Sparkle 3/3 - LotR/HP xover

[k155_me]

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This chapter is for “Ignis et Ventus” at FFnet, whose review for chapter 2 made my day! Sorry for the delay.
Italics - Elvish.
Bold - Parseltongue.
Paragraphs in Italics, - taken from the films. You’ll recognize them.

* * *

UNBETA’D : I figured after the really long wait, it would be cruel to make you wait for this to be beta’d. I can’t even remember her email address, its been that long since I updated last.

Words: 10,621
Chapter 3/3
Sparkle III

Middle-Earth, Fangorn Forest. July 1998.

They rode through Fangorn Forest, towards Isengard. Legolas and Aragorn kept hold of the reigns, with Harrison and Gimli sat, respectively, behind each. Gandalf rode alongside them, unburdened by a passenger. The broke through the line of trees, and stopped. Gandalf looked around, creases lining his face as he frowned heavily. What once was a part of a thick forest was now a flooded, barren circle of land. He looked up to the Two Towers, and a face peered back down at him through a window. He cursed Saruman for destroying the trees, for razing the forest, to create his weapons of war.

Gimli suddenly shouted, jumping down from the back of Aragorn’s horse. “There you two are! Led us on a merry chase, you did.”

“Hobbits!” Gandalf muttered as his attention turned back to the Fellowship.

Merry and Pippin grinned down at their friends. They were sitting on top of what once was a catapult, each smoking a pipe stuffed with Longbottom Leaf, and taking long drinks of ale from a flagon each. “We,” Merry said, “are sitting in a field of victory, enjoying a few well earned comforts.”

Pippin hopped down. Followed by Merry. “We’re under orders, to keep watch, from Treebeard. He’s taken over the running of Isengard.”

Gandalf shook his head, reaching down to grab hold of Merry, and hoisting the Hobbit onto the back of Shadowfax. He looked at Pippin, then back up at the Fellowship, and frowned. “Where to sit you, master Hobbit?”

“He may ride with Harrison,” Legolas said softly, smiling as he dismounted his horse. “I will run along side them.” Pippin stepped towards them, and then stopped. Eyes wide the Hobbit starred down at the flooded ground. There was a light, shinning through the muddy water, and it called to him, stretched out a slimy hand and grabbed hold of his heart. Reach out to me, it told him, and Pippin leant down as he was told and plucked the Palantir from the water. He stared at it. It was round and glossy, pitch black except for one red sphere in the centre that blinked like Sauron’s eye.

“I will take that, Pippin,” Gandalf said sternly, reaching out. “Now.” Unwillingly, Pippin handed it over. As Gandalf wrapped it up within his cloak, out of site, a part of Pippin silently cried out for one more look.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Helm’s Deep. July 1998.

Harrison watched as King Theoden gave a speech, but he didn’t listen. His mind was on other things. Aragorn was alive: he had not died, and Harrison had not failed. There was still a chance that Arwen would live long enough to marry the Ranger, and Harrison would be gifted with her immortality. The Valar had promised, but only if Arwen lived long enough. For Arwen to live so must Aragorn. Harrison took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed in relief as he heard Aragorn’s laugh echo across the room. He was alive. There was still a chance.

A hand fell on his shoulder, the fingers squeezed softly. Harry opened his eyes, smiling as he turned his head to look upon his mate. Legolas. For who Harrison did all of this. Without Legolas there was no need for immortality, there would be no need to protect Aragorn’s life, and Arwen’s (except that she was Lady Galadriel’s granddaughter). Without Legolas, Harry’s smile faded, it would be very likely that the Elves of Lothlorien would have never taken him in. They had known all along that he was to be the mate of an Elf, and they had treated him as if he were an Elf himself. If not for Legolas, there would be nothing to fight for. His whole life revolved around the blond now, and Harrison smiled at the thought.

“Why do you grin so?” Legolas asked.

Harrison nodded towards a table a little away from them. Merry and Pippin were dancing on top of it, singing. “They amuse me.”

“They amuse us all, master Elf.” Gimli huffed as he took a seat beside them.

“You can search far and wide, you can drink the whole town dry, but you’ll never find a beer so brown as the one we drink in our home town!” The two Hobbits sang together, waving their flagons of beer and linking arms as they began to kick their legs in the air. “You can keep your fancy ales, you can drink ’em by the flagon, but the only brew for the brave and true comes from the Green Dragon!” They knocked their beers together, and downed them both. Merry screamed, “I win!” as they both got down off of the table.

Harrison laughed softly, turning in his seat to press a soft kiss to Legolas’ mouth. “They really amuse me.”

Everyone continued to drink, bar the resident Elves, and Merry and Pippin sang numerous more songs before it was time for bed. As everyone slept, Legolas left his mate sleeping and joined Aragorn on the balcony. “What are you doing?” He asked.

“Watching the stars.” Aragorn told him.

The blond frowned. “What do they tell you?”

“Nothing I do not already know, my friend.”

Legolas opened his mouth to answer, but a cry drifted towards them out of the bedroom. The Fellowship had chosen to sleep together, each curled up on a cot or in a sleeping bag on the floor. They had given Gandalf the one bed. Aragorn rushed back inside, slowly as he saw Gandalf rip the Palantir from Pippin’s hands. Harrison sat up off the floor, watching the Hobbit scream and writhe with no expression on his face. Legolas dropped to the floor beside him, reaching out to comfort the human.

“What did you see?” Gandalf asked, shaking the Hobbit. Pippin’s eyes fluttered. He wheezed, still shaking as Gandalf’s grip tightened on him.

“I saw,” he began, before he shuddered. “I saw a white tree, in a courtyard of stone. It was dead. And the city was burning.”

“Minas Tirith,” Harrison muttered, green eyes widening as they looked towards Aragorn, who had gone ashen.

“What else, what else?” Gandalf asked impatiently.

“Sauron. He hurt me. He asked me questions.” Pippin’s hands shook as they reached out to Merry. His fellow Hobbit took hold of them, squeezing them lightly and giving his friend courage.

“What did you tell him of Frodo and the Ring?”

“Nothing.” Gandalf, and the others, all breathed loud sighs of relief.

A short time later, they met in the atrium leading to the King’s chambers. There was a table with a map spread out across it, and a handful of wooden chairs, and banners hung on the walls but not much else. The Fellowship stood around, looking between the King and his niece and nephew. Harrison stood at the table, his fingers tracing over the words ‘Mirkwood Forest’ with a small smile on his lips. Legolas stood behind him, a hand covering Harry’s free hand.

“When this is over, I’ll take you there.” The blond elf promised.

“He is a fool,” Gandalf exclaimed, and all those listening turned their eyes to Pippin, “but an honest fool he remains.” The old Wizard walked slowly towards Aragorn, and whispered, “He cannot stay here.”

“I will take him. I will warn Gondor.” Harrison’s head snapped up at the name of his old home, his eyes shuttered as Aragorn moved forward.

“No. You must travel to Gondor by a different path. Aragorn you must go by the River and look to the black ships. I will warn Lord Denethor.” Gandalf turned to Harrison and held a hand out. The human shook his head softly, taking a step away from the Wizard and bringing his back flush to Legolas’ chest. The elf tightened his hold on his mate’s waist and waited. “You will not come?”

“I will come when I am needed, Mithrandir.”

“Very well. I will see you in Gondor, my boy. Come Pippin.” Merry watched them go from the top of a watchtower. He all but shoved the soldier out of the way so he could peak through the wood and nails and wave goodbye to his friend. Gandalf rode out on Shadowfax, staff in one hand and the other on the reigns. Pippin sat in front of him, eyes closed tight as the Mearas took them away from Helm’s Deep.

The Elves rode out after them. Harrison watched them go, waving goodbye to his friends. Haldir turned his head, and caught Harry’s eyes. With a smile the elf rode away. The human leant back against Legolas, taking comfort from his mate, as Aragorn comforted Merry.

“They will be well.”

“The Valar goes with them.” Harrison answered in Elvish.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Rivendell. August 1998.

It was the end of the Third Age of Middle Earth. The time of Men was over, and it was time for the Elves to move on. As the evil spread from Mordor, the Elves grew weaker. They were creatures of the light, and they faded in the shadow of Sauron. It was time for them to sail to the Undying Lands. Ships awaited them at the Grey Havens, waiting to bring them to Valinor. Arwen was sullen upon her horse. It carried her slowly, in time with the rest of her party, many of who were happy to escape the second war. She cried though, fat pale drops that tasted bitter as they brushed against her lips.

She did not want to leave.

She could not bear to leave Aragorn. A part of her knew that her father was right; there was nothing here for her now. But she couldn’t help but regret being there, away from the home she had known all of her life. Why, why was she running away, and leaving her lover out there alone? He was not dead, she could feel it, but if she left he may as well be.

She blinked back more tears, turning her head to stare out into the forest. Elves surrounded her on all sides, but it was almost like she could see straight through them. She saw Aragorn. He looked older though, and as she studied him she realized that he wasn’t real. She held tighter to the horse’s reigns: there was no need for her to dismount. Aragorn was not really there.

A child ran through the forest. His chin length brown hair, wavy like Aragorn’s, flared out behind him as he ran. Arwen’s heart thumped painfully as Aragorn reached down for the boy, before swinging him around in the air. The child looked straight at her, though Aragorn did not seem to know she was looking. Around the boy’s neck hung the Evenstar. The same one she had given Aragorn.

She pulled hard on the reigns, and the horse stopped. A friend of her father stopped before her, reaching out to her. “My Lady, we cannot delay.” She looked at him, and then turned to the empty patch of forest where her vision had been moments ago. Arwen turned the horse, and galloped back home.

“Why are you here, Arwen?” Lord Elrond asked angrily as she appeared in the threshold. He reached for her hands, but she drew back.

“You knew. You saw.”

“I looked into your future and I saw nothing but death.” He told her sadly, reaching out for her again.

She let him hold her hands, smiling softly at her father. “But there is also life. You saw my son.”

“That future is almost lost.”

“Nothing is certain, Ada.” (father) “If I leave now, I will regret it forever.” Elrond looked her over. She was pale, but her cheeks had a healthy flush and her eyes were bright. She looked happier than she had since the Fellowship first set out from Rivendell.

“What would you have me do, daughter?”

“Re-forge the sword of Elendil.” He nodded. As Arwen gathered the pieces of the sword that had once slain Sauron she spoke softly to herself, a rhyme that she had heard in her dreams over and over, just waiting to turn from premonition to reality. “From the ashes a fire shall be woken. A light from the shadow shall spring. Renewed shall be blade that was broken. The crownless again shall be King.”

Once she had given over the pieces of the sword, her father led her to a bed. She tried to rest, but in her sleep she kept tossing and turning and eventually she gave up. She rose, and walked to join her father outside on the veranda. They stood together, in the night, as two Elves worked below them to fix the damaged sword. Hand in hand they waited. “Your hands are cold,” Lord Elrond said after sometime. “The light of the Eldar is leaving you.”

“By your will or not, there is no ship now that can bare me hence.” She smiled sadly at him, and reached under her collar. She withdrew a small pendant, the size of a locket, which was a dull silver colour. It hung limply on the silver chain. Engraved on the front of the pendant was an intricate letter ‘H’. “I have chosen a mortal life, Ada. As I slept the Valar spoke to me. They have promised Grandmother my immortality for her child.”

“Child? I have a sibling?” Lord Elrond’s brow furrowed in confusion. No one had told him of the birth of an Elf. Legolas was the last Elfling born, and that was three-hundred-years ago.

“He is a human, the child mistaken for Isildur’s Heir. They tell me he is the mate of Legolas of Mirkwood. I see not why two elves should die as mortals, when instead one mortal can live as elf.” She smiled softly, her hand dropping the pendant and coming to caress her father’s face. “When it begins to glow, I will be mortal. My immortality will become his.”

“And if it does not glow at all?”

“Then either I, or Aragorn, have died too soon.” She stayed silent after that. The wind blew around her, her hair fanning her face, and Arwen closed her eyes and listened with her heart for any news of her lover. The trees were silent.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Helm’s Deep. August 1998.

(Slash Scene Starts)

They moved together in the dark, panting softly as flesh slapped against flesh. Lips met in sloppy kisses, tongue darted out, tasting, teasing. Harrison groaned, his nails digging into Legolas’ back, racking across the pale flesh as the elf sucked on Harrison’s throat.

The blond pinned Harry’s hands to the floor. Legolas moved back, just enough so that he could see his mate’s face. He smirked down at Harry. “Stop fighting me. You know I will win.”

“Is that so?” Harrison panted, arguing, even as he raised his head up for a kiss. Legolas captured his lips. They moved together. Their kisses were not loving or gentle, but filled with passion and lust and desperation. Soon, Gondor would call for them, and whatever King Theoden said, the Fellowship would answer. Neither mate wanted to lose the other to war so soon after the last battle, but they would fight regardless. But in the meantime, they clung desperately to one another.

Harrison managed to free his hands, one of them tangled into Legolas’ hair and the other pressed against the floor granting some leverage. His legs locked tightly around Legolas’ waist, and he rolled. Taken by surprise, the elf found himself on his back, with him mate seated on top of him.

Harrison moaned. The change in position forced Legolas deeper into his body, and the human threw his head back, panting, and enjoying the increased pressure. “Does this mean I win?” Harrison asked as he rolled his hips.

Legolas groaned at the feeling. “Do that again, and then you win.” Harry rolled his hips again, raising himself up slightly before he dropped back down. The movement drew identical cries from both of them. Hands gripped Harrison’s waist, helping the boy rise and fall. Legolas spread his legs, bending them and pressing his feet flat to the floor. He thrust up hard, and Harrison shrieked as his prostate was stabbed with every one of the elf’s movements.

“I love you,” the human breathed. He lowered his head, offering his mouth to his lover. Legolas claimed his lips willingly. Their kisses grew sloppier as their release grew nearer.

“Love you too,” Legolas panted as heat began pooling in his groin. “Feels so good.” He took one hand off of Harrison’s hip and moved it to encircle the boy’s erection. He stroked harshly, in long even pulls, and Harry cried out, arching his back and pushing himself down onto Legolas’ lap. He came with a cry, his nails scratching across the pale skin of Legolas’ chest. The Elf flipped them over, driving into his mate’s willing body three times, gripping the boy’s thighs viciously as he came. His hips stuttered as he rode through the aftershocks, and Harrison lay limply beneath him, a soft smile on his face.

(Slash Scene Ends)

“Wow.” The teenager said at last.

Legolas nuzzled softly against Harry’s neck, chuckling lightly. Before he could speak, people began shouting outside. The elf sat up, placing himself in front of his mate, and reached for his sword. The door swung inward, and naked as the day he was born Legolas had the man pinned to the wall in a second.

Harrison placed his hand over his mate’s, and the elf let the man go. “Sorry,” the man stuttered, blushing. His eyes strayed all around the room, desperately trying to keep them off of the two naked, handsome men. “Gondor has called for aid. King Theoden declares that Rohan will answer. They await you.” He turned and ran back the way he came, not waiting for a reply.

“Well,” Harrison chuckled softly, “we finished just in time.” The blond rolled his eyes, before closing the door. “Catch,” Harry said as he threw Legolas’ clothes at him. The elf caught them deftly and began to dress.

They left the room in silence. It was easy to find the others. They were all gathered together in the courtyard, listening intently to the King. “Eómer, muster the Rohirrim. Gamling go south, summon as many able bodied men as you can find to Dunharrow. Grimbold bring men from Westfold. Quickly. You there, go north.” The men hurried to do as they were instructed.

In less than an hour, three of the King’s men had already left Helm’s Deep, searching for reinforcements. His nephew, Eómer, had the Riders saddled up. All of the horses in the land were ready to be ridden, and they stood in ranks with a rider by their side. Eowyn waited beside a horse of her own, hiding a sword beneath its saddle.

“You ride with them?” Aragorn asked her, eying the hilt of the sword.

She pushed it further under the blanket. “Just to the encampment. It’s tradition.”

Aragorn pursed his lips at her, but didn’t push the matter further. As they rode out, he remained beside Legolas. Harrison rode sidesaddle, in front of the blond, but he was silent. He starred down over the side of the horse, staring into the water below them as they rode through the river. The river snaked through this part of Rohan, and one moment they would be on ground and the next in the river. Whenever there was water beneath their feet, Harrison’s attention would be focused solely on it.

“What is it you look for?” Aragorn asked him softly, not expecting an answer.

On the back of his horse, Gimli snorted. “There are no fish in that stream, my lad, if that’s what you search for.”

Harrison just smiled at the Dwarf before going back to the images that played out before him. “What do you see, love?” Legolas asked. The worry in his tone caught Harrison’s attention, and the human looked up at him with glassy green eyes.

“I see things that were, things that are and some things that have not yet come to pass.”1 He looked back down at the water.

Above his head the Nazgül flew. Osgiliath was overrun. Orcs appeared from all sides, outnumbering them completely. Faramir swallowed heavily. “Retreat!” He screamed, waving his men back towards Minas Tirith. “Run!” He had fought hard: he had tried. He cried out, ducking low as the demon-creature swooped down towards him. The Men grabbed their horses, mounted and rode for their lives. Faramir was in the middle of them. He was not the first to leave, but he had not been the last either. He had just as much right to flee as the others did after all. The Nazgül did not seem to notice them leaving, and the Orcs did not chase them. The Orcs held the last defence of Gondor captive: they had no need to chase a handful of humans. Faramir thought they were safe. He could see gates of Minas Tirith ahead of him, he was almost home.

Suddenly, he was in the air, lifted from the back of his horse by one of the Nazgül. And then, just as suddenly, he was falling. He didn’t have time to scream before he hit the ground. Dead.

Harrison’s head snapped back. He blinked slowly, pushing the images away to the back of his mind. They were not happening yet, they might never happen yet. A familiar feeling rushed through him. Just like he had known Haldir needed to be save, he knew he could save Faramir’s life as well. His skin tingled, his arms and stomach burned, and he could feel whatever magic he wielded rising up inside of him. He had to go. He needed to go, just like he needed to escape the caves of Helm’s Deep.

“I love you,” he whispered. It was not soft enough to stop Aragorn and Gimli from hearing though, and they both turned to look at him, along with Legolas. All three looked fearful.

“What did you see?” Legolas asked softly.

“Who dies?” Gimli grumbled, “I bet it’s me.”

“No, my friend, it is not you.” Legolas’ arms tightened around the human, so much so that he let go of the reigns. Fortunately, horses are herd animals, and theirs continued to follow all of the others without guidance. “It is not me either, love. Be at peace. But I have to go.”

“We are going as fast as we can, master Elf.” Aragorn told him calmly, “We will be at Dunharrow soon.”

“I must go faster. I must be at Osgiliath now.” He turned to face Legolas. Calmly, he reached up to cup the blond’s face. Their lips met softly, and the elf couldn’t help but feel a ‘goodbye’ had been left unsaid when Harrison pulled back. “I will see you when you reach Gondor. May the Valar keep you.”

With that, he closed his eyes. He let the feeling that was simmering inside of him bubble over, and with a ‘crack’ he was gone. Harrison felt like he was falling, or flying, he wasn’t sure which, but he could feel the wind rushing through his hair. He squeezed his legs and was shocked to feel a horse between them. He opened his eyes, and there was a man seated in front of him, steering the horse.

“What- How-?” The man cried, reaching behind him with his sword.

“Peace, Faramir. I am friend.” He told the man, knowing instinctively who it was. Loud screeches filled the air, and the Nazgül began to fill the sky behind them. The creatures gained on the men faster than the horses could outrun them. One Nazgül swept down towards Faramir and Harrison, but the teenager held his hand out, willing his magic to work. “Lumos!” He whispered and a bright light flashed into existence between him and the Nazgül. It screamed again, swerving out of the way, and crashing into the ground.

Another light joined them, as Gandalf rode forward with Pippin clutched to his chest. His staff was held above his head, and the light it emitted chased away the remaining creatures. Upon seeing the White Wizard, the remaining soldier rode faster, more determined than ever to survive to see Minas Tirith again.

As the gates closed behind them, Harrison jumped down off the horse and disappeared into the crowd before Faramir could get a look at him. The man looked around, trying to find him, but then his attention landed on Pippin.

Breathlessly, he spoke to Gandalf. “They docked off of the River Pelennor. The Orcs have taken the bridge and the west bank. Osgiliath is overrun.” His eyes remained fixed on Pippin.

“This is not the first halfling you have seen.” Silently, Faramir shook his head.

“You’ve seen Frodo and Same?” Pippin cried. When Faramir nodded, the Hobbit asked, “where?”

“I saw them in Ithilien, not two days ago. But Gandalf, they have taken the road to the Morgul Vale.” He looked away, as if ashamed for having let them continue in that direction.

“And then the pass of Cirith Ungol.” Gandalf sighed.

“Is that a bad thing?” Pippin asked. But no one answered him. Instead, Faramir followed Gandalf and the Hobbit inside the citadel so they could explain everything before Lord Denethor. Pippin was eager to learn about the fate of his friends, but Gandalf insisted that everything could be explained once, in front of everyone it concerned, and then Lord Denethor could give his opinion as well. Harrison smirked. In the crowd, he listened unnoticed, and chuckled as Gandalf spoke so uncharitably about the Steward of Gondor.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Minas Tirith. August 1998.

Harry spied through the doorway. He could see Pippin, on his knees before Lord Denethor speaking softly, but Harry didn’t even attempt to listen in. Gandalf stood by the Hobbits side, looking rather irritated. Behind him Faramir stood with two other soldiers, all looking battered and defeated. He knew he should just go into the room. The two guards at the doors hadn’t noticed him yet, so they were hardly going to be able to stop him from going inside. But he wasn’t sure if he was ready yet.

Lord Denethor had raised him, imprisoned him yes, but at least he hadn’t been killed. He had been given food, clothing, a chance at life, and the Steward had never raised a hand against him. And despite Denethor’s obvious desire to, Harrison had never been molested either. All in all, he had had a relatively happy childhood. If not for the fact that Lord Denethor had tried to force him to marry Boromir, Harrison would have happily dwelt within the Citadel until Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli arrived. He would have met his mate then anyway, six months later.

He did not owe Denethor anything, at least he didn’t think so, after all, the material things Harrison had received balanced out with the fact that he had been a prisoner not a guest. It would have been fair to assume that they would be even. Then again the man was said to have grown irrational since Harrison’s escape. Boromir was dead. Harrison couldn’t be forced to marry Boromir. But Faramir was still alive.

Harrison looked through the door again. Denethor smiled softly at Pippin and held his hand out to be kissed. He rose from his throne, and Harry took a step forward, then hesitated.

“Fealty with love,” Denethor said, still looking at Pippin. “Valour with honour. Disloyalty with vengeance.” His eyes fixed on Faramir, and the man dipped his head in shame. “Your brother held that defence for many years. Why was it you were unable?”

“My Lord, what would you have me do?” Faramir asked submissively. Harry walked completely into the room, but the two guards barely paid him any mind. They probably thought he was another Hobbit.

“I would not have surrendered the bridge at Pelennor.”

“My Lord! The city is overrun!” Lord Denethor hummed lightly. He looked around the room, his eyes landed on Harrison and they widened a little before the man fell silent. “Father?”

He ignored Faramir. “You came back to me.” Denethor walked briskly to Harrison, took both of his hands before Harry could resist and brought them to his mouth to kiss. “My child, you’ve come home.”

“You want him to go back.” It wasn’t a question. Harry turned to Faramir, who was starring at him in shock. “You can’t send him back.”

Lord Denethor laughed lightly, “child, I am King here, I command my army. I will not lose Osgiliath.”

“The city is taken, my Lord!” Faramir cried, his face pale. His father wouldn’t really want him to go back just to die, would he?

“Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his Lord’s will?” Denethor asked cruelly, throwing a sneer in his remaining son’s direction. His nails dug into the backs of Harry’s hands, but the boy stayed silent.

“I see.” Faramir whispered. His whole appearance had shrunk, and he looked pathetically weak, ready to just fall apart at the seams. “You wish now that I had died and Boromir had lived.” Lord Denethor silently nodded his head. “Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead.” Faramir bowed low, tears in his eyes, and walked hurriedly away. The two soldiers followed him. He stopped at the door, and without looking back spoke, “if I return, father, think better of me.”

“You can’t be serious?” Harry hissed angrily. When Lord Denethor didn’t stop the men, or call them back, Harry ripped his hands out of Denethor’s grip. “Garich i dhôl goll o Orch!” He spat. (You have the hollow head of an Orc) He walked to Gandalf, and looked pleadingly at the man. “You have to do something. I did not save Faramir’s life just for him to die on a suicide mission.”

“Come Pippin,” Gandalf ordered. With the Hobbit by his side, the Wizard left to try and talk sense into the soldiers. Harrison stayed where he was, waiting.

Lord Denethor spoke first. “Why did you leave me? Was I not kind to you?” A hand fell on Harrison’s shoulder, and the boy allowed it to remain.

“You wished for me to marry someone whom I did not love.”

The hand on his shoulder clenched. “You found Boromir wanting?”

“He was a good man, and I was honoured to know him before he died. But I did not know, nor love him, when you offered him to me. If circumstances were different I would have taken him for a husband. Brave, kind, handsome, strong; he would have been good to me.” As he spoke, Harrison kept his eyes on the wall, refusing to look at Lord Denethor, or react to the man’s movements.

The more Harry praised Boromir the lower Denethor allowed his hand to fall. It was now resting lightly on Harrison’s waist, gently rubbing circles on the clothed skin. “What circumstances need be different, my child?”

“I have a mate, whom I love.” Harrison whispered. The hand had been moving lower, but it stopped at the curve of his spine. The fingers twitching just above his backside.

“Mate?” The Steward bit out.

“Prince Legolas of Mirkwood. His is my mate, well actually I’m his mate.”

“Elf?” Harrison nodded slowly. Lord Denethor gave a growl, and tore himself away from the unresponsive boy. “Leave my sight.” He flicked his hand in the direction of the door, before he stalked to his throne and threw himself down on it. Harrison walked slowly, calmly, from the room. As he closed the door behind himself he heard Lord Denethor say, “Be gone, attraction. My own temptation.”

Harry could feel the man’s eyes on his back. He shuddered.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Dunharrow. August 1998.

King Theoden sighed. He looked to Aragorn and shook his head. “Six-thousand swords. Less than half of what I had hoped.”

“It will not be enough to drive back the forces of Mordor.” The Ranger agreed. A shout rang out, and they both turned to look. A man was struggling to pull his horse passed a fissure in the mountain. Legolas was standing beside it with Gimli, looking pensive. There were no tents pitched in the shadow of the mountain, no horse would walk in front of the road that led within the mountain, and all of the men cringed as they looked upon it.

“What is it?” Legolas asked as Aragorn appeared by his side.

“The Dimholt. It is the door under the mountain.”

Theoden came over to them and frowned. “Once, in the last war against Sauron, the men who dwelt within the mountain offered their allegiance to Isildur. But at the moment of battle, they deserted him. He placed a curse on them. They would be unable to rest until they had fulfilled their oath to the King of Gondor.”

Gimli huffed. “A mountain is a mountain to a Dwarf.” A wind clew across them, chilling, and each of them shuddered. “But that is a bad mountain.”

“When do we leave?” Legolas asked. They were following King Theoden around the encampment; question those who were sent out as scouts, trying to determine how many more people were expected to arrive.

“Maybe more will come?” The King suggested.

“Every hour lost hastens Gondors defeat.” Aragorn insisted. “We will wait the night, but we must leave at dawn.”

“Can we not leave earlier?” Legolas muttered, in Elvish.

“I know you miss your mate. We leave at dawn, Legolas. We shall be at Gondor in a days ride. You will see him soon.” Aragorn assured in the same language.

“Don’t you ever feel a little left out?” Gimli said to the King with a chuckle.

Legolas slapped him lightly on the shoulder. He traded a smirk with Aragorn. “We spoke of my undying passion for Harrison, and the noises of desire he makes.”

Gimli’s face went red, though Legolas and Aragorn managed not to laugh. “Right, uh, well. Speak no more of it. Or speak more in Elvish.” He turned from them, muttering, “never be able to look at the boy again.”

When the Dwarf was out of sight, Legolas chuckled. “He will be fine.”

“He will be.” Aragorn took the Elf’s hands and squeezed. “We will be there soon.”

King Theoden nodded. “We leave at dawn.”

As Aragorn slept that night he dreamt of his own mate. Arwen was pale, and sickly, but she was happy to see him so he kept his worries to himself. In his dreams, he kissed her. And then he woke.

“Sir? King Theoden awaits you.” A man spoke, his head peeking through the flap in Aragorn’s tent. The Ranger nodded, waited for the man to leave, and then stood.

He walked into the King’s tent. As he entered, Theoden left. A figure, draped in a long black cloak, stood from where it had been seated and approached Aragorn. The Ranger’s first instinct was to attack, but he calmed himself and waited. The hood fell back, and Lord Elrond of Rivendell smiled sadly at him.

“She is fading.” He whispered. Aragorn’s heart clenched painfully. “She fights to hold on. For you. And for Harrison and Legolas too.”

“What are you-?”

“You do not know? Arwen has chosen a mortal life. Her immortality is forfeit, but the Valar have chosen to grant it to someone else. Arwen and you must both survive the war, live and be married. She wears a pendant, to give to Harrison, if she survives long enough. She holds onto life with both hands. You must do the same.”

“We have not enough men.” Aragorn admitted softly. As much as he wanted to win, and survive, he knew this war was most likely a lost cause. All they could hope to do was distract Sauron’s forces long enough for Frodo and Sam to reach Mount Doom.

“You need more. There are more.” Elrond paused, swallowed heavily and spoke again. “There are those that dwell in the mountain.”

“Murders. Traitors.” The Ranger spat. “They will not answer to me.”

“They will answer to the King of Gondor!” The Elf cried, drawing forth a sword from within his robes. He handed the Sword to Aragorn, who took it and caressed it reverently. “Andúril, flame of the west, forged from the shards of Narsil.”

“Sauron will not have forgotten the Sword of Elendil.”

“I give hope to Men,” Lord Elrond whispered.

“I keep none for myself.”

Aragorn left the tent. The Elf did not follow him, he would return to Rivendell in the morning. The true King of Gondor stood at the base of the mountain, his horse by his side and he peered down the path, trying to spot anything. It was all rock and stone, though, and Aragorn heaved himself onto the horse’s back and kicked its flanks. As the horse began to move, another joined it.

Legolas and Gimli frowned at their friend. “Did you think you could sneak off without us?” Legolas joked.

Gimli raised his axe and grinned. “Face it, lad, we’re coming with you.”

XXX

Middle-Earth, Minas Tirith. August 1998.

Harrison smiled. He placed the bowl of water back onto the table and stood up. Pippin watched him silently as he was scrying. “What did you see?” The Hobbit asked softly.

“Legolas is on his way.” Another smile. “Aid is coming to Gondor.” Pippin hummed lightly, fingers crossed beneath the table that aid would come soon.

The front Gates opened, and Harrison recognized the creaking sound they made at once. With a frown he walked from the dining room, through the hallways of the Citadel until he reached the courtyard. Minas Tirith was built in layers. The Citadel was at the very top and surrounding the building was a courtyard of white stone, with a white tree in its centre. A long straight walkway jutted out over the rest of the city, and Harrison walked along it, looking down over its edge at the rest of Minas Tirith’s layers.

His eyes locked on the open gates as a horse trotted through. One leg caught in the stirrup, two arrows sticking out of his chest, being dragged along behind the animal was Faramir. And Harrison had never seen a person who looked so dead. He swallowed heavily, and turned his entire body to look out over the city.

Behind the walls, they were safe for the moment. But outside of the city waited ten thousand Orcs, and Trolls, and Catapults. All of them waiting to feast on the flesh of the men, women and children hiding inside. That wasn’t all though. Unfortunately Mordor had more forces to call upon that had not yet arrived. The Legions of Haradrim from the south, with their monstrous Oliphaunts, Mercenaries from the coast: all would answer to Mordor’s call.

The enemy catapults launched. Harrison stayed standing as men and women ducked and screamed. Severed heads flew at them, two or three aimed high enough to reach the courtyard, but they bounced off an invisible shield that surrounded the teenage boy. Harrison lowered his hand, and the shield fell with him. He looked down at the heads and sighed. He recognized at least one face as a man who had rode out with Faramir on the hopeless mission to recapture Osgiliath. These men were dead, and the blood was on Lord Denethor’s hands.

Harrison ran back inside. He found the closest staircase and hurried down them. Gandalf was in the Keep, but he rode up the stairs on Shadowfax until he reached level with Harrison.

“It will get worse before it gets better. We have to do something with the women and children.”

“Yes, yes,” Gandalf muttered, smiling. “All that screaming really distracts from the fight.”

“Mithrandir!” Harrison scolded, though his lips twitched upwards. “Come, there is no more time for teasing.” Gandalf began to ride away, presumably to order more troops around, but Harrison stayed still. Running towards him, crying, was Lord Denethor. As much as Faramir’s death was the man’s own fault, Harry could not be cruel enough to turn him away. Denethor clutched Harrison against his chest the moment they were close enough to touch.

The ground they stood on shuddered as enormous stones hurtled at the walls, fired by the catapults. They crushed the stone they impacted upon, and people screamed as white brick and stone rained down upon their heads.

“My line has ended.” Denethor wailed, paying no mind to the suffering of his people. “Rohan has deserted us, Theoden has betrayed me!” He squeezed Harrison harder, crying into the boy’s raven hair. “Come with me. We must burn Faramir’s remains, we must keep him from the Orcs.”

“I have to fight!” Harry said, pulling back.

“No! You must come with me. I have lost my sons, aid will not come to Gondor, and so I must at least keep you.” The man insisted as he began to drag Harrison towards the staircase.

“Aid is coming!” Harrison hissed. He tugged backwards, trying to pull away, but Denethor held him tightly. “Rohan will come! Legolas is com-!”

At the name of the man who had stolen Harrison from Gondor, the mate who had been the reason Harrison had run away from home and from Denethor, the man’s grief turned to rage. With a shout, he backhanded Harrison across the face. The boy cried out, and fell to the floor. He sat, staring up in shock at the Steward whose fists were clenched and raised in anger. “Flee then!” He snarled, “flee back to Legolas and leave me to my suffering.” He leant over the wall, shouting as loud as he could. “Abandon your posts! Flee for your lives! Flee!”

Abruptly, Lord Denethor slumped to the ground. Harrison looked up, and smiled as he saw Gandalf lowering his staff with a smug look on his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for years,” the White Wizard admitted in a whisper, before offering a hand to help Harrison to his feet.

They ran down the steps, entering the Keep and Gandalf immediately took charge. “Quick, the wall!” Gandalf pointed at the chunks of stone that had fallen off of Minas Tirith. Men joined together to heave them into their own catapults, and when Gandalf nodded, they fired. The stones flew at the army of Orcs, crushing hundreds of them at a time.

Shrieking filled the air, and men covered their ears shouting in fear, and flailing around. “Do not give into fear!” Gandalf hollered, as the Nazgül flew above his head.

“Can I borrow this?” Harrison asked a man who was running by. Without waiting for an answer, Harrison plucked the bow from the man, and grabbed an arrow out of the quiver. He ran, up the staircase2 again, and perched over the edge of the wall. As the Nazgül flew below him, Harry strung the bow, and fired the arrow. With an excited cry Harry watched as the rider fell, the arrow having pierced the wraiths mouth. “Thanks!” He shouted, throwing the bow back down to the soldier who was watching him in awe.

The Nazgül hissed, flying up to face him. Its mouth opened, and Harrison bared his teeth at the creature. Since he was small, he had been able to speak a language that no one else understood. No animal, no man, dwarf, elf, or creature could speak the language Harrison could. But then, he’d never tried to speak to a Nazgül.3 He held his hand out, prepared to use magic to defend himself if this failed.

“Listen to me, do as I say. Obey me. Obey.” The Nazgül shook its head harshly, as if trying to remove something from inside of it. Maybe hoping the movement would force Harrison’s voice from its brain. “Imperio! Obey. Do not attack me. Attack the Orcs. Do as I say.”

The Nazgül shuddered. It flew lower, its feet coming onto the stone ground as it walked slowly towards Harrison. People around screamed and began running. None of them thought to attack. The Nazgül lowered itself onto its stomach, and with a smirk Harry moved to mount it. Gandalf looked up, just in time to see the creature launch itself off of the courtyard, with Harrison on its back, and fly straight towards another Nazgül.

Without prompting, Harrison’s Nazgül began to bite and scratch the other. It knocked its rider off, and the wraith fell screaming to the ground. The Nazgül soon bit through the other creatures’ neck, severing its head. The body and head fell separately, both landing on top of the Orcs, crushing a handful of the enemy.

A chant of “Grond” sprung up from the Orcs, and Harrison leant sideways to look down. Four Trolls were working a battering ram, pulling it back and letting it fly forward, over and over. Its head was shaped like a Grim, the dog of Death or hellhound, and fire sprung from its mouth each time it hit the Gates. Harrison flew down, the Nazgül crashing into one of the Trolls and snapping its neck. He tried to knock over the battering ram, but it swung towards them. The Nazgül pulled up, trying to fly away, with Harry still on its back, but the Grim aimed up towards them, and blew fire. The creature screamed as it caught aflame. It flailed in the sky, and with a scream Harrison fell from the Nazgül’s back. The Nazgül burned, falling and dying with a shriek.

Two strong arms wrapped around him, stopping him from falling. The one who caught him strained against the added weight, stumbled, but didn’t let Harrison go. Harry turned in the man’s arms and grinned widely. “I wondered where you had gotten to.”

Haldir smiled happily, running a hand over Harrison’s bruised cheek lightly. “I was saving myself for a spectacular entrance, but I suppose this will have to do.”

“Come on, I have an idea.”

“Valar, save us from Harrison’s idea!” Haldir cried out, though he did follow the younger male nonetheless.

They found themselves sitting on top of the gateway. The gate was built below a think chunk of stone that supported the layer above the Keep. There was a small gap, big enough for two teenagers (though fortunate for Harrison, Haldir was rather uncomfortable) that looked out over the Gate, beyond the wall. They each had a bow, and a quiver full of arrows, and they aimed them down through the gap. Just as the ram burst through the Gates, and Gandalf ordered the men to volley, Harrison and Haldir took out the Trolls. Two arrows each into the back of their necks.

“Look!” Harrison yelled, though he didn’t stop firing arrows. “Rohan have arrived!” And indeed, behind the army of Orcs were 6000 men on horseback. The Orcs closer to the Rohirrim strung their arrows and aimed. As the cry of “volley” echoed back to Harrison, the boy screamed, waving his hand and the arrows froze in mid air. They hovered there as the riders pitched forward, crushing the Orcs beneath the hooves of their horses. When the Riders had passed, the arrows fell harmlessly to the ground.

Harrison waved his hand again, and fire spread out across the floor, seeping from the abandoned battering ram like lava and spreading back down the causeway, melting the feet of the Orcs who were still queuing to invade Minas Tirith.

“Your magic is Dark.” Haldir whispered. Elves were creatures of light and good. But Harrison was the mate of an Elf, who had been promised Elvin immortality, and yet his magic…

“Like my mood,” was what the boy said in reply.

Something caught his attention suddenly. On the top level, running past the white tree and through the courtyard, a human came hurtling towards the end of the walkway. He was caught entirely on fire, but Harrison knew it was Lord Denethor.

“Can you save him?” Haldir asked worriedly as the man approached the end of the city. Two more steps and he would plummet to his death.

“I can.” Lord Denethor fell, and Harrison watched emotionlessly until the scream cut off suddenly. Haldir opened his mouth to question his friend, but turned away as Harrison’s green eyes flashed red momentarily.

“We have more pressing issues,” the Elf said at last. He pointed through the gap. Large, grey creatures with four tusks each were moving towards the Rohirrim. At least forty men sat on top of each Oliphaunt, each armed and ready to fight. Harrison watched the Haradrim approach with a smirk on his face. One fell suddenly, as a rider on a horse cut beneath its legs. A second ran into a third, the man who was steering having been killed by Eómer. “Ah!” Haldir said, still pointing.

Harry’s eyes followed his friend’s aim, and his face lit up as he saw Legolas. The elf climbed up the side of a forth animal, killing those who got in his way. Gimli was on the ground beside them, cutting through anyone who looked twice at the blond elf.

Everyone was tiring, growing weary of the battle. With the newcomers, the Men were out numbered. People were beginning to lose hope. But suddenly, a strange green mist appeared, swarming like fog over Orc and Haradrim and Oliphaunt alike. There were people in the green smoke, Harrison realized, as he watched them float in through the gates below him. They killed every agent of Mordor in sight, before they floated back outside to surround Aragorn. Haldir helped Harrison down, and immediately the boy ran towards Legolas. He stopped suddenly as he spotted King Theoden. The man lay, crushed beneath his dead horse, with the beheaded body of a Nazgül beside him. His niece cried at his side.

“Peace Eowyn.” Harrison whispered. “Help me move the horse.” Together they heaved the animal off of the King. He coughed and sputtered, organs ruptured and bones broken, he could not move even though he had been freed. Harrison laid a hand to the man’s stomach, and willed him to be well. Miraculously, in the eyes of the two other humans, Theoden’s pain faded, and he allowed Eowyn to pull him to his feet.

“How can I thank you?” Theoden asked in awe.

Eowyn’s response was one of fear. “What kind of devilry was that?” She breathed at him, her hand tight on her uncle’s arm.

Legolas had been searching for Harrison, and he found the boy still kneeling on the ground. “Harry!” He cried, “le melon!”

“I love you too,” the teenager whispered, allowing the elf to press their lips together. “Is it over?” He asked softly. He looked around. People were standing together in clusters, holding their friends close and crying. The dead lay still at their feet, Orc and Men alike, unmoving. The people who had won them the battle, those strange green translucent people, surrounded Aragorn still, but when the Ranger spoke they all seemed to exhale at the same time. And then they disappeared, like sand through someone’s fingers.

“It is almost over, my love.” Legolas promised him. They held each other then, steeling themselves against fear and worry and desire, uncaring of what the near future would bring or what the past had just wrought, but taking pleasure in the present and each others’ company.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Minas Tirith. September 1998.

“Frodo has long passed out of my sight,” Gandalf said sadly.

He turned to look at Harrison’s back. The boy was bent over a bowl of water, staring intently into the liquid, desperately trying to see something.

“If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it.” Aragorn insisted.

They had gathered in the Citadel, in the dinning room since both Merry and Pippin claimed to be starving.

“The forces of Sauron are regrouping behind the Black Gates. The armies of Mordor are not defeated.” Gandalf spoke, as he paced around the dinning table.

“What does it matter what Sauron does?” Gimli grumbled.

“Because,” Gandalf said slowly, as if he were talking to a child, “ten-thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom. I’ve sent him to his death.”

“We need a diversion,” Harrison spoke suddenly. He was still looking into the bowl of water, trying to divine Frodo’s fate. Lady Galadriel had always been better at it, but it worked for Harrison time and again, and when it showed the present it was always accurate.

“What did you see?”

“Frodo is in the shadow of the Eye. He crossed the plains of Gorgoroth.” The teenager told them as he moved to take a seat at the table. “We must keep Sauron’s Eye off Frodo for a little longer.”

“We can’t win!” Legolas exclaimed.

“No, not for ourselves. But we can win Frodo the time he needs.” Aragorn told them. He looked at each of his friends in turn, and smiled as Gimli glared at him.

“Certainty of death. Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?” The Dwarf declared.

“I’m in!”

“Me too!” The Hobbits said cheerfully.

“Count me in,” Legolas sighed, smiling over at Aragorn.

Harrison stood from the table and walked to stand beside his mate. “I will go of course.”

“No you wont!” The elf insisted. “For once, allow me to keep you safe.”

“There is no safer place than by your side,” the child grinned, “from where else can I protect you?” Gimli chuckled, as Legolas blushed furiously. “We ride to Mordor?” Harrison asked.

“We do,” Aragorn answered him.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Mordor. September 1998.

Their forces waited outside of the black gates. They were huddled in a circle, men standing side by side, those on horses ringed around the edge of the group, protecting those within. Aragorn, Gandalf and a nameless man who bore the banner of Gondor rode forward. They stopped when they were close enough to knock on the Gates.

“I call you forth, Lord of Mordor. Justice must be met.” Aragorn shouted. He held the Sword of Elendil in front of him, and he waited. The doors creaked open. “Fall back.” He told the others. They rode back to the rest of their group. Legolas and Harrison stood side-by-side, Gimli and Eómer next to them. Aragorn and Gandalf came to wait with them, and the other man found his place again in the middle of the large group of men. The lone banner fluttered in the breeze, as the man who held it, hidden behind his comrades, trembled.

The Orcs came forward. They surrounded the Men on all sides, trapping them. And they fought. Man against Orc, axe against sword and arrow. Sauron’s Eye was fixed upon them, and Harrison was content that for the moment, Frodo was safe from danger.

“Never thought I’d die fighting side by side with an Elf,” Gimli grumbled as he parried against an Orc.

“How about side by side with a friend?” Legolas asked, his own blade beheaded another Orc.

“Oh shut up,” Harrison hissed, “enough of this melodrama. No one is dying. Especially you!” He pointed his arrow in Legolas’ direction, before notching it and letting it fly. “You owe me a son.”

The human waved his hand, and like at Minas Tirith, flames spread along the ground. Like the Balrog from the Mines of Moria, the flames took shape. Dragons, and Chimeras, and Serpents and a host of other fantastical creatures that had never graced Middle-Earth rose up, their mouths open and hungry as they swallowed Orc after Orc. Devouring and burning them.

“Sauron!” “Saruman!” The Orcs cried in fear. The sight of the magic was so evil, so unlike magic used by Gandalf, that they did not know what else to think. Surely this Wizard should be fighting on their side?

The head Orc, the one who was in charge of this battle, snarled angrily. “Kill them all,” he hissed, “but him!” His eyes lingered on Harrison, and though he did not point every Orc knew which human their leader meant.

They continued to fight. The Orcs tried to kill anyone they could, but if Harrison came before them they would hesitate, unsure of how much force to use. Generally, this led to Harrison dispatching them quickly. Occasionally an Orc would try to knock the boy unconscious, and a handful of times they actually managed to hit him. He fell to his knees once, stunned, but Legolas was beside him in an instant, defending him and killing the Orc who had attacked.

Screaming echoed around the fighters, and everyone paused. They all turned to stare at the Tower upon which the Eye rested. It was crumbling, chunks of the Tower sliding apart and falling to the ground. The Eye tipped sideways, its pupil flickering frantically trying to find a way to save itself. As it hit the ground, it imploded, and the explosion rocked the ground. All around the Men, the ground upon which an Orc stood caved inwards, crumbling and falling, bringing Mordor’s army with it.

“Frodo!” They all cheered, “Sam!” And Harrison smiled warmly over at Legolas as the blond clapped along with his friends.

Mount Doom suddenly exploded. Out of the corner of his eyes Harrison watched as Pippin collapsed to the ground and began to cry. His mouth moved but no sound came out. He mimed, “Frodo, no”, over and over, and Harrison’s heart ached for him.

“They are alive,” Harrison promised him, smiling down at the distraught Hobbit. He turned to face Gandalf and the old Wizard nodded. “And they will be saved.”

That night, three Eagles flew with Gandalf over what was left of Mordor until they found Samwise and Frodo unconscious on a rock. Around them, lava flowed, and the Eagles were careful not to burn their feathers as they scooped up the two Hobbits. With their burdens, they flew back to Gondor.

XXX

Middle-Earth, Minas Tirith. October 1998.

Two Elves waited for Harrison at the threshold of the Citadel. He walked inside, followed by the members of the Fellowship, bar Frodo who was still unconscious. One was male and the other female. Both were very tall, with long blond hair, and prominent handsome features. They smiled widely at Harrison, and the woman beckoned him closer.

“Come here my child.” Harrison stopped in front of her, frowning.

“I know you from somewhere. As if I dreamed you.” He whispered. His hand reached out to brush against her cheek, and as he touched her she beamed.

“I am Eonwe. This is my mate, Adan. I found you, after your parents died. I brought you to Valinor, to the Valar, and they sent you to Gondor. We hoped you would be loved by the race of Man. I wanted to keep you, so very much. I wanted-” She trailed off. “This is your mate?” She asked, her eyes lighting up as Legolas stepped forward, standing protectively by his mate’s side.

Adan came closer, and reached out for one of Harrison’s hands. “You are a very special young man. When you were a babe, a Dark Lord much like Sauron targeted your family. He killed your parents, and used some sort of magic on you. You survived death, and yet you have been affected by it nonetheless.”

Harry’s hand pressed against his forehead, against the faint lightening bolt-shaped scar that was hidden behind his hair. “Where were my parents from?”

“They were from Earthlia. You are not of Middle-Earth, child.” Eonwe whispered sadly, though she continued to smile at him. “When the Dark Lord Voldemort tried to kill you, his body was destroyed. His soul lives on, and in recent years he has found a new body. He wreaks havoc on that earth, Harrison Potter, and they need you to help them. Just like you have helped us, you must go to Earthlia and defeat this other Dark Wizard.”

“Your magic,” Adan told him, “comes from that world as well. It can be light or dark, but mostly it depends on the intent of the wielder. Your scar contains a portion of Voldemort’s soul. Voldemort’s magic influences your own in times of anger or fear or battle. You could probably feel his rage, his desire to hurt others.”

“Yes,” the boy whispered, wide eyed.

“When you defeat Voldemort, it will pass. Your soul will be your own again,” he smirked, “and your mates of course.”

“How do I get there?” Harrison asked quietly.

“We must all sail to Valinor. The Valar have arranged transport for you. A Wizard from that world will come to meet you.” Eonwe smiled and held a pendant out to him. It was a dull silver colour, with the letter ‘H’ engraved on the front of this. “This will contain immortality, gifted from the Valar. When it glows, Arwen will be mortal, and free to be with her mate. On your return from Earthlia, it will dull again, and you will become an Elf.”

“You do not return from Valinor.” Legolas bit out, angrily. How dare they take his mate away?

Harrison slipped the chain over his neck, leaving the pendant exposed over his shirt. “Legolas is coming too, right?”

“Yes, your mate will accompany you.” Adan said.

“And he’ll come back to Middle-Earth after?”

“You both will, if you do not die. But you seem to be very adept at staying alive.” Eonwe grinned.

Before she could say anything else, Sam ran into the room. “Frodo, he’s awake. Quick!” The Hobbits and the Dwarf ran from the room. Harrison nodded to Aragorn, who left as well, more calmly than the others.

“Go.” Harrison whispered, but Legolas just continued to stare at him. “Go to your friend. I will be here when you return.” When Legolas left the room, someone else entered from the servants’ door. “Arwen?” Harrison asked softly.

“I am here for the Coronation. It is in two days. You leave afterwards, I presume?” She came towards him and took his hands in hers. She kissed the knuckles lightly.

“How did you know?”

“I saw you return.” She paused. “Both of you.”

The days passed. The Fellowship spent their time alone or with their friends, and Harry and Legolas spent most of their days in bed together. The Coronation passed without problems, and everyone cheered as their King made his way down the causeway packed with people.

Beside the white tree of Gondor, was a party of Elves. Lord Elrond nodded his head, and the female elf holding the banner pushed it aside and revealed her face. “Arwen?” Aragorn whispered as he ran to take her into his arms. She passed the banner to another and wrapped her arms around the King’s neck. As they kissed, Harrison’s pendant glowed a bright white for a moment until it faded. The locket was no longer dull silver, but instead it shone, bright and shinny, almost living.

Harrison took hold of Legolas’ hands after the elf had hugged the King. As everyone fell into a bow before four of the bravest Hobbits to have ever existed, Harrison felt his magic well within him. With a ‘crack’ they both disappeared, apparating straight to the Grey Havens where a boat waited to sail them to Valinor.

It would be February of The Fourth Age of Middle-Earth (1999) before the Hobbits would step foot in the Shire again. And though each member of the Fellowship was eternally bound by friendship and loyalty, they went their separate ways and continued on with their lives as if the second war had never existed.

The End

1 - Taken from the first chapter.
2 - I bet he feels like a Yo-Yo.
3 - Nazgüls are reptilian: like Dragons, snakes, lizards. I presume that they would understand Parseltongue to some extent.

* * *

EPILOGUE COMING SOON... Read the EPILOGUE HERE! ♥

Also… I can’t remember who complained about my directions, but in the film, Aragorn said to go NORTH to Mordor. I didn’t just randomly decide they should go North. I was following Aragorn’s directions. That is the way Frodo and Sam went.