Durin's Bane smouldered on the mountaintop, half buried under several tons of stone and snow. There was a dull clang as Caladui fell from hands too tired to hold it, and Harry leaned against what was left of Durin's Tower. The movement caused something that really shouldn't be moving in his chest to shift, and he winced. The harsh wind tore at his hair, whipping it into his face where it stuck uncomfortably to his skin. If not for the charms on his clothes, Harry had little doubt that he would have been dead from the cold alone.

Already, he could feel his body failing, driven so far over its limits that it was a wonder he hadn't died yet. The burns given by the Balrog certainly didn't help matters. Another wave of disorientation hit him, and Harry closed his eyes against the nausea and sudden fatigue. By his reckoning, more than a day had passed since he fell down the chasm. Two days? Time had flowed oddly in the place that should not be. At that thought, a shadow seemed to cover the sky, and Harry shuddered. More than two days, then. Four? Four days of running and fighting and duelling without food or sleep. It was more than a little extreme, even by his standards.

The bone-deep ache that indicated his thoroughly depleted magic ruled out any thoughts of healing himself. which left one other choice.

With a grimace, Harry dipped into the Unseen Realm. Colour seeped from his vision, and a darkness fell upon the world. Light blazed in little specks in the distance, but Harry ignored them to look at himself. The bonds that held his fëa to his body were fraying, unravelling as his physical state worsened. Slowly, gently, he loosened the bonds, feeling the pain ebb away as he was gradually separated from his hröa.

At last, with only the thinnest of tethers holding him, Harry glanced around and slipped loose. The clouds broke away to reveal a dark sky prickled with twinkling stars, but by then he was long gone.

He stared up at a white arched ceiling. Ornate black pillars ran upwards, towering high above his form. A wall-length tapestry hung from the wall, detailing scenes from olden days of yore in elaborate details. Grimacing to himself, Harry willed himself upright. "Hello Námo."

The Doomsman of the Valar inclined his head, face veiled in shadows as his dark hood slid further down. "Greetings, Harry Potter."

Harry made a face at the Vala, well-aware that the other could see it despite his current invisible form. Eyes of silver-grey met his own unerringly, holding it for several long seconds and then trailed to the eastern window. Harry followed his gaze and glanced out of the window, where Taniquetil rose in the far distance, cloaked in clouds and dazzlingly white.

"The title is yet unclaimed," Námo said, and Harry felt his piercing gaze upon himself.

So it was to be this conversation.

With a weary sigh, Harry said, "I do not wish to."

There was a rustle of cloth, and when Harry looked behind, the Vala had crossed his arms. "What you wish cannot be."

"It could yet." There was still a chance that the Hallows would select another person, however slim it was. He had to hope.

"Folly," Námo countered. "Why do you persist so?"

Harry turned to the window. How could he explain his reasons to one who only knew immortality and eternity? For all that he was nigh immortal, at least he was still human. He still bled, hurt, felt like one. The Master of Death was not just a title—it was a duty, an oath, a state, in perpetuity. He had avoided claiming it for so long. He could avoid it for more.

Behind him, he heard Námo sigh. "Claim it whilst you still have a choice. Thou hast little time."

There was an ominous, prophetic ring to his words, and Harry spun around, his eyes narrowed. It was never good news when Námo reverted his speech. "How long?"

It was true folly to ignore his words, Harry knew. The Noldor learned that lesson with blood and sorrow.

Námo shrugged, his face dispassionately blank. Locks of dark hair fell forward with the movement and swung in the gentle breeze.

Silence reigned.

At last, the Vala lifted his head. "How fare your charges?"

It was a weak attempt at changing the subject, and both of them knew it.

"The Fellowship is not my charge," Harry said with a frown, grateful at the change but not entirely pleased with the wording.

"Yet you choose to take responsibility over them nonetheless. But," Námo raised a hand before Harry could protest. "I will not argue semantics with you."

If he had eyebrows, he would be raising one now. Still, the feeling seemed to have been conveyed, because Námo folded his arms again with an air of faint exasperation.

"They were fine the last I saw them." Which was on Durin's Bridge in Moria, with hordes of goblins and a multitude of orcs. It really didn't say much for their current safety, but Harry trusted Gandalf to lead them to Lórien. The protection runes he made would have ensured that no one would be in serious physical harm.

Moria felt so far away now, as if he had duelled the Balrog months ago, rather than just days. Speaking of…

"How long has it been?"

"Two days have passed in Arda since you entered these halls."

Harry quickly did some additions and gave a mental groan. That made it almost a week since he left the Fellowship. There went his plans. Landroval and Meneldor could not carry all of the Fellowship upon their backs, and it was not right that three of the Fellowship should have to trudge across mud and plains while the others fly ahead. All had chosen to go on this perilous journey of their own will—it was not up to Harry to pick and choose who was worthier than the other.

"Sauron has not been idle. He knows that you have returned to the west, and has bred a new evil as welcome," warned Námo.

Harry grimaced.

"As long as it is not a host of Balrogs," he said, though he rather doubted that Sauron had found his old comrades. A thought occurred to him. "I shall have to hunt down the others that have survived the Fall of Thangorodrim. Men and Elves no longer have the strength to face them in battle and I will not allow them to remain a menace."

"One will flee and face his doom by another hand."

Harry shot the Vala a sideways glance. Another prophecy. Well, it wasn't his business.

"Also of dooms, what is to be done about Curumo?"

"He will face judgement before Máhanaxar when the time comes."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. As one who had betrayed his cause, Saruman would not be let off easily. The only uncertainty about his fate was if he would join Sauron in the Void if—when—the Ring was destroyed by Frodo.

There was a rustle of cloth, and then Námo turned his face towards Taniquetil. "Manwë asks for your presence."

"I will go," Harry said, stopping his pacing.

Námo gave a curt nod, watching as Harry pulled his magic around him and disapparated silently from the Hall of Mandos.

Arien was beginning to dip beneath the horizon as Harry appeared upon Ilmarin. The clouds below were coloured gold while the sky was yet a pale blue, but eastwards, beyond the sundering seas, darkness was falling fast upon Middle Earth. The last vestiges of violet were seeping from the sky, and Harry could see the torches of Men being lit across the continent, blinking into existence as shadows crept upon the land. In the South, a great mass of clouds enshrouded the land, an impenetrable barrier to all eyes save that of a few. To Harry, only the briefest glows of orange light revealed Sauron's activity.

The Elder King stared out towards Kalormë, still and unmoving, cutting an impressive figure against the backdrop of Arda at dusk.

Raising an eyebrow, Harry moved beside him, looking towards the speck he knew Lórien to be. The Fellowship ought to have reached the woods by now, if Gandalf had led them.

"The Fellowship has reached Lothlórien."

Harry nodded slowly, feeling some of his anxiety seep away. It was great news, confirming his thoughts—all of them were safe. Little could harm those within Galadriel's realm. "Are they unhurt?"

"Their bodies are unharmed, but of their minds, I cannot say." Manwë turned, eyes grave and voice sad. "Olórin has raised their spirits, but they struggle nonetheless."

Harry winced. He had left the Fellowship in a bad time, it seemed. Guilt gnawed at him, urging him to head to Lórien, yet it would take much longer before he could return to Middle Earth. Duelling the Balrog had all but depleted his magic, and the toll of battling without pause had been severe. It would take a week until his very-much-mortal body could patch itself back up.

"What became of Curumo? His mind is guarded against me."

"He has turned against his mission. Olórin suspects that he seeks to usurp Sauron after the Free Peoples have been defeated. Already, he has crafted his own Rings."

Manwë frowned.

"Does Aulë know?" The thought suddenly struck Harry. After all, Saruman had been one of his Maia.

"Yes."

Ah. Harry shared Manwë's wince.

"How bad was it?"

"Very."

The two winced again. Aulë was not a particularly even-tempered Vala. Neither was he a very quiet one.

The gaiety quickly vanished when Manwë looked at him. "I request a favour."

Harry blinked. High in sky, the sun shone down, bright and blinding.

This was not Valinor.

He was not in Aman. Middle-earth, then. Peak of Celebdil.

Had it been a week already?

As if from beyond a great mist, he stirred. A surge of warmth shot through him, cutting a path through the haze in his mind. Echoes of music still reverberated about him, every note and chorus unwavering and strong. Sensation returned to his fingers, and Harry flexed his fingers. Snow curled under his palm, cold and wet.

Something about passing things. Manwë had said something about a carrier. Harry cast his mind back to before everything had turned cloudy. Halls of Mandos, Taniquetil, Ilmarin, Manwë, Manwë's request. Harry had agreed, and then…

He groaned. So that was why he'd lost days—probably more than a week, even. Who told Manwë it'd be a good idea to dump him somewhere with singing Ainur?

A headache was coming on, throbbing in time to something thundering and thrumming just beneath his skin. Snow fell from his chest as he sat upright, and Harry grimaced as some dropped into his robes. His arms came free with a spray of white, while his legs were completely buried. Harry wiggled a foot experimentally—the mound of snow failed to budge.

With a sigh, he vanished the snow and stood up, stretching. His neck was particularly stiff—though the rock under his head had saved him from being buried under the snow, it had done no good to his neck muscles, and the side where the Balrog managed to stab him gave a nasty twinge as he shifted. Still, everything seemed to be in working condition. Excellent.

The Elder Wand jutted out amid the snow, and Harry bent down to pick it up. As his fingers closed around the handle, a strange tingle spread from the wand to his hand. The sensation spread up his arm, merging with the faint echo of the singing that still seemed to resound within his magic and mind. (Manwë really needed to take more counsel with Námo before pulling things like that, Harry decided. Even a warning would have been nice. That headache was not dying down.)

Holding the wand up, he examined it. Nothing was different. Harry frowned. Wands did not decide to spontaneously create strange sensations, even a wand like this.

Scourgify. Dried blood flaked off his robes, and they returned to their original state.

Accio Caladui.

A few feet away, snow erupted upwards. A flash of yellow was all the warning Harry had. With long honed reflexes, he caught the sword, its hilt warm in his hand. He gave the scabbard a light tap to clean and dry it, then sheathed Caladui.

Spells still worked as they should, and everything seemed to have returned to normal. Harry gave the wand another glance. He would check it out later—the strange feeling had passed without triggering any other effects. That made it less of a concern.

Now… The Fellowship had reached Lórien when he was in Ilmarin. If he was in luck, they'd still be there. Harry squinted towards the south-east, as if he would be able to see the miniscule figures of the Fellowship hanging around a mallorn if he tried hard enough. He couldn't.

With a shake of his head (and feeling as if pots and pans were rattling within it), Harry flicked his wand. Prongs materialised in an instant, almost as if he knew Harry was going to call him. Harry raised an eyebrow, and the stag stared back as if in challenge, somehow whiter than the snow he wasn't standing on.

"Tell Galadriel the Balrog is dead," Harry said, wincing as his voice cracked. "Also, find Landroval and tell him I'm sorry."

Prongs dipped his head once, then moved forward to nuzzle his hair before springing off, disappearing down the mountainside in a blur of white. Harry watched him vanish below the clouds, then shifted into his Animagus form. He'd rather not apparate to Lórien, not when he'd only just recovered from his physical death. The wards would protest and he'd only give all the elves (and himself) a fantastic headache.

A westerly wind picked up, and Harry used it to take off and head east.

Galadriel's presence was the first thing he felt as he skimmed over a mallorn. Harry adjusted his course and sped over the walls around the city, following her nudges. Once he dropped below the soft gold of the mellyrn canopy, he spotted her easily. A lone figure of white amid grey and gold, illuminated by the silver glow of elven lamps. She stood at the edge of her talan, her gaze latching onto his figure as he came into view. Harry dropped beside her, feathers melting smoothly into dark robes and ruffled hair. His headache subsided somewhat, less of a thundering and more of a particularly distracting pounding.

Galadriel did not ask, and he did not offer. They watched the elves below go about their business, standing in a silence born of long understanding and even longer companionship.

At long last, she spoke. "I have drank the cup of parting."

Harry glanced her way, but Galadriel had averted her eyes, looking down at her hands.

"So you will leave, then?" he asked, already knowing the answer before she could reply.

Galadriel nodded, and Harry saw that she was fiddling with Nenya. He thought of Celeborn, who wouldn't leave these shores unless Sauron himself was at the coast, and echoed her humourless smile. Perhaps it would be better for the two if Frodo failed. When fire consumed every tree and the elves gone West by the swiftest route, they would have left together, instead of being on both sides of the sundering seas.

Harry shook his head. Sauron triumphing was not a situation he ever wanted to occur nor contemplate. The separation could do Galadriel and Celeborn some good—the Ages spent together had not been altogether smooth sailing (he'd been in the middle of more than one argument laced with barbed words meant). Though their love was undeniable, it could not erase the problems that inevitably cropped up when two individuals as different as them lived together. He raised an arm, intending to comfort, but lowered it when he realised that physical contact would cause more unease at this stage. Death was unnatural to the Elves, and he knew that even Glorfindel was unsettled if he came too close, too soon after recovering, no matter how well the Elf-lord hid it.

Instead, Harry went for a topic change to shift Galadriel's heavy thoughts away.

"Which course did the Fellowship decide to go on?"

"They took the Anduin four days ago. They will sail to Emyn Muil together, but I know not when nor where they will separate thereafter."

They decided to sail south on the river? It was definitely faster than walking, but… Dol Guldur lay less than a hundred miles away on the other side. Orcs roamed freely on the eastern bank, bold enough to challenge the elven protected land on this side of the Anduin.

Harry frowned. "They would have gone past the Field of Celebrant. Do you think I could catch up with them at the North Undeep?"

"No," Galadriel said. "Mithrandir would have them reach Mordor in a week if he could. They would have passed into the South Undeep ere nightfall."

That was fast. Gandalf was hurrying. What was he trying? What came up whilst he was away? Harry added it to the list of things he ought to look into, and suppressed a yawn.

He was too tired to deal with this now. A nice, warm bed had never seemed so appealing. Galadriel seemed to sense his exhaustion and her eyes softened.

"I have forgotten that you have not slept," she said. "I will not hold you up any longer. Mae îdh, Reviauron."

Harry dipped his head with a weary smile, and apparated to his small, secluded 'room' under the east side of the main hall. To call it a room was to be highly subjective. It had only one wall, on which hung a few paintings of cities he'd been to, and as with almost all telain, it was remarkably bare of furniture. Harry eyed the bundle of fur and blankets and wrinkled his nose. A jab of his wand and one stretched into a mattress, a vastly more appealing sight than the wooden floor. Without a second thought, he collapsed onto it without taking off his boots, and sank deep into sleep.

When he awoke, it was to the bell-like tinkles of Calandil's braids. Harry opened his eyes and winced at the streak of bright sunlight. Blinking away the spots, he could see the axe-wielding elf rearranging the sparse decorations in the room.

"I was rather fond of seeing Rivendell beside the Havens," he said dryly, sitting up.

Calandil twitched, the only sign of his surprise, and whirled around. "At last you wake," he cried, abandoning the painting of Rivendell he had been moving and crossed the talan in three long strides to stand beside the temporary bed.

"At last?" Harry echoed, raising his eyebrows as he looked up. "How long have I slept?"

"Three days, mellon nín."

Harry stared. Three days? How had that happened? He'd been exhausted, but it hadn't been sleep-for-a-few-days kind of exhaustion.

"While you slumbered, Khamûl has moved his foul presence to Dol Guldur, and now resides there. Lord Celeborn has ordered the patrols to be doubled, and Gelion has been sent to the North, where he guards against those who seeks to come down from Moria."

Calandil sounded particularly displeased with the last fact.

"He'll be fine," Harry said consolingly, well-aware that the elf was worried about his nephew. "Gelion can hold his own very well without your fuss."

He was skewered with a half-hearted glare, one he ignored as he stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

Khamûl had been sent to Dol Guldur. There was only one reason for that—Lórien was to be attacked. Harry frowned. It wouldn't work—the power of Nenya combined with the wards he had drawn up would stand firm unless Sauron came to attack himself, but though the Dark Lord may have guessed that one of the Three was held here, he had nothing to confirm it. It went without saying that the army was to come from the direction of Dol Guldur. The fortress itself held a small army of orcs, not big enough to constitute a threat, so the orcs in Moria would have be called down, while reinforcements from Mordor would be sent north. Khamûl was likely the scout, sent ahead to observe the situation before the main army was sent. It was unlikely that he had gone alone—the vanguard would have followed.

Harry stood up abruptly. The Fellowship was heading south on the Anduin. The orcs would be marching north along the Anduin.

Damn.

He bolted out of the room, a bemused Calandil at his heels. Harry lowered his mental walls and sought out Galadriel, simultaneously explaining the danger to Calandil. He had to alert the Fellowship, if he was not already too late.

Emyn Muil, Galadriel said suddenly. They have reached Emyn Muil this noon.

Harry took a brief moment to draw up his destination, and quickly bade both elves goodbye before he disapparated mid-step.

Kalormë: the sibling-ish mountain to Taniquetil (in Valinor, where the Valar stay), situated in the Furthest East. Apparently where the sun rises from every morning (its name means 'sun-rising-hill').

Arien: the fire maia who guides the sun.

Er, I changed the MOD system a little. No idea if it's understandable so far, but I'll see if I can explain it clearly in later chapters. Also, timeline has been messed up and canon is no longer completely followed (y'know, in case you couldn't tell from Gandalf's state of un-dead). Not too fond of divine things, but I got somewhat inspired by a review on how to solve the colour issue.

So... Sorry all! It's been a pretty busy month. I had two major deadlines and a whole lot of exams next week, so this chapter was really written between rushing reports and revising for everything (priorities: straight). Like 7, I'm not too pleased with this one either, but it's been a while since I finished it and nothing's really been added to it after all these days so I thought I'd just put this out here so I can get on with the Rohan scenes (finally) and come back to edit this in the (far off) future ;_;

On the bright side, after next week, I'll have loads of free time to get writing done (and maybe finish this by the end of this year like I had planned to). Yay me.