Delusional
Raven'd Fleet
Chapter Four
Making fire would defiantly be the last thing he did.
Harry shifted through the shadows, green eyes locked against the curling crimson locks. The dwarf moved forward with a confident gait, arrogant movement betraying his simplicity. This would be easy, perhaps a little to easy. The young wizard glanced a moment at the hazardous ax upon the dwarf's broad shoulder.
Just a moment... A moment...
He sprang then, as the unsubtle creature neared the corner, jumping from the darkness and upon the man's shadow. He tugged a hair, quickly slicing it away as he ducked a wild swing. The dwarf gave a loud, crusty shout and Harry spouted an impish grin, sliding into the shadows once more. Or, at least he would have if not for the hands that caught him.
"That was hardly nice Harry," said a voice. Harry could have sworn he heard amusement in it but when turned about face, saw only an annoyed scowl over Strider—Aragorn's expression. The young wizard matched it with one of his own. "Gimli may not have wished his hair cut in so spectacular a fashion."
"He looks better with it short," Harry scoffed pointedly, only to squirm under the dwarf's black glare. "Fine. I'm sorry I cut your hair, but I need it!" Aragorn was glaring now, not that he ever seemed to not glare, really; and Gimli looked to not believe a word he said.
"And what, pray tell, would you need with my hair?" asked Gimli.
"For my wand of course," he answered without pause. It really was the truth though, his wands would all burn up without a core, just useless twigs that randomly caught fire. Ollivandar had made mention of them once, about two years ago. So, without any other ideas, he'd taken to helping remove stray hairs from the guest and noble people's backs. And once even, he managed to pull one from Elrond.
Luckily the elf had yet to notice... He hoped.
"You are here as a guest in Lord Elrond's home..." He only listened with a half ear as Aragorn lectured, thinking about all the different wands he could make with the fine red strands. Holly worked best, of course, but was hardly ever available. It had taken him a week to even find one, but the small tree could hardly support all the wands he needed made to discover the right combination. He'd saved his last stick of it for when he found the right hair. Pine worked alright, of course, though it tended to make burping noises and break apart after a few tries; willow was more easily channeled, though it tended to prefer water, and Mahogany more supportable to the flames.
"Is that agreeable Harry?" asked the ranger. Harry blinked in surprise, having not heard the last part. Or rather most parts in particular.
"Er... Sure?"
"Wonderful," smirked Aragorn, obviously well aware Harry hadn't heard a word said. "I'll expect you to arrive at the practice fields at sunrise. You can help clean the elven armor—without any of the magic."
Harry frowned, but kept tight hold on the hairs.
He would make the fire! He would!
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The young wizard gave an involuntary groan at all the arrows and swords, armors and boots, mud and grime beneath the dull gray rays of the nearly risen sun. How could anyone truly clean all of these? It was worse than the huge amount of chores the Dursleys gave him back home!
The place looked as though it hadn't had a good scrub in years, what with dust dredging up the corners, mud and grass and something that may have been molded blood stirring the surface. He sneezed when he entered.
This would suck.
Rolling back the sleeves of the strange tunic like outfit with a resigned air, Harry got to work, dragging out all the armor and swords and arrows and bows. He took down the maps of what he supposed was the world he now accompanied. The words were unreadable and it looked long out of date, like much of the things he saw, but it fascinated him all the same.
By the time he had unloaded the room, the sun had already fully risen, it's heat leaving a red imprint on the back of his neck. He wondered vaguely if the people of this world attained skin cancer.
"What are you doing young wizard?"
With a frightened yelp, Harry turned at once, holding out the first thing in his grip—a dusty arrow with the feathered end pointing towards a pair of people that could have been one. Elven twins. Laughing elven twins.
"What do you want?" he asked angrily, and yet, somewhat happy. He had lacked company almost the entire time he'd been in Rivendell; the hobbits needed training and rest, the elves passed him with contempt, the dwarves busied themselves with their selves, Aragorn could hardly be spared a moment, especially for someone so insignificant and vexing as him, and Harry could hardly part with any moments as he tried to find hairs and wood to make his wand.
"Little, perhaps, beyond a want to satisfy a curiosity," replied the elf to the left. He wore muddied boots and dark shades of trousers and tunics. He kept a face of neutrality guarded only by a sensitive smile and shifting eyes filled with wisdom and an aged sadness. Long black hair drifted around his angelic face that shone with a radiance of velvet and ebony black beyond even the darkest nights. "I am Elrohir, and my brother Elladan."
"Harry," introduced the young wizard as he dropped the dusty arrow and wiped his dirty hands on the trousers, or what he hoped were trousers, they could be those strange undergarments that the elves were known to wear on occasion. He, of course, much preferred robes.
"Brother," confided the elf on the right, Elladan, with a disdainful look towards Harry, "father expects us, I expect we should not keep him waiting." He then turned and walked off, parting with a slight nod. Elrohir followed his wake with dark eyes.
"Yes, Elladan is correct. Good day, young wizard, I suspect we shall meet again." Elrohir bowed swiftly, a fluid motion tempered with a superfluous grace and style. He gave a slight wink and walked away as well, the same direction his brother had just tread.
Harry watched on with something akin to amusement and curiosity. Why had Elladan left so quickly? Surely their was a reason beyond what was being said? Harry could feel the unspoken truth behind the words. Could their be an actual rationality for the elves scornful looks beyond just that of divergence?
He had never seen them look at the hobbits like that, though they did tend to cast dark looks at Boromir. But Aragorn seemed immune to such treatment. Aragorn seemed almost one of them, though not quite. Almost, like an off shade of white and gray.
Sighing, Harry ate a small package of food he'd brought with him before returning once more to his work.
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The scent of pine and small shreds of wooden shavings clung against the elven fabric despite the many attempts to remove and banish them. The coat of sticky tree sap is easily removed with the acidic soap or a long, sharp flicking motion of a (oak and elven-haired) wand. The smell, however, not so easily.
Harry pressed the almost needle, transfigured from a match-stick donated from the cook, into the middle of the wand, digging out the center carefully and with as much precision as possible. The last two tries had terminated terribly with the red dwarf hair poking out the end in a useless fashion. The effect tended to light the entire wand on fire, which Harry had discovered was not good...
"Harry?"
The needle went astray and Harry cried out in pain, as blood began to leak from his palm.
"Sweet Merlin and everything magical!" he quoted in anguish, remembering the phrase Ron had used so many times. The red liquid had already pooled about his hand, dripping onto his trousers and the knife and the wood. He looked over to see a slightly green Pippin, standing in the doorway.
Getting up Harry found his old, overgrown shirt from his home world and ripped it apart. He used the shreds to cover the wound and turned towards the hobbit with an inquisitive glare. He could hardly be so mad when he hadn't had a visitor in days. Of course, he hadn't left his room in a couple days either, except to eat, drink, and relieve himself.
"Yes Pippin?"
"Oh... Um, well..."
"Oh do hurry up," called another voice. Harry noticed then, that there wasn't one figure there, but actually two."Yes, you've been standing there like a fool for ages, Pip! I thought you were hungry." Or maybe three?
"How many of you are there?" Harry asked, coming around and fully opening the door to see four individuals lined up outside his door. Merry and Sam both stood a little outside his door while Frodo was in the back, his somewhat shy smile friendly and confused.
"What happened to your hand, Harry?" inquired Sam at once upon seeing the crudely wrapped appendage. "Are you hurt or ill?"
"No, no of course not!" replied the young wizard with a sharp smile as he glanced at the bandage. It would have to do for the moment. He would fix it later, when no one was watching, no reason to worry his friends. "So why are you all here?"
"Why would we not?" said Merry, who seemed oblivious to the odd looks, which Harry was quite thankful for. "You've been in this room for an eternity! Come outside and join us, we're to play a bit of a hobbit game."
"Most likely you've yet to hear of it with your bigness and all such," added Sam with a wide smile. "We hobbits like simple games though, not like that quill-nitch of yours. Utterly confusing and strange, not at all hobbit like."
"And you think your games aren't confusing and strange?" Harry asked, joining in the friendly banter easily as he had when they journeyed through the harsh wilderness to Rivendell. Sam tended to argue in simple terms, dividing people into groups and rarely moving them, lest they proved themselves worthy of such a change. The stereotypes usually ended with Harry in the strange category that all wizards fell under, not that Sam had actually met many wizards. "I specifically remember some strange family game where you count the number of times your related to one person! I still think your all crazy, intermarrying between families like that. People who do that in my world end up with eleven toes and three ears."
Of course, he'd learned some ended like that anyways, with a wave of the wand; or belching slugs.
"Not nearly so queer as riding broomsticks. Made for sweeping, not riding, I say."
"And so we've heard, a good many times," cut in Pippin with a cheeky grin. "Why not a game of old fashioned Brandybuck's fox and duck?"
"Why not?" replied Frodo, grinning widely. Harry got the impression something secret was going on. "Not fox!"
"Not fox!" echoed the other hobbits as they scurried away. Harry shouted and grinned as he chased after them for the rules they so often tended to neglect. Ridiculous hobbits.
Harry chased each of them all, discovering the game actually resembled tag, only when the person was caught, he had to do some ridiculous notion that the "fox" deemed to escape. So Harry chose outrageous choices for them all, making Sam act like an overzealous lion and Pippin was forced to waddle and roll at the same time, an interesting feat in itself that allowed Harry to capture Frodo, who was the most wily of them all. Frodo was made to flop about like a worm and Merry made to join him, while making throaty noises with a resemblance to whale and a goat.
They all then turned and attacked Harry, tickling him mercilessly.
"For the Shire!" they each screamed launching themselves in a chaotic order all at once. He managed to fend back Merry at first, but Sam used his small size to pass between his knees and knock him over. After that, all was futile.
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"Incendio." Carelessly flicking the wand (Oak, hobbit-haired) towards bowl of mead before him, Harry watched it begin to burn. Just another testimony to the number of endless hours he'd spent practicing that specific spell. His wand curled with smoke and Harry carefully extinguished the fire, with a bit of a wave as he pulled back against the flames.
He'd learned it when he'd accidentally missed his target, catching a passing elf's garments alight.
Perhaps that was why the elves all tended to avoid him, or glare whenever he entered the same room. But then again, Elrohir didn't, so maybe not. Perhaps he'd ask when next he saw the elf?
He sighed, he needed the perfect combination. But how? The elven wands were more prone to subtle spells, they lacked the spontaneous effect of fire. The dwarf hairs did better, but it was much too stubborn, refusing to create fires unless it was to create a large, backwash of dragon-breath, as Sam had so adequately named it.
He need something else, something closer to a phoenix. Harry wondered if Gandalf would possibly give up a few hairs. The wizard had so much, it could hardly be bothered to lose a few, could he? But even that, Harry doubted would work to much. The wizard was powerful, far more powerful than Harry, surely? Everyone revered him as such!
He stood silently, a headache forming as he did. He looked towards his hand, still bandaged and red. He had cut it open a few more times, and despite his washing and dressing of the wound, it seemed to refuse to get better. Normally, he would have simply found Hermione and asked for the spell, as Hermione knew almost everything (almost simply because she had made that one mistake with the cat hair!), but without his know-it-all friend, he didn't have too many options.
He could, of course, find Lord Elrond, who had already shown himself not so happy with Harry after their initial meeting, or seek out Aragorn, who could heal almost anything with the exception of the Nazgul.
But Aragorn had been unhappy with him since Gandalf's inability to send him home. Nothing seemed to appease the ranger, that is, besides the she-elf Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter.
Sighing, Harry decided on nothing. Preoccupied by the sudden need for food.
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The young wizard ignored the cautious glare of the librarian as he entered the library of Elrond. The elf, a great figure in the eyes of most, stared, hawk-like eyes shrewd and calculating. A quill squawked in the silence, black ink twining in it's jar. The others turned away as he passed, backing away from him—away from one so untouchable.
Away from the wizard.
Harry stretched his legs, the sweet silence ringing in his ears. Green eyes, the color of a watermelon's empty carcass, washed against the world, soaking in the different colors and books and words and sounds. The building felt void. Containing and obsolete.
He turned a corner and found what he'd been looking for, the smallest of books, the one with pictures and scrolls.
He opened it once more and watched the birds swoop and the trees grow anew; watched the frosted flowers bloom and the soft-swept clouds blunder across blue-painted skies. He watched until he could watch no more and the librarian forced him away.
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"Incendio..."
"At it again young wizard?" Harry didn't bother to turn, recognizing the voice instantly. Elrohir and Elladan. Twin sons of Elrond.
"Don't you two have something to do?"
"But of course," replied one neutrally. "However, we have come to acquire you skills with a sword. Our lord father believes your presence is endangering the ale and mead. The cook has complained thrice of your fires."
He glanced at them from the corner of his eye, watching the scowling countenance of Elladan and Elrohir's shifting smile.
"I'm busy," he replied in kind, turning back to the bowl of mead, he flicked his wand sharply, feeling, as he watched, the fire roar up. He'd easily discovered that a spell, practiced enough, could be done silently. It certainly explained some of his teacher's feats.
Elrohir chuckled dryly and Elladan grunted before the sound of fabric moving caught his attention. He turned at once, only not in time. The fire was quickly dispersed and two, rough and calloused hands took hold of his arms. He had only begun to struggle when he heard Elladan's leathery voice in his ear.
"You are ridiculously light, young wizard."
Harry scowled and stopped jerking. Stupid Elves.
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The bow strained against his arms, sapping his strength as he simply held it aloft. How could anyone do this? What kind of puffed up monsters used this sort of weapon?
"Concentrate," barked the elf, Elladan. "If you can't wield a sword, at least hold the bow aloft."
Harry flinched slightly. He had fared horribly against the elf, loosing his sword in the very beginning. The passing creatures had all laughed with delight and stared, reminding him of the children of Hogwarts. Reminding him of the mean-spirited people that awaited him should he return.
"Elladan," chided a voice, a new one. He looked blithely to the side to see a new elf, a she-elf. Arwen, Aragorn's admirer. "There is little need for such harsh words. He is but a boy."
"He is a wizard," answered the elf in reply, as though that solved everything. "He must defend himself with something other than the flame. Even Mithandril uses a sword. He must have a real weapon."
"Brother!" she announced in a most vicious manner. Most unladylike. "Have you spoken with Estel of this? He is twelve years of age. I do not remember you able to wield you bow or hold a sword well then either."
"He is a wizard." The words seemed a little less confident this time. Harry wondered why.
"He is," acknowledged Arwen. "But he is a boy as well."
Elladan made no reply, but he did stop yelling—somewhat.
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"What makes a wizard?" asked Hermione, her bushy hair billowing. Lights blared around her and elves raised an applause. He was on a game show, but he didn't remember the answer.
"Magic?" he tried to answer, but she refused to listen. "Fire?"
"Where is your hand, Harry?" asked Ron, who was entangled in Hermione's hair. "Where's your wand?"
"It fell off," he replied back, waving the appendage. Even as he did, the other hand fell off, and a turban was winding around his feet, burning him. He tried to scream as sands swept up and fire raced around him. No...
No...
Harry jerked awake suddenly, his body entrenched in sweat. The black hair matted itself in ruffled heaps, pale lips dry and scabbed. He licked them cautiously, green eyes staring upwards still hazy and fearful.
Grabbing his glasses, Harry looked down, as though to assure himself that his body was indeed, still whole—that it all had been but a dream. He noticed at once, the darkness bluring against gray cloth, and unwound the fabric from his hand for further inspection.
The small lances that had earlier been simply cuts now seemed puffy and red, obviously infected.
He cursed and got dressed ignoring that it was obviously still dark. Maybe if he left now, he could work up the courage to see one of the healers.
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Harry leaned against the door, unable to enter, and to worried to leave, debating as he had for the walk up and down the great flights of stairs whether he should or should not. Dare he to find Lord Elrond, who had already shown himself not so happy with Harry after their initial meeting, or find Aragorn, who could heal almost anything with the exception of the Nazgul wound.
Aragorn it was; albeit, reluctantly.
"He is a menace," claimed the Ranger's voice. He sounded angry, hearkening with an enthusiasm that diverted Harry's attention towards it. Who was a menace? Was something wrong, at this time of the night—or rather morning? "His fire hath consumed-"
"He has as of yet, done nothing," replied another. It sounded like an elf, eloquent and soft spoken, but Harry couldn't be certain. And besides, if it were, indeed an elf, would they not be speaking in Elvish? "So long as he refuses our attention, we shall refuse his."
Harry frowned. Fire? Attention? Could they be talking about him? Could this be why all the elves were ignoring him? But what did Aragorn have to do with it? Did he really think Harry a menace?
"The wizard is plotting, I tell you!" exclaimed Aragorn, and Harry could feel his throat constrict. The sounds of murmurs poured through the wooden door. A wizard! So Aragorn really though him plotting? A menace? Nothing but something to be squashed, like some pathetic bug, by the sound of it. "Have you listened of nothing we've told you? Gandalf is correct-"
Even Gandalf was in on this?
"Mithandril is old," replied the stranger, Harry heard approval. He felt hope and hugged his forgotten hand to his chest. "However, he has yet to be truly wrong. We shall confer amongst the others. Lord Elrond shall hear our decision, and through him you, Estel."
He heard the dismissal and backed away, his hand forgotten in his panic. They were going to kick him out? Was that why everyone was avoiding him? Where would he go, back to Old Butterbur in Bree? To the memories of Bob and the bloody grave? Would he find a new home with elves and humans and hobbits and dwarves? Would he ever return to his old one? Ginny, Hermione, Ron? The names came with the normal pang, but not so painful as they once were. Like an almost irrecoverable haze. Could he truly forget them, his old friends? Hagrid still stuck in Azkaban for a crime he never committed, Dumbledore sacked from office through Malfoy's machinations.
He turned to move away, when the door slid open. A tall figure stepped out, grabbing hold of his shoulder on instinct. Aragorn looked down, eyes hooded by the shadows. Hate and loathing undoubtedly filling them. How could he! Why?
Harry glanced upwards, feeling the fear and anger and pain draw into one. A tear leaked against his eye and he bolted from the place, shrugging off the shocked hand as he raced away. Aragorn had betrayed him. Gandalf had lied. Aragorn didn't care. None of them did.
They had lied.
The all of them, liars.
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He was in a cupboard like room, hiding as the footsteps rushed by and the shouts echoed. Dust filled the cramped corners and darkness laid like a heavy blanket, draining the energy even as it revitalized him. Harry was uncomfortable, cold, and irritable. He wanted to go home. He wanted his friends. He wanted away.
Why couldn't he just be normal?
"Harry!" He said nothing, silently sobbing as the emotions bit at his heart, stopping his throat like one of those fat corks pressed into the potion vials. An icy impression creaked from his stomach, ascending like the tiny spider on his ankle; stopping the coughs and cries with a mute disinterest. Harry held tightly to himself as he leaned against bags of flour and wheat. "Harry!"
The cupboard door creaked open, and Harry caught a glimpse of gray, broken and reflected before a shout of acclaim took his ears by surprise.
"Harry!" deduced the voice, but it became quieter after a moment. Softer and more sincere. "What are you doing in here? Are you hurt? Ill? Why did you not answer when I called?"
"Go away..." whispered Harry, hating the slight quiver and the decisive weakness in it. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? That was what they wanted, to get rid of him! Let him rot in their cupboard... Wasn't that what the Dursley's did? Just hide him away? Why should these people care any different? Oh, but the room was full of food, and probably warranted more respect than his decaying corpse. He was nothing but a fire-making wizard! No, worse. A menace. "Just leave me alone..."
The elf, Elrohir from the musical tone, made a strange face through the darkness, probably one of accomplishment. They'd found him. He let loose another sob, this time louder, resigned to his fate. He didn't want to fight anymore. He wanted to go back to the way things used to be. To Hogwarts, with his friends and their happy, smiling faces, before Riddle and the diary. Before this wild adventure. Before his supposed friend's mutiny.
"What is wrong young wizard?" Harry winced at the name. "And you have not yet answered my questions. Why are you crying in the dark?"
"I am not crying," he managed to say, before fear and weariness drained him of his courage. "And what do you care? Just go... leave me alone!"
"Young-" the elf obviously saw the wince this time and changed his words, "Harry. Won't you come out of here? A fire roars in the hearth, and the cook always keeps something delicious for the night. Best yet, we have a most comfortable couch that you would like well, red furnished and fluffed, that sinks when you sit. So come, won't you? It is hardly the weather to remain in!"
Harry had the distinct feeling the elf had done this before. His numb arms and legs craved to find the heavenly haven described. But what if it was a trap? What if they wanted to lure him in, unsuspecting, and dispose of him quick like? Maybe a sword through his gut, or decapitation. He doubted they hung people or burned (at least Harry who could put it out) or drowned.
"Go away!" he groaned, remembering the taste of the last Elvish meal. He had missed lunch and could hear his stomach growl. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? Hadn't they lied enough? Hadn't they deceived him enough?
"Harry..."
"No!" he shouted, his eyes blurring with tears as a memories burned withing his mind. Fresh and old. "Enough!" Aragorn's face as he glared. Gandalf as he pondered the predicament. The words behind the door. The hobbits, laughing gaily as they chased each other with screams and shouts. His fingers had lost their feeling and his sore hand was no longer sore. No longer even a hand, just a numb appendage that shifted in the blackness occasionally. "No just stop! Why won't you all just stop?"
"Stop what?"
The innocent tone, the curious uncertainty, the worry. He could hardly stand it, he could hardly breathe. This was worse than any snake; than any possessed teacher; than any troll; than any cupboard.
"No... Stop! Stop lying and staring and... and..."
And arms were wrapping around him, pulling him from the corner, from the uncomfortable position. He tried to fight, tried in a futile effort to protect himself from the crushing limbs. But they grabbed him with an inhumane strength, held him, pulled him close as fingers rummaged through his hair.
"I can't understand if you won't tell me," whispered Elrohir. Harry only buried his face in the soft elven tunic. The embrace was warm and full, holding him afloat as the world seemed to swim around him. "Why did you run from Estel?"
Harry mumbled something unintelligible.
"Harry," asked the elf, his voice stronger and serious, "why did you run from Estel and not answer when we called?"
"Because he's going to kill me." It came out before he could stop it, and he cursed his naivety. He should have played along, should have pretended and then made a run for it!
"What are you talking about, Harry?" asked the elf suddenly intensely, his hands tightening as though to crush the horrible knowledge from him. "Who has threatened to kill you?"
"Aragorn and Gandalf, and the other elves..."
"Preposterous!"
"I heard them!" And then his anger dissipated as the realization set in once more. The betrayal and the pain. They had lied. He buried his face in the shocked elf's tunic once more, sobbing. After a few moments, Elrohir seemed to come to his senses.
"You were eavesdropping on us?" whispered the elf, pulling away to look into Harry's eyes, though Harry could hardly see to find them, his glasses fogged by the heat.
"No... I- I was going to ask- only I heard- and then- and then he-" his words were becoming jumbled as he continued to attempt to talk. His mind kept jumping and going blank as the eyes continued to stare. They pierced the darkness, though he could hardly see them.
"And you thought they were talking about you." Elrohir said it calmly, almost a question, though the elf knew the answer. He knew it all now, and any moment would call Aragorn, drag him hither to murder Harry on spot, or maybe drag him to the dungeons. Did elves have dungeons? Who did they keep there, other elves? Orcs? "Oh, young wizard, you truly are a child. It is a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" parroted Harry, baffled and sniffing.
"Yes," agreed the elf, before a wide grin broke out and he swung open the cupboard door, dragging Harry out with him.
"Where are we going?"
"To find Estel."
Harry's throat caught in his breath and he would have fallen to a stop if not for Elrohir's firm grip. In that same manner, he dragged him down the halls.
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"But- But-"
Elrohir looked down at Harry, gray eyes sharp as they entered Aragorn's room without knocking. It stood empty of life, filled with sharp swords and tools and strange devices. Heavy tomes and scrolls lined the walls, a well made bed pushed in a corner and a desk near by. A pair of boots and a few shirts scattered against the floor.
"You do not wish to see Estel?" He shook his head wildly, still not completely sure he was wrong. He knew what he heard! They wanted to kill him, the fire-wizard! The menace! The one the elves ignored!
Elrohir obviously understood that and made Harry sit on the bed, though it felt strange and awkward to do so. To sit on Aragorn's bed... On the bed of perhaps his killer?
"Est- Aragorn would never hurt you," answered the elf bluntly, not at all his usual style. "I know not how you could have—it matters not. Aragorn sat by your side for days while you slept off the burns of the fire-"
"How do you know that?" Harry blurted out rudely, before blushing and ducking his head. He felt stupid and anxious.
"Because it was Elladan and I who found you," replied Elrohir quietly. "It was we who brought you back from the burning ravine only barely alive." The elf's eyes lowered, drawing darker. "It was I who informed Estel, and I who had to force him to sleep and to eat and to move."
Harry stared. But... but... And his eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious.
"Your lying. All of you! I thought... I thought-" he broke off, overcome with nausea. He'd been led right into the room full of swords. Led to the slaughter like a blind fool. Bitterly, he spat, "I thought you a friend."
The tears didn't come this time, but the pain gripped him all the same. Twice the idiot. How could he be such a fool? And without a wand or sword to protect himself with. The elf would beat him thrice by the time he got to a weapon.
"What?" asked Elrohir suddenly bewildered. "Harry! I'm not lying!"
"Yes you are," Harry replied, utterly convinced. "Aragorn hates me! He's hated me from the beginning!" Scenes came back to him then, stealing through his mind and overcoming him."What is this?" whispered a low voice in his ear, the smell of pine and sweat invading his nose. "Surely, not a little boy alone in the woods?" The frigid night, lying in wet clothes far away from the fire so cold and hungry. "You're lying," Strider murmured, his thumb wiping away something from Harry's head. How could anyone care for you, pathetic little boy? "He would never do that! Never!"
"Harry-"
"No! No more lies!" he shrieked. A nearby window cracked through the middle. Harry ignored it, breathing harshly as he tried not to envision the horrors to come. "No more... No..."
"Hush child," scolded the elf, when Harry could scream no more. His throat constricting, draining him of strength. "Estel would-"
"I would what?" asked a hard voice on the other side of the door, the sound muted and swallowed by the slight creak of wood. Aragorn sounded odd, almost anxious. Angry and pained. "Did you find him, Elrohir?"
"I did."
Liars. It had been a trap. And he had been a fool.