He woke up.
He coughed, unendingly. Wreaking pain burrowed through his chest, like there was something that was breaking out. He felt like as if a great force had propelled him into something, a shock that shook his entire being, his mind seemingly shifting in an out.
Disorientated, he found himself to be lying onto the ground, his arms curled around him, twitching.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Breath in.
Breath out.
He could hear voices, murmuring agitatedly.
Breath in.
He struggled to open his eyes.
Breath out.
There was the sound of argument, but he could not make out the words.
Breath in.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then his throat. After a few seconds, it went away.
Breath out. There was a collective sigh of relief. Someone barked something out, loudly.
A pair of hands lifted him up, which once again threw him into vertigo. He let out a small groan. Someone murmured into his ear, which for some reason felt strangely soothing.
The pain began to fade, his breathing became easier. He felt the warmth of sunlight passing over his face, and then back into the shadows he went. He was laid down onto something soft, something that felt strangely familiar. The voice whispered again, he tried to understand but failed to do so.
He felt like he knew this language, it was familiar and yet again, not. He heard a door shut, and then a isolating silence.
And in the darkness and his rampant thoughts, exhaustion took him and his mind drifted away once more.
Or did he? It felt like no time passed at all. From one moment he was lying down he was once again wake. He sprung up, gasping. The pain is gone. He can breath. He is alive, or was he dead at all? Where was he? Where was he before he woke up?
He can feel his heart beating again. He can feel his lungs extending and contracting, the touch of his skins against the skin covers of the bed, the sweat that stains his clothes.
His eyes opened this time without effort. He was in a small room, a floor of dirt and a wall of clay. He could smell the scent of dew-grass in the morning, the stench of manure and smell of burning of air that came from poor ventilation. He could hear the sound people talking, but it was too distant to make out the words.
He slowly swivelled off the bed, his feet touching the ground. It was cold and moist. He tested his strength and found it firm. Little by little, with the aid of his arms, he stood up. He groaned as the blood rushed from his head to his feet, nearly losing balance.
Taking deep breaths again, he stabilised himself. Walking slowly, hand against the wall, he made for the wooden door at the end of the room. He took the handle, and shook it.
It was locked. Is he a prisoner? Who brought him here? Where is he?... He could see a flight of stairs beyond the bars at the top of the door but he could not see whether there were anyone. Weakly, he called out, "Hello?"
And he stopped. His voice... is different. It was the same, and yet again unfamiliar. The pitch was too high, the tones were too feminine —
He looked down, he found himself dressed in a simple leather jerkin over a sleeveless tunic and pants with a dress atop.
Oh no.
Franticly, he ran his hands around his body, searching for all sense of familiarity —
Oh no.
He found two small bumps on his chest that could not have been there. He felt shorter, smaller, weaker.
And when his hands went to his groin, it confirmed his suspicion.
Oh no.
This is not my body, Harry thought to himself in shock, Impossible.
He sunk against the wall in contemplation. No.
He doesn't have his magic items. He wands, cloak, belongings are gone.
And so was the Hallows Amulet.
Oh no.
Weakly, whispering prayers to gods that he did no recognise then, he lifted his — her arm, and whispered, "Lumos"
He nearly cried in relief as his finger lit up in an incandescent glow, bringing light into the dreary prison of his.
Magic. Magic is here. Magic is real.
He is not powerless now. Magic, his magic, he still got it.
He whispered again, "Nox"
And the light faded again.
He is Harry Potter, son of James Potter and Lily Evans. He is magical, and he was from earth. He was definitely not female.
Filled with a sudden sense of purpose, he felt himself strangely energised. He need to leave here, where ever this is and start searching for answers.
Smiling grimly, he pointed his finger at the lock on the door, "Alohomora."
Without a sound, the door slid open. Tentatively yet strangely excited, he walked through the door and up the stairs.
The stark daylight washed his face. He breathed in the fresh air, the smell of leaves and plants. From where his eyes can see, he see hill and trees, bobbling up and down like a green sea frozen in time. Before him, right below his hilly prison was a small village, thatched roofs and walls. Bits and pieces of farmlands litter here and there like scattered cards.
Harry remember seeing this view before, remember the smell of nature, rot and growth, remember the shades the tree casts on the ground, the same creeks and the same buildings. Where had he seen this before?
His mind provided names, Minhiriath, South Downs, Rotherham.
He did not understand where these memories came from, but for some inexplicable reason he knew beyond the doubt that the village surrounding him is indeed the village of Rotherham in South Down, Minhiriath.
A cry of fear took his attention. He swivelled his head and immediately spied a man, armed with a rake, pointing at him. The man yelled, "It broke out! The Umaiar broke out!"
Umaiar?
With a shock, he realised that the man was not speaking English at all, nor was it any language that he had heard of — but he still understood it perfectly.
Warily, he saw that several others had answered the cry, eyes started spotting his form on top of the hill. And without warning, they started running toward him, rakes and pitchforks raised.
Turning away, he began running down the hill at the opposite direction.
His now shorter legs and petite frame served poorly for running. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he found himself in a thicket of grass and crops. There are men and women — farmers all around him, now staring at him in shock —
A voice screamed out, "Don't let her escape!"
Harry continued running, cursing under his breath. He found himself on a road of mud, trees arching above in a small little grove. Choosing briefly, he decided to continue running along the road. Out of nowhere, a pitch fork landed somewhere to the left of him, sticking into the mud with a splat.
The body couldn't keep up with his demand any longer. His lungs began burning from the sprint and he had to slow down, his limbs betraying his will.
There was a snarl, "You cannot run forever, you foul creature!"
Harry looked back, warily.
The farmers, the villager are slowly trickling into the road from the fields, armed with pitchforks and shovels, rakes and make-shift spears. They advanced, weapons at hand ready to throw or stab. There were children, younger man and women standing in the back, watching in horror and fascination. They were all yelling, their voices mixed into a symphony of rage and fear, snarling and leering. Familiar faces swarmed his mind. These people that he had never met but yet he remembers.
All are so familiar. Who are they?
An old man, face gnarly and red with anger, hoisted up his pitchfork and threw it.
Harry snarled and batted it aside with a silent Protego. The pitchfork slammed into a green shield that shimmered into existence, sparks flying as the tool went flying to the side, smoking at the tips.
The mass went silent, cautious.
They continued to glare with their weapons at ready, but no one dared to make another step.
Harry's fingers twitched as he stared back, breathing deeply.
An impasse then.
They stood there for seemingly an eternity. The birds went silent, the crickets stopped chirping, the wind stopped blowing. The tension was so thick that Harry can almost imagine a storm building, the pressure dropping.
Harry can feel sweat dripping down his scalp as he regarded the mass. Obviously, they wanted him dead. But why? Why bother to capture her if they wanted him dead?
Eventually, an old man stood forth. He was dressed in robes of brown, charms and beads around his neck and a beard worthy of Hargrid. This visage brought even more uneasiness to Harry. He had known this man. This person. Who is he? Who is he? Who is he? The old man cleared this throat, slamming his staff and yelled out firmly across the distance between Harry and them, "Release her, creature!"
Release? Harry thought, unmoving, Release what?
Then, suddenly, a revelation came to him.
He is in a different body — which means that he had somehow, to all purposes and intents — possessed someone. What happened back then? He remembered something about on the last mission...? He remembered pain a whole lot of it. How did that lead to here? What was going on?
Shit.
The old man yelled again, "Be banished, vile demon!"
Harry tried speaking, "I cannot."
It came out as the same language that these people are speaking, even though Harry was sure that he had never spoken it before.
A woman, dressed in a simple dress and white tunic, came forth and cried out, "Give me my daughter back! Leave!" There were tears streaming down her cheeks, her fists clenched.
Daughter?
"I cannot! I do not know how!" Harry yelled back. Something cried out within him. A feeling of anguish and pure unmitigated sense of betrayal flooded his mind. This woman was not his mother. Not her!
There was silence once again.
The two parties regarded each other once more.
The woman whispered out, "What are you? What have you done to my daughter?"
Harry was silent for a while. Then he spoke again, "I do not know. My name was... The name I was born with was Harry Potter — I do not know your daughter nor do I know what happened to her..."
The woman spat, "You wore her body! You came in a flash of green — and took our daughter! Cursed her, you did! Where is she?"
Another voice cried out, "Are you a spirit?"
Another voice snarled, "No! He is obviously a wraith..."
The villagers began screaming accusations and questions at him again, "Foul sorcery!"
"Snatcher!"
"Monster!"
"Give her back you devil!"
Harry struggled to come up with an answer, "I do no know! I woke up in this... body. How am I supposed to know —"
"We gave you a chance..." The woman swore under her breath, rage clouding her reason, withdrawing an overly-large knife from her belt, "If you cannot give my daughter back, then I shall at least kill you, monster!"
Oh no.
The woman rushed forward, blade raised. With speed that belies her age, she managed to run toward Harry and attempted to stab him with her knife.
Harry fell back, dodging the murderous woman, yelling, "Stop!"
By this time, the others began to run forward to, weapons raised. Stones began to rain upon his shield as the angry villagers picked them up and chuck it at him.
Harry casted Protegos repeatedly as he retreated backward, franticly waving his hand about. Sparks danced in front of his eyes as blows upon strikes rammed against his defence. A head ache began to rummage through his mind, bolts of lightning flashing in his head. Pain.
Enough. Pain.
Harry raised his head to cast a Bombarda —
"Don't!" A voiced screamed within him.
A flood of foreign emotions welled up in him. These people — he knew them. Somewhere, some how.
He cannot harm them. These are his — what exactly?
"Stop —"
" — Just die already —"
"— Demon spawn —"
Desperate, he yelled, "Expulso!".
A gust of wind, or a wave of force erupted from him. There was the sound of wind, the sound of something colliding and solid thumps. The magic shook the ground, dust and leaves went flying in a dust cloud. Men and women alike were sent tumbling onto the ground, rolling away in heaps, their weapons flying afar.
Harry heaved as he struggled to breath, stricken by a sudden exhaustion, his limbs shaking.
The men and women on the ground laid there, whimpering. Some were bleeding where they struck the earth, some twitching feebly as their shoulders were disjointed, unable to recover immediately. The woman laid on the side of the road, groaning, her scalp bleeding. The children in the back that escaped the onslaught screamed in horror before running to help their parents.
Harry was shaking, his heart beating like mad, his mind in disarray —
He cannot stay. He must not stay.
He must run — run!
Turning his eyes back onto the road — he fled. Flee to where, he had no idea.
Aragon spurred the Hobbits on — and damn them for not having a single self-preservation instinct.
The memories of what happened in Bree had lost their sharpness in their minds, rendering them from the alert and frightful creatures before straight to the careless and loud people they were when there is any semblance of safeness or protection.
They are loud, heavy footed and always complaining. Out of the three, only Frodo had any idea of what kind of danger they are in. The Midgewater Marshes are thick and boggy, populated by insects and leaches of all kind. If he wasn't wearing such heavy boots, Aragon suspected that he would have at least lost a limb to infection at the end of the journey.
Curiously, the Hobbits seemed to show almost no discomfort treading through the land barefooted. Their tough skinned feet seemed to repel insects and critters alike.
Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck were chatting amiably about the different kinds of insects in the ground, wether if eating them would probably poison them or taste like shrimp. Food were all that this pair can think of.
Samwise was humming softly to himself, his eyes kept to the sky which was cloudy and gloomy. This Hobbit wasn't the smartest one, but he made up for it with his determination and stoicism, not complaining a single bit.
Frodo, however, had his eyes firmly grounded, keeping silent.
In all sense, Aragon found Frodo to be fascinating. Even from meters away, he can sense the allure of the Ring, the soft touches and hooks brushing across his mind.
What he can do with Ring! If he used the Ring now, he would not have to flee like a coward. He can stand his ground and bring the fight to the foul Nazgül, slay them and banished them from their twisted un-life.
But he dared not. The Ring is for no men nor women to wield, only the Dark Lord have power over his creation and in his hour of need, the Ring would fail Aragon if he were to attempt to use it.
Forcefully, he twisted his gaze back to the marsh.
Frodo didn't even seem to acknowledge the presence of the Ring, seemingly lost in his thoughts and worry. Such a thing had seemed impossible. No creatures with any sort of ambition should not hear the call of the Ring, and yet, an example walked next to him.
Aragon decided to ask, "What worries you so now, Mister Baggins?"
The Hobbit seemed startled by the question for a moment, before whispering back, "Its Gandalf. We were to meet at the Prancing Pony, and yet we had not seen a single sign of him since we set out..."
After a few second of though, Aragon answered firmly, "Fret not, hobbit. The grey wizard knows his craft and skill. If he were to be delayed it would be for a good reason. Even if he were to be waylaid by some foul monstrosity, do you believe that we have the ability to aid him? Keep your thoughts calm and give him faith, we would all eventually arrive in Rivendell."
The rest of the walk was uneventful. At the horizon Aragon can not see any sign of their pursuers, which he was grateful for. The sky grew dark as the end of the day drew near. Fortunately for them, they had made good distance through the marshland and had arrived at the Weathertop Hills.
The hill dominated the landscape, the ruins atop the hill glaring down at them with a sense of foreboding and desolation. Years of battle and weather had left their mark on the stone and bricks, carving smooth indents through the surface.
After the bloody battles Weathertop had seen, the hill had a groundless reputation for wraiths and the like which scares off the locals, therefore with some luck, they shouldn't be disturbed tonight.
Aragon announced that for tonight they shall camp atop the hill, a prospect that the hobbits seemed to heartily agree to.
As he made his way to the top, a gust of wind blew unto him. He suddenly noticed that there is a scent of smoke, of freshly burned tinder. A fire, lit not for long to his judgment. And where there is fire, there are people.
Or orcs, he thought grimly.
Warily, he gestured the hobbits to stand back. Aragon laid his hands on his sword, ready to withdraw as he slowly stalked forward.
He can now hear the cracking of flames, the sound of someone muttering under their breath — there, light!
Behind a fallen pillar, around the base of the former watch tower he can spy a small fire, lit in an indent on the floor. A small figure can be seen huddled around the flame, rocking slightly as it stare into the fire, a tattered cloak wrapped around its body.
How had he been unable to spot the fire from below? Against the darken sky such a flame, no matter how small, should have been clearly visible from a distance.
Unsure how to proceed, Aragon decided to chance his luck and knocked on a pillar, the metal tips of his glove sent a clear ring over the ruins.
Startled, as if brought out of a revere, the figure looked up swiftly and scrambled backwards at the same time.
With a shock, Aragon noticed that the figure, of all things, was female.
The two people stared at each other across the ruin. The woman — no, girl, was definitely human. She had a head of dark hair that she kept tied back in a pony tail. He would deem her visage pretty had he not loved Arwen. Her attire was not unusual but horrendously unsuited for travel. With his eyes, Aragon cannot spy any other tools and luggage that any traveler would have brought. She had no visible weapons, no bows or even a paltry knife to defend herself with.
However, the thing that caught his attention were the eyes.
Deep set in the face, the eyes were like that of green gemstones. No, using dull stones would not compare to the intensity of this pair of eyes. It was green fire lit behind green glass, so eerily bright were her eyes.
Almost unnaturally so.
Suddenly, breaking the silence, a certain Peregrin Took rushed up along side him, speaking, "What is this all about, mister Strider? What happened — Oh."
The girl seemed just as surprised as they felt. She slowly walked backwards, falling into a queer defensive stance that Aragon had not seen before. The Hobbits slowly emerged from behind the rocks, interested.
Clearing his throat, Aragon said loudly, "State your business, stranger,"
Slowly, warily, the girl answered, "Traveling... "
Traveling? Without equipment of any sort, not to mention there is not a single reason why one would stop in Weathertop of all places during a "traveling", this is beyond suspicious.
Continuing, Aragon questions, "Where are your companions?"
"I have none," the girl answered sharply, her gaze sweeping over them, "What about your lot, 'Strider'?"
Aragon did not answer, but instead Meriadoc answered cheerfully, "No need to be alarmed. We came from Bree! We are on our way to —" he was then viciously interrupted with a rap on the head.
Of all chances, they have to run into a "traveler" with her own agendas. Great.
Its rare that anyone would run into others while traveling in remote places like this, especially here on Weathertop. Only the desperate would travel through the Midgewater Marsh without a horse. Any inexperienced traveler would have easily been caught in the marsh's water pits and swallowed by the insects.
The girl looked at him again before slowly saying, "If you are looking for place to stay the night, you are welcome to stay here..."
Aragon nodded stiffly, reluctantly lifting his hand off his sword. He gestured at the patch of ground, surrounded by heavy granite pieces and said to his companions, "My thanks. We will set camp here tonight then."
Without hesitation, the hobbit threw his bags down onto the floor. Meriadoc said joyfully, "Good gracious! Imagine if we had to camp out in the marsh instead."
"Doing so would be an terrible idea," the girl agreed, sitting back down to her fire. Frodo and Samwise had started putting out their sleeping rolls, clearing the ground of small stones and rubbles.
Peregrin opened his bags with gusto and brought out an assortment of fruits and mushrooms, he grinned, "On a gloomy night like this, the best way to lift one's spirit would be an assorted grill! We got mushrooms, tomatoes —"'
"And we also got corn," Meriadoc supplied.
"Yes indeed, now all we need is —"
Alarmed, Aragon snapped, "No fire. No fire tonight."
He then glanced at the girl and said, "My apologies. Danger stalks the lands tonight, stranger. Leaving a fire out would be unwise for travellers on the road."
The girl raised an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes and got to her feet. Slowly and methodically, she gathered bits of sand and gravel before throwing it onto the small fire pile. Not before long, darkness reigned in the ruins again.
Without water?
Peregrin said sadly, "Now thats the way to ruin one's evening. No warm food nor light to find my path. Wondrous."
The girl slowly sat down against a pillar. She drew her own cloak around her before staying still, like a statue, resting.
Aragon said to the hobbits, "Rest now. Save your strength for tomorrow. Eat if you will to but be quiet with it."
Aragon took the watch at night as the hobbits rested. As a ranger and a Dúnedain, he can function through the night and stand vigil for long hours without tiring or requiring rest. In the shadows of the clouds, the time cannot be told. It may be hours, or moments from daybreak, or even just mere minutes.
He casted his gaze across the marsh and became lost in his thoughts.
The Ring.
The enormity of what will be caught up to him. Unbidden, he found himself worried for Gandalf. Nothing much can stand in a determined Istari's way, no amount of orcs can prevent a wizard from moving through the lands if he was to be alone. So, what manner of trouble did Gandalf find himself in? Last that Aragon knew of was that he was to go to consult Saruman on the matter in Isengard. He wished that Gandalf had made some important discoveries and advert from grimmer fates.
Earlier while before they arrive at the tower, he had handed them each a single blade with a scabbard. Aragon could not imagine what they could actually achieve with these short swords if the Nazgül do come calling. He mused that in that case it would most like simple be used as a form of moral support or deterrent to other potential dangers such as bandits or orcs. With these blades, he had originally planned to leave them here for a while and that he would go around the nearby lands to scout out their way. However, with their unexpected company here, he decided that it would be a bad idea to leave them alone.
For now, the Ring had seemed fairly idle. He could barely feel its brushes across his mind and he was already aware of its presence. The girl that claimed to be a traveler doesn't seemed to be affected by it too. Curious.
The girl... An enigma. Dressed commonly, without tools or equipment for traveling yet made it so far in to the Midgewater Marsh clean and healthy. She didn't even bring food or provisions, or the question of how she started a fire in the first place.
Aragon had a feeling that this "girl" may not be simple. There is a definite 'something' behind her. Of all places, she went to Weathertop, where the current ringbearer was. Was she drawn by its power? No, that cannot be. She was here before they are and seemed to be equally surprised as they are.
Aragon couldn't shake this bout of paranoia from his mind. Something is afoot, but its not something that he can worry about right now. Between this girl and the Nazgül, he would take his chances with a lone traveller.
Suddenly, something seemed to flitter across his senses, across his ears. Something strange and disturbing that left his soul shivering.
Disturbed and alerted, he stood up and stared at the marsh below him, he listened carefully.
The marsh was as it was, wet and spotted like the back of a toad. Water bound bushes appear here and there, in between the occasional small island of dryness and grass.
The wind blew heavily over the putrid air of the marsh and around the Weathertop with a constant howl. However, even so a fog had started to appear in the wind. It sticks to his skin, wet and clammy, disgusting.
As he focused, he filtered out the unnecessary sounds. First goes the wind, then went the sound of insects in the night. Eventually, he could hear a second sound over the wind. Voices. Whisperings. The found of hooves striking the ground.
Whispers that carry over the wind like a mist. Figures moving in the shadows, in the fog. As Aragon continued to stare into the mist, a dark figure stopped, and stared back at Aragon from the edges of the mist.
Nazgül!
He swore under his own breath.
In a swirl of cloaks, he flew over to the sides of the hobbits with utmost haste. He shook Frodo awake first, putting a finger against his lip in a gesture to remain quiet. He hissed, "Shh. Be quiet! They are coming... Go wake the others, tell them to be quiet and arm themselves. Go!"
With wide eyes, the hobbit scrambled off. The gravel and grass went tumbling in his footsteps.
The girl!
Aragon found her still against the pillar, sleeping. Not caring about the etiquettes for now, he roughly shook her awake. Alarmed, the girl yelled, pushing his hands away, "You —!"
"Shh!" He waved his hand in a calming motion, "Something is coming. Prepare yourself,"
"What?" The girl rubbed her eyes.
"Danger is here. Do you have any weapons?"
"No — Wait, why?"
Aragon threw her and exasperated look and said drily, "That would be because something is going to try to kill us all in about three minutes,"Aragon spied a particularly sturdy-looking stick on the ground. He picked it up and threw it to the girl, "If you want to keep on living, I suggest you listen,"
The girl snatched it out of the air without issue and questioned, "Hold on there —"
The Hobbits in the meanwhile had roughly gathered with their scabbards hanging around their waist, carrying both dread and confounded expressions. Peregrin asked, "Strider! What is going on?"
Frodo faintly said, "Pippin? Its the Nazgüls. They are coming... They sense the presence of the Ring..."
"They — Oh no."
"The Naz-what?" The girl questioned, holding her stick.
Aragon drew his own sword, staring out into the mist and muttered, "Nazgüls, fallen kings, twisted by the rings and shadows. They now haunt this world in servitude of the Sauron. Should have known! Should have known they would not lose track of the Ring so easily! Frodo!"
"Yes?"
"Stand back. Grab some torches, light some fire, go!"
The girl narrowed her eyes, "Why are they after you lot? And what ring?"
Aragon readied his blade, tense, "I cannot explain now. If we make it through tonight I will explain it to you."
"You — !"
A terrible screech tore through the air, like air screaming under a door, like a swarm of bats that hunger for fresh blood. The sound sent chills down his spines, the a suffocating feeling grasped his heart. Frodo collapsed onto the floor, his blade clanging onto the floor, hands grasping at his ears in pain.
"Frodo!" Samwise cried out.
"Prepare yourselves! Here they come." Aragon snarled.
And they waited. Waiting in the shadows for the Nazgül to arrive. Frodo had finally gone back on his feet, shakily holding his blade. He seemed to have managed to light his torch, of which he passed to Aragon. The arches of the ruins became a prison, an arena where they waited for their foes to enter. The hobbits jittered around the place, their eyes darting around in the darkness. The girl held her stick uncertainly, her grip tight.
Slowly, methodically, the dark cloaked figures began to emerge. They glided forward, under their dark cloaks came their dark gauntlets, each grasping a Morgul blade. They do not breath, nor do they tire in battle. Under their tattered hoods are of pure darkness, where no Light can shine until their final death, the twisted cloth fluttering without sound.
They readied their blades silently.
The foremost of the five that appeared took a step forward, the left gauntleted hand reached forwards, grasping — The Witch King whispered, "Give us the Ring..."
Aragon stood forward and snarled, "Not under my protection,"
Enraged, the Nazgül abruptly withdrew its arm and let out another bone-chilling screech. With a frenzy, it brought its blade down onto Aragon's, his skill barely enough to block the powerful stroke that would have chopped him in two.
Suddenly, as if a dam had been broken — they all suddenly spurred into action. Samwise yelled, "Get back you devils!", grasping his blade he began to attack in tantrum with his companions.
The Witch King took a sideway sweep, stepping forward. Aragon ducked under the strike, the blade flying over head. He returned with a quick thrust with his own sword of which the Witch King swerved out of the path.
However, while it was doing so, Aragon brought the torch up like a mace. It caught on the edge of the cloak that covers the Nazgül and it quickly caught on fire. While Sauron is weak, and so would his minions, unpowered by his strength. Without the true power of Sauron, the Nazgül have yet to become the terror they ought to be. Their movement are slow and sluggish, the attacks relatively weak and uncoordinated.
With a screech of pain and rage, the Nazgül flailed back, his blade dropping as it was lit on fire.
With their inferior swordplay, the hobbits had quickly been taken out, lying in heaps where they were bodily flung. Seeing that they were awake and none were screaming, Aragon took that none of them had actually be injured by the blade. Aragon threw himself at the Nazgüls, repeating his actions earlier. None dare strike at the swordsman as he danced through the ruins with his torch and blade. The ring wraiths quickly scattered as their leader had fled, abandoning their targets as they too were set on fire, eating away at their essence.
Just as a the last of them leapt out of the ruins, falling into the mist, a blood-curling scream pierced the air. A scream of a mortal.
Frodo! No!.
Aragon twisted around from where he was, searching for the hobbit.
A remaining Nazgül, behind his sight had went for Frodo — all too far from Aragon. Its blade impaled and withdrawn from his shoulder, the hobbit screamed as the tip of the blade broke off in the flesh. The ring wraith raised its blade high to bring down in a killing stoke —
And was blocked with flash of green that lit up the ruin for a second.
Bewildered, both Aragon and the ring wraith was startled.
The girl took a step forward with her arm raised. Aragon in the midst of battle had nearly forgotten about her presence.
Her eyes of emerald burned bright, tongues of toxic seemingly lashed out of the iris — and with a whisper, a roar of fire, a dragon's flame erupted from her hands, blistering heat and billowing wind blew against Aragon's eyes, his own cloak sent fluttering in the blast. Yellow, red and blue shredded the air, an impossibly powerful explosion of fire.
As sudden as the flame came it stopped. The ring wraith had disappeared where it stood, the ground set on fire. Not a single shred of cloth can be found in the soldering remains.
The fire slowly died down before disappearing completely.
Aragon had not be one for staring, especially in the midst of battle, but now — He was staring as if Sauron had suddenly announced his plans for retirement. Green wisps of mist curled around the girls body, her palms glowed white and hot.
The girl smiled tightly, her eyes glazing over, "Long story..."
And if that, the girl suddenly slumped onto the floor next to the Frodo, out cold.
Oh bugger, Harry thought to himself, I've fainted again haven't I?
He found himself to be standing in a place of white. White walls, white floor, white pillars, white glass that shows nothing beyond. He is once again lost in his own mind which manifests as King Cross Station. He was clothed in white too, mercifully back to his own non-polyjuiced altered body.
I really should avoid using too much magic before I find a focus... The Ignis Draconis is definitely a bit too draining. Looking at how he got knocked all the way down into this level of his subconsciousness, he commented to himself again, Seems like I will not be waking up any time soon this time... Four or five hours before I recover?
He walked slowly, bring his hands across a bench, feeling yet unfeeling, like that of a dream. The tracks are empty and no trains awaits. The destination signs were blank and empty, hanging in the sky. The platforms are cleaner than Harry had ever seen it to be and quieter than Harry had ever heard it to be. The clock stood still at twelve and twelve, unmoving.
Under the bench, the piece Tom's soul had left, the grotesque deformed mini-Voldemort did not leave a stain on the pristine white floor. He had decided to board the train to the next world after all, finally banished.
Then, a voice that he had not expected or knew asked, "Who are you?"
Harry blinked twice, slowly turning around.
Standing on the platform some meters behind him was a girl. A girl's whose features mirror the one that he wore in the day, the same clothes and cloak — but white. Her features were pretty and somewhat delicate looking, hair dark and unbound. And she is scowling.
The girl asked again, "Who are you?"
Harry decided to answer, "My name is Harry Potter."
The girl was silent for a while and Harry waited, "So... Harry, where are we?"
"This..." Harry gestured around him, "Would be my mind,"
"Oh,"
"... So, who are you? Whats your name?" Harry felt strangely at ease here, being in his own mind.
"...Elise. Elise of Rotherham, Why in the name of the Valars would I be in your mind?"
"...Elise, right. Um... Tell me, had you been able to see.. things that most people can't?"
The girl took a moment to think, slowly saying, "...Yes. But I would always tell them to go away. My mother had thought that I am mad."
Oh no.
"Well.." Harry felt strange having to explain that he might have accidentally possessed her, "It might be that those things you see are real, very real,"
"I knew that,"
"...And being able to see them makes you attract them..." Harry continued on.
"Okay."
"And, I may have accidentally went into your body and knocked your mind out," Harry said grimly.
Elise blinked several times, before asking, "What?"
"I may have taken over your body,"
"You are in my body?" the girl questioned, crossing her arms over her chest and blushing.
"No! Yes! Calm down! Yes, I am currently somehow controlling your body, you think I want to be in it?"
"Are you an evil spirit of some sort?" She squinted.
"I have absolutely no idea what I am right now, I was human, I may have died and yet at the same time not, so I can't really answer, but in my opinion I am not evil," Harry said, exasperated, "In fact, I have a suspicion that I am not from this world at all!"
"Not from this world? What do you mean by that?"
"I am human, but I am pretty sure there are no places from where I came from that uses what ever language that we are using right now."
"You are speaking Mannish now..."
"Mannish?" Harry raised an eyebrow, "The language of Man, I guess?"
She made an affirmative sound, crossing her arms again.
"So, there are other races here with their own language?"
"There are the dwarves, and then there are the Elves,"
"Dwarves, Elves? Well then, I can conclude that what ever that those two are did not exist in where I came from,"
"A world of only Man? That seems unbelievable," Elise asked, somewhat fascinated.
"Not only Man, of course, there are other races — but definitely no dwarves,"
"huh," Elise tapped her foot against the ground, pondering.
"Anyway, back to the matter at hand," Harry waved his arms in an attempt to remember where they broke off topic, "We were talking about what I am, right?"
"Yes. So you said you are, or were, human. Which means, you may have died,"
"May have. I have somehow, for some unknown reason, got drawn into your body as a host,"
"...and now you are controlling me..." The girl glowered, still blushing.
"Yeah,"
"Why don't you get out?"
"Out of your body?"
"What do you think?" Elise said angrily, "This is my body, not yours. Besides, you are a bloke. A bloody bloke that decided to —"
"Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea how to actually leave," Harry said flatly. The girl fell silent.
"...Tried leaving here before?" Elise pointed at the tunnels where the trains would lead in and out, "Walk through one of those... gate?"
"I can't."
"Can't?"
"These tracks... well, they need a train to work—"
The girl questioned, "What is a train?"
"Oh, ugh... They are like giant metal carriages that run on these tracks here," Harry gestured at the railways, "They carry people from stations to stations, like this one."
"How does this help...?"
"In my own mind, these trains are a path to the next world, to the... afterlife. Without one, you will just walk back in here on the other end of the station,"
"So get a... train."
"There will be no trains for me," Harry grimaced, "Mine had left a long time ago and will never come back,"
"Why would it be? Because the dead can't die or pass on again?"
"That would be because..." Harry felt somewhat guilty while saying this, "I may have accidentally become immortal, in some sense. I am not really dead, I think. Just... stuck."
The girl blinked twice again before saying, "Oh. Okay. So, you are stuck. An immortal is stuck in my body until I die."
"Yes,"
"In my body, which you kicked me out of,"
"Yes,"
"And you can't let me control my body instead of taking control yourself...?"
Harry looked at her dryly, before blithely saying, "Apparently not it seems. Did you think I would want to stay in your body? Did you try taking control yourself?"
"Of course I did," Elise said unhappily, "I just can't seem to wake up..."
"Well this seems awfully hopeless for both of us, isn't it?" Harry rubbed his forehead, as if it were to be possible to have an head ache inside your own mind, "So I cannot pass on or leave, apparently, because this is actually my mind."
"Why am I in your mind then?" The girl waved at the station, "Shouldn't I be in my own mind?"
"Because only people like me, people with magical powers can actually have a almost real place inside their own head, most people do not and can never have one," Harry explained, crossing his arms, "That does not mean you are stupid, it only means it cannot manifest as real. So, you, had somehow got here, into my mind. And being magical, I my mind have an advantage over yours which I cannot control... as conceited as that sounds, its true,"
"Magical powers? What do you mean by that? Such as seeing people who should have passed on kind?" The girl snorted, seemingly resigned to the fact that she could not go anywhere for the time being.
"... not exactly," Harry rubbed his chin, "Its a long story," Does this count as violating the Statute of Secrecy? Revealing the existence of wizards? Harry decided where ever that he is, the Ministry of Magic can do absolutely nothing about it.
The girl walked over to a bench and sat down, looking at Harry, "Well, all that we have here is time. Neither of us seemed to be going anywhere now. You might as well start explaining fully why you are now 'stuck' in my body. Maybe when you are done, I can start explaining how this world works..." She then poised with her elbows on her knees and the back of her hand against her chin in a posture that says, Sit down and start speaking.
Unable to argue against that, Harry sighed and went to sit down next to her on the bench. He thought for a moment, before deciding on a starting point for his story, "The Dursley considered themselves to be a very normal family..."
A/N
Hi ya people. Second chapter up in a jiffy. Surprise! Got too much free time it seems.
Anyway, here goes the second chapter. Harry is not an elfling, and he is certainly not going to overpowered or completely useless. Currently, there are no romantic pairings nor do I plan to shove him with anyone yet.
More stuff about the OC may be in the next chapter. The village is sort of made up (since really, there should be random settlements other then Bree shouldn't it?), but most of the locations are hopefully canon.
Later chapters are probably not going to be so quick, especially around November because I will be gone on a trip for a while.
Now thats out of the way — Stay tuned for another chapter! English is not my first language so please do forgive some of my grammatical errors, constructive criticism is of course welcomed. See ya people!
Heavenian out.