Author's Note: I can't really make any excuses for how long this took me to write. Perhaps it was the fact that I felt the need to stuff a whole crapload of Harry into this chapter. But since there was a LoTR marathon recently, I knew this had to be finished pronto. I am thoroughly ashamed of how long this took.

Warnings: Angst, character death

The Stations of the Cross:

Second Station

Who would believe what we have heard? To whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed? He grew up like a sapling before him, like a shoot from the parched earth; there was in him no stately bearing to make us look at him, no appearance that would attract us to him. He was rejected and avoided by Men, a man of suffering, accustomed to infirmity, one of those from whom Men turn away, and we held him in no esteem. (Is 53:1-3)

Addramyr and Lirarwen of Gondor were the last people you would expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious. The couple had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They did not think they could bear it if anyone found out about their son, Harandir.

They thought they were quite fortunate to have such a beautiful child, blessed with the green eyes and warm spirit of his mother, but he had his father's disarrayed dark hair growing on his head. When he was born, only the families of his parents knew of him. Lirarwen was hoping to show him to her few friends living in the settlement, but she and Addramyr discovered they could not allow him to be seen by anyone else. The first time Harandir started to cry from hunger, Addramry had barely reached his cradle before the boy disappeared from his sight and reappeared in Lirarwen's arms. They knew what this was - however impossible it seemed, however they wanted to believe otherwise.

They loved their son, and they feared what might happen if anyone was to discover his strange… gift. As he grew older, they saw the gift grow. He made things move without having to touch them. He controlled animals with just his thoughts. He healed small wounds in the blink of an eye. Harandir had never caused harm with his gift, but Addramyr knew that the slightest display of the unnatural power to anyone would cause panic. In their fear, people would act rashly and want to harm their boy. He and Lirarwen could not allow that.

As they extracted the promise for his discreetness daily, they never thought the power was not unnatural at all; they could never imagine that the gift was from the Valar - that their son himself was sent by the Valar.

But there was someone who did know.

Sauron stole into the humble settlement just outside of Osgiliath on a calm, cool night, when the frost of winter had melted and people were waiting for the first blooms of spring. Lirarwen was putting Harandir, already five years old, to rest when she heard the subtle noise coming from outside. It became more menacing before Addramyr made it to the door.

Lirarwen and Harandir both noticed the way he froze and his eyes widened, but and boy was old enough to understand the look of fear on his father's face.

Juts as the boy opened his mouth to question his father, Addramyr signaled for him to stay silent.

"Take Harandir and go."

He had just managed the cautious whisper to his wife when the door crashed open, the flying splinters causing Addramyr to raise an arm over his eyes.

He did not see the face of his attacker before he was killed.

Lirarwen could not spare the breath to scream or sob. She pressed Harandir behind her and turned to face the stranger, shielding her small son with her body.

"What do you want? We have nothing of value here!" It was only a whispered plea, but it was all she had the strength for.

"Give me the boy."

The sound of the cold voice made Harandir cling tighter to his mother; he felt her shudder faintly. The cloaked stranger loomed over the petite form of Lirarwen, and even so, she held her ground firmly.

"I know what he is," the voice continued, and the stranger took another step. "I know what you have been hiding."

"What do you want with him? He has done nothing wrong!" She begged to be left in peace, but the stranger moved closer yet.

"Give me the boy," he repeated, "And I may spare you."

That was the first time Harandir looked at his father's body - only to find that there was no blood staining his clothes. There was no mark at all that he was hurt. That could only mean the stranger had the same gift as Harandir! He had to try to tell her this somehow - he tried to tug her hand to get her to look at the body, but she only grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

"No," she ground out. "You will not harm my son."

Harandir was so used to not being allowed to use his gift, he didn't realize his mother was trying to give her own signal to him to get him to attack this stranger.

She was still tugging his hand when she fell face first into the hard ground.

The boy stared down at his mother in shock. He had seen death through the small animals he had wanted to keep as pets; he knew this was a sleep his parents would not wake from. Even so, he looked up at the frightening man who stood between him and his father's body, prepared to beg him to bring them back, when he felt powerful magic coming from the stranger and wrapping around him as if to choke the life out of him, as well.

But…

"You will not harm my son."

… Just as Harandir felt the bone-chilling magic fully encase him, it drew away from him and went back to the stranger.

He snarled and recoiled like a startled beast. At the sound of his anger, Harandir felt a pain on his forehead and felt his blood seeping from a wound. Before Harandir could recover himself and use his own gift, the stranger disappeared into the darkness like the shadow of a man.

It wasn't very long before neighbors found Harandir kneeling between the bodies of his parents, mindless of the blood on his face and the shocked cries around him.

Not one of the many who walked into the house the following day suspected Dark magic. They saw the blood from Harandir's forehead and assumed it was made by a physical weapon. As for the deaths of his parents, they all knew it was unnatural, of course, but what need was there to stir panic when they were the only two killed rather the entire village. Surely the two invoked the wrath of someone vengeful, someone who knew hoe to poison them craftily.

Harandir was simply passed on to the family of Addramyr.

They barely had time to get the boy settled in before they, too, were killed swiftly and silently. Harandir was asleep in his room for the first time in days when it happened, and he waked just as the attacker left. Again, he felt the pain of the mark on his forehead, though not as intensely - as if only the proximity of the attacker could stir the pain.

People believed him to be a cursed child and feared him for it. Never had death followed around anyone this way. Why should they risk their lives to care for him? They shut him out of their homes. And as long as no one took him in, it seemed, the plague of death ceased. He was small for his age, pale and sickly-looking. Perhaps he would die and their worries would end, they all supposed. His fate was no concern of theirs.

In the beginning, he saw this as freedom thrust upon him, simply freedom he could not trade for the comfort of a home and a family. He was able to steal food and clothes, find woods in which to live and find clean water for years. He slept under the open skies, a sight he was mainly deprived of by his parents.

But every winter, he found himself more bitter than the last. He existed just at the edge of Gondor, circling it and watching the settlements and cities grow and change like any other beast. Every winter, he tried to get closer to the warmth of civilization only to be burned and turned away by those who knew too well who he was. Every winter, he hoped he would die from the cold, only to survive through it and see the mocking colorful flowers bloom to mark the anniversary of the day he was marked for despair.

After the fifth winter ended, everything changed for him.

Around that time, he was near Minas Ithil. He had learned not to enter the cities for fear of recognition and, therefore, persecution, and from his place hidden in the trees he saw the fall of the city. And though he believed himself to be unseen by those in the city, someone found him.

Night had fallen when he saw that there was someone walking towards his tree. He dared not move, he barely breathed - but the man below seemed to sense him without sight or sound and called for him.

"Harandir."

The low, commanding voice held a power he was familiar with, power like his own. He did not realize it was the power which cursed him, the power he felt those years ago. But he allowed it to lead him down from the branches, to land softly before the tall, dark-haired man with the strange red eyes.

"Not Harandir. Just Harry," he corrected quietly. He rarely conversed with anyone who could respond, but the man just raised an eyebrow - not in annoyance or interest at what he said. The man only stared at him, and Harry fidgeted under his gaze, not used to being studied so.

Finally, the man bowed at the waist and held Harry's chin in his hands so their faces were close together.

You know who I am. The man spoke to him without moving his lips.

Harry was going to deny it, but suddenly the information was in his mind.

Sauron.

Even as he heard the name in his head, he knew it was coming from him. He had head the name for years, always with the inflection of fear, just as his name was so rarely uttered. But this was the only person to ever treat him with a sense of distinction rather than revulsion. He recognized the severity in the gaze, the way he commanded Harry's attention, the firm hold on his chin. Harry was somehow important to him, the Dark Lord, and what a wondrous sensation it was within his breast to realize this!

So it was not with fear Harry would speak the name like those who had rejected him, only reverence.

Sauron.

The Dark Lord must have been following each of Harry's haphazard thoughts, because his thin lips spread into a small, pleased smile. He stood up straight and held out a gloved, long-fingered hand.

Come with me, Harry.

And knowing who this was, knowing what he had done, Harry accepted it.

My Lord.

AN: I translated the names James and Lily, following the example of other LoTR fics. Also, some of the first few lines are edited from the first pages of Sorcerer's Stone. Harry's background has been split into two chapters, and in the next chapter, I may add a time of the relevant dates towards the end of the Second Age.

I. M. Sinclair

12:27 a.m.

August 17, 2010