Harry peered down at the dark figure in the forest below, following the rider as it crossed the forest at an unnatural pace, deftly avoiding the dense trees in the dim light. A moment later, it screeched. The impact was lessened by distance, but even so, Harry could feel it reverberating in his head, scratchy and shrill. He winced, beating his wings down once to gain more height and strangled the newly-risen urge to screech back at the Ringwraith with magic-augmented volume. See how they'd like that.
A distant echo reached him, an answering shriek from the Nazgûl looping from somewhere northwards of Weathertop. The wraith Harry was tracking sped up abruptly, racing across the plains with newfound vigour. It was as if a beacon had been lit, a shining candle blooming in the darkness they had been blindly groping around before.
That was bad news. The wraiths were attuned to only two things; their master and the One.
Who would be using the One Ring now? Why would anyone be using it now?
Far into the horizon, lights from the village of Bree shone bright in the darkening distance. Harry tilted his head for a better look. The streets were near empty, and only faint flickers of light came from the scattered houses. The inn, on the other hand, seemed to be busy. Light spilled from its windows, silhouetting the guests who stood before it. Looked like Butterbur had some new arrivals this day. Good for him.
The Ring was likely to be in the hands of a traveler, else the Nazgûl would surely have headed straight to Bree without the fussing and vague directions. If the traveler was wise, he'd be seeking shelter from the night. Traveling in the dark in this age and with that particular artefact would be most foolish.
The inn was a good place to start. Harry overtook the Nazgûl below him with ease, a steady tailwind propelling him forward descending down to Bree. His great form melted away until a slightly feathery, slightly winged, wizard dropped down beside the stables within the village. Conveniently, the Prancing Pony was close by.
A jingle of metal stopped him in his tracks. Harry looked down, suddenly reminded of his decidedly foreign attire. A tap of the Elder Wand had him back in his own robes and traveling cloak, adornments carefully tucked away in a pocket, appearing more like a local who had just went on a short journey.
The inn was loud tonight. Even outside the courtyard, Harry could hear the voices within. An unruly drunk, perhaps? No. That would involve shouting, not this soft, thoughtful murmur. Wrapping his worn, dusty cloak firmly around himself, Harry slipped quietly into the Prancing Pony.
The light from the blazing fireplace assaulted his eyes and Harry blinked, moving off to a side where it was more shadowed. People—mostly men, though there were a fair number of hobbits and dwarves—were sitting down at their tables, heads bent together and talking among themselves.
A stool was overturned at an empty table to the left, with half-empty mugs still on the table. Butterbur stood a distance a way, looking uncomfortable and uneasy, his eyes flitting nervously over the buzzing customers.
Harry slouched over to an empty table by the wall, and slumped forward, looking disinterested and thoroughly exhausted but really listening very interestedly to the mutters around him.
"He was just there-"
"-disappeared-"
"–magician, most like–"
"-vanish into thin air–"
Snatches of conversation stood out to him, dredging up some old knowledge with them. Disappearance? Definitely invisibility. What's a side-effect of the Ring? The wearer became present in the Unseen realm. Never worked on Sauron, but then as a Maia he already existed in both realms. It had certainly worked on Isildur. (They had all been such fools.)
From the bits and pieces Harry managed to reconstruct the happenings within the inn. Young Shire hobbit, possibly quite drunk, had started to dance on the table. One trip and the hobbit fell. Rather than landing on the floor as everyone was wont to do, he had vanished.
Harry lifted his head and slammed it (gently) onto the table. You'd think people would learn never to mix drink and crucial matters, but they very often don't.
Also, weren't hobbits small, peaceful folks with an absolute disdain of adventures, lateness and anything that might interrupt their dinner? How had someone with a genetic hatred of adventures end up in possession of the One Ring?
He must consult Elrond or Gandalf later.
The hobbit had came with friends (companions of a traveling magician), maybe one or two or three, perhaps four, all of whom had left the common-room during the commotion.
Butterbur was making his way over to his table now. Harry stood up. There was little more to gain by eavesdropping—already the conversations were shifting to other topics—and Butterbur wouldn't be willing to talk about it, especially not to strangers. He was related to the hobbit in some way, though Harry couldn't tell how without using more invasive means. Still slumped over, he swept out of the inn.
Upon his exit, a drab brown moth fluttered into his face, flitting about his head in agitation. Harry raised a finger for the moth to land, and it quickly whispered its message. There was a brief moment as Harry processed what he heard.
Another brief moment passed.
Harry froze, disbelief stilling his limbs.
Gandalf trapped on the roof of Orthanc.
Beware Saruman?
What?
Harry moved forward, almost stumbling on the last step, and leaned against the entry arch of the Prancing Pony. Unless he was misreading the situation very, very, badly, Saruman was no longer with them. Why else would Gandalf send for help?
Why did Saruman turn? When? Why?
His once student.
(How could you–)
Saruman led the White Council. He was present at every meeting, knew all the plans they had to counter the rising Shadow in the east. Among them all he was perhaps the most knowledgeable about the Rings and Sauron, having delved deep into the topic.
And now he was against them.
The moth shifted on his hand, wings opening and closing in turn. Harry looked at it, suddenly aware that he had a task to do, and shoved all other thoughts away. Gandalf first. He could mull over everything afterwards.
Harry sprinted towards the gate, cupping the moth with his hands to prevent it from being blown over. With a low swoop and a few quick wingbeats, he was soaring into the clear skies above Bree.
(Trusted you–)
His night vision was truly terrible. Where in the day he could see a single twisted nail in a wall, at night buildings became dark blobs in a darker darkness. Blinking, Harry soared up towards a cloud-hidden moon.
Once he had enough altitude, he twisted and dropped, going from small to human to huge in the span of seconds. Transformation done, Harry spread his wings to break his descent, and on the ground below trees bent and swayed from the wind created by his downward stroke.
Then between one breath and the next, the scenery morphed and swirled, and Harry was banking left, wingtip just short of skimming the dome of wards protecting Isengard. The moth detached itself from his tail and fluttered down in shaky spurts towards the tower.
Dark clouds above blocked out the starlight and there was a lingering smell of smoke and burning coal in the air. Queer growling reached his ears, a deep breathy groan that overwhelmed the hammering of metal and steel. Flickering lights danced in the depths of Isengard. The vast greenery that had covered the valley was stripped bare, leaving stumps of tree trunks and barren soil. The Isen river which lent its name to the valley was dammed up, its waters discoloured and foul. He flew higher, away from the black stone walls.
The swathe of burnt land below him extended to the edge of Fangorn Forest and beyond. Harry could almost bring himself to pity Saruman, who seemed to have forgotten the terrifying wrath of the Ents or thought them insignificant in his arrogance.
Treebeard would have Isengard reduced to mere rocks for it.
On the very top of the Orthanc lay Gandalf, his hair dishevelled and a dark streak on his face.
Harry hissed and dropped lower until he was skimming the wards. Saruman had not guarded against Great Eagles. His mistake.
He dipped down, gathering his magic tightly into himself and went through the wards. They brushed against him, cold and unwelcoming but also silent and still.
Saruman had come onto the rooftop, his white robes shimmering strangely in the moonlight. Harry completed another circle, watching with constrained fury as Saruman flung Gandalf across the floor like a doll. He made sure to pass across the moon, and smiled inwardly at the way Gandalf's eyes followed him.
It's time to leave this place.
He dived, wingtip almost brushing the side of the black tower, and called once. On cue, Gandalf threw himself down, and Harry caught him easily on his back with a soft flump.
From his peripheral, Harry saw Saruman come to the edge, a fierce look on his face. Harry flipped his tail feathers at him and soared up, breaking away from the wards before Saruman could even think of trapping them. A wind picked up behind him, and Harry latched onto it, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Isengard. He couldn't delay, not when he had a passenger who was vulnerable to hard beaks and sharp talons of crebain.
"To Rohan, my old friend," Gandalf said finally. "I have need of a horse."
Rohan? That was close enough. Harry adjusted his flight and headed south.
"You're not heading to Bree?"
He felt Gandalf fidget on his back. "I must stop by Rohan first before taking care of the business in Bree."
Well. One chance to guess what the business was, and if it's not circular and shiny then Harry would be extremely disappointed. Gandalf had been wandering around far too much to be ignorant of its resurface.
"Does your 'business' take the form of a ring?" Harry asked dryly. "I have not seen the Nazgûl so excited since Dol Guldur. Why are they heading to Bree?"
"They are tracking the Ring-bearer, who should be close to Imladris by now, if all things went as planned."
Harry let out a low, thoughtful whistle.
"Who is the Ring-bearer?"
"A hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins."
"Pray tell, Gandalf. How did a hobbit end up with a Ring of Power?"
Having deposited Gandalf not too far away from the gate of Edoras, Harry was back in the air. He was no longer needed there—Gandalf had his own transport and Harry was confident he would be where he was needed, when he was needed, without any further aid from him.
He thought back to Bree and the wraiths, and focused.
The Prancing Pony was quiet, all candle lights extinguished at this hour as its inhabitants slept. Somewhere, a horse whinnied, breaking the peaceful silence. Slowly, Harry descended to an open spot and shrunk down to human-size, reaching for his wand. A modified revelio charm told him that there were no wraiths in the vicinity.
He would wait for them to make their move, Harry decided. He had little hope of finding the Nazgûl, particularly at night, but tonight was a good night to attack and they would expose themselves when they did.
A gate creaked softly from the south. Harry whirled around. It wasn't a suspicious black-hooded figure leaking malevolence.
He fired off another charm, and received the same results. No Nazgûl.
Stretching a little, Harry moved to the inn's courtyard fence and raised his wand. Thin lines etched themselves onto the wood and stone, and he traced it around the boundaries of the Pony. It was a simple proximity ward with just one function—alert if someone entered.
There was a sturdy-looking tree beside the inn, with some branches levelled alongside the second floor windows. Harry rolled his shoulders and perched himself on one of them, high enough to spot anyone sneaking about. Now, it was just a matter of killing some time until someone tried something.
A lot, a lot, of time, as it turned out.
He was in the midst of a light nap when the ward activated. Harry was alert at once, swivelling his head to look at the newcomers. Four figures crossed under the arch, their unconcealed swords gleaming pale grey in the moonlight. Gauntlets covered their hands, and the tread of their steps were heavy and soft.
They could be travellers, exhausted and seeking no more than a soft bed after a long day of journey. Such a sight wasn't uncommon, but those sort tended to be worn out, the smell of the road permeating their being—suspicious black-hooded figures they certainly weren't.
The shapes crept across the courtyard and disappeared into the inn. Harry glided down just as the door swung behind the last, shifting back into human form to hold the door ajar. One tap had himself disillusioned and he entered the Pony, wand held loosely between his fingers.
Among many other things, the figures lacked the distinct aura of terror that the Nazgûl carried. Henchmen, then. This certainly simplified many things. Harry twirled the Elder wand between his fingers, following the four as they climbed up the stairs to the inn's rooms. No hesitation, no uncertainty—someone must have told them their target's room number. Harry frowned at the thought, stopping on the stairway as the group halted. The leader turned towards them, motioning to the second door.
"He's in this one," he whispered, pulling something from a pocket before bending down to the lock.
Harry raised an eyebrow, carefully avoiding all contact with the four figures as he sidled along the corridor. The room was quiet, as could be expected at this time of the night. Over the head of the lock-picking man, a revlio charm passed through the walls. The results he received caused a surprised blink—the room was empty. Misinformation or purposeful deception? Either way, Harry could appreciate the good fortune.
With a soft click, the door was open. In went the four, swords held ready between armoured hands. They paused at the doorway, and Harry tip-toed to see that there were four beds in the room, each with a shape wrapped under a layer of blanket. Deception. Poor lighting and bolster dummies made for good decoys, it seemed. The leader went to the bed in the corner and the others followed, standing beside a bed with raised swords.
Unbidden, they thrust down as one. Harry slipped into the room and gently shut the door behind him. The act went unnoticed by the others, who were still vigorously stabbing. Muffliato secured the room.
One of the men stopped suddenly, cursing. His sudden vulgarity stopped the others, one of whom moved closer to inspect his victim. A moment later, that man growled, slashing at the mat that formed the head of the dummy and kicked the bedframe.
"Fake," he hissed. "What do we do now?"
"Search the other rooms. Find him!" said the leader angrily, pulling his sword from the mattress and sheathing it.
Oh dear, Harry couldn't allow that.
"Going somewhere, gentlemen?"
Stupefy, stupefy, stupefy. Oh, and petrificus totalus.
The first three stilled and toppled, falling forward onto the floor or a bed. Harry cancelled his disillusionment and strode up to the leader who had frozen where he stood. He cast the other's hood back, watching as the man's eyes rolled around frantically.
"Nazgûl," Harry said. "Ringwraiths, black horses, Baggins."
Then he legilimenced the man.
The Nazgûl were not in the habit of dispensing information. The four knew very little—one had even planned to grab the ring and run, as if the wraiths would fail to find him if he took a lesser known route through the South Downs. Harry had snorted at the thought.
He disillusioned the stunned four and levitated them out through the door. Just before exiting the room, he shot a weak repairing charm at the ruined beds. It wouldn't completely mend the bolsters and bedsheets and mattresses, but it did made them more salvageable.
At the door to the inn, Harry held the stack of invisible bodies in place as he moved ahead. The door opened and the newcomer was instantly stunned. That must have been the last man. A quick check showed that he was indeed the last of the group, having been too busy setting horses loose to join the quartet just now.
Hopefully the customers of the inn had insurance of some form; good riding horses weren't cheap around here, last Harry checked. Absently, he added the last man to the pile and exited the inn, wondering what to do with his collection of unconscious people.
They still had to report to the Nazgûl, or the Ringwraiths would be suspicious.
In the end, he half-buried the five into liquified, muddy ground, and did the standard job of reviving and memory tweaking each of them until the men would report of their failure and nothing else. Let the wraiths have them. Doubtless they would be harsher than he.
Then Harry went back to the tree and resolutely shut his eyes, determined to make the most of what time remained ere a new day begun.
[2/1/16: Edited language and toned down some inappropriateness.]
[20/4/16: Rewrote it a bit, and accidentally made it shorter ;_;.]