Anti-litigation Charm: All of the characters and the Harry Potter World referenced by my work belong to JK Rowling, who is wonderful. ALSO, there are heavy references and a quote from The Return of the King, which belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his family. Those who don't like the cross-over aspect of this plot line, please rejoin us in Chapter 27.
The sole exceptions are Professors Svartunir and Nott, who are my creations as well as the plot. No money will be accepted for my work in any event.
Coromandel, I'm sorry for making you cry. Three times. You really are the best beta. (WARNING: Folks, this might be a tear-jerker. It will be okay, I promise.) Reviews are like cookies!
Whit started awake, his consciousness abruptly returned to him. It was disorienting to find his body upright and moving forward. Somehow, he was astride a horse. Immediately the part of his brain that was highly interested in his survival supplied that he was still inside Deirdre's mind, attempting to help her rid herself of the last of the dire curse that had taken root in her bones. He had been shot. Looking down, he found he was wearing a sky blue tunic embroidered with white silk feathers about the edge instead of the green of before, and his curiosity was piqued. His fingers probed his left shoulder, and came away clean. The flesh there was tender, but decidedly whole.
He chuckled in wonder when he held out his fingers for examination, finding a pair of the shiniest vambraces he had ever seen strapped to his forearms, reflective as mirrors. Other things had changed as well. Black hair peeked out from under a helm that gleamed as bright as the vambraces, and his eyes which were usually mossy green were now clear grey. His face was otherwise unaltered. He was clean shaven, and he was dressed in full plate with a repeated pattern of wings over shoulder and hip. He had been recast again as a leader of men in this strange production.
The fields were quiet, and he was at the head of a company of silent men. All watched with tears standing in their eyes as a procession of men, bearing up the broken body of a crowned king to the white city above. Looking about, he took a chance and murmured to the knight next to him, "Who passes here? My eyes are stung by the foul smoke and I cannot depend upon their report."
Quietly, his companion replied, "Prince, it is King Théoden of the Rohirrim. He was felled by the great beast that bore the Witch King of Angor." Whit was startled to see tears escape the knight's eyes and to hear his voice clot with anguish as he further reported, "And follows the bier of the Lady Éowyn, the King's only niece. No one knew that she travelled with us, for he had forbidden it. She would not stand by in the hour of need, and was with her uncle as he was struck down. She slew the black beast and toppled the Lord of the Nazgûl from his mount. As its breath befouled the air above, its blood blighted the earth, and alas, poisoned the fair Éowyn."
The man sighed in sorrow before he continued, "She met the fell fiend's challenge bravely in defense of her Lord, sickened as she was. The prophecy once declared that no man might strike down the Dark Hand and he taunted her with this, intending to run her through after wounding her resolve. To that, she removed her helm and let her long, wild hair run loose. That little halfling, stout fellow that is being carried there, reported it all to us. She said, 'No living man am I! You look upon a woman! Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. Begone if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him!' That drove the villain into a rage and as he leaned forward to attack her, though woman she be, that little one stabbed him in the calf from behind, sending the wraith staggering. Eowyn struck a mighty blow, and though no neck held up the foul iron crown, she yet slew him just the same."
Whit pondered the now passing form of the felled shield maiden. "What does she there? Surely her armour was not pierced, no bruises mar her face?"
His companion answered, "We know not, Imrahil. She lay lifeless next to her uncle, and all weep at her loss. Her brother Éomer ran mad with grief, and is leading those who could still ride off to drive off the rest of the orcs. The battlesong of the Rohirrim has changed to the refrain of Death."
Whit raised his head, marking the noise from furlongs far before returning his attention to the procession. "We too will bring death down on our enemies, but I would look on this Lady." He adjusted his grip on his reins and approached the second group, bearing the maiden. His eyes could not mistake the aspect of Deirdre Ward, her wild curls fanned out behind her. Her armour was in place, and her hands had been crossed over her chest.
"Hold a moment, friends!" Whit dropped his reins, and using the height of the horse he braced and leaned close. A touch confirmed to him that her magic was still there, and as he did that, he noticed light reflecting from his wrist guard. Ah, a way to tell the Muggles without seeming uncanny. "Fair Éowyn is not slain, but sorely injured! Take her to the halls of healing. See, her breath, though it be weak, casts a fog on my vambrace! She yet lives."
A murmur of amazement and relief went up amongst the company, and the men bearing the lady brightened, strength seeming to return to their limbs as they bore her more quickly onward, bypassing her late uncle on the road in their joyous haste.
Nott-Imrahil turned his steed to face the company, and so doing he was among the first to see the black sailed ships moving in from the west. They were thirteen in number, and large. A shout of dismay arose as others saw them too. One of his men called out the proper identification, "Umbar. Pirates from the sea. Has the Dark Hand stretched all of the way to the Western shores? Will no one come to Minas Tirith's aid?"
Whit saw movement in the topsail of the first and largest ship, and felt his magic swell with recognition. "Stay your grief, men. What is this deception?" For as he spoke, a huge black standard of black with a white tree unfurled, gleaming such that all could see it for leagues.
The company muttered in confusion, as this made little sense to them, but Éomer approached swiftly on horseback. One of the knights had fetched him with news of his sister, but at the sight of the ships he stood in his saddle, eyes round with astonished joy. The new King of the Rohirrim laughed, "Could it be? Is this relief that sails to Gondor's aid?" and all around looked to him for explanation.
Éomer glanced at Whit and said with excitement, "Cousin, the seven stars and the crown above the White Tree of Gondor. That is the standard of the heir of Isildur, on my honour! It has not been seen in these lands for forty generations." He cleared his throat, and men looked to him for direction. "Regroup and fall back to the walls. I need two sharp-eyed volunteers to scout the newcomers. If mine eyes do not mislead me, the King has returned at last!"
Men hurried to do as he bid, but Whit motioned his small company to follow back to the spot where Theoden and Eowyn were hewn down and the Witch King met his last. He bid his volunteers to stay back and to hold his horse. Crossing the remaining twenty yards on foot, he leaned over and willed a torch to appear for him to carry in his hand. The spot wreaked of dark magic, and he recognised it as one of the remaining spots of Deirdre's curse. Willing a pot of oil into his pouch, he walked the perimeter and doused the ground and the fallen carcasses. He muttered a cleansing incantation, warding the magic in so it could not escape. A pressure of will changed the mundane flame into white-hot soul-fire, which Whit used to burn out the blight. A shadow within the circle of fire wailed its last under its purifying force, winking out of Deirdre's mental landscape forever. Tossing the remainder of the torch into the circle, he returned to his men and remounted.
"What passes now?" The horses were nervous, and the men doubly so, their faces bloodless and pinched with worry. Whit took a moment to appreciate their bravery. "What has turned your hearts to ice and tongues to lead? Speak!"
His lieutenant turned to him, and in a faltering voice he reported. "Ghosts, sir. An army of ghosts has swarmed from the ships and are eating through the enemy host like unholy locusts." The man's horse danced in place, shaking its head in an effort to get his head free to run.
Whit turned his horse about to better observe the eerie host oozing over the fields, a sprawling conglomeration of thousands of condemned ghosts. There seemed to be three main groups, all lead by men of flesh and blood. A party split off from the main body, attracted by the cleansing bonfire. As they approached, Whit saw four mounted men. The easiest to discern was an elderly man in a white wizard's robe, mounted on a proud white stallion who was outpacing the other horses easily. There was nothing more than a saddle, and Whit was relieved to see a familiar twinkle.
"Mithrandir! Mithrandir! Gandalf has come!" The call was repeated by many voices, taken up as a chant of hope.
Laughing at the amazement on the men's faces, Dumbledore stood in the saddle, twisting to look behind him. "I am a mere outrider, for behind me rides Aragorn, Elessar, named Elfstone. As rightful heir of Isildur, he has called on the Faithless to fulfill their oaths." He turned around and murmured to his horse, "Shadowfax, get me closer to yon Prince. I wish to see his face." With a nicker, the white stallion stepped over to Whit's side. Whit's face was written over with astonishment as he found himself knee to knee with Dumbledore. The white rider bent over to whisper, "I have much to relate once all of this is over. But these shades are not all of this world. School your expression, as I do not wish to draw Mr Snape's attention to any familiar faces, lest all fall apart." The old wizard looked to the skies, as it occurred to him that Deirdre must be all around them as they were inside her mind.
Whit stood in his stirrups, his vision not yet good enough to see faces. In the centre rode a tall figure, shoulders square, his leathers sweat stained and showing signs of recent battle. To his right, a fair man rode with his bow unslung, an arrow notched at the ready. His horse's reins were tied loosely out of the way of the steed's hooves. The third figure was squat, fat, and bearded. This one held to his reins tightly, cradling a large battleaxe in his right arm. These last two did not seem quite solid, their flesh as translucent as the ghosts that marched beside them - although the horses were acting as though they were indeed carrying real men.
Whit's lieutenant moved forward to greet the party with a challenge. "Halt and identify yourselves for the Prince of Dol Amroth!"
A loud scoffing voice answered from the shortest of the crew, "Know you not, Strider, Aragorn, sixteenth Chieftain of the Dunedain? He who has come to save you all?"
Whit's response died in his throat as the middle figure finally came into focus. The man looked older in this aspect. Perhaps it was the tarnished mail that was donned over the black leathers, or the confidence with which he sat his horse. Severus Snape looked the part of a King. Belatedly, the Professor recognised the other two as the ghosts of the castle, although their appearance was much altered. Coming unstuck once more, Whit's voice rang out, "Hail, Elessar, Gondor welcomes you!" Dumbledore's low chuckling reached his ears. Smothering his annoyance, Whit urged his horse forwards to meet Severus.
The look of mingled relief and gladness that brightened Severus' face made Whit wonder exactly what he had already been through. He reached over and they grasped forearms in a warrior's greeting. Severus murmured, "You had Madam Pomfrey in a right state, sir. Do you not feel your shoulder?"
Whit let go of Severus' arm and rolled his shoulders experimentally. "The left is sore." Understanding dawned on Whit's face as he said faintly, "That arrow. It manifested, then?"
Nodding, Severus added, "And the Headmaster was scary too, all over shaking and sweating." He looked beseechingly at Whit. "I would have heeded your wishes, but you two needed the help." He spread his hands out, indicating his two companions, "I have brought reinforcements."
Whit's features had darkened at the implications. What manner of mischief had interfered in what should have been a routine curse breaking? "Quite. I'll delay thanks until after this is over."
The taller of the ghosts, whom Whit still hadn't yet identified, called their attention to an approaching host of spectres. The voice pinned him as Peeves, Whit would have never known him otherwise. "Death has not been kind to this host, they rot and fall apart at the soul-seams." He seemed to be highly disapproving of the group. "They fast approach, desiring release. Best you go out to meet them on foot young Lord, lest those Bird-brained knights lose their collective nerve."
The stout figure resolved himself to the be the Fat Friar, and interjected at this point. "Is it wise to discharge them so soon? They have been very effective."
Looking thoughtful, Severus dismounted and handed his reins to Nott-Imrahil. Striding with confidence, he walked out to meet the ghosts. The King of the Dead came forwards, and Whit was struck by the resemblance of the man to Snape himself. Dumbledore had ridden over to join them, and his amusement had been wiped off his face, now held carefully blank. Whit murmured to him, "This mental scape is very strange. I suppose that the ghost there resembles Mr Snape because he's related in the story?"
Peeve's voice responded, an evil leer entering it. "Only if Dumbledore's got a forebear too! Look now into the eyes of your own death, old man, if you dare! You appear much diminished, quite small, really."
Dumbledore's expression remained impassive, a quick glance at that shade was the only acknowledgement that he had heard Peeves. The Poltergeist broke into a cackle, leaping out of the saddle to walk behind Severus. The Friar spat, "Recreant and most degenerate traitor! Look not, Headmaster, for surely little good will come of it."
Whit felt the pit of his stomach drop out from under him and he called out, "Peeves, Don't!"
The apparition spun around with an open handed gesture, "I shall not enlighten the lad, oh great Prince of Swans. He needs his courage yet still, for the saga is not yet done!" He turned back and stood at Severus' right shoulder, falling silent as a witness. He was not afraid of the dead, even thousands of agonised, militant dead. They were his brothers, after all.
Whit watched, seeing the older version of Severus bow to the younger, noting a huge rip in the man's neck, undoubtedly the man's cause of death. The tableau was eerie, and he was glad that it had not occurred to the younger wizard that he may be looking at his own death. Now, that was a strange notion, "Why... would Miss Ward have these apparitions in her mind?" His eyes searched the crowd of spirits, noting several others who appeared sharper and better defined than the rest of their fellows. He thought that one at least looked somewhat familiar.
Dumbledore placed a cautionary hand on Whit's arm. "Have a care with the words you speak. She can hear us even if she is not with us, and I do not care to speculate in either student's hearing. We will have much to consider and discuss after this is over." At Whit's searching look, he added, "Peace. Let it be for now."
Whit found this disturbing, but was willing to accept his word, for now.
The sonorous voice of the King of the Dead cut across the ambient noise of the living, and all stilled to listen. His tone was one of pride, and disdain seemed to ooze from every cadence.
"We the Oathbreakers, the cursed men of Dunharrow have come at your call and vanquished the enemies of Gondor." The ghost took its spear and broke it across his knee with a vicious cry, tossing the ghostly weapon to the ground in front of Aragorn née Snape. "We have done all asked of us." The ghost lifted his eyes to meet those of Dumbledore-Mithrandir, "We served you in our deaths where service was given but begrudgingly in life. Our debt is paid tenfold." The ghost's resonant voice lifted, such that Whit fancied that even the newly dead might be able to hear, to the top of the tower of Minas Tirith. "WE HAVE CLEANSED THE DARK VERMIN FROM THIS LAND. SHE MAY HEAL IN TIME. RELEASE US. LET OUR SHADES GO ONWARD, AND THINK OF US NO MORE."
The old ghost of the King looked up at the sky as he cried out the last, and Whit felt as though he was saying a final farewell to one held dear. It was a plea for mutual release. Whit turned his gaze to the ghost of Dumbledore, and thought that he might be weeping, his head bowed before him. "What...?" Albus' hand on his arm squeezed him to silence, and Whit met the grave and foreboding look on the Headmaster's face. The words died on his lips, but his heart shuddered in his chest, wrestling with the implications.
Severus stepped forward, heart and mind full of emotion, its intensity bringing the prick of tears to his eyes. The King of the Dead turned to him, and all anger seemed to leech out of the tortured man's face. He knelt down on one knee before Severus and looked up at him. His voice now was softer, its cadences meant only for Severus to hear. "Make not the same mistakes as I did, young King. Choose your Lord and Master with greater thought and wisdom. All that is gold does not glitter, and not all those who wander are truly lost. Forgive yourself." The King looked towards the white city of Minas Tirith. "Release me and go. Your future waits. May it be better than mine."
Severus had a hundred questions and none. How did this ghost know anything of him? A quick mental search told him that this part was not written out in the book. The weight of the dead host's desperate need for release overwhelmed any urge that he may have had to make further demands. "I thank you all, and release you from your oaths. You have discharged them fully. Go with the blessings of the heir of Isildur and the eternal thanks of a grateful Gondor."
A breeze felt only by the spirits before him blew, and their souls seemed to brighten and heal before Severus' eyes, almost solidifying before blowing away in glittering motes to the sky above. The face of the old King lost its lines of care, and seemed to glow with peace. As he dissipated into the winds, he seemed to silently mouth a name. Severus was distracted from his vigil by Peeves pulling at his arm at that exact moment, and the apparition was gone when he looked back.
* The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien.