Disclaimer: So Not Mine. I do this only for enjoyment, not for money, which will tell you something, because I have none.

Author's Note: So the HP characters had their say, now the LOTR ones wanted a go to. Or at least the Peredhil did. Wait, do I ever write anything else?


I was ten, I believe, the first time Adar noticed. I say Adar, for I was yet too young to fully understand all that it meant. Elrohir had fallen out of a tree as we raced, and broken his leg as he landed and I had despaired to see him in such pain. The reaction seemed perfectly normal, as if I knew instinctively what to do, but I had not expected that something so simple, to pour my strength into him through our bond, could accomplish something so extraordinary. Adar was so proud that day; more so, I think, than I have ever seen him, at least towards me.

Elrohir was slower, of course, but his gift came in time, though it was less, and for years he despaired because of it. But it was greater than most, though no match for mine, as mine was not for Adar's.

But then the peace of our childhood was shattered, and evil began to creep once more into the forests of the world, and our passion turned to war and weaponry. For a time, it did not matter, and at first there was no change that I noted. But slowly, as the centuries passed, and my skill with a blade grew stronger, my gift for healing grew weaker. War burned it from me, slowly but surely. It was first to go in Elrohir, as it had been last to arrive. And still for some years after I could summon the power to heal a wound that would have been fatal otherwise. But that too, finally left.

The knowledge remained, of course, for the memory of the elves is long and clear, but it was not always enough. I watched men and elves die under my hand that once, I could have saved. And Adar grew more worried when we rode out to war, and a piece of him seemed to die every time we returned from the wilds, injured and unable to help ourselves. The sword can only do so much, but I have learned the touch of healing can do far more.

But it was not such a hard blow, not until the summer Naneth was captured in the Red Horn and we rode her aid. And so nearly did she come to dying before we returned to the Valley, that for some hours I thought for certain that we would not be in time. And in some ways, at least, we were not. For although Adar healed her body, and that was a near thing; he could not also heal her mind and she sailed the next spring.

At first my anger and need for revenge on the orcs that had taken her consumed the thought of all else. But such passion as that can only burn for so long before there is no wood left to feed the fire. And with the loss of my anger, came the pain of guilt. I know Adar blamed himself, but it was not his fault: it was ours. It was not our swords and skill at fighting that we needed, but the gift of healing that had been given to us, and that we had discarded.

Elrohir begged his forgiveness, but Adar never blamed us. He could not see past his own imagined failing to that of another, and especially not to that of his sons. But we blamed ourselves enough for all.