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The Rethlapa were a simple folk but hardy. Harry found himself enjoying life with them even despite the language barrier. Of the tribe of perhaps two dozen families fewer than ten spoke enough Westron to hold a conversation with him. Even so Harry never wanted for company during his time with them. Upon his arrival amongst them Thiadulf took much joy in introducing Harry to every member of his group, Harry quickly found himself lost in a sea of names.

"These are my sons," said Thiadulf as he beamed with unrepressed pride at the two boys who stood before Harry. The first was perhaps sixteen or seventeen and had many of the features of his father though he had yet to grow into them. The younger was no more than six and stared up at Harry with wide blue eyes. Thiadulf had then continued, "Thiadward the elder and Thiadwi is the younger. A Wizard's blessing will have them grow strong!"

Harry's eyes had flicked to the large man at his side as he tried to work out what he meant. He wanted Harry to 'bless' the children in some way? Harry did not think there was any magic that could do that so easily. The closest thing he knew was the protection his own mother had granted but such things ran deep in the blood, bone and magic and no mere words could express that kind of gift.

Instead he had placed a hand upon their foreheads and said a few words in English, "May you grow strong, live long and know friendship and love in all your years." The words felt stupid and empty to him, as if he was taking part in one of the plays at his old primary school but it seemed to satisfy Thiadulf.

The chief of the Rethlapa had slapped a hand heavily upon the shoulders of his children then shook them as he said, "En graten jeve thi haebben weta na."

Both boys bowed their heads to Harry and muttered quiet words that Harry could barely hear, their meaning was clear though. They were thanking him. He did not know how to respond and so merely smiled and nodded his head as if he understood. It seemed to satisfy them.

Then Harry was hurried onto the next; a bowed old crone with but a single protruding tooth, then a weathered warrior who had more scars crisscrossing his face than even Harry, then a girl with straw coloured hair and rosy complexion. Then Thiadulf's wife, Enna, a tired but kind looking brunette. More and more were brought to him and Harry floundered and began to feel besieged by the numbers of smiling and enthusiastic faces.

He had sighed in relief when finally Thiadulf left Harry's side to preside over the preparations for a feast in his honour. He'd tried to find a quiet corner to sit down and calm himself. He hadn't realised just how uncomfortable he had become around people.

In his first week with the Rethlapa that much desired peace rarely came. He was an item of both awe and curiosity. A small gaggle of children and teenagers followed him wherever he went and the only respite he had been able to find was when he ducked quietly into one of the covered wains as they marched slowly across the eastern plains.

The Rethlapa led a fairly harsh life, like all the tribes and groups that wandered the great plains of Rhûn. They had a small herd of hardy goats which provided them with milk, cheese and a small amount of meat on occasion. Their horses were their most precious commodity, they were huge hairy beasts that Harry felt looked like a mix between shire horses and highland cattle. They were not pretty beasts, not easy to tame and impossible to ride but they were hardy, and hardy was the most important quality one could possess upon the plains of Rhûn.

Each night, around the fire, he listened to tales from the other tribe members. The aged and scarred warrior, who Harry discovered was called Wambald, translated them as they were told.

There was the Bitiwind, the wind with teeth as Wambald translated it. A constant gnawing, grating wind that rose up on the plains in the early months of the year. They told old tales of men who'd lost their minds in the unrelenting wind and of children who'd been near flayed when dust and sand had been whipped up into the gale when they'd strayed too far from the home-wains.

Another told tales of great worms that burrowed through deep rock and stone, the great wereworms of the furthest East. No more than a tale to the Rethlapa, who did not travel so far beyond civilisation but what tales they were.

Huge creatures said to be more than a hundred meters long. They had great maws studded with sharp glittering diamond teeth and they put through the stone of the Eastern wastes like a fish through water. One of the old women told the tale of a wanderer who'd walked the winding tunnels of the wereworms, and had seen a great city of light beneath the earth where the were-king held court.

That led into tales of the great dragons and wyrms of the North, huge beasts near as large as a wereworm but with breath of flame and a cruel and cunning intelligence. They sounded like larger versions of the dragons Harry knew from his home, but it was their intelligence and magical power that was most feared. They could steal the memories from a man or curse him to insanity. Merely fighting a dragon was a great tale for the campfire but few of those tales had a happy outcome, most died in the moment of their victory, as the final spite of the dragon led them to their doom.

There were also stories of great raids into the west. The most recent just thirty years ago. That was why many of the elders spoke the language of the West. Wambald himself had been a young warrior at the Battle of Svartfior, the Battle of Fire in the Dark, when the army of Gondor had descended upon the camp of the coalition of Rhûn in the darkness. He pointed to a cruel jagged scar that ran across his eye and nose as he explained what had happened.

"Herumor the Great led us," he explained, his eyes distant. "A great warrior, but cruel. He was not of the plains folk, he came from the East or the South, I do not know. He wielded a great power and none among the tribes had the strength to stand against him."

All eyes were on Wambald as he began his tale, one of the other older women murmured low as he spoke and translated his words for the younger members.

"He came to our people in the days of my grandfather's grandfather and seemed never to age. Always tall, always strong as iron and cruel as the winds. The tales say we tried to fight; we were of the North and Herumor commanded us to wage war against the South. The chief of the time tried to defy his command but he and his greatest warriors were all bested in moments. It is said Herumor wore nothing more than the fine silks of the men of the East when he laid the tribe low, so great was his strength. By the time I was born we had been following him to war for more years than I can count.

"He claimed his strength came from his master but he was the only master we ever knew. He led us on great raids on the soft people of the South, their villages and cities fell to our warriors. Even their Kings died at our hands and we took the women and children as slaves to be sold or enjoyed." He looked remorseful as he remembered his actions as a young man.

"Slavery was not the way of the plains folk before his coming, we were proud and equal. What value is a slave to us? Just another mouth to feed; two more feet to ache. But he gave us a taste of renown, the greatest glory our people had ever known. The great realms of the South trembled at our passing." The younger members of the audience listened enraptured as he continued.

"Ondoher of Gondor was slain by Herumor's own hand at the Battle Beneath the Mountains and his line was broken. We believed that victory had come at last, that the Kingdom of the South had been laid low and ended at our blades. We celebrated long and well, I remember it well, my own wife bore me a son on those days, he was to be called Grimstreda when he grew old enough to take a name." He took a deep swig of the alcoholic drink in his hand.

"They fell upon us in the night, when all were silent or deep in their cups. There was no warning and their horsemen trampled all as they charged through the camp and set the wains aflame. I tried to fight, I stood to protect my wife and my family in the face of the vengeful army of Southrons.

"Some of us tried to flee further South, they hitched the wains and whipped the beasts to their greatest speed in their flight. Most of them died as they fled into the Dead Swamps which swallowed wagons and men both without mercy. I remember their screams, the women and children drowned in mud and blood. I remember Herumor himself being put to flight in the panic, to drown like an unweaned babe in the hungry marshes.

"I was lucky that night, Edilda and the babe escaped into the night with me. The next I was not so lucky. Our people were broken and lost, long years of cruelty meant we had little else. Men, my own people, came upon our camp the next night and left me with this scar when I tried to fight them." His finger traced the long scar slowly.

"They took her, and they killed the babe." He stopped abruptly and stared into the fire morosely.

There was a long awkward silence before one of the women began singing a lament. Harry couldn't understand the words and the tune was simple but the effect still caused his hairs to stand on end. Her voice was a little warbling and unsure but it held such sympathy and sadness that none of that mattered. Soon others joined in and gradually the dark mood was forgotten as the songs became happier and more upbeat. Soon the younger ones were dancing while the elders cheered them on.

Harry snuck a glance at Wambald who was watching the young dancers with a sad smile on his face as he clapped and struck his knee to the beat. He could not help but feel a very real respect for the man.

o-o

Harry's arrival had signalled a change of direction for the group. The wizard Frodrinc was apparently many weeks march to the east and south but Thiadulf had claimed that seeing Harry to him would be no burden to his people. They were travelling in that direction anyway for they carried many goods and food between the lands in the far east and the Dwarven holds in the Grey Mountains of the North.

Harry had tried to argue that they need not put themselves out for him and Thiadulf had simply laughed it off. There was no greater boon for his people than to bear a Wizard on his way he claimed. After experiencing the seemingly endless goodwill of the Rethlapa Harry was unwilling to deprive them of the good luck they felt his presence would bring them.

However it did mean he had to continue his escapes from the prying eyes and searching but to him incomprehensible questions of the children of the tribe. So it was that he found himself taking refuge within the dark and noisome wain that always brought up the rear of their travelling column.

"You are hiding from the little ones again, Harili?" a voice asked him from the gloom at the back of the wain. He recognised it as the voice of Uda, the eldest of the tribe and a soothsayer of sorts. She was also one of the few who understood Westron and could speak it clearly.

Harili was what she and many of the others called him. He supposed it was unsurprising that they elected to alter his name to have a more ready meaning. Thiadulf had told him that the name meant 'high stranger' or perhaps 'unknown wanderer' and Harry found that curiously fitting for himself. It had the benefit of keeping him separate from them in their minds as well as his own. He did not object to it.

"You have surely seen much greater evil in your past than the curiosity of children?" she inquired as she leaned forward so that she was more visible to him, her dark eyes glittered in the gloom.

"I am sorry, I did not know you were in here," he'd apologised quickly. The children seemed to fear this particular wain and always stayed at a distance from it. He could see why. The interior was hung with the pelts and parts of many animals and the air was heavy with a pungent smell of perfume and decay.

"Hush, child," she said quellingly as she raised herself to her feet within the slowly swaying murk and hobbled closer to him. "You are always welcome here, as you are with any of the Rethlapa."

She took a seat again nearby and gestured to him to join her upon the floor of the wain. After a moment's thought he did so. He had to admit to a significant amount of curiosity in the old woman.

"But perhaps while you are here you would like to talk to one who would listen?" she suggested kindly.

Harry intended nothing of the sort. Instead he opted to ask about her. "I was told you were a soothsayer?" he said quickly.

She smiled broadly and put her single tooth on display as shrewd eyes assessed Harry. "I do not think you are the kind to seek your fate in the fall of bones or the entrails of a hawk."

"Not by choice, that much is certain," Harry admitted. "But as I am here perhaps you could explain how it works?"

Uda cackled so suddenly that Harry started in shock. "It doesn't!" she crowed. "Who would think something made of dirt and water could know anything of the future?"

Harry had the uneasy feeling of a support being pulled out from under him. He had not expected that at all. "It what?"

The aged soothsayer's laughter reduced to a quiet but persistent chuckle before she finally explained. "It's people, child," she said as if such should be obvious. "It is people that weave the fates, you need only ask them, if you know how."

He stared at her smiling and wrinkled face for a long moment as he tried to understand what she was saying. "You mean that you read people's fates in themselves, not the world around them?"

"How would the world know what they will choose?" she asked keenly. "We each have a fate and of it we are the primary architect. Some have the greater, others the lesser and those with great fates may sweep the lesser like dust before them but even the meanest may control their own small fate if they have the will."

Harry considered her words in silence under her approving gaze. In some ways it was not so very alien as it felt. After all, had Dumbledore not said that the prophecy's only power was that granted to it by Voldemort in his fervent belief?

Harry held no illusions that his own fate was the lesser when weighed against that of Voldemort. Voldemort had the power to control the world for an eternity while Harry had only the strength to break it. He knew that creation was always the much greater task when compared to destruction.

His own fate had been swept up in Voldemort's, given reason and purpose by the greater purpose of the Dark Lord. It was a humbling and yet liberating idea. But one question remained.

"What is my fate?" he asked. "Will I be able to return home?"

Uda looked him over again, her eyes roaming across his features and seemingly to take in every aspect of his being. The ever-present perfumed smoke curled between them and for a long moment was the only movement to be seen within the wain.

"Yes," she said simply.

Harry waited a moment as he waited to see if there would be more to come, there was not.

"Is there no more you can tell me?" he pressed.

"Nothing that you do not already know," Uda said with an expressive shrug. "It will be hard, you will have to make sacrifices but should you choose you may return home in time. Wherever that may be."

Could it be that she had some skill as a seeress? Harry did not think so, she certainly had nothing of the bearing of Professor Trelawney. Or perhaps she had some skill at reading the mind of a man? That also seemed unlikely to him for he was sure he would have felt any intrusion even if he had been unable to turn it away.

"How can you know that?" he asked quietly. "I don't know that."

"I think you do," she replied. "You just don't wish to acknowledge it. I can see it in your eyes, you will return home and will not allow anything to stay you. Such a path will always be fraught with danger and sacrifice, and so too will yours."

Harry shifted uneasily as he realised that what she said was of course true. He still clung to the hope that his return might prove easy, that somewhere in a dusty library there was a book that told him how to travel between worlds.

It was a ridiculous idea, and yet still he held to it. If he gave up on it he was not sure what he would do, he wasn't sure what he could do. There simply had to be a way, it was that simple.

They were joined in the gloomy cart by another figure whom Harry recognised as one of the older girls in the group of children that had taken to dogging his every step. The girl with straw coloured hair and ruddy complexion, he tried to remember her name but came up entirely blank. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, not all that much younger than Harry himself and yet she looked to him like little more than a child. In her hands she held a bowl of the dried meat that was much of the diet of the Rethlapa.

She belatedly noticed Harry's presence within the cart and a high pitched noise issued from her as her eyes grew wide in surprise. "Sarig!" she said hurriedly. "Ik dwe nawet kanna thu hir."

"Hsh, bern," said Uda kindly to the girl before then turning to Harry. "Young Regana is here to help with my feeding, she will be no bother."

Harry looked at the girl, Regana, again and she carefully avoided his gaze. Her eyes remained steadfastly fixed upon the rough wooden bowl in her hands. For a moment some small part of him wanted to disagree with the old crone and have the girl sent away but he soon realised that it was utterly unreasonable of him to make such demands.

He made up his minds and extended an arm towards the girl in the way of the Rethlapa. Tentatively and very gently the girl grasped his elbow as he did hers, after a moment they released their hold and in her eyes he saw a spark of confidence kindled.

"I am pleased to meet you, Regana." He bowed his head just slightly in greeting.

"Der thu gunga, bern." said Uda to their young companion. "Nu hit is me an min kost."

She quickly bowed her head deferentially and took her seat beside Uda. Much to Harry's surprise Regana then began to chew upon the food she had brought for the old seeress. He watched as the young girl chewed thoroughly upon the tough meat before finally spitting it out and handing it across to the old woman.

"You will be grateful for such thought when you reach my age, child," Uda said a little sharply. Harry realised he'd been staring with an expression of mixed disbelief and distaste and hastily wiped it from his features.

"I am sorry," he said, and he stumbled over his words. "I have never seen that done before."

"Then you are either fortunate that your elders did not have need of it, or unfortunate that you knew no elders at all." She swallowed down another lump of chewed meat and smiled at the young girl beside her.

After that day it became something of a habit for Harry to spend much of his time with the old soothsayer. From her he learned much of the people among which he now walked, much of how they lived felt so familiar to him. They were more like one large family than a group of families, when anyone was ill or injured all would give what aid they could. The children were cared for as a group and each woman of the tribe took turns overseeing the youngest of their children.

She also showed him some of her own magic.

"Thiadulf claims that you are half a wizard," Harry asked one day before they were joined by the now nigh ever-present Regana.

Uda cackled in the now familiar way before pushing herself slowly to her feet to riffle through one of the many bags and pouches that littered her dark caravan. "Not magic, child," he said, her voice muffled as she looked through a large sack. "No more than my soothsaying. Magic is just knowing better than others how things work."

She pulled a small box of greenish powder from the sack and handed it to him. "There's a piece of magic for you. Keep it if you like."

Harry turned the little box this way and that as he looked at the powder within. "What does it do?"

"It makes a fire burn bright green." She grinned artfully. "Very impressive magic."

"That's it?" he blurted out before looking embarrassed.

"That's all it is," she said simply. "But it is not all that is."

Harry paused as he tried to understand her meaning. After a long moment of thought he asked, "Do you mean that the powder and green flame is only one part of it?"

"You're getting better at this!" she crowed happily. Harry had noticed that she seemed to delight in giving cryptic answers and sitting back to watch others puzzle them out. "I told you before that it is people that choose their fates, all I need do is make them believe it is possible."

"You trick people into thinking they have magic behind them?" he asked before he thought about exactly what it was he was saying. He had done the same, had he not, in his sixth year at Hogwarts. When he had tricked Ron into thinking he had been given Felix Felicis he had done exactly what she claimed to do. But surely that was harmless, what Uda was doing was different.

"What else would you do?" she asked with a single raised brow. "I cannot help them myself, I can help them help themselves though."

"But if they had to fight and they thought they had magic as their ally then they may be hurt." said Harry quietly.

"They would be less likely to take hurt if they believed themselves alone?" Uda shook her head. "Hope is never a weakness when the alternative is death."

Harry sat quietly for a long time before finally nodding acceptance. Her point was sound in truth. As long as they did not believe themselves immune to harm then they would surely fight all the harder in the knowledge that there was at least some hope for success.

They were soon joined by Regana as they often were. She'd taken to spending as much time in Uda's wagon as she could manage and both her and Harry were attempting to learn each-other's languages with the ever present help of Uda herself.

"Ic gretan thu, Regana," said Harry in greeting.

She smiled happily but didn't meet his eyes. "I greet you and, Harry."

Harry nodded. "Thankian thu," he said before switching back to Westron. "It would be 'I greet you too'."

There was the slightest flicker of annoyance in her eyes but it was clear that it was directed at herself. Harry was easily outpacing her in his efforts to learn the language of the Rethlapa. It was relatively simple when compared to Westron but used much of the same sentence structure.

"You'll get there," he said encouragingly. "You haven't been learning long. It took me months." He forced down the dark images that came alongside that thought. Those times were behind him.

She offered him a shy but grateful smile and took a seat on the floor with the bowl of food that mad been made up for Uda. Usually the girl sat by Uda but today she elected to settle into a place next to where Harry was seated.

Harry caught the merest flickering of a grin from Uda as she watched and decided it would be for the best if he stretched his legs. He had been spending more and more time in this dark wagon over the last days. He pushed himself upright using the stave that he'd come to carry with him everywhere he went. He found it gave his hands something to do and the solid weight was much soothing to him.

"I am going to join the walkers," he said to them both as he went to leave. "I need to stretch my legs a little. I have been sitting doing little but talk for too long."

Uda nodded seriously, Harry couldn't make a guess at what she was thinking. Regana looked a little disappointed but managed to cover it up well. She smiled at him, revealing her crooked teeth and wished him a good day in Westron.

As it happened the Rethlapa were just about to stop their march for their afternoon meal, the same one now being chewed for Uda by Regana. Harry wound his way through the wagons until he found someone he knew he could talk to.

Wambald was standing by one of the leading wagons talking to a young man who looked a little by Thiadulf to Harry's eyes. He wasn't sure but he didn't think the boy was the elder son, he admitted that he should have made a much greater effort to remember the names of his hosts.

"Harili!" said Wambald with as much enthusiasm as the grizzled warrior ever mustered. "What do you know of wielding that staff of yours?"

Harry glanced at the thick wood of his stave. It was a little over five feet long and a little over an inch in diameter. He realised that he didn't really know what wood it was made from, he'd assumed that the time he'd picked it up that it had fallen from the trees by the river but they'd all been Pine with a light coloured bark. Whatever tree this came from had much darker bark, and very rough. His use of it over the last month had smoothed out a portion around where he usually held it and it had gained a dark lustre.

Whatever it was it would surely be able to do some damage if he was to hit someone with it.

"Not much, I have never needed to know," he said openly.

The elder man shook his head unhappily. "Do not carry a weapon you cannot use," he said firmly. "You should join Liudulf here in his training."

Of all the men in the tribe Wambald was the least awed by Harry's position as 'Wizard'. Harry was grateful to the man that he'd offer something useful rather than joining the children, and a few of the adults, in asking for spells. He seemed to see Harry as little more than a young man who lacked a place in the world. That was actually something of a relief.

"Perhaps I shall, I have need of some activity to keep me from boredom," Harry allowed. "Thiadulf will not allow me to dirty my hands, he says such labours are below a Wizard such as myself."

"No-one is above self-protection," said Wambald firmly.

That evening Harry found himself standing outside the circle of wagons with Wambald, Liudulf and a couple of other young men from the tribe. He could tell immediately that though Wambald was certainly an experienced warrior he didn't have the experience or grace of Daewen.

Liudulf and the others were excited when Harry joined them at their practice and all swarmed towards him babbling words too fast for him to comprehend. Wambald's booming voice soon sent them back to their places with hasty apologies and Harry took the opportunity to watch them in their sparring.

The younger ones bore sturdy looking wooden canes as they played at fighting, the elder ones fought with the flat of their blades or the reverse of their axes. The weapons were rough and made of poor metal, their technique was little more than brute force. Compared to his Elven knife it was as if they were attempting to beat each other into submission with rocks.

But they were effective enough. When Harry joined in with one of the eldest of the young warriors as Wambald looked on vigilantly he quickly accumulated a number of bruises from the many blows that got passed his pitiful defence. The old warrior took a keen interest and spent much of the time teaching Harry how to use his staff to block swords or axes correctly.

"Do not just hold the staff out to block," he said as he swung his own branch as a sword. "Any good sword or axe will cut through it with ease. You must sweep it away, not merely stop it."

Despite knowing that surely the advice was sound Harry found it hard to follow. While he was much healthier and stronger now after long weeks out from under the thumb of the Witch King he didn't have anywhere near the strength or stamina to fight with the heavy staff for more than a couple of minutes.

He grit his teeth to the pain and carried training on into the darkening night even as his body protested each block and stroke. He couldn't afford to be weak. He would not allow it.