Sparkle

I know that this was not the story to win the POLL, but it was the one I was inspired to write. I tried to do Time and Time Again, but the first few paragraphs came to me, and then I got stuck. I’ll try again some other time.

Some of the spoken phrases are in Elvish, which is taken from a website. However, from the last story I did in Elvish, I found it too confusing to put the translations at the end. Instead, I have the translations in italics beside the Elvish.

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Any full paragraph in italics has been taken from the Lord of the Rings films. You’ll recognize anything that doesn’t belong to me.

“Sparkle”

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, et all are property of JK Rowling, and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros and all those other nifty people that make it so we can read and watch the Potterverse whenever we feel like it. I make no money from this, just so you know. Lord of the Rings is also not mine; I make no money from the books or the movies.
Summary: [Legolas/HP] Harry Potter died during the attack by Lord Voldemort. Due to a mistake, or a miracle, he doesn’t pass onto the afterlife. Instead, he wakes up, alive and corporeal just outside of Gondor. Mistaken for Isildur's heir, Harry is kept in isolation by the Steward of Gondor, until Faromir accidentally frees him. When Harry escapes from Gondor, he happens upon what is left of the Fellowship, and Legolas is instantly interested in the young human. Crossover. AU.
Warnings: Slash. Legolas/HP. Violence. Cross over. AU. Language.
Rating: R for violence and language.
A/N: Beta – rccataldo @ gmail . com . Many thanks.

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‘Where did you get those eyes so blue?’ ‘Out of the sky as I came through.’
‘What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?’ ‘Some of the starry spikes left in.’ – George MacDonald, ‘Baby’.

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Words: 10,670
Chapter 1/3
Sparkle I

Middle-Earth.

The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

It began with the forging of the great rings. Three were given to the Elves: immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-lords: great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine… nine rings were gifted to the race of men who, above all else, desire power.

For within these rings was bound the strength and will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived. For another Ring was made.

In the land of Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged in secret a master Ring to control all others. And into this Ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life. One Ring to rule them all.

One by one the Free-Lands of Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring. But there were some who resisted. A last alliance of men and Elves marched against the armies of Mordor. And on the slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth. Victory was near. But the power of the Ring could not be undone.

It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur, son of the King, took up his father’s sword. Sauron, the enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth was defeated. The Ring passed to Isildur who had this one chance to destroy evil forever. But the hearts of men are easily corrupted. And the Ring of power has a will of its own. It betrayed Isildur to his death.

And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost.

History became legend, legend became myth. And for two and a half thousand years the Ring passed out of all knowledge, until, when chance came, it ensnared a new bearer.

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Earth. October 31st 1981.

The Ring spent five-hundred-years in the possession of the creature Gollum, and a further sixty-years with Bilbo Baggins before the Hobbit passed the Ring onto his nephew, Frodo. However, seventeen Earth years before the Ring came to Frodo, something very strange took place in Godric’s Hollow. It was something that would change the course of Middle-Earth, and certain individuals therein, forever.

It was late in the evening, on Halloween, when the Dark Lord Voldemort appeared at the kissing gate. He looked in at the small Wizarding town of Godric’s Hollow and he smirked, his lips drawing up beneath the cover of his hood, and his red eyes narrowed in anticipation. He pushed open the gate, noiselessly, and calmly walked forward. He made his way towards one house, stopping outside. He drew his wand from his pocket, pointed it at the door and whispered, “Reducto.”

The door blew inwards, blasted off its hinges, and it landed on the floor with a crack. Voldemort strode over the door, paying no mind to the dark-haired man before him who was screaming to his wife. The redheaded woman grabbed a child and ran, following her husband’s orders. Voldemort watched them go, unconcerned: there was nowhere they could run to escape Lord Voldemort. James Potter pointed his wand at the Dark Lord and cried, “You will not have my family! Expelliarmus!”

“Avada Kedavra,” was the calm answer James received. Voldemort made no move to block James’ spell, and when his own hit the other Wizard, James toppled backwards, crumpling to the floor in a flash of green light. His wand rolled from the corpse towards Voldemort’s feet. With a smirk, the Dark Lord snapped the piece of wood under his foot.

He walked up the stairs, following the sound of sobbing. Lily Potter held her son to her chest, looking frantically around the nursery for some way to escape. She had left the brooms downstairs, the floo powder was in the living room, and she didn’t have a Portkey on her. They had thought they would be safe, they had thought it safe enough not to take extra precautions and it had cost her husband his life. She would not let Voldemort have her son as well.

“Please, not my baby. Don’t hurt my baby, please, no,” she begged, her back to Voldemort as she curled around the boy in her arms.

Harry Potter looked over his mother’s shoulder as the man pointed his wand at her back. Wide green eyes met crimson, and the green eyes looked away first.

“Stand aside, girl,” Voldemort spoke. His wand never wavered. “I will spare you, but I will have the boy.”

“Please not my baby.” Lily refused to turn around; she refused to bare Harry to that monster’s gaze.

Losing his patience, of which he did not have much to begin with, Voldemort whispered the deadliest of the Unforgivables. And in two words, Lily Potter fell to the floor, never to rise again. Harry was dropped as well, and he landed with a small cry before crawling forward to shake his mother’s shoulders.

“Goodbye, Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord whispered. His wand was pointed at Harry’s forehead, and the child stared up at him unflinchingly even as sickly green light sped towards him. The light hit Harry, and bounced back. It flew straight towards Voldemort, who was so shocked he didn’t even think to duck out of the way. It hit him in the chest, the force of the magic propelling him across the room. As he died, he took pleasure in the thought that Harry Potter was also dead.

Voldemort’s body crumbled to ashes, his wand and his robe were all that remained of the once Dark Lord. He would rise again, of that he was certain, but now was not that time. His spirit fled the house, searching for somewhere safe to recover. As the evil left, another presence entered the house. This spirit was warm and bright, shinning like a star. It was a woman, she was very tall and her hair was blond and hung to her waist. Her face was beautiful, stunning almost. But her most prominent feature was her ears. They were pointed at the top, and slanted.

The Elf looked down on the body of the child and small, perfectly formed teardrops spilled down over her cheeks. As her tears touched his skin, the grey pallor of it retreated, giving way to a healthy pink. The child stirred, rousing from eternal sleep though his body did not take breath. She reached down for him, gathering him into her arms, and then they both vanished from the house.

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Middle-Earth, Valinor.

“What have you, Eonwe?” A soft voice asked. This Elf was taller than the woman, and male. His hair was just as long, and he was just as beautiful to look at. Harry continued to move, very slightly, in her arms, but he did not breathe or open his eyes.

“A child. A very special child.” The female Elf spoke, in a voice like bells.

“The human is dead, sister. Send him back.” The male turned his back to her, and began to walk away.

She raced after him, grabbing onto his arm desperately. “Adan! Please. He lives, I can feel that he lives.”

“Bring him to the Valar,” the male, Adan, spoke at last. He turned and offered his mate a sad smile. “But saving him will not ease the pain of our son’s passing.”

“I could not save Veryan, but I can and will save this child.” Eonwe held her head high as she spoke, clutching the boy against her tighter. “Stay with me, Harry. The Valar protect you.”

The Valar had smiled on Harry Potter, and to Eonwe’s delight they agreed to breath new life into him. Still held in the she-Elf’s arms, the child took his first breath since the Dark Lord had struck him with the death spell. His eyes fluttered open, wide and glossy as he stared from one stranger to the next. Tears fell, as he did not recognize anyone, nor understand the language they were speaking. As he began to cry, the goddess raised her hand, and pressed it lightly to his forehead. There was a small cut there, shaped like a lightening bolt, and as she touched it a pulse of pain flew through Harry’s body and his eyes slid closed. He slept deeply.

The Elves around him spoke quietly, so as not to wake him.

“I will keep him,” Eonwe offered. Those who had sailed to Valinor were no longer able to have children, and she and Adan had come to the Undying Lands when their own son (who was much older than Harry) had been killed by Orcs.

“He is a Human. He must go to the race of Men.” An Elf spoke, his eyes turned to their goddess.

Eonwe gasped, clutching at the boy instinctively, but then she released her hold. Harry was taken from her arms and she turned her face away to hide her tears as the human was vanished from sight. “He will go to Men. They will care for him,” Adan promised, coming behind her to embrace her.

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Middle-Earth, Gondor.

The land of Gondor was usually a pleasant one. The Men worked hard, took care of their families and fought off any attack that was attempted against their home. The white city of Minas Tirith stood tall and proud, the white tower of Ecthelion gleaming in the sunlight.

From out of nowhere, it began to rain. The rain came hard and heavy, pouring punishingly down upon the men, women and children who stood outside their homes. The Men always remained within the walls of the city unless they were hunting or fighting, but from outside a loud cry was heard. It was the cry of a small child, and many ran to the towers and outposts in an attempt to spot the child. A flash of lightening blinded those who attempted to look. When the light had dimmed, the rain cleared up, but the cry still rang strong and loud.

It was a woman who finally pushed her way to the front gate. She rushed passed the soldiers, who tried to keep her inside, and she opened the bolt of the door and ran onto the causeway. The causeway bridged Minas Tirith to the rest of the land of Gondor. Any who fell off the causeway would fall for a long time, before they hit the ground.

She found the child, half hidden by a bush, and she picked him up carefully. When she was convinced the child was fully human, and not Orc or Goblin, Dwarf or Elf, she turned with him in her arms and rushed back towards the city. “What is it?” People asked her as she passed them.

“A little boy,” she answered not looking at them. She did not look away from his face. Green eyes stared up at her, and on his forehead was a lightening bolt shaped scar. “He is blessed by the gods,” she whispered, staring reverently down at him.

“Isildur’s heir!” One man shouted, rushing forward to have a look at the boy. The boy who had appeared out of air, in the lightening storm.

Those who were listening in repeated the spoken words softly. Every one in the crowd whispered ‘Isildur’ and ‘heir’ with such hope that it made the soldiers nervous. The woman was taking the child to the Steward of Gondor. When the line of Isildur was broken, the steward’s grandfather had taken control of the throne and the city, ruling in the King’s stead.

Lord Denethor was a proud man, brave and strong, but like all men he craved power. He ruled with an iron fist at times, when his eldest son was gone from home, and when Boromir was there with him, he was a kind and generous Lord. His desire for power overshadowed his desire to rule fairly. He could not bring himself to vacate the throne even if it would have been best for his people.

When the woman brought Harry before the King, he took the boy from her arms with a smile and lied, “I will take care of him and raise him to take the throne.”

Lord Denethor brought Harry to his rooms. “What do I call you, my usurper? You vile snake in men’s skin, risen from flames to evict me from my own city?” He pulled at the back of Harry’s baby-grow. He frowned, examining the strange piece of clothing when it was finally removed from the child’s body. He sent for a servant, who returned moments later with clothing for the child, borrowed from one of his citizens. On the inside of the baby-grow, in small golden letters were sewn the words ‘Harry Potter’.

“Harry, is it? Such a common name for a child who will no doubt cause me great distress.” The child looked up at him calmly, remaining still as the King re-dressed him. “I shall call you Harrison, for it seems I cannot bring myself to dispose of you. You are too small, too young and you remind me of Boromir as a child. You shall live,” the Steward promised, “but you shall never rule Gondor.”

The next morning, Lord Denethor looked out over the city of Minas Tirith and announced that Isildur’s heir had died of fever during the night. The entire city mourned, their grief was strong for a boy who they had not known at all and Lord Denethor resented his people that they would wish him gone.

It was in a room, directly beside his own, that Lord Denethor kept Harrison. He employed one servant, a young girl of fourteen years who was sworn to secrecy. She was taken from her family, and forced to live in the Citadel, and share the room with Harry. Her name was Genevieve and she would be Harrison’s friend and nurse until he turned twelve.

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Middle-Earth, Gondor. October 31st 1992.

It was on Harry’s twelfth birthday (which they celebrated in October), a day that he celebrated with Genevieve and Lord Denethor only, that rumour reached Gondor of Isildur’s heir. At first, the people did not listen for they believed the child to have died many years ago. The rumours said that the heir was a man, named Aragorn, son of Arathorn and that he was a ranger from the North. Lord Denethor was enraged, and when he found the now twenty-four year old Genevieve telling Harrison stories of Isildur and the One Ring he ordered his soldiers to take her away.

She was killed later that day, charged with treason. Though no one told Harrison, he knew he would never see her again.

As Harry dreamt, he would see flashes of light. There were so many different coloured lights and with each light there was a spoken word. It was in a strange language, but Harry found that while he could not understand the language he could understand the intent. He knew that ‘Protego’ would protect him and would manifest as a shimmery, silver shield. He knew that ‘Crucio’ hurt terribly and it was the colour of blood.

He practised when he was alone. He brought forward the memories of his dreams, the memories of those men in black robes and masks standing around and casting spells, and he held out his hand. “Incendio,” he said aloud, hoping that Denethor did not hear him. His hand caught fire, but it did not burn or hurt him. He threw his hand forward, and the ball of fire flew from his palm and began to eat away at the carpet. He waved his hand desperately, not knowing the name of any spell that could help him, but water jetted from his fingers and snuffed out the life of the fire. The smell of burning lingered in the room, and he didn’t have a window because Lord Denethor did not want anyone trying to glimpse into the room.

A knocking sounded at the door, and Harrison glanced around the room with wide eyes. A moment before the door swung open, he blew out the candle and threw it to the ground.

“I heard you yell, my boy,” Lord Denethor spoke as he entered the room. He took a look over his shoulder and closed the door again. He locked himself inside with Harry. Denethor took a deep breath and frowned. He moved to the left side of the room and opened the slats in the wall.

There was a door on the right that led to a private latrine for Harrison’s use, and the wall on the left led to the King’s adjoining set of rooms. The slats in the wall were generally used for spying on important captives but Denethor used them to air out Harry’s rooms, always keeping his own windows open.

“What is that smell?”

“I knocked down my candle, my lord.” Harrison spoke quietly. He didn’t talk to other people often, just the King and Genevieve before she died. He was usually content to speak to himself, practising the spells from his dreams or learning languages from books and texts and parchments that the King had brought before him.

Denethor picked up the candle and placed it on the nightstand. “Be more careful, my child, I would not have you burn to death.” He left the room then, casting one more lingering glance at his secret ward, and locked the door behind himself.

Not wanting to press his luck, Harrison refrained from practising magic for the rest of that week. Instead, he immersed himself in a long roll of parchment that dictated the history of Middle-Earth under the Age of Sauron. It was written by the Elves, in Elvish and Harrison was trying to translate it, though it was a painstaking task.

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TBC