Disclaimer: I do not own anything that was created by J. R. R. Tolkien (LotR & Silm) or J. K. Rowling (HP)

The sun rose just like every other day in England, however, this day wasn't 'like every other day'. Today was the time when children will finally go to their schools to learn new things from their teachers, and perhaps, it would be decided as of how the children will survive in that school with education that was certainly different from home. And of course, it should be called as the children's 'Big Day' and it would be seen as the children maturing – a process where the children will grow up and someday leave their parent's home to build up their own family.

One day in the next few years, that is.

But of course, some of the said children were attending a special school just for them; as they have different abilities than other children.

And it was magic.

And magic it was that would guide them to their starting point towards their destination until the end; their dreams or their future that was set to them since they were but a toddler.

Their starting point – just like their predecessors – was a train. A magical train that would bring them into one of the most prestigious and ancient magical school in Europe called Hogwarts. The entrance for this magical train station was a pillar between the platform number 9 and 10, as the platform was actually written off as number 9 ¾ - which was practically almost impossible platform to enter for muggles; non-magical humans. So it was clear that all of the people in the platform were magical – each one of them being identified as witches and wizards.

Among the magical crowd was two people; it was obvious that they were father and son, and that it was their first time within the train express. As it was, the son was looking around excitedly, though slightly subdued as he was trying to 'mind his manners' like his father asked of him, taking everything he had seen: a red haired boy with his family of red-heads, a stern blond man talking to his son… And the father looked somewhat tense as he looked distrustfully at the train, before heaving a small sigh.

His son was leaving for Hogwarts, along with other students as a First Year in that Sunday of First September 1991. It was a sad truth that he won't see his son's shy smiles, nor hear his bright laugh during their time of companionship or camping or playing Rangers or Healer – two games that his son particularly liked – for quite a while. He almost thought that he won't manage; but he knew that he will survive it. He had lived for quite a long time alone, as it was. There were many proofs of such, not to mention that all of the antiques that were sold in high-classed auctions were all but a new-born product in comparison to his age. He wasn't called the oldest First-born that still walked within the Arda – or Earth that was known by mortals for nothing, though almost no wizards or witches of this age knew of it – except for Flitwick and Ollivander.

He led his son towards the train, bringing his son's belongings with him. His ancient scarred hand was on his son's shoulder all the time, before they finally stopped a few feet from the entrance towards the train. He squatted down to his son, and observed his face.

His son was a lot like him, despite the fact that he was adopted. Well, blood adopted, because of the circumstances during that time.

His son had a pair of wide, brilliant emerald eyes that rivaled the color of the forest and the emerald stones which many of his folks would have loved, had they met him. In them, reflected the nervousness he felt for the new school and new friends he would have in the future. His hair reached his back which was as dark as night itself – though it was messy, thankfully it wasn't as messy as those years ago, but still was messier than his own hair. Which was saying something. He was an eccentric musician in his own right, it's one good reason enough! His son had inherited his soft features thanks to the adoption, somewhat making him to look a bit feminine – as he once was, when he was slightly older than his son.

He wasn't malnourished like when the child was found by him, and his skin showed a healthy glow for his standards – albeit much paler than other people within the train station, but a good glow for his folks nonetheless. He had no more scars in his body, as he and his friend had worked on healing them all for the sake of the child – including the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, was no more. He looked so different than the scrawny child he had adopted, and more like a smaller version of him with green eyes and a bit messier hair. Though in the other hand, he looked a bit like a porcelain doll.

And he was eleven, growing up in the almost same manner as mortals – which itself wasn't surprising, given the fact that he was born a mortal before his father gave him his blood. But still, he looked like he was about seven or eight in mortal years.

Children grew up too fast, he decided, or at least children with mortal blood, he thought of the twins he had raised and his younger brothers he had helped his parents to raise a long time ago and the differences between the two of them.

"Atto?" His son had asked, gaining his attention. His son's eyes were scanning his face, as if trying to engraving his face to his mind. "Promise you'll write?"

A gentle smile appeared on his face. "I will, yondo. And you promise me that you will stay out of troubles."

His son nodded, before giving him a fierce hug. Understandable, seeing that the boy had never been so far away from him, and this would be his first time.

The said boy felt his father chuckle; he felt the vibration as he hugged his father. "Make me proud." The boy looked at his father's proud face, before his father pushed him towards the train, giving him his belongings and a silver locket of his father's that bore their family symbol – a star of an origin that only select few mortals know of. "Be home at Hristomerendë."

And the train had finally departed.

The time of the Eldar to walk on the world had begun once more.

Martur was lucky that he had gotten a whole compartment just for himself, he supposed. Some compartments of which he had almost entered was very prejudiced; one of them being a blond haired boy who called him a mudblood and hadn't allowed him to enter. Others were of either nosy or even loud compartments. Other ones were of the upperclassmen in Hogwarts, which Martur was shy and hesitant to introduce himself to. His size was small compared to other children of his age, and his hair was long enough that he might be mistaken as a girl (several times did that happen, he was so embarrassed and his twin uncles never lived it down) – he would be undoubtedly mocked as a baby doll.

He opened one of the books he had brought from his family's library – history of Gondolin in Tengwar that his teacher had brought from Imladris. He always was intrigued with the rich history of the First Age and the Second Age, the high and low points of his atto's big family as kings and great people known throughout the history of the First-born. So compassionate, the power behind it-! The beauty behind it couldn't be compared with any others, though sad the histories were; as such his father and his songs of the fall of his people and family.

So deep was he in his readings, yet he was aware of his surroundings, that there was a boy of his age (and bigger, considering his small size) awkwardly standing behind the door he just entered. Martur looked up as he began to speak. "Er, you don't mind me sitting here, don't you?" The boy-stranger asked.

"Oh sure, do go ahead." Martur nodded to him before closing his book for the sake of politeness and mannerisms that his father and his teacher drilled into him. He shifted his attention to the red-haired boy. "I'm Martur Makalaurion, how 'bout you?"

"I'm Ron Weasley."

And so it happened that Ron was trying to convert Martur into a sport the smaller boy had never seen before in his life (brooms? What use of a broom aside from cleaning? Flying on a broom? Seriously? The last time he checked about flying wizards, was the account of how Gandalf the Grey escaped Isengard in the back of a certain Eagle that was otherwise known as Gwaihir…) and into the House of Gryffindor during their conversations. It was more of a Ron Weasley talking and Martur listening. Martur didn't appreciate how Ron was being a bigot as he spoke of House of Slytherin, but he chose not to show that. While he knew of magic, he never grew up along with magic like Ron did. So from the red-haired boy, he gained a few insights from someone whose siblings went into Hogwarts before him and someone who grew up with magic since he came from a magical family (why did the number of siblings he had seem so familiar?); he was an information mine.

Yes, he knew when or how to react to certain people similar to Ron because of watching his godfather being a great businessman who nodded and agreeing in the right times when interacting with new and foolish and proud CEOs and such, since he himself insisted on it while bringing him into one of the Greenwood Expos he had once in a while. Good thing too, even if the social lesson was boring.

At least in his atto's social lesson (AKA singing in front of them) was much better; he got many good words in his dictionary thanks to poetry and songs, everyone paid attention to him, and he also got more confidence.

Ron's one-sided conversation (this time, it was about how great Quidditch was, not that Martur understands; imagining people playing sports with broom seemed ridiculous, so he supposed he would understand the sport once he saw it) was interrupted by a knock. The door now opened to reveal a girl with bushy hair and a shy-looking boy.

"You wouldn't happen to see a toad, did you?" She asked, in a bossy tone. It made Martur think of a certain lady he didn't like in the past, so he became wary of her immediately.

"No, I did not." Martur answered slowly, eying her carefully. He was taught that ignoring a question would be impolite, if the situation was similar to this. Except during one of his moods that was eerily similar to his atto – that could be pardoned. "But since this is a train for many students of many years alike, perhaps you can ask one of the older students to summon it?" He suggested.

The girl looked at him blankly before slapping her forehead. "Oh, I'm so stupid!" She muttered to herself, making the small boy to look at her bewilderedly.

"Pardon?"

The girl spared him with only a glance and went out running towards the compartment of older students. Martur almost scowled. Wasn't that just rude? Then he noticed the boy she left behind.

"Hello there." He called the so very shy boy that looked lost and uncertain. "I'm Martur Makalaurion, what's your name?"

"I'm N-Nevile Longbottom." He said.

No offence to Ron, but he never liked to have one-sided conversation about things he did not understand, and so he talked and asked questions to the other boys in the compartment about their families and their life styles. He couldn't help but think; Ron's family of six siblings and both parents, really did remind him of his atto's family, and how Neville really did became shy because of his family's terrible deeds to him. He told to them of how his family taught him in many things and helped them in some of their jobs like he always did every night before he came to Hogwarts to either play a lute or sing alongside his atto.

The bushy haired girl from earlier came with a smug look on her face and a toad named Trevor on her hand, then promptly introduced herself as Hermione Granger. She claimed she remembered everything from the textbooks by heart, one thing that Martur did not believe, as they were only given the books when they were given the letters, in a certain day, no more than one, two, three or four months ago. Except if they have a photographic memory. Yet he did not say anything other than his name to her while she spoke of everything and nothing.

With Neville and Ron occupied with her inane chatter, he picked up his previously closed elven history book and read. Magic wasn't new to him or the other two boys, yet the three others in his compartment seemed to be somewhat excited or nervous to be in a new magic school. New school, though, had made him anxious, and not in the aspect of magic. Eru knew that some of his and his atto's songs could be used for simple chores like opening the doors or even viewing memories projected by songs and yet could be seen and dubbed as magic, or how many potions that was kept in the First Aid box that was brewed by his godfather, or those times when his teacher would randomly come and go using the fireplace.

His actions went unnoticed, as the other three kept on talking excitedly about magic like true children they were. That particular naïve innocence of his had disappeared since the time he had woken up in one of atto's many scattered abodes near the shores. Atto had despaired of it, yet it couldn't be helped.

Finally they arrived, all of them had changed into the uniform they were required to wear – a black robe. They were led by a half-giant called Hagrid, into the boats, telling them that a boat would have no more than four students on it. The road to the boats were dark thanks to the darkened sky, many students were stumbling to get the right footing so that they won't fall. Martur looked as if he was gliding rather than tumbling.

He went into a boat with the other three he met, and wait patiently as the boats rowed themselves towards the direction that was set for them with Hagrid leading them all in the boat in the most front of them. The lake under them had made his blood stir almost as if it had some longing towards the waters, like he always had whenever he was near the shores. Yet, the water was dark and not light as he always watched and portrayed the sea as – granted, it was a lake and not the sea.

A castle.

Hogwarts was a castle that was often portrayed in the medieval histories of Europe.

She has her own dark beauty, yet she had nothing against the ruins of Gondolin which he saw whenever his teacher brought him to the location of his former home. Hers was only unique since it was built by magic instead of like Gondolin's; made of seventy-odd years by pure hard work of Noldor in exile. And Hogwarts' age was much more younger than any places that could be counted as the place that held the memory of his family's as Imladris still did exist and so did the ruins of Gondolin and the main part of Greenwood the Great. Though miraculously, the fortress of which atto and his brother had lived during the First Age, survived the War of Wrath and became ruins in a similar state of Gondolin.

He felt her magic prickling above his skin, welcoming the new students as her new charges, wishing her halls to be filled with children and happiness instead of looking similar to her outward appearance.

All in all, he wasn't impressed just yet.

Hagrid then brought them, just in front of the castle where he knocked the door with his giant hand. An old, stern-looking lady opened it, gesturing them to enter with her strict voice. They were then required to wait in a dark room. Students nervously chatted with one and another, of how the Sorting would go, and memorizing the spells within the textbooks that they did not brought. Ghosts appeared, making many students jump and Martur wondering of how a mortal fëa could possibly stay in the world and visible not in the form of lost shades; did they not listen to the call of Mandos?

The door opened again, and they formed two lines to go inside. The decorations inside had immediately made Martur into thinking of the fortress in Himring for it's darkness and grandness. The skies above was decorated with floating candles and the night sky above, clearly showing the stars – though not as close to them as Martur would've like. There were four long tables filled with children of different ages, and one table right in front of the Great Hall that was filled with – he assumed – teachers. With his keen eyes, he saw professor Flitwick sitting and chattering with a plump lady.

And also of the stern lady earlier taking out a three-legged stool and an old, battered hat.

He wondered if the hat was either of any significance or this was for the Sorting.

Flitwick was excited. Of course! Who wouldn't be? The children would show their potentials as they learned new things from Hogwarts with their magic that he and along with other teachers taught. Mysteries to be discovered, words waiting to be read, and him as a teacher to teach and learn! Oh, how exciting! Pomona too, seemed to be sharing the same enthusiasm as he; her eyes were alight like lumos, and her smile just as inviting as his.

And of course, he still has his eye on the small elven child whom he visited and brought to Diagon Alley with his father. He was truly, literally a child of history – seeing that his father, along with the twins he met (though he was not sure which part of the said history they were in, seeing that while goblins did managed to translate a few, they were scattered pieces, and he didn't know who's who or the specifics of those stories, so it was understandable) – were living pieces of history that was long forgotten by humans. And with that, the said child seemed to like to learn more about history, if his actions towards him when he noticed the paintings in his house indicated anything.

Shame that the History of Magic was taught by a not motivational ghost. Hopefully he would still love history as it was.

Ah, now there was Minerva and the Sorting Hat! Songs were always sung by the old hat even before he became a student of Hogwarts, about the different Houses of Hogwarts and of the like. How he wished Martur to be of his own House, and that the Sorting Hat would let it; for how the boy seemed eager to learn!

Ravenclaw! A House of young geniuses – as similar as the boy when it came to music; the House that had high standards for lessons, and those lessons that would create great people in the future thanks to their knowledge. While Ravenclaws never won the House Cup for the past six, almost seven years – the title belonged to the Slytherins – it was of his House of which students had the highest score in their exams.

And lo! The Sorting had begun. He took note of every student that became a Ravenclaw.

There was Mandy Brocklehurst, Anthony Goldstein, and several others that became his student for the next seven years. And he waited anxiously until students with the alphabetical 'M' to be called.

There was Megan Jones to the Hufflepuff, Sue Li to the Ravenclaw, Morag MacDougal to the Ravenclaw, and finally Martur Makalaurion! Oh, how he wished to himself that the young boy would end here in his House! Thus way, children of his House would learn more about other races too; imagine, the diplomats of Hogwarts, being the bridge of Ministry and the non-human races so that their relationship wouldn't be as bad as today – even though that fact could be distributed to a certain Ministry of Magic of Britain, mostly.

With Martur as a star-people kind, his race would help other races to have their own standing in the Ministry rather than being labeled as Dark Creatures, if he played his cards right inside the curious House of Ravenclaw. It would be an enlightening future.

But now he could only wait anxiously, and hope that the boy to be Sorted to his House.

Albus Dumbledore saddened as he knew that he wouldn't hear any 'Harry Potter' name in the list as Minerva called the names of the children one by one. His parents had long paid their son's Hogwarts fee, when he was still a baby. And the child wasn't here because he died. Instead, there was only the cousin of Harry's – Dudley, was it? – rather than Harry himself and Dudley. Poor Dudley must've been devastated to have his cousin to die in such an early age!

Yet no one but him knew of their Boy-Who-Lived's death. They all assumed that young Harry was trained or given a special attention so that he wouldn't go to Hogwarts. Well. In the Wizarding World, there were many people liked to spread rumors or lies like Rita Skeeter, and there were much more people who liked to follow them blindly like the sheep they were. He might be once saved the world from Gellert Grindelwald, but as high as his power and fame were, he was powerless against rumors. He hoped that there were no nasty rumors for young Harry; there was no need to slander his name, as the boy was dead.

And now he had to guide Neville to be the Savior of the Wizarding World instead, as the shy boy was finally here. It was fortunate too – that Neville was in Gryffindor, just like his parents before him.

It was for the Greater Good.

Yet so deep was his grief and sadness, he didn't notice that there was a child with the same shade of green eyes as Lily within the Great Hall, in the same generation as Neville Longbottom, sitting in the table of Ravenclaw.

'Now, now, what do we have here?' A voice he had heard inside his mind, much to his alarm. He had heard tales similar to his plight – the voice inside his mind, that was – during the Third Age with Lady Galadriel; his twin uncles' grandmother and cousin to his father. The stories of which one spoke into the minds of others and would know one's life story whilst speaking. Martur didn't like the sound of that at all.

'Oh, no need to be scared, little Harry – or Martur is it, which you prefer to be called now?' Yes – it felt so very much disturbing. And the smell was filthy, Eru! 'Try to sit on a place for almost the whole year to gather dusts, Mr. Makalaurion,' the voice huffed, 'and then sit on countless students' heads!'

Martur gaped in shock, though he shouldn't be, before he remembered what the Hat said. 'You won't speak of my name to anyone, will you?' He thought worriedly.

The voice then chuckled. 'Of course not, Martur! Besides, no one would actually think of our resident Eldar-descent student will be Harry Potter, will there? Harry was a human, last time they checked!' Martur had an eerie feeling that the Hat winked at him somehow. 'Now is the time to Sort you however, no time to talk about the Most Ancient Eldar I've seen in your head whom you call father or of the history of your family!

'What a complicated life you have, Martur! Ah, I do so wish that you won't be seeing your dreadful muggle uncle again, though it is sad that your cousin did came and Sorted with me earlier, as you have noticed. Layer and layer, everything is covered by many things; I wonder how you managed to organize your mind without knowing the Wizarding Way to do so. You have a brave heart, and a cunning mind – what's with you to be daring to do things with that teacher of yours and tricking your twin uncles; I have seen how mischievous twins can be, and this is just remarkable. Sad to say that they are not your primary trait, as I'm sure that even the Founder themselves would like to have you as their student. Of course you are not a Gryffindor! Don't worry about that. You are loyal to those who had proved themselves to you, though Hufflepuff isn't your place, as cute, kind and fitting you are to Helga's House.

'No – it was your thirst of knowledge, dear child! The Eldar who raised you is basically an immortal, male form of Rowena Ravenclaw herself! My, aren't you lucky? And of course; the music you have created and those songs you've sang! Raw Elven magic; directed freely for purposes that were necessary for the castors! Never before this kind of magic was seen in the Wizarding World, even before I was created – yet it was once told that this kind of magic existed. Yes, yes; your true place will be with the RAVENCLAW!'

Ravenclaw! Didn't professor Flitwick have mentioned that he was the Head of the House of Ravenclaw?

The Hat was lifted, and he was able to see again. The Ravenclaws clapped politely while the other Houses were merely watching him. With a glance at the stern lady, he went into the table of his new House.

Ravenclaw – the House of Knowledge. He'd wager if his father was a student of Hogwarts, he'd be Sorted to the very House. Or Slytherin, at least. It was almost ironic that the symbol of the House was an eagle, and the name of a raven. Eagles were well known to be servants of Manwë, and ravens – or crows – used to be known as the servants of the Enemy of the Third Age called Sauron. Perhaps it was fitting, as those fore-mentioned birds continued to seek upon knowledge of their foes.

He looked around as he sat on his table, waiting the Sorting to come to an end. The only one who was as small as him was his Head of House, and the other new Ravenclaws looked older than him – even if they were of the same age as he. The Hufflepuffs looked at him almost curiously and thoughtfully, as if they recognized his last name but yet did not remember where the name came from. One of the older Hufflepuffs smiled at him though! The very action made Martur to smile his lopsided smile back to the older student of different House.

Well now, since Hogwarts would be the place where he'll be staying for his studies, he had already missing his family so – especially his atto. And his atto's songs, he reflected once he heard the song of Hogwarts of which combined tunes were making him filled with headaches; after he ate venison and drank pumpkin juice that was provided on the table so suddenly thanks to magic with the company of the resident ghost of Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady. The name made him think of a White Lady in the history of Gondolin, thanks to the color-related name.

The House of Ravenclaw was inside one of the highest tower in Hogwarts, to his delight. It would aid him to see the stars better; especially Gil-Estel. Gil-Estel had always been his favorite star, and true to his name – a star of High Hope. He still remembered the way his twin uncles would told him that Gil-Estel was their grandsire sailing in the sea of stars with a Silmaril on his brow.

He sighed as he went to sleep; several moments after professor Flitwick welcomed them, the First Years as the new generation of Ravenclaws. Never before had he felt so lonely, as he always slept whenever one of his family was nearby, which was usually his atto singing for him as he fell into the realms of Irmo.

Maglor sighed tiredly. It had been less than a day that his son in spirit and blood – but not body – had departed from home, and to the Maia school – and he already missed him. Very much so. He almost regretted the fact that he let his son to choose which school he should attend for the next few years of his life, but he knew it was for the education for his son, though he very much wished he knew every material so that he could teach his son himself rather than being far away from home. He knew the others residing in the house also think of that. Yet he knew that his son would need it – being social with children of his age, rather than surrounded by old men; so that his son would have people he could call friends.

So he had begun to distract himself from the painful fact that his son way away: translating the works of the Eldar that had left in Middle-Earth. He envied the twins of his former foster son Elrond, as they did not involve themselves fully to his son as he did. Though he wouldn't have it the other way. Yet he knew that it would be lonely without the very presence of his son in Maglor's Gap. People, especially the customers of Maglor's Gap would be saddened and protest of the disappearance of their small heart throb of the inn too, even if they were warned of such several nights before September 1st.

Yet – in his effort of distracting himself from his son's whereabouts, he found himself relieving the past once more. The first kinslaying of Alqualondë, the arrival of Noldor to Middle Earth, and the death of his brothers, cousins, and family – all of them recorded inside the goblins' archives, unfortunately for him. It may have been a long while since all of that happened, and it seemed to him as if they were yesterday, so long were the memories of the Eldar. Never forgetting, and for him, no one would forgive his deeds.

Perhaps it was fortunate – or unfortunate – for him to receive the archives of the Eldar from the goblin.

It would allow him how much Arda had changed, in the hands of Edain after the Eldar had left Arda to the West. Telling him how the Edain had advanced from the Fourth Age and becoming lazy with their methods, as they had either their technology (normal Edain) or magic (Maia-Edain). Or perhaps the history written by scholars back in the Third Age about several events in the history that he wasn't aware of or amusingly made-up assumption of him and his brothers' characters and why they all went to Middle Earth for the Silmarils.

But it would also allow him to look back to the dark past that he had, and never properly to review and forgive himself for his past actions. Perhaps he would never forgive himself and give him some sort of peace aside from Martur until Arda was remade again, after all. Not to mention the texts also told of the consequences of his family's actions – and demise. It was rather saddening that how the fellowship fiasco happened because of his nephews undoing, though he probably didn't mean to do so. He knew Telperinquar when he was still a youngling in Valinor, and how he grew up; he knew his nephew deflected from his father's and uncles' oath, Telperinquar was once an honorable Eldar who believed in justice, though in the end he was tricked by one of Morgoth's lieutenant Sauron under the disguise of Annatar.

There were many pros and cons for this job, he now realized. It was a time of reflection, unknowingly given by the goblins with the guise of translating texts; for he was now not busy as the center of his attention went into a mortal-Maia boarding school.

Oh, how he missed his son already! Without his presence in their home, it almost felt as if Maglor's Gap really did become Maglor's Gap of First Age before Morgoth attacked it: cold and lonely; without laughter and only mournful songs filled its halls, sad enough that several of his men went into his older brother's stronghold or fade in guilt.

But of course; there were many times when he did his work, and time passes so quickly. Perhaps if he was to do the jobs that those goblins gave him, he might as well feel as if it was only a few days ago of which Martur left for Hogwarts.

He flexed his scarred hand – sometimes it was still difficult to move for the burn he still felt at times. Silmaril burns always never good for the person who had it, especially if the said person daily uses the limb that had the Silmaril burn, he thought to himself.

And he started to write of the translation of a texts mentioning of the Valar, trying to ignore a certain memory of a certain Vala who had cursed him and his brothers and people which he remembered as if it was yesterday.

'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever.

'Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.'

Yes, he still remembered that fateful time, as clear as crystal. Yet it was strange that he did not become a shadow of regret like he had once thought or what Námo himself had foretold.

Speaking of the Valar themselves, a certain Ruler of the Dead frowned in his throne, his solemn dark eyes looked distant towards the East. His wife had been worried to see him with a frown – he never frowned, except if it concerned the fate of the Eldar like the fall of Noldor – that she went to consult with the King of Valar himself, early this fair morning in Valinor.

Imagine her surprise when Ulmo too, had also a small changes that made him similar to those times when he had sent Tuor to Gondolin with his message, and found him outside his realm, in the highest mountain in Valinor where Manwë dwells. The King of Valar himself had a distant look in his eyes that had indicated that he was talking to the One. It was either him or Námo had the ability to talk to Father, but Námo was never the one to tell anything about His plans, unlike Manwë.

But Manwë too, had a frown on his face.

It would be an omen for yet another bad tiding, but it was indeed the Will of Eru Ilúvatar.

It was then Manwë called forth every other Valar for a conference; one thing that never happened after the War of Wrath, which was thousands of years ago.

"Brother and sisters, the One had willed us to send only one of our representatives to go back to Middle Earth, just as what we did during the end of the First Age and the Second Age." He said, his voice was full of purpose. "Our charges are the Eldar, as such, a few of them still are at Middle Earth, living with the Atani yet not become one of them, such as the father of Legolas Thranduillion, a former member of the Fellowship, and Canafinwë Makalaurë, High Prince of Noldor in exile." He then became silent, mulling over several things.

"The darkness of Atani slowly corrupted the goodwill of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, with fear and greed. Dark Lords had risen in forms not unlike Sauron, and fall in similar manner under the guides of the leader of Light; such was the way of mortals. Námo had received a most curious mortal fëa a few years ago, mutilated not unlike elves under the hands of Melkor and very small and twisted compared to other fëa; it would seem that he had almost received a fëa of a mortal child, descendant to the House of Elessar of Edain, but his life was saved by the hands and blood of Makalaurë himself, with Ulmo as the witness of this event.

"Námo had talked to Father for the fate of the young one, yet He told him to let the young one choose between mortality of the Atani or immortality of the Eldar, just as the fate of Peredhel. Yet that is not what I am to talk about, it is what the child bore in his shoulders. A prophecy was made of the child, similar to one made for the King in the Fellowship." He then paused.

"Destiny of Arda now rests in the hands of a Peredhel of the House of Fëanáro." He said. "Through him, either Darkness will triumph, or held back until the End of Days. Through him too, will be the redemption for the sins created by his father who isn't his sire. He has the people of the First through the Third Age to guide him, yet it was not of magic – though skills he had acquired from Makalaurë isn't one to be underestimated either. He shall need a Maia to guide his magic and help him to achieve his destiny, rather than letting Arda to die only because of the Dark Lord." He became silent again, though this time he didn't say anything more to add the statements he had given to the other Valar and Valier.

It was Ulmo who spoke, with a bittersweet smile on his face. "A Maia perhaps isn't enough, Manwë. Forces of the Eldar in Middle Earth are small, though they are resting in the high seats of the Second-born." He said. "With Harry Potter becoming Martur Makalaurion, an Edain into Peredhel, this… war against the Dark Lord will be also against the Elven forces instead mortal wars only. While his father had committed uncounted sins against his own kin, I daresay no children shall be upheld for their parent's actions, though horrible they are."

"And thy art correct, Ulmo." Námo had spoken. "Especially if the child bear scars given by his own kin."

Eyes turned to the Doomsman of Valar. "What do you mean, brother?" Nienna asked, almost fearfully. "Surely you jest of the child bearing scars by his own kin?"

"Nay, 'tis the truth, what Námo said." Ulmo responded for the silent Vala, his face was grim. "The child was pushed into the cliff by his own cousin that I myself had to put my hands on this matter so that the child won't die before his purpose is fulfilled. The waters had tasted his skin, and they shall remember what deeds his own family did to a child's body. Edain had slowly becoming blind with their own arrogance, that they punish and detests other things that are different from them.

"Martur is… special, you can say. His kind is detested by his own family, as he is a mortal Maia; an Edain with powers not unlike Maia, though less in power and more in purposes." Ulmo said. "Though I believe such explanation is unnecessary for those who called themselves Istari, as all of you know of the fates of Morinehtar and Rómestámo." He added dryly.

"My stars had watched over them and their descendants," Varda, wife of Manwë murmured. "And I'm saddened to know how the Edain had fallen from grace. Those with the power of their ancestors put the fate of Edain unto the shoulders of a child that can be considered but a babe to our eyes, who had been robbed of his childhood though his light had miraculously unscathed and untainted. Makalaurë had done terrible and great deeds, one of kinslaying and the other of raising future king of Edain and bearer of one of the three Elven Ring. His tenderness had cost him many things, yet it also gave him everything."

"Never before a truer statement had been spoken, Varda." Vairë said, smiling. "Yet his and Martur's story will continue for a long time, had they defeated this new Evil in a few years. Trials for him and the rest of the Eldar will be harsh, however. We need to choose carefully of whom we shall send to Arda and help them in this quest, lest Arda and her inhabitants be destroyed as Melkor once wanted her to be." She warned.

Irmo was disgruntled. "Can't you choose who to go to Arda in the first place rather than talking in circles that you all know some of us hate so much?" He asked impatiently. While he was a Fëanturi much like his brother Námo, he was never one to talk similarly to the other Vala, making him perhaps one of the 'youngest' Valar around. It was ironic that he was a Vala of dreams, whereas dreams always take form in circles. "Why not Olorín, or perhaps Eonwë along with several of the First-Born?"

"Peace, Irmo." Aulë said, his fair face was thoughtful. "Of Olorín, he had finished a great job in Arda as a member of the Fellowship, yet it isn't the time for him. The same can be said to Eonwë; he is a herald, however the war of the Edain isn't of destruction similar to the First Age, nor the war that was foretold we'll have during the End of Days – this war is the war of secrets, where it lies in a hidden community in Edain and only a few of the Second-Born may understand. I might send one of my Maiar, yet I fear for them, as it was one of mine who had wrought evil to Arda even after Melkor while the other turned against his duties."

"Why not send one of Oromë's?" Yavanna, wife to Aulë asked, her voice was full of curiosity. "It was two of his of which descendants had filled Arda in the form of mortals (1)."

Aulë snorted. "Are you suggesting for him to pick up after his servants' mess, dear wife?"

Yavanna gave her husband a Look he knew so well ever since he spoke of his children having fire woods coming from her trees. She had been perfecting it. Several of the Valar noted with amusement at how Aulë seemed mightily uncomfortable at that look, though he was often subjected to it.

"No, I don't think that's the case, even if you suggested it, Aulë." Estë said, amusement was evident in her voice. "Soon will be the time when the Eldar go back to Valinor, and perhaps this is a fitting situation, to send one of Oromë's as a symbolization that they have to go home through the sea. Was it not him who had discovered the Eldar aside from Melkor? Was it not one of his that had became the vessel of the moon? Was it not one of his hounds had aided Beren and Lútthien when it was a time of her need and abandoned Tyelkormo as he never did anything true ever since he had arrived in Arda?"

Oromë hummed.

"So?" Irmo asked, "who will you send?"

No one noticed a ghost of a smile in Námo's face, with reasons unknown.

Oromë looked thoughtful. "Well then; the one I shall send will be…"

Artanis – or now known as Galadriel, not that her family and siblings had ever called her that now that they were reborn in Valinor – frowned. Her face was full of concerned as she stood, looking at her mirror. Her husband took notice of it.

"What troubles you, my love?" Celeborn asked, his grey eyes scanning her face as if he would found answers just from it.

Artanis chose not answer, wondering what she would tell her husband, when it concerned their grandchildren and her only surviving cousin in Arda who once slayed his own kin for the sake of an oath that was sworn in vain along with his six brothers. Her cousin with his adopted son who was once a mortal child. A mortal child with a grave future thanks to the prophecy he was subjected to. The future of Arda she once ruled a portion of did not seem good, had the child fail in his quest.

One of the possibilities of the future she had seen was the exact future of which if Sauron won the War during the Third Age thousands of years ago.

Hristomerendë = (Quenya) Christmas

Atto = (Quenya) Dad

Yondo = (Quenya) My son

Morinehtar = Alatar

Rómestámo = Pallando

(1) = It was told in the Unfinished Tales that the Blue Wizards (Alatar and Pallando) were the Maiar of Oromë