Chapter One

"When the trumpets of war end,

when the cries of victory ascend.

When winds rise across the Western sea,

when the lost one once more becomes free.

Two souls a hero reborn shall arise,

strong he will be and wise.

Elven blood mixed with magic's heart,

restore the lost and bring back the start.

For all shall look upon the city on the hill,

Elven hope that can strengthen Hope's will.

Side by side with Death he'll stand,

the beacon of hope, a beacon planned,"

..

..

Deft hands move over the strings of the harp; the tune produced making an echo over the valley below. Memories of war, hate, love, hope, failure filled the user's mind; the hands move again creating another tune…another memory. Desperation, grief, acceptance, forgiveness…the hands move again, another tune, another memory. Memories of two Elflings laughing as they played on the beaches of the shore, their dark heads gleaming on the moonlight….guilt…guilt…guilt. The hands move once more creating another melody, another memory on the strands of life. Screaming, so much screaming. His very being screaming at him to stop, telling him that what he is doing is wrong, but he kept on going. The hands moved in a blurry motion, the tune no longer melodious or calm, but raging, raging like the soul that plays it as memories blur.

His hands move, raising above and striking down a terrified face before him, the blood splattering his body. Guilt and sorrow riveted his very essence. It begged, oh how it begged him to stop; another person charging him, his armor looking more that of a farmer than a real warrior. Oh how his soul cried as he blocked the silly attack of the hatchet before burying it on the ellon's chest. Again and again people like that charged, trying their best to kill him and his men with barely any training on their belts. He wanted to stop, oh how he wanted to stop, but the curse is too strong. The Silmaril, the Silmaril that lived here must be returned. It is theirs, his and his brothers; but this is all so wrong. The Curse of Mandos weighed like a rock on his shoulders, ever painful, ever reminding.

The hands move again fluidly over the strings as more memories pass. The long wandering alone in the darkness of the world as he mourned the very life that he lived. The pain still lingered on his hand even now. When he grabbed a Silmaril, it burned him like nothing else before. It reached to his very fea' damaging it beyond recognition. His right arm still throbbed even though the flesh is unblemished. The damage had been done to his soul and he knew that the pain would never be gone until the day he died and be judged on the Halls of Mandos.

More tunes came as his hands move deftly over the old harp, more memories; the battles that Men and Elves fought against the Dark Lord, their struggles to overcome the darkness that is always trying to take a hold on this land. As for him, he wanted nothing more than to join them on their struggle. Oh how he wished that he could join them but he knew he can't. He was cursed and no sane Elven settlement that had once lived on Beleriand would accept him. Thus he only watched and observed.

Not that he harbored resentment for them, no. The long wandering he made after the "War of Wrath" where Beleriand was destroyed have cooled the ever burning temper he had against those whom he called enemies before. Long he had pondered and thought as he played his music again and again along the four winds of Arda trying to find sense in his now-ruined-life. And in that long vigil of thought, he had managed to glean only one truth.

It was the Enemy's fault.

It is the truth that had destroyed his family; the truth that spurred his father to folly and driven his brothers to madness. The truth that lost a lot of souls for a senseless war that made no point, and all for what?

His fingers strummed endlessly. Death…death...death…so much death, the Battle of Unnumbered tears, the Fall of Nargothrond, Gondolin, Doriath. So much death that his fea hurt on simply remembering it…how can one soul ever bear remembering so much death?

The strings thrummed endlessly like a sounding discord over the peaceful sound of the valley below. And on the changing of the next tune, the deft hands slipped and Maglor, son of Feanor, the greatest musician and poet to Elvenkind and the sole survivor of his brothers who had taken the dreaded Oath of Feanor hissed as the harp's string broke and a painful stinging sensation throbbed on two of his fingers.

"Still bothered by the past I see my friend," the now raspy voice of the former Lord of Eagles sounded as it limped at his side, his massive size easily dwarfing Maglor's.

"It can't be changed Thorondor," answered Maglor in his usual soft tone. Like all minstrels, his voice is rich and accented. The Elven maids back then literally trampled one another to partake as his audience every time he played his harp or recite a poem. His brothers more than once during their days at Valinor before the Silmarils have always teased him that it's so un-ellon like voice. They of course had been right. Never had Maglor risked his voice to the point where it endangered his singing, even in battle. Yes, he is that vain.

"Still, you better get that cut looked over before it infects. Goodness only knows if the people below see how lousy you are with herbs," the Great Eagle chuckled, before it opened its large wings and leaped to the open air of the plateau where Maglor's shanty cottage stood. It is also the place he calls home.

He only watched silently as the Great Eagle soared into open air, wobbling now and then due to its old age and old wounds. Like him, Thorondor was also a veteran of the Wars of Beleriand. He had been there in the War of Wrath when Earendil, the Beloved casted down Ancalagon the Black over the skies. Now the old Eagle like him is nothing more than a remnant of a time now long lost. He had been replaced by his son, Gwaihir the Windlord ever since his age finally caught up to him and Thorondor espying him from afar lived here with him now on the crags of Tel Mithrin on the mountain ranges of the Ered north of the Gulf of Lhun. The place was perfect for both of them. It is well-hidden that only the dumbest (or bravest) of humans from Arnor would dare visit and it had an overview of the Sea and the former home of Noldorin elves in Forlindon. It is a good place for him to meditate and contemplate in peace and also a natural home for the now old eagle. At least with the two of them there, they provide each other wise advice and company when it is needed.

The sounds of songs and feasting below brought Maglor's eyes on that direction. At his vantage point, he could still espy the golden and light colored hairs of the Vanyar below him. Today is supposed to be the Feast of Summer and the Vanyarin Elves simply would not waste a time where they could celebrate; something that even a Teleri Elf can label as excessive, and that is saying something.

Yawning as he listened to the beautiful melodies below him, Maglor simply took the time to wrap his injured fingers with one of the herb-soaked clothe that he picked from his home. Already the sky is showing itself to be clear and tonight would be a nice night for stargazing. Already the first tell-tale signs of the gems of Varda are showing themselves on the night as the sun sets. He also has started the process of restringing his broken harp with one of the longer strands of his hair. Tonight would be a nice night for song and he wondered if he should join the Vanyarin Elves below him.

Unlike their kin who lived on Aman, these Elves stayed here. When the Elves first walked Arda (or Earth in their language), a large majority of them didn't heed the call of the Valar Orome. In fact a large number of them escaped, where some got the worst luck to be captured by the Great Enemy. However there are some who went all over the world, not bothering with the other people and keeping to themselves. Sure the Vanyar unlike the Noldor and the Teleri are the least of the Elven kindred in terms of numbers. But some of them who got lost ever since the First Days apparently ended up here mingling with the Noldor, their numbers growing without anyone knowing it. Only the Noldor and the Vanyar could feel at home with such high mountains looming over like protective barriers at their sides. Despite them being Dark Elves (at least that's how Elves in Aman call those who didn't heed the Valar's call), Maglor found something that he never expected to see again ever since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

Unity; something that the elves of Aman seemed to have forgotten in the height of their wealth and power. Each kindred keeps to himself, barely mingling with those that does not associate with his and its every House to himself. Seeing these Elves content and relaxed with each other's company truly gave him a perspective. If only this unity is present during the War of the Jewels then the outcome of the war would have been different. With so much mistrust on each other, no wonder Morgoth easily crushed them and even used them against one another.

Finished with the last of the strings of his harp, Maglor stood up as he watched the sky now fully turn black as night crept in. Truly it is a night of stars as he watched the familiar constellations of Varda show themselves. That satisfaction though is short-lived as without warning the very clouds dimmed and the stars are covered. Thunder rolled over like drums as lightning cut the very darkness that the storm brought with it. The songs of the Vanyarin below him are no longer present with everyone taking shelter as the rain started pouring; even Maglor had to make a break for it in the safety of his quaint cottage carrying his harp, all thoughts of going down to the others simply disappearing as he wrenched open his home's door to scurry in shelter of the storm.

Soaking wet and very displeased at the losing of what was supposed to be a stress-free evening, Maglor settled on placing his now newly repaired, wet and badly tuned harp on his table as he lit the small candle stand to shower the room with lighting even as the storm rolled in. The candle alone is barely enough to heat his wet clothes but it does the trick on at least clearing the darkness away. It's a good thing too that he didn't try to dry them for as the next thunderclap followed by the cracking of a very near lightning that literally shook the ground, Maglor heard something that for a few seconds he thought only belonged to his imagination.

The cry of a child.

For a second he stood there frozen unable to believe his ears believing that what he's hearing is nothing more than the faint echo of memory from the times he raised Elrond and Elros. His ears perked up as the cry went up again and it is from….OUTSIDE!

Before he knew it, the fallen Noldor prince found his body moving by its own as he kicked the front door open, makeshift hinges flying (he can fix that later) as he went out, ignoring the nearly blinding storm as he focused his legs to sprint on the direction that seven out of ten, he guessed was the source of the cry. Why can't that child cry again so that he'll know where to go? And just as if his prayers are answered, the lightning struck the sky again making the sounds of a child crying barely heard on the storm.

If it was a human tracking down this child, he would have been bamboozled already and would be running at the wrong direction. Not Maglor though. Years of fighting the minions of darkness have honed his senses to the sharpest degree. Even drenched, cold and barely able to hear anything on the storm, he was able to pinpoint the child's location by the cry and was not disappointed.

There in front of him near the very edge of the plateau where the rock ends to a freefall was the naked body of a baby crying, barely to be seen in the gloom of night. Alarm bells however crashed into Maglor's psyche as without warning, lightning flashed and hit the place only inches away from the child sending web-cracked designs all over the rock as the baby cried even more. For anyone watching it seems to be just a second, but for Maglor, it was like watching in slow motion as the edge of the cliff break apart and the baby fall along with it. And just like that, the memory of a crying Elrond and Elros appeared on his face being surrounded by his soldiers to be slaughtered like their small settlement.

"NOO!" he felt himself moving, all sense of self-preservation leaving him as he leapt into open air towards the direction of the little child.

"He must save the baby! He must save the baby!" his thoughts cry out loud as his heavier weight brought him down faster than the crying falling child.

"Just a little more, just a little more," and before he knew it, his arms and hands finally grasp the child and he pulled it into his chest for protection. Only did the realization set in that he's still falling to his death into open air at the side of the cliff with this little bundle of life.

"Not again!" he hissed out loud barely heard through the storm; his right hand maybe holding the child but not his left. With all the strength he could muster Maglor, son of Feanor grabbed at the edge of the rapidly falling cliff, roaring in pain as the stones ripped skin and muscle of his hand before it finally found purchase on the rock that stopped him from plummeting to his death. Not that it helped him. The blood on his now broken left arm is so slippery along with the rain that he found himself slipping fast from the loose rock purchase.

"Is this how I shall end?" he can't help but thought out wryly as he saw double towards the darkness below. It is a fitting end for a traitor and a kinslayer. The cry of the child though pulled him from his morbid thoughts of death. This child is an innocent, it made no wrong. To see such an innocent life die due to his cursed one is soo…sooo!

For the first time ever since he threw one of the Silmarils in the ocean, he cried out loud in prayer to the Valar whom he believed have forsaken someone such as him. "O King to whom all birds are dear, spare this child for it did no wrong! Spare him O King and let him live and I will admit my mistakes!" if he knew that the same prayer Fingon, the son of Fingolfin and the best friend of his brother, Maedhros prayed the same when he rescued Maedhros from Angband, he would have laughed at the irony. As it is he can't do anything as he continued his free-fall.

His prayers are answered. For across the sea, to Manwe Sullimo, his prayer is heard as clear as the sky. And from the West, thundering with wings of vitality spreading through the storm like it belonged with it flew Gwaihir, the Windlord with his aged father, Thorondor. They have heard the command of Manwe and have sped here as fast as their wings could carry them. Just in time too for Maglor's bloody fingers finally lost their grip and the son of Feanor's begging prayers can be heard through the storm as he fell down below….

…straight at Gwaihir's waiting back who had dived in to catch him.

"The king have heard your cry musician and he has bidden us to aid you," spoke Gwaihir as he flew back towards the edge of the plateau to the side of Maglor's house, landing with a gentle "thud". "Take heart Feanorian, you're not about to die today. I'm afraid though that your penance for the sins you've made will start in a moment,"

For Maglor who had been too stressed and exhausted with the terrifying ordeal barely recognized the words of the Great Eagle who took his leave before taking off leaving Maglor holding the still sniffling baby at his right arm with his left temporarily out of commission, bleeding quite heavily. He's just too relieved to be still alive. He had been sure then and there that he will die.

Wincing as his body finally recognized the abuse that it just undertook with his daredevil action of jumping through the cliff and using his arm to stop his fall. In fact if he's honest with himself, the pain is everywhere and it took all he had to even open his now banged up door letting the cold air in which immediately snuffed out the candle-light.

The lightning flashed again and it took Maglor five seconds to realize that he's not alone on his quaint little cottage. There standing at the edge of the living room cloaked in shadows and darkness is a person that Maglor would have been happy never to see in the next millenia or so.

"Greetings son of Feanor," the judge of the Dead said simply as if it's just another day, sending shivers at Maglor's back. Until now he still remembered the same voice that put the Curse that broke his family apart. The very same curse uttered by this person standing nonchalantly in front of him.

The effort it took to simply breathe is herculean for the disgraced Noldorin prince as he stood there shaking in his wet boots and tunic as he stared at the Doomsman of the Valar. Those ageless eyes of eternal night caught his and Maglor froze as a statue as the Judge of the Dead spoke, his voice making the very stones tremble and the storm if even possible, stronger.

"Great opportunity is given to you Son of Feanor. Although you do not deserve it, you have passed the test and have earned the right to be the one to raise this child," his eyes turned to the small bundle of innocence at the Elf's hand and raised one finger to touch it. Maglor did his best to move to resist letting the Valar's finger to touch him but the power that kept him rooted on the spot didn't let up, leaving him powerless standing there helpless as said finger touched the boy's brow.

The child immediately cried out loud as a lightning shaped wound marked his right brow just below the dark-red locks he had where Mandos' fingers made contact. Blood poured from the fresh wound and Maglor struggled even more, this time with a little more success as instead of standing there like a statue, he is now able to at least shake in anger at the sight of the bloody wound on the child's forehead.

"A future this child shall have. Life reborn he is. Two souls merged as one. One given hope; another giving guidance. A King he shall be, and by his strength and wisdom, the rock of the music water will once more rise and the Hidden City shall once more stand. But beware son of Feanor for a father you will be and I will give the same warning to you to part into him. Love not too much the works of your hand for the true salvation of the Elves lies on the sea,"

And as fast as he came, the Doomsman of the Valar disappeared into thin air leaving a still shaking Elf alone inside the dark house that immediately went up in light as flames appeared on every candle-stand, even the hearth, basking the room in warmth and stopping the cries of the child who felt the comforts of home. It also awaked Maglor from his stupor making him shake his head to clear his mind as his brain still whirred endlessly, putting to heart the words of the Valar as he took for the first time one clear look at the child sleeping at his arm. Mandos said that this is a second life right? Something extremely rare privilege to reborn souls of the Elves.

What he saw nearly made him drop the child in shock and no small amount of awe as he registered that dark-red hair on the tuft of the child's head. There's only one elf who had hair as vibrant as that that ever graced the Elven race. And Maglor is very familiar with him. This child is….this child is…

"Maedhros, my brother," Maglor spoke out loud as he sat in disbelief at the couch in front of his hearth.

..

..

Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Conquered, the Hero-of-Light, and so many others that he himself can no longer even remember. If there's one thing he learned in life, it's simply this: "Fate is never kind,"

One would think that after toppling the Dark Lord strong enough to start conquering the entirety of the Wizarding world, Life would give him peace? No. In fact it turned even more hectic than before. Paparazzi, reporters and even the regular civvies became an annoyance in his very life. Popularity has never been his strong suit and he had always loathed it, even doing his best to shy away from it as best as he can. Being a celebrity however made that impossible and from there, his life slowly turned into a downward spiral of decadence and decay.

He had almost been excused to graduate on his seventh year in Hogwarts since he's "too powerful" already. It took him pressuring the Board to allow him that made them even agree. That didn't stop them though from putting him into the Head Boy position which no one contested much to his ire.

From there he began his lie, marrying Ginny Weasley having three children, becoming a respected Auror and part-time Quidditch champion of England. It is a simple life, a good life that he dreamed of; a family, stable job and good career, and privacy. Unfortunately it's just nothing more than just a dream.

Paparazzi honed him day and night making privacy impossible as his every action and decision is judged by the public. There's also the horrifying fact that he found out that his wife is nothing more than a fangirl who dreamed to walk in the fame of the famous "Harry Potter" and lived lavishly, bathing in the spotlight and spoiling two of his three children rotten. His career didn't fare any better.

While being an Auror is a serious job. Too many Dark Wizards are too afraid to move out of their hidey-hole ever since Voldemort fell making the job useless and the people in it extremely lax and bored. The fact that many of them also resented Mr. Potter for becoming the youngest Auror Captain (being appointed by the Minister of Magic himself) without earning his rep didn't help. The government also didn't change much. Despite Kingsley Shacklebolt's best efforts, the pureblood dogma which had plagued the Wizengamot still remained and nothing changed much for the wizarding world except for the fact that there's no longer a Dark Lord breathing down on their necks at the moment.

The fact that his friends did not fare good as well as him also bogged down his spirits. Hermione who is one of the most intellectual witches of Britain is forced to be a housewife and Ron, who had tried to become an Auror with Harry had dropped out, feeling that the lazy office and circumstances are even too much for him. In the end he ended up nothing more than a common employee on the Chudley Cannons cleaning the player's lockers. All in all, it is a very unfitting future for the two celebrated sidekicks of Mister Potter.

Then the worst thing happened for him. In his fortieth year, his eldest, James, too spoiled and rotten thanks to the devices of his mother bathing their family in the limelight of paparazzi raped a girl he crushed on from Hogwarts and accidentally killed her. He immediately got into prison of course. At first he was sentenced to be kissed by a Dementor, but being the son of Harry Potter, they lessened the sentence and instead sent him to Azkaban for life.

His wife of course tried to get him out, using Harry's fame as a tool to succeed on freeing her son. She didn't succeed and the family was devastated by the loss of their eldest. Not that it frazzled Ms. Potter from leaving the famous lifestyle she dreamed of.

Harry though has enough. His daughter got into drugs without them knowing and a year after; Lilly Potter was found dead in a sidewalk with her throat slit. Another missing piece on their family, Ginny took to safeguarding her grief with her hobbies and they barely function as a family anymore.

Broken and tired of his life, Harry finally left everything to Albus Severus, his heir and last child (who ironically is the level-headed of his siblings) before leaving for Hogwarts and applying as a Professor there like his old mentor. It did not take long for him to be Headmaster since McGonagall's getting on in years, and he like Dumbledore continued the legacy of educating young wizards.

Fleur Weasley, former Fleur Delacour joined him in his hundredth year. She had gotten divorced with Bill since the elder Weasley showed signs of being infected by the Were virus that had started manifesting in his late years. She brought with him, their daughter Victoire who also applied for being the Groundskeeper assistant of Hagrid.

Time passed on for Harry of course. It's almost a blink of him being a hundred and meeting hundred and sixty. He kept himself isolated on the outside world, focusing on his Headmaster duties that would have made Salazar Slytherin himself proud. Now on he's deathbed waiting for the call of rest that he so desires. His life had not been fulfilling or happy, and if not for the familiar comfort of Fleur whom he gotten to befriend before her death in his hundred and fortieth year, he would have been more depressed. Now he lay here as the familiar cold hand finally touch his shoulder and the last thing that Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Conquered saw was the face of his now mature child and his children and grandchildren sitting at his side.

..

..

Whiteness…it's the first thing that greeted him as he opened his non-existent eyes. In fact if he's honest himself, he could imagine himself nothing more than a floating orb of white only responding at the direction of his will. Slowly the light faded and for the first time he noticed that his orb-self is inside a large hall with open columns that led to three doors at different directions. He didn't fail to notice countless other orbs also present going this way and that though large numbers of them seemed to go into two doors that sat side by side. In fact now that he noticed it, he can feel himself moving also with a fair number of other white orbs going with the others towards one of the doors. Does that lead to the afterlife? Then where does the other door lead? And why is no one entering the third door.

The pack of Orbs became tighter and tighter as he neared the door, it is as if everyone's in a hurry to get inside and be done with it. In fact if he's honest with himself, he's also in a hurry to see his afterlife, to see his mother and father again waiting for him, to see his lost friends and mentors.

At least that's the original plan until he heard a cry…or more like a sniffle.

Ever the hero, the Man-Who-Conquered would later wonder how such an action changed his future as he separated himself from the other white orbs heading to the open gate and followed the source of the sound which did not take long since the others for some reason doesn't give two shits about it as they went on their merry way. Really, are all these people (or souls) that insensitive? Why do they not notice when a little kid was crying?

Finding the source of the crying, which is an orb hiding behind one of the columns near the third door, imagine his surprise finding not a white orb like himself but a blood red orb waiting there. Too late though, the moment he got near enough, the red orb lunged forward and if souls could scream, Harry Potter's just did as the third door slammed open sucking the now conjoined orbs inside the door before it shut close and knew no more until he woke up with blank memories with the sound of thunder and lightning surrounding him.