The question makes the elf go stiff. Lerith looks away, a hard scowl contorting his usually kind features. [No. I didn't know I was a mage. And I am... scared of magic. It's why I cannot speak, it's why my face looks torn into. I need to learn to control it so I don't hurt anyone.]

And he was using 'control' as a means of 'never using it'. At least it wasn't lightning magic.

[I have no memories before I was a slave. I woke up in a cage with others before I was sold to my owner.] He turns so that Jon can see the back of his head, where a white, jagged scar marrs where hair doesn't grow anymore.