The Whirlwind 12: Harry
Fíli did die on the back of the great bear, still a long distance from the healing tents.
Harry had suspected so, concluding the worst the moment she'd seen the bear halt its mad dash to the healers; still, she'd flown down to Erebor's gates to learn for sure. A camp was quickly growing there, now that the fighting had ended. She glided above it, turning in lazy circles, eavesdropping. The Dwarves below were subdued as they raised their city of canvas, solemn at the loss of the crown prince despite their decisive victory.
She didn't stay long, only as long as it had taken her to observe enough of the proceedings, to then snuck inside the healing tents and steal clean bandages. She also took a jar of the salve she'd watched the Dwarves there using on cuts and lacerations. Once she had her provisions, she hastily flew back up into the Hills, thankful for the eastward wind that easily carried her over the distance without much help from her wings. Her whole right side was sore, burning pain jolting her even with the most careful of movements. She chose a spot at random, a ledge barely wide enough for her bum to fit once she transformed back into a witch, but fit she did, her legs hanging over the edge.
The salve smelled of honey, and of herbs Harry failed to identify. She spread a generous layer over the stab wound on her shoulder, wincing at its burn. With the help of a Levitation Charm, she wrapped the fresh bandage over the injury and around her shoulder, perfectly aware the cut would have to be stitched at some point, but utterly unwilling to deal with that problem now. She donned her cloak again, and finally allowed herself to slump against the cold stones behind her back, eyes staring at the settling battlefield down below her, seeing very little of it.
At some point, she took out an Orcish dagger from her pocket; a blade that she'd found in the pile of bodies up on the waterfall and one that she fancied looked like the one she had seen stab Fíli. She began spinning it in her palm absentmindedly, still staring blankly into the middle distance.
During one of her sweeps over the camp, she had flown over the heads of the Dwarves of Thorin's Company. They had gathered in front of the healing tents, looking battered and bloodied, but standing on their own or sitting upright. She counted their familiar faces; eleven Dwarves and one Hobbit. There had numbered fourteen at her house in Lake-town, the night before Orcs and Smaug had destroyed it; which meant only Thorin himself was missing, presumably still asleep. She winced at the sort of news he'd heard upon waking.
One out of fourteen was a good ratio. One dead against thirteen alive men was a good ratio, for a battle as chaotic as this one had been, when bad luck killed as often as inexperience or mistake.
She wasn't surprised the Dwarves weren't quite ready to be so pragmatic about it. What baffled her, though, was that she felt unsettled by it.
Her long life had made her aware of the limits to her abilities, painfully and repeatedly; she had long given up on the ideal of trying to save everyone. Bitter experiences hardened her against guilt for the lives and injuries that slipped past her influence; and even the guilt for those she could have helped and ultimately failed, was now nothing more than a constant companion to her—always pressing, but mostly ignorable.
And yet, here she sat, her insides coiling with raw guilt as the devastated faces of Fili's family flashed in her recent memory, and her mind refused to distance itself from the tormenting spiral. Why?
In pursuit of the answer, she recalled the fight at the top of the waterfall, picking it apart moment by moment. One stood out—she remembered clearly the instant she'd chosen not to burn the oversized bats, to rather preserve her anonymity than risk this holiday turning sour.
Oh, here was the novelty.
It hadn't been the first time she'd gotten people hurt by her decisions; far from it, indeed. She'd been reckless more times than she could count, she'd been naive, slow or not clever enough. However, it hadn't happened often that she'd acted selfishly.
She hadn't quite established a coping mechanism for such guilt.
In hindsight, it was obvious she'd been uncomfortable with her choice throughout the whole fight. She rather fumbled her way through it—she'd gotten stabbed by a dagger, for Merlin's sake. How much easier was it to stop a thrown blade, compared to a curse? She hadn't noticed the two Orcs until they'd been almost upon her, and she'd bloody fainted.
She'd been out of her element out there on top of the waterfall and the persistent guilt had now made her see the true reason for it. It hadn't been because she'd got thrown into a strange world, no- she'd thrown herself into a plan where she wouldn't do her best, choosing to protect her own interests—her anonymity—above all else. For the very first time in her life.
It felt an altogether jarring experience, to make such a choice. For more than a century, she'd never even thought to pause and realise she'd had this option, to walk away from problems she had the power to solve. Offering help where help was needed was as natural to her as breathing.
Up until she'd got transported into Arda and this world had given her a blank slate.
She was self-aware enough to notice herself stalling—she definitely hadn't been researching a way out as intensively as she could, because she was bloody enjoying this mediaeval world. Most of her magic wouldn't work, there was no electricity, no elasticity, the towns stunk and people had not yet the means to care about basic human rights. And yet, none of this mattered because no one cared who Hattie Potter was and what she did with her time.
She'd made the decision months ago, to treasure and protect that anonymity.
Today, she came to feel its full consequences, and didn't enjoy feeling the selfish git it turned her into. The experience was as uncomfortable as it was alien; and she realised that it would prove a much harder exercise to stick to her plans for this adventure than she had first thought. She would not only have to learn to ignore much of Arda people's plight, which already went against the fundamentals of her personality; she'd also have to carry the guilt for the grief she could have avoided.
Was life in anonymity truly worth this? Could she find happiness in it despite such a price?
She'd been struggling with her fame since the moment she'd learned of it, at age eleven. No matter how well she'd learnt to carry it—and even wield it, yes—she'd never stopped longing for a life without it. She managed to disappear once in a while, but the price for staying incognito usually outgrew the advantages pretty quickly, as public as life had gotten at the end of the twenty-first century. To have this long-held, long-unattainable wish suddenly at the tips of her fingers in Arda- well.
She blinked at the Orcish dagger she found herself clutching. She grabbed it by the tip and threw it into the air with all the power her left hand could muster.
She stopped its flight a moment later, long before it could land on some poor bastard's head. Unbidden, her mind called up a memory. The where and when was lost to her now, but she heard Rami speaking, recalling his words with sudden clarity. "No one could rightly begrudge you a bit of selfishness, Harry. You might even seem more human for it."
She threw the dagger again, this time making sure it would land on the slopes below her, and left it there. It was ugly.
Then, she jumped; headfirst into the valley.
She transformed into a peregrine long before anyone could spot her. Soaring over the valley, she was quick to spot Bard on his white horse, riding through the Dwarven camp. Her head dropped when she saw who he kept for company—Thranduil and Gandalf rode at his left, their mounts trotting towards a tent in the middle of the camp, standing noticeably higher than its neighbours.
Steeling herself against yet another maddenly tiresome council, she swooped down to the camp. She was almost level with the roofs when it occurred to her she didn't actually have to be present for the talks.
She wasn't making any decisions, nor was she representing anyone—for once, she didn't have to be where the next plans were to be discussed. Sure, it could prove useful to listen to what else Gandalf had to say about the magic she'd thrown around today, but the thing was, she really didn't want to.
Bard would tell her all the important bits later, she decided. Flapping her wings carefully, she gained height once again, and with newfound energy shot high above Bard's head. She turned to leave the Dwarven camp behind, but before she reached its edge, her feathers ruffled in that unmistakable feeling of someone's eyes focused on you.
Making a circle in the air, she turned her head back, looking to see who'd meet her gaze. There, next to the entrance to what she knew were the healing tents, stood a tall man with his face turned upwards, following her flight with a look of sharp interest. She'd never seen him before—not in Lake-town, the Iron Hills, nor on any of the farms in between. She would have remembered—he definitely stood out, not just literally with his rather impressive height, but also with his mane of wild hair and his clothing, braving the frost of the day only in a light tunic. She wondered what his business with Dwarves was, but mostly, she just felt uneasy under his fierce glare that had too much of a knowing glint to it.
She quickly turned tail and headed towards Dale.
She didn't get quite that far because halfway across the distance to the city, another idea hit her. Knowing it had to be done now, even though she very much wanted to find a bath and a bed, she instead dropped to the bottom of the valley. It took her a moment to find a spot of ground not covered with corpses, but she landed on one such, already on her boot-clad feet.
It was a very gruesome sight that surrounded her, and she steeled her stomach against it. This needed to be done, a job as any other.
It had only been three or so hours since the killing stopped. The cold would also help, not only with the smell, but it would have kept away the postmortem rigidity for just a bit longer. She cast her eyes over the battlefield, discarding the orc corpses. It took her blessedly long before her gaze fell on a piece of Dwarvish armor—there weren't many of their soldiers fallen. She carefully found her way to the Dwarf, wincing every time she inevitably stepped on a body part.
The Dwarf's helmet was nowhere near his head, so she could clearly see that he was red-haired, round-cheeked and awfully young. His eyes still closed easily when she pulled down on the lids. She sent a quick thought to his loved ones, wherever they were, as she rested her palm over his eyes for a silent moment.
She had a look at his injuries next. The fatal wound seemed to be the slash across his abdomen. She quickly averted her eyes when she realised it was only his armor that kept his guts still close to the rest of the body. That was… maybe a bit daunting of a problem for her first try. Luckily, there was also a stab wound across his forearm, poisoned most likely, judging by the blackened tissue along the cut. That would be a much more sensible place to start.
She took off the part of his armor that covered his forearm, a vamprace, or some such name, to see the gash in its entirety. Then, she flicked her wand out of its holster and levitated some of the visible putrid mesh out of the wound and the lad's veins. Or at least, she tried to. A layer of healthy muscles and tissue followed, nearly hollowing the forearm down to the bone.
She quickly let go of the charm, cursing and wincing, but the damage was already done.
She'd expected failure. She knew that levitation charm was meant to grasp and lift the entirety of the concept the caster held in mind, especially if physically connected to any other parts. In her mind, she'd tried to distinguish the notion of the poison from the rest of the body as precisely as she could, but it would be too naive to expect it to work well on the first try. Still, this visceral of a reaction…
She turned her head towards the sky, away from the corpses at her feet, and took one deep breath. Then, she leaned over the dead Dwarf's forearm again and squinted her eyes in concentration.
Only to let all of that air out a moment later and let her shoulders sag in defeat. No… just no. No matter how practical the spell could turn out to be if she adjusted it for healing, she did not have the stomach for this. She'd practice on something else first, maybe separating-
She froze.
Something moved closeby. She heard the shuffling of leather, and then a painful gasp.
She quickly turned her head towards the sound and met a pair of brown eyes, staring at her from a bearded face.
"Hello," she said dumbly in her surprise.
The Dwarf didn't answer, his eyes glazed over and blinking slowly. Harry hurried over the two orc corpses separating them, and quickly scrutinized the Dwarf's armor clad body. His helmet was also gone and his hair was matted with dried blood at his temple—probably from the same blow that had left him unconscious up until now. A deep cut along his collar bone left the shirt underneath his chainmail soaked with blood and his face awfully pale. He'd been bleeding for a while. The cut couldn't have opened any major arteries though, otherwise he'd have been long dead by now. There was still a trickle of fresh blood oozing from the wound.
Seeing his breath quickening, she sent him into sleep with a gentle spell, before he could go into a full blown shock. Looking at her dirt stained fingers, she shrugged helplessly at the lack of any ideas on how to clean them. Low on options, she conjured a small but bright flame over the tip of her wand, stiff and unwavering even in the breeze, and poised it over the wound.
"Oi! Get out of here, you scamp!"
She extinguished the flame and snapped her wand back into its holster even as she whipped her head towards the sound. Two Dwarves were clumping over the corpses towards her, waving their axes above their heads.
She calmed down—they were too far to have seen anything, and they carried a stretcher between them.
"This one is alive," she called back. "But hurry."
She saw them hesitate at that, but soon, they were once again stammering towards her. "Get out of here, you greedy bastard! Have you no shame?" one of them shouted.
At first, she got alarmed they'd seen her practising, but with relief she quickly realised they just took her for a thief, robbing off the corpses.
She got to her feet, spun on her heel and started running away from the approaching Dwarves. She hoped they'd prioritize the life of the wounded soldier over chasing her, but she wasn't taking any chances. She cast her eyes for the nearest boulder big enough to hide her, and jumped behind it, disappearing from their sight. Sparing one last look over her shoulder, she was glad to see that the two Dwarves were indeed busy loading up their injured kin onto the stretcher.
She transformed and took flight.
She briefly contemplated landing somewhere else on the vast battlefield, and experimenting some more.
But… no, still no.
She doubted any experiments would turn productive today, in her current mood. She'd come back to it later, and preferably not on corpses at first. Maybe she could also learn something about the medical practices available here?
She headed straight towards their rooms in Dale, expecting them to still be empty. She was right. She flew in through the window she'd left open in the morning, and changed next to her cot. She gathered a set of fresh clothes into her arms, a bar of soap. A moment later, a peregrine was soaring down to the shore of the lake.
Bard found her an hour later. She was sitting on battlements far away from anyone, but still in plain sight, should he have a need of her. By then, she was freshly washed, had eaten, donned clean clothes to cover her bandages and was once again staring down at the valley. The townsfolk were marching back from Erebor now, guarded by a line of armed men on both sides of the procession.
The fact that Bard came to seek her out, instead of accompanying his family, told her the day was not over yet.
He bent down to her seat to embrace her in a one-arm hug, clearly relieved to see her. She breathed him in, equally glad to have him close again after a day like this, and what's more, unharmed.
He let go of quickly though, and when he looked at her afterwards, there was a wary glint to his eyes that hadn't used to be there, not even after the dragon.
"There's a man in the camp that can turn into a bear at will," he said. "Is he your kin?"
Strangely, she immediately knew which man—and bear—he was talking about. "No, not my kin."
Bard readily nodded. "I have thought as much. You seem to be rather more."
She winced at that description. Finding no answer that wouldn't be lying, she instead turned her gaze back to the valley.
"The wizard thinks it was some great Elven lady from a far away forest realm who lent her powers to our aid today," Bard said next. "He seems a wise man, this Gandalf the Grey, though perhaps in this one instance, he's rather ill-informed."
"Hm."
"Harry-" Bard's voice gained sudden urgency. "What you did today- When I saw the orcs advancing on the children, unprotected and too far away from anyone who could help, my whole family down there at the bottom of the valley- I will never be able to express my gratitude enough. But please, know that you have it."
Harry let out a soft sigh. After a moment of hesitation, she patted the brick seat next to her in an invitation.
Bard sat down, swinging his legs over the wall and facing the valley much like she did. He waited patiently for her to speak again, for which she was grateful.
"Back home, I would be imprisoned for life for what I did today," she started at long last, "or more likely, executed." It would be the Kiss, but Bard didn't need to know the specifics. She shuddered at the thought of wandering the world as a soulless husk. Or worse yet, as in her most horrible nightmares, being locked up, dying over and over again, with no hope for the cycle to ever break.
In practice, she knew she'd never let herself be taken in. However, up until now, she'd thought she would never let herself commit such atrocities in the first place. And yet, here she was.
"The curse I used, it takes away your free will and gives it to the caster, to do away with it as he wishes. We call it unforgivable, and truly never forgive its use on another intelligent being, no matter the circumstances."
"But surely, today, the trolls would-"
"No exceptions, Bard, not even today would count. Because once you allow the curse to be justifiable, people will try to justify it. Look at this day—we both agree the orcs needed to be stopped. I used the curse against the trolls because I didn't see any other option. But then, later, I played with the idea of using it on Thranduil, in jest mostly, but it would have certainly made him move his archers up onto Ravenhill faster and perhaps save more lives. It's a very steep hill, Bard, and especially slippery when paved with good intentions."
She glanced at him through the corner of her eye, but quickly averted it when she saw him gazing at her sharply under his furrowed brows.
"I'm telling you this because I don't want to be praised for what I did today on that battlefield. When the orcs burst from the ground, I made the decision to rather face the guilt of cursing the trolls, than having the blood of the townsfolk on my hands." And she still stood by that decision.
"Rather conveniently, there's no one here to judge me for it, but myself—and now, you. I understand what you lot think of Orcs and Trolls, and you probably won't condemn me for any wrongs done to them, but please, with what you've now heard, for the sake of my sanity, don't praise me either."
She waited then, tense and silent, for Bard's next words.
In the meantime, her thoughts continued to swirl in the same mess of guilt and rationalisation they'd got tangled in last night, since discussing Orcs with Bain and since her pencilled-in decision to look at this world's division between good and evil through this world's dogmatic eyes.
"If you're seeking judgement," Bard finally spoke up. "I'm afraid I cannot give it, for my eyes are blinded by gratitude. And I'm afraid they'll always stay so. But I'm glad you've shared the burden of your thoughts with me."
Harry could feel his eyes searching for her own, so she gave in and turned to meet his gaze. They were warm, warmer than when he'd met her here on the battlements.
"I will not pretend it doesn't calm some of my worries to hear you feel responsible for your actions, even if I can't see anything wrong with them myself. You seem to wield great power, and this life taught me to be wary of such a thing. However, I have not seen you do anything with it but help me and mine, and for that, you'll always have my trust and my friendship."
When he clasped her shoulder—on her uninjured side, thank Merlin—to further convey his point, Harry idly thought that for all the rather stunted emotional warmth the people of this world showed in day-to-day interactions—not entirely dissimilar to your proper stand-offish British family, actually—they could turn quite dramatic in the moments that mattered. She reached up and squeezed Bard's hand resting on her shoulder.
"I came here to ask for more of your help," he said next, letting go of her. "The orcs have fled wild and far. Thranduil and Dain had both sent soldiers to chase them, but there are many leagues between them and many trails to follow. I fear for the farms around the lake, and down south, along the river. They will prove an easy picking for the rogue orcs."
"I'll fly out right away," Harry said, already rising to her feet. This was an aid she was perfectly willing to provide—hunting orcs in the woods of the lake, far away from anyone's sight. Especially from Gandalf's, who could be finding the fault in his assumptions anytime soon.
"You should pack provisions. This could be a task for many days, if not weeks."
She smirked. "A falcon is capable of hunting other prey than just poisonous dragons."
When Bard winced at that reminder, she only laughed. After all, he had just promised he would stay her friend even through her oddities. She was going to take him up on his word.
She did pack a small bag before setting off, a change of clothes and some other comforts, as she didn't fancy the idea of staying a bird for the full few weeks. She also took Sigrid's sewing kit, knowing that after a tweak or two with spells, it would serve well enough for her wound. Sooner rather than later, the cut would have to be stitched, even if she had to Imperius another orc to do it, should she find herself without the nerve to close the wound on her own.
Five short minutes after saying her goodbyes to Bard, she was on her way to her usual courtyard.
Only to find it already occupied. She recognised the bear man by his silhouette right away—there weren't many as tall as him. He stepped out of the shadow and strode closer to where she stood stiff in her initial surprise, towering over her almost as much as Hagrid once had.
He seemed to inhale a lungful of air, obviously sniffing her, and she went to curse her predictability; she grew complacent in this strange world with very few magic users—he must have easily traced her usual routes.
"You're going hunting," he rumbled in a deep voice, a surprisingly pleasant one, and gave her a pause—of all the things he could obviously accuse her of, this was not the one she'd thought he would lead with.
"Take me with you," he said next.
That wasn't an option. She wanted to do this alone, and not just because she wanted to use her magic freely. She needed time on her own. "I don't see how that would work."
"I'm a fast runner."
"And I'm faster still," she bit back.
He straightened up his back. "Let me prove I can keep up with you."
That was ridiculous—she'd be miles away from here by the time he managed to get out of the gates.
She shrugged. "You're welcome to try."
"Wait," he stopped her when she buckled her knees for a jump. "Head south-east first. The orcs know of the Long Marshes along the Forest River, they would avoid the west bank of the lake and head for the farmsteads in the east. There are many caves along the slopes—they'll move alongside the hills, to take cover from sunlight."
She nodded, trusting in his expertise.
"Why do you want to go with me?" she couldn't help but ask before leaving.
"It's been a while since I shared a hunt."
Seeing the intensity in his eyes, she remembered Bard's question and grew uneasy. "We're not really a- a kin. You know that, right?"
His lips twitched into a smirk. "I do know that."
Something about his smile- oh. Ooh.
Flustered and woefully unprepared to deal with advances whilst she still believed everyone to think her a man, she only took a wobbly half a step away from him. Of course he knew better. He could sniff her out to be a human whilst she'd soared tens of metres above his head. Of course he could sniff her out to be a woman, too, now that she stood in front of him.
She frowned at him, truly annoyed now. But another thought occurred to her, and ever the pragmatic, she couldn't ignore the idea. "Are you any good with sewing?" she asked around a great sigh of resignation.
His impressive brows furrowed in confusion, but next, he was glancing towards the right of her chest. With no further surprise, Harry realised he must have smelled the bandages which had probably gone all bloody again from the open injury. Instead of being annoyed at the ease with which he continued to breach her privacy, she just felt glad at not having to explain further.
He nodded, his grin now fully gone, replaced by a solemn frown. "I've treated many wounds before."
"Well, good," she said, and she was glad, for the promise of help she read in his answer, as well as for the chance to stop him from blabbering her secrets to others, even though she might sacrifice some of her solitude in the next few days for it. "You'll find me near the caves of the Lake Hills, then. Not a word to anyone, though."
He only smirked at her again.
So she jumped and transformed without another word, leaving him far behind for now.
A/N:
This chapter's recommendation is so outside my preferences, I don't know how starved for well-written stories I must have been when I first clicked on it. And then I clicked again.
love is touching souls (surely you touched mine) by ToAStranger (ao3)
I return to this story whenever I need a reminder that Harry wasn't written as a powerhouse, but that his strength lies in his courage and kindness, and that he wields those as the sharpest of weapons like the badass-mother-f*cker he is. I don't usually write a canon Harry, I prefer to create excuses that would distance him from the teenager in the books (like 100 years of a hard life, as used in this story) but I always try to show the kindness surviving underneath the new thick hide.
Today's rec is a slash, and even if you don't generally read that, I'm still bold enough to encourage you to read this piece, at least up until chapter 7, and get reminded of what an amazingly strong character Harry can be even without all the embellishments we tend to give him in our fics, when the strengths Rowling gave him are wielded to their highest potential.
(I'd like to give something back to the authors that have directly or indirectly inspired me in my own writing. At the end of my chapters, I'll be mentioning stories that I'm more than happy to recommend for your further reading)
