First try at Lotr fic, tell me how you like it!

Disclaimer:I do not own this, not making money, its Tolkien's, yada yada, meh.

Prologue

Reflect

He gave up.

'You win.' He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers. They felt cold. No elf should feel cold in anything but the worst of weather. 'You win, Glorfindel. I'm done. You were right all along. I am weak, and I am worthless, and I was a fool to think I could ever be anything but. You win.'

Cold night air shot through the thin fabric of his cloak, and he pulled it around his body tighter, shivering. This was unnatural, this coldness; the Fair Folk were immune to such mundane things as the cold. And yet here he was, shivering as though he were one of the Edain again.

He was weak.

'But if I am weak, Glorfindel, it is by no fault of my own but of you. The Fair Folk! Pah! Elves may be just as cruel as Men.'

He flexed his chilled hand again, the other warm in his pocket. He watched it through sad green eyes, looking immediately to the scars, as always.

I will not tell lies.

He brought out his other hand than, ignoring the biting chill. He traced the words etched in his skin as though in a trance. His hand lingered on the last letter, and then he let his hands fall. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side.

No normal elf could scar.

Another one of his oddities to the people of Imladris. One on his head, one on his hand, both plain to see, both equally odd in shape and area even had he not been one of the Firstborn. Visions flickered across his face then-visions of blood and fire and screams, and the dead, so many dead. Too many of them were friends, family almost…

Once upon a time he had gone by the name of Harry Potter… but, that had been over two thousand years ago. But if there was one curse upon the elves it was that which the more foolish man might think a gift-there memory. The elves recalled memory as well as the waking world. The problem was that this extended to all memories of his time as a mortal as well. An especially strong gust of wind came, and the sharp coldness brought him to his senses. Gathering his cloak about himself again he turned and entered the library again. He shut the glass doors to the overhang connected to the library, his sanctuary. He began to walk back to 'his' desk, enjoying the warmth returning to him. He sat and took his quill, dipping it carefully in the ink. He suddenly felt very tired.

He stopped for a moment as this thought occurred to him.

Elves should not be tired, either.

He dipped the quill in his ink again and continued writing his report.

What recovery was this? Did the Valar enjoy pranks? His whole life seemed to be one. He had been sent to them on his seventeenth birthday, just about a month after the war had ended. He had elvish blood, they told him. Not enough, normally, to be given the choice to become an immortal. But he had the blood, and the curse used on him as a baby had been enough to bring it to life. This blood, less than a quarter of his makeup, had had extremely averse effects to the dark curse. The blood from each of his parents, coupled with the loving light-magic of an almost-elf women had saved his life. It had also awakened his blood, and though he had grown a human he could then chose to be immortal.

He wanted to say no. He had seen to much. He did not want to see more, much less such misery again and again throughout the ages. He wanted it to all end, not an everlasting torture. But something had held him back, and before he was aware of what he was doing he had accepted. And then they had offered another choice. He was still healing, they said, still grieving. And there would be few of his kind on Earth. It was not the right place for him. So, what about middle-earth? He would heal there, they promised, and just wishing the memories to stop he had agreed almost before they could finish the offer.

He had yet to find out why Middle-Earth was the right choice.

Elves should not be cold. Elves should not be tired. But then, elves should not be scarred, either. And could he really be called an elf when he was over three-fourths Edain? He hadn't realized he had stopped writing, but he suddenly became aware he was fingering his scar again. He let his hands drop, eyes reading the words again.

I must not tell lies.

He had told many lies.

The words were in English. If there was one thing he liked about the terrible reminder on his hand it was that. This meant no one on Middle-Earth could understand it, and as the characters of English looked so alien to those of Middle-earth they assumed it was not writing at all-just a series of small, odd scars. He took a deep, shuddering breath and picked the quill up once more. He scratched out a few more words, but realized his hand was still a little cold, and he wasn't writing as well as he should be/. Stifling his impatience he rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to gain heat.

This should not be happening, but it was. He had held it off for centuries, and he had finally given up. Nothing was going to change. He knew that know. A shiny tear pricked at his eye, blurring his vision, and he blinked it off quickly. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing for a few more moments, and then Erestor opened his eyes. His hands were warm again. He picked up his quill and resumed the report. He would be fine again tomorrow. Fading was a slow process.


They all looked a little surprised when Erestor entered the room. He was always welcome to eat with them, them being Elrond, Elladon, Elhohir, Aragorn, and Glorfindel. He did not, however, often show. Indeed, normally he preferred to keep to himself, going directly to the kitchens and eating there or in his rooms. Elrond smiled warmly, apparently pleased at his arrival. "Will you be joining us today, Erestor?" He sounded sincerely surprised with this development, but not displeased. Elrond had of late been asking him to join them for meals more often. He rarely agreed to come, but knew Elrond was rather puzzled with his increasing reluctance. Aside from formal affairs he still normally attended an average of half a dozen dinners with the household each year. This amount had diminished the last few years. Erestor was fairly certain he had not ate with them for anything but formal dinners in nearly two. Time meant little to elves, but this was odd even for him.

A chair was quickly brought, as was a meal, and in the blink of the eye Erestor sat at the table as though he was there every day. The atmosphere at the table, however, spoke otherwise. The twins and Aragorn tried to engage their 'guest' in conversation. He smiled at their attempts, answering in turn, but they soon grew disinterested in his bland and reserved responses and let him be. Erestor really could not bring himself to focus much on them. His attention was focused mainly on Glorfindel next to him.

Glorfindel had made no sign to acknowledge his presence, but that was expected. After several minutes Erestor realized Glorfindel would not be making any snide remarks or insults in front of Elrond. He knew better than that. He was able to relax a little more fully then.

Why had he come? He wasn't completely sure. A small frown creased his brow, then cleared as Erestor schooled his face blank.

Elrond has done nothing to me, he reasoned to himself. He is no friend to me, of course, but he cares for everyone, event he most unlikable of people. For one who lives in his house to Fade… He would feel terrible, especially being a healer. I can at least let him know I place no blame with him..

There was a knock on the door. Elrond paused in his conversation with he twins. "Enter."

A messenger walked in, clothing showing that he was from Lothlorien. He looked young, and ducked his head a little at the attention of such people. "My apologies. I bear an urgent message, my lords, from the Lady-" Elrond stood before he had finished.

"Of course, of course," he agreed. He spared an apologetic nod to those seated, then followed the messenger from the hall.

Erestor ate a few more bites of the well-cooked venison, then paused, suddenly aware of the tense atmosphere at the table. He dared glance up quickly and espied the quick, apprehensive looks the younger three shot between him and Glorfindel. Elrond, after all, was now gone.

He tried to go back to eating, hoping everything might still go smoothly, but he should have known better.

"Where did you get that scar, Erestor?"

The voice was innocent, casual, but laced with an unmistakable undertone of scorn. Elladan, Elohir, and Aragorn stiffened. Erestor ignored Glorfindel's question, one he asked nearly every time the seneschal ran across the raven-haired advisor.

A hand stayed his wrist s he tried to continue eating. "It is quite rude, you know, to ignore questions."

Erestor slid his arm from the warrior's grasp. "It may also be considered rude to harass others," Erestor said evenly.

"You could answer, you know." Glorfindel smiled icily. "Is it too embarrassing to even discuss?"

The three 'children', as Erestor thought of them, were now growing very uneasy.

"Glorfindel-"

Erestor's voice cut him off. His voice was cold enough to cause the other's to shiver.

Real Elves do not get cold.

"Are you happy with yourself, Glorfindel?" the elf beside him raised his brows mildly, a look on his face suggesting he was fairly certain Erestor was now talking nonsense.

"With what, may I ask?"

"What you have been hoping for these last centuries, I should think. And you have finally succeeded." He stood. He did not care he sounded insane to the four in front of him. He did not want Elrond to feel guilt, but Glorfindel was another matter. Glorfindel would, he was sure, rejoice thoroughly in his passing, but he had to say something.

You win.

"You win, you bastard," he spat in English. The elves stared at him, baffled. Tears pricked at his eyes-he tried to focus on his anger, but he faded because of grief and sadness, not fury. "I am fading. You have succeeded where hundreds before have failed. You have killed me."

Tears unshed, he spat at the feet of his most hated enemy, turned, and stalked all the way to his rooms. Then he shut the door and fell to the floor, letting the tears fall at last.


"What you have been hoping for these last centuries, I should think. And you have finally succeeded."

Erestor then said something else, something in a strange and rough tongue Glorfindel had never before heard. Unshed tears glittered in his eyes, but his words were not sad but angry, furious. He spat on the ground at Glorfindel's feet, then spun and stalked from the room in high dungeon.

The door slammed shut behind him.

"Why must you prod him so?" Elladan, after a moment of shocked silence, had recovered enough to scold him. "He just sits there quietly and takes it all while you push him farther and farther. What crime has Erestor committed, Glorfindel, to warrant your actions?"

"Is it I alone, then, who finds him suspicious?" he demanded. "He walks through the house like a shadow, friend to none, presenting naught but a cold face and stiff words. He slinks about in the dark and holds nothing but disdain for all-"

"Ai! Ai! A shadow, he says!" cried Elohir. "Aye! And is that such a bad thing? He walks as a shadow, and is as harmless as one as well! There is no reason for you hatred, Son of the House of the Golden Flower!"

"There is something wrong about him!" Glorfindel stood as well, now flushed with anger. He would perhaps have continued had not a servant chose that moment to open the doors with drinks. The elf glanced at them, then did a double-take. Seeing the fury of the Balrog Slayer, he hastily closed the doors and wisely went back to the kitchens. Glorfindel took a deep breath, calming himself. He looked at the twins and a solemn Aragorn squarely.

"There is more to that elf that meets the eye, and nothing of it is good, I am certain. I do not judge so without reason!"

"Perhaps," Aragorn said quietly. "But do you have the right reasons?"


A/N: Please R&R!