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Tarrus

Stranger in two bodies-chapter 3

Yours, mine, ours?

Both Harry's body and mind, burned, as great wings unfurled from within. Tearing through frail scale flecked flesh, forcing Harry to his knees, straining against the hide of his jacket and being forced down the length of his back . Bloody tears left smoking trails down his cheeks as his left eye bulged and pressed against its socket. Agony cascaded from every nerve, greater than any cruciatus as he collapsed under the pain. A talon burst from a finger, scoring a thin trail of blood along his face before Harry reflexively yanked his hand away. His screams reverberated around the stone hall as the dragon road rampant. Resistance to the change was meaningless in the face of the inferno consuming him from within. Desperate, Harry dove, into his magic and sought to confound the beast, as his body warped and twitched on the rapidly warming stone floor.

Ice trickled over his body and numbed his mind as he sought to undo, the fluctuating changes. The all too brief waves of respite allowed him to gulp lungfuls of air before the fire again took hold. Throat raw from screaming, Harry pleaded with the entity within him. No words were exchanged, simply feeling. Outrage, indignation and an all consuming desire to inflict pain upon the world swamped his mind. In return Harry road the towering flames, the desire to understand, to calm and simply rest floating throughout the maelstrom.

Peace descended abruptly, and Harry was cut from all physical sensation as the flames began to welcome Harry within them in response as he was almost gently drawn into his mind. The towers of flame in his mind did not quieten, but neither did they continue to intensify as he passed into himself. A great shadow circled Harry's mind presence, twisting amongst the pillars of flame, always just out of sight, a leviathan inspecting a life raft. Wind roughly tugged at Harry, threatening to cast him adrift from his vessel, he felt rather than heard the words in the gusts as the shadow encompassed him:

You have come

Nervously, Harry put aside the desire to withdraw and held his ground:

"I need to understand."

Irritation sparked at him as the darkened flames flickered around him:

You already know

Not willing to confront the truth of that statement, Harry continued:

"What do you want?"

The force behind the resultant gale nearly threw Harry back out of his mind-scape, briefly allowing a trickle of the physical pain his body was in to register:

FREEDOM

Once Harry had repaired his hold and blocked his bodies demands, he mustered his defiance before addressing the entity:

"I won't let you run unchecked, this is my body."

The shadow deepened as the world trembled around him, rage and fury, underscored by disappointment threw him into the physical world. Even as the dragon withdrew.

Opening his eyes, he gazed upon the bright as day ceiling above him, Harry, leaden arm protesting, brought a hand up in front of his eyes. Talon like extensions flexed as he wiggled his fingers, scales, a deep black seemed to glisten in contrast to the dull green of his jacket sleeve. Too tired and stunned to do more, Harry closed his eyes. The last message of the dragon singing in tune with his bodies aches:

What is yours, is MINE, ours.

Unpleasant duty

Nibenor had returned from Mirkwood immediately after delivering the thrall. He had just finished delivering Thranduils orders to Lagoron before the sound of screams, faint as from a great distance, or perhaps deepness came from the ruins. Fear of what the noises would foreshadow gripped the troupe immediately and a flurry of activity saw the elves dousing their small fire and taking up more concealed positions, blending into the nights darkness. Heart in his mouth, Nibenor whispered to Lagoron for orders:

"Captain, orders?"

The paler than normal face of Lagoron regarded him with an almost stricken look as he crumpled the despatches Nibenor had given him from Thranduil. Whilst Lagoron kept his voice strong, the undercurrent of fear was easily picked up by the entirety of the troupes members:

"Lord Thranduil has tasked us with discerning the nature of the wyrm, we are to enter Gundabad before the drake wakes and carry all information back to Mirkwood."

Swallowing thickly at the task and likely now roused status of the wyrm, Nibenor turned his attention back to the rapidly weakening noise coming from the ruins. In that moment he wanted nothing more than for the screams to cease and he offered a prayer to the Valar that the drake was yet still dormant. With far more care than normal, the troupe, minus the two youngest who had been elected to stay behind for fear of any yrch that may yet remain, silently descended the slope in darkness not daring to risk bringing a lighted torch until they had crossed the expanse, each elf held their weapon tightly clasped.

They entered through a great tear in the outer walls and slowly scaled the strange hills of debris that blocked much of the main hall, picking their way to the far end, senses on high alert. With trepidation they approached the grand vaulted doorway, that would take them into the depths of the old dwarf settlement. Pausing at the door, the elves concentrated in the silence, the screams had faded now, the cavernous room no longer supporting the echo. Straining his hearing, Nibenor could just detect faint breathing. Looking to Logaron, Nibenor exchanged a nod in confirmation that he was not alone in hearing it. Logaron was the first onto the steps down and the others quickly followed.

For what seemed like hours, the elves delved into the gloom, guided more by their ears than sight, even once they decided to risk lighting torches to guide their way. Sheer, near perfect stone corridors, only marred by orc graffiti and the occasional long gash from a careless talon accompanied them into the quiet depths.

The troupe passed an underwater aquifer and gently wound their way around several fallen statues, ignoring the deep score marks in the floor as best they could, all the while it seemed they always were going down further into the earth. Steadily the sound of the breathing got closer before it ceased abruptly, giving way to a low groan ahead of them, just beyond another larger opening. Nibenor and Lagoron both slid their swords out of their sheaths as the others knocked arrows to their bows. As one the troupe entered the room and dove for cover, expecting to be incinerated immediately.

What are you?

Harry lay still on the ground, someone, several someone's had entered the hall at a dead run then promptly thrown themselves behind various pieces of stonework after chucking several fiery torches in his general direction. From the brief glimpse he had gotten of them, they appeared to be the same people he had not long ago escaped from. Fear tugged at his mind as he slowly sat up, wincing at the bruises and generally feeling of ice in his body, he began to quietly edge his way to the far side of the room. Without the flaming brands he had a clear view of the hall, and could see the weapons the intruders had brought with them.

Nibenor could not see anything, even the eyes of the elves required light and the burning torches obscured just as much, if not more, than they illuminated. Something in the darkness was making a shuffling noise, far too small to be the dragon, which thankfully was absent. Realising that the drakes absence meant they could move freely, Nibenor issued the order, relying on Logaron to trust him:

"The drake isn't here, but something is on the far side of the hall, spread out, get the torches and find them, be cautious, it may be a yrch."

The language, unlike what had been spoken in his interrogation was foreign to Harry as he watched the group of eight slowly make their way across the empty expanse. Legs wobbling slightly beneath him, Harry shivered in the cold and closed his jacket around him, eyeing his altered hands with a sense of dulled disquiet. He doubted he could fight his way past them, and feeling as he was, another apparition would definitely splinch him, but he really did not have any inclination to be dragged back to be executed. As the interlopers collected their torches, Harry realised that they could not see nearly as well as he could. They had weapons yes, and Harry felt as if he could happily sleep for a week under several heating charms, but they could not see beyond their torches very far. Stifling a groan, Harry bent down and wrapped a taloned hand around a rock.

The thing in the dark was moving, Nibenor could hear faltering steps to the far right. The elves had spread out and assumed a cordon. If they could trap it, they would be able to deal with it without much risk. Fingering the hilt of his blade, he began to approach it, Logaron several steps to his left, torches held high, as the others fell behind and spread out, arrows strung, but not drawn and torches on the ground to their sides so as not to get in the way. Something whooshed gently passed his ear and a meaty thud next to him forced him to turn. Logaron had dropped his torch to clutch at his face. Nibenor caught sight of a bloody stone at Logarons feet before a wordless cry and a black mass slammed into Logaron who went down with a grunt, sword clattering to the ground. Unable to see what was going on, Nibenor rushed to his friend/captains aid as the elves behind him realised the uselessness of their bows and wavered uncertanly.

His target was down, and the torch extinguished in moments. Harry hadn't meant to knock the mans head on the floor so hard but found it hard to feel guilty if it meant he wasn't about to be stabbed. Scrambling for the doused torch as the blade was closer to the rapidly closing others, Harry threw himself away from the wild stab and hauled himself to his feet, the former torch held like a club. Picking an easier target than the one who had tried to stab him, Harry rushed one of the bowmen, kicking his lit torch across the room as he did so. He was panting with the effort of running and his arms briefly flared in pain and heat as he brought the makeshift club down and into the startled bowman's side. Unexpectedly, the bowman was flung several feet to the side and Harry had to stop himself from swiping at empty air. Unable to pause, Harry spun himself around to block the furious down-stroke of the swordsman he'd run from.

Nibenor brought his blade at the back of the assailant, only to have his blow blocked by the the thick wood of Logarons torch. Again he brought the blade down in a flurry of quick strikes, each time the torch blocked him, though he could nearly see the exhaustion in the bizarre face of his opponent, a face he half recognised. A normal green eye stared up at him, the other was a glowing red, its orange pupil slitted and seemingly filled with firelight. Much of the face was no longer covered in skin, scales covered much of his cheeks the gritted teeth appeared somewhat, sharper, than a human should have. Disturbed and convinced this was indeed his prior prisoner, Nibenor dropped his own torch and brought his blade into a powerful two-handed overhead strike. With visible effort the torch was brought up to block him again. As the two weapons made contact, Nibenor was taken aback at the strength in the shaking arms of the other combatant as he heaved Nibenor back into a stumble. A fist flashed out and caught him on the chin, as he fell, Nibenor felt the sharp pain of something breaking skin and caught sight of a clawed hand being withdrawn.

Harry brought his fist back, as he turned his attention to the sounds of drawing swords from the bowmen behind him. As they hesitated to attack him, he used the opportunity to collect the dropped sword that had nearly broken his club in half and overwhelmed his burning arms muscles with that last strike. A hand wrapped around his wrist and startled, Harry jerked back from the downed form of the swords owner. Prying the hand off of his wrist, Harry caught the mumbled English, and as he made to dash for the now clear path to the door, ice again blessedly but painfully creeping into his arms tried not to think about it:

"What are you?"

Breeside

Gandalf the grey usually enjoyed the few times he was ever in the proximity of the shire. Whilst the wilds could be dangerous, the dunedain's near invisible presence kept the boundaries to the green fields and comely homes safe. Approaching the border town of Bree, however, Gandalf had run into several more thugs. Banditry, perhaps the lesser evil in these parts compared to what could be found in the wilds, had never been more in evidence to his eyes. Trudging the sodden and muddy path, Gandalf lent the reigns to his current horse. Content to let it make its way along the path as he huddled deeper into his cloak. Memories stirred of a time when such a thing as rain would bring no chill to his being, memories that Gandalf consciously overrode with his current task as the gates of Bree loomed out of the mist.

Passing through the wooden gate, Gandalf exchanged pleasantries and assurances to the nervous young man operating the latch and nudged him back to the warmth of his gatehouse. The streets, despite the rain had several people in attendance, all hurrying to be about their business. His spirits lifted slightly as he caught sight of a short, barefooted individual protectively cradling a steaming bowl from the rain making his way into a dwelling. The humour, however, was short-lived. Upon rounding the corner of the towns central street, on his way to the prancing pony, Gandalf spied the scenario he had been dreading since his journey here began. A form, shorter than a human but taller still than a hobbit was making its way to the pony, a sword pommel, entirely in the dwarven style jutting from the individuals belongings left no doubt in Gandalfs mind that he had found Thorin. The dwarf however, was not alone. Two rough looking, and obviously armed fellows were following the clearly alerted dwarf. Countenance now stern, his staff heavy in his hands, Gandalf dipped his hat further against the rain and hurried to arrive at the inn, before the dwarf, or his followers noticed him.

Chase

Tired, cold and hungry was Harry's condition as he ran through the labyrinth, stolen blade cradled in his arms. His ability to see making the trip so much faster than his prior journey. Desperation lent speed to his flagging steps and the occasional glimpse of torchlight behind him lent strength to his aching legs. He was cold, so very cold, he was sure his chattering teeth was how his pursuers hadn't yet lost him and his breath came in puffs as his bare feet slapped the cold stone beneath him. Harry longed to feel warm, but was scared to reach for the only source of heat he could feel, nestled in his chest as if a warm coal had been dropped there He needed to find other people, people with food, people that knew about magic. Harry bounced around a corner and vaulted the raised channel to the water trough he had fallen into earlier as a shout, accompanied by an arrow whistled above his ear. Clamping a hand to the resultant stinging, fingers pressed into the blood, Harry revised his earlier thought. He needed to find people that would not try and kill him upon sight, the rest could happen after.

As he ran, Harry tried ignore the returning of the whispers that had previously plagued him upon his arrival. Left to his own thoughts as he simply ran, he could no longer distract himself from the words that he hoped didn't come from his own mouth:

Why do you run?

The voice, whilst quiet, was brimming with anger. Gritting his teeth Harry hissed between laboured breaths back at it as he ascended yet another ramp:

"Shut up."

The anger briefly flared, though the scathing return in the alien voice contained a hint of puzzlement:

We are above them, above everything, they should flee from us.

A demand for silence on his lips, Harry nearly missed the doorway that opened back into the large hall on the surface. Bursting into the large room, Harry stopped abruptly, dazed by the change in lighting and trying to get his bearings. His stunned form was galvanised back into action at the sound of voices from the tunnel he had emerged from reached him. Flaming brands illuminated the pale faces of his pursuers and reflected from the long blades in their hands as they sprinted up the short ramp. Hefting the blade he had taken, Harry cast a forlorn look at the heavy stone of the broken doors resting either side of the opening. Seeing the number of the encroaching pursuers Harry sighed and made to run again when the previously quiet voice thundered through his mind with all the gentleness of a sledgehammer:

USE ME!

Heat, unbidden and unwanted flooded his body, flushing the icy pain in his limbs and replacing it with molten agony. A cry of pain tore itself from him as he dropped the blade and seized one of the broken doors and dragged it into its former place. Smoke wafted from his form and stung his eyes as the smell of cooking flesh reached him. Staggering to the other door, he heaved it across the short distance to the frame as the first of his pursuers approached the threshold.

Another cry, this time of desperation issued from Harry as he put all of his strength into flipping the stone door onto its side and allowed it to fall into place. Wide, blue eyes stared up at the descending slab in fear. Harry watched, the heat draining from him as the blonde sword wielding assailant was yanked back from the threshold by his fellows. With a resounding boom that rocked the floor, the door came to rest, a tremendous crack across its middle, marring the stone warriors that made up its front. Taking several shaky steps back from the sealed doorway to the discarded sword, Harry numbly sank to his knees and pulled the weapon to him as he listened to the muffled voices and banging fists until he was sure they weren't going to break free. Relief mixing with his exhaustion, he managed to regain his feet and slowly make his way to one of the many rents in the side of the walls.

Ruins of hope

Kren Drar's fur wrapped feet were sore as he descended the scree embankment, Gundabad, finally before him. He and the two score men and women following him were descendants of one of the few surviving groups that had once called Carn Dum home. They had made the mountain journey eastward rather than continue to live under constant risk of Dunedain attack, hoping to be granted refuge as followers of the Witch King. Stopping at the bottom of the embankment, he stopped to look upon the structure that through glimpses of it from afar had kept the group members moving. It took several seconds for his mind to register the truth of what his eyes were showing him, and as he looked upon the destruction, he could hear the beginnings of dismay setting in:

"Some safe place this is, I don't see a single sentry, and should the walls have so many holes in them. Think whatever did this will put us up for the night?"

Mood already souring, Kren shot a dark look at the old woman who had come to stand at his left. Keig, the eldest surviving member of the troupe was looking over the broken stone walls, her gnarled hands wrapped tightly around her Blackwood staff as she lent into it for support. Kren bit back the urge to shout at the old woman, mindful of similar sentiments being echoed behind him. Instead, he wheeled on the others his hand resting meaningfully on the top of his axe, his dark tone as he conveyed his decision forcibly quietened the murmuring:

"We will stay here, its empty, there's bound to be something inside for us. Get a fire going, I want three sentries at all times on the towers."

As the group burst into activity, Kren turned back to Keig, and eyed her warily. The old-woman was waving her staff at the ruined fortress and from the chill he was feeling, knew she was chanting the black speech. Resisting the urge to heft his axe, though this time more out of fear than anger, Kren waited for the old hag to finish her incantation, the words crawling over his body like spiders:

"Baduzg Izish Latob Zna, Baduzg Izish Latob Zna, Baduzg Izish Latob Zna."

As Keig finished, the air regained some of its warmth, though Kren knew he would be feeling ill for day's to come. Impatient and seriously wanting to be able to kill something, Kren barked his query of her:

"Well?"

Keig, jumped as if startled by his presence turned to him, her small frame visibly quivering as she answered him:

"Dragon, a dragon did this."

Kren immediately hefted his axe as he began to scan the skies, fear dominating his tall frame. Eye's roaming the surrounding mountaintops and sky he lowered his voice as he addressed the elderly witch, far too used to relying on her spells to doubt them now:

"Get everyone inside, no fire, no noise, I'll gut anyone who complains. Send the hunters to me, go."

Kren watched Keig sprint for the fortress despite her age, flagging everyone to follow her as she went. Kren turned slowly on the spot, heart in his throat as he again looked about him. A dragon, he had heard of Smaug, but that one had not been seen for many years as far as he knew. The tales of the beasts were legend amongst his people. Symbols of power, strength and cruelty.

Movement along the western walls of the fortress caught his eye. A small figure had just emerged from a hole in the wall and was slowly shuffling its way towards the northern end of the fortress. Several of Kren's men approached, without taking his eyes off of the bent double figure, Kren motioned them to follow him. Perhaps this hapless stranger would have some answers for him, Kren's eyes narrowed as he spied the naked blade that the stranger was carrying as he amended that thought. They'd better.

Joining up

For the what felt like the seventh time since his trip, Harry again found himself facing down several people, all with weapons pointed at his face. He was cornered against the wall of the dilapidated fortress behind him, blade shakily pointing at these newcomers. Taking stock of the people surrounding him, they did not appear to be akin to the others who had been chasing him, if anything they seemed just as stunned to see him as he was to see them.

A heavy set, brutish looking man clad in dark furs and wielding an axe that would not have been out of place in Hagrid's hands reached out with the axes handle and gently pushed the quivering blade down to point at the ground. Unlike those he had been running from, this man and his friends seemed to not to want to kill him immediately, a thought which quelled the sensations of wariness within him. Harry allowed the blade to be drawn to the ground, once it softly touched the stones beneath him the man with the axe spoke to him in gruff English:

"I am Kren, of Angmar. Who are you, what are you doing here and why do you carry an elfblade? Half-man."

Shaking of the discomfort at being referred to as a half-man, and filing the word Angmar away for the future, Harry, seeing no immediate hostility did his best to appear non-threatening as he answered:

"I am Harry, of England. I'm here seeking shelter, but the, elves, are chasing me, I took this blade from one of them and trapped them within."

Harry's hesitance in using the word 'elves' did not go unnoticed by the shifting of the group before him, this was soon discarded however by the reaction the last part of his statement elicited. Especially from Kren, who's hurried orders to the rest of the group cemented him as the leader in Harry's mind:

"Tharg, Magg, Asten, get everyone ready to move. A dragon, now elves, trapped or not, we shall find no sanctuary here. Traki, get Keig, get her to look over the half-man, you will stay with them."

Shocked at the sudden turnabout and the alacrity with which the group dispersed, Harry was unprepared when Kren reached forward and seized him by the wrist in a rough, very strong grip. Startled at the suddenness of the contact, Harry coughed violently as a plume of black smoke erupted from his mouth as his interloper reacted through a surge of anger that set Harry's blood thrumming. Kren, taken aback by the smoke cloud, let go and stepped back hurriedly. Shrewd eye's assessed his retching form and Harry couldn't help freezing as Kren's gruff voice penetrated through the sound of his coughing:

"Harry, of England, I have seen many half-men, but never before a half-drake. If I take you from this place, will you help me get my people to safer lands?"

Looking at the blurry form of Kren through watery eye's Harry could only nod at him as he resisted the snarl that tried to crawl up his throat at the implied conditions. A curt nod in return was his answer as Kren turned to look back towards the entrance of the fort. A sensation of spiders crawling over him prompted Harry to look as well, Traki, the man who Kren had sent was making his way back, followed by an elderly woman who lent heavily on a black staff. Kren's voice carried over to him as visible discomfort flitted across his face.

"Keig, knows the old ways, she will decide if your word has worth. You will not harm her, or any of my people, or by the Witch-King I'll put my axe in that lizard eye of yours."