DISCLAIMER: I only own Malsîr, and it's not pronounced mal-sir, but mal-sear. The translation is "golden river." Mal as in mallorn tree.

A/n: Again, I am stealing Glorfindel from Bermuda in the West. Sorry bud. (If you didn't know, Glorfindel didn't come back from Valinor after he died and was reincarnated until about 1000 TA.)

Prologue

There was a time long ago when I knew only despair and exhaustion. After the Battle of the Last Alliance, when Isildur refused my advice, and took the One Ring, I felt betrayed. So many men and elves dead, and so many horribly crippled and maimed—and all for nothing. Isildur could not see it because he was not a healer. But I walked down the isles in the healer's tents and saw the pain and fear there, and I cursed Isildur as a fool. I was angry and tired, and in mourning for my Lord Gil-Galad and Elendil. Trying to help the injured drained me further. I felt numb.

It was dawn. I was tired but could not rest, and the sobbing and screaming coming from the healer's tents would have prevented me from sleeping anyway. I closed my eyes and willed myself to go and aid them. Even if I did not have the strength to heal, I could help with the ointments and such.

"Lord Elrond?"

I looked up at a young elf-girl, small and slender, and very young. Not full-grown as yet, maybe forty years old. Her eyes were sad but her jaw was set in a determined stance.

"Child," I said, "what are you doing on a battle-field?"

"I've come to help."

"There is nothing you can help with. Go home."

"I have none."

I paused. "Where are you parents?"

She shifted, and bit her lip. "Dead," she said at last, and her voice shook slightly. "I want to help you and the other healers, but they threw me out."

"An extra pair of hands is always useful," I told her. "I will speak with the healers. Come with me."

She tagged along behind me, and many wondered at the sight of an elven-child. Few humans had seen one for many, many years. She was the elven equivalent of a teenager, no taller than a fourteen or fifteen year old mortal, but much wiser than a human teenager.

I spoke with the lead human healer, a weary man in his forties, and he finally agreed. By the time I turned back, though, the girl had disappeared. Frowning, I turned as I heard the soft and melodic voice of an elf.

"Am I dead?" a man asked as the girl bent over him. "Is this the afterlife?"

"Not by any stretch of the imagination," she answered with a gentle smile as she washed her hands. "Where do you hurt?"

"My arm was burned," the solider answered. She gently unwound the bandage. I watched her critically, and for some reason I decided not to intervene. She reapplied the ointment and re-wrapped the wound in a fresh bandage. To my surprise, though, she put both her hands on the bandage, and narrowed her eyes slightly. The man sighed with relief and leaned back against his pillow, closing his eyes.

I came up swiftly behind her and pulled her aside. "Where did you learn to do that?" I asked sharply.

"I'm a healer, Lord Elrond," she answered quietly. "I help those I can and try to ease the pain for those I can't."

I bit my lip. "You take the left side, I'll take the right," I said finally. "If you get tired or dizzy, stop and rest or you could hurt yourself." She nodded and we split up. I had put her on the left side of the tent because that was where the less-serious injuries were. I didn't know how much experience she'd had with blood. It would do no good if she fainted.

But she did not faint—indeed, she was fresh and worked faster than I. She'd finished her row about three patients before me, and so came over to see if I need any help. She didn't seem to be weary.

I was struggling to save the life and arm of a man who'd taken a spear through the shoulders and was bleeding heavily. If we couldn't stop the hemorrhage, we'd have to cut the arm off.

She came up as I said, "We'll have to amputate the arm."

"Wait!" She stepped up quickly to the groaning man's side. "I think I can stop it!"

I turned to tell her that I'd already tried anything but she was already in a light trance, her fingers hovering just over the wound and moving back and forth, finally stopping. "There," she murmured, and collapsed. I caught her and eased her to the floor. When I turned back to the patient, my expression twisted into one of shock and wonderment. The wound was not only half-closed already, but the blood had stopped. Even as I watched, I could see muscle and nerves repairing themselves as the wound continued to close. Within a few moments, nothing was left but a faint scar.

I bent down to see if the girl was still alive. Such healing took an extremely large amount of power. She was blinking sleepily, but she was alive.

"What's your name, child?" I asked her.

"Malsîr, sir."

"My dear," I said, "you may just have given me a measure of hope."

Malsîr just smiled.