A/N: Howdy again. So I'm back and doing another LotR thing because I enjoyed doing the last one so much. This fic is fully planned out at this stage (huge doc) but what you see here is the sum total of what has been written and properly proofed. That means slower updates than for my last fic, unfortunately. I'll try and keep them fairly regular though, real life permitting.

For those of you that wish to know this fic will be significantly darker than my last at least to start. If that is not your thing then, well, I'd like you to give it a chance as things do get better but if not... well, that's fine too. It is projected to come in three 'arcs', each expected to clock in over 100k words. It's going to be a major undertaking for me compared to my last but I do love me some Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings so that should keep me going. Like my last it will be without slash. Unlike my last it will eventually diverge very significantly from canon. If you don't like the writing style I used for 'The Power He Knows Not' then you may find this one is not to your liking either. I hope my experience with it will make it a little less clunky this time 'round but we'll see. Harry starts in a pretty bad place but that's so he has so much further to rise.

Hopefully that covers everything. Now, on to the story.

The Shadow of Angmar

Prologue: From the Depths of Angmar

Leaden skies turned slowly overhead as Eärnur, Prince of Gondor, stood in the befouled courtyard of Carn Dûm, the fortress stronghold of Angmar. It was in this place that the final hard fought victory had been won by Gondor and its allies. The evil that had so beset their northern kin had at last been cast down. Though the armies of Gondor had arrived too late to save the dúnedain of the north from a cruel fate at the hands of the Witch King they had avenged their suffering. The loss of all those who'd attempted to hold against the dark tide that had fallen upon them from the North had not gone unanswered.

Long ago Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anárion had come to Middle-earth after the great island of Númenor and the nation it supported had been sunk beneath the waves by the wrath of the Valar. Two Kingdoms they established in the years after the Fall, Arnor in the North and Gondor in the South. For long years both had been ruled by those of the line of Elendil the Tall and stayed close in alliance. It pained him that the army from Gondor had come too late, his kin had been massacred at Fornost and scattered to the winds. The battle had been won though many had been wounded. The Elves of Rivendell had sent a force to join with that of Gondor and their combined might was far beyond the strength of Angmar to contest in open battle.

Now he just needed to deal with the foul pestilence of evil that had seeped so deep into the earth of this place. For more than 500 years Angmar had been a bastion of darkness ever lingering at the northern reaches of the world. That darkness could not be quickly nor wholly undone. So now Eärnur stood ready to pass judgement and give aid to those captured or freed who were brought before him.

Beside him stood Glorfindel of Rivendell, one of the greatest Elf-Lords of the age and the leader of the Elvish contingent in the army that had finally laid low the great threat of Angmar and its Witch King.

The battle had been long and hard fought. Many Men and Elves had falled in the battle or had been dealt a mortal injury, none who made it through had escaped the horror created by the mere presence of the Witch King. Eventually though the forces of Angmar had been broken, the walls cast down and the Witch King put to flight.

It galled Eärnur all the more that the greatest Enemy of his people in that Age had been allowed to escape. He had fled upon his black steed as Glorfindel's prophetic words stayed the pursuit of the Prince of Gondor. He now much regretted not ignoring those words. If ever he had another opportunity to lay the Witch King low then he vowed he would take it. Seeing the inside of the citadel of Carn Dûm was enough to draw that promise from him.

The dungeons were filled with wretched things, twisted and horrifying. Eärnur had seen great Lords and experienced soldiers come up from those dungeons ghostly pale and shaking with harrowing remembrance. Women and babes held in such squalid conditions and under such cruelty that mothers had come at last to killing their own children in desperation. The little bones left scattered about the corners of noisome cells while the broken parents wept and wailed as they begged for death.

He had not visited the dungeons himself, though Glorfindel had. He had heard enough to populate his nightmares for all the remaining years of his life. He had no wish to go looking for more. This was one case where he would welcome his own ignorance with open arms.

He was told that they had found something, something that the Prince of Gondor needed to see. It had been Glorfindel who had found it and the ages old Elf-Lord had been shaken by what he'd seen in the ugly depths of the dark dungeons.

A young man, in the very bowels of the deepest of the dungeons with the Witch King's strongest and foulest servants guarding the many locked doors that barred him from the sickly light that passed for day in Angmar. Glorfindel would say no more on the matter, merely that it would be for Eärnur to decide his fate.

Glorfindel would say no more, but the Men who had been with him bowed to Eärnur's request for more information. They described a cell filled with clinging blackness. A smell of death that hung in the air and stayed with them for hours after they left. Dark blood in dry rivulets spread across the floor and black spatters over the slick and slimy walls. A man, a skeleton within a bag of still living flesh. Eyes that shone with green fire in the dark, alight with hatred and pain.

He saw this person for the first and only time then, escorted between four Elvish guards, each skilled in arms as was common among their people. He was fairly tall for a man not of the line of Elendil and if it wasn't for his hunched posture he would surely be a few inches taller than Eärnur. Yet that was not what drew the eye. His black hair was patchy, as if chunks had been torn from his scalp. What remained was crusted in blood and dirt and other nameless things. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and from within baleful emerald green eyes stared out at the world around him. He was nothing but skin and bones, his body like that of a plague victim minutes from their final death. His skin was sallow and grey and hung from him like wet leather. At his wrists were black blisters, sores and blood where the chains of Angmar had bit deeply and without mercy.

He was altogether repugnant and utterly pitiable.

The guards and their charge came to a stop before the Crown Prince and his Elvish advisor and Eärnur asked, "Who are you? What is your name?"

The grim still living skull before him opened its mouth to speak and inside he could see that most of the teeth that had once been within had been shattered or torn out. The man spoke. "Bugduga Harry Potter."

The Black Speech, it should not have been a surprise as it was the chief language of Angmar under the Witch King and yet still Eärnur drew his breath in shock. The words slithered across his skin and all in the courtyard caught glimpses and visions of old pain as Harry Potter's words wormed into their darkest thoughts. The Prince glanced at Glorfindel who immediately spoke up.

"We would not hear that foul tongue in this place ever again, Harry Potter," he said with steel in his tone, his bearing that of a true Elf Lord. "We would have you use Westron such as is used by the civilised folk of the North."

"Paashnar pukhl Westron." said the prisoner in the words of Sauron. Eärnur understood a little of the spoken language, enough to know that the man claimed not to speak Westron. He once again looked to Glorfindel who was bristling at the continued use of the tongue of Mordor.

"Yet you understand the words of Westron, that much is clear" said the Elf Lord tightly. "Therefore you may speak them, speak them now."

The prisoner grimaced as if the idea caused him physical pain. "Not… Speak… Westron… Pain." Each word came as his dredged from the darkest of pits and hit body shook in remembrance of an old torment.

"Then what language do you speak that is fit for utterance outside of the darkest shadows?" Glorfindel asked harshly, as harshly as Eärnur had ever seen from him.

The wretched prisoner recovered from the pain of his words in Westron and was utterly unmoved by the anger of the Elf Lord and met his blazing eyes without visible reaction. "Tugpukhl Morghashnum," he said blankly.

Glorfindel was soon to lose his temper, Eärnur could see. He could see some small measure of the torment that had been inflicted upon the one before them. He did not wish for the Elf Lord to become wroth in the face of it even if it seemed the man before them was carved from stone. "Where are you from that you never learned any other tongue?" he asked loudly to stay his advisor from his wrath.

Harry Potter then turned his dead eyes to Eärnur and said, "Shulgnar latu iist."

Eärnur felt a shiver run down his spine at that gaze. It was as cold and as dead as tombs yet there was a fire there, dark and foul, that flickered just below the surface.

"We would not know?" asked Glorfindel worriedly, "How came you here then?"

"Ulu thrakutuz-izish zastazgu dush-sha" said Harry. Eärnur's knowledge of the Black Speech failed him then, he knew there was something about Harry being brought but he could not get the detail.

The Prince turned to Glorfindel for help, "Would you translate his words for me as I fear my knowledge of the Black Speech is not sufficient for any true dialogue?"

Glorfindel nodded tightly. "I will, Prince. I am not so knowledgeable in that foul tongue as others but I know enough to understand his meaning in this. He says only that he was brought here by magic." He then turned back to the prisoner. "What kind of magic?"

"Tug iin gashanu ghashutuz," said Harry and again Eärnur did not understand. It was something about words, to speak, he could not gather the meaning. Glorfindel did.

"He says he can only remember the words they spoke," he translated for Eärnur's benefit before he turned back to the creature. He asked forcefully, "What did they speak, what words did they use to summon you here?"

"Bugd za stazgu durb-matum-ob!" began Harry, reciting words that had been ingrained upon his consciousness since his arrival in this place. "Kulat amub matum agh gashnatub bûrzum fitgu."

Glorfindel went pale at the dark words but Eärnur had no idea what they could mean. Something to do with Death or being Master, he was not sure. Before he could ask for a full translation though the Elf told him. "They attempted to summon Morgoth to Middle-earth. They summoned 'One Greater than Death' to lead the darkness to their final victory." The Elf's words had an edge of shock to them, echoed in his pale face.

That had not been the answer Eärnur expected. It was known that the Witch King of Angmar employed many foul sorceries in his fights against the northern Kingdom of Arnor and the successor kingdoms of Arthedain, Rhudaur and Cardolan. The Barrow-downs of Cardolan had been left infested with foul dead things upon its fall. Barrow-wights the Men called them and none know how they had come to be. Spirits of the dead, some said. Eärnur had expected something similar here, yet this was altogether more dire.

The man before them was certainly no Morgoth so obviously the spell had not worked as the Witch King had wished. It did mean they owed this man much, even if his actions were unknowing. His torture would no doubt have been terrible if he had so ruined the plans of Morgoth's servants.

"I can't imagine they were happy when they did not get their way," said Eärnur in sympathy. "But why did they keep you, what were they planning?"

"Narkuluzut," said Harry with a viciously cynical smile, the first true expression Eärnur had seen from him in all their conversation. His cracked and broken lips spread wide and split open at they stretched into the unaccustomed expression. Blood rose from them and coated his blackened and broken teeth. "Nargzabuzut-izish mauk latu."

Eärnur guessed that this was something about fighting but again he could not understand the words fully. Glorfindel did and became tense again at what the Prince decided must have been a threat of some sort. The Elf put his hand to the blade at his side and demanded in steely tones, "And will you?"

The prisoner held Glorfindel's gaze once again for far longer than any mortal man should have the ability to manage. "Narlaguzut-izish. Narkû maukub ul-ûr," he said eventually and the glimmering fire concealed so deep within him burst out for a moment and it seemed his eyes glowed with green flames just as the men who had found him had said.

His hand did not move from the blade as Glorfindel shot back, "That does not answer the question, will you fight against us?"

"Narmaukub lat. Ghung nardiisub-izish," said Harry after another long moment.

Satisfied, though evidently still not happy Glorfindel removed his hand from his sword hilt. Eärnur had been unable to follow the exchange and so asked, "What did you just discuss, I apologise, I was unable to follow."

"They wished to use him to fight us," Glorfindel explained. "I asked if he would follow their wishes. He said he would not fight for them, but he did not say he would not fight against us. I challenged him and he agreed not to pit himself against us, if we do not attack him first."

"Why would they go to so much effort over one man?" asked Eärnur in confusion. The man before him was barely more than a corpse and certainly did not have the bearing of one who was to be feared upon the field of battle.

"Kul dushatâr," said Harry then spitefully he continued, "kuluz dushatâr."

Eärnur could guess at the meaning of that. A 'dushatâr' was a magic user, a Wizard such as Saruman or Mithrandir, or sorcerer such as had inhabited Angmar or Rhûn in some numbers. Such people flocked to the Witch King who offered them power such that few had ever known.

"You are no Istari," said Glorfindel firmly, a statement that was obvious to all who looked on. "You are a sorcerer?"

The man shrugged and said simply, "Akh."

That much the Prince did know. 'Yes'. But that still did not explain much. "There were many sorcerers in Angmar," said Eärnur as he voiced his thoughts. "Why did you get such specific treatment, why not just kill you?"

"Nargzabuzut-izish krampûrz," said Harry and again the fire and hatred returned and Eärnur could see it ready to burst into new flame below the blank visage. "Narpaashuzut lag-izish."

Eärnur looked at Glorfindel for a translation as he could not puzzle out the meaning this time.

"He says they wanted him loyal," said the Elf Lord and his anger seemed to be making way to sympathy. "He says they could not manage break him."

That in itself was painful for Eärnur to hear for surely the Witch king had not been kind when the once young man had so defied him.

"How long did they hold you?" he asked despite not truly wanted to know.

"Ran gakrul," said Harry confirming Eärnur's concerns. 12 months was as long as it had been since Arthedain had finally fallen. Could it be that the man had been captured at the Battle of Fornost, when the last defiance in the North had been snuffed out? He knew the man stated he spoke no other language but who knew the horrors that could be inflicted upon one in such a long time under the darkness of Angmar?

"What did they do to you?" he asked in quiet horror, knowing the answer he was sure to receive.

"Nuluzut-izish," Harry said simply as if it was of no consequence, though Eärnur did not understand. "Akuzut-izish, ghaashuzut-izish. Kuluzut nartor-izishu." The broken and bloody smile returned and Eärnur was forced to look away from the foulness it showed.

"What did he say Lord Glorfindel?" Eärnur asked in some trepidation.

"He says they hurt him," said the Elf blankly as he was lost in the suffering of the one before them. "He says they cut him, burned him."

It was much as Eärnur had expected. He looked again at the wretched human before him. His youth stolen from him and suffering and pain beyond what any man should have to endure thrust upon him in its stead.

"Your suffering is at its end, we would aid you if we can," said Eärnur though he knew from looking at the man that even the crafts of the Elves would be unable to keep him long in this world. His body was broken many times over and that his mind and spirit yet endured was a cruel miracle beyond any Eärnur had ever known. "Would you have our aid?"

"Latu-izish mâdrub?" Harry asked, the very weakest beginnings of surprise appearing on his face. It was obvious that he had been kept so long by the cruelty of the Witch King that he expected no kindness to ever come to him from others. "Nargzab ukhu mokh."

This time Glorfindel guessed that Eärnur would need a translation and immediately supplied it. "He wishes to be released," the Elf said, "he says he just wants to go home."

Eärnur's brow furrowed. "How would you do that if you don't know where it is?" he asked in some confusion.

"Iistnar amol," said the Harry firmly and now the light in his eyes was impossibly stoic and grim. "Gimbub ogh."

"He does not know how," explained Glorfindel without prompting. "He simply says he will find a way."

From many that would seem a weak pronouncement, yet from Harry it was as powerful as the rage of the great dragons of the elder age. For a moment Eärnur felt that the foundations of the earth would be shaken loose by Harry's quest if he felt it was necessary. That moment passed quickly though for it was obvious that the man before them would not last in this world much longer and had no strength within him to conduct such mighty deeds.

There was a more pressing concern. "If we release you how can we be sure you will not seek out another dark master?" asked Eärnur. This was a man so thoroughly touched by darkness it seemed to have consumed him entirely. His body was broken and foul, his words Black and an affront to all who heard them. The darkness was loath to let go once it had ensnared any soul so completely.

A terrible anger flashed in Harry's eyes. "Narurzkû gaiub-izish," he said forcefully and it seemed the sky darkened at his words, evidence finally of the power the Witch King had wished to control. "Nartuglub-izish gimbat bûrzum, ghashdurb-izish ta."

"He swears he will not seek the darkness," said Glorfindel when Harry had finished speaking. "He says he will never be chained again."

Eärnur could believe the man's certainty in this matter for his blazing sunken eyes were near burning through Eärnur's own. Yet it did not sit well with him that one so hurt should simply be left to fend for themselves.

"How would you survive?" the Prince asked. "You are weak and injured and in need of aid."

"Slaiub." Harry said simply and with a painful looking shrug of his cut, burned and scarred shoulders.

The meaning of that was clear enough but Glorfindel translated anyway. "He says he will live."

Eärnur still was not happy but was unwilling to confine the Man again to spend his last days among the healers. A year of captivity was enough. He would be allowed to leave and the Prince hoped Harry would find his last days peaceful in the wilds beyond the evils of Carn Dûm.

"Then we will provide you with clothes and food and you shall be allowed to leave," he said after a moment's thought. "We will not hold you here against your wishes."

The man then bowed to Eärnur, the few long tangled clumps of hair he still had falling forward as he did so. "Narnûlubat."

"He says he will not hurt you, Lord Eärnur," said Glorfindel before continuing sadly, "It is the closest the Black Tongue has to a thanks."

Eärnur nodded in acceptance to Harry then commanded the guards release him and show him some brief comforts, as much as could be found within the recently defeated ruin of Carn Dûm.

He watched as Harry was lead away and he couldn't help but stare at him in sorrow. Seeing the broken and tortured man walk away with a strength he should certainly not have possessed Eärnur knew that death was much preferable to being at the mercy of the Witch King.

"Are you sure that is wise?" asked Glorfindel once the man had left. "He will not long survive in the wilds, surely it would be best if we kept him here?"

Eärnur shook his head. "I will not confine him any more," he said sadly. "You can see as well as I that he cannot have many days left to him, I would not have him spend them in what he would see as captivity. Let him pass on while breathing the free air."

Both allies had seen such people before, much to their sadness. Those who had held on through unspeakable torture by means beyond the ken of any man. When finally they were freed it was like they no longer felt the need to fight and would pass on within days, even with the best of care.

"I can accept your reasoning," said Glorfindel sadly. Such absolute decrepitude was unknown among Elvenkin for any Elf who was forced to endure such torture would fade by their own choice and go to the Halls of Mandos in the Shining West before they could be brought so low. "Yet I cannot shake the feeling that I have not yet seen the last of him. Perhaps we should at least assign someone to watch him to ensure that no more devilry befalls him before his passing."

"I will not question your foresight," said Eärnur reasonably for he had come to know Glorfindel as the wisest of counsels. "Perhaps there is one among your Elves light-footed and stealthy enough to follow him without being seen?"

"I think Daewen would be up to the task," said Glorfindel after a moment's thought, "she is the most stealthy of all our scouts but is not incapable at the healing arts."

"Make sure she knows to let him pass if the cold grip comes for him," said Eärnur sadly, "she should not lengthen his suffering, it has been long enough already and I do not believe anything in Middle-earth could lessen it."

"She will understand," said Glorfindel as he nodded in agreement. "Elves understand the pain of suffering. It is why we call your death the Gift of Men. Had he been an Elf he would have no recourse now but eternal anguish and pain, never to be dulled by the passage of time."

Eärnur silently agreed. Sometimes death was truly the kinder fate.


Daewen trod with the lightest of footfalls through the dark woods of eastern Angmar. Her sharp Elf ears attuned to the sounds of her quarry. The laboured breathing, the thrumming straining heart-beat, the pained gasps, the creak of withered bones and joints. None were pleasant sounds to an Elf.

Never had she felt so close to death as now, even in the most dire of battles. It seemed that death walked beside the man she had been asked to follow and yet still refused to claim him. What a cruel fate to be so very close to final peace yet unable to grasp it.

The thought of death was alien to Elves yet it had always held a certain fascination for those who'd seen more of the world than most. All around them things fell and decayed as the Elves stayed evergreen, unchanged by time. The pain felt as the world slowly died about them was an old fear for all Elves and the main reason they'd nearly succumbed to the lure of Sauron and his Rings of Power.

The power to sustain the beauty they saw about them through the ages was an ability the Elves valued above any other. To hide themselves from the decay and the grief of loss was a gift beyond any known upon Arda. Yet there was no joy in the continued life of the man before her.

When first she had seen him she had thought him dead already, little more than a sack of bones that had not yet succumbed to the pull of the earth. But he was not dead. Somehow, through some foul trick of the Witch King he still gripped to life with his cold skeletal fingers.

More than a week now, she'd been following his meandering path through the wilderness. Her commander had told her they did not expect her charge to survive more than a few days at most, yet here he was. Somehow pushing onwards a week after his release from the cells of Carn Dûm, every staggering step looked like it might be his last. Still he went on.

He looked no better. He could barely eat the soft foods that had been given to him upon his parting. So long had he been starved of sustenance that it seemed his body now distrusted and rejected it. His first meal had been thrown up, his second too. After that he had taken to eating very little indeed throughout the day. At least he was able to drink, though the small amount of miruvor granted to him in pity still brought him to dry retching.

After the first day Daewen had considered ending his suffering herself, even if the thought had only been in passing. Such a stark reminder of the cruelty of Middle-earth and the fate of its denizens was painful to behold. She did not act on those thoughts, she would not kill someone so wretched, so utterly deserted by the Valar.

So instead she watched him and she listened. He had been granted enough food to last at least two weeks and with his meagre rate of consumption she believed he would stretch it to much longer than that. Despite having no shortage of food he spent much time foraging for herbs and fungus. Some she recognised, such as the athelas he collected in small quantities. Others were worthless to all, even poisonous. She wondered if perhaps he was intending to end his own suffering by that poison.

He did not. His weathered joints continued to creak like old trees in the wind, his breath still rattled from his lungs all too slow, his heart still beat weakly in his chest, still not content to give up even after so much suffering.

Every morning she was sure that this would be the day when he would not be getting back up yet every morning he did. He would groan in pain and sway perilously as his weak muscles attempted to keep him upright yet still he would stand. Merely seeing the man, Harry Potter, stand was a humbling experience. For an eternally youthful Elf such infirmity was utterly unknown. The strength of the will that drove the body before her must have been absolute.

He was slowly making his winding way towards the Misty Mountains, for what reason she could not guess. When walking he would on occasion talk to himself in a tongue she did not recognise. It was not the Black Speech which she had been told was his sole language. She supposed the unknown words might simply be the gibberish muttered by a fevered mind hovering ever closer to death.

Perhaps his path was chosen simply because the Mountains were the most obvious feature upon the horizon. It seemed to Daewen that he had no real knowledge of where he was or where he was going. Lord Glorfindel had said as much when she had been given this unpleasant task.

It was a concern though, the Misty Mountains were not safe for such a weak and vulnerable traveller. Even an experienced Elvish warrior such as her would need to be on her guard in those high peaks.

Her fears were soon realised. A pack of wargs from the mountains attacked in the night, the huge sentient wolves looking to raid and kill any who now thought themselves free of the evil of the Witch King. They found Harry, the smell of cruelty from the dungeons of Carn Dûm was still heavy on the air about him and drew them in like flies.

Daewen was awake, of course. Elves require precious little sleep and what little they do need can be had with their eyes open and their senses aware. She immediately recognised that there would be no way to keep her charge safe while also remaining unseen. She charged into his sad little campsite and roused him from his slumber before the wolves were upon them.

"Mirz kulatza?" his broken voice growled as he came to immediate awareness. Burning green eyes focused on her in the gloom.

"Wargs," she said without any more explanation for she did not understand what he'd said. "You must get the fire alight again, they fear it. I will keep them at a distance."

Those eyes narrowed for a moment before he nodded and she could see frustration and rage burning within. He bent over the dull glow of the fire and began coaxing it back to life.

Daewen could see dark shapes moving through the woods at the edge of her vision. She took aim and loosed a quick shaft at the nearest and was rewarded with a yelping cry of pain as the creature was struck. Not dead, but it would not pose any more problems for them tonight.

The rest took that as a signal to attack. Soon she was firing arrows as fast as she could place them upon the string and more still were coming. She could see that Harry had got the fire going again beside her and it brought a brief respite as the light and warmth kept the huge wolves at a distance.

The respite was far too brief, the party that assailed them was much larger than she'd expected and together their numbers made them bold. The beasts would charge from the dark in the deep of the woods and each time they would be met by her arrows. Many fell and many more were injured by her shafts but she could not keep her defence up forever.

Beside her she noticed Harry was still tending to the fire, now with his small cooking pot upon the flames as he stirred some of the items she'd seen him collecting into the mixture. She had little idea of what he might be doing, perhaps some kind of poison? Another attack came and she was forced to drag her attention from her charge and back to the Wargs.

She was lucky that that did not have the wits to attack at the same time. Instead they would come one or two at a time and she would have just enough speed with her bow to see them off each time. The huge beasts were so large that only the very best placed arrows could fell them and she simply did not have the time to make more than a few such shots.

A few fell with arrows protruding from eye sockets or buried deep in their chests but most of her arrows did little more than momentarily drive them off each time becoming more enraged by the smell of their own blood.

Her arrows flew until she knew her supply would soon run dry. She did not believe there would be a way to survive this now yet she stood defiant in the face of death. She had been given a task to fulfil and so she would. If she could not then it would by her death that she failed, she would not flee.

She reached for her next arrow and her heart stopped cold, they were all out. She reached for her blades as another charge was but seconds away, she would meet them with steel. Quite suddenly she found herself grabbed by cold and spindly arms that nonetheless seemed to be fashioned from iron for all their strength. Harry had jumped at her and managed to manhandle her round a tree just as the world fell to a momentary breathless silence.

The fire exploded, the hastily crafted mixture throwing out a wall of coruscating purple fire in all directions as the unstable mixture ignited. Her eyes went wide in shock as she felt her hair crisp and burn on her head and her skin blister as the flames passed them by.

The tree had provided them some shelter though as its effects were much more dire for the attacking Wargs. They were unable to escape the roaring flames and each one of them was consumed by them as they cried out in surprise and fear. Their flesh and fur was set to torch by the sorcerous flames and nothing could be done to quench them. They rolled upon the floor or ran into the deep woods in search of respite but none would come. Soon the air was filled with the sickly smell of burning flesh as each one was consumed by the still darkly flickering flames. It took nearly a minute for the wolves to stop howling and struggling and in all that time Harry stared at the scene before him in stony silence.

Daewen felt at her singed hair and looked at her red and raw skin, only so lightly touched by the flames of Harry's creation. She was not prepared for this.

A/N: I won't be providing translations for the Black Speech segments (Glorfindel already did a good job). For anyone wondering Black Speech was not well defined by Tolkien in any of his writings as he deliberately created it to be 'insulting to the senses' and wanted very little to do with it after creating the Ring-verse. Thus I am using the neo-Black Speech from The Land of Shadow website. There are little bits left untranslated by Glorfindel but they're pretty unimportant.