A/N: See here for recap: goo .gl / G0Ek3j (remove spaces).

The Shadow of Angmar

Chapter 24: Where Found Riches, Looked-for and Not

The Halls were silent. A distant shaft of light split the darkness and the only sound to be heard was laboured breathing, and a distant rhythmic thunder. His own breathing, Harry realised through the haze of exhaustion and pain. Each beat of his heart heralded a new roll of thunder. Fire, invisible in the darkness, ran across his entire body, and he felt his skin blister at the touch. The light wavered as if it were unsure, besieged by darkness. Harry took a slow, painful step towards it. Then he stepped again, and again. Each step was as slow as the motion of continents, an entire age of the world streaming by. His own personal world was filled with the smell of brimstone, and the thundering in his ears.

His knees buckled beneath him, and, with all the deceptive sluggishness of an avalanche, he fell to his knees. There was a clatter at his side as the sword he'd still been carrying dropped forgotten to the floor, and he clung with both hands to his staff. Bloody hands slid over cold metal and stone, and he felt himself drooping lower and lower, his battered body unable to hold itself upright, and his exhausted mind unable to overrule its inevitable surrender. The still distant light flickered and shimmered, and for a moment Harry was sure it was going to go out.

Then the silence was broken, and a voice called out to him. It was distant, faint, like the first star in the evening sky, but no less beautiful for all that. He could not understand the words it spoke, but he knew them, he knew their intent. Strength flowed through him once more, issued from some heretofore unknown font within him. He pushed himself upright again, and though he still leaned heavily upon his staff, he took another step, then another and a dozen more again.

As he walked, his senses slowly returned. There was more around him that just darkness, to both sides he saw the ornate walls of the Dwarven Hold into which he had delved, scored by talon and scorched by flame. Behind him was the gentle drip and creak of the huge corpse of Scatha as blood oozed, still smoking, from the wounds Harry had inflicted upon it. Before him was sunlight, which seemed to shine all the brighter now that the Scatha's shadow had been banished from the world.

Then Daewen was at his side, and he felt the weight upon his feet lessen slightly as she lended him her arm, and her strength. Close behind her came Celeborn, and the rest of the Elves of his small company.

It took not a moment before Celeborn began issuing commands to his followers. Most were in words that Harry's exhausted mind could not follow nor recognise. All around him was a hive of activity, and he felt his weight lessen further as another of the Elves came to help him walk.

Now that he was among friends again, Harry felt the tide of strength that had borne him from the darkness once again recede. His eyes felt heavy, but he did not allow them to close. His legs were weak, but he did not allow them to buckle. He knew that he'd been badly burned, but he had not entered into this fight completely unprepared. He tried to speak to them, but all that issued from his lips was a painful croak; his throat and mouth rendered painfully dry and raw by the soot and oily smoke that had filled the caverns beneath the mountain during his battle.

Yet still something in that wretched sound was enough for Celeborn to understand Harry's intent. It was but the work of a moment for Celeborn to find a vial that seemed to be filled with gentle blue light, like a captured spring morning. Despite the stifling heat that filled the cavern, it glittered with condensation.

They broke at last from the darkness of the mountain, and shed the last tendrils of shade which clung like fog, only to be burned off by the rising of the sun. As the distant yet welcoming warmth of the sun supplanted the terrible fire of Scatha, Harry at last allowed himself to succumb to exhaustion. His dreams were filled with warm sunlight, and joyful birdsong.

o-o

When Harry awoke, it was in darkness, with stars uncounted wheeling slowly through the sky above his head. Around him was the gentle and alluring thrum of quiet conversation, punctuated occasionally by laughter, and the crackle of a lively fire. He could still feel the weight of his battle with Scatha upon his body, but it was more distant now, chased away by warmth, and good cheer.

Nearby, the small encampment was filled with Men and Elves, joined together in celebration. He watched as one of Celeborn's company, an Elf maiden whose name Harry thought was perhaps Raenil, laughed merrily at the actions of one of Fram's companions. The language barrier meant less than nothing as the man acted out some story with much enthusiastic laughter of his own.

"We Elves like to imagine that our memories do not fade," said a familiar voice on Harry's other side. Celeborn, who had surely been watching over Harry as he slept. "Yet I think perhaps we would be mistaken."

Harry broke his attention away from where the Framling was now on all fours, and barking like a dog at his friend,much to the amusement of those who watched. He turned to Celeborn, who was sat serenely by his side, his coming as silent as the breathless wind in the deep woods. "It has surely never been so much as whispered that Celeborn the Wise might have forgotten something that once he knew," said Harry, the good spirits of those around him bleeding into his smile.

Celeborn's own smile was warm as he looked upon the shared mirth of Men and Elves together. He inclined his head towards the Man who had first drawn Harry's attention. "Look there, Halwende tells stories of his brother Leof who died in the battle. He smiles and he laughs as he remembers the best of the brother who is now lost to him."

Though he said no more, Harry understood Celeborn's meaning. Had such a fate befallen any amongst the Elves there would surely have been no celebrations for a long count of days. "Perhaps the shortness of our days makes them more worth treasuring, more worth celebrating than lamenting?" Harry said, though even as he said it he felt that it did not ring true. "No. For surely he still laments the loss of his brother, and feels it no less keenly than any among the Eldar. Yet still he finds joy in remembering, where Elves would find only bittersweet sorrow."

"Ah, that my own people could find joy thus," said Celeborn. "The world would perhaps be much different than it is now."

"There is little to be gained in lamenting the past," said Harry with a firm shake of the head. "I have done it enough myself to know that it cannot hope to change things, and will only cast a pall over the days that yet lie ahead of us. My old teacher told me once, in what feels like another life, that I should not dwell unduly on dreams lest I forget to live. What else are such lamentations but dreams; that we had acted differently, or that chance or fate had taken us on another path?"

"Soon it will be you whom they call the Wise," said Celeborn with a wry smile. "And what then will they call me?"

Harry could not help the guffaw that he released at Celeborn's unexpected jest. "Perhaps Celeborn the Wit would be more fitting?" Harry suggested as he failed to keep the smile from his face.

Before Celeborn could reply, however, they were descended upon by a merry gaggle of Men and Elves who had been alerted to Harry's awakening by his loud laughter. It seemed that all among them wished to speak at once, and each in the language most familiar to them. All Harry could do was endure the whirlwind of handshaking, back slapping and incomprehensible jokes that yet still managed to convey their raucous good cheer.

It was not until Fram joined the affray that things began to calm down. His loud command quickly quieted the enthusiasm of his own people. Silence soon fell, as Celeborn's own softly spoken command was instantly heeded by his own people.

"Harry Eardstapa," Fram began, once silence had fallen and the crowds had backed off into a wide circle around Harry and the young Lord of the Éothéod. "Scatha Sigorian. Of all of the sagas of my people, this will be the mightiest. Tales of this day will be told and retold around uncountable fires, and over a thousand years and more. Already did I owe you a debt of blood through my mother, now my people will owe you a debt that is greater still."

Fram began to pace in a circle around Harry, and the Men in the watching crowd had begun to murmur and nod, the gentle susurration giving further weight to Fram's words.

"The weregild we owe you can never be paid through worldly things, no gold or jewels can account for the gift you have given us here, on this day. We will go forth from this place, and your name shall be heard in all the corners of the world, then, when at last our final battle falls upon us and we pass into the halls of our ancestors they too will be filled with tales of your deeds. This I do vow, for myself, for my sons, and for their sons after them."

"Aye!" came the cry from the assembled Men as they affirmed Fram's great Oath.

Harry looked to them, his eyes darting from face to face, each as grave as the last, and he felt the weight of their great regard upon his shoulders. He turned his gaze to where Celeborn now stood alongside his company of Elves, apart from the Men of the Éothéod once more. For a moment his expression was unreadable, and his eyes were distant as he looked south towards the valley. Finally, the Lord of Lothlórien's gaze returned from wherever it had been cast, and he gave Harry the slightest of nods.

"I accept your Oath," said Harry, his voice strong, carrying to all who stood near.

o-o

They re-entered the hold later that day, and Harry was immediately struck by the changes that had been wrought since last he had walked those halls, not more than a day ago.

Gone were the echoes of pain, silenced were the whispers of the thousand souls that had been consumed by Scatha's terribly fires. The air felt lighter, even if it was still tainted by the sharp scent of blood and smoke.

First Harry searched for the sword that had struck the final blow against the beast, soon finding the curious black blade amid the bones and rubble. Now that he was able to see it properly he could see that it was not merely black, but it also seemed to glow at the edges, like an eclipse. He swung the sword experimentally in his hand, and marvelled at the peerless balance it had. Even his Elf-forged sword was not so perfectly crafted. It moved through the air like deadly shadow, with not even the barest whisper of parted air. Behind him, he heard a gasp from Daewen, who had elected to join him in his explorations.

"That is a blade of much story and woe, unless my eyes are deceived," she said in a hushed voice, lightly caressed by fear.

Harry did not drop the weapon, but he did stop his motions. With a raised brow, he wordlessly prompted her to continue.

"There are only two such blades as this known in the histories of my people," she said as she edged cautiously closer, her eyes never leaving the black sword that nevertheless seemed to give off a pale light. "Both brought ill fate to their wielders. It would be wise, I think, to seek the wisdom of Lord Celeborn in this."

"Then I will do so," said Harry before hanging the sword at his side, the unearthly blade concealed from roaming eyes by the long folds of his travelling cloak. He had long ago learned not to ignore the advice given to him by the Elves, but he sensed that the blade was perhaps not so evil as Daewen feared. There had been something ill about it when he had first picked it up during the battle, as if it thirsted for blood in a way that no mere weapon should.

Now, though, that sense was gone. Perhaps it had been Harry's own bloodlust in battle, or perhaps the blade's thirst had been slaked. He would withhold judgement on the matter until he had spoken to Celeborn, as Daewen suggested.

He then turned his gaze upon the mighty form of Scatha, his vast bulk stretching deep into the hold, beyond the reach of daylight, or the small torches they had carried with them. Before him, quite possibly, was the key to his deliverance; the first true step on his road home.

For some reason the feeling of triumph felt distant.

As he stepped closer to the Dragon's colossal bulk, he could not help but wonder just how he had managed to survive their battle. Even now, hours after Scatha's death, the beast was still warm to the touch, and the dragon's blood still smoked when it dripped from the wounds Harry had inflicted.

Dragonskin was, he knew, much sought after in his old world for armour, and other protective clothings, but the dragons of his old world were much lesser beasts than Scatha the Worm. There was no chance that his hide could be used for anything less than perhaps a hand-shield, and even that would surely be too heavy for any normal man to carry, so encrusted were his scales with gold which had been melted into impossibly detailed tracery through every crack and crevice on their surface.

Surely a single scale from the beast would be worth a king's ransom.

"Such wealth the Dwarves gather, and to what purpose?" said Daewen, her mind surely taking a similar path to his own. "They hoard it as much as any Dragon, I deem."

Harry shook his head, smiling as he thought back to the Dwarves he had met in the East; the treasure-rooms of Ironhaunt surely put this small hold to shame, even though the wealth of that city had not been in Gold as had been the case in this place. "They no more hoard their gold than the Elves hoard music, or good cheer, or fine tapestries. There is beauty here, in the great and in the small. From the largest carving to the smallest coin, Dwarves see much beauty in all that has been created from the earth. Gold, gems, even stone and metal are as capable of beauty as are the woods of Lothlórien, or the falls of Imladris."

"There is the Gold Fever, yes, called the dragon-sickness by some, but that it has such a name speaks for itself. Dwarves do not hoard gold for its value, like Men, at least they do not normally do so. Nibgîn kidzul is how they name the treasure halls in their own tongue, and it means something closer to 'golden gallery' than the normal translation to Westron."

Daewen was quiet when Harry paused, and so he turned to look to her, unsure if he had perhaps been giving is explanation to empty air. She was still stood there, and the look upon her fair features was one indecipherable to Harry, but he hoped that she was perhaps re-thinking some of what she thought she knew of the Dwarvish people. "To a Dwarf golden finery is not something to be merely used and discarded in the pursuit of comfort, or beauty. It is beauty to them as surely as the stars in the night sky, or the sound of water in a brook.

"I have no doubt it seems strange to you, indeed, I still find it hard to see the world as the Dwarves see it even after living among them for as long as I have." Harry shook his head then as something occurred to him. "Though I perhaps have the advantage of you in this, for I also find it hard to see the world as do the Elves."

He fell quiet then, to allow his companion to reflect on his words. "If it is beauty they seek, then perhaps they should not hide from it beneath their mountains," said Daewen, though Harry could tell that her words had not the same certainty that they would have had a few years earlier. It was the smallest of victories, but Harry was happy with it.

"Perhaps."

o-o

"It has been many years indeed since last I saw a blade like this," said Celeborn later that day when Harry brought the black sword to him.

"To my knowledge, only two such blades have existed, and both were surrounded by many tales of woe. Anglachel, was the blade I knew. Presented to Elu Thingol by Eöl as the price he paid to reside in Nan Elmoth. Its is a sorry story, filled with much pain, betrayal, and death. Perhaps you have heard of it, in fact, for it was later called Gurthang, and was wielded by Túrin Turambar to his doom."

While Harry had heard of the story of Túrin in brief, he had never heard nor read of the full extent of his tragedy. He knew of it only because the fall of Nargothrond was among the many frescoes that adorned the walls of Imladris.

Indeed, it was said that the Narn i Chîn Húrin was perhaps one of the most tragic of all of the tales of the First Age, an Age that had been no stranger to tragedy. It was perhaps the greatest testament to the cruelty of Morgoth among any of the tales of the Elves.

"That blade was broken, though," said Harry as he looked upon the black blade with no small measure of alarm. "The tales say that Túrin cast himself upon it in his grief, that it broke then and was never reforged."

"So it was," said Celeborn his eyes sad, with some glimmer of old pain hidden there, "But there was another. Eöl forged not one, but two blades. The first he named Anglachel, and gifted to the King of Doriath, as I said, but its brother he kept for himself. Anguirel it was called, and it was perhaps the finer of the two. How much do you know of Eöl?"

"Not much, in truth," Harry admitted. "I remember only that which is told as part of the story of the Children of Húrin, that he was possessed of a heart darkened by jealousy and malice."

"Perhaps, though I fear that malice has grown over the years, far beyond anything he possessed in life," said Celeborn. "He was no monster, and those whom he loved, he loved fiercely and without fear. That is of little matter now though, for it is the story of his other blade that concerns us. Perhaps you have heard of his son, Maeglin, during your time in Imladris?"

That was a name that Harry knew well. It was a name that would live forever in infamy among the Noldor. It had been Maeglin that had sown the seeds of Morgoth's final victory over them. It had been Maeglin who had betrayed Gondolin, the greatest city of the Elves in Middle-earth, to the great Evil. It had been Maeglin who had battled Lord Elrond's grandfather, Tuor Eladar upon the high ramparts of that city, even as the hosts of Morgoth descended upon it.

Now that he thought on it, Harry remembered the frescoes upon the walls of Imladris, and one in particular depicting the fall of Gondolin. In it Maeglin had wielded a sword of living darkness, that cast shadow like a torch cast light.

"This is the sword of Maeglin?" Harry could not help the grim interest as he looked over the blade that had surely drawn the blood of many of Elrond's kin.

"It is," said Celeborn. "And it is perhaps the finest blade ever forged by Elvish hands. Eöl could be coarse, but he was undoubtedly one of the greatest smiths of arms and armour of the Eldar in any age. He was perhaps bested only by Fёanor in that skill."

"Much ill-fate befell him, though," said Harry, still uncertain. "He and his kin."

"Do not judge him by the harsh words of his enemies," said Celeborn ruefully. "Eöl lived well for a great span of years, he was a great friend to the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost, and a loyal subject to Elu Thingol, much though I know he wished our king had acted differently. He did not curse the brother blades, that much I know. I am not so learned in smith-craft as he, and never will I be, but that much I know."

"Those were dark days, as Morgoth spread his shadow across the Beleriand, and many unkind fates were wrought upon much kinder people, Elves, Men and Dwarves all. His story is a cautionary one, yes. It is a lesson on the evils of selfish love that all should hear and heed."

"You knew him." Harry said, as realisation dawned. He had never heard even Lord Elrond speak so kindly of the Dark Elf.

"I did," said Celeborn, his voice quiet. "He was kin to me; a cousin to my father. I knew him little enough, in truth, for he had already left the halls of Doriath when I was begat. I met him a few times though, and he did not seem to hateful to me, young though I was."

The Lord of Lothlórien shook himself from his reminiscence and his eyes returned to the black blade, returned to the world from legend. "Remember, all blades seek to wet themselves with blood. Be they the finest blades of the Elven-smiths, or the meanest sharpened shank of the Orcs, it is an inescapable fact of their being. A weapon of war cannot seek peace, it cannot save a life and it cannot heal wounds or cure disease. It is a tool of death, and so to death it cleaves. The greater the weapon, the more full the voice of its call, and in your hand now is a weapon perhaps greater than any other that may still be found in the lands of Middle-earth. It is said that no iron-forged weapon may stand against it."

"Perhaps it would be best if it had not been found," said Harry, his voice distant as he tried to hear the bloodthirsty braying that would surely befit such a weapon of war. There was nothing. Only the sigh of wind through the lonely mountain valley.

"Perhaps," said Celeborn, though his tone bore with it some doubt. "But it has been found, and it has been found by you. You have passed through the darkness, and emerged on the other side not untouched yet still unsullied by it. There is much power within you, Harry, of a kind I have seldom seen. I know not what your purpose is, or what fate might await you at the end of your road for that is surely beyond even the sight of Galadriel herself.

"I do know, though, that your presence here speaks to something more. The power you wield, though I have seen but a glimpse, could be the remaking of this world, or its final destruction. You will have to make many choices, some easy, and some difficult. This, perhaps, is your first choice. Will you take up Anguirel, or will you set it aside?"

Harry was silent for a while before he shook his head, and asked, "what would Celeborn the Wise counsel?"

"This is your choice alone to make," said Celeborn with a shake of his head. "In truth, I know not myself. I will say only this, take it or do not, it is not that choice which is important. Instead, it is your reason for doing so that will decide the virtue of your decision."

After another long moment filled once again with thought, Harry at last concluded. "Then I shall keep it. In my hands, at least, I know it will not come to evil."

o-o

Another day passed before the corpse of Scatha had cooled enough that Harry was able to start the laborious process of harvesting the heartstrings of the huge beast.

It was slow and tiring work. Scatha's scales were nigh impenetrable, and his muscle and sinew were like steel. Though the body had cooled, it was still far from cold, and the hall in which it rested was filled with stifling heat, and the lingering scent of smoke, soot and burned flesh. Despite that, Harry turned away all offers of help from both the Men of the Éothéod, and Celeborn's companions. This had to be his labour alone.

He worked slowly, methodically, with the sharpest knives and daggers he could find among the ruins of the Dwarf hold. Though surely Anguirel could have sped the process up greatly, something within Harry knew that putting the weapon to such a menial task would be an insult.

That evening, he finally uncovered the heart, though it took him some time to recognise it as such. It looked little like any heart Harry had ever known; it was misshapen, and was covered in small black scales, like charred meat. Nonetheless, he continued his work. It was well that Scatha had been so large, for Harry made many mistakes in his early attempts to tease apart the individual heart-strings.

Eventually, however, he was successful, and had in his bloodied hands one of the pale tendons. He did not stop there, though, instead opting to continue until he had a full half-dozen of the heartstrings, all that remained after his failed attempts.

He knew that he was unlikely to manage his intended feat first time.

The sun was low then, dipped below the westward mountains, and only the orange hue of its reflected glow was left to illuminate the land. Still, Harry did not stop in his work. He could feel how close he was.

From his packs he withdrew two wands. They were perhaps rougher than those he'd seen in Ollivander's workshop so many years ago, for though he'd practiced at the work with the aid of Laerornon of Imladris, the old Wandmaker of Harry's youth still had many years of experience on him. So too did he pick up some rough-hewn lengths of wood, of a few different types. Pine, Apple, Beech, Oak and Fir were all represented, in addition to the two almost completed Holly wands.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking that had led him to put more effort into trying to recreate his old Holly wand. Now that the moment was closer, he could feel that they would not be his best option. He did not need to be reminded how much he had changed, even before he had come to Middle-earth.

Instead, he set the Holly wands aside, and looked to the rough-cut woods. The Apple switch almost felt warm to the touch when he picked it up, and in many ways it reminded him of the time he'd spent in Imladris. At the same time, though, it was not a wholly comfortable feeling. He could not remain there forever, and perhaps it would be best if his wand did not try to draw him back. He couldn't forget his purpose in crafting the wand, he wanted to use it to leave this world. The Applewood would not do either.

He then picked up the Oak, and it felt lifeless in his hands. He turned it over a couple of times, but could get no sense or feeling from it at all. He shook his head, and set that one aside too.

"What are you looking for?"

Harry looked up to find Daewen, who had seemingly been watching his silent contemplations. So engrossed had he been that he had not noticed her approach.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Even if I did know, I'm not sure how well I'd be able to explain. To a wizard, a wand is like a friend, and a part of you. It is both a tool and an extension of your will. I am no master wandsmith, so all I can do is try and feel my way through the process. I hope I will know what I'm looking for when I find it."

"Then you at least know what you are not looking for?" she asked.

"Perhaps," Harry said, still unsure just why he'd set aside the Apple and Oak. "The Oak was"— he paused as he tried to search for the words to describe the feeling —"dead? I do not doubt it could make a fine wand, but it does not seem to have any connection to me, any wand that was made from it would not perform well for me. Like riding a horse that has only known one rider, if I was skilled enough it would work for me, but it could never be as good as one that had known only my hand.

"The Apple felt warm, good I suppose. It felt a little like the air of Imladris, to my mind. Yet there is some kind of wall between me, and it, as there is between me and Imladris. Beautiful though it is, I know I cannot truly belong there," said Harry, then he held up a hand to stay Daewen's objections. "I know that you would say different, as surely would Lady Arwen, or Lord Elrond, but it is something I know in my heart. As your people mourn the loss of Cuiviénen, Beleriand, or even the Shining West beyond the sea, so too do I mourn the loss of my home. I yet yearn to return there, even though I can barely remember the sight of Hogwarts, or of the stars reflected in the Black Lake. To choose Apple would be to take one more step from that home which I have missed so much."

He turned his attention to the remaining woods, and picked up the switch of Beech. It felt different from either the Oak or Apple, not warm nor cold but instead it felt a little familiar, like the reminder of an old, forgotten memory. It was a pleasant sensation, but at the same time there was something else, a life and vibrancy that felt almost tiring. Perhaps if he'd been a younger man than he now was, it would have been perfect, but it would not suit the man he was now. He set it aside too. "Too excitable," was the only explanation he gave.

Next was the Fir, and it was close to perfect. He felt resolve there, and determination. He very nearly ended his search there, but as he held it a little longer, there was something else, almost judgemental. Harry frowned and set it down, for he might yet opt for it.

Finally, he picked up the Pine. In that moment he knew he'd found the right wood. There was no rush of wind or golden light, it was after-all a simple piece of wood. Within it, though, he could feel something that he could not possibly describe, as if he had found a kindred spirit and more, something that could, one day, be an extension of himself as he'd described to Daewen.

"This is the one," he said as he tossed the piece of wood to Daewen. "What can you feel?"

She looked at him, and Harry could tell she still had no idea what he was talking about. "The wood is rough, weatherbeaten," she began, sounding unsure. "Despite that, though, it is actually a younger branch, perhaps even still green in its heartwood."

"Good," said Harry, pleased by her insight, even if she did not seem to recognise it for what it was. "That's a very good start. The tree from which it came stood alone atop one of the windy foothills of Eregion. It shall be my wand-wood. I know it."

"What, then, is the next step?" Daewen asked as she passed the short length of wood back to him.

"I am not sure," he admitted. "I have experimented before, but I fear I have never found the right process." He set the wood to one side. Now would come the most difficult part. in truth, he had no knowledge of how to craft a wand. His experiments, while not complete failures, had certainly been no feats worthy of song. His only partial success had been an ugly thing in both the eye, and the mind, and he knew that it would not do to make the same mistakes again.

He closed his eyes, and tried to envision the final product. Rough, yes, but unmistakably a wand, a part of him that sung in his bones when he held it. In the center of it was the heartstring of Scatha, and the body was unbroken wood, no join nor hole visible on its surface. How, then, was he to get the core into the wood, if it could not be cut or pierced?

He thought back to his old Holly wand. Even after so many years he could remember every ridge and groove, every ring and every dip. There had been no blemish on its surface, save the nicks and scratches it had gained over its busy life.

How, then, had Ollivander and the other wand-crafters done it? If they had split it then the join had been perfect with not a hairline crack to show their work. Had he not known the impossibility of fixing a wand using magic he would have sworn that they had used some kind of repairing charm.

Suddenly it hit him, if he could somehow vanish just the parts that he needed to remove to get the core into the wand, then un-vanish them, he'd have exactly what he needed. Was there a potion that could do that? Could that even be possible?

He reached over to his supply pack, and started to root through the various herbs, flowers and dried insects he'd collected on his travels. He wished there was such a thing as a diricawl in Middle-earth, but he'd heard no mention of such a creature. He'd have to come up with something else. The comeredh seeds, one of the southern spices rarely available during banquets in Elrond's Hall might be what he needed. That would supply the primary component.

He needed to temper that though, or he'd simply destroy the wand before it ever was. Wormwood might help there, and perhaps some of the small spiky blue flowers he'd found during his travels across the plains of Rhûn. Hopefully they would ensure that the wood would be vanished, but not destroyed.

He mixed the comeredh seeds gently into the warm water, coaxing their power gently, he didn't want them to overwhelm the draught. Next were the blue flowers, ground into a pale blue paste along with the wormwood. With careful motions, he wove them into the mixture, and they left behind a blue spiral in the murky brown mixture. It took a while, but eventually he had them fully mixed, and the potion turned white. Still not right.

Then he added the real power, a single drop of dragon's blood, which set the entire concoction smoking when it hit the surface of the potion. In a moment the entire mixture went glassy, so clear as to be almost invisible to the eye.

Still, something was missing. He had it right, he could feel it, but he needed something to activate it.

"Though I have seen you at your art often enough, the effects still leave me in wonder," said Daewen, pulling Harry from his thoughts. He blinked then, for he had almost forgotten she was there. He realised, then, that he had more audience than Daewen alone. Around them both were a small group of both Men and Elves, each looking on with interest, with a few whispered conversations passing between them.

"In truth, I feel the same," said Harry. "When I was learning, I never was all that good at potions. I cannot imagine what my old teacher would think of me now." Perhaps that was a bit of a lie; he couldn't imagine Snape would have had any positive thoughts.

"It's still not done," he said, perhaps more for himself than his onlookers. "I need to awaken it somehow, only then will it work."

"Perhaps some miruvor?" said Daewen, her voice light with wit, but Harry knew the moment the word passed her lips that, jest or no, she'd found the right answer. He knew well the power and revitalising effects of the Elven cordial, perhaps it would serve the revitalise his concoction too.

"I think that may be exactly what I need," said Harry, his excitement beginning to grow. He stopped. "But I do not have any among my supplies."

"Nor I," said Daewen, regret clear in her tone. Neither of them had thought to bring it, for water was always much easier to come-by in the wilds.

Harry slouched back where he sat, and released a heavy sigh of frustration. Of course he would again have to wait, he had done little else since he had begun his quest to return home.

A hand came to rest gently upon his shoulder, and Harry looked up to be met by Celeborn's ageless face. Celeborn smiled, and held out a small glass vial. "The Lady Galadriel gave me this before I departed," he said by way of explanation. "She said that you may have use for it."

His hands shaking slightly, Harry took the tiny vial, which surely could not contain more than a thimble-full of liquid. As he looked closer, he could see that it was no miruvor, at least, it was not the miruvor he had imbibed during sessions of merrymaking with the Elves of Elrond's house. "What is this?"

"Miruvórë," said Celeborn, and Harry heard Daewen's breath hitch in surprise. "Of which the Miruvor you know is but a poor imitation. It is, I think, the last of its type anywhere east of the sea. The Lady has carried it with her for many ages of the world, as a reminder of the home which she forsook for Middle-earth."

"I…" Harry tried to find the right words "... I cannot take this, Lord Celeborn. Its value is too great; its worth, too high." In truth, he still did not know what the liquid was, but he did know what it represented to the Lady Galadriel.

"The Lady has granted you this, Harry," said Celeborn firmly, "and she is not one to be denied in her gifts. She does not tell me the purpose in her every action, but I know that it is there nonetheless."

In the face of such determination, Harry found he could not turn the gift down a second time. "Then I shall at least try to avoid using it all," said Harry, deciding on a compromise.

"You may try," said Celeborn, but his knowing gaze told Harry that he would not come out on top this time.

He turned then back to his concoction, and the Pine branch. He couldn't simply add the Miruvórë to his potion, for then it would surely vanish his cauldron, along with some of the fire-pit beneath. After a moment's thought, he picked up the wand wood, and, with the greatest of care, dabbed a tiny amount of the Elvish cordial on the broadest end of the branch. Then, using another branch as a brush, he carefully applied a single drop of his incomplete vanishing potion to the same spot.

There was a rush of something, barely more than the faintest summer breeze upon his senses, yet it was undeniable.

A moment later, he was sure of it. It was almost invisible to the eye, but there was a tiny dip in the wood where he'd applied his potion.

A hair's width of wood had vanished.

Harry glanced up to where Celeborn and Daewen both were looking on. Daewen met his gaze, her eyes searching; for a moment, Harry thought he saw surprise upon the face of Celeborn, but in the span of a moment it had gone, and was replaced by the firm gaze of a Lord of the Eldar. He gifted Harry the slightest smile, which Harry couldn't help but return tenfold.

"This will work," Harry said, his words came quickly, rushed from his mouth by the gathering throng of his thoughts. "Thank you, my Lord. And thank your Lady. This is… this is it, I think. I feel it, more than that, I know it. This will be my wand, and my first true step upon the road I must take home. I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay."

Celeborn raised a hand to stop him. "Your thanks are well received, and it gladdens me to see that my Lady's gift is not undervalued. There is nothing to repay, however, for that is the nature of gifts. The Lady Galadriel did not sell you one of her last reminders of Valinor, for there is no wealth in all of Arda or Aman that could hope to buy it."

"I — Of course," said Harry. He rose to his feet then, and gave Celeborn a respectful bow. "I would not mean to demean the gift that has been given to me. Perhaps, once all is done here, I might return with you to Lothlorién, to thank the Lady Galadriel myself."

"We would be pleased to receive you," said Celeborn, a faraway look in his eyes. "I know that my daughter, and granddaughter will rejoice to see you once again. Perhaps we will even prevail upon you to stay awhile. There are few sights in Middle-earth more beautiful than the deep woods of Lothlorién in the spring."

But all Harry could think of was the first time he'd laid eyes upon Hogwarts, crowned in stars.

o-o

Harry was awoken by music. It was hard to describe, a chaotic medley of every instrument he had even known, and yet more besides. Drums, and harps, horns and piccolos and, distant and muffled, the faintest memory of some kind of fiddle or viol.

When his eyes opened, the music vanished from his senses and he was greeted by a slate-gray sky and a cold wind out of the north.

He had worked late into the night the evening before. Long after all the Men had retired to bed, and the Elves had left to enjoy the night sky before the clouds rolled in, he had worked carefully, and painstakingly on his wand.

It had taken hours to vanish a deep enough channel into the wood, but he had managed it in the end, in the slowly dying light of his flickering fire. He had married the wood and the core together then, and nothing had happened. He'd known it could not be so simple, for at that point he did not hold a wand, only a piece of dragon, and a length of wood. He needed to unvanish the wood, both the string, and the wood needed to be whole again, and more than whole. They needed to be one and the same, if they were to become a wand.

That had been the purpose of the blue flowers in his potion. By working them in together with the wormwood, he'd been trying to add some kind of recovery effect to the draught. He'd meant for the wood to unvanish. The problem was he did not know how long it would take.

It had happened after he'd succumbed to sleep.

In his hand was a brand new wand. It was no beautiful thing like Ollivander's creations; in truth it still looked to be an unassuming stick, blown from a mountain Pine by the winter winds. Uncomely though it was to the eye, it was without doubt the most wonderful wand Harry had ever held. He could feel the power that hid within it, it was like a drumbeat upon his fingers, and reverberated through his body and through his mind.

He did not know if it was simply due to his greater affinity with magic, but it felt like so much more than his Holly wand. Where his Holly wand had felt like a living thing, this wand almost felt like it had a will of its own. It cried out to be used, to be unleashed.

Harry heeded its siren call. In that moment there was only one spell he could think to cast. His voice rang out across across the valley, powerful and filled with joy.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A/N: Long time, no see.

So Harry has a wand at long last, and a brand new sword in the form of Anguirel. I found it rather difficult to discuss the origin of the sword without falling down the rabbit-hole that is the Silmarillion. Given that Anguirel and its brother had roles in many of the pivotal events of the First Age, I had to condense it down significantly so as not to drone on.

I will note that I have made Eol and Celeborn kin. Eol is explicitly named as 'kin' to Elu Thingol, though the manner of that relation isn't known. Similarly, Celeborn in his Sindar incarnation (Depending on the version you read, he was either Teleri from Aman, or a Sindar of Doriath, I have elected for the Sindar option) was also kin of Thingol. By that measure, I have made them cousins, with Celeborn being grandson of Elmo, and Eol being son or grandson of Olwe.