The gravel crunched beneath his boots. Harry spared a quick glance around to check that no, there was no Fellowship here, before he spun on his heels and quickly apparated to the other side of the bend.

There was no sign of them there, either.

With a sigh, he shifted form and took off into the sky, where distance gave him greater visibility over the lands. The hilly terrain of Emyn Muil rose up, blanketed with firs and thorny shrubbery. Carving a path between the hills was the Anduin, its waters white and frothing as it branched into Sarn Gebir.

Gandalf would know not to lead them into the rapids. Even an Elvish boat would be hard-pressed to stay intact as it rode over the sharp rocks. So, portage it was. They would have crossed there… went around that… Harry mentally traced out the Fellowship's path, and then narrowed his eyes at the two boats resting on the riverbank. Unhidden and packed, but there was no one nearby.

He rode an updraft to avoid a particular dense bit of cloud, and glanced around. Where were they? Something unexpected had cropped up, or they wouldn't have left their belongings exposed. A column of black figure, long and wide, marched northwards through the forest. Rows of raised spears caught the sun's light and glinted. Orcs in daylight. Orcs in the same forest as the Fellowship.

He quickened his pace, shedding some altitude to get more details on the orc troops. Fourteen in a row, as was the custom of Mordor, and its length was more than twice that. They bulldozed through the sparse undergrowth, then there was a flash of white from beneath the canopy, followed right after by the signature bellow of dwarven war-cries.

Oh dear. He was right on time.

Harry swooped down, mauling an unhelmed orc in the face before he shifted form and unsheathed Caladui. These didn't look like the standard orcs. They were larger, bulkier, and as Harry blocked an overhead swing, he noted that they were also stronger.

"Harald?"

Harry looked behind at the incredulous shout and saw Gimli. The dwarf was staring at him, frozen, almost unheeding of the battle around.

"Ware! Behind you!" Harry called, freezing an orc that had snuck up to Gimli.

Gimli swore in Khuzdul, turning around to headbutt the creature before making his way over, cutting a bloody swathe as he approached.

"We thought you were dead!"

Harry thrust a hand at the orcs running towards them, and they stilled and fell, flesh turning to stone.

"It'll take more than a drop and a Balrog to end me," he said lightly, swerving to avoid a spear. "Where's the others?"

Gimli turned around. "We were looking for Frodo. He's been gone since Boromir left with the other two hobbits, then these accursed orcs came. Gandalf is–"

He broke off, hewing the legs off an orc and pointed to the left with the bloodstained blade. As if on cue, there was a flash of light and the sound of wooden staff on metal armour.

Harry turned his attention back. Frodo was missing? Dammit. He left the Fellowship alone for a little bit and they'd lost their most important person.

"Why–no, what about Sam? He'll be with Frodo."

The dwarf shook his head. "Hasn't seen the lad since we started this search."

Harry frowned and beheaded a nearby orc with a particularly vicious swing, then blasted the body several feet away to vent some frustration. His only consolation was that the orcs would have started retreating by now if they had captured Frodo. Their location was quickly cleared, but the sounds of battles elsewhere had yet to dwindle. In silent agreement, Harry and Gimli made their way towards the thickest of the fray.

A roar made him pause, and a pillar of fire rose upwards. The smell of burnt flesh reached his nose as the wind shifted direction, and Harry grimaced, breaking into a run. He could feel the residual magic in the brooch calling out for him, and that only boded worse for Gandalf. The Istar rarely resorted to such 'flashiness'.

He could barely see Gandalf through the horde of orcs. They swarmed towards him, one after another, treading on their charred brethren to form a tight ring around him. It could not be coincidental.

Harry shifted Caladui to his left hand and took out the Elder Wand, figuring that some extra power wasn't going to go wrong here. He approached from the side, carefully making sure that Gandalf wasn't going to be caught in the spell, and gave the wand a flick. Reducto.

The ones who directly received the force of the spell was reduced to a bloody mist, while the others flew backwards and slammed into the ground. Still, the orcs were relentless, attacking with a one-mindedness as if they hadn't just seen their comrades killed with overwhelming force.

"Gandalf!"

The Istar turned to him, his grey robes bloodied and torn.

"Rev–" he started, and then he flinched violently, breaking off with a wordless gasp.

An orc gave a triumphant call.

No. Harry was instantly upon the orcs like a maelstrom of cold fury, wrenching off the orc that did the stabbing and blowing a hole through his torso. The others froze, as if broken from their trance. For a split second they stared at him, and then they turned to flee. One dove for Gandalf's limp hands, but Harry snarled and tore its spine out through its front, heedless of the spray of black blood and gore.

Gandalf swayed, starting to fall, but Harry caught him before he landed. Blood ran down his fingers, seeping through layers of grey robes. His hand brushed against the back of the Istar's neck, and then there was a rush of something through his body, like the raging thundering of water after a broken dam, and he fell back into whiteness.

When Harry reopened his eyes, it was to a distinct sense of odd-wrong-odd and the taste of bitter blood in his mouth. He rolled to the side and spat into the dirt, dimly aware that night had fallen and that there were people murmuring nearby.

"Here." Calloused hands handed him a half-filled waterskin, and Harry took it gratefully, washing out the absolutely disgusting orc blood in his mouth.

When he was done, he tapped the side of the waterskin and refilled it, before returning it to its owner. Aragorn showed little surprise as he received the heavier bag and placed it beside his pack. There was no campfire, but the sky above was clear and the moon shone on them unhindered by cloud or leaf.

"Thanks," said Harry, watching him. Aragorn appeared remarkably calm, standing with his hands folded in front of his chest, half-leaning against a tree. Grey eyes met his unflinchingly, until Harry turned to see the others. Legolas was almost a light source unto his own, his gaze shifting from Harry to Gandalf as he stood beside Gimli.

Gandalf.

Distantly, he remembered the swarming of the orcs, how they had targeted him. It wasn't a random attack—they were ordered to look for something. A cold knot settled in his gut. Sauron couldn't have guessed the holder of one of the Three Rings, could he? It was a foreboding thought.

"How is he?"

"In a trance," Aragorn replied. "We found the two of you in similar states. I have checked him for injuries and found none, but still he does not wake."

No injuries on Gandalf? Harry glanced at the Istar's still form, recalling the rush of magic pouring into the Istar. Machinations of the Valar, Harry thought, and snorted to himself. He fulfilled the request, that was certain.

Best not to interfere with that business.

Harry turned back to face the three. "Where's Sam and Frodo?"

"His tracks lead back to the river, and we are missing both of their packs and a boat. Frodo has went down the river, and his servant has gone with him towards Mordor."

Why would they leave like that? Why would they separate? Harry bit his lip. Something had happened before the orcs reached, something that would cause Frodo to think that going alone was the best option. The Ring? He'll find out later. Now, the question was: should he go after them? He could feel the Cloak heading away, following the turns of the Anduin, and knew that the two hobbits were still drifting down the river. He could catch up with them…

"And Boromir?"

"He heads for Gondor. The Steward needs to be warned of the trials ahead. Merry and Pippin are with him. What of you? We saw you fall."

"I did," Harry said grimly. "The Balrog had a tight grip. I may have encountered him before, for he was particularly vehement. We duelled for a few days, then had a showdown on Durin's Tower. He lost. I got here as quickly as I could manage."

There was a stunned silence as he finished his heavily edited summary. Harry suppressed a shudder as he remembered the place beneath the world. He'll have to return to block off any entrance that led to it. The thought of anything coming through to the surface was enough to generate nightmares.

"Durin's Tower was lost!" Gimli exclaimed. "Some say that it was made only in legend, or that it had been destroyed long ago. It was only accessible by the Endless Stair."

"They were both made. The Tower was partly demolished in the duel, but the Stair still stands, climbing from the depths to the very peak of Zirakzigil. I can bring you to them if you wish."

"Let us not talk of visiting lost towers when our journey is not yet complete," Aragorn said, gently cutting off Gimli before the dwarf could speak. "The orcs we slew have many that are not of Mordor. There are some from the Misty Mountains, and there some bearing a strange device. Do you know what this is?"

He picked something from the floor and handed it to Harry. It was a shield, dark coloured and crudely-wrought. On its front was a white handprint.

"Their helms are branded with the S-rune," Legolas added. "Not for Sauron, for he does not use Tengwar."

"Saruman," Harry guessed, matching his hand to the white print. It was almost about the same size.

"We assumed so. Evil is afoot in Isengard."

Saruman was deep in league with Sauron, if he was breeding orcs and allowing Sauron to control of his troops. He would not surrender easily.

Harry sighed and looked up. The moon was rising higher in the sky, pale and cold. There would be no more dealings with the White Wizard's treacheries this day.

"The night is late," he noted. "All of you should get some sleep. I'll take the watch. We can talk more in the morning."

His suggestion was met with agreeable nods, and he settled himself close to Gandalf, listening as elf, man and dwarf prepared for their sleep behind him.

The night was tranquil. The camp was set up close to the boats and far away from the day's battlefield such that if any more orcs had followed the first group, they would be unlikely to come across the camp. Keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings, Harry turned the rest of his attention to himself. The excess power from his period in Valinor had been drained, channelled into Gandalf in that brief touch. He had completed Manwë's request, and he was back to normal.

Still, there were more things to be done. Harry leant against a tree trunk and counted off the list of things he ought to get around to do. First would be to do some reconnaissance around Isengard. Find out the extent of Saruman's deal with Sauron, and what kind of things he had created. After that, get Glorfindel to go orc-hunting with him. The Rangers were stretched thin, and Rohan was open to pillaging from the north. He very much doubted that Saruman would have kept the Gap of Rohan a safe passage for the people. Get to Gondor and make sure they're prepared for war in… very soon. Nimrodel's people might be able to help some. Dol Guldur—can't help that. Second note, warn Dáin and Thranduil. Sauron needs Erebor crushed, therefore Erebor can't be allowed to get crushed. Last–

Something flashed in the corner of his vision.

Harry jerked his head up. Around him, all was still. There was nothing. The wards detected no one, yet he could still feeling a something out there, its presence like the wing-beat of a butterfly to his senses. He drew out his wand and stood up, looking around. It felt most concentrated around the earlier battlefield, but there were wisps of it all around.

"Who's there?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

The leaves rustled, shifted by the wind. The feeling vanished, washed away by a warm gust from behind.

"Talking to yourself, Harald?"

Harry spun around, and only the familiarity of the voice stopped him from hexing the other. "Gandalf?"

He stared, agape, at the Istar. Gandalf—because it could only be him—beamed at him. His blue eyes were shining with the light of the Trees, and he seemed taller, just a little more otherworldly than the old Grey Pilgrim of before.

"Gandalf?" The Istar's eyebrows drawn together. "Why yes, I do believe they used to call me that. Gandalf."

Harry stepped forward, arms spread.

"And you claimed you are not senile," he jested. "Would you find your other names more familiar? Shall I list them out for you?"

Gandalf smiled and shook his head. "Cease your drivel, Harald. I remember now. I am Gandalf. Gandalf the White."

The words hung in the air, a certain weight to them. The White. Harry wondered if Saruman knew that his authority had been stripped by the Valar, and glanced at Gandalf.

"You'll need an attire more befitting of your colour," he said amusedly.

Gandalf looked down and laughed. "It appears that I do."

Harry waved the Elder Wand and conjured up a set of white robes, belt and all, and handed them to the Istar. It just didn't feel right to transfigure the robes from something, as he would usually do. Gandalf had changed, there was a bearing to him now that had not existed before, and it would do no justice to give him clothes of leaves and stone.

The earliest rays of the sun was already illuminating the horizon, casting a grey light into the woods. As Gandalf strode back, he could suddenly feel the strength of the magic hanging around the Istar, and it felt as if he was the sun, bringing light and warmth with him as he went. Harry blinked. If he had any doubt that Gandalf was changed, there was none now. It was mildly disconcerting, really.

"Er, Gandalf?"

"Hmm?"

"I think you should…" Harry mimed putting on a cloak and gestured at the bundle of grey that Gandalf was holding. "It's really bright."

"Ah," said the Istar, and wrapped his old grey cloak around him. It still felt like the sun was shining, but clouds now hid it from sight. "Better?"

"Yes."

The more mortal members of their group woke at dawn. Harry tossed them a packet of lembas he found in the boats, and watched in amusement as they attempted to reconcile this new Gandalf with the one they had known a day prior.

"I am Saruman, or rather Saruman as he should have been," the Istar said at last. He was rather tight-lipped on the causes behind the change, and eventually the questions subsided.

Once everyone had washed up a little and had their fill, Aragorn turned to face them. "What is our course now? Do we follow Frodo down the river?" he asked, looking from one to another. "It will not be easy, for we have lost hours, but our duty is to guide him and aid him."

"The fate of the Ring-Bearer is no longer in our hands," said Gandalf firmly, with an indecipherable glance at Harry. "One stage of your journey is over, and another one begins. War has come to Rohan. We must head to Edoras."

"Edoras?" Gimli said incredulously, staring at Gandalf. "That is no short distance."

"No, that is not. Which is why…" Harry led forth four horses. One was barebacked to suit Legolas, and the other three were saddled. "These horses can take you to Edoras without rest."

Gimli made a face.

A little too late, Harry remembered dwarves and horses and how they don't usually go together.

"The dwarf will ride with me," Legolas said, cutting in before anyone else. "Or I may begin to miss his constant grumbles."

The dwarf-in-question gave an indignant huff, but made a distinct lack of protests as he accepted the arrangement. Harry exchanged amused looks with Gandalf. An Elf, willingly helping a Dwarf? Preposterous. Thranduil might be the first elf to die of a heart-attack.

Legolas patted the forehead of the white, unsaddled horse and whispered something in its ear before swinging himself onto its back with a smooth stroke. He swivelled around to lend Gimli a hand, and the dwarf seated himself behind him, holding onto the elf's waist.

Aragorn took the grey and mounted it with ease. Harry looked between the remain two horses, shrugged, and got on the one with a black-coat, leaving Gandalf with a dappled, snorting mare.

In a short time, they had sped out of the woods and were racing across the open plains of Rohan. Sometime around noon, a packet of lembas was shared around the group, all of them eating as they rode. In the distant horizon loomed the Misty Mountains, snow-capped and stretching as far as the eye could see.

The transfigured horses galloped without pause, the long leagues swallowed by their pounding hooves. It was one of the benefits to magically conjured animals—not being 'alive', they existed with only the casting purpose in mind. Here, it was to serve their riders, and the constructs followed all instructions faithfully without faltering.

By dusk, they had crossed the Entwash. Harry was forcefully reminded of his tasks when the black tower of Orthanc was visible. He drew up to Gandalf, who had begun to slow down.

"I have business in Isengard," he said in an undertone. "I will meet you in Edoras in two days' time."

Gandalf looked at him. "I will await your return," said he. "Be careful."

Harry nodded. He would know if Saruman had prepared anything for him when he approached. With a nudge, he pointed his steed westwards and quickened his pace.

Noxious fumes hit his nose when the wind shifted, and Harry, from his position at the edge of Fangorn Forest, grimaced. Dark clouds had covered the skies above, blocking off the light of the moon and stars. The only source of light was within Isengard's protective wall, the constant orange-red flicker of flames. It was only the thin film of magic before his eyes that allowed him to see at all, and Harry winced when he saw valley. Weeds and thorns flourished where ancient groves once stood, and axe-hewn stumps were the sole remnants of what had once been the south of Fangorn.

There was one person who would never stand for this.

Harry dismounted with a whispered command, and the horse retreated into the forest, its dark coat melting effortlessly into the shadows. Alone, Harry began to make his way forward. As he drew closer to the walls, invisible and silent, he began to hear the calls of many orcs. Overhead, flocks of crebain screeched, the flapping of their wings loud and deafening.

Steam and smoke drifted by, swirling in the wind. A black tower loomed before him, and Harry looked up to see a large stone, carved and painted in the likeness of a long, white, hand. The white hand that Saruman had taken as his device. Not far away were the tall arched gates of Isengard.

Taking out his wand, Harry gave the pillar a prod. Runes lit up on its surface, running up from its base to the hand, maintaining the wards that covered the valley. With a scowl, Harry approached the formidable outermost walls that circled Orthanc, careful not to trigger anything. It wasn't the neatest runic array that he had seen, but there was little doubt to its strength. Few creatures were permitted to pass into the valley, and orcs were one of them. He could see them stationed at the gate, conversing in a garbled mix of Westron and Black Speech.

Their topic was sickening.

"Shiikuz she did," said the one on the left, sounding exceeding proud of himself. "Loud."

The one on the right gave a laugh that sounded like rocks grinding against each other. "Garmog's turn tomorrow. You say to find sharlob?"

"Akh. Do it in front of the mate. Then kill him first. She will break. Good for baal-Uruk."

Harry clenched his hand into a fist and bit down on his lip to restrain himself from cursing the two orcs. They were taking women for breeding Uruk. How many were in Isengard now, forced to bear monsters?

The two orcs broke into appreciative laughter and their conversation gradually subsided. Harry reined in his fury and turned his attention back to the wards. If they remained, Isengard would be near invincible. He would have to take them down.

The only good thing about this was that Saruman had learnt about warding from him. He might have changed some parts or added new runes, but Harry had depended on setting up and dismantling wards for survival since the apocalypse. Minor changes weren't going to make them impregnable.

Pressing the tip of his wand to the outermost layer, Harry forced his intent into it, changing the runic sequence character by character until his new commands overrode Saruman's. It was still linked to the traitorous Istar, but its only function now was to be a magical sinkhole. He repeated the process with every layer, lowering the effectiveness of each ward until they were only just good enough to keep out a persistent fly.

A few hours had passed, yet the din within the halls remained loud as ever. Harry strode in through the front gate and almost choked on the thick steam. The spell on his eyes allowed him to see, unhindered by the mists, wooden towers rising from deep pits that had been dug into the earth. Large machineries of metal littered the area, which had been stripped clean of all vegetation. Two orcs, larger than kind he was used to, strode past him, each bearing a white handprint on their face. More orcs roamed the surface, operating the machines and flinging entire trees into the pits.

Harry stepped on a wooden plank and peered into a pit. Flames illuminated the mouths of tunnels far below, and the sounds of metal pounding on metal indicated round-the-clock forging. Armour was collected in piles taller than he was, and swords still hot from the anvil were tossed in a separate pile.

Carefully, he slipped down. It was only when he was standing in the mine that he realised just how big the place was. The sensation he had felt at Emyn Muil was here, too, in greater amounts. The presence lingered, always just almost visible from the corner of his eyes. He kept to the wall, dodging the constant stream of orcs. Where did these many orcs come from?

Harry soon had the answer. It was not a very nice answer. A woman's scream attracted him to what could only be a feeding frenzy. The larger orcs—the Uruk-hai, if he heard right—bit into her, their leering grins betraying their enjoyment. Built into the walls were cages, and the humans in them watched the scene in horror, their faces gaunt and pallid. Barely a metre away, new Uruks were being pulled from the mud to join the frenzy.

The woman was still screaming.

Harry relieved her of her suffering, biting hard on his knuckle to restrain himself. He couldn't kill all the orcs without killing the prisoners, and he could not get all the prisoners out, not in their current state, without killing all the orcs.

Soon, he promised, feeling the presence sweep around him yet unable to see it. Soon.

I'm really really sorry about the lateness! Somehow I'm still operating as if it's late September rather than mid October... e_e

Then doc manager made me copy-paste the chapter in chunks of less than five hundred words or it'll just go all white on me. I don't think I missed out any part, but the word count isn't matching up and I have no idea why it's almost a hundred words longer in doc manager than in Word, without any repetitive paragraphs. /muchhates.

Black Speech is probably butchered, but orcs are known to be grammatically wrong even in their native tongue so eh. Shiikuz=scream, Sharlob=female, Akh=yes, baal-Uruk is Orc-breed(ing?). Taken from thelandofshadow.

Also, I think I might be half-way through the fic now 8D.