A/N: The events described herein may or may not be based on a true story.

A Memory of Caernarfon

"Buggering Bicorns!" cried Harry as he awoke with a start.

His eyes immediately tracked around the tent he'd conjured for the night, attempting to locate any potential sources of danger. When none were immediately forthcoming, he relaxed back into the squishy bed.

That had been fairly high on his 'weird as fuck' dream list. He was no stranger to funny dreams, and he held a certain fondness for the recurring dream where he was riding Aragog to the moon, but this one was unusual.

He hadn't had a curry in months, so why was he dreaming about the most unpleasant case of curry shits in history?

He shook his head and decided to put it out of his mind. He really hoped it didn't turn into a regular occurrence though. Even now after waking up he felt as if the tortured anus of his dreams was still watching.

He yawned, more through habit than anything else, and waved his hand. It was still stupid o'clock in the morning, but Elves needed less sleep. If Harry was a suspicious man, and he was, he'd have said it was so they could fit more monkey sex into the hours of darkness while everyone else was none-the-wiser.

Not that that was any comfort to him as he lay in a bed with a very marked deficit of naked women. Not for the first time he considered stealing on of Tauriel's hairs and having a go at making Polyjuice Potion. There was surely some snaggle-toothed old whore in Bree who'd be up for that particular adventure. Maybe he could get the Ring in on the action too, as a last very literal 'fuck you' to his most recent Dark Lord.

He rolled out of bed, and as he walked towards the entrance of his tent his clothes flew to him from the many and varied places he'd thrown them when getting into bed a few hours before. As his breeches rose into the air, the very Ring he'd been thinking of dropped out of the pocket, and rolled a few feet towards the exit before the slightest twitch of Harry's hand sent it flying back into his pocket just as the breeches seemed to flow around his legs for a moment.

Perhaps he should make up a special container for it. Or maybe a necklace? He paused for a moment, considering the idea. Maybe he could play up the grieving widower angle… Nah, he doubted anyone would buy it, sadly.

He shoved the tent-flap aside and was immediately greeted by the pointy end of Glorfindel's very shiny sword. Harry blinked owlishly, and the early morning birdsong was instantly silenced.

"Do I get a last request?" he asked levelly, then his eyes slid over to where Tauriel was standing, bow pulled taught, with an arrow nocked on the string. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She relaxed, and lowered her bow. Half a second later, Glorfindel did the same, and, just like that, everything returned to normal.

"Did I miss something?"

Ordinarily, Harry would have been rather peeved about having deadly weapons pointed at his person. Swords had never really made it into the 'deadly weapons' category, though, what with his ability to turn them into very large floppy dildoes with but a thought.

"A fell presence laid its eye upon us," said Glorfindel, still a little wary. "We had feared that you might have succumbed to the temptation of the Ring and challenged Sauron for Mastery of it. Did you not feel his Eye upon you as you slept?"

"Oh, that was meant to be an Eye, was it?" said Harry. "I thought I was having flashbacks to that time when I ate a bad curry in Caernarfon when I was on a stake-out. That was the longest hour of my life, I shit you not. And when I say 'I shit you not' you should be grateful, because some others weren't so lucky that day."

"You saw Him, then, in your dreams?" asked Glorfindel, and was there an edge of worry to his voice? Harry knew that they had a bit of a complex about the Sowron guy, but given that Glorfindel had literally come back from the dead, if the stories were to be believed, surely he shouldn't have been overly phased?

"Big flaming arsehole style-of-thing?" Harry asked, and got a nod in return. He continued, "Then, yeah, maybe. Either that, or my anus was coming to revenge itself upon me, with an army of diarrhea covered Welshmen in tow." Harry shook his head, reminiscing. "Poor Rhys."

"Did he speak to you? Did you tell him anything of our plans?"

"Well, no," said Harry as if it should be obvious. "I don't generally get chatty with my own anus. Other people's… well that's another matter entirely, of course." He flashed Tauriel a saucy wink. For the first time in a while she looked puzzled, and Harry chalked that up as a victory. Putting her off-balance was becoming a rarer coin with each passing day in his company. It probably worked like aversion therapy or something.

"Remind me later to show you what I meant," he said innocently. Tauriel narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but didn't say anything more. Harry had little hope that that play actually paying off, but he wasn't above getting dirty, metaphorically and literally, if it meant seeing some action. Maybe he should have set his sights on someone more impressionable. By now, he'd heard lots of stories about Elrond's daughter, Arwen. Being the spoiled only daughter of a lordy-type she would surely have been up for a tumble. It was really just a pity she was bulking with her granny in Lothloriwhatsit. Now that was a thought.

"That is good news," said Glorfindel, somehow managing to completely ignore Harry's little by-play. "But we must make haste to the Havens at Mithlond, for surely his servants now come behind us with all the terrible haste their Dark master can give them."

Harry shrugged non-committedly. He wasn't overly concerned about dark servants, no matter how 'fell' their haste. "Fair enough. But where are the brothers dim?"

"Elladan is scouting the route ahead, and Elrohir watches the road behind us," said Tauriel as she gathered her travelling pack. She was possibly the only woman Harr had met who didn't carry around a steamer-trunk filled with cosmetic products. The only woman who didn't look like the bastard lovechild of a goblin and a turnip, anyway.

With a final lazy wave of his hand, Harry's tent collapsed back into a dainty handkerchief with the flowing monogram 'BB' in the corner. "Well, let's get this show back on the road then."

"Oh, and word to the wise," he said lightly, nothing more than afterthought, really. "If you think you might need to kill someone, I recommend you don't start waving your sword about like it's baby's first erection. If you tried that with someone less forgiving than me then you might end up having to mediate a meeting between your head and your lower intestines."

o-o

"That is a beard," said Harry as he looked upon one of the most magnificent examples of beardedness he'd ever set eyes upon.

"He is Círdan, and Lord of these Havens," said Glorfindel. "Eldest among the Eldar of Middle-earth."

"That is a beard," Harry repeated, as he gazed in open wonder.

"He wears many trials upon his face, for he alone of the Elves of Middle-earth can still remember the Great March," said Glorfindel.

"That is a beard," said Harry again, as he imagined the covetous look that Dumbledore would surely have worn in the presence of such fantastic follicles. The Havens were quite nice looking too, Harry supposed. After spending time in Rivendell he would describe it as 'nice, but a bit Elfy' if put upon to comment.

"Indeed it is, young master Bronduíst," said Círdan, as he smiled own at Harry. "And, may I say, it is a pleasure to meet another who appreciates it. We have heard much of your travels already."

"I have known a great many beards in my time," said Harry. "There was one particularly impressive one that was attached to a half-giant of my acquaintance. Not a patch on yours though. Does all Elf hair grow that straight and silky?" He turned to give the ol' Potter leer to Tauriel but found she'd already buggered off down to the shore and was seemingly listening to the seagulls. That was just plain rude. Here Harry was being a modern day Romeo, and she couldn't even muster the energy to swoon at his romantic gestures. Maybe he'd have to step his game up.

"Perhaps this discussion can wait for another time," Glorfindel suggested. "Our mission is of dire import, and I do not think that Master Círdan will want us to tarry here longer than is strictly necessary. These Havens are not so protected as Imladris, and we are pursued by Sauron's spies."

"I am aware of your mission," said Círdan as he raised his hand, cutting off Elladan who had been about to speak. "And I am aware of those who pursue you. They are not yet so numerous or dangerous that he do not have the strength here to keep them away."

"I still don't see why I can't just blast them," Harry said, his childish voice once again failing to rise to the challenge of a good grumble. "There's, like, a couple of dozen of them."

"You bear with you now a burden greater than any Elf has borne before," said Glorfindel soberly. "And with it comes a temptation to power that few could resist. You would be ill advised to enter into battle while you bear it."

"Yeah, yeah," said Harry, and he rolled his eyes. "So you say, but all I've had so far is some passingly unpleasant dreams. I've seen a lot worse, believe me."

"Then you are lucky," said Glorfindel simply. "And would do well not to tempt Fate."

Harry figured that there wasn't much point in arguing, really. The fact that they were being followed was, in the grand scheme of things, pretty irrelevant.

"Right, but I'm just saying, if we decide to make a dash for Merdur, it'd probably be a good idea to ask them politely to piss off first."

"You need not ask anything of them," said Círdan, an amused smile playing on his lips. "For you find yourself now in the Grey Havens, there the greatest ships of Elvenkind are built. You need only ask, and one will be granted to you. Any one of these ships could bear you to any of the ports of Gondor in but a few short days."

There was a short moment while Harry did some hurried mental arithmetic in his head to work out how long it would have taken to walk all that distance. He didn't mind the walking, really, but the camping was just no good at all, he'd had enough of that to last him a lifetime, an Elvish lifetime.

Also, ports meant sailors, and if his vague recollection of urban legends was anything to go by, sailors meant prostitutes.

"Deal."