Harry slipped out of the pit with a new resolve. Saruman would not be allowed to continue unchecked. A puff of steam escaped from a pipe before him, and he swerved to avoid it. A distance away, two orcs scuffled with each other until an Uruk picked one up and threw it across a trench.

"Get back to your stations!" It said with a scowl—or what looked like a scowl, as half of its head was hidden under a large, fan-shaped helmet—and kicked the orc at its feet.

Harry shook his head and turned away to face the tower of Orthanc. A rock-paved road ran up to the foot of the tower, and he followed it to the stairs climbing up to the doors of the tower. As expected, they were firmly shut and locked. Without the key, it would take more effort than Harry was willing to expend to open those doors. Wards of his making was one thing, but Númenorean runes were another. Those invoked the stones to protect themselves in a somewhat cyclic manner, preventing all sorts of direct tampering.

With a roll of his shoulders, he shrank down to his Animagus form. Suddenly, the smoke became choking, and Harry had to blink multiple times to clear his eyes. He should have done a Bubble-head Charm. By the time he flew up to the balcony, the back of his throat felt like the arid Harad desert, cacti and all.

There was no one in the room. Harry dropped lightly onto the floor and disillusioned himself, halting at the doorway to make sure that there weren't further wards before striding in. Low, flickering flames shone from torches around the room, giving barely enough light for Harry to read an open tome on the table.

Wood, nitre, sulphur, charcoal, potash… The list, written in Saruman's spidery script, filled a page. More than half of the words were crossed out, with reasons such as "incompatible", or "slow" given beside it. Squeezed in the margin were the ratios, while on the next page were notes on sizes and depths of craters.

Saruman was experimenting with explosives. That was… not good. Harry flipped the pages, noting that there was a pause of a thousand years between the first few tests and the more recent ones. With each experiment, he could tell that Saruman was getting closer to discovering that which was once called gunpowder.

The thought of gunpowder in the hands of either Sauron or Saruman was not pleasant. Harry left the tome open on the same page he found it, and moved on. Piles of scrolls and loose sheets of paper were stacked around the room, proving that Saruman did not get any neater as the years wore on. It was a far cry from the Maia's small but immaculate workshop in Aulë's forge. He stepped over the piles carefully and passed through the doorway that led to the central room of the tower.

The multifaceted walls of the Orthanc gleamed white even in the glow of the flames on raised columns all around. In the middle of the circular room was a pedestal with its top covered by an embroidered cloth. Harry glanced around and carefully lifted a corner of the cloth. A black sphere, seemingly made of crystal, rested in the centre of the black marble. As if burned, he dropped the cloth, hiding the palantír from view.

The Orthanc-stone. Of course. He had all but forgotten about the Seeing Stones, given how half of the seven brought to Middle-earth had been lost and the others rendered unusable by Sauron's possession of the Ithil-stone.

Was that why Saruman turned? Did he look too far to the East one day, and Sauron snared his gaze?

Harry jerked his head up. Footsteps sounded outside the door, coming slowly up the stairs. Saruman. He backed away as the door opened, and paused at the doorway to the balcony. Saruman had stepped into the palantír-room and stopped before the pedestal. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the cloth aside and placed a hand above the palantír. As Harry watched, the palantír flickered to life. Orange light sparked within it, filling the black orb as it expanded. An Eye formed, rimmed with fire and slitted as a cat's.

The Eye of Sauron.

Harry bit on his lip. This was how the two of them communicated. Any still-existing shred of doubt that Saruman was not a traitor shrivelled up in that instant, and he retreated backwards, unwilling to turn his eyes away from the burning eye within the palantír.

A scroll dropped beside him. Saruman looked up, and the Great Eye beneath his palm swivelled towards him.

Whosss there?

Harry's foot stopped against the railings of the balcony, and he flipped backwards without hesitation, heart suddenly pounding. It was dark—the muted shimmer of his disillusionment charm should be impossible to see. He should not have been discovered. The thought did not console him as he flew upwards in eagle-form, avoiding the still airborne crebain. There were other methods of detecting a person—physical senses were only the most convenient.

Cursing, Harry sped over Isengard's obsidian walls and did not pause until he was within Fangorn Forest. He had been careless not to mask his magic. Still, there was a chance that he could have been missed. Grimacing, he slipped down from the branch he stood on, and landed onto the moss-covered rock below. The tree creaked, and Harry turned to face it, surprised at the distinctly alarmed feeling emanating from the tree.

BirdEagleMan, the tree said—or more accurately, thought—ponderously. FriendBird. NotUnknownIsKnownWhatIs.

A Huorn.

"Wizard," Harry said slowly, pressing a hand against the bark. "Good Huorn, who is your Shepherd?"

WizardSpeaksWizardKnowsAskShepherdNoShepherdShepherdSleeps.

It took a moment for him to understand the Huron's laborious words. The Ents are sleeping. That certainly explained why Treebeard took no actions against Saruman's burning of the forest. The Ent would not have stood for it were he awoke.

WizardIsWakingShepherd?

Another Huorn entered the conversation with a shake of its canopy.

ShepherdProtectFriendsAxesSouthEnemyLessFriends.

Harry paused as he attempted to process the Huorn's sentence.

"Yeah, I'm rousing the Shepherds. They've been sleeping long enough, don't you think?"

There was a great feeling of relief from the second Huorn, and it seemed to shift backwards, emptying a space on the ground. The other Huorn rustled its leaves and parted them, allowing the pale moonlight to shine down onto the clearing.

"Thank you."

Harry pulled out his wand and knelt on the soil, pointing the tip of the want into the ground.

"Time to wake up," he murmured, and took a deep breath.

On his exhale, he pushed his magic out. The ground pulsed. The silence was broken by the trees as they quivered, brushing their leaves together.

NoWakeShepherdSleeping, came the response from the Huorn, once the wave of rustling branches had dissipated and all was still and silent.

Harry nodded distractedly, and gathered his thoughts. Another push of magic, greater than the last, was channelled into the ground. He was answered with creaking groans as the ripple spread further out, and all the trees within the forest began to stir.

IsWorkedShepherdIsWakingIsWakingIsWaking. The Huorn's words were taken up by the newly woken trees, and they echoed it with excitement. WakingWakingWakingWakingWaking.

Far in the distance came a loud, low "hoooooom", and Harry smiled.

With an Entmoot slowly under way (read: the Ents were midway through the greetings), Harry left the forest. Grey light had crept into the forest while they spoke, reminding him of all the things he had yet to do now that a new day was dawning.

The Rohirrim should know about their imminent danger, so Harry oriented himself south and flew on, relying more on the wind than his eyes to guide him. Less than an hour into his flight, his tranquillity was abruptly disturbed by a shrill shriek. Barely a moment later, the sound of orc cries and clashing metal reached his ears.

Without delay, he dived towards it, taking in the situation. A force of Rohirrim cavalry was trapped at the shallows of the Isen river, almost surrounded by orcs flanking them from the riverbanks.

Harry picked a side, and then slammed down into the eastern force with all the might of the Reductor Curse. Uruks and Warg-riders were instantly reduced into a fine red mist.

"Hail Eorlingas!" Harry called, swiftly moving to relieve the onslaught on the riders' retreat. Water splashed against his boots, and the dawn's light showed that the river ran red.

"Hail, Stranger," a rider shouted, brandishing a spear. "You have come at a most opportune time!"

A warg distracted Harry from hollering a reply. When he looked up from its carcass, he paused, watching as an Uruk ran past him to join a swarm ahead. Orcs never gave up an opportunity to fight. They were under orders. The other Rohirrim were stuck on the rim of the swarm, unable to charge through even with their horses. In the centre was a dismounted man, hopelessly outnumbered.

Drawing his sword, Harry apparated into the thick of the horde, grasped the first un-orcliest thing he could and apparated away.

The man instinctively attempted to push him away when they materialised on a small hill, sword swinging. Harry grabbed his hand and stopped the swing.

"I'm a friend," he said slowly, evenly. "You are out of immediate danger. Calm yourself."

Slowly, the other man lowered his sword. "Who are you? What are you?"

"I am a wizard. Tell your men to fall back, Horse-lord, before more orcs arrive."

The Uruks had realised that their target was gone, and turned the brunt of their attack upon the Rohirrim. The man looked back. "Grimbold!"

A tall soldier from the rear jerked around.

"Sound the retreat!"

The soldier nodded and placed a horn to his lips. Two blasts resounded in the valley, and the riders moved towards them as one. Beside him, the Rohir swayed unsteadily, and Harry was quick to support him before he could fall. The weight caught him by surprise and he staggered. Bloody hell, it was as if a small wall collapsed on him. He hauled the man upright, slinging an arm over his shoulder and poked a feather-light charm into his armour. Instantly, a third of the weight vanished, and he half-carried, half-dragged the man to the side as the first of the horses began thundering up the hill.

A rider peeled off from the main group, and from the horn by his side, Harry assumed it was Grimbold. He slowed to a gradual halt, and made to dismount.

"No, stay on," Harry said brusquely. "Take him."

With a huff, he lifted the man and hefted him onto the horse. It tossed its head and edged away, until Grimbold stopped it with a command. Once the man was secured, Harry stepped back.

"What about you?" Grimbold asked, nodding at Harry's horseless state.

Harry shook his head. "These orcs would pursue you all the way to Helms Deep if they had to. They're out for his blood."

The man stirred weakly across Grimbold's lap.

"I'm going to make sure they don't. Get him safe, Rider."

With those parting words, Harry drew his sword and apparated back into the thick of the orcs.

He got cut. In hindsight, apparating into a midst of hostile creatures wielding sharp, pointy objects wasn't the best idea, even if he had chosen a spot with few orcs.

Harry swore, one hand coming up to the gash on his side. With the other, he clipped a Dunlending on the side of his head with Caladui, and pointed the gleaming sword at a warg.

Fire spewed forward, as if escaping from a dragon's jaws. The warg howled, its body alit, throwing its rider off its back as it charged madly. Harry bit down on his lip and turned the stream of fire to those around him. It quickly consumed all it touched, leaving nothing but ashes and charred metal in its wake.

As the last orc fell, Harry cut the charm. A sudden wave of disorientation hit him, and he stumbled. The smell of burnt flesh and fresh blood intensified and colours bled from the world, as if he was looking from the Unseen realm. An impenetrable shadow lurked in a corner of his vision, seemingly taking in the light from white mists above the battlefield.

Souls.

Oh.

He was looking at Death.

The Stone burned, so hot he could feel it through the layers of his robes. The Wand hummed in his hands, whispering the names of all its past owners. Far away, more two hundred and fifty miles to the east, he could sense the Cloak and the two figures huddled beneath it. As he looked, a pale shape upon a cloud of shadows bore down on them, reaching out to the wispy tendril of white that seeped from the cloak and stretched towards Mordor.

No. The Nazgûl couldn't see them, couldn't sense them, but it could sense the Ring, the traitorous Ring that was calling it closer. Harry reached towards the Hallow, vaguely aware that the distance between them seemed to melt away until he could almost feel the cloak between his fingers.

Protect them. Conceal.

The presence of Frodo and Sam vanished, even to his senses. The Ring's pervasive tendrils dissipated. The Nazgûl stopped and turned away with a ghastly cry. Overhead, the sun broke through the clouds to shine down on barren lands.

A sigh escaped his lips. Harry felt himself slowly drawn back to the Seen realm, pulled by a tenuous thread wrapped loosely around his arm. Colours returned, creeping back into his vision with slow reluctance and merged haphazardly with the glowing monochrome of the Unseen. The result was little splotches of colour on white shapes, while the landscape had all but fallen away. The only reason why he knew the Misty Mountains were far ahead of him was that masses of dull grey spots had formed the approximate shape of the mountain range, though they were strangely cut-off at the peak.

Harry blinked and looked down.

The world swam. Coloured details superimposed themselves over the mess of semi-glowing shapes to reveal the Dunlendings clustered before him. They backed away slowly, raising their weapons warily as he stared at them.

"I'm not going to fight you," he said when he realised that they were waiting for his reaction. "You can lower your weapons. Go home. Stop fighting for Saruman. Whatever he promised you, he will not deliver."

The Dunlendings stared at him in silence.

Harry stifled his sigh and made a shooing motion. He was too drained to deal with this. "You have families to care for. Dunland is that way. Hundred and fifty miles as the eagle flies. Trip takes a day. Two if you're slow. Go."

"You will not kill us?" A man asked, voice quavering.

"No. Enough blood has been spilled on Saruman's account. I will not add to that."

There was a thud as the man dropped his sword. As the rest watched, he removed his helmet and threw it on the ground. Mud splattered onto his shoes, but he appeared not to notice. "Bryn?" He called, hopefully, desperately.

"Tad?" Another soldier threw down his weapon, and as he tore off his helmet, Harry noticed that he was barely more than a boy. The youth rushed towards the man and the two embraced, holding each other tightly.

Swords, axes, spears, and other weapons clattered onto the ground as the Dunlendings disarmed, seeking out friends and family that had survived the battle.

Harry took a step back and turned. His place was elsewhere.

A hand grasped the hem of his cloak and he looked back, an eyebrow raised.

It was the youth—Harry thought it was the youth since he was the same shade of white—and he looked up beseechingly. "Please, Great Wizard, can you find my mam?"

"What happened to her?"

"The orcs took her. Please, Great Wizard, do you know where she is?"

Orcs.

There was only one place the orcs could have taken a woman, if she managed to survive the transport. The breeding pits of the Uruk-hai.

Once again, Harry cursed Saruman.

"I cannot guarantee that your mother will be alive," he said, "but I know where she is likely to be."

The youth's face fell. For one, brief instant, colours of the ordinary world flooded his vision, and he could see the pale gold sunlight falling on verdant fields, the dark-haired teenager clinging to his cloak, green eyes looking up with fervid hope. Harry felt as if he was looking at a painting from far away, untouched by the happenings occurring before him.

Then he blinked and the moment passed. The bright colours dissipated, and he was back to looking at glowing shapes.

"Can you save her? Please, Great Wizard, I just want to see her again."

"I will try," Harry said, and the youth released his grasp.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you."

The Dunlendings gave him a crowd's worth of names and descriptions to look out for. In return, Harry was promised hospitality in their village for as long as it stood. When that was settled, he pointed them on their way and began trudging eastwards.

Locating the Rohirrim didn't take much skill—Harry could see their glowing shapes far in the distance. Getting to them, on the other hand, took a little more effort. His new vision problem left him grounded. As a human, the amorphous colours didn't bother him too much. He could still make out who's who (albeit with some staring, but nothing's perfect). As a bird, it was nauseating. His depth perception vanished, and the world ended up with splotches of detail that never stayed put.

The Hallows had done something. That much was obvious, and it meant that a temporary trip to Mandos and back wasn't going to fix it. Harry was displeased. There was little good that can come from perceiving Death, and he sure as hell didn't want the position that he just knew came with it. Being Master of the Hallows was more than enough for him, thanks.

Harry shook his head before he could be drawn into the endless cycle of what-ifs that inevitably followed. No more dwelling in the past. First he'll get to the Rohirrim, then get to Gandalf, and then save the world from Sauron. Small steps.

He raised his wand. Before he had even begun to focus on a thought, a corporeal stag leapt from his wand tip and landed lightly on the ground. Harry just had time to note that no straying colours touched the Patronus' white fur before a rough tongue attacked his hair, and he grinned despite himself.

"You weren't like this the last time," he said fondly, and Prongs chuffed into his hair. The stag gave him a cursory sniff as if to check for wounds, and then nosed the bloody patch at his side.

Harry winced. He'd forgotten about that. Prongs looked at him soulfully and persisted until Harry had mended his wound and cleaned his robes. Finally satisfied, Prongs bowed down on a leg for him to get up.

There was no need for directions. The stag bounded across the field, barely bending the blades of grass it touched as the distance vanished beneath its hooves.

There was a shout from a sentry, but Harry breezed past him. Horses seemed to sense his arrival and backed away with their riders, clearing a path to the centre of the Rohirrim.

"Master Wizard!" cried a man, and Harry slowed down, staring at him until he could see enough of the man to recognise him.

"Grimbold," he said with a nod, dismounting.

"My deepest gratitude to you for saving our Prince. We had all feared the worse then," said Grimbold, just as another man made his way over to the commotion, pushing away a healer who fussed over a hastily bandaged shoulder.

"Wizard!"

He could recognise this man's voice.

"It is good to see you on your feet," Harry commented, and the other man barked a laugh.

"Thanks to you, Master Wizard! Théodred at your service." So speaking, Théodred gave a half-bow.

"Harald," Harry replied. "Are you returning to Edoras?"

"No!" Théodred exclaimed, as if the thought had never occurred to him. "I am the Second Marshall of the Mark, and this area is mine to guard."

Second Marshall? That was a rank for royalty.

"You're Thengel's brat?" The question escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Théodred laughed, cutting over Grimbold's choked cough.

"No," said he, "That will be my father, Théoden King. I am Thengel's grand-brat."

Harry shared Théodred's grin. This was someone he could like.

"What news of the Mark?"

Théodred's smile slipped. "I fear my father is losing his senses in his old age. Each day that pass, he regards my cousin and me with increasing suspicion, and he listens naught to reason. I have need of your help, Harald. I suspect traitors within Meduseld, chief among them Gríma."

Lowering his voice, he said, "Something foul brews within Isengard. I do not like this danger upon our doorstep, yet my father is wilfully blind to the threat, and orcs run unchecked across the Westfold. I can only protect so many with these men."

"Saruman has turned traitor," Harry said, voice equally low. "I fear your people have suffered the most beneath him. Tell me, do the orcs take your people captive when they raid?"

A dark look came across Théodred's face. "Yes. Those they do not kill instantly, they carry away. We have lost many in this way."

Same as the Dunlendings.

Harry nodded grimly. "Tell me more about this Gríma."

Soo. Sorry all! I didn't intend to be so overdue on this one but... /hemhemhemhemhem.

It was going to be Boromir-centric until I realised that I have no idea where he's at, so I skipped to Harry's view. Next one should be on Boromir, with maybe a short Frodo/Sam/Gollum scene? Hm... we'll see. Also, apologies for the purpleness of this chap Xp.

I've no idea what's happening anymore so it's going to be pantsing all the way till the end. Yaay.