Uncharted Waters 4: Harry


It was so wonderfully easy to fall into a routine.

In the mornings, Harry had breakfast with Sigrid and Tilda. Bard rarely joined them; he was an early riser, usually holed up in his office by the time the girls gathered in the kitchens. Harry had shocked the maid on the second morning, when she'd shown up only in her nightie—well, a shift, indulging in the luxury of the long neglected habit from home. It hadn't surprised Harry one bit when Tilda turned up wearing the same the next morning.

During the day, Harry kept well away from her workshop and notebooks, excited to have good friends to spend time with instead, and a new home to explore. It was only in the late evenings, when everyone left for their bedrooms, that old habits and her impatience inevitably drew her back to her research and practice, and she spent many a peaceful winter night interrupting the quiet of the sleeping house with her frustrated cursing and bangs of furniture.

However, her days were spent wandering through the city, as much in the sight of the townsfolk as their neighbours would need to get used to having her around. Sometimes, she kept the girls company during their housework, entertaining Tilda with tales of her travels rather than actually touching any of the needlework the expecting mother was working on. In a moment of fond weakness, Harry even conceded to read through Sigrid's ledgers to check for irregularities.

Dinners were a joyous affair, with Tilda pulling even more stories out of Harry. In return, Harry made them recount the years she had missed: Bain and his training, Tilda's wedding, Sigrid's apprenticeship with Balin, Erebor's Head Councillor, and then made them share even more news on her old neighbours from Lake-town.

Bard, she did not see much, although that hardly surprised her. He joined them for dinners but rarely stayed for tea, heading to bed early, exhausted even as his eyes still brimmed with thoughts, no doubt mulling the day's problems over. She was familiar with the burden of short days and never ending tasks lists, and she felt keen sympathy for her friend. Three days in, she'd suggested another ride and he'd quickly agreed. She knew it was only his curiosity that had drawn him away from his responsibilities for the morning, but she was happy to employ any power at her disposal to get her friend away from his city full of demands, and let him enjoy a few hours of leisure.

They'd talked of their time in Lake-town, of the first months after they'd met. Of Harry's house full of broken mementos from her home world that she could now explain in full; of her first weeks in Lake-town and of the skills she had to learn to survive the strange reality of this world. The conversation hadn't strained far from memories they shared, as if they both felt the need to get reminded of the previous ease of their friendship, and invite it back.

Five days in, she had enough of this leisurely pace and was quite ready to introduce some frenzy back into her life. At dinner, she announced she'd be going to Erebor the next morning. She wasn't surprised when Bard decided to have tea that night and asked her to join him in his study to enjoy it.

"Would you share what your business proposal for Himli is?" Bard asked when they settled down in front of his fire, out of earshot of the girls. His eyebrows furrowed in the way she remembered signalled he was uncomfortable with his next words. "If it is funds you need, trust that you only need to ask."

She wanted to roll her eyes, but her self-control proved stronger for once. "I refused to acknowledge any debts you feel Dale owes me."

He was quick to shake his head. "I will not insult you by trying to pay off our gratitude for the many lives you saved. However, there is an entry in our books that clearly documents that you paid for two trips of goats and several months' worth of hay. Dale is now ready to settle such debts."

"That debt is written in Harry's name, so I wouldn't accept it even if I had a need for it. Thank you, Bard, but I'm quite set for many more years to come," she said, thinking of the piles of Galleons sitting deep in the Iron Hills that she still hadn't melted and recast into the local currency.

"Why do you need to involve yourself with the Dwarves, then?"

She felt her brows rising. "Weren't you the one to encourage me to test this disguise? Why this change of heart?"

"I seem to have grown uneasy with the idea. Perhaps meeting with Ori, or any other Dwarf of Thorin's Company would serve as a sufficient test; I fear that doing business with them might prove a step too far. Their suspiciousness peaks when their craft and gold is involved. I would caution against such ventures."

She could hear the bitter tones of experience in his voice and nodded in respect of it.

He visibly relaxed at her gesture. "You will reconsider then?"

"Quite on the contrary. I'm even more certain now that I need to do it."

As he seemed to sink into his chair, she let go of her cuppa with one hand and reached over to clasp his forearm briefly. She did appreciate his concerns, but not enough to change her plans.

"I intend to live comfortably," she explained, "and I refuse to keep doing so out of your pocket. I have my funds from home, but I also need a traceable and legitimate source of income. Especially when I'm already under the Dwarves' close scrutiny."


Oh, Harry liked Erebor very much.

Sure, the Mountain Kingdom was splendid, magnificent with its cavernous halls, and beautiful even in the tiniest of details of its decour. That was not the reason for her good mood, though. For the first time in her long life, she was the tallest person in the room.

Not by much, grant you. Her heeled boots gave her only some extra two or three inches over Dwarves, but even that was enough to tower over the busy market she found on the uppermost of the Floors of Guilds, just one gate from the grand entrance hall.

She had long stopped despairing of her short stature; made it into a virtue instead, often in the habit of dressing down politicians and criminals (sometimes both at the same time) a foot taller than her. However, as she now cast her gaze over the tops of the heads surrounding her, she was reminded of how much effort it had taken her to first build that confidence. A rush of air escaped her lungs, and with it, she let go of some of the unwitting tension that always kept her spine overtly straight to be able to meet the eyes above hers.

Yes, she liked this place, even if it currently made her stomach jittery with nerves.

After all, she couldn't help but remember her first and last visit into the Mountain, when she'd been chased through these very floors. Well, she'd escaped then, and she would escape again, if necessary.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she spotted a familiar face weaving through the busy crowd, and she quickly averted her eyes from the young Dwarf, lest she'd draw him into eye contact. She wasn't naive enough to hope her presence inside the Mountain had not been noted, but she'd be damned if she invited anyone to approach her.

Following Bard's vague directions, she headed to the grand staircase on the other side of the market hall, knowing that Himli's shop was two levels down. Curious stares followed her progress, though none felt too invasive or malicious. She was hardly the only foreigner among the many merchants here.

She was almost upon the stairwell when a loud commotion made her glance back. She followed the sounds of high-pitched laughter to a stall with yarns and threads and a few finished tapestries. She found Kíli there among the artisans and their looms, the young Dwarrowdams all tittering on their stools as he grabbed one of them around the waist and spun her in a circle. Harry watched him place a kiss on her whiskered chin to the excited giggles of her friends, even as the other merchants glared at the loud spectacle with scandalised scowls.

Harry turned back and headed down the stairs with a sad smile. Well, that's one way to fight grief.


Himli was a properly full-figured Dwarrowdam, with hair as dark as Harry's own. She'd gone into what must have been an enormous amount of effort to braid her top locks into a fascinating veil of tiny interlacing braids, running down her head and even over the beard along her jaws. Whilst she stared at Harry with a fierce frown, Harry entertained herself with figuring out the pattern in the mesmerizing plait.

"Correct me if I misunderstood," the Dwarrowdam said at long last, drawing Harry's attention back from the silver beads that adorn the braids. "You want me to build your design, and if I find it a good one, you want to talk about opening production together?"

Harry nodded, relieved that her proposal had gone over clearly.

The Dwarf scoffed. "Girl- are you really that naive?"

It was Harry's turn to scowl, but Himli was not done talking. "You've just given me everything I'll ever need from you," she pointed at the scroll with Harry's sketches resting on the table between them. "What else would I gain by agreeing to share the future profits?"

Harry didn't fight the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth at the Dwarf's answer. "So you do think the idea has potential."

Himli's brows furrowed further, at Harry's dismissal of her question or at the excited grin, Harry didn't know.

"Well?" Harry prodded after a few more empty seconds passed.

The tense silence continued, until Himli finally exhaled a rather frustrated-sounding puff of air. "Of course it'll work—you've seen it work. I can recognise a model drawn out of memory easily enough. It's clear it's not your creation—and that's why you don't own any rights to it."

Well, that was an incredibly fortunate start. Harry wasn't even alarmed, let alone insulted, how easily her sketches were recognised for the replicas they were, and not an original idea as she had first introduced them. She could always claim it was an invention of her Eastern tribe, instead of European renaissance.

"So you'll do it."

"Are you listening, girl?" Himli burst out. "According to Dwarvish law, I can build your copied design without any acknowledgement of your contribution, as it is not your mind's creation."

Harry waved away the warning. "And that would concern me if I relied on your laws to stop you from running away with my idea."

Himli visibly paused, her eyes sharpening as she regarded Harry with appraising interest for what seemed like the first time. "And what else is there?"

"Well, for once, your conscience. I have it on good authority that you're an honourable craftswoman."

Himli quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"But-" Harry continued, "the thing that will ensure me a fair share of the profits, is the fact that there's plenty more ideas where this one came from. And currently, my brain's the only place this side of the Red Mountains where they are stored."

Himli's other brow joined the first. "And how can I be sure you're not just full of air?"

Harry shrugged. "You can't."

The Dwarf straightened up from her desk, crossing her arms under her considerable bosom, and scrutinised Harry with a positively shrew glint in her eyes. Harry withstood the glare, basking in the fact she didn't have to look up to return a stare for once, and frankly, enjoying the Dwarrowdam's refreshingly blunt attitude.

A moment later, Himli huffed, letting out a choked sound that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. She untangled her arms and picked up the sketch. "And what is this supposed to be, then?"

Harry smiled at the victory, but went to answer quickly, sensing the Dwarrowdam's patience was a precious commodity and she was spending it quickly. "A device for washing clothes."

It wasn't the easiest of designs for their first project. Frankly, it was a terrible place to start.

Harry certainly had much less complex ideas in mind that would have made for a more sensible test run. However, after the last laundry day at Bard's house when she'd gotten reminded of the unnecessary hardships of the local practice, her altruistic side won over any entrepreneurship logic. It was a small effort that could result in a big difference in her friends' lives, and many more women's, and Harry found herself very much wanting to do it.

She squinted her eyes at the parchment now in Himli's hand. On it, she'd sketched two metal drums, one inside the other, with the smaller one able to rotate—basically an iron barrel with a hand-crank.

For the first time, she allowed herself to show some uncertainty. "We might have to tweak the design a bit though. To tell the truth, I never bothered to find out how exactly they work."

She knew what a washing machine was supposed to do, but that did not mean she knew how it reached the desired effect. As many times before, she wished for the ease of a search engine and encyclopedias. The only thing at her disposal now was her memory and her common sense.

"The inside drum rotates within the outer—it has these grooves, to help with the scrubbing and rubbing as you rotate; and there are also these little holes—if you go fast enough, the clothes will be pressed to the edges and the water will be drawn out of them and through the holes," she explained what was probably already clear from the sketch. "The water needs to be changed several times, and it helps if it is warm. The hand-crank is just a suggestion. To wash one cycle takes an hour and more, so that'd be still rather a chore to do by hand. If you have other ideas for how it could be powered, I'd be happy to hear them."

"Hmm," was her only reply but Harry took it for a good sign, as Himli was now hungrily screening the sketches, taking the design in with a trained eye.

"When should I come next?"

Himli grunted. "I shall send for you when I'm ready."

Harry could hardly accept such a plan. She calculated the days left for her next trip to the Mountain, to see Ori and the library. "I'll visit in five days, should I not hear from you before then."

Himli sent her a withering look but Harry didn't relent; she had faced much worse. She was willing to interpret it as her clue to leave though, and turned to the door of the clustered workshop. "Pleasure doing business with you, Lady Himli."


Bard had tried to assign her one of the horses from the city's stables, the same chestnut mare she'd ridden her first morning in Dale. She'd protested vehemently—she would not exercise the mare often enough—until Bard relented to put the horse back onto the guard's rotation.

Harry doubted that it had actually happened, though, seeing how restless the animal was. As she paid the stable boy the customary copper and led the mare out of Erebor's gates, the horse bounced and skipped even more impatiently than on the way here. Sighing in sympathy, Harry vowed to make personally sure that someone would ride the horse as often as the young creature deserved.

For now, she gave into the mare's impatient twitching. Instead of the busy direct road to Dale, she took a path winding up to Ravenhill. She didn't really mind the detour; horse riding was hardly her favourite outdoor pastime, but she felt keenly for the animal's longing to stretch her legs.

The path was deserted; although as they climbed up and crossed the newly built bridge on top of the hill, Harry could hear the clanking of construction work from inside the watchtower. She slowed down then, drinking in the view; it was still a spectacular sight, no matter how many times she had flown over it.

They were almost back to the nape of the hill when she heard the thundering of approaching hooves. She led her mare off the path, clearing the way for whoever was in such a rush.

Six riders appeared around the bend a moment later, all Men on tall horses. She did not know them but that was hardly surprising. She nodded to greet them in passing, only to pause as they slowed down to surround her. One of them, a pepper-haired man with a rather unkept beard, pushed his horse close to her mare and grabbed for her reins.

Harry watched it all with a slight frown. Was this a robbery? She wasn't sure.

"Get down from the horse," the man in front of her barked.

Did they want her mare? No, this was not a crime of opportunity. They had obviously known to find her on this path. The question was— is this a kidnapping, or assassination?

Her senses prickling in warning, she tilted her head just so, to see another man approaching from the side, a dagger raised in his hand—hilt first, though.

Kidnapping then, she had a spare moment to think before the man swung his arm.

She sent a weak banisher, pinpointed towards his dagger, that halted the hilt right before it connected with the back of her head. Feeling only a feather light touch instead of the stunning blow the man had intended, she pretended to lose consciousness, bending towards her mare's neck and then sliding bonelessly from the saddle. She hugged the neck briefly on her way down, slowing her fall. Not her best performance, but it seemed to have fooled her assailants regardless.

Keeping her eyes closed, she listened.

"Frann, bind her hands and put her on your horse. We'll ride hard, into the night and even through, if need be."

A pair of boots landed beside her head. Next, she felt someone tugging her dagger from its sheath and her purse from the belt. Calloused hands grabbed her wrists, pulled them behind her back and tied them together with a cord.

Meanwhile, Harry's brain was going a mile a minute.

This couldn't be the Dwarves' doing. She'd just left their domain, if they'd planned to kidnap her, they would have done it there. Also, this band apparently planned to take her far from Erebor.

She must have picked up more tails without noticing. What other enemies had she made that would be ready to kidnap her at the first opportunity she had given them? Gandalf? No, this wasn't his style, she was rather sure of it. Well, who was left?

She had a sneaking suspicion, but it was only that—a suspicion. She needed more information to confirm any of it. For an instant, she considered gathering intel right away—she only needed to roll on her back, surprise one of the men into eye contact and delve into his mind, however distasteful that sounded. If her victim turned out to have only limited knowledge of the situation though, she'd lose her element of surprise for a very small prize.

No, she'd rather wait for a better opportunity.

So she kept herself slack as someone picked her up, roughly, by her bound arms, and dropped her body across a saddle reeking of a man's and horse's sweat.


There was a lot Harry could suffer in pursuit of intel. And she had, in the past. Hanging like a sack of potatoes from a saddle, bouncing and bumping as the horse galloped beneath her belly, hardly fell within those brackets if it wasn't absolutely necessary. One minute in, Harry decided that no, this was not necessary at all.

She opened her eyes to look for a safe way out, but swiftly closed them again as she immediately turned dizzy, the ground passing rather too fast and rather too close in front of her face. Lesson learned, she turned her head towards the direction they were going, and only then opened her eyes to search the path ahead.

Spotting a patch of relatively even ground a few paces ahead, she levitated the loose grovel lying on the rocky ground, confident the floating rocks would go unnoticed in the dust of the thundering hooves. A moment before they were to pass her prepared safety net of pebbles, she taunted her muscles, swung her upper body upwards and kicked the horse's side to propel herself away from the animal and its hooves as she slid down. Falling with her back first, she landed on the floating rocks and started lowering the Levitation Charm at the same time. The net of pebbles partly supported her body on its way down, slowing her plunge to the ground and taking the worst out of the crash.

It wasn't as soft as falling into a Cushioning Charm, the same way the Banisher was far from a perfect shield, but she worked with what she had at her disposal. At least, after years of practising, she got the timing right.

"You slimy wench!" her abandoned horsemate cursed in shock. Another horse passed her, its hooves narrowly missing her head as its rider sharply turned back towards her.

Harry jumped to her feet, not wanting to risk another such close miss. Once standing, she ceased her movement, as shouts travelled through the small company and the men up ahead frantically brought their horses back to surround her. Only when one made to grab her from his saddle, did she swiftly sidestep his outstretched arm.

"I'm not running, so keep your grabby hands to yourselves," she bit through gritted teeth and looked up to find the man who spoke to her before, pinpointing him to be the leader. "I have enough wits not to try to outrun six horses."

She waited for the pepper-haired man to acknowledge her words, peeking around his horse's neck to see his face. He scowled at her, but his lack of other actions made all the others pause, their horses nervously sidling and stamping their hoofs around her. Relatively sure she could afford a second or two of taking her attention away from the rest of the men, she focused wholly on their leader. Gazing into his eyes, she easily sunk through his surface thoughts— what's the bitch doing conscious, the fool Bradda must have gone soft on her with his blow; we need to get a move on— and swiftly traced the reasoning behind them.

-the journey to the Southern Plains was two full days of hard riding, and they had to pass through it before the Men and Elves stationed there would learn of the Easterling bitch going missing. He didn't fancy a fight, nor being chased all the way south to Dol Guldur; they'd have a much better chance of it if they sneaked through-

Harry resurfaced, blinking away the momentary confusion that always came with returning to her own head, as well as the stench of the man's unfamiliar thoughts. As her eyes checked on the other riders surrounding her, all of them thankfully keeping their distance, her mind obediently fell into the well-practised drill of cataloguing the thoughts she'd just walked through, assuring herself that no, she was not a man, nor was her name Baldac, she was not leading a small company of lazy buggers, and no, she was not kidnapping a slimy Easterling wench. Only once she was positive these notions wouldn't get accepted as hers and make a mess of her memory, did she fully return to the present moment.

Making a snap decision, she bowed her head. "Tie my hands in the front and set me astride a horse properly, and I give you my word I won't try to run away."

The men really must have thought her harmless, because the leader, Baldac, allowed her suggestion with only a fierce frown and several threats. They didn't even search her properly, nor took away the leather vambrace that hid away the holster with her wand.

When they were once again galloping on the mountain path, Harry sat straight and astride in front of Frann, a rather lanky fellow who was by far the lightest of all the men, and his horse could best take a second burden.

She watched the walls and roofs of Dale as they passed the city by a wide berth, her mind whirring.

She had travelled far and wide, her wings taking her across Middle-earth with speed unparalleled by anyone she knew of in these lands. She'd resolved herself early on to miss some sites, though. The Mountains of Shadow and the vast lands of Mordor that lay beyond them was one such a no-go. The southern cone of Mirkwood, with Dol-Guldur presiding over it, was another.

And yet.

With the kind of life Harry had led back on Earth and the career paths she had walked, she didn't quite manage to ignore the happenings of this world altogether, even though she had decided to stay out of them. Afterall, being aware of dangers was not the same as interfering. She had worked hard to learn enough about her temporary home until she was reasonably sure she wouldn't be blindsided by its darker forces again.

It was refreshingly different to gather intel in this world. To her continuous frustration, little of its history had been written down, the various lands and its nations led rather secluded lives, and had poor systems of recording its internal affairs. However, despite her frustration, the lack of comprehensive paperwork led her to the most blissful of realisations, and that wading through reports and registries would hardly ever be fruitful in this investigation, thus she could often guiltlessly forgo it.

On the other hand, it proved an easy exercise to listen in on the world's leaders, as local prominent figures had little cause to protect their secrets from eavesdropping Animagi. Throughout the last six years, she'd spent as much time perched on the windowsills of private studies and on the poles of military tents, spying on private councils of the leaders, as in the rafters of taverns and inns listening to common folk freely gossip.

As such, she'd kept an eye on the tension and skirmishes of the peoples of Middle-earth. But it was only when she'd braved to sneak into Elven settlements, her mind Occlud to the best of her hard-won ability, and listened to the 'Wise' of this world that she'd started to pierce the main threat together. There'd been an evil long brewing in this world and seemed to one way or another lead to the Shadow that now once again presided over the lands of Mordor.

That was why she'd declared the Mountains of Shadow and Dol Guldur off limits. She liked her presently purposeless life rather a lot. She was quite determined not to attract any Dark Lord's attention during her dream holiday, thank you very much.

Still, she refused to have her wishes blind her to the possibility that she'd already been noted.

The same way Gandalf—and his friends from the White Council—were chasing her for her involvement in the Battle six years ago, she'd always known there was a risk someone else had taken notice of her that day. Afterall, to this day, she could easily recall the foul influence she'd detected in the troll's mind. It was entirely possible she'd been likewise noted in the encounter.

She'd been aware of the possibility but before now, she'd chosen not to investigate. A week ago, when she'd first heard Bard describing the raids of Orcs from Dol Guldur, she'd grown nervous they might be connected to her. Her second night in Dale, she'd flown as close to the stronghold as she dared, wanting to confirm the presence of Nazgûl and to scope out the dark magic Bard had mentioned. She had done little else in that regard, though. For all her excitement of building a new home for herself, she'd only too readily postponed proving her suspicions. Well, no investigation was needed now, as it was quite clear the Nazgûl were looking for her.

Or more precisely, for a male Easterling. She'd been most likely taken as a hostage, a bait for her supposed brother. Her kidnappers were not afraid of her, certainly not as they would have been had they thought her to wield any power. Her disguise worked.

It was the Auror in her that immediately latched onto that advantage and concocted her current plan, making her go meekly with her abductors, letting them lead her straight into the heart of Dol Guldur. It was the decades of training and conditioning that now dictated her to investigate her unsuspecting adversaries, and eventually spring the trap back onto them.

And yet, now that she had time for more than just instincts to guide her actions, the plan hadn't seemed so clear-cut. Hadn't she vowed to break away from old patterns during her holiday in this world? It had been here, in the shadows of the Lonely Mountain six years ago, that she had decided to try selfishness for once, protect her anonymity above all else and ensure the dream would stay a holiday, not another work project.

The fact stayed that Bard's people, as well as Elves and Dwarves of this region, were put in danger because of her actions. That rather tested that resolution not to intervene. Still, she was no longer self-centered enough to think the Nazgûl wouldn't wreak havoc elsewhere if it hadn't been for her. Evil rarely chose not to employ its forces once it had them at its disposal. This world's Dark Lord had taken notice of her because she had intervened, saving Dale's folk from the Battle of the Five Armies. She shouldn't reinforce that circle; shouldn't feel obliged to help again and thus risk even more attention; or at least she shouldn't decide solely on that inevitable feeling of guilt.

Another question was, should she be afraid of meeting the Wraiths?

They didn't pose a real threat to her, Harry had every reason to believe that. With her reluctance to actually speak with Gandalf and his friends, she managed to glean only very little of the specific abilities and strengths of this world's Dark Lord and his henchmen. However, all that she had seen and learnt of magic native to Arda, suggested that in a fight, Harry would have many advantages to her disposal. She might be completely wrong about that; afterall, she'd never put it to the test; but even that possibility didn't make her nervous. She was pansy at many things, but getting out of a sticky situation had blessedly never been one of them.

The true question, actually, concerned the wisdom of revealing more of her magic should she engage the Nazgûl. The Dark Lord, or at least one of his henchmen, seemed eager to find her for a show of Imperius. How much interest would he show, and how many more complications would he introduce into her life, were he to see more?

Even with these many doubts filling her mind, she was loath to abandon a plan once set on a course. Well, there were many days of riding between her and Dol Guldur. She could still learn much from her kidnappers during that time, and figure out her final plan. In the meantime, she just had to make sure to keep her magic hidden, to protect her disguise as Hattie. That shouldn't prove that difficult.


It was bloody hard.

The next two days dragged horribly, as sluggishly as some of the operas she had been forced to watch during her political campaigning, stuck in the theatre for hours, a smile plastered on her face. Now, in the company of her ignorant kidnappers, she experienced for the first time how harsh travelling could be in this world when one didn't have the luxury of wings, or the comforts of magic; and it was almost as difficult to endure as some of the seemingly endless arias she'd been forced to listen.

The early winter days were properly frosty this far north, and the nights stung even more so. At one point during the first day of frantic riding, Harry found herself snuggling into the warmth of the man at her back, momentarily forgiving of his stench. When they finally stopped for the night, well after the dusk had fallen, Harry wobbled away from the horse on dead legs and obediently crashed down on the spot of ground Frann indicated. As she lay on her bed of needles, feeling returning to her limbs with sharp pinches, she huddled in her elven cloak and thanked Merlin for the paranoia that had made her wear her best for the visit to Erebor.

It took her a long time to fall asleep, her mind preoccupied with sharp longing for the warmth of the Bluebell Flames. She stared at the canopy of black trees against the bright stars, thinking how much more comfortable she'd be up there, in the branches. She could easily follow Sauron's men, and possibly infiltrate Dol Guldur, as a peregrine; she could do all of that just as well or even better from the skies than from the ground, playing this meek hostage.

She scoffed, in pure self-depreciation, perfectly aware she was not going to switch tactics. The whole thing had now become a point of principle, and her stubborn pride wouldn't let her back from this self-fabricated challenge just because she was a wee bit uncomfortable, thus proving herself a spoilt wimp. She chuckled once again, and fell asleep soon after.

On the second evening, when they had failed to feed her through another vigorous day of riding, she didn't crash on the ground when Frann pushed her towards it. Instead, she shot him a venomous glare, her annoyance only partly a show, and dropped on a seat of a fallen log by their small fire, where Baldac ate his dinner.

He had others call him Olaf, as Baldac was a wanted name in his homeland, the not so distant Dorwinion. He didn't know much more about the Nazgûl's plans, nor did he care, besides how many coins they paid him for his spying. Since Dale, she had glimpsed into his mind two more times and learned enough to know there was no point in going inside again.

"You need to give me something to eat," she told him, knowing she would have been expected to be ravenous by this point. She took to glaring at him across the fire, pitiful as it was, smokeless and smothered to avoid detection.

"Need?" he repeated, eyes barely lifting from his cheese to look at her.

She'd seen enough of his thoughts to know that he wasn't necessarily a cruel man, just incredibly selfish and contently incapable of any empathy for the plights of others. "If you want me to stay atop the horse tomorrow, you need to feed me."

"If you pass out, I'll put you across the saddle again."

She shrugged. "If you want to be hauling the burden of an unconscious body instead of an experienced rider, then sure. I'd rather think you can hardly afford the delay, though."

With only one safe road through the Long Marshes along the lake, and the narrow plains between the river and the dangers of deeper Mirkwood, their path had so far been rather predictable for any possible pursuers. They had to rely mainly on speed to escape capture; the men had been pushing their horses hard.

Baldac finally looked up, to shoot her an annoyed glare. "Get out of my sight before I knock you out myself and let my men have their way with you."

She suppressed the eyeroll, rather fed up by the empty threat. It might have offended her the first time Baldac had uttered it, but since then, she'd observed the men as they crashed into their bedrolls the first night, too knackered from the day of hard riding to even tease her, let alone pay her any such bothersome attentions.

She almost cast a Confundus then, to get her point across, before one last look into Baldac's eyes convinced her it wasn't necessary—he actually relented to give her dinner, though not before she gave up with her pestering. Refraining from a sigh at the show of pettiness, she stood up without another word and left Baldac alone.

And indeed, an appropriately long time later, Frann approached her with a piece of bread and cheese. She had made herself comfortable on the mossy ground and wrapped as much of her body in her cloak as possible, but she greedily reached out of the cocoon of feeble warmth, snatching the food to herself. She had been stealing morsels throughout the journey, but the party's provisions were too lean to ever take enough without risking a notice, and she was actually a bit hungry.

Frann stayed crouching in front of her, watching her eat. She easily ignored him and his frowning gaze, busy with the first meal in two days that she could enjoy openly.

"You are a strange one," he commented at last. "Calm. Not once have you asked why you're here."

She missed a bite, knowing he was correct. She got back to chewing right away, even as she scolded herself for the obvious oversight in her performance. Well, it was salvageable.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I know why you took me."

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her dispassionate answer and she obliged him. "I'm just a wandering scribe; rather a bad one at that. I've never done anything to deserve your ire. My brother, though- he tends to attract attention."

"You should be more frightened," Frann replied to that. "The powers we're taking you to—they don't know mercy. You won't be spared no matter what your brother does."

She inclined her head, searching for the appropriate reaction that would fit within her current role. She chose to smile, a tiny, feeble grin, that she hoped would be interpreted as false bravado. "No matter what mess my brother makes, he makes sure to clean up after himself."

She paused at her own words, the truth of them ringing as a strong reminder in her ears. Inwardly and in capitulation, she sighed as she suddenly knew what she was going to do about the Nazgûl at Dol Guldur.

Recovering from the abrupt end of her days-long conundrum, she rushed to deliver the rest of her line to Frann. "-it is you who'll know fear in the end."

"I know fear already; that's why I serve who I serve. But cling to your foolish hope, girl, if it keeps you in the saddle. All the easier for me to drag you along."

She regarded him, her head tilting, even as he left and returned to the fire for his own dinner. His parting remark seemed as false as her own performance, his indifference rather forced; if she wasn't mistaken, this willowy man still had a conscience. He didn't approach her with a malicious intention to tease her, she'd rather thought it was guilt that made him speak with her; not enough to overcome his fear and sway him from this path, but just enough to make him feel troubled.

She let out a soft sigh in between her bites. It was men like Frann that she most hated to prosecute; for they had seemed only a few chanced opportunities away from leading a very different life.

With her stomach calmed, she attempted to do something about her shock of hair, now that she'd resolved to continue this charade all the way to Dol Guldur. She'd lost the leather stripe that tied it away from her face, and now the locks were all gnarled and knotted from the wind. She had several spare bands tied around her wrist, but combing the hair up was proving rather tricky with her hands bound together. Around her, the camp was settling down as the company quickly got ready to sleep.

A soft cry of an owl pierced through the stillness of the night. As one, the men stirred in their bedrolls, listening.

Harry watched them with her head bowed and her arms raised above it, gathering the mass of her hair up. A man on a horse stood some hundred paces away from the campsite, perfectly hidden in the dark; the newcomer had crossed the boundary of her flimsy protective enchantments just a few seconds ago and now stood waiting. Harry also waited, curled up in her cloak; waited for the situation to unfold.

Baldac, the leader, let out a birdlike screech of his own, faint though and tentative. He received a similar bark in reply from the stranger. Their signal must have been completed by then, as Harry noticed the men around her relaxing and letting go of their hilts.

The sounds of nearing hooves announced their visitor's approach. The rider burst out of the blackness of the forest, halting his horse just before he tumbled over the bedroll of one of Harry's kidnappers.

The newcomer quickly dismounted, casting a snap look around the camp. He paused when his eyes landed on Harry and she recognised him even in the feeble light of their smothered fire—it was the bald man that had been trailing her through the market, on her first morning in Dale; his head less perfectly clean-shaved than before, yet still reflecting the light of the flames. She had not seen him since, but apparently, he'd been busy.

"The guards at the Plains know about the wench going missing," he told Baldac, forgoing any greeting. "The Lord of Dale borrowed a bloody raven from the Dwarves, it flew into the camp last night. The elves lit their torches all the way across the plains; we won't sneak past them if we carry on along the river."

"You'd have us go into the Mountains instead?" Skinner asked, scoffing. "No horse can use the paths. Without horses, we'll be chased down the moment we come low from the peaks on the other side."

Harry had flown over the area enough times to easily picture the routes the men were talking about on the map in her head. She had scouted the Southern Plains on her second night in Dale, right after she had learnt of the camp where Thranduil's, Thorin's and Bard's soldiers now took turns guarding the way north. It lay in between the River Running and the Mountains of Mirkwood, in a narrow strip of lowlands in between these two natural barriers. Her kidnappers had been headed towards it this whole time, loosely following the river and not straying far into Mirkwood proper. It looked like that was about to change.

"I've sent a rider south to Dol Guldur," the bald man said next. "If we take our time in the mountains, the Nazgûl will be waiting for us on the other end of the pass."

Baldac hummed in consideration. "If Dale sent a raven, then they surely sent soldiers after us. We can't dilly dally in the mountains if we've picked up a tail."

"How about crossing the river?" another man chimed in. "They are bound to be fishermen or farmers that could ferry us across."

The bold man shot him a dirty look, evidently annoyed with the interruption. "All boats had long been sent to the other bank."

He then turned back towards Baldac. "I'd rather face a few men on the treacherous paths of the mountains, than all the Elves and Dale's soldiers that are waiting for us at the Plains right now."

Baldac grunted and Harry took it as the decision being made. The men fell silent, apparently finished with their conversation, and Harry turned her attention away from them.

She huddled in her cloak, a huff of frustration escaping her, as a new wave of doubts filled her mind. And just when she'd finally made a decision.

Letting herself be captured was one thing. Risking others as they follow her into the arms of the enemy was another matter altogether. Should she postpone her plans?

She could stage an escape as Hattie, make it look like she slipped through her kidnapper's fingers. Or she could hinder their progress so the rescue party on their tail would quickly catch up to them. She'd make sure the kidnappers would be disposed of without causing too much damage to Bard's men.

Either of these plans would render the last two horrible days useless, though, and she'd hate such a waste. Actually, in her current sour mood, she was more tempted to aid her kidnappers to cross the mountains unhindered, and get to the Nazgûl long before the cavalry arrived.

Idly, she wondered whether Bard had actually put together these unnecessary rescue plans, or whether he was pushed into it by the Dwarves.

Harry let out another long exhale into her cloak, feeling the warmed air rebound off the cloth and brush her freezing nose. She so hated when people interfered with her plans out of good intentions. She hated it even more when they did so only because she wouldn't explain all her lies to them—she had no one to berate for it but herself.


AN:

This chapter's recommendation is a nod to another post-Hobbit favourite of mine, a rebuilding of Erebor story through the eyes of a still-living Thorin.

It's a lighter read than what I usually send you off to. It made me laugh out loud several times, and I've always treasured writing that manages that. Thorin's POV as the exasperated yet still completely smitten husband of a female Bilbo is completely endearing, as it is endlessly witty. Here you have it:

Beneath the Ever-Bending Sky by leupagus (ao3)