A filler chapter detailing the reaction to Harry's death. Do not worry, the story is not over and there are at least three more chapters to go.
Several days earlier: Harry's funeral
The tomb had been made, and Harry's body had been carried in state through the citadel to the tomb of Kings and Stewards and had been laid in his painstakingly designed tomb, designed by a grateful and grieving populace. Each of Harry's closest friends had chosen to read the tale of how they had first met him. Aragorn went first.
The King's tale
I, Aragorn son of Arathorn, first met Harry nearly five years ago in the forest outside Bree. I was the very first person he met in Middle Earth. His sudden and inexplicable appearance in front of me caused me to hold him in suspicion until he disarmed me and in an astonishing show of trust, opened his mind to me when I was at his mercy. And what I saw would bring tears of sorrow and rage to any right thinking person. I saw the cruelty with which he had so often been treated by those who were entrusted with his guardianship, and those who sought to spread evil across the land. And I saw wonder there, the man he was and the man he would become. I know that I am uniquely privileged among mortals to have seen such sights, and I thank Eru daily that he gifted me that night with the friendship of a man who was to become one of my closest friends and comrades. That night we fought side by side and I witnessed what was a brief glimpse of his power in that battle. He fought alongside me, saving my life many times, he drank with me, he laughed with me and comforted me in my melancholy as I did for him. I stood by him as he built a fearsome reputation for himself, hunting the Nine time after time, driving them away from their intended victims. I watched as he found love in a beautiful, clever and kind woman, Ginevra Weasley, a Witch of immense power in her own right. I watched as he died destroying a foe that threatened us all.
To finish, a man could have wished for no more loyal an ally, no greater a friend, no wiser an adviser, if one often lacking in the arts of tact. And so I bid a bittersweet farewell to one of my greatest friends. Goodbye and Valar bless you, Harry Potter, the Lord Moristar, the Black Wizard, the Wizard in the Shadows, the Fury of the Storm and hero to us all.
The Prince's tale
I, Prince Theodred son of Théoden, met Harry whilst riding on patrol in far Western Rohan at the Fords of Isen three and a half years ago. That location was where I nearly met my death, and consequently holds mixed emotions for me, but this memory I shall cherish. My patrol came across Harry as he apparated to the Eastern back and demanded his identity. Clearly having travelled some way, as his grasp of apparition and knowledge of the West of Middle Earth was yet to be half as extensive as it was to become, his mood was a foul one, as was his general state.
I asked nervously, frightened by the obvious and casual use of magic by one I did not know, "Who goes there?"
"None of your business." He replied grumpily.
"It is my business for I am the Crown Prince of Rohan, into whose lands you have strayed. I would have your name and your apology for your discourtesy." I said, trying to force some steel into my voice to frighten this stubborn stranger who I had just noticed was garbed all in black, in the style of the Dunedain rangers of the North. Knowing the Rangers to be an oft taciturn, but good sort, I moderated my tone and asked, "Are you of the Dunedain from the North, a Ranger who explores these lands?"
He looked at me with amusement in those green eyes and said in that maddening tone I was to become so familiar with, "Maybe."
At this point I lost my temper and drew my sword, saying, "I will have your name and purpose in Rohan or I will have your life!"
He barely moved, save to draw the wand of his and disarm me with naught but a word and a flick of his rest. The power of the spell knocked me off my horse, and moved to stand with one foot on my chest, warning off my men who had come forth to protect me.
"That wasn't very nice, now was it? If you are so desperate to have my name, you may have it: My name is Harry James Potter, and my purposes are my own, though I mean no harm to you or your house, unless you seek to impede or harm me." He said calmly, then reached down his free hand, which I accepted reluctantly. He promptly hauled me to my feet, showing astonishing strength in doing so, for I am not the smallest of mortals, and fully armoured. He looked at me and asked thoughtfully, "Can you point me in the direction of Edoras? Gandalf told me that I could go from there to Gondor. My ultimate goal is the city of Minas Tirith."
I nodded, and said ruefully, "If you had mentioned you were a friend of Gandalf's, this could have been over much more easily."
He then flashed me one of those stunning smiles and said, "But far less fun."
I then cleared my throat and said, "In recompense for the wrongs I have done you, friend of Gandalf, I would offer you our spare horse and passage to Edoras."
He then blushed and nodded his thanks.
We rode to Edoras, his wit lightening the way. My cousin Eowyn fell in love with him, and when this was brought to his attention, having been completely oblivious, he let her down more gently than any would have expected. At the time I was mildly aggrieved that he passed up my cousin for a woman he was not sure he would ever see again, but now I know why. Harry was a man of great wisdom and childish humour, a mighty ally whose power stretched belief, but with the vulnerabilities that plague mortal men, and a great friend. It is to him and King Aragorn that I owe my life, and to the whole Fellowship of the Ring that I owe my father's mind and the survival of our nation.
We say goodbye to Harry Potter, stalwart friend of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and one of the best men I have had the good fortune to know.
The Istar's tale
I, Gandalf the White, have seen many things and known many worthy men, elves and dwarves in the three hundred lifetimes of men I have walked this earth. Few, if any, have been worthier than Harry. I first met him when Aragorn brought him to Rivendell near 5 years past. At first sight he looked astounded and called me 'Merlin', who I was later informed was a powerful and mysterious legendary wizard of Harry's world, who was one of the first of his kind to visit Middle Earth, fathering by his lady, Nimue, the father of Prince Theodred's loyal bodyguard, Sir Emrys the Valiant. From the first I took a liking to Harry, his quick wit, curious and sharp mind and kind outlook, although it became clouded by the pressures of constant war, made him a superb companion and a good friend. He also came to wield a power that I have not seen equalled since the War of Wrath, which made him a fearsome sight on the battlefield and aided in his many and varied pranks.
After it became clear that he could not return to his own world, and nearly killing himself in trying to do so, I took him under my wing and sought to dispel his melancholy and impotent rage. When all else failed, I directed him to protect the North and Rohan, tasks he took to with a vigour, making great friends and great enemies. It was then he became known as the Black Wizard, the Wizard in the Shadows and other such names as he hunted evil's servants tirelessly, becoming much feared and much loathed by their kindred. And in the doing so he became darker, more ruthless, but never cruel, descending into shades of grey, but never straying into the blackness of evil, no matter how often he feared that he might.
But it was joining the Fellowship that truly revealed the whole man who he once was, the kind and thoughtful young man who stood by his friends even if it cost him his life, who had a ready laugh and a ready smile. Harry was a man who I have been honoured, and always will be, to have called my friend.
The Elf's tale
I, Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm, first met Harry when he was wounded hunting one of the Nine deep inside the forest two years ago. He was hunting the Nine, disrupting their activities and forcing them to leave whatever evil enterprise they had planned behind. He had made it into an art form, but this time he misjudged his opponent and was grievously wounded. He managed to run off the creature before collapsing, and was taken back to the palace by a passing patrol. He awoke briefly, managing to remove some of the poison in his bloodstream, then slept. He took several weeks to heal, and in that time we spoke a lot, of war, of politics, of women, of life and of everything and nothing. He was an excellent conversationalist and a sympathetic ear. He was also one of the few who did not show fear to my father, who is much like Steward Denethor was at his best: Gruff, uncompromising, but kind, fair and with a good heart that he sought to hide after losing his wife. Indeed, Harry showed much of his usual insouciance, tempered with a little respect when speaking with my father, and seems to have, for whatever reason, liked him better than the late Steward.
I did not see Harry for two years after he bade us a gracious farewell, though I heard rumours of his passing through the edge of the Kingdom, occasionally hailing patrols on the way to some other destination. I met him once more at the Council of Elrond, when the Fellowship was formed, and in the following months, I came to value his kindness, his slightly odd yet wise outlook on life, and of course his constant wit that was the one constant in difficult times. Harry may have feared that he would one day turn to the Dark, but I never feared that. He had too good a heart to truly to evil, though if he had, he would have been a foe to strike fear into the hearts of all. As it was, he struck fear into the hearts of those who served evil alone. He was my friend, and I regret that I did not get the chance to name him Eldandil, elf friend, though if he was not so officially, he was so in the sense that truly mattered.
The Dwarf's tale
I, Gimli son of Gloin, first met Harry at the Council of Elrond, where I remember marking him as: 'strange, quiet, mysterious, powerful'. I soon found that aside from quiet, he was all of these things. I had heard half whispered tales, rumours, of the Black Wizard, the Darkness slayer and the Fury of the Storm, a creature of might and mystery that destroyed all evil that crossed its path. At the time I dismissed it as old wives tales built on rumours, hopes, dreams and too much ale. Harry made my personal acquaintance through Bilbo Baggins, and I found him, like all the others who have spoken before me, to be an excellent companion, and a surprisingly good drinker, if prone to bouts of melancholy.
What most endeared him to me was how he treated all as his equals, and how he cared for all in the company in equal measure. I admired how he counselled those with problems even as he had his own troubles to worry about, and risked all for the comfort and safety of the company. I also remember how he refused to back down when Haldir of Lothlorien objected to my entry to the Golden Wood, staunchly defending me. I admired all of him, the hero, the vulnerable young man, the warrior, and the possessor of the ever present wit. He was my friend, and I shall miss him for all my remaining years.
The Steward's tale
I, Boromir son of Denethor, first met Harry at the same time as Gimli, at the Council of Elrond where we had a small spat over the disposition of the Ring, then made friends over shared losses and copious amounts of alcohol. My brother, Faramir, knew him before ever I did as I was serving on the borders when Harry made his one previous visit to Minas Tirith. When they met Harry chose to protect him from those who would seek to harm him, whether he needed it or not, because as his lifelong friends have commented, he has 'a saving people thing'. Harry always had a burning desire to help and protect people, and never gave up on one he called friend, nor would he abide insults to them. Even when the Ring broke me, he still trusted me and cared for me enough to draw me back from the dark and to raise me up even as I begged for death, feeling I deserved no better. But Harry disagreed, and that is what made him truly special, not his power. He had the ability to see the good in people, even if they could not see it themselves, and brought out the best in all around him.
Harry was a great man, one whom I would readily have trusted with anything save the Ring itself, for I shudder to think what would happen if it had bent him to his will. He was my friend, and I have wept many tears for him, and I shall weep many more. If I have any sons, I will name one after him, in memory of the good man who saved my life and my soul.
The present
Frodo woke up. Like when he had been stabbed with the Morgul blade so many months before, he woke up in a comfortable bed, sunlight streaming in. As he sat up, he saw a very familiar, and previously thought to be very dead face.
"Gandalf?" He asked wonderingly. Gandalf smiled, eyes crinkling, until joyous laughter burst out of first his mouth, then Frodo's.
Then came Merry and Pippin, who jumped on his bed, laughing and hugging, afterwards Gimli, who clapped and smiled, eyes beetling, and Legolas, a serene smile on his face, and Aragorn, dressed in fine red robes, then Boromir, who immediately went down on one knee and apologised profusely for his actions at the Falls of Rauros, crying slightly. Frodo accepted his apology gladly, and last, but not least, Sam entered, wearing a soft smile on his face. But one member of the Fellowship was very conspicuously not there.
"Where is Harry?" Frodo asked, looking puzzled. The mood in the room darkened.
"He is dead, Frodo." Gandalf said heavily.
The bottom dropped out of Frodo's stomach. "But, but he was so powerful. He can't be dead, he can't be!" He protested loudly, then after a moment asked quietly, "How?"
Gandalf looked away and said heavily, "He died outside the Black Gates, ten minutes before you destroyed the Ring. The tornadoes of fire Sam said you both saw on the battlefield far below, were caused his lover, Ginevra Weasley, in her grief. After the Fellowship parted, we found 4 others from his world, 3 who had come through the same way at the behest of the Valar, and the one who had been trapped in the dungeons of Saruman. Harry was fighting the Nazgul, protecting the army when he was forced to fight hand to hand with one of them on the back of its Fell Beast. This creature was no ordinary wraith, for as there were ten walkers, there were ten wraiths, and this was a young one, his nemesis reborn. He gave a good account of himself, matching it until he tired, but eventually it ran him in mid-air. He returned the favour, destroying it, but the fall and his stab wound were both mortal wounds. He lived just long enough to say goodbye." Gandalf sighed and said, "We buried him yesterday. I am sorry, Frodo."
"I should have been quicker. If I had, Harry would still live." Frodo said quietly in anguished tones.
"No Frodo. You cannot blame yourself for Harry's death. He knew what risks he was taking each time he fought, and he accepted them freely. It would be the height of unwitting arrogance to take all responsibility for his sacrifice away from him, belittling the conscious choice he made. Everything has it's time, and this was his." Gandalf replied, slightly sternly and consolingly.
"Could he come back, like you have?" Frodo asked, hope tingeing his voice.
"No, I am afraid not. I was sent back to fill the gap left by Saruman and to see the end of Sauron. No such reason exists for Harry to come back that I am aware of. He is at peace, passed beyond the circles of the world." Gandalf said heavily.
Frodo nodded, then sought to lever himself out of bed. "I would see his grave."
With Sam's help, he managed to walk to the chamber normally reserved for the burials of Stewards and Kings, soon reaching the flickering light of the magical fire that stood by the tomb. Someone was already there, a tall young woman, slim, her red hair flowing down her back, contrasting sharply with the black dress she wore. Her head was bowed, and the occasional tear rolled down her face, falling to the floor.
On hearing the sound of the two Hobbits entering, she looked up, and Frodo was struck by how beautiful she was. She smiled sadly, and said, "Hello Sam. And you must be Frodo. Harry talked a lot about you two. You were the one who destroyed the Ring, weren't you?"
Frodo nodded silently. This must be Ginny Weasley, the woman that Harry had loved more dearly than life itself.
"He would have been proud of you, both of you." Ginny said, then gulped and added, "I must go and get ready for the wake this evening. If you'll excuse me." She said, moving quickly past them and Frodo heard a strangled sob as she left the chambers.
He looked up at the statue of Harry. It somehow caught some of the essential life that had been inherent in Harry, from the armour to the wild smile. Sam rested a hand on Frodo's shoulder as the little hobbit suddenly sagged, putting his hand lightly on the tomb.
"He's at peace, Mister Frodo. At long last, he's at peace."
"Goodbye old friend," Frodo whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.
Ginny
Ginny strode off, barely restraining her renewed tears. In truth she had taken an instant liking to the frail Hobbit who had by cruel chance been elected the saviour of an entire world, when all he wanted to do was to be left in peace. Something about his bearing and weary courage resonated with her memories of Harry just after the war had ended. She had also taken a liking to his gardener and most loyal companion, Sam, whom she had briefly met when he was taking an enforced break from his watch on Frodo's sleeping form, and she had discovered in the doughty little Hobbit a spirit of bravery that would have had the entirety of Gryffindor house bowing in awe, as well as a love for gardening and simple, well cooked food that would have immediately endeared him to her mother.
Harry. She couldn't stop thinking about his broken form on the battlefield, his wit expressed even in his last moments, and the heart breaking puzzlement he had expressed as death's cold touch creep over his body. The kisses, the talks, the laughter, the kindness, the apocalyptic fury that she had been told by a number of awed witnesses he had wielded against the Witch King when he had struck her down, those deep green eyes that sparkled with life and love when they beheld her, they all melded into one grief stricken blur as she thought of the strange, maddening and absolutely wonderful man that she had loved so sweetly and lost so bitterly.
She had barely stopped crying since she had unleashed her wrath upon the Great Enemy's army. The others had fared little better. Her heart went out to Merry and Pippin, the two Hobbits who just couldn't understand that their mighty protector, their friend who had carved a bloody swathe through Mordor's armies with a flick of his wand, was dead. Ron and Hermione just looked poleaxed, as if they too could not quite believe that Harry, hero of two worlds, and their best friend for so many years, through so many trials and tribulations, was gone. Sirius, Théoden, Gandalf and Boromir all looked haunted in equal measure, which was hardly surprising since Harry had been like a son or a little brother to all of them, and they each privately held themselves responsible for his death. Boromir and Théoden in particular, both of whom were aware that Harry was the main reason they were still alive.
Boromir also grieved for that mad, fantastic, brave and vulnerable man, the one who had cried on his shoulder and never given up on him, who had listened to his troubles and counselled him upon them, a man who had been like a second Faramir, always looking out for him yet always hurting deep down. Sirius felt as if he had failed once more as a Godfather, failing to protect his Godson when it really mattered. Gandalf felt a great sense of loss for the bright and vibrant boy and man who had been an excellent listener, a curious student and a fantastic companion.
Gimli had wept bitter tears over one of his first friends among the Fellowship, the one who had stood up for him in Lothlorien and had shared much laughter with he and Legolas. Legolas looked, according to Boromir who had confided in her, much like he had after Aragorn had seemed lost to the river, struck dumb with grief for the friend who had tirelessly matched wits with him. Elladan and Elrohir both grieved for their fallen friend, who had often ridden alongside them in errantry, hunting roaming Orc bands, and been a ready drinking companion. Theodred, Eomer and to a lesser extent Théoden, looked remote in their grief, having lost someone who was family, or as good as, an ally who had proved himself countless times, a friend who had joked with them in their joy and comforted them in their sadness, one whom they had once dared hope would be bound to them by ties of blood, one whom they would have been very glad to see marry Eowyn, but it was not to be. Their bonds of fellowship, forged in battle and tempered by time and love, had been unbreakable, save by the harsh cruelty of death. Emrys did not know him half as well as the others, but he still mourned for the man who had saved his life with great effort, without even knowing his name, who had patiently taught him the ways of the sword and rescued his sister from Saruman's foul clutches, the man who had shared his odd sense of humour with everyone, lightening dark days.
Arguably, however, Aragorn was hit the worst. He and Harry had been as close as brothers, having saved each other's lives more times than you could count, each watching the others back and protecting their comrade with thoughtless devotion. Harry had been the witty foil for the more stoic Ranger, always managing to raise a smile on the other man's face and encouraging his quiet good humour, and the Ranger had been well, almost uniquely so, able to rouse Harry from his fits of melancholy and commiserate with him. Aragorn had come to see Harry as his brother, almost, if not quite, as close as the sons of Elrond, a younger brother to be guided and protected, and he felt he had failed in his duty when that younger brother fell just as he had found true love and they were on the cusp of a final victory.
The rest of the army, and the city of Minas Tirith when the army returned, though they had not known Harry well, mourned for the loss of hero, the West's brightest hope, Aragorn excepted, the nigh invincible figure who had worked tirelessly for a cause not his own and lands not of his birth, with a down to earth attitude, a kind outlook and a cheeky smile.
All mourned for the Black Wizard even as they rejoiced for the end of the feared shadow in the East. In Lothlorien, Mirkwood and Rivendell, a lament was sung for him even as they routed the remains of Sauron's northern forces. In the lands of Dale and the dwarf realm of Erebor, tears were shed for the green eyed and mysterious mage when the sad news came downstream. Even in Bree, tears were shed at the Prancing Pony, as Butterbur remembered, albeit with some difficulty, the patron of his establishment who had paid well, been a goodly source for information and a polite guest on many an occasion.
Only in Rohan, Dunland and the Shire, where they had no way of knowing what had passed, and those nations did not weep or raise a solemn, if grudging, toast to the passing of a worthy and fair opponent, or in the case of Saruman, laugh cruelly.
And in Rivendell, Master Elrond, pain in his heart, broke the news with difficulty to a weeping Albus Dumbledore as his daughter, Erestor, Glorfindel and his entire household sorrowed, who relayed the message first to Minerva McGonagall, then to Minister Shacklebolt and through him, the Muggle Prime Minister. Harry Potter, missing these last few years, was dead. The news was not released, it was decided, not until Ron, Ginny and Hermione (for they did not know of Sirius' return) returned.
And last of all, in the Grey Havens, a dark haired Elf woke from his uneasy slumber with tears rolling down his cheeks and he didn't have the faintest idea why.
No, the Dark Haired Elf is NOT Harry. He will become important... very soon. And yes, he is the one name dropped in the next chapter, just to clarify.