Uncharted Waters 12: Harry
Harry stared at the Imperiused Easterling, head spinning with the implications of his impossible yet rather irrefutable existence. The consequences started racing through her mind, too quickly to fully grasp one, yet her chest still tightened under the enormity of them. Her breath shortened, coming in quick, shallow gasps. It was then, when the panic threatened to fully seize her, that the Chief Auror in her rose in reaction, gathered all her training and regained iron-forged control.
When she next spoke, her voice was steady; words clipped and brusque.
"Have all the Easterlings be brought to the Hall," she ordered Bain. "Respectfully though, under false pretence, perhaps. It's quite possible the rest of them had nothing to do with this assault; there's no need to tempt a diplomatic disaster. And Bain- until I say otherwise, you're to be accompanied by four of your most trusted guards at all times."
Bain's face scrunched up in concern. "What have you found out?"
She shook her head. "I'm not sure yet. Let me look into the minds of the rest of them; hopefully, I'll be able to give you a much better answer then."
It said much about his trust in her that Bain didn't demand more explanation before he went to execute her orders.
The eight remaining Easterlings of the Chayasír delegation had gone meekly for a hastily called audience in the Hall, seemingly with no suspicions that one of their warriors had just tried to assassinate the Lord of the City.
They hadn't known.
Yet, when Harry quickly checked their minds, she encountered the familiar haze in their leader's eyes, too; the feel of it identical to the Imperiused curses she had investigated throughout her career. Pretend an alliance with Dale and Erebor. Gain their trust, in trade and in war, the commands in his head were whispering.
The orders were rather broad and generic, allowing for a lot of leeway—the caster must have been far away, leaving the cursed person to deal with the minute details of achieving the goals. As for the caster's identity—Harry was more and more certain there was only one possibility.
Had she encountered any other spell from her original home, she would have kept hope there might be another dream traveller who wandered into Middle-earth and perhaps got captured, to work Sauron's will.
It was Imperius, though, and Imperius had a history in this world. History that she herself had planted.
It was Imperius that she had used in the Battle of Five Armies. It was for the power of Imperius that Sauron had first taken notice of her, why he had hunted her for well over a decade after the Battle, and why he had pointlessly scouted the east for her origins and for origins of such magic. When his efforts had ceased, she had only too gladly assumed he had given up on acquiring her powers for himself. That was naive of her; he seemed to have merely adopted a different strategy.
Could he really have taught himself the curse only by being exposed to it? And not even directly, but through a creature he himself had only vague control over? His connection to the trolls must have been minuscule, stretched over hundreds of miles and very passive in nature. Though, if he had a way to focus on it, Harry would bet he had paid close attention the moment she had first cast the curse. And then she had cast it again, and again. There had been dozens of trolls she had put under the Imperius that day.
She knew the importance of conviction when learning new magic. Believing something can be done could often get you halfway there; that's why she kept demonstrating her spells to Círdan over and over again. Could Sauron succeed all by himself where Círdan had failed under her instructions?
Her mind provided a resolute and definite yes, he could.
One did not become a Dark Lord, feared by a whole continent across several ages, by being mediocre. Only the most exceptional made it to the top of the ladder, she knew that only too well. She'd learned enough of Sauron's history to know him to be inventive, clever and cunning enough to master an equally treacherous curse such as Imperius, if he once learned of its existence.
Oh, balls.
What had she done?
"Can you break the enchantment?" Bain asked, bringing her mind back to the present and out of the pit where all her careful planning began crumbling onto her head like a hexed pack of Exploding Snaps.
She blinked and glanced at Bain across the desk. Palm fisted by his chin, his eyes flickered around the study, betraying his own erratic thoughts.
She considered her answer, head tilting. "There's no direct way. I can point it out to the Easterlings that there's much wrong with the state of their minds; but it will be up to them to fight off the control. Their chances are about even; some minds will try to cast out the strange influence the moment they become aware of it, but I've seen just as many people choose the pleasant haze of the curse over clarity and freedom. The other option is to kill the caster," she added in an afterthought.
"And you suspect the caster to be…"
"Yes."
"Right. The first option it is, then."
She hesitated. "If the curse breaks, I believe Sauron will know."
She believed, she didn't know for sure. The same way she couldn't take for certain Sauron needed to be in proximity of the target to reimburse the curse, or even cast it in the first place. Back home, such ideas would be ridiculous. In Arda? For a being so attuned to the workings of the world as Sauron? She couldn't simply assume that the familiar limits applied. She needed to test and verify, soon.
"Oh," Bain grunted and then paused. "There could be more cursed men among our allies."
"Many more."
"And you can check by looking into their eyes?"
She flinched at what she knew he was about to suggest next, preempting the headache she was bound to develop by so many Legilimens cast in quick succession. She still nodded; there was no other way. "It needs to be prolonged eye contact though, at least two heartbeats."
"I'll have Sigrid invent a ceremony that would provide an excuse for such behaviour. As soon as tomorrow lunch. Perhaps you could-"
Harry frowned as Bain fell silent, his eyes widening at something behind her shoulder. She followed his gaze to the window and to the Erebor's Gates in the distance. They stood shut, even though the night had not fully fallen. Along their ramparts, fires were now lit, from the tier just above the sealed entrance, to the highest of balconies. Torches tottered from one side to another, indicating guards running along in disarray.
Harry leapt from her seat and strode towards the window. An empty sheet of parchment followed her through the air, and she also picked up a few drops of ink from an open inkwell. In the second or two that it took her to open the latch on the window, the ink had spread over the parchment in neat handwriting, spelling out a short message.
With the window now open, they could hear the faint blaring of horns, being blown in alarm in Erebor. Impatiently, Harry shuffled on her feet, as her Levitation Charm flapped the letter in the air, helping the ink dry faster. A second later, she folded the parchment, floated it above her head and changed into a peregrine. As the letter started its descent to the ground, she caught it in her beak.
She was off before Bain managed to cross the room to the windows.
As she feared, the alarms had been rung for another assassination attempt at the Mountain.
Thorin had been attacked but he lived. He had received several cuts, deep enough to require stitches, but no longer life-threatening now that they had been treated. A Dwarf lost his life, yet Thorin and three more of his guards had managed to subdue the Imperiused Ironfist.
At least Harry suspected the would-be-assassin had been Imperiused, as there was no way to find out from a corpse.
The whole Mountain was in an uproar. Lockdown had been imposed on all but the soldiers, who marched through the halls and corridors in close-knit units of axes, shields and bright lamps, intercepting anyone out on the streets and investigating every nook and corner.
Harry had flown above their heads without a single hindrance. A peregrine carrying a note was a familiar sight in Erebor. She was given free access through the Mountain's many halls; guards let her even through the sealed doors and into the chambers where they had barricaded the injured King.
It was there that she learned of what had transcribed, listening in as a heavily bandaged Thorin recounted the attack to Balin.
"I have known the Ironfists to be fierce warriors. Still, the degree to which this one could wield his blades left me in awe," Thorin admitted at one point. "We stood five against one, my guards all excellent axe-masters, yet I do not think we would have overcome him had luck not been on our side today."
An Imperiused Dwarf indeed, then.
Balin, whose eyes had turned suspiciously misty, reached over to clasp his King's uninjured shoulder. "I have heard he wielded a Morgul-blade. Is that true?"
Thorin nodded.
"By the beard of Durin!" Balin exclaimed. "I remember when those were just stuff of legends, wielded by only the very darkest of the Enemy's servants. And now, two of such weapons had threatened the line of Durin with just scarce decades between the assaults. Will every Orc soon wield them?"
Perched on a bedpost, Harry ran through the attack on Bain in her head again. Had she missed a Morgul blade on their assassin? She couldn't have—the dark magic would have raked on her senses had she been in the same room as Morgul-made device; she was sure of it.
She could only assume that Bain had been judged an easier target than the King of Erebor, no dark magic necessary for his assassination. Thank Merlin for that.
"Let's hope Sauron's resources will never allow for that. Now, what does Dale write?"
Balin reached for the letter in Harry's beak. Free of her burden at last, she assumed her most disinterested pose, raising a wing and hiding her head underneath it, preening the feathers in her armpit.
"Some guests might be under enchantment," Balin read out loud. "Do not trust anyone until Hattie checks them for curses."
"Lady Hattie?" Thorin asked. "It is some Easterling magic, then."
"At last, they admit she possesses some of the power her brother wields," Balin added.
"Do they?" Thorin asked and Harry could have kissed him for questioning that assessment. "Knowledge does not equal power. She could simply be looking for signs she recognises."
"Are you contradicting me for the sake of argument, or do you truly believe her powerless?"
Thorin let out a soft chuckle at Balin's question. Harry felt her features trying to scrunch up into a frown, the compulsion strong in her Animagus body even if the avian muscles weren't capable of the expression.
"It is true one should not assume anything about either of the siblings, unless they want to be shown a fool," Thorin said next. "Forward Bain's warning to Dwalin and his guards; tell them to be wary of any foul influence. No matter what, all the Ironfits are to be kept detained and isolated until I order otherwise."
There was no audible answer to this.
"Balin?"
"Yes, yes, I'll speak to Dwalin presently," Balin hastily confirmed, sounding as if distracted. "Pray tell, could you think of a reason why Bain would imitate his late father's handwriting in his message?"
"What are you saying?"
There was some shuffling to be heard, but Harry paid it very little attention. She paused in her preening for a short second, and then continued, picking at the stems with sudden fervour, in the rhythm of the litany of swear words she was scolding herself with, for such a stupid blunder.
She calmed down a moment later, though. There was no way they could arrive at the right conclusion from this error. And even if they did- even if they did, she found herself only mildly bothered by the danger of her true identity spilling out into the open; such an inconvenience paled drastically against the other problems she was now facing.
She heard Thorin hum in contemplation. "A hidden message, perhaps? To question the authenticity of the words?"
"How long does a falcon live, would you know?" Balin asked next. Harry could feel his intent gaze land on her.
"No more than fifteen years, I've heard. Bard had trained several throughout his life; Nori told me he had a great affinity for it. He was seen talking to the birds, and they seemed to listen as if they understood. I am not surprised he would train one for his son."
"I suppose they would all look the same to us, where a falconer would find many distinguishing features," Balin admitted. "The bird seems to be waiting for a reply, what shall I write?"
"Tell Bain we shall send an escort for Lady Hattie at dawn. I would ask for her presence immediately, but they are doubtlessly dealing with treachery themselves, if they knew to warn us. The Ironfists can wait in their cells till the morning."
It was a minute later, when Bain was offering his written note to Harry, that the doors burst open, with Dwalin standing on the doorstep. Interested in what he had to stay, Harry played to stay a bit longer. She faked being spooked, and jumped with her wings flailing, away from the exit.
"Shhh, silly bird, it's just an oaf of a Dwarf," Balin hushed, alarmed himself for he had only closely escaped her lashing talons. "What is the matter, Dwalin?"
"One of the Ironfists is missing," his brother reported, an urgency to his words. "A jewels merchant called Khelgir. He was last seen leaving the training halls with Frerik, son of Glilrik; and Kíli."
A beat of silence. "And where is my nephew now?"
As Dwalin levelled his eyes at Thorin's, the professional mask of the Captain of the Guards slipped, and Harry could plainly see how full of concern they were. "I have every guard and soldier in the Mountain looking for him. They started to scout the slopes, too."
The mood in the room changed drastically after this news, but Harry wasn't staying for it. She jumped, beating her wings twice, and swooped through the open door behind Dwalin's back.
Harry knew Frerik, son of Glilrik, the Head of the Eastern Trade Route. He was a slippery one, that Dwarf, with some colourful past she didn't think herself fit to judge; she only cared that his shrewdness served well to the trade committee he chairmanned. She had spent countless hours at the table with said committee, but the same couldn't be said about Kíli, who never had any dealings with the Eastern route. No no, Kíli must have had different business to discuss with Frerik and an Ironfist merchant.
She suspected it was rather clandestine in nature, then. Afterall, if it hadn't been, and the trio had gone to discuss their business openly and in public, Dwalin would have found them by now—he and his men had surely swept through all the obvious sites, the inns, the workshops, the markets. However, for a more covert meeting, the Mountain offered many dark nooks and crannies, not to mention miles upon miles of mines. Those would take many days to search.
Harry, though, fancied the idea she knew her friend better than that. When Kíli truly wished for privacy, he would escape the Mountain altogether. A Dwarf born under the stars indeed, as some of his naysayers would often throw at him in offence; as a rule, they would succeed in riling him up, but in this case alone, Kíli felt too clever for deceiving them to mind.
Trusting her instincts, Harry spearheaded out of the Mountain. She quickly navigated through the maze of Erebor's halls to its Gates, and shot out into the dark night outside. Picking a side at random, she turned east. She easily found one of the trodden paths there, and followed it up to the arm of peaks that ran out of the Lonely Mountain. The skies were cloudy, with no moonlight to guide her, which somewhat impeded her vision. Still, even in imperfect conditions, the bird's of prey sight was superior, scanning the land below her as she crossed great stretches of it with one beat of her wings. If Kíli was outside, these peregrine eyes would find him faster than any magic at her disposal could.
When she had covered more land than what any Dwarf could travel in a day on foot, she hastily turned tail and started anew from the Gates, this time turning west. It was a short minute later that her guess got confirmed and her efforts rewarded.
A Dwarf lay unmoving, his limbs sprawled across the rocks just a few steps off to the mountain path, a creek of blood trickling through the grovel from the drying puddle by his chest. He'd been lying there for some time. Harry recognised him as one of the Ironfist delegation.
She swooped down, hastily eyeing the surroundings, her alarm spiked, for even though his adversary lay dead, she hadn't met Kíli anywhere between here and the Gates, walking home unharmed.
There- two more Dwarves lay a bit further away, at the edge of a rocky overhang. Kíli sat resting against a boulder, his head bowed and a trickle of blood dropping down the cliff next to him. His chest was moving, though, and Harry let out an involuntary squeak of relief at the sight.
She dove and transformed by his legs. She spared a quick glance at Frerik, who lay a few feet away, alive but unconscious, his own blood staining the rocks underneath him. She frowned as she clocked onto the putrid feeling of residual dark magic, pooling by the Dwarf. With a quick spell, she bound his arms with his own belt.
That dealt with, she turned her full attention onto her friend. Her medical kit flew from underneath her cloak, where she carried it in the rolls of her skirts. It landed on a flat rock by her side and unwounded itself into a long stretch of several full pockets. She didn't turn to watch any of this, busy examining the Dwarf in front of her.
She checked his airways first—he was breathing shallowly, but regularly, with no wheezing to indicate an obstacle. Good. Now onto the bleeding. His leathers were torn open with several lacerations, his tunic soaked in dark red at places, but Harry's eyes first zeroed in on the deep cut against his wrist, bleeding heavily. Blood had partially clotted, slowing the torrent somehow, but the flow still needed to be stopped immediately. Even as she went about examining the wounds underneath his clothing, a part of her mind stayed with the wrist wound, casting a series of Levitation Charms to address it.
The first two uncorked the jar with her honey-turmeric paste, carving a small blob out and rolling it with practised movements along and inside the open wound, the sticky antiseptic gauze picking up any dirt. Once wiped clean, her next Wingardium pushed the ligaments and skin together. At the same time, she levitated out her suturing needle and ran it through a conjured flame several times. She tipped a drop of alcohol from another vial, letting it float in the air. She untangled the sheep's intestines, cut off a strip and ran its length through the drop of alcohol.
None of the lacerations across his chest and sides went deeper than muscles, but there were many of them, and they had been bleeding profusely for some time. He might have suffered some blunt trauma, and there could be internal injuries she couldn't rule out now, but something of greater immediacy had her more worried; he was pale, his skin cold to her touch and his heart was beating fast. All pointed to severe blood loss.
There was also his right fist and the dark magic that reeked from it. She could feel its poisonous tendrils pulsing, reaching further; but their advance was slow, almost languid. Whatever foulness was happening there, and she did have some distinct suspicions, blood loss would kill him faster.
Kíli woke up when she pierced the skin of his wrist for the first stitch. She had fed him the few customary drops of coca extract, the strongest sedative Elven healers knew to provide her, but it worked only damningly slowly.
He seemed mighty confused, but in case he retained some skills of perception, she Levitated all her supplies above his head, where he wouldn't see them inexplicably floating in drops and blobs as they were.
Kíli blinked at her, slow and unfocused, before his eyes shifted onto the curved needle in his wrist.
"Stop! Cease your attempts, healer," he snapped out, suddenly alert and alarmed. Next, he was reaching over with his other arm, presumably to rip the needle out.
She grasped his arm before he could make it. Several things became clear at once, confirming her suspicions.
With a tired sigh, she turned his hand palm up, not at all surprised to see the festering cut there. It was no longer bleeding; instead, dark puzz was oozing out of the wound, and blackened veins pulsed away from it. She grimaced as the dark magic assaulted her senses, raking on her perception with sudden clarity.
"You, my friend, have some truly sodden luck," she whispered, impressed as much as exasperated.
At the sound of her voice, Kíli stopped his feeble attempts to free his arm. "Hattie?" he breathed out, before his energy seemed to have seeped out of him, and he once again slumped against his rocky seat.
A part of her kept focusing on the Levitation Charms that operated her suturing kit, mechanically cleaning and closing his wounds one at the time; whilst the rest of her mind turned to the next step. She took out the biggest vial from her supplies. It contained what the Elves called salted water, but what Harry knew to be sodium solution, or close to one as she knew from home. The Elves would make the patients drink it, hoping for the best. Harry had a better method at her disposal.
Next out of her leather pockets, she levitated one of her most prized possessions, a hollow needle she had once commissioned both the Elves and Dwarves to make. Where Elven techniques failed, producing too thick a result, the Dwarves' ingenuity and sheer stubbornness had prevailed; it was Himli's jeweller who had finally delivered a tube thin enough to resemble a syringe.
Harry put it to good use now. She picked the most obvious vein under Kíli's elbow and pierced it with the sharp end of the Dwarvish syringe. With this much help, her imagination was enough to fool the rest of the physics with her magic. She had her next Levitation Charm create a thin stream of the salted water and push its tip through the tube of the syringe, one tiny drop at a time as she had practised; the flow becoming one with Kíli's blood.
The fluid resuscitation now underway, and all Kíli's wounds closed and bandaged, she settled down on the ground to wait and watch, her Levitation Charm continuing to push the salted water through the syringe.
Underneath their cliff, far down the slopes, she could see the lights of many torches flicking, tottering on the mountain paths. With a regretful pang towards all the Dwarves that worried for Kíli's safety, she placed her usual array of Protection Charms around the overhang. She levitated the Ironfist's corpse inside the protected circle, even with all the rocks his blood stained. It would leave the Dwarves searching in vain for longer, but she had sadly lacked any ideas on how to let them know Kíli was safe whilst keeping her medical practises hidden. The thought of her secrets spilling out didn't bother her as much anymore, not since she had encountered the Imperius fog in the Easterling's mind and her plans had been thrown into the wind; frankly, she was quite ready to stop taking precautions that twisted her insides with guilt. However, the timing was still an issue, and this was a bag of worms she didn't feel like releasing onto her already full plate of problems. So, she let Dwalin and his anxious men pass her, staying hidden under her charms.
Sadly, she wouldn't be releasing Kíli to them anytime soon either, as he still needed her skills. It quickly became clear the sodium was not achieving the desired effect; Kíli's blood loss proved beyond it.
Harry glanced at Frerik, still lying unconscious a few feet away. She had addressed his wounds as well, all but the dark burns on his right palm that still reeked of dark magic. It had been this arm that wielded the Morgul-blade.
He seemed almost stabilised for now; she treated him to some of the sodium solution with her second syringe, and he reacted to it better than Kíli. Still, there was hardly enough blood between the two of them for one Dwarf to survive, and Harry cast her verdict.
Kíli blinked his way to consciousness when the sky started turning pale with the approaching dusk.
By then, Harry's anxiety had somehow subsided; if Kíli were to have a reaction to the blood transfusion, it would have surely happened by now. Her small gamble seemed to have paid off; the Longbeard Dwarves' blood was indeed compatible as she and Círdan theorised, and Kíli's heartbeat had stabilised, colour and warmth returning to his skin.
He was still very weak. He shut his eyes again the instant they fluttered awake, and rested his head back against the pillow of dirt. He didn't take notice of the circle of Blue Flames that kept them warm, nor the trickle of blood that floated into his vein from another Dwarf positioned just above his head.
"You should have let me die," was the first thing he said, voice coarse. "It would have been the merciful thing to do."
It wasn't hard to puzzle out that precisely that had been his plan when he let himself fall unconscious. Had she been just a tad slower in finding him, he would have succeeded.
"There are Wood-elves staying in Dale right now," she mentioned in a way of a reply. "Haven't you thought of asking them for help?"
"I know the three guards Legolas brought to the coronation; none of them have the talent for healing. I also know that even if we sent a raven to Thranduil, asking for his healers to ride out to meet us, I'll be a shade before we reach them. I remember well how quickly this poison acts."
He paused, taking in few tired breaths, before he continued. "I am aware I can be morose and sullen at times, but I have not yet turned suicidal. Still, I'd prefer the shame of cutting my own veins open than becoming a servant of the Enemy. Unless you lied when you claimed there was none of your brother's protective magic left in me, I suggest you let me get on with my plan."
"I didn't."
"Well, then, cease your medicining, woman; and let me quickly die."
Harry had sat at the cliff throughout the long hours of the night with only her thoughts keeping her company as she continuously directed the blood transfusion. Her head now swam with half-baked plans, task lists, and orders for the days ahead. Among these, she'd also devised plenty of ways of how she could heal Kíli without revealing her powers to him. A simple Stun and then a Confundus would do the trick, whilst being the least harmful to him.
It was still a shitty thing to do to your friend. With her recently reshuffled priorities, she could afford the luxury and decidedly swept any such ideas off the table.
Before she figured out how best to convince him to open his bloody eyes and see the telling signs of her magic floating all around him, he spoke up again. "Is Frerik all right?"
She frowned at the slowly dying Dwarf she had laid down above Kíli's head. With a quick thought, she Disillusioned him, so the string of blood now seemed to flow out of thin air. "I thought he was the one who stabbed you with the Morgul blade."
Kíli shook his head. "He was fooled by the Ironfist as much as I was; when Khelgir attacked, Frerik stood by my side."
Harry closed her eyes under the crushing wave of emotions that dawned on her at his words. Disbelief and shock first, followed by guilt and stifling shame; and lastly, horror at her actions.
She glanced at the Disillusioned Dwarf and the string of blood leaving his veins, and for a moment stood torn, considering Frerik's condition, even though she very well knew it to be hopeless by this point. He was beyond saving now, even beyond her paraphernalia of magical tricks and shortcuts; his organs had started failing. With that certainty, her pragmatic side had her contemplating leaving the blood flowing—it did not matter to Frerik any longer, and it would make a difference still for Kíli's recovery.
Then, she interrupted the transfusion, packed up her gear and bandaged the little punctures left in the Dwarves' arms.
It was a horrible thing to make a person bleed out under a false, lazy, assumption; it would be even more heinous a crime to carry on once you'd learn of your victim's innocence, no matter how practical that course of action would be.
When she returned her focus back at Kíli, an explanation on her lips, his furrowed brows loosened somewhat and his muddled mind seemed to have flicked to yet another thought. "Oh, Hattie—the Ironfist could fight! I've never seen a Dwarf fight quite like he did. At the very least, I'm not ashamed that I fell against such a master like this."
"You did kill him in the end, though."
"Even a master can make a mistake; he hesitated after he finally touched me with the Morgul blade; pausing in triumph perhaps. It was enough for Frerik to strike a mortal blow."
"I don't think it was his own skills that made him such a great fighter. He was under Sauron's enchantment—I believe it was the magic of the curse that augmented his ability, in order to accomplish the task. His orders might have been to cut you with the Morgul blade—that would explain his hesitation after he carried them out."
"Sauron's enchantment? Impossible—I didn't feel any foulness surrounding the Ironfist."
"Because there was none to notice, unless you look beyond the cursed one's eyes. It's a trick Sauron only recently learnt," she explained, suppressing a wince, knowing Kíli was only the first of the many locals she would have to relieve of false securities. "Why don't you open your eyes, Kíli?"
"It does not matter much, methinks. Mastery or enchantment, there's still honour in losing to either of them."
"Your eyes, Kíli?"
He let out a huff, an annoyed frown now marring his face. "I have said my goodbyes to this world, woman, and it was no easy feat," he admitted at last. "I don't particularly wish to do so again, nor am I certain I'll have enough courage for it, now that you have brought me back from the brink. Here you have it, there lies my shame."
"Don't be silly, Kíli. You are not dying today."
"So you'd let me become Sauron's shapeless servant instead?"
"No, I won't let that happen either."
"I have seen your stubbornness cause wonders, my lady, I have. But there are problems that cannot be solved even by your pigheadedness."
"Just open your eyes, you dumb Dwarf," she grunted, because despite her command, she was not looking forward to what would come next.
He let out a long sigh. "You've never learnt how to speak to your betters."
She stayed silent and only watched the doubts slowly eating at his determination.
"You can be mighty cheeky, but you're not cruel," he said at last. "Do you swear that if I open my eyes, it won't be in vain?"
"I swear it."
His eyes snapped open the moment she spoke, and immediately locked onto the blue flames surrounding them. Next, he was reaching for them, caressing the flames with his palm without any fear of their burn. He must have heard of them before.
He held his silence, the calm mask over his features contemplative. It seemed a long while before he glanced her way. "Can you also summon the bright stag as your brother, to heal me?"
She nodded, still taut in expectation of an outburst.
"Well, that is rather fortunate. So fortunate I might even forgive you for lying about your powers for so many decades," Kíli mused, and indeed, a smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth, apparent through his stubble. It made her smile, too, at the hope returning so visibly onto his features. "Well, then, why haven't you done so yet! Let's get this poison out of me."
"I've been waiting for you to get just a bit stronger. It was quite the strain on your body last time."
As if reminded of his other injuries, Kíli went to examine his body, and almost immediately twitch in alarm. "I cannot move my left arm."
"Oh, sorry," she mumbled and cancelled the Impedimenta. "I had to immobilise you for a moment."
He flashed his arm up, fisting his palm several times, clearly relieved for the returned ability of movement. "I do feel much better than I have any right to. Your skills are admirable."
The compliment soured in the face of her error, and she quickly looked away to hide her grimace.
Kíli, meanwhile, found the blood-stained spot where Frerik used to lie. "Where is Frerik? You've never given me an answer."
Harry drew in a deep breath. "I have made a horrible mistake. By the remnants of dark magic on Frerik, I assumed he had been the one to wield the Morgul blade."
"No. He yanked it from the Ironfist's grasp, and it dissolved as he held it, scorching his skin."
She accepted the explanation, her head bowed. "I could have saved you both. I would have, had I known he stayed loyal. I would have needed the help of your kin, but I could have saved you both."
She had considered giving him the whole truth, the reason why Kíli continued to live and Frerik wouldn't, but decided against it. Blood transfusions were unheard of in Middle-earth; she knew people would look at the method with natural prejudice even if the blood had been donated. She needn't test how Kíli would react if he learned she had seeped his friend dry, sacrificing him in order to keep Kíli alive.
She stayed silent on the matter, reasoning she'd rather save Kíli from this cruel knowledge.
Coward, her heart accused her, and she bowed low under the truth of it.
"Where is he?" Kíli asked again.
With a pointed look across his shoulder, she cancelled the Disillusionment Charm.
"He breaths still!" Kíli exclaimed when he turned, but it was a feeble attempt at excitement. Even at a glance, Frerik was but a weak husk by now; deathly pale, almost grey.
"He's beyond anyone's help now," she said.
Kíli sat up and reached over, clasping his friend's forearm.
"You say you could have saved him, with the help of others. But instead, you chose to keep your abilities secret."
She frowned at his conclusion, for it was oversimplified. She was prepared to bear Kíli's accusations, for she well deserved them, but not the incorrect ones. "Had I known he'd stayed a loyal friend, I would have tried to save him, even at the risk of revealing my magic. Instead, I was quick to pass my judgement, sentencing an innocent man to die. For that, I have no defence."
Here lay her true offence, and the cause for the dread that drenched her at her actions. Not only had she accused a man without investigating and substantiating his crimes, something that went against her every fibre as an Auror; she had also played his judge, jury, and executioner. Had the decades in Arda so eaten away at her moral centre that she had forgotten the principles she had lived by, and led with, throughout all her life? Left on her devices in this world, unwatched and unchecked, had she truly allowed herself to act with absolute power?
Or was it just the fright of Sauron's unexpected attack that left her reeling into a battle mindstate, where there was a need for snap decisions?
No, she would not hide behind such excuses. Her error was too dangerous, too slippery, to console herself with thin explanations
Kíli, meanwhile, seemed to pay very little heed to her words. "Heal me, wizard, and then be on your way. I will keep your secrets. Though I pray they are truly worth the price others keep paying for them."
They hadn't exchanged another word after this. Not when Harry immobilised him and cast her Patronus, scorching the Morgul poison out of his body, and not even when she Confunded a mountain goat to accept two Dwarves for a burden. It would take them down the slopes and to the Gates of the Mountain.
Only after she helped the still weak Kíli up onto the animal's back, Frerik's now dead body laid across and in front of Kíli's seat, and handed him the makeshift reins, did she speak.
"There was never a brother and a sister," she revealed, unwilling to let her friend leave with more false assumptions, and perhaps offering the dangerous truth as a feeble apology. Kíli now had the means to hurt her. "There has always been only one woman. Me."
His brows shot up with obvious surprise. Next, he turned away from her and rode off.
No other of Dale's guests had been Imperiused; though when Harry visited Erebor in the late morning, this time at an official invitation, accompanied by a squadron of Thorin's soldiers, and she looked into the minds of the Ironfists now imprisoned in Erebor's dungeons, she found the cursed fog in the head of their leader. His orders sounded similar to the Easterling chieftain's— to gain the trust of Erebor and Dale.
After a long day with more Legillimens cast than what she had used throughout the last several decades, on top of a sleepless night spent at Kíli's side and, above all, her insides still squirming with cramps, Harry was more than ready to climb into bed and sleep her exhaustion and the emotional turmoil away.
Instead, she was running around her rooms, packing her cloak and rucksack with bits and bobs she might need on her upcoming travels.
"What happens now?" Bain asked, his eyes following her frantic movement.
"If they're capable of fighting the curse off, they should do so within a few hours. You will know when they succeed; they'll be confused, struggling to remember their actions while under its influence."
"And if they don't?"
"You can't keep them detained without a cause; that would start a war just as well as Sauron's intervention. Let the leaders go, treat them with respect, but from now on, know that they're an enemy. Do not trust them—the commands in their heads could very quickly turn to wish us harm."
"As for our other allies," she added. "Tell them of the danger. Warn them of any of their leaders acting strangely, contradictory, with no explanation. Tell them to contact a wizard if that happens."
Bain frown was profound, but he nodded. "And what of you? Where will you go now?"
"To Grey Havens first, to warn Círdan of what happened in Dale and Erebor. He'd made a breakthrough in negotiations with some Corsair bands; I worry their alliance might turn out to be as false as those we thought we'd made with the Rhun tribes."
"And then?"
She looked up from her medical kit where she was restocking most of its pockets, and met her friend's eyes. "I've always claimed that I clean up my messes, Bain."
He understood immediately. "You are going to fight the Dark Lord."
She nodded. "I caused a disbalance; because of my interference, Sauron gained an unnatural advantage, foreign to Middle-earth or anyone opposing him. I intend to counterbalance."
She returned to her task, but Bain was suddenly there, clasping her shoulder, his solemn gaze seeking her eyes. "Whatever your next steps will be, know that Dale is behind you. We'll ride out the instant you ask."
She reached for his hand and gripped it gently. "You honour me with such a promise. But I'm not going to wage a war with Sauron; I won't have a need for armies and swords."
He stared at her, uncomprehending.
"Before I was forced into politics, I had been an investigator," she explained. "A dark wizard catcher. There's a method to dealing with Dark Lords, and it doesn't involve me leading any armies."
"Enlighten me, then."
With great reverence, she took out her sports bra from her drawer of prized possessions, and packed it with the rest of her spare clothes, wrapped in oil skin. She had been taking as good care of it as she could, but with the decades passing, the straps retained barely any elasticity.
"Well, for a start, you find where he's weak, where he's strong, and form a strategy against him. You'll find his sources of power, key servants and other elements in his power structure that he relies on, and then you strip him of them; preferably even before he finds out it's happening. And I believe I already know which one of Sauron's weaknesses to start with."
Once more, Harry checked she packed the herbs for the tea that helped with her cramps, before she hinted, "You must have heard at least one rendition of Bilbo Baggin's Bowels of the Misty Mountains."
"I have heard the Dwarves laughing at the ever growing tale."
"So have I. Unlike the rest of the audience, though, I have studied everything I could find on the lore of the rings of power, and easily made the connection. I always found it unfair how Gandalf was happy to leave such a ring with a mouthy Hobbit, but he chased me for a decade and a half just because he suspected I wore one."
Bain easily made the connection. "You are going to the Shire, to get Bilbo's magic ring. Aren't you afraid Gandalf was right, and the ring will overwhelm you?"
"There's no gain without risk," she mumbled as she fought with her old Lothlórien cloak. "Of course I might bite off more than I can chew, but a ring made by Sauron is an excellent way to gain insight into his power. It's as good a place to start as any, especially if it's conveniently waiting in the pocket of a Hobbit."
At last, she had her cloak fashioned the way she wore it in the West, where people thought her to be a man. She cleaned the kohl from her eyes, took off her wig and packed it away. She ruffled her short hair, enjoying the freedom to do so.
All ready to go, she turned to Bain, and gave his forehead a peck. "Tell the family I'm sorry for another abrupt departure. Actually, tell them that I'm doubly sorry, for this one might prove a lengthy one."
Once again, Harry arrived too late to warn of possible treachery.
"The dockyard will be rebuilt in five months," Círdan said. "In another four, the first ship will again wait ready to sail."
They stood in his observatory, overlooking the city of Grey Havens and the bay that encapsulated the ancient buildings of the Elven settlements. Below them, at the foot of Círdan's home, the port lay in ashes; the wooden docks burnt down to blackened pillars, the stone piers blasted to drowning rocks. The husks of several ships stuck out of the waters around the charred piles.
"Yet, I do not know if it should sail," Círdan added. "Sauron's puppets didn't only bring flames and fiery blasts, they brought a message, too: we will bar your way to the west. I believe them capable of it; Sauron knows the Straight Road to Valinor, and would know where to send the Corsairs' ships to intercept us."
The ancient Elf Lord hadn't escaped unscathed; his long beard had been trimmed down to a stubble, as it had apparently been singed during their fire-fighting efforts. No matter how poetic it was, for the shipwright's beard to burn with his shipyard, Harry quite couldn't get used to the new look, her eyes constantly flicking at her friend's almost bare cheeks.
"I can feel the sea turning against us; the waves we have called friends for many centuries, the horizon that always tempted us to go and meet it; they are now sending warnings of dangers that lurk in their waters."
Harry was deaf and blind to such messages; though she at least no longer dismissed Círdan's flowery observations. She accepted this as a quirk of the place, the way magic-users native to Arda seemed to be in tune with the world. She could observe magic being applied in front of her just as well as she used to back home, but with her alien background, the shifting moods and intricate personas of seas, mountains and forests that Círdan was apparently sensitive to, were lost on her.
"The confidence behind this attack, and those in Dale and Erebor, worries me," Círdan said next.
Harry's nod was grim and solemn in reply. "Sauron must have mastered the Imperius some time ago; I suspect it was his exact orders that managed to unite the Rhun tribes, or the Umbar Corsairs, and mellowed them down to offer us an alliance. This trap of his had taken him years to execute."
"I believe you are right. Such a plan would be indeed worthy of the Deceiver. What a terrifying tool this curse becomes in his hands!"
Harry rather agreed. And to think she was so proud of bringing the peoples of Middle-earth together, under modern concepts of trade and pacts of protection! When in truth, all her success was shown to be the machinations of the Dark Lord.
She swallowed the bitter disappointment, and focused on the important bit. "If Sauron's plans have been in preparation for all these many years, what next should we fear, now that he let the trap finally snap on us?"
"A war, my dear friend."
Harry grunted before voicing her thoughts. "It feels too soon. Gondor's scouts say the Black Gates of Mordor are barely manned, and neither are the other fortresses along the borders. Sauron has been preparing for war, yes; he's been breeding Orcs and other beasts for many years, he had called all types of creatures to Mordor, and many certainly answered. And yet, if you had asked me just three days ago if he was ready to march against the West, I would have confidently said that no, he hasn't amassed enough strength yet."
"Then, it will be treachery and deceit that he will build his strategy on. He will plan to divide any possible alliances between people of the West—by Imperius itself, but also by the suspicions and distrust the curse will no doubt seed into our hearts."
She winced, for where Círdan only speculated, she had memories of similar tactics being employed against her and the other members of the ICW.
"Can you find out how many other Easterling tribes and Southrons are under his direct control?" Círdan asked. "They could turn into a truly formidable force if united under a single command."
"I plan to, but there are other things I need to do first. I don't even know if he needs to be in the vicinity of his victims to cast the curse or change his orders, or if he can do so from a distance. Back home, such a thing would be impossible, but I cannot just assume the same here. I have seen him guide an army of Trolls and Orcs across several hundred miles—he might be able to apply the same powers to my techniques. I need to learn more about him, and his strengths; quickly."
Círdan nodded. "And we need to warn our allies of the increased danger he now represents."
"Well, that certainly sounds like a task for you, my friend. I have my plate full as it is."
They fell silent, both of them deep in their thoughts, until Círdan turned from the gentle waves of the bay and the settling sun above them, and fully faced her. "I wish the circumstances were different, but it is good to see you walking a path, determinedly so. You seem more comfortable in your own skin for it."
She wasn't surprised that her friend noticed. "It was only by transforming myself into something I'm not, that allowed me to live a peaceful life in Middle-earth. Before, seeing a problem meant trying to solve it—that's who I have always been. The dangers we're now facing are terrifying, true; but it feels good to be true to myself again."
"It was a good life you have led here, though."
"It was a great life," she corrected. "Now it almost feels like I should pay my dues to Arda, for letting me have it."
It was a fitting moment to finish their conversation and say their goodbyes, yet Harry hesitated.
Círdan took immediate notice. "Something else troubles you."
Harry grimaced and spilt her guts readily enough. "I sentenced an innocent Dwarf to die, and eagerly became his executioner. A good friend of Kíli's."
"How did it happen?"
"I had thought him a traitor; and did not pause to confirm my conclusion, even though it would be easy enough. In truth, he had stayed loyal, but I found that out only after I had bled him dry."
The sound of a soft exhale was her only reply, the silence stretching, with her confession hanging in the air.
"I suspect this is one of the times you need me to listen, not offer solutions, as you have taught me," Círdan spoke at last. "Which is fortunate, for I have no wisdom to offer than what you have undoubtedly already learnt for yourself."
"Yet, I feel a comment coming regardless."
"Let me remind you you're not alone in carrying such deep regrets. The greater our power, the more grave are the consequences of our mistakes. But they're still just that, unintended errors. I do not condemn you for it when you shoulder your own remorse."
Harry's answering nod was just a stilted bob of her head. Words did fall awfully short in these moments; especially when she suspected Círdan could never comprehend the fundamental principles of her own world, and how grossly she had betrayed them by convicting Frerik without even a hint of due process. Still, it did feel right to confine her shame to someone.
Lost in her solemn thoughts, she startled when Círdan reached his arm over her shoulders, squeezing them in a startlingly human fashion. She blinked, realising that it was a gesture he must have learnt from her, professing his sympathy in a way she preferred, even though the touch was very much not Elven-like. The Wise seemed rather clumsy at it, no matter that his posture hadn't lost any of its usual elegance.
She closed her eyes, drew in a shuddering breath, and then forcibly relaxed her shoulders. "Well then, time to embrace the guilt, learn what I can from it, and then pack it away to make space for the next mistake."
It was a short flight from Grey Havens to Hobbiton. Still, tired of the storm of worries and half-built strategies that had crowded her mind for two days straight, she attempted to distract herself with her usual routine, and went to translate another English song. She picked a cheery classic, probably overcompensating for her gloomy mindset, and managed to translate half of Anything You Can Do into simplified Khuzdul by the time she arrived in the Shire.
She picked the edge of Hobbiton for a landing site, intending to enjoy the short walk to Bilbo's smial through the charming village. It was then, as she strolled through the green hills and blossoming gardens, that she caught herself still singing "...anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you…" her steps inadvertently falling into the pace of the cheery melody.
Círdan was right, she remarked as she noted the spring in her gait and the song on her lips. Being decisive does suit me. It felt that for the first time in a very long while, her heart was truly in sync with her steps.
She was still mumbling the catchy lyrics when walking up the hill to Bag End. She had visited the Shire several times before, out of curiosity for its peculiar inhabitants or as a lovely destination for a holiday. When in the area, she never failed to check on Bilbo and his magic ring. This would be the first time she'd be letting him know, though.
She knocked on the green door and turned around to appreciate the lush sight that was the Shire in late spring. She could hear footsteps approaching the door from the other side, and she noted the hum of power that accompanied them.
It had been a great count of years since she had last stayed in the company of the Hobbit. Apparently long enough to forget the specifics of how the ominous presence of his ring always raked on her senses, ever since the first memorable night she had met him in Lake-town. Later on, that would be her excuse for why she confused the oppressing magic that now seeped towards her through the door, mistaking it for Bilbo's ring.
For when Gandalf opened the door instead, she was caught completely off guard.
No one could truly blame her then, that in her utter shock, she fell back onto her reflexes and attacked, flinging a knee-jerk Banisher at the perceived danger.
AN:
First of all, a big thank you to the amazing Rose who beta-read this chapter and saved you all from a lot of wincing and frowns of incomprehension whilst reading. The remaining mistakes are all mine!
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I love this moment of storytelling we've arrived at; I picture it as us tipping over an imaginary edge, on top of a cliff we've heaped up with all these long chapters of worldbuilding, and now diving into the story proper, enjoying the rush of the fall.
I found a particularly satisfying execution of this moment in this story:
Stunning Shifts by mindcandy
I'm a sucker for dimension hopping. This fic is not only a favourite of mine in this genre; I'd claim it's objectively great writing. The cast is so well-picked, their interactions realistic in the most amazing way, and the individual characters just incredibly well-portrayed.
Now, if only the author didn't pause writing just when it felt like we were about to tip that imaginary worldbuilding cliff into a great free fall. Well, I still have hopes for this one!
