AN - I'll keep this short. This will eventually be non-graphic M/M between Harry and a canon character of LOTR. Just who will be kept in the black for now. Any graphic M/M scenes will be on the adultfanfiction site version, under the same name. If you have a problem with this kind of writing/relationship, either get over it, ignore it, or find another fic. Ideas / questions / comments are all welcome.

Sparks of amarillo-warmth capered across his eyelids, stroked his brow and parted lips. The clean, crisp taste of a forest in autumn spilled generously into his lungs. The rustle and hush of an early woodland morning lapped at his ears. A sweet, melodious birdcall was hesitantly answered by a near-by counterpart. He'd never heard the winsome tune before, and would have rather liked to know if the birds were as beautiful as their voices. But the desire was a detached wisp of a thought, fleeing from his conscious almost as soon as he'd had it.

There was something wrong, something out of order. He was so dizzy, so disoriented. His heart beat at a rabbit's pace, though he could not feel his blood rushing through his veins. His stomach felt alternatively twisted and flat beneath his abdomen, fluttering with an insecure need to put itself aright. His skin tingled and flushed with heat, though he could feel the wind caress a good amount of his body as it passed him. He wanted to open his eyes, felt he should. But he wanted to remember… he wanted to remember what had happened - how he'd gotten there - why.

Pain lanced through the scar, seared his skull and fizzled into his mind. He sucked air in sharply through gritted teeth as he brought his hands up to clutch at his forehead. The birdsong ceased, the forest grew grave and silent. He caught a whimper before it could escape, rolled onto his side and pressed his cheek against the cool grass. Faces, looking at him in hope - in fear. Voices, rallying each other for his ears, growling and shouting. Screams. Screams of the dying, of the hunted. Magic. Dark curses burnt the air in their paths as they hissed so close by - too close by. The snaps and sparks and implosions of duels all around him, everywhere.

A war. The war. The enemy, a terrible darkness. Overwhelming. All consuming. A creature beyond imagination, beyond comprehension. A god. A dreadful god.

It had called itself Morgoth.

Spewing forth from hell - or so the whispered tale went - the huge being conquered every aspect of human civilization - nay, the very world itself - within months. There were no more forests, except the burnt and hollow ghosts of memory. There were no cities, except the huge, loathsome gatherings of dark creatures evolved enough to make themselves basic shelter as they marched ever onward. No Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. No schools of magic at all, except for what could be hurriedly instructed by a campfire in an attempt to make a few decently skilled light-soldiers.

Soldiers that would ultimately fail. Fall to the undeniable supremacy of Morgoth. Or be swallowed alive by their own darker natures and become one of it's countless minions.

He couldn't repress any more whimpers, and he felt tears trek down his cheeks through the painful wave of memories.

He - who should have led them to victory, who was their Chosen One. Their Savior. He had lingered on through the war, which had swiftly become a hopeless rebellion. Through his tenacity, his sheer will power, his uncanny luck - through it all he'd fought and survived.

Such could not be said for… everyone else.

The final uprising, quickly and quietly quashed by dark wizards and the foul, monstrous creatures that had come with the god. He'd planned it with his few surviving fighters for weeks, intending to dent Morgoth's hold on the magical community. Instead, he had cemented it.

His breaths began to slow, began to slip into despair along with him.

Dead.

The only explanation. Nothing green survived in Morgoth's world, no sunlight, no birdsongs.

He - Harry Potter, Last Hope of the World - had died.

Elladan was slightly miffed at the curious response his brother Elrohir had sung back to him, for the Misty Mountains were quiet clear of Orcs or other evils in such near vicinity to Rivendell - and their coded bird-whistling was to be used as a precaution only.

However, Elrohir seemed to have found something - someone, if Elladan was hearing his twin correctly - and was growing quite excited about it. Elladan approached his brother's position, slipping through the trees like he was a part of the fauna. What he saw when he breeched the final green barrier between himself and his sibling almost shocked his half-elven heart into a much too early death.

"Brother," his twin gasped up at him, from a kneeling position upon the ground. One hand held on weakly to his bow, while the other had yet to move from a seemingly innocent gesture of removing the tiny stranger's cloak-hood from his face. The pained but seemingly unconscious mask of a child who appeared to be no more than ten years old, framed by wildly endearing crow-black locks, was what greeted the sight of the twins, but not altogether what gave them pause.

It was the blood, seeping from an open wound upon the child's forehead. The sharply contrasting blue-black bruises upon his slender neck. The untouchable, fragile, haunting beauty. The twin, pointed ears.

"'Roh," Elladan almost couldn't keep himself from succumbing to his shock. His breath came quick and shallow. Insurmountable odds, he could deal with. Countless hordes of foes and certain death, not a problem at all. But the slim, heartbreakingly beautiful impossibility that lay curled up and alone between him and his twin - Elladan felt sure he'd never overcome the start, which bordered dangerously on traumatizing.

"He barely breaths, 'Adan," Elrohir whispered, not un-overcame himself by the sheer impact of such a wonder. "We need a healer."

They shared the briefest of stares. Only one elf they knew - trusted - would handle such a charge with enough expertise to avoid injuring the delicate elfling further. And their beloved father, Elrond, had long since sailed for Valinor.

A hopeless fear of losing the elfling took hold of both of them. It smothered every other emotion the twins had, and they simply looked at the dreadfully mistreated child with despair in every corner of their souls.

"Brother-mine," Elrohir murmured quietly, "what must we do?"

But they were both without answers.