
They walked for a while without talking, before Hermione had deemed them far enough from the rest of the company.
"Glorfindel," she called. He turned towards her and waited patiently as she moved closer to him. She hesitated uncharacteristically, trying to figure out the best way to phrase her request.
"We haven't got all day," he reminded her, his oblique reference to their imminent departure making her purse her lips.
"They're coming," she settled on. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow as he took in her serious tone.
"Who?" he asked the obvious question when it was clear she wasn't going to continue.
"They're like Orcs, but better," she paused and processed what she'd just said. "Or worse, depending on how you think about it."
"How do you—"
"They follow Saruman," she cut him off. "So Dolohov may travel with them. If you see a man in their midst, call for me. You must not let anyone fight him."
"But—" Glorfindel looked confused.
"Please promise me that, my friend, do not engage Dolohov." Hermione waited anxiously for him to bow his head in acquiescence before she gently patted his arm and moved away for the firewood.
"Hermione, how do you know these things?" the Elf asked, not quite ready to give up. "The Orcs, and the Balrog?"
She hesitated again for a long while, long enough that he thought perhaps she wouldn't answer.
"A certain amount of foreknowledge was given to me," she finally said with an air of finality.
Glorfindel didn't know what to say to that, but did make sure he kept her in eyeshot until they got back to camp.
"Where's Mr. Frodo?"
Hermione dropped her firewood at Sam's question, looking desperately around the camp. She'd thought they'd have at least until the afternoon before the Uruks arrived—unfortunately, Boromir was also nowhere to be found, indicating that his argument with Frodo and therefore the attack were imminent.
She let loose an oath in Dwarvish (Gimli whistled appreciatively).
"I don't suppose anyone saw Boromir leave?"
"You were taking too long with the firewood," Pippin said with a too-innocent look on his face, glancing between her and Glorfindel. Hermione didn't notice but the Elf did, and his brief warning look was enough to stop the hobbit. "Aragorn left, too."
"Taking too long my goat's dry cunt," she said darkly, half in Dwarvish, and Gimli's sizeable ears turned red.
"I can't explain now," she said, desperately trying to impress upon them the importance of the situation, "But we must find them. Now."
They didn't move.
"Go!"
That did it. Hermione made sure they all left the camp first and turned her attention to the contents of the remaining boats: Specifically, Sam's pack, which was sitting inside the closest one. She cast several tracking charms and was just about to join the others when a small shape crept out of the river and towards her on the bank.
"Sméagol!" she said with surprise. Glorfindel, who had remained behind, unnoticed, stepped up beside her and loosened his sword in his scabbard. Hermione gave him a warning look and he raised a brow at her as if to say 'better safe than sorry.'
"The lady told Sméagol to find her, so Sméagol did," the creature muttered at them. It seemed hesitant to approach, probably because of Glorfindel's threatening posture. Hermione, unmindful of her robes and the mud, knelt to be closer to him and opened her arms. After a moment of deliberation, Sméagol crept forwards and allowed her to embrace him, purring quietly.
"I have a very important job for you, Sméagol," she said. He nodded eagerly.
"Anything for the lady," he said. "The lady saved Sméagol. The lady set Sméagol free."
Hermione decided bluntness was probably the way to go, especially since, judging by the shouting, the Urukhai had arrived.
"I need you to take Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee to Mount Doom, to destroy the Ring of Power."
Both Sméagol and Glorfindel seemed briefly speechless.
"Now that you know how the Ring affects you, you will be able to avoid falling for its temptation again," she told the river dweller. "So long as you don't actually wear it. But Frodo and Sam are vulnerable, and they'll need your help."
"But how can we do it?" he asked her. "We cannot go through the Black Gates."
"You must take them past Shelob," Hermione said without hesitation, hearing motion in the underbrush. Frodo. "Warn them. Frodo has Sting; so long as they are careful you will make it through. If you have a true need of me, I will know."
Well. She'd keep watch over them via tracking charms but she wouldn't know, per se; she had to trust the charms and luck that she'd happen to check on them when they were in trouble.
A pale gold blur made to run past her into one of the boats, but Hermione's hand shot out and grabbed it.
"Frodo, take that Ring off at once!" she ordered him. "We're not here to hurt you."
Frodo obeyed, reluctantly. Seconds later, Sam came crashing out of the underbrush as well.
"Oh, good, Sam," Hermione said, turning to include him in her line of sight. "Now. The three of you will continue alone from here. Frodo, Sam: Sméagol will be your guide. If you trust me, you should trust him. Remember your purpose. Guard the Ring carefully once you have crossed over into Gondor: there will be many there that are tempted to take it."
The three stared at her. "Go." The shouting behind her grew louder and someone started screaming. "Go!"
They hurriedly made their way into a boat and shoved off. Hermione didn't bother to watch them reach the opposite bank but rather turned and ran towards the screaming. Glorfindel followed, pulling out his sword.
Hermione briefly considered drawing hers as well, as she leapt over bushes and roots, casting blasting charms with her left hand to clear foliage rather than waste time running around it. She had just decided on the Elder wand over the sword when she burst out into a clearing containing a supine Boromir, several Uruks, and Antonin Dolohov.
"Crucio!" Merry and Pippin's eyes widened as the intimidating Russian jabbed his wand towards them, but before the curse had a chance to strike them Boromir managed to drag himself upwards and into its path. Dolohov laughed gleefully and danced closer to the man.
"Now what possessed you to do that?" he asked, voice barely audible over Boromir's hoarse screams.
Hermione let loose an inarticulate growl and a pulse of raw magic. Dolohov flew thirty feet backwards but somehow managed to steady himself and landed on his feet. He tilted his head and examined her.
"Have we met?" he asked innocently, brushing off his robes and stepping closer. The Uruks ignored them both in favor of rushing at Boromir, Glorfindel, and the hobbits.
Hermione laughed, but the sound had a nasty edge to it and the mirth didn't reach her eyes. Her free hand rose slowly towards her left collarbone, where it gently traced the tip of an ugly line of scar tissue.
Glorfindel beat back his Uruk and turned to assess the situation between the magical folk, but was quickly forced to turn his attention back to the seemingly endless swarm of cannon fodder. Boromir was trying valiantly to help but seemed unable to stay on his feet.
"You don't remember giving me this?" she spat at the wizard, letting her hand fall down to the hilt of her sword, and ended up standing with her arms extended at 45 degree angles, a weapon in each hand.
"I may have a vague recollection," he drawled back at her, his Russian accent audible even as they spoke Westron. He drew himself upwards into a traditional dueling position. "A misguided little girl involved in things far over her head!"
As he spoke the last word he stabbed his wand forward at her, releasing an impressively large fireball. Hermione allowed it to wash over and around her without moving; it did no damage.
"Nice try," she said mildly, now also assuming a dueling position, although a more modern one modified for her double weapons. "I've spent decades studying elemental magic, you won't convince fire to touch me."
The corner of his mouth twitched downwards, the first sign of irritation that she'd seen, and he twisted his wand again. Before he could move Hermione shouted something in Latin and tree roots burst up to wrap around his legs.
He released himself with a cutting hex and hurled several jinxes and curses at her in a row, and they danced around the clearing as she returned fire. He quickly realized he'd need a different strategy to break their impasse; although he was at the limit of his abilities Hermione barely seemed to have broken a sweat. She used her sword to block and reflect his spells while he needed to stop attacking to use shield charms.
After five minutes of this back and forth he apparated mid-cast and reappeared behind her, only to find that she was no longer there. Hermione, having predicted his move, was behind him. She coughed to get his attention and he whirled around just in time for a disarming spell to the face. His wand flew out of his hand and he took several anxious steps backwards.
Hermione advanced on him, snapping his wand in half as she did so. Dolohov, recognizing defeat, glanced around the clearing. There were a dishearteningly high number of dead Urukai but he could see that the Man was lying exhausted with two hobbits behind the Elf, who was barely holding his own against the twenty remaining dark creatures.
"What does he want?" Hermione snapped at Dolohov, drawing his attention back to her.
"Who?" asked the Russian, hands moving closer to his waistband in an innocent shrug.
"Voldemort," she hissed. "What does he want?"
"Power," said Dolohov offhandedly. "Control. Who knows?"
His right hand finally achieved the small of his back and the wicked-sharp dagger there; he drew it and threw himself at her in one motion. Hermione, surprised, fell back on her training and neatly dodged the attack, bringing her sword down as he passed and cleanly removing his head from his body.
The spray of arterial blood missed her by a hair but caught Glorfindel's attention. Distracted as he was, he didn't notice a large first come at him from the side. The blow sent him to the ground and left him momentarily disoriented—long enough for the remaining monsters to grab Merry and Pippin (a single blow was enough to knock out Boromir cold, exhausted and injured as he was by the Cruciatus) and make off with them.
Hermione watched this happen with widening eyes but found herself unable to say anything. Glorfindel regained his bearings within a minute of being forced to the ground and rose, looking around wildly to find the hobbits and his favorite witch.
Dolohov's heart realized it was dead and stopped beating. Brain activity ceased. His soul departed. All of his soul.
Hermione's curse scar burst open, a terrible jagged wound outlined by the blood seeping through her tunic from left collarbone to right hip.
She could see Glorfindel shouting but heard only a roaring in her ears; the pain hit her after she'd already fallen to her knees. Glorfindel caught her just as she passed out.
Aragorn sprinted into the clearing to see far more blood than he would've liked. His eyes darted around the forest, assessing. Glorfindel was cradling Hermione's limp body, whispering something in High Quenya. Boromir was lying still under a tree about twenty feet away. A great deal of dead Urukai littered the ground, along with a decapitated man.
Before Aragorn had a chance to move further into the scene, Merlin appeared next to Glorfindel and began speaking rapidly.
"Glorfindel! She'll be fine! She'll be fine!"
It took several repetitions before the Elf calmed enough to cease his muttering in favor of staring at the wizard.
"She is the Master of Death," Merlin explained, crouching down to check Hermione's pulse and lay a hand on her forehead. "She will not die. But she is in a great deal of pain, and we must take her back to Earth for care. Come, carry her."
Aragorn stepped forward, and Merlin looked over at him.
"Aragorn. You are likely to end up at Helm's Deep. Hermione and Glorfindel will meet you there at the latest."
Not quite satisfied but unwilling to argue, Aragorn nodded and moved back across the clearing towards Boromir. Legolas and Gimli joined him a few moments later, just after Merlin, Glorfindel and Hermione disappeared.
"Where is everyone?" asked the Dwarf.
"Glorfindel and Hermione left for her world," Aragorn answered, frowning and checking Boromir's vital signs. "Boromir should wake soon. As for the hobbits, I do not know."
The three of them stood silent vigil around the Steward's son, waiting for him to awaken.
They cut a strange figure, Merlin reflected. He led the way through the labyrinthine walkways in the downtown city of New London, leading Glorfindel to the emergency room. On a normal day, Merlin himself would have drawn enough attention. For one thing, he chose to wear his power openly, clearing people out of the way. For another, doors opened for him with no discernable effort on his part.
But the Elf behind him glowed. His worry over Hermione had aroused his exceptionally strong protective instinct and he stood quite tall with his golden aura extending over everyone they passed.
It didn't help that he was holding a woman with an obviously fatal wound.
They didn't speak as they walked, but Merlin knew they were probably already all over the news—cameras were swiveling in the ceiling to follow their progress.
Finally they reached the emergency room doors. Staff were already waiting with a gurney for Hermione; it took Merlin only a few words to convince Glorfindel to put her on it but significantly longer to convince him that he couldn't go into surgery with her.
The combined magical-medical procedure they had worked out didn't take nearly as long as it could have, but it felt excruciatingly long to the Elf covered in blood in the waiting room.
Merlin assessed him carefully and, without asking permission, cast several cleaning and freshening charms on him. Glorfindel started in slight surprise and looked up at the wizard.
"The blood was scaring people," he clarified in Sindarin, slight humor in his tone. He sobered at the Elf's pale face. "She'll be right as rain, don't worry."
"'Don't worry'?" Glorfindel repeated. "She was bleeding out in my arms and you tell me not to worry?"
Merlin held up a hand. "Perhaps that is too much to ask. But I promise you, within two days she will be as if nothing happened."
Glorfindel was spared responding when the doctor emerged and made her way straight to Merlin.
"The patient is stable," she said in Business Standard, her voice clipped. "I'm not sure how because that wound should've been fatal but…" She shook her head.
"How is she?" interjected Glorfindel to Merlin.
"In stable condition," he replied with a smile. "But hold on."
"Is she awake?" he asked the doctor.
"No," she replied slowly, her eyes seemingly unable to leave Glorfindel's face. The Elf was watching her eagerly and it seemed to leave her a little breathless. "But she's not in a coma, just asleep."
Merlin snapped his fingers in front of her face to regain her attention. "When will she wake up?"
The doctor's eyes strayed back towards Glorfindel as she answered. "There's no way of knowing."
"What is she saying? Can I see Hermione?" cut in Glorfindel, looking back and forth between the two humans.
"Can we see her?" Merlin repeated to the doctor.
She nodded and gestured towards the hallway she had just exited. "Room 407B."
"Down that hallway," Merlin relayed to Glorfindel, who took off at an almost-jog through the hospital. The old wizard followed him at a calmer pace to find that he had settled into the only chair in the room, holding Hermione's hand and leaning on the bed, looking, for all intents and purposes, as if he intended to never leave.
"When will she wake up?" asked the Elf. Merlin cleared his throat, feeling a bit like he was intruding.
"They don't know," he paused and assessed his protégé. Her face was still, but a charm and some closer examination revealed that her usually bright purple aura was tinged with gold. "She is the Master of Death now so she must return to the realm of the living, but I imagine It wishes to speak to her."
"It?" repeated Glorfindel, looking up at the wizard for the first time since he had entered the room.
Merlin paused before he answered, examining Hermione again. So much power and personality in such a small frame—it always surprised him.
"Death," he said. "I imagine she's speaking with Death."