Chapter Text
Harry Potter has a problem. Several of them in fact. A whole list in fact. He could write an entire essay on the topic in four millimeter cursive with citations.
He snorts and hurries down the corridor at a pace that's most assuredly not a run. It's more dignified than that. Especially with the expensive robes they insist on stuffing him into. The rugs are plush and soften his footsteps, but he's already silent after all these years of escaping relatives and fans. Not to mention stalking out-of-bounds students in the hallways. Further avoiding all the jewelry they tried to foist on him certainly keep him from jingling as he ducks down the stairs.
'Forget an essay,' Harry thinks. 'Try a treatise. A book.'
He's done that before, after all. It's not nearly as hard as people make it out to be. As much correspondence as he gets nowadays, it certainly feels like he's writing another. Though admittedly, the illustrations are the best – and most amusing – part.
Harry honestly doesn't know how he keeps ending up in these situations. Life after the war had been quieter, yes. Fewer Dark Lords or death-defying stunts but certainly still odd. Even for a wizard. Now, it's taken two hard left turns and full speed straight on ahead. Directly into the outright bizarre.
"Cousin!"
It's just the edge of his hearing, up two hallways and an entire floor. He can imagine the look on Fingon's face, can practically feel the disappointment from here. That only makes him step even lighter like a naughty schoolboy avoiding the prefects.
'Doesn't this bring back memories,' Harry muses as he turns another corner that takes him closer to the kitchens.
Running from his cousin – or in this case, an alleged cousin. Though admittedly Fingon and Dudley are worlds apart. Quite literally. Looks, temperament, and location. If he had to choose, Harry knows which one he'd pick. But that'd open an entire sack of kneazles he doesn't want to deal with.
His pace slows then as he passes two servants exiting the largest kitchen.
"Lord Hérion," they murmur and offer shallow bows, but at least both look him in the eye now. Which is a vast improvement and has only taken several years.
Considering the timescale that the Eldar work on, that was practically as fast as a Firebolt 84. Maybe one day, they'll even drop the lord part of this utter farce.
Baby steps.
Harry sighs and slips inside. The kitchen itself is a cacophony of noise despite the early hour. It's so busy that he isn't noticed, and he's out the side door without any further comment. The stable's in easy distance. Indilwen, already strategically placed in a stall by the back exit, waits for him alone. There are no stable-hands in sight, but he can hear them moving in the distance for their dawn chores. She lifts her head at his approach, chewing on her morning meal of hay and oats. She flicks a judging ear his way and stamps her front foot when he starts saddling her by himself.
"I know, I know," Harry commiserates and pauses to scratch along her neck just how she likes.
A blue eye turns to glare at him. As if to ask what he thinks he's doing this time of day with the sun just barely peaking over the horizon.
"It's not so early that they didn't know I was leaving," Harry defends even as moves to rub behind her right ear. "I also said my goodbyes to my hosts last night".
And if they think he meant later in the week or even the month, that is in no way shape or form his fault.
It isn't.
The amount of time elves spent visiting each other is insane. Harry isn't staying here for months much less years. He has things to do. A castle to decorate. A town to construct. Books to read. Herbal lore to create. Potions to envision. Paints to mix. Things!
It isn't his fault that travel here is so slow. Of course, he plans to apparate he and Indilwen once they're a safe distance from prying eyes. No one has to know that part though since he's never going to explain it. To anyone. Ever.
There's a flick of a horsetail behind him that swats Harry on the shoulder in warning. He feels the presence before Harry hears or sees him. Male. Elda – not Maia. Steady but not sneaking. Pausing right outside their stall.
"Hiding again, I see." The voice is amused. Familiar. Too pleasant. "Or is it running, Marcaunon?"
Harry doesn't sigh. He also doesn't bang his head on the wooden post next to him, but it's tempting. Somehow, he should've known his luck wouldn't hold. Life is never that easy on him.
Harry turns then as is only polite. He hides his apprehension, his need to rush. Pushes away the sinking feeling of Fingon edging ever closer.
"King Gil-galad," he greets and nods respectfully as he can given that he's in the middle of saddling a horse at the crack of dawn during his great escape from far too many of Finwë's line.
That earns him a chuckle.
"I'm hardly king of anything these days," Gil-galad returns, "and I know I told you that we do not have to use titles between us. I think you prefer that even."
He's still standing by the stall door, looking impossibly royal even with their surroundings. His tunic is layers of ocean blues and white like cresting waves, and the circlet on his brow glints in silver mixed with gold in the morning light. It isn't the most elaborate Harry's seen – that honor absolutely goes to Queen Indis. The brooch for his house is apricot-size and set over his heart, and there's a glittering ring on each hand. It'd be a bit much by magical standards, but it's barely anything for a Ñoldo.
Harry, however, is a complete minimalist. The only jewelry he wears is the signet he came to this world with – not that the elves can even see it on his hand. He knows it makes the Ñoldor beside themselves that he doesn't have more or any as far as they can tell. That coupled with his other odd behavior sets him apart, and he's seen several of them trying to hide their whispers behind their hands and interrupted many other conversations just by entering the room.
"You are far more king than I'm lord," Harry says instead, and Indilwen nudges him with her nose, braided black mane tickling along his cheek.
That statement earns him another laugh. Gil-galad's smiling, friendly and a little too cheerful for this time of day.
Harry's immediately suspicious. Not the least of which is why Gil-galad is here of all places. Not Tirion or even Fingon's estate – since Angrod and Irimë have been here for weeks already, and Gil-galad is supposed to be dangling off this crazed family tree somehow. But why is Gil-galad here in the stable?
"And yet, how well Formenos blossoms under your hand," the older elf comments, and it's almost idle. Like he speaks on nothing more than the weather. He's regal even as he leans on the short wall, outer robe a waterfall of silk in the faint breeze. "I'm told it was once a place of exile, punishment even, but I hear it is a town that is nearly a city now. A place of warmth in the infinite snow."
That's… true, Harry admits even if only to himself. He had a lot of experience rebuilding after the war. He'd learned to soothe instead of harm, to mend instead of rend. Formenos started as a project. As a lack of anything else better to do in this strange new world. Now, it's a passion. A calling. Creating a new home for himself and others displaced to Valinor. Unable to return to the world they'd known before. Though admittedly, his had not been Arda like theirs.
"That doesn't make me it's lord though," Harry points out. He's standing very still with Indilwen practically nuzzling into his back. Her bridle is taunting him as it hangs just out of reach, but it'd be just a little too rude and a little too casual for him to reach for it while speaking with a Ñoldo king.
"Just the person in charge," Gil-galad comments. It's very knowing as he taps his chin with a ringed finger just so.
Harry purposefully looks at him and not the bridle. He doesn't shrug; he isn't a teenager anymore, and this world is more formal than his last. Instead, he inclines his head.
Formenos needed a leader. Despite his protests over his appearance, it somehow became Harry. Perhaps it's past experience. Maybe it's lingering humanity and their need to just do something and not just sit around. Perhaps it's just Harry himself.
"I was the only option," Harry offers, but it's poor as an excuse. "I don't think people become lords by default."
Gil-galad pauses, stares at him for a long moment. Harry can feel the clock ticking, can practically hear Fingon's footsteps in the distance as they draw closer.
"One would be surprised."
It isn't mocking, but there's something to his tone. Gentler now. Still warm but the amusement is gone. He hasn't stopped leaning on the wall, but there's not a speck of dirt on his tunic to be seen. Repelled by some elven magic that all of them – even Harry, too, now – seem to have. His hair is layered between loose and braided as appropriate for his station. In the dawn light, the deep, rich brown holds shades of red and even gold.
"Perhaps," Gil-galad says then, interrupting his thoughts, "perhaps we can both not be lords for the day?"
Harry blinks once and again when Gil-galad enters the stall and abruptly stands beside him. Indilwen nickers then, swishes her tail. But she allows him close, which is surprising in more ways than one. A quick escape isn't the only reason she's kept at the back of the barn and away from other horses or strangers in general.
"My Arthion is kept nearby," the elf clarifies. His eyes – Harry notices – are neither blue nor gray but something in-between like an oncoming storm. "A ride this morning would surely be welcome, no?"
There's mischief present. Harry's known far too many troublemakers to miss the unspoken offer.
"I plan to ride north," he allows even as Indilwen rubs her forehead against his shoulder again but doesn't chew on his robe this time. Probably because this is one he actually likes and it's comfortable to ride in.
"I have not spent much time in the north of Aman," Gil-galad responds, amusement ebbing and flowing. "So I defer to your expertise." He gives a generous wave of his hand.
Harry lets out a breath; he offers a nod. It earns him a satisfied smile.
This… This can work. He can bridle Indilwen while Gil-galad's horse is prepared, and they can leave. He can head in the direction of Formenos until Gil-galad is ready to make his own departure or stop to rest or do… whatever else he's planning to do.
But really, that would be too easy.
There's a not-so-unexpected tingle of doom then. A crawling sensation down his spine, and Harry knows his time has come even before he hears the words.
"Leaving so soon, cousin?"
Fingon isn't a boggart. He isn't. Harry doesn't jump or gasp. He also doesn't sigh heavily in defeat.
And for someone who's thousands of years old with literal gold woven around his braids, Fingon somehow looks like a miserable, abandoned crup discarded in the Diagon gutter. He also manages to have an aura of a despondent grandmother with his hands folded over his chest. Harry has been many things – healer, master, professor, headmaster – but standing before this elf, he feels all of eleven years old being gently rebuked for staying up past his bedtime while not turning in his homework and simultaneously putting them into negative house points. This is worse than upsetting Professor Flitwick and making Hagrid cry combined. Molly Weasley, bless her after all these years, never even had this sort of dastardly power.
"Good morning, Lord Fingon," Harry greets, and he fails at not feeling like he just kicked a mooncalf when it's already down.
Fingon's face saddens ever-so-slightly as he lets himself in the stall like he owns the place, which… fair. Though what's with all the fancily dressed former kings of the Ñoldor and this stable, Harry will never know.
Indilwen's ears flatten as her space is further invaded, and she backs even closer to Harry. Luckily, she calms when he puts a hand on her neck.
"Hérion, cousin, no need for formalities between family," Fingon corrects with a shake of his head. He seems unconcerned about the unhappy meras, or maybe he's very confident in his ability to dodge. "No need to rush out our door. You are welcome to stay as long as you like. It really isn't an imposition."
If he were still human, Harry would be feeling his left eye twitch. That doesn't happen to the Eldar, however, it seems. He contents himself with running his fingers along Indilwen's mane instead.
Fortunately, he's spared answering by Gil-galad.
"Fingon, well met on this fine day. We were just discussing our ride," he offers, and it's so smooth that Harry would believe him if he didn't know better.
Those sad silvery eyes flick from him to Gil-galad then, and Harry can actually take a deep breath.
"Gil, up so early today, I see," Fingon counters, glancing from one to the other with a dark eyebrow rising, "I did not realize you were so eager to head out together. The household has yet to even sit down for our morning meal."
"We had hoped to be back before then," Gil-galad returns, and really, it's ever so amiable. So nonchalant.
Fingon moves to open the stall door. It's only then that Harry belatedly recognizes that he's being led out by a firm hand on his upper arm.
"Ah, well. We shall have an early start of things then, but a ride after breakfast sounds splendid," their host replies, and there's a suspiciously shining tone now. It's appeared magically like the sun peaking out from behind the rainclouds. "I know a lovely lake to the south of the city. I shall be most happy to show it to you both."
South, huh. Thwarted again, it seems.
Somehow, Fingon's arm has come to rest on his shoulder as he's turned towards the exit. Harry can just see Gil-gald watching them out of the corner of his vision. His face is a pleasant but neutral mask. A servant has meanwhile and miraculously appeared. Now hovering nearby, trying very hard to hide the dubious expression on his face as he sees the saddle Indilwen's already wearing. Harry knows when he's been outmaneuvered though and lets himself be tugged along. He can admit defeat gracefully.
"I did not know you liked riding so, cousin. Surely though, the forests of Formenos present a unique challenge with the snow," Fingon continues readily, but he pauses to look at Harry then. His expression is odd, unreadable for the briefest instant that's gone as soon as it arrives. "Tyelkormo was always the best horseman and hunter, though the Ambarussa were nearly of equal skill. I didn't spend quite as much time with them as others in the family. Irissë was very dear to Tyelko and later the Ambarussa once they were born. Arakáno also rode with them frequently. You will have to ask them more yourself when they arrive."
That brings Harry up short. He stops mid-stride just inside the entryway to the barn. Fingon's arm is still around his shoulder, but his grip is looser now.
"They're coming here?"
Since really, there aren't enough of them already. Harry had only come to Fingon's estate out of obligation and to keep friendly ties to the people outside of Formenos. He knows this song and dance too well. Has learned the politics of it over a lifetime in the magical world. Make the appropriate visits. Go to the right functions. Shake hands with people he would sooner hex – or would hex him. Smile for the cameras. Repeat. Ad nauseam.
Fingon honestly seems puzzled by the inquiry.
"Certainly," he adds with a small frown, "uncle as well."
There's a faint buzzing in Harry's ears that he forcefully ignores.
"Your uncle?" Harry questions more to himself.
It takes him a moment – truly, this family tree is a ridiculous as the Black's – but that must mean King Arafinwë. He's current ruler of the Ñoldor in Tirion despite all the other kings from Endor running around. Though who knows what will happen when – if Finwë – returns. Most of them have either gone back to their prior homes. Or have formed their own cities with the influx of newcomers and rule from there.
"Our uncle," Fingon corrects gently as they resume walking back to the manor with Gil-galad trailing behind. "My father will be coming here as well. Although he will likely travel earlier."
Harry's heart doesn't skip a beat. It doesn't.
He isn't in the midst of House of Finwë family reunion. This isn't his problem. Not his augurey, not his rainfall. He can get out of this.
"And when is this joyous occasion?" he asks. How Harry keeps the sarcasm from his voice, he'll never know.
Fingon laughs ever-so-cheerily as he tells him. And really, elves are too much sometimes.
Harry does some quick math in his head even as he thinks that. He nearly blanches. There's a sudden pounding at his temple as his pulse speeds up. A swaying in his step before he steadies himself.
That's… That's over six months from now! He can't… He is not staying here for six months. He isn't!
Behind him in the rapidly growing distance, Indilwen whinnies.
It sounds all too much like a cackle.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Sleep for an elf is different. Need for true sleep is rare and usually only when exhausted or injured. Most often is a light trance, walking through memories or true dreaming. Harry prefers sleep to be honest, but he isn't comfortable enough doing that here, outside of the privacy of his own suite in Formenos. Too much risk of being caught. Too many explanations that no one ever seems to believe anyway.
He's tired though. Politicking is always draining even when it's people he likes. And it's close to the surface. The memory of waking up here.
It always is.
He opens his eyes to a soft light. The surface beneath him is a pillowed cloud and beckons him back to sleep, but there's a nagging itch between his shoulder blades. Harry knows he's being watched before he even sees the…
Hm… He's not a man. Not exactly. There's an otherness to him even as he leans back and tucks his hand down to his lap. As if he's just been reaching out to touch but reconsidered at the last second. His hair is dark in the way that nighttime is dark, as are his eyes. His face is stern, brows drawn down, but he's not elderly nor young nor middle-aged. There's a timeless glint to his eyes like the oldest vampires or a phoenix. Ageless. Unending.
His expression though. It'd be comical if the situation were anything else. The being – Námo, he later learns – stares at Harry with something that can be only described as the lovechild of shock, awe, and absolute horror. Rather like watching a broom collision during a Quidditch match. Unable to look away from the spectacle as those involved plummet to the ground below in a tangle of blood, twigs, and limbs.
That expression barely changes as Harry sits up and slowly looks around. The room is… different. Grays, blues, whites. Bright but no windows and source-less light. The furniture would be like that of a bedroom, but it's made of some unknown material – not wood but also not muggle plastic, metal, or stone.
There are others in the room but only one of them is looking at Harry. A woman, hair so pale a blonde underneath her gray hood that it's white – and wouldn't the Malfoys be jealous of that? Her eyes are moist, color-obscured, and there are tear-tracks on her face as though she's recently been crying, but there's just the very faintest of smiles as she gazes at him. The look is fond, and it makes something in Harry tremble and glance away.
A second woman – diminutive, veiled – speaks delicately by the entrance. Despite her small stature, he can't see fully past her. Somehow though, he knows that there are four – no five – more people on the other side. She steps back then and gestures before giving a small nod. Harry sees a shadow of someone just beyond her now, but the hallway is dim where his room is bright. He can just make out a flash of silver – hair, he thinks – before that too is gone.
Then, they're alone. Harry feels everyone but the three in the room with him leave. There's no door, but somehow, the opening closes. It's a little too like magic for his taste.
He feels their eyes on him, but it's the male who speaks first.
"I bid you welcome to the Halls of Mandos." His voice is deep, echoing like they're in a cavern. But there's a breathless quality as if he'd forgotten how to speak.
Harry wants to ask where this is, but he hesitates. He… died. He knows he did. He'd felt it. Felt his soul separate from his body. Only, there was no station this time, no train, and no Dumbledore. The other times there were but not now. There was the Veil and then here. Is that the difference?
He looks from one to the other and back slowly.
"I… How did I get here?" he questions instead. As that really seems the most sensible.
His host flinches – at least, Námo does. The blonde covers her mouth with her hand and turns her head away. He can't even see the face of the veiled woman.
There's a very long pause.
"You were… delivered here personally," Námo says flatly. His eyes are blacker than the darkest shadows, but there's the flicker of a single light. A sole star in the eternal night.
Harry gapes at him.
What? What?
Since that makes has as much coherence as some of the homework from hungover seventh-years he'd previously tried to grade. Or reading the handwriting of the first-years not trained in penmanship.
"Eru Ilúvatar delivered you here," Námo continues ever-so-faint, "and bid me to release you into Valinor."
That… That means absolutely nothing to Harry. But first part, the name, is said with such reverence – such devotion – that Harry's hesitant to voice more questions. And to be honest, he has no idea what to even ask.
He stares at them as they stare right back at him. Silence stretches out awkwardly.
The room around him is aglow, solemn, otherwise empty. Clinical and detached in the way of hospitals. Some would find this soothing, but Harry has always preferred a more intimate setting. Cozy furniture with a cackling fire, blankets, warm drinks as the snow fell outside. If he was truly a follower of the magical ways, he should be in the Summerlands. Meadows of verdant green and endless warm weather.
This is opposite from any afterlife he imagined without thinking he's being punished. This certainly isn't the welcoming committee he wants. He's always expected his friends, students, colleagues. Ron and Hermione. Teddy. Victoire. Andromeda. The Weasleys. Maybe even his parents and Sirius. He's outlived so many people over the years first through war and then through time.
Instead, he gets strangers. If he'd known this is what dying would've brought him, maybe he should've rethought his options.
The blonde woman steps forward then. She's by his bedside and sitting next to him before Harry can even register the action.
"You are understandably confused," she murmurs, and her voice is gentle rain on an autumn day. Calm but melancholy as it drizzles down. "This isn't the world you are used to, but we can teach you. This is not a punishment. I dare say it is a gift."
She takes his hands, and it's only then that Harry realizes he's made fists. Her skin is smoother than any silk as she runs her fingers over his ring, but there's a strength to her grasp underneath the softness.
She's crying, Harry thinks. Startled that anyone would do that for him now. When he was younger, yes. But he hasn't been a child for centuries. It's been so long since anyone shed tears on his behalf.
Who was the last? Rose perhaps? Ginny's youngest daughter? Teddy's grandson? Harry had certainly wept for their loss and the loss of their children.
A hand strokes his hair then, infinitely tender as a stray lock is tucked behind his ear.
"All will be well," she says. There's something to her words, some hidden power. "You shall see."
Somehow, despite everything, despite the fact that he doesn't even know her name, Harry believes her.
Notes:
AN: So fun fact - one of the meanings of Cedric is chief which translates to Hérion. This was obviously too good not to use.
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric). Pronounced as Hair-ee-on.
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry). Pronounced as Mar-cow-nonn.
Indilwen – Lily. Pronounced as Inn-deel-wehn. Harry's horse.
Arthion – Royal. Pronounced as Are-thee-on. Gil-galad's horse because of course he has a horse named Royal.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Harry Potter is now Hérion Marcaunon – if those two names don't make sense together – Quenya is not my first or even second language. Why is he a lord? Well, that's related to the prompt.
The current state of Finwë's House – with Fingon are Angrod and Irimë currently visiting along with Gil-galad. Argon, Aredhel, Fingolfin, Finarfin are "soon" to arrive. Findis may also find her way there because why not? Same for Finrod. Idril is chilling with her husband Tuor near Alqualondë. Elwing also lives there permanently, and Eärendil stays with them when he's not on his ship. Turgon is building Gondolin version 2.0 with mixed success. Orodreth is building Nargothrond 2.0, and he's doing worse at it than Turgon. Finduilas gave up on helping him and moved back to live with her paternal grandparents.
Galadriel is still in Endor along with Elrond, who’s plotting how to get his wandering atar on a boat. Celebrían alternates between Gil-galad’s home and her maternal grandparents. Aegnor is lamenting his girlfriend in the Halls of Mandos. Indis lives with her youngest son and his wife in Tirion as the Queen Mother. Nerdanel is with her father’s family, while the Fëanorions are in confinement, except Celebrimbor who is understandably healing. Maeglin is also healing but is visited very frequently by his mother. No one is sure where Eöl is, and no one looked very hard. Finwë is in the Halls, still trying to explain to his first wife how he now has a second wife.
Chapter Text
He apparates. Call him out of bounds and give him a detention, but Harry can't help himself.
He waits until nighttime, until they've all retired to their rooms, and sets wards on his suite. He knows they won't come there now unless it's dire – the city burning down, a messenger from Manwë, Morgoth escaping from the Void. So he's confident no one will notice his absence.
There's a niggle of doubt nevertheless, so he spells the room with a second layer. Just in case. He looks around for a moment to the absurdly jewel-encrusted wardrobe to the far too enormous four-poster bed to the gilded balcony doors.
Then, Harry turns in swirl of whisper-quiet magic and appears in his own tower. It's silent there. Sensible. Not a speck of gold or a gem to be seen.
His wards murmur to him that nobody has been by since the morning before last to open the windows. There are fresh flowers, snowdrops, on the side table and again on the mantle, but the fireplace is out with a grate long gone cool. The rug seems black in the dark instead of the blue it is in truth, but there's enough moonlight to scan around the rest of the room easily.
The hymn of home settles into his bones as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. This isn't Hogwarts. It isn't Earth, but Harry's lived here long enough, has poured magic and sweat and even some tears into this place, that it sings with his essence. It's a comfortable carol in the back of his mind. Humming as his magic flows free, and he listens to the melody in the forever winter.
Formenos is a fortress on a mountain. The eye of a storm with surrounding circles like ripples in water. The castle is the center. A trumpet resounding in the night. A glowing, warm clarion call. Each layer after is another instrument to the orchestra. Spring flower flutes. Summer firefly violins. Fall harvest drums. The tinkling of bells, of ice crystals sheering, and the somber chant of evergreens just before the final walls that separate his land from the otherness of Valinor.
Through it all, many elven voices softly sing. Some in dreaming or remembrance. Several are even still awake. Harry ghosts by them on nonexistent feet. Floating through corridors and stairways and towers. Through the entrance hall and main door and out the castle gate. Down the path to the city itself and into a darkened but watchful building.
He opens his eyes to find himself now standing in his office. It's tidy as expected, moonbeams streaming through the windows. His desk is full but unoccupied, parchment in neat stacks on the top corners. Melpomaen has been hard at work in his absence, and Harry makes a mental note to encourage him to take more time off. He's honestly surprised not to find the elf here, working away in the dark after hours. Or even having drifted off with pen in hand. It's happened before.
Harry shakes his head at that as he carefully shifts through the piles. The amount of correspondence is staggering. Most is still loose, but there are a number already sealed. The inbox has an equal number also in envelopes, and many seem to bear the same crest. Harry puzzles at it for a long time. It's one he's seen before but not something he recognizes immediately or without actively searching through his mind. It teases at his memory; Harry'll have to ask Laerien when he properly returns. She always knows the houses. It's a point of pride for her to never forget.
"They expect a Silvan not to know," she said once in perfect, unaccented Quenya. Lifted an ashen brown eyebrow with a hand on her hip even as she offered a sharp smile. "All of those Calaquendi are the same, and few of the others are better."
Harry hadn't known what to say to that nor had Melpomaen, but both of them are usually spared her temper. She treats them in the way, he assumes, she once did her sons. With a firm but fond hand, quick to give both censure and praise. It's a rather strange concept considering he's ostensibly the one in charge.
Laerien rather reminds him of Ginny in temperament but Luna in looks. She's small and ethereal with the same luminous gray eyes. Prone to quiet contemplation in whatever tree strikes her fancy, but that's where the similarities end. Her temper is a vicious thing, truly a sight to behold. Harry has seen her reduce more than one discourteous visitor to tears, and he's heard others speak of her in the same hushed tones that balrogs earn. He's also watched her stare at the stars in grief, and Harry knows she has children and a husband in Endor that she longs for but knows she will only see if they travel through the Halls. On this shore, her husband's family resides in some southern city, but she cares little for them and they for her. Her parents are in the Halls still, but she has a cousin who's written to and visited often.
Melpomaen is much more of a closed book; Harry isn't even sure where on Endor he came from. Harry knows only that he sailed from the Havens recently as elves reckon and found it difficult to settle. He isn't sure the hows or whys; that hasn't been given to him yet. His assistant's quiet and seems to have no family and few friends in Valinor. At least, none that he's willing to acknowledge, and that's likely why Melpomaen ended up here, under the person who everyone wrongly assumes has disowned himself.
Harry's other staff is a variable mix as is Formenos itself. Some are newcomers without a clear place to go. An assortment of Silvan, Sindar, and even some Avari released by Námo. A smattering of different groups mixed in, too. Others, he's learned, are former kinslayers. Those who are very unsure of their welcome in Tirion and other places. Some, Harry knows, are prior retainers of the House of Fëanor. Several even lived in Formenos the first time, though those seem to be few, and they are very quiet about that connection even now. Harry only knows if they confess to it to him personally or those Nienna has pointed out.
Harry sighs then as his eyes land on a very unwelcome emblem in his inbox. The envelope is unopened, but with magic, it'll be little work to reseal. He scans through, and it's indeed from King Olwë himself. An invitation to visit in the future, and Harry knows that he'll most certainly have to go. Fortunately for him, that future could be anytime in the next decade and still not be considered rude. Of course, he'll be expected to stay for at least six months to a year to avoid the same thing. He'll also have to be on his best behavior the entire time. Not to mention that he'll probably have to deal with half the city glaring at him for his very unfortunate appearance while being perfectly polite in return.
Wonderful.
And he thought the politics of being headmaster was distasteful.
If he was still capable of getting migraines, Harry'd certainly have one after reading this. He's anticipated some type of exchange with the Falmari in the future, but he's been hoping for more neutral ground to start. He certainly didn't think they'd ever be willing to host him, not with his reported history.
A sinking sensation fills his gut. Laerien and Melpomaen will be reading this the very next day; they'll absolutely start plotting against him. They certainly won't let him put this visit off until the last moment. Laerien's going to pack his schedule with etiquette training for the foreseeable future, and doesn't that sounds like its own unique form of torture?
Harry exhales, slowly and steadily. Lets his magic out in a weak refrain off exhaustion. He reads the letter again, but the text doesn't change at all. With a disgusted noise, he flicks his hand. The parchment folds itself back up, and the seal magically slides back into place before the envelope floats back into the box.
Harry leans back in his chair and taps one finger on his desk, lost in thought. He wonders why he does this. Why he puts up with these things when this wasn't his choice at all. He'd rebuilt Formenos to have something to do, for the challenge. Hell, to even be able to be by himself. Somewhere along the way, others had shown up and he's never been able to turn anyone away who's in need.
He wonders if it's worth the cost. If it's worth being here at all. If he should just cut his loses and try Endor instead.
His fingertips find a steady rhythm as he thinks that through, but even as he does, Harry knows he'll never leave. Too much a Gryffindor at heart and a Hufflepuff in deed even if he's now a Ravenclaw in his desires. Harry just needs to call forth the Slytherin in his mind; it's served him well many times in these situations.
Harry stands then and looks around one final time. Everything is shadowed but familiar, and he could walk this room in the pitch black. Could probably walk the entire castle the same way. The song of the city is echoing in the night, welcoming him home, beckoning him to stay. Harry just shakes his head, gently offers a farewell, and apparates back to Fingon's with a twist of magic.
Dawn can't come soon enough.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The hardest thing in the beginning is that the Valar don't tell him. The Maiar are guilty of it, too. Best not forget them. But either way, the Ainur are the only ones he sees in the Halls, no Eldar at all. And it's primarily been the first three that he meets – Námo, his wife Vairë, and his sister Nienna.
The sad thing is that even though he's an elf now, Harry truly doesn't look all that different than what he did before. His ears are more pointed, and he's certainly taller than he's ever been. Tall as he possibly could've been had he not grown up with the Dursleys and a childhood of neglect. He's young again for another, and admittedly, he hasn't truly needed the glasses for a while. The silver in his hair's gone, and it's longer than ever, down to the top of his shoulder blades. It still tangles at this length, but it isn't the messy bird's nest it was when shorter. A single hand is enough to comb out just about any knot, and he's pretty sure one elf weeps upon seeing him do that later.
But otherwise… otherwise, he's largely unchanged.
They could've told him though.
Harry knows they don't perceive things the way he does or how Eldar do. He honestly thinks that it simply didn't occur to them. That at the end of the day, they aren't Eldar – or human – and that they simply didn't understand that he even needs a warning in the first place. That they try but the elves are as alien to them as they are to him.
It still would've been nice, nonetheless. It would've been good to be prepared.
He's been the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Survived, his entire life. However, that's been a distant thing for so long now. A footnote in his history with all the other stuff that's happened since. He's always been popular, been known as a public figure, but people grew used to him. They'd chat while he was out or stop in his office or invite him to this event or that conference.
It's been centuries since he's been gawked at in the streets. Since mutters followed his every move. Harry keeps his gait even, casual and loose, but he can feel their attention follow him as he walks down the center. The Valar gave him supplies and even currency for this place. There's stores and stands he'd like to browse, but Harry hesitates as the masses give him a wider and wider berth. As they part like the sea does from the shore as the waves grow higher.
He doesn't think they can tell he isn't one of them. That he isn't also an elf by birth. It's something else; Harry can feel it. But he isn't sure what. Their murmurs are too faint. Their unease is a muted buzz in his head.
Coming to this place – Tirion, Nienna called it – is a mistake. Maybe he should've tried one of the newer cities currently being built or Alqualondë on the coast. He hasn't been to the sea for ages, not really, but Teddy and Victoire lived there until their passing. He thinks it'd be nice to see the ocean again and feel the water tug at his feet.
Harry slows then and scans the crowd. Some of them are very carefully not looking at him, going out of their way to avoid even a glance his direction and hurrying away. Others are staring openly. It hasn't become hostile yet, but Harry knows that's soon to come. So decision made, he starts back towards the city gate.
He hears it then, however. Someone shouting close by.
"Wait!"
The crowd behind him parts fully as others turn. As they search among themselves for the source, Harry uses the opportunity to slip further back the way he came. There are side streets he could apparate from, but he has no idea how many eyes watch those. The Valar are already astonished by this ability; he doesn't want to think how the elves would react.
"Wait!"
Harry can glimpse the cause now, a well-dressed elf in dark colors. He isn't running, but it's a near thing. It's obvious he's come from a distance, as if he's received news and rushed here. Harry can't get away fast enough, too hesitant to leave the main road and blocked in by people behind. The elf reaches him in long strides and grabs with both hands.
"Ma-"
The elf stops abruptly. His eyes are silver, but it's hard to see with the pupils blown so wide. The shock on his face is stark, and he'd be quite handsome without that startled expression. He's tall Harry notices, but not quite as much as Harry himself is now. Perhaps an inch or two shorter. His hair is just as black, falling to his middle with the inky flutter of raven feathers and the glint of metallic thread woven through. He wears a circlet, also of gold with a single diamond in the center. His grip on Harry's shoulders is firm, strong. But it starts shaking as time stretches on.
"Your… Your eyes," the stranger whispers, and it's more to himself.
Harry isn't quite sure what he sees, but he knows they're drawing even more notice. A sea of elven faces that just stare at the exchange like a Quidditch match with a player down. Like a dragon attack or a manticore mauling when no one dares glance away.
"You aren't…"
The elf shakes his head then like he's waking from a spell. He's still clutching Harry's shoulders tightly. Even as Harry debates internally the best way to extricate himself from this increasingly uncomfortable encounter.
Then, suddenly as it started, he's released. The stranger drops his arms and takes an abrupt half-step back. It's still close, too close. But Harry can actually back up as well.
"My sincerest apologies," the elf says with an actual bow. It's slow and chivalric, like a knight from Merlin's court. "I am Findekáno… Ah, Fingon Fingolfinion."
The name is familiar to him. Undoubtedly someone mentioned by Nienna or Vairë, but Harry can't quite place it yet. He's too off-balance, too reeling.
"Hérion," he replies and does remember his manners, "well met."
Harry doesn't bow back though because this is just too weird.
"Hérion," Fingon repeats; his tone says everything and nothing, "I see."
He again examines Harry's face, and it's so intently that Harry thinks he's trying to commit it to memory. His focus finally shifts down to the rest of Harry and then back up ever-so-slowly. It'd almost be flattering if it weren't so bizarre, and it leaves Harry even more discomforted. Like he's being assessed, but he's not sure on what merits.
He knows it isn't his clothes. His tunic is of even better quality than Fingon's own – a deep green with embroidery of white lilies and the gray over-cloak has an ivy pattern at the sleeves. Vairë is very particular in what he wears, and Harry humors her because it costs him nothing. A part of him admittedly likes the attention after so many years without. Likes that Nienna and she are so fastidious with his appearance and with his lessons and just finding time to spend with him.
It could be lack of ornamentation since everyone from the plainest-dressed to Fingon himself has something.
It could even be his lack of a weapon. A number of people have swords, daggers, and even bows. Fingon has all three.
Perhaps that's the most worrisome part of this whole thing.
"You look," the elf starts, but he breathes out in a rush like he can't believe the reality before him. "You look so very much like your father."
He… What?
Harry has absolutely no idea what to think. What to say to that. It's been literal centuries since anyone has compared him to James Potter. Since there's been anyone alive who even knew James Potter or remembered him as a person.
"My father?" Harry finally manages; it's a question more than anything.
Since honestly, how would this elf have ever met his dad? He's reasonably sure the Valar would've mentioned that part.
"Yes." Fingon's surely still dazed, confused even as he blinks and continues searching Harry's face like it has all the answers. "My cousin. The son of my father's oldest brother."
Right…
Bespelled. This truly is a bewitched elf. Harry has only been in this city for all of an hour and this is the direction his life is headed. But he can handle this. He has dealt with distressed, emotional people numerous times. He keeps his hands open and his voice calm, steady. The same tone he once used for overwrought students and life-threatening situations.
"I don't know what you mean."
It's soft, soothing. He doesn't push magic into it. There's no need to enthrall this elf more than he already is.
Fingon turns unexpectedly morose, however. His eyes lose their light as a shadow crosses his face.
"I… Of course. Forgive me again." He gives another, much smaller bow. "How terrible of me to assume."
He straightens slowly. His argent eyes are dim, sad, and he seems lost. Not uncertain but more unmoored. Untethered. Like the earth has dropped out from beneath him. It isn't the effect of a spell breaking. More like a child running up to a parent only to find a stranger.
Around them, the throng is still steadily growing; it hasn't thinned at all. If anything, there's over double the crowd as earlier, staring, judging. Watching the exchange like a spectator sport. Harry feels their curiosity but also their anxiety pressing in on him like a wave crashing down. It jerks on his sternum like a riptide trying to pulling him out to open waters.
"It's no matter," Harry replies almost absently, too busy trying to center himself. "No offense is taken where none's meant."
But his awareness is on the other elves nearby and not the one in front. There are more murmurings; voices rising and falling like the tide. Their energy is dense, drowning. This isn't a fire awaiting a spark. This is an ocean anticipating the tsunami.
Harry needs to get out of here.
"No, I have wronged you," Fingon insists, but he too is now watching the crowd. The light of his eyes returns as his attention flicks from Harry to them and back. "Allow me to make this up to you."
It's less an offer and more a gentle pleading. A promise of rescue? Something more insidious? Harry doesn't know; at this rate, it may not matter. Normally, he'd advise his pupils to never go off alone with a stranger, but it's much easier to escape one than dozens. He shifts back to Fingon. He's stock still, standing in the way one does when facing a boggart or an infuriated professor ready to assign a year's detention. His heart is squeezing in his chest the further he fights the swell.
Against his better judgment, Harry agrees.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Of course, Celebrían comes to tea. Which, Harry supposes, means she'll only stay for two months and not two years as Eldar concepts of time are incredibly skewed. She's, as always, far too delighted to see Harry, but she's much more tolerable than most of the others. There are fewer awkward pauses with her, and she doesn't seem quite as alien.
She's a vision in silver and shades of the palest pinks with actual flowers in her hair. Gil-galad matches the silver and star design of her dress but instead has opted for blue accents, which Harry knows is a color of his house.
Everyone else is a riot of colors – dark red, yellow, and white.
Harry himself is once more in green with hints of gold in an outfit that Fingon insisted he wear without clear explanation. And hadn't that been a fun experience? Opening his door that morning to an already waiting Fingon, who promptly shoved him back inside. His host then proceeded to rifle through his wardrobe with the look of an elf possessed, critiquing everything before ultimately deciding on Harry's current ensemble and making him change.
Green, he insisted, is Harry's signature color. And Vairë did give Harry a lot of it to the point he's starting to wonder if she wishes to match his eyes or has some other ulterior motive.
Fingon also somehow convinced Harry to allow braids in his hair. Or more accurately for Fingon to add them. Which he reluctantly agreed to if only because he couldn't figure out which bizarre ceremony he'd somehow found himself part of. That was of course after he surreptitiously banished the circlet Fingon was trying to sneak in; he'd find that later in the kitchen and have to puzzle out for himself how it got there. Harry also manages to dodge the clasp pushed at him along with the earrings, bracelets, and rings.
He feels like he's already fought a battle by the time he even makes it to tea. Harry sips his cup slowly at the memory. It's a blend of mint and a fruit native only to Valinor, but he doesn't know the proper name of it as Findis reaches for the pot to pour him more. She's only arrived six days before to the surprise of apparently no one but him. Irimë and Aredhel chat away with her from the far side of the table on the latest gossip in Tirion; Fingon, Argon, Angrod are obvious with their absences. Harry suspects that they're with Finrod, who came with Celebrían.
Harry himself is seated between Celebrían and Gil-galad, wondering faintly how this has become his life. They fortunately don't expect him to know much about the general goings-on as outside the House of Finwë and its retainers; he barely knows anyone here. If only that came with true anonymity because they need only see his face to immediately know who he is. He rather hates going into the city without his hood pulled up since the staring really needs to stop.
His cup is empty now, tea finished during his musings. The china is daintier that any he's ever seen outside the Ainur save perhaps that made by Swiss gnomes. It's hand-painted with carnations in pink, red, and white. Harry belatedly realizes that's the same flower in Celebrían's hair.
"I know you could better," she comments from his right side as she notices him inspecting the pattern, "but this set felt appropriate for the occasion. It belongs to my grandmother."
There's a great deal to unpack in that statement, and Harry honestly isn't sure how to start.
"Ah, she is right," Irimë chimes in next. She seems rather pleased with herself as she adds, "I hear you're an artist."
Harry – who has faced a basilisk, dragon, and Dark Lord – calmly reaches for a sandwich buy himself time. Since really, how would she've heard that? The only ones who'd really know of his hobby are the people in Formenos. And the Ainur, he supposes, but Harry doesn't know if Celebrían regularly gossips with any of them. He truly can't picture Námo and she gossiping over the hedge.
"I've some… passing skill," Harry decides and offers a small, self-depreciating smile.
Celebrían giggles behind her hand, but he can see her ears twitch. Her mouth is completely hidden.
"Is that what you call it?"
"They said there were murals," Irimë continues, and her voice always has that ring of laughter. The sunshine of her dress isn't nearly as bright as her demeanor.
"I only heard about the one," Aredhel insists. She sets down her plate to put her cheek in her empty hand. "In Formenos itself."
Findis answers instead, "There are several in the city proper as well." She takes her time pouring into each cup, stately and demure. "There are supposedly plans for a project in the newest section, but no one seems to know the particular details."
The entire table turns to him expectantly.
Harry doesn't shift in his seat like a naughty schoolboy; he doesn't. Nor does he start when Gil-galad's knee brushes against his beneath the table.
The people in his city are free to discuss what they want with who they want, but this is a little ridiculous. He and Melpomaen only picked out the wall before he left to come here, and people in Tirion already know about it? Is nothing in Valinor secret?
"That has yet to be decided," Harry allows, Then, he takes a sip of his newly refilled cup.
"Oh, come now, Hérion," Irimë chides, but it's too merry. "You're just being coy."
He drinks from his tea again. Slow and deliberate. Channeling his inner Minerva McGonagall.
"It's still under consideration."
"I somehow find this hard to believe," Findis responds primly.
Harry merely sets his cup down. His smile is pleasant, neutral. Perfected in too many governor's meetings and Ministry functions.
"It's a matter to contemplate."
Gil-galad chuckles next to him. His knee presses more firmly against Harry's as he leans forward. Warm and solid.
"He isn't going to say," he states and seems very delighted by this.
"You enjoy this too much," Celebrían accuses.
She doesn't throw her napkin across the table, but Harry can tell she's tempted. Her tone is fond though as she reaches for the platter instead. Aredhel just shakes her head, while Findis somehow manages not to roll her eyes. Irimë lets out a sniff.
"Have it your way. I should have expected you to side with him," she says, but it's playful, teasing. "Surely, someone here will find out eventually." Her eyes dance around the table before lingering on first Harry and then Gil-galad.
Harry pretends not to notice as Celebrían offers another sandwich, and Irimë's attention is soon enough diverted by her sister and niece. Gil-galad smiles at him when she finally looks away; he gives a wink.
Harry hides his laugh in his teacup.
Notes:
Calaquendi – Elves of the light (high elves). Essentially the ones who were present with the Two Trees (the Vanyar, Ñoldor, Teleri/Falmari in Aman).
AN: No, Harry, there's no reason to think that anyone in your city is spying on you. No reason at all.
The elves of Formenos, definitely – This guy's nice but so effing weird; we need something safe to talk about when people ask.
Also, borrowing the idea that Valinor doesn't have traditional seasons. Each section is a different permanent season. North is always winter, but Harry's set Formenos up as a haven from that. Does it look like some crazy mix of a Hallmark card and faerie tale? Yes, yes, it does.
And fun head canon time, Celeborn and Oropher (Thranduil's father) were both supposed to be kinsmen of Thingol. I always imagine them as brothers, which makes Thranduil the nephew by marriage of Galadriel. They in turn would be the great nephews of Thingol. This makes a crazy family tree, especially for Elrond's kids.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Melpomaen – Figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Chapter Text
The forests south of Tirion are summer-warm even close to the lake. As a human, Harry would've found them intolerably hot without cooling charms, but now, he's dressed in layers and barely notices the difference.
They set out before dawn, before the temperatures rise, when the sun is still sleeping and dew clings to the leaves. Fingon has turned this particular venture into a hunting trip, though Harry can't fathom why. He's out front with Aredhel just behind on her impossibly white horse. Harry and Gil-galad are in the center, near level with each other, as he's the only one Indilwen comes close to tolerating. Finrod's next, oddly enough playing a lyre as they ride. Angrod and Argon bring up the rear.
Celebrían has declined this undertaking along with most of ladies; Harry isn't given that option.
The trip itself is pleasant enough, and they pass the time singing to him silly hunting tunes and telling childish tales from their youths. Harry knows that he makes for a good audience, and he's too practiced at this game, redirecting any questions about himself before they can even form. He learns more about the antics of the House of Finwë than an outsider should ever know, and it's a blessing to them that he isn't prone to blackmail.
Gil-galad didn't grow up with them though and wasn't born in Valinor, but he's spent more time in Endor than any of the others. It shows in his narratives of dwarves and Men, of the island of Númenor and the mines of Moria and the Haves of Sirion. He's an excellent storyteller with perfect dramatic timing and a wry sense of humor. He pauses at all the right intervals, but the mischievous sparkle in his stormy eyes usually gives his plot away.
By some mutual signal that Harry misses, they come to a stop with the lake peeking through the trees. It's turquoise and sparkling in the dawning light. If given a choice, he'd much prefer a simple ride or a swim or even a picnic, but this is Fingon's show. There's so much game around that they have their choice of it, but Aredhel spots one in particular, and that's that. Harry usually goes after predators, so this is a bit novel. But hunting isn't a passion, more a duty. An obligation to keep the roads around Formenos safe for travelers and to prevent more aggressive animals from settling on their doorstop.
The elves seem to enjoy the thrill of the chase. They laugh at the rush of it, galloping at breakneck speeds and pursuing their quarry. Harry much prefers the freedom of riding Indilwen. Of her fast gait as she dodges around trees and whips through paths and bushes. He could make a broom, he supposes, but he'd have to layer it with so many concealment charms and ride far away from prying eyes that it isn't worth it. Besides, if he wants to fly, he has other, less obvious methods.
The first stag is impressive enough, and Gil-galad brings it down with a single arrow. Their second is felled by Fingon and the third by Finrod as Aredhel shoots a pheasant mid-flight. Angrod and Argon opt for rabbits for a challenge. Harry only goes for the fox when he hears the ducks shrieking for help.
The next part is the most tedious. Oromë always makes him do this by hand and never by magic. He's seen enough blood over the years that he isn't even squeamish anymore. Harry just works methodically through without complaint while Gil-galad hands him anything he needs before he can even ask. The stream he uses for cleanup is small, barely more than a trickle of water over rocks, but it's enough to scrub down all the knives and equipment. Gil-galad kneels next to him as they work. He's seemed very interested in watching Harry this entire time from downing the fox all the way to now; though it occurs to Harry they've never seen him so much as touch an arrow prior to this, so maybe the attention shouldn't surprise him. They admittedly don't really know very much about him, which is by his own design, so they were in all probability stunned that he had his own bow.
"You certainly do know your way around a knife," Gil-galad comments almost idly, watching as Harry inspects each one separately, dries, and then sheathes it. "I do not think I've ever seen anyone so efficient but meticulous. I would ask if you do the same for all your blades, but you never use anything else."
Harry can't help but snort. He uses his sword only because Eönwë makes him. He has the calluses to prove it.
Gil-galad lets out a ridiculous laugh then. He seems perhaps overly intrigued in Harry's hands afterwards.
"So I can see," the older elf says, a touch too surreal.
Harry blinks at him. Replays that in his mind. He said that out loud then.
Bother.
Gil-galad shakes his head. Bemused but ultimately pleased that Harry's revealing something of himself.
"I suppose you learned the bow from Oromë then."
It's said almost in jest, but there's a gleam in the elf's eyes. Harry stays silent only because he isn't sure how to answer and not make that awkward or a lie.
Gil-galad chuckles again. It's half-absurd and half-thrilled. Like he's recovering after being hit by an overly powerful Cheering Charm.
He doesn't have a diadem today, and his hair is braided in a more practical style. His clothes are as simple as the Ñoldor get, pants gray and tunic cream with cobalt blue stitches and a single jay embroidered on the high collar. There's dirt underneath his fingernails and a grass-stain on his knee from earlier. He'll never have wrinkles, but his eyes crinkle when he laughs and means it. He seems realer this way, less the depiction of some heroic king and more an actual person.
Harry finds he rather prefers him this way.
Gil-galad's smile is gentler now, but he isn't turning away. He just watches Harry. Interest almost intense.
"You aren't like any other elf I've ever met."
It's softer but no less delighted.
Harry freezes for only a heartbeat, but they're far too near for Gil-galad not to see. This is… too much. It's getting a little too close. He understands that he isn't really like the other elves; he isn't one of them at all. He just hadn't realized it was that obvious.
Gil-galad watches him, glow falling away. His gaze is assessing, searching.
Harry keeps his face neutral, but he feels exposed. Open like a book when the breeze has fluttered it to a random page. He peeks back at the others. To see if they've noticed. To see if they've also figured out his lie.
Fingon doesn't even glance their way, too engrossed in his sweet murmurings to Indilwen as he attempts to coax her with an apple. Finrod has his head turned down as he tunes his lyre on a nearby log. Aredhel and Angrod are too busy arguing about the proper way to bundle deer to his horse to notice anything short of a dragon, while Argon does the actual work of sorting everything out.
The touch on his elbow is light, and Harry's eyes are drawn back. Gil-galad studies him again before he leans forward and pitches his tone low.
"Peredhel?"
It's only a single word, a question. It's even one Harry's considered himself more than he'll ever care to admit. It's accurate enough, he supposes. He'll never be a true, real elf, and they seemingly use this term to cover everyone that has a drop of non-elven blood.
"Yes," Harry admits, and it's halting, stilted. "I'm not fully elven."
This isn't a lie; it doesn't even feel like one. But he's laid bare by this honesty more than anything else he's said or done on Valinor.
It's liberating. It's terrifying. Both together all in one. Dizzying even. He feels like a broomstick in a tempest, spiraling in the winds. This is the closest he's come to the truth to anyone who isn't an Ainu – or already in on the secret; he isn't entirely sure that they all know aside from the three he first met.
Gil-galad puts a hand on his wrist as if to catch him. A thumb rubs on the vulnerable skin there. Strokes steady and slow.
"There is no shame in this," the elf murmurs, eyes such an intense storm-cloud blue that Harry half-expects lightning. "You don't have to hide what you are. Truly, they would not care."
His gaze doesn't return to the others; it's fixed on Harry's face. His touch is tender, and his hold never turns to a shackle. That more than anything calms Harry, steadies him as he circles for a safe spot to land.
"One of my truest and dearest friends is peredhel, and I gladly await the day he sails here." Gil-galad's tone is strong with affection and remembrance. "I should think he'd very much like to meet you."
His fingers are warm on Harry's wrist, touch soft, almost delicate. He's very close, Harry recognizes. His hair is a very deep brown, but his lashes are black. His eyes are so near that Harry can see there's actually a darker ring around the pupil. He smells faintly of rain and treacle and the woods and…
Then, there's a chortle from behind them. It's quickly followed by a groan as Argon is hit by something that may've been a lyre.
Harry blinks and inhales as the spell is broken. He pulls away first, moving to stand and turning away deliberately.
Fingon's still near Indilwen, but the pair of them are now sharing a very strange expression. Aredhel and Angrod have stopped arguing, instead gaping at Finrod. He in turn towers over Argon. Who dazedly sits on the forest floor, clutching at the steadily blossoming bruise on his forehead. The lyre lays right next to him.
Harry sighs and goes over to tend Argon.
He very carefully doesn't look at Gil-galad for the rest of the day.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
They think they're so clever.
Harry mentally shakes his head at that. At this very obvious set-up. At the convenience of a party with Celebrían and her uncle pulled away by nobles from the rebuilt Gondolin. While Fingon, his siblings, and their cousin speak to others from Nargothrond. With Findis and Irimë conspicuously absent for the last hour. Gil-galad… Harry isn't sure where he's gone. There one minute and not the next. And poor Harry left all alone now on the balcony.
He knows who this is without even needing to hear her name. He's seen her sketch tucked away in a drawer in what he can only assume was once Fëanor's desk. It certainly doesn't do justice to the vivid copper gleam of her hair or the warmth of her eyes, like clear water that can be seen all the way through.
"Lady Nerdanel," he greets softly. He doesn't sigh or wish very unfortunate things on the House of Finwë; he doesn't.
"Lord Marcaunon," she says back, and it's unexpectedly formal.
Her voice is surprisingly deep, lower in octave than he'd anticipated, but intense. Like a stream over rocks. Like she's used to calling out over the cacophony and making herself heard.
Nerdanel isn't the most beautiful elf he's ever seen – that title currently goes to Finrod though he admits Celebrían is a not so distant second. Her face is rounder than most, and he can see the roughness to her hands even from here. There's something about her that's captivating, nevertheless, and Harry finds that he can't look away.
Her dress is a soft pearl and shimmers as she leisurely walks up to him. She stops on his left side – not in front – and leans on the banister much like a schoolgirl as she gazes down at the fountain below. It's an odd, dissonant picture. Especially with the soothing aura she projects. Rather like staying up late with Molly at the original Burrow drinking hot chocolate in the kitchen when all the others were asleep.
Harry exhales at that thought. At the sting of memory. At a vision of an orphaned boy whose only recollection of his mother is her screams. At a wonderful woman who opened her home and arms to him but could never quite fill that void. Molly only outlived one son though. Hadn't had to deal with her brood turning to murderers and then knowing what came after.
Hadn't had to deal with an impostor who everyone tried to shove at her.
He's avoided Nerdanel for years; Harry admits that in the safety of his own mind. Everyone in the place is determined to make him their relative, but he couldn't do that to this woman who's lost everything. To pretend. To steal a place in her heart that will never be his. That's never even existed in the first place.
His heart beats painfully in his chest. It's tight and squeezing. She's as opposite from Molly Weasley as possible despite the hair, but somehow, she seems just the same as she stands beside him. Shadow long and empty for the people who should be there.
She looks at him then. As if she's sensing his thoughts. Her eyes are cerulean pools, so deep he might drown. She hides it well, he realizes. Hides it so far down that only someone truly looking can hope to catch a glimpse. Buried beneath the sweet layering of the surface and the lake-calm of her soul, but Harry can hear it like she's shrieking it from the rooftops. Her grief is so immense, there isn't even tears.
But Harry's seen this before. First, in Cedric's mother after he died. Then, Molly herself when she buried first a son and then later a husband. Next, in the faces of others when they lost everything and everyone and were only hanging on by the thinnest thread.
He's shamed even by association that he played any part in this deception. In this farce.
"I'm sorry that I'm not who you wanted," he murmurs to her and means it with everything he is.
She smiles at him then, and it's not bitter or broken. Instead, it's lovely.
"What I want will come back to me again in time," Nerdanel replies.
It's very certain. She says it like there's absolutely no doubt in her mind. Like there can't be any other possibility.
Her husband and sons are still in confinement after two ages. Her only grandson by blood was tortured to death by Sauron and is still being healed from that horror. She's never met her foster grandsons; already, one chose humanity and is lost to death forever while the other's still on Endor with return date unknown. There are great grandchildren she may or may not ever meet.
Maybe this needs to be true for her sanity.
"I'm very sorry for everything," Harry apologizes again. "I never meant for any of this…" He waves a vague hand at himself, the party through the doors behind them, and then entire building. "None of this to happen."
She's silent to that. Glancing from his eyes to the curve of his cheek and over his face. He doesn't know what she's searching for, but he knows she won't find it here.
"A mother knows her children when they stand before her," Nerdanel states, voice clear and sure, "and you are not my son."
Harry stops breathing. His mouth is suddenly dry; he honestly didn't think she'd believe him. None of the others have, after all.
He blinks at her once. Twice. Three times.
Nerdanel gives a little laugh but doesn't look away. She's nearly two heads shorter than him, but he feels smaller than her. Like a little boy clutching at apron strings.
"My husband has always been brash and impatient," she says next, a non sequitur. "My sons, even the gentlest of them, have always been far too much like him. You're of a different sort, I think."
She takes his hands in hers before he can even think to pull away. For all that Harry's seen him practice his sword almost daily, her grip is as strong as Fingon's. She squeezes his fingers until they're white and bloodless.
"You are very kind."
It's a declaration. An absolute confidence.
The blue of her eyes almost glows in the moonlight, and her hair is a metallic halo that flutters in the breeze. She's the only other Ñoldo in Valinor with so little ornamentation, wearing only a simple silver ring that bites into his skin as she holds his hands.
"Don't let them take that away from you."
The hand that moves to cup his face is gentle, tender. She smooths his hair before pulling back.
"Now, let us go back inside… yes."
Only, it truly isn't a question. Her smile is wider now, happy in a way he can't quite describe. Settled, he supposes. Like she's figured out the truth, and it's eased her heart.
She releases his second hand but only to turn and slide into position like he's a proper escort. The top of her head brushes his arm, and he has to keep his breathing steady. He thinks of the final task of a tournament and funerals when another woman refused to let any of her sons and only an orphan see her cry. Of other soft hands that offered him a place at her kitchen table but of promised-family that fell away with the heavy weight of time and distance of association.
The color isn't quite right, and he was never this much taller than Molly. But Harry allows himself this illusion, this lie, for just a moment.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The nicest thing he can say about it Formenos is that at least it's dry inside. That it's far from prying eyes, hushed whispers, and judging looks.
Fingon's so nice it's painful, but Harry can't stay there. His inner Hufflepuff won't allow him to freeload indefinitely off of such generosity. The Gryffindor in him agrees, informs him this isn't honorable, that he can't pretend to be the son of a man – elf – he's never met and probably never will. He knows he isn't part of this family, and he tells them as much.
They don't believe him.
Oh, they listen. They make all the appropriate noises and give nods, but he knows they don't believe. Not the first time. Not the tenth. Not the hundredth.
He leaves Tirion behind and breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't tell them where he's going. Despite their best efforts, he isn't followed either.
The chill of the north isn't any worse than a Scottish winter. It's a nostalgic thing as he and Indilwen head further into the snow. He can see her become increasingly more nervous as they grow closer though. Watch her eyes dart to each shadow, and it's only her trust in him that keeps her from galloping back south.
The old road up the mountains is treacherous in places but in remarkably good order considering. Harry slowly takes Indilwen up and uses magic to reinforce everything as they go. It isn't as winding as he'd expect, as it would've been had humans made it, but the fortress itself is still a surprise when he crests the last rise and sees it towering above them.
It's dark, foreboding even in the afternoon light. A gray stain on top of the mountain like a black cloud crossing the sun. The stronghold itself is a geometrical marvel, a genius of engineering, and considering the Muggle wonders he has seen in his last life, especially at the end, that's truly saying something.
But it's stark. Cold. Haunting. Worse than a deathday party gone horribly wrong. There's a wrathful feeling here, an anger and a terrible, aching loss. Like some giant monster had reared up and torn out its heart.
It honestly looks like someone – or several someones – died here.
Ancient blood is still stained on the walls, and he can hear the echoes of screams when he presses his palm flat against the stone. It's a terrible, foreboding place. Shaded hallways where insects and small animals haven't even dare come inside from the cold. Where the predators give a wide berth and evergreens refuse to grow too close.
It's his new home.
The second nicest thing he can say about Formenos is that since he's basically alone, he can cast as much magic as he wants. Harry uses that to his full advantage.
The structure has held up amazingly well. Say what people will about Fëanor, he certainly built things to last. Harry comes here because it's abandoned. Because he can be far away from elves and their history and their feuds and their otherness. He expected a ruin tucked away in the northern mountains. The truth is anything but. The water needs to be cleaned, but the pipes are unbroken and baths still fill perfectly. The hearths are cold with traces of ash, but a swift Scourgify has them ready; even the glass in the windows is still intact.
The Ravenclaw in him wonders at it all.
The aura of the place is the true issue. The echoes, the memories of pain and despair all but crying from the walls. He cleanses the entire structure with seven different rituals tied together over seven full moons. Scrubs the blood away by hand even as he sings an old Veela hymn that Victoire taught him so long ago. Crafts a rite that purifies the very stones themselves, which washes them all a dazzling white even purer than the surrounding snow.
Harry adds towers to the fortress to turn it into a proper castle. There's one for the four cardinal directions with another set in between each of those. The final and largest tower is in the middle, which will house him, a study, atelier, and whatever else he later decides to add.
The great hall is stripped down to its bones and reworked from the literal ground up, and he already knows how it'll be remade before he starts. The ceiling is the finishing touch, and he toils on it for nearly a year. A mix of magic and handcrafting, painstakingly painted with love and longing of a home gone but never forgotten.
The books in the library have survived to a degree. Magic restores them fully and encases them in further protection. The library itself is expanded and opened up with glass ceilings, airy walkways and arbors alternating with the shelves. His few ventures into civilization are only for new tomes and scrolls. Everything else he can make or obtain himself.
The rest of the castle is still a work in progress but coming together with his own desires and designs. He takes his time; he has plenty of it. All the time in the world to make it just so, to make it perfect, the embodiment of every childish whim he's ever had. Perhaps he'll add an owlery in one tower and train birds just to fill it. Maybe he'll enlarge the conservatory and have it take up the entire northwest tower. Or he could change another to an observatory.
It's terribly indulgent. He hasn't had this much leisure time, this much opportunity to do something for himself and no one else in so long. It's a nebulous happy thing. Waking up when he wants to do what he wants.
Harry hasn't felt this alive since… since… He doesn't even know.
Teaching had been a joy, but as the headmaster, that was limited. He had paperwork and meetings and politics. All things he despised. He'd only put up with it to ensure that the students had the very best. That none of them ever had to have a school experience like he did. That there would always be enough faculty, supplies, protection for them.
Harry had grown to empathize with Dumbledore more over the years and even Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall – all of them with their multiple positions and conflicting responsibilities. He learned from their examples but even more from their mistakes. He was the headmaster before anything. The students were his top priority, and his duty was to them first always. Followed by his staff and then the castle itself. The board and Ministry were far down on the list.
But this, what he does now as he builds Formenos into something new, is something for Harry only.
It keeps him busy, more absorbed than he imagined he'd be when he first awoke here. He doesn't have the time or idleness to be lonely, and he isn't alone, not truly. Indilwen is still his best companion, and a sunny, green area for her to roam and graze is a high priority. Harry finds that he likes it so much, however, that he expands the zone into a proper oasis that encircles Formenos. It's naturally charmed to be forever spring.
That isn't to say Harry is without frequent guests, even before the Eldar make themselves known.
Nienna visits regularly. Harry thinks it's mostly to make sure he isn't without non-equine company. Especially when she insists – read drags – him back to see Námo and even to the Gardens of Lórien for her other sibling and his wife.
Vairë comes less often but still drops by routinely as if checking on everything. And it goes without saying that there's a mysteriously appearing but no less impressive tapestry that he always finds hanging up in some strategic location after she departs. His wardrobe is usually fuller, too.
Oromë is there periodically, and Harry suspects it's mostly to see Indilwen. Though he does insist on taking Harry on multiple hunts to thin the local bear and wolf populations, and Harry's cellar is so full with magically preserved food between he and Vána that Harry has to increase it in size three times.
Eönwë comes by with growing frequency. Which is whenever he feels like it. All allegedly to further Harry's martial knowledge. In reality, Harry largely suspects it's because no one else is willing to spar with him.
Other Ainur appear randomly and sometimes without obvious purpose.
Harry can't decide if he's their charity case or just some type of fascinating organism that they can't quite figure out what to do with. He could almost consider them friends if he hadn't been left on their doorstep like an abandoned kneazle kitten.
A knock sounds in the background.
Harry's in the library brush in hand as he traces out a perovskia flower. He's never them seen in Valinor, but they grew in greenhouse one at Hogwarts and were the key ingredient in the potion he always made his first-years brew in their starting class.
There's another thump then, and the harp playing next to him pauses. The notes drift away as he straightens.
"Whatever could that be?" Harry inquiries as he looks around.
The harp strikes a single chord as if to question, "Why are you asking me?"
The Ainur never knock; Harry isn't sure they even know what it means. He often looks up from one task or another to find them poking around. Sometimes, he can hear them coming, feel the soft strum, but it depends on how hard he's concentrating.
Harry finally stands as he hears yet more tapping in the distance. The knocker is a novelty and only kept because it came with Formenos. Undoubtedly some work of Fëanor or one of his sons. It takes Harry a moment because he's never actually heard it from inside. He tilts his head and listens not with his ears but with something deeper.
There are elves at his door. Hovering in the front courtyard, mildly anxious and… awed?
How peculiar.
Indilwen is nearby, undoubtedly drawn by the noise. She's also very territorial, so it's probably for the best that Harry goes to save them. He puts down his brush and apparates to the entranceway. A wave of his hand refreshes his robe and wipes away stray paint droplets.
Harry exhales and takes a second to compose himself before opening the side door. It puts him to the right of the group. Indilwen is on the left, nearer to the fountain that opens to the bamboo grove. She's glaring at the lot of them and tossing her head. Two are close to her, reaching out and speaking in soothing tones as she paws the ground. Their own mounts are on the far side of the courtyard, being tended to by other members.
This isn't a small group, he realizes. It's perhaps more than seventy but less than a hundred.
The pair closing in on her jerks back as she rears up. Which is when Harry decides it's time for the rescue.
"Indilwen," he calls.
Her answer is immediate. She goes from nothing to a full gallop in seconds and is through the gap between elves before they can do more than leap out of her way. She's behind Harry then, curving to stay at his flank. She stops on a knut, perfectly positioned beyond his shoulder and looking over.
The elves stare for a moment at the spectacle, but they recover soon enough and very gradually come up to greet him. The spokesman in front is the only true blond of the group with pale golden hair braided in an unusual style Harry hasn't seen before. The others are all dark-headed in variations of brown and black save for three with red – two bright and one auburn – and another six in shades of silver that range from metallic to almost gray. They all have weapons, mostly swords or daggers with some bows and spears. None are drawn, which's good for them, or they would've had a very bad time of it once his wards are through.
The blond – ostensibly the leader – offers a bow.
"Well met, I'm Inglor."
He studies Harry, but his expression says that he already suspects the name he'll be given before he hears it.
Harry inclines his head. "Hérion. Or Marcaunon, if you'd prefer. "
There's a wave of quiet whispers amongst the others.
"So truly this is Findekáno's cousin?"
"All the way out here?"
"In this forsaken place?"
The last is loudest and from a woman just to the right. Harry glances to her, but she's quick to duck her head. The other elves fall silent
"Forgive us. Your disappearance was a matter of note." Inglor redirects attention to himself, and his tone is strange. "No one knew where you'd gone."
"Well," Harry replies nonchalantly, "as you can see, I've been here."
Inglor looks from the courtyard to the castle and back. His eyes trace the ivy curling up by the castle entrance and over to the myriads of butterflies flitting from the roses to the lavender. To the apple and cherry trees both blossoming and full of fruit. To the berry bushes with chirping birds stealing their prizes.
"Yes, I can certainly see that," Inglor says. It's half-bemused, half-wondrous.
Harry observes him for a long moment, observes all of them. He's Slytherin enough to see what they don't say. Their clothes are sturdy but have an aged quality, like an outfit worn and washed too many times. Their horses are drooping as they stand, lulling off to sleep, and even Indilwen has stepped out from behind him now to peer that direction. The elves themselves seem… tired. Frayed. Tattered and discarded.
It tugs at something inside Harry, and he doesn't have the heart to push that feeling down.
Every elf he's seen in Valinor is clean, tidy, and seemingly happy.
This lot looks anything but.
Inglor undoubtedly can feel the weight of his attention. Of his eyes examining every little detail.
"We are wanderers," the blond admits then like it's a shameful secret. The same way a prefect would admit to cheating on a test. "Most of us don't have set homes in Aman and drift. We found ourselves in the north and thought to seek shelter, but this…"
Inglor hesitates. He gazes at the sunlight streaming down from the cloudless sky.
Outside the wards, it's a blizzard, a whiteout of snow and wind. Harry can feel it howling against the barrier, gnawing and snapping.
Within, it's a beautiful spring day.
"None of us ever dreamed Formenos would look like this."
Inglor laughs then like he can't believe he isn't dreaming.
The lost gleam in his eyes decides Harry more than anything. He would've offered them simple shelter to wait out the storm, but he knows that look. Recognizes it from years ago when he was an unwanted stray, a destitute orphan in rags, a discarded piece of rubbish shoved in a cupboard and forgotten about for a decade.
"Come inside," Harry says, and it's a turning point.
He can feel the weight of doors both opening and closing. Of future paths shifting and rearranging. Things won't be the same after this.
He turns and beckons them into the entryway. He doesn't have to glance back to know that all of them are following. He doesn't have to be a seer to know that all of them will stay.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Angrod – So what're they doing back there?
Aredhel – Whispering to each other.
Finrod – I can't hear what they're saying, but it seems promising.
Fingon – I'm looking at this horse very intently and nothing else.
Indilwen – Neigh.
Argon, who's the only elf in this group without a sweetheart – Teehee!
Everyone – ARGON!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Námo – Your grandson is doing such a good job out there.
Fëanor – Grandson? Celebrimbor?
Námo, secretly laughing to himself – Not that one.
Fëanor – Elrond? Elros?
Námo – Not those either.
Fëanor – ???
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Inglor – What the holy hell happened to this place? Are a hoard of Maiar living here now?
Random Elf #1 – Yeah, I thought this was supposed to be a fortress of gloom?
Random Elf #2 – Isn't that supposed to be--
Random Elf #1 – I stand by what I said.
Inglor – Hey, isn't that Maglor? He cut his hair.
Random Elf #2 – And changed his eye color.
All The Elves – Wait just a minute! That's the guy that Fingon totally sent us on this wild goose-chase to find told us all about!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The House of Finwë, probably – Oh, look. Let's shove Fëanor's wife at him. What could possibly go wrong?
Meanwhile, Harry in Formenos, building his barbie elven dream castle, while having his Elsa montage, and the Valar looking on and sipping tea.
Notes:
Perovskia – Russian sage. Symbolizes wisdom and knowledge.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Chapter Text
It's the starlings who tell Harry that another elf has come. It's late in the evening, and they're settling in to roost when a pair lands on his balcony. They're happy to help, tweeting and dancing around like little eager spies. He thanks them with some seeds he keeps for just the occasion.
It isn't his business; it isn't. He shouldn't care if Fingon has late night liaisons. This is his home. His estate. He can entertain whomever, whenever he wants.
And yet… yet…
First, the surprise arrival of Findis. And then, being ambushed with Nerdanel…
His inner Slytherin shakes a finger at him in a manner that isn't unlike a scolding Malfoy. The Ravenclaw part tells him he's being foolish and that any knowledge is good knowledge. Hufflepuff puts hands on his hips but agrees that everyone can get along only if everyone knows the plan. Gryffindor just shrugs and says he might as well.
Harry sighs.
Corvids have a poor association with elves, but fortunately for Harry, since coming to Arda, he's gained other forms. Avians are the easiest, which isn't unexpected. Owls are something of a favorite and always will be. Close to his heart and tucked away safely.
It takes a moment to reorient himself since he hasn't changed for months; he stretches his wings and turns his head this way and that. His feathers are glossy and black, but he purposefully shifts his eyes to a luminous amber just in case. He doesn't want to be seen flying from the room though, so he apparates to the shadows of the roof. The finches nesting there are delighted enough to show him the correct room, preening against his wings and bobbing their heads for several minutes before he can finally shoo them away.
The roof itself is clean, almost unnaturally so, likely from all the recent rain. Nevertheless, Harry's grateful for it as he carefully walks over the tiles, meticulously picking his way around the edges to keep his talons from catching. His goal is an ever-darkening corner as the night deepens, and he settles in with his back between the two walls. It's warm, as it always is in Tirion, but the breeze is pleasant. The balcony door's open just as he hoped it would be. No one in Valinor locks much of anything, and Harry's noticed that they usually leave their windows and even doors open when the weather holds.
"For surely, Ma--"
"He continues to deny him," Fingon cuts in, and his tone is very tired.
Harry obviously can't see them from this angle, but despite his form shift, his hearing is sharp as ever. He catches a loud exhale and knows that it's from Fingon by the echo of discontentment.
"But Tyelpë also denied his father after the kinslayings, and he never took the Oath."
The other elf sounds very similar to Fingon. Voice near enough that he must be a close relative, but Fingon has no children and has never married. Another brother then. Harry knows that this isn't Argon though. Has spent too much time around him now not to recognize him immediately.
Harry has never met Turgon, however.
"Do you think perhaps he was too young to know when they were separated?" the stranger asks next. "He may've even still been a babe."
He can hear Fingon moving in the room. Walking to the far corner where Harry knows he keeps the expensive alcohol. Sure enough, there's the sound of a cabinet opening.
"We do not know how long he was in the Halls, and I only know he was there because of how he spoke to Irissë of Lord Námo," Fingon says, distant in a way that has nothing to do with his location in the room. There's liquid pouring into a glass, first one and then another. "We know so little of him. He tells us only hints and falters when he realizes what he gives away. I do not even know his age. Where he lived before this all. Nothing! Celebrían was the one to tell me his craft, and she didn't even hear it from him either but her cousin through marriage."
There's a thump and the sound of a chair against the carpet. Like Fingon has fallen into it.
Harry doesn't know what to think. He scarcely dares to breathe. His heart beats wildly, wings shivering as he tries to pull them closer. It's summer, but he's unexpectedly chilled. It feels like every happy emotion has emptied from his body. As if a dementor is standing just behind his shoulder and out of sight.
Are they… Are they really taking about…
"What do you know then?" the visitor inquires after a long pause. "Share what you have and not what you don't. Extrapolate from there."
Harry can't see them. Can't see Fingon's face or his eyes. Can only imagine how he must look in this instance as he tells this elf – this stranger – every detail he knows. Harry can't decide which is worse. The hearing of it. The telling. Or that he could've lived on forever in blissful ignorance.
Fingon though is measured, considering.
Damning.
"He is a gifted artist but shies away from acknowledgment. He rebuilt Formenos by himself, possibly before I even met him. He wears no jewelry and refuses treasures of his House, even those that uncle and Curvo didn't make. He knows how to hunt and killed a fox that not even Irissë spotted. His manners and dress are appropriate for a prince, but he rarely braids his hair and is reluctant to allow me or even Gil to do it. He knows the history of Aman and the kinslayings chillingly well, but he hates going to Tirion unless wearing his hood. He goes only to buy books, and he spends more time reading those at night than resting."
Fingon pauses to take a sip, and the wait is agonizing.
"So Makalaurë obviously taught him something," the other elf offers, "to have all of this. What does Gil-galad say?"
There's a laugh. It's an exhausted, mirthless sound.
Harry clamps his beak shut to make sure it didn't come from him.
"He hoards his knowledge like a dragon does gold. Gil says nothing that was given in confidence, which is everything."
A tap of fingertips on wood then, but Harry isn't sure who it's from. A steady rhythm in time with his pounding heart.
"He avoids touch, and even Gil's is rarely permitted." It's halting now. Hesitant. "He steps away but never pushes, and he looks at us like he does not understand what we offer."
Silence. Tense. Threadbare. Like a cloak unraveling.
Someone is breathing hard, and Harry isn't sure if it's him, Fingon, or some combination of both.
"He does not speak of his mother," Fingon murmurs. It's muted, distant. "Never. Not once. Not a single word of her. There is…"
He exhales. Long. Slow. Inhales again.
They're speaking from the room beneath Harry, but it's so far away even without moving.
"There is what, hinya?"
Another pause and a clank of glass.
"There is… an unusual quality to his fëa," Fingon admits.
Harry wants nothing more than to fly down. To see his expression and know what he's thinking in that very moment. It's only because his wings won't support him that he doesn't.
"…but I have met so few peredhil and never spent much time with any of them. Perhaps… perhaps his mother was the child of an Avar and an Atan?"
There's a shifting as the second elf abruptly leans up in his seat.
"You do not think his mother was Atani?"
"No Atan has eyes like that," Fingon tells him with absolute confidence, complete and utter conviction, and Harry struggles not to make a sound, can't be sure whether it'll be a laugh or a cry. "They certainly didn't come from the line of Finwë."
It earns him a snort instead from his visitor. Harry can hear him take a long drink from his wineglass before setting it on the table a little too heavily.
"Ingoldo has green eyes," the stranger reminds him. His tone is gentle. Manner like one holding a soap bubble and trying to keep it intact.
"Those are the closest in any Ñoldo," Fingon acknowledges after a minute, "but his are much lighter in shade. You shall see yourself soon enough."
Harry shivers as Fingon sighs. He can imagine him with that far off stare he often wears. Like he's gazing beyond Harry to some other time and place. Like he's lost himself and isn't quite sure how to get back.
It's an uncomfortably familiar look. One Harry has seen in the mirror too many times.
Very unexpectedly, there's a knock at the door. Sharp, agitated. It's jarring enough that Harry nearly jumps.
He hears a clink against the table.
"I'm sorry to bother you."
It's muffled behind wood and distance.
"Celebrían?" Fingon questions, and he honestly seems perplexed. "Come in, come in."
The sound of a door opening, then footsteps. Quick. Restless.
"My apologies, cousin and--"
She gives a little gasp, clearly surprised to see this elf, too.
"Niece, please, no need for that."
"Celebrían, whatever is the matter?" Fingon interrupts as his chair is being pushed back, and Harry hears him rising.
"We cannot find Hérion," she answers in a rush.
"What?"
Fingon is startled, strangled.
Harry feels his heart stop. Stutter. Restart.
The wards.
They never come by his room at night. He hadn't bothered to recast them. He hasn't ever needed them.
Not until now.
"We went to see him this evening, but his room lies empty. He was quieter since your return from the lake, and he was even more withdrawn after Nerdanel spoke with him. We… we grew concerned."
There's a roaring in his ears. His feathers are puffed up, wings stretching out as if faced with a predator.
"His horse?"
It's Fingon but further way. There's the flutter of a robe being thrown on and the jingle of sword as it's tied to a belt.
"Irissë has gone to check the stables, but his room is emptied of most of his things." Celebrían moves towards him two steps. "Uncle and Arakáno are heading to the city proper in case he went there. Auntie Findis is alerting the staff to help us search. The others are all looking as we speak. Gil--"
All of three of them are far away now, hurrying off. A door opens.
"He would truly leave at night? Without saying anything?"
Then, they're gone. Whatever response is lost, never to return.
Harry is left alone. Still on the roof. In his corner. In the dark. With no clue what to do now.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Vairë sings while she weaves. Her voice is light, gauzy. More delicate than dew on leaves or gossamer made into lace. A silken soprano who never misses a single pitch and every note is a perfect seam in the fabric of her song.
Harry sits and watches her for what must be hours, but it never drags as her fingers dance. She never loses her veil, but he knows that she smiles at him as she works. She's more patient than a spider spinning a web as she teaches him the rhythms. As she corrects every hitch and smooths any missed beat.
Nienna is their most frequent companion, and the songs are more varied then. Some wordless. Others in languages he's never known. From beings. From concepts. From the universe itself.
Even more often, they simply speak with him. Ask him all manner of things. They're ever curious about the world of his birth, about the life he had before coming here. About the school and teaching and being a headmaster. About his career before that. His apprentices. The conflict with Voldemort. The devastation of the Muggles. Of Earth… Of her loss.
His magic surprises them the most, he thinks. The ease of it. The utility.
Their songs can build entire worlds, but his can light a room so simply. Can make water and flowers and a purple armchair from nothing.
The ladies are mesmerized.
Both wands have made it here, and his holly one is quite taken with Nienna. He teaches her Lumos first and then Wingardium Leviosa. She masters them perfectly with the first cast. The next is silent. The third is without the movement. Her delight is the sun on a winter day as it dries the earlier sleet.
Harry watches it in awe. He's had many students over the years. Most young but some older. Late to magic for one reason or another. Some denied it due to their blood or finances. Others forbidden until the laws relaxed and times changed.
Never has anyone cast so flawlessly. So easily in the beginning. Even those with other types of magic like goblins or gnomes or vampires had struggled at least a bit with the change to wands.
Nienna took to it like a conductor directing a symphony. A harmony rising to answer the flick of her wrist. Harry's never seen anything like it. He doubts he ever will again. But then, the Ainur are not like anyone he's ever met before. They are magic. In a way that even Harry isn't.
While Nienna studies spells, Vairë prefers his cloak. Loves running her fingers over the invisible runes and impossibly small stitches. It truly is a work of art. Of three genius masters who turned themselves into legends. The material intrigues her, but even Harry isn't sure what it's made from. A lethifold perhaps. Or maybe even a dementor. He certainly knows it wasn't fashioned from any demiguise.
Their grimoire was old, missing key pages, so these artifacts will never be duplicated. Harry thinks it was done on purpose. Perhaps by the brothers themselves. That or one of their descendants.
It too has made its way here with him. Was tucked into his pocket when he made his journey; was too dangerous to just leave behind in the eventuality that someone in a distant future may come back to find it. The brothers were powerful wizards, necromancers who delved far too deeply in their craft. Best not leaving such tempting and damning material just laying around.
But it's protected now, given to Námo for safekeeping.
Harry has no want for it or most other things now. His needs are simple, and the Halls provide for him.
Nonetheless, the ladies repeatedly bring him gifts. Clothing is the most common, and Harry thinks Vairë enjoys having something else to make for once. The very first thing she brings is a robe of viridian with black pants and silver thread. It's an exceptionally Slytherin design, and Harry knows she's been listening to his stories very well when he spies the serpent pattern hidden in the edges. Why she chose this in particular, he isn't sure, but the material is soft, and it's finer than anything Harry's ever owned. He wears it gladly; both seem very pleased with it.
There are other things, too. Blankets. Books. A sword and spear from Eönwë that Harry takes somewhat dubiously. Oromë brings a bow with matching quiver as if trying not to be outdone. Hunting knives from Aulë but these are brought by his wife.
Even more.
Harry honestly isn't sure what he should do with all of it. If he didn't have magic, his room here would very quickly be filled to the brim. It's a puzzling thing having so many things and so little need for them but such eager gifters. Ones who seem to want absolutely nothing in return.
Then, one day, Nienna brings him a harp.
It's small. Meant to be held in his lap while played.
Harry remembers instruments in hazy recollections from primary school. He loved music and art even then, but it'd been hard to hide his drawings from the Dursleys. He never would've managed anything larger. In Hogwarts, there hadn't been time and certainly not with Voldemort. Afterwards was recovering and while he'd taken the opportunity to travel, to find himself, that hadn't been long in the scheme of things. He returned for his mastery and there was always something else to do after that. He did draw more though; doodles in his spare time or before bed to relax. Music just never seemed to be a higher priority.
But then, other things came, and leisure was a finite thing for so long. Slightly less so as a professor. He'd actually managed to take his own art classes. They'd been added back to the curriculum by that time and expanded for adult students. He'd first done it as a show to the community, as a way to draw interest, but Harry'd found an old passion. He'd continued those classes for years. Gone to other schools on exchange for a semester or two or three with day trips whenever he could steal them – Lourdes, Boston, San Francisco, Rome, Athens, Alexandria, Lima, Kolkata, Osaka, Shangri La, Kaifeng, Xi'an, Melbourne, everywhere and anywhere that would have him . Taken up traveling again during the summer to learn more.
It was one of the few things he'd done for himself. Until the semesters away stopped. Until he had too many responsibilities and couldn't do that to the students. Couldn't be gone so long. The summers remained his own even as headmaster, but other holidays were always spent at the school save for a day here or there. Maybe a weekend if he was truly lucky. Even those stopped in the end, too busy trying to save the world to enjoy it.
And now, he's in Mandos. Now, the only responsibilities are the ones he takes on.
The harp in his hands is cool to the touch, a mix of metal and preserved wood kept new by some elven technique. It's old, Harry thinks, but he can't tell by how much. Only knows by some sixth sense as he moves to hand it back.
Nienna, however, refuses it.
"This is not mine but rather for you," she says like frozen mists. Her tears are slow today, a scant trickle; there's always a lingering sadness to her, nonetheless.
"But I don't know how to play," Harry admits as he runs his finger over the unusual star carved on the head.
A noncommittal sound, neither pleased nor solemn.
"It is enchanted." Her fingers rise like fog on a lake, and harp glows golden for an instant before it fades away. "The one this belonged to before will be your teacher."
She plucks a single string. Soft and sweet. Pure.
Harry feels it then. Echoing out. Calling from a distant shore.
Harry isn't quite sure how to describe him. How to describe the sensation of someone suddenly being there without Harry even seeing his face.
Melancholy deep as the depths, dark, sinking. Salt like an ocean of sorrows. A hurricane of loss and recrimination. A swelling squall that floods his mind in a tsunami. Guilt. Grief. Despair.
But… but… but there's also sunlight on the surface. The break of gentle waves on the shore in a steady thrum. The call of gulls in flight. The whisper of the ocean breeze.
Harry opens his eyes. He hadn't even realized that they were closed.
He inhales shakily. Overcome with emotions that aren't his but might as well be.
"For every sorrow, there will one day again be joy," Nienna murmurs as she places a hand over his. The autumn in her voice is greens and golds, glorious even as the leaves fall. "For every loss, we will gain."
Harry can still smell the sea as he gazes at her. The harp in his lap is heavier than it should be, weighted by history, by a past Harry doesn't even know.
His hand traces over the edges. The strings. The star.
He thinks of the elf who once held this and imagines what he must be like. What kind of life he lived to feel such a way.
Harry knows what that's like.
To lose everything.
To have it all ripped away.
To grieve until you wish you could just die from it.
"Is he…?"
"He has refused the call here when it is offered," Nienna tells him, and it's remote, haunting. She turns her head to look at something very far away, but the deluge of her tears is telling. "Time and again, he turns away. He does not wish for forgiveness."
"But forgiveness is given," Harry reminds her, "it's not earned." His fingers curl before he forces them open. His voice is near trembling as he fights to keep himself from remembering things best forgotten, "And sometimes, it's hardest to earn from yourself."
Nienna's hand on his stills. Her hair is white beneath the gray of her hood, but there aren't any shadows as she looks back.
"Sometimes, the burdens we take on are not ours to carry." He can't see the color of her eyes behind her weeping, but he knows she's looking directly at him. "The blame for them rests with others, and we are only left the ashes of choices we never even made."
Harry breathes out in a rush and turns his hand over to squeeze hers. "But that's something he has to realize for himself. No matter how many times you tell him, it won't be true until he knows it here." He points with his free fingers over his chest.
She's silent for a very long time after that. Tears drip down her face in a steady stream as she gazes at him, searching. She's hazy rain on a December day as she leans up to press a kiss to his forehead.
"You are far too wise, dear, and too kind."
Then, she's gone. Evaporating like mist in the sunlight.
Harry is left behind, alone, still holding the harp.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
In the end, his decision is simple. Harry heads higher.
It's an easy matter to fly to the highest part of the roof, to very top of the dome on the property's lone tower. There's a flat area that's perfect for sitting, and he draws his knees to his chest, hands folded on top. He's high enough that the world underneath is forgotten, is a faint memory. All he can see is a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights on all sides. Everything else is so remote. So far below.
He can think. He can breathe. He can let the last few hours fall away from him like a serpent shedding his skin. Time flows on as he tips his head back and lets the stars and the moon sing to him.
The birds are all sleeping now. The crickets have finished their serenade. Even the fireflies have given up for the night.
The top of the trees are dark green waves when he occasionally glances down, and he can't even see the lights of the estate. They don't call for him, and he's grateful for that. He hopes it means they've all gone to bed. To be honest, he's high enough to not even hear them without the help of magic. Which he definitely doesn't use. He's earned his own punishment for that earlier and doesn't care for a repeat performance, thanks ever so much.
He's such an idiot.
No matter how old Harry gets, he'll still be a boy chasing mysteries. Creeping down hallways at night. Going into secret passageways under the school. Hiding under his cloak and listening in to conversations that shouldn't concern him at all.
How much does he have to be hurt to learn this lesson?
The stars and moon don't have an answer.
He doesn't know how much time passes. He's fixed in the same spot. Frozen like an elven statue in the night.
He's so tired but can't rest. Can't find the energy to apparate. Much less climb all the way down and locate his bed.
Hours pass. Enough time for his heart to start easing. For the tapestry of starlight above him to whisper soothing melodies to his mind and lullabies to his troubles. For his worries to seem so much smaller and farther away. For his head to rest on his hands and his eyes to half-shut.
It's Gil-galad who finds him. Who Harry feels arriving with the roil of storm-clouds.
Harry looks down from the sea of stars above him to Gil-galad appearing over the edge as he pulls himself up. His coronet, bracelet, and outer robe are gone from earlier, and two of his braids are also missing. His footfalls are whisper-soft as he steps over the metal of the dome, and his shoulders are level, back straight as he climbs.
Harry finds that he's sitting up automatically.
There's a scent of ozone. Sizzling and sparking. Like the aftereffects of a lightning strike.
Anger then. He honestly isn't surprised. Harry deserves it, he supposes. Deserves their rage for hiding like a coward.
Gil-galad is next to him now. His face is pale, irises just a ring around the pupil in the dark as he kneels.
"I--"
There are arms around him then, tight, almost but not quite suffocating. They circle around his middle as forearms clench at his back. Pulling him close. Closer. Almost lifting him from the roof until he can get his knees underneath him. A face presses into his neck, and Gil-galad lets out a shuddering breath.
Harry freezes. There's thudding in his ears as he feels the elf in his arms shiver. He swallows hard. Somehow, he finds his hands lifting of their own accord. His fingertips tangle in dark hair, wrists digging into shoulder blades.
The air is heavy, dense. A brewing thunderstorm without a single cloud on the horizon.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs and means it. His throat is thick, aching, raw. "I'm sorry."
Harry's chest is tight. His eyes burn. He grips so firmly he knows he'll leave bruises.
The face in his neck pulls back. Gil-galad looks at him, unreadable, near and yet so far away. Then, a hand lifts from his middle to brush up his arm, past his shoulder, and cup his face. His head is tipped so they're the same height, but the fingers on his cheek are gentle, curling around his jaw.
"Tell me before you do this again, Mírimo."
It isn't a demand. More like pleading.
His voice is low, husky. Breath fogging. His hand trembles as he strokes Harry's skin.
"I…" Harry can hardly speak over the shards in his throat. "I will."
An exhale then. A bated breath. Hold, wait, and then release.
A forehead taps against his and remains. Fingers ghost over his face and feather through his hair. Eyes look at him in the dark, and Harry sees nothing else.
Finally, Gil-galad pulls back but not away. It's slow, deliberate. Lingering.
He brings Harry to his feet at the same time that he also stands. Leads him down the dome to the edge of the roof. They descend together to the balcony below. Gil-galad follows him silently until his feet touch down on the tiles. He takes Harry's left hand in his right, grasp firm but not unyielding as he opens the door and leads him inside.
He doesn't let go.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The third Muggle world war lasts for four days, fifteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes. It would've been shorter, but there was no leadership left to end it. Half the population dies immediately. Another half of the remainder in the resulting chaos and famine. More still from radiation sickness, subsequent cancers, and other previously preventable issues.
Magicals make it out unsurprisingly well. They've had enough warning after all, decades of prophecies and forewarning. They've already withdrawn to the far reaches or burrowed in deep. Harry himself sits in the office of Steelclaw – the new, young Director of Gringotts – when it starts. They simply look at each other in horror over their teacups as the air around them screams with a billion voices and next goes hollow, deathly silent.
Harry is still the Chief Healer at St Mungo's then. He's lived through a war, but that doesn't prepare him for this. Nothing ever could. For the utter devastation. For the wasteland of London. Of Paris. Of Europe. Of the world.
For the smell of blood and rot and ash that even Bubblehead Charms can't block out. For the grey haze of the landscape and the crumbling wreckage of the cities around them.
They live in tents, and there's rotating teams that do nothing but maintain the wards against the radiation and dust. The magical world helps. It isn't an island that can survive on its own with the entire Earth falling apart at the seams. Tieflings, humans, gnomes, pixiu, werewolves, the list goes on. It doesn't matter at this point. They take anyone and help anybody they find.
Harry honestly can't remember much of that first year aside from a steady stream of dying patients, pleading families, and passing out from exhaustion. Sheer will gets him through the next two before he actually has to take time to sleep, and it's because his apprentices force him. He always makes sure they have food and rest, but that's a luxury he doesn't have. There's never enough time, resources, staff, hope.
Magic is a refuge, a haven, an eye in the tempest. It's just distant enough for a sense of almost normalcy. There's still birthday parties, weddings, graduations.
Harry misses all of those.
He doesn't even return to his own house for nearly four years, and it's likely only still standing and his taxes paid because Steelclaw is truly a gentlegoblin, one who remembers every slight but always rewards every courtesy. And Harry paid his dues in full to the goblins. With interest and very sincere apologies. They don't often get those.
Harry keeps working. Keeps helping. Keeps healing and mending and training students and sleeping on a cot.
It takes nineteen years to stabilize the Muggle world into something resembling order. Magic's a pixie well out of the bag by then, but it really doesn't matter by that point. Magic is what keeps the rain from turning to acid, the lands fertile and green, the air breathable. It turns the tide in their favor and keeps the Earth habitable – for a time.
Harry retires as soon as the first election in almost two decades is held in Great Britain. He starts at an integrated Hogwarts as the new Potions Master the following September. His first class is Teddy's twin granddaughters, Rose Weasley-Turpin's youngest and only son, and Steelclaw's nephew.
It's a double class, and he spends the first hour in simple preparation. In showing them the proper way to select and process their ingredients. In cauldron checks and equipment set-up. Then, once he's sure that they're all comfortable with the process, they start brewing.
Their very first potion is the revised Wit-Sharpening Potion.
It's Harry's own creation. Made as one of his Potions' Mastery projects.
The students have no idea, of course. Have no idea the history behind this choice. The weight of it. That this potion was quintessential in saving lives because it has fewer ingredients than the original, a faster brewing time, better shelf life, and it's overall easy enough that even a novice with minimal experience can make it. That there's no risk of addiction and it's as effective if taken sparingly or regularly. That they drank this day after day for years to keep their focus as the world collapsed around them.
He adds the instructions to the board with a wave of his hand.
1. Add six pieces of ginger root to cauldron. Potion should turn from blue to green.
2. Add five grams (one third of a tablespoon) ground petals of Perovskia flowers. Potion turns to purple.
3. Add armadillo bile until potion turns yellow and stir clockwise.
4. Add seven chopped leaves of Perovskia and stir clockwise until potion turns purple again.
All of them submit complete potions. Not perfect. Not by a mile. But they're all at least variations of the correct color, and Harry knows they'll work even without testing. He praises each of them individually and as a class just as the bell rings.
They're all so bright, so eager as they file out. They're cherished children, sheltered from the harsh reality of the outside world. They'll never understand what things were like before.
They'll never know that without the new laws, their Muggleborn classmates wouldn't have been identified until age eleven. That their Muggle parents wouldn't have been approached shortly after their births or sometimes even before. That there would be no magical primary schools to prepare them.
That only humans would be in these seats.
That Squibs would still be on the fringes of magical society, shoved out the door in adolescence or stricken – sometimes literally – from memory.
That half this class would've likely never been born when their parents died in the blasts.
That the world outside these walls and magical sanctuaries is a wild, desperate, dark place but it's slowly getting better, and he'll do everything in his power for them never to see the horrors of when it was even worse.
He's told by his colleagues that the first class is always special. The first day is always the hardest.
The first night at his desk, he cries with his head in his hands, remembering all the children he couldn't save.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Gil-galad – My dear, I've come to spend time with you. Knock, knock.
Door – Creaks open ominously.
Room – Completely empty.
Things – Packed because Harry keeps it that way in case he needs to make a quick escape.
Gil-galad – My dear?
Bird!Harry – Up on the roof, having totally not recast his wards. I'm sure it'll be fine.
Narrator Voice – It was not fine.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna – Forgive us, but Harry is…
Vairë – It doesn't sound very elvish.
Harry – Stares at them blankly.
Nienna – You said you wished to blend in as much as you could.
Harry – Had not considered the name change very much.
Narrator Voice – Several minutes later.
The Three of Them – Looking at Quenya names in a baby book.
Vairë – What about this one?
Harry – Making a terrible face. Himbo has an unfortunate translation in my first language.
Nienna – No, this one!
Harry – Making a worse face. So does Teleporno.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Random Elf – So what's your name?
Harry – Hérion.
Nienna – At the same time. Marcaunon.
Both – Look at each other.
Nienna – In a whisper. Elves usually have two names.
Harry – Sighs. Fine!
Nienna – Teehee!
Notes:
AN: Historically, snakes/serpents have represented rebirth, healing, transformation, resurrection, and immortality. Silver for purity and protection. Viridian for vivacity, healing, and new beginnings. Vairë knows what’s up.
I’m having way too much fun looking up all the Quenya names. Just saying.
Also, this story is going to take a decidedly darker tone for some of the material in the next chapters, but on the other hand, the romance aspect is going to be a lot more in the forefront as a balance than I originally planned. I may take a poll to see how explicit we want to be with it.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Himbo – adhering/sticking one = Himba (Adhering/Sticking) + O (Masculine)
Teleporno – silver tall = Tyelpë (Silver) + Pron/Porn (Tall) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Notes:
So there's a trigger warning for the third/last part. Recommend reviewing the tags for that as they are being updated as the story progresses.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Formenos at night is even more haunting. The wind howls like an enraged beast, clawing at the walls and rattling the doors. Demanding to be let in. Frost rimes the windows until nothing can be seen but a wash of white and fog. The shadows deepen, darken. There's a sensation of being watched but no eyes that can see him. No true ghosts or spirits.
Just screaming echoes and tormented memories
It's still warm inside, but there's a slight chill to the air that has nothing to do with the temperature. The spindly prickle of fingers down his spine. Of feet walking over a grave. Of a voice past his shoulder when no one's there.
They're bedded down in what Harry assumes was once the great hall. Globes of light hover like miniature moons around the room and in all the corners, casting out every shadow. The floor is now a large grassy meadow that he conjured for Indilwen, but she's lain down at his back to guard him even now. She doesn't trust this place yet, doubtful despite all the protections he's already woven together. Yet, she believes in him to keep her safe from wraiths or ghosts or whatever other manner of dark spirits she imagines dwell here. A runic fire burns without smoke, wood, or risk of spreading in front of them. To his right, Káno plays a moving tune to ward off evil, sweet and pure.
His barrier of sea salt and crushed quartz has cleansed the area thoroughly, but it's only a temporary measure. Meant to buy him time to construct something more permanent. The challenge of it though… The challenge makes his heart beat a little harder and a grin tug at his lips.
The parchment setting across his knees is slightly wrinkled as he stretches out his plans. He pauses, pen on his lips.
Which crystals to use?
Salt and quartz are holding well and are easy for him to obtain. Of course, he can conjure up just about anything these days.
Onyx most definitely. Both white and black for the duality.
Moonstone for grief.
Amethyst for the soul.
Maybe bronzite? Tourmaline?
Should he include flower petals instead? Incense? Water?
He considers further. Absently chews on the tip of his pen.
A full moon will be best, yes. At moonrise though or midnight? Hm…
An eclipse would be even better though, but he doesn't even know if Valinor has those. He'll have to ask Nienna.
Or maybe something at dawn with the first light?
Decisions, decisions.
Káno's tune changes then as if sensing Harry's struggle to choose. He shifts to something more inspirational, quick and positive. Harry feels the fingers of his free hand tapping along to the beat.
The number one is an important quantity in arithmancy, but it certainly won't be enough for this place. Three is powerful and has long been Harry's go-to for ritual magic. However, there's a symbolism in seven with the family who dwelled here before. He'll already have three participants with himself, Indilwen, and Káno if he can make it all work. Or perhaps he can have Nienna or maybe even Vairë step in. They're still fascinated by his magic and having one of them certainly would give this place a zap.
Best keep the pattern simple if he's going to have to redraw it seven times. There's nothing that says he can't repurpose things, however. One of the good things about this world is that Harry can borrow whatever he wants from wizarding culture, and there's no one to argue against him because there's no one who knows any differently.
He traces out the triangle followed by the circle and finally the line in the center. Yes, a symbol of death used to cleanse a place of blood and sorrow. It has a very nice symmetry. A circle of salt. A triangle of clear quartz dust. A line that is a mix of both with lily petals. Top corner onyx, black and white. Bottom corners moonstone and then amethyst. A side for each person in the ritual. In the full moon at midnight. Seven times for seven sons.
Yes, this will work out very nicely.
Káno's song finishes then, but it lingers in the air. He plays beautifully, as always. Even his saddest melodies are breathtaking and heartrending all in one.
"You've it worked out then," Káno asks with a pluck of three notes.
Harry smiles at him. He can't see it, obviously, but he'll hear it the same.
"Nearly so. Just some fine details here and there."
Listening to a harp exhale would be an odd thing, but Harry's still a wizard, despite all appearances and what the population of this land thinks. Instead, all he feels is sea mist as he stands by the coast.
"Are you sure about this?"
Harry's honestly expecting this question. He's asked himself it enough.
"As sure as I am of anything these days."
Another chord then. Rising then falling.
"What if something goes wrong? What if you are injured?" Káno's voice is a wave rocking against a boat. "I'm hardly in a position to help you, and Indilwen would have to travel far for aid, leaving you behind."
It's not an outrageous thought.
Harry shakes his head. This ritual isn't a particularly dangerous one, all things considered. It isn't like he's worried about dying either. There are more ways to mitigate harm, too. He isn't a novice. He isn't a naughty child with his family grimoire hiding in the attic.
This will work.
Before he can convince anyone else of that, he's interrupted though.
"Why are we here?" Káno questions, and it isn't the first time. "Truly? Why come here of all places?"
Not an unreasonable thing to ask. But how to even begin? How to explain at all?
Harry's silent for just a second too long. Káno takes that as permission.
"Why don't we go back to Findekáno?"
"I can't go back there," Harry says immediately, and it's a tad forceful. The chilliness in the air deepens, but Káno is just a harp, so he can't feel it.
Harry won't go back there. He won't. He just can't. Can't deal with any of that now.
There's the sensation of the tide tugging at his feet. Tranquil but persistent.
"Fin won't be angry that you left." Káno again but softer. "He will be relieved to see you."
"Tirion isn't my home," Harry insists instead, but he's measured now. Back in control. This is a well-worn path. An argument they've already had and will undoubtedly have again. "I don't belong there."
That's even true. Something to offer Káno that he can grasp onto.
"Why here though? Why this place? You've all of Aman to choose? The west is hardly settled even now. You said it yourself that you like the ocean." If a harp could have hands, Káno would surely be reaching for him. "Why not settle there? Nienna would surely love you as a neighbor."
Harry shakes his head.
There's nothing he can do or say to make Káno understand. Not really. They're similar but worlds apart. Both are shaped by loss and tragedy. Both seeking to escape what they were before. He knows and doesn't know Káno though, and the opposite is true.
He knows that Káno once had parents and a family who loved him dearly. Knows that he has sons who are lost to him – one dead, another he hasn't seen for an age, and a third who denies him. Knows that he joined the kinslayings and went to Endor where he still dwells. Knows that he did many terrible things that he regrets and would take back if he could. Knows that he's left behind who he once was and wishes only to be a simple musician on the shore.
Harry has also left himself, been remade into someone else, but his starting point was different. Harry's an orphan. His memories of his parents are their deaths. Of his mother screaming. Of his father fighting. Of a godfather who was more a dream, a wish, than a person. Broken beyond repair even before he died.
Harry's been alone his entire life. He's always been at the fringes. Always been outside the families of others and hovering at the edges. Unwanted by the Dursleys but grudgingly taken. Welcomed by the Weasleys but forgotten in time. Loved by Hogwarts but a distant authority figure.
He's here because Formenos is a little too much like him already. It's abandoned. Discarded. Nobody sane will ever come here. No one will think to look unless the Ainur give him away. Nobody else wants it or will take it away from him. It can become his refuge, just like his cupboard had once been. A place of exile where no one else comes and he can finally breathe a sigh of relief.
"This isn't a good place for you, hinya," Káno tells him, but it's very kindly. He's the surf lapping on the coast now. "This is where Finwë died. Where Fëanáro lost his mind. Even the Valar never healed this place. They left it to ruin for a reason."
And maybe that's why more than anything. Harry likes broken things. Likes easing their hurts. Soothing them away. Giving comfort to the misery.
"Think of it like a challenge then," Harry counters, and it's Gryffindor daring filled with Hufflepuff resolve. He'll need Ravenclaw knowledge for this and more than a little Slytherin cunning to pull it off.
And what a glorious thing it'll be.
A minor fall then. The sound is startled, sad. Like Káno doesn't mean to make it.
"To you or to them?"
Harry blinks."Myself, naturally," he replies, puzzled. "Why would I challenge them?"
There's a long pause, but Káno's sigh is an annoyed pelican splashed by an unexpected wave.
"You sounded just like him for a moment, you know," he comments.
Harry quirks his head. Not for the first or even the tenth time, he wishes that he could see Káno's face. Could know more of this man – elf – than the sound of his voice. He knows the music of his heart, the sorrow of his soul, but doesn't even know what he looks like.
"Who?" he asks when no further explanation is offered.
Káno laughs instead. There's both humor and sadness. Like sunlight shining down on a shipwreck.
He plays a discordant note that rises to fill the entire room. It swells and stirs a wind that tugs at Harry's hair the same way Fred and George used to. It ruffles, sending strands this way and that before curling around his shoulder. It's warm, teasing turning gentle.
"Who indeed?" Káno mutters but it's more to himself.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry wakes to legs tangled in his. To a face inches away but eyes closed. To breaths even and deep across his neck. He's puzzled for a moment. His mind is still sleep-fogged and full of fluff.
Last night after they'd come down off the roof, there was shock. Worry turning to gladness. Questions. A very gripping embrace from Fingon, which Harry tolerated better than even he thought he would.
It was late then. After midnight and creeping into morning. Gil-galad hadn't taken him back to his own suite though. Instead pulled him down the hall to the corner room and bundled him in bed. Laid down beside him just as Ron and Hermione did in another life after war and nightmares.
Harry considers this new memory. Turns it over in his mind. Studies it from this angle and that. Before putting it on a shelf with his other precious things. In between a golden snitch and an old photo album. Admires it in the bright, shining light for a moment.
He comes aware again to see Gil-galad still asleep next to him. It's an odd thing really. He's never seen another elf slumber. Not like this. He's caught them in waking remembrance around Formenos, gazing at nothing with their eyes wide open. Melpomaen, in particular, is a repeat offender at his desk, but Harry's discovered Laerien in more than one tree. But he's never seen them with their eyes shut in a true sleep.
He doesn't snore. Not like Ron or Charlie did. But he makes little noises, murmurs something that sounds more Sindarin than Quenya. His fingertips jerk, and his lashes flutter.
It's so very… human. Normal.
More so when he blearily opens his eyes to the dim light. As if even that's still too intense. Harry can't fight a chuckle from escaping.
That earns him a sleepy, slow blink.
He should offer a good morning. Or perhaps something witty or clever. Instead, he just watches as his companion focuses on him fully.
There's a pause as they assess one another.
Then…
"Do you often climb the roof at your own home," Gil-galad asks, voice surprisingly clear for having just woken.
Harry snorts before he can stop himself. Last night is so far away. The load of everything gone. Lifted away like a charmed feather, and he feels weightless.
"There's an observatory, I have you know."
It's said very primly, but he doesn't hide his smile.
The other elf is startled for a second before he laughs. Sunny and delighted.
"Do you now?" Gil-galad questions, raising slightly. "I suppose that it just appeared one day."
"Hardly," Harry replies, and feeling playful, he adds, "it took at least a whole week, I reckon."
The elf leans up fully on his elbow, head in his hand. "Really now? A week? So slow?"
"It was a very tough week," Harry offers with a vague gesture. "Couldn't decide on location and then the colors, mind you."
"Obviously," Gil-galad allows solemnly, "those are very key decisions. I hope you chose well."
Harry lifts a challenging eyebrow. "I'll show it to you then."
Gil-galad is unexpectedly quiet to that. It isn't quite shock, but there's an odd cast to his face. His eyes though are now glittering.
"I look forward to it," he replies, tone slightly breathless.
They look at each other for a long second before there's a noise in the hallway. Harry sits up then, but it's already gone. The spell is broken, however, and he slips from the bed on silent feet. Gil-galad watches him as he leaves but doesn't stop him. Harry doesn't see anyone on his way back to his room; he's very glad for it. Harry bathes absentmindedly and dries himself with magic. Cleans his teeth and brushes his hair the same way, thoughts distant and drifting.
He's just finished pulling his tunic over his head – ivory today with a dark stitching that's nearly black and the pattern of aspen leaves – when his door opens. Gil-galad slides inside and shuts it behind him without a knock or backwards glance.
Harry blinks at him once. And then again.
He's dressed, but his hair is unbraided. Harry can only stare. He's completely covered, and they've woken up together, but there's some raw in seeing him like this. Something intimate.
Even more so when he moves to the often-ignored vanity and starts rearranging the top. He has a small case, Harry belated realizes as he drifts over, and is sorting through. Out arises combs, hair ties, even beads set in a neat arrangement. Gil-galad turns the bench longways in a puzzling maneuver before sitting down, and Harry watches, captivated as his long fingers direct their magic through his hair. There's no circlet today, but his earrings of blue lapis are carefully worked around. His movements are steady, sure, confident. Practiced like he's done this a ten thousand times before, and he undoubtedly has.
Gil-galad turns to Harry when he's finished, not even commenting on how he's been ogled this entire time. His expression is warm, soft at the edges. He gestures for Harry to sit not beside but in front of him.
"Mírimo, let me braid your hair."
That's the second time he's been called that. He knows what it means; Harry just doesn't know why. His expression must be questioning enough though.
"So you'll know your worth," Gil-galad tells him. His voice is even, deep. As expected of a king. But for Harry it's somehow always gentle.
There's an unexpected flush to Harry's face despite himself, but blue-gray eyes just look at him guilelessly. A hand is held out to him, waiting but not rushing his decision. Harry slowly accepts it; he starts to sit himself on the edge before he's steadily led backwards. Gil-galad settles in behind him, knees pressing against his thighs. Harry feels his cheeks grow even hotter, and he can see the redness creep all the way down his neck to the line of his collar in the mirror.
The elf wears a small smile, but he's very intent at his task of combing through Harry's hair in slow, steady strokes. His fingers are nimble but lingering, taking their time to thread and twist. It's certainly a different experience than when Fingon did this or the one other time Harry allowed Gil-galad to braid his hair. That seems like a lifetime ago but was a week before the hunt. He isn't even sure why the offer was made or even why he accepted. It was odd though. With Fingon and Finrod watching like judges at the Triwizard Tournament. Or referees at a Quodpot match. Harry half-expected a score to be given at the end.
This is… more personal. More private.
Lulling as Harry watches him work in the reflection and time is measured only by their heartbeats. Gil-galad starts to hum then. A wordless tune that's low and soothing as a lullaby. It reminds him of grassy plains and fields full of flowers, of winds through open meadows.
He stirs only at the sound of beads clacking together, opening half-lidded eyes as if waking up from a dream. He lifts his gaze back to the mirror.
Harry inhales sharply. Behind him, Gil-galad lets out a little laugh.
Harry barely hears it as he straightens up, and the reflected figure does the same. He can hardly recognize himself. Hardly recognize the person staring back at him. He's tall, regal, ethereal. Hair blacker than the darkest night and eyes greener than anything seen in nature.
No wonder they never believe him. He looks like some fairytale lord. Like an elven prince. All he needs is the crown jewels.
He exhales deliberately. Packs that entire train of thought away in his trunk and shoves it in the cupboard under the stairs. Locks the door and throws away the key.
Instead, Harry lifts one braid to inspect it closer. His eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline.
The bead… It's lapis lazuli. Blue and gold to match the earrings Gil-galad now has and the two rings he wears, one on each hand.
His eyes meet another's in the mirror, but he only receives a bigger smile.
"I apologize, but I didn't know what you would wear." Gil-galad reaches to brush the braid back. Hand lingering on Harry's jaw and fingertips tracing the curve. "I will know better next time."
He considers for a moment, contemplating, before he slips a ring from his hand and reaches down. Harry still wears the Peverell signet on his left, but his fingers are thinner and longer. Gil-galad slides this new ring on the index finger instead.
It fits perfectly.
A second arm circles around Harry's middle, hand settling to rest on his hip as Gil-galad twists his ring into place. Then, he very deliberately lifts Harry's fingers to his mouth and presses a chaste kiss to the back; his gaze never leaves Harry's reflection.
Harry doesn't even have to look to know his ears are burning crimson. Pointed tips just visible through his hair. But he doesn't pull away.
Instead, Gil-galad sets his hand back down his lap and settles his own on top. His fingers dance over both rings before Harry suddenly turns in his grasp. He gives a single squeeze, palm to palm, but holds on. Fingers thread together.
Gil-galad buries his grin in Harry's collar, face also flushed and blazing just as red. It takes him a long moment before he looks up only to set his chin on the shoulder in front of him. They sit in silence then, but neither moves away.
It's… strange. To have someone simply stay for the company of him. To have touch for the simple joy of it.
Harry stays. Keeps staying as they listen to the rain on the windows and the thunder in the distance.
They sit, studying each other in the mirror for a very long time and only turn away when Celebrían finally knocks on the door. She pokes her head inside to see them still at the vanity, and Harry fights down a flare of discomfort when her ears twitch in amusement. He feels caught at something. They're both fully dressed, save for Harry's lack of shoes, but she looks at them like they've stripped down to nothing. Her eyes bounce from one to the other, hovering on the new additions to Harry's person. She doesn't hide her grin or her smug giggle as Harry twists on the bench to face her or as Gil-galad's hand slides from his hip to linger on his back.
"So you are up, Gil, Hérion," she comments as she comes over to them. "I did wonder if I would find you still abed." She stops several paces away and stands with her fingers clasped behind her like a small child. "Might I say that you're very fetching today."
"A delight as always, Celebrían," Gil-galad responds, but it's cheerful.
"Good morning." Harry offers her a welcoming nod and tries not to be troubled by her attention.
"It's just about afternoon now," Celebrían informs them. "You both missed breakfast, so I thought to bring you down to lunch." She's looking at Harry very intently. Her eyes are fixed on the beads in his hair before doing a downward sweep of his outfit. "Ah, but something is missing."
Only the last is said more to herself.
Harry and Gil-galad exchange a look as she taps her chin before turning to the wardrobe. Celebrían falters for a scant second before opening the doors. Fortunately, everything is in there as Harry had earlier magicked things back inside if only because it's much easier to sort through when he could actually see it. She's quick to rifle through and produce footwear, which she all but shoves at him. Then, she dives back inside, only to emerge with a blue and green robe that Harry doesn't think he's ever even worn before. She turns it over with satisfaction before bringing it to him in much the same manner that a king is delivered a decree.
Harry, now in the gray boots she'd chosen, slowly stands. With some reluctance, he lets her slip the robe over both shoulders for him. She smooths it over his arms next and adjusts his neckline in a manner that is far too motherly. Celebrían nods afterwards, quite satisfied with herself, but it's Gil-galad that he looks at. His chuckle is pleased as he rises, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Harry rather feels like he's in a procession as Celebrían leads them downstairs to the family dining room. It seems the household has already gathered just outside the doorway without them.
"Well now, this is a nice surprise," Finrod announces as they arrive and he peers at Harry, focus on his hair.
Angrod opens his mouth, seems to think the better of it, and promptly shakes his head. Irimë is laughing, which is a usual sound for her. Findis offers him a prim gesture, while Aredhel gives him a beatific smile. Argon nudges his brother. Fingon, very close to gaping, snaps his mouth shut. He turns unreadable then, moving to look over his shoulder.
There's another elf with them; he's just behind the brothers and has been quiet this entire time. Observing. Cataloging the interactions the same way Hermione once did her books. He's very familiar, but Harry doesn't know him. He carries a familial look, however. Face so similar to Argon and Fingon with the same raven black hair to his waist as the latter. The elf from last night then. He was there when Harry and Gil-galad came down from the roof, remaining in the background and staying silent. Watching. Waiting.
Only… only…
Harry has heard much of Turgon from his brothers and from Finrod now, too. His height was a common topic of conversation. Reportedly the tallest of the Ñoldor, greater even than Maedhros and Maglor, but Argon claims to be the same height. Perhaps even taller.
This isn't Turgon.
The elf before him is shorter than Argon, near equal to the oldest brother instead. His diadem is plain lines and angles, color a match to his gaze. He doesn't have gold woven into his hair as Fingon typically does, but the metallic thread in his robes is likely the real deal. His bearing is dignified as fit for a prince. For a king.
Harry offers a bow. Face a polite mask but mind buzzing.
"Well met," the stranger greets. His voice is most definitely the one from last night. Tones achingly familiar.
Fingon places a hand on his shoulder to bring Harry forward. Steering him away from Gil-galad and further towards his own family.
"Hérion, I want you to meet my--"
Argon clears his throat, while Aredhel gives a little cough in the background.
Fingon offers a generous wave of his free hand in correction. His grip is heavy, weighted, as they come to a stop. As silver eyes look directly at Harry and don't move away.
"--Our father, Ñolofinwë."
King Fingolfin.
He should've known.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It's a gradual thing. A creeping realization.
It starts with funerals. With the knowledge that his classmates are dying not of war or accident but of age. The Order has thinned already, but they're an older generation who lived in hard times and two wars, not even counting what happens later with the Muggles and the desolation that causes. It's different when it's Harry's contemporaries, and then, when it's people even younger. It really gets to him, Harry supposes, when he sees Draco Malfoy and his son at a Ministry function, and Harry looks younger than Scorpius.
That's when it truly starts to sink in.
Harry knows he's aging but slowly, slower. Then, he seemingly stops. There's gray at his temples and some wrinkles line his face, especially around his eyes, but… but…
He's never felt old. Not in the way he should.
His joints never ache or creak. His hands never shake. He can still ride his broom as well as he did at seventeen. Knows he could outfly anyone on the Hogwarts teams, blindfolded, and it's probably good that he and Ginny stopped playing pickup games long ago.
His mind is – if anything – sharper now than it was when he was younger. It's easier to remember, to get tasks done. To focus for hours despite the clamor. To read and understand the material immediately.
He needs less sleep than he should. Outlasted each of his apprentices even following the Muggle devastation when they would all stay up for days. Even the non-human ones. He could run circles around them. And it wasn't due to any potions, despite what they might think.
This… Aging… His appearance…
Everything's more like play pretend. Like dress up. Like a costume that he could throw off at any time. Like if he tried hard enough, if he wanted it, he could be young again in appearance. He could wave his wand, say the magic words and it'd stick. Maybe he'd just have to will it. Just desire it enough, and he'd wake up that way.
It's a very disturbing thought. A road Harry doesn't want to tread and keeps himself back from even starting down.
He doesn't want immortality. That was never his goal. Others strived for it. Coveted it. Fought for it. Murdered. Bleed for it.
Harry wants peace. Wants children to grow up in a world full of nothing but wonder. Wants friends and family to be with him and stay by his side always.
He's already had a good life. A long one in the way of wizards. And it's still going. He's no Nicholas Flamel, and magicals don't actually question things too much once one is powerful enough, but Harry knows he isn't anywhere close to dying of old age. His magic has yet to peak, is still flowing slowly but steadily like the determined stream building a canyon over the ages.
Then, one day, he realizes that he's the oldest wizard in Britain. It isn't as hard an accomplishment as one might think with two magical wars, but it's still a bitter potion to drink. He doesn't know about the rest of the world and hasn't the heart to check.
There are older beings in the world than him but fewer as time stretches on. Goblins live for centuries. So can gnomes.
Vampires, yes. But not nearly as many now since they hadn't heeded the warnings as well as other races and primarily lived in Muggle areas.
Phoenixes. Definitely them.
The dementors are all gone now, so they're out.
Maybe a stray basilisk somewhere? Hiding in some forgotten dungeon.
Other beings and creatures who avoid notice as best they can. Drow. Djinn. Naga.
They're hardly going to show up for a census. Even with laws and attitudes changing. They have long memories and don't much trust humans.
Harry wonders if he'd be one of them someday. Fading into obscurity if they ever let him retire – he's already tried twice, but there's always some new crisis. Some new problem that needs just his attention. That only Harry can solve.
Or will he still be here? In this same school? In this same office? Possibly in this same chair a millennium from now wondering where the time has gone?
Just like old Professor Binns before they'd finally exorcised him, only the living version. Haunting the great hall and eating all the treacle tart. He'd become as much a part of the scenery of the school as the Quidditch Pitch or the enchanted ceiling or the astronomy tower.
It's a morbid thought. One that lingers in his mind. Coiling and slithering into other ideas and odd moments. Growing in the shadows as time marches ever onward. As it steals everything of value he still has.
Then, it becomes a moot point.
He's outlived everyone he knew as a child, everyone he'd grown up with. Ron. Hermione. The rest of the Weasleys and their spouses. Luna and Neville. The DA. Even the oldest – and not so oldest – of his apprentices and students.
Victoire. Sweet girl he watched become a lady. Then a mother and grandmother.
Even Teddy. The closest thing to a son he's ever had.
This loss hits him the hardest. More than his friends. More than Molly and Arthur. More than all of them combined. It breaks something inside of him. Forms a void that gnaws at him from the inside.
Harry can't even cry. Not at first. Not even at the funeral. There's a gaping emptiness that swallows it all and leaves him hollow. Blank. He knows that this will be the last time. The last loss.
Surviving isn't living, and he won't remain this way.
There are poisons that are nigh undetectable. That they won't search for because he's old and no one will think to look. Some are even passive, painless, like going to sleep. They aren't hard to brew for someone of his skill level, and the ingredients aren't as rare or unusual as the Aurors would like everyone to believe.
It's the work of little effort spread out over months to obtain everything, very innocuous, very innocent. It only takes a few hours to brew and then destroy all the incriminating evidence. He doesn't even have to use the Room of Requirement.
He mixes it with a bottle of Firewhisky and waits for New Years Eve. Tom's birthday. Harry's one last gift to him. He thinks about him now and then. More frequently in recent years. How things could've been different, if maybe there was another option even at the end.
Harry has a lovely dinner with the staff and students that evening. But he does excuse himself from a nightcap with the pretext that he's been feeling poorly the last several days.
Then, it's time.
The poison will take hours, and Harry finishes the glass with time to spare. He banishes it and the rest of the bottle just in case. Cleans up his rooms to make it easier for everyone. And settles in his favorite armchair by the fireplace.
He drifts off to dreams of train stations.
Harry wakes at dawn. In his same chair. With the absolute worst migraine in his entire life. And the complete and utter certainty that he is very much not dead .
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Harry – Hanging out in super creepy Formenos. This is totally a nice place.
Indilwen – Looking around at the dark, gloominess. Neigh.
Káno – Why can't we go back to Fingon's house?
Harry – It just needs a little TLC. Some lights, some cleaning, an exorcism.
Indilwen – Wondering what sort of elf she's gotten and if she needs to gallop him off of Estë.
Káno – You know, Fingon is nice. Normal.
Harry – I think I'll live here.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Angrod – Are they ever going to come down?
Findis – Someone should check on them.
Celebrían – I'll go. Leaves table like a little girl planning to go jump on her parent's bed.
Argon – Are they wed yet, you think?
Finrod – Sigh. No, not yet. It was very innocent.
Argon – How would you know?
Aredhel – Oh, you would've noticed.
Irimë – Perhaps there was a little kiss though.
Fingon – Not sure if he wants to think about what's going on in his house.
Fingolfin – Is this what everyone has been doing this entire time?
The Group – No!
Fingon – Yes.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad – Celebrían, I need your help.
Celebrían – What is it, my now best friend in the world who is due a great deal of teasing/revenge?
Gil-galad – Your peredhel came fully assembled. I fear mine needs a great deal of assistance.
Celebrían – Le gasp! I knew it! We need my mother!
Gil-galad – Well, she's in Endor and won't be here for probably a long time.
Celebrían – Hm… I have some ideas of who can help us.
Notes:
AN: So hinya here… Harry understands the translation but doesn't get the cultural implications. Plenty of elder humans will call non-related younger ones something similar. Elves not so much.
Also, I can't believe I made one of the main characters of this story a horse.
And figuring out how tall certain elves is – geez, I didn't realize how hard that was going to be because sources contradict themselves. Sounds like Turgon was taller, but it was later changed to Argon. Now, it's just going to be a family joke.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter Text
Bringing life into this desolate world is always a strange but joyous thing. It's been a long thirteen months, but they've reached an odd, steady state. The camps themselves are still growing as more survivors seek safety with their magical brethren. They've rather become little towns and cities in their own right now. Only with fabric and felt instead of concrete and glass, surrounded in a bubble of wards with glowing runes. There's even the sound of children running and giggling, muted though it can be, and people are naming the rows instead of using numbers.
Harry alternates most often between the major five sites in the islands –Birmingham, Manchester, Glasglow, Dublin, and Edinburgh. London took a direct hit so the site there is devastatingly small. Staffed by Gringotts as it's just beyond the doors to one of their outside entrances.
He's at a minor location today, in Southern Ireland near the banks of a once beautiful river. The water is brackish outside the borders, but the merrow have made a sparkling lake from the ruins of the metropolis previously here. There are already fish jumping and game grazing by the shores.
The humans number just under four thousand, not counting those who've come to aid them. But they're clean, well-fed and dressed. Quiet though, save for the youngest who don't know better. Most still speak in hushed voices when they talk at all.
Today, however, is a good day. There's an excited buzz in the air even this late. The atmosphere is, for once, upbeat. Almost cheerful.
There's a new member of their group. Small – a full five weeks early, but they'll both make it, mother and child. Magic to the rescue again. Harry's grateful for it. To not have to add another orphan to their numbers. To not have yet another parent lose their child.
This time, it's a good story. A happy ending.
They've had so few victories.
He allows himself the chance to let his shoulders sag, if only for these few moments, as he sanitizes everything in the operating theater. It's getting late, well after dark, and most everyone's finally turning in. His newest patients are already tucked away, and he's sent his apprentices to bed save for the overnight healer. The Muggles who've stepped up to assist are already updating their endless lists and heading off to look through their supplies with a bounce in their steps.
A new baby will be a breath of fresh air. A chance for everyone to see that there's still hope even in the ashes. Even better, spells will keep them all from hearing the cries and other things newborns bring. So they'll have all of the benefits and none of the downsides. A true win for everyone.
And if his suspicion about this child is correct, they'll be even more joy to come in the next months and years. The odds of finding a formerly unknown Muggleborn here isn't necessarily astronomical. Even with the laws changing, there are some who slipped through the cracks, but Harry had only felt magic in the baby. None in the mother. Her husband was gone, she'd told them earlier. Deceased like so many others, so it's hard to say for him. Not impossible, just improbable.
Still, Harry privately wonders about the number of Muggleborn they'll have in the coming days. If the use of magic on them, some in the womb, some as infants and small children will make a difference. Will spark their own core.
Or if Mother Magic will grant them this gift as a defense. Or possibly an apology.
But that's a thought best left to himself for now. And best not to count his salamanders before they hatch. No need to make unfortunate elements pay more attention either.
Magic and life find balance in all things. The purebloods are fewer, and Muggleborns are more with the half-bloods the most. Everyone knows that. Even purists – the few still hanging onto the broomstick with their fingertips – know it.
However, they'll certainly use the state of the world to push back. To reform with Muggle-baiting and Muggle-blaming. Their typical party-line.
He knows Hermione and Percy are on the lookout for just that scenario. The Malfoys still have contacts in those circles and will keep them informed. There are some others from Hogwarts who also pass along word; those who owe debts or who simply remember the terror of their schoolyears.
Harry's just finished cleaning up, is actually thinking about a very belated dinner, when his pocket buzzes. He doesn't roll his eyes or sigh; it's a very near thing, nevertheless.
Despite what magicals think, Muggles have outstripped them in a number of fields. Communication is certainly one of them. Even with the state of the world, their satellites remain intact and the clever among them – including several Weasleys – have quickly figured out ways to tap into the network now that the Statute of Secrecy has taken a long flight on a short carpet.
He reads the message with a steadily growing frown and a headache forming behind his right eye. Purists are a worry for tomorrow. It seems, there are more pressing ones for today.
A wave of his holly wand refreshes his robes, and it's vibrating, agitated. It's never liked battle or the darker aspects of magic. However, it's always been protective, almost violently so, and has allowed more than it normally would've under other circumstances. His wand of elder isn't particular as long as it's magic, but it prefers to remain hidden, to conceal itself as something else or as another wandwood; it's ironically taken to masquerading as black walnut almost permanently nowadays. Harry isn't sure if it's in jest or some type of hidden message he's yet to decipher. He isn't sure which is more concerning.
Both understand that he's being called to do things one would consider outside the scope of practice. Especially for a healer. And yes, he's very much emphasized with Albus Dumbledore more as the decades have passed, most especially the last year. Harry isn't an Auror or a Hit Wizard or a Dueling Champion. He doesn't have a Defense mastery. He isn't even a member of the government. He defeated a single – one – Dark Lord as a schoolboy, and he only did that because a prophecy and the adults around him made him do it. He shouldn't be the person in charge here outside of looking after the ill and injured. That he is qualified to do.
But there's no one else. There's no one left. The other healers look to him for guidance, even ones he knows are allegedly more experienced than him. The Muggle authority is in tatters, their world is in genuine ruins. The Magical Confederacy is too busy trying to contain the damage or squabbling about trivial matters.
There isn't a law out here unless they make it themselves.
It started because there was no one else. If he hadn't done it, there literally wasn't anyone. But now, all the cites have some type of guard established by the citizens themselves once they had the breathing room. Many even have magistrates now for petty and smaller crimes, and punishment is typically the more tedious chores and loss of privileges. But there aren't jails here or prisons. Serious crimes, those merit special attention. Usually, it means exile and notice to all other encampments in case the offender attempts to show up elsewhere.
There've been deaths. Of course, there have. Harry would be more surprised if there weren't. There would've been more and even worse if they hadn't tweaked the wards to better prevent things before they start.
This is a different dragon altogether. This isn't an accident. Or the heat of the moment. These are outsiders who'd be welcomed to join but want to steal. To take. To force.
Unfortunately, it isn't the first occasion. Not even the first one this month. Raids and would be warlords have become less frequent as time goes on. As free resources dwindle when territories are established but the offenders grow more desperate.
Harry doubts it'll be the last, but there's more than one reason why they look to him for these messes.
Muggles may have mastered communication, but magicals are still the champions of transportation. Witches and wizards best of all. Brooms, carpets, portkeys.
The last, however, takes time. And that depends on the power and skill level of the caster. Same goes for the number of passengers. The best Harry has ever been able to do is two hundred miles in five seconds for a group of thirty.
Cost for portkeys also goes up exponentially for the same factors.
Harry could've had an outrageous fortune doing nothing for the rest of his days but making occasional portkeys. He should know, after all. That's how he kept the Black fortune while managing to pay back the goblins. Not to mention funded his entire mastery, the house he barely remembers, Teddy's wedding to Victoire, and a number of hobbies he previously remembers enjoying.
Apparition though is near instantaneous. Distance depends on the individual, but the average witch or wizard can take at least one passenger with a little practice. Harry can take groups with him easily and move from the Atlantic to Asia in a single jump.
He shoots off a message to his apprentices and rises. Disappears in a whisper of magic. Reappears to the smell of ocean air.
He's traveled thousands of miles in an instant.
This camp is already under siege when he arrives. He can see the flash of automatic fire against the dark sky, but it's pushed back by a torrent of air. There's ricochets into the night and the heavy scent of iron and artillery before the barricade magic blows it way.
It's a medium-sized site, around forty thousand, run by a collation of sirens and harpies. They're reinforcing the barrier with songs and storms. It's holding strong with winds swirling around a kaleidoscope of lights. Inside is dim; it's still the middle of the night. Everyone but the defenders has withdrawn to the center into more guarded groups. All the adults have weapons of one variety or another; he even sees one human women with a harpy bow, complete with accomplishment feathers.
Harry has only been here once, but it's breathtaking during the daytime. Set on the cliffs above the dazzling waters with colorful tents and banners. Well over a third of the population are children. The rest are almost entirely women or elderly. Men, by siren law, are only allowed if married or of a certain age, and Harry fortunately has passed the second barrier of entry.
The leader is a stately siren matron with clouded eyes and white hair. She's hobbled by time, but her power is steady as she forms another layer of protection around the camp's youngest just in case. Her second, a harpy with a spear longer than she is tall, motions him over immediately. Her words are curt, very to the point in filling him in on everything that's transpired so far. Which's about as he expected.
The raiding parting approached well after midnight local time, but the humans on watch spotted them. The barriers were strengthened just in case. A good thing too as they were attacked without warning or provocation. Hadn't even said a single word. All of the camp's forces were still inside the wards and only redirecting the assaults but had sent out the alert. No one on their side has been injured, not yet. But protections can only hold so long. Be it days or weeks. People get tired, anxious, make mistakes. Wards can fail.
There may even be others in the vicinity who could be caught in the crossfire. Other survivors seeking aid.
Not to mention, it'd be hard to flee. Sirens and harpies both can fly, but they don't have transportation magic like other races. Muggles don't have either.
The matriarch has been quiet so far as she listens in, and her head is bowed. The toddler in her arms is fast asleep, completely unaware of the danger raging outside.
"I know their type," she whispers then, voice still alluring despite everything, "they will kill all the hatchlings." The matriarch looks at him with sightless eyes that are far older than anything else in the room.
Her second is solemn stone carved by sea winds. Her spear is gripped in talons that should leave grooves but don't only because of enchantment.
"They'll return and keep returning," she adds, sounding both angry and very tired. A breeze swirls at her feet before she stamps it down. "They see mercy as a weakness."
Harry exhales. It's slow. Pained.
He already knows. Knew as soon as he arrived that it'd come to this. It usually does.
In this world of dust and misery, there's so little room for kindness. None for diplomacy. But his duty is to his patients. To the innocent. To those who ask for help and will receive it.
Harry thinks about what ingredients he has in the shrunken trunk in his inside pocket; Steelclaw keeps him well-stocked, and he'll be forever grateful for that. He thinks about what he can make and how fast it can be done. Thinks about what can be inhaled. What can be absorbed through skin. Some can just be within inches to leech into a person's aura.
Yes, that'll work best. Limited area. Limited effects. If someone can contain it…
"Your mastery of the wind," he begins.
She cocks her head just as Fawkes does, but he can tell she's listening.
"I think we'll find great use of it."
Her golden eyes grow large, then resolute.
Both give a nod when he asks for two hours and the tent next door to brew. Poisons aren't nearly as hard as people like to imagine. Most of the time's spent in not harming the brewer, making sure it does what he wants and not blowing up immediately. When he's done, he has thirteen vials of deep purple. It's not unlike nightshade in color, but there's not a trace of that present.
He meets them by the campsite edge. The matriarch is already there, directing everyone effortlessly. Harry looks at the brigands before them; they don't even realize that they've been hemmed in. That the harpies have scouted the area fully, counted all of them, made sure that not one will be missed.
Harry thinks they may have been military once. Perhaps a unit. Protectors. Not local to here, no. All the locals are inside, guarding it, or other locations nearby.
They've traveled here; he can tell by the look and feel of them. Scouted. Searched for a camp they thought they could take. Bypassed others that either didn't have resources they wanted or they thought too strongly protected.
They'd targeted here in particular.
This'll have to be investigated. Harry knows the Magical Confederacy hasn't monitored people moving outside their areas, and that's a massive oversight. They would've spotted a group so large before this if they had. No telling what they've been doing out there, beyond sight and attention.
Even more troubling.
Harry's still observing the raiders when the matron and her second come to him. None of them have noticed him; none would likely even care if they did. He's dressed as a healer; that means little to them.
They don't even know that they're doomed.
Harry merely exchanges a grim nod before he spells the first vial outside. He sees it drop and smash against the ground. The vapor rises in a slow, black mist before a gust comes. Carrying it. Spreading it further.
Harry watches for several slow heartbeats. Then, he takes out the next vial.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Lunch is an awkward affair, at least for Harry. It's formal; of course, it is. A king, even a former one merits a ceremonial luncheon. Particularly when he's the father of the host.
Everyone else there already knows each other – or are related in some capacity – so Harry's the odd one out. Gil-galad sits on his right, a steady presence who redirects attention away from him effortlessly as a beater with a bat. Even he can't deflect every question though.
Somehow, this entire affair is only slightly less excruciating than being hit by one of Dobby's bludgers while battling the basilisk and running from Aragog. Only less fun. The meal is delicious but tedious in the way that only weddings, funerals, and conferences have managed to perfect. Harry's saved solely by all those prior Ministry dinners and meetings with the board. He speaks when spoken to, keeping his answers vague but proper, and otherwise remains quiet. Gil-galad's hand rests on the arm of his chair intermittently throughout this. Harry leans into the touch, lets it anchor him.
They watch that, too. He knows they do. Watch every little move he makes in a way not even the Ainur do or the wizarding public ever did. This is worse than after defeating Voldemort the second time when there were newspapers, magazine articles, and no small amount of marriage proposals foisted at him. Only, he can't run off to New Zealand this time until everything quiets down.
What he wouldn't give to be back with the goblins? Now, those were a people who could mind their own business. If Harry was of a mind, he could've gone to the middle of Gringotts, stripped down, covered himself in stinksap, and rolled around on the floor. And they would've done nothing more than step over him. Maybe with a few words to clean up after himself whenever he was done.
Or perhaps he just needs a spar with Eönwë? Hitting something does sound vaguely appealing right now. Probably better than stabbing with his fork.
He could likely get away with sending a message and setting up a time. If he does it somewhere vaguely near here, maybe Gil-galad would come, too. So that he'd think Harry's less of a complete lunatic at least.
Better than some of the others showing up.
Harry grimaces at the thought of Námo opting to pay a visit. He had, in fact, come to Formenos on occasion. Mostly before the elves arrived but some afterwards. Those who recognized him were very… ahem… concerned. Perhaps alarmed is a more accurate term.
At that memory, Harry quickly schools his expression lest they think it's due to the conversation – the weather of all things.
Gil-galad is already glancing at him, however. Harry feels a knee lean against his under the table, sees the question in those blue-gray eyes, but he shakes his head and offers a small smile. A finger brushes against his forearm for a lingering few seconds before drifting away. He turns back to see both Fingon and Fingolfin observing them.
Harry feels his ears start to heat but successfully fights it off.
Not for the first time he wishes for Manwë to send a sudden – but small and ultimately contained – tornado. Preferably one that will blow away his chair right then.
As always, Manwë does not deliver.
Harry instead sips his wine very slowly and tries not to look at anyone in particular for the next course. If only Celebrían could be closer. She's usually more forgiving of his silence, filling it with her own chatter and not expecting much of a response.
Unfortunately, she's on Gil-galad's other side and next to her uncle, Angrod, so she's little help. Finrod is also on that end of the table, opposite his brother. Argon is on Harry's left, but he usually keeps his opinions to himself. Aredhel is across from Harry, and she's very sympathetic most of the time, but she's in between her father and Irimë and thoroughly distracted by both. Harry doesn't know the former, which is much of the problem, and the latter finds laughter in everything like life itself is a punchline. Fingon is the head of the table, inverse of Findis, with his direct kin around him. Harry rather thinks they positioned himself a little too closely. His perfect seat would be as far away from all of this as possible, ideally on the moon. Maybe he can beg a ride with Celebrían's father-in-law to get there.
Of course, he could just fly there himself. Hm…
He idly wonders how hard that would be as Angrod and Finrod begin arguing over the new caverns chosen for Nargothrond. On his other side, Aredhel is telling her father of her plans to visit her son soon while Irimë asks to go with her. Argon is very focused on his soup like it holds all the secrets of the universe, and Harry honestly isn't sure he's said a word this entire meal. He can't see Celebrían from this angle and can only hear her speak with Findis and Gil-galad about the recent heavy rains.
Harry is still considering as he drinks his wine again.
It wouldn't be so much a matter of distance as the elevation. But the moon can't be as high as it was on Earth if an Ainu could reach it, right? Would he need Warming Charms? A Bubblehead? Could he just fly there as a bird? How long would that even take? Probably not worth risking it with apparition since he'd never been there and it's a moving target. That's just asking for an accident, and he isn't dying to try that here in Valinor.
He'll have to ask Nienna if he'd be barred from going there. Oromë said it was guarded by Tilion, and it certainly seems a safer option than heading for the sun. But maybe one day there, too. They certainly don't seem to mind him going just about anywhere else in Valinor. Certainly, he hasn't taken them all on the various offers yet, but Taniquetil is on his to-do list. Aulë has also been making some rather pointed hints along with his wife.
He'd almost be tempted to use that as an excuse to finally leave Tirion, but the elves always go even stranger than usual whenever the Ainur occur in the conversation. Much less a mention of going to see any of them.
Maybe if Eönwë comes, Harry could leave with him?
No, Harry decides as he picks up his spoon, that'd probably be even worse. That definitely would spark their attention and far too many questions.
Harry bites down on a sigh and stirs his soup. He glances up only when he recognizes that conversation around him has quieted.
Fingon's looking pointedly at Harry. Fingolfin is sipping from his glass, but Harry can feel his attention also. Others are gazing at him as well; it's not the entire table, just the left half but Harry realizes that he must have missed something. A comment. A question perhaps.
"Apologies," Harry offers with a small, modest smile. "My mind wandered."
Fingon waves him off, but there's an odd expression on his face. Normally, he's open. As easy to read as a shop board or signpost. Today, it's closed off. Shuttered. The usual warmth now absent and Harry feels its loss like one does a blanket ripped from bed during the middle of sleep.
"I said that last night would have been excellent for stargazing, but we ah… unfortunately missed it."
Harry doesn't shift guilty in his seat. He isn't a naughty schoolboy.
An attendant appears to take his soup bowl then. A fortunate distraction as he offers his thanks.
"With all the rain, it will likely be our last chance for several weeks," Aredhel acknowledges as a new plate is set out in front of her.
"A future endeavor then," Fingolfin comments, refilling his own glass and then his daughter's.
Fingon looks at Harry again even as the staff moves around the table.
"Stargazing is one venture we haven not taken you on," he says, "and I see we've been very remiss."
"There was a tradition to go at the end of lunde timpínea to a spot outside of Tirion," Finrod jumps in then from the other end of the room. His eyes are fixed on Harry though, lingering on his hair.
Fingolfin is quick to chime in. "We have not kept with that in a number of years, but this is a time for auspicious things, I think."
That earns him a titter from several people.
"Is that where you go at night?" Irimë asks then. She has her fork in one hand and uses it to point vaguely upwards. "Stargazing? You could have just said so, you know."
Harry blinks. He tilts his head, plays that statement over in his mind, but it still doesn't make any sense.
Next to him, Argon leans over and clarifies, "When you aren't in your room?"
Harry stares at them. Keeps staring.
How would they know that he isn't in his room? Do they smell him? Are they listening for his breathing? For him moving around? Is it because their rooms are on either side of his? Do they put their ears against the walls?
For Merlin's sake, his wards haven't even triggered!
He hadn't thought to add anything for noise because Harry wasn't in the room to make any. Obviously, he'll have to fix that the next go around.
They're looking at him expectantly.
But he honestly has no reply for this. No answer that isn't an outright lie.
Irimë gives a little giggle. Likely at his expression before he can conceal it.
"Oh, someone doesn't want us to know." She grins a little too wide.
"It cannot possibly be that big of a deal," Angrod adds from the other end.
Gil-galad's hand moves to settle on his wrist where it sits on the tabletop; a thumb rubs along the delicate bones there. Slow, sure strokes that are barely a brush of skin but make his entire arm tingle. A blush starts to stain Harry's cheeks as he feels every other person in the room watching. Feels the weight of every gaze the way a dragon follows its next meal.
Someone starts to laugh. Harry can't entirely be sure whom when it begins coming from more than one direction.
"Or perhaps," Findis allows after a moment and reaches for her glass, "we do not kiss and tell."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry escapes afterwards. He can call it something more dignified than that, but he has no great illusions with himself. It's an escape. A retreat.
He's had enough elves for the day. Yes, indeed he has.
Even Gil-galad leaves him alone once he's safely ensconced in the library. Tucked away in a back corner with a shield of books. His notebook is on his lap in front of him, pen in hand as he puts the finishing touches on Irimë's fennec ears. Fingon the lion and Argon the tiger stare at each other from opposite corners. He hasn't decided what to make Gil-galad or Celebrían yet. Finrod will be a majestic wolf or perhaps a hound. Findis is naturally a very posh badger in a lovely hat and dress who's having tea with Angrod the porcupine. Maybe a horse for Aredhel or… no, a bear. Definitely a bear for her, but he doesn't know Fingolfin well enough to decide yet. Harry himself is only half a form on the opposite page, black wings and beak drawn and then crossed out.
He sighs as his pen rests on the paper.
Hopefully, no one will find him here for a while. It's certainly a safer option than his room. Or even the roof apparently. Lunch was so long that dinner's an afterthought, and Harry skips it anyway. It's evening now, but Harry's honestly not sure what to do with himself since he very much doesn't want to go to bed this early – and the thought of being in his room makes him just a bit queasy now.
Maybe Indilwen won't mind company tonight? It wouldn't be the first time he's slept next to her.
He's just contemplating that when he feels the approach. It's subtle. Not wholly sneaking. But it's hard to hide the presence of such warmth. Like closing his eyes and knowing immediately where the sun is without even looking.
It's why Harry always recognizes when Fingon is around, and truly, father is very much like son.
Harry doesn't sigh. He doesn't start. He doesn't even put away his book as Fingolfin slowly sits in the other chair at his table.
A part of him has been expecting this. Has known that it'd come. Not necessarily when or where but knew that he'd be sought out. Just as Fingon himself had done. Just as Nerdanel did. Just as all of them always do.
He starts with the truth. Perhaps he'll even be believed.
"I'm not Maglor's son."
Fingolfin merely looks at him. He says nothing and only crosses his legs, settles in his seat.
"Despite what they've told you or you might think, I'm not," Harry says. Somehow, he keeps the tiredness from his voice.
It's an old routine now. A frequent denial.
He's studying Harry closely.
He has Fingon's gaze and his hair. Even, in many ways, his face. But there are subtle differences in the shape of his nose and the pout of his lips. Harry can see his other children in those though. Argon's eyes are a blue so pale it's almost gray, but the shape is the same, and his lashes are just as thick. Aredhel has his mouth and turns her head in that exact manner as she thinks.
Harry carries on, "I'm very sorry for everything that's happened between you. I know that I wasn't involved, and I know that my words don't mean much after the fact." He pauses to let that sink in before continuing. "I hope one day you can have the resolution you seek."
Silence then. Stretching out between them. Aching and growing.
Harry shivers, but it's not truly from the temperature. The library is temperate as evening turns into night, but Harry's frozen. Would see his breath if he exhaled hard enough. He's ice rimed on the inside, and the wintry bite of Formenos is under his skin. The only warm thing at his table is the elf with him.
It's growing dim though. They don't have a lantern; Fingolfin likely hadn't thought to bring one. Harry doesn't need it.
"Nephew," the elf finally says.
Harry starts. He's closed his eyes and hasn't realized that he'd done so.
"Look at me."
It isn't quite a command, and this isn't his king. Harry obeys anyway.
Fingolfin's shifted. He's now leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, black hair sliding down one shoulder like spilled ink. He's closer now. Near enough that he could reach out to touch. His hands, however, are folded together almost in prayer.
"Nephew," Fingolfin repeats, and it's very firm this time.
Harry's heart beats harder, even if only for a second. He grips the pen still in his hand.
No one's ever called him that before. On paper, he'd an aunt and uncle growing up. But reality was a different beast altogether. They dubbed him freak and boy and meant it. Sirius named him Harry and sometimes James and couldn't recall the difference. Molly and Arthur called him by name and sometimes dear but nothing more familial than that.
This isn't the same; this is claiming. This is acknowledgment.
Fingon calls him cousin.
Gil-galad calls him…
Harry shakes his head.
He can't accept this; he won't. He wants to offer a denial, opens his mouth to give just that, but he's beat to it.
"I made many mistakes in my life," Fingolfin states, "I fought my brother over the wrong things and for the wrong reasons. I let Moringotto poison us against each other." His eyes are very silver in the growing dimness, like the moon reflecting sunlight. "I won't deny any more of my family."
He fingers push together until they turn white. Until Harry thinks he might actually break them together.
"One day my brother will be free of the Halls, and my only wish… My only wish…"
He falters.
For all that he's forever young, Fingolfin seems impossibly old in that moment. Tired. Defeated. Eyes looking into the past ages and remembering ashes and dust. The sun setting behind ominous clouds and dawn an uncertain night away.
His voice when he speaks again is barely a whisper.
"I only ever wanted to be his equal. To be his brother."
It's a confession. A dark secret told to a stranger.
Harry knows that it isn't his to take. That this isn't a gift he's earned or deserves. That there's an entire house of people around them who warrant this more.
"I'm not the one you need to tell," he replies delicately. Gently as if he holds a snowflake on his fingertip.
Fingolfin finally looks at him again.
"But you're the only one who will listen."
His eyes are dry, but some wounds are too deep.
Harry thinks what it must be like to lose so much family – first his father, then his son followed by his brother. To have his mother, wife, and older sister stay behind. To be on distant shores as the leader and be breaking apart while expected to lead everyone else. But even before that, to be the second brother, the lesser and middle son. Not the golden youngest and favorite of their mother. To forever follow an older sibling who did it first, better and greater than one could ever hope to match.
To be left behind time and again. First by age and circumstances. Then by shores and treachery. Last by death and oaths.
Harry should get up and walk away. He should leave. He should stop this right now. Before it goes any farther.
Instead, he sets down his pen and his notebook; he edges forward in his chair.
"Will you… Will you tell me about him?" Harry asks then.
It's more tentative than he'd like but bolder than he probably should.
Fingolfin blinks in surprise. More so when Harry continues to look at him.
"It's just that…" Harry begins, "no one ever really has anything good to say. Even when they speak of his accomplishments, there's always negative added in."
It's a miserable truth. For all that they think he is one, they almost unanimously struggle to find a kind word for the House of Fëanor.
Nienna is the only one to talk about any of the Fëanorions without a disparagement or warning added in. Námo and Vairë avoid all mention of them. Oromë cursed heartily the one time Harry dared to ask, and he hasn't again. Eönwë's always clinical, detached – honest in both his praise and his censure. Even Fingon adds a little hint of reproach. Of could-bes and should-haves. Gil-galad doesn't know them personally and has said as much, but Harry knows he's displeased by many of the events surrounding the twins, Elros and Elrond. Celebrían speaks only of Celebrimbor and the terrible fate that befell him.
Fingolfin stares at him for a long time, so long that Harry actually begins to worry. Thinks that he may've made an enormous misstep.
Then, he relaxes. Breathes out in a sigh. Lets the tension in his shoulders bleed out. It isn't a smile, but his face is softer. More at peace. His hands settle on the arms of his chair.
"What would you like to know?"
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fingolfin – Studying Harry very closely at lunch. I know that look.
Cue flashback remembrance scene of Fëanor and his sons at far too many dinners during the boring parts of the conversation.
Fingolfin – He's plotting something. Nudges his oldest.
Fingon – Also knows that look. Has a sudden chill of doom.
Both – Suddenly very concerned.
Harry – The moon isn't so far, is it?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – So…
Angrod – I see it.
Findis – He's very good.
Aredhel – Managed braids and a ring at the same time.
Irimë – Bets, anyone? No cheating, Finrod.
Fingon – Puts his head in hands and massages his temples.
Fingolfin – I've left them to this for way too long, haven't I?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Tell me about your brother.
Fingolfin – Eyes widen excitedly.
Narrator Voice – Three weeks later.
Fingolfin – And then, he was up on the roof--
Harry – Geez. That sounds familiar.
Notes:
AN: Black walnut in wand lore is for someone with good instincts and powerful insight but against self-deception (or deception against others).
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter Text
"Gil," Fingon announces as he all but flings open the door, "we can't find Hérion. He didn't retu--"
He abruptly stops, paralyzed as if struck by a curse, three steps inside the doorway. Which is still wide open behind him. His eyes are impossibly large, irises nearly disappearing in how his pupils have grown. Face now a fascinating marriage of fluster and surprise.
Gil-galad's also frozen. He's sitting at his vanity, comb in hand. It's poised, midway through working out a braid. He's half-dressed, out of his boots and robes completely, only wearing trousers and his innermost tunic.
Harry's in his dressing gown. He's already bathed, hair still slightly damp and loose as it curves around his shoulders. He's curled up at the foot of the bed, lying on his side on top of the quilt but watching Gil-galad. Ever fascinated. Not at all paying attention to the open sketchbook or pencil next to him, too intrigued by the subject matter to put him to paper.
He jolts up when Fingon enters the room with grace of a drunken manticore on a two-day bender. His book tumbles to the floor, forgotten. His pencil disappears underneath the bed.
They just gape at each other like some ancient tableau. A moment ticks by.
Harry's the first to move as he shifts with both annoyance and a twinge of awkwardness, knees now at the edge of the mattress. Fingon watches with a little too much intensity as his feet find the rug below.
Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but the urge is there.
It's barely been a few weeks since Harry last vanished, so he can admittedly understand the concern. Only, it's not like he's disappeared this time. Harry knows exactly where he is. And so does Gil-galad.
Besides, he's hardly going back to a room where he's spied on like some errant schoolboy in detention. This current standoff more than anything tells him that they don't watch – or listen to – Gil-galad the same. Not to mention, his room is in the corner, and only Celebrían shares a wall with him. Harry knows perfectly well that she's already aware he's staying here since she's been coming by every morning in her self-appointed quest to select his clothing. Harry's beating her at this game, however; he just gets up earlier.
He's perfectly capable of dressing himself thank you! He's been doing it for centuries before he ever came here and never suffered from the fashion blindness that seems to strike elderly wizards in particular. He's also successfully done it in Valinor well before he ever met Celebrían.
Embarrassment ebbs as frustration starts to take root. As it burrows through the soil of his mind and finds purchase.
He doesn't need Fingon following him around like an overly eager guard dog. Percy Weasley tried that once, so long ago, in his third year. Then, Sirius. And admittedly he fit the part better. If Harry truly wanted a dog, he'd just invite Huan along to the party.
Honestly, he thinks, so many little things. So many little irritations that he'd kept behind his teeth, bitten off, and swallowed down. He doesn't need or want people following him at night. Or watching his every move. Or wringing their hands when he does something unexpected.
Annoyance grows. Unfurling like leaves being fed by the daylight and watered by a deluge of memories.
Elves are too much sometimes. Really, they are.
"I do have a mother, you know," he tells Fingon then, and it's more than a bit sarcastically.
It isn't anger, not yet. Nor resentment. But it could be. It could become that; Harry knows that it could fester. Knows perfectly well that wounds can turn gangrenous if left alone long enough. And perhaps he's let them run roughshod on him too much.
Fingon, not privy to these thoughts, gives a very slow blink. Shock is nonetheless very clearly written all over him. From his face all the way through to his posture.
Gil-galad snorts. He's properly recovered himself. Now sitting and observing with the air of a king at his court.
"I'm certain she's very lovely," he says with a benevolent smile. His fingers toy with the comb in his hand, but he doesn't interfere.
Perhaps that's why he's the favorite.
"I don't need another one," Harry's still focusing on Fingon though. Still surveying him as an arctic wolf does his next meal. "The position is filled."
Fingon seemingly has no answer to this. He's silent still. Surprise shifting to something like contrition. Harry would almost pity him if he weren't so irritated. If he didn't feel his magic begins to itch inside of him like a winter's wool scarf. Tingling and chilling as frost does on glass.
He knows the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees, and he very gently ravels it back in like yarn. Like a ball that's come loose and rolled across the floor.
Fingon is overbearing, much like Molly once was, but he's ultimately a good man – a good elf. His heart, though very misguided, is in the right place. He needs a flash of teeth. Not a bite to the throat.
"I have a father, too."
But it's calmer, less aggressive but still assertive. Harry's toes curl into the rug beneath him as the other foot nudges his notebook. His hands fold together in his lap to keep them from his face.
"Both of them… They mightn't be here, but they don't need to be replaced."
Fingon's shoulders don't slump, but there's a shadow to his presence. A cloud that passes in front of the sun. So many different emotions flicker across his face in the next few heartbeats that Harry can't even read them all.
He finally settles for resignation.
"I've overstepped," Fingon allows.
Harry doesn't agree nor disagree with that statement.
Fingon isn't disheveled, but there's a certain discomfort to his demeanor as he swallows. He never gets a chance to say more, however, as there's a knock at the doorway.
Fingolfin peers inside. He's without his diadem and half the jewelry Harry saw him in just an hour earlier.
"My apologies, but I've come for my wayward son."
Harry isn't surprised. He's known that Fingolfin was there the entire time. Could see him clearly from his position, while Fingon's back was turned.
Fingolfin's expression is a perfectly civil mask as he steps past the threshold, but his eyes give him away. They hold warmth mixed with a lingering sorrow. It's a knowing look, but one that Fingolfin's starting to earn with their evening talks in the library.
Of all the people in the household, especially considering he's been here the shortest amount of time, he's probably the third best Harry likes – and only because he's rather annoyed with Fingon right now. Though admittedly if Celebrían keeps trying to dress him, she might move down on list, too.
He nods in both greeting and farewell as he comes up to his oldest son. A hand goes to his shoulder.
"Good evening, Artanáro, nephew."
He deftly steers Fingon from the room, thoughtful enough to shut the door behind him. Harry closes his eyes and exhales for a second as he hears them speaking with Argon in the corridor.
"False alarm," Fingon mutters, sounding as uncomfortable as Harry previously felt.
"Truly?" Argon questions. He's exasperated and exhausted all in one. "Celebrían wasn't just having me on?"
"No," Fingon replies, voice distant as they move away, "no, he's fine. Just leave him alone."
Then, they're gone.
Harry sighs but hears a little laugh above him. He opens his eyes to see Gil-galad grinning, standing inches away. He's really too much of a niffler for his own good. Moving on soundless feet to steal gold away. He needs a bell, Harry decides, and snickers then at his own imagination. At the silliness of it. But that does the trick. He feels lighter now. Less burdened. Buoyant and floating.
A hand tilts Harry's face as Gil-galad bends down to press a kiss to his brow. A thumb brushes over his cheek as Harry looks up at him.
"Yes?" he inquires when nothing else is forthcoming.
Gil-galad taps his nose once with his index finger. Playful and bright. Before he steps back.
"Mírimo, you forever continue to surprise me."
Harry just watches him walk to the bathroom. Then, he reaches down to collect his notebook and softly snaps it shut. He doesn't even look for his pencil.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It's strange to play again. It's been only a few months, but this is the first Harry's dared since coming to stay here. He's far enough away from the house not to be found easily, tucked into a forgotten corner of the estate and in the trees.
He's spoken with Káno, but fortunately, that was always while back at Formenos and away from keen elvish ears. He can never be sure how good their hearing truly is. It's one reason he keeps the invisibility cloak on the back burner. Harry isn't sure he can use himself as an accurate baseline, and he hasn't trusted anyone enough to get a fair enough measure.
He could set wards, Harry supposes, as he strums the opening notes. For all the good they've done so far. He's still in the process of reworking them to include sound now and whatever other bizarre elven senses he needs to take into consideration. Perhaps x-ray vision? Some type of heat sense? Echolocation?
Harry sniffs at just the thought and the ridiculousness of it all.
He runs through opening scales to warm up, but it's a short thing. He's as quiet as he can be, further softened by the rains around him. The melody is not one of power or particular importance. It's a simple tune. One that Harry's heard hundreds of times from Káno; it's actually the first proper song he was taught. It's familiar, soothing. Often in the background when Harry's painting or played by Harry himself when he wishes to practice or simply to think.
He moves to a somber ballad next. It's mournful. Poignant. Ebbing and flowing like water. Falling like raindrops in slow sorrows. A song of love, mortality, and eventual death.
The third is a folk song, one meant for deep woods and hooting owls and mysteries in the mists. It's something Laerien taught him though hers was only sung as he's never liked an audience. No one has ever really heard him play aside from Káno, Nienna, stray Ainur as they drifted in, very select individuals in Formenos. Indilwen, too, he supposes.
More music follows. Some uplifting. A few melancholy. At times, Harry sings along. Others, he only strums.
He finishes with the same melody he began with. As always.
"You've improved," Káno says then, and he's ever-so-pleased. "Even with the time away."
He's an ocean and land away, but his voice is lapping waves and warm waters. He can't see Harry's expression. Can't see the way his hands grip the harp. Never has to know what such praise means to him.
It's silly, really. Harry's an adult. Has been one for ages. Has long outgrown the need for such validation. But there's still some part of Harry who will always be a boy in a cupboard. One who sits in the dark and begs that someone will rescue him. Who listens to the Dursleys with their son and wishes with every hope and dream and prayer that he could have that himself. Even if for only a moment.
Káno hums as Harry starts a different tune, a sweet lullaby for errant children and naughty elflings who won't go to bed on time. It switches to another song from Laerien before blending into one from Oromë. There's Inglor's company, and next comes Nienna followed by Eönwë. Then a different one from the Avari, swifter, riskier than any of the others.
"You know," Káno suggests as the last notes fall away, "you could speak with Findarato. He'd be delighted to talk music with you. Certainly, he's learned much since last we met and could suggest you many songs I don't know."
Harry pauses, fingers still on the strings.
It's not an unreasonable suggestion except for the fact that it'd require Harry having to offer more than he wants to give. To reveal parts of himself that aren't theirs for the viewing. To let them flip through the pages and read the text inside.
"I've plenty of other options for now," Harry rebuffs. He starts the opening for another song.
"Ah, but they aren't here, and Findarato is just within reach," Káno counters. He's patient in the way that only water can be.
Harry keeps playing, but his tone is pitched low.
"I'm fine without him."
It's not cold. Not yet. But the dismissal is there.
He can feel Káno shift like a boat riding the waves as the storm comes in.
"Herurrívë… They won't hurt you." Káno's voice is still, deep seawater with a churning current underneath. It tugs at him like the tide even as he stands steadfast. "Let them take care of you."
There are many things Harry could say to that. Few of them are for polite company. Some may even keep Káno from speaking to him for the rest of the day – possibly the week.
Instead, he remains silent.
"Will you ever tell Findekáno?" Káno asks. It's gentle, delicate like he's carrying a message in a glass bottle. "Will you ever trust any of us?"
Harry stops playing abruptly. His fingers flex; he distracts himself by running them over the carved star and tracing the pattern. Rain trails down his face at the sluggish pace of a constant drizzle, but he feels nothing from it. No chill. No incessant wetness. No need to seek warmth or to head inside.
"I trust you," he admits. "I know you. I don't need them."
Káno laughs in a half-scale. "I don't even live in this land. You've never met me face to face," he chides, but it's more lenient than even Arthur ever was. "I'm not really here; you have to hide me away most of the time."
Harry doesn't have an answer to that. The trees around him don't either. They're silent sentinels, and the only sounds are raindrops on leaves and small animals as they go about their lives.
Káno sighs. He plucks the chords of his favorite song. It's an odd tic. A nervous habit. Probably why Harry knows it so well.
"Hinya, you can't hide yourself forever," he murmurs, but it's quiet. Defeated. Sad.
Whatever Harry's going to reply is lost though as he suddenly turns his head. In the distance… past the rain but still in the trees…
There it is again.
A sense of light coming his way in the shape of a person. But not an Ainur. No, there's always a song with them. A refrain that's heard with both ears and soul.
There's another elf here. Close. Not quite upon them but approaching. Because of course why wouldn't there be a random elf in the forest at this exact moment? Harry can hardly go an hour without them. Can't even hide his harp before one magically appears.
Naturally, he steps out from between the trees into his field of vision just as Harry thinks that.
He's something out of a faerie tale, Harry decides. Like a swan prince wandering in the woods. A shining figure in white and gold as he all but materializes from the mist and walks over calm as can be.
Harry's next thought is that he's too surreal to be an actual person. That if Harry weren't so used to the Ainur at this point, he would be very concerned about sleep deprivation, spell damage, or perhaps poisoning.
The elf's a vision of shining light. His eyes are the color of sea-glass. Green and glittering. An unusual thing for elves, Harry's noticed, and far rarer still for a Ñoldo. Hair a metallic golden color but longer even than Fingon and his father. It blends so well with the true metal that Harry initially misses the circlet he wears and only notices due to the sparkle of the stones.
He's lovely. More so even than Finrod.
But his sudden appearance sets Harry on edge. Makes something inside him coil like a serpent trying to protect itself. Makes him want to shift into a bird and fly far away from here.
It's only an adamant will that keeps him in place. All side thoughts of how Eönwë and even Nienna would react if they saw him fleeing from some stranger like a terrified little boy.
So much for Gryffindor pride.
Harry feels more bolstered then. Less defensive. Leveled out as he studies this elf. He seems vaguely familiar once Harry can see him around the aura, but Harry knows they've never met. He certainly would remember a blond Ñoldo like this, there's so few of them. Inglor is shorter with a sharper, thinner face. Finrod’s hair is more a mix of gold and silver, as is his brother’s, but both of their eyes are the same crystalline blue as Celebrían.
Fingon and Fingolfin are a glowing warmth. Like standing in the sunlight, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Like midsummer on a cloudless day but never fearing that he'll be scorched.
This one is more like a gaze into the sun itself. Like Harry'll burn his retinas if he looks too long. Like radiant light that will char everything away.
Harry isn't quite sure what to make of him. More so as he stands there in the way of someone very confident in their place in the world. Or as if meeting strangers in the woods is of absolutely no concern to him.
"Those final notes," the elf finally says by way of greeting, voice a lower octave than Harry expected but melodic bordering on hypnotic, "it's a… familiar piece."
Harry's eyes widen, and the tips of his ears grow hot. This elf won't be able to hear Káno's voice unless he touches the harp itself, but clearly, he picked up at least the end of their exchange. Harry desperately wishes he hasn't been here long. Bad enough that he's been caught doing this. Hopefully, the elf missed the part where Harry was talking aloud to a harp.
Harry's cheeks are starting to sting now even as he thinks that, and he dreads to know what he must look like as he feels heat creeping down his neck. Honestly, if there's one thing he truly hates about Tirion, it's that everyone here insists on embarrassing him as much as possible. Like it's become some type of competition. Irimë is probably the one keeping score.
The elf in front of Harry is now looking him over thoroughly, carefully, almost systematically. Blinking thick eyelashes beneath a perfectly arched eyebrow as he sees Harry's blush deepen. He's regal. Enchanting even. Like some renaissance artwork with the contrast of the vegetation and curling fog behind him.
It'd make an interesting portrait aside from the weirdness of the whole thing.
"Ah, my apologies," the elf offers, and it's very genial. A true gentleman. "I didn't mean to catch you off guard." He gives a small but charming smile that's full of flawless, straight teeth. The illusion is only broken when his ears twitch ever-so-slightly.
Harry's heart skips a painful beat. A shiver goes down his spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the weather.
It's… He just… It's just as Celebrían does. Just as Finrod. Even Angrod.
And Harry can see it now. Past the uncanny vision of dignity and majesty. See it in the shape of his chin, the curve of his brow, even the angle of his jaw just so.
If a lighting bolt hurled down from the sky in this very instant, Harry would welcome it. Not with the way his life has been going at this point. Not with the sudden revelation of who stands before him.
Manwë isn't so merciful, however. He never is.
"King Arafinwë," Harry greets, very belatedly, and manages to keep his voice even as he rises.
That is quickly waved away with an elegant hand.
"Just Finarfin, my nephew."
There's a pause then. Finarfin merely smiles as he searches Harry face. Gaze again going from his eyes to his hair to his entire appearance. Harry's rather resigned to such scrutiny at this point.
More than anything, the simple fact that Finarfin's here is the issue. Harry's known that he was coming for months, and he already understands that the entire household is conspiring against him. Since really, even Celebrían's failed to mention it's supposed to be today. Gil-galad can't have known, he thinks. He would've said something. Wouldn't have let Harry be caught so unawares after the recent surprises.
Harry has hoped after his last talk with Fingon that they could make some progress, but it looks like they haven't. Though there's the possibility Finarfin arrived on his own and told no one. Findis did much the same before.
Finarfin finally finishes his inspection even as Harry thinks that. He sees green eyes stray to his harp.
"I was told you were an artist, not a musician."
Harry shifts slightly, uneasy at those words. "I was only practicing," he deflects.
"Indeed." Finarfin casts a look around them. "An interesting choice for harmonics, but I can't deny the ambiance."
The rainfall is now a haze. Crickets chirp while birds call out. A doe and her fawn graze not too terribly far to his left, but they've little fear of Harry. Everything is foggy, shrouded in a gray cloud. Finarfin is the brightest light around.
"It's pleasant here," Harry comments. He glances at the deer. "Peaceful."
"One can play without interruption."
Only it's said with a little, self-depreciating laugh.
"Perhaps," Harry allows, looking back at him for only a second. "Sometimes though, I don't need an audience. Sometimes, nature itself is enough."
Finarfin makes an abortive motion. Almost like he's startled but stopped himself half-way through.
"Where've I heard that before?"
But it's more of a murmur and not addressed to Harry himself.
Finarfin's smile is absent now. Expression pensive, preoccupied. He looks at Harry, but there's a very distinctive feeling that it's someone else he sees.
He blinks, however, and it's gone.
The light is back. Softer now. More like a lantern. He's still very dazzling, but it's shifted. Smoothed out to something almost approaching normal. Less surreal. Less supernatural. He looks far more like his sons and granddaughter than before, and Harry breathes easier for it.
"Shall we go back inside?" Finarfin asks, and he's closer then. Stepping right next to Harry as if he didn't have an entire forest of options.
Harry has no good way to refuse him. No excuse. He simply gives a nod and resigns himself to a long walk back.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"Back again, Harry?" Dumbledore asks.
It's both welcoming and more than a little bit scolding. As if to say that they really need to stop meeting this way.
In Harry's defense, this time – like several other times he could mention – hadn't been by him. Hadn't been his idea at all. This'd been by the intentions and direction of someone else. Thank you every so much and don't bother to let the door hit on the way out.
At least, it's poison again. It'll be easy enough to hide since Harry knows he made it back to his rooms. Undoubtedly, no one will even notice a thing since he'll be up in the morning as usual.
But this poison… it's one he's never seen before. He hadn't even felt the effects until the very end. Until after his bath when he'd been ready for bed. Something triggered by hot water perhaps? Or a time delay? Or a chemical reaction with his bedtime tea?
So likely a new formulation just for him. How generous of them.
But it hadn't been picked up by the castle wards, which means he was dosed at the Ministry earlier in the day. Not during dinner though. He checked his cup, plate, utensils and everything around his seat because love potions are still quite popular even for someone his age, and he'd sooner cut off his own hand that be bound to some simpering idiot.
The parchment then? The ink? When he read through the new proposals? Those were under wards, but where there's gold, there's always a niffler.
Harry hadn't used as thorough a detection spell there as he had other places, so it's the most probable location. Which means, it's undoubtedly more than one person. Somebody to hold the wards, while another opens them, and a third switches everything out. Not to mention anyone else they'd need for supplies, brewing, general know-how.
A conspiracy involves trust and oaths.
Blood purists, if he has to wager. They've been making a nuisance of themselves lately.
He's been far too friendly with non-humans. Steelclaw's nephew is the new Head of Hufflepuff, and they really don't like that. Don't think that goblins should be in the school as students, much less in such a high position as a faculty member. Never mind, they've been here for decades now.
That's not even mentioning all the others Harry has championed during his tenure so far, and they know he's only getting started.
One of the school healers is a tiefling, lovely lady, planning her wedding this summer to the Defense master. Two of the Transfiguration professors are gnomes, siblings, twins in fact; their mother is the Arithmancy master. There's a History teacher on exchange, a kitsune, who Harry's trying very hard to get to stay. His entire Divination staff except one are centaurs, and the latter is married to the Astronomy master, a very venerable siren. One Art professor is a lamia and another is a vampire; two more vampires from his coven are in the Language department. Harry's own replacement in Potions was a former apprentice, one of his last, a werewolf he's known for over half her life. That's just the proverbial top of the cauldron.
And the purists certainly don't like that Muggle Studies is staffed by a quintet of actual Muggles.
This isn't even counting all the nonteaching staff. The house-elves, merfolk, hobs, and ghosts.
Hogwarts is the fullest it's ever been. There are more classes. More staff offering each subject. More students to the point, Harry's actually worried they may have to start turning them away or build new dorms for the first time since the founders.
The castle is alive. Flourishing with happy children and competent faculty. It's going to stay that way. Harry isn't going to let anyone stop that.
Not even if they keep trying to kill him. This is hardly the first time. Hardly even the first success.
He was lucky so far not to have been caught. Poison is at least less messy than some of the other ways, and it's subtler, preferred for assassinations.
Spells are flashier. Too obvious. And to be honest, for many of his enemies, most are becoming too hard to cast. They don't have the power they once did, and his is too strong to overcome. It's also not as if he goes around telling people that he's immune to the Killing Curse.
The first time everyone knows about, and they all think it was Lily Potter's devotion and cleverness. The second – again that's known but is chalked up to a prophecy and a very convenient set of circumstances.
The only people who saw the third time are Amycus Carrow and Neville Longbottom. One of them has been exceptionally dead since before the Muggle war, and the other swore a wizarding oath. But even he's gone now too, so Harry's confident that his secret's safe.
He can remember it like it was just yesterday. He was in the train station – like always – speaking with Dumbledore yet again. Then, he was waking up on the ground with a very shocked and despondent Neville kneeling over him.
Neville was the only one with even an inkling of the truth, but even he couldn't imagine the reality. Didn't grasp that it wasn't just the Killing Curse. Harry hadn't even realized in the beginning. Hadn't put the pieces together then. All those times when he was younger.
Harry never told anyone. Not then. Not Hermione. Not Ron. No one.
Not when the third Killing Curse struck him. Not when his scar disappeared fully and he used glamour to make it seem like something was still there.
He still tells no one now. Who's left to tell?
Harry sighs. Long and hard.
The metal of the bench is stiff beneath him but somehow not as uncomfortable as it should be. The station is mostly empty today, a good sign, he supposes. A few people mill about. A family group huddles together by the closest train – parents and multiple children – as they count off members and cry in relief.
He'll have to investigate when he wakes up, Harry decides. Carefully. Cautiously. The poison will still be in his system. Preserved. He always awakens by dawn on days like this; it'll be in time.
Harry shifts, bumping his elbow on the back of the bench.
This really is a bother.
He could just stay here and sit for a while. Watch the people go by. Wander the station and see if there actually is anything beyond the doors and platform. He's tried to board the trains before, but if he climbs the steps they turn into infinite staircases and the railings disappear. Magic only works when it wants to in this place.
Time is intangible but also immutable here. He can't decide if it actually matters when he leaves. If he stayed for hours or days or even weeks would any outside notice the difference? Would it even matter?
He has much to do at the school. Proposals to make. Funding to secure. He still teaches advanced classes twice a month. Still covers for the hospital wing on occasion. Still brews back-up potions for the school supply.
How long would it take them to realize he was gone? How long until anyone came to look?
It's a Friday… A Saturday now. The weekend? Monday? Longer?
Why does he even want to go back? He's tried so hard to leave.
Harry crosses his legs and taps a foot on floor. He looks out at the other platforms. Sees a train pull away that's only half-full. Destination unknown.
This place really isn't so bad. He could stay. He could rest here and just not think. Have no worries and no responsibilities.
Beside him, Dumbledore clears his throat.
"Life isn't a punishment," his former headmaster tells him then. He's watching the family finally board, smallest children holding hands with their mother as their father helps a slightly older sister climb the stairs.
"I thought death was the next great adventure," Harry replies, and there's only a hint of sarcasm.
It earns him a chuckle as Dumbledore finally glances at him.
"Life is its own adventure," he allows before unexpectedly turning somber, "but this is hardly a place to stay forever. Neither coming nor going. I also don't want you rushing off to your death either."
Harry huffs before he can stop himself. Since really, that's too much.
"That's rich for you."
There's a definite bite to his words. The gnash of teeth. Were they anywhere else, there'd be frost riming the bench and tile floor around them from the force of his ire.
This is a different place, however. Magic works strangely here or not at all.
Dumbledore closes his eyes for a moment behind his glasses. He turns fully to Harry, not just his gaze or his head, but his entire body.
"Do you know how sorry I am for all you've gone through?" he asks. His voice is infinitely gentle, tender in the way that Harry has always wanted but never had. "For all your pain and sorrows."
Harry refuses to look at him. His left hand grips the seat so tightly his fingers are white. The metal beneath is freezing, so cold it burns.
"You do not get to tell me that. Not here and not now."
He can feel the weight of Dumbledore's eyes. Feel a thousand things unspoken and mired between them.
Harry doesn't want to hear any of them.
"Just send me back," he states flatly.
"Harry…" Dumbledore begins.
"Send me back. I don't want to be here anymore."
Dumbledore shifts beside him and lets out a small sigh.
And then…
Then…
Harry wakes to his ceiling with dawn's light creeping in his windows.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Manwë – I am rather concerned, my friend.
Eönwë – For what, my lord?
Manwë – I keep getting prayers for cyclones and lightning strikes.
Eönwë – Rather aghast. From someone in Aman? Against whom?
Manwë – Shakes his head slowly and in utter sadness. Against himself.
Eönwë – Gasps. I'll go at once.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finarfin – So…
Fingolfin – Puts a hand on his forehead. Go ahead and tell me, brother.
Finarfin – Our dear nephew has a harp.
Fingolfin – Blinks. A harp?
Finarfin – Mmmhmm. And he was playing a song we both know.
Fingolfin – I suppose I know the harp too then, don't I?
Finarfin – Gives a mischievous smile. Someone taught him quite well.
Fingolfin – Rubs his temples. Someone, eh?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Suddenly perks up, ears twitching.
Angrod – Pauses immediately mid-conversation. What is it?
Argon – Is it Hérion again?
Finrod – My music senses are tingling. Someone's playing nearby.
Argon – Puts his head on the table.
Angrod – Exhales very heavily. Fin, we talked about this.
Notes:
AN: In true elvish tradition, Harry is racking up the names. I did some crazy research for this to hopefully make sense. Geez.
Also, elven marriage. The wedding itself is intercourse (and/or what the couple sees as marriageable acts for the purpose of this AU), but that leaves quite a bit of wiggle room that comes just this side of the line. Poor Fingon's wondering just what the hell he walked in on or what it was getting ready to turn into. He and Maedhros never married but were very… friendly.
I have a whole head!canon (that's not Tolkien accurate) where elves have engagements that can last anywhere from hours to centuries or even longer depending on the couple – Finrod and Amarië currently hold the record. Because having a soul-bond and instant love with someone is great, but you still have to learn to like them and even live with them. And considering this is for eternity and how some of these marriages have turned out, maybe living together ahead of time and being very sure about it is a good idea, yes?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter). Derived from Metterrívë (January, aka end-winter) and Herunúmen (Lord-of-West which is a title of Manwë)
Chapter Text
Painting, Harry's found, is more like a dance. At its foundation is the underlying song of creation. The beat turns to the steps of enchanting, to the rhythm of arithmancy as the picture takes form. To the back and forth of time and space as they shift into patterns. Pigments, then. Possibilities. A shuffle here. A twirl there. A dip. A swirl of light and color.
His project, his masterpiece, is only half-finished though. It's a slow process, gradual as cautious brushstrokes, but this has to be perfect. He won't accept anything else. He thinks he's been building to this his entire life. Learning to recreate it since he was eleven and looked up with wonder at his very first home.
Other pieces are completed around Formenos. Landscapes. Abstracts. A fresco he did on a lark in the kitchen. Some three-dimensional works are on various floors and walls – though Eönwë had an odd liking for the one in the entrance hall. Even a portrait or five of various Ainur who were keen and intrigued models.
Vairë's is his favorite so far. It isn't, as some would think, of her halls with a loom behind her. Instead, she rests in a field of wildflowers and is weaving the world into place as she kneels with her husband's head in her lap. Námo always sleeps. Harry hasn't once seen him open his eyes since the portrait was set, and really, Harry doesn't blame him. Running Mandos is exhausting work, and he deserves his rest.
She hangs just outside his atelier, but he thinks she won't be content to stay there forever. He has set himself up a study, an office really, but has little reason to go there for now. Perhaps in the future though. She may like it there by a window. Able to gaze at the grounds below.
Eönwë, he has just about figured out. Harry may even take a break for it. A change of pace to relax for working overhead.
Nienna, he has yet to make one for her… but someday. When he decides the right background, when he's solidified in his mind the scene to give her.
One day, Káno will have a portrait here, too. When Harry has a face for him. When he has more than music and sorrows and a name. That's a distant future though.
For now, Harry works on his masterpiece.
He's been at this since dawn, but time is difficult to measure here. The land itself is forever winter, and the first circle of Formenos is a blooming spring equinox of equal day and night.
Fatigue as an elf is a strange thing. It decreased, oddly enough, as he aged when still human – and Harry doesn't want to think too much on that. But now, tiredness is more a mental state than a physical one. He sleeps because his mind tells him to do so, not because his body demands it. Previously, in Mandos, he slept due to boredom. When the Ainur were busy and before his two friends, when he'd little else to occupy himself. In Formenos, there's always something to do. Something to mend or enchant. To change or grow or paint. There's Indilwen and Káno, who always need or want his attention. Often just his company.
"Perhaps it's time for a break, dear," Nienna calls to him like a sleighbell in the snow.
She rests in the squishy purple armchair Harry conjured for her earlier. Her toes dig into the grass and flowers that still make up the ground until Harry one day creates a proper floor. Or perhaps he'll leave it, Harry thinks, as Indilwen continues to graze here more than not. Even now, she's over by the side door. Head down but ears perked.
Káno's next to Nienna, also on an armchair, playing as usual. There's an occasional pause when she speaks to him. Harry can't always hear what they say, and to be honest, he's not truly listening. Though he knows she was earlier describing his progress so far.
"You've been working nonstop for hours," Káno adds with a wash of notes.
Harry pauses to squint at them and then the windows. He's astonished to see that it's completely black outside.
The ceiling itself won't start reflecting the sky until he's finished. Until he sets the final enchantments. Currently, part of it is fluffy white clouds while the section by the doors is dark thunderheads with flashes of lightning. His present portion is a veritable tapestry of stars, but he hadn't thought that represented reality just yet.
Harry allows himself a moment to set aside his brushes and stretch before telling the ladder to lower him down, which it does cheerily enough. An absentminded flick of his fingers cleans everything off his clothes as he meanders over to them, but before Harry can even think of making another chair for himself, Nienna is already reaching. Pulling Káno's harp to her.
"Sit here," she states, and it isn't quite a command. It's too genteel for that.
From somewhere, she produces a teacup and saucer. The contents are steaming but somehow not too hot as he sips – ginger and sweet orange with a hint of cardamom.
Harry raises an eyebrow at that one. Since she must be raiding his herb garden if not his cabinets. But no… this isn't a blend he's made. And nothing has been missing. He would've remembered both.
Nienna covers her mouth with her hand at his look. Her tears are gradual again today, barely there. Harry belatedly notices a table on her other side with a full tea service. There are other shapes underneath that he can't make out from this angle.
Where has that even come from? Where has any of this come from?
Harry looks at the cup again – white lilies on a dark blue background with gold trim. It's not one of his. Not a pattern he recognizes. He decorated his himself – snowdrops for the first set that he most often uses. Ivy on the newest, which is actually still in the process of being finished; that one he'll probably give away.
At his very puzzled expression, Nienna finally offers, "This is a gift for you."
"For me?" he repeats.
Since this – her manner and the entire situation – is decidedly strange. The Ainur have given him many things. Nienna especially. But never quite like this. They've never made a production of it before. Harry can't quite figure it out. Can't quite put the pieces together and make the picture whole again.
Fortunately, they take pity on him.
"On your old world, you said that they celebrated the day of your birth, yes?" Káno questions with a strum. There's a scent of sea salt and the feeling of the tide at his ankles.
Harry blinks. He feels vaguely fuzzy. Like he's been hit with a hex and now can't quite think straight. Maybe he's more tired than he thought. What time is it?
"I…"
"It's different here," Káno tells him. "Usually for elflings or special begetting days."
"Your ways are not our ways though," Nienna adds, and her tears are growing heavier now, "and you've bent to our expectations so much."
She lays a hand over the harp strings and plucks several notes. They ring out with foam and frost but warm to autumn rains.
"You said you celebrated at midnight," she continues, a little breathy with anticipation. Tipping her head back as she waits for her cue. "And midnight is--"
The clock in the hallway, one Fëanor made so long ago, chimes exactly then. Once and again. Twelve times.
Nienna's laugh is a carol of bells even through her crying.
"Now, I believe."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Dinner, it turns out, is an interesting farewell. Aredhel leaves tomorrow, Irimë in tow, to travel to Mandos. Visitors are rare as there’s usually only one way in; Námo’s cautious of his domain in general, too. He does allow others to enter but few to leave and fewer still to roam freely. Aredhel’s a special case, he’s been told by multiple sources, including Námo himself. As is her son. Harry isn’t sure he wants to know the details. He isn’t planning to ask.
They retire to a separate area, something of a strange mishmash of a conservatory and music hall, after eating. There are braziers at intervals with the largest in the center, and Harry spends perhaps too much time evaluating the mural that extends around the entire room. The ceiling's arched glass, but all that can be seen overhead now is dark storm clouds.
Talk is light. Reminiscent more than anything. Mainly about people Harry hasn't met. Mostly relatives, to be fair. Aredhel's only child – but never her husband. Finarfin's other and youngest son, Aegnor, also still in Mandos. Celebrían's parents, both on Endor with her husband and children.
There's Queen Indis. Harry's seen her from afar, very briefly, but they've fortunately never met. He has zero desire to ever do so with all the things that Argon's said. And that Fingon and Angrod have very carefully not said.
Orodreth is apparently trying to build an underground city, and while that truthfully sounds interesting, Harry's juggling more than enough as is. The only way he'd go there currently would be as a cute, very innocuous animal that no one would ever associate with his actual form in a million years.
Same for Turgon. Though his venture seems to be the far more successful of the two.
Finduilas, Orodreth's only daughter, is with her grandmother currently as Angrod has been here.
Idril is the one who interests Harry the most – she and her husband, who's the only Man in Valinor. They live outside of Alqualondë, directly on the coast, and Celebrían's planning a visit soon as they're her in-laws. She invites Harry along when she sees him perk up at the mention of Tuor. Harry must admit he's intrigued. He has no idea if Men here are humans or something else, and really, there's a bit of homesickness at the opportunity to find out.
The conversation drifts as more alcohol is consumed. Everyone had something with dinner, and they've been rather free with the wine since moving to this new room. Everyone but Harry. He'd one sniff and known this is a much stronger concoction than earlier. He quietly charms his first cup into juice and hasn't bothered to have any refills. No one else has noticed, and that's his first clue.
The second is when Fëanor is brought up. For once, it's not entirely negative. Or a list of every terrible thing he's ever done. Or a recitation of his various adventures – sometimes misadventures – from Fingolfin. It's pleasant really to hear about his accomplishments from those who know him well.
The third occurs as Gil-galad gets progressively closer as time's gone on, but not a single one of them bats an eye. Not even now as he sits with his ankle hooked around Harry's own. They share a long bench, an arm resting on the back behind Harry's head. A hand toys with his hair, fingers slipping through black strands and tangling into the ends. Of course, even Gil-galad has quickly worked his way through two wine bottles by himself, now well onto his third.
The atmosphere is relaxed, cozy despite the rain overhead that's coming down in sheets on the glass ceiling. It does make an interesting accompaniment to Finrod's lyre. Though admittedly the quality of his performance isn't quite up to standard. Harry's heard him flubbing the lines to his last two songs. He's missed part of the chord at the end just now, but no one else really seems bothered. He's sure that Beren and Lúthien probably don't mind that much either.
"Care to join him?" Finarfin inquires when he notices Harry interest in his oldest son.
He's pink-cheeked along with the rest of them, and Harry doesn't even try to count the containers scattered around him and his brother on the floor. Some are on their sides, but they're drained to the point that they don't even drip onto the rug.
"What do you say, nephew?" Fingolfin chimes in. He's beaming, pleasantly buzzed but not all the way gone. Not yet. "I'm curious of your skill."
Harry's eyes widen. He feels Gil-galad's fingers in his hair still.
When Finarfin hadn't initially made mention of the harp and the days turned into weeks, Harry thought himself safe. Oh, how wrong he was.
"Do you play?" Finrod asks then, and he's almost vibrating with excitement. Seemingly ready to shove a random instrument into his hands then and there.
"He does," Finarfin confirms before Harry can even think to deny it. "A harp."
They all look at their king in stunned shock. He lifts a shoulder in a motion that would normally be elegant but is a tad too swaying.
"I heard him the first day I was here. He was by the back corner of the property," Finarfin explains easily enough to his suddenly very intrigued audience. "I followed the sound."
"Aha! So that's where you go!" Irimë declares, and she's entirely too pleased with herself. Her reward is another round.
Finrod has risen and is now moving about the room in search of something. It's not hard to figure out what. However, he's as graceful as a fourth-year who's discovered Firewhisky a bit too early.
"Need help?" Angrod questions as he glances over the back of his chair.
"No."
There's a muffled thump from somewhere to the right, but Harry doesn't bother to look.
"Maybe."
Angrod puts his drink down with a soft clink as he goes to rescue his brother. They return a second later, thankfully without any harps, but Finrod's hair is mussed.
"Sing for us instead," he suggests as he sits a little too forcefully.
"No." Harry shakes his head in denial.
"Come on," Argon prompts. "It can't be any worse than Irissë." He smirks at his own joke safely out of range of his sister.
"No," Harry repeats and waves his hand in clear dismissal.
"Please, please," Irimë begs.
"No," he states for a third time, and it's very firm now. He puts just the barest nip of power into it. Of hoar frost that drops the temperature in the room a few degrees.
Gil-galad shivers next to him before Harry puts a hand on his arm in apology and casts a wordless Warming Charm.
There's a brief pause then. Before Findis raises her goblet at him in salute.
"Well, now," she actually sounds impressed. "You do have teeth. I was wondering when those would finally come out."
"We're going to work on this shyness," Irimë decides. Completely unperturbed. "It must be from your mother since it certainly didn't come from Makalaurë's side."
Another awkward silence. Followed by a snort from Harry's left and then laughter that's wine-twinged from all angles.
"They certainly aren't shy," Fingolfin agrees. His tone is warm though. Reflective.
Finarfin nudges him affectionately. "I cannot admit that's a fault of theirs."
"Brother does like to talk about every project," Fingolfin acknowledges. It's fond, however. Said with a soft smile.
"You can't get him to be silent," Findis adds, and there's a barb beneath her prim exterior. Maybe it's all the alcohol as there's a flush to her face and gleam to her eyes not usually present. "None of them are."
"No, Carnistir doesn't say much," Aredhel corrects, resting her face on her hand and twirling a piece of hair like a young girl. "He prefers to be left to his own devices."
"Toiling away in some forgotten corner until you practically fall on him," Argon adds as he stretches overhead.
There's a round of agreement to that. Celebrían gives a refill to everyone, regardless of how much their cup already has, before trundling off to sit in a different chair than before. She gives a momentary flash of puzzlement, but it's quickly forgotten as she discovers an empty cup that she fills for herself.
"Maitimo can be quiet," Fingon muses. His eyes are far away as he wears a dreamy expression.
Finarfin and Fingolfin both scoff at the same time.
"Nelyo is passionate," his uncle clarifies.
"And I wouldn't say that anything you do with him is quiet," Fingolfin mutters into his drink, but it's low enough that only Harry and Finarfin, who're closest to him, hear.
"Curvo never speaks much either," Angrod comments then to the entire group. "Always too busy with his forge." His head's tipped back, and he looks at the rain as it hits the glass above them.
Finrod has an odd expression but remains silent.
"He's just an ass," Argon disagrees. "He may look just like uncle, but he has the personality of a sodden badger with a rash." He rolls his eyes as he motions Findis to pass him another bottle.
Fingon laughs then. Loud and carefree. Mirth lighting his expression entirely.
"No, my dear sweet, little brother, that was because you--"
He's abruptly cut off as Argon throws a pillow in his face. It hits him squarely before tumbling to the floor. Fingon doesn't even try to duck.
"I thought we agreed never to mention that again!"
Argon wags a finger in his general direction, but when he points, it's slightly off center. Fingon guffaws hard enough that his forehead reddens.
"You agreed maybe," Aredhel cuts in from his other side, "but the rest of us never did."
"Sister!" Argon gasps with absolute betrayal. His pupils are too blown for the light of the room and his voice is a little too loud. "You know? Did Tyelko tell you?"
"The twins," she corrects with a winning grin.
"Menaces. All of you. 'Twas their idea in the first place." He hisses like an angry Kneazle.
"And yet," Aredhel taunts, "you went through with it."
Argon answer is a noise without words. Without real vowels or syllables.
There's more drunken laughter followed by the clink of glass bottles and metal cups. Alcohol is being consumed in such amounts that Harry's a little surprised that everyone is still coherent. But then again, he's never seen any of them imbibe to this extent before.
A knee is on top of his now, calves pressed together despite Harry repeatedly putting him back in his seat. Gil-galad's face is in his neck, breath warm across his skin but tickling when he giggles like a lad. No one seems to care about that as Irimë shakes some wine invitingly in his direction that Harry very politely redirects to Fingolfin.
"Don't worry," she tells him consolingly, "your father's a good egg."
"He's always the one they go to," Findis agrees as she sinks further and further into her chair, sliding so far down at one point that she's nearly on the floor.
"The good child," Finarfin admits.
He and his brother are arm and arm now. Giving a joyous toast.
"Well, except for… You know." Angrod gives a vague gesture that makes his drink slosh dangerously.
"The kinslaying and child-theft," Irimë says helpfully. She drains the rest of her wine in one long swallow and blearily looks around for more.
Celebrían uses her foot to nudge a container closer towards her aunt. "I don't think they were stolen," she replies.
"Rescued," Fingon insists. His chin is in his hand, and he has his coronet around one finger as he spins it in circles. "Maitimo and Laurë rescued them."
"Is it rescue when you caused the situation?" Gil-galad finally asks. He's been relatively quiet so far, ever since he put his head on Harry's shoulder the first time. One arm is now around Harry's lower back, hand settled on his side while the other still holds a goblet. At least he's not trying to climb into Harry's lap anymore, which he considers a small victory.
"What did Elrond tell you?" Finarfin questions, and he honestly seems curious.
"My husband loves his father very dearly," Celebrían says in a complete non-answer.
Apparently, it means something to the elves though.
"Wonder what Eärendil thinks about that," Finrod muses to no one in particular before going back to humming to himself. His lyre is now missing as are his bracelets and one earring.
Celebrían rests back against her chair's arm and closes her eyes. "It hasn't come up."
No one seems to have an answer to that, but to be honest, no one really seems to care. Finrod and Argon start a loud song that's more in competition than in harmony. Fingon joins them part-way through but at a different verse, which grows only more confusing when Irimë does the same a minute later. Angrod is lost in his own world as he watches the rain, while Aredhel and Findis start a debate but seem to be arguing about different topics at the same time. Finarfin and Fingolfin lean against each other, speaking in low voices with the occasional boyish giggle. Celebrían is fully curled up in her chair, goblet having slipped from her hand and now turned over on the floor. Gil-galad seems content to finally stay where he is, fingers twisting and tangling Harry's hair.
Sometime after midnight, the wine runs dry. Which finally seems to be the signal for everyone to stagger off to bed.
Harry's hugged repeatedly before he can even get them out of the room. First by Fingon. Then Argon with a very masculine backslap afterwards. Celebrían is gentler but holds on the longest and kisses both cheeks. Fingon again before his father pulls him off to take his place, and he's in turn elbowed out of the way by his own daughter. Harry isn't ashamed to admit that he uses Gil-galad to block Irimë and Angrod, but Findis slips in then to slide her arm in his and put her head on his shoulder. Finrod half-swoops, half-stumbles in next, and Harry's very resigned by this time. He dodges Finarfin only by turning Finrod directly into his father's waiting arms.
Then, when they're finally close enough to the door – and why had they sat in the back – Harry makes a break for it. Gil-galad, of course, is wrapped around him like the giant squid the entire time.
For a drunk who has to be helped down the corridors and up the stairs, he has a remarkably nice singing voice. He serenades Harry with what he suspects is a dwarven ballad, but admittedly, the verses keep being mixed up. So instead of winning his heart's desire, Narvi seems to be forever stuck in Moria, forging a bow for his love.
Harry's fortunately stronger as an elf and can get him through the bedroom door, into the room itself, and on the bed without much struggle. Gil-galad is minimal help at this point. Alternating between bard, cephalopod, and inert object. Harry isn't sure if elves can drown, and he doesn't particularly want to find out. So there won't be a bath tonight; that'll be a concern for tomorrow.
The singing stops roughly around the time Harry gets him situated on the pillow. His eyes are unfocused then, but he's still awake, at least somewhat. He'll feel it tomorrow, Harry knows. Even an elven constitution won't be able to shake this off completely.
Harry sighs, but it's fond if a little exasperated. He lays a hand on Gil-galad's forehead and sends out a faint pulse of power. He can feel the alcohol there, circulating through, and gently unravels it like one would a tangled vine. Another whisper bolsters his system so that he wakes refreshed and with no nasty lingering effects.
Gil-galad blinks at him hazily as Harry pulls back but not away.
"Mírimo." Only, it's said with a yawn. "You did something."
The words are sleepy but not at all accusing.
"So you'll feel better in the morning," Harry murmurs and tucks a strand of dark hair behind his ear.
He peers at Harry with such a puzzled expression – like a jarvey faced with an Arithmancy equation. Harry struggles not to laugh. He shouldn't, but it's such a bizarre look on someone normally so poised. To see him squint stormy blue eyes like he's truly forgotten that two and two is indeed four.
Harry brushes the rest of his hair from his face, even as Gil-galad slowly starts blinking more. It's the work of only a minute – with subtle but liberal use of magic – to divest him of his jewelry and braids. Boots are at the base of the armoire, but Harry leaves his clothes the same. That's a step too far for now.
The covers are a little trickier, but it's warm inside so Harry only reaches for the quilt still folded on the foot of the bed from this morning. He draws it up but doesn't tuck it too tightly in case he moves in the night. Harry has barely even stepped away when Gil-galad calls out.
"Don't go."
But he's more than half-asleep already. Intoxicated and finally starting to slur.
"This is my room, too," Harry reminds him with just a bit of mirth. "I'm just changing."
"Yes." Gil-galad is drowsy and distant as he's pulled into dreams. "Stay with me."
He's out before Harry can even form a response.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry falls in love suddenly. Has his mind fill with wonder and all thoughts of anyone else fade away. His gaze follows her immediately as his heartbeat speeds up.
How can he not? How can it not? How can he not know this was the moment he's been waiting for? That his entire life has led him to this instant?
She's the most exquisite thing he's ever seen.
Her coat is a dazzling white with a dusting of black spots. Like a reverse snowfall. Her mane and tail are long and flowing, a midnight drape that trails after her as she gallops. She tosses her head like the queen she is. An empress surveying her domain as she weaves first through the trees and then leaps over the small stream in the distance. Her gait is sure, effortless, graceful. Like a dancer on stage where every move is practiced to perfection but so natural. She rounds the field and faces them. She slows to a trot. Next to a walk. She stops. She looks at him then.
Her eyes are bluer than the sky at midsummer. Cloudless. Endless. And far too clever. Glittering with an intelligence that's undeniable even if Oromë hadn't taught him their language.
She neighs then. Paws the ground with her right front hoof three times. Part greeting and part challenge. Defiance.
Harry knows he's met his match.
"She's beautiful," he breathes.
Beside him, Oromë laughs. It's echoing as a hunting horn. Far too amused.
The form he's taken today, and many days actually, has silvery hair but a face close enough to Harry's that they could be brothers. His eyes are dark, color unfathomable. Something about this shape makes the other Ainur unexpectedly sad. Makes Vána grasp his hand and cry into his collar. She's not here today though, else he would've picked something else.
This shape doesn't seem to bother Huan at all, however. He wags his tail even as he rests on the grass on all fours. Observing everything and missing nothing at all. Huan barks as Harry absently scratches his head, and the sentiment is shared.
The other horses in the herd graze in the distance, but Harry already knows that she's different. She's more than they are. Could tell from the instant he saw her. Oromë has already promised an introduction. Has said that they could be companions if Harry can make a good enough impression. If he can win her over. Can gain her heart.
"Are you sure?" Harry thinks to question.
Because certainly someone so magnificent couldn't possibly be for him.
Oromë watches her as she pauses to nibble the grass. As if the mere Vala in front of her is no concern and is beneath her notice. He shakes his head. Rubs a hand over his chin aggressively enough that the quiver on his back shakes.
"Yo--" There's an abrupt pause then as he finally glances at Harry. "Nienna believed she would be most suited to you," he says instead.
His manner is still entertained, but there's an undertone now. A whisper of something else that Harry can't name. Perhaps on a different day. Maybe if he weren't so distracted. Harry just lets it go. Lets it be blown away on the wind like a stray leaf. He has more important things anyway.
Harry starts walking then. Slowly. Steadily.
She stops eating, and her ears perk as her head lifts. She isn't a hippogriff, but they have the correct idea of things. People, even those with four legs instead of two, deserve respect and honor.
Harry comes to a halt several yards from her, a courteous distance for a subject to their ruler. He offers a solemn bow from the waist with his left hand over his heart.
"Milady," he states. "I'm called Marcaunon. Well met."
She merely looks at him and flicks an ear. Harry is still in his bow, has not risen without her permission. But he can feel the weight of her interest.
Behind him, both Oromë and Huan are silent. A moment ticks by. Another. A third. Harry doesn't move at all.
Then, she inclines her head. He straightens but doesn't approach further.
"May I have your name?" he asks instead.
He watches her consider the request. Sees her decide if he's worth the time. The energy. The effort.
There's an equine nicker. A gust as she exhales. Her tail swishes. And yet, he receives an impression of a meadow with flowers blooming.
"That's very lovely, milady," Harry praises, and it's genuine. Said with a smile and hint of awe. "May I call you Indilwen?"
Blue eyes look at him with consideration. Searching. Assessing. Measuring. He meets her gaze dead on. Doesn't blink. Doesn't look away for a single second.
Then, she gives a stately nod and steps forward. Her nose in his hands is infinitely soft as she breathes in his scent. Her teeth are even gentler when he conjures an apple to feed her, running his free fingers through her mane as she eats. She allows him to scratch along her neck afterwards and nuzzles into his shoulder.
"Well done," he hears Oromë murmur behind him, sounding all-too-satisfied. "Very well done."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Káno – So he's still working on the ceiling?
Nienna – It's a very nice ceiling.
Káno – Not sure what to think about this. I'm sure it's lovely.
Nienna – You could say he… Elevated it. Vaulted it even to a whole new level.
Káno – Did you just… make a ceiling pun?
Nienna – Little laugh. No, never.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Lalala. The end.
Everyone – Claps with way too much enthusiasm.
Harry – In an aside to himself – That was terrible. How drunk is he?
Finarfin – What was that, nephew?
Fingolfin – Oh, yeah. My brother totally ratted you out said you play.
Everyone – Pretty please!
Harry – Absolutely not.
Gil-galad – Mírimo, you've been holding out on me.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Hearts and stars in his eyes.
Oromë – Oh, yeah. I'm the best matchmaker.
Huan – Bark! Tail-wag!
Indilwen – Excited neigh!
Gil-galad – What am I, chopped liver?
Notes:
AN: Harry the one (mostly) sober person trying to wrangle the drunks.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine).
Chapter Text
Ginny is a beautiful bride. Her dress is a shimmering pure white with delicate lace and a long train. Her hair is even more fiery red against the contrast of her veil, and Harry knows that Fleur made it by hand just for her. The dress itself is from the other women of the now growing Weasley clan. A down payment for the wedding… well, that's a gift given to Bill with the promise to never breathe a word of where it comes from, but Harry considers it money well spent as he imagines the Black ancestors cursing his name from beyond the grave.
As for Harry and Ginny, they've maintained a lasting friendship despite everything, and it's funny how easy it is. How easy she is to talk to about everything even now. How despite the continents dividing them, he gets more messages from her now than he did when they went to the same school. How, after the war, they sat and spoke for hours about themselves, about the future. About being different people with different lives.
Ginny's forged in steel from the fires of her sixth year. From the fight against Death Eaters masquerading as faculty in the school and building a resistance.
And Harry… He's hunted horcruxes. Faced a Dark Lord. He's died. He's taken a Killing Curse and come back. He needs time. He needs to think. To figure out who he is.
He travels. He sees the world. He comes back and apprentices with Andromeda. Lives with her and Teddy as he studies for a separate Potions mastery because he's just a masochist who loves punishment.
Ginny finishes Hogwarts. Is accepted into a Defense program in western America. She plays Quidditch and Quodpot well enough that teams try to recruit her but declines all offers. Meets a Muggle man who looks at her like she personally lit the sun. They decide to marry three years later in the same church his parents used. Her soon-to-be-husband is older with eyes that understand death and war far too well. He accepts all of her – large family, strange friends, recurring nightmares, every bit of it. He's supposedly unaware of magic until Ginny tells him, but he has a very knowing manner as he evaluates everyone they invite, and that's a problem for MACUSA to deal with. It's no concern of Harry's at all.
Luna stands as her maid of honor along with Hermione and a woman Harry doesn't know from Ginny's school here. Harry sits in the row behind the Weasleys, next to Katie Bell and her wife, but Victoire is almost-nine and restless. Turning around constantly to chat with him and dangling off the pew. He finally lifts her up into his lap right as the music changes, and Jack comes to the front of the church to await his bride.
The ceremony is brief but all the more special for it. For all the people who made it here and all who haven't. Or couldn't.
Fred for obvious reasons but Molly has a framed photograph – carefully frozen – that's tastefully set to the side.
Several of the groom's own friends lost to other conflicts. Also in frames.
Andy and Teddy couldn't make the long trip due to a variety of reasons – many of them financial since her pride still refuses to reconsider her birthright. Harry gives the happy couple their regards and a gift on their behalf. One that he admittedly pads a bit with the Black fortune, but who has to know? Living well is the best revenge along with spending all of Walburga's money.
The reception lasts all night and well into the morning. There've been enough Weasley weddings at this point that children and spouses and friends are everywhere. It's full of life and voices and kids' happy screaming.
Harry is asked to dance far too many times, but his best girl comes to his rescue, and she's a fierce opponent. She begs him to carry her afterwards, when she's grown tired of hopping on his feet, and is now in his arms as he takes her around the floor.
"Can I be your bride-made when you marry, tonton?" Victoire requests in her most winning tone. The same one she uses when asking for another sweet or to stay up just a bit later.
Harry hears it from Teddy too often for it to succeed, however.
"Bridesmaid," he corrects gently and manages a straight face. "I have to find someone first, luv."
Victoire gives in an imperious look with all the dignity that she can muster. It's a surprising amount, and Harry knows it's all from her maternal side. Bless Bill but he's far, far too much like his father sometimes. His younger daughter's fortunately like Fleur and his son hopefully will be as well. Still too early to tell though, he's not even talking yet.
Harry twirls them around again in time to the music, and Victoire shrieks eagerly in his ear.
"Maman wants you to marry tata," she tells him afterwards.
It's said very seriously. In the life or death manner of selecting one's breakfast for the day or which pair of shoes to wear.
Harry bites his lip as his eyes stray to Gabrielle where she sits at a nearby table with the best man. He's a bespeckled bloke. A widower with a scholarly air, but he speaks animatedly with her about Egyptian hieroglyphs. Gabrielle is all smiles as she chats back just as excitedly.
Harry again glances at Victoire. He finally offers a little laugh and spins her around before putting her into a dip. She answers it back with another joyous giggle and lays her head on his shoulder.
Later, when the bride throws the bouquet, Victoire is the one to catch it.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The rain finally stops when Aredhel and Irimë depart. They would've left the day before but didn't manage to make it up until noon – like most of the household. And are very reluctant to leave their rooms, much less travel.
Irimë doesn't appear until dinner with her hair unbraided and bloodshot eyes. Aredhel nurses tea along with Celebrían and Fingon most of the afternoon. Angrod appears for meals only but sits with his back to the windows and his head in his hands. Fingolfin and Finarfin seem to be in the best condition, but both speak in quiet voices before disappearing to parts unknown. Harry doesn't even see Findis or Argon at all.
Gil-galad is perfectly fine. He wakes refreshed with bright, alert eyes. He braids Harry's hair and presses a lingering kiss to his temple before they go down to breakfast, but they're the only ones there.
They have a rare day to themselves as everyone else seems strangely weak to lights and sounds. They could go anywhere and do anything, but really, Harry's had so little time to even draw unless it's in secret. In stolen moments in the library or up in their room when the others won't disturb him. Certainly, no one will bother them today.
Harry already has everything he needs without dipping into magic. There's a small case tucked away from an earlier trip to Tirion that he'd managed without his usual hangers-on. Most of the materials he's used so far are his own creations, so it'll be a challenge and a change to see how elven-made things do. He finds himself eager as he opens it up when they return after breakfast, and Gil-galad hovers behind him but touches nothing as he sorts through.
The older elf seems fascinated, but Harry's used to such scrutiny from the Ainur at this point. Besides, it's not like he hasn't seen Harry's doodles in his sketchbook. Even though he acts like it's some sacred text, Harry knows full well that he's peered over his shoulder before. Has heard him chuckling at the pages of animal drawings in particular.
Now, he sits in their room without even the pretext of anything else. Watching from the time Harry first mixes his paints, sets up his easel, and then selects his canvas. He's still at it hours later as Harry shades in the fortress with its foreboding stone walls.
"How do you make it seem… almost colorful?"
Harry makes a questioning sound as he moves to add a bit more to a mountain in the distance.
"You only have black, white, and gray," Gil-galad points out from behind him as he sits in the sole chair of the room. "I can see all of those. Yet, I'd swear there was more."
"It's a trick of the light," Harry tells him idly, "and the eye." He adds more shadowing to the north side.
Gil-galad just shakes his head; he simply observes as Harry continues.
He starts humming and belatedly realizes it's the same song Káno usually plays. It's odd not hearing him, odd not talking to him right now as Harry's so used to it. Has been doing it for so long now. He feels the strong urge to speak with Káno then. To pull his harp free from the secret compartment in his bag and pluck a melody.
But…
But Gil-galad doesn't know about Káno. And Harry isn't sure what he'd think. He doesn't want to spoil this moment. This time between them.
The impulse passes as Harry takes a steadying breath. More so as he bends down to start painting again.
"This is Formenos?" his audience clarifies after another five or so minutes.
Harry nods as he dabs his brush with white. "When I first found it." He adds to the drifts here, there. A little to the clouds just so. "It certainly isn't the same now."
Gil-galad makes an amused noise. "I'd heard. You're the topic of quite a manner of rumors."
"Some of them may even be true," Harry comments. He selects a lighter shade of gray next for just a little contrast.
"Most of them are about Formenos," Gil-galad tells him, but really, he's too entertained.
"You'll see yourself how different it is now."
He turns to peek behind when Gil-galad doesn't respond immediately. But he's merely sitting there. Examining Harry with a pleased expression.
"Yes," Gil-galad says at the attention, voice very soft, "I will."
Harry nods slowly before returning to his work. There's an easy atmosphere between them as he continues. The shadows of the mountains. The distant, whispering trees. The gloom across the snow. Harry carefully strokes it all in place.
He feels Gil-galad move to stand next to him as he finishes the lone wolf on the trail.
"It's so… real." The elf seems like he can't decide if he's surprised or impressed. "Like I'm looking out a window and there it is."
"Do you want it?" Harry questions almost absently as he touches up the tail and then pulls back.
He hasn't set the magic fully yet, but he's been layering it in as usual. The last will be added when he brushes in the final touch-ups. Then, Gil-galad will see what he can really do.
He earns a confused expression, however.
"The painting," Harry clarifies as if it's obvious. "Do you want the painting? To keep?"
His answer is a stunned blink. His elf gazes at him for a solid minute before glancing back at Formenos on the canvas and then to Harry again.
It's just a painting; Harry has many of them. An entire castle of them aside from the ones the Ainur gladly took at his gifting. He doesn't understand why the Eldar are so strange about this. Laerien, Melpomaen, and even Inglor reacted much the same way to the point that he stopped trying to give them anything and just started creating for the city itself.
"I was just painting to… well, paint." He glances away because he can't quite take the intensity of Gil-galad's gaze. "This is just something that I enjoy. I wanted to share that with you."
He's examining his easel when arms wrap around his waist. His own come up reflexively as a nose nudges by his cheek. Harry finally turns to look back at him.
"Woodcarving and sailing."
Harry isn't quite sure what to say to this, but Gil-galad takes mercy on him.
"I'm rather partial to both," he says with an upwards curl of his mouth. "Ada taught me, but I've been too occupied for the former, and Tirion is too landlocked for the latter." One hand slides up his side to his shoulder. "I've friends on the coast. We can go together, if you'd like."
"I love the ocean," Harry replies, but it's faint. Remembering. "My…" He pauses and reconsiders his words. "Someone very dear to me lived on the shore."
He first thinks of Teddy with Victoire and the cottage that grew to a home with the laughter of children and later grandchildren. But even this image is washed away by Káno. By harp music and lapping waves and the call of birds over the tides.
"I suppose, he still does."
Gil-galad's fingers on his skin are light. Smooth as they stroke down to his jaw. But his stare is distant, looking at something over Harry's shoulder. There's a static to his skin, crackling but painless.
"Ada taught my older brother and me to sail, but Ere politely hated it," Gil-galad says, and his eyes shut. "He hated being away from his books and ledgers. He hates anything that makes him go outside unnecessarily. He used to say he'd melt in the sun when we were children."
Harry soothes a hand up and down his back in steady strokes. "I'm sorry that you have to be away from them."
"The fact that they aren't here is a blessing, I suppose." The admission costs him though, head dipping. "Ada won't come until the last true ship sails. Erestor won't depart until Elrond does, maybe not even until afterwards. He can't leave our people. If they were here…"
He swallows, breathes out through his nose.
"Then, they came the other way," Harry supplies.
Through the Halls. Through death. And that's never a kind thing for an elf. It's pain. Or sorrow. Usually both.
"But Celebrían is here," Gil-galad murmurs, and it's sad. Guilty even. Like he admits to a crime. "She… Despite how sorry I am for that, for knowing what she lived through, it--"
He bites his lip to keep from saying more.
"It's not terrible to want your family here," Harry tells him and holds him tighter. Presses them firmly together so that there's no space between. "To miss them."
"I haven't even met my nephews or niece," Gil-galad admits, and it's halting, haunted. "I know only what Celebrían's told me. What she doesn't say." He shivers even though it isn't the least bit cold. "Elrond is peredhel. They've a choice."
His voice is muffled, face pressed into Harry's neck now, forehead against his pulse. He's dark clouds on an empty horizon. The threat not of rain or lightning but of something more dangerous indeed.
"You don't know what they'll choose yet," Harry reassures. "Surely, their family matters as much to them as it does to you."
He isn't even sure he believes his own words. There's something at the edge of it. A tinkle of bells. A silken cloak sweeping the floor. A sense of knowing. Paths laid out but yet to be chosen.
Gil-galad just nods. Just leans into his arms until Harry is supporting most of his weight. It's an easy burden. One he carries gladly.
He doesn't know how long they stand like this. But he does see that the light has moved on the floor and his paints have dried.
Finally, Gil-galad straightens, pulls away. It's gradual. Like a man stooped with burdens. Nevertheless, when he glances up, his eyes are clear. He doesn't look at Harry but focuses instead on the painting.
"It's still yours," Harry tells him because he knows what it's like to want that distance, to want a subject dropped, "but I'll make you something else."
It's both a promise and a prize. A reward for this elf who's been very kind and very gentle and asked for nothing in return.
Maybe something more cheerful though next time though.
"I'm not sure what you'd like yet," he admits. "This was mostly just because I had time today, and everyone else is too busy to…"
He waves a vague hand.
"Constantly interrupt," Gil-galad suggests. He's more centered now. Dark clouds clearing to a blue sky as he finally looks over.
Harry offers a prim sniff, and it does earn him a small smile. Just as he hoped it would.
"If we hang it in here, how long do you think it'll take someone to notice?" Gil-galad questions. His voice is easier. More like himself.
Harry considers that. He's asked the staff to leave the cleaning to them, and no one else has dared barge in lately. They knock, rather frequently, but don't come inside besides one in particular.
"Aside from Celebrían? Maybe no one," he suggests hopefully.
That actually earns him a chuckle.
The sun is peeking through clouds as Gil-galad's hand seeks his. Harry squeezes back.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
If the stargazing hill has a name, Harry isn't sure what it is. They set out two evenings later, once everyone's had enough time to recover and is able to crawl from their beds for more than an hour or four. The rain hasn't returned, but it's still quite damp. Celebrían and Findis sensibly stay home. Harry'd rather wait for a later time when everything is nice and dry, but he's outvoted. Gil-galad just beams at him, packs their blanket behind his saddle, and slides around his waist to rest a chin on his shoulder. They're still standing like that when Finrod whistles as he passes by, and Harry finally steps away.
The ride is three hours at a hard clip, but this is a leisure trip. They have lunch before leaving and do a slow tour of the countryside that Harry knows is entirely for his benefit. Finarfin and Fingolfin in particular point out various landmarks or places from their youths that were spent with Finwë and even some with their older brother. It's an interesting ride through history, and he gets to hear things that Nienna and Vairë haven't mentioned. A glimpse into events he'll never see and stories that he listens to with a quiet interest.
It's just turning into evening when they arrive, elven punctuality victorious again. The hill itself is steep, sloped on three sides with a cliff on the other. The very top has been kept free of trees purposefully, but no one else is around. Harry wonders if that was part of the reason for coming today. The horses are brought to the bottom to roam; their group is in high spirits, talkative and laughing as they dismount.
Gil-galad's very quick to get down and offer Harry a hand; Indilwen nickers at him but unhurriedly moves off to nibble on grass. They're the first to the path with the others trailing behind them in due time. It's peaceful here, but there's an unsettling feeling. Something Harry can't quite name as they start up the incline. Gil-galad still has his hand as Harry carries their blanket in the other, but they don't speak as they walk. It's surprisingly serene, the sounds of the woods muted even so soon after sunset. Harry lingers as they come to a small break in the path and glances around; the trees are calm, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Gil-galad focuses on him curiously.
He's very fetching in the moonlight, hair dark and color nearly indistinguishable but contrasted by the sunglow gold of his tunic. He's warm as he stands next to Harry, radiant and chasing away shadows. He studies Harry with a keen intensity.
Then, the elf pulls him in tighter, arm wrapping around his back and hand ghosting up to his neck. He presses a kiss to Harry's skin. Their noses brush when Harry turns his head. They pause, but Gil-galad's just a bit higher than him on the slope. At this angle, with the hill helping, they're the same height. Harry doesn't have to tilt his head down at all to look him in the eyes. Which are currently darker in the deepening twilight but with an internal light like clouds over the moon at night. Harry feels like he could just stay in this very spot, plans forgotten.
"I'm not standing here for two hundred years while they stare at each other," Angrod comments as he walks right by them. Close enough that his cape flutters at Gil-galad's leg.
"How you ever wed, I'll never know." Finrod chortles as he goes by their other side. "Your lack of aesthetics is astounding. Eldalótë deserves far better than you, brother."
Angrod huffs and keeps going. "She'd never let me hear the end of it if I wasted my time in such a manner."
"You're one to talk, Findarato. You haven't wed at all," Argon points out. He trails behind them and doesn't even glance at Harry or Gil-galad as he passes. "Amarië has waited ages to be your bride, and she'll still be waiting when the end comes."
"Arakáno, do we truly wish to go this path?" Angrod challenges, stopping to glimpse over his shoulder. He's wearing a very interesting smile that wouldn't be out of place on a goblin; it's all white teeth.
"Oh, leave him," Fingon says as he too joins in from further back. "He's young and knows little of how such things work."
"Don't worry, cousin," Finrod tells Argon very loudly and with far too much cheer. "Your time will come. I've a good feeling for the coming yéni. It might even happen before the end of the next age."
They all laugh, even Argon, before continuing up the hill. Harry and Gil-galad exchange another look; Harry has lips brush his cheek before an elbow slips into his.
"Come, Mírimo, walk with me. We'll find a spot away from these ruffians."
They stroll side by side for a few minutes. Harry carries their blanket against his chest now, but it's a poor shield. Does little to chase away the prickle of foreboding.
"What is it?" Gil-galad asks in his ear.
That is the question. The same one Harry's been asking himself all day really. A nagging feeling at the back of his mind. An urge. A need. The sensation that he's forgotten to do something. Maybe something minuscule. Maybe something important.
He just can't remember.
He flexes his left hand, which tingles and prickles in the unexpected chill. The birds are quietening in the trees, but it's evening now. The crickets chirp in the background in a steady chorus. Fireflies are waking up, flashing amongst the leaves and grass. The ground is still sodden, even puddling in places. Each of them carries blankets for just that reason.
But there's something. Harry can't put his finger on it. Like a name or a song lyric that's been forgotten. One he should know but just can't seem to remember. The same something that's nagged at him all day. That mutters just beyond his back. A voiceless murmur. A songless choir.
"I don't know," he admits as they continue up the hill.
Their pace is slowed, slower. Would be meandering if Harry weren't constantly peeking above and over his shoulder. He knows that Gil-galad watches him intently while Harry looks at everything else.
The birds are progressively muted around them. They aren't saying anything at all to him, and perhaps that's the most worrisome thing. That they speak but say nothing. That their words are meaningless sounds of unease. His heart beats harder like a predator has suddenly stepped out of the shadows behind him. There's a chill that has nothing to do with Harry himself. A creeping coldness, a warning bite to the air. Like a lethifold floating across the terrain.
Harry swallows, but his throat is dry. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he steps away from Gil-galad and turns in a deliberate circle. The ground is soft, pliant beneath his feet, making little squelching noises as he moves. The starlight is pure above them. The moon is full, brilliant. Bright enough to illuminate everything in stark relief.
Nothing's here.
"What are you two doing back there?" Argon calls from somewhere in front of them. He's obscured by the bushes, but Harry can feel him settling in near his father and brother.
There's a strum of Finrod's lyre. "I can provide you a musical accompaniment."
A chorus of chuckles; all in good fun. Finrod starts a merry tune that Harry recognizes by the second line. He nearly startles as Gil-galad takes his hand and tugs him forward. They walk over to the others at a gradual gait, but Harry's foreboding only grows with each step.
He can see Indilwen in his mind's eye. She and the other horses are at the base of the hill, opposite their end, but she's not grazing. She's peering up directly at him. Her eyes are wide, ears perked. She paws the ground, but she's stationary. Doesn't turn. Doesn't gallop towards him or away. She's watching, waiting. Listening for an unknown signal.
Harry blinks, and they're by the others. Gil-galad's hand is tight in his, squeezing. He doesn't know what his face is like, but Fingon's upright immediately when he sees him.
"Hérion?"
It's worried. Fingon always is. He's truly too good for this world and for Harry.
"Nephew?"
Fingolfin now. He's standing beside his son, but he's very concerned.
"Don't you feel it?" Harry questions them.
They all hesitate. Finrod stops playing immediately. Argon and Angrod exchange a glance. Finarfin has a pensive cast to his face, head cocked. His eyes are unfocused, turned inwards. Fingolfin and Fingon murmur to each other and peer at the trees.
"The birds…" the latter begins.
He's realized now. Realized that the birds have finally gone completely silent. That the last of their chirping has died off and there's only deathly calm. That all the animals in the woods are still, unmoving. That the only sound in the trees is the rustle of leaves.
"Not just them, hinya," his father corrects with a hand on his arm.
"There's nothing here," Angrod points out; he gestures around them to the emptiness.
Finrod has now stood, lyre still in hand. "Perhaps I disturbed them."
"It wasn't that bad," Argon says, but he's approaching the ridge and squinting over into the darkness. "Nothing here either."
Harry leaves Gil-galad beside Finarfin, who's squatting with a palm to the ground. His signet is heavy on his hand, like a noose pulling him down. His arm starts to ache from the weight of it now that Gil-galad's further away. He walks up to the cliff edge, and every step is a sharp lance to his heart. Is a whisper. Is a warning.
Something is here. He knows it. He just can't see it.
Pebbles skim over the side as he stops right next to Argon. He hears Fingon come to his other side. Feels the grip on his shoulder as more rocks slide out from beneath his feet. It's slick here, not fully dried from the early rain.
"Careful."
"He's hardly going over the ledge. Not unless you decide to toss him," Argon scoffs, but it's good-natured, jesting.
He knocks an elbow into Harry's side. It's not hard enough to make him stagger, but Harry does feel himself slip ever-so-slightly. He doesn't see Fingon's glare; he knows it's there, nonetheless.
"A little care is prudent," the older elf counters. He gently pulls them both back.
Gravels shift again. He can hear them skitter to the edge and plunge down.
Harry snorts. He can't help himself. It's so surreal. He's coiled like a snake. Like a spring wound too tightly in clock. Waiting. Anticipating.
"I have you know," he tells the pair of them then, and it's with more than a twinge of tension, "if I fall off this and break my neck, I'm blaming b--"
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He wakes on a bench.
It's hard. Metal and unforgiving beneath him.
The station is less crowded than usual. Harry's seen it packed so full it's standing room only, that it's shoulder to shoulder with trains running every few minutes. But now, there are just groups of two or three with stragglers here and there. Not to mention that the people don't seem to be in a particular hurry, simply meandering to their trains before boarding. Their outfits are familiar but also different than the last time Harry was here.
But admittedly, it's been a while. A different world to be completely fair. Harry can't even be sure how long he's been in Valinor either.
Harry blinks several times. Exhales once. Twice.
He slowly sits up. His neck twinges, just a little. He feels it give a soft crack before it eases. He rolls his head on his shoulders for a moment before glancing over.
Dumbledore, as usual, is next to him.
"We really need to stop meeting this way," Harry tells him with a tired sigh.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Harry – So that happened.
Dumbledore – Sighs.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon – OMG!
Finrod – OMG!
Angrod – No one will ever believe this was an accident.
Fingolfin – If brother didn't hate me before, he certainly does now.
Finarfin – If brother didn't want to kill us before, he certainly does now.
Fingon – Hysterical.
Gil-galad – … … …
Harry – (X_X)
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Eönwë – Has a sudden sensation of doom. Stops. Looks around. Looks at himself. Tries to remember if he left the oven on but decides that's not it.
Narrator voice – Several minutes later...
Eönwë – Marcaunon, what've you done?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Somewhere in Mandos…
Fëanor – What was that?
Maedhros – Who was that?
Celegorm – Snore, snore, wake. Huh?
Caranthir – Rolls eyes. I'm not even asking.
Curufin – Hello?
Amrod – Was that you?
Amras – No, you?
Námo – Puts his head in his hands.
Notes:
Yéni – this is the plural for yén = long year in Quenya, 1 yén is 144 solar years.
AN: I didn't study French, so apologies if this isn't correct. I'm very open to suggestions. Also, Gil-galad's first language was Sindarin, so he'll use that as a preference.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine).
Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Notes:
So there's a trigger warning for this chapter. Recommend reviewing the tags for that as they are being updated as the story progresses.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He wakes to the rain. His eyelids are heavy, weightier than all the galleons in all the vaults in Gringotts, and it's the effort of a thousand dragons to lift them even a hairsbreadth. The sky is dark above him, and the stars are diamonds in the velvet sky, but droplets streak down his face.
He puzzles at that, like cogs turning in a clock, but it's toffee slow. Sticky and gummy in the same way his mind feels. The ground beneath his head is pliable. A warm pillow that rises and falls with breaths and echoes with a faint heartbeat. His ears are muffled by the buzz of voices. Some soft. One loud. Another sobbing. The last yearning just behind him as he feels his hair brushed by fingers while his left hand is grasped in another.
Something's wrong; Harry can't quite figure out what.
The sky above him is dark. And that doesn't make sense.
It isn't dawn. It's supposed to be dawn. It always is when he awakens. When he comes back from that between place.
There aren't any clouds. And that doesn't make sense either. The sky is perfectly clear, but water drips onto his cheek and down to his mouth. It tastes salty.
Not rain. Tears.
He puzzles at that for longer than he probably should. Thinking over where he is and how he's gotten here.
Where is this? Where is he?
What the hell is this?
Harry feels his breath cool. Feels his skin chill and body twitch in memory, but it's disjointed and only half-recalled.
The hand in his hair stills. Stops mid-stroke. His fingers are squeezed tightly enough that his rings cut into his skin. He feels his living pillow shift beneath his head, but it's Fingon who looks at him first. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, glassy. He's disheveled, braids loose, and gold thread unraveling but tangled with debris. There are streaks of dirt on his skin, soil on his tunic. He'd look like he fell off a mountain and bounced all the way down except there isn't a single sign of injury.
His gaze meets Harry's just as he thinks that. Fingon freezes like he's been hit by Petrificus Totalus. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. Seconds pass before he gives an entire body jolt, makes a noise like he's dying. Like he's taken an arrow to the heart but has somehow managed to stay upright.
"Hinya--"
Fingolfin's beside him, Harry realizes, kneeling just by his legs. Head bent with his hands griping his ripped trousers like a lifeline. He's looking away, over Harry to his other side. But now, he's turning to his son. He follows his line of sight and sways. Actually sways like he'll faint. Shoots a hand out to steady himself on the muddy ground.
"Ara," he murmurs urgently. "Ara, look." He's now grasping Harry's leg like he can't believe this is real.
There's a sharp inhale on his right. So quick and abrupt that it can't be called anything else than a gasp. Hands are on Harry's face then, and golden hair tickles his nose as Finarfin bends over to stare him in the eyes. He's close, too close, gaze like a gleam on glass.
"Er… Hello," Harry manages for a lack of anything else. It's slightly rough, hoarse. Surprised he's able to say anything at all, but he's very uncomfortable with the sudden invasion of his personal space. "What're we doing?"
He hears someone laugh at his feet, but there's more than a bit of hysteria. He can't see who it is as Finarfin takes up his entire field of vision.
Then… Light. Burning.
Harry feels like he's suddenly staring into the sun. Like light itself is trying to burst into his mind, rifle through the pages, blaze through the shelves, incinerate all the way through to the core. It burns. Not as fire but like staring into a supernova. A lance of pure energy through his eyes and thoughts. A voice searing through to break upon the glacier and try to resonate in the depths.
Cold – pure and absolute as the deepest bite of winter, as the song of the Veil, as the kiss of death – rises up from within Harry. So freezing that it burns right back. That it steals air and life until only the crackle of icicles is left. It howls out with fangs and claws from behind his shields, and he feels when it draws blood.
Abruptly, there's only one set of hands still touching him, but those are chill-free and gentle. Tender as the one in his hair glides by his ear to cup his jaw. The other slides between his fingers and curls together.
Harry's alone in his mind now. Finarfin is near breathless beside him, both palms already discoloring. He's panting, fogging the air as he bows his head in apology. He doesn't touch Harry again, but he also doesn't move away. He stays kneeling, half-frozen, with a circle of snow and ice crystals riming the ground around him.
Someone soothes Harry as the cold growls further. There's soft humming in a melody that makes him falter. That makes the frost fold back and settle once more inside.
"He's not trying to hurt you, Mírimo," Gil-galad says from behind and above him. "He was just looking to make sure it was in fact you."
Harry peers up at him as he feels refreshing a chill seep through bones. As it eats through the cobwebs in his head. As his thoughts become easier. As they shift into translucent, pure ice.
The night is sharper. Clearer.
He can remember.
The earth groaning. The shriek of Indilwen in the distance. The world falling out beneath them. A millisecond to react and the choice is obvious. Harry's so used to saving others that he doesn't even think to help himself. And why would he? He can't be hurt. Not really. He'll recover from anything if given a little time.
Now, he's here on his back with them gathered around, and it's pretty obvious what happened. He glances from one elf to the next. They're all filthy but otherwise unscathed. He can hear the horses in the background, quietly whickering, so they're seemingly fine, too.
Still, this looks like the scene of a grisly murder minus the blood. Like a funeral in the forest.
It's Harry's own.
Gil-galad has an expression that's equal parts absolute relief and joyous celebration. Like every holiday and birthday have come early and arrived right in the nick of time. He's delicate as his thumb rubs over Harry's cheek. He's the most put-together of everyone, the cleanest, but his earrings and cloak are missing. His eyes are very shiny as they look down at Harry.
"I'm so glad you're back," his elf whispers, but his voice breaks at the end.
Harry wants to reach for him. However, he's distracted when Fingon is suddenly there again. Edging into his sight just as Finarfin did earlier. But there's no attack to go with it. Only the warmth of a fireplace on a winter's night.
"It is you," Fingon murmurs. Surprised but relieved. "You were hiding very hard until just now."
"I was here the entire time," Harry insists. His voice is still rough but healing the more he speaks. The more frost that coats it.
They all look at him in a stunned sort of silence. Like they don't quite know how to respond.
"Nephew," Fingolfin begins, "do you…"
But it's like he can't quite get the words out.
"You were very hurt," Gil-galad manages. He's still touching Harry's face but trembles ever-so-slightly.
"I'm fine."
It's an automatic reply. Said before Harry can stop himself. Habit built over a lifetime of pretending that he isn't a freak.
He thinks about sitting up. Fingertips move to his forehead as if to keep him down.
"You are not fine," Gil-galad counters clearly and rather firmly. His hand is kind though, gentle and yearning. "You were hurt badly, so please let us help you."
Harry doesn't roll his eyes; he very much wants to. He feels them quietly judging him, feels the weight of their thoughts and speculation, and he hates it. Hates the attention. Hates all of this.
"I'm fine," he repeats. There's a frosty bite behind it.
"You just…" Fingon opens and closes him mouth like he can't even find the words. Like he's been confronted with an impossibility and his mind refuses to accept it. "You died."
He says it like he can't believe it himself. Like this is an awful nightmare and he'll wake up in his bed any moment.
His father squeezes his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
"Did I?" Harry asks.
Because really, what else is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to explain this? What does he even tell them?
"You were dead," Fingon insists, and there's an edge. Sharp like a blade. Twice as deep. His eyes are still red but now wild. He's snatched Harry's left hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
"We felt you die," Finarfin adds from Harry's right.
It's the first he's spoken the entire time. His head is lifted now, but he meets Harry's gaze. He doesn't reach for him again, however. His clothes are still dusted with icicles, and his hands are folded in his lap, skin red and raw.
Harry truly feels guilty for that. He hadn't meant to cause harm. To hurt Finarfin. He'd only wanted him to stop. To keep his mind to himself.
He sends out a brush of magic. A soft healing spell.
Next to him, Finarfin starts. He flexes his fingers. Green eyes are large, unreadable, as he looks up.
Harry avoids his gaze.
"Nothing happened," he says then. He's tired. He just wants to get up and out of here.
Fingon makes an inarticulate sound that's half-exasperation, half-frenzy. The seriousness of the situation and recent circumstances are likely the only reasons he hasn’t taken Harry’s shoulders to shaky sense into him.
"I saw you die."
It's loud enough to echo through the surviving treetops. Fingon is hot, furious. With himself. With Harry. With the universe. It's hard to tell.
"It wasn't as bad this time," Harry tries to explain, but it's weak. Shaky.
"This has happened before!" Fingolfin gasps.
He's appalled, horrified. His face is bloodless. Would be white but for the drying mud splatters. He's a mess of twigs and tangles, and Harry idly wonders if he'll have to cut his hair to get everything out.
"Nephew?"
All of them are staring at him again. Harry just closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at them. So he doesn't have to see their expressions while he feels the shock and horror.
"I always get better."
But Harry isn't sure if it's to them or to himself.
He always gets better. And really, that's the problem. Isn't it? It's not the first time he's fallen. Most certainly not the first time he's died.
He was so much younger then. So innocent in the ways of the universe and the hardships that awaited him. Privet Drive was the entirety of his world, but it was still a dangerous place for him if no one else. Bleeding from his hands and leg, he slipped. It was natural. He only just turned five and was small for his age. Chased up a tree by Marge's dog.
He woke the next morning, gazing at the sky as it turned from purple to pink to blue. The Dursleys left him out all night and only screamed at him to make breakfast the following day. They hadn't even noticed or cared what happened to him.
There were other times in that house. Possibly more than even Harry remembers. More than he dares. After all, how long can someone go without water? Harry made it for two days, but he was six and poorly hydrated to start. A long weekend trapped underneath the stairs.
And a frying pan to the head? At eight, he staggered to his cupboard with a terrible headache and went to sleep.
As always, he woke afterwards with the sunrise. With vague memories of being somewhere else, but Harry's so young then, they're little more than dreams. Even as an adult, he can't pull the recollections forward fully; he honestly doesn't try very hard to do so. Too scared of what else he might uncover.
Magic should've protected him. After all, Neville Longbottom bounced when thrown from a window, but Harry's was busy powering blood wards to keep him safe from Dark Lords and Death Eaters and all manner of nasty magical surprises; never the monsters inside of them. They drained so much from him that it's a wonder Harry managed as much accidental magic as he had. Apparition. Color-Changing Charm. Shrinking Jinx.
The wards never protected him from the things that really mattered.
Hogwarts, deathtrap that it was when Harry was a student, was somehow safer for him. He was old enough by then, had a wand who loved him, had friends to look out for him. Had teachers who – sometimes – even tried. Even the altercation with Voldemort in his first year, the basilisk in his second, dementors, a Triwizard Tournament, Death Eaters, all of it – Harry didn't die until the Killing Curse struck him. Until he offered himself up for the slaughter just like he was raised to do.
A year later was the anniversary; Harry returned from abroad just to be there. The DA naturally met at the Hog's Head. There were drinks and remembrances and far too many stories. Harry bought Neville a round and somehow never left his table. The two of them were the last to go, long after even Aberforth gave up for the night. They were too drunk to apparate, and Aberforth had refused a Floo in his pub. Both were staggering off use the community one when a green light struck Harry in the back.
But it's late. They were out all night. Dawn was scant minutes away; Harry's barely even gone before he's already waking up. Neville's hovering over him and Amycus Carrow's decapitated corpse was already cooling beside them.
Self-defense, the Aurors said. Clearest case they ever saw. Neville's Diffindo was pure reflex. He never breathed a word of what really happened; he never even hinted to it. Offered up the oath on his own and swore it that same day. Took that secret to his grave without ever mentioning it again.
Harry first suspected then, but he buried the truth down deep. It's easy to write off. Easy to ignore. He'd already survived this curse before, after all. Being immune to a single spell wasn't unnecessarily unheard of, even if it was one that's before this been considered impossible.
Later, he can't pretend anymore. Not when he woke in his quarters at Hogwarts. When there's still the taste of poison in his mouth and on his tongue. When he brewed it himself.
Harry knew then. Didn't want to believe it. Not then. Not until he failed again six months later.
There were spells to restart a heart. Used when someone was alive, they could stop it. Especially if someone knew what they were doing. Harry, for all that hadn't been an official healer in over a century, still kept his skills intact. Still practiced and read the latest publications. Attended conferences when the opportunity arose. Gave coverage in the hospital wing and kept all his credentials up.
Harry knew what he was doing more than most. Knew that it'd be harder to cover up but not impossible. Especially if set in a temporary rune on paper that would burn away after. Better yet, it was the summer, it could be days before he was found. Long enough for the magic to dissipate.
Like always though, Harry woke as the sun rose with a trace of ash on his hand. A flash of a train station in his mind. And Dumbledore's words ringing in his ears.
Harry forces that memory away. Buries it down beneath slush and snow. Surrounds himself in cloak of frost. But the world is spinning even with his eyes closed. He's beset by vertigo. Like a boat rocking in a hurricane.
"Herurrívë!"
He thinks… He thinks he hears Káno calling for him. But his harp isn't here. Is securely tucked away in their room, spelled to be secret and safe so that no one can take him away. He smells the sea on the faint breeze though. Feels the waves start to pull at him. A hand reaching for his shoulder, another for his face. Fingertips touching his cheek. Lake clear eyes framed by black hair, peering--
"Hérion."
The tides recede. Are withdrawn as someone else brushes strands from his forehead, as he sucks in air. His equilibrium resets. The universe shivers and tilts to the left.
"Mírimo, come back."
Gil-galad now.
Harry realizes he's been quiet too long as he finally opens his eyes. He won't look that way, however. Can't look that way. Has to gaze anywhere else and the elves immediately around him. The only safe area is at his feet.
Finrod, Argon, and Angrod sit. Silently. Observing. Harry honestly forgot they were there.
Finrod's the first to notice his interest. To lift his dirty head. He inches forward, a bit closer to his father.
"So… you're a peredhel then," he says, and it's less a question and more a statement. He's oddly composed. Harry can't tell if it's shock or self-possession. His face is guileless. Calm. Candid even. Looking at Harry the same way he always has.
Argon's to his right and now behind, hands in his lap. He seems tired more than anything as he leans against Angrod, who has an arm around his upper back.
"Who--" Argon begins.
He's pinched hard by his cousin before he can get out more than a word.
"Not the time," Angrod hisses, breath fogging the air.
"But Luthien didn't--" Finrod also starts.
Angrod rounds on him, too. "Not the time," he repeats through clinched teeth.
Harry can't see his face from this angle, but both Argon and Finrod immediately hush. Fingolfin turns to them then and gestures. There's motion at Harry's feet as someone stands, but he isn't sure who it is as his own elf has leaned forward and Harry's attention is directed upwards.
"Let me up," he says then. It's more like a command.
Harry needs to stand. He needs to get up. To get out of here.
"I'm told you know some healing," Finarfin replies instead, very ironically. "So you know why I can't do that." He puts a hand on Harry's wrist more delicately than expected.
Harry makes a sound like a growling griffin in the back of his throat, but Finarfin doesn't let go. His nails are dirty and broken with dried blood underneath.
Gil-galad softly shushes him, fingers at his scalp, and starts humming again. It's the same song he gives while they sit at the vanity. It's so familiar that it makes Harry's chest ache. Makes his breathing catch in his throat and his eyes burn until he blinks it away.
His elf keeps humming, louder now. He cards through hair in steady strokes, and something in Harry is lulled. Something inside of him slowly gives a chilling huff before curling up nose to tail and drifting off with dreams of a warmth at his back. Of sitting together as they do every morning.
Harry just lies there, a little dazed. Much of the building tension flows out. He feels lighter, calmer. Can take deeper breaths. But there's still a lingering twist in his stomach and a clench in his teeth he can't quite shake. There's a fuzziness in his vision that makes him want to shut his eyes and sleep for the next month.
Finarfin leans back over him after a few minutes. His golden mane is messy and wild, the left side is flaked with grime and bits of grass. He looks like went three rounds with a chomping cabbage and probably wasn't the victor, but his green eyes are alert and sharp like broken glass as he slips an arm underneath Harry's knees.
"Let me help you, nephew," the king says, and it’s benevolent. Kinder than he probably deserves after earlier.
Harry doesn't even have a chance to object. He picks up Harry like he weighs nothing and stands back up just as easily. It'd be impressive if it isn't so utterly embarrassing to be carried like a blushing bride. Like a maiden by the hero back to his horse. They’re at the bottom of the hill now, Harry realizes very belatedly right around then; he doesn't want to think too much on how that happened. The horses are there, waiting. Indilwen is unsaddled, and Harry puzzles at that for a second. More so at the fact that she's kneeling as she turns to peer at him with obvious concern in her equine face. But then, Gil-galad settles onto her back, and she doesn't even seem fazed.
Harry's handed off in the same manner that Ron and Hermione used to exchange their resting children. Gil-galad takes him effortlessly and eases him in front with their knees touching. He doesn't immediately help Harry swing over, instead taking a moment to look at him. To clear away stray leaves and grass.
Harry leans into him. Into his steadiness and steadfastness.
It's too much. It's all too much. It's most of the things he didn't want people to know in this life and all the things in the last. He doesn't know if he should be afraid or relieved.
But here Gil-galad is. So noble. So gentle and kind. Still humming to soothe him. Still running a hand over his back. His lips are by Harry's cheek. Soft, sweet.
Harry kisses him.
It isn't fully chaste. His mouth is parted, and it's more aggressive than Harry would like. But he feels static on this skin. Sees the swirling storm in Gil-galad's eyes and knows that it's his fault. That Harry did this. Put it there.
Gil-galad freezes underneath his lips, however; Harry knows he's made a mistake. He has blood on his tongue and must taste of death. He immediately retreats.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I--"
Gil-galad surges forward to kiss him urgently. Desperately. His nose collides with Harry's, but it's not hard enough to cause actual pain. A hand comes to his jaw to tip him sideways and down, while the other snakes around to the back of his neck. Infinitely tender as it cups his head.
The pressing need for air is the only reason they part, but it's by less than any inch. Harry manages a single gasp before he's kissed again. Just as fiercely.
He can't think. Doesn't want to. All he can do is feel. A mouth against his, intense, yearning. Gil-galad's heart wildly beating underneath his hands as they rest on his chest, fingers clenching the collar of his tunic.
Beneath him, Indilwen stirs.
Harry is suddenly very aware of their audience as he abruptly withdraws. Finarfin, however, has turned to his own horse. Finrod's already astride, while Angrod is in the process. Fingolfin stands by Fingon as he mounts while Argon waits on his other side.
Not one of them looks their direction, but Harry isn't fooled for a second.
He finds that he just doesn't care as Gil-galad reaches for him again. Kisses him once more. Longer this time. Steals his breath until he has to pull away and inhale roughly. Then, he rests his forehead against Harry's own, hand still cradling his neck. He gazes at Harry for a long moment but says absolutely nothing. His eyes are dark clouds, and there's a crackling of electricity in his touch.
But like always, he's careful of Harry. Cautious as he finally helps him the rest of the way over Indilwen's back. Shifting him into place so that both of them are now facing the same direction. He settles behind, knees to thighs, chest to back with his right arm around Harry's waist and his left hand on top of Harry's own. The reigns are in Harry lap, but neither bothers to pick them up.
Indilwen rises slowly then. Carefully. Doesn't even stumble under their combined weight.
Everyone else waits for them. Nobody says a thing as Finarfin takes the lead followed by Angrod with Gil-galad's horse, Arthion. Harry and Gil-galad are in the middle, Argon and Finrod on either side. Fingon and his father trail behind them.
They ride in silence. The only noises are those of the night around them mixed with the jingle of the tack and the hooves of the horses. It'll take them three hours to get back to Fingon's estate. That's assuming nothing else happens. Harry could apparate, but… He did just die. He should probably sleep that off first. And maybe recover a little more.
Not to mention trying to explain that part. By the time he would finish, they'd likely already be back.
And well…
"Are you hurt?" Gil-galad asks in Harry's ear then. Voice pitched low enough that only he can hear.
Harry lets out a deliberate breath. He blinks his eyes, trying to clear them. But he already knows it won't work.
"Only when it happens," he allows very slowly, haltingly, "and then, I'm usually fine." The arm around him tightens, and he reluctantly adds, "Sometimes, a headache but often little else."
There's a pause.
Indilwen continues her pace unerringly but without direction from either of them. She knows the way; she'll get them home.
The hand on his traces over the delicate skin in a nonsensical pattern. Runs over the Peverell signet and the blue lapis ring that Harry still wears on his index finger.
"And now?"
Harry wants to lie. Wants to deny the migraine building behind his right eye. It's not there yet. Just lights and his vision clouding. It's the first headache he's actually had as an elf, but it's also the first time he's died as one. If he were at Hogwarts, he'd consider a potion, but they never work in this scenario no matter how much he's experimented. Nothing did but time and rest.
"Now, too," he finally admits.
He can see the aura spreading. Blurring out half his sight in a halo of brightness. The right is completely gone, like fog on glass with light shining through. It'll be soon now, he knows. The migraine itself will be here before they make it back. It's probably less than an hour away.
It'll be bad, he thinks. Worse than usual. The longer they take to come on, the harder they are. The first he'd had with the poison had only been the top of the cauldron; he'd more severe ones than that later. But he can deal with it; he has before. The Cruciatus was still worse.
"I'm not a trained healer; none of us are here," Gil-galad states then, and Harry can feel him turning as if glancing around, "but we've learned over the ages. We can try to help you."
"I am a trained healer," Harry tells him, and it's only a little bitter. "Nothing works. I'll have to sleep it off."
He feels more than hears Gil-galad hesitate for a second before sighing. He relaxes against Harry's back and squeezes his hand tightly. A mouth presses against the side of his ear.
"Then, rest while we ride. I'll keep watch for us," he promises.
Harry just nods and lets his eyes flutter closed. It's easier when he can't see. When he doesn't have to battle the blurriness. He fortunately isn't prone to nausea, or no one would be happy on this trip. That's the one symptom he rarely has. So small favors, he supposes.
The next few hours are long though. If they had regular horses, they'd have to take breaks, but this is Valinor, and nothing here is normal. They ride without stopping, and Harry manages a restless doze. It's limited by a building pressure in his skull that starts just after the first hour. It's dull, throbbing. Worsening a little bit more with every heartbeat.
By the time they make it back to the estate, it's past midnight. Harry's in quiet agony. He's wordlessly praying to Nienna for a lack of anything else to do, and he needs every bit of mercy he can get.
They don't even bother going to the stables and instead head for the courtyard outside the main door. Indilwen kneels again, but this time, Fingon is there. He smells of grass, mud, and sweat with a hint of salt. There's a scent that's uniquely him underneath though as he tucks Harry's head into his neck. One arm is beneath his knees and the other around his back, lifting him like a child being carried off to bed. As before, Harry's feet aren't even allowed to touch the ground. He's beyond caring now. He's so exhausted that he again feels distant, sluggish. Or perhaps that's the migraine talking. Screaming in his skull and battering at the doors of his head.
He can hear them murmuring around him, but his eyes are shut. Someone is stroking back his hair; he can barely feel it. There's numbness over his right forehead that's sneaking down his nose like a thief in the night; it's accompanied by an odd tingle that both burns and stings and reminds him of Hagrid's crossbreeding attempts.
"I thought he was fine."
"It started on the way back."
"How long ago?"
"Open your eyes, Mírimo. Let me see."
He bats away the hand that's reaching for his face with a frosty snap. Buries deeper into Fingon's collar. They're now inside the entryway. Harry hadn't even felt them move.
"What happened?"
It's Celebrían. Winded. Anxious.
"There was an accident. Everyone else is fine."
"Because he made sure of it."
There's an awkward pause. Harry feels Fingon shift.
"What? It's true."
"Brother?"
Findis now. Voice high-pitched with concern.
"I promise no one else is harmed."
"But you all look…"
"Fetch a healer."
Fingolfin talking to… someone.
"You knew Luthien, Findarato--"
"She certainly wasn't like this."
"Mírimo."
"Nephew."
Two people call him. Address him directly now. He feels someone carding over his scalp.
There's a pulse just behind his eyes. It's deep and rhythmic. Deteriorating with every second.
"I just want to sleep," Harry tells them.
"I'm not sure that's safe, nephew."
"Let the healer look at you."
"It'll go away if you let me rest," Harry argues, but the fingers are admittedly just a bit comforting. Tender and staying towards the back of his head.
"You're in pain."
"It isn't getting better."
"It will. Always does." Harry feels lips press to the crown, but that's fine, too. It's a welcome distraction from the numb prickle that's reached his chin.
"Prince Findekáno?"
"She can help you."
It's whispered into the top of his hair.
"Let me sleep," Harry mumbles. "Please."
It's close to begging.
Fingon sighs.
They're walking again. A long hallway. Then upwards. Stairs.
"Let me have him."
Gil-galad.
"We'll just go to our bed."
They falter as Fingon considers. As if deciding which room.
Bad enough, he's been carried through the entire house, but Harry's knows that he likely can't walk at this point without stumbling. The agony behind his eye is an anvil, pounded in time with his heart. The tingling has spread like a skrewt stinging down the side of his face and skittering to his neck. He can feel it creeping towards his arm now. If he isn't careful when he talks, he'll bite his lip.
Fingon reluctantly hands him over, more gently than if he were spun glass, and Harry doesn't even care that he's being passed around. He just wants someone to take him to his room so he can collapse in the cool, darkness and sleep until the sun burns out.
He can hear Fingon follow them until they're at the last hallway, but for once, he stops there. Harry's eyes are closed and stay that way as they pass windows. As they continue down the corridor all the way to the end.
"Do you truly want rest first? Gil-galad asks as they enter the door. "Or perhaps a bath?"
"Bed," Harry slurs from against his chest, and his face is so numb on that side that he can't feel the fabric of the tunic across his skin anymore. His head throbs like an open wound, and he knows if he lifts his eyelids, there'll be tears from the anguish of it.
There's a pause then. A murmur of magic as the world stands still. Only, it doesn't come from Harry.
He'd know her anywhere though. Would know the winter mists of her song as she reaches for him. He opens his eyes despite the pain, despite the anguish, and there are fingertips on his cheeks.
Nienna is here.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Finarfin – Sigh.
Fingolfin – Heavier sigh.
Fingon – Heaviest sigh with his hands on his head.
Argon – Are we just going to ignore that happened?
Angrod – What exactly do you want us to do?
Finrod – Raises hand.
Angrod – Put your hand back down, brother.
Findis – Ignore what?
Celebrían – What happened?
The Others – Looking at each other. Pointing to Finrod. You explain.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad – This is fine. This is totally fine. Watching his entire world fall apart, rearrange, and come back together in the span of five minutes. I'm totally fine.
Narrator Voice – He was not fine.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna – Feels her spidey sense tingling while the bat signal goes off.
Vairë – What's that?
Námo – Looking around suspiciously.
Nienna – I've somewhere to be. Far away from here. Completely innocent. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all. Toodles.
Námo – Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
Notes:
AN: Are you sure that was a migraine, Harry?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Arthion – royal.
Chapter 11: Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It could still be days, the healers say. Could be weeks even.
The entire family gathers in the cottage turned home by the sea. Waits for the inevitable. They have four children, nine grandchildren, and more great grandchildren. The Lupin clan is large now. Not as boisterous as the Weasleys but lively. Loving.
It's a quiet time though. Little ones weeping and not entirely sure why. Hanging on their parents' hands and tugging on his robes, asking why everyone is so sad. Why grand-père is always sleeping. The adults look at him for direction, for some sense of normalcy. For some glimmer of hope. Not ready to let go.
The mourning has already started.
Or perhaps it never ended.
Victoire's already gone, buried over two years ago. That was the beginning of the end. That was when the light started to die in Teddy's eyes. When his hands first shook and his gaze dimmed.
The loss of their son, Émeric, and their granddaughter, Élise, barely even four months later was a worse blow. A runic malfunction. An accident. Quick, they said. Likely died before either even realized something was wrong.
Such a cold comfort for the family. For an old man who's already outlived his wife, her siblings, both sets of parents. For Harry himself who helps identify the remains so that no one else has to.
Teddy spirals then. Forgets names. Birthdays. Relationships.
Asks for his wife. His granddaughter.
Most days, he thinks Harry is his son.
He takes a sabbatical from Hogwarts because they refuse his resignation. Tell him to take as long as he needs and that the school will be waiting for him when he's ready. Harry accepts; he doesn't have the energy to fight them.
Spends the next twenty-three months caring for his godson as he falls apart. Takes over his household. Manages all his affairs. Gives him his potions. Fixes his meals. Does everything for him as he stops talking. Walking. Eating. Now drinking.
It isn't a burden. Teddy is his godson, his heir. Would be his son but he could never truly bring himself to steal that one last thing from Andromeda who was so good to him.
It could still be days, the healers say, and the lead… Harry remembers her as a bright-eyed first-year. Has it really been that long ago?
Harry knows it'll be tonight though. That Teddy won't make it to see the sunrise.
All the remaining children and grandchildren and other relatives are in bed or sleeping away their vigil. Harry's the last of his generation left, and so little of Teddy's yet lives, but he's the oldest of them. The oldest of those born to the second wave of Order members.
Harry sits by his bedside like he does every night. It's where he's slept for over a year now. Teddy's breathing is slow but still steady. Hair wispy and white with age. He hasn't been able to shift for two years, not since Victoire. Harry knows if his eyes were open, they'd been a clouded brown, fading with time.
He doesn't see an old, sick man on his death bed, however.
Instead, Harry sees a little boy who holds his hand as they walk through Diagon. Who he visits every weekend for the nineteen months he travels the world. Who changes his coloration and even face-shape at the drop of a hat. Whose favorite thing in the world is to give himself green eyes and black hair when they go to the Muggle world and have them fawn over how much he looks like his dad.
Time has run away from him though. Has stolen everything that's ever mattered one piece at a time.
"I love you," Harry tells him.
His elbows rest on the bed; one hand is on the pulse in Teddy's neck. The inhalations are more gradual now, growing further apart. The heartbeat beneath his fingertips is thready and weak.
"I'm sorry never said it enough."
Teddy may hear him. He may not. He doesn't respond either way.
The Peverell signet is heavy on Harry's other hand as it sits on Teddy's arm. It's forever slightly chilled but cold as a winter's bite today. It's a temptation. Always is. Always will be.
Nevertheless, he promised himself when the ring returned – stone whole and perfect – that he wouldn't use it. That he'd let people go. That he wouldn't torture them by making them stay here. Neither ghost nor true spirit.
Teddy takes a breath. But there aren't any more after that. He's deathly still underneath Harry's touch, and there's a feeling of something leaving the room.
Harry sighs and falls back into his chair. At a loss of what else to do. There's nothing else, is there?
He doesn't go to wake the household. He lets them sleep. Let them have this rest.
It doesn't matter now anyways.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna is by his side immediately. She appears like a vision in the snow, hooded and glowing.
Gil-galad's startled. Harry can feel his heart speed up before he can control himself. He doesn't step back, but he shifts. Like he's going to take Harry away. Like he's never been so close to an Ainu, but surely, that can't be right?
Nienna pauses. She reaches for him slower now. Movements choreographed.
"You're in pain, my dearest," she says like a sad sigh.
The hand that goes to his temple is the only reason he doesn't have to close his eyes from the brightness as she moves into his field of vision fully. Nienna always weeps, but her tears are heavy. A deluge as she leans in to inspect him. The music starts like freezing rainfall in the distance.
Her song is soft, light. Floating around him like a gentle fog. Flowing through and easing every hurt. Soothing every ache away like it never existed at all. She ends with a kiss to his forehead, directly where his scar once sat.
Harry opens his eyes, unsure when he closed them. He lifts his head as she takes two steps back, and Gil-galad lets him slide down to the floor in the space between. There's a hand still at his waist, twisting into his tunic as if trying to pull him back, but Harry's reluctantly released forward.
"All better now, I think," Nienna murmurs as he curves his head over her and she touches his cheek.
He's filthy, Harry realizes very belatedly. Both he and Gil-galad are. Still covered in grass, dried earth, and whatever else has made it here with them. Dirt is in his hair. His outer robe is missing. He can feel blood dried along his hairline and itching on the tip of his nose. Mudslides are hardly good for the complexion, after all.
Nienna doesn't seem to notice that at all. She simply looks at him through her tears, but they now seem more from relief.
Harry flicks a finger at his side. He feels more than sees Gil-galad's sudden surprise as the spell washes over them both. As their clothes turn pristine. As everything in the last few hours is erased. As all their missing items reappear in a neat pile in their chair. As they're both left whole and new.
Nienna watches everything with an expectant air. Her expression is knowing, attentive.
"Do be careful, my dearest." Her fingertips on his face are as delicate as snowflakes. As raindrops.
Harry nods once, a tad sheepish that this even happened. That he ignored his instincts and let it go so far. That there were a million signs, and he still walked to his death yet again.
"I will," he replies, and it's more than a little contrite as he leans into her hand, into the song of winter rain that curls around him in an embrace.
Nienna accepts that. Pats his cheek fondly, affectionately. She peers past him after a few seconds.
Harry blinks, and she's by Gil-galad now. Touching his shoulder, pausing as he nearly jumps. She allows him a second before she stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. She lingers there, words too faint for even Harry to hear. Gil-galad stares at her with eyes wide and pupils too dilated for even the darkness of the room as she glides back to Harry.
She caresses him in a goodbye that's come too soon. Her voice is wispy like autumn mist. Faint. Just for him.
"Look after him, yes? He needs you now."
There's lips to his cheek for just an instant. Then, she's gone as rapidly as she came.
The room is dimmer for her absence. Much emptier even with the two of them still there. Harry sighs at the loss. Gil-galad lets out a shuddering breath.
It takes Harry a second, but he supposes that he shouldn't be surprised. Truthfully, he isn't. Not really. It's been a long night already, and it's not even done yet.
"Gil." It's said tenderly, pensively like snowfall in the early spring.
His elf's head is bowed, however, turned away. Harry can't see his face, but his shoulders shake. Static sparks off of him when Harry reaches for his wrist. The air's turned heavy, dense like a coming storm.
Harry goes to him. Pulls him in. Pulls him close.
"I'm here," he murmurs with a hand on his back.
Gil-galad's face is still hidden, but Harry doesn't have to see the dampness to know it's there. To feel him tremble or hear his shaking gasps. To feel his aura swirl around them with building winds. To bear the weight leaning against him. Harry slides his other arm around Gil-galad's shoulders and puts their heads together.
"You died."
It isn't an accusation, but it's repeated like one. Murmured to his skin like an indictment.
"You died." Gil-galad's voice breaks, and he shudders to hold in a sob. "Eru above, you died."
"I'm fine," Harry says back and means it. "Really this time."
Gil-galad finally looks up at him. His irises are nearly gray, blue almost completely gone, and far too glassy.
"Stay with me," he whispers. His tone is tight, low. Ragged. Bleeding.
It's pleading. It's imploring. It's a dagger to Harry's heart. Straight between his ribs and plunging deep. It's hemorrhaging and wounded and praying for mercy.
His fingers twist into Harry's clothes and hair. He's shivering. Not from cold. From something worse. Something darker. Harder.
"Stay with me," he repeats in a beg when he doesn't get an answer.
Harry kisses him then. Gentler than they had before. A brush of mouths and breath.
It's a promise. A vow.
He'll keep it as long as he can.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry wakes with a head buried in the back of his neck and an arm around his waist. Gil-galad is curled behind him, a leg threaded through his. He's comfortable, cozy. Safe from the world and the reality of yesterday. He's alive. He's healed.
He's fine. Really, he is.
But somehow, he's also not.
Harry doesn't want to think about it, but he can't stop. Can't forget that everyone saw. That they know. That a secret he's held through two worlds is now out in the open. It's a very bitter potion to swallow. A hard truth to accept. If he never had to show anyone, if he never had to say it aloud, it never became fact.
He really is immortal. And that's terrifying.
"I can hear you thinking," Gil-galad says then. His voice is clear, awake.
Harry doesn't startle, but he does exhale slowly. He rolls, but the hand around his waist stays. Somehow, another snakes underneath him even as he moves.
"How are you?" Harry questions because that's a safer thing. More important anyway. He reaches up to rest fingertips on Gil-galad's throat as if feeling his pulse.
It's an important thing to ask. More important than Harry's worries. It took so long for Gil to calm down, for him to let it all out. For him to even relax enough to sleep. Harry held him through it all. Whispered reassurances for what had to be hours before his eyelids drifted shut in sheer exhaustion.
But now, this morning, Gil… just smiles at him. His eyes are back to their normal color. They're clear and warm. Bright. He even gives a little laugh at Harry's question. Leans forward to brush a nose against Harry's own.
"I think I should ask you that," his elf comments. "I wasn't the one who was hurt."
Harry can't help but flinch, retreat. He sits up, and Gil-galad lets him. Lets him slide to the side of the bed but doesn't fully let him flee.
"Mírimo," he calls after as Harry starts shifting his feet to the floor, "I already knew."
Harry stops mid-motion. Feels his heart stutter in his chest. His vision is tunneling in before he takes a breath. Inhales deeply enough that it almost hurts.
Gil-galad has inched forward. As if to catch him. He lifts his hands appealingly when Harry stares at him.
"It wasn't hard to figure out," Gil-galad explains. It's very calm, candid. "You're a peredhel, but your mannerisms aren't that of a Man. You most certainly aren't a dwarf or any other race of Arda."
Harry swallows hard. He knows he's already pinching the bridge of his nose but can't stop himself. He feels unsteady, off-balance, teetering.
"I…"
But he can't get it out. Here's his chance. His golden opportunity. But his words fail him. He wants to tell the truth; he does. Whatever Gil-galad thinks can't even be close to it.
There's a hand on his back, and Harry realizes it's to keep him from dropping off the bed. He's tugged closer to the center and away from the edge. Settled so that they're facing each other still, so that Gil-galad can stop him from falling.
"I'm still here," his elf says, and his touch is so caring. "I don't care what you are or who your parents are. It doesn't matter."
Harry swallows again. He breathes through his nose because his mouth doesn't want to work.
"I'm sorry" is all he can manage.
But he's hushed with a finger to his lips.
"Stop that." The same finger taps his nose. "You owe no explanations or apologies."
Harry wants to believe that; he does. Wants to believe that he'd still mean it if he knew the truth. Elves are immortal, but Harry shouldn't be. He isn't one of them. Not really. Not where it counts.
Gil-galad doesn't know what he's accepted. Who he's allowed in.
"It doesn't matter."
Harry knows that his face must reflect his thoughts, but a hand is tipping his chin. Tilting his face.
It's still new. Being kissed like this. Like he's something precious and fragile. Valued.
Gil-galad gazes at him afterwards, doesn't let him run away until his breathing is easier and his body relaxes. Harry slumps against him, doesn't try to say anything else. Just lets himself stay there until he finally feels strong enough to sit up.
Breakfast is on the vanity bench. Brought earlier by Celebrían when they didn't come down, and Harry hadn't even stirred at her entering the room at all. That was a little over an hour before, but Gil-galad allowed him to sleep until he awoke on his own. They eat in bed, and it's a little bit surreal. Something he hasn't done since he was a Hogwarts student, spending Boxing Day with the Weasleys. They don't talk about anything substantial, and Harry feels himself relaxing even more. Letting the tension in his gut bleed away as a hand strokes his back.
He knows their peace won't last though. Feels it – him – coming from literal miles away. Harry just can't be bothered to actually get up or dressed until mid-morning when there's a very frantic knocking on their door.
Finrod doesn't even wait for permission to burst inside.
"Lord Eönwë is here," he announces with the same voice one might use at the arrival of their firstborn.
Harry gives him a very unimpressed look. Gil just glances from one of them to the other.
"And?" Harry asks as Finrod stands in the middle of the bedroom like a small child who's come to fetch mum and dad. He idly tries to decide which one he's supposed to be.
"He's asking for you," the blond reports and rocks on his heels.
"That's friendly," Harry returns. "Tell him we'll be down in a bit." He gives a shooing motion.
Gil-galad makes a noise beside him. It's half-laugh and half-snort.
"But it's… Lord Eönwë," Finrod says as if that explains everything.
It really doesn't. Harry's known Eönwë way too long at this point and has had to put up with him the entire time. He can wait; it's not like it'll kill him.
"And we aren't even dressed," Harry points out with a gesture to the pair of them. "Or do you think he'd fancy Gil's dressing gown that much?"
Finrod splutters, and the very tip of his ears turn red. Next to Harry, his own elf is shaking as he tries to repress his mirth. Harry waves Finrod out of their room, using just a little pinch of magic to speed him along, and finally slides out of bed. He makes a point of taking extra time in the bath just to be difficult. If he knows Eönwë at all, he's secretly enjoying the additional moments for the intimidation factor alone. Not to mention just looking at things. The Ainur all enjoy poking around Formenos; Harry's sure he'll find something interesting here, too.
Gil-galad, already bathed, is staring in their armoire when he exits the bathroom. He's partially dressed but hasn't any outer layers or ornaments.
"Eönwë won't care if you show up in your best robes or full armor," Harry tells him as he brushes past. "Well, he may take the latter as an invitation."
That brings Gil-galad up short.
"You just…" He can't seem to find the words he wants. "You know him well?"
"He taught me how to use a sword," Harry reminds him as he inspects what's been laid out for him. It's green – of course, it is. A very pale shade with darker embroidery. The fabric itself is light, airy and breathable even with the underlayers.
"Yes, you'd said that," his elf acknowledges with a distracted and puzzled expression. He seems to be suddenly re-evaluating many things judging by the distant gleam in his gaze. "I suppose it does make sense in retrospect."
He doesn't explain that statement at all. Merely looking at Harry for a long second before turning back to his wardrobe. He mutters in Sindarin to himself as he rifles around inside and only stops when he goes to work on Harry's braids.
Eönwë awaits them in the receiving room sometime later. He's in his usual form, tall and imposing with hair that's an almost metallic bronze. It's short. Shorter than anyone else Harry's seen in Valinor. Coming only to the top of his collar and straight as a pin. He towers over everyone present, even Argon, who is more than a full head taller than Harry himself. He can tell Eönwë's already in a mood before they even came downstairs. Knew before he was even in the building. Could hear it echoing in his song when Harry was still getting dressed and the Maia chorused out a greeting.
Eönwë has his back to the door. Facing Fingon and the others like some afternoon intervention gone wrong. Probably doing the Ainur equivalent of a stare-down where they aren't sleeping but conveniently don't blink for thirty minutes straight. It's a rather effective tactic, and Harry's seen it used on quite a number of elves in Formenos when they want Harry's attention but someone just won't take a hint.
This is confirmed when he turns and immediately glances from Harry to Gil-galad. They're arm in arm as they come through the doorway, but that look might make a lesser elf rethink every choice that has led him here.
"So this is the one?"
It's neutral. Monotone and monochrome. Black and white without any other colors shaded in. As blank as the Maia's face.
Harry knows that look very well though. He's seen it so many times. Eönwë usually wears that expression; the aura gives him away like always, nevertheless. He's war-drums and the call of battle. The rising clarion call that lets Harry know he wants nothing more than to take someone out back and have a spar or three dozen. He may even break out the flames.
Harry is fireproof for the most part. His elf probably not.
"Behave," Harry tells Eönwë then with a very stern tone. He motions for Gil-galad to sit by Fingon, which he does reluctantly, while Harry faces the Ainu alone.
That earns him the barest upcurving of Eönwë's mouth. So faint it's hard to discern. Harry knows it's there along with the concern he conceals from the elves. He's somber, Eönwë. Stoic. He's still waters. A statue carved from ice. Stone hewn into a sword.
But there's always something going on underneath the surface. Always something churning within. Little tells. Cracks in the mask.
Eönwë's eyes are amber today, glowing in his face like the sun at dusk. The color is warm; the face is cold. There's no anger. No fear. Nothing is shown.
But Harry knows that he's very worried.
"You are well?" Eönwë inquires. His tone is flat, inflectionless, but he's shifted so that a hand is at Harry's elbow. It's concealed from view as long fingers curl around tightly but not enough to leave a mark.
"I was only gone for a few minutes," Harry responds.
Eönwë makes a small, noncommittal noise. Barely a whisper on the wind. His gaze is searching. His song reaches out, like a low funeral march. Too faint for the elves to hear, but they'll feel it in their bones. Will sense the vibrations in the floor.
It wraps around Harry like a feathery cloak, like an embrace. Tender in the way that he watched Ron comfort Hugo and Rose. Be comforted in turn by his brothers.
"Death isn't something to overcome lightly." His power is warm on Harry's back between his shoulder blades. "Even if one recovers quickly as you do."
Harry sighs but doesn't look away. The Maia examines his face, and it'd be clinically if he didn't know the intent behind it. Harry lets his shields relax enough, lets the glacial barrier shift so that Eönwë can peek past and see the already healing damage inside. A downy soft touch soothes over the wound, and his grip on Harry's elbow squeezes ever-slightly-more before releasing him entirely.
"All will be well then."
It's polite, distant. Eönwë has yet to step back though. He's still in Harry's personal space and leaning in. An amber gaze is still studying him.
"You've never let me braid your hair," Eönwë comments then with the very same tone, but it's almost an aside. He reaches up to touch the one at Harry's temple with a single finger. It's in full view of the elves behind him though they likely can't hear what was just said.
"I didn't know you wanted to," Harry answers for a lack of anything else to say.
Whatever Eönwë has taken it to mean, he isn't entirely sure. But he suspects it's become an invitation for the future. Especially when he feels a curl of satisfaction. There's already building expectancy as Eönwë half-turns. As if finally remembering to include the Eldar.
"No sparring today, I think. Not between you and I." Then his attention flicks to Gil-galad before drifting to Fingon and the others. It fixes on Finarfin the longest. "I think I shall find other volunteers."
Harry follows his path. The elves are making themselves appear not to stare, but it's a terrible act that he doesn't believe for a single minute.
"No flames," he orders firmly.
Eönwë does not outwardly acknowledge that. Nevertheless, there's a touch of melody against his shoulder that's a reassuring grasp as he steps forward.
Harry rolls his eyes behind him.
That's how he finds himself in the training courtyard hours later. The sun is still high in the sky but definitely past noon, blazing and radiant as Harry sits at the metal garden table they've brought out for observation. Findis and Celebrían sit on either side of him as they sip tea with ice in their glasses.
Eönwë is front and center. He's materialized his armor, white and gold, like some avenging angel. Complete with feathers patterned strategically enough that Harry almost put his palm to his forehead the first time he saw it. Fortunately, his sword is the same one he usually spars with. No fires or dazzling lights today. This is a test of strength and skill only. He doesn't need anything else to make his point. Maybe it'd be different if they allowed song into the mix, but by mutual agreement – and Eönwë's challenge – that's left off the field.
It's, in short, a massacre.
"I rather say they let themselves go," Findis comments as she sees Fingolfin hit the ground yet again.
Celebrían stifles her titter behind her hand, but Harry can see her ears twitching. They watch as Fingolfin taps out when Eönwë's blade hovers by his neck, his own sword firmly beneath the Maia's booted foot. Eönwë backs up immediately, shifting away to stand in the middle of the courtyard. The elf takes a minute to gather himself but stands on his own, refusing the hand his youngest offers to him.
Then, it's Argon's own turn. He fares better than his father, but it's still over quickly. He limps off after his brother helps him to his feet.
Harry honestly isn't sure he'd do any better. He's seen battle. Some even with makeshift spears and clubs when people were desperate enough and they came hoping to invade the camps. Admittedly, he never truly wielded anything aside from the one memorable time with the basilisk and that hardly counted. Most of his fights were either with pure magic or through use of cunning because gallantly going off to get maimed or his comrades killed while civilians depended on him was the height of stupidity.
Yes, he spars with Eönwë regularly and receives much the same treatment that the elves are getting now. Only usually, there's a lot more instruction thrown in and a lot less retribution. Eönwë doesn't pull his punches, however. Metaphorically or otherwise. Tulkas doesn't either.
Harry's shakes his head to himself even as he thinks that. He sips his tea, but it's now lukewarm in the heat. It's an easy thing to fix. The pitcher on the table is just in front of him, and he discreetly taps the side with his forefinger, feels the ice revive inside. He swirls the contents to remix everything evenly before pulling back.
Celebrían watches him from the corner of her vision but says nothing.
Harry likes her all the more for it.
The fairy's not in the proverbial sack at this point, but it's nice not to be called out. And really, he'd forgotten how pleasant it was to be so open with his magic. To not have to worry about using it. The Ainur don't care aside from their obvious interest. The Eldar do have magic of their own, but it's so different. Harry's grown uncomfortable. More aware of his use in a way he hasn't since the Statute of Secrecy days.
But Harry can't really get more spectacular than coming back from the dead, and everyone here knows about that now. It'll be a matter of time before the rest of the household followed by Tirion, and then Valinor does as well. Even if the House of Finwë says nothing, the staff will. Harry knows they were there last night. That they heard much of the explanation to Findis and Celebrían. No one's confronted him directly yet, but that's largely because Eönwë is here.
Of course, having an Ainu – Manwe's own Maia – show up for him… Well, that's not discreet.
Harry knows his people in Formenos wonder about him. He's not an idiot. He sees the looks they give when they think he can't see. Nonetheless, they've kept his secrets, and Harry owes them for that.
It's all rather moot now.
Harry looks from one lady to the next. From Findis with her refined bearing to Celebrían, sweet and silvery. Both of them offer him a smile when they notice his attention – Celebrían's is warm, open. Findis is more muted, but her attention lingers longer.
Maybe it never mattered at all. He can only hope. Pray to Nienna and Manwë both.
Findis pours him tea as they watch Finarfin somehow manage to walk off the field with a kingly dignity and no hitch at all. He's not totally in armor; it's too humid, too sweltering for that. Even the elves look uncomfortable in this swampy heat. Only Eönwë and Harry don't seem to mind. The first is in full armor now, sans only his helmet, as if they could forget who this is. The latter has switched to lighter materials only because that's what Gil laid out for him this morning.
Celebrían's in an airy sun dress today, a gauzy baby blue with a bird pattern. Findis is similarly attired in lilac with embroidered flowers that Harry knows she did herself. Both have silk fans on the table in front of them that they occasionally use when the sun and clouds are being particularly obstinate. It isn't shaded at all here, and elves never seem to have gotten the hang of umbrellas. Perhaps that's something he can introduce.
Harry stirs a faint, cooling breeze around the table when he sees them reaching for their fans at the same time, and Celebrían flashes another grin his direction. Findis offers him a raised eyebrow. Regardless, he sees her lips curl upwards with approval.
Neither comments, however.
Harry takes pity and shifts the air in the entire courtyard then. Gradually, softly. A refreshing, coolness to combat the heat.
Eönwë's attention strays to him in that instant before flickering back to his current opponent. Fingon holds his blade at the ready, but he's too honorable to strike when Eönwë's distracted. Which is his first mistake.
They exchange a flurry of blows. Back and forth. Kicking up dust as Fingon ducks out of the way, but it's not quick enough. Eönwë is far too fast. Too strong. Even without music to enhance him. He isn't Morgoth, but combat is his joy. He's drilled every day in anticipation of fights to come. Of a final battle at the end of time and a role Harry doesn't quite understand yet.
Fingon has held up the best, but then, he practices routinely. Harry's seen him with Gil-galad, sword versus spear, and occasionally Argon.
Gil-galad is the next, but he's taking a breather now. Leaning against his spear nearby with his eyes closed. Harry sends a subtle healing spell his way – just a little pick-me-up to improve his energy and revitalize him. His eyes snap open immediately though, and his head rises. He offers Harry a winning grin and a salute.
The rest range in skill, but Harry would guess Finarfin and Fingolfin are about equal. They both appear rather rusty though, and Argon is doing better overall. Of course, Finrod bowed out after the first spar and is now lounging on a bench with one hand over his face to block out the sun with his brother fanning both of them. Angrod's naturally the most sensible of the lot and has sat out this entire thing.
The most determined is Finarfin surprisingly enough. Coming back more than anyone. His hair is braided around his skull, but loose strands are plastered to his face with sweat and dirt. There's a large bruise forming on his cheek, the result of a hilt he hadn't been able to block swiftly enough.
Fingolfin isn't in better condition, resting on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his back against a bench. His bottom lip is swollen and bloodied.
Argon sits right next to him. His left eye is already blackening, puffy but not yet obscuring his sight; Harry will heal it for him once they're done. Will heal all of them once they're done. They'll need it.
His attention drifts back to the middle.
Eönwë is poised, weapon held in an almost-salute. He's as fresh as they were when they started hours ago. As relaxed as he would be sitting in Harry's garden and watching as he paints.
Fingon has a cut above his right brow that's once again slowly oozing and another near the opposite ear that he gained with a risky dodge into Eönwë's guard instead of around. It still wasn't enough. He drips with sweat, and even with the sun behind him and in Eönwë's vision, he doesn't have the energy to fully press it as an advantage. The Maia is upon him almost faster than Harry can follow. He isn't even sure how Fingon can get his sword up in enough time. Eönwë bears down on him, but somehow, the elf doesn't buckle.
Harry will make one hell of a portrait from this, he knows! He already has the image fixed in his mind, locked and stored away on a shelf for later review when he's back on Formenos with the proper time to do it justice. Still, he'll probably do some sketches later when he's in his room later tonight. He could do some now, he supposes, but he doesn't want the distraction. Doesn't want to miss out.
The earlier scene with Gil and his spear. That too will warrant special attention. Perhaps he can entice him to spar later for further material.
Harry considers that possibility.
Fingon hits the ground then and rolls towards their table but stops several feet short. His blade is in the opposite direction. Fingolfin kindly picks it up for him as Gil-galad helps him stand. Eönwë merely watches. Harry blinks, having unfortunately missed several steps during his daydreaming. Findis and Celebrían exchange a long-suffering look as Finarfin steps up yet again.
"Grandfather and uncle both fought Moringotto personally," Celebrían tells Harry then, "but grandfather hasn't picked up a sword in an age I'd wager. Uncle may not be very far behind once you count his time in Mandos." She taps the table as her attention goes from Finarfin to Fingolfin, but then, she casts a glance at Finrod that Harry follows. "Some of them prefer music to arms."
Harry wraps his hands around his glass. Lets the coolness seep into his skin.
"Perhaps this will motivate them properly," Findis states.
Her face is perfectly composed, but Harry knows that she's groaning on the inside as she watches her youngest sibling's feet knocked from underneath him. Still, there's fondness in her face as she looks around the courtyard. At her brothers. At her nephews and niece.
Harry's known many Slytherins before, lived with Andromeda while she was his master. Findis is silk over steel, he thinks. A blade in a velvet wrapping. Concealed so that no one even knows it's there. He can feel the dagger sheathed at her left wrist. The second at her ankle. A third hidden in her dress.
Harry recognizes a serpent when he sees one. Snakes are perfectly polite until one steps on them.
This is all in good fun here. Perhaps more than a bit of lesson and some penance, too. But if it truly turned serious. If Eönwë truly tried to hurt any of them… She wouldn't stab him in the back. Not this one. She'd go for the throat.
"They've grown soft," Findis adds. There's more than a hint of censure.
"It's easy to do here," Celebrían admits, but she's more forgiving. "Easy to forget what it's like out there."
"Easy to forget that Moringotto isn't truly gone," Findis murmurs, and there's an edge. Sharp but not drawing blood. Not yet. "He won't content himself to the void forever. He'll always seek a way back in."
"He'll eventually find a crack. Or make one," Harry adds, and there's a prickle with his words.
Something like a walk over a grave or an echo in an empty room. It's not yet. Not now. Not even soon. But lingering just out of sight. Around the corner and down the hall a few paces. Like a shadow one knows is there but can't see.
They look at Harry then. Celebrían is concerned. Findis is… afraid. She hides it well. Beneath the exterior of regal calm, underneath a simmering anger. Even deeper down.
Morgoth did kill her father, after all. And then her middle brother, even though he's hale and hearty now, if a little bruised. Morgoth also destroyed her older brother so thoroughly he went mad and took his sons with him. She has a right to fear him, but Harry feels her resolve harden even as he thinks that. Even as she studies him and her worry seeps through.
"And you, nephew?"
But he knows what she's really asking. He puts a hand on her hers as it rests on the tabletop.
"No lasting damage," he swears.
She lets out a gradual breath. Her eyes are the same pale blue as Argon's, almost gray. Finwë's eyes, he was told before. Her hair is nearly the same golden hue as Finarfin's, but her face is almost entirely Fingolfin's and those of his children.
Harry wonders what she sees when she looks at him.
Her fingers curl around his knuckles, and she squeezes. Just once. Then, she let's go.
"Good," she says and reaches for her glass, "good."
They're just about finished Harry decides then. It's getting a little too late. A little too close to evening as he pushes back from the table.
Harry starts with Finrod as he's the closest and already reclining. He's the most intact, has barely anything at all, but he still offers an appreciative smile when Harry puts a hand on his arm. A single tingle of magic has him completely whole. Harry turns as he's sitting up, but Angrod catches his elbow. He gives a single pat before releasing him and nods his head.
Next are Argon and Fingolfin. Harry crouches between them with a hand on each. Argon bumps his shoulder affectionately in thanks, but Fingolfin wraps an arm around his upper back and tugs him closer before he can stand. He's dirty and sweaty; Harry isn't entirely sure why he allows this but doesn't push away. Fingolfin laughs next to him, in much better spirits now as Harry pulls him to his feet.
Gil-galad welcomes him with an embrace, free hand sliding around his side and guiding him in, while his other still holds his spear. Harry presses a lingering kiss to his cheek and lets the contact heal him the rest of the way.
"Having fun?" Harry queries as they watch Eönwë and Finarfin circle one another.
Gil-galad offers him a victorious grin. "Oh, he isn't angry with me. Merely testing my limits." He snuggles just a bit closer as they observe for a moment more, lifting to brush against Harry's ear. "Finish up but I'll be waiting at dinner."
He nudges Harry on then with a knowing look.
Fingon sits alone. An elbow is on his knee as his face rests in his palm, but he looks up as Harry takes his free one. He inhales at the rush of cool energy, and his expression is soft at the ends. He reaches out before Harry can leave, gripping the junction between this neck and shoulder, but it's easy. More a reassurance.
Finarfin is last. Harry meets him before he can fully leave the middle of the courtyard and takes his elbow. Heals him even as he's steering over to the vacant seat at the table with Findis and Celebrían. The king is pensive as Harry turns away.
No one has stepped back into the center yet, so Harry walks to Eönwë. He feels them watching, but at this point, he's rather used to it.
"Are you happy now?" Harry inquires, and he already knows the answer.
Eönwë's melody is a drum in the deep. There's an echo of satisfaction as his attention sweeps over the elves arrayed in the courtyard.
"Your honor is avenged, I believe, yes."
Harry doesn't even want to start with that broom-wreck. Instead, he arches an eyebrow and asks the question that may get him assassinated in the night. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Are you staying for dinner?"
Eönwë doesn't snort. He's far too dignified for that. The corner of his mouth twitches as he inclines his head to Fingon
"That one has already invited me, so I shall."
Harry nods and motions him to follow. The others will need time to shuffle upstairs, bathe, change, and rethink their life choices. Ainur don't have to do those sorts of things, but it'll be nice to chat with him one-on-one, and Harry's prior room still stands empty.
Eönwë follows sedately. Gil-galad just laughs in the background as the others round on Fingon.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Everyone Downstairs – Looking at each other.
Clock – Ticking.
Fingolfin – Rubbing a hand on his face.
Finarfin – Tapping his fingers on the breakfast table.
Finrod – Do you think we should go check on them?
Fingon – Sighs heavily.
Celebrían – Immediately runs upstairs.
Gil-galad – Shhhhhhh!
Harry – Drooling.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Do you want a portrait of yourself looking awesome while you beat up my family?
Eönwë – Solemn nod. I shall hang it in the palace.
Narrator Voice – Several weeks later.
Manwë – Also nods as he studies the floor to ceiling painting. You are very dashing, my friend.
Eönwë – Hand on chin. Marcaunon captured the scene perfectly.
The Vanyar – Whispering amongst themselves with very worried expressions.
Varda – What the hell is this?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
All The Elves – Watching as Eönwë and Harry leave to go upstairs.
Argon – So…
Angrod – You don't think…
Finrod – Nods happily. Makalaurë did very well for himself.
Findis – I'm honestly not sure I want to know how this happened.
Celebrían – My husband… Giggles to herself.
Fingolfin – Looks at his brother.
Finarfin – Looks right back at him.
Both – Shake their heads.
Fingon – Maitimo is going to lose his mind.
Gil-galad – Wisely staying silent.
Notes:
AN: No capes! Said in Edna Mode’s voice.
Eönwë was almost the pairing in this story when I wrote this scene way back. Almost. Maybe a spin-off one-shot in the future.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 12: Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eönwë is seated on Harry's left at dinner. It's Argon's usual spot, but he's been moved across the table, next to his father as Aredhel is absent along with Irimë. Celebrían is in the latter's seat on Argon's other side since Finarfin is in the place she typically occupies. Everything else is as usual.
It's the most awkward dinner party Harry's been to since the engagement of Marianus Burke to Ariadne Vineshadow – his Defense master and school healer respectively.
Eönwë speaks to the elves when spoken to but has no questions and makes no other comments. His answers are rather to the point. Only Harry gets more than the bare minimum. But admittedly, he asks much better things. He's used to this from Eönwë; though the others certainly aren't. He suspects they aren't used to Ainur all that much or their tendency to rely on their personal auras more than speech. Not if this is their reaction.
Nienna and Vairë are notable exceptions, but then, they and Námo spend so much time in the Halls of Mandos. Harry supposes that they've adjusted to elven preferences along with the Maiar who frequent there. Same for Irmo and Estë. Oromë as well, but his language is that of beasts and birds. Nessa prefers dancing and music to any words at all. The others he hasn't seen interact with enough Eldar to know.
Eönwë is even less talkative in general; it's just how he is. Harry doesn't take it personally. If he doesn't have something to say, then he usually says nothing. Other times, he could wax on philosophically for hours about a particular point or relate certain events in the most minute detail.
The one who understands this the best is seemingly Finarfin, and aside from Harry, Eönwë speaks to him the most. An interesting thing as they're seated so far apart.
There's something about the entire arrangement that makes Harry pause, but he can't quite put his finger on it as he glances from one person to the next. He doesn't know if this was done by the staff, Fingon, or some type of coincidence but it does seem to make it much easier for everyone to move around Eönwë. The attendants very carefully don't touch him, Harry notes. They lay all his dishes on the table, while standing as far away as possible without making it obvious, and take nothing directly from his hands. It's a strange ballet that Harry watches from the corner of his vision.
Harry's noticed the same at Formenos. All the Ainur seemingly have a bubble around them where no elf gets too close or looks too long in their eyes. They never treat each other in this manner, even strangers or the different varieties of elves. Never treat Harry like this, not at home, and he knows that he's made a poor elf indeed.
So it's even more worrisome that some of the retainers are now doing it to Harry here. It's taken him long enough to get them to look at him properly with all this lord business, and he's still trying to get most of them to address him by name only, so this is more than troubling. He isn't sure the full scope of it yet, but he knows that it means his… accident is definitely being whispered through their ranks. Just as he feared, it'll soon be known to the entire household and then Tirion.
Harry frowns into his wineglass even as he thinks that. Even more so a minute later when the next course arrives and there's a minor debate turned dance behind him. They aren't so inexperienced as to actually argue or to flinch when Harry finally just turns to hand over his salad plate. It's taken cautiously, handled like one would a venomous tentacula, fingers kept as far away from his as possible. He knows that everyone is viewing the tableau like they'd a Quidditch accident. He simply isn't quite sure what to say, what to do aside from pretend it isn't happening. He fights to keep his hand from rising to cover his face. To keep the shame off his expression.
Gil-galad touches his wrist at the edge of the table even as the next course is set in front of him. Fingon doesn't glare, but his face is hard in a way that Harry's never seen. Fingolfin and Findis have identical expressions from opposite ends of the room; their eyes move but little else on their persons. Celebrían is poised, but her knuckles are slowly turning white on the arms of her chair. Argon doesn't hide his disapproval at all, and Harry has the feeling if Eönwë weren't here, that he'd already have gotten up. Harry can't see Finarfin or Angrod from his angle, but Finrod seems pained.
Eönwë is silent next to him. Face indifferent. Watching. Always watching. Harry feels the flicker of annoyance in his song though, a discordant note, the point of the sword. He doesn't physically reach out to Harry, but protective chords curl around and over him as they sit next to each other. He knows that Harry's increasingly discomforted; he may even understand why. However, this is Fingon's house and Fingon's staff, so he says nothing. But Harry knows he'll remember every name and every face. Knows that those amber eyes are taking in everything, but he's too disciplined to show his true emotions.
Tension rises further as the meal progresses. Gil rubs a delicate circle on Harry's elbow as the main course is brought and drinks are refilled. Celebrían and Finrod try to restart the conversation, but it's stilted.
Harry glances at Fingon as they come to him again. Sees when he's completely done, finally had enough. Fingon excuses himself and is out of the room before anyone has time to respond; Harry can feel his attendants scurrying off in front of the swelter of his power, feel him scorching down the hallway like a heatwave at midday. Argon seems a second from following, only doesn't due to the look their father gives him.
Harry just sighs and sits back in his chair. He'll eat eventually because he won't waste the food; even though he knows for a fact that no one starves in Valinor, old habits die hard. Rather, his appetite is completely gone. He's too old for this; he is. Has too much else to deal with. He wants nothing else than to get up and leave at this very instant. He stays in his chair only because it'll upset Fingon more to find him absent when he returns.
The table is quiet; no one says anything as they gaze at each other. Gil gives up any pretext, just slides fingers through his and sets their hands on top of the armrest. The twin of Harry's own ring is warm against his suddenly chilled skin.
Eönwë sips his wine. He's a steady beat next to Harry, sharp edges sheathed for now. However, his song soothes over Harry's back and settles around him as surely as a downy blanket.
Time ticks by. Fingon is still gone, and no one else comes. Everyone picks at their food for a lack of anything else to do. Harry eats slowly but tastes nothing. Eönwë clears his plate, and Fingolfin refills his glass.
Fingon returns not long after everyone is finally finished and starting to wonder if they should go search for him. He appears much calmer now, coming in at a normal pace and with a satisfied air. Notes encircle Harry's wrist and squeeze just as the elf enters the room, and Eönwë stands. He gives Fingon a nod when he turns to leave.
Harry, having predicted this would happen, is already out of his chair. He casts a quick peek at Fingon and walks Eönwë to the door. No one follows, but they don't speak until they're outside the main entrance. Harry can feel others milling about in the distance, but nobody's from their dinner party. He knows Gil will meet him upstairs. Hard to fully predict what everyone else's doing.
Eönwë simply stands next to him, looking out into the deepening twilight. He reaches out to touch Harry with his hand this time, a ghosting of fingers on his skin.
"You will stay?"
It's mostly a statement, but it borders on a question. His amber eyes flick to Harry.
"For now," Harry allows. "Celebrían promised to take me to see the ocean, and Gil-galad wants to go sailing."
It's only supposed to be for a short time, but for elves, that could end up being anywhere from three days to three months. Celebrían only came for tea initially, after all, and she's still here even now.
"Celebrían…" the Maia repeats as if considering the name. "Yes, I know the one."
He moves in front of Harry then. There's a slow beat, the march off to battle. The illumination of the house is bright on his face as he tilts his head down.
"Be well, Marcaunon," he says, and it's a soft feather against his face. Gentle as a kiss to his forehead. "I will call on you when you return home."
Eönwë offers a small bow before he turns on his heel. He walks off into the darkness, and Harry looks after him until he hears his song fade in the distance.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Breakfast is better, far more relaxed overall. Most meals aren't very strict except when family arrives or an actual visitor. The staff rarely serves them unless it's such an occasion. Of course, there's hardly a time more formal than an Ainu at one's table for an elf.
Harry can tell the staff are relieved that Eönwë's gone, nevertheless. The Maia can be rather intimating; he'll give them that. Although, their attitude towards Harry himself is still very detached, very distant. Intimidated. Almost afraid when they see him in the halls and put themselves back to the opposite wall and as far from him as possible.
It's even worse than when he first came here.
Elves are unaging, but they can still die. Harry's different, and they know that now. It's some of his fears turning into reality. Some left holdover from being a wizard and never daring to tell a soul the truth. All his unvoiced thoughts taking shape.
Gil tells him that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter, but Harry knows deep down that it does. That there's some flaw inside him. Some defect that can never been fixed.
The rest of the day decides it for him. The looks he can feel behind his back. Not from the Houses of Fingolfin or Finarfin. Their thoughts are harder to discern, but fear isn't among them. The others in the household though. Fingon's retainers. His staff and servants and attendants. Harry can feel all of them withdraw physically and spiritually.
Harry needs to leave. He wants to leave. Really and truly this time.
He wants to go home. He wants Formenos. He wants his own castle and his own bed and his own magic surrounding him. He wants Laerien's bossiness and Melpomaen's hesitant smile and Inglor's sarcasm. He wants to be able to see Indilwen at any time, to not just leave her in the stables. He wants to speak with Káno and hear him play every day and not only in secret. He wants Nienna and Vairë and Eönwë too, to not have to worry about what anyone else thinks.
He'll go to the ocean with Celebrían and Gil-galad because he's already promised. And because, to be completely honest, it'll get him out of this house. He can return home from there. And maybe… Maybe Gil will…
Harry chases that thought away as he comes to the door. It's innocuous. Looks just like any other in the house, but perhaps it's what it represents. The room beyond is something of Fingon's office and his study. It's as private as anything ever is in this place. Set further away from the usual hustle and bustle. Tucked away in a corner of an upper floor. He hasn't been back in this room for… He can't be entirely sure when. The last time he was even close was when he perched on the roof above. Listening in to Fingon and his father. That feels like a lifetime ago.
Technically, as Harry thinks that over, one could consider that to be true.
He knocks but already knows Fingon's here. Already knows that his host is waiting for him. Has been trying to figure out how to approach him all day.
He both is and isn't surprised when he sees Harry standing there. His diadem and robe are off, and Harry can see the glint of the former on the corner of his desk. His sword is on its stand, and he knows that Fingon's already drawing up an even tougher training regimen with both his father and Argon also in the mix. Likely Finarfin as well given how their encounter with Eönwë went. Harry thinks he may even spar with them someday in some distant future. Maybe if they ever come to Formenos.
"Come in," his host invites. His voice is warm, welcoming.
He directs Harry to a seat at the table near the balcony, the same one Fingolfin sat in not so long ago. He pours them drinks without even asking. Harry idly notices that he does pull the balcony door closed before he sits in the chair across.
"I suspect this isn't just a social call," the elf says as he places the glass in front of Harry. It's a sweeter wine that he's seen Harry have on multiple occasions and one he truly does enjoy.
Harry accepts the drink but holds it between his hands on the tabletop.
"You seemed like you wanted to talk earlier," he comments, tracing the pattern on the glass. "I thought maybe we could."
Fingon tips his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, there are certainly… things to discuss."
A pause as Harry considers his words. As Fingon considers him.
Some part of Harry will miss this place, he decides. Will actually miss the people here. Getting to know them. The sound of their voices. The feel of their auras like a steady thrum in the background. Formenos is populated these days, but the castle itself is empty. Only Harry truly lives there all the time aside from Indilwen and Káno’s harp. The Ainur come and go as they wish, and the elves all have their own homes in the surrounding city now and have for years. Even his work office is in the municipal building, just down from the castle gates.
The castle is his alone. He prefers it that way, but maybe, sometimes, being alone isn't better.
"I wanted to thank you for having me," Harry begins since politeness is never out of place. "For letting me stay. For having me here."
"You're leaving?" Fingon asks. His tone is off. Shocked. Dismayed. Bruised.
"You and I both know that I don't belong here," Harry tells him, and it's an apology. "I think it's better if I leave."
Fingon closes his eyes for a long second before letting out a gusty sigh. He studies Harry, sharp gaze now focused and determined. He's a good man, and it's easy to forget the battle-forged ruler who lurks underneath.
"Running away isn't going to work, you know."
At Harry's startled expression, Fingon lets out a little snort, but there's no mirth.
"Pushing us away won't either," he adds.
Harry shakes his head. "I'm not--"
"You are," Fingon cuts him off. "You have from the beginning, but I see why better now." He doesn't blink as he looks across the table. The distance is a mere two feet but may as well be two miles. "Dying's never an easy thing."
"I didn't--" Harry starts to say.
Fingon again talks over him. "You did. You died, nephew. We both know what happened."
His tone is sterner than he's ever been with Harry. Edged. He's still the same warmth as always, however. Steady but not burning. Never scorching. Only searching. Waiting.
"What do you expect me to say?" Harry questions then, and it's nearly a demand because he doesn't understand what Fingon wants from him. "That I'm sorry for lying to you?"
He watches as Fingon's fingers flex. Once. Twice. Before flattening against the wooden surface of the tabletop.
"I want you to stop apologizing," the elf tells him, and his eyes are stronger than mithril. "I want you to stop feeling like you need to. I want to see you as you are and not just the parts you haven't managed to hide away."
"I'm not hiding." Harry doesn't raise his voice, but it's firm.
Fingon merely stares at him the same way he did at Eönwë yesterday; like this is a fight he has to win no matter what.
"You are."
It isn't an accusation. It just feels like one.
Harry sips from his wine to buy time, and that's his biggest mistake yet. He isn't as steady as he should be as he sets the glass down. It's a small thing really. Or maybe a large one as it knocks Fingon's own. As both tilt onto the tabletop. Harry snatches his back, seeker reflexes still quick and sure, but the other spills out across the surface and towards the floor with a chipped rim and several scattering pieces.
Harry flicks his fingers without thinking, without pause. The wine is gone instantly as it pours for the edge, and the glass is now whole. Not a single shard out of place. He freezes as he realizes what he's done. It's so easy to fall back into old habits. To be open with his magic as he had yesterday in the courtyard.
Fingon simply observes him. Seeing everything and missing nothing.
And Harry just gave him quite a show.
His heart squeezes painfully as he peeks over at his host. He leaves his wineglass on the table, hands now gripping the armrests, frost forming beneath his fingertips at the look he receives right back. Sees fog when he exhales. As the room feels colder.
Fingon's in front of him now, and Harry isn't sure how that happened. Isn't sure how he moved so quickly from the other side of the table to kneeling right here. He doesn't touch Harry but crowds his space, places both hands on the sides of the chair. They're both silent as they stare at each other. Harry thinks of a thousand different things to say, but none of them are right. None of them are sane enough for this. It's certainly beyond a little healing, some ice and breeze. Not as bad as waking up from death.
Fingon though lays a very gentle hand on his knee. Touch as light as a feather.
"I don't know what crime you imagine you've committed to punish yourself like this," he states. His voice has eased to that of a blanket, cotton wool soft. Like he's trying to soothe a spooked chimera.
Harry doesn't shift. He isn't guilt of anything, but the feeling beats in his chest like another heart.
"What makes you think I'm punishing myself?" he asks. His fingers have moved to his elbows to create distance; the table certainly isn't a safe place for them.
Fingon just gazes up at him. His eyes are assessing. Searching and seeking. He doesn't use Legilimency. Harry doesn't even know if he even has the elvish version like Finarfin. But he feels wide open. Feels like he's being seen as thoroughly as if he stood naked in the entranceway and spun around.
"There's nothing you can possibly have done that's worse than any of us," the elf insists. "Nothing that's worse than any of the rest of the family. Existing isn't a crime, Herurrívë. Living isn't either." It's far too close to the truth.
Harry stares over his head. He can't look at Fingon any longer.
"Stop," Harry murmurs then. "Just stop."
It isn't begging, but he can't do this anymore. He feels trapped. Like a rabbit in one of Aredhel's snares. He scoots his seat back to put more space between them. One hand is on his face rubbing his eyes and then pinching his nose so hard it'd leave bruises if he were an actual elf.
Fingon backs up, allows him room; it's only to grab his own chair and move it to Harry's side of the table. He isn't as close as he was seconds before, but it feels like too much. Like the only way out of this is a confession but he isn't exactly sure which sin Fingon wants to hear. Harry's just tired. Exhausted in a way that sleep won't fix. It has nothing at all to do with dying and everything to do with living.
He has no idea how long they sit there saying nothing to each other. Fingon, as always, is ever-so-patient. Like he has all the time in the world and absolutely nothing else better to do than to witness this disaster unfolding.
Finally, Harry sighs and takes his head from his hand.
"You called me nephew," Harry says, and it's a redirection and almost an allegation both. "Just now and… that night."
He hadn't realized it initially, but looking back, it was obvious. That hadn't been Fingolfin's voice.
"I did," Fingon confesses with elbows on his thighs and fingers threaded together.
"I'm not…"
He can't get the words out. Settles for something safer, easier.
"You never married him," Harry accuses with the barest hint of frost.
"No," the older elf admits that, too. "I didn't."
He doesn't rise to the bait, however. He's still looking at Harry and his expression isn't one that Harry's ever seen directed at himself before. Not like this. Not from anyone.
"I've made a great many mistakes," Fingon declares then, "and I'd like to stop making the same ones. I should've told you from the start. I should've claimed you from the beginning."
Harry has zero clue how to respond. His mind is a library of overturned shelves and scattered pages. He feels his mouth open and then close. Feels time tick by. Hears the clock on the mantle. His companion just lets him gather his thoughts, book by book. Would let him have all the eons in the universe.
"Why didn't you marry him?" Harry finally inquires because this is a safer topic. Because this is simpler to grasp. To voice than everything else.
Fingon allows it. He really is too good to be true.
"Because I was a fool." It's said with a laugh but absolutely no mirth. "Because I cared more about what others thought than what we felt. Because I feared what my father would think," he says, and his eyes are a silver so bright that it puts the moon to shame. "He already knew, of course. He's always known; they always do."
Harry can feel his regret. Feel the ache of it in the air like a tragedy. Feel the loss like a limb that should be there but isn't. A phantom that moves but is wisps of smoke when one looks.
"He didn't care?"
"He did," Fingon responds softly, "but he also didn't." His fingers now drum on the arm of his chair like a march across the battlefield. "He worried we'd be hurt. Not just me but Maitimo as well."
Because that's his nephew, Harry understands. This is Fingolfin's son, and that's his nephew. They're both the line of Finwë, and there's been grief and discord in it since practically the beginning.
Although, he supposes that Eldar didn't worry about a match that close. Not when they were functionally immortal and generational time could be in the millennia. Even purebloods rethought this eventually and had for much of Harry's adult life, but admittedly, some of his classmates had been from generations of first cousin marriages, and he had his suspicions that some were perhaps even closer than that.
"Did he worry about your uncle?"
It's not an unreasonable question with everything Harry's learned of Fëanor, but Fingon shakes his head.
"Not as much initially. Not truly even until close to the end. Uncle is… was surprisingly kind." Fingon actually smiles at that, and it's fond. Genuine. "He's stern in many ways, but he dearly loves all his sons. I've to say he treats me much the same; for all his issues with my father, uncle has always been good to me and loves me as he does his own children." His lips quirk upwards even more. "I was very often with them. Maitimo and Makalaurë especially. Less so the others. But we three were most often found together."
Fingon hesitates then. As if pausing for breath. Pausing for memories to come.
"I had a room in their home," he adds after a moment, "and Maitimo had one at my father's – before I set up here. Even Laurë did; just as you do. Laurë usually was our alibi." He gives a chuckle. "I suppose looking back, we were so very obvious."
Harry just listens to him. Doesn't say anything as the words wash over him like warm bathwater. He can almost picture it. Picture the three of them. So young. Bright. Unknowing of what was to come. Fingon in the middle with the two brothers on either side, his dearest love and his cousin who'd be his brother. They remind Harry of another trio, of three others so long ago who promised to be friends forever. Harry's kept his end of the bargain; he knows that wherever they are that Ron and Hermione do, too.
Fingon exhales, and the spell is broken. He puts his palms flat on the chair, and they only tremble faintly.
"Elves…" he begins as a way to center himself, "Elves often stay in the same household with their families even if they wed and have children. Or if not, very close by. Like I did here."
It's both an explanation and a distraction; Harry just inclines his head.
"Some will leave to establish themselves elsewhere, but that's more unusual. Not unless they can't agree on where to live." Fingon barely falters but continues on, "Or if one family has disapproved of the match. Close relatives will have rooms. Permanent ones that they'll move back and forth between, especially if they aren't settled."
That… Harry hadn't known any of that. He could guess based on what he'd observed. But no one had ever said it outright. It makes a lot of sense given the state of Fingon's household. Of the people here and how long they'd stayed so far. And how everyone seemed to have a particular place that they stayed in. Even Fingolfin and Finarfin had suites that the staff didn't so much prepare as simply air out a bit. And they hadn't really brought much with them, now that he thought about it.
There's also how they'd put him back in the same room Fingon had tried so hard to give him the first time. He wonders what they thought of him settling in Formenos. It was the former residence of Fëanor and his sons – yes, through exile. But still…
Of course, now there's the fact that Fingon felt the need to explain something that should be basic knowledge.
Harry knows that he's grimacing even as that occurs to him.
"I think we've done a disservice to you," the older elf states, and his tone is apologetic, "my only excuse is that we didn't know. Suspected, yes, I'll admit, but I didn't know for certain." He reaches out to put one hand on Harry's wrist. "You haven't spent much time with other elves. I can see it now."
Harry feels his ears grow hot. "Is it that obvious?"
"Not at first glance, no. The more time we spend with you…" Fingon gives an elegant shrug. "You hide yourself very well. Too well, I think. It's hard to feel you. We can see you; we know that you're there, but you're a blank book." His grasp is strong but not too tight. "It's only lately that you've let us read a few pages."
He's warm, welcoming. His aura invites Harry in if he'd allow himself to come to the door, but he hesitates on the sidewalk, on the pathway leading up. Stands outside in the snowstorm and doesn't even dare peer in the windows.
"One day, you'll tell me, yes?" He clarifies after a moment, after Harry's obvious puzzlement, "Why you let yourself carry such a burden?"
Harry swallows. Half of him wants to say yes. Wants to confess everything. The other half wants to just lay his head down, close his eyes, and never open them again. In the war between them, it's a stalemate. Nothing's accomplished.
"When you're ready," Fingon tells him as if knowing the entirety of the battle inside him.
Harry breathes out slowly, and both of those sides quiet. Both glance at each other with this unexpected white flag.
"What if I never am?" Harry asks, and it's very tired. Weary.
There's a sensation like a mug of cocoa put into his hands. Warmth seeping through the ceramic. Chocolate after a dementor attack.
"Then, that's fine."
Fingon's quiet for a long pause. Still looking at Harry but his eyes aren't accusing. They're focused. Like a blaze contained behind glass.
"Even," Fingon suggests but hesitates, "even if he isn't your father, would it be so bad to accept us? It isn't as if you've lied to us about it." His hand is still on Harry's arm, not letting go. "Are we truly so terrible?"
Harry feels his eyes widen of their own accord. Feels something inside thaw into blooming snowdrops. Delicate. Fragile but all the more lovely for it.
It's…
The Weasleys – Molly and Arthur – considered him part of their family. Often said he was like their own son. Ron and Hermione considered him a brother. He was termed uncle by many, but this is different.
Here, they've called him cousin and nephew even after he's repeatedly told them that he isn't. And yet, there's an offer to stay even without that between them. There's welcome even after he's done nothing but push them away.
The Ainur are his friends, but he often feels like their charity case. Káno and Indilwen are his friends, too – his closest really, but one isn't on this continent and the other is a horse. His staff – Laerien and Melpomaen and Inglor and the others – he knows they all have real relatives they long for and are waiting on. Harry doesn't even remember what having a family is like. What it's like to be accepted for no other reason than being himself.
There's a little boy in a cupboard buried deep his mind. Past glaciers and castle walls of ice and snow and library shelves full of books. Down through dungeons of icicles and fog thick enough to cut with a blade. All the way hidden at the very bottom of a lonely chasm. Harry feels that cupboard door opening now. Sees a childish hand appear and a flash of green eyes.
Next to him, Fingon stirs.
"There you are," he murmurs. His voice is full of an emotion Harry isn't willing to name.
Harry meets his gaze because if he can stare down a Dark Lord, he can do this, too. Only, Tom just wanted to kill Harry. Fingon wants something else entirely. Wants him to be something and someone he can barely remember or never recall at all.
A cousin. A nephew. A son.
Somehow, that's scarier. Somehow, it's worse than curses, dragons, murderers, dementors, or even death. All of those are things he can fight. All of those are things that he's survived. Conquered.
How is he supposed to handle kindness? Honest interest? Concern? When was the last time he had any of those for him as a person? Not as a headmaster and authority figure? A curiosity to their paradise? A shelter in the eternal blizzard?
Harry lets out a long, hard sigh. Fingon allows the quiet to stretch out between them. He's said everything he wants; he's magnanimous now and grants Harry a reprieve.
"Your hair is getting long," he comments in a very clear change of the subject and casts another glance Harry's direction.
"I should cut it," Harry says back. It's offhandedly, almost an afterthought. When's the last time he had?
Fingon tips his head in thought, but ultimately, he makes a negative motion.
"Keep it," he replies. "Let it grow. You may find that you like it this way."
His expression is serene, gentle at the borders. Harry gives a considering nod but doesn't say anything else. The silence is comfortable now. No longer at all strained. Peaceful even. The elf next to him is a steady warmth. Like sitting in front of the fireplace on a winter's night.
Gil-galad is still the favorite, but maybe Fingon's higher on the list than Harry ever realized.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The sea is lovely today. Calm and clear with soft waves. The sky is midsummer blue with white fluffy clouds. It's warmer than expected for just after breakfast, but the breeze from the water eases the worst of it.
This really is a beautiful place, Harry decides. The village is a short walk away but far enough for comfortable privacy. There aren't any major population centers close, and that's a definite plus with the whispers circulating. With the increasing number of predictions. With new prophecies of death, of the beginning of the end.
But that's a problem for the future. Today is a day for family.
Teddy and Victoire meet him just after nine. He greets them by the top of the dune, his designated apparition point, and they get a full glimpse of the new house to the left with the glorious ocean to the right.
She's used to living by the sea, and this is not so far away from her parents that Fleur will hunt the lot of them down for taking her pregnant daughter out for the day. It's her first grandchild to be perfectly fair, so Harry can understand her overprotective instincts which put Molly to shame.
Teddy looks up at the cottage with an assessing eye. Taking in the wooden walkway leading up, the elevated beds of the garden behind, the second story with a balcony. Harry knows he's already evaluating potential exits and hazards, but that's just how he is. He's spent too much time on the job already and an Auror is never truly off duty.
Both of them are brimming with energy. Bright and happy with their lives, and he's pleased to share even just this moment with them. Teddy's hours have been long lately. There's been a run of difficult cases, and they haven't seen much of each other unless he's at St Mungo's to interview victims. He looks better now, however. Better than the last time Harry saw him. The dark shadows beneath his eyes have disappeared and his easy grin is back. He's been sleeping again, hopefully at home and not his office. That usually makes a world of difference
Victoire, Harry's truthfully seen more, as she always stops in after her prenatal appointments to have either lunch or tea before heading back to Gringotts. Harry still has his standing weekly invitation to their flat in the Alley, but Teddy hasn't been there the last three times. Hermione was there last week to help with the Expansion Runes so that a nursery can be added for their son. They still have four months before he arrives, but that time will go by so quickly. It always seems to be racing along at lightning speed.
Harry leads them down the short path to the front door, which is painted a turquoise blue in honor of the man behind him and the color he sported through most of his Hogwarts years. Victoire laughs at it, as if guessing his thoughts. Teddy's hair is Hufflepuff yellow today, but it shifts to Weasley red then just to spite them.
"Your new home is lovely," she says in congratulations as they go through the door into the kitchen, and Harry can tell she's excited by the prospect. Already planning to help him decorate. She's now gazing at empty shelves, itching to open cabinets, all but measuring out the space where the table will go.
The rest of the house is much the same from the sitting room downstairs to all the bedrooms upstairs to the potions brewing space in the basement. The tour isn't much longer than Harry predicted; he knows them too well.
Victoire loves peeking into every nook and cranny. Opening every door and window. Looking at every available space. Teddy trails after her, eyes not missing a single detail. His posture is relaxed though, easy, pleased. His cases are over; his workload has decreased back down to normal. He's getting to come home every night now. He and his wife are getting ready to have a baby; his life is good. Nearly complete.
Save for one thing.
They end up back in the kitchen. He's leaning against the sink, back to the window that overlooks the garden. There aren't chairs yet. Harry didn't see the point for it when he wasn't going to be the one sitting in them most of the time.
Keys in the magical world are different. Aren't like their Muggle counterpart. They aren't just meant to open locks or doors. They give power over wards. Over properties. Bestow ownership. The ones in his pocket don't have his name on them. Haven't since the very beginning. He made that clear from the start when he bought the land and commissioned the house.
He offers them his best smile as he reaches out to hand them over.
"For you," Harry says and means it completely.
They blink at him. Victoire with puzzlement. Teddy with eyes that are turning a very familiar shade of green the longer he stands there.
"The cottage," Harry clarifies then, "it's for you."
There's a long pause. Filled only with the distant sound of waves and the call of gulls.
"Tonton," Victoire breathes, and her face is delighted. Eyes full of tears before she hides them behind her hand.
"Are you sure?" Teddy asks. His hair is black now, dark as raven feathers. "Are you really sure?"
"Of course. Your clan's growing," Harry returns and makes a gesture to both of them. "You'll need the space."
"But this… this is too much," Victoire tells him; her voice is shaky as Teddy takes her hand. "It's far too much."
"We'll never be able to pay you back," Teddy adds. He's a little winded, but Harry can already see his anticipation. Can see the dreams forming, taking shape in all their glory.
Harry simply keeps smiling at them both.
"Why would you ever need to repay me for this? Family takes care of each other."
Victoire's arms come around him first, but Teddy's are there a second later. Stronger. Tighter. Both silently promise to never let go.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Group – Watching Harry and Gil-galad look at each other with stars in their eyes.
Fingon – Were Maitimo and I every that obvious?
Argon & Fingolfin – Laughing outrageously.
Fingolfin – Son, you were worse.
Argon – Nods sagely. Auntie Findis took bets before Artanis took over for her.
Fingon – Shocked. Everyone knew?
Argon – Uncle bet it'd be when we got back from Endor.
Fingon – Wait… Which uncle? Surely Ingoldo, yes?
Argon & Fingolfin – Exchange a look and quickly start walking away.
Fingon – Calls after them. Which uncle?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Celebrían – Sigh. He isn't doing so well.
Gil-galad – No, not after…
Both – Silent for a moment.
Celebrían – Who has only met one of her fathers-in-law in person. I know. We'll take him to see the other peredhil we know.
Gil-galad – Who has also never met any of the Fëanorions in person. Splendid. What a great idea.
Narrator Voice – Spoiler. It was not a great idea.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Attendant #1 – So he died?
Retainer #2 – But he's better now?
Servant #3 – And Lord Eönwë came to check on him?
All of Them – Jumping to all sorts of conclusions.
Retainer #2 – Oh, no. We look at him when we speak to him.
Servant #3 – I once touched him while we passed in the hallway. Do you think he's still angry?
Attendant #1 – We'll just have to try harder!
Notes:
AN: Snowdrops symbolize new beginnings, hope, rebirth, and the ability to overcome challenges.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 13: Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Princess Idril and her husband live on the coast, about an hour by horse from Alqualondë. It's not an estate like Fingon has, but it's still a traditional elven home large enough for multiple generations of the family. They have staff, but none who live on site according to Celebrían. As far as he knows, there's only three full-time residents with another coming and going as the heavens will, so Harry supposes there's no real need.
Idril herself greets them at the front door with her husband coming outside behind her. Both are fair-haired, and Idril's barefoot but wearing a gown as lovely as anything Findis or Irimë would have. She has some resemblance to the others in the House of Finwë but not as close as Celebrían. Her eyes are a bit more widely spaced and blue like deep waters. Hair a glowing shade of golden that outshines any possible adornments.
Tuor, of course, isn't an elf at all. He doesn't even look like one at first glance. It isn't just the stubble on his face or the round ears that Harry can glimpse through his hair. He's handsome but it's more earthly, more real. When he moves, it's like an actual person and not a mirage. His voice is like listening to a human being and not some supernatural illusion.
It's so achingly familiar that Harry's homesick. That he has to push his mental shields up to full strength and surround himself in ice to clear his thoughts. It's his good fortune that they get to settle the horses themselves. That he has the time to take a deep breath and center himself. He knows that Gil sees, that he's watching, but Harry's focused on himself, on the frosty cloak he's swung around his proverbial shoulders.
Indilwen nuzzles his neck and sniffs his hair as his world realigns. As he exhales to the count of five and then inhales again. As Gil leans up on his other side to press a kiss to his cheek.
Afterwards, his elf takes his arm and leads him indoors.
Harry doesn’t meet Elwing until he’s there. She’s the first peredhel that he’s known of Ainur descent – at least an amount worth acknowledging. There’s an air about her, an undertone he heard as soon as they came into range, but it’s very subtle. A song where the radio's turned down so low that nothing can truly be heard but a murmur. It’s certainly different from the others he’s met. It’s something else completely.
She'd be lovely, Harry thinks. As beautiful as Finarfin though in an entirely separate fashion. Hair every inch as dark as Harry's own. Black like the night. Like the Void. Eyes a deep, piercing gray, almost dark as her hair but shimmering with the starlight.
She'd be lovely if not for her fear. If not for the fright that twists her features until Harry can barely tell what her face should look like. He feels her terror like a heavy weight on his chest. It's an animal clawing itself into a corner, hoping, praying it wasn't seen. She's motionless, frozen, a mouse caught in a snake's hypnotic glare. She doesn't even inhale until Idril walks in front of her and breaks her line of sight.
She doesn't come to greet them, and absolutely no one comments on it. She stays perfectly in place, petrified, in the corner of the sitting room. Still as a statue. Breaths so shallow that even Harry can't see them. Only her eyes move. Following his every movement.
He stays as far away from her as possible even as Idril leads them into the same room. The princess is pleasant, an ideal hostess, soon engaged in discussion with Celebrían on the latest goings-on of their family and doing her best to drag Gil down with them. Tuor allows his wife to take the lead as his attention circles around, and Harry suspects that he misses nothing. No one makes mention of Elwing. Acknowledges her at all.
Harry can't tell if it's out of some weird elven politeness. Some attempt for her to save-face. Or something else entirely. He isn't comfortable enough to ask. Not here. Not now. Perhaps later. When it's he and Gil alone. As it is now, he can only sit in his seat next to Gil. Who has very conveniently leaned forward just enough for Elwing not to see Harry fully.
After about twenty minutes, Tuor simply shakes his head. Even his eyes don't flicker to Elwing or her best impression of a statue, but Harry knows that's what the Man is really seeing. He's kind enough to not comment though. To pick another excuse.
"They'll be at this for hours." He leans in to say this aside, voice pitched low enough that Harry barely hears it, and he's surprised Tuor can make so little noise.
The Man just motions for Harry to stand and follow him. Harry tips his head before casting a glance back at Celebrían as she happily chats with Idril. Neither really seems to be looking their direction, but Gil does offer a smile before joining back in the conversation. Elwing watches them like a doe does a dragon. Her pupils are wide, breaths still too shallow. He can see sweat on her brow, and she's far too stationary. He knows that look. Has seen it on too many faces but never directed at him in quite this manner; he also knows it won't even start to fade until he leaves. And nothing he says or does will make it any easier but going away.
Harry simply turns to exit the room and then the house itself through a side door. He trails behind Tuor as he leads them down the path to the beach. There's a small fishing boat berthed not far down the shore, but the dock is big enough for a much larger ship. The Man takes them to one side where there's a hut with baskets and full shelves.
"Do you fish?" Tuor motions to his nets and other supplies.
"With a spear only, I'm afraid," Harry replies, and it's a little sheepish.
The Man looks at him incredulously. "Who taught you to fish with a spear?"
Harry fights to hide his grimace. Oromë was hardly going to use a line and hook. Eönwë tried to convince him that using a sword was perfectly reasonable. Huan wanted him to just wade in and bite one in half. The less said about Tulkas, the better.
"Maniacs," he mutters.
It's the complete truth.
Tuor seems like he can't decide if that's supposed to be a joke, but he gives a small chuckle anyway. His hair is a sandy blond in the sun, shining as he shakes his head. He's a good teacher, Harry discovers. Patient as he shows the nets and traps. Even more so when he demonstrates how to thread the line, select his hook and bait. How to cast properly and reel in. His laugh is rippling, full and deep with happiness when his newest student lands his first fish. He does seem impressed when Harry cleans and packs it away all by hand, just as Oromë always insists. He's never allowed to use magic for that sort of thing.
It's pleasant out here in the sea breeze and sun. Tuor's a good companion, good company, more than happy enough to speak in his mother tongue for hours. It's one of the benefits Harry's had from his relocation; although, he can't say why Eru saw fit to gift him with all the languages of this world, even those of Men that are no longer regularly spoken. Harry doubts anyone does at all in Aman aside from Tuor, his wife and son. Save perhaps a few elves who still remember from the First Age and those who are friends of this House and wish to humor Tuor.
It's an interesting change though. An enjoyable way to pass the day. Away from the house and the things that lead them here. Not to mention, Eldar and even Ainur can be exhausting; it's nice to talk with someone who doesn't have twenty other meanings behind what they say. Usually the one person around Harry like that is Indilwen, and isn't that sad when the only one he can rely on for a straight motive is his horse?
Better yet, he gets to spend time by the ocean. To see the shore and hear the waves in person and not just through Káno. He had so much time with Teddy and Victoire by the water. Watched so much of their lives with that as the background. Teddy wanted him to retire there, to live next to them so badly that Harry even bought the land. But he'd grown busy with Hogwarts, with the students. Time slipped away from them. Ticked by until there was none left.
"I didn't think you'd like it here so much," Tuor even comments as they start back up the path to the house. As the sun sets.
"My--"
Harry falters. He shifts their catch of the day in his arms and reconsiders his words.
"We used to stay by the shore," he says instead. "That was a long time ago."
Tuor accepts that without any question or remark, which is nothing short of a minor miracle. Harry doesn't quite know what to do with himself when he can talk and not have to worry about alternative interpretations. Or auras pressing him for more information. Songs swirling around with questions unvoiced.
Dinner's a quiet affair. Harry's as far from Elwing as possible and still in the same room. Even arranged so she doesn't have to look across the table to see him. Harry suspects it's Idril's doing, but it's hard to say. She does give them two rooms for the night, Celebrían in one with Harry and Gil in the other. It's a familiar set-up, and Harry would think nothing of it but for Tuor's knowing grin behind his stubble.
Harry wakes right before dawn, head on his elf's shoulder. His bedmate is still in elfish sleep, eyes open and distant, arm beneath Harry's neck and across his back, but Harry's abruptly wide awake. It's not a natural stirring. He's out one moment and is completely alert the next.
He feels something approaching in the distance.
It's familiar. Like a melody he once knew and hums the chorus without thought. A person he's met and names without reintroduction. It's light. Intense and shining. Different than Finarfin. He's the brilliance of the sun without its heat. This is a radiance. A rainbow with every color of the spectrum and some he never knew existed.
It's coming closer. Ever approaching. Heading for the shore.
For the dock, Harry realizes as the seconds turn into minutes and the dawn continues to approach.
There's a sinking feeling then, a gut plunge and punch altogether. It's less like he's gone down a step that's higher up than he thought. More like a Wronski Feint. A plummet off a cliff. From the sky with nothing to stop his rapid descent or the ground speeding up to greet him.
He knows what this is. He knows what approaches.
Even drawing up his shielding to its highest with glacier-thick walls doesn't fully blot it out. Doesn't stop the pull of his gaze. He should need to close his eyes, to shield his vision, but this light doesn't hurt him at all.
Gil-galad rouses beside him and blinks back to himself. Harry isn't sure if it's from his unease or something else, but he feels the arm at his back tighten and draw him closer.
"Mírimo?"
"Eärendil's here," Harry murmurs, and he isn't entirely sure how he keeps his voice even. He's already lifting his head, unerringly turning to the ship he knows is now docked. He can almost see the Vingilot in his mind's eye. White with sails folded, like a swan coming in to roost.
Gil, bless him, understands immediately.
"We can leave," he says back softly. He sits up just as Harry does, dark hair frizzing with sudden static. "They'll understand. Celebrían will make them understand."
There's an urgency to him now. A tension to his spine.
Harry momentarily puts his face in his hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, but grits his teeth. Forces himself to relax. Forces his racing heart to slow. Forces himself to straighten and steels his spine.
"I can't run away from all my problems," he replies and means it.
Since really, he hasn't been that much of a Gryffindor lately. Maybe Fingon was right about that part. Where's his lion spirit? His red and gold pride? Harry feels like he buried that along with everyone else. Sometimes, he looks in the mirror and doesn't even know who's looking back at him. He's been many things in his life, but a coward has never been one of them.
A hand rubs across his cheek, and Gil-galad gives him a long, searching look. Then, he rises up for a kiss that steals his breath, makes him shudder. Would be very distracting indeed if incessant light didn't keep increasing.
They dress quietly but can hear the household stirring around them. Celebrían meets them in the hallway, likely awoken by the commotion of Eärendil's arrival, but she's fresh as if the early hour isn't a bother at all. As if she hasn't a care in the world, but the look she gives them, the pinching around her eyes before she can smooth it away, that betrays her. She squeezes Harry's free hand in both of hers and rubs the top of her head against his shoulder.
Eärendil is just rising from the breakfast table when they enter the room with Celebrían out in front. He greets her first as his daughter-by-marriage followed by Gil-galad, who he's met many times before. He turns to Harry last, and there's an assessing pause. Evaluating. Considering. It's different than the glances he still gets in Tirion or how the attendants at Fingon's now look at him. It isn't even the fear-filled eyes of Elwing or like the House of Finwë when they saw someone else first. It's closer to how Finarfin first gazed at him. As though looking at his soul to get the measure of him.
The Silmaril on his brow shines like the star it is in truth now. Like a small sun taken from the heavens, but Harry doesn't focus on it as Eärendil studies him. He would prefer not to even see blasted the thing, but there's nowhere in the room he can look and not see the light it casts. Instead, he looks at Eärendil himself. Fair-haired as both of his parents but his is golden like his mother. His eyes though are different; they first appear green but then shift to blue the longer Harry watches.
Eärendil smiles at him then, face morphing into cheerfulness like Harry's passed some sort of test.
"Well met, cousin," he greets and extends a bow.
It's either best or worst decision of his entire life.
The Silmaril isn't alive; Eönwë assured him of this. Nienna confirmed it. Fingolfin and Finarfin and Fingon all called them jewels. Things. Objects. Fanciful if powerful trinkets.
But Harry knows better. He knows that magic has a mind of its own. Knows his wands are alive just as his cloak and his ring are. As his paintings are.
Just as the Silmaril is. And it takes the opportunity when it's given.
It slips free from Eärendil's brow. It escapes. Jumps ship. Sails through the air.
Harry's hand snatches it on the way down thoughtlessly. He's still a seeker, after all. Even without having played for a lifetime, he'll always be the same boy who caught the golden snitch. This really isn't so different.
Only, it is.
Eä pauses. Arda holds her breath for a single instant. Then, the light pulses as Harry's fingers make contact. Something shudders. Something breaks.
Only, it's freeing. Glorious. Like a shackle he didn't even know he was wearing. Like a bird bursting free from his cage and soaring into the endless sky. He hears voices calling for him. Eight of them. All individuals but also together. Only one he truly recognizes but the others are so familiar. Like he dreamed them more than once. Like he's always known them.
He hears the words resound back to him. Phrases of an oath he's never even truly spoken.
Harry comes back to himself, and he's on his knees. Everyone else lays on the floor in various states of disarray, but they're slowly picking themselves up. Gradually rising to a sitting or even standing position in Eärendil and Gil-galad's cases.
The Silmaril sits innocently in Harry's hand. Beautiful. Shining even brighter than it did before. Pulsing almost happily.
He tosses it thoughtlessly at Eärendil before his mind can even catch up with him, but the half-elf doesn't catch it. Doesn't even try. It hits his chest before falling and landing on the rug with a soft thump. The Silmaril lays there between them, still burning just as brightly, now casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the walls and floor as if trying to chide him for throwing it away.
They all stare at it.
Gil materializes next to him. The elf grabs Harry's hand as if looking for some visible sign of injury, but he already knows there isn't anything.
Instead, Harry feels his life flashing before his eyes because surely he's going to be murdered by someone. Fingon for sure once he figures this out. Maybe Fingolfin or Finarfin for the audacity. Eönwë when he realizes what Harry's done. That's assuming the Valar don't get to him first. Námo likes him well enough, he supposes. Nienna and Vairë will put in a good word. Oromë will either laugh or go shoot something. Manwë… it's hard to tell what he'll do, but he seems reasonable. The others… who knows?
In the grand scheme of things, his crimes seem rather small though. It isn't like he stole the Silmaril. He's never said the Oath, not really. At best, he mouthed the words, but magic relies on intent. The only vow he's ever taken was the one as a healer.
Surely, he wasn't under the Oath of Fëanor the entire time, was he? He'd never had the urge to steal a star and certainly didn't want to throttle Eärendil upon meeting him just now.
He lets out a shuddering breath as he feels fingers tighten around his. As the silence stretches out past shock to downright awkwardness.
"So that happened," Harry finally says because it's either that or laugh. Or possibly cry. He isn't sure yet which is worse.
Gil-galad makes a noise beside him, but there aren't words to it.
"Did… Did the Oath just break?" Celebrían questions from behind them. She's still stunned but regrouping.
"Something, certainly did," Idril comments also rallying. She's upright now but holds onto the table for balance. Her fingernails dig into the wood hard enough to leave little half-moon grooves.
Tuor's mute as he stands just beside her, as if he doesn't quite know what to think. Elwing though is deathly pale, hands clasped in front of her like a prayer; she's far from anyone else in the room. Eärendil… Eärendil is grinning. Laughing to himself like some great burden has lifted from his soul.
"It's no longer mine," the peredhel states. His voice is clear with relief, rejoicing. "I can feel that it won't have me anymore. It'll leave again."
There's a great deal to unpack in that statement, a whole room's worth. No one even attempts to try. Everyone's attention momentarily goes to Eärendil before their eyes stray back to the Silmaril.
"What shall we do then?" Tuor asks and rubs a hand over his face, which has even more growth than yesterday. "We can hardly leave it here on the floor."
That seems to stump everybody as no volunteers are forthcoming. Eärendil has already abdicated. Harry fears that they'll look to him next.
"I think this is a task fit for a king," Celebrían offers in that moment. Her eyes flicker to Gil-galad and stay there so that everyone knows exactly who she means.
Next to Harry, he lets out a long breath and taps his nose with his forefinger.
"I suppose no one else is volunteering."
They're silent to that. Gil looks at Harry, but it's only to squeeze his hand.
"For you, I will," he murmurs very tenderly. His mouth brushes Harry's ear.
Next, Gil-galad moves forward, bending down like he expects the Silmaril to start hissing at him. When it doesn't, he reaches out and picks it up in the same manner one does a bubotuber. It sparkles in his hand, just as luminous as before but otherwise inert. He straightens but holds it as far from this body as possible.
Tuor questions then, "Should we put it in something?"
They all turn as one to gawk at him. Even Elwing.
"'Tis very noticeable," he defends, but the suggestion is sensible enough.
Idril sighs and disappears deeper into the house, but she's only gone for a minute or two before she returns with a blue scarf, material silken with a pattern of starlings. It's thick enough that the light is concealed when wrapped by Gil. It's too large for his pocket, however, but Tuor has a fishing bag that's just the right size.
Task accomplished; they look at each other again. Not entirely sure what to do now.
"Should we give it to Lady Nerdanel? Or someone else?" Harry asks no one in particular.
"We could bring it to grandfather," Celebrían suggests slowly, tapping her fingers together. "Unless you want to take it back to one of the Valar."
"You do know them the best of all of us," Gil acknowledges as he situates the bag across his shoulder.
The others watch their discussion like a quaffle passed back and forth, but they don't add anything. Eärendil honestly doesn't seem to care. Elwing doesn't seem to be listening.
"That would mean a trip to Formenos," Harry tells them with a shake of his head. "Usually they come to me."
And really, Harry isn't entirely sure he wants to try apparating with a Silmaril. Or attempting to explain that in the first place to both Gil or Celebrían while Idril's entire family is right there. He supposes that he could send Nienna a message, but he'd have to go somewhere discreet to do that, and he doesn't see that happening any time soon.
"Grandfather's still with cousin," Celebrían says, "he was planning to be there for quite a while."
Which means back to Fingon's they go. Harry's literally just left there; he's only managed a night here. A single solitary night. Harry guesses this means that he's not getting to the sailing portion of this trip.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't glare at the Silmaril because it won't do him any good. Harry simply exchanges a glance with Gil as they start planning their immediate return to Tirion.
How splendid.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Káno is taller than Harry expected. Of course, Harry isn't really sure what he expected.
The Ñoldor as a whole are tall, but few seem to be as much as Harry himself in his – admittedly narrow – experience with them. He hasn't truly met any of the other groups, aside from his limited ventures for books, so he doesn't really have much frame of reference aside from what he was told by the Ainur.
But Káno's tall, slender even for an elf. Like he's missed a few too many meals, and really, Harry should remind him to take better care of himself. Should remind him that yes, elves are unaging, but he's pretty sure they can in fact die of hunger if they try hard enough. And that one cannot live on music alone despite what Káno might claim.
The air is serene as Harry leaves the ritual's room, harp in hand. Nienna has already said her goodbyes with a kiss to Harry's cheek, and he knows she'll head to Mandos. She's taken to apparition like a phoenix to fire or a broom to flight, and she uses it to her advantage to move between various places at her leisure.
The sacramental magic is sleepy now. Quiet as it settles into the bones of Formenos. Old ghosts are silent, almost contemplative. Almost considering as the energy of this place lightens more and more. As corruption is washed away and fresh air breathes through. All physical remnants of his ceremony are gone save for the participants. The salt and quartz dust have permanently burned a pattern into the floor, and Harry knows that it'll always be there now. That with every rite it sinks a little deeper down, and that it's already beyond the foundation and into the bedrock at this point. He wonders just how far it'll reach. How deep it'll go with the last few.
It's after midnight now, but Harry's wide awake. Energetic with the light of the full moon and the blessings of the universe; he roams the halls aimlessly without true direction; his mind is a chorus of thoughts and ideas.
The harp is mute in his hands, and he knows that Káno's more overwhelmed by the magic than Harry himself and Nienna. That he'll be pacing the beach with excess energy or possibly even swimming until he settles enough to play. That nothing irritates Káno more than being too hyper to properly focus and he'd rather not even hold his harp at all than have it come out wrong.
It's endearing in a way. More than a bit entertaining to know he's that frazzled. He's found too much amusement and exasperation with Harry at times, so the wand is in the other hand now. Harry enjoys these insights into him. The things Káno shares outright and what he gives quietly.
And now, Harry's seeing more. Seeing him finally.
It's only glimpses. A few seconds, only heartbeats of time, as the ritual reaches a crescendo around them. But it's enough for a momentary glance. For just a tiny view. For a look at the person who's likely his closest friend now and knows him the best aside from Indilwen.
And isn't that a sad state of affairs indeed? Sad that his companions in this place are an elf he's never met face to face, a sapient horse, and harmony given physical forms?
But he still hasn't truly seen Káno, only someone who's like a ghost but not. A mirage. A heat image. Smoke in the mirror. Wispy and wavering. The harp in his grasp, a single ring on his right index finger. His cloak swaying in the ocean breeze.
His features are always indistinct. Obscured by mist.
Harry can't even tell the color of his eyes. But he knows that his hair is dark. Black, Harry would guess, under the swirl of lights. Braided simply but of unclear length.
His right hand is injured. Burned, Harry would guess from the way his fingers are drawn. He hides it well, but Harry's at his core, a healer. A helper. He sees when people are in need and figures it out from there.
He's thin. One of the leanest elves Harry has spied through his short trips to the cities and that disastrous first visit to Tirion.
His clothing seems plain, rough. Enough of him materialized this time for Harry to actually see patches at the elbow and shoulder.
He wonders what he'll see next. What else will be revealed. He still has three more chances. Three more tries. They're a little over the half-way mark. Four out of seven.
His wanderings finally take him outside. To the warm, fresh air and the moon hanging amongst the stars. It's beautiful here, Harry thinks. Petals from the fruit trees in the wind. The endless sky above. The distant circle of winter beyond spring. Formenos behind him like a slumbering sentinel.
He could stay here forever and be satisfied. Be safe. Maybe even happy one day.
Harry allows himself to consider that. To turn over possibilities in his head.
Káno still isn't playing when Harry decides to pack that thought away in the trunk of his mind and put it in the cupboard under the stairs. It's unclear when he'll return; it could still be hours. Although… there's no reason that Harry can't play on his own for a while.
He doesn't even make it through the third tune before he feels Káno arrive. Drawn like a salamander to a flame. Just as Harry knew he would be.
It starts as a duet. As Káno joining in as accompaniment. As a playful back and forth before Harry shifts them into more of a challenge. It's at the edge of his skill level. Approaching and then surpassing it. Káno doesn't notice initially that Harry's ceased. That he's just listening as Káno carries on without him. Harry knows he isn't fooled by the end.
"No reason to stop," Káno admonishes after the final note, and it's ever-so-gently. A small splash of water at his legs.
"This is your show, not mine," Harry tells him. It's friendly, light. "I'm not a musician. Just a painter with a hobby."
There's a noise like a chiding dolphin. "You're hardly just anything."
His tone is affectionate. An ocean breeze that tugs but doesn't pull or push.
"Nothing wrong with a simple life," Harry challenges.
That earns him a chuckle. A strum of the harp.
"Nothing about you is simple either, hinya."
Harry snickers with that one, but he can't disagree. Nothing in his life has ever been classified as plain or easy. He need only look around him to know the truth of that.
He hears Káno laugh, likely at his own remark, and he accompanies it with a jaunty ditty. A great fondness for this elf rises in Harry even as he listens. A pleasing mix of silver sleighbells and ocean chimes.
He thinks about Káno. About his thin shoulders. His patched tunic. A care package wouldn't be that difficult. Really, it wouldn't. He's made reusable portkeys before. It's been a while, certainly, but the process wouldn't be any different here than on Earth. Harry has the power to do it, even all the way to Endor, could scry for Káno's location. Or better yet just tie to his aura directly.
Or maybe something akin to the vanishing cabinet? That would be harder initially but easier in the long-term. A bag to carry that he could blood-link to Káno alone.
As for the contents, he already cooks for himself here, meals for one unless an Ainu's present. And while it's always fascinating to watch their faces when they try some Earth dishes, the ones most dissimilar from elven cuisine, it wouldn't be hard to include Káno. Or even to include some of the excess number of clothes that Vairë and her handmaidens still foist upon him.
Káno knows about his magic already, too. Nienna told him from the beginning; Harry wouldn't have to explain much about the process.
It truly would work out rather well, Harry decides. Káno has taught him so much, has been such a good companion. A friend. The best. His best.
Harry can and will do this for him.
"Have you had dinner yet?" he asks Káno then, and he's not aiming for Slytherin subtle. He's heading right for Hufflepuff purpose.
That earns him several seconds of silence as the elf shifts like a guilty gull. One caught taking fish from the sailor's haul.
"You can't just wander the shore all night," Harry rebukes like the professor he once was.
Káno chuckles, and it's birds tittering. Chirping on the dunes.
"You sound like my mother." He snorts then, and the sound is gloriously real. "Correction, you sound like my brother. I have you know that it's near dawn now. Dinner hour's well past."
"Breakfast then," Harry corrects.
He can't see Káno roll his eyes, but there's a very distinct impression of it.
"What's brought this on?" his friend questions, but he's still cheerful. Still relaxed and lulling like the sound of waves. "You haven't fussed like this in quite some time."
Harry considers his answer. Debates it. Weighs the truth versus deflection. He's never liked lies. Knows that they always come back times three. But reality is a matter of perspective. If there's one thing he's learned in art, it's that standing a little to the left makes the picture appear very differently indeed.
Still… no house can stand on a shaky foundation. Can weather repeated storms if there are cracks.
"I can see you, you know," Harry tells him because he's a Gryffindor at the end of the day.
Káno goes completely still. Not just his music but everything. The tides and sea and sky that make up his essence are motionless. Like he's been struck by a curse. Like he's forgotten how to exist for a moment.
"What? "
It isn't said so much as thought across an echoing chasm. Across an empty shore as the water recedes in preparation for the tsunami.
Harry gazes at the ocean of Káno's being; he's both humbled and alarmed at being able to wreck someone so completely with a single phrase. It's such a terrible and great power. One he's known existed but never quite understood so entirely until now.
It's terrifying. It's all the things Tom Riddle strove to possess, to control that Harry's rejected utterly.
He knows that his eyes are wide and alarmed as he very quickly adds, "Not all of you."
Káno's silent. Deathly so. Like Harry's stabbed him through the back, through the heart, and he's bleeding out onto the sands. There's no struggle. Just horrified immobility.
"When we do the rituals," Harry continues with the insight that he's set something in motion that won't be stopped, "I can see you taking shape."
The harp shudders like Káno just took a deep inhalation. Like he suddenly remembered the need for air.
"Not your face," Harry adds, and it's said with the hope of revival. Of reconciliation. Of salvaging this growing nightmare. "I can't see that. I only see… well, you. That you're thin and don't take very good care of yourself. I didn't mean to spy on you."
"Hinya… I…"
Káno hesitates like he can't get out the words. Like he doesn't know what to say.
The fact that he's still here. That he hasn't put down the harp and walked off is at least a good sign. Better than Harry could and should hope for. After all, he knows what it is to need to hide. To want to pretend away the ugly parts and pray that no one ever sees. He's sorry for taking away that safety. For stealing that security.
And he shouldn't ask; it isn't his right. It's not his place. Harry hasn't earned it. Has taken more than Káno was willing to give.
But he can't quite stop himself.
"Does it hurt? When you play?"
He doesn't have to explain. Káno knows what Harry means; he always does.
Káno sighs though. A gust that blows away sea foam and stirs up sand. He sounds tired. Defeated. Like a whale stuck on the beach and unable to fight for freedom any longer.
"Not now," he murmurs after a moment. "It did for a long time but not anymore. Not with…"
Harry closes his eyes. "With the magic?"
"Yes," the elf admits, and it's reluctantly. "Less each time. It's healing the further we go."
"Even the scar?"
For a second, he doesn't think Káno will answer, but he's too forgiving for his own good. To willing to give what Harry's seeking to take.
"All of it," Káno confirms.
"I'm glad," Harry tells him. "I don't want you to be hurt."
The quiet stretching between them is less painful, but he can feel Káno shifting on the sand. Feel him pulling his knees to his chest and setting his harp next to him as surely as if Harry were actually there with him. Dawn is so close, but Káno faces the wrong direction; he's looking west over the water. The sky is still a tapestry of lights. A sea of stars. A window into the cosmos.
"Herurrívë," Káno whispers then.
The world takes a long breath and exhales. Formenos stirs, settles more comfortably on her foundations. The air shifts with a sigh of chill and ice, but it's not foreboding. It's welcoming. Like stepping out into a wonderland.
Harry merely blinks. Once and again. He puzzles at the word – a title maybe? He tilts his head this way and that because it sounds almost like a name. But that can't be right. He doesn't know who that is.
"Herurrívë," Káno repeats, and his voice curls around the syllables.
Harry can hear the faint frost in them like a winter's gentle kiss. Like the first snowfall and children laughing as they run outside the next morning. The rise and fall of their calls to each other. The lilt of Káno's tone. The slowly growing smile in his voice even without seeing it.
A name. It's definitely a name.
"It's a gift. For you," Káno says, and he's warming to tropical waters. Calm and turquoise clear. "We give names to those who are important to us."
It's… When they talked about a new name, Nienna suggested Marcaunon. He took it as a second one because that's what elves did and Harry didn't want to stand out more than necessary.
Hérion was chosen for many reasons. Not the least of which was its simplicity and similarity to his prior name. Close enough that he'd answer to it naturally. The Ainur all had relatively simple names as well. At least the ones they preferred.
This is… This is… It's…
Káno considered this. He can tell. Has put effort and time into it.
"Take it," Káno tells him when Harry doesn't answer, when he can't, "It's yours. I want you to have it."
Harry can't do anything but accept.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Silmaril – Yeet!
Idril – OMG!
Celebrían – OMG!
Elwing – … …
Harry – FML!
Gil-galad – Riding or dying his way through this dumpster fire.
Tuor – So that happened.
Eärendil – Eärendil is a free elf!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Varda – Thinking loving thoughts about creation.
Varda – Vibing with the universe.
Varda – Contemplating the heavens and all her beautiful stars.
Varda – Spitting her morning tea all over herself as a shockwave goes over Aman.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Angrod – What the holy hell was that?
Argon – Picks himself off the floor.
Finrod – Is the Dagor Dagorath starting?
Findis – No, nephew. This was something else entirely.
Fingon – I think… I think the Oath just broke.
Fingolfin – But how? How is that even possible?
Finarfin – Rubs his temples. We know of only one Fëanorion currently free.
All – Look at each other in dismay and horror.
Fingolfin – He wouldn't! Not the Oath!
Fingon – Puts his head in his hands, while regretting every decision he's ever made.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Maglor – Sitting on a beach. Considering. Contemplating. Thinking. Mediating. Pondering. Debating.
Maglor – Sighs.
Maglor – This naming thing is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. How did my mother do this seven times?
Notes:
AN: And the mystery of Eärendil’s eye color since apparently it changed at some point.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"You!"
Harry sees his life flash before his eyes. He's just to the part where he arrived in Mandos when a vengeful Ñoldo bears down on him in the downstairs hallway of Fingon's estate, three steps outside of the main entranceway as they come in from the stables. He's managed to deposit Indilwen there successfully without anyone the wiser, but Harry knows his luck wouldn't hold. It never does.
Now, he sees every bad decision that has led him here. He wonders if Nienna will have mercy on him. The other Valar really don't seem up to it right now.
Come on, Manwë! For once? A little lightning? Some thunder? Hail and a tornado to suck him away? He heard of a story like that from Hermione. Sometimes, he really feels like he's in Oz, and he wonders how Kansas is doing.
Harry can only brace himself as Argon all but tackles him to the wall. It's directly behind him, which is the sole reason that the elf hasn't brought both of them to the floor. A hand behind his head keeps him from smacking into the marble and plaster, but he still feels all the air rush from his lungs as he's half-squeezed, half-clutched to a very muscular chest like a mother does her newborn.
Gil-galad, that traitor, is too busy cackling beside him. Celebrían has disappeared for parts unknown. Either leaving him to his fate. Or, more likely, she's gone to find her grandfather like the sensible person that she is.
Argon is still gripping him like a werewolf mauls a deer, or like Grawp once hugged that spider, when Findis arrives. Harry feels her before he sees her. Can hear her sedate steps down the elaborate staircase and then against the tiles with the sharp click of her heels. She stops exactly five feet away.
"Stop suffocating him," Findis orders very calmly. Too calmly.
Argon finally pulls back, both hands now around Harry's shoulders. He's still against the wall, but he can actually breathe again. It's a welcome change.
Harry doesn't even mind the stare down he's getting.
"What were you even thinking?" Argon demands then, and his tone is unexpectedly stern, like Mr. Weasley lecturing his sons. "Were you thinking? Did cousin drop you on your head as a child?"
"I was never dropped on my head by anybody," Harry retorts as he tries – and fails – to extricate himself without using too much force, but he's held far too tightly now with fingers twisted in his tunic and robe both. It's a no go without a true struggle. Or magic.
Argon gives him a look of utter disbelief. One that Findis mirrors, though hers comes off even more sardonic. She has a fan in her hand, which she snaps against her palm as Celebrían reappears.
"And you two," Findis adds and points with her fan from Gil-galad to her niece, "helping him like this!"
Harry somehow manages a step forward, Argon dragging along. And what an interesting spectacle that must make?
Her attention rivets back to him.
"They had nothing to do with this. It was all me," Harry states immediately. "Don't take it out on them."
He hears Argon sigh right above his ear. Then, he's pulled into another hug. It isn't aggressive this time. It's quieter, gentler as arms settle around his back, and he finds his temple being pressed against a shoulder. A chin settles on top of his head.
Harry tenses immediately, but Argon is warm. Like Fingon. Like Fingolfin. Like a living fur cloak wrapping around him. However, he's Gryffindor red while they're burnished gold. Still valiant, still noble but less like a king or hero from a storybook. More like a friend at his side, a comforting grasp. He reminds Harry of the twins, honestly. Of George before Fred died. Of playfulness and easy acceptance and jokes even at the darkest hour. They supported him through Quidditch practices and ostracism during his schooling and rescued him from the Dursleys, too.
Harry finds himself relaxing despite himself. He leans in and exhales slowly as Argon rubs across his neck. Lets himself sink into this warmth, to the sentiment offered, and closes his eyes. It's so comfortable. Even… safe.
"We're not mad," the elf says then. It's soft like the swish of a tail. "Just worried."
Harry doesn't respond. Just nods against him. Just sinks in further and lets out a sigh. He isn't quite sure how long they stand like that, but Argon doesn't push him away. Allows him as long as he wants before Harry finally steps back.
He waits even more patiently for Harry's to steady himself before pulling him along upstairs. He doesn't fully let go as he escorts all of them down the corridors to everyone else. They're in Fingon's office, all the members of the House of Finwë who're in residence. Finarfin and Fingolfin stand in front of the desk while Findis marches over to the back cabinet and turns the key; she starts pulling out glasses and a wine bottle. Finrod and Angrod are at the table by the balcony as if trying to stay out of the way. Celebrían moves over to linger near them, but Finrod stands and guides her into his chair.
Fingon is in the center of the room as he waits for them. His arms are crossed, head bowed, but he glances up as soon as they enter. He strides over before they can fully finish walking inside, bumping his brother out of position and coming to stand just in front of Harry. Words seem to be failing him, however. Harry can see a thousand of them fly across his face before he's jerked forward. He thinks he's going to be struck for a fleeting second. That he's finally going to get the anger he deserves.
Instead, he's pulled down and a forehead bumps against his; Harry startles at the tenderness of it. At the affection that tugs at his shields and asks him to come outside. Summer warmth against winter snow thawing into spring soft rain. Snowdrops blossoming in the suddenly revealed green grass.
"Herurrívë," Fingon finally murmurs but says nothing else as his hand finds the back of Harry's neck.
Harry feels his throat tighten at the press of emotions. At the fear and relief and sorrow and fondness… So many that he stops being able to name them all as they drizzle through in steady drops. As they build into a surge and he's left trying to tread water against the flood. His eyes burn from the force of everything. He blinks rapidly and takes a shuddering breath. He trembles, can't stop shaking.
Fingolfin is suddenly there. He's contained heat behind a stone hearth. Not burning but definitely felt as he pulls Harry away from his son. As Fingon takes a reluctant step back. There's a pause as no one touches Harry at all, Fingolfin's hand hovering over his sleeve just out of reach but far enough away.
Winter chill rushes in. Clears the air with a blast of cold freshness. It isn't harsh, but it's centering. He's himself again. Just him in his thoughts. The snowdrops are still there, but the spring is again winter. Not terrible. More like a fresh snowfall. Gentle drifting flakes that bring children out to play. Sleighbells echoing in the background.
After a moment, Harry finally exhales. He's still alone in his mind. The emotions there are solely his own now, and he can think again.
Only then, does Fingolfin steer him forward into the room, touching only his clothes and not his skin as they go further away from the door. And a quick escape, he's certain. But Fingolfin merely squeezes his shoulder before releasing him and returning to his brother's side.
"Where is it?" Finarfin asks after he looks Harry over from head to toe with his green glass eyes; he sounds and looks tired. Like he's been up for days. Hair duller than usual and fine lines on his brow.
Harry knows exactly the distance from Idril's house to here; he's ridden it twice in as many weeks. He suspects that Finarfin has likely slept little during the time it took them to cross it.
"Here."
Behind him, Gil offers up his bag.
Everyone hesitates. They pause as they glance from Harry to Gil-galad; Angrod and Finrod even turn from looking out the balcony doors. Gil just keeps walking forward, unwrapping the scarf. The Silmaril's light is slow to emerge at first, but then, it bursts free like an unhooded hawk. Gil places it on the desk, between the brothers, and the entire room just stares.
Save for Harry. He has his eyes closed, but everything is shaded in red like the sun is beaming down on his face.
Save for Gil-galad. Who's returned to stand at his shoulder with a hand wrapping around his elbow.
It's possible some of them have never even seen a Silmaril before. Celebrían had only because she has visited Eärendil on multiple occasions. He isn't sure about everyone else. If any of them have seen Fëanor's creations in person or only heard about them secondhand. Certainly, Finarfin and Fingolfin have. Fingon likely has as well. Finrod probably when he was with Beren and Luthien.
The others, Harry isn't even sure.
The silence stretches out like a yawning bear awakening from hibernation. Flexing claws and opening her mouth to show all of her sharp teeth.
"You said the Oath," Fingon states at last. He's now slightly off to the side but still close enough that Harry could extend out his hand to touch if he tried hard enough.
His words aren't truly an accusation. More an assertion of fact. Like he's commenting on the color of someone's cloak or the hilt of their sword.
"I…"
How does he even start to explain this? Harry has no idea as he finally glances at them.
Showing them that the Silmaril is aware won't even be the weirdest thing they've ever seen him do. He's starting to get the feeling it won't be the last. Some part of him regrets that. Regrets that they ever saw this side of him. That the illusion of normalcy is broken. That they'll now always know what a freak he is.
It was nice while it lasted, he thinks. Being considered as one of them. An elf. Fitting in. Pretending, even if only for a time, to be anything but what he is.
A liar. A fraud. A mistake.
"You must have," Argon insists breaking his musings with a motion that asks him to come clean.
Harry doesn't shift on his feet. He was a healer who became a professor and then a headmaster. He's the one who made naughty children confess things. Not the other way around. Although he'll admit that the look the sons of Finwë are giving him right now along with Findis' raised eyebrow, Argon's crossed arms, and Fingon's head tilt… it's all very effective. He doesn't even dare turn his gaze to the rest of the room to see what Angrod, Celebrían, and Finrod are doing. He can even feel Gil's unvoiced question in the press of his hand.
"Technically…" Harry begins.
Fingolfin puts a hand on his forehead, covering his eyes, as he laughs. It's a hysterical, ironic sound. It is not the noise a sane man makes.
Finarfin has his head tipped back, gazing at the ceiling as if it has all the answers. Harry hears him murmuring a prayer to Manwë for strength, and that's just rude. Manwë never answers those and much prefers to come in person or send Eönwë, and he was just here.
"Nephew," they both say at the same time and look at each other.
Fingon makes a noise that Harry's becoming well acquainted with. Like a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
Argon just sighs.
"If there was any doubt," Findis mutters to herself, "there certainly isn't any now." She takes a long sip of her wine.
He hears Finrod chuckling uncontrollably in the background. Angrod is speaking to him, but his voice is drowned out by the sound. Gil simply steps up fully beside him and threads their fingers together.
The Silmaril just shines innocently at them all. Radiates pure brilliance like a miniature star as it hovers just above the surface of the table.
"What's done is done," Celebrían says at last. She's soft, silvery in the light, but there's a core of pure adamant in her bearing. "We all have to decide now what to do with it."
As one, they all stare at Harry.
"But… what am I even supposed to with this?" Harry asks everyone but no one in particular.
Since really? He doesn't own the Silmaril; he has no real stake in this game. Yes, he lives in Fëanor's former home, and his family has basically demanded that they get to adopt him. And there's Káno to--
"Well, it is yours," Finrod interrupts as he waves a gallant hand.
His brother nods in agreement. "If you want to know the exact statue of possession and inheritance, I'm sure atar and I could find it for you."
That isn't reassuring at all. Besides, Harry begs to differ. Completely. Utterly. Entirely.
"I don't want it," he states then. It's quite firm.
They all give him a very unimpressed look. It's almost identical on Findis and Fingolfin along with his oldest son. Finarfin's is more pained, as if he's far too sober to deal with this. Argon seems to be enjoying himself along with Finrod, and Angrod is hiding a smirk with a turn of his head. Celebrían merely rolls her eyes. Gil is at least kind enough to keep holding his hand.
Harry doesn't pinch his nose. Nor does he bang his head against the closest wall. They'd stop him before he could even get there.
He honestly, really, and truly does not want the Silmaril. It's the least subtle thing he's ever seen. And coming from a person with an enchanted ceiling in his great hall along with a meadow for a floor, that's really saying something.
"Don't put it in your desk drawer," his elf whispers to him, but it's loud enough for everyone else to hear.
Argon snickers because this truly is ridiculous.
"He would," he agrees, however.
Harry doesn't know if he should feel attacked or complimented. He feels rather put out when not even Gil comes to defend him, but he's slightly mollified when his hand is squeezed.
"I don't think anyone else will truly seek it now," Finarfin allows after a moment, fingers massaging his forehead. "The Valar cleansed it for Eärendil, and Moringotto's curse is long shed."
Findis snorts with her wine glass pressed against her cheek. "I should think you'd be able to defend it well enough regardless," she states and casts a glance at Harry. There's a gleam in her gaze as if knowing or guessing at some truth.
The air in the room is a slight bit chillier at her words. No one comments on that.
"If you truly wish to be rid of it, nephew," Fingolfin cuts in then. "I'm sure you and Nerdanel can reach some sort of arrangement." His mouth is behind his hand, but Harry can still see his smile.
Harry takes a moment to consider that as a possibility. It's even one he'd pondered before. Out of everyone on Valinor, she likely has the strongest claim. He'll have to send her a message when they get back to Formenos. Which means he'll probably have to plan a trip to bring it to her. She resides with her father, Harry believes, but he isn't entirely certain where that is. Perhaps near Aulë? Harry's never actually been to his mansions before.
It's yet more added to Harry's never-ending to-do list. Yet another thing for him to worry over and stress about. Elves don't get headaches; Harry almost thinks it'd be easier on his stress level if they did. If he had something that he could treat. That he could fix.
His free hand goes to his temples, but a palm falls on his shoulder even as Harry tries to figure out logistics. Harry doesn't startle, but he does shift his gaze to see Fingolfin in front of him again. He belatedly notices when Gil-galad frees his hand, but he doesn't look as Fingolfin is drawing his attention.
"All will be well," the older elf tells him. His eyes are silvery and assured, serene as the moon on a cloudless night. "You'll see."
Harry allows himself to be drawn in. Allows himself to be pulled forward. Accepts the reassurance offered and just exhales.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The balcony has great lighting; Harry will give it that. The morning sun peeks perfectly over the horizon as Harry turns his easel to face south. It'll be hot today, sweltering as it has been since the rains stopped, but Harry isn't truly bothered by such things nowadays. Hot. Cold. Dry. Wet. It's all the same to him. Even darkness and light. He sees just as well. Can work just the same.
He's been laboring on this piece whenever he can steal the time, has already been up all night. Working on this ever since his canvas of Formenos. But it's still in progress, one of his more time intense projects in the last year despite the smaller size compared to others.
Gil hasn't told him exactly what he wants for his own painting yet, but Harry does think his next will be either Eönwë again or his favorite elf with his spear. Perhaps he can have a little spar. Or even model his armor for it as well. Purely for research purposes. Yes, definitely that.
It's a pleasant thought. An interesting diversion as the sun starts to truly rise, and Harry keeps going. A grassy plain has already taken full shape along with the trees on the left. The sky will be a miniature of his great hall, and that's what he completes first. The mountains in the distance need a little more shading but are just about done. His centerpiece, however. The stars of the show are his true focus.
Harry's almost giddy as he works. As the sun climbs higher above him. As Gil brings him tea that he's directly handed. Harry sips for a few seconds before putting it to the side and completely ignoring. Forgetting.
He's too focused. Too intent.
It's strange, really. Harry's never had a deadline before. He's always worked at his own pace. Taken his time to get it just right.
This is a different dragon. This is a broom-race, not a simmering potion. It's a sprint. A reckless dive after the snitch where a single mistake will ruin the entire game. Sure, he can start over. Sure, Harry can't truly be hurt even by breaking his neck. But he can fail. He can crash and burn.
Or he can soar.
Risk versus reward.
It's thrilling.
Harry's always performed best under pressure. Always turns certain defeat into victory. In the instant that would break others, he's always risen.
He laughs even as he strokes in gold. Here. And here. A swirl more of red. Vivid, eye-catching. Filling out the mane and tail.
Then, he switches to silver to touch up the underside of the wings. To make them even more dazzling.
Harry hears his elf moving in the room behind him. Drawers opening and closing. A door swinging. Footsteps back and forth. It's a cadence to his work. A background rhythm as he adds more black and then shifts over for a whirl of bronze.
Time loses meaning as he concentrates. As he feels Gil-galad come over periodically to peer past him before going back inside. Celebrían stops in when the sun is at its zenith. He hears them talking behind him. Lunch is mentioned, but nobody leaves. Gil walks over again to check Harry's progress.
He hesitates then. Blinks as a chin settles on his shoulder and an arm circles around his waist. Takes a surprised breath as he's pulled back against a chest. Harry's brush is dangling loosely in his fingers before it's taken and set to the side. His elf leads him off the balcony and back inside; there's a table in their room now. It's a small circle with two white chairs. On top are covered plates along with glasses, napkins, and silverware. Celebrían smiles winningly at them both as she stands and surveys her good work.
Harry looks at it all with bafflement. He has no idea when this even happened.
There should be an armchair here. There was an armchair here last he looked. It's missing now, disappeared for parts unknown. Harry doesn't know when that happened either.
There's a chuckle then; Harry knows that it's at him as Gil gently puts him in a chair and takes the other. Harry is still just looking at him as Celebrían bends down to press a kiss to his cheek. He tilts his head at her as she turns, flouncing off with a swish of her pink dress and waving over her shoulder.
Harry ponders the last time he's seen her even as Gil-galad takes the covers off their meals. How many days has it been? Three? Four? Was it in Fingon's office? When they brought the Silmaril?
That's at the bottom of Harry's trunk currently. It's wrapped in the scarf again, occasionally sending him a sleepy pulse of radiance to remind him that it's still here. Still content to be in his general vicinity.
Gil fills his glass, and the sound of it clinking on the table brings Harry back. He eats absentmindedly as he considers what else he needs to finish, and his plate is empty before he realizes it. His elf merely waves him away after that, and Harry wanders back to the balcony. Reaching for his brush, which has just started drying. He loses himself again in the colors and enhancement. In the pigments and mystique. There's a knock on the door, but Harry barely even hears it.
Everything is coming together. Is just about finished. Only a few touches left. A stroke there. A touch-up here. A little more to the mane. Fluff the feathers a bit. Refine the grass blades in front just so.
Then, he's done.
Harry pauses for a minute to look over everything, but it's exactly as he envisioned it before he started.
It's perfect.
He's smiling as he breathes the final magic in.
Everything wakes slowly. In the distance, he sees the moon set while the horizon starts brightening. The sky is still a deep, dark blue that's almost purple, and it'll take some time for the heavens to lighten fully. The circle of fur and feathers in the center is still fast asleep. Harry lets them for now; he wants someone else to be there to see it.
He lets out a happy sound then. Part satisfaction, part giddiness. Stretching his arms overhead and peering around. In the real world, the sun is nearly at the horizon with streaks of red trailing after.
Behind him, Gil stirs. His packing is completely forgotten, clothes and combs and all manner of things scattered on the bed behind them. He's been too busy watching Harry to finish, but now, he walks over and presses lips to Harry's skin. There's laughter in his ear as he watches the scene unfold. Standing behind Harry for a long time before offering another, lingering kiss and returning to his packing.
Harry watches as he goes before turning back to his now finished work. It's a fitting gift, he knows. They're leaving tomorrow, so it'll have to be now though. Dinner is soon, and there will be too much distraction after.
Fingon is easy enough to find. Harry just follows his aura unerringly down the hallway to where his room is. Harry's never been inside, but before he can even have indecision, his host is at the door. He raises a brow more at the canvas in Harry's hands than Harry himself; he steps back either way. He's still watching as Harry comes inside and looks around to find the appropriate spot.
For all that he's the master of this estate, his room truly isn't more elaborate or grander in size than anyone else's here. The bed is a darker wood, almost black, but the materials are the same quality. The wardrobe is almost identical to Gil's save for the color and detailing, and in place of an open space in front of the unlit hearth, there's two chairs with a small table and gameboard set between them. The vanity is slightly smaller but in the exact same spot, as are the balcony doors, and in the corner, by built-in bookshelves, is another very comfortable-looking armchair. This one in ivory instead of blue.
Harry ultimately chooses that as his new easel. Fingon gives him an assessing look first, but he eventually follows direction and takes everything in. Just as Harry knew it would be, his eye is drawn to the middle.
To the glorious griffin in bronze and red. To the noble hippogriff in silver and black with hints of gold in the outline of the body and wings. Harry doubts Fingon has ever seen either creature in real life – they don't exist here. The only one who's ever actually seen them before is Harry.
Until now.
Fingon stares as they lay together, entwined. Curled so tightly together that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins save for the hues.
Until the griffin rouses and opens glowing gray eyes.
Fingon breath hitches and stops, but Harry knows that he still lives by the sound of his heart beating frantically and the blazing press of this aura. He's mesmerized. Gaze fixated as the griffin lifts his head and starts inspecting his surroundings. As he turns to the still dozing hippogriff and drapes over a wing.
The elf doesn't inhale until Harry very gently nudges him. He takes a trembling breath followed by another. He can't look away even as he blindly reaches for Harry. Even as he jerks him into his side, arm around his back. Even as he starts laughing with awe and longing in equal parts.
"You are a wonder, nephew," he whispers and then says nothing else for a very long time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He doesn't tell Andromeda. Not everything. Not many or even most things. He tries to keep things happier. Lighter for her sake.
She worries; Harry knows she does. As much as Molly ever has even if it's quieter, more disciplined as befitting a serpent. She worried when he traveled the world even as he came back every weekend to see Teddy. Worried more since he's been back as her apprentice despite their time officially ending and him now at St Mungo's for the last eighteen months.
She won't ever stop worrying, he thinks. Not after Ted. Not after Tonks. It's the nature of parents.
Still, he doesn't want to make her fears worse. She knows about some of the incidents but not all. Just the ones officially reported to the Aurors. The ones that Ron and Gawain Robards are trying so hard to track down.
There've been others. Separate events that Harry's sure are absolutely unrelated. He hardly thinks that the former Death Eaters the Ministry hunts would work alongside hags, a very peculiar vampire, two rambunctious tieflings, and a gang of goblins.
Ragnok apologized for that last one personally. Bestowed a wergild of thousand galleons, a sharp bow when Harry didn't make a fuss, and the heads of his four attackers nicely wrapped in a gilded box. It's the thought that counts, Harry supposes.
But Ragnok is old now. He knows that he'll eventually retire to a venerable position as an elder on the goblin council. His heir is a cunning-eyed gentlegoblin, Steelclaw, with the manners of a courtly noble and the throwing skills of a ninja. He's the one to finish off the last would-be assassin after Harry has wounded them but kept them all alive with no real idea of what to do next.
Harry'll never look at quills the same way after that.
Still, it's all become more of a mess than even Harry expected. He knew defeating Tom would have repercussions; he's not that much of an idiot. The power vacuum alone was appalling until Kingsley wrestled the government into submission with the help of the Order, Percy Weasley, and Lucius Malfoy of all people. But the sheer number of petty grievances, grift, and incompetence is staggering. And that's just the Ministry.
Harry was sheltered from it as a baby. Not as a newly-turned adult. Not as their savior who hadn't done things on their timeline and to their specifications.
Of course, most people are delighted. Thrilled even to be going back towards their normal, benign lives. Content to stick their heads in the sand and not notice all the changes being made in the background as long as it isn't too much of a bother for them.
But the old saying that one can't please everybody is now Harry's new catch phrase. Leaving to travel the world wasn't just to escape his fame and marriage contracts.
Not all that many Death Eaters died with their lord. Some were captured, yes. But a number of his supporters were never even marked. Few were courteous enough for actual death threats. Most just sent the curses flying – case in point Amycus Carrow.
There are even Muggleborns and half-bloods who're angry that he didn't defeat Voldemort sooner. That he didn't martyr himself for them earlier. Several non-humans take umbrage with him, too. But not many of them would actually try to hurt Harry with anything more than their words, the incident in Gringotts notwithstanding.
Harry knows he'll weather this storm like everything else, but it's a bitter potion really. Hurts as much as the dagger to the back did before he pulled it free and healed himself. Helping people is its own reward, but he never expected punishment for it.
No good deed indeed. Hmph.
One good thing, he can say though is that his mail is better screened nowadays. It should be; he pays people for it. A service definitely worth not being hexed or cursed or potioned into a relationship, and that was a very near miss on Dean's part right after the war. All of them were more than a bit paranoid about unknown senders now; Romilda Vane isn't forgotten so easily either.
Not to mention there are only so many places to reach Harry in person.
St Mungo's is public, but it's a high priority target with Aurors and Hit Wizards permanently stationed. Plus, there are other measures after the war and just for unruly patients, anxious family members, or unstable magic.
Harry's home is unplottable, address unpublished, and warded with the sort of spells not available to the public. It also has Fidelius with Harry as his own secret keeper. Andy's residence is similar along with all Order members nowadays.
He's allowed to portkey directly to Ragnok's office or even to his vaults so that minimizes his exposure in Gringotts.
He visits most of his friends at their homes or has them come to him. He rarely goes out unless truly necessary, and Kreacher does a lot of the normal shopping.
He avoids Diagon like the plague. Hogsmeade now too after the last Killing Curse. If he has to go in person to stores, it's done by apparating to Place Cachée or heading into the Muggle London, usually the latter. He can blend in easily, and who would ever look for him there?
Or so Harry thinks.
He feels the tingle of the first spell before he sees it. He's just walking by a side street on his way to his preferred apparition point, but he's already ducking out of the way on instinct as the electric blue light is about half-way to him. His shield is cast wordlessly, before his wand even truly drops into his hand, and deflects the following curse right back. A third goes wide and above. Harry is thirty feet to the left an instant later. Crouching between two parked cars. Scanning around with eyes, ears, and magic.
It's late, sun already set, but not quite time for the shops to be closed. There are still people milling around, but not as many as there would've been earlier in the day. Some have turned to where the spells landed. Others to where they came from. A few have dropped to the ground automatically. Several haven't even noticed anything's a miss at all until another four spells fly through the area where he just was. Harry recognizes three of them but not the last. He forces all of them into the ground through a combination of indignation and sheer will.
Magic does what it wants, but it'll listen if you can plead, seduce, or outright subjugate it enough. Or if you are a favored child like Tom or Dumbledore.
He could run right now; this is his chance. Harry's probably the target, but there's always the chance that he's not. That this truly is a coincidence
He can't leave people to be injured or worse to save himself.
There's a moment of silence, like the other magicals are surprised at what happened. But Harry's not waiting on their behalf. He's already started locating them. One, two… More.
He apparates again to the rooftop that's occupied by a pair. To behind where their position should be. A healing charm that guarantees a full twenty-four hours of sleep and has no known counter takes them both out. He glues them down just in case and summons both their wands along with any back-up weapons or even portkeys, but they don't have any.
Harry finds three more together at the opening of an alleyway across the avenue. Rinse and repeat but the last one has started to turn just as she goes down. He knows he's nearly out of time.
He can feel the remaining trio starting to move, but one of them is slowed – was hit by the rebound of their earlier curse and is injured. Them separate, however, as they finally realize the danger they're in. He doesn't want them to get any bright ideas.
The summoning charm doesn't work on sapient beings but will on their clothes; a number of people are able to fight it off though. Much lesser known though is that it's possible to apparate someone else without actually touching them. To put your magic in a field around and pull.
Line of sight makes it easier. Power and practice do, too. Harry can see all three easily once he's back up high enough. And he's certainly got the power. Earth is large, and some countries are very vast or far apart from one another. Harry had a lot of practice on his world tour.
He saves the injured assailant for last, but he's down and out just like the others soon enough. Harry rolls him over, getting ready to stick him to the rooftop as well, but he freezes as he gets a better look at the face.
It's Kevin Entwhistle; Harry recognizes him. Not from school so much now, though he knows they had some classes together. He was a Ravenclaw, Harry thinks. A Muggleborn. Had graduated Hogwarts late due to the Death Eaters.
He was in the paper maybe a year or so back. A birth announcement for his son.
Harry feels his heart speed up with dawning realization. More so as he slowly rechecks his other attackers; he hadn't really bothered earlier in the heat of the moment. Nevertheless, he knows six of the eight, and the other two are enough like the rest to be family members.
It's… Never in his wildest dreams…
Harry crouches down on the roof, holly wand in his hand, even as he sends the message to Ron and the other Aurors.
He doesn't know what to feel. What to think.
It's one thing for it to be Death Eaters. He can even understand goblins being angry that he's gotten off so lightly for stealing their dragon and destroying part of the bank. The vampire was really a misunderstanding; that was all sorted out easily enough. The tiefling pair was just very determined and unable to take no for an answer. The hags… Harry didn't even want to think too hard on any of that mess; Ron still says it's taken care of now.
But this? This isn't just drunken words or an offer that's a tad too pushy or even a request for a lock of his hair, creepy as that was.
Harry exhales heavily as he feels the first brush of magic. Then, he hears the pops of others arriving.
Kevin isn't dead, but he'll be in for a very bad time of things when he wakes up. All of them will. This is a Muggle area; this is a regular street in London. The Obliviators will be going spare making sure this is contained, especially with the way more cameras are added every day. Not to mention the Aurors and Kingsley. Ron and Hermione. Andromeda. All the Weasleys. The DA. The Order.
The papers. Harry knows this will be tomorrow's headline. Would be this evening's but that's already run.
He hasn't even told Andromeda about everything else, but he knows this is too big to keep from her. Too big to contain.
Harry shakes his head. His hands tighten then. Right curling around his wand. Left clenching against his ring.
He's still shaking his head when Ron steps up to his side and puts an arm around his shoulders.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Argon – You said the Oath.
Harry – I didn't.
Angrod – You totally said the Oath.
Harry – I really didn't.
Fingon – Be honest here.
Harry – I totally didn't maybe kinda say the Oath. Except that one time.
Everyone – Why are you like this?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – If Eärendil wore the Silmaril, maybe I can just…
Insert vision montage of stapling Silmaril to the sky vs making his patronus carry it around every night vs putting it on an enchanted paper airplane vs a thousand other ideas.
Harry – Opens desk drawer. I'll just put it in here for now.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Maia #1 – Walks to the cell. Come with me, prisoner.
Fëanor – Behind the bars, lying on a cot wild west style. What's going on, deputy?
Maia #2 – The warden wants to talk to you. Keep your hands where we can see 'em.
Fëanor – Walks out with boots clicking on the floor and spurs jingling. Pauses. Not without my hat.
Maia #1 – Rolls eyes.
Maia #2 – Summons it directly on his head.
Fëanor – Inspects hat for a moment. It's supposed to be black.
Maia #2 – You've been upgraded for good behavior.
Notes:
AN: So we're almost back to Formenos. I promise.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Manwë is in his kitchen.
Harry knows it's the Lord of the Valar – their king, he supposes. It couldn't possibly be anyone else. What other person would have this aura? Who else would have a song like this? One of gales and cyclones and yet so completely and utterly calm. The proverbial eye of the hurricane. Hail dancing in the air. Lightning trapped in a glass bottle.
He's half-turned, in profile, as he studies the fresco on the wall. There's a sense of motion to him even as he's leaned over to examine the likeness of the Scottish countryside and Hogsmeade that spans the room. Harry can't see his eyes but can still follow his gaze from Hogwarts in the distance to the awaiting harvests in the fields to the students milling about the village, happily laughing as they go from store to store.
Harry inspects him in turn. His robe and hair flutter as if in a breeze, and the scent of rain loiters in the room. He's in graduated shades of blue from deepest summer night to a friendly sky color, and his hair is paler than the whitest clouds. His crown is gold with platinum wings extended over the sides and a trio of sapphires in the middle. His ears though are the surprise; they're rounded in the way of humans. Of Men. He's the first person in this world Harry's seen like this.
And maybe that's why. Perhaps that's why there's something recognizable about him. A sense of knowing. Of familiarity. But this is the first they've actually seen each other.
Harry supposes it could be due to the other Ainur he's encountered. Maybe some combination of Eönwë and Ilmarë and the Valar. Harry's met most of them at this point, even if only in passing. Only Varda and Ulmo remain now.
Manwë finally straightens. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny of Harry's latest work.
"Marcaunon," the Vala greets but doesn't move.
His voice is a storm for all that the syllables are soft. Harry can feel the power of it in the air, in the floor beneath his bare feet. He can still smell rain, but the air is gentle as it swirls around his shoulders and across his back as if asking him to step forward. Harry does, leaving the doorway and entering the kitchen properly. The breeze circles around him like a particularly curious crow as he stops a polite distance away.
Manwë turns then with the ease of a leaf in the wind. He's handsome. Of course, he is. All the Ainur are. Exactly symmetrical with chiseled features that are an artist's dream. Eyes a blue so intense that it glows. Lips a perfect cupid's bow.
Harry can feel Manwë's full attention now. Hear the symphony of storms as it assesses him from toe on up. Observes him with something beyond human or even elven senses. Autumn gales sweep against winter's frost in a swirl of meeting. Rising and falling until floating into a harmony.
Manwë smiles, and Harry takes a deep breath at the rush. At the uplifting refrain and the current that bolsters him when he falters. That smoothly corrects each missed note and soothes over any discordance.
It's breathtaking. It's humbling. It lifts his chin when he tries to bow his head. Tells him that he is worthy. Makes all his insecurities and fears feel so small. So far away.
But then, the air rises. At last, he looks Harry in the eyes. Manwë stills. The music dies.
It's a complete absence of movement. Like a wind-up toy that's run out of energy. Like a statue carved of marble. Like the Muggle photographs Petunia used to have of Dudley. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. Harry can't even hear his heart beating.
His inner song is muted in a way that Harry's never heard of any other Ainu. There are no notes. No sounds. Only absolute silence that stretches out long enough for Harry to feel his own ice become a different sort of cold. For him to become truly concerned.
He thinks maybe he should do something? Get someone? Call for Nienna? He's broken Manwë, and he doesn't even know how he did it.
Just as Harry starts to inch closer, the music restarts. Faraway at first. A low rumble like distant thunder. The shift of displaced air.
Manwë is still staring at him, however.
"Green…"
It's said like a whisper of wind. Like air rustling fallen leaves. Like the crackle of electricity before the lightning strike.
Harry feels the static across his skin. Smells the ozone. Sees the flash when he blinks.
Perhaps the last is what breaks the spell. Manwë's suddenly looking upwards then. He isn't breathing yet, but that and his heart restart a few seconds later. The gales come next. Twirl around him like whirligig. Fast first and then slowing to a soft breeze. Manwë seems almost contrite when he ducks his head a moment later. When his attention finally rests on Harry again. Settles back on his eyes and remains fixed there. The intensity of his look is at odds with the gentleness of his melody as it flows between them.
"I apologize. Someone… someone once favored this color," he murmurs, and it's the pause between the flash and the thunder. "It surprised me to see it in the face of another."
Harry considers that statement.
Ainur are shapeshifters; Harry knows this – he's technically one himself. Some, like Vána and Nessa and Tulkas, shift frequently. Others, like Nienna, do so very rarely. But even with that, there are certainly forms and hues they prefer. That they use over and over again. Some are even as distinctive as their songs themselves. Some unique to certain families or couples or individuals and not used by anyone else.
"They're from my mother," Harry finally replies.
It's the truth, but not something anyone in this world has questioned or ever discussed until now. It's been so long since he even really thought of Lily or James Potter as more than a stray thought – or a denial about his parentage to the elves – and it's almost humorous to be doing so now. With the Lord of the Valar of all people.
Manwë looks at him for what feels like ages before giving a single, small nod.
"Your mother…" he muses. "Yes, of course."
It's said with an odd tone, but at this point, Harry simply lets it go. He offers a noncommittal sound as he turns and heads to the larder. It seems he'll be making enough for two tonight, he thinks. Running through ingredients in his head as he opens the door and is greeted by a waft of cool air, courtesy of the Cooling and Preservation Charms.
"What would you like?" Harry asks as he inspects the shelves.
That only earns him a perplexed expression. White eyebrows drawn low over those blue, blue eyes.
"For dinner?" Harry tries again, and he doesn't laugh because all the Ainu are like this. "What would you like?"
Manwë merely gazes at him. He blinks and even breathes in measured intervals. As if he's literally set a timer to remind himself to do so and not because it occurs naturally. It'd be odd, if Harry weren't so used to it by this point. Now, it's almost comical.
"I have no preference," Manwë responds. His voice is echoing gusts across the mountaintops, distant and eerie, but his song is utterly intrigued. A Kneazle with twitching whiskers. An owl turning his head this way and that.
Well, now. No preference, eh? That leaves an entire world of possibilities then.
Harry merely grins.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It shouldn't surprise Harry how much of a production it becomes just to leave Fingon's house. Between the farewell dinner the night before, complete with still awkward attendants, and the nightcap that lasts past midnight, they're up early to finish packing. His own trunk is shrunk and tucked away. Arranged with a wave of his hand when Gil-galad's bathing that morning. That earns him a suspicious and lasting look. Doubly so when he does the same for the last of Gil's things the second his back is turned and then pockets everything, too. His elf doesn't comment on that or the fact that they seemingly have zero belongings with them when they go downstairs. They do earn several sly glances from the rest of the House of Finwë, but nobody challenges them, not even Findis. Argon seems like he's itching to say something, but Harry sees Angrod very discreetly step on his foot. And that's that.
The entire household sees them off. Celebrían offers to come with them once again, but Gil redirects her effortlessly. Fingon and Fingolfin embrace him hard enough that Harry begins to worry about his ribs, and there's a round of hugs from everyone even Finarfin, which he accepts with good grace. Fingon follows them to the stables, embraces him one final time, and whispers something into his hair so faintly that even Harry can't hear it. Then, he watches with an unreadable expression while they mount and stands beside Indilwen as they prepare to leave
Harry reaches down. Fingon just stares at him without compression for a split second before grasping his arm.
"Thank you," Harry tells him. He doesn't have to explain for what.
Fingon squeezes back tightly. "Be safe, nephew."
He lets go and steps back then. Lets them both pass. Gives a salute in farewell to Gil-galad. Watches as they go through the gate.
Harry can still feel the weight of his gaze as they move onto the road. Their pace is sedate for now. Slow and relaxed. Letting the horses ease into what everyone assumes will be a long journey. Harry allows them think what they will. He knows the truth of things. Soon, his elf will also. The woods thicken around them as the road continues. Harry casts one last look over his shoulder as they go around the first bend. As the estate disappears into the trees.
Then, they're free. They avoid Tirion proper by mutual agreement, and Harry takes the lead since this is his show. The traditional route to Formenos will take well over a month by horseback, even riding nonstop from dusk until dawn. It's closer to seven weeks at a more leisurely pace, assuming the roads are good. More like nine with bad weather, which's what most people presume they'll have along the way. They'd be wrong, of course. The region doesn't really have that anymore or problems with the route at all. Harry's made sure of that.
Regardless, he has an incredible shortcut. He leads them past the outskirts of Tirion and casts out his senses. He's already whispered to the birds to keep a lookout for him, and they're his little eager spies as they reach a sleepy and empty stretch of the road thirty minutes later. There's a village not terribly far away, but Harry knows that the only elf within three miles is the one he's taking with him.
Indilwen veers off to the left before he can even direct her, and some subtle spells will keep any trace of them from being formed or found. Harry can feel Gil's confusion and anticipation both as they reach a small break in the trees. Indilwen comes to a stop, and Harry dismounts easily, holding out a hand that Gil accepts with a very puzzled expression as he's drawn towards Harry. Indilwen nickers behind him, but she stays within the appropriate radius and nudges her fellow horse a bit closer. He knows that Indilwen has been coaching Arthion for the last several days; she's friendly like that. Good enough to prepare him for Harry's preferred method of travel.
She's used to it by now. Has been brought home this way enough that it's old news. She knows the drill. Knows the exact area of grounds they'll appear, the zone that Harry's spelled to keep everyone and everything else out just in case. It isn't Fidelius, but it works just as well, and Harry doesn't have to worry about holding a secret. The elves don't go to the castle grounds without overt invitation, and they rarely even come to the gate unless they know he's there. It usually doesn't bother Harry; if anything, it's a boon since he can use his magic freely and doesn't have to worry about his decorative tastes giving them all a collective aneurysm.
Conversely, having seen how Fingon's staff has reacted to him in the last several weeks, Harry's starting to see this in a different light entirely. He knows the citizens of Formenos are suspicious of him. That he hasn't been as circumspect as he probably should've been, and in his defense, he was there first and never imagined that anyone else but Ainur would ever show up. Much less become his de facto roommates until their own residences were built. But he was hardly going to turn out Inglor and his company much less all the others as they arrived. Most looking lost or alone or even afraid.
The elf this time though… He's coming at Harry's personal invitation. He's coming for Harry himself.
"What are we doing?" Gil at last asks as he searches Harry's face. As they stand in the tiny clearing that's barely big enough for the pair of them and the two Meras.
That question earns him a winning smile.
"Going to Formenos," Harry tells him, and there's mirth in his voice. "In style."
He's almost giddy. Anxious and excited both. It's the same feeling he used to have with Quidditch. Part nerves. Part breathless expectation. Enjoyment. Knowledge that he's about to show his elf something that only Ainur and Indilwen have seen.
Gil watched Nienna do this, but Harry doesn't think he quite put the pieces together. That he's realized the significance of it. That Harry cannot only do this too but did it first. Can do it better.
His love is so trusting as Harry puts a hand on his face. His mouth is warm against Harry's own. Pliant and soft. Eyes fluttering closed. Arms curling around his upper back.
"You're trying to distract me," he says breathlessly between kisses before Harry bends down again. "It w--"
Gil freezes as he suddenly realizes that they're no longer in the woods. His jaw drops. Harry's grip on him is the only reason that he doesn't stumble, doesn't fall. He's stunned, practically stupefied, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Indilwen offers an amused whicker as she flicks her ear and tail both. She nudges a dazed Arthion. Then, she begins ambling off to her awaiting stable; the magic there will deal with her saddle and bridle without any further input on Harry's part. A good thing as Harry is a little busy keeping his elf from becoming one with the ground and the grass underneath them. Birds nearby chirp at his predicament and in greeting both; Formenos itself choruses out. Embracing him in song and sensation.
It's a perfect spring morning. His garden is serene around them with blossoms on the breeze. This quiet corner is secluded. Hidden. Tucked away between the bamboo grove and the orchard. The ideal apparition spot.
"Mírimo," Gil-galad breathes.
"Do you like it?" Harry inquires, and really, he's a bit too innocent with his tone. Káno would never believe him.
That earns him an incredulous glance. He has a million questions, and it's obvious he has no idea where to even start. But he can see when the surprise morphs into intrigue. He can see Gil itching to investigate. To leave their little alcove. To follow the path around the trees. To see where it leads. His elf actually leans away from him, starts peering around with interest. There'll be more time for exploration later; Harry wants to show him inside first. They'll start at the top and work their way down, he thinks. That makes the most sense. Besides, he's rather proud of how it all turned out, and he finds that he's keen for Gil to see.
"Come with me."
Harry immediately has his attention again. He crooks a finger; he's given a raised eyebrow in response.
"Where are we going now?" Gil questions, but it's curious more than anything.
"That would be telling," Harry says rather coyly.
"Let me see this time," he requests.
Harry snickers. "No, my way is much better." He beckons Gil closer to him. "It's very disorienting if you're paying too much attention. It'll be better once you get used to it though."
He gets a very unimpressed look morphing into a head tilt for that, but Harry just offers him a partial shrug of his shoulders in return.
"Trust me."
His elf shakes his head fondly but moves against him almost instantly. He slants his face up with a small smile.
The kiss is deeper this time. Slower. Harry forgets himself for a moment. Wrapped around his favorite person, surrounded by his own magic and the music of home. Listening to the rise and fall of a welcoming serenade as it settles into his bones. Feeling every ounce of built-up tension bleed out.
They stand like that until Indilwen snorts impatiently at him. Harry doesn't break away, doesn't even look as he waves her off. Gil chuckles against his mouth and grips the back of his neck a tad bit more firmly. Harry finally pulls back with a single playful nip to his bottom lip that earns him a raised brow, but then, his elf is very thoroughly distracted by the change of venue.
Harry feels and sees him gasp. Observes all the emotions flash over his face lightning quick.
Gil-galad, however, just stares. Keeps staring as he turns this way and that, blue-gray eyes large. Going from each wall to the ceiling above. It's a beautiful sky with a few scant fluffy clouds that lazily drift by. Dragonflies and leaves dance in the breeze. The style isn't Harry usual one, but he has to admit that it came out perfectly. That it's exactly as he envisioned and everything he wanted. That the study in particular makes him think of the Gryffindor common room and happy times so very long ago.
His elf swallows as he moves his attention to the floors and the seamless wood like the trees of the forest. The overlying rugs are naturally from Vairë. Made with dozens of different shades and thousands of separate threads woven together with the skill of this world's greatest master. Green is currently beneath their feet, shifting from the color of glacial ice to the deepest shadows in the thicket.
There's a sound without words or true meaning as Gil looks at the furniture next. Harry does agree that turned out especially well when he grew each piece. Coaxing and shaping them just so. The stone of the tables is from Aulë, just as the seedlings are from Yavanna. Eönwë naturally brought the sword and shield over the fireplace, and Gil-galad's interest lingers on the heraldry.
He goes to the walls again. The trees are truly dazzling. Gold and green and red and orange. An array of vibrant colors that dance in the wind. It's autumn currently, but by the end of the week, it'll be winter. Then spring followed by summer. It's a familiar pattern. One that Harry's followed for a lifetime, and he wants his own home to have it if nowhere else in his kingdom. It's a private thing. A remembrance of what he once had and will never have again.
He has to shut that thought away in the cupboard of his mind lest he go down paths he doesn't want to tread, and he does so quickly. Smoothly enough that Gil doesn't even notice. And Harry's all smiles again when he steps up next to his elf. As Gil gazes at the sitting room wall in astonishment.
A fox is swishing all her nine tails at him; she's lounging on a pile of leaves. Her ears are relaxed, nose twitching with interest at the pair before her. Harry can barely contain his amusement, and he casts a glance around the room to see who else he can find. The unicorn herd likes to graze in his bedroom near the window seat. The thestrals prefer the thicket closer to the bathroom door, but the owls always seem to congregate near his armoire. Besides, it's daytime, so they're likely sleeping. Inara can often be found with them, but sometimes, she's by the lake or just flying around. And there, she is. Perched in the apple tree by the banks. Feathers golden and glowing in the sunshine.
Perfect.
Harry reaches out to take Gil's hand, which earns him a squeeze in return, as he tugs him to the other side of the room and closer to the balcony. He winks at Himiko before they leave, receives a regal nod of her lupine head as she goes back to her nap.
Inara calls out an inspiring refrain at their approach. Lifting her beak and their spirits at the same time. If Gil-galad was startled by Himiko, he's stunned by Inara. He's speechless. And why wouldn't he be? It's not every day one meets a phoenix. Especially for the first time.
She's gorgeous. Tail feathers long and luxurious. Wings refined. Eyes wise. There's far less red to her than Fawkes, but she's the same size and shape. Her song is just as lovely. Just as sweet.
She chirps after she finishes. Politely asking for a name. For an introduction.
"Inara, this is Gil-galad," Harry announces, and fingers tighten around the hand in his. "He's come to stay with me."
She gives a happy warble. Extends her right wing to them.
Gil just stares at her. A moment ticks by.
"Go on," Harry urges him with a soft nudge. "She's waiting."
His elf blinks then. As if very confused. Gaze darting from Harry to Inara and back.
Harry merely smiles and leads him forward. Gently guiding him. Her feathers are every bit as silky and smooth as Harry remembers; Inara preens, makes a pleased sound at the touch. She leans in, closing her cobalt eyes. As always, she's a warm summer day. A welcoming trill. A hug from a friend.
"How is this possible?" Gil murmurs to himself even as his fingers slide over her head and wing.
Inara coos at the attention for several minutes before finally straightening and stretching. She trills several notes and then rises into the air, flying over their heads and across the ceiling. However, a shadow lingers on the floor, growing in size. Gil glances up in astonishment as a single feather floats down to land on his outstretched palm. It's golden but shimmers white and then crimson as it shifts in the light. He just stares at it in complete disbelief.
Then, he puts his other hand over his mouth as a slightly hysterical giggle escapes him. He's still holding the feather like spun glass as he turns in a slow circle. Eyes darting all around like he can't decide what to look at.
"Mírimo," he finally whispers, "what is this place?"
Harry feels the tips of his ears and his cheeks both heating at the shock in his elf's voice. At the underlying wonder and amazement. Gil-galad looks at all his handiwork like it's a triumph. A true marvel.
It's more than a little embarrassing really.
The only one who ever truly comes here is Nienna, and she'd tell Harry it's lovely even if he did it blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back. Vairë has only been by once, and that was when he wasn't even finished. She'll come to his atelier but never his apartment. Yes, Káno is here but only as a harp; he's never actually seen any of it. The others gave him things to decorate; yet, they never come inside. Aside from Nienna, only Vairë and Eönwë ever venture up here at all. Oromë and Huan go to the top of the stairs but no further. Nobody else even enters into the tower.
This is his private area, his sanctuary.
But… He's willing to share. There's more than enough room in here for someone else. Room in his life, too.
"This is my home."
His elf is looking only at him now. His eyes are storm clouds, but the emotion in them isn't entirely innocent.
"You made this?" he questions, and his tone is lower now. Deeper.
"More or less, yes," Harry allows, but he can't contain the upwards curve of his mouth. Or the redness he feels creeping across his skin.
Gil-galad laughs and laughs then. Loud and carefree. Eyes crinkling at the corners. Flushed with something other than embarrassment. Very real and very solid as he tucks the feather away in a pocket and suddenly whirls to pull Harry against him. Gil has one arm around his back and the other hand on his neck, cradling his head as fingers tangle in his hair. The look on his face is different now. Changed from what it was earlier. The color of his eyes is darker. There's no sensation of static on his skin, but there's certainly a buzz of electricity between them. Humming with anticipation.
It occurs to Harry right then that aside from his paintings, they are very much alone here. No interfering relatives, gossipy staff, or nosy elves in general. No one else but them.
"I--"
Gil quiets him with a fleeting fingertip to his lips before moving to grasp his hand and twisting his ring. His nose brushes Harry's as he leans up, but his mouth hovers. Asking. Waiting. There's a question between them. One that he's never dared ask. One not so long ago, Harry had not even considered a possibility. Had never allowed as an option. But he does now, and he already knows the answer.
He gives a single, decisive nod.
They don't do much talking after that.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry slips out of bed sometime later. The room is dark, but he sees perfectly even in the dim light through the windows and from the ceiling. The tapestry of stars above him shimmers with the half-moon slowly sinking towards the horizon, but it'll be hours yet before the sun arrives. His dressing gown is silken against his bare skin as he slips it on. The rug is almost black beneath his feet, instead of the blue he knows it to be in truth, but it's warm as he stands and ties his sash. He pauses for a very long moment to glance over his shoulder at Gil still asleep and buried in the covers; eyes open but unfocused and turn inwards. Harry knows he won't wake for a while, and that should be more than enough time.
But just in case…
He flicks his finger to make Gil-galad's belongings the right size and in an easily found location. Another flick has Harry cleaned and dressed, moving into the main room via the balcony because he prefers this route at night for the view. It's breathtaking as expected. City dark and resting. Not ready to rouse.
Today will be a day just for them. A long tour of the castle. A chance to show Gil the remainder of his home and not just the apartment upstairs. He hasn't even been into the rest of the tower yet, and Harry'd be a poor host indeed not to show him his atelier, library, kitchen, gardens, owlery… the list goes on. He did once promise him the observatory, too.
Harry feels his ears heat at that memory, but he allows himself to loiter against the stone banister for a several minutes before going to the opposite door. He does summon some breakfast from the charmed cabinet in the kitchen, covered and spelled to stay fresh just in case he isn't back in time. It wouldn't do to leave his guest hungry, after all. Harry will survive skipping meals; elves though can die of starvation if they try hard enough, and they missed both lunch and dinner yesterday.
He ghosts through the door in the next room, and it shuts noiselessly behind him. His atelier is just down the hallway, and Harry's there in less than a minute. He knows the way so well he could walk it in the pitch dark. Or with his eyes closed. Probably while asleep.
Vairë's portrait is still there. Harry never did find a different home for her, and with what she now conceals, it's most likely for the best. She's been quite content staying here. Happy to watch him work and to gaze out the windows. She isn't like the other paintings; she never seems to leave her frame, but Harry has seen visitors. And Námo is always with her, forever napping with his head pillowed on her lap.
It's the production of a mere second for the biggest secret in all of Formenos to appear, possibly in all of Valinor. For one thing, he's never shown anyone. No one else has ever been here. Not elf or Ainu. Harry's not sure if they ever will. It's special. Just for him. Where he goes when he truly wants to be alone.
The room takes shape around him. Forms into being with a single thought; he decides on a place of comfort today. On somewhere he misses like a lost limb. He hears the surf before he sees it, hidden as the shore is by the sand. He follows the path through the dunes to the ocean. It's still dark, but it'll be dawn soon. The air is moist but almost warm with the summer breeze, and Harry knows it'll be a beautiful, cloudless day. He knows this place so well. Has been here ten thousand times before. In real life and his dreams.
He stands close enough for the water to just barely reach his toes as he stares out. He can hear birds. Even see the shadows of them, but he knows it's all an illusion. Just as the plants and everything else here feel so real but ultimately aren't. There's a hollowness to their aura, an undertone in their song, that rings false even as every other sense tells him it's very much truth.
He's truly alone here. The room can't bring back the dead, can't give true life. Can only remake this place but not the people. Even a glance over his shoulder shows a darkened cottage. Not a single light turned on. It's as it was when Harry first had it built, not as it became over the decades. As it grew with Teddy and Victoire's family.
It's like a memory given an actual physical form. Far exceeding any Pensieve but never equal to reality. To the world time has stolen away.
Harry doesn't know how long he stands there letting the tides break at his feet. The sky stays dark, and the only illumination is that of the stars. The moon is hidden, and he thinks it's due to his mood more than anything. The room is even cleverer than he initially planned, perhaps even more than its original counterpart. He's not prepared for daybreak, and he knows the sun won't come until then. Until he's good and ready.
Harry sighs even thinking that. At the implications. There are certain things he can't admit yet, even to himself. But maybe, one day. Someday.
That's not for today, however. Today, he has another mission.
The Silmaril is bright as ever in his hand. Luminous and glowing as it emerges from the scarf wrapping that he kept it in even when placed in his pocket earlier. It brightens to his touch, growing even more radiant, but it hesitates as it senses his intentions. Pulsing once and then twice as if questioning. Harry can feel its bafflement as it considers his plan and then its gradual but willing accord.
Harry offers it his own chorus of thanks and lets the Silmaril lift from his hand to hover. Bids it to go further still. It does so slowly, hesitantly, like a fawn stepping out from the foliage. Then, it flits into the sky until it once again becomes a star, brilliant and beautiful, dancing with its kin comets across the heavens.
Harry nods with satisfaction.
The Silmaril will be safe here. Safer than anywhere else until Nerdanel takes it or he can find another solution.
Harry watches for another minute or so before he turns. A silver doorway has appeared. It's freestanding at the end of the path but already open, and he steps through without a glance back. He feels it close behind him, and he's in his atelier. He does throw a look over his shoulder then, but the door has already disappeared from the painting. Vairë and Námo guard the entrance so well anyway that he has no worries about unwanted visitors.
Like usual, only the lady is awake, and he waves at her before making his way into the corridor. It's just a short jaunt to his own suite, and Gil-galad's already up and active inside. Exploring with an expression that's part-wonder and part-bemusement.
"Mírimo," Gil calls before he can even fully walk inside his sitting room. "You were gone."
He's fully bathed and dressed but hair unbraided; his breakfast's already eaten on the table by the window, remnants carefully stacked. Harry belated realizes that he's been gone longer than intended indeed. Gil now stands by his fireplace, fingers trailing over the carvings. Harry only did the enhancements and masonry; the rest was a gift from Oromë.
"Just sorting something out." Harry offers a press of lips in apology and greeting both.
Gil-galad accepts this fully, hums against him. He wrinkles his nose afterwards. It's a rather charming expression.
"You smell like the sea," his elf comments; it's with confusion more than anything.
Harry gives a sheepish sound and runs a finger over his robes. They're pristine a second later, and the trail of sand he'd brought with him has also disappeared. Gil blinks at that before chuckling. Before leaning up to kiss him again, this time on his cheek, brushing noses afterwards. He's warm and smiling as he pulls back but not away.
Harry has so many plans colliding in his mind. So many ideas on where to start. So many things he wants to show. To see his elf experience.
They have the time to do it properly. Indilwen, he knows, won't leave the grounds for at least another few days. She's as much a homebody as Harry himself, and none of the elves will come by unless they know he's back. Besides, she's circumspect enough to give him time before Formenos at large realizes he's returned, so the earliest they'll be knocking at the gate will be five or so days. Even better would be a week, but it's hard to say how restless Indilwen will feel with Arthion to keep her company. She tolerates him better than any other horse, but Harry doesn't know how long that patience will last without Harry as a buffer.
The Ainur are a different story, but Harry is hardly going to hide from them. Still, they usually wait awhile before making an appearance. He'll have plenty of time to give the full tour, but there's something that Harry's been planning to do. Something that's been coiling at the edge of his thoughts. This is merely the first opportunity he can guarantee they won't have an audience.
Harry knows exactly what he needs to do now.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet," he says then.
Gil-galad's expression is momentarily baffled, but he's nodding. This is all the permission Harry needs. There are butterflies in his stomach as he goes to the mantle; it's the place of honor. Where a harp normally stays when Harry has no reason to hide him. In fact, he's there now after Harry unpacked him earlier. Silent, sleeping.
The instrument is pristine as always. Polished and gleaming as Harry keeps it. Strings immaculate as if brand new. Harry walks back to find Gil sitting on one of the sofas. He lifts a brow at his approach. More so as Harry settles in next to him.
"This is a harp, Mírimo," Gil-galad tells him gently. As if he's suddenly very concerned for Harry's sanity.
That only earns him a grin. Harry waves a hand around the entire room to all the still moving creatures on the walls that so captivated his love yesterday. Ones that are still intermittently catching his eyes even now.
"And these are just paintings," Harry counters.
Gil snorts at that. "I concede your point."
Harry flashes him a grin and beckons him closer. All he needs is a single touch, and then, Gil will hear Káno as Harry does. The transition is instantaneous. The room around them is still there but dropping away. Fading to the background as the shore takes up the forefront. As it unfolds before him like a flower blooming.
He can't see Káno. Not really. But he feels an arm around his back, a hand on his cheek, as surely as if the elf truly stood in front of him.
"Herurrívë."
His voice is fathomless, aching and deep. The sea of his soul's choppy. Water agitated and rough against the rocks. There are dark clouds in the sky but no rain. Not yet.
Harry knows that he's in trouble though. Knows that this is his doing.
"She told you, didn't she?" Harry asks, and he doesn't even have to say who he means. Since really, that's the only explanation for this.
"Of course, she told me, hinya. She came to me that same night; how could she not?" It's a chastisement. Stern, sharp but somehow also mild like a sword wrapped in silk. "I heard you call for me. I felt you die."
Káno falters then. Voice dropping out. Words failing him.
The wind howls across the sand. A wave crashes along the cliffs. There's thunder in the distance before Káno can get himself back under control.
So it's that then. It could be worse, Harry supposes. Still bad enough.
For once, he's glad not to see Káno's face. Not to see his eyes or the look he knows must be there. Shame is hot and heavy in his chest. It tightens against his ribs and makes his breaths shallow. He hadn't thought to seek out Káno sooner than now. Had truly thought that he'd dreamed the whole encounter. Simple wish fulfillment under stress. He'd wanted Káno there very badly. Wanted his calm and his comfort.
"I'm sorry."
It's a confession and an apology both. Signed and sealed in blood. He means it. Truly. More than words can ever convey.
Káno just sighs. There's a downpour over the ocean now. Rain that falls in sheets. So hard that the horizon can't be seen.
"Hinya, I'm not angry," he begins. "I just wanted to know that you were safe. That someone was taking care of you."
Harry has his head bowed, even though Káno can't see it. The wind is an arm that tugs at him. Urges him closer like a hand between his shoulder blades that draws him in.
"I was fine," he says in a tired tone.
Káno makes a sound of discordant notes. Of complete and utter disbelief. It's like the sea telling a fish to go climb a tree.
"You may recover immediately, but this doesn't mean you are well."
"I was fine," Harry repeats very slowly but keeps the coldness from his words. "No lasting damage. She took care of me."
Káno snorts. It's such an inelegant sound for someone like him.
"Somehow, I only believe that last part," he states doubtfully. "But I know you won't ever admit to anything else even if Eru above asked you."
Harry isn't quite sure how to reply to that, so he chooses not to say anything. He just allows the breeze to flutter at his hair and the currents to curl around his ankles.
Káno sighs. He's almost pained. Like he's been injured somehow. But Harry would know if he had.
"Herurrívë," the elf questions then, and he seems like he can't decide if he's exasperated or fond, "the Oath?"
It's Harry's turn to inhale sharply.
"Ah… that," he murmurs. It's not said sheepishly. It isn't.
Harry grimaces because his companion can't see it. He hardly wants a lecture about the Oath of Fëanor. Somehow, he managed to escape one thus far, and he has no desire to get one from Káno of all people.
"Yes, that." His voice is stronger, more jagged. "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth--"
"Of course, you're worth it," Harry cut offs him off immediately. Fiercely.
Káno talks over him. "Hinya, I never wanted you to do this. I'd never ask you to risk yours--"
"I was never in danger," Harry interrupts again, and there's a snap of frost that cools the air between them. "I never felt any urge to throttle anyone or assault Eärendil. The Silmaril practically threw itself at me, and…" The cold is ferocious now, biting. "And even if it didn't, you'll always be worth it."
There's stunned silence. There's only the noise of waves against the sand. The rain has stopped, too surprised to continue. The wind has died. Even the sky is clear currently.
And Harry can see it now.
Káno is the sea. Lives and wanders by the coast as he has for the last two ages. But the more Harry looks around them, the more he realizes that the only ocean he feels is Káno himself. There's a sense of trees nearby. Of mountains. Of waterfalls and babbling brooks. Of elves and even a few Men in the distance.
Where is this? Where on earth is Káno?
He wonders at that even as Harry senses him rallying, but this isn't finished yet. He still has more to say. More that he's needed to say but hasn't dared before.
"You lecture me on safety, but I want the same for you," Harry informs him then. He's snow falling on the shore, but it's softer now, almost gentle. "If you won't take care of yourself, then I'll do it for you."
There's another snort. Like an abrupt tangle of notes.
"I hardly think Lord Oromë will approve of you sending your bow to me, hinya. Regardless of your motivations."
Harry just gives a little chuckle at the splash of water against his legs.
"He shouldn't have given me three extras if he didn't intend for me to regift a few," he counters. "How's it doing?"
Káno makes a noise like a seagull caught by a stray net. "Spectacularly."
There's a pause, and Harry knows that more's coming. He even suspects what it'll be.
"Somehow," Káno starts, "I never seem to run out of arrows. Strange that."
The ocean air is now warm as it flows around him. The wind tugs at his clothes with affection and irritation both.
So he's broken the laws of physics just a little. Completely worth it to ensure that Káno stays safe. The extra enhancements on his weapons are a nice little bonus that he never has to know about. It's not like Harry made them obvious. No fire or double arrows. Good and subtle this time.
"How interesting," Harry comments right back. It's completely nonchalant.
Káno doesn't believe him for a single, solitary second.
"And the spear, hinya?" His tone is a disappointed tide. "I doubt Lord Eönwë approves of that."
Harry snaps his fingers once and taps his chin. "He watched me send it. Besides, you only said no armor. I left that out."
"You can't send me your armor, Herurrívë," the older elf chides. "That definitely will give the wrong impression." A slow exhale like a surfacing whale. "I don't want to be chased from one end of Arda to the other."
"They'll hardly chase you," Harry disputes, rolling his eyes at the dramatics that are a little too much like Fingon. "They can't be bothered to do much of anything these days, so I doubt the Eldar will even notice. No one else will suspect a thing."
"The Dúnedain are descendants of Elros," Káno reminds him. "They'll definitely notice and definitely know who I am."
Harry considers that. "I thought they liked us. Elrond, too."
"It's been a very long time for them, hinya. The ones who still work with Elrond will remember best and honor family ties. There are others… Others, I most certainly wouldn't want to meet alone. Or ever."
He's quiet after that addition. Contemplative.
But that doesn't last as Harry feels his interest stirring. As the ocean gives a little churn and the surf becomes a bit higher. As seagulls and pelicans lift their heads to peek around.
"Herurrívë, is there something you want to tell me?" he inquires then. He seems very intent. Very knowing.
Harry blinks once. Twice. He hesitates.
Káno can't see the flush that spreads from his ears to his cheeks, but Gil certainly can as Harry realizes exactly who has been listening in this entire time. Completely overlooked in the background.
Harry gives a little, embarrassed cough as Gil shifts closer to him in an amused roil of his own storm clouds. So different from Káno's. Warm like summer rain.
"This is Gil-galad," Harry introduces, sounding stronger at the end of the sentence.
"Ah…" Káno laughs then, and it's chimes in the ocean breeze. "I've heard so very much about you."
Harry knows his entire face is red. Burning. He can feel Gil's delight at that. At all the new information he's now privy to. Harry has the sudden urge to scream into a pillow, but that'd be even more awkward to explain.
"Well met," Gil returns with a metaphorical bow, not aware of Harry's thoughts. "It's certainly interesting to finally meet you."
A pause that lingers. As if Harry's two elves are assessing each other. Ocean vs lightning. Shore vs storm.
"I think there's much for us to talk about, no?" Káno decides then.
It both is and isn't a question. Káno's voice is pleasant, polite. Even sweet.
Harry can feel Gil shifting next to him, settling deeper into the sofa. He's inclining his head.
"Yes, I think that would be best."
Káno's attention goes back to Harry then. It's gentle as sea mist on his face. Tender as the lullaby he still plays when Harry's restless.
"If you would, Herurrívë."
He has the impression of a smile, but Harry gets the hint. He sighs, sends a swirl of frost in farewell and allows himself to be shooed away. Lets his fingers slowly lift from the harp. There's one final brush of tides against him before he breaks contact.
Then, he's back in his sitting room. Next to Gil on the sofa. Still smelling ocean air.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Argon – So… Should I start packing today or tomorrow?
Angrod – I'm thinking we give them six weeks.
Fingon – It'll take them at least that long just to get back to Formenos. Won't admit that he already started packing.
Finrod – True. Is ready to go now.
Celebrían – Seven weeks then. Has also been planning.
Fingolfin – Better make it eight. Ditto.
Finarfin – Sigh. Knows he should stay behind and actually do his job. Doesn't want to, however.
Findis – Yes, that should be more than enough time. Laughs to herself and raises her wine glass.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Meanwhile in Formenos…
Citizen #1 – So the star's gone.
Citizen #2 – You know what that means…
Citizen #3 – Yep! Our king finally went for it!
All Three – Nod in unison.
Citizen #3 – So who won the bet?
Citizen #2 – We'll have to check in with Laerien. She was keeping track.
Citizen #1 – It definitely wasn't me. I think Melpomaen did but not sure who else.
Citizen #3 – Whoever it was is filthy rich now. You could probably buy half of Tirion with how much was riding on this.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harp!Maglor – Totally forgotten about by Harry.
Harp!Maglor – Totally there when his son and future son-in-law are having their private time.
Regular!Maglor – Thinks about all the times he was an alibi for Fingon and Maedhros. Understands that karma is coming home to roost.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Best friends with Káno and talking with him for hours every day.
Also Harry – Looking around Formenos and then later Tirion. Squinting at places that seem just like those from Káno's stories.
Harry, Again – Having strange feelings of déjà vu when Káno talks about his family.
More Harry – I will absolutely and purposefully not think about this strange series of coincidences in relation to my elf bestie and the guy who everyone thinks is my dad. Sticks fingers in his ears. Lalala.
Notes:
AN: Oh, Harry. All the things you don't admit out loud (or even to yourself) are one day going to come back to bite you in the ass. Same for Maglor.
No, Gil and Harry are not married yet.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Arthion – royal.
Himiko – sun child in Japanese. Also the name of a queen.
Inara – ray of light or heaven sent in Arabic.
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The armor is beautiful. It's an odd thing to say, Harry knows. Truly, it is. But that's the only way to describe it. Exquisite. Magnificent with its shifting color that's at first glance black but then a deep green, next a royal blue, and afterwards an iridescent purple. It's accented with an unknown metal that's silvery but somehow turns golden in the sunlight. Everything remains cool beneath his grasp even as he continues his inspection. Turns it this way and that. Traces the delicate pattern of corvid feathers on the pauldron, which trails down first to the vambraces and then to the gauntlets.
"Thank you," Harry murmurs and means it.
Eönwë's lips actually quirk at that. "Consider it something of a repayment. Though I feel it is not of the same value as your previous gifts."
Harry shifts uncomfortably at the compliment but lets that go. He paints because he enjoys it, and if his friends enjoy his hobby, all the better. His eyes flick back to the armor. To the level of detail in the design. To the feel of the material beneath his hands. To the echoes of music he can hear.
There's Eönwë's own but also others. One of winds, lightning, and open skies. Another of stars and celestial chimes. All caroling together in a trio of perfect harmony.
It's all so much. Too much… but…
He hesitates. Noting the heft. The weight. All the different components. He's a healer. A professor. A Potions master. A wizard. None of those wear armor. None of his professions have ever required it. Nor should they really. Even when his entire world was falling apart and he was called to fight, he never, ever needed it.
That's only the edge of this cauldron. The first problem on his arithmancy worksheet.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
It's a reasonable question.
Harry's looking up at the Maia now. His hair is the same as always, short and bronze, brushing his white collar, but he has blue eyes this morning. Harry is starting to think there's some sort of code to Eönwë's moods. He'll decipher it eventually, but today is not that day.
His friend lifts an arched brow at him. His face is blank, but somehow, he manages to convey every thought with that single motion.
"You wear it, Marcaunon."
Harry merely blinks at him.
"Why?" he asks. "How?
Since really, Harry has only seen armor remotely like this in Hogwarts' halls and on Eönwë himself. He has no clue how to even put this on, much less what else to do with it. Aside from fall over perhaps. It's heavy enough for that, and Harry knows he'll be doing some very precise runic work to make it easier for him to carry but not so light that he gets knocked around. He'll have to consider the language for it and the calculations, and it should be an interesting project at the very least.
As if sensing his thoughts, Eönwë steps closer to him. He's a muted march that flanks Harry as he takes the cuirass and completely ignores the first question. Harry thinks it's because the Ainu would consider the answer obvious. Of course, Eönwë also trains daily with sword, spear, bow, and probably even more weapons that Harry hasn't seen. So there's that.
"Let me assist you," he says and doesn't gesture, but the intent is very clear.
The next few minutes are an awkward exercise of Harry stripping down to his undershirt as Eönwë not only shows him where and how each piece goes but also gives a detailed lesson on the history and purpose. Harry almost feels like he's back at school. As if he'll be expected to write a three-foot essay on this and take a quiz at the next lesson. It's fascinating, yes, Eönwë's discussions usually are. But it's also a little embarrassing to be standing in his courtyard like this – Eönwë bent over him in concentration with one foot between his and his hands fitting everything into place. Standing in the open where someone could walk in at any time.
The only thing that could possibly make this worse is if Inglor or one of his lot were here, but Harry can feel them in the guest parts of the castle, doing whatever it is they do when he isn't around. They're still cautious of him on some level, but that's let up a good deal in the last month as they've settled in. Even more, they seem unnerved by the castle itself, and he knows they'll be relieved when they have homes to call their own.
The plans for a village further down the mountain are going quite well, if he says so himself; Harry's already stabilized the area along with creating wider and more numerous tiers for the future, just in case. He's long ago expanded the temperature-controlled circle of his wards, and he's added a variety of flora and fauna, which are thriving splendidly indeed. It'll soon enough be a blossoming mountain community. Some part of him is excited at seeing it grow. Seeing it flourish.
Next to him, Eönwë finishes by slipping on the final gauntlet. Only the helmet remains, but the Maia steps back with it tucked under one arm. He allows Harry to stand on his own and examine himself. He can feel the weight, but everything is surprisingly balanced. It isn't unpleasant. Heavier than his Quidditch gear to be certain but not as outrageous as he initially feared. It fits perfectly. Molds better than any magic has ever made his own clothing, even those from Vairë, and the only thing that has set on him more comfortably is his cloak.
Eönwë walks him through several unarmed katas to test his balance and range of motion. He seems reassured by the results; Harry will admit that the more time passes, the easier everything is. They progress to his sword next, and Eönwë puts him through his forms at one-fourth speed, then one-half, then normal. The same for his spear. Magic is last, and Harry is very pleased to see that it flows as clearly as ever, as fiercely as an avalanche down the mountain slope, as smoothly as an icefloe across the water.
He's grinning as he finishes but is otherwise breathing easy and free. Energetic and not at all fatigued for the last hour he's spent at Eönwë's direction. He isn't even sweaty, but to be fair, that's not something that's happened to him in a long while. Definitely not since his transition to elf, and he truly can't remember the last time if he's perfectly honest with himself.
He's considering that when Eönwë summons his sword, bright and gleaming in the sunlight. Harry understands what he wants immediately. Really, it isn't hard to figure out at all. Spend five minutes with Eönwë, and anyone would know. Still, he's willing to humor his friend and gives a nod.
"Rules?" Harry inquires as he moves opposite him, into proper position.
Eönwë seems to consider this. "First blood. Sword and limited songs for me. Nothing that would do you true harm."
Harry gives him a look but doesn't even bother to argue. It's a worthless endeavor. He knows that well by this point.
"Magic only for me," Harry counters. He twirls a finger and draws up a lily of frost.
The Maia merely inclines his head. He lifts his sword then in clear salute and says nothing else, but Harry knows that he won't move until Harry himself is ready. He could literally conjure himself a deck chair, have lunch, take a nap, and Eönwë would still be in the same spot, waiting for him. Harry's sometimes tempted to try it just to see how far he really could push this. However, that would be far too cruel a thing to do to someone who has been nothing but kind to him.
Harry breathes out and lets that thought flow away. He squares his shoulders, centers himself as he looks at Eönwë across from him. Poised. Waiting. Watching.
The air is pleasantly warm around him. The sun still slowly climbs in the sky, but it isn't even mid-morning yet. For all that this is supposed to be forever a winter-land, the days and nights are somehow equal in length. Even Harry's weather wards don't affect the time within them. Not unless he wants it, and he never bothered adding that feature. Doesn't see the point.
There's a call of a raven in the distance; Indilwen neighs back. The elves stir in their quarters but are on the other side of the castle still, and he knows they'll stay away for a while yet.
Harry moves. His apparition is silent. Instantaneous.
Eönwë expects him to go somewhere near him, notes whipping out in a circle around so quickly that Harry almost can't follow, but he isn't there. Instead, he's on top of the rampart, and he's already casting. He was even before he departed, so a hex comes from that direction, another from the new one. A third from the opposite side when Harry flickers to there and then a few more from the corners of the courtyard and next directly above Eönwë in a random pattern.
The Maia dodges all but two. He blocks one with his blade, and the last he bats away with his aura. But the next barrage is already coming before he can regroup. A baker's dozen of spells from oblique angles, but none of them connect, and they aren't meant to. They're nothing but a distraction. Nothing but nuisance spells that Harry can rapidly cast – a variety of charms, jinxes, and even curses that will do everything from aggressively clean Eönwë's teeth to decorate his boots in lace doilies to make his nails grow incredibly fast.
The real magic is colorless, but Harry has to keep Eönwë's attention as he continues bouncing around the courtyard with another onslaught. The Summoning Charm isn't supposed to work on sentient beings, but the magic of it is very confused when it comes to Ainur. It really doesn't quite know what to consider them, so Harry's sure he's found a very convenient loophole. He naturally exploits that.
He sees Eönwë visibly startle when he's jerked one direction and his sword the other. He's strong though. Chords rising like a clarion call to fight the effects, and the follow-up spells that Harry sends are vaporized before they can even get within two yards of him. His sword halts mid-air as they fight for control, but it's too much of Eönwë's being. Is too engrained in him for Harry to win with the mild effort he's putting in currently. It materializes back in Eönwë's hand a few heartbeats later, and he pauses to inspect the blade and then hilt.
"Interesting tactic, Marcaunon," he calls out like a commander on the battlefield. "I have not seen you do this before."
Harry doesn't reply, but he allows Eönwë a moment to regroup before he lets loose another barrage. Then another. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth. He keeps going in a steady stream as he darts around the courtyard's edges. Eönwë tries to track him, but he's too swift with his apparition. He knows Eönwë's plan. That the Maia thinks to wear him out, but Harry isn't the least bit tired, and his reserves are practically at full strength. The only danger is one of boredom maybe due to the repetitive nature, but it's all part of Harry's plan.
Somewhere around the fifteen round, Harry purposefully slows just the tiniest bit. Eönwë doesn't move from his new spot, but he can feel the twinkle of interest. The slight increase in the tempo of the war drums. This new pattern repeats again around the nineteen round and again at the twenty-second.
Then, it's showtime.
To say that, Eönwë is very surprised by the sudden apparition as Harry grabs him with pure magic and pulls… well, that would be an understatement. However, he has the reflexes of a seeker diving for a snitch. His sword has materialized back in his hand within a second, and he's already shifted it to position. Not to block as Harry had hoped but to attack.
Only, Harry isn't quite where he expected.
The blood on his face could be called copious, but head wounds do tend to bleed very freely. It truly isn't that large an injury at all. Maybe five inches long and an eighth of an inch deep. Besides, Harry's had worse while at Hogwarts and certainly at the Dursleys. The Maia even managed to turn his blade just enough to avoid Harry's eye entirely, which is quite impressive actually.
"Cease such reckless with yourself," Eönwë chides almost harshly as he watches the blood pour down Harry's nose to his lips and then his neck before the wound seals over on its own. Then, everything else – blood and any other remnants – vanishes like it was never there at all.
Nonetheless, he uses his free hand to tip Harry's chin upward as he bends down to inspect the area for himself. His eyes are focused, intent as they were during the spar just now, but they soften considerably when he sees that all the damage is already gone. The expression he wears isn't one Harry has seen before, and he isn't quite sure what to make of it.
"Someday, you shall value your own life as much as that of another," Eönwë tells him very emphatically then, and it's the most emotion that he's ever outwardly displayed to Harry. "Yes, I think that will be our most important lesson. I shall teach you to value yourself."
Harry would jump at the sheer force behind that statement, much less the words, but Eönwë is still holding his chin. All he can do is stare back at the now amber eyes that are glowing directly above him.
"This was hardly a death duel," Harry points out after a stunned moment. He frees himself from the Ainu's grasp and steps away. "You wanted to spar, so we did."
For all that Eönwë only tilts his head and pulls his eyebrows down, the disappointed look he gives would put Molly Weasley to shame.
"This is not merely for my benefit. You must learn to defend yourself, Marcaunon."
"Who exactly am I supposed to be fighting?" Harry questions.
It's an honest inquiry. Valinor is safe. The worst thing here is the wildlife, and Harry's hardly going to need a full set of armor – helmet included – to go after a polar bear. He's more likely to be at risk doing that than anything. No, much safer to snipe them from a distance; he's gotten good enough with a bow that even Oromë is satisfied now.
Eönwë gazes at him for a full minute without blinking once. He breathes at intervals so regular that Harry could set a clock by them. But his song is a tender feather on his cheek, like a hand that worries about his own strength. There's a note of melancholy that curls against Harry's frost, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why.
"There are those who would seek to do you harm," Eönwë tells him, and his voice is quieter than normal. Lower and softer.
Harry feels his eyes widen. It's from a sheer shock. Valinor is many things, but dangerous isn't one of them. He's also pretty hard to hurt – really and truly harm. Who here would even care enough to try? The Ainur have been nothing but welcoming. The elves… he knows few of them and has little desire to seek out more. Formenos is isolated enough that he doubts that'll ever be an issue unless a hoard of them magically appear somehow. Inglor's company seems perfectly fine, and Harry thinks they're more than enough.
Unless he means someone else. Unless Eönwë knows something. Unless people who are allegedly staying long-term in Mandos are not going to be there anymore...
Is Harry going to have to leave Formenos? Is he being forced out?
"You think Fëanor and his sons will fight me for this place?" He gestures around them to the castle at large. "They're welcome to it if they want it so badly. I can build again elsewhere."
Eönwë gives him an indecipherable look even as he says that.
"Fëanáro will never seek to harm you, Marcaunon. His kin will not either."
The Maia is quiet after that. Still and silent as he continues to gaze at Harry. His song is slow, subdued, but he doesn't explain further. Almost like he isn't sure how.
Harry doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He doesn't sigh either.
The tone is different, but this is almost as bad as their last spar prior to Inglor's arrival. That was when Eönwë told him of the First Age and the War of Wrath. Of the fate of all the Fëanorions including the last wicked deeds of the two remaining sons, Maedhros and Maglor. He even told Harry of the Oath, and what an experience that was. His voice was his usual monotone, but his eyes flashed a molten gold and his voice resounded like an earthquake as he recited the words. Indilwen whinnied and refused to come back inside for the rest of the day. Káno, who's usually quiet when Eönwë is present, didn't speak for an entire week afterwards.
Harry naturally thought all of it was the single most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. Only the seriousness of the moment kept him from rolling his eyes. Even repeating the words to himself didn't allow them to suddenly make sense.
Yes, he knows Fëanor was grieving. Yes, the elf's father died terribly and the symbol of everything he accomplished was stolen. Yes, the Ainur were being particularly obtuse, more so than usual. Nonetheless, the only explanation is that Morgoth bewitched him, bespelled him, cursed him most likely. Because truly, no one as smart as Fëanor could've possibly been so stupid. And don't get Harry started on the rest of his line!
Since frankly, wasn't one of his sons sensible enough to say no? To look at the others and tell them that it was a terrible idea? To think that they could get the Silmarils back without swearing such a thing?
Maybe Harry's spent far too much time with Molly, Hermione, and Fleur, but he's also surprised Fëanor's wife didn't clobber him aside the head for even the suggestion. That her father Mahtan didn't. That any of Fëanor's eight thousand other relatives didn't.
He thinks perhaps the reason that that Námo never mentions any of this is to save his sanity. Of course, before this point, the Oath was a part of his history lessons while still in the Halls, but that was more in an abstract way. Not to mention that it does come up casual conversation more than one would think. It's said more as an aside, an explanation, than anything.
But Harry now has the truth of it, and he isn't sure that's much better than not knowing. Allegedly Fëanor and his sons won't leave Mandos until their Oath is fulfilled, but Harry has his doubts on that, too. The last of them is unaccounted for per Oromë, though he said that with a strange gleam to his eyes and a hand over his mouth. The people of Tirion have very peculiar thoughts on this matter too in the limited time that Harry spent there before leaving for a much quieter location.
And really, all this tells Harry that he should never meet any of them. Not ever.
A touch to his shoulder brings Harry back to himself. He lifts his head to see Eönwë peering down at him. Notes of concern brush against his shoulder and then his back, but Harry offers him a partial smile.
Whatever Eönwë sees in it, he starts leading them back inside. Fingers wrapping around Harry's skin.
"Come, my friend," Eönwë says, and he's soothing trumpets and pinions, "that is enough for today."
It's spoken with a sense of finality, and Eönwë must indeed be concerned to turn away from a spar. To stop before he's even had a chance to really get going. But Harry allows himself to be led inside, Eönwë's hand warm on his wrist.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"You know, I'm not actually a member of the House of Finwë."
It's very casual. Almost an aside as they sit on his balcony and have afternoon tea. The set is the same one Harry previously received for his birthday, white lilies on a dark background with gold trim. He only uses it for special occasions; he rather thinks celebrating his elf's arrival here qualifies. Not to mention, the extended tour of the castle went surprisingly well after the emotional encounter with Káno yesterday morning; they now sit in metal chairs outside and watch the sunshine glittering on the white stone of the city. Even from here, Harry can feel the countless auras moving through the streets like a dance of fireflies. If he concentrates enough, he can single out individuals, but he allows them their privacy.
Harry lets the words wash over him. He's mid-sip, tasting orange with a hint of spice. He glances at Gil with bewilderment. His elf is completely relaxed across from him. Dressed as casually as Harry's ever seen him in shades of blue, green, and ivory. Hair in a single plait that lays over his shoulder, and his only jewelry is the lapis ring on his left hand that's the twin to Harry's own.
"You aren't?" Harry questions, just to make sure he heard correctly. "But Fingon said--"
A snort interrupts him. It's mocking and satirical. Harry doesn't know what to think of it because there aren't any crinkles at the corners of Gil-galad's eyes. And yet, he seems far too amused at the look Harry wears.
"He's very wrong, you know," his elf comments as he leans his elbow on the table. "I'm not related at all. I'm not even a Ñoldo by birth as far as we reckon."
Harry gazes at him. Blinks several times. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Stews on that for a long moment.
Gil previously mentioned a father and brother, but Harry hadn't thought much of that at the time. Assumed that his relationship with the House of Finwë was – is – more distant. Likely through his mother. How else could he have inherited, after all? How else had he been the ruler in Endor?
But he didn't ask. Gil was so upset speaking of Celebrían and then her children, Harry erred on the side of discretion. Wanted to wait until his love was ready.
Now, he's getting a little more than he bargained for.
"You were the high king, weren't you?" Harry's utterly flummoxed, but certainly, he hadn't gotten that part wrong. "How did that even happen?"
"Funny story that," Gil says, and his eyes are a mix of lightning and blue clouds. "They made me king without ever even realizing the truth. They just showed up and gave me a crown."
Harry thinks this surely must be a joke. He's waiting for the punchline, but it doesn't come.
"How…" he begins. "How have they not figured this out?"
Gil chuckles. It's very ironic and without true mirth. He offers an elegant shrug that's far too smooth a motion for the situation and sets his cheek on his hand.
"Arafinwë and his wife fear that I'm Curufinwë's son," he explains then, "and he would rather battle Moringotto again than say that to my face. Findekáno thinks belong to Artaresto, as I'm sure he told you, but they have never gotten on."
He pauses to let that sink in, but Harry remains silent. Doesn't know what to think. Much less what to say.
"Artaresto supposes I'm with Irissë," Gil-galad continues after a sip of his own tea, "but he doesn't care enough to question it. Irissë believes that Findekáno truly did secretly marry and foster me but won't come clean until his beloved is finally free from Mandos." He sets his cup down with a little clink and now puts both palms on the tabletop. "All the rest share a mix of those thoughts, but no one ever outright asks for fear of what I'll say."
Harry just stares at him. He can't do anything else aside from reach out to touch Gil's hand and curl their fingers together. He feels like he's been told some terrible secret, but his elf is calm as the eye of the storm, and Harry senses nothing but relief.
"Does anyone know the truth?" he asks almost tentatively.
Gil makes an in-between gesture with his free hand. "Círdan is the only parent I've ever had. He knew some of this while I was still in Endor and thought it a great joke then. Erestor is his son by blood, but he knew about it first. Elrond as well. He has always been too clever by far; he figured it all out on his own." His tone is momentarily full of fondness, full of pride for a younger sibling. "It's well known that ada – Círdan – fostered me, but everyone assumes that was later. Not from the very beginning."
Gil-galad turns his left hand so that their palms touch and their fingers can thread together. His thumb rubs over Harry's skin in a steady rhythm.
"Ada's wife was taken by Moringotto," he tells Harry then; his voice is now soft, low. "They never found her. That was before they did find me. I never knew her." He squeezes Harry's fingers for a few seconds before relaxing. "Erestor and I are very close in age, insanely so for elves. There's only seven years between us; he was barely a toddler when his mother was stolen."
There's an echo of old grief in the storm of his soul, but it soothes away as soon as snow reaches him. He takes a deep and steadying breath, exhales cool mist that fogs the air.
"What about your first parents?" Harry inquires after several minutes.
His elf breathes in again and out even more slowly. He simply shakes his head.
"I don't know."
The hand in Harry's trembles, and he grips it firmly. Holds on as tightly as he can.
"Anything?" he prompts.
Stormy eyes are too bright. "Nothing."
Harry watches as he bites his lips before continuing.
"I was found…" Gil pauses to collect himself. "I was found as a newborn by Men in the remnants of a caravan; it was attacked by orcs and other dark creatures. I was hidden. Swaddled. Given a tonic to sleep. I didn't have a single scratch." It's said gradually, deliberately, like it physically pains him. "Some of them spoke a little of our language. They gave me a name."
"Ereinion?" Harry guesses as the silence grows a bit too long.
Gil nods after several heartbeats more. "Their vocabulary did leave something to be desired," he states, but there's affection in equal parts to the hurt now. "Their hearts were in the right place though. They took me to the Havens; the Eldar there had good dealings with Men. Ada had a young son, had just lost his wife, but he said that I stopped crying the instant he held me." His mouth curls in an actual smile that's gentle and so very tender. "He knew for sure I was truly theirs when Erestor kept trying to crawl in my bassinet with me. They named me Rodnor – Artanáro in Quenya."
Harry simply grips his hand, fingers running over his skin in support. Wordlessly encouraging him to continue.
"I don't know anything about my birth family," Gil discloses then. "They may be Ñoldor. Or Sindar. Or Silvan. Avari even. Some mixture of those." He tips his head up to study the clouds as they float by overhead. "We – Erestor and I – learned Quenya from one of our retainers. He was a Ñoldo, a deserter who refused the second kinslaying and abandoned the cause. Celebrían tells me that he's still in Imladris with Elrond as his chief musician."
He sighs but keeps searching the sky. As if looking for answers he doesn't have himself.
"One day, they brought me a crown. I was quite taken aback." His gaze traces over the crows that are now flying overhead. "At first, we thought they knew something, some truth that I didn't, but it was… It was all a giant mistake. A comedy of errors, even."
He gives another little laugh. It's taunting, mocking. Ironic and all too bitter.
"They named me Gil-galad. Like I was some savior. Like I had any idea what I was doing." He looks at Harry then, and he's almost unrecognizable. "I was just a young fool. Too scared to tell them the truth. Too afraid of failing people who depended on me." He shakes his head in self-depreciation. "I'm still that person."
Harry is up and by his side in an instant. He's loosened his hold only so that both arms can go around Gil's shoulders. He pulls him in as closely as he can with the chair positioned as it is.
"You aren't a fool. You aren't," Harry tells him, finally speaking. Hating to interrupt but needing to say this. "You're kind and generous and gentle. Funny and clever." His hand comes forward to tilt Gil's head up. "Loving." His fingers run over a pale cheek in a slow, soothing pattern.
Gil-galad just watches him with eyes too gray and dark, but they lighten the longer Harry touches him. He's silent as Harry's hand moves to his temple and back down.
"I wouldn't change anything about you."
Gil sighs at that but says nothing. Just leans against Harry's fingers. Inhaling and exhaling with measured breaths.
"Would it help if you had a different name?" Harry inquires after a few moments and cups his face.
His elf gives him a searching, long look. "I've been Gil-galad so long that answering to anything else is strange. Besides, I have multiple others already," he replies, but it's contemplative. Considering. "Perhaps… Perhaps if we settled on one together in the future… but not now."
Another break. A hesitation that stretches out as Gil relaxes against him.
"Are you angry with me? For not telling you sooner?" he asks then. Tone almost uncertain.
"We don't have to admit everything about ourselves to know each other. To take care of each other." Harry runs a thumb over his cheek, and he shifts forward. "To love each other."
It's a little snug fitting in the chair together, but easier with Harry turned sideways and his legs across Gil's. One arm is around his neck and the other rests on his face still. The smile he receives is radiant, glowing as they bump noses and just lean against one another.
Time is sleepy, dreamy as they curl together in the sunlight. He can't even tell how much of it passes, but he can feel Gil's breath on his neck and his body unwind underneath him. Feels lips press against him and murmurs across his skin but can't make out the words. Gil is warm beneath him, arms around his back and hands threading in his hair and tunic.
"Hérion isn't my real name," Harry confesses finally, after what seems like hours.
It's said in a whisper against Gil's cheek. Like he's uttered some dark sin. He half-expects a bolt of lightning or an ominous cloud. Instead, it's as beautiful as it was before Harry even spoke.
His elf isn't privy to any of those thoughts. He doesn't even seem that surprised at all actually. Instead, he merely hums as he seems to contemplate this.
"He did call you Herurrívë," Gil agrees eventually.
That both is and isn't what Harry meant. In his heart and in his mind, he isn't even sure what name to call himself anymore. Magicals do have birth certificates, but he's never seen his, so he can't even be sure that Harry truly is his name or is merely short for something. Magic accepts intent in all things though, so it's always been good enough for contracts and the like. Still, it's been both a name and a shackle. He isn't sure why he's bothered to keep it now, even if only in his own head. No one here calls him that, and he's never had a strong, positive attachment. It's always tied him to the Boy-Who-Lived. To the Man-Who-Conquered. To fame-seekers, glory-hounds, fair-weather associates, an indifferent public… He could go on.
He's been given a new one, however. Several. If he wants to use them. It's a matter worth considering.
"Yes, he did name me that," Harry allows, and there's something freeing in talking about it. "But no one else uses it."
Gil nods against him. So close his hair tickles Harry's nose.
"Marcaunon is from Lady Nienna," he clarifies, but it isn't a question.
Harry smiles but doesn't reply. He has a feeling though that he knows what's coming next.
"And Hérion?"
He closes his eyes for a few ticks before opening them again.
"It's the closest I could have. I…" Harry hesitates, unsure how to explain. How to make sense of it even now. "I wasn't safe to be around when I was younger. He was… Innocent, I suppose. He died because he was there. Because I was me. If I was anything else, he would've had a good life, but…"
He just exhales to the count of ten.
"How old were you?" Gil's voice is as delicate as his touch on Harry's back. As the breath on his face.
It's the question he dreaded as soon as he spoke up. The one he knew was coming. He'll give the truth though; Harry doesn't want lies between them.
"You won't like it," he says in warning because he does owe his elf that.
The hand moves lower to circle his waist.
"Tell me anyway," Gil says.
"Fourteen."
He sucks in air. His face is somehow paler now, color drained away. Eyes a roiling storm cloud.
"I didn't age the same way that elves do," Harry tries to reassure him.
"That is still so young, Mírimo." He's sad, grieved on Harry's behalf. "Have you been punishing yourself all this time?"
Harry stares at him. "It's not a punishment."
"Isn't it?"
"It's a reminder," Harry explains, distant as he turns away to look out at the city but sees something else entirely. "To be better. To try harder."
Lips brush his jaw as Gil leans forward. "How old were you when you… when you first…" He stumbles over his words. Unable to say it.
"Died?" Harry finishes for him. Glancing back.
He honestly doesn't think the entire reality is prudent here. But he won't lie either. He won't have that between them.
"Five."
Gil-galad is bloodless. His aura is nothing but dark clouds and rumbling thunder.
"It was an accident," Harry offers like a prayer. "I slipped and fell from a tree."
It's true enough. Kinder than what he could say. What he could add. Anything else he can give. His love deserves better than that.
Harry runs his fingers through Gil's hair. "It was a long time ago, and I know you won't believe me, but I'm fine. It happened, and then, it was over."
Gil-galad gives a long sigh but seems to be considering. Harry lets him. Lets the silence linger between them. Rests his head on the shoulder in front of him.
"Do you ever want to find them?" he asks after a few minutes. "Your first parents, I mean?"
Gil is thoughtful. He closes his eyes for several endless heartbeats before opening them again.
"No, not really," he at last decides. "I have my family – Círdan and Erestor. Elrond and Celebrían and now their children. I don't want anyone else. I don't need them." His eyes are sparkling then as Harry lifts his head. "Well, maybe one other person."
He kisses Harry then. Soft, not quite chaste. Then moving to deep and aching. Full of things they've never completely admitted aloud. Lingering as they look at each other and don't speak again for a very long time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry gets a week of reprieve. He could dare another day or two, but he knows that it's postponing the inevitable. That he and Gil have already had their time alone and to explore, and he's even started on Eönwë's next portrait. They have a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen before Harry washes all the dishes, wipes down the table, and cleans the entire room – cabinets, floors, and all. His elf is openly laughing at him by the second one, and Harry will admit to himself that he's procrastinating.
So Harry refreshes both of them with a wiggle of his finger and then offers Gil-galad a hand, which he keeps as they exit the castle and venture all the way down to the first set of gates and towards the municipal building just beyond. It's the furthest Gil has been into the city proper, and Harry makes a note to himself to take him around later. To show him the ever expanding number of shops, cafes, food stands, and homes.
It'll take much longer for the rest of the rings. Spring alone will take a week to two or possibly more for a proper look. Never mind summer and fall or the gentle garden of winter Harry has laid on the outskirts. He considers what Gil would like to see the most. Probably the lake, Harry thinks. He may want to swim or even sail, which means a trip to summer. Of course, autumn has the mallorn forest in the south and west, and Gil may wish to see this based on what Celebrían told him of Lothlórien. The villages there sound similar enough.
He thinks that maybe Celebrían would love to see it for herself one day, and Harry reminds himself to send her a message later. An invitation for her to come. Fingon will get one, too. Definitely Fingolfin and Argon. Harry might as well invite the rest of them while he's at it but not all at once. No, it'll be in small, easily handled groups. And not yet. He'll wait a while. Make sure that Gil's settled and that they have plenty of opportunity to explore just the pair of them. He wants to enjoy their time alone as much as he can. Wants to see the look on Gil's face as he experiences everything for the first time.
And regardless of whatever order his elf sees it all, Harry can admit more than a little bit of pride. At the city itself. At how much it's grown. At all the things they now offer. At how much Harry himself hasn't had to add in the last decades as the Eldar took over construction and more of the mundane activities. Of course, that pushed Harry into a management role, and he still isn't quite sure how he was volunteered for that. Much of it is dreadfully boring paperwork, and why is it that every job he's ever had somehow succeeds in having more of that than the last?
Still, it's a true metropolis now. Complete with surrounding villages and even towns. Merchants regularly make the journey here, and their largest exports are furs, exotic foodstuffs, and crops. Harry still pats himself on the back for the addition of chocolate to this world; the shock in Yavanna's song alone was worth it. He's made other things, but that's been his biggest hit followed by sugar cane, a variety of fruits, even more spices, and bamboo of all things. Harry still has plenty of tricks up his sleeves, however. He suspects that their cotton exports will rise significantly now that everyone has seen Harry wear live demonstrations; of course, Vairë could make any material look fantastic, but the elves don't need to know that part.
Their destination comes into view as they follow the cobblestone path down the mountainside; the outside of the structure gleams in the sunlight. The main office – Harry's office – is large and airy with a vaulted ceiling, but Harry often chooses to sit on the wide balcony to work and gaze out at the city proper. It's empty currently, but the glass door is open to catch the breeze as they pass by. Harry can feel Melpomaen's spring sunrise and Larien's forest serenade inside. Inglor's autumn equinox is more distant, lingering closer to the archery range with part of the guard, undoubtedly training. The other members of his staff are scattered – some in other parts of the building, others out in Formenos itself.
Harry slowly leads his elf inside the front doors, and his hand is squeezed as they head into the foyer. As if Gil senses his hesitation. He truly shouldn't be nervous. It's only Laerien. Only Melpomaen. But some part of him wants to go back home, go back to bed, and enjoy a few more days off. Enjoy another holiday in his castle with his favorite person.
It's with only the tiniest bit of reluctance that he walks in his office. Laerien glances up instantly, and her eyebrows are nearly to her hairline a second later once she gets a look at Harry and his companion. It's Melpomaen though who surprises Harry the most.
"King Gil-galad!" his assistant exclaims. He's stumbling up from his seat an instant later and nearly tripping over the corner in his haste to rise.
Harry catches him before he can finish his fall, placing him back on his feet. He's completely ignored, however, in favor of the person next to him as Melpomaen gapes at Gil like he personally set the sun and moon in the sky.
"I'm no king anymore, my friend," Gil-galad corrects with a wide, happy grin and grasps both of his arms. "How long have you been here? Did you sail? Or…?" He shakes his head to dispel even the thought. "No one said anything."
Gil casts a glance at Harry, eyes suddenly sharp, but he can only offer a shrug. He'd no idea that Melpomaen even knew Gil-galad. It never came up, but then, his aide was very quiet about his past in general, and Harry never pressed. He wants people to be comfortable enough to talk of their own free will. If they aren't… well then, they aren't. Simple as that.
Gil goes back to Melpomaen. Who's still gazing at him with glistering, dark eyes.
"I sailed," Melpomaen says, and it's in a much softer voice. "It was recently. I just…" He swallows hard. "Imladris was no longer my home. Not after Lady Celebrían left. Many of us heard the call of the sea then; I put it off as long as I could, but… my lords… they finally bid me to go."
Gil grips him tighter. "I may not have a kingdom anymore, but you would be welcome in my house," he states very vehemently. "We would've made a place for you earlier had we known."
Melpomaen's attention flickers to Harry for the barest instance. Then, he steps back from both of them, freeing himself and tucking his hands into his sleeves.
"I know, sire," Melpomaen responds with a duck of his head. "You've always been very kind and thoughtful like that."
Gil doesn't sigh, but Harry can tell it's a near thing. He sees his elf deciding on which battle to fight here first, but he opts to just let it all go for now.
"You'll tell me of my brothers though, yes?" he questions instead. "Later? How they were before you left?"
Melpomaen merely offers a curve of his lips as he nods. Gil accepts it magnanimously, graciously. Lets Melpomaen take several steps backwards as Gil turns to the fourth person in the room next. His brow lifts before he again smiles. It's smaller this time but no less genuine.
Still, there's a chill of foreboding that creeps down Harry's spine the second Gil-galad looks at his seneschal. It likely has to do with the expression of resignation on her face.
Then…
"Princess Laerien," Gil-galad greets, and it's ever-so-politely.
Harry feels his heart stop. Feels the pause drag on before it gives a painful jolt.
"King Gil-galad, always a delight," she returns imperiously, but it's with a slight catch. "We're very informal here, your majesty."
"I'm no king now," he reminds her. He still smiles, but his gaze has hardened, weight shifting so that he's closer to Harry. "I was not aware you were in Aman."
Laerien gives an elegant shrug. "I came through the Halls, same as you. Though I suppose we missed each other there."
"You're here alone?" Gil asks, and there's an undercurrent of shrewdness beneath the pleasantry. As though he's wading through subtext to get to something else entirely.
Laerien allows it though. Allows herself to be directed. And that tells Harry more than words ever could. Not to mention that for all that he's been gone for months, she's very carefully not looking at him. Melpomaen isn't either, and Harry is quite certain now that he knows why.
"Thranduil and my boys are still safe," she reports as her palm goes to lay in the center of her chest. Her fingers start to curl but don't close. "I would know if they were not."
And there it is.
Harry recognizes that name. It was part of his lessons from Nienna and then later conversations with Káno about the state of Endor. It makes sense, some distant part of him supposes, Laerien's attitude of authority. Her belief that she should be obeyed at all times. Expected for a princess. Or perhaps it should be queen? Gil probably missed her rise in station at the start of the Third Age. Káno didn't know the name of Thranduil's wife and the Ainur never mentioned her except to say that she died.
There's a lull in conversation. An awkward silence stretching out now that Gil's gotten some truth from them. He's clever, his elf. To figure out what Harry himself had not seen. The lies of omission in his own staff. A hand is now around his elbow. Fingers rub a circle on Harry's sleeve, but he can't manage to be soothed by it. The air is turning too heavy, too stifling as he glances from Laerien to Melpomaen. There's a story here as well; Harry knows without even having to be told. His assistant is a terrible liar. Or maybe a very good one.
Harry can't really be sure now.
"Were you ever going to tell me?" he questions because it's the only thing he really needs answered.
Laerien is haughty, fractured pride with her chin lifted. Melpomaen still has his hands in his sleeves, but his back is straight.
"I had to make sure you were genuine," she admits. "Too many of our people were coming here to settle."
"Lady Celebrían warned me not to say anything," he mumbles. "Not unless you brought it up."
Harry can't help the bite of betrayal. The sensation of a knife in his back. The bile in his throat.
It's silly really. He shouldn't feel this way. They've made no promises to him. No oaths or pledges of loyalty. Only offered to help him with paperwork as the population grew to an unmanageable level for him to do it all alone anymore. Everyone in a position of power in Formenos is much the same, a volunteer who stepped up when there was a need. Who offered him a helping hand.
It's Harry's own fault for assuming more. For forgetting that these are not humans or goblins or veela or any race of Earth. Not even Ainur. These are elves, Eldar, and he isn't one of them. Not really. Not ever. They've likely always known that.
Still, he'd thought that… maybe… It isn't like it was when Harry was younger, like with Ron and Hermione. Or even the Weasleys. The DA… But he considers them friends. All his staff are closest thing to that he has amongst the elves save for a few others in the city. And Fingon now. Fingolfin and Argon too, he supposes. Káno is different; he's more, the best. Gil-galad is different still, and Harry fears even putting a name to their connection.
Once, Harry would've considered Celebrían a friend. But not really, it seems. Not on her end.
It does make sense now how everyone in Tirion gets all their information. It's painfully obvious in retrospect. In hindsight. They all knew too much. Knew things they couldn't possibly have without someone tattling on him directly. How many more spies does he have, Harry wonders? How many others in this building and Formenos itself deceive him so easily?
There's an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Like nightshade and hemlock. Worse than any poison he's ever taken. Harry's been a celebrity since the second he entered the magical world. Has always been famous and known and distinct. Has always had someone wanting something from him.
Yet, they all fooled him entirely.
He'll truly always be nothing more than an ignorant, stupid boy in a cupboard. Desperate for someone to pay attention. For the smallest speck of interest. For anything even remotely resembling affection.
Harry somehow resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. It's a terrible habit that he's fought hard to conquer. Nonetheless, it's better than finding the nearest wall to beat his head on. Though not nearly as satisfying. Admittedly, this is much more socially acceptable and far less likely to lead to awkward questions and a trip back to Mandos.
He's zero for two right now with his aide and steward; Harry might as well make it three with the captain of his guard. He understands that Inglor and Fingon are aware of each other – Valinor isn't that large a place. His company also recognized Harry's name upon meeting him. Káno knows Inglor as well, but he's always been reluctant to speak of his past misdeeds, and Harry respects him enough to not interrogate him.
Inglor's history as a kinslayer isn't a secret. Eönwë did recognize him immediately, after all. Identified him by name. And yet… yet…
"I suppose," Harry begins, only to cross both arms over his chest, "you're going to tell me that Inglor is in on this, too. That he's secretly the nephew of Ingwë." He tilts his head in thought. "No wait; he'll be the cousin of Indis."
It's said with an even tone that Harry can scarcely identify as his own. So distant and nonchalant that he might as well be talking about the weather. There isn't even a sarcastic edge, and he's particularly proud of that.
Laerien and Melpomaen don't look at each other, but he knows that they want to do so. Instead, his assistant is suddenly finding the window beyond his shoulder the most fascinating thing in existence as he avoids Harry's eye. Laerien, on the other hand, clasps her fingers in front of her.
"Actually, his mother is a handmaiden of Queen Indis, and he was raised with King Finwë's sons," she discloses, sounding tired, almost defeated. "He was once a lord of that court and a great friend to King Arafinwë when he was still just a prince. I don't know the full details, but I do know that he followed Prince Fëanáro instead to Endor after their father's death."
She states it all flatly like she's reciting his biography. Like she swallowed his personnel file. It's far too much like Hermione for Harry's comfort, and there's quietness as a distinct chill enters the room. The only sound is their breathing against the icy air. Melpomaen stares at the floor in something like shame, but Harry isn't sure he believes it. Not now. Laerien looks up at him with sorrow written in her eyes, and Harry doesn't believe that either.
"I see."
It's all Harry says. All he can say as he sharply turns on his heel and marches out of the office and then the building, too. He blinks and is back at his castle in front of the entranceway, but the doors open on their own before he can even gesture for them. Harry doesn't slow down until he's inside and past the entrance hall. He only stops when he hears a rumble in the distance. His hands tremble as he runs them over his face and pulls at his hair. His eyes burn behind their lids. He inhales shakily, but Harry draws up his glacial shield and buries himself beneath it.
Harry isn't Dumbledore. He doesn't read the minds of everyone and their brother at the drop of a hat. Thoughts are private. Are a person's own. They came here seeking a new start. Just as Harry himself had. He allowed them to stay and didn't ask questions. Just as they didn't ask him any. He gave them trust and expected it in return.
Apparently, even after everything, Harry is still too trusting. Still too naïve. Still wants to believe the best in people despite how often they curse him in the back, knife him in the neck, and lie to his face.
He isn't Tom Riddle. He isn't a monster that punishes everyone who slights him. He isn't ruled by his temper. He controls his anger. He folds it up like a paper bird and covers it beneath rime.
He's snow. He's ice. His feelings are frost beneath his feet. It's a mantra that he wears like a favorite robe. Like a comfortable cloak. Familiar, calming as the winter winds.
The tears that come though are hot, boiling against his skin. They won't stop no matter how much cold he calls up or how hard he presses his palms against his eyes. He breathes in through his mouth, but that doesn't halt the gasps either. His shoulders shake as he half-leans, half-sags against the wall next to him, trying steady himself.
There's a howl deep in his soul. Not of anger but of pain. Like a kicked dog begging for mercy. For the agony to stop. A child with green eyes, thin shoulders, and bony fingers staring through the slot in his cupboard, praying for a miracle.
A faint ocean breeze grows stronger around him and builds with the sight of waves against the shore. Autumn sleet turning into winter soon joins and brings the tinkle of sleighbells. Following closely are war drums with feathers in a cloak. Then, there's warmth like a hearth, like a blanket trying to settle on his shoulders. Further in the distance, he can see even more. Feel more reaching out for him. An ever calm lake. A blazing forge fire. A caldera of simmering water. Embers that flare-
Harry shoves them all away. Calls up ice and snow until everything else is blotted out. Until it's a total whiteout and only he remains.
But the tears won't stop. Can't stop as he cries.
He doesn't even know how long he's like that before arms slide around his waist to his back and draw him forward. He drops his head down to bury it in Gil-galad's neck, and he can hear that his elf's heart is beating faster than usual, that he's slightly breathless. But he's gentle and comforting. Whispering promises in Sindarin in Harry's ear.
Fingers tangle in his hair as they draw circles on his back, and Harry finds himself unconsciously relaxing bit by bit. Finds his sobs abating until the tears run dry.
After what feels like a lifetime, Harry at last lifts his eyes. They're upstairs. In the corridor just outside their suite. He isn't entirely certain how he got here, but Gil must've run all the way back.
He's still puzzling everything out as a kiss is pressed to his cheek and he's steered inside to the sofa that looks out the oriel window. He's pulled down to sit right next to his elf, practically in his lap, but Harry allows himself to be tucked in. For his head to be settled on Gil's shoulder. He's so tired, exhausted, and it isn't even noon. Isn't even lunchtime.
He doesn't have to look outside to see the flurries coming down. Steadily enough to coat the ground. It's warm yet, and the clouds are only in the distance. The sun shines in the sky despite the occasional thunder. He can feel the surprise of the elves outside, but it's a light thing. There's even some wonder mixed in. But Harry knows it'll all change if he doesn't contain himself.
Harry inhales deeply. He pushes down every lingering negative emotion under his glacier and packs it away in the cupboard, firmly shuts the door. Locks it up tight. Seals it with a spell.
Until he's just numb. Drained. Empty.
Outside, the snow stops. There one moment. Gone the next. Already starting to melt on the ground and streets.
"I'm sorry," he whispers then.
Gil sighs and kisses his crown before laying his chin on top. "Don't take it out on yourself, Mírimo. This is not your fault."
"It is," Harry insists, but it's flat, fatigued. "I shouldn't have trusted them. Not immediately. I always do that."
"That isn't a bad thing. Seeing the best in people," his love tells him, and it's very kindly. He snuggles in even closer. "Even when they cannot see it themselves."
Harry doesn't agree, but he's too tired to argue. He just sighs.
"You could dismiss them," Gil suggests then.
Harry snorts. "That's more a punishment for me than anything."
"Then, put them to work," his elf advises. "Make them earn your forgiveness."
Harry considers that, but ultimately, he decides that it's a problem for later. For tomorrow. For a later time. He doesn't want to deal with this. With anything right now.
Instead, he just closes his eyes. Allows himself to be lulled by sound of Gil's heartbeat. By the feeling of arms around him. Surrounds himself in the aura of gentle rain and soft thunder. And drifts off to sleep.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Harry – This Oath is the dumbest thing ever. Muttering it to himself under his breath.
Eru – Does not have ulterior motives at all. Seems legit. Good enough for me!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Laerien – We done effed up, didn't we.
Inglor – Big time.
Melpomaen – Definitely.
Celebrían – Sneezes. Feels a sudden cold chill down her spine.
Everyone Else in Formenos – What did you do?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry's Feä – I have an ouchie!
The Ainur – Where? Where!?
Harry's Feä – On the inside.
The Ainur – Le gasp! We must fix this!
Nienna – Mommy's coming, my dear.
Dadlor – Sends happy seashore vibes! Remember your harp this time!
Varda & Manwë – Eönwë!
The Others – Fix him!
The House of Finwë – What the hell is going on over there?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad – Sigh. Rubs forehead. What else could possibly go wrong?
Narrator Voice – You… you shouldn't have said that.
Gil-galad – I jinxed myself, didn't I?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon – Is it time to leave yet?
Finrod – Sigh. Not yet.
Angrod – I can't believe you're so impatient.
Celebrían – It's only been three weeks.
Findis – I thought we decided to wait eight weeks.
Argon – Well, if we leave now…
Finrod – Finishing his thought. It'll still take us eight weeks to get there.
Angrod – You can't be serious.
Celebrían – Shakes her finger at him. No, they have a point.
Everyone – Looking at each other.
Findis – Fine. But you have to explain the plan to the others.
Elsewhere…
Fingon – My spidey-sense is tinging.
Fingolfin – Mine, too.
Both – Happy vibes!
Finarfin – I don't get paid enough for this.
Notes:
AN: We're going to skip posting next week since I have other things going on in but will be back the week after. Appreciate the patience.
And Gil-galad's explanation on the House of Finwë – Finarfin thinks that he's Curufin's kid (so a Fëanorion and the first cousin of Harry), while Fingon believes that he's Orodreth's son. Orodreth (Angrod's son) imagines that Aredhel had another child, and Aredhel assumes that Fingon (and Maedhros) adopted him, but that Fingon won't fess up to it yet. Cue Spider-Man meme where they're all pointing at each other. I will add that if anyone was brave enough to question this, Celebrían would totally claim Gil-galad as her brother, and Celeborn would go along with it for the sheer lulz factor. Would anyone ever ask Galadriel (including her parents)?
Also, recall that Celeborn and Oropher (Thranduil's dad) are brothers in this fic, so that means that Laerien and Celebrían are cousins by marriage.
Final point, in this AU, Curufin's unnamed wife went with them to Middle Earth because she's ride or die like her husband and his entire family. She won't leave Mandos until Celebrimbor does because this story already has a million characters.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 17: Chapter 17
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It annoys Gil when Harry wakes first. When he slides out of bed and roams off. Harry can't truly help it; he's always been an early riser. Has been for centuries. Since he was a small child and rose before the sun to cook and clean for the Dursleys. Things were different at Fingon's. Harry would have to stay in his room to avoid awkward questions, and even then, that wasn't a guarantee. Of course, he could use the time to draw away from prying eyes. To read in the moonlight through his window. Even once he moved in with Gil, it was much the same.
He doesn't need sleep in the way elves do; he does it more out of habit now. Or admittedly, when he's overwrought. Emotions are always tricky things; exhaust him more than physical exertion ever could. When he was in Mandos, he slept out of boredom, when the Ainur were occupied, he found himself uninspired, or he had nothing else to do.
Now, Harry only sleeps every night because his elf insists. And because it's nice to doze off to Gil next to him, be lulled by the sound of his heartbeat and the feel of rain. Even if he's awake a scant few hours later. And really, he does seem to be more active now that he's home. Possibly the magic of it. Or maybe just the relief of being here. Of finally being able to relax and not having to constantly guard himself.
It gives Harry plenty of time he needs to get things done. After all, in Formenos, he can go around with complete freedom. Nobody bothers him – or even really knows he's there as he checks the city over properly. Investigates the surrounding rings one by one. Examines his wards for any issues. Avoids his staff. Reads any correspondence at his office – the ones that he actually feels like doing – and appropriately replies without ever having to see anyone. There's plenty of leisure time as well. Enough for him to simply wander during the middle of the night. Walk the grounds. Build his newest garden. Work in the others. Fly with Inara. Gaze at the stars. Ride Indilwen. Play against Káno. Visit with Nienna.
She's there the second week Harry is back, the night after he learned the truth of Laerien and Melpomaen and Inglor, too. She stays for hours but always leaves before dawn. Before Gil wakes, though his elf must suspect someone's stopping by with the glint in his eye in the mornings.
She accompanies Harry on his various tasks. Just as she usually does. It's a familiar, comfortable routine. Nienna at his side like soft chimes in the late autumn chill. The first snowfall of winter. She's present every night. Always waiting until Harry's alone and Gil's still asleep in their bed. She hasn't once come during the day, but then, she does actually have other places to be. Real responsibilities. Others who also depend on her.
She also hasn't asked about the Silmaril. Not once. Hasn't even hinted to it. The one time Harry brought it up himself, Nienna merely kissed his cheek and turned back to the task at hand without another word. Harry can understand a clear dismissal when it pats him on the face. He doesn't bring it up again. Or the Oath.
Instead, he allows himself to enjoy her company. To delight in the time together after all these months with only a few stolen moments. It's something going right in his life. Something he doesn't have to stress or agonize over.
Unlike his subordinates. That's an entirely different mess. A migraine without the headache. Laerien's already attempted to ambush him after-hours in the office, but he naturally realized she was there and simply let her stew all night. He's also seen Inglor patrolling more on the late-shift, and Harry avoids him easily, too. Melpomaen hasn't tried anything yet; Harry knows that he will. The rest of his employees as well.
Harry isn't sure he's ready for that. Distance and time are letting him come to terms. Allowing him to reflect with the calm sense of detachment that Occlumency grants. To review every interaction they've ever had. Every spoken word. Every brush and glimpse of their auras. He still can't see it. Can't find the treachery even knowing what to look for. Understanding so intimately that it's there. All three are so sincere, so genuine. Every time he went hunting with Inglor. Every moment at his desk with Melpomaen. Every instance Laerien reminded him to take a break. All of it's so very real that Harry doesn't know what to think. What to believe about any of them now.
First of course was Inglor. He was guarded at first, but there was somehow still a spark of hope in his eyes. A gleam of wonder as he looked at what Harry's built. It was so early then. Before the city was even a passing thought on the horizon. When Harry only truly started finishing the outside structure and much of the castle's inside wasn't even completed. Inglor began the guard with members of his own company but still seemed so surprised when Harry made him the one in charge.
Second was Laerien. She actually came when Formenos was turning into a thriving town. She's equal parts prideful and fiery in the way that Ginny could be when angered, but she' also focused, forged. Harry saw her directing many of the other elves, but it was only when the population truly began booming and he was starting to feel the press of so many responsibilities he never wanted, that she appeared at his gate. She was even the one to suggest he build an office for himself in the town hall.
Last was Melpomaen. He just appeared one day like he was always there. Answered a notice that some of the others put out for additional assistance. Quiet in the way that Neville was in the early years. Hesitant almost. But Harry knew that he worked harder and more hours than the rest combined. There was a reason, after all, that he was in the office with Harry and Laerien while others who were there longer weren't.
And perhaps all of this is what upsets Harry the most. That out of all those in Formenos, these three should know him the best, but it seems Harry doesn't understand them at all.
Harry sighs at that thought. At the knowledge that he is in fact avoiding them, and that's a very un-Gryffindor thing to do. But part of him will always be a Slytherin. Will always want to tend his wounds in private. To pretend any hurts aren't there and put on a mask of perfect politeness. It's the same aspect of him that also bets with himself on who it'll be. Which one of them will come to his castle first. Or maybe first is the wrong sentiment. Perhaps it should be, which one of them will try to smooth things over. To explain themselves. To win him back.
Originally, he thinks it'll be Laerien, but he ultimately decides on Inglor. The blond has the most to lose. He's a kinslayer. He repented on bent knee with bowed head before Eönwë at the War of Wrath. Returned for the Valar's judgment. He won't risk Harry's fury. Won't risk the chance of being kicked out.
And isn't that a sad sign indeed of how little they really know Harry after these years? To think so little of him? To believe he would hurt them in such a way? To even consider he would ever force them from their homes?
But Harry recognizes they will, knows they do even now. He doesn't need Legilimency for that. He can discern it in the song of the city. In the stray notes that drift up each day that passes and he doesn't come down to see them in person. That float along more and more frequently as time ticks by, and they don't see him walking through the streets, browsing through the shops, and just stopping in for a chat. Most certainly, when he doesn't come to his office during the daylight hours.
It's not everyone, of course. Not even the majority. Much of the populace has no idea what's happened. He hears their confusion. The chords of uncertainty with the low timber of worry that he soothes with a lullaby as they rest and uplifts in the sunshine. It bolsters them, but the concern lingers. He feels more and more of them approaching the gates; none has dared enter. Not yet.
The loudest voices are Laerien, Melpomaen, and Inglor; things always do seem to come in threes. Then, those who know him the best in Formenos itself. Daeron. Gwindor. Beleg. Nimrodel. Mithrellas and her daughter Gilmith. His other staff along with Inglor's company. Others scattering out in the city and then rippling into the surrounding rings.
And how long will it take, Harry wonders? If… when they'll finally seek him out. Before one of them is brave enough to actually come inside.
He'll give it two weeks. No more than that. Melpomaen certainly won't let it drag on longer. Laerien could hold out through sheer stubbornness, but she also likes to know where everybody is and what all they're doing. She won't go too long without checking in. For Inglor though, it's harder to decide. It could be the very next day; it could be a month or four. It depends on his mood. He's always tricky to read when he really wants to keep his thoughts hidden. Far harder than the others.
Harry has his answer soon enough. It's a week and a day.
While Harry spends most of the nights with Nienna, the days are for Gil within the castle itself. It's large enough that they don't run out of things to do, and really, he gets to avoid administrative work, finish Eönwë's painting, plan his new garden, and spend time with his favorite elf. It's a pure win in any other circumstance. Another vacation so soon after the last without the pressing need to return to the tedious aspects he hates and do countless hours of paperwork that seems to reproduce whenever his back is turned.
But then, Inglor has to show up and ruin all his fun.
Harry knows he's outside without ever having to look. Feels him come up the mountain path and hesitate at the gate. All but sees him walk inside and the gate close immediately behind him, a mere hairsbreadth away from a collision. Watches as Inglor casts a weary glance over his shoulder before he crosses the courtyard with cautious steps. The blond pauses by the main door as the castle looms large and imposing. A dark cloud lingers overhead, casting down a long shadow.
Harry sighs then. He reaches out with calming notes to ease the castle's displeasure at their guest, and she settles into his hand like a grim eager to guard her master but suspicious of interlopers. And honestly, it's a bit too much.
No matter how unhappy he is with Inglor, Harry senses no malice from him. Only a melancholic resignation. He's had a week to rethink his interactions with all his personnel, and yes, he's delayed this confrontation because part of him wants to see just how they'd react. While another larger part is just tired of it all. The drama. The omissions. The subterfuge.
Elves are so tiresome. Even more than a castle full of teenagers on their worst day.
He isn't annoyed at this point. Not even angry. He's gone through all the stages of grief to a dull sort of acceptance. He's spent years being undermined on Earth; why should Arda be any different? Why should there be loyalty after a mere blink of the eye to beings who live forever? Why should he expect honest regard when at best he's a complete unknown and at worst the son of a murderer?
He's either nothing, a nobody. Or the doppelgänger of a prince turned monster. The last scion of a nightmare House drenched in blood and shackled in Oaths.
Why would anyone ever truly be his friend? Associate with him at all unless they're desperate or have ulterior motives?
He's nothing but a naïve fool for ever thinking otherwise.
Nevertheless, he's postponed this long enough, and Inglor has made the first move. Harry promised himself that if any one of them would come to him properly. If they dared appear at his home, that he'd hear them out.
They're just finishing lunch in the kitchen as Inglor stands outside his door, and Gil glances over when he sees Harry take a deep breath. His love offers to come for support, but Harry knows this is something he needs to do on his own. Gil leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips and remains behind to clean up as Harry apparates. Inglor doesn't jump when he meanders around from the side, but his gaze is sharp. Assessing. Normally, Harry warrants a smile. An arm clasp if they haven't seen each other for some time or Inglor has plans to head out on patrol. Today though, he's solemn. Standoffish. Staying a polite distance away.
Harry can't decide if he should be irritated, offended, or saddened. He's some mixture of the three as he motions for Inglor to follow him inside. None of the elves really like being in the main parts of the castle. Certainly not now. Not after Harry's continued refining it over all the decades since their departure to their own houses. He's never bothered to make a drawing room suitable for their sensibilities. The set he has now is only used by Ainur, who are forever delighted by his artwork. And also by Gil-galad, who's weird enough to like just about anything Harry does.
He leads Inglor to the least ostentatious one, which is conveniently right by the entranceway. The captain steps in slowly, and Harry doesn't even have to be looking to know that the white peacocks all turn to stare as they walk inside. Still staring until Harry makes a discreet gesture behind his back, and they finally find better things to do with their time. By then, they're next to the saffron-colored sofas. Those are insanely comfortable, but even though this is Gil's least favorite room, Harry does occasionally come in here for these alone.
Inglor is too calm as he waits for Harry to sit first. Like usual, he's in his uniform of deep green with gold and silver. His sword is absent, however, and his hair is braided in a style Harry only vaguely recognizes but doesn't think he's seen for a very long time. Inglor's sharper in looks than Finarfin, thinner even now. As if he can't make up for the millennia of missed meals. He's slightly shorter as well, but for a Ñoldo, that doesn't mean much. He's still one of the tallest in the city exceeded only by Harry himself, a few of his own party, a handful of other stray Ñoldor, two Sindar, a very particular peredhel originally from Númenórean, and now Gil-galad.
"Thank you for taking time to speak with me, my lord," Inglor states then with all the formality of a courtier to his sovereign. It's only missing the bow, and that frankly would be even more over the top.
Harry doesn't sigh. He doesn't throw anything. Beat his head on the wall. Or even pinch his nose.
"Have we truly come to this?" he inquires instead.
Since really, no one in Formenos refers to him so formally. They haven't since the beginning when Harry made it exceptionally clear that he isn't lord of anyone. There are occasionally slip-ups from newcomers, but those are few and far between. Thankfully short-lived.
"It seemed appropriate for the setting," Inglor responds, but there's none of his typical sarcasm. None of the usual sardonic undertones.
Instead, he sounds courteous. Polite. Distant. Exactly how he was in the early days when he didn't quite know what to make of Harry.
"I'm not a lord," Harry counters, but it's flat. "I'm not my… I'm not Maglor Fëanorion. I'm not Elros or Elrond or Fëanor either."
"No, not any of them," the blond acknowledges with a dip of his head. "But you're my liege lord. My friend, if you would still have me."
Harry just looks at him. He keeps his expression passive, blank. His shields are up, but the temperature of the room is normal, even pleasant. He wonders what Gil-galad would do right now if he were here. If Fingon were. Fingolfin. He knows exactly what Argon would do because he's spent far too much of his life with Gryffindors. Oddly enough, the same can be said for Findis, who's a Slytherin through and through.
"Am I now?" he questions because he isn't any of those people. At the end of the day, he's only Harry, and that has to be enough. "Am I really?"
It's not unreasonable to think that he isn't. Whatever quarrels he had with Ron and Hermione were childish things that went away once they were adults. Never after had they told anyone anything about him that he wanted private, not even to each other. The same for the Weasleys, Teddy, Victoire, Andromeda, even the DA, and later his apprentices and then professors at the school. Even with his lifelong fame, this is a personal betrayal on a level he's never quite had before. Never has anyone he's truly trusted done such a thing. Yes, the Order reported to Dumbledore – but that was before he really knew any of them. This is a different situation entirely. Inglor once lived here; Harry once offered him shelter. Still does, he supposes.
The elf closes his eyes in a slow blink before opening them again. He faces Harry squarely, fully.
"I deserve that, yes, and I realize that we… That I have overstepped greatly. I harmed you, and for that, I owe you a sincere apology."
Harry stares at him.
An apology. Or at least, something in the shape of one. An assertion of regret. That's certainly unexpected. Harry so rarely gets these. The one from Fingon was the first in a very long time, and now, here's a second in the span of a few months. Surely, the world must be ending. What next? The Fëanorians leaving Mandos? Morgoth escaping the Void? Aman and Endor becoming one again?
Still, an apology. What a novel thing. It sounds real enough. Feels real enough in the song of Inglor's soul, but Harry's learning that isn't as reliable as he thought. That someone can deceive while appearing serene and sincere. And he should've never forgotten the lesson that the best lies are ones that aren't lies at all. He would've made an awful Slytherin in school.
Inglor watches Harry for a long moment, even as he thinks all of this. Poised. As if waiting for a response. When he doesn't get one, he merely continues.
"You are very tolerant with all of us, so I have no excuse for this." The captain puts his palms flat on his knees, sits straight-backed and almost regal in his civility. "I… We also never fully told you who any of us were, and while you never asked--"
"That isn't what this is about, and you know it," Harry interrupts. "I didn't force anyone to explain themselves or what they'd once been. I never have; that doesn't matter now." His voice is steady but cuts through the room like a knife. "I did expect the same courtesy. I expected to be able to live here and not have to worry about half of Tirion knowing my every move."
Now, it's Inglor's turn to stare. To look at him with incomprehension.
And it's in that very instant, Harry knows. That he sees the truth.
Inglor has no clue at all. He has no idea why Harry's unhappy with him. Oh, he realizes he did something wrong. He knows that Harry's upset by his actions. He even recognizes what those actions are. But he doesn't understand why.
That's only confirmed with his next few statements.
"They were worried," Inglor explains, but his tone has shifted. It's colored with uncertainty now. "You were here alone."
Harry lifts a sardonic brow at that. As he's never been left by himself long enough to genuinely be alone anywhere. There's always someone dropping in on him. Inglor knows that better than most. Has seen his never-ending line of visitors from Nienna and Vairë to Eönwë to Oromë to Estë and Irmo and so on. He's honestly amazed only Nienna has come so far. That one of the others hasn't shown up yet, but he supposes they know that Gil's here with him. And if he's entirely honest, all of them can probably tell that they've…
Harry lets that thought go. He doesn't rub his temples. He doesn't. He simply crosses his right leg over his left and sets his now threaded fingers on top.
"I didn't even know them until recently. Why would I want you telling them anything about me?" he inquires and doesn't roll his eyes at just the thought. "Why would they even care?"
Inglor pauses then. Gives him a long and searching look. He's baffled by the question. Perplexed. As if he can't fathom what Harry's just asked him. As if the words don't make any sense. As if Harry suddenly started speaking in a language that the blond doesn't know.
Harry can't quite read his expression, but his aura is always autumn. At the beginning, when they first met, it was mist and fog with the trees nearly dead and empty. Nowadays, it's red and orange and yellow crowned in the glorious sunlight. Today though… Today, the leaves fall steadily like raindrops, and all of those currently curl to a dull brown as soon as they touch the forest floor.
"They're your family," Inglor states, and it's carefully.
His posture is so very stiff and unnatural that Harry's reminded of Manwë for a moment. Only the Vala simply doesn't know how to blend in better; Inglor's has a different cause entirely. And where Manwë's tells are more in how he doesn't move than when he does, Harry can see Inglor's fingers twitching the same way they do when he holds his arrow in position too long.
"They're becoming that now," Harry clarifies, "but they weren't then. They were strangers."
Since really, he'd only ever met Fingon and Argon before. On that first trip. None of the rest of the House of Finwë. Gil… well, that's a different story.
The elf isn't gaping at him, but it's awfully close. A bewildered stare. He keeps staring. Like Harry's suddenly said something else odd indeed. Like he's grown another head. Or sprouted wings. Or shifted into a different shape.
He hasn't. He subtly checks just in case.
Inglor begins, "Your parents--"
"Are my parents," Harry disrupts. "They will always be my parents."
The captain seems like he can't decide if he should be pleased or taken aback by the vehemence in that statement. In Harry's voice. Or the glow he knows is in his eyes.
Inglor exhales. The leaves are dropping faster now. Piling up on the ground. The sun is shining through, however. It's still warm, and the rain hasn't truly come.
"Do the Ainur not care for you? Lord Eönwë? Lady Nienna? Lady Vairë? The others?"
It's technically a question but is meant more rhetorically. Since the elf acts like he already knows the answer.
Harry decides to keep humoring him, nonetheless.
"That's different," he replies with a little sigh.
Inglor tilts his head to the left ever-so-slightly. As if encouraging Harry to elucidate.
"They've known me from the start. They took care of me." He gives a little gesture. "They know me… and I, them. We don't need spies for that."
It'd be impossible to keep the fondness from his voice. The affection. And why would he even bother? Why would Harry fight that? They've been nothing but good to him. Kind. Generous. Willing to teach. To spend time with him. To give him gifts. To indulge his whimsies.
The blond is silent at that. Quiet as he studies Harry, as his gaze momentarily drifts around the room, lingering on the peacocks, and then back. His head is still tilted. His face is odd. Almost pensive. Like he's finally coming to an epiphany.
"You truly don't consider yourself one of us, do you?"
Now, it's Harry's turn to be confused. Which us exactly does Inglor mean? The people in Formenos? Valinor? Arda?
No explanation is forthcoming, unfortunately. Inglor's too lost in reflection.
"I never thought…" he murmurs, "we knew you were a peredhel--"
"That again," Harry almost mutters, but it's more to himself.
Inglor studies him once more. As if seeing him for the very first time all over again. Not looking at his face but more his eyes. At something deeper even as the seconds tick by. Harry feels autumn leaves stir against winter snow, but it's a light brush of notes. Almost in greeting. Like what he'd receive from an Ainu when they come to visit. But more tentative. Uncertain of his welcoming.
There are only three elves to truly do this before for him. To do it intentionally and not as it is with Gil-galad. Káno, though they don't technically communicate in person. Miriel, when he's gone to see her with Vairë, but her situation is different as well. Lastly, Fingon and that was such a recent thing, new and fragile. Harry's never had an elf in Formenos try this with him, one of his own people.
There's something about being trusted like this. An awareness of being given something valuable. Something personal and irreplaceable. Harry already sees so much of them, too much, but it's knowing that he's also seen in return. That they don't just view the shell, the façade of an elven prince, the mirage of Maglor Fëanorion… but Harry himself.
For once, Inglor truly looks at him. Sees him. Harry's likely already glimpsed more of him than he ever intended. More than he'll ever honestly comprehend.
As if to prove his point just then, Harry can sense another elf walking along on the mountain path. In truth, he felt them pass by the municipal building around the time he let Inglor in, but their gait is slow and meandering. Pausing along the way as they likely look down at the city and the surrounding landscape. So definitely an elf then. He can always tell when it's an Ainu from their song, though most of them don't bother traveling through the city itself. Elves occasionally come to the gates to peer inside, in the last weeks more frequently, but the wards keep them from seeing anything too incriminating, and they prevent anything or anyone actually hostile or dangerous from entering. Still, he wants people to feel able to seek him out if genuinely needed. If there's ever an emergency.
He isn't concerned though. His wards are serene sentinels, observing but unmoving. Unalarmed. It's someone he somewhat recognizes but can't immediately place though he knows it isn't one of his employees. So Harry tunes out the presence. Comes back to himself.
He sends Inglor a chorus of sleighbells and the sensation of gazing up at flurries in the sunlight. Then, he softly pulls away, leaving the elf blinking at him almost dazedly.
"What all did you tell them?" Harry finally asks.
"Not everything. I didn't even say all that much," Inglor allows after a long moment, most of it spent shaking the snowflakes loose from his mind. "Not even things most of us would consider truly important."
Harry makes a noncommittal sound to that. He thinks they have incredibly different ideas on what's considered vital.
"And who exactly did you tell?"
The blond breathes out through his mouth. He doesn't shift on the sofa, but there's an air of discomfort around him that he can't fully hide. The fingers on his left hand flex involuntarily.
"Ingoldo, we're--"
"Old friends, yes. I heard." Harry motions for more. "Who else?"
Inglor inclines his head. "Findis. She remains close with my mother."
"Not Fingon?" Harry inquires. He keeps the dread from his voice, keeps the tremble, but it's a near thing. This is the question that he wants answered most of all, and he hates that he isn't sure what he'll do with the answer.
"No," the elf responds with a firm denial, "he merely sent me here in the search for you. He never wanted more information than to know you were safe." Inglor inspects him for a few heartbeats, and Harry isn't sure what he sees, but he adds "Ñolofinwë also only wished to inquire about your safety. Arakáno declined any information but to know that you lived."
Harry doesn't close his eyes. He doesn't breathe out in a rush. But the tension leaves him all the same. Deep inside, past glaciers and icy corridors and at the bottom of a chasm. Buried in a cupboard, a little boy curls in a warm blanket by a fireplace.
"This has to stop," Harry tells him then. It isn't a command, but it feels like one. "You can't just tell them about me. If I want them to know, I'll tell them myself."
A few beats pass, but Inglor lowers his eyes. His head dips a few more inches. He's quiet though, hesitating, as if preparing to admit more sins.
"I know for certain those of my company have sent messages to Irimë and Irissë," he confesses. "I suspect that they've contact with others in Ingoldo's House as well. I know also that Laerien has relayed much to your sister."
Harry doesn't even begin to know how to unpack any of that. Denying his parentage has gotten him nowhere. Somewhere along the lines he's accumulated cousins, aunts, uncles so he might as well have a sister, too.
Harry fights not to put his head in his hands as he considers this mess. Allows his attention to drift to the peacocks as their feathers trail the grass. The faint breeze stirs the flowers, which sway in waves of crimson and indigo. The only spots of dissimilar color in the room against the more muted shades.
The House of Finwë did seem to know too much about him. Even from the early weeks of his stay there. Called him Hérion but knew that the Ainur referred to him as Marcaunon. And about his art. The foods he liked. His wine preferences. Other favorites. Things that seemed so innocuous until taken with this new information. He hadn't truly put all the pieces together. Thought the attendants in the estate were watching or making notes. Perhaps that they were giving him Maglor's favorites, and those were – unfortunately – also things that Harry liked. Now, he suspects it all came from another source entirely.
It's painting a very uncomfortable picture. One that clearly shows Harry that he'll need to have a very stern talk with not just his office staff but the entirety of his guard and all of Inglor's lot. It isn't something he honestly imagined he'd ever have to do. Especially not since coming to Valinor. The thought never even occurred to him until recently. Why would it? He isn't a celebrity here. He hasn't done anything of note. He merely lives here and lets others live here, too. Nothing to see here; nothing at all.
Inglor, who has respectfully waited on him as he deliberated, makes a small noise. Which instantly draws him back. The elf is still looking at him. Expression still thoughtful but now distant. As if gazing far away.
"Your father," he starts, and Harry is immediately off balance. "Your father was our liege before his disappearance. He and your eldest uncle, but I was at the Gap with him after your grandfather fell, and I followed him to Himring with the other survivors. Afterwards…" He takes a deep breath. "Elros left to the lands of Men. Elrond requested that we leave him be, so those of us here decided to seek judgment and return to Aman. We wandered for two ages, and even those in Tirion couldn't suffer us long. But you… you allowed us to make a home. You didn't know the truth of us then. Yet, you gave us so much."
And you betrayed me for it, Harry doesn't say. His face is an indifferent mask mastered over too many meetings and even more tragedies. His magic and aura are held tightly at bay behind a wall of ice, but the silence still gives him away. Fills the room and echoes all around them.
Inglor shifts off the sofa, kneels then and bows his head. His right arm crosses his chest so that his hand settles on his heart. His voice is low but carries throughout the room.
"I know my pledge means so little, and I know that I waited too long to give it. You have it just the same, my king."
"Stop that."
Harry's response is immediate, automatic. It's as instinctive as a denial. In many ways, it is one.
Inglor doesn't look up as his autumn sun is covered by a stray cloud. As a biting wind howls through the trees. He shivers, and it isn't from the temperature. It isn't from anything Harry did either. It's all from Inglor himself as his inner self darkens.
In the distance, Harry can sense that the other elf has reached his gate, but he's too preoccupied to check who it is. The presence is so familiar; it's in all likelihood someone from the city itself. Although they could still be a resident of the outer rings.
"My king?"
His voice is steady. He hides his uncertainty so well. If Harry couldn't feel it, he wouldn't even know.
"Stop it," Harry states, and it's extremely firm this time. "Stop that nonsense. Just because I'm mad at you doesn't mean that I'm going to throw you out. You don't have to indenture yourself to me for you to stay."
Inglor's head jerks up this time. His eyes are wide, blue but not the familiar shades of the House of Finwë. They're darker, almost purple as he glances up at Harry. His hand remains over his heart, and his fingers twitch faintly.
Harry questions what he sees. If it's even Harry. If it's someone else entirely.
If he wishes Harry were.
"I am only telling you the truth," the elf tells him, but it's quieter now, kinder. Manner gentling the longer he looks at Harry. "You may not call yourself our king, but that doesn't change the reality of things. You are our king. You are the ruler of this place; it wouldn't even exist without you. None of us would be here. In truth, none of us would stay."
Harry decides right then and there that this is about all he can take of this conversation. His patience is wearing thin enough as it is, and if Inglor's going to bandy about such untrue accusations like that, he can just mosey on right now.
He rises and motions of Inglor to do the same. The captain stares at him blankly.
"My king, what--"
"Get up, Inglor," Harry tells him. "Go home."
That earns him a flicker of worry. Fall leaves quiver on their trees.
Harry sighs. "Go back to your house or to the city." He adds after a second, "Or wherever you decide."
Inglor stands slowly, and his hand finally drops from this chest. However, he folds both of them behind his back like he's standing at attention.
"I'm not kicking you out of whatever kingdom you seem to think I have," Harry says with a vague wave around him. "But this castle is my home, and I don't want you here right now."
He doesn't wait for Inglor's response and just heads for the door. He's already opened it and is stepping out into the entranceway when he finally hears the elf following after him. Harry doesn't bother to look behind him as he goes for the exit, and Inglor hurries to catch up.
The courtyard is spring warm and splendid. Harry knows that Gil-galad is out here already, and sure enough, he's tucked into a corner under a flowering tree. Situated on a bench so that he can see both the front and side entrances, but he's not readily obvious to anyone who enters the courtyard. There's a book in his hands; Harry has significant doubts how much he's truly been reading. And really, Harry's not fooled for a second. Inglor likely isn't either, but the blond says nothing as Harry escorts him back to the path. Only, he freezes as it comes into sight; Inglor nearly barrels into him before stopping at the last possible instant.
Nerdanel stands at the front gate.
Harry doesn't need to see her face to recognize her immediately. She's too distinctive in his mind, his memory. To unique in appearance anyway even with her back turned as she looks downward at the city below.
She's dressed practically today, in trousers with numerous pockets. Her gray work vest has even more, and it's over a linen shirt in a cerulean blue with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is bound in a double plait down her back, but that does nothing to hide the bright cooper sheen. It's particularly dazzling in the sunshine, all the more lovely for the lack of ornaments, and her only jewelry is still the silver ring on her right index finger.
Harry doesn't know what to think. What to say. He simply stands there with Inglor now next to him as they exchange a very startled glance, and then, the blond shakes his head. Harry can feel Gil further back in the courtyard, but he's coming closer now.
Nerdanel has yet to notice them. She still peeks down the mountain. She wasn't here when Harry let Inglor inside not even an hour earlier, and he's far too shocked for this to be his doing. Harry hasn't even contacted her about the Silmaril yet. There's no conceivable way for anyone else in the House of Finwë to have gotten a message to her this quickly. Not without Harry or another Ainu actively helping them. Unless Eärendil flew to her on his ship, and Harry doesn't believe that one for a single solitary second. Last he saw of Eärendil, the entire immediate family was all heading off on a fishing holiday – Idril and Elwing included.
So why is she here?
Inglor seems to be thinking along the same lines just as Gil steps up to Harry's free side. Which is naturally the exact instant that Nerdanel decides to look over her shoulder.
The expression on her face isn't one that Harry can start to categorize.
"Marcaunon," she calls out cheerfully and starts forward at a fast walk that somehow isn't a run.
The gate opens on its own at her advance, but she doesn't break eye contact as she approaches. Harry can only stand there like a deer caught in the dragon's stare when she comes ever closer. His heart pounds in his ears with every step, but somehow, he isn't at all nervous. He instead feels strangely calm. Like he's on a boat in the middle of a lake, surrounded by the tranquil water. He finds himself relaxing as she stops before him, mere inches away and peering up. He doesn't even startle as her arms slip around his middle; he finds his own responding instinctively.
Beside him, Gil lets out a little laugh. Inglor is suspiciously silent.
"I'm so glad to see you here," Nerdanel says as she pulls back. It's just enough to look at him again, but he's still in the circle of her embrace. "I worried you would not have returned yet from Tirion."
"Lucky timing then," Harry remarks for a lack of anything else to say.
Nerdanel simply beams at him. Then, she notices just who's standing to his left.
"Gil-galad! You're here as well, dear."
She speaks it like a known statement. A clear fact. As if Harry wouldn't have come back without him. She gently releases Harry and sweeps up Gil in a hug before anyone can say otherwise. Gil-galad, bless him, just goes with it.
Nerdanel turns to the last of their trio next.
"Inglor, too. I haven't seen you in ages I would say." She's no less friendly as she moves to him, but the captain finesses his way out of an embrace. "Look at you!"
"Lady Nerdanel." Inglor bows his head over their clasped hands. "You are as lovely as ever."
"Always a charmer," she accuses, but it's with a fond smile. "I didn't know you were also at the castle. How long have you lived here?" Her eyes flick around the courtyard.
The blond actually seems surprised by the question. "No, my lady. I reside in the city itself. I was only here for a chat," he explains. "I must be off now on patrol."
"Patrol?" Nerdanel questions, and she seems to be taking in his attire with sudden interest.
Inglor straightens as he steps back. "Yes," he responds. His gaze doesn't go to Harry, but the intent is clear. "I'm captain of the guard here. I am much honored at the trust shown to me."
A pause then. Only several heartbeats as they now look at each other. Assessing. Weighing. Deciding where they stand. Autumn leaves stirring faintly in the breeze. Poised to give winter a quiet salute and waiting for acknowledgment.
Then, Harry nods. He offers his own arm; Inglor takes it without hesitation. Grasps it as tightly as he ever has, fingers warm even through the material of Harry's tunic. Harry returns it fully. It's a friendly goodbye with a promise of future tomorrows.
Inglor inclines his head as he steps back. He offers a shallow bow to everyone as he departs. Part of Harry can't help but think is a lucky escape as Nerdanel shifts back to him. Gil, however, moves in immediately for the save.
"Did you travel all the way here alone?" he inquires, voice ever-so-pleasant as he guides her forward like a proper escort.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't risk the roads in winter alone. None of us who remember before ever would." She makes a vague gesture with one hand even as the other leans into his elbow. "I came with a merchant caravan; all my things are still with them. Down by the stable at the Snowdrop Inn."
Gil makes a noncommittal noise that's somehow still agreeable. "I'm sure we can sort that out later."
"Certainly," Nerdanel agrees pleasantly, but she's already slipping her other arm into Harry's then. Quick as a snidget and twice as stealthy. She beams up at him and pats his wrist.
Harry just blinks at her, while Gil fights not to smirk over her head. He wipes that away just as she turns back to the center, but her attention is now on their surroundings. Gaze darting to the fully-leafed out trees to the blossoming flowers to the butterflies to the other gardens outside of the courtyard. There's a gleam in her eyes as she looks all around and then up at the castle itself, and she receives an extra sparkle off the stone in response. Her lips are curled upwards again. The lake of her soul is calm on the surface, but Harry can feel excitement bubbling up from underneath.
"This place is truly grand; 'tis not at all how I expected. My traveling companions certainly didn't do it justice with their stories." She almost hesitates before adding almost in a murmur, "Nothing is as it was before."
"You've been here already?" Gil questions with surprise as they start heading towards the kitchen entrance.
"Only once," she responds, but it's lower now. "After everyone departed for Endor, my father and I came to see, but we didn't stay long."
Harry feels the tug at his shields. Almost like the tide receding. Pulling him in. But Nerdanel takes a deep breath, and the memory washes away before it can even fully form in Harry's thoughts.
"I dare say that this is very different now than it was then," she adds instead. "The time was much shorter this go around. I thought they were only having me on when they said it wouldn't even be three weeks to get here from Tirion, but as soon as we hit the border for winter, it was like we were flying down the highway."
She says it with an almost joking tone, but Harry quickly schools his features when Gil's eyes flicker his direction. He's wearing his best neutral expression, but he knows that his love isn't fooled for a single, solitary second.
So yes, he'd enchanted the roads. Sue him. He wanted to make it safer and faster for travelers to get here. Harry's as circumspect as he can be with it. Limits to his side of the line only. As long as everyone stays within thirty yards of the roads, they're relatively good to go. He's even added little way-stops along the route, some of which are now growing into proper villages. The less he has to explain that part to Gil, however, the better.
Nerdanel isn't party to any of this though. She's instead taking in all the sights as they pass through the courtyard to the spice and vegetable gardens. Harry can see her interest increase as they pass vegetation he knows she's never seen before since many aren't native to Valinor or even Arda until now. They don't stop for her to inspect further, and a short few minutes later, they're safely ensconced in the kitchen, having come in through that side. That way was added for ease of going from the orchards to the pantries and cellars. It was mostly a moot point for Harry, but when Inglor and his lot were still living here, it was rather essential, and he found that he liked the rearrangement better than the original floorplan.
Now, it serves to keep Nerdanel out of his entranceway and far from his great hall, grand staircase, and the main sections of the castle. The parts that typically upset his Eldar visitors. Harry leads her inside with Gil now right behind, and he watches as her head twists to take everything in. The furniture is ordinary enough, based on what Harry's seen at Fingon's, and it doesn't get more than a cursory glance though her eyes linger on the carvings at the corners and legs. The cabinetry isn't quite the usual elfish fashion since Harry opted for frosted glass doors, but it's close enough and isn't overtly magical unless one happens to look inside.
Nerdanel's attention is alternatively riveted on the walls. On the fresco in its Scottish glory. She covers her mouth with her hand the second she sees the first student whiz by on a broomstick. She drops Harry's arm when she notices more of them moving around Hogsmeade. She walks forward then in a daze, and it's almost to the exact same spot Manwë always loves standing in as Harry cooks for them. She just stares down in utter transfixion. After a moment, her shoulders start shaking, and Harry's startled to hear her laughter.
It's a beautiful, delightful sound. Like water, babbling and playful.
She's still laughing as Gil-galad comes up next to Harry and takes his hand. As they watch her excited astonishment grow. As she looks and looks and keeps looking.
Something in Harry uncurls then. Unravels. A tension he didn't even know existed.
It's also naturally the second Harry hears a trumpet call in the distance. The not-so-far off beat of drums. Of course, Harry always hears him long before he sees him. He doesn't apparate as Harry and Nienna do, but Ainur have ways of traveling much faster than elves. Especially within the circles of Harry's power.
Beside him, Gil stirs. Gives him a questioning glance. Even as Nerdanel is nearly nose against his wall as she leans in to study the outside of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
Harry merely smiles back at him. Sends out his own chorus of frost and bells in greeting. Feels the moment he touches down feather-soft outside.
Eönwë is here.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"I'm worried, Harry."
Hermione's voice is gentle. Calm as a cloudless sky as they sit on the back patio and watch the fireflies dance.
The stars are brilliant and shining overhead. There's no light pollution this far out, and the wards would keep it away regardless. The only other illumination around is from the Burrow as well as the rest of the surrounding Weasleys and the Lovegoods in the distance. The tree-line blocks most of that anyway; Ron and Hermione built here to be close by in case of emergency but still got their privacy.
Hermione's as gorgeous as ever as they sit and share a nightcap of chocolate. Her hair is rich and brown. Would fall in soft curls if she took the time for it, but she rarely does. There's no gray yet, but Harry's seen a few stray lines developing on her face. Mostly around her eyes and forehead. He suspects it's more from stress than anything. She's the youngest Minister in history, and he's never been prouder. Of course, that might be exceeded when she moves on. Harry knows that she's aiming for Chief Warlock next and eventually Mugwump.
He feels a spark in her magic against his own, and it's filled with concern. Harry sighs at that. At the conversation he recognizes is brewing. Roiling and boiling ever higher as Ron comes down the stairs from where he's just finished making sure Hugo and Rose are asleep. It's summer so both are them are home from Hogwarts, but Hermione still insists on a bedtime even though Rose will be entering her fifth year and Hugo his third come September.
There are things that Hermione thinks her children shouldn't be privy to, and Harry's thankful on some level, he supposes. The irony though isn't lost on him. On how much like her mother-in-law Hermione has become. Or the fact that Teddy and Victoire are considering an engagement has only made Hermione that much more determined to see Harry paired off. Not even married or cohabitating at this point. Just steadily seeing someone.
Ron joins them with a happy grumble as he all but flops into the empty chair at their table and immediately reaches for his fork. One would never imagine him as the former Head Auror. Not as he digs into the dessert that Harry made especially for him and has kept under spell for his return. For all that he's the Head of the Department now, he'll still always be the same eleven-year-old that Harry met on that first day. Friendly, outgoing, focused on food.
"Thanks, mate," the redhead states between bites, but unlike when he was younger, he actually swallows and doesn't say this with his mouth full.
He does, however, let out a little blissful sound when he gets to the middle layer. Hermione, who already finished her slice, doesn't even roll her eyes. She instead sips her tea – also made by Harry – to conceal her laugh.
"You should try making this for them next time," Ron adds after another minute when there's nothing but crumbs left on his plate. "Or maybe the lemon blackberry tart; that one's always divine. Or even the raspberry chocolate meringue."
Ron seems to be fantasizing about all of those even as he gazes at the cake in front of him. In place of reaching for more though, he sets aside his fork. Harry makes a noise of vague agreement, but he's battling not to lay his head on the table.
Yes, yes, Harry knows he's such a catch. Rich, famous. Destroyed a Dark Lord and survived the Killing Curse. Has two masteries. And don't you know he can cook, too? Won't you date our sad, pathetic friend please?
"I'll keep that in mind."
It's said evenly enough. Without a single hint of sarcasm.
Hermione doesn't seem to believe him at all; she puts down her teacup and reaches across to lay a hand on his.
"We're worried Harry," she says again.
On his other side, Ron nods. He's studying Harry out of the corner of his eye.
"You've been off lately," he adds, and his gaze is Auror-shrewd before he abruptly tucks that away.
"I haven't," Harry denies. "I'm the same as always."
He keeps his tone steady. Doesn't allow himself to seem defensive. To seem guilty. Of which crime, he isn't sure yet.
Hermione squeezes his hand once. "You almost hexed Astra when she tried to kiss you."
Harry grimaces at the reminder. Somehow, despite her busy schedule, she still finds the time to try setting him up. He doesn't know if he should be flattered or exasperated that he's such a high priority on her agenda.
Still, this is just the latest in a long line of dating disasters. Before that was Xander Blackthorne. And before him was Arlas, a truly dashing goblin with very sharp teeth. Although she looked as disinterested as Harry felt and they called it quits after ten minutes.
Ron isn't much better. He's every bit as concerned about Harry's love life, even if he's a bit more direct. He's already been set up with Camelia Everglade, Gawain Robards, and Brightblood – not all ministry employees, unlike Hermione's choices. And in anyone else that'd be an abuse of power. Hermione, who's undoubtedly starting to lose hope, probably just put down a signup sheet and weeded out from there.
It's both funny and sad. Has gotten him no small amount grief from his friends about his lack of dates. There have been questions. Some pointed. Some awkward. But it isn't that Harry fancies blokes over birds or vice versa. Or that he has interesting proclivities. Or is secretly harboring an undying flame for Severus Snape. Or even Tom Riddle.
And no, he's not sober enough to think about that conversation right now.
It's just that… well, Harry doesn't fancy anyone. It isn't a problem. Not for him. He has all the people he needs. He has Ron. Hermione. The Weasleys. Neville and Luna. Teddy and Andy. His other friends. His apprentices. His colleagues. His patients.
Why would he need anyone else? His life is full. He's content. Happy even. Busy.
Neither Ron nor Hermione ever believe him when he tells them that. Andromeda doesn't either, but she's subtler about it. Has steered the discussion to mutual acquaintances to gauge his expression. Molly and Arthur are concerned, he knows, but have opted to let their son and daughter-in-law take the lead. Fleur too has tried to get in on the act before Bill shut that down, and that's probably why he's the favorite Weasley right now aside from Victoire.
Harry doesn't want them to worry. Even more, he doesn't want them to scheme.
He isn't interested. Plain as that. He shouldn't have to explain further. As much as he loves them, it's no one's business but his, and truth be told, it isn't something Harry's comfortable telling them; he already knows how they'll react. Hermione will research. Ron will want to talk about it. Andromeda will start planning. Molly will go to her kitchen and cook her fears away, and Arthur will quietly take it all in. Bill and Fleur will whisper to each other. Ginny will roll her eyes, while George will make inappropriate jokes, Percy will try not to laugh, and Charlie will suggest a holiday.
Harry grimaces again even thinking about it.
He isn't going to tell them. It's private. He's allowed his secrets.
It isn't that he's embarrassed. It's more like he doesn't want them to feel guilty. He isn't sure if it's the loss of the horcrux or being slain by Tom. Or maybe even that third Killing Curse. It wasn't like his libido was that strong to begin with. He wasn't ever like his roommates at Hogwarts before they mastered the Silencing Charm and Privacy Wards. He and Ginny only ever exchanged kisses, and she was his one and only girlfriend. Cho and the incident under the mistletoe don't count.
He doesn't want them to know that he probably won't ever marry or have a family. That Teddy will be the closest he ever comes to a child of his own. At least in this life.
Harry knows it isn't meant to be. That it isn't fair to all the people Ron and Hermione are dragging along because there'll never be a spark. Never be anything he can give them.
That as much as he hopes there's someone out there for him, someone who'd put up with him and all the craziness, he recognizes there in all likelihood isn't. That he'll walk this life alone. That his time on Earth will be without anyone beside him.
He's accepted that. Made his peace with it. Let that dream quietly die.
Still, there's that little piece of him, the one that tells him to keep waiting. Keep hoping. Keep looking out at the shore and the stars.
It's very hard to silence .
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Melpomaen – This is absolutely horrible. Terrible. Head in his hands.
Inglor – Exhales slowly. Yes, indeed. We must make amends.
Laerien – Rubs her temples. We would if we could find him.
Melpomaen – He's been coming here at night; some of the forms are signed in the morning.
Laerien – Taps fingers on her desk in agitation. He always manages to avoid me though.
Inglor – Nods in resolve. Sometimes, you must go to the dragon's lair instead.
Laerien and Melpomaen – Staring at him in shock. Go to the castle? Inside?
Inglor – Nods regally. It's the only way. I'll go. It's my duty.
Both of Them – Gasp!
Meanwhile…
Everyone Else in Formenos – Where is our king?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Merchant #1 – King Marcaunon has such a nice grandmother.
Merchant #2 – Yeah, can't believe she's married to Fëanor.
Merchant #3 – Or the mother to all those sons.
Merchant #2 – Hard to believe the king is related, too.
Merchant #1 – Think he knows she's coming?
Merchant #3 – Doubtful. But it's always good for your grandmother to visit.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Inglor – Bowing head and on bent knees. I'm very sorry. I was wrong.
Harry – Sigh. Do you even know what you're apologizing for?
Inglor – Crickets. Then… I made you have a big sad.
Harry – Rubs temple. And?
Inglor – Looks around the room for hints. Makes a face like a puppy who isn't sure why his person is upset. You… want to be out on your own and not have the family breathing down your neck?
Harry – Pinches his nose. I guess that's close enough.
Inglor – Tentatively. Can we be bros again, my king?
Harry – Stop calling me king and maybe.
Somewhere close by…
Eönwë – Looming. Someone made Marcaunon sad. They must pay.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Are we… er… Looks around at the beautiful falling leaves.
Argon – Yeah… I mean. Clears his throat as they ride through the autumn woods.
Angrod – This is still the route from Tirion. The villagers even said 'twas so.
Celebrían – The signs do agree that this is the road, but the distance can't possibly be right. It's much too close.
Findis – Indeed. Rubs her chin in deep thought. I've been checking, but this surely can't be correct.
Fingolfin – Inclines his head. I must admit that I expected everything to be a bit…
Finarfin – Colder, perhaps. Gazes up at the sun shining down on them. I certainly thought there'd be a great deal more snow.
Fingon – Rubbing his temples. Herurrívë, why do I fear this is your doing?
Notes:
AN: I promise Fëanor and co are coming. We're still getting all the peeps in place.
Inglor is working his way back into good graces, but Harry will have to deal with the rest of them at some point. If only things didn't keep distracting him…
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 18: Chapter 18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Nerdanel is in his kitchen.
The smell of breakfast in progress wafts out to the hallway to greet him, and he doesn't have to see her to know that she's there. It's early yet. Before sunrise. Harry's up as usual, but Gil won't wake until dawn, and it usually takes him a little while to get bathed and dressed. This is the normal time for Harry to poke around and start their first meal of the day. Sure, he could just conjure a four-course feast, but no matter what Hermione always said, it doesn't taste the same. Ron forever agreed with him, which of course he did. So had all the other Weasleys including those who joined the family by marriage.
Harry is alone in the corridor as Eönwë's wandered off for the moment. Possibly to his suite, which is mostly for storage as far as Harry can tell. It's ostensibly a guest room, but it isn't like Harry has a real need for those these days. Various others have also been claimed, but Harry lets the Ainur do as they will. At this point, those spaces are basically theirs since they do what they want regardless. Eönwë's even started decorating his, if one can call displaying all his weapons and paintings that. The magic of the castle keeps it all clean regardless, and Harry only goes in there at his invitation.
Though Harry does suppose if he's going to eventually invite Fingon and the others that he should go ahead and make sure somewhere is set aside for them. Most of the hallway Nerdanel's on lies empty even from Harry's use. He only ever opened the front part when larger parties were in need of more space until arrangements could be made in the city. The Ainur have mostly stuck to the west side, but the north is closest to the original part of the fortress, and none of them have claimed that area. Harry himself hasn't done much with it aside from building the structures. The north and the northeast towers are completely bare even now.
He's asked Nienna her opinion on the matter several times, on what he should do with it all, but she's never truly given him one. Not to mention that she's currently absent, but then, she didn't stop by last night. Considering that he already has two guests, that's probably a good thing. Eönwë was more than pleased enough to accompany Harry on his usual nocturnal errands, and really, the Ainur can be a little territorial with his attention at times. Even with each other. He doesn't want a repeat of Oromë, Eönwë, and Tulkas in a snit like a set of teenaged girls while Vairë provided a very dignified commentary. The only bright spot was that none of the elves saw that.
Harry grimaces at the memory, even as he considers his guest situation. Sometime between their return from the floating village on the summer lake and Harry going upstairs for a long shower – because again, magic sometimes isn't the answer – Nerdanel apparently wandered in. It's a direct route from her room, literally down the corridor and around the corner, and he showed her last night. Nonetheless, Harry doesn't know what to think as he hesitates outside the door.
He's already wrongfooted today. Woke at his usual time after a scant two hours or so of sleep with dreams of Fingon and Fingolfin and all the rest. They were in his kingdom, in the ring of summer, gazing with amazement at the crape myrtles and willows that barrier between the road and the river. He's had dreams of them for over a week in the outer reaches of Formenos, traversing from winter through autumn edging into summer, and a part of Harry admits that he's more than a bit wistful in their absence. Wonders how they'd view this place that he's built. And maybe he really should work on inviting them.
That's a consideration for later. He already has a guest. Two guests? A guest and a roommate? Gil's different; he's a permanent addition.
Harry sighs as he shifts from one foot to the other. Even more, Harry doesn't quite know what to do with her. With this break in his routine. It's the same way every morning since he returned with his love beside him. He makes them breakfast, and they eat together in the kitchen. Gil then braids his hair before they set out on their daily venture – or adventure.
Only, Nerdanel's in his kitchen. Harry can hear her moving around. Hear her singing to herself as she opens and closes cabinet doors. Hear her cracking eggs first and then chopping something else.
It's so strange being out here with someone else inside. This is technically a secondary kitchen, but Harry considers it his personal space. Large enough for him to entertain whichever Ainur are over and to cook or bake anything he wants. The table seats twelve; the most he's ever had here were seven including Harry when Nienna, Vairë plus Námo, Eönwë, and Oromë with Huan were all present at the same time and actually getting along. Well, it could've been eight, but Indilwen declined to come inside, and Káno is a harp who doesn't tend to talk much when Ainur aside from Nienna are around.
If only Harry could move Nerdanel to the other kitchen in this part of the castle, which is just down the hallway and right at the intersection with the two guest wings; it's the one that Inglor's lot used when they were here. Much closer in size to what Hogwarts had. Meant to serve the great hall, but they never bothered with that and instead used the tables already there.
The original part of the castle has the third kitchen. Like most things there, Harry has done little aside from making sure it stays clean. He hasn't even done more than peek inside for several years and sees no reason to change that.
But this one is Harry's. It's part of his morning. It's his space. His kitchen.
His curiosity finally gets the better of him around the time that he begins realizing how ridiculous he looks loitering outside. The door's already open; he rarely closes it. So it's easy enough to step instead and slowly walk past the table to the far end where she stands next to the counter.
Nerdanel beams when she notices him. A knife is in one hand as she carefully uses it to push an onion and peppers into a bowl that already has the eggs. A pan heats on the stove next to her for the elfish equivalent of omelets; at least, that's his assumption based on the other ingredients she has set out. The oven is also turned on, and judging by the smell, it's baking something with berries and cinnamon.
Nerdanel's been through his larder then. All the cabinets too since the table is set with plates, silverware, glasses, and even napkins. The vase of snowdrops in the middle has been watered too, and they are blooming as lovely as always.
"Marcaunon," she greets cheerfully, wiping her hands on her apron. It's one that Harry keeps hanging off to the side next to a small closet for linens.
She's dressed similarly to yesterday minus the vest. Her shirt is lilac today, sleeves again rolled to her elbows. Her pants are a dark gray that's almost black and have so many pockets that Harry's struggling to count them all. Her vibrant hair is again in two plaits, but she's momentarily twisted those together in a bun to keep them out of her way. She's barefoot, but so is Harry. He's momentarily struck by the oddness of that. Most Ñoldor seem to prefer shoes, even while inside or in their own homes, and Idril is the only other one he's seen voluntarily wander around in such a manner. Gil will only be barefoot when they're in their room at Fingon's or their suite upstairs. In spite of the fact that the entire castle is his home now, Gil is never without shoes other times.
"You're up early this morning," she says, but it's friendly. Washing against him like water on the lakeshore as she adds a sprinkle of salt to her bowl.
"I'm always up at this time," he returns as she continues by chopping mushrooms next.
Harry steps up to help her then, but she turns to block him.
"No, no. Let me," Nerdanel insists, and she gives a shake of her head. "My treat. I dare say how nice I find it to cook for someone again." She scrunches her nose when she smiles. "I admit that I am not sure how much to make or how many servants work here. I've yet seen any of them."
That statement certainly gives Harry pause.
"Servants?" he repeats blankly. "None. I've never had servants here. Only Gil and I live in the castle all the time. Eönwë comes and goes, and--"
"Lord Eönwë is still here?" Nerdanel interrupts. She's so surprised she stops mid-motion. Her knife just dangles in the air.
Harry blinks at her. "In his room, but he'll be by a bit. He usually comes down about a half-hour or so from now."
Her eyes widen. They're clear and blue like the cleanest and purest water. They remind him of someone else, but Harry can't quite decide who. Right now, however, they're startled. Staring at him like he just said that Morgoth was coming to breakfast. Only slightly less horrified.
Bother. Elves and their strangeness with Ainur.
Nerdanel seemed fine with him yesterday, though admittedly Harry did most of the talking. With Eönwë sitting at the head of the table – his preferred spot and the usual chair for Ainur guests. Harry and Gil next to each other in the middle. And Nerdanel across from them. Dinner was one of the meals Harry made and stashed previously to keep on hand in emergencies, and he rather thinks the situation was close to qualifying.
Nerdanel shakes her head then. As if to loosen cobwebs. Or perhaps to shake free some thoughts.
"I… hm… Yes, of course. Why wouldn't he still be here?" she comments, but it's mostly to herself. "He shall be rightly joining us. I will make more then." She immediately starts slicing again. Finishing the mushrooms and moving onto tomatoes with the speed and gusto of one possessed.
Harry watches her for a moment. "I'll just start on the tea then."
Nerdanel offers him a brisk nod as Harry turns to his cupboards. He knows where everything is, and it's a familiar thing to heat water the old-fashioned way. The pot will keep it warm indefinitely, so Harry isn't at all worried as he goes ahead and makes a black tea with hibiscus to go alongside the raspberry friands that Nerdanel has just pulled from the oven. He has the pot and basket of baked goods on the table around the same time she finishes the omelets, which is right as Gil strolls inside.
He's naturally surprised to see who's at the stove, but he doesn't even break stride as he greets them both and then presses his lips to Harry's cheek. He does, however, pause next to Harry when Eönwë appears a second later. The Maia offers both of them a very slight bow of his head as he comes over to the table, but they're spared from saying anything as Nerdanel announces that everything is ready.
It's an interesting meal. More so than dinner. Eönwë's quiet as usual but a steady beat in the background. Nerdanel's chatty, the splash on the shoreline and the chirp of otters. Gil and she talk through most of breakfast with input from Harry and very little from Eönwë.
Gil is pleasant as usual, but there's a low rumble in his aura. The feeling of dark clouds in the distance. Harry noticed it yesterday afternoon, and it's still present today, but he hasn't quite figured out why. His elf was decidedly cagey last night as they went to bed and Harry ran a hand across his back. Even now, as he sits next to Harry. The same feeling lingers. It's buried deep. Past whatever type of shielding elves have. Harry realizes Nerdanel can't tell; they don't know each other well enough for that. Eönwë likely can't either, but sometimes, it's hard to decide with him. Harry leans more towards no because there hasn't been a single hitch to his song and he usually sends inquiring notes when people behave in ways he doesn't expect.
He hasn't even queried why Gil is on Harry's other side today. This is the third meal that they've shared with him present, two here and one in Tirion. But Gil's now on his left. It isn't his usual seat, and Harry is slowly growing suspicious over why they've switched places today. It's put Harry himself closer to Eönwë this time, but Nerdanel sits still across from them, though more so Gil. Ever since Tirion, Gil has always been on his right. It's been that way since whoever – probably Findis – made the arrangements, and it's rather off-putting to have him somewhere else. It also doesn't help that Harry's briefly reminded of what occurred on this exact spot yesterday after breakfast. As Gil-galad beckoned Harry over to his chair once he finished his braids, pressing a kiss to his cheek and next his neck, and then…
He feels the tips of his ears heating. Beside him, Gil clears his throat. Eönwë's drum beat pauses, and a chorus of feathers brush against him in question. Nerdanel simply grins into her teacup.
The meal is fortunately finished around this time. A good thing as Harry's appetite can't decide what it wants to do. Gil equally seems to be done but lingers over his eggs. Eönwë though has cleared his plate and observes everyone else. As if waiting for them to finish.
"Marcaunon, I would speak with you if you will allow," the Maia states, "on a matter we did not address last night."
His melody rises and stretches out like a pair of wings before abruptly dropping back down low. His face remains blank, eyes gray today. Harry isn't sure what to make of that color.
"You might as well say it in front of them, too," he comments.
Eönwë's attention does not shift to Nerdanel or Gil-galad. Harry can feel a few notes drift both directions though before the Maia inclines his head.
"I thought it prudent to inform you that Lord Námo will send guests your way."
Harry feels his eyebrows lift. He's long figured out about that tendency to route his newly released elves here; it wasn't exactly that hard to put the pieces together once he started talking with them. Harry supposes it's a type of compliment. Though he really wishes Námo would just tell him directly instead of making other people play messenger.
"Do you know how many this time?" Harry asks very mildly before he takes a sip of his tea.
Eönwë still looks at him. His song is focused now, a swirl of beats and trumpets and pinions that drift down to touch Harry's face and hair.
"Seven."
It's said calmly. Matter-of-factly.
But there's a silence afterwards. A quietness to the room. A hesitation.
Nerdanel watches them with an unreadable expression. Harry can't see her hands, which are now in her lap, but her lake is eerily calm. Placid. Without a single ripple.
Next to him, Gil is solemn. Fingers reaching to clutch Harry's elbow. His grip is tight. Would be painful if Harry were a true elf. There's a jolt of static to his touch. A crackle that arcs across Harry's sleeve to his bare skin.
Harry merely sets down his cup before taking Gil's hand in his. Steadily. Gently. As he contemplates the situation. He prepared for such occasions. Spoke multiple times with the elves who reside along the road on what to look for. Gave them money and supplies to hand out to any travelers in need.
Elves are proud though. A universality he's found common to the entire lot. Every single one of them from the Avari to the Ñoldor to the Teleri. They may each have their quirks, but all of them are proud. Usually too much so to accept charity, but there's other ways to make it happen. Some subtle. Some not.
They won't take it from Harry himself, but if offered from others, those they perceived to have once been in similar straights, that certainly makes it easier. Inglor's oddly a favorite for that, even with his history. Maybe because of it. Seeing that he's now in a trusted position again. That Harry allows him such freedom and prestige. Even the non-Ñoldor have taken to him and his company very strongly, and Harry can't quite puzzle that one out. He suspects it's an elvish thing that he'll never fully understand even ten thousand years from now despite Gil's best efforts to explain.
"I'll speak with Inglor then, shall I?" Harry says at last. After slow heartbeats of reflection.
Nerdanel closes her eyes across the table. Gil leans into him, knee brushing and hands pressing against his side.
"Inglor, yes. I will seek him out on your behalf." The Maia's aura gives a single drumbeat, but there's a sharp edge that slices at his tone before it's sheathed. "They know him well."
Harry understands immediately. So apparently do Nerdanel and Gil-galad.
Kinslayers. Followers of Fëanor. That's what Eönwë means. It isn't that uncommon for them to arrive here; they've few other places to go. Few other places that will take them.
"They're more than welcome here; I'd never turn them away," Harry responds, and it's honest. Truthful.
Gil breathes out in a long sigh, even as he squeezes Harry's fingers. Nerdanel, however, remains silent. She simply sits with her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap as if in prayer. Eönwë looks at him for a long moment, and something in his features softens even as his expression somehow manages to stay exactly the same. His eyes shift to blue as Harry watches.
"You are as always so very generous, Marcaunon."
He says nothing else after that. Neither does anyone else.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad loves the city. He's bright and excited as they walk through the streets. Skin buzzing with electricity as he points out various landmarks, shops, houses, fountains, parks, street vendors… Everything basically. He's all but glowing as Harry shows him his preferred routes to avoid crowds, tells him anecdotes about various things, greets the citizens as they go, and leads him down through the levels. The oldest part of the city is closest to the castle and his office, the newer sections are in subsequent tiers towards the sides and bottom. The latest edition is the furthest to the west, at the base of the neighboring mountain and near the orchards; they peer down at it from their vantage-point and admire the rising watch tower in the morning sunlight.
It's just the two of them today. They've spent the last weeks with their guests, but Nerdanel and Eönwë are back at the castle. Harry quietly questions the wisdom of that, but once, Nerdanel got over her shock of a Maia loitering around, she quickly warmed to him. And Eönwë to her. The fact that she possesses an in-depth and truly awe-inspiring knowledge of the forging process of all manners of things is a complete coincidence. Naturally.
Harry still isn't sure how long Nerdanel plans to stay. Although admittedly, elven concepts of hospitality are a bit strange to him. Fingon did explain it as best he could, but it's still baffling. Not to mention Fingon would've let him remain there for years without kicking him out, so Harry can't quite tell what is and isn't proper. She certainly did pack for the long haul, but again, so did Gil. Nerdanel didn't have the advantage of magic to shrink everything down into a convenient deck of cards though. She instead had three carriages waiting for her at the inn that Harry retrieved the same night she arrived, and he suspected that she's already sent for more.
That's a problem for another day, however. Today is a time for Harry to take Gil exploring now that he's comfortable enough leaving Nerdanel with only Eönwë for supervision. Or perhaps it's the other way around.
They meander the streets for hours after breakfast, and Harry leads him down to the mid-tiers to show him the central library and artisan halls. They take one of the public elevators back to the top, a feature that the elves were very excited to see when Harry first suggested it. A number of them have even witnessed those in dwarven mines and halls before, but apparently, the idea never quite transitioned over to their side until now. The much smaller versions in his castle are powered by magic, though the ones in the city use the mountain streams, and that's an idea the Eldar came up with on their own. All Harry did was make the initial suggestion and voilà! They're extremely popular for use. Just as the escalators are. Shocker that.
Gil's suitably impressed by both, which makes Harry grin as he leads them to his favorite shop. Conveniently two streets over from his office and tucked into a corner near a courtyard with a musical mosaic fountain. The store isn't one for art supply, though there are several of those, likely more than even he knows. Instead, it's a multi-storied bookshop with a spiral staircase, which always seems to draw Harry inside for an hour or three whenever he stops by. It was the very first bookstore in the city, barely more than a village then, and Harry was the first customer. The owners are a couple – one Ñoldo and another Sinda – and they were among the earliest settlers in Formenos after Inglor's group. Their son and his wife are the tailors next door, and their granddaughter runs the bakery on the other side of that. The newest addition to the family won't be here at this hour, and Harry only points out the building because he has a feeling that they'll never make it anywhere else if they go inside.
He has other plans for now. Especially this close to noon.
"I want to show you the best spot in the entire city," he tells Gil then, tugging on his hand and leading him to the east down the main thoroughfare that direction.
The city has expanded downwards and now west. The east has filled in well, but there's no tier immediately below this one. It skips two levels before the city again wraps around that direction, and it isn't due to the terrain or instability. They simply don't want anything else too close. Want the area to remain open without any other surrounding buildings, not only so that the trees can flourish, but so that the most precious commodity in the kingdom can be better secured with open sightlines. The only other structures around are the gazebo in the park and a watch tower with a guardhouse along the wall that extends around the entire city.
The street they stroll along is broad and open, and the shops have slowly transitioned to only houses. Those soon fall away to only spaced trees with garland in their branches and ribbons around their trunks. There's a single stone building not far away with wide, arched windows and a pavilion attached in the back. It's a colorful place. Full of banners and flags and wreathes, and even the aura here is just so alive to Harry's vision. So much realer than anywhere else he's seen in Valinor. Filled with so many different songs, notes jumbling together, that Harry has trouble untangling them. It should all be a discordant mess, but there's a melody in the chaos. A harmony to the wild scores and accidental falls and reckless rises. A beauty in the eager flaws that grow stronger and surer each day.
Two guards are stationed by the front doors, and they salute Harry as soon as they spot him, but he merely offers a wave back. He knows that another pair are at each exit with even more roaming the property; Harry doesn't have to look at Gil-galad to feel his perplexity. More so as they grow closer and the cacophony in the background increases in strength.
Beside him, his elf misses a step. Harry catches him, and they stand there for what seems like an eternity. Listening to the sounds of so many young voices. Singing. Shouting. Laughing.
"What is this place?"
It's said in a whisper. Like Gil can't believe what he's hearing. Much less what he's seeing when the doors are practically thrown open. When adults and children start streaming out.
"Mírimo, what is this?"
It's said with disbelief. With wonder. With awe.
His love's eyes are blue-gray rings around his blown pupils. Incredibly large at the sight before him. Staring like he can't bring himself to look away.
Harry doesn't chuckle, but it's a near thing.
"It's a school," he simply replies.
Gil finally looks at him. And it's only to boggle at him like he's lost his mind. Or like Gil thinks he's lost his own. Possibly like they both have.
Harry reaches up to touch his cheek in reassurance. "Have you never been to one?"
"I… I visited Númenor before," he murmurs. It's softly, eyes so impossibly huge as he watches the children now running after each other around the building. "The dwarves… They've their youngest in groups before they know their craft."
"They do that here, too." Harry cups his face. "Their parents send them once they decide they're old enough, and when they've found a craft, they leave to apprentice. They're here about half the day before returning to their families in the afternoons. Most tell me they like having the mornings to work without having to worry what everyone is up to." He says the last with a chuckle and a grin.
Gil blinks at him. He gives Harry a searching look, but Harry just keeps smiling. Gil slowly turns back to the school. He's quiet for a few minutes. Just soaking everything in.
"Who are the others?" he asks at last. "The adults?"
Harry inclines his head. "Most are volunteers. Parents. Family members. People in the city who want to teach or have knowledge of a particular subject." He ticks off his fingers. "Others just like being around kids and come by whenever they're free. There are several paid positions for people who are here all the time though."
Daeron is the main professor, the first they had and still chief amongst them. Knowledgeable in a great many things. Having lived in both Endor and Aman. As well as among all varieties of elves. He's one of the few people Harry voluntarily plays for and with – though admittedly, never Káno's harp.
He's on the back pavilion cleaning up after lessons and patiently interacting with the stragglers. Several of whom are underfoot or dangling from his robes. A smile tugs at his mouth as he carries his flute under one arm with an elfing all but swinging on that elbow while the other hand balances a stack of papers.
Gwindor though is the headmaster, and Harry finds that he's a fine choice. Thoughtful, gentle with the children. Infinitely patient with dark, vigilant eyes that watch them like they're the most precious things in the world. It's an attitude that Harry fully supports.
Even now, he stands amongst them, gray-silver hair blowing in the breeze, as either their families come to fetch them or the other adults escort the rest home. The crowd around the school is still large. They've just let out at noon, and most people tend to linger for a while to picnic in the park next door. Several children run over when they notice him, and Harry deftly avoids or withstands their tackles, but each gets a hug in return. Most are eager to hear of his time in Tirion. A few even ask about Gil, but their parents call them back before Harry has a chance to explain.
He takes that opportunity to lead his elf towards the park. It's always a lovely place to visit with a grassy meadow in the middle, trees with swings, and a mountain stream curling across the southern end. There's a pack of children by his favorite bench on that side, and Harry suspects he knows why. They do tend to linger there in hopes that he'll stop by, especially if he hasn't for a time.
There's well over a dozen of them with the adults further off in the background preparing lunch. They give Harry joyful but surprised looks as they see him pass with Gil-galad, and some call out greetings. The children haven't noticed him yet, too busy with their game. If they were human, Harry would say they were from eight to about thirteen; ages work differently for elves though. They're all under fifty, he understands, since most of the students have settled on a craft by that time with rare exceptions. The majority are closer to their adult heights by then too, but the taller elves naturally take longer; Inglor once mentioned that he was still growing nearly into his eighties. Harry can't imagine how long it would've taken Argon.
A stone bench is tucked away beneath a crape myrtle with both purple and red blooms. Gil sits almost dazedly on his right as they gaze out at the elflings rolling across the grass.
"There's so many," he whispers after several more long minutes.
Harry turns to him.
"Children," Gil clarifies. "There's so many children here. I've never seen so many all at once." He can only shake his head as his eyes stare forward in wonder. "Coming to Aman, I was amazed to see a dozen or sometimes a little more in Alqualondë and Tirion at the same time. That was as many as we had growing up, but that is nothing compared to this."
He glances at Harry then, and his eyes flash with light. There's a heaviness of ozone. A pressure of thunder and rain.
"How have you done this?"
"Me?" Harry questions in disbelief. "I can assure you that none of these are mine."
Gil gives an inelegant snort at that answer. "You know what I meant." He reaches out to grip Harry's hand as it lays in his lap, fingertips running over his ring. "Elves have children when we're safe. When we feel secure enough in our lives and homes."
Harry moves his head to the blossoms above them. He knows it's more than that; he and Estë have had many conversations on this topic. Even though his craft is primarily painting now, he'll always be a healer. He's taken lessons with her – the wisest and best in Valinor – when she offered and even asked for more when he realized just how much Formenos was growing. She's always more than happy to accommodate him.
Pregnancy here isn't like it is on Earth. It's a joining of fëa, of souls. It's difficult. Even dangerous in a way he hadn't imagined before even if every other physical need is met and the mother is in excellent health. It can actually weaken the soul until the body goes with it, and an elf dies – possibly both parents even or other family members who have lent their strength. Or until the child dies before they can be born. Or until the soul is too damaged to try again. It's worse for twins, and elves have them so rarely. They don't have additional children afterwards, and there's only one line known for doing so, but they're descendants of a Maia.
Harry didn't want that for Formenos. Wants this place to be as magical and secure as he can. Wants it to truly be a home for all her residents. He pours that desire into the wards and foundations and the very bones. He suspects the elves can tell this on some level. Maybe can even draw from it.
His eyes watch a set of twin brothers chasing each other around a tree. Across the park is a younger pair of twin sisters. Beside him, Gil sees the same thing as he rubs his thumb across the back of Harry's hand.
"The energy of this place… I don't know how to describe it," his elf tells him. "It feel like I'm not only safe, but that anything is possible." He grasps the hand in his. "Mírimo, you may not call yourself king, but you rule not only this city but the entire kingdom. You're the one they all look to for guidance. They all love you; the children adore you. I can tell from just watching them interact with you."
Harry closes his eyes against the accusation, head still tipped back, and doesn't look at Gil. His elf just squeezes his hand again, harder this time.
"They pay taxes, don't they?"
It's a non sequitur, but Harry has a suspicion where this is going.
"They do," he allows, eyes still closed.
Gil toys with his ring. "And some of that goes to you?"
"It's a salary," Harry defends, at last glancing at him. "Since I do the administration. Everyone in the office makes one; it wouldn't be fair otherwise."
"Let me guess; Pri--" Gil corrects himself, "Laerien made you take one alongside them." He has a brow lifted, but his lips are curving.
Harry nods. He really doesn't like where this is going.
"She does the financials of the city?"
Gil asks like he already knows the answer.
"Melpomaen does actually with my approval," Harry corrects, but he doesn't like this game at all.
"So you know how much they make?" his elf questions, threading their fingers together now as if to draw him closer.
"It's the same I do. I double-check every time."
Harry always reads the financials and goes over them with a fine-tooth comb. Not because he thinks that his staff would ever cheat or embezzle – not even now. More because he knows they'd attempt very hard to overpay him. Would bury it under fancy terms and secondary funds to try to hide the truth, but he's wise to them. He's fought the Ministry and Board of Governors for Hogwarts far too long to be fooled. Not to mention all those years of battling the Muggle governments later on. He learned so much just watching Steelclaw and his army of accountants.
His employees do, however, keep him from paying for newcomers through his own funds. The city itself does that now. Likely out of the money Harry refuses, but as long as everyone is taken care of in the end, it really doesn't matter to him.
"Do you pay taxes?" Gil inquires next.
Harry doesn't sigh. "Of course," he responds. "They tried that trick on me once, but I didn't fall for it. Or when they tried to double-pay me on accident a few times. Or for the artwork around Formenos." Harry mentally keeps tally and almost feels like he should draw it in the air. "Or for the crops. Or the other things I've done for the city."
Gil shakes his head. "Special discounts in stores?" he suggests next.
"Those, too." Harry exhales. "The traveling merchants are just as bad."
There's an amused sound.
"Mysterious gifts and you never find the benefactor?"
Harry doesn't glare at him, but he thinks he should on principle. His love just laughs. He doesn't have to explain more. His point is thoroughly made. Harry knows when he's beaten.
Gil leans up to press a kiss to his cheek in consolation.
Fortunately for Harry, it's around that time that the children finally realize that they have an audience. One of the girls notices him first. She's a little older but not the oldest, looks closer to eleven, but has somehow found herself the de facto leader. She's the daughter of the bookshop owners, Gwindor's niece. A cheerful child with honey brown hair and the blue eyes of her Ñoldo father.
"Prince Marcaunon!" she calls out, waving to him with both hands and immediately running over.
This naturally attracts the attention of the entire group, and they descend on Harry like a pack of overeager, cuddly wolves. Fortunately, he's stood in the interim, so the best they can do is try their best to bowl his feet out from under him as they throw their arms around his legs and barnacle themselves to his side.
Gil, who's still next to him, has wisely taken several steps back. He's laughing outright now. Completely delighted. Harry can't blame him; he rather is, too.
"Prince?" Harry inquires as he looks down at his captors.
They just grin up at him. A sea of happy, glowing faces. Several of them are missing milk teeth so their smiles have noticeable gaps.
"You told us not to call you lord or king, so uncle said I should call you prince!" she declares.
Harry must admit that they got him with that one. He won't concede defeat just yet though.
"I believe that's against the spirit of things," he argues back with a friendly tone. "And it's Hérion."
The youngest of the boys sticks his tongue out. "Nah. Atya said that you're King Marcaunon."
"It's prince!" another boy hisses right back to him.
"Prince Marcaunon," he corrects, only slightly stumbling over the syllables of the name both times.
Harry doesn't roll his eyes. Since he knows it isn't their fault. He can't quite say which one it was, but he knows one of his people decided that Hérion wasn't dignified enough, and they've been aided and abetted by Formenos as a whole on this. The fact that the Ainur all call him Marcaunon has only solidified this in the populace's minds. Harry hoped that by introducing himself without their input in Tirion, he'd have a foothold, but that doesn't seem to be going in his favor either.
And really, why does he always have to argue with elves about what they call him?
"Marcaunon is just fine," he tells the children then.
That earns him some skeptical looks, and honestly, that's a little too much. He can't help but laugh again. Gil does, too. A wonderful, full sound. Which naturally attracts their attention, and they turn their heads almost in unison.
"Who's that?" two different elflings say at the same time from opposite ends of the pack.
Harry chuckles but sobers a second later. He's thankfully managed to keep both arms free and uses his left to gesture.
"This is Gil-galad," he introduces. "He's come to stay with me."
Instantly, all the children look at Gil with a keen interest. There's an almost predatory air as they assess him for a few seconds. Attention going from his dark blue tunic with silvery thread to the single ring he wears to the emerald earrings, which are his only other jewelry. His hair is loose down his back with only a few key braids. He certainly appears far more relaxed that he did when Harry first met him.
Whatever they see, Gil seems to have passed some sort of test as those on the side nearest to him pull away from Harry. Moving to open the circle so that they're around both of them now.
Then, the interrogation starts.
"Do you live in the castle, too?"
"How long are you staying?"
"Are you from Endor?"
"Isn't there a king with that name?"
The questions fly by faster than Gil can even begin to answer them.
"How do you know the prince?"
"Why are you living with him?"
"Are you getting married?"
"Is there going to be party?"
All of them seem particularly eager at that prospect.
"Ammë said that there's always a big party after two elves become one!" a boy says a second later.
Gil lets out a little snort, but his face has reddened. Harry definitely doesn't want to touch on that last question, so he latches onto the next one like a lifeline.
"Do you have a ring?"
"I do," Harry says a little too quickly as he shows them his hand.
"It's so pretty!" a pair of girls exclaim in unity, and Harry knows that they're cousins, the daughters of sisters. Years so close that they might as well be sisters themselves.
Gwindor's niece takes his left hand to inspect his ring even as the other elflings crowd around. She reaches out to inspect the lapis with her small, delicate fingers, but there's a frown on her face.
"It's on the wrong hand," she tells him then.
"Oh?" Harry questions pleasantly. "Is it?"
She looks up at him, still holding on. "It's supposed to be on the right."
His gaze flickers to Gil out of the corner of his eye. His love is observing the exchange, expression polite, but the storm of his soul is a lightning flash with thunder. Harry glances back. There are a thousand ways to redirect her, but ultimately, he decides that he just doesn't want to.
"Will you do the honors then?" he asks very softly.
Her eyes widen to an almost comical level, but she's solemn and completely steady as she slides the ring from his left to his right index finger. He takes a few heartbeats to admire it in the sunlight before smiling at her.
"Perfect fit."
That earns him a burst of excited titters. They all circle around even tighter to look at his ring's new home and somehow manage to push Gil in next to him.
Harry chuckles at that.
More so when they're finally called by their families soon afterwards. The expression of absolute despondence on each and every face shouldn't be so hilarious. There's a collective sigh, some grumbling, but the children all slowly start ambling away to their lunch several seconds later. Gwindor's niece is the last to leave, and Harry ruffles her hair before she chases after the others.
Then, it's just the pair of them. Just Harry and Gil. Who both sit back on their bench. Not ready to leave yet. Just enjoying the park and the world around them.
Harry is at least. Gil's looking at him more than he is anything else, and Harry can tell he's preparing himself, but it's not quite time for that conversation yet. Harry has something else to do first.
"I have something for you," he states instead, and it's both true and a distraction.
His elf hesitates, watches as he pulls a box from his inner pocket, and the look on his face is confused as Harry lifts the lid. Inside is a bracelet; it's probably not like one his elf has ever had before. The design is a feather, details as real as the actual thing but seemingly made of metal. In the light of the sun, it shimmers gold and then red like a dancing fire. However, a cloud passes then, a shadow falls over them, and the bracelet is the silvery blue-white of ice and frost.
"It's beautiful," Gil-galad breathes.
He can hardly look away as he allows Harry to fit it around his left wrist. The bracelet glows as Harry closes the clasp and it touches Gil's bare skin. Now, no one will ever be able to take off but Gil himself. Not even Harry unless he has permission.
"It does something?"
It's not suspicious but said with true curiosity.
"Several somethings," Harry replies, and it's coyly.
He flicks a finger, and the charm lays down around them like a soft blanket but encompasses them fully as a bubble would. It's invisible to everyone but Harry, and in his gaze, glows a shimmering purple. He's tested this spell on several Ainur, including Nienna, so he's confident that the elves won't hear anything he doesn't allow. Even if they tried to read lips, they'd get nothing but a conversation about paint colors.
"This will keep you completely safe from fire and heat," Harry tells him, both hands once again cupping Gil's own. He feels when his elf's pulse speeds up. "Ice. Cold. Water, too."
"Mírimo… I…"
"You take care of me," he says as Gil stumbles over his words. "Let me take care of you." Harry traces the pattern with his fingers; he's still holding both of his love's hands and has no plans to let go. "I know it's not always easy being here. I'm sorry that I didn't realize sooner that they were upsetting you."
Gil doesn't look away, but Harry feels the air pressure shift. Tastes the cool rain in the air.
"They don't upset me," his love starts to say, but he stops at Harry's raised eyebrow. "Not Lord Eönwë or Lady Nienna. Not truly. Before you ask, sparring with him was different."
"You could fight back," Harry comments with understanding and watches as his elf nods. "But now, you can't; we remind you of someone else."
"You don't," Gil denies emphatically, immediately. "You never have. You're not like them."
Harry looks at him. It's with both sadness and understanding.
"I am, my dear," he responds. "Have you not realized yet that I'm not an elf where it counts?" Harry gestures up and down at himself with one hand. "This is all window-dressing. It's a façade at best."
"I told you that didn't matter, and I meant it. I still do." Gil exhales hard enough his nostrils flare. "You are as far away from him as possible, and in truth… they are as well, but I know you'll never harm me."
He shifts the bracelet on his wrist, quiet for a moment as they gaze at each other. Harry only has one of his hands now, thumb running over his pulse.
"Tell me more, will you?" Gil asks then. "On what you've made me?"
Harry allows himself to be redirected. Allows his love to have this distance.
He nods. "You'll be able to travel anywhere within the wards just like I do; that's anywhere within the borders and not just the city." At the perplexed blink he receives, Harry elaborates, "The bracelet will do it for you. You've only to think about where you want to go, and it'll take you there. Even if you're somewhere else, like Tirion, you can come back here instantly at any time."
Gil gapes at him like he can't possibly be real. Like all of this a dream and he'll wake up at any second. When he doesn't, he can only close his eyes and open them again. Look at his bracelet as if it's an impossibility.
"This is from the feather?"
It's said softly. Almost in a whisper.
"In part, yes," Harry replies and reaches up to brush hair back from his face. "Not the one Inara gave you but another she gifted me earlier. Yours is still for you to use however you want."
Inara's magic was powerful, yes, but not this much. This one is bound with Harry's own. With his very essence. With a breath of winter winds and a core of never-melting ice enmeshed with a phoenix's eternal fire and life. Drawn and woven together until they'll never be separated again.
The elves are terrible gossips, and Vairë's history lessons are thorough. Harry knows how Gil came to Mandos and Valinor. It doesn't take a genius to realize that flame may have some poor connotations for him; if Harry can soothe that worry, keep him safe in the meantime and make his life easier, all the better.
Gil just looks at him again. Observes him with lightning in his eyes before leaning up.
The kiss is tender. Lingering. With a hand sliding around to cradle his head. Which only makes the new bracelet press against his skin with a pleasant tingle. Gil-galad sighs into his mouth when it does.
Harry knows that they're in full view. That the elves can see them, but they've spent the last several hours walking the city, hand in hand. If that hasn't given things away, then his people weren't paying much attention, and he highly doubts that. Besides, this is Formenos; this is his home. He doesn't mind if they know. His love isn't a dirty little secret. Harry isn't ashamed of him or anything that they do. Some of it is private, yes. Just between them.
But the Eldar certainly aren't shy in this regard. He knows they're being watched, but he finds that he just doesn't care. Doesn't even mind the buzz of their twitters in the background as they shoo the children further away. The rumors will certainly be flying now; Harry will let them.
This time, they'll even be true.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The western sea isn't what he expected. Though, to be fair, Harry isn't sure what he expected. The shore is rocky with very little beach, and it looks out at the Door of Night. So Harry can understand why it isn't a popular vacation destination.
Nienna's Halls are relatively empty. There are Maiar present, but far fewer than in Mandos or Lórien or part of Oromë's hunt. Some would call this place dreary with darker, more somber tones, but Harry's lived in Grimmauld Place and Privet Drive. Nienna doesn't have anything on them.
Rather, it's soothing here. Contemplative. Amongst the shadows are pockets of light and color and sound. Sometimes paintings from Harry. But often other things. Pottery. Statues. Even musical instruments that will occasionally play themselves one at a time. Her personal dwelling is separate from the Halls, both physically and spiritually. An odd thing really since she is the mistress of this place, but Harry thinks he can understand the need for distance. The desire for somewhere private to go.
He follows her as she leaves and walks along the cliffs. Her pace is sedate but steady as they go together, and she passes the time by telling him a story about the making of the Door in the distance. She's just getting to the part about Morgoth when the path starts leading them downwards, and despite how narrow it is, they somehow manage to walk side by side. She's just finishing when they reach the end, midway down with the walls of the cliff above and around them.
View of the Door is blocked now by the stone, and all Harry can see out is the water as it splashes against the rocks. The sky is turning a vivid red mixed with streaks of purple and gold as the sun approaches the horizon.
It's so stunning. More so as he feels Nienna's hand reach out and take his.
A breath. A blink. And they're inside… Somewhere.
Harry isn't entirely sure if it's in the cliff itself or they've been transported elsewhere. He supposes that it really doesn't matter in the end. He's been to Lórien. He still technically resides in Mandos. But he's never actually gone to the private places where the Valar truly dwell. He honestly doesn't know what to expect, but at the same time, he somehow also isn't surprised.
The floors are the color of light marble, but the walls seemingly can't decide what they want to be. One minute, it's gray. The next a soft blue. Then green. The furniture is the same strange material used in his own room in Mandos – one that isn't metal or stone or wood or plastic. Something otherworldly.
She shows him what would ordinarily be considered a kitchen table. Only, it's not like any kitchen he's ever seen, but he isn't sure what else to consider this room. It's open, airy. Stirred by a breeze from nowhere. The windows are like those from the magical world, looking out at places far away – a fortress on a frozen mountain, a distant shore with a wide beach, an elven city high above a valley.
One of Harry's paintings hangs on the wall, the very first one he made in this world. He remembers giving it to her. How fascinated she was with the glimpse of Hogwarts as the castle rises impossibly large and glittering in the background. All the first-year students floating across the lake on their journey to reach their new school.
In a corner is an enormous harp. One that's nearly the size of Nienna herself. Silvery and shining as if with its own light. A somber chord drifts from it even as Harry settles in his chair, and something stirs at his heart. He puzzles at that even as he continues looking around. Noting every little detail as she somehow produces a complete tea set with snacks. The tea itself is lavender and berry. Floral but almost tart as he sips. There's a vacant seat across from him, he notices. It's odd really. Harry has the distinct impression that Nienna very seldom allows anyone to come here, and yet, there are three chairs at this table. One for Nienna herself. Another that Harry occupies. A third which is empty.
He wonders who else she has over, but that's a rather personal thing to ask. She does have two brothers though. And two sisters by marriage so perhaps them?
"Yes, they do visit," Nienna says then, and she's a cool rain on a December morning. "Rarely now. I most often go to them."
Harry glances at her. Wondering if he did in fact say that aloud or if she honestly read his mind. He knows the Ainur are certainly capable of that, but he thinks he'd be able to tell. At least, he hopes he would.
Nienna's mouth curves just the slightest bit then, and Harry thinks it must be because she's guessing. She knows him well enough at this point to read his aura like an open book at times, and there's something comforting in that.
However, even the small smile she's managed falls away as she considers his unvoiced comment.
"I have few visitors, but keeping three places is habit," she replies as her eyes stray to the empty space and linger.
"For Námo and Irmo?" Harry purposefully says aloud now.
Nienna comes back to him, but something like a shadow cross her face as her head turns. As her hair obscures the source-less light for the scantest second.
"For them as well, yes," she allows, but it's softer.
Harry hesitates at her words. There's something to her cadence. To the ache of her song. To the winter rain slowly shifting to sleet and the dead leaves that crunch on the ground.
"Are they…" Harry starts, but he hesitates.
Familial relationships have never been his strong point, and admittedly, understanding how that works for the Ainur is both very simple and infinitely complicated. They are not creatures of flesh and bone for all that they can take those forms, so kinship works on an entirely different level. Despite having siblings and spouses, blood does not make them related. The music, the soul of creation does, which is a very heavy concept even on the best day. Even contemplating how they came into existence… well, Harry's thought about that perhaps far too much and he isn't going back into that fairy ring any time soon.
"Are they not your brothers?" he inquires after a brief pause.
Vairë explained that to him before. Surely, she wasn't wrong. Vairë was Námo's wife; she should know his sister. Particularly as they are close friends. Harry sees them often with each other in Mandos. Sometimes alone but usually together.
Nienna's head dips. She always wears her hood; this is the first that Harry's seen it pushed back. She must've done so when they came inside. Harry can see her hair for once, roots and all, paler than even the lightest cloud. White as driven snow.
"They are now," she replies, "but not always, no. Once, I had other brothers."
Harry feels his eyebrows rise. He isn't quite sure what to make of that, so he says nothing. Lets her talk. Maybe that's what she needs. She listens to the sorrows of others. To their hurts. But he wonders how often they hear hers. How often she receives the same comfort she offers.
"Once," Nienna continues, and her head is still bowed over the cup between her hands, "before we made this world, I was the youngest of three. I was the last song of Eru to complete a harmony. That was eons ago by your reckoning. Even by the understanding of the elves."
Her aura is still sleet. Neither snow nor rain. Freezing. Chilling to the bone as it falls and ices over everything around it. Harry reaches for her anyway. Touches skin to skin and doesn't care that it's cold enough to burn even him.
"We – all of us – are not as we were then."
She finally looks at him, but he doesn't know what to call the expression on her face. Remembrance? Grief? Despair?
"We thought we knew so much and did not truly understand our own ignorance," she explains, but her words are faint, distant and echoing. "I am supposed to be merciful. I am supposed to see good in all beings, but there is one where I could not. Where I searched as deeply as I could and found nothing."
His fingers curl around her wrist and give a squeeze of encouragement. The room is so cold around them, and her tea is a solid block in her mug.
"I looked at him and saw only evil. I saw only the desire for power. He wishes to rule all and bend others to his will." Her tears are frozen on her face. Like rain when it hits icy air. "That was at the end though. That was after betrayal and so much pain. He fooled us too many times prior to that. As for my other brother…" She shakes her head. "The other could only see his lies. He could not fathom the truth, or perhaps he did not wish to do so. Even now, he does so reluctantly and with great difficulty."
Nienna's silent then. Quiet. Lost.
"What happened?" Harry questions. It's as gentle as the kiss of snow.
"One brother fell fully into his evil." She isn't human or even elven, but her hands tremble. "As for the other, we quarreled. Words were said that cannot be unsaid. Thoughts shared that were better left to one's self."
She doesn't have to say their names for Harry to know who she means. The memory flows over him, ghosts past his shields like they don't even exist. They're translucent, transparent. Like phantoms called forth. Destroying nothing. Not able to interact with the living world at all.
He's never met Morgoth as far as he knows, and he hopes that he never will. Still, there's a tingle of foreboding down his spine. A sense of recognition as Harry glimpses him as he once was. Before Arda. Afterwards. Hair dark, black like the Void, but a flash of green as he turns away, and Harry's struck by the knowledge that was lost when the corruption grew too much. When it started to truly show and was impossible to hide in his eyes any longer. When the rot stole any other color from him.
That's when Nienna first knew, but Manwë didn't admit it even then. Maybe he couldn't.
Harry exhales as the memory dies. As the visage of Morgoth and Manwë fades into nothingness. He's struck by an itch of familiarity. By a shiver of something he can't name. Harry can't find words to describe it, however, and he lets it drift away.
His fingers are still on Nienna's skin, and it's chilled. Cool beneath his touch. He breathes a Warming Charm over both of them. Over the table, cups. Room itself. It takes a moment. Fights against the aching cold, but he pours in more power. Tells the frost and ice to go back to sleep, and they listen – reluctantly at first – but then with more and more agreement as the air around them turns from frigid to temperate.
Nienna sighs then. Takes a deep breath and exhales.
"Námo and Irmo took me in," she continues after a long moment of staring into her tea. "They made me their sister, and now, it is truth. Their wives are now my sisters as well, and my family is grown."
"You're still Manwë's sister though, right? I mean," Harry clarifies when she glances away from the rising steam, "I'm not sure how that works here."
"We… never truly renounced each other," she acknowledges, "but the bond is dormant. Slumbering."
Harry can see it on his mind's canvas then. Witness it take shape as if a brush is drawing it out in front of him. An enormous bear hibernating in the fiercest part of winter. In a deep, dark cave without a single mote of light. Burrowed in against the cold. She may stay there forever. Or one day, spring may arrive. Warmth may start to seep in, and she may rouse once more.
"And Morgoth?" he asks at last.
She gives a little laugh, but there's no humor at all. More like a patter of sleet against the window as she gazes up at his face and directly into his eyes.
"Shattered. He did that himself as soon as he fled Aman." She allows the tears to drop to the table now that her skin is warmer. "He did not wish for us to track him, or perhaps he simply wanted to hurt us even more."
It certainly did, she doesn't say.
But Harry knows. Understands in that instant how deeply he injured she and Manwë both. Sees it like he saw the other images. The memory of it reflecting in her thoughts. The agony. The stabbing pain deep in her soul like a knife straight through the heart. Sharp and fierce enough that their physical forms were dying, their songs warped and discordant. Even as they dealt with grieving Ñoldor and tried to figure out what to do for the Trees.
Harry soothes over the faint scar he finds buried under the winter slush now that he knows where to look. It's old. Looks like someone with greater skill than he has worked tirelessly to heal everything, but it's still present. Still a dead area in the landscape where nothing grows and the drifts are mushy and gray.
"Do the elves know any of this?" Harry wonders then, and it's partially to himself.
"I told only one other and now you," she informs him solemnly as she still looks in his eyes and nothing else. "Perhaps the others have, but I know my chosen brothers and sisters never would for they would not want to cause me pain. Manwë would not for it grieves him to have… lost both siblings."
"Would you take him back?" he inquires because he honestly isn't sure of the answer. "If he apologized?"
Nienna is quiet then. Reflective. Her tears are slower now, nearly stopped. But some griefs are beyond that. Some are so profound that nothing can ever genuinely express them.
"Perhaps," she says next. Her tone is a stab of an icicle, but it's directed inward, at herself. "Perhaps it is not only he who has to apologize."
Heartbeats of silence as they look at each other. Nienna breaks first.
"He is wise, Manwë," she murmurs, "but his true weakness is that he shall never understand evil. He does not comprehend the drives behind it. He does not know the need for power or possession. The lust. The greed. It is not his nature to see those things, and he has long struggled to fathom it all. Even more, he falters on why Melkórë did and became what he has."
"But you aren't like that."
Not a question. Not quite. Every day, Harry comprehends more of his new home and the Valar's role here.
"Yes… and no." She makes a middling gesture. "I do not think any of us now in Aman ever will truly fathom evil as we do not share those desires. Nor have we suffered in the manner others have. Certainly not as those who live in Endor." She pauses for the briefest second. "Not as you have, Marcaunon."
Harry feels his chest clench but lets that one go. Doesn't rise to the bait.
Nienna, as always, is merciful enough not to push him, but her aura brushes against him in a request for forgiveness, like a kiss against his cheek.
"I asked for forgiveness for Melkórë," she corrects herself, "for Moringotto. Time and again, I have done so. First, when Arda was shaped, and he caused discord in the Song. We – the Ainur – met to decide whether he would truly join us. If he would be allowed to come to Arda with us or if he would stay in the Timeless Halls with Eru Ilúvatar. There was an impasse." Nienna's voice is both withdrawn and very tired. "Manwë asked for my thoughts. It was I who swayed them, who convinced them at long last. The other Ainur trusted us, Manwë and I, on the matter. Why would they not? We were his siblings. We knew him best and vouched for his character. If I had said no... If I had even stayed silent, so much would be different now. So much pain and grief would be undone."
Harry doesn't sigh, but he does run his fingers over her skin in steady circles. She's older than this world, but there's something impossibly fragile in her as they sit at her table next to her black rose tea set.
"You're the Lady of Mercy; that's your nature. You said it yourself. You'd ask for it for anyone." Harry shouldn't have to point out the obvious, but sometimes, it really is hard to see the trees for the forest. "He put you in an impossible position. He asked you to decide already knowing what you'd say."
"I do not think that was on purpose," she defends, but it's weak. Exhausted. "Not now."
"But at the time?"
She merely inclines her head.
"And later, in Valinor…" Harry lets out a breath. "Of course, you'd ask for mercy. Again… it's your nature, but it's also his to not see the evil in people."
"It is as you say," she admits. "I will ask for mercy as I always do. Manwë knows this, but…"
She looks at him then, and Harry can never see the color of her eyes behind her tears, but there's a vision in them. An image of three siblings with diverging paths. One leaves early to never return. Two stay frustratingly close but don't connect, never touch, as time stretches ever onward.
Nienna breaks the spell only by looking away. Only by staring at her harp in the corner which now sits silent. Listening.
"Manwë knows I will always ask for mercy," she comments then, "but I am not sure he understands it. He is wise in many things, but in people… perhaps that is truly his greatest weakness."
Harry exhales harder. He taps on the table with his free hand. The room is temperate now, but she's still winter sleet. Slower now. Just as her tears have slowed. He suspects it's more out of fatigue than relief though.
Harry understands. He does. Really. Truly. Knows what it is to forgive but have no closure.
He isn't Tom Riddle's brother. Isn't Tom Riddle's anything. Doesn't consider himself his enemy. Not after all this time. Not even that long after Hogwarts to be honest.
Nienna offers him this truth, and he'll offer her one of his own. He pitied Tom. Still pities him. Always will.
He never told Ron or Hermione or anyone else. How could he? How could he explain that no matter how badly Tom Riddle hurt him, Harry felt sorry for the monster he became? For the upbringing he endured as a magical child in a religious orphanage during the Depression? For the years as a poor mudblood in Hogwarts? For being sent back to a war-torn Muggle World? For learning the truth of his parents and conception? For all the things that shaped him from a deeply terrified but proud child to a power-hungry, mad genius who never had anyone to guide or even love him?
Harry spent almost fifteen years with part of Tom's soul. From the time he was a toddler to when he was nearly an adult. Is it any wonder that he still misses him sometimes? That he even prays his soul did manage to heal and he's found some type of peace?
He tells her as much. Tells her of regrets. Of wishes that he could have done something different. Something more.
It isn't the same. Except when it is.
Nienna actually smiles at him then. It's a small thing. Barely there. Just a vague curl of her lips. Fragile, frail but real.
And sometimes that's enough .
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Past!Nerdanel – Whose son is besties with a Vala. Please remember to feed and water him regularly, Oromë!
Also Past!Nerdanel – All my idiot children swore an Oath to three murder stones and made the Valar cry. Now one of them wears my son's face because he can't cope.
More Recent!Nerdanel – My relationship with the Valar is weird now that all my sons but one are in prison.
Present!Nerdanel – My grandchild is supposed to be a peredhel, isn't he? Hm… Lord Eönwë is hanging around an awful lot, but a mother would know her child's spouse. Shrugs.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Citizen #1 – So that's him?
Citizen #2 – Yep! That's the one.
Citizen #3 – Heard he was king in Endor.
Citizen #4 – Confirming nod. The last king of the Ñoldor.
Citizen #2 – Fought Sauron, too.
Citizen #3 – Rubs chin. Impressive credentials.
Citizen #1 – I think he'll do nicely.
Citizen #4 – Shrugs. It' not like we get a say in this or anything.
All of Them – True.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Not-Really-Canonical-But-Mentioned-In-The-Lore
Harry – Really, Nienna? Bat wings?
Nienna – Embarrassed shrug. It was a phase.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna – So I have two brothers.
Harry – Yeah, I know this.
Nienna – No, not those two brothers. My other two brothers.
Harry – ????
Nienna – It's very tragic. Nods solemnly. Did I mention that it's about Morgoth?
Harry – 0_o
Nienna – I know, my dear. My brothers… One is evil, and the other's an idiot.
Harry – Facepalm.
Somewhere else in Valinor…
Manwë – I feel as though someone is calling me.
Varda – Yes, yes, I'm sure they are.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor and sons slowly meandering to the outer areas of Formenos. Looking at the lovely winter garden followed by the autumn forests, then the summer lake, and finally the mountains in spring.
Caranthir – Coming to a decision. I think I need to go back to Mandos.
Celegorm – What?!
Curufin – Why?!
Caranthir – They obviously put me back together wrong; I'm hallucinating.
Amrod – Raises hand.
Amras – Us, too!
Celegorm – Now that you mention it…
Curufin – Grudgingly. There may be some impossible things I'm seeing here.
All of Them – Looking at each other. Glancing over at their oldest brother and father who are in very deep discussion just down the road.
Caranthir – So if all of us are seeing this…
Somewhere in Mandos…
Námo – Has a sudden sense of doom. Freezes for a moment before it goes away on its own. Sighs in relief.
Notes:
Ammë – mother/mum
AN: So in doing a deep dive, Nienna was originally the sister of Manwë and Melkor and was the strongest of the female Vala. Her siblings were changed to Námo and Irmo, but what if both things are true? The lore for Nienna is wild fyi, so I decided to play with canon a little bit because it adds even more depth to her character. Not to mention the sister of Morgoth ending up with a son of Fëanor? Talk about soap opera here. I didn't know any of this when I was plotting this story out, so you know.
Next chapter should be out in two weeks. I was lucky to get this one done early because I don't write in order so had a lot of random parts done previously.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 19: Chapter 19
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry sits in a garden of snow and evergreens. Indilwen is at his back as he rests on her shoulder, her neck curled around his hip. She's sleeping in a half-doze with little soft snores that she'll deny to her dying day, but that only adds to the ambiance. Everything is serene in the moonlight. The only other sounds are his harp and the tinkling of ice crystals. His castle rises above him in the darkness like a silent sentinel, watching over them, guarding his serenade in the night.
The notes rise and fall as he contemplates his work. It's coming along nicely, nearly complete. Just needs a few touches here and there. Harry added the fountain just yesterday, but the icicles have formed beautifully, and the lights swirl around in a dance of rime and shimmers. He only started building this section when he returned with Gil-galad from Tirion, but he's incredibly pleased with how everything's turned out. Before it was an empty space, left alone until inspiration struck, but now, it's more than his latest project. Not just something to fill the hours until dawn. It's a private space for him to play surrounded by chill and frost and the knowledge that he doesn't have to hide or apologize.
It's a much smaller version of what encircles the whole of Harry's kingdom. A gentle haven with a dusting of snow that blankets everything. Snowdrops bloom along with rare flowers impervious to cold, and not all of them are originally magical. The roses certainly are – a special variety that blossoms a glowing argent and never in the sunlight. His black hellebore is as well, preferring to grow when the flurries are coming down. The purple primroses and blue crocus are pure Muggle varieties, however, similar to the ones Petunia had so long ago. The others are a mix, scattered together at his whim, but all of them are Earth-based. Nothing from Arda is here. Even the trees are all from his memories. A collection of conifers painted with crystals and ice until they twinkle like frosted glass in the starlight.
Aside from Indilwen, Harry's otherwise alone as he sits and plays to the winter jasmine and camellia around his bent knees. Eönwë has been in and out of the castle for the last week; Nienna stopped in yesterday and the day before to watch him work. Inara drifted in a few times, but she's been oddly listless lately so didn't stay. Instead, Indilwen is his most frequent companion here, and on these nights, just as now, she lays down with her head stretched out near his knee, and Harry leans against her with Káno's harp in his lap. It's just as they did those first months in the fortress when it was only them bedding down in the great hall. Even later on when they kept the grass there and would stare up at the forming sky of the ceiling as it slowly came together under his hand.
That – all of it – feels like a lifetime ago. It was such an odd time. A new adventure. Harry reflects back on it with fondness. With surprising happiness.
Indilwen is sweetly dreaming as they recline near the single bench. Like the low walls and paths, it's formed of pure ice and coaxed to take shape. Charmed to never melt but also not to be so terribly cold to anyone who touches. Indilwen tolerates the lower temperatures after all these years of practice and Harry's magic to bolster her; Gil certainly will now with his new gift. But the Ainur do wander around freely, and some of them are not as resistant. Not to mention that Nerdanel's still here, and he wouldn't want her to fetch a chill or get frostbite. Cold is one of the Eldar's true weaknesses after wine, it seems.
It's late. Or perhaps early is the correct term. Enough so that dawn is a soon to come dream. Káno's already departed for the night; he does require more rest than Harry ever will. The soothing melody won't disturb him though. If anything, it's one known for putting elflings to sleep, and Harry has been choosing similar music in the last few hours. Given the number of songs in his mental catalog at this point, he could keep going well until noon and still not run out or repeat. As it is, sunrise will eventually arrive, and it's almost time for Harry to head in. It's his turn today in the kitchen, but if he lingers too long, he knows that Nerdanel will use the opportunity to skip ahead.
He continues to play for now. The notes familiar and ancient. A song that Káno was sung as a child by his parents. Just as his own grandfather once did the same.
There's someone lingering on the edge of his senses as he comes to an end. Not on his side but on Káno's. It isn't one Harry's met before, but there's something very recognizable. As if Harry should know this person. This elf, Harry's absolutely sure of that. Male. Sure of that one, too. He hasn't touched the harp. Hasn't come close enough for Harry to catch more than a glimpse of water steadily flowing over rocks. Of waterfalls in a deep valley. Of other presences even more distant around him. Some also familiar. Others complete strangers.
Káno has naturally not said anything about this. Hasn't mentioned moving from the shore at all. Or that he's acquired some new – possibly old – friends. Harry isn't sure if this is a good sign. Or a very bad one. If this is progress. If it means that Káno's at last ready and able to not spend the next millennia lamenting on a beach. Or if it means something's happened.
Either way, if Káno wants him to know, he'll tell Harry. Until then, he'll wait. Patient as the winter awaiting the spring. Watching. Supporting him best he can from half a world away.
He finishes with a single long note. One that slowly fades away to nothingness. Harry considers another song, but he pauses. Waits to see what the other person will do. If he'll come closer. If he'll leave. If he'll simply linger.
Minutes pass, and it seems like the last option. Harry has the impression of someone settling in. Sitting on the floor by a doorway while the harp is on a bedside table. Káno, he knows, is dozing. Can feel the slow rhythm of his waves on the shore of his soul, soothed and soothing in turn. Repetitive in elfish sleep. Káno wouldn't be so relaxed if this person were a threat; he wouldn't rest unless it's somebody he trusts completely.
Harry considers that for a moment. Something gentle but appropriately difficult. He smiles to himself.
Then, he starts a piece that this elf wouldn't have ever heard. A hymn that Fleur and later Victoire sang at the birth of all their children. It's meant to be done by both parents, but Harry's grown in skill enough to do the two parts seamlessly. He can feel his listener's shock as he switches from one to the other without missing a single note. He's half-way through when Gil arrives, but Harry carries on without stumbling. He merely meets his love's gaze as he continues all the way to the finish line before ending with a little flourish. How his distant audience reacts, Harry isn't quite sure as he puts the harp to the side.
Indilwen stirs then. Ears twitching at the sound of footsteps approaching despite the music. Lifting her head when Gil's boots touch the path several yards away. Her eyes are fully alert in seconds but relax immediately when she realizes who it is. Then, she lets out a yawn large enough for Harry to chuckle.
"So this is where you've been going," Gil comments as he ambles over, already bathed and dressed. In layers of blue and green with golden ivy embroidered on the outer robe. His bracelet and ring are his only adornment aside from his hair.
It's only now starting to truly brighten outside and far too early for him to normally be up. Even using the shortcut from the suite in the tower to the ground floor, Gil is never ready this soon. The bracelet though brings him here instantly, but he must be awake for that. Which he is, strangely enough.
Hm…
"I was curious," Gil replies to the question Harry hasn't even asked, but he chuckles afterwards. "And now, I have a way to follow you."
That's true enough. Gil's taken to his bracelet swimmingly. He popped all over the castle yesterday in a trial of it, but he hasn't tried anywhere in the city yet, and Harry really hasn't had the chance to show him the outer rings. That's certainly something to do since Gil will be able to travel more freely there on his own now.
"You need only ask," Harry tells him as he straightens his legs from beneath him and stands in a single motion. "I'd take you anywhere you want, and I'd tell you anything I was doing."
Behind them, Indilwen also rises. Rubbing her nose on Harry's arm and receiving a caress in return. She ambles off after that without a backwards glance. Harry watches her before returning to Gil and gestures to the garden around him.
"This is hardly a secret. You knew I was building this."
His elf spins in a slow circle to peer around before he moves to the bench just steps away. He doesn't motion for Harry to join him, but the intention is clear. Gil doesn't even ease himself down until Harry is seated there. However, there's a slight hesitation. A slowness in the way he turns to Harry that's completely baffling. More so as his earlier mirth dies away.
"Yes, I did," Gil responds, and his voice is odder still. "But you always seem reluctant to play."
"For others. Not for you," Harry admits. "Some of that was to keep them from discovering the harp."
His elf seems to consider that, but there's another pause. More indecision. A weighing of words. Or maybe a rehearsal of them. He has the air of someone who very much wishes to say something but isn't quite sure of the wisdom. Or the outcome.
"Mírimo," he finally says, "earlier with the children…" He trails off momentarily before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "Maybe I have not explained things as I should. Perhaps I assumed things. You keep giving me things like your painting and now this bracelet." His fingers trace the feather pattern. "Only, I didn't state outright my intentions and what I wanted from you."
Harry can only sit and gaze at him. He isn't sure how to respond. Isn't quite sure where this is going.
"I think that's obvious," Harry comments after a moment of his love giving him an earnest but worried expression. "I'm rather sure we want the same thing really."
It's a reasonable statement. An even more reasonable assumption. They obviously have a connection, one that's growing with each passing hour. Gil let Harry stay with him in Tirion and journeyed here with him. They touch in a manner definitely beyond friendship. Sleep in the same bed as a couple does. Engage in other adult activities. Elves aren't casual about any of that; certainly not as the mortal races are. They marry once, for life, without divorce. Save for exceedingly rare exceptions. Gil's also carried the Silmaril for him. An artifact people murdered, betrayed, and destroyed countless lives to have. Returned it to him without comment, returned it to him so easily. Of course, he now has a bracelet that's the proverbial keys to Harry's kingdom.
Not to mention the ring. Best not forget about that.
His elf is observing him now. Eyes large and unreadable. His aura gives him away though. It's troubled. Rumbling. Anxious even. It's as if he fears that Harry is ignorant. As if he thinks that Harry doesn't grasp the meaning of his gift. Hasn't this entire time. A misconception on how much Harry has understood the goings-on.
So maybe that's it. Maybe Gil doesn't realize Harry knows.
"You gave me a ring," Harry reminds him. "I do understand the implications of getting one of those. After all, are we not already engaged? Betrothed really?" he corrects absentmindedly.
The manner might be a bit different than on Earth. Along with the placement. Harry's is now on the correct finger; Gil-galad's still lags a bit behind. But that isn't the point. Not yet.
Gil's breath hitches. He blinks. Once and again.
"That was… That was right after the roof."
Harry inclines his head. It's cheerful. Honest.
"Yes, it was."
"But… that early?" Gil asks, and he genuinely seems confused by this.
Harry isn't entirely sure why. He thinks their stance on things should be blatantly clear, but he'll humor him. Or perhaps this is another elfish thing? Maybe they must make their intentions unmistakable? Have to say it outright?
"I've never been as ignorant of elven courtships as everyone seems to imagine," Harry responds, but it's tender. "My parents were quite thorough in my education, you know. Even the things I didn't think would ever apply to me."
And yes, those were some awkward conversations with Nienna and Káno that he didn't wish to repeat. Ever. He has much more sympathy for Ron and all his siblings and the sex-talk they received from Molly and Arthur. Harry still has secondhand embarrassment just thinking about that. He's fortunate to have escaped it himself by swearing that he learned it all in primary school – which was true enough. From a certain point of view.
The fact that he's a trained healer and was a headmaster…. Well, those are different. That's impersonal. Detached. He's delivered babies and lectured students on safe practices enough to make even Poppy Pomfrey proud. Much less Molly.
Anyway, back to matter at hand.
"But you never said-" Gil begins.
"You didn't either," Harry points out.
His elf is still staring at him. "You accepted it."
Harry beams at him. He reaches forward to cup Gil's face with his right hand.
"I did," he agrees. "I allowed you to place it on my finger and kept wearing it. I still wear it." He strokes a thumb over an unlined cheek. "Maybe I was ready to try living. Even if I didn't want to admit it to myself yet."
Gil's eyes are sad then. Going from worried to relieved to anguished. He wants to ask; Harry knows he does. But he won't like the answer, and it'll certainly kill the mood. Instead, he swipes his thumb over his elf's lips before leaning forward to give him a chaste kiss. When he pulls back, Gil is gripping his other hand tightly in both of his own.
"Tell me about the ring," Harry says after a few seconds. It's both a request and a distraction. "I know there's something about it."
Otherwise, Finarfin and Fingon and Fingolfin wouldn't have kept staring at it. Findis, too. But she was far more subtle about things. Irimë didn't care if anyone caught her watching, and the fact that Harry hadn't was all the more suspicious. Then, there was Aredhel whispering to Celebrían so faintly that even Harry couldn't hear what she said. Not to mention that Angrod and Finrod's matching smirks were telling as was Argon's grin.
"It's lapis," Gil explains slowly, carefully. As if gauging his reaction. "For seeing your own worth. It's also the stone for royalty. Both worn by and given to." That earns him a raised eyebrow, but he lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "It also means that I wanted to gain your friendship along with your love."
As if he doesn't already have both. As if he hasn't practically from the start. It just took a while for Harry to admit that. And maybe it is understandable why Gil's been concerned? Harry possibly could've been more honest to both of them. To Gil and himself.
Harry strokes his cheek again in apology, and his elf leans into it. The snow is gradual, tranquil as it falls around them. Almost glowing in the rapidly dawning light. But Gil is the brightest thing around. Warm and radiant.
"A ring from one's own hand means they'll give anything their love needs, yes?" Harry questions as he remembers what Káno taught before.
He doesn't startle, but Harry can tell Gil's surprised he knew that.
"Or that you support your love in anything," his elf adds. His tone is low, and his eyes don't leave Harry's face. "Versus a new ring. That means building a new life together. New beginnings."
"This is an heirloom," Harry comments as his ring is pressed against his skin. "I can tell from the feel of it. You're the strongest essence, but there are echoes of other people here, too."
Distant. Faint even with ages past but still lingering. Fingon. Fingolfin. They're the ones he recognizes without trying. There are others who're familiar, but Harry has no name for them.
If any of this is a revelation, Gil doesn't show it. He just nods instead.
"I told you lapis is for royalty. This set in particular," Gil-galad confesses, and there's something in the way he says it, something very telling. "The one each of us has… These have been worn by the High Kings of the Ñoldor."
And there it is.
Harry can deny he's a king or a prince or even a lord, but he wears the ring of one. Has done so openly. Shown this ring off even.
Silly him.
Gil dips his head but doesn't look away as he continues, "Finwë had them first. A gift from his oldest son. They were passed back to him when Finwë died and then along the line in the First Age."
"And then to you," Harry realizes.
Now to him. To Harry. How ironic, he thinks. What strange luck.
His love seems to agree as he inches closer. "I've had them longer than anyone but Finwë himself. Elrond retrieved them when…"
He grimaces and doesn't finish.
When he died, Gil means. When he fell in battle. When he was killed by Sauron. When he was burned alive.
Frost curls around them both at that thought. Encircling. Wrapping them in a safe cloak of cold and rime. Warding and warning both to phantoms far away.
Gil simply relaxes into it.
"He refused to wear them. He refused to be the next king, so I was the last in Endor." His love sighs then, and a storm cloud passes through the frost for a scant second. "Celebrían carried them with her when she sailed. One of the first things she did was return them to me. I tried to give them to Findekáno and Ñolofinwë, but they refused. Arafinwë told me not to even bother."
Gil-galad is silent then. Contemplative. But if anyone has earned the right to carry these, it's him.
"You may not be a Ñoldo by birth, but from what everyone tells me, you did right by them." Harry leans down to press their foreheads together. "More than that, you carried them through terrible times into prosperity and through war again. You sacrificed for them and shouldered their burdens; they didn't want to take that acknowledgment from you even if they don't know the half of it."
His elf doesn't reply to that. To be honest, there isn't much to say against the truth. Instead, Harry allows him a minute before asking him a different question. One he's been considering for some time as he touches Gil's hand.
"Will you?"
Harry doesn't have to explain. His love knows what he intends. Left for courtship. Right for a true engagement. Harry's kept his on the proper side since it was moved yesterday. Changing Gil's means that he also agrees.
"That's a betrothal," his love points out unhelpfully. As if Harry doesn't already know. "It's much harder to end than a courtship."
Harry just looks at him. Green eyes shining, glowing with their own light.
"Why would I want to end it?"
Gil opens his mouth before promptly closing it. He examines Harry, searching.
"It's only supposed to last a year and then marriage," he murmurs after a few seconds.
Harry snorts. Tell that to Finrod. He can see that Gil's thinking the same thing though as his lips quirk.
"I know." Harry gives him a small, fond smile in return. "We already share a bed and… other things. If you'll have me, I want you to share my life. I want you to stay with me."
A pause then. A held breath. The breeze in the trees stills. The snowflakes even seem to hesitate, seem to stop completely, but Gil-galad truly beams as he offers his hands. Harry takes the twin ring slowly from his left. It slides onto his right with a sense of finality. Of correctness. Of promises being made and aching to be kept.
Storm blue eyes are observing him when he glances up. His face is very close. Nose brushing Harry's own. Static is on his skin where their hands touch.
"We could get married right now," Gil whispers then.
Harry feels his heart speeding up. Drumming in his ears. More so as Gil leans forward to kiss him.
Harry gasps. Almost dizzy. The air is heavy with the weight of lightning that won't strike. With thunder rumbling overhead. With flurries now swirling around. He doesn't know what to think, and soon enough, he isn't bothering to try as Gil presses against him. There's want and desire and longing until they all spiral together. Until Harry can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
Until…
Until…
Until Harry's peering up at him. Puzzled. He isn't entirely sure how it happened, but his back is flat on the bench, ice firm beneath him as Gil hovers above. His love's face is flushed, eyes dark but gleaming in the dawning sun. Electricity buzzes where Harry's hand is around his neck, holding him tightly in place; despite their positions, one of Gil's legs is pinned beneath his. They're both fully clothed save for Gil's robe, which is now pillowed beneath Harry's head, and he doesn't know how that happened either.
Snow pours down around them. Enough so that they're both in actual danger of being covered; there's a layer three inches deep already on the unused parts of the bench and the ground nearby.
Gil laughs then. Following Harry's gaze. Both terribly amused and delighted by his reaction. But he's also shaking his head, almost regretfully.
"No, not yet," he decides, more than a little breathless. "Not here."
He presses a final kiss to Harry's temple, and it takes a moment for his heart to calm. A few minutes more for them to untangle and for both to sit up. For Harry to pull the robe back around Gil's shoulders and magic out the wrinkles. Gil-galad is holding his hand the entire time as they stand and walk together back inside.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It occurs to Harry that afternoon, while Nerdanel and Gil follow him outside into the courtyard, that he really needs to start paying more attention to who's entering his wards. Yes, there are thousands every day coming inside, not even counting those exiting, but one would think he could notice his own family. After all, this is the second time it's happened in the last month or so.
Maybe he should train the wards to recognize them all? It shouldn't be that hard.
In his defense, however, he set those to measure hostile intent. Malignant purposes. Not positive ones. He also mostly searches for people he expects in Formenos. Inglor and his company. The guard. The children, Daeron, and Gwindor. His other friends. Laerien and Melpomaen and his staff. Merchants, both permanent and traveling. The various guild-members. Artisans. Anybody else he interacts with on a regular basis.
Now, Gil-galad.
Why would he ever expect Nerdanel? Much less half of the House of Finwë? And who next? Indis? Olwë? Thingol? Should he just roll out the red carpet?
As it is, Harry can only stare towards the gate as the first horses arrive. He just dreamed this so recently, and a not so small part of him wonders if he's still asleep. The same part that's even now questioning his sanity. Wondering if it's possible for him to hallucinate as he is now. Or maybe this is a very elaborate fantasy. An illusion gone awry.
An even larger part of him hopes it's real. He loves being home. Loves having Gil and Eönwë and Nienna and Nerdanel now, too. All of them here. But he finds that he's missed the others. Missed his talks with Fingolfin in the evening. Argon's easy grin. Finrod and his music. Angrod's sensibleness. Findis with her insight. Aredhel and Irimë – absent but not forgotten.
Fingon, Harry misses him most of all. Regardless of how much he worries.
Celebrían may not be the friend he hoped she was, but he misses her, too.
Still part of him thinks this must be a dream. Even though he knows that it can't possibly be when Gil-galad stands next to him, chuckling like this is both the best and worst day ever. Nerdanel is on his other side, hands clasped in front of her mouth as she gasps in joy. The gates, traitors that they are, have let the lot of them inside his courtyard without so much as a by-your-leave. Now, the House of Finwë and what seems like a third of their worldly possessions are practically on his doorstep.
Fingon is the first to him. Of course, he is. But Harry has already moved to embrace him before the elf can even get his arms up. He laughs in Harry's ear, squeezing him back just as tightly. Warm and solid and very real.
Harry trembles against him.
"You're really here," he whispers in astonishment.
Somehow, he's squeezed even tighter.
"Of course, nephew," Fingon responds.
But they're so close Harry can't even see his face. He can only feel the breath against his cheek and the heat of a hearth curling around him deep down inside. Beyond glacial walls and icy corridors. That feeling is still present when Fingon finally pulls back, and it's only far enough to study Harry with an intensity that's almost unnerving. Whatever he sees must be reassuring though since his smile is relaxed and open.
"It's good to finally see you," the elf murmurs, and it's so very fond.
Harry can only nod, and he's spared finding the right words in response since Fingolfin chooses that moment to appear. Between one blink and the next, he's suddenly beside them. Father and son exchange a single glance before he bumps Fingon out of the way impatiently, and Harry has a second to startle at that. Then, he's swept into another hug.
The sensation of warmth intensifies as if a drink has been placed in his hands. The cupboard of his mind feels almost cozy now, inviting. Harry can all but hear the crackle of the fireplace even as he feels Fingolfin's hand drawing him in closer. He's so very comfortable that Harry finds himself leaning forward to rest his head on Fingolfin's shoulder that's just in front of him. Fingertips rub soothing circles on his back, but the elf doesn't say anything. Doesn't even rush Harry along as they stand there. He instead presses a kiss to Harry's brow.
Harry jerks up. Gapes at him in surprise for a second. However, Argon shoves Fingolfin out of the way before Harry can even figure out what to say.
He's like a fur mantle dropping around Harry's shoulder. A blanket draping down with edges tucked in. His cupboard is downright pleasant now. Mug held in both hands and hearth in front. The chill he's always had, one that doesn't come from his own power or from anything centered in winter, is finally subdued.
Harry exhales.
He opens his eyes to see Argon smiling down at him.
"Back with us, cousin?" he asks, but there's affection in his voice.
Argon has one arm around Harry's back as the other hovers near his chin. He searches Harry's face for a long few heartbeats but finally settles his hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry blinks a few times in lieu of answering. He peers about to all the elves gathered, and it's indeed the crowd he left not even two months ago in Tirion.
Fingon, of course, and his father. They're now exchanging embraces with Nerdanel, who's delighted to see them. She talks very animatedly as she grins up at her brother by marriage.
Findis is nearby along with Finarfin. Politely waiting their turn while they speak with each other in hushed tones.
Angrod and Finrod are just a few steps away from Harry and Argon. Both watching with amusement.
Celebrían is right next to Gil-galad, but they aren't touching. Her face is amiable as always, poised. Nevertheless, Harry hears the discordance from here. Can see the clouds wandering in front of the pale moonlight and night sky of her soul as she senses the physical and spiritual distance between herself and one of her oldest friends. The brother-claimed to her husband. He feels the vague unease in her song as she reaches for Gil, and he gently but firmly rebuffs her.
Harry nods to himself at that. His attention flickers back to Argon, who waits for him without complaint.
"What are you doing here?" Harry finally asks.
Since really, that is the question of the hour. It's said more with friendly surprise than as a demand.
Argon chortles next to him, but Celebrían beats him to an answer.
"We came to see you," she tells him as she glides over to stand in front of him.
Harry knows what she expects. What even two months ago he would've offered freely. But Harry also knows other things now. He knows of Laerien and Melpomaen. Who Celebrían sent here under false pretenses. Who lied and pretended to care for him. Who Harry hasn't spoken to at all since that day. Who try to ambush him in the city. Who expect Harry to bend to their whims.
Not like Inglor who came to Harry and apologized directly. Who's made other overtures of recompense. Harry finds him much easier to forgive.
The other two. Celebrían. Most certainly not.
She falters before she can reach for him, but it's already too late. Harry knows when Argon feels him stiffen and start to withdrawal inwards. The arm around Harry guides him backwards instinctively. Until there's a noticeable gap, a gulf, that stands between Celebrían and them. The look she gives him then is one of astonishment turning into sadness and edging into something almost like betrayal.
Only, she doesn't get to feel like that.
There's a flare of anger, cold and biting, like an icicle shaking on an overhead branch. Threatening to fall. One sharpened by the wind to a knife's point.
Harry quickly stamps it down.
He hears more than sees the others shifting in the background, but Gil is the one to step up. His elf is polite, perfectly mannered, pleasant, but Harry can hear the unspoken statement. Understansd enough about elven traditions to realize a rejection of a visitor from a host is a poor sign indeed. The others glance between her and Harry, but none of them say anything as Gil-galad directs her to the left side. There's an air of uncertainty, of utter confusion, around Celebrían. The moon in her sky is shadowed as she slowly moves to join her two uncles, who have shifted further away as if to shield her. But that's not until casting a final glance at Harry, and he looks back at her neutrally.
There's a tension now. A soundtrack of friction as auras rise and fall with unvoiced questions. Fingon and Fingolfin are still earnest and reassuring. Argon has yet to stray from his side. Gil is the steady beat of rain in the back of his mind, but the others are little pinpoints of concern.
Finarfin approaches then. Sedate. Almost careful. Harry goes greet him properly, and the tight line of the king's shoulders relaxes though he genuinely seems surprised when Harry doesn't hesitate to hug him. It's very brief, but it still counts.
His bright hair is flowing down his back, contained only by artfully placed braids and a diadem that Harry's not seen before. One of silver and gold set with clear stones that seem to glow with their own light. It's even more intricate than those he usually wears, and now that he's really looking, Fingolfin's circlet of blue topaz is as well. He inspects the others, and indeed confirms for all that they've been traveling, they seem rather well-attired. Even more so than their usual attire in Tirion, and Harry would probably feel underdressed if Gil hadn't recently taken over selecting and laying out his clothes the night before. Still, he does know enough about elfish manners that he has to fight to not roll his eyes.
Fortunately, that's interrupted as Findis is there next, and she lets out a low chuckle from behind her favorite fan. Harry follows her direct line of her sight as it zeroes in on the ring now on his right hand. Her aura is the blaze of a solar eclipse. Breathtaking but deceptive. Seemingly shading the sun but enough to burn out a man's eyes. It's even more brilliant now, corona radiating outward in a circle of pure white light.
"It seems we arrived at an auspicious time," she decides then but makes no further comments as she slowly stands on her toes, making sure that Harry has seen, before she presses a kiss to his cheek.
Angrod merely snickers as he sneaks in next, beating out his brother. Everyone is relaxed again. Easy and joyous as the topic of interest moves on, and Harry knows that was Findis' intention all along.
"It was snowing earlier. This morning at dawn," Finrod says as he comes up last but not least. "Does it do that often?" He's oh-so-bright, beaming and happy to be there.
"Sometimes," Harry replies, suddenly cagey.
Gil doesn't snort as he walks over to stand by Harry, but there's a distinct impression of mirth. He really shouldn't be so cavalier about this one, however. The situation was partially his fault. At least half of the blame was on him for it.
"Splendid," Finrod replies. He seems so pleased by Harry's answer as he goes back by his brother and father. "I have missed the snow. It really isn't the same after being in Endor."
Angrod rolls his eyes. "This was admittedly much nicer than we ever had there. It came and went in minutes, and everything was dry a half-hour later."
There are some nods in agreement. Though Harry sees assessing looks thrown his way when they think he won't notice, and Findis in particular seems to be evaluating him as one would when confronted with an animal in his natural habitat.
"Just the three of you live here?" Finarfin inquires now.
Harry isn't sure if that's meant as a distraction or an honest question.
"Eönwë left early this morning," Nerdanel speaks up before Harry or Gil can respond. "He said he'd likely return on the morrow."
The newcomers pause to process that. They don't look at each other, but Harry can feel their songs shift. Fingolfin and Fingon tighten around him, while Argon brushes him like a cub poking out with a paw in confusion.
"Lord Eönwë?" Finarfin clarifies very slowly as his brother and oldest nephew exchange a pointed gaze.
"Oh, yes," Nerdanel responds. It's with a brilliant, sunny smile. "He resides here, too."
"Of course, he does," Finrod automatically agrees. "Par-"
The rest of his sentence is lost as Angrod steps onto his foot. Finarfin takes the opportunity to relocate directly in front so that neither of his sons is in view. Fingolfin shifts in beside him in an almost choreographed move.
"You certainly seem on good terms with him, Nel," he comments, but it's sociable. Conversational. Completely ignoring anything Finrod just tried to say.
Nerdanel merely grins back. It's absolutely amicable, but Harry has the distinct impression of a goblin, all white teeth.
"Certainly," she says, "I find it only natural with how much time we spend together now. Besides, he is my newest inspiration!"
"He models for you, sister?" Findis queries, and she can't keep the shock from her tone.
"He was rather flattered when I asked," Nerdanel reveals. "He said that only Marcaunon ever did so before."
They all don't stare at Harry. Deliberately so. He still has the distinction notion of being studied. Of being quietly weighed and measured. Judged.
It's unnerving. Not more so than other times at Hogwarts. Or even walking the streets in Tirion. Admittedly, having these particular people do it feels different. Not painful per se but a deeper impression. Like leaving footprints in the sand on the shore. Even the warmth that curls across him isn't enough to dispel the rising unease. More so as they start drifting through the courtyard towards the castle entrance.
Harry permits himself one final moment of comfort. Of indulgence. Of the hearth and the blanket and comfort in his cupboard. Of the feeling that they truly belong there. Of the thought that he could actually keep them.
Then, he locks all of it away. Whispers chords that instantly have their connection muted.
Fingolfin immediately whips his head over his shoulder, just as Fingon hesitates and Argon stops mid-step. Harry only offers them a civil smile as he follows after his guests, Gil beside him as always and Nerdanel out front and in the lead. His expression is a perfect mask. Prepared and polished by centuries of political functions with people who would murder him in the middle of the night. Who have assassinated him. Who spoke pleasing words to his face, shook his hand, clasped him on the shoulder. Only to poison or stab or even curse him later on that week or sometimes even that very night.
Such things were only dying. What Harry dreads will come in the next few minutes is a fate worse than that.
The conversation flows around him. Little things. Meaningless pleasantries and gossip. But he knows that they're taking in everything. The warm spring air, the flowering trees, the butterflies and birds. All the rest. The outside of his home is damning enough. They haven't gotten to the interesting parts out here either. They haven't even left the main courtyard, the most benign and neutral place in all of the castle and her grounds.
The inside is so much worse. And they're inching closer to the doors with every passing second.
There's little Harry can do to stop them. Nothing short of throwing them out. He doesn't have a way to explain that without sounding and seeming like a lunatic.
Of course, it wouldn't be the first time. Not even the hundredth.
Gryffindor bravery mixed with Slytherin sense keeps him from making a complete fool of himself by either running away or slamming the door in everyone's face as the castle opens for them. Gil-galad's hand on his elbow keeps him from stumbling as they cross the threshold. It doesn't take long at all; Harry knew it wouldn't. He doesn't even have to follow their eyes. Harry can guess what they're all looking at.
Fingolfin stands next to the lion statues, watching the closest flick his tail with amusement. Finarfin takes an abrupt step back as a suit of armor salutes him with a sword. Finrod has moved to investigate the grand staircase, but he's now running in place as it attempts to carry him further upwards. Argon gapes at the portrait of Teddy and Victoire as children as they happily wave at him. Findis inspects the painted ivy that reaches out tendrils as she inches closer, while Celebrían studies the kaleidoscope patterns on the stone floor. Angrod's head tips back as he peers upwards at the animated stained-glass ceiling. And Fingon… Fingon just stares at Harry.
"Nephew," he urgently whispers.
Harry turns to him. Almost warily. Cautiously.
"Yes?"
He's proud that his voice is calm. Reasonable. He feels everything but. He hasn't had any time to prepare. Any time to… well, hide. Anything. Everything. It's all here. In full magical glory. Out in the open. Why? Why was he so stupid to do this? Why has he not learned this lesson? He's just had one unexpected visitor show up in the form of Nerdanel; why didn't it occur to him that others would come?
This is it. This is the moment he's been quietly dreading. Ever since he started realizing how much their opinions really meant to him. How much they have come to matter to him. How much he fears they'll turn away if they had even the faintest idea of what they've unwittingly invited in. As if dying and returning isn't bad enough. At least, they can all pretend that didn't happen. This is so much harder to hide.
This isn't like with Gil; Harry invited him specifically. Had time to prepare himself. And admittedly, Gil has seen his fair share of Harry's magic in the time they've spent together before coming here. Promised him that none of it mattered. Meant it.
Nerdanel is different, too. She's spent time with Eönwë. Harry gave her a tour of the castle, and she practically cackled with delight during the entire thing. She's… Well, Harry isn't quite sure what to think of her yet. She's starting to fall in the same category as Gil. Peculiar enough to think that his home is a fantastic place. Maybe that's what it means to be part of the House of Fëanor; it's so easy to forget that she's the matriarch.
Fingon isn't a Fëanorion. Not quite. Not yet. Maybe not ever if he never manages to reunite with his love again.
Nonetheless, it's his opinion that Harry worries over the most as they all move to face him. Even Finrod has been rescued from the stairs by this point. A part of him wants to look away, but despite everything that's happened, despite how much of a coward he's allowed himself to become, Harry is still a Gryffindor. He gazes at Fingon directly in the eye.
"What is this place?" Argon at last asks the question all of them want to know.
"This is where we live," Nerdanel answers back immediately, and it's cheerful with a side to side of her head as she beams. Braids swaying behind her.
"Is this your doing, Herurrívë?" Fingolfin probes; his tone is soft. Gentle with something like concern.
Harry glances from one of them to the next but doesn't say anything. He honestly isn't sure how to respond. They're handling this a lot better than some of the others he's brought here. There aren't any tears. No murmurs of shock. Or whispered prayers to the Valar. However, he's very hesitant to check their auras. To gauge their real feelings. He's keeping his own tightly wrapped over himself. Allowing only his thread to Gil to remain vibrant and awake. The others he's lulled to a restless sleep the second they started approaching the door. Even Nerdanel's – seemingly newer than the others – is dozing.
As for she and Gil, they view the exchange, but even the latter hasn't stepped in. He's a steady support, yes. An encouraging presence that bolsters him, but he's letting Harry have the chance to fight his own battle. To choose his own path forward.
The silence stretches out. Time ticks by in a steady march. They all keep gazing at him expectantly.
It seems there's no getting out of this, and really, it's better to do it all in one swoop. To hack off all the heads of the hydra at once and just be done with it. Better for Harry before he grows more attached. Before he's in so deep that he can't fly out on his own. Before he's left alone in this castle with only echoes.
"Yes, it was me," he finally admits but says nothing else.
Gil's grip tightens on his arm. His thumb rubs across the fabric of Harry's sleeve, and there's static in his touch as he shifts to stand nearer.
Nerdanel, Harry notes, drifts closer as well. At the very edge of his periphery so that he'll have to turn his head to see her properly as she takes up the other side behind his shoulder. That can't possibly be a coincidence. He hopes it isn't.
The castle vibrates beneath his bare feet in a hum of affection, and he knows the elves have heard or felt it on some level by the way that Finrod and Argon both peer down at the floor. Finarfin's eyes have narrowed ever-so-slightly. Celebrían has her fingers clasped in front of her and seems like she wants nothing more than to go to Harry, but Angrod has a hand on her arm. Fingolfin and his oldest son still look at Harry with an expression he doesn't dare name.
Then, Findis sighs. She rests her fan against her cheek with a tired expression.
"I haven't had nearly enough to drink for this," she decides.
It's a sentiment Harry readily shares.
"Dinner will be soon," he comments.
That earns him a few chuckles. Whether it's from nervous relief or genuine humor, that doesn't matter. It does serve to lighten the mood. Gil offers a winning grin now. All charm and sparkle as he offers them the way to the least offensive parlor. His guests don't murmur amongst themselves, that would be a little too rude by elven standards, nor do they hesitate too long. Only Fingolfin and Fingon remain behind. The former stands by the entrance to the sitting room, while the latter comes over to Harry directly. Nerdanel takes that as her cue to head for the kitchen. But not before a brush against Harry and squeezing his wrist as she goes.
Fingon stops in front of him, and he's quiet until the door to the parlor closes with a soft click. Afterwards, he exhales, and it's only then as he reaches out to grasp Harry's shoulder that he realizes just how long he was hold his breath.
"Come back, nephew."
Harry feels Fingon's aura as it shifts. As the connection between them stirs and starts to waken. As it fights the spell Harry has it under.
"Come back," Fingon urges. "Don't hide."
His hand is hot. Seeping through the layers of Harry's robe, tunic, and undershirt like he's standing too close to the fireplace. But there's also comfort in it. In the underlying rhythm and the way his fingers curl around Harry's shoulder. The tie, the path that leads him to Fingon wakes the same way a child rouses from sleep. Sitting up with a stretch overhead and a large yawn. Settling back into his soul like it's always been there.
His cupboard goes from barren to comfortable again as Fingon makes himself home, and there's a knock on the door that Harry knows is Fingolfin. He lets the older elf in with a single thought and next frees the connections to Argon, Nerdanel, and the others in the castle. He feels them rousing but comes back to the real world before evidence of their arrival fills in.
Harry blinks aware to find both father and son peering up at him. Fingon still grips his shoulder, but Fingolfin has a hand on his back as if to steady him. To keep him upright. They wear identical expressions, and Harry's struck by how much they look alike with their matching hair and eyes as well as being the same height save for perhaps a millimeter. With elfish lack of aging, they seem more like brothers. He knows of other elven families that are like this, and Harry's always found it odd how similar they can be to their children in a way that humans never quite seemed to duplicate.
Despite all those years of being told he was just like James Potter, Harry's seen enough photos – not to mention his shade and some memories later on – to know that he's never been so close to him in appearance as this. That resemblance was superficial at best; more so with the shape of his glasses and the messiness of his hair. Falling away when those changed.
But looking at these two? Change the way Fingon braids his hair. Switch their coronets and clothes as well as their swords. They could likely pass for each other to non-family members. Argon wouldn't be able to. He's too tall for one, and his eyes are a different hue. Turgon, Harry hasn't met to know for sure. Aredhel, Irimë, and Findis resemble each other rather closely aside from coloration. Finarfin's line is a little further away, but they all favor one another more.
He briefly wonders about Fëanor and his House. Harry himself is supposed to be just like Maglor, be his doppelganger. However, examining Fingolfin and his son right now, he's very startled to realize that a number of his own features are staring right back at him. The shape of the eyes, yes. The line of his nose and arch of brow. The color of his hair even.
How has he not noticed this before? How has he not realized?
He glances from one to the other and back, but it doesn't change the truth before him. If anything, that only makes it more real. Makes it that much more obvious.
"Nephew?" Fingolfin asks then.
Harry recognizes he's been silent for far too long. Gawking at them both like an idiot. He puts all thoughts of similarities, family familiarity, under lock and key in the dungeon of his mind. Next, he buries it under frost, sleet, ice, and snow.
Fingon and Fingolfin shiver at the same time. He thaws them with a discreet spell that still earns him a raised eyebrow, but they reluctantly permit him to step away. They're even more averse to rejoining the others of their House, but it's only with assurances that he's going to Nerdanel that they both do.
Harry gives himself only a moment to collect himself once he's around the corner and heading for the kitchen, but by that time, he's already considering the next things to be done. He absentmindedly directs their carriages – still in his courtyard – to the back side of the castle. Indilwen, he knows, has already led their horses away. Their belongings he sends directly to the new guest rooms he just finished earlier in the week. Harry's eternally glad that he decided to work on those as soon as Eönwë spoke with him. The camping trip from hell so long ago was one of many lessons. The greatest of which is over-preparedness. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right, early, and in triplicate.
Of course, he always has enough to feed an army, much less unexpected guests. An old habit he's kept across worlds when there were more Weasleys and Lupins than he knew what to do with. Harry has a number of meals stashed away for various occasions. More so in the last fortnight.
Still, that doesn't get to the more pressing concern of dinner. He does technically have a formal dinning room, but Harry's never eaten there despite all the years he's lived here. He's not felt the need, and Ainur honestly don't care. Nerdanel has stayed in the kitchen with them from the first night, and all the other elves were too spooked to want to explore much.
Eh…
Harry's saved from having to decide what to do in this unforeseen situation when Nerdanel takes the choice from him. He's now at his destination and coming over to join her by the ovens, but she gently steers him towards the dish cabinets instead. Harry just blinks at her in confusion.
"Well, set the table, dear," she instructs him. "I'm already working on the food for tonight."
He opens his mouth to argue but promptly closes it. Frankly, what's the point? Nerdanel undoubtedly has a better grasp on an appropriate meal than anything Harry would pick. He instead just gets to work. Of course, Harry could use magic to do this, but he admittedly needs the extra time to center himself. He has posh enough linens and china from when he's entertained the Ainur. Mostly because it amused Vairë and Estë while baffling Manwë. The set he selects is regal enough but the most mundane one he has. It's a backdrop of pure white with silver snowdrops, which move so minutely that one questions whether it's actually happening at all. At least until the food touches. Then, they bloom.
He's just finished up with the last forest green napkin when Nerdanel calls for him. She's setting up on the sideboard so that everybody can serve themselves, and she's put out a variety of dishes from his storage, representing both Arda and Earth. She winks at Harry when she sees him surveying the spread. Over the top is putting it lightly. More so when she has him bring in multiple bottles of wine from his cellar, basically one per person and two for Findis. Extra casks tucked away just in case. Some are gifts from the Ainur, others from the vineyards in his own kingdom, a few are even from the grapes he grows himself on the castle grounds.
He glances at her when the last of it's arranged, and he can see the full effect of her handiwork. It seems like there's enough here for half of the city. She gives him a sweet smile when Harry mentions that. It only grows a minute or so later when Gil enters with the House of Finwë trailing behind like little ducklings. Heads turning this way and that as they peek around. Fingon's nostrils flaring is the only visible sign of his surprise; a look that his father mirrors perfectly. Argon lets out a low whistle when he notices the fresco, and Finrod claps his hands together in excitement. Findis pulls both of them forward before they can be even more distracted as Finarfin carefully inspects the entire room. Celebrían hesitates as she walks by to join her uncle, while Angrod's already examining the napkins on the table, and yes, Harry maybe went a little overboard when he folded them.
Gil-galad faithfully returns to Harry's side. He leans up to kiss him on the cheek even as he takes his hand. Which is about the time that all of them are facing him. The next problem is one that hasn't even occurred to Harry until Nerdanel is already directing them. She's in her element, conducting the entire group like a schoolmistress, sending each person to the proper place with a single word. Sometimes even just a glance.
Harry knows this is his castle, his kitchen, but for once, he's glad not to have to deal with this. Dinner parties have always been an exercise in tedium to organize and one of the jobs that he genuinely loathed as headmaster. Socializing with his staff was a delight, but the set-up was painful and the execution even more so. Particularly if it involved the governors, Ministry, or anyone outside of the school itself. This has always been one task he happily delegated.
No one comments as Harry and Gil take the right corner of the table with Fingolfin and his sons across from them followed by Finrod. Nerdanel moves to stand at the opposite end, pulling Finarfin and Findis in next to her. Angrod is on Gil's other side as a buffer since Celebrían is next to her grandfather, not quite as far from Harry as possible but still out of his line of sight.
The head of the table is left completely empty out of habit more than anything, no place setting at all. Eönwë still hasn't returned, and Harry can sense him far beyond the boundaries of the wards. There aren't any other Ainu nearby, so he honestly hadn't thought to put anyone there. It does earn him some penetrating looks, but Harry lifts his chin and gazes back at them evenly.
There's a pause before they take their plates and help themselves. He sees a few sneaking test nibbles – Argon and Finrod chief amongst them – but nobody puts something back or refuses to try anything. The room is relatively hushed as they settle in, but Harry feels Gil's aura flowing around him in an amused current. Raindrops splashing with a sense of anticipation as he watches the others. Nerdanel's lake is tranquil as ever, but underneath the waters is a similar stream of expectancy.
"Compliments to the chef," Finarfin offers finally, and there's an odd lilt to his voice. Like he can't decide if he's surprised, impressed, or bemused. Some combination of the three maybe.
Nerdanel chuckles at that. She has the air of someone whose moment has finally come.
"Marcaunon has been a busy little bee lately," she replies.
That stops them short.
"You made this?" Fingon asks almost uncertainly.
Harry inclines his head in answer, and Argon gestures to the entire table and the sideboard behind him.
"All of this?"
It's in the form of a question, but it's said more like a demand.
"Who else is there?" Harry points out. "This is my kitchen."
"Indeed," Fingolfin responds. He takes a drink of his wine, but Harry can see his shoulders shaking as he laughs behind his glass.
Dinner is an interesting affair after that. His guests are lovely company. Hungry for more than food. Oh-so-curious. Especially once the wine really starts flowing and Harry quietly magics more from the cellars to an empty cabinet just in case. He answers some questions. Deflects others. Outright evades more. Gil aids and abets him with a knee against his the entire time.
Dessert comes after they've eaten more than Harry thought possible. More than anyone but Ron and Victoire ever could have. It's an amazing accomplishment. He just hopes they've saved room. Especially once he uncovers the cake and divvies up the pieces. They gaze at it strangely. Which, to be fair, no one aside from Nerdanel and Gil has ever tasted the key ingredient, and the color is certainly different than other treats in Valinor. So he can understand their hesitation. Nerdanel hides her grin behind her hand, nevertheless, while Gil snickers outright. That seems to spur them on.
The entire room is soundless save for the scrape of silverware, but Harry knows he has a hit by the shock that ripples out in a wave from each and every one of them. By the wide eyes. By the excited whispers around the table. By the notes of delight in each song that radiate through the room.
"Marry me," Finrod breathes with something like a moan.
There's a sudden hush at the table. It lasts for only a second before there's a chorus of laughter from all sides. Harry, used to even weirder marriage proposals at this point in his life, isn't even fazed.
"Will Amarië not be jealous?" Fingolfin questions, but he's nodding his head, fork still in hand.
Finrod just takes another bite with an expression of pure bliss. "She shall be angry if I don't," he mumbles around chocolate and raspberry.
No one complains about his lack of manners. Not even Findis or his brother.
"True," Angrod admits instead. "The pair of you can burn water." He's already finished his slice and is eyeing the main dessert like he wonders how much he'll be allowed. Or possibly he's concerned that someone may try to stab him if gets up for extra.
Harry takes pity on him and goes to fetch it. Doling out more to the enjoyment of all his guests. Though they seem saddened to see that finishes off the cake. There's another full one stored away, but they don't know that yet.
"This certainly explains your good mood," Argon decides as he nods his head across the table at Gil.
Celebrían reaches behind her uncle to pat his cheek. "You are looking very… full, dear. Perhaps 'tis all this fine dining."
Gil gives her a very unamused expression, but he accepts the contact. Which is the most he's truly permitted from her all day. A testament to his forgiveness. Or possibly to the amount of alcohol that was consumed during dinner. Findis alone has finished her third bottle and is half-way through her fourth, and Harry's for once glad for all those years of gifts he stashed away.
"I am quite sure Herurrívë will help him work through it, shall we say," Angrod wickedly chimes in right then.
Finrod nearly snorts his cake through his nose. Fingon chokes, while Fingolfin hurriedly pats him on the back, even as he smiles. Findis rolls her eyes as she sips from her glass, and Finarfin hides his smirk by turning his head. Nerdanel covers her mouth with her hand. Harry gives him a thoroughly apathetic look; he's heard worse from his own students. Much less catcalls and all manner of people who threw their unmentionables at him. This is downright tame in comparison. He isn't ashamed of anything he and Gil do, but he sees Gil's cheeks reddening out of the corner of his eye.
"I don't get it," Argon says after an awkward pause.
He's gazing at them all in confusion, fork in his hand but end resting on the table. Eyes flickering from one relative to the next as if asking for an explanation. They all stare right back at him. There are a few chortles before they can stop themselves, but those are quickly aborted.
"There, there, nephew," Findis tells him a moment later and reaches out to rub his shoulder consolingly.
Across from them, Angrod sets his napkin aside. He steeples his fingers in front of him on the table.
"You see, Arakáno," he begins very solemnly. "When two elves-"
"You can explain it to him later," Harry cuts him off. His voice is firmer than usual, but it isn't enough to stop the snickers.
Next to him, the tips of Gil's ears are Weasley-red, and Harry doesn't need to fully look at him to know that his face is blazing. He can feel Gil shifting in the seat next to him, and it's with more than a twinge of discomfort. His skin is flushed but not from the wine as he places a hand on top of Harry's own.
Finrod offers them a beatific smile. "I am certain we could clarify for you as well, Herurrívë, Gil-galad." His eyes are practically sparkling. "Perhaps some tips?"
"'Tis only right to ensure that you have an appropriate understanding, would you not agree?" Angrod questions. It's in jest, but there's a slight wicked edge to his tone.
Harry stares back at him expressionlessly. Even as frost and snow curl around Gil to gently soothe the heat spreading from his face into his neck. There are dark clouds on Gil's horizon and flash of lightning, but he lifts his chin despite everything. Harry, in turn, glances from Finrod's oh-so-innocent expression to Argon's honest puzzlement to Angrod's light mockery to Findis' not-all-hidden amusement. Celebrían can't truly be seen from this position, and that's probably for the best, but he can glimpse the upwards curl of even Finarfin's mouth. Fingon and Fingolfin share a quick look. A wordless exchange that conveys everything and nothing in mere seconds. But before either can speak up or Harry can say something he probably won't regret, Nerdanel sets down her glass just loud enough to draw everyone's attention.
"That is so kind of you, nephew," she all but coos at Angrod with a lovely curl of her mouth. "Eldalótë is truly blessed to have you as a husband. All those years of practicing in closets and under tables have surely made for a very happy marriage."
There's a snort from Gil's other side, even as he squeezes Harry's hand. That's followed by more tittering across the table.
Nerdanel isn't finished yet, however.
"And you, Findarato," she says next. Sweet as honey. "Such a nice boy. So helpful to your Amarië that time you both lost your clothes and—"
"Now, now," Finarfin cuts in. "This was all in good cheer. Was it not, my sons?"
He says this amicably, smile gentle, nose even crinkling as he turns to his children. He's the light of the sun on a summer day without a single cloud in the sky. The perfect picture of an elven king with his crown, golden hair, and sea glass eyes. But there's something in the way he tilts his head just so that sobers them completely.
"Yes, atto," Finrod and Angrod chorus together like naughty schoolboys.
Finafin's smile widens even as Fingolfin ducks his head to hide his obvious humor, while Argon simply shakes his head and digs into his second piece of cake. Fingon surveys the table like a battlefield, but Celebrían still isn't visible from this angle. Findis pours another round for everyone. Nerdanel merely inclines her head.
Finarfin turns back to Harry and Gil then.
"This is something of a family tradition to give a newly betrothed couple a… let us say merry welcome," he says with a particular lilt.
There's another snort, and it's clear that Celebrían is the culprit.
"When Elrond and I announced our intentions," she inserts, "Ada gave us a happy toast while naneth drank enough for three and challenged him to a contest of insults. Tyelpë was the judge."
Gil's aura shifts at the memory. Storm clouds lighter in color and thunder fading to normal levels.
"I do recall that very clearly," he allows. "They were both so drunk at the end that they passed out before finishing."
The entire table – even Finrod and Angrod – laugh at that statement.
"Who won?" Fingolfin inquires. There's a twinkle in his eyes even as he asks.
"It was declared a draw," Gil informs them.
More mirth then. More wine, too. Congratulations. Stories. Memories. Angrod offers his own embarrassing anecdotes in apology, and Finrod shares several, too. Finarfin and Fingolfin chime in with tales of their own betrothals and early marriages, and Harry does laugh at learning that Finarfin was so intimidated by his father-in-law that he didn't call Olwë by name until after his eldest son was born. Nerdanel adds in her own experiences with a fine, fiery, frustrating elf who was her father's apprentice. She wears a distant expression as her chin rests on her hand, but her lake is tranquil. Pensive as she gazes at something with senses beyond sight.
Talk drifts then. To Celebrían's mother and her husband. Finarfin has never met the latter, but both his sons have and they're more than willing to share.
It's around that time that Harry nudges Gil with the barest breath of frost. His love looks at him, and Harry's eyes flicks towards where the front gate would be. Gil blinks, but Harry perfectly understands the question he's received back.
Melpomaen is the answer. Harry knew the instant his assistant set foot on the mountain path; he always does, but his attention has been elsewhere. Dinner. His family. He still noticed Melpomaen slowly heading this way. Even made note of Inglor returning to the city not so long ago, but Harry's kept his shields tight and focused on the here and now. He wants to be able to trust people. Wants his faith not to be misplaced. Part of that isn't watching over their shoulders all the time. Believing that they know what to do and will do it. Inglor will see to the newcomers in the city itself. Or worst case, he'll bring them to the castle, and Harry will fortunately have enough space to put them up. Yes, the House of Finwë will be present, but at this point, it really doesn't matter.
Gil's eyes widen. "Here?" he whispers aloud but only softly enough for Harry to hear. "Now?"
Harry nods.
Gil closes his eyes and inhales slowly; he knows without asking that Harry's going to head him off before this becomes an absolute broom-wreck. Fortunately, everyone else at the table is buzzed sufficiently that a subtle use of magic gets him out of his seat and the room before they notice he's gone. If he makes this fast enough, they likely won't question things. Too much.
It isn't that far, but with apparition, it's mere seconds. If Melpomaen is shocked to see Harry answering the door before he can even fully approach, he hides it well. His assistant seems thinner than when Harry last saw him. Aura with clouds shading the sun of his spring dawn, but he follows Harry inside and into a parlor without a word. It's not the same one Inglor sat in not so long ago, so there are no peacocks on the wall to glare at his visitor. Instead, there's nothing but sleepy vines and willows that doze in the moonlight. Melpomaen carefully doesn't look at anything but the furniture and floor, which is probably for the best.
He does, however, offer a bow. One that takes him down precisely forty-five degrees. It's rather impressive feat, truth be told, but Harry still fights not to roll his eyes at the audacity of his aide choosing now – of all possible chances – to finally show his face. Harry would be truly annoyed if he weren't so pressed for time, for the need to return to his family.
"What are you doing here?" he questions, and it somehow doesn't come out as a demand.
No, Harry sounds surprisingly reasonable given the circumstances. It's his headmaster voice. Gentle authority. A tone that is reasonable, kind, but also obeyed. Works like magic. Even here.
Melpomaen bows even lower. Now at sixty degrees with a hand over his heart. Focus fixed on the plush carpet.
"I have come to beg your pardon, my king."
It's said quietly but with enough conviction that Harry starts to wonder which Valar he's angered lately. Maybe Námo – he has been sending more strays. Oromë does have an interesting sense of humor after all. Tulkas would've just challenged him to a friendly drinking contest or wrestling match and been done with it. Manwë though… He's the one to believe in forgiveness and second chances.
Harry doesn't sigh. Or roll his eyes. Or beat his head on the wall.
"I appreciate your words," he accedes but adds, "now, isn't the time for them."
He watches as Melpomaen blinks but stays perfectly in position. There's a flicker of uncertainty. A burst of cold air across the expanse of a wakening flowers.
"Sire?"
Harry reaches out to straighten him from his bow. Melpomaen all but gawks at him afterwards. More so when Harry shakes his head.
"You know better than that, but… Right now, I have guests. We can address this tomorrow," he states. It's polite but firm.
"Tomorrow?" Melpomaen repeats almost inanely. Like he can't quite believe what he's hearing.
"Yes, tomorrow," Harry agrees but wags a single finger. "Not too early. Sometime in the afternoon." He pats the elf on the arm in a consoling gesture.
Melpomaen swallows once before nodding. "Yes, si-- Marcaunon."
His hands are tucked into his robes, but the tension in his shoulders relaxes even as Harry leads him out of the parlor and next to a shortcut that takes them just beyond the greater kitchen. He can see Melpomaen glancing all about. As if confused how they suddenly ended up in this section. Harry merely motions him onward as they continue down the hallway, around a corner, through another passage, and now, they're at the back exit. It's the quieter way. The least used door that almost no one knows of. Leading to the greenhouses and by the orchards. Then to a smaller gate in a higher section of the mountain path. The route is fairly straightforward, and Harry knows the castle will guide him along. Indilwen also waits by the back door, having roused at his silent call. Melpomaen nearly startles when he sees her blue eyes staring directly at him. She whickers in greeting and flicks her tail to get the elf going when he keeps standing there.
Melpomaen moves.
Harry wishes them a good night and watches both disappear, giving another few seconds. Then, he apparates back to the entrance hall already knowing it's empty. That's not the real destination though. No, the final guests of the night have finally made their appearance while he was distracted with Melpomaen, and it's only right that he welcomes them. So much for returning to the kitchen with no one the wiser; they've certainly noticed his absence by now, but too late for that, he supposes.
The courtyard outside is brightly lit despite the late hour, and his elven eyes are keen enough to make out details he never would've imagined as a mere human. The seven males – neri – are clearly Ñoldor. All of them are dressed plainly; most of the elves who arrive here are. Shades black and dark gray are the most prominent. There's something very familiar about them as Harry observes the group. In their auras and their appearance. Only one does he recognize immediately, the sole person among them with argent hair. Harry doesn't know his name, but he's seen Oromë wear that face hundreds if not thousands of times. Nevertheless, he doesn't have to see those deep eyes or hear his voice to know that this isn't his friend. That this will be a stranger staring back at him.
Three more of the newcomers have thick, dark tresses that are certainly black in daylight, and a pair of them are so close in appearance that Harry almost mistakes them for twins. Their coloration is identical. Their height as well. Even their clothes are nearly so, but there are very subtle differences in the timbre of their voices, the curve of a chin and the pout of a mouth. The most notable dissimilarity, however, is the fact that one – the closest to where Harry stands – now holds Nerdanel tightly in his arms. Her hands are on his face, foreheads touching, and they look at nothing but each other.
A true set of twins stands further back, and Harry knows without knowing that they were once identical but are no longer so. Their hair is the most obvious difference. One is a burnished cooper that rivals Nerdanel. While the other's has darkened, deepened.
Near to them is another redhead; his mane is richer and more vibrant than any Harry's ever seen. He's tall. Nearly as much as Argon. Bending over Fingon, who has both arms wrapping around his waist, leaning into the hand that cups his cheek. Harry has the distinct impression that he's missed a heated kiss. Possibly two.
Everyone is looking away when he arrives, focused on Fingon instead. Even Gil-galad who stands beside Finarfin. They are nearer to the middle of the courtyard, speaking with Inglor and two of the newcomers. Gil's song reaches out to greet him, but no one else pays Harry the least bit of attention as he pauses in the entranceway. Which suits him just fine as he surveys the courtyard like a general inspecting the battlefield.
Then, fate changes. The tides shift. The faint spring breeze blows a different direction as Harry walks forward.
The elf with Fingon glances his way.
His eyes immediately widen. Irises turn to thin, silvery-gray rings. There's a flare of absolute astonished shock. Of lava-hot surprise that morphs into the deathly lull prior to the eruption. Before the subsequent tsunami sweeps through.
All those gathered fall silent. Blinking as if unsure why. Even the leaves still and the birds in the trees tremble as they feel it.
Then…
"Káno?"
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Harry – Hm… I guess those weren't dreams after all.
Formenos – Nods sagely. I tried telling you.
Harry – Even the ones about Fëanor and his sons were accurate.
Formenos – You think?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Appearing very overwhelmed at the prospect of his guests.
Also!Harry – Wearing an expression like a man going to his execution. Or a Fëanorion when confronted with a social responsibility.
Nerdanel – I know this look well.
Definitely!Nerdanel – Don't worry, grandson. Nana has this!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finarfin – Celebrían, my granddaughter, is there something you want to tell us?
Celebrían – Shakes her head. No, I have no idea what that was.
Finrod – Come now, niece. Be honest.
Angrod – Surely, you must know something.
Celebrían – Nothing. Thinking very hard. I suppose I can ask Laerien and Melpomaen.
The Other Three – Wait a minute…
Several moments and a heck of an explanation later…
Finrod – Making an exceptionally pained noise with his head in his hands.
Finarfin – Rethinking every life choice that has led him here. Granddaughter… Sighs heavily.
Angrod – Rubbing his forehead. Did it not occur to you that a Fëanorion maybe, possibly, just the tiniest bit would take your spies poorly?
Celebrían – …No? You also had Inglor here.
Finarfin – Someone who worked for his father and my nephew knew we sent.
Celebrían – Awkward pause. …This is bad.
The Other Three – Nod in complete and total agreement.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Once Upon A Time…
Celebrimbor – Contestants, ready round forty-seven.
Galadriel and Elrond – Facing each other with empty wine bottles lined in front.
Galadriel – Looks at her opponent squarely over her glass. Wonders why there are two of him.
Elrond – Blinking excessively while swaying in his seat.
Celebrimbor – Ladies first this time.
Galadriel – You… You are such a Fëanorion!
Elrond – Gasps. Thank you! That really means a lot. Sniffle.
Gil-galad – Cackling in the background.
Celebrían – Shakes her head in disbelief. That's not an insult.
Celeborn – Daintily sipping his drink and watching their shenanigans.
Erestor – Pretending he doesn't know any of them, while taking bets on the sly.
Celebrimbor – Sniffs haughtily. You lose points for that one, Artanis.
Several Rounds Later…
Elrond – Takes a drink. Spills more.
Galadriel – Takes a drink. Spills slightly less.
Both of Them – Wobbling. Wobbling. Then… Thunk. Snore.
Celebrían – Well, that's it, I guess. Who won?
Celebrimbor – The victor, milady. Points to the wine.
Notes:
Atto – father/dad
Neri – male elves
AN: The gang's all here! This is the longest chapter yet and the next will definitely be shorter.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 20: Chapter 20
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Káno isn't like anyone he's ever met.
But then, Harry must admit that he technically hasn't ever met Káno. Not in person. Only by a psychic harp. And yes, even by magical standards that's rather over the top. He isn't even sure Luna would've come up with that one on her own. Ron would be losing his mind at just the idea of Harry speaking with someone like this – echoes of T. M. Riddle all over again.
Káno certainly isn't Tom. Despite what he's accidentally revealed. Even the things, he's confessed outright. Káno is more than Tom ever dreamed of being. Yes, he grew up with wealth and privileges that Tom could only imagine. In a family who adored and sheltered him. But he's remorseful, repentant for every terrible act – true or fanciful. Genuinely kind. Gentle waves against Harry's soul. A soothing symphony that welcomes him in.
Harry finds that he talks with Káno for hours daily. More than he does anyone else in Mandos. It's so easy to fall into that routine. As eager for company as Harry himself, and he does wonder if perhaps that's why they get along so well. The need for companionship. The desire for a connection with someone – anyone – else. He isn't like the Ainur. He isn't human either for all that he can be so similar.
The shape of his thoughts is both foreign and familiar. Paths that greet Harry like an old friend and lead him around the cliffs and down to the sandy beach. The call of gulls in recognition as he shades his eyes against the brightness with cloudless blue sky overhead. Harry follows the ballad to Káno favorite spot, a sheltered wide alcove between the rocks. His voice is strongest here. Aura radiant and dazzling as the sun's reflection on the water. He pulls at Harry as surely as the tides do, beckons him closer, urges him to stay and listen. Káno's a performer at heart, Harry knows. Flowing from one tune to the next. Delighted to have an interested audience again. He's even more keen to teach. To have a willing student. One with all the time in the world to learn.
The harp is naturally the easiest, but Káno's expertise in music is deep as the ocean itself. More seeps in the longer they spend together. Harry's still exasperated about the flute that's appeared in his room – as if by magic. It has a residual echo of Nienna, however. So he isn't fooled for a single second. He knows that she's determined to meddle. He wouldn't be surprised at all for more instruments to find themselves into his belongings. Somehow. Someway.
Sigh.
Harry thinks if – when – they meet in person, he'll give Káno a piano. That'll be the ideal reward for all of this. The perfect gift and challenge. He knows they don't exist here, and it'll be a hilarious delight to watch someone teach themselves to play. Harry does have some very distant memories from primary school, ones he's had to dig very deep indeed to draw forth, but maybe if he ever finds somewhere private to start practicing… Well, it's an idea for later.
The harp remains his favorite though. Something draws Harry to it. Not just as means to communicate with Káno but as an ends in and of itself. Excitement in a new skill. Enjoyment in an old joy he's rediscovered. Satisfaction in a blossoming friendship.
Today is a bit of a different story. He has a different teacher, a different talent to master. With mixed results.
Harry isn't hiding. He isn't. Yes, it's taken him a half-hour – or whatever passes for that in Mandos – to get rid of the antlers, but they're gone currently. He's fully in his normal form. Námo did get a good chuckle at his expense as did Vairë, and now, he's back in his room with the one person who conveniently can't see him.
Pure happenstance.
Avian and aerial shapes are just so much easier. He supposes that's a holdover from his original animagus form. It's always been so simple to slide between raven and crow. A little shift of size, a mere tweaking of shape. Most people can't even tell the difference between them anyway. Of course, Harry gained his form with a bit of accidental magic shortly after the second Killing Curse but before he left Britain. His aura then was unsettled; it always is after Avada Kedavra in particular, and his power seems to jump in strength after each death and the following transition.
Harry still isn't entirely sure what form he took that first time. Only knows it was corvid. He was dodging some very persistent suitors in a part of Diagon that blocked Apparition in and out; he wasn't nearly so skilled back then. Didn't know how to slip through wards without shattering them. Frustration mounting, he ducked around one corner, then another, and suddenly found himself aloft. Instinct led him to a nearby roof across the street before anyone could ever figure out what he'd done.
Harry left for New Zealand two days later. Hermione assumed he learned to change on his world-tour, and he never dissuaded her of that notion. He also never showed her that he could switch either. Only ever shifted into a raven in front of anyone else until he came here. He never took more forms than those. Never bothered to try. Or more like, never had the time. There was always something else to do. Some other pressing matter. Something to divert his attention.
Now, he has plenty of opportunity. And dozens of eager teachers. All of them natural shapeshifters ready and willing to aid him. More than happy to guide him into new forms. Overjoyed with each one he gains.
He supposes that he could've had more then as he has now. Allegedly multiples aren't possible for an animagus, but Harry already had two on Earth. What difference would a few more have made? And magicals are admittedly lazy, often don't want to put in the effort. Harry's found that there's nothing he's been unable to do if he truly tries or wants it badly enough.
It's a moot point now. Nothing more than an academic exercise to even contemplate, so Harry puts the matter to rest.
Káno has plenty of other things to occupy his time with after all. Music isn't the only thing he's been teaching Harry. It's merely the tip of the wand. Harry has often – if silently – wondered if half the reason Nienna introduced him was for Harry to have elvish life lessons since Káno is so determined to instill those. The variety of things a real elf should and would know. And there are so many of them. Things learned over centuries that Harry's now trying his best to catch up on.
His current project is etiquette, and Harry's already had enough of that for one lifetime thanks to Andromeda. She made it part of his mastery training so that he never embarrassed himself with all those functions he endured as the Man-Who-Conquered and then later as the headmaster. She really was a godsend that woman.
But elven manners… That's a different cauldron altogether. They're both familiar and so widely different as to be laughable. The purposes, the subtleties behind each one is enough to make his head spin. He cringes just thinking about the need to ever know how to greet a king or the proper way to sit through a state dinner. Harry isn't sure when he'll use that knowledge, but with his luck, it will be soon, often, and always.
Káno's drilled him on a wide variety of subjects from multiple lineages to the apprenticeship system to appropriate accounting practices for an estate. Which again, Harry questions the need for since he isn't a real elf. Still, it's tough to discern what is and isn't important. There's fortunately overlap from his prior job skills. In point of fact, some of his knowledge is actually superior.
Yes, he does know how to balance a budget. Better than Káno apparently. And his math and science abilities in general are considerably higher. Though to be fair, humans advanced enough for space travel, and Harry did a great deal of studying and even more research in those last decades. Not to mention the centuries before. He didn't just push papers behind a desk at Hogwarts the entire time. There were other things mixed in, too. Art theory equally consists of recognizing the terms that the Eldar prefer as Harry has long learned the concepts. Including several the Eldar seemingly haven't got to yet. Same for architecture and engineering.
Truly, Káno is a font of information, and the sheer complexity of his knowledge is impressive. Harry does wonder what sort of people taught him. Not to mention where exactly he learned all of this. And what he did for a living before becoming a hermit on a beach who has now turned into something of a would-be governess. Harry's own education on Earth was eccentric to say the least. Fueled in large parts by a combination of death-defying necessity, intrigue, and a population convinced that he knew or could find the answer to any and all problems.
Still…
Harry's musings on that are interrupted by Kano's voice as it flows around him. A stream of welcome and warmth as light as the breeze that floats his hair.
"You're back early. I thought you would still be with the others."
It's phrased as a statement, but there's a question in the undercurrents.
"We're finished now," Harry responds easily enough and completely guilt-free.
Káno hums at that. "Indeed. It seems you wrapped up sooner than expected. They usually keep you longer for tea," he comments, and he's a wind that brushes stray locks from Harry's face. "Has something happened?"
"Not really," Harry deflects with his own hum. He lowers himself to the sand and tucks his feet beneath him. "Perhaps I'm that good of a student."
"Always," Káno agrees happily. "You're my best student. I say that not just because you are the only one either," he adds with a little chuckle.
Harry finds himself preening just a bit at the attention and the compliment. It isn't one he ever received in Hogwarts. Old habits were hard to break then. Too much time spent with the Dursleys. Too numerous threats and enemies. Too many distractions and dangers. He truly only grew to love learning after the War. When he explored the world and glimpsed what was beyond the walls of the school and the prison of his childhood. When he finally knew he could have a life. That he could live and not just survive. He amazed even himself then, but not until Andromeda that anyone ever praised him for his own academic accomplishments. That anyone ever genuinely cared besides Hermione's lectures on exams.
Káno does though. Frequently. It won't ever get old no matter how much it happens.
"Since you finished early, would you like to practice with me?" the elf inquires then, and there's a knowing quality to the notes that now soothe over Harry's shoulder. "There are several songs I've thought of that you will enjoy."
Harry pauses as an idea occurs to him. Káno doesn't realize what he's been doing in his spare time while the elf sleeps. What he's been piecing together. Káno only meant to use it as an example really. As a way to work on his breath control as well as his sense of timing and verse. Harry also knows that it's an original. Something that the elf has been toiling away at for as long as he's wandered the shore, and it's likely that no one else has ever heard outside of them and Nienna.
"Actually," Harry begins and there's a smile that Káno will detect in his voice. "There's something I've been meaning to show you, if you're willing?"
He feels the curiosity like a dolphin surfacing in front of him. It's silly, Harry knows, such a small thing, but he wants to prove that he's been listening. That he truly is learning. That he deserves the praise Káno gives.
The poem is long. Many elvish ones are. The full recitation takes hours. It isn't like Harry doesn't have the time, and Káno certainly does. He carefully listens to the entire thing. Not interrupting once. Harry knows that he's sincerely paying attention by the intense interest of the pelicans and the gentle lapping of the tide on the shore. Rhythmic and mesmerized as Harry finishes.
"That was… Hinya…" Káno breathes like a sigh of sea mist. "You remembered the entire thing. All of it. How do you know? I've never even…" He trails off like he's trying to fathom how this occurred.
"No," Harry admits, "but you've given me all the pieces." His hands are folded in his lap, fingers tracing the embroidered edge of his pants.
"And you put them all together in order on your own." Káno gives a laugh of delight.
"It wasn't exactly difficult," Harry demurs. Thankful that the elf can't see the blush that already threatens to redden his ears.
His memory is sharp and clear with Occlumency. Growing more so even as he aged on Earth. Transitioning to elf has done little to change that. Not perfect. Not even the Ainur can claim that. Better than any humans' certainly. He can still forget things or misremember. Especially when distracted or emotional. But if pressed, he can search through his palace library to find almost anything if he genuinely desires it. Though admittedly, some memories, he keeps purposefully hidden. Tucked away in the backroom. Others are locked away deep in the cupboard. Never to be viewed.
It was some effort to take all the parts Káno gave him and rearrange those until they came into the proper order. To wait patiently enough for the elf to dole out each missing section for the appropriate slot until he had everything. A little tedious but worth it. Doubly so for the way Káno settles against him almost like arms around his back and a chin on his shoulder.
"So what's your final score, professor?" Harry inquires after a few heartbeats. "I expect honest grading."
Káno laughs again. "The recitation was ten for ten," he offers formally, but his aura gives him away. "Memorization was fifteen out of ten since I never actually taught or gave you this assignment."
Harry snorts at that one but lets it go. Káno is strangely both a strict and lax grader. Forever a person of contradictions. Striving for perfection but never raising his voice or annoyed at any mistake. There's only one topic that ever truly makes him mad, and it's anger turned inwards. A dagger at his own heart and never to another's. Much less to Harry.
Now though, Harry doesn't sense fury. No, there's something else stirring beneath the surface. Something else that makes a shadow pass in front of the sun where there were no clouds before. And there's a pause as Káno considers; it lingers longer that it should. Longer than usual.
"I'm sensing there's more," Harry says.
It's not teasing as he normally would. Instead, his tone is mild as a loose feather, and Káno is unexpectedly somber. Pensive. Preoccupied.
"Your accent…" the elf trails off.
Harry tilts his head and questions, "My accent?"
"Yes, it's a very particular one," Káno tells him, and it's soft as snowfall. Delicate and sure to break with the slightest pressure. Almost as if he fears the words. "It has a distinct… implication."
"Go on," Harry urges when he doesn't say anything else.
His aura is distant. For all that Harry is surrounded by it, he feels like he's staring out at the endless horizon with no one in sight. With only an empty coastline around him. Suddenly abandoned by all life.
"It's just… I do not… I really should not have brought it up," Káno hedges. "Only…"
"Only what?" Harry prompts again. One hand falls to rest against the sand next to his knee.
Harry doesn't point out that Káno himself sounds like this sometimes. When he slips. When he's excited or exhausted. When he forgets that it matters.
"Only what?" Harry asks again when he isn't given an answer. "Have I done something? Said something?"
"No, never anything you've said or done," Káno denies immediately. Before he can stop himself.
He falters then. Pauses. Takes a deep breath. Exhales.
"The way you speak, hinya," he admits, and it's more like a confession. "How you sound… It marks you as a kinslayer."
Harry blinks. Once. Twice. Not that the elf can see it.
Since... really?
He knows accents exist in this world. He's even noticed the different patterns of diction amongst the Ainur. They're more formal in their speech than Harry's used to from Earth, but he supposes it's also the nature of the language. Eönwë is naturally the most proper of all followed by Námo and his wife. Oromë, Tulkas, and Nessa are the least. The others are a mix.
Nienna though has an odd cadence. One Harry has only heard in himself, Káno, and a handmaiden of Vairë. None of the other Ainur are quite like this, and admittedly, Nienna's version is fainter than the others. Harder to discern.
As for Harry, he obviously isn't doing it intentionally; he was gifted this language. He's noticed the accent, but he didn't question it too much since others sound similar. Since Nienna sounds like this. Now though… Now, he doesn't quite know what to think. Why he would be made to seem this way. Surely, it isn't accidental.
"I do?" Harry questions at last. After the quiet has stretched out and now lays between them like a shadow. Like a grave.
How is he to know otherwise? Truly? It's not like he's met many kinslayers. He has suspicions about Káno. Things he's said. Things he divulges accidentally. But Harry isn't here to judge him for any sins. Whether real or assumed or simply dreamed.
"Fëanor and his sons," Káno continues. It's halting. Slow. Like drips of blood. "Nienna has… spoken to you of them, yes?"
It's phrased as a question, but there's an odd cadence. A somber undertone. Intense and aching. Like a solemn church bell at a funeral.
"She has," Harry acknowledges after a few seconds. "She told me of their line. Of Formenos and the exile. Of their Oath--"
"Then, you know that is a terrible thing." Dark clouds blot out the sun even as he speaks. "A vile, wretched curse. A blight on the entire House, and they are little better. If anything, they're worse." The last is practically spat, and lightning flashes. "None of them are ever to be trusted. They are murderers and betrayers."
"What's this--" Harry starts to question.
"Never go looking for any of them!"
It's all but a command. A rumble of thunder resounds with Kano's voice. It's insistent, resonating louder instead of fading away, but Harry glimpses the reality under surface of the now churning waters. He can taste the fear on his tongue. Feel it beating like a small drum in his chest. There's always an undercurrent of melancholy to Káno. Deep notes of sorrow and grief. Of regret. They've lessened the more time Harry's known him. Decreased in volume and frequency. But now, they tremble the dunes beneath him. Pool with something all too much like fright until his world dims and the only light is from Harry himself.
"I know they lurk in Mandos, locked away, but you must never look for them," Káno continues, oblivious to the truth Harry perceives so easily. "Leave them be. Let them rot. You mustn't--" Kano cuts himself off abruptly.
There's a harsh sigh like a slap of water on the rocks. It's still dark, and even Harry's perfect vision sees little more than the hand he reaches out in front of him. He sends out his magic next. A gentle winter kiss. Motes of light floating out like flurries on the wind. The blackness is gradually driven back to reveal the familiar shoreline, but it's wrecked and ravaged. Like the aftermath of tsunami.
And yet, Harry remains completely and utterly untouched. Not a hair out of place. Not a single droplet even landed on him.
"Káno?" he calls out.
An exhale. A gust of harsh wind across the sands, but it dies before it can even stir Harry's robe.
"I never want that for you," the elf murmurs, but it's tired. Defeated. "I don't want anyone to ever mistake you for one of u- for one of them."
It comes from everywhere but nowhere. From each side all at once.
"This is a terrible burden to bear, and you don't deserve that. You never deserve those sins. Please, hinya. Please do this for me."
Káno's almost begging now, and Harry doesn't know what to think. How to feel about this. He barely breathes as he listens.
"When it's just us, you can speak however you want."
Káno's closer now. As if he stands in front of Harry, and he even feels phantom fingers on his cheek. Delicate as seafoam.
"Even with Nienna or her siblings. With any of the other Ainur, for they know who you are, but one day, you will leave Mandos. One day, you'll want to see Aman, and it will be better if you can blend in."
He sighs then. Long and deep as the depths. Aching and exhausted and broken. But he leans into Harry's touch when he reaches out with frost-tinged notes.
"I know I ask much of you. Too much when I ask you not to come to Endor."
"You're in Endor," Harry points out for not the first or even the hundredth time.
"It isn't safe," Káno counters, but it's still so weary, "and this is not your responsibility to fix. The most important things are for you to be safe and happy. Both of those together. Choose your own path because it feels right. Not because other people force you into it or because you feel that you must right the wrongs done by others."
A stray wave hits the shore then. Higher than usual. Striking the rocks close to where Harry sits. But still, not a single drop of water touches him. Instead, running back down like salty rivulets. Even with Káno's aura curling around him so tightly, his voice is so faint at the end that Harry barely hears it.
"Not even mine."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"Káno?"
It's said like a whisper. Like a wish. A prayer.
The voice is familiar. Achingly so. Echoing in Harry's memories. Ringing in his ears long after the actual sound has fallen away.
A hush then. The entire courtyard is still. Silent. The newcomers all gape at him. Seven pairs of eyes that are both known to him and strangers. Some silver. Others black. Even the blue-gray of Finwë. Harry feels the weight of those eyes. Of everyone else looking his way. Of how alone he feels surrounded by elves who state at him and say nothing. Of holding his breath until Gil reaches for him with raindrops on the snow.
Another song brushes against him then. And Harry is suddenly on the rim of an ancient volcano. One with a crater full of seawater, but there are cracks everywhere along the rim, and the ledge shifts unstably beneath him. Deep underground, he feels more than sees magma churning. Roiling and bubbling. Harry peers over the edge at the slowly boiling water before extricating himself with a whirl of mental apparition.
The redheaded elf jerks back, but if it's from shock or dismay, Harry isn't sure. He'll never know either.
"No," Fingon interjects with arms still wrapped around his counterpart. "No, Maitimo. This is our nephew."
He reaches up with trembling fingers, and the taller elf… Maitimo – Maedhros – allows himself to be turned away. His face is blank, unreadable. Aura stagnant, stilted and uncertain. Disoriented. He sways on the cobblestones like his balance has betrayed him. World tilting on its axis until Fingon stabilizes him. Steadies him. Shifts him back. He tugs Maedhros down until their foreheads touch and they see only each other.
A pause. Short. Barely more than one breath to the next.
Nerdanel comes forward. Bringing with her another elf. Steps slow and leading. Each in time with Harry's heartbeat.
This new elf looks at nothing and no one but Harry. His eyes are the same argent of Fingon. Of Fingolfin. Metallic and pure. Burning bright in the fairy lights of the courtyard. But where theirs have a particular shine, a glow. His seem to smolder as if lit with an inner blaze. Dancing and flickering like flames. Molten and metallic. He's nearly the same height as them. Shorter than Harry by perhaps an inch or two. But his hair is every bit as dark and deep in color. Longer than Harry's own but only just – especially now. Reaching past the bottom of his shoulder blades
He wears a simple tunic, pants, and boots all in black along with a silver ring. Nothing else. No crown. Nor bracelet. Nor anything else. Not even a braid. Only the ring on his right index finger. Harry is startled to realize that the pattern matches the one Nerdanel has. She's grasping that hand in hers, fingers threaded together like she holds the most precious thing in the world. Her gaze is on Harry though, but her mouth gently curves even as she leads her elf closer. He does so quietly. Almost docilely. Looking at Harry without blinking once.
"Husband," she says as they step into range, quality soft and strange, "I have a gift for you."
She brings the elf directly to him, and she frees her hand only to stroke his hair from his face as the breeze tries to tug it forward. Her touch is light, tender, but the elf doesn't glance away from Harry at all. If anything, that only seems to please Nerdanel. Her mouth curls upwards even more.
"This is Marcaunon," she at last introduces. "Our grandchild… Makalaurë's son."
Her husband sucks in an immediate harsh breath. The subsequent sound he makes is like a man dying. He flares white hot. Fire surging until nothing else can be seen or felt. It burns and blazes and roars… But then, it abruptly winks out as he sways and his knees buckle beneath him.
Harry barely catches him before he hits the ground.
One touch is all it takes; Harry knows this elf. Even without confirming his name, he knows who this must be. Has felt his forge-fire in desperate moments. He's never seen what's hidden underneath, however.
Now, he does.
There's grief. A gaping abyss. Despair so deep it goes all the way down through the very core of his soul. A shadowy pit that Harry can't even fully see in the haze and smoke, through the knee-deep ash that coats everything until Harry can't even fathom the original shapes of his surroundings. And he knows then that the fire above is fueled by torment. By longing. Regret. Sorrow. Anguish. Misery.
Mourning.
For a son. For each and every one of his sons. Most of all for the one missing. For a son he hasn't even glimpsed in two ages. But now, standing in front of him is a miracle. Is-
Harry snaps back to himself to find Fëanor weeping in his arms. He cries openly. Uncaring who sees or knows. Beyond such worldly concerns. He simply allows the tears to streak across his face. To rain down on the stranger who holds him up from the courtyard flagstones. His hands clutch at Harry's tunic like he'll disappear at any second. Like he'll turn into wisps of smoke if Fëanor doesn't hold on for dear life.
The House of Finwë stares as one would at a dragon attack or a natural disaster. Equal parts horrified and mesmerized. Unable to force their eyes away. Even Gil is stunned into motionlessness. Reaching out from the distance separating them but frozen by the tableau in all its wretched glory.
Harry holds him tighter the longer they watch. Guides Fëanor's head to his shoulder. Turns his body to the side as if to shield him from sight. It's an instinctive response. Done before even Harry realizes it's happened. But he doesn't let go. Doesn't falter.
Nerdanel, meanwhile, crouches next to them. Her hands are on Fëanor's back as she soothes over and whispers reassurances. Lake water swells around all three of them as her aura floods the area, rising to barrier out even her sons, but they – Fingon and Gil included, oddly enough – merely float over the waves like they don't feel them. Celebrían is treated the gentlest. Given the equivalent of a swat that makes her take a step back. The others aren't treated harshly, but they receive a firm reminder that water is slower to act but every bit as fierce as fire. Even Inglor is handled with a surprising mildness.
Fingolfin accepts the rebuke first. Offering a bow mere seconds before his sister and youngest brother. They back up along with the rest, but Fëanor's sons and Fingon linger. Gil starts to move forward before Finarfin stops him short. The blond leans into his ear, speaking so faintly that Harry can't discern the words even with his keen elven hearing. Whatever he says, Gil stays and locks gazes with Harry. Who wordlessly bids his love to take everyone inside and wait there. He receives an unhappy flash of lightning in response. Along with narrowed stormy eyes, but Gil graciously does as he requests.
Even Celebrían follows without a single objection.
Only the House of Fëanor and their immediate circle remain now. Though Harry supposes Inglor counts in that regard, too. He's served enough generations at this point. Is still trusted so that those left flow around him as a river does a stone in the current. So used to his presence that they think nothing of turning their backs to him. Even when he attempts to draw them inside, too.
Fingon, in the meantime, holds onto Maedhros. It's obvious even to the casual observer that he's the only thing keeping the taller elf upright. He's still dazed. Detached. Distant.
Fëanor's other sons glance from their parents then back to Inglor. They're too disciplined to show the indecision more openly than that, but Harry knows it's there. Can feel the worry mixed with guilt blending in joy shaded with expectation at seeing their mother. It's like a pulse in his head. A strum of a harp in his heart. A song of fire seeking water and begging to come home.
They all want to go to her. To both of them. To fall on their knees.
That Harry's here too is incidental. He can't even be sure what will happen. If he'll be ignored. Rebuffed. Or confronted.
That question goes unanswered. Nerdanel takes the inevitable out of their hands. She lifts her chin. Tilts her head just so. And her sons turn without a single word to follow Inglor inside. Fingon all but carries Maedhros; he doesn't glare at the others when they try to help, but it's a very near thing.
Then, they're alone. Just Harry. Nerdanel. And Fëanor.
Harry looks at Nerdanel, but he already knows what he'll offer. What he'll show. He might as well at this point. She's bound to find out anyway. It'll be quicker and easier than taking Fëanor through the hallways. Not to mention less stressful on everyone.
"It's easier if you close your eyes," Harry murmurs to her over Fëanor's head.
The elf in his arms doesn't even glance up at that. A mix of exhausted and overwrought. Still lost in regrets and self-recriminations. Buried under ash and smoke. The trust Nerdanel shows though is enormous. She doesn't even question that statement. She just leans in so that her cheek is on Fëanor's shoulder and her arm has now slid over to include Harry, too.
He takes a single breath. Allows himself this second to mourn any sense of normality they have between them. He's on the precipice, but the decision is already made.
Harry exhales.
They're in her room now. On the floor right in front of the fireplace. Harry ignites it with a single glance, and it's the crackling of the flames that gains her attention first. That has Nerdanel open her eyes. He hears and feels her inhale sharply.
He meets her gaze as her head jerks up. The expression she gives him is softer than expected, fond and knowing before she turns to her husband. Fëanor merely blinks, befuddled, lost in his own memories and struggling to leave. Silver eyes are slow to focus as he peers around, but he does allow them to guide him to his feet and then to the bed. Not even saying anything as Nerdanel brushes his hair before cupping his cheek.
Harry's spent many nights at the bedside of others. Patients. Friends. Family members. Teddy as he died in the slow agony of losing his mind. One more isn't a hardship.
Harry eases into the chair he brings next to the bed while Nerdanel rests beside Fëanor on the bed itself. It doesn't take much to settle him to sleep. Not the elfish equivalent but a true rest. Curled up on his side with his eyes closed. Harry doesn't retrieve the harp – not here, not now – but he doesn't need an instrument for this. To ease the torment of Fëanor's mind and lead him to real respite. To sweet dreams only. A song for elflings but proven for adults as Fëanor drifts off completely.
It works on Nerdanel, too. She's out like a light a minute or so after her husband, but Harry keeps singing. Lets them have this melody and several others before he shifts to healing notes. Then, he spreads to those throughout the castle. He does so subtly. Floating along hallways and around corners. Filling empty spaces. Weaving around each of his guests and easing wounds both mental and spiritual. He remains on the surface only. Doesn't take more than he's offering to them.
The House of Finwë knows him though. Recognizes him immediately. Findis just laughs, lifts her glass as she kicks back on the sofa of a parlor. Finarfin and Fingolfin are with her, standing in front of the fireplace, and they both smile to hear him. Argon sits in the kitchen next to Angrod while Finrod opens all the cabinets and inspects the inside. Celebrían is at the table across from them, sipping tea with the cup in both hands. They pause then and glance around, but Celebrían dips her head and breathes out slowly.
Fingon is just down the hall from where Harry began. He lays on his side facing Maedhros, who mirrors his position. Heads tucked in close. Speaking in intimate whispers; Harry purposefully doesn't listen. Moving away before he can see their reactions.
He finds the sons of Fëanor next; the remaining five are tucked together in a single guest room. Murmuring to each other in exhausted voices. All of them settle when they hear him. Several start to drift off almost immediately. Others search for the source. He doesn't remain, however. Harry and his music ghost along with another goal in mind.
Gil stares out he balcony doors up in their tower, in their suite. He's fully dressed. Waiting for Harry to return. He peers over as the first chords reach him. Attention fixes on where Harry would be if he stood there in truth. He sighs as Harry approaches. Stands for a moment, listening, observing, before he strokes a finger against Harry's translucent face.
"I'll find you in the morning, yes?"
But it's gentle. He leans in for a kiss before Harry can even nod in answer, and that effectively ends the spell. He's the last thing Harry sees as he fades away.
He opens his eyes back in Nerdanel's room. Both elves are fast asleep, expressions lax as they lay next to each other. Harry observes them for several minutes, but neither stirs. He thinks then to rise, to leave. His feet touch the floor, and his weight shifts forward.
Nerdanel makes a noise of distress. One that Fëanor echoes almost immediately.
Harry freezes. Peeks at them again. He hums out a few notes, and they both begin to relax. More and more as the music pulls them back under. Quieter this time. Limited only to here and now. Harry leans back into his chair. Keeps going until even he starts feeling the effects. He quiets then. Allows himself to yawn but doesn't try to rise. Instead, he settles back. Lets his eyes grow distant and unfocused. Drifts into memory instead of sleep. Contemplation. Remembrance.
First, Formenos as she is now. Then, as she once was. Next, Indilwen as they traveled here for the first time. Followed by Káno as he played in the dark. Songs to chase away old phantoms.
Káno.
So far away but so dear. Standing on a shore Harry sees only in his mind and in another's memories. A stranger who knows everything about Harry. Someone he's never even met but speaks to practically every day. Who taught him. Befriended him. Named him even.
And yet-
Harry rouses. Fully awake and aware in the wee hours of the morning. The castle stirs beneath his chair and in his soul. She whispers to him as a new music – a symphony, an opus – rises. Resounding and resonating through the halls. Two distinct songs blend into one; a new harmony emerges.
Harry blinks. Once. Again. Shakes his head as if to clear what he's hearing, but he can't entirely deny that he recognizes exactly what's occurring right this very moment. He isn't a child; he's been a healer for centuries. And a headmaster to a school full of hormonal teenagers. He understands how these things go.
This is certainly a different circumstance. One, he probably should've foreseen the second Fingon's lost love showed up on his doorstep. But alas, he was distracted by other things.
And now, Harry is learning more about Fingon than he ever wanted to know. For his sanity, he isn't ever going to admit any of this even in the comfort and safety of his own brain. He will merely concede that his uncle's involved. If questioned – and who ever would? – all Harry will say is that when it started, there was sudden and inexplicable need to completely close their connection. To pull his glacial shield to its highest on the route that leads to Fingon's fëa.
Even with all that, he can discern new additions in the distance. Along with the outline of a caldera. Harry doesn't want to think about the implications of that. Not at all. He can safely live without that information, thanks ever so much. He can't block out the music though. Not fully as two melodies merge into one and now continue in perfect sync.
Harry draws up frost and snow like a cloak around him to block it out. Buries himself inside his icy walls and bookshelves. Burrows into his tie to Gil. Sighs as lightning and thunder settle against him. Breathes in the scent of rain. Curls in tighter until all he hears and feels is Gil. He floats off then; he isn't sleeping but not quite a jaunt down memory lane either. Though it's far more akin to the latter. Far more of an escape in memories as a true elf would. Letting himself fall away. Drifting off on clouds that take him to distant shores.
He dreams of a walled city that rises as the river meets the sea. Of two elves, one with silver-gray hair that's nearly white at the tips and ancient eyes. The other is younger with the roundness of youth still shaping his face and a mane dark enough to almost be black. Harry knows that they're father and son as they stand beside him on either side, staring out at the sun setting over the waters. The sky is painted in streaks of gold, scarlet, violet, and they're warm, fond, as they laugh. Harry feels himself chuckling, too. Free and clear. Lighter than a feather. Unshackled from all his burdens. Despite the crown he now wears.
Harry stirs but doesn't fully wake with Nerdanel just before dawn. He feels more than sees her pressing her lips to her husband's forehead. Next reaching out to squeeze Harry's hand and move a stray lock from his face. She stands looking at them for a long time before undoubtedly heading to the kitchen. Following her incessant need to feed everyone in a certain radius around her.
Shortly thereafter, he rouses to find Fëanor sitting up on the edge of the bed. Chin resting on his hand, elbow on his knee. Watching him. Studying him. Gaze tracing over the shape of his face. The straight nose. The angle of his jaw and chin. The scarless forehead. He finally finishes at Harry's eyes. Lingering as the seconds stretch on into minutes. As if transfixed at the shade. At the entire picture.
They just look at each other as Harry shifts in his chair. Straightening and putting his bare feet on the rug. The room is quiet around them, and the only true sounds are their breathing and the crackle of the still lit fireplace.
"You are Marcaunon," Fëanor says after what feels like an eternity.
His voice is a half-octave deeper than Fingolfin's. Reverberating in the quiet of the room. Like he's spent a lifetime yelling over hammers. The way he shapes the syllables of Harry's name is identical to how Nienna says it.
"I am," Harry acknowledges. He tips his head. "Well met."
Fëanor inhales as Harry speaks. Closing his eyes a heartbeat later. He opens them only when Harry fails to continue.
"Marcaunon…" the elf repeats. As if the name means something to him. "My grandson."
A pause then. A hesitation on Harry's side. He doesn't have the heart to correct Fëanor. Not after the night before. Not after he feels the flicker of fire. The warm curl to the words or the way Fëanor's world brightens. How the internal smoke lessens. The ember-bright burn of his attention. The heat of Fëanor's song. So different than his brothers – Fingolfin's warm hearth and Finarfin's brilliant sunlight.
"You freed us."
Not a question. An assertion. A surety.
Objectively, that's true. Harry can't say that he regrets what happened. Now that he has gone through the aftermath – surprisingly – relatively unscathed. And if Fëanor is free, if his sons are, there's hope for other things. Other returns. Maybe-
"I did," Harry replies with a soft exhale.
He thinks to tell Fëanor of the Silmaril then. To fetch it even. But the elf has a mysterious expression. An enigmatic air. Makes an abortive gesture with his hand in Harry's direction before inexplicably stopping.
"Tell me of yourself."
It isn't a demand. The tone is wrong for that. Harry still feels the yearning. The desire to know more. To know everything. All the details and each moment in-between.
"Me?" Harry repeats, but it's more to buy himself time. To organize his thoughts.
Fëanor simply watches. Observes as a new parent does their first child. Eyes open wide. Scarcely blinking. As if worried that looking away for an instant will make him vanish. Will force something catastrophic to happen. Expression so similar to Fingolfin when he's concerned that Harry nearly has to look away. He's exposed right now in a manner he hasn't been in a long time. Different than when he goes to Tirion. Not even like how the Ainur gaze at him.
It makes him think of Hermione and Ron at the end. When they were both so old their bones creaked audibly, and their skin was fragile enough to bruise from the faintest, most delicate touch. Magic so entwined they died within an hour of one another. They were so worried then. As they laid in their deathbed next to each other. Not for themselves but for what would become of him. It was obvious that Harry would outlive them, but they all thought it'd be mere decades… Not this.
Harry doesn't sigh as he extricates himself from that memory. From that recollection. As he studies Fëanor in turn. He wonders how much anger he'd get for the mere mention of how much this elf resembles his siblings. Fingolfin the most especially with their coloration factored in. Irimë is next followed by Findis. Finarfin is there too in the shape and sharpness of his eyes but also in other features now that Harry knows to look.
How furious would Fëanor be if Harry were to comment on this? Likely a great deal from what everyone's told him.
He drops that line of thought immediately.
"I'm an artist. A painter," Harry finally says but mostly to create some sense of space, distance. Find his footing. "I was a healer. Once." He pauses to consider his answer before adding, "I suppose that I still am but only when truly needed. There isn't nearly as much want for me now." He offers a self-depreciating smile.
Fëanor is all bright intensity as he soaks up that response. His focus is fierce, burning. As if Harry stands too close to the blaze.
"This is your work?" the elf inquires and indicates the walls around them. He's eager flames. Rising higher for a moment but then remembering himself and where he is. A polite fire that's a faint blue in the center then white turning into orange and finally red on the outside.
"Some of it, yes," Harry admits; it's a tad evasive.
Fëanor is poised to question him further, but the door opens just then with the arrival of Gil and Nerdanel. Harry, having felt them approaching from the kitchen, doesn't need another excuse. Gil reaches him in seconds and kisses him without a care for their audience. Not that Fëanor notices as he's receiving much the same from his wife; he wears a bemused expression afterwards. More so when Harry brings the second bedside table over and Nerdanel sets up everything imaginable for a breakfast feast. Fëanor does remember his manners, although a bit belatedly. Turning to the one person in the room that he doesn't know and offering a greeting. Harry's own elf gives him a nod in return.
"Gil-galad," he introduces with generous smile.
Fëanor tilts his head in much the manner of an inquisitive cat. Imaginary tail twitching behind him as he considers that answer.
"This is not a name from Aman," he comments, but it's said with the lilt of perplexity more than anything. As if he's been given several puzzles and is feeling out the edges of each one.
He takes a second to study Gil's stormy eyes, deep brown hair, and general countenance. He undoubtedly sees what everyone else always has. The façade of a Ñoldor. The illusion of the House of Finwë even.
"No," Gil returns, and it's pleasantly, "but it's my preference."
The older elf inclines his head, fictitious tail flicking with curiosity, but he doesn't say anything else. Instead, he looks back to his wife and then to the room at large. To the awaiting meal. He seems preoccupied but intrigued. Infinitely so. Even as he picks his battles. Weighs the risk versus reward of pushing further.
It's an unexpected hesitance. Certainly a surprise based on everything Harry has learned of Fëanor. Admittedly much of it is biased. Colored by Fingolfin's recollections of a daring older brother who cared so little for the opinions of others as he forever flew faster, harder. Dove deeper. Bent rules like they were mere suggestions.
Shaped by Kano's words of a broken and twisted mind. One driven mad by first Morgoth and then later grief.
Forged by whispered recriminations. Accusations thrown at Harry himself for his appearance and alleged House. But Harry also knows that rumors take on a life of their own. That it's possible to tell the absolute truth and still lie.
He contemplates that as they eat. The meal is one Harry recognizes as a variation he's seen at cafes in the cities and during breakfasts his staff brings for the entire office to share. He guesses by the pleased bend of Fëanor's mouth that this is one of his favorites. His aura is now a slowed burn, and Nerdanel's ebbs and flows around the edges, but they move in tandem. With each other instead of against.
It's a fascinating pattern. An interesting dance for him to observe as the meal passes with the barest of small talk. Beside him, Gil watches with an amused air, knee against his. His own song weaves through Harry's with wind stirring the snowflakes. He takes a hand in his. Fingers settling together as they wait for the others to finish.
Fëanor stops then. Sets down his fork almost absentmindedly as he examines them. But it's not so much the gesture as what they both wear. His eyes flick from one of them to the other and then back.
"My father's rings," Fëanor murmurs.
It's said softly. In a timbre bordering on wonder. Like a child who's glimpsed Santa leaving gifts under the tree. He stares at it for a long time before turning to Harry. His lips curl upwards a second later; the expression he gives them is full of approval.
"A fitting betrothal gift," he states empathically. "You wear it well."
Harry doesn't shift at the intensity of that statement. Or the look he receives. He does, however, glance between his love and Fëanor. The former merely offers a small smile, but it's genuine.
"It is," Gil agrees, "and he does."
Harry doesn't blush, but only because he feels a rainstorm shift against him and cool that before he can even start. He hears Nerdanel giggling across from them, but her hand hides her mouth. Fëanor studies Harry for several heartbeats before his focus drifts to Gil-galad. It's just as intent, crisp and accessing.
"Forgive me, but you possess a familiar look," he comments next, and his tone is unexpectedly polite but all too interested. "I know we have never met, but if I may ask of your family?"
Gil's aura flashes against Harry's skin. It's lightning quick, but there's a taste of ozone and expectancy. Like his elf has been anticipating this question in particular.
"Yes, undoubtedly. I'm Círdan's younger son," he responds a little too casually.
Fëanor's argent eyes don't narrow, but Harry can practically see cat's tail swishing from side to side. Envision the gears in his mind turning over that information.
"You would likely know him better as Nowë," Gil continues. It's a simple addition, but Harry feels the mirth all but flowing from him. Drip by drip as the rain continues.
Nerdanel stays silent, while her husband tilts his head. The only thing that'd complete the picture more would be his ears twitching. One black furry triangle turning to the side while the other stays straight. Maybe Harry can draw that later? It's been a little a while since he's sketched, but this would certainly fit with some of his others. Fingon the lion with Argon the tiger and Fingolfin the panther.
Gil doesn't look at him, but he feels the flash of amusement like a bolt. Harry idly wonders if his love caught that thought.
The pause stretches out. A minute passes. Harry knows that both Nerdanel and Fëanor are mentally reciting family trees. Then…
"The brother of Olwë?"
Olwë… The Teleri King, Fëanor doesn't say, but they all hear it. Nerdanel also seems shocked by this revelation.
Harry isn't though. Káno made sure he knows lineages even better than the back of his hand, and Gil's very honest about his family history when they discuss such things. Blood children versus adopted matters little to the Eldar. Especially with fëa-bonding. Most wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway. Although, Harry supposes, a Ñoldo king claiming a Sinda lord as his father was quite the scandal back in the day.
Gil merely offers a sweet smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Yes, the eldest actually. He remained behind in Endor to search for their brother, Elwë," he answers. "There's a fourth and youngest brother, Elmo, as well."
There's bait with that entire statement. With that entire line depending on how much knowledge made it to Aman before the First Age and how much was shared around Mandos later on. Elwë husband of Melian and father of Luthien. Elmo grandfather of Celeborn and Oropher. Of course, Elmo's great granddaughter and Elwë's grandson married to have Elwing and her brothers, so there's that, too.
Fëanor wisely remains quiet as he studies Gil for a long moment before offering a true bow.
"I thank you, Prince Gil-galad, for welcoming me to your home. For welcoming all of us," he adds with a solemn tone. "I know that our reputation proceeds us. It is most gracious of you to have us."
"No titles please." Gil makes a negative gesture, but there's even more humor in his song. "We aren't formal here. Besides, you will find that this place is welcoming of everyone regardless of their past." He rubs a fingertip over Harry's ring absently. "I am also not the one you should thank."
Fëanor straightens, but his posture is stiff. He hides it well. Yet, Harry can see the cinders spark with unease before Nerdanel puts her hand on his arm.
"This is not your home?" Fëanor asks, and there's a reverberation. The echo of a hammer on an anvil.
Gil's eyes flicker to Harry then and back. "Oh, it is. We reside here together now," he tells the older elf, "but there's also a house in Tirion. I once held a… position in Endor, and my retainers and followers stay there." He gestures to Nerdanel very graciously next. "Your wife has recently joined us here."
"No servants?" Fëanor questions after taking all that in.
Gil shakes his head. "That is Mírimo's preference. We hardly need them here." He chuckles. "You'll see."
Nerdanel snorts from Fëanor's other side. Her grin is still hidden behind her hand when he turns to her. He lifts a brow, but she merely waves it away.
"Despite Mírimo's numerous objections, he rules these lands." Gil's good cheer is hard to miss as he nudges Harry playfully. "I'm sure you will properly see the city soon enough. It is quite a sight I must say."
Fëanor's eyes widen. "You are king here, Marcaunon?"
There's an edge of genuine astonishment in his voice.
"Truly, husband," his wife answers before Harry can even open his mouth. "Our grandson is ruler of this realm. Marcaunon has done fine work indeed," she agrees and titters at Harry's expression. "Inglor undoubtedly rushed you through last night, but we will take our time in showing you what our grandson has made here."
Harry fights against the redness staining his cheeks, even as he ignores the first half of that statement. The last part though he concurs with completely; he knows that Inglor must've taken them through the lesser used ways of the guard. Back passages meant for ease and speed of movement, so he likely missed the majority of the city. Fëanor and his sons are amongst the few to know what Formenos was before. Earlier even than Harry. Before the fortress stood here at all. He must admit that he wants to show Fëanor the differences. The changes that he's made. How everything has grown and blossomed.
But that thought, that hope, is dashed before it can even fully form. Fëanor's face has flared to shock before shifting to prideful and now turned neutral. The flames in his eyes are dimming.
"I know not how long we can tarry." Fëanor seems contrite; his world is ash and embers, darkening the more time passes. "I would never ask you to come with us. I cannot have you sacrifice your home or standing for us. 'Tis enough to know that you live and do so well. Without turmoil or torment."
"Fëanáro--" Nerdanel starts to say, tears forming in her eyes, but he cuts her off.
"Nay, my wife." His touch is gentle on her face as he cups her cheek like she's fragile glass. "I can never take back all the terrible things I did to you. All the suffering I caused. Please let me do this for you. Please let me spare you. Námo … Lord Námo," he corrects, and it's only the tiniest bit grudging, "he bid us to venture forth to Formenos. We're to dwell there until the Valar declare otherwise."
His words are serious. Deathly so. Tone somber as a funeral.
The irony though… The irony is almost comical as his meaning sinks in. Harry doesn't know whether to laugh or put his head in hands. He settles for sitting in awkward silence. Not even remotely certain how to explain.
Fortunately, it's Nerdanel who breaks first.
"Husband," she begins, but it's now with a tinkling sound of delight and a sparkle to her eyes. One that's replaced the sorrow completely. "This is Formenos."
That brings Fëanor up short. He closes his mouth abruptly. His aura is quiet, smoke and soot stilling. He breathes and blinks, so Harry knows that he's awake, but it's only after a few seconds that his attention starts to flick to the room around him before coming back to his wife. She merely beams at him. Gives an encouraging nod as she strokes her hands up and down his arms. Harry and Gil don't look at each other, but fingers do tighten around Harry's own as they watch. As they see Fëanor glance from Nerdanel to the room and back.
This is a guest space, yes. One that Harry's spent some leisure time on, but he does think it's turned out rather well. The furniture is tasteful. Silvan-style in pale, almost white wood, made by artisans in the city. They were more than happy to sell to him, and Harry suspects he was woefully undercharged. The floor is stone underneath the rugs, and those were also tanned nearby. A collection of bear and wolf furs that Harry and Inglor hunted themselves to keep travelers safe on their journey.
The mural isn't nearly as intricate as the one that occupies Harry and Gil's suite upstairs, but it's still worth a glance or three in his humble opinion. It's the view from the very top of a mountain and the vista on all sides. The the distant trees sway in the wind, and the lazy river empties into a lake on the wall with the entrance to the bathroom. Birds call out as they soar by, heads turning to look at all the elves gathered. Clouds float overhead, and there's even a rumble of remote thunder.
Fëanor stares at all of this. He sits in something like stunned shock for longer than Harry thinks should be possible.
Then, he lets out a raucous, loud laugh. Keeps laughing. Until he's off the bed and on his feet. Until he's lifted his wife and spun her around in a happy circle. Until tears of joy and relief streak down his face.
He laughs for a very long time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Námo – So there's the door.
Fëanor – ???
Námo – Don't let it hit you on the way out.
Fëanor – I get to leave?
Námo – Take your brats with you.
Fëanor – My sons, too?
Námo – Troll-mode engaged. Only if you go to Formenos.
Fëanor – ಠ╭╮ಠ
Námo – Cackling to himself.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Celegorm – So…
Amras – Yep.
Amrod – Definitely.
Curufin – Indeed.
Caranthir – Námo got us good with that one.
All of Them – Nodding.
Amras – This place is crazy though, right?
Amrod – I'd think I 'twere drunk if auntie hadn't taken all the wine.
Curufin – The craftsmanship is astonishing.
Caranthir – Considering. I wonder which Vala lives here.
Celegorm – Vala? You sure?
Caranthir – Gestures everywhere. Look around, brother. This is a Vala's castle. You should know better than anyone.
Celegorm – Contemplating that.
Curufin – Crosses his arms and nods.
Amrod – Rubs his chin thoughtfully. He has a point, you know?
Amras – Who else could've possibly built such a thing?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Sighs dreamily. Hums to himself.
Angrod – Looks at him. Rolls his eyes.
Finarfin – Boys. Behave.
Finrod – Atto, you heard it earlier. This was a first for us.
Finarfin – Shakes his head. It's very regally.
Angrod – Happy you finally got to hear him sing, I take it?
Finrod – Just snickers.
Notes:
AN: No, Harry didn’t realize who Míriel was in the first part – or even that she was actually an elf. She’s been in Mandos so long that she doesn’t feel completely elfish anymore, and this was before he’d officially left there. None of the Ainur thought to mention it either.
I also couldn’t decide on Círdan’s lineage for a long time but went for the maximum troll-ability here. He gets to be the brother of Finarfin’s father-in-law, the brother-in-law to Melian, the uncle to Luthien, AND the great uncle to Thranduil and Celeborn.
Fëanor also assumed that they were in Círdan’s kingdom (making Círdan the king and Gil the prince) to start with since Námo didn’t exactly fill them in on their destination and all the current world events before yeeting them out the door. He didn’t think they’d made it to Formenos yet since the journey wasn’t long enough, and Harry changed the landscape that much. They assumed the Ainur were adding to Aman or doing some housekeeping while they were in timeout.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 21: Chapter 21
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They stare at him. Of course, they do. It's only natural, Harry decides, when confronted with the duplicate of a beloved and long-absent sibling. One dearly missed and clearly loved. Harry feels the weight of their attention as they go from their parents – Fëanor and Nerdanel – and back. The aforementioned couple enter the room in front of him, now paused by one set of picture windows that overlook his koi pond and out into his bamboo grove. Fëanor seems surprised to see most of his extended family here, though truthfully how much of last night he remembers is debatable. Which is probably for the best.
Gil's beside Harry as they hover just inside the doorway of one of the larger parlors. It's the usual room that welcomes bigger groups to the castle, and he supposes this counts. Fëanor and his sons make seven plus the eight of Fingolfin's group and three with Harry, Gil, and Nerdanel. That's eighteen. This is the most people his castle has seen in years.
Everyone's spread out inside, and Harry can tell they've been here for a while by the flow of the conversations, which falter midstream at their arrival. It's an interesting contrast to have their focus on him but with such artful ignorance of the swaying bamboo leaves on the walls or the stealthy swish of fox tails that Harry glimpses between the stalks. Despite the early hour – it's only midmorning – he can already tell Findis has been in the wine cellar by the glass of dark liquid in her hand. Finarfin and Fingolfin are dressed less formally than the day before. Although they still wear diadems, everything's much less ornate. Argon's attired casually, which isn't all that odd, but he seems ready for spar or a hunt or some other outdoor activity.
Fingon is the most surprising, however. He's without crown or even his signature gold-threaded braids. Arm and arm with his new husband, songs twining and weaving together as they sit on a single loveseat on the far wall. Heads bent together but lifting the instant Harry comes into sight. Maedhros' regard is like a blade. His gaze is sharp and unblinking beneath his vibrant, vivid brows. Which are somewhere between scarlet and crimson, but the sunlight from the windows casts a metallic gleam to his hair as he turns to observe Harry fully.
Near them is a familiar elf. One with argent locks and dark, gleaming eyes. He's perched on the arm of a cherry-blossom pink settee with Celebrían seated properly next to him but opposite Finrod and Angrod. This must be Celegorm the Fair. For all that Harry's seen this visage before, it certainly isn't Oromë. Everything's wrong from the way he holds himself – one knee drawn up to his chest, booted foot resting on the edge of the sofa – to the braids in his hair to the aura that coils around his skin. It's like looking at a funhouse mirror. An illusion crafted in the likeness but without the spirit, and Harry finds himself unsettled. Glancing away before he draws attention.
Next is Curufin, and there's no mistaking which son he is as he stands impossibly straight. Enough so that even Eönwë would be impressed. His back is to the tiled fireplace, arms crossed over his chest with a hand on his chin as if deep in thought. His face is neutral, blank, but despite the fact the hearth is behind him, flames still flicker in his eyes. Harry's been told by Káno that Curufin's the most like his father, and Harry very much believes that. He appears – to put it bluntly – rather like Fëanor took a photo of himself and turned it into a person. Into a son. The similarity is startling, even by elfish standards with their tendency to have children strongly resembling one parent. Closer inspection does show subtle differences. The slightest angle of a jaw and the tip of a nose. The years Harry's spent training with Káno allow him to pick up the variation in their voices as the elf speaks with Findis and Finarfin.
Then, there are the twins. Once identical, Harry understands. Now not. Amras the youngest of all and Amrod with hair a darker red. There's other differences that Harry can see, but it's hard to say what would be obvious to him versus a true elf and vice versa. The pair of them appear relaxed at first glance, but Harry notes that they face the entire room and keep their backs to an empty corner. Where one steps forward, the other shifts laterally as if to flank. It's automatic, unconscious as they stand with Argon between them, conversing and laughing in low but excited tones. He's taller than the pair by a full head and besides, but all three of them have the same blue-gray eyes that mark the entire line of Finwë.
The last son is the closest to the door and drawing nearer still. Stopping in front of him seconds later. Inches away. Closer than the people of Formenos normally get except those Harry genuinely considers his friends. His gaze is as black as the locks that fall across his shoulders as he studies Harry from top to bottom and back. He isn't as pale as the others, complexion much closer to Nerdanel, but while the twins have more of her roundness in their cheeks, there's someone else in his face. Not quite Fëanor or the House of Finwë. If anything, he reminds Harry of Míriel, Vairë's handmaiden. Though admittedly, he isn't nearly so translucent.
"You're Marcaunon?" he asks then, and it's said like a clarification. A confirmation. His voice is deep. More so than even his father. Not as much as Námo and Irmo but deeper than any Eldar Harry has met so far.
"I am," Harry replies as he faces him fully. Gil stands now at his shoulder but not quite close enough for Harry to feel his warmth.
The new elf offers him a smile, and there's something in the expression that Harry can't quite describe. Something that catches the breath in his chest.
"Carnistir," the elf introduces, "Caranthir if you prefer Sindarin… but I think you knew that."
Harry inclines his head if only so he can look away. For all that Káno rarely has kind things to say about the House of Fëanor when speaking of them directly, he's thorough in making sure Harry recognizes each on sight and by name. Not to mention knows a number of other things about them and their respective characters.
Carnistir the Dark. The fourth son, the middle brother in the literal since. In both order of birth and height. If not deposition. Allegedly the bluntest and quickest to anger but also the quietest. The one most prone to going off alone and being content with his own company. But always there when needed – Káno's forever firm on that last part.
He searches Harry's face now in much the same way Fëanor did earlier, just hours before. Tracing his features and remaining on Harry's eyes the longest. But he does something completely unexpected then. Something that Fëanor didn't do, and there are arms wrapping around Harry before he realizes it's happening. Pulling him forward in an unexpected embrace that he never even sees coming. Firm but gentle. Warm and impossibly affectionate for a stranger he's only now met for the first time. His fëa reaches for Harry just as his arms do, and Harry doesn't think to fight it.
Then…
He sees a great forest. One meant to be cleansed and renewed by fire in an eternal dance of destruction and rebirth. And indeed, there are embers forever smoldering just beneath the surface. A slow, creeping burn that could flare up at any instant. Flash into a blazing torrent. Or simply continue to simmer beneath his feet. They brighten with each step as he twists around, but they never so much as scorch.
Smoke lingers in a haze between the trees, however, and there's something unnatural in the bruised color the longer he looks. It sends a tingle of foreboding down Harry's spine. Spidery fingers of disconcertment. A walk over his grave. A deep ache forms in his chest; it reminds him of the aftermath of being stabbed just before the knife is removed and the body has fully comprehended what's happened. Harry recognizes immediately this isn't his own feeling in the first place. That the discomfort tugging at him belongs to another, but that won't do at all.
He calls up a healing breath of frost before he can think to stop himself. Before he can even reconsider his actions. It's a harder battle than expected though. The smoke twists and writhes like a shadowy nest of tentacles, and each one frozen away to dust reveals two more. Throwing out a burst of light like a reflection on the ice only destroys a dozen but more swarm in. It's time for a direct approach then, and the Peverell signet burns with glacial intensity as he extends his opposite hand. The smoke tries to flee, to disappear into the canopy, as if wise to what he intends, but it's already too late. The haze is oddly solid, thick and syrupy with malice, as he grasps hold. Dripping black like oil and trying to stain his aura. But it flakes away the closer it gets to his skin. Dies completely underneath his touch until nothing's left all. The air finally clears as wisps fade away completely, and sunshine filters in from above. He feels the forest relax around him like faint snow flurries. Hears Caranthir sigh in the real world.
Harry pulls back to find himself with an arm still around his upper back and a hand on the junction between his neck and shoulder. Fingers barely touching a braid in his hair. There's a muffled laugh, little more than a huff of amused air, next to him.
"A winter prince for a winter palace," Caranthir muses. "So that was you with the Oath, nephew." His dark eyes are both pointed and strangely fond. Affectionate as they look at Harry for long seconds stretching onward. "As much as I appreciate everything you've done for us and now me personally, all of this was both very well done and entirely foolish."
Harry has no clue what to even say to that. How to even formulate a response. Less so as he squeezes Harry again before stepping back. But only so he can half-turn and tug Harry with him deeper into the room. His arm's still around Harry's back as he moves, and his grip is leading not menacing. Steadying. Guiding him forward.
The twins meet him halfway. Too impatient to wait for their older brother. They're both beaming as they look him over, expressions identical. Mirror images of each other aside for the shade of hair. Eager but all too toothful.
"Another nephew!" Amras greets, and it's very cheerfully.
"Splendid!" Amrod agrees after a few seconds. He's just as eager, using the same tone that George would've when Fred still lived.
Harry feels his heart skip a beat, and it takes all his self-control to keep his thoughts from showing in his expression. However, he feels Caranthir shift against him, arm curling tighter.
"One actually younger than us this time," Amras continues. His voice is almost but not quite the same as his twin's. Higher in pitch than Fëanor but oddly reminding Harry of a hunting horn.
"It's so nice to be the big brothers for once," Amrod adds. Eyes lighting up just as Nerdanel's do when she's excited.
There's something youthful in them. Boyish and vivacious. Very much like Argon but also different. A hidden sharpness. An undertone that's a little world-wearier. A little more jaded beneath the surface. Also like George but now after Fred died. When the jokes were harsher. Meaner. With fangs and talons. A wild beast that's slightly tamed but never domesticated, and there's always a risk of a bite too hard or a playtime too violent.
They observe Harry almost kindly though, a polite predator, claws sheathed, and his shields are up this time. Strengthened in preparation. He only has a fleeting glimpse of a shared world. Of two giant lanterns with distinct but related designs, one occupying each end. Both are bronze with frosted glass, but the first is circular. Sitting in a glade with grazing deer and an ambling bear in the background, but the trees are gnarled and the grass browned. The second is square, lies amidst a thicket. Owls rest on the creaking, burnt branches while smaller animals peer out around the trunks.
The vision is fleeting, gone almost as soon as it begins, and he endures their embraces graciously. The same way he once smiled at Ministry officials. Even allows Amras to rest a momentary hand on his elbow and for Amrod to trail fingers down his arm. Caranthir guides him away before anything more, but Harry feels their attention on his back as he's led to the next sibling. Itching between his shoulder blades.
Curufin awaits. Seemingly proud and strong as Findis and Finarfin excuse themselves to give the illusion of privacy. He's arrogant with his arms crossed over his chest and his chin lifted, but his eyes give him away. How glassy they seem. How dull the gray of the iris. How he watches Harry the way a man does a memory. With a sort of wistful longing for things long lost and never to be returned. For times and places and people always out of reach. He seems so much like Fëanor, but the look is one Harry still sees in his own reflection all these years later. He has an unexpected swell of kinship. Of empathy.
"Marcaunon," Curufin addresses, but there's a solemn strain.
His touch on Harry's wrist is enough for him to glimpse the inner forge. It differs from Fëanor's in the arrangement, and where the father's world lies buried in ash, the son's is flooded. Harry draws his shields even tighter together at the wave of anguish that nearly splashes him in the face when Curufin leans in.
"You truly are my brother's then," he whispers. "I had hoped…"
The last is said so faintly that Harry barely even hears it. He glimpses the murky waters despite shifting his glacier tighter towards him. There are ripples though nothing moves, and there's a menacing air to the entire area. An ominous awareness that something lurks underneath that can't be seen.
Curufin lets go just then. Withdrawing to the fireplace. Putting hands in his sleeves as if suddenly chilled.
"One day, you shall meet my son," he comments, but it's more to himself. "Yes, you'll meet my Tyelpë."
"One day, brother," Caranthir agrees, and it's softly. Said so that no one else in the rooms can listen in. "He's safe with his mother in Mandos. No one will harm either of them there."
Curufin doesn't answer. Instead, he turns away. Now facing the hearth and watching the flames. Shoulders stiff and back impossibly straight. Harry glances between the brothers as the seconds tick by, but Caranthir merely exhales and directs him along.
Oromë's face waits him, but it isn't the Vala behind those black eyes. It's peculiar to see the same face and have a stranger stare back at him. Not like speaking with the twins. Somehow, it's different, but the words elude him when Harry tries to explain why even to himself. Celegorm rises to his feet at their approach. He's nearly of a height with Harry himself. Barely shorter by a hairsbreadth. But his smile makes something in Harry ache. He clasps Harry's arm the exact same way that Oromë usually does, and that only makes everything worse. The song isn't the right one. The aura he sees is different. There's no hunt through grassy plains, over hills, and into the woods. No brays and barks. No stamp of hooves. No horn calling out to the pack.
Instead, Harry now sits by a campfire, but it's empty. The fire crackles and sparks merrily, but there's no other sound around him at all. Not even the wind through the leaves or blades of grass. The spaces across from him are larger for their bareness, and Harry knows that something – someone – is missing. More than one person. That there should be an entire group gathered around. Yet, there's no one at all. Hasn't been for a long time. Ages.
Harry backs out instantly. Retreats to the real world with a whirl of his robe.
Celegorm merely gives him a puzzled look. Unsure what just happened. Still gripping Harry's arm but head now cocked to the side in much the manner of a curious canine. He studies Harry with a raised eyebrow, but when no answer is forthcoming, he merely blinks. He's still grasping Harry's arm, and his aura tries to encroach unintentionally, but Harry's shields have already compensated. Adjusted to the intrusion.
"Well met, nephew," Celegorm addresses him after a few more seconds. "Good to finally see you in person."
He moves back to inspect Harry in the same manner that all the others have. As if comparing him to a memory. Looking for every dissimilarity, every flaw, and taking note of it. He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat the longer he takes.
"There really isn't anything of your mother in you at all, is there? I could almost think you were my brother standing before me," he decides then, one finger coming up to tap on his cheek. "Except for the eyes. Those certainly are not from our line."
An awkward beat. Harry feels the absurd need to laugh at that statement, but he somehow contains it. Behind him, he can practically hear the groan of utter defeat and despair. The rest of the room – clearly listening in – is a mix of amusement, embarrassment, or some combination thereof on his behalf.
"Tyelko, behave," Caranthir orders, and there's almost a gruff growl to the words.
"What?" Celegorm turns to his brother, and his manner is so nonchalant that it has to be authentic. "We were all thinking it. Just look at him." He gestures pointedly at Harry, who has wisely stepped back. "Makalaurë couldn't have a more perfect likeness of himself if he tried."
Caranthir lets out a harsh sigh. "You do not tell people that immediately upon meeting them. Much less your nephew," he expresses. "That's at the very least a conversation for later on."
"Oh, come on, Moryo." Celegorm waves him off. "You're hardly one to criticize me on points of etiquette."
Harry, who has slipped completely free during this exchange, backs away further. Neither brother notices. They're too busy glaring at each other now.
"Someone has to do it," Caranthir continues with narrowed eyes. "Obviously, you've forgotten everything."
Celegorm shakes his head. "There wasn't anything to forget. None of that matters anyway."
They move closer together then as if in tandem. Still glaring. Caranthir has a finger pointed at his brother, while Celegorm has a hand on his hip.
"Sometimes," Caranthir counters, "I wonder why I even bother."
"Sometimes, all you are is a bother," Celegorm challenges.
Harry tunes out their conversation at this point, which becomes little more than background noise as he heads for the final and oldest sibling. Who has risen at his approach and now stands with Fingon's hand tucked into his elbow and another on the small of his back. As if both comforting and supporting him. His eyes are every bit as sharp, as fierce as any sword. Color a shining silver that's the same as Fingon's own. The same shade shared by Fëanor and Fingolfin. He's the only one of the brothers taller than Harry himself. Not as much as Argon, though that difference is surprisingly small. It isn't often Harry has to look upwards at anyone these days. For Argon definitely. For a few Ainur, yes. That certainly includes Eönwë and Manwë as well. Most of the ones he knows seem to hover around his level as Oromë does – though admittedly Harry now recognizes that wasn't for the reasons he first thought. Nienna and Vairë prefer to be shorter, deceivingly delicate.
Maedhros is different than his brothers, Harry decides. Yes, there's the same sense of fire beneath it all. The ancient caldera with magma hidden from view, but there's something else, too. Something lingering underneath. Something almost unnerving in the intensity of his attention. Or... it would be if Harry hadn't spent his youth facing down dementors, dragons, Dark Lords, and the like. Still, there's an edge of danger. Argon is tall, taller, but even when Harry feared their reaction at the Silmaril, he was never genuinely frightening. He's a Gryffindor through and through. Honest and honorable. Too noble for his own good.
Maedhros even when compared to the Ainur... Manwë is the King of the Valar, but Harry has never once thought of him as anything but kind. Despite his surprise at their first meeting, he was soft in his shock. Manwë is always unfailingly gentle. All of the Ainur are. No matter how bizarre Harry must seem to them, they've indulged every question and corrected any misstep with the mild manner of someone handling fine china. Of an owner with a beloved and coddled pet.
Harry, however, understands now why the sons of Fëanor are so infamous. Why even the elves of Formenos whisper about them when they think Harry can't hear. The House hides it well; he'll give them that. Their time in Mandos has undoubtedly smoothed most of the rough edges, and Harry knows that he sees and senses things that the Eldar probably don't.
Maedhros though… Káno warns of Maedhros in particular. Has said that of all of the sons of Fëanor, he's the most perilous, the least to be trusted. The one most likely to do Harry harm. Has admonished him time and again to never seek Maedhros out for any reason. And if confronted by him to leave as soon as possible. To guard his back as diligently as Káno wished Harry would his front. Káno speaks of all of them with extreme familiarity but Maedhros especially. With the manner of a personal betrayal. Of someone who once trusted wholeheartedly and blindly but suffered terribly in return. Of someone who paid in blood and tears for his loyalty. Harry's never want to wound Káno further with asking, but now...
Now, Harry doesn't know what to think. About any of this. Any of them. Káno says such awful things about each and everyone of them from Fëanor on down, but Harry's time in Tirion was learning all the rest. All the details that everyone leaves out while recounting the histories. The stories that make them real people.
Maedhros is the one Káno blames the most. Fears and curses more than the rest put together.
And yet...
Fingon loves him. Waited for him for two ages. Married him. In Harry's own home, which he will never point out to anyone. Ever.
Fingon wouldn't have done those things for just anyone. He's many things, but fundamentally good is certainly the top of that list. And at the end of the day, Harry trusts Fingon. Trusts that his uncle will actually look out for him as best he can and not throw him under the manticore or to the werewolves. And isn't that a thought more daunting than Maedhros could ever be in a thousand lifetimes?
Still, the longer Harry's in the room with him. The more he feels his song. The more he sees cracks along the brim and in his foundations. Some are fine, faint. Others are gaping and jagged, and not even Fingon's presence or his time in Mandos has been enough to heal these over.
Harry walks to them of his own accord. Caranthir still hasn't noticed, remaining behind to argue with Celegorm in the manner of small children, of siblings. Harry goes on his own. It's a short distance truly, but it feels long for the attention of everyone else in the room as they pretend very hard to act like they aren't watching.
"Nephew," Fingon greets, and he's beaming.
He steps free of his new husband to bring Harry into a brief embrace. His entire aura is luminous. Glowing and radiant like he's swallowed the sun. Infectious as it brightens the sky of Harry's own world until the ice and snow are dazzling.
"Congratulations," Harry offers with his own genuine smile.
Fingon merely chuckles and guides Harry forward before he can even say anything else. Before he can even give the words he's quietly been rehearsing in this mind. Fingon's too eager for his own introduction to even hear them.
"This is my husband," he states, drawing all three of them together. "Your oldest uncle, Maitimo."
Harry's at a crossroads. He could do nothing and follow their lead. He could listen to that inner voice, which sounds so much like Káno at times and move back. Or he could take a risk, believe in his own judgment. The part of him that tells him to form his own opinions.
Maedhros is taller than him, but Harry spent much of his life on Earth with that same problem. So it isn't much for him to lean in with one hand settling on the elf's shoulder and the other sliding around to his back; arms come up around him automatically. As if trying to catch him. Startled. Surprised. There's a fragile quality to Maedhros' grasp. As if he worries the slightest pressure will break Harry. His breath catches when Harry tightens his own hold.
Beside them, Fingon lets out a little laugh. Harry can feel the shock in the room at large, even Gil has an echo of it. He's edging closer, Harry knows, has been hanging in the periphery this entire time. Ready to flood in if needed but allowing Harry this chance on his own terms.
"Herurrívë," Maedhros murmurs then, and it's so low that the only other person close enough to hear is Fingon.
Harry inhales sharply in response.
They're married; they share knowledge. Everything Fingon knows about Harry, Maedhros does now, too. Including what Káno calls him. And who and what he thinks Harry is.
"Yes," Harry replies but is unsure how to continue.
There's a snort at his hesitation. Stunning, loud, and unexpectedly fond.
"It suits you."
Maedhros' gaze has softened, warmed. Simmering now like hot springs. Not boiling but close enough that Harry can almost feel the steam. The elf moves back, although it's only by a single step. Unlike the others, he doesn't inspect Harry like a particularly impressive sculpture or portrait come to life. Instead, he looks at green eyes without blinking.
"I'm glad to finally meet you, nephew," he says just as quietly as before.
His voice is familiar and foreign. Like listening to a memory. Similar to his brothers and father but there's a quality all his own. Aching and deep. Wounded.
He sounds like Káno. It's there in rise and fall of his words. Not just the accent when Káno can't stop himself. In the way he says Harry's name. The shape of the syllables.
Before Harry can even go anywhere with that thought, that realization, Fëanor and Nerdanel are there. Striding over like Morgoth himself chases them. They've made their own circuit around the room, but it's obvious they have one more destination in mind. Maedhros and Fingon glance at his parents, and Harry takes the opportunity to ease over to Gil, who settles into his side like he was there the entire time. A gentle drizzle of rain washes away the residuals of everyone else so that only the two of them remain. Harry lets out a slow exhale and slides their fingers together. Watches as Nerdanel hugs both Maedhros and Fingon at the same time. There are tears in her eyes as she disengages and whispers words for them alone.
Then, Fëanor stands before them. Focus flicking from one to the other and back. There's a pleased curl to his mouth, and his fire is white, bright with happiness.
"Finally, yonya. You certainly took your time with things."
Only, it's Fingon he hugs tightly. Holding on like Fëanor hasn't seen him in millennia. Which to be fair...
"I'm so glad to at last call you my son," Fëanor states as he pulls back just enough to look Fingon in the eyes, hands on his shoulders.
Nerdanel adds cheerfully from beside her husband, "Such a joyous day. We knew straightaway that it was you who joined our House."
Harry tries very hard not to consider the implications of that. He suppresses that entire line of thought for all its worth and buries it under snow and ice. He steadfastly stares at the window just past the Eldar in front of him and makes eye contact with absolutely none of them as Fëanor and Nerdanel continue to gush about their newest son by marriage, Fingon beams like this is the best day of his entire life, and Maedhros stands steadily at his side.
Next to him, Gil glances over and lifts an eyebrow, while Harry feels the tips of his ears heat before he can't control it. That earns him a head tilt, but all he can do is shrug helplessly. He knows he'll be explaining this to Gil later, however.
Much later.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Melpomaen arrives at midafternoon. Precisely when the sun is between her zenith and the horizon. To be expected, Harry supposes. His aide is very good at following instructions to the letter. Even more expected is that he isn't alone. Laerien awaits on his right. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. Hands folded behind her back in a posture that's so much like Minerva McGonagall that Harry nearly snickers before he can stop himself.
At least, it's only the three of them currently. His other guests are in various parts of the castle, poking around, investigating every square inch, or otherwise making a nuisance of themselves under Nerdanel's affable but vigilant eye. He has another soon to arrive. Harry can hear his song like a clarion call, reaching out as a feathered wing in salutation, but he hasn't made it to the city proper. Not yet anyway but soon.
Gil meanwhile is nearby. Loitering. Hovering. He's ostensibly left them alone in the very same room that Harry spoke with Melpomaen in… Was it really just yesterday? Just last night? It feels like so much has happened since then. Honestly.
Both Laerien and Melpomaen rise as soon as Harry walks in, and there's an odd, almost awkward interval as they stare at him. Especially when he settles on the sofa opposite without preamble and leans back. They keep standing, keep staring even after he motions for them to sit.
"Melpomaen, thank you for returning," he greets first and gives a polite nod. "Laerien, it's been awhile."
"My king," she starts.
Harry just lifts an eyebrow at her. His gaze is pointed. Unblinking as the seconds tick by.
Laerien hesitates, but she accedes first.
"Marcaunon," she allows.
It's good enough, he thinks and again gestures for them to have a seat. This time, Melpomaen does so. It's reluctantly though, and he perches on the edge. Laerien, however, remains on her feet for a moment longer as her pride drives her to be defiant, but her sensibilities win out in the end. She arrays herself like a proper princess. Dress draped all around her and over robe flared outward. All that's missing is a fan.
Another pause then. Stretching out. Persisting in the air like an ominous stench.
"Yes?" Harry prompts. If only because he does have other things to do today and other guests to tend. One in particular coming ever closer.
It's Melpomaen who speaks this time surprisingly enough.
"Just as I said last night, sire, I came to beg your pardon. I wronged you. I broke your trust." His assistant corrects himself, "We broke your trust."
His face is pleading. Entire manner beseeching. From the way he's nearly tipping off the settee to the nervous movements of his fingers.
Laerien lets out a little sigh next to him. She's poised. Professional. But her song reverberates with an odd tenor. A murmur of discontent.
"It was never our intention to harm you, but we did," she admits, and his steward actually sounds regretful. Remorseful even.
That isn't an apology though. Frankly, nothing from them is. There are admissions of guilt, yes. But little else. Contrite that they were caught but not enough to tell him they were sorry to lie in the first place.
"So you did," Harry acknowledges. His words are light but not teasing. Not at all. Not today. "But what you intended and what occurred are not the same thing."
"My- Marcaunon," Melpomaen stumbles over the name, "we never meant--"
"For me to find out," Harry finishes for him. "Yes, I noticed that."
"No," his aide denies, and it's with an unexpected vehemence that echoes in the room and makes the willows on the walls jerk upright. "No, we didn't mean to upset you. We wanted to help you. Celebrían sent me... Sent both of us here to watch over you."
"To watch me," Harry amends with a dismissive flick of his fingers.
"To watch over you," Melpomaen insists. His nails dig into his palms as he curls them under. "She wanted me to watch out for you."
"Your sister cares for you deeply," Laerien inserts, and she's going for a consoling tone. "She worried for you here – alone – without any family."
Harry doesn't roll his eyes at that; it's a rather near thing. Celebrían was so worried about him that she sent two other people instead of coming herself. A fact he won't point out because he shouldn't have to do so.
Instead, Harry looks at them. It isn't a glare, but it's firm. Unyielding.
"We could be here all day debating back and forth, but in the end, the result is the same." He steeples his fingers and rests them on his knee. "Celebrían's still a practical stranger to me even now. She sent you pair to spy on me when I'd never even met her in the first place and knew only of her existence as a footnote on a family tree. Besides, I've not met her husband or been to Imladris."
His eyes shift from one of them to the other and back. Melpomaen's face has paled, hands white-knuckled. Laerien is stiff, silent as she sits straight-backed.
"You both took advantage of me," Harry states. His voice doesn't rise or fall. It remains even and reasonable. Controlled. "Certainly of my ignorance and willingness to give a fresh start here. You knew I was allowing anyone in without questioning their background, and you used that."
"My king, I swear that I am loyal to you," Melpomaen implores with a hand rising to rest over his heart now.
"Perhaps," Harry allows, but his mouth curves ever-so-slightly in what should be a friendly look and somehow isn't. "Perhaps not. That remains to be seen, doesn't it? I should also think that Gil-galad's rather convenient betrothal has absolutely nothing at all to do with that statement."
Both of them again stare at him. They're stupefied, stunned at his words. Gawk at him like they've never seen him before, and to be honest, they've not met this version of him. He's always been cordial, mild in his dealings with them. Very much aware of his own strange nature and tenuous grasp on elven sensibilities. He's permitted them too much leeway; that stops now.
Laerien is better at controlling her surprise, but as it always is with the Eldar, their auras give them away. Melpomaen's sun is shaded by clouds now and her forest has grown quiet, quivering as something shifts in the trees.
Harry tilts his head. "You definitely took your time coming here. Neither of you even showed up at all until my family arrived."
Until Celebrían was here, goes unsaid. They both hear it, nonetheless.
Melpomaen gasps. "I didn't--"
"That isn't--" Laerien begins.
They try to talk at the same time but falter and glance at each other.
"Celebrían," they say together.
"Doesn't live here," Harry interrupts. "She isn't in charge here. Neither is Elrond. Nor is our father," he asserts, and there's an edge that's razor sharp but not cutting. Not yet. "You insist that I'm the ruler here, and you can't have it both ways. Either I'm in charge, and you defer to me and only me. Or… I'm not."
Harry taps his forefingers together as they digest that. As they consider his words. As he watches the proverbial gears turning. As he sees their thoughts begin heading down the exact path he knew they would.
Maybe their timing isn't a coincidence, but it actually works in his favor now.
"And if it's not me," Harry remarks then. Neutral. Pleasant. Devastating. "Well, I'm sure Fëanor would be more than happy to resume his rightful place."
Melpomaen visibly fades. Skin paling further until he's nearly a ghost. Until snow holds more color. His eyes are huge; irises completely erased by the size of his pupils. Meanwhile, Laerien is the opposite but somehow the same. Face flushing as she makes a small noise that immediately dies in her throat. She trembles as she grips the hem of her robe.
"You would… Truly…"
Her tone is faint, weak. Unable to truly form her question.
"I would what?" Harry inquires idly. "Return Formenos to her founder? I have no quarrel with him or any of his sons. Why would I?" He offers them both a gentle, genuine smile. "After all, they'll be residing here with me anyway."
The quiet doesn't so much linger as loom. Hang heavy in the air like a weighted breath. Bated. Gasping.
"You would truly give up everything you've built here?"
Laerien's found her voice now, and she says it like a demand, but her aura is a cacophony of sound. Of disparate noises without rhythm or purpose. There's only shock mixed with horror and a dash of desolation.
Melpomaen fares little better. His sun is completely blotted out by clouds blacker than ink stains on a once clear sky. Everything else is shades of gray, darkening with every passing second.
If anything that makes Harry's resolve grow stronger. Firmer. The acceptance that they only seem to recognize consequence when it affects them personally.
"I can always build again," he reminds them. "I never wanted to rule in the first place. It was at the insistence of the Eldar here that I do."
Melpomaen has the look of a man in the middle of a nightmare. Laerien simply seems like she can't believe what she's hearing.
"This is your kingdom!" she declares, but it's somehow just short of a shout. "You made Formenos what it is."
"I know." Harry merely shrugs in much the manner he's seen the House of Finwë do. Irimë and even Findis. Elegant but nonchalant. "But it's never something I wanted."
Somehow, she doesn't splutter. She's still a princess, after all. But she works to find the words. Struggling and nearly breathless.
"You would throw this all away?"
Harry regards her without blinking. "Throw what away exactly?" he poses. "A kingship I don't want and never did? Subordinates who clearly don't trust me or my judgment?"
Laerien has no answer for that. None is needed as her mouth clicks shut audibly, and her teeth nearly catch her tongue. Her song shudders like a hurricane through the trees before falling deathly still.
It's Melpomaen who dares to ask, "What of those who have made this our home?"
He sounds defeated, wrecked. World now only black with no sunlight left.
"Are more than welcome to stay," Harry responds before adding, "under new management. If not Fëanor, then likely whichever son desires it."
Both of their songs jolt at that.
"And you, sire?"
Laerien is emotionless now. Voice empty. Her eyes shimmer with moisture that she barely contains.
Harry forces down the guilt before it can even rear its ugly head. It isn't his nature to be cruel, but if he doesn't make them understand now, they never will. He isn't their doormat. He isn't a handy wand to pick up and use whenever they need and then tuck in a drawer out of sight.
"Nienna lives on the western sea; it's quite lovely there," he offers with real affection at mention of her. "She's made it clear I'm more than welcome to join her."
If Harry thought they were staring before, it's nothing compared to the twin expressions they give him now. Melpomaen gapes in the manner of someone who has just escaped a horrific Quidditch accident but his friends weren't so lucky. While all the stages of grief flash over Laerien's face before she finally settles on a mixture of realization and resignation.
"So that is it then?" she whispers at last. Her gaze is distant, looking at nothing. "For both of us?"
"Don't be silly," Harry admonishes them. He sends out a hint of frost that flicks both in the forehead.
Laerien jumps and sucks in a breath. Melpomaen blinks owlishly at him. Once. Twice. They both appear startled as if waking from a bad dream.
"I'm not throwing you out."
Not yet.
"This is your one and only chance," Harry tells them. "I've been through this with Inglor. I'm sure he told you my stance on things. Though I think you already know why when I say that you both are getting a harsher lesson."
He pauses, but neither does more than look at him. Watch him in the way a deer does a dragon. Not daring to blink. Harry can feel the glow to his own eyes as he gazes right back, and he doesn't even need to speak louder. His point is made readily enough.
"Formenos and her people come first. When your families come to Valinor, they're more than welcome to join you here, and if they settle elsewhere, I won't police your time or relationship with them." Harry holds up a finger then before than can even think to give an objection. "Anything I tell you or you learn in confidence is just that. If it gets spread to other places and I find out its from you, then you're out. You won't be let back in for any reason."
It's a generous offer all things considered. More forgiving than they seemingly thought they'd get. The acceptance of that fact lights in their eyes as they shift to kneel on the carpet in front of him. A faint flicker rises on the horizon of Melpomaen's word, and a strum of notes floats through Laerien's forest.
"Yes, my king," they say together, still kneeling with heads bowed.
Harry doesn't bother to correct them. He merely nods to himself.
"I'm glad we've come to this understanding," he says next and waits until their eyes lift. "Now, why don't you both take the rest of the day off, and I'll see you tomorrow morning in my office."
He rises then in a single motion. Towering over them even when they slowly stand. Melpomaen barely comes up to his shoulder; Laerien doesn't manage that. They've been next to him before. Thousands of times even. But this is the first that they've ever regarded him as they do now. As if they genuinely respect him. As if they aren't just humoring him.
Even Laerien offers a low not perfunctory bow. Neither looks up as they follow him to the entranceway of the castle. Not even when they leave through the side door.
Gil not-so-mysteriously appears a scant five seconds later. Stepping from the shadows of a convenient suite of armor that was on the opposite side of the hall when Harry started this meeting. Undoubtedly the castle's doing then. Menaces, both of them – castle and elf.
"You were listening."
It isn't a question. But not quite an accusation either.
Gil merely grins as slips an arm around Harry's middle. His touch is familiar, safe.
"I wasn't too harsh," Harry defends.
"Not harsh enough, I think," his love counsels. "Inglor came weeks ago. Melpomaen needs to be brave enough to face his mistakes, and Laerien was trying to wait you out. You were right to censure them for that."
He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek but doesn't pull away. Gil just studies him instead. Searching his eyes for long heartbeats.
"Would you really leave?" he inquires.
It's said casually, but there's an intensity to the rain in his song. A force behind the droplets as they hit the ground.
Harry squeezes his hand. "It's always a possibility... but a very small one," he concedes. "I like it here. I have friends here. Laerien and Melpomaen hardly represent a fraction of a percentage of the people in Formenos. I'd send them away before I'd ever leave myself."
Gil's thumb runs across the back of his fingers. He lets out a soft breath.
"An excellent bluff then. We'll make a king of you yet," his love allows, and it's cheerfully.
Harry chuckles, but he's not done. Instead, he bends down for a chaste brush of lips.
"Besides," he comments as he shifts back, and his grin is pure Hufflepuff guilelessness with a Slytherin underneath, "if I ever did decide to leave, I'd just take the castle with me."
Gil's eyes widen for a second before he lets out a hearty laugh. "Mírimo, you certainly would do that."
"Of course, I wouldn't let all this hard work go to waste," Harry adds reasonably. "Maybe I could set her on a cloud, and we'd just float around."
Gil laughs again. Hard enough this time that he snorts.
"I don't know which is worse," he says once he's managed to compose himself even slightly. "The fact that you're serious… or the fact that you would succeed."
Harry merely smiles at him before he leans in again. Forehead dipping to rest against Gil's neck. He feels rain settle against him like a soothing song, and he closes his eyes at this little indulgence. At these few moments just for them while everyone else in the castle is otherwise occupied. Nerdanel, Fëanor, and their sons are in the guest wing with Fingon all gathered together in a single room. While Finrod speculates with Celebrían about the plants in the garden. Finarfin, Angrod, and Findis have discovered his library and meander around the shelves. Finally, Fingolfin and Argon are half-way up the stairs of the conservatory tower.
It's just Harry and Gil here now, but he already knows it won't last. Not when there's a beat of war-drums. A call of trumpets in greeting. Outside and slightly to the south where the training courtyard sits.
Gil lifts an eyebrow at him as he straightens. Harry inclines his head, and his love simply lets out a lengthy exhale before pulling away to take his hand. They gaze at each other for a second.
Slow or fast? Walk or…
The rain shifts to more meandering rate, and Harry takes that as his cue. He tugs Gil along beside him. They fall in step easily. Pace sedate but with purpose.
After all, Eönwë is waiting.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He traces out the symbol in chalk. The triangle first in one unbroken motion. The circle is next, made much the same. The line is last and done in a single continuous stroke. The salt is laid down next followed by the quartz dust. He mixes the remainder in equal parts with lily petals for the third. The stones are added last. Each set into place by hand with the utmost care so that nothing is smeared and the entire process doesn't have to be redone. It's dawn when he starts and not quite midmorning when he finishes. The ritual itself won't be until midnight, so Harry allows himself some minutes to relax as he surveys his work.
Everything is perfect.
Harry takes cautious steps backwards to the doorway. He's currently in the center of the old fortress, the very heart of the compound. Ironically, this room appears to have once been a forge. Fire long gone out. Tools left forgotten but without a speck of rust.
Now, everything has been removed and stored away. Now, it'll be used to cleanse. To rebirth from the ashes. To lay the foundation for something new. To burn away phantoms and aching memories that cling to this empty place. That's an event – a problem – for later though. For tonight. When Nienna and Káno join him for their first purification.
Now, as he stops in the great hall, Harry's alone save for Indilwen. She nuzzles at his hand as he strokes it up and down her head. He takes a few long moments to brush and redo the braids of her mane, neglected as they've been these last several days. She nickers when he finishes, snorting into his ear. Harry thinks for a second that she'll bid him to join her. Direct him to recline in the grass, but instead, she nudges him towards the stairs.
Harry puzzles at that. Doubly so when she gives a more forceful push since he isn't moving fast enough. He merely holds his hands up in defeat. Taking the hint. He might as well head for his tower anyway. He's a little too energetic, too nervous, to rest. Not truly in the mood to build further, but there's always something he can find to do. Something he can plan or sketch out or contemplate.
However, before he can even get upstairs, Harry discovers that there's someone else awaiting him. Hears her song drifting like gossamer strands in the breeze. Fine and nearly invisible until caught by the sunlight.
Vairë isn't in her favorite spot by the newly installed window. No, her back is to him as she bends over to inspect the blueprints he's drawn out for the castle. Her hands are empty, but Harry knows her well enough that he'll find a surprise somewhere later. It's a game she delights in playing. One Harry still isn't entirely sure the rules or purpose of, but he's reasonably sure she's winning.
"Marcaunon," she says as she turns to him, dress a silken whisper on the floor. Harry can just make out the curve of her mouth behind her veil; she takes his hands as he comes over.
"Vairë, a pleasure as always," he welcomes very sincerely.
"Nienna is not here?" she inquires, but it's obvious she already knows the answer as she makes no move to look or search out with her song.
"Later." He offers her a seat, which she declines with a proper wave. "Likely after sunset."
"I actually hoped you would join me today." Her voice is as ethereal as her veil but somehow fills the room with both light and sound.
Harry tips his head back in surprise. "I have to be back by midnight," he reminds her.
She gives him a little laugh like crystal chimes. She's always shorter than him. Always chooses a form that has to peer up into his eyes, but somehow, Harry feels smaller as she mildly chides him.
"And yet, you can travel quickly, yes?"
It's posed as a question, but she already knows that answer, too.
Harry responds with a raised brow; that only earns him delicate notes that twine around him as surely as an embrace. Her aura is deceptively dainty, fragile like a spiderweb. But there's an unseen strength.
"Will you travel with me now?" Vairë asks then, voice light as summer linen. "My rooms await us both if you are willing."
Harry knows when he's being set-up. He doesn't have to see her song to know it's coming. The Ainur rarely do something without twenty-six motivations. But she's caught him at the perfect time, hasn't she? Nienna isn't around nor are any of the others. Harry has absolutely no reason nor legitimate excuse to refuse.
He simply smiles at her in resignation and lays a hand on her wrist, but she slides her arm into his an instant later. Settles against him like a cloak draping over his elbow. Harry allows it without comment. An instant later they are in the private area she prefers inside of Mandos. Which is indeed already occupied. Harry isn't surprised at all; he really isn't. He gives the ladies a nod, having met all of them before.
There's naturally Vairë herself, who squeezes his arm before gliding over to sit next to her second sister by marriage. Estë's already at the table, hands cradling a cup like one would a prayer. The fourth and final occupant is the only other elf in the room; she gracefully motions to the chair beside her.
"Come sit with us, Marcaunon," she indicates. Her hair shines like the moon in the dim lighting, but her face is gentle, and her black eyes are fathomless but kind. "You haven't eaten yet."
It isn't a question. Vairë answers for him anyway.
"He began working before daybreak. I thought he earned a reprieve," she says with the air of one gossiping about a naughty child.
Harry ignores that as he comes to the empty place across from Estë. The tablecloth is genuine lace, he notes, as he slips into his seat. Sheer with a pattern as intricate as an individual snowflake, and it takes him a second, but Harry realizes that's exactly what it resembles. He gives a little chuckle at that since there's no doubt where exactly it came from or who created it.
He glances up to find them studying him. A pale gray plate with a white rim appears in front of him. Not by magic. More Estë's slight of hand. Talent that is. She would've been cardsharp in another life.
"Míriel has made us pastries," she comments with a lullaby in her tone. Her gaze is dreamy and distant, the color of moonstone but twice as bright.
The aforementioned Míriel gives him a beatific smile. Her argent hair is a lovely contrast to the deep blue of her dress. Harry knows now that she's an elf, but there's something insubstantial, ethereal about her. Something far closer to spirit and even more otherworldly than the other Eldar he's met. Something almost translucent when he look at her. As if he can see through her form to the other side.
She also doesn't feel like an elf. Her aura certainly doesn't. The quality and shape is far more like the Maiar he knows, and he supposes that it's the length of time she's been in Mandos. Just from speaking with her, he understands it's been ages. Longer now that anyone else here, although he doesn't know why she lingers. It's none of his business either way, and it's good to see Míriel besides. She's a serene but genial presence. Always pleased to greet him. Though to be honest, for all that she's Vairë's handmaiden, Harry has most often seen her while he meets with Estë. Those talks are something of an in-depth discussion of their differing healing methods and lessons from Estë herself.
That doesn't seem to be the agenda for the day though, which is probably for the best. There's still the possibility this could still turn into an impromptu tailoring session, however. Which wouldn't be the first time between Vairë and Míriel. He's had to expand his closet twice already for a reason, after all. Best not think too hard on that or he'll jinx himself.
Harry instead settles more fully in his chair as Vairë fills his cup and the scent of black tea floats upwards. Harry doesn't see it, but somehow the plate in front him is filled between one blink and the next. For a magic trick, it's rather impressive, but he's seen it before. What is astonishing is the dessert itself. The only treacle that exists in this world as far as Harry knows is what he's made himself, but this is suspiciously similar. Not quite the same but close enough that he feels his eyebrow rising of its own accord. Míriel merely winks at him over her teacup when he glances her direction. Vairë graciously pretends not to notice, while Estë finishes serving everyone.
Conversation drifts then, and it's an odd situation to recognize that no matter how far from his first home Harry now is, some things never change. The need for people to gossip is one of them. The Ainur would certainly never call it that; would never even consider the possibility. But a broomstick is a broomstick, and dragon is a dragon.
Harry hears more in the next hour or so about the various goings-on with the other Ainur than if those individuals told him themselves. Varda and Manwë with the new statue the Eldar are building on Taniquetil. Oromë taking his hunt all the way to the northern wastes. Tulkas challenging Eönwë to a spear throwing contest. Ulmo actually washing up on the southern shore.
Harry contributes little to the discussion. Simply listening as it flows around him. Making all the appropriate noises. Eating anything they put in front of him. Steadily sipping his tea, which he keeps refilling with a flick of his fingers.
Míriel periodically glances at him. Studying him in her peripheral vision but not addressing him directly except to offer him more pastries.
Estë stirs her cup by making a swirling motion with her finger as she speaks of her own husband and his siblings. For someone who mostly stays in the Gardens of Lórien, she knows an awfully lot about what everyone's doing.
Vairë never removes her veil. Not even while eating. She's also too dignified to reach underneath. Not that she needs to do so. Harry doesn't see her drink at all, but her cup keeps getting emptier. Every time he looks away, more of her tart is missing, too. Harry doesn't question that. Not at all. Not even once. He's old enough now to recognize that it's sometimes better not to know.
He just settles back in his chair. Enjoys his tea and treacle tart. Listens to the conversation and soaks up the company. He doesn't think about his upcoming ritual, the first of seven. Or his future plans for Formenos. Or anything but the here and now.
Behind her veil, Vairë smiles to herself .
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Caranthir – So our parents are indisposed.
Amras – Yep, and with our nephew.
Caranthir – And our oldest brother is off getting married.
Amrod – Also yep, and I could live without that knowledge.
Caranthir – Our next oldest brother is MIA.
Curufin – Probably in Endor still.
Caranthir – The third oldest is irresponsible.
Celegorm – Hey! I'm not irresponsible.
The Others – Look at him in disbelief.
Curufin – Need we remind you of Doriath?
Celegorm – That wasn't me who lost those twins. That was my men.
Caranthir – Curvo, also spent most of the First Age babysitting you.
Celegorm – He did NOT.
Amras – He totally did.
Amrod – He truly did.
Curufin – Nods in agreement. Very menacingly.
Celegorm – Crosses his arms across his chest. Pouts.
Caranthir – Points to himself. That means I'm the captain now in charge.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – Congratulations, my son!
Nerdanel – We're so happy for you. This has been a long time in coming.
Fingon – Thank you, uncle father, mother.
Fëanor – You won me a lot of money!
Fingon – Gasp! That was you!
Nerdanel – Son, could not you have waited another night?
Fingon – Shocked! You, too?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – A son? Makalaurë has a son?
Maedhros – Yes, we've established this.
Fëanor – But… but how? How did this happen?
The Ambarussa – Look at each other, their siblings, and then their father.
Celegorm – Giggling in the background so hard he falls to the floor.
Caranthir – Sighs and rubs his temples.
Curufin – I trust you know exactly how this happens, atar.
Nerdanel – Dear husband, I can show you if you want.
Sons of Fëanor – Help! We're not old enough for this!
Notes:
AN: Yonya – my son.
Also, did Harry just tell his subordinates that Nienna is his mother while also challenging them not to tell anyone… Insert sinister, Slytherin laugh.
And ugh… elven heights. Fact checking this is a nightmare. For this story, Argon is taller than Turgon (barely-ish which is a family joke), then Maedhros. Maglor (and Harry) are next very closely followed by Celegorm. Fingolfin, Fëanor, Fingon are all about the same with Gil-galad in there, too. The rest are arrayed afterwards.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry notices the sound of water first. It's rhythmic and steady on the rocks. Flowing in the same ageless tempo across worlds. Soothing. Serene. He opens his eyes already knowing he isn't alone. Harry sits on marble bench beneath a gleaming white tree that reaches out towards the cloudless, perfect sky. The air is warm, idyllic as any summer day before it's grown too hot, and the breeze stirs the leaves overhead.
Nearby, he stands. He's dressed simply. In a deep blue tunic with metallic stitching and an equally silver circlet. Harry can see pointed ears peeking out beneath inky, dark hair that's every inch as black as his own. He's facing the same direction, but he turns as if noticing the attention. His eyes are a deep, piercing gray that shimmers with starlight.
Harry's seen eyes like this before. Recognizes them immediately. And while Harry hasn't met him earlier, he suspects who this is already. More so the longer they study each other. As he shifts to settle next to Harry. As his f ë a reaches out but stops just short. Waiting politely.
His smile is warm, lights up his entire face when Harry brushes back with a curl of frost. His tone when he speaks is heavy with affection.
"Hello, little brother."
Harry wakes all at once. He opens his eyes – truly, this time – to find himself resting on Gil's shoulder. His love is in elven sleep next to him, and Harry gradually lifts his head. The painted sky above is still a heavenly kaleidoscope of lights, but he can tell that dawn isn't all that far away. It's later than he normally rises by hours, but yesterday was the first they've ever slept apart, and Harry admittedly didn't want to get up or leave earlier. He lays there for several minutes, contemplating his options. Not wanting to attempt sleep again but growing more restless the longer he watches the constellations overhead.
Harry first thinks to venture to his winter garden. To rest amongst the ice and snow and just breathe in the frigid air, but Eönwë's already in the training courtyard. Or more fair to say, he likely never left there last night. He certainly didn't come to dinner even with Harry's invitation. Declining with a peculiar gleam to his eyes but a flutter of feathers that brushed Harry's shoulder.
It'll be good to spend time with his friend, Harry decides then. Besides, he already knows that he'll wake Gil if he remains here any longer, so he slips from their bed soundlessly. It's a futile effort, however. His elf must sense his intentions or be roused the cooling mattress beside him. He starts to stir around the time Harry's already half-way dressed, just straightening a forest green tunic but yet to don the smoke gray over-robe or to consider if shoes are really worth the effort. They're always laid beside whichever outfit Gil sets out for him each night. Harry rarely bothers though. Not now. Not here. Not in the castle at least.
In Formenos at large, no one really cares aside from the occasional Ñoldo. Half the Silvan and Avari don't bother with shoes either in the outskirts and some of Sindar go barefoot, too. The only Ainu who ever even notices is Eönwë when they're sparring, and that's mostly so he doesn't stab Harry in the foot again. His friend was most displeased when that happened, despite the fact that Harry healed almost instantaneously.
Gil blinks awake the same moment that Harry's locked in his eternal debate, but that's so quickly forgotten in the next seconds. His elf is enchanting in the starlight, ethereal and otherworldly as he glides from their bed like a spirit come to life. Harry can't help but stare at the vision that approaches him, feel his breath catch as hands slip over his sides and to his back. The kiss good morning is most certainly welcome. Almost enough for him to forget himself and his plans.
But his love undoubtedly has them figured out since he gives Harry a pointed look as he steps back, and Harry doesn't dare leave yet as Gil dresses quickly, practically magicking himself into the first thing that comes into reach in the wardrobe. He doesn't even braid his hair. Instead, he merely brushes it through in quick sweeps before deftly pocketing a comb and ties. He's back at Harry's side in minutes; Harry blinks at him. Since really, it isn't like they're in a rush.
Gil just offers him a soft look. He could use his bracelet, but he slides both arms around Harry's middle once again. Closes his eyes without even being asked, doesn't see the smile Harry gives him in return for his trust. They appear in the courtyard an instant later. Eönwë stands in the center, sword in hand as he fights a nonexistent army. He's facing the other direction, but straightaway, his song rises in greeting.
The courtyard is bathed in pale light from the half-moon, which gleams on the metal of Eönwë's white cuirass. The lanterns aren't lit though. A situation Harry swiftly corrects with a single snap, and soon, it's almost bright as any noonday. Eönwë approaches noiselessly, stops precisely two feet from Harry. Closer than any elf gets to the Ainur and the nearest most of them have seemingly deemed appropriate when Harry isn't alone. Unless they want the Eldar to gawk more than usual.
A pair of blue eyes now peer at him beneath bronze brows. Placid as a lake but waters too deep to fathom. Harry understands what he wants with him even asking. Which to be fair, Harry did leave Eönwë to his own devices most of the night. He isn't sure if the Maia was genuinely too uncomfortable to venture inside with all the elves around – especially the House of Fëanor. Or if he's simply been restless. Harry's his favorite sparring partner and factoring in his recent trip to Tirion, he hasn't really been around all that much lately. Even after returning home, they haven't truly crossed blades.
He casts a glance at Gil and summons both their armor. His directly on himself. Gil's set, he places on the bench by the near wall, and his elf gives a sniff with that display, but Harry sees the curl of his lips. Feels the pace of his rain increase in a pulse of anticipation. He moves off to ready himself while Harry and Eönwë remain in the center. Harry both does and doesn't see the point of a warm-up; it's mostly to appease his friend, but he follows along through basic forms to the advanced ones. Distantly aware that Gil intently observes them even after he's put on everything but his helm. His elf has settled onto the sidelines now, comb in hand. Eönwë glances at him before turning back, and there's a peculiar look on Gil's own face; it takes Harry a while to figure out the cause. It's only when he stands to join them, thanking Harry wordlessly for his spear, that the reason why is obvious. Especially when he asks them to repeat the last set again for him to watch closer.
These are different forms – katas really, though they don't call them that – than what Gil knows. Variations of the ones from his Ñoldor retainers in Endor but completely different from those he learned from his father, Círdan, so it's an interesting time for them as they start going through the comparisons. Eönwë is immediately intrigued, eager even. It occurs to Harry that they'll probably be questioning the Silvan and Avari members of his guard about this topic in the near future. There aren't any Falmari in the guard, though there are on his other staff, but Harry doesn't really know any Vanyar; Fingolfin and Finarfin undoubtedly would though
It's over an hour later, nearly two with dawn already on the horizon, that their talk starts to wind down. Harry expects Eönwë to request a spar then. After all, it's the main reason they came down to see him, but instead, his focus flicks from Gil to Harry and lingers. Blank as usual but with a speculative quality in the notes underneath. Harry sends him back a chord of inquiry.
"Your hair is unbraided," Eönwë points out in a complete non sequitur.
"Gil hasn't fixed it yet," he replies. More with confusion that anything else.
The Maia merely continues to study him. His eyes are still blue but have shifted to a lighter shade. Like a cloudless sky. Endless. Limitless.
Harry doesn't glance at Gil; he can sense the bemusement with just a hint of merriment from here. Eönwë will never ask, but it's quite obvious what he actually wants. It's just not something Harry expected from him until it was brought up the first time in Tirion. Now though...
"Would you care to do the honors then?"
Eönwë doesn't smile outwardly, but he brightens like another sun has been set in the sky. Before Harry can even conjure one, Gil hands over his comb, which he produces almost from thin air. Eönwë's expression doesn't change at all, but his aura has a drumbeat of surprise as he follows Harry to the sidelines. The stone bench is a comfortable enough distance from the wall for the Maia to remain behind him while Harry faces forward. He half-excepts Gil to stand in front, but he instead sits next to Harry, turned so their knees brush.
Eönwë's fingers are slow, almost hesitant at first. Not clumsy but more unsure. As if he worries about his own strength. Cautious with each movement. Careful and infinitely gentle. Touch tender and light. Song a soft feather that floats against the snow of Harry's soul. They're all quiet as Eönwë finishes the first braid, and Gil offers a tie that he passes directly over without a single word. Still observant as Eönwë moves slightly down to start the next. Normally, Gil hums or even sings as he does this, so Harry has to admit the whole situation is just a bit surreal. Even as Eönwë continues and his elf looks on much like the professor during a particularly difficulty potion.
"Interesting choice," Gil-galad finally comments as the second braid is finished, "but fitting."
"Yes," Eönwë acknowledges. "I have seen other Eldar of sufficient station wear similar."
"I suppose you also heard them whispering on why Mírimo doesn't have these," Gil suggests.
"Indeed," the Maia allows. He's now gone on to a third braid, still on Harry's right side. This one's set behind the others, but he's more confident now, firmer in his hold.
"Dare I ask what you're doing?" Harry at last chimes in.
Gil snickers then. "He gave you a mastery braid. One that says you have reached the highest level in your chosen craft. He joined that with another for an artist, and if I'm not mistaken the third is for a painter specifically."
It's only the fact that Eönwë is essentially holding him in place that keeps Harry from startling. Yes, he's a master healer and a Potions master... but for his painting? That started as a simple hobby and somehow took on a life of its own. In more ways than one.
"I'm not a master," Harry insists, and it's automatically.
A pause. Silence again from both of them. He knows without knowing that they're looking at each other though. A glance at his love confirms it.
"Mírimo," Gil says next and somehow doesn't laugh, but he sounds like he wants to, "no one who has seen your work would ever doubt that you're a master."
They'll have to agree to disagree on that one. Harry's taken classes. Has traveled all over Earth. But he's never apprenticed as an artist. Truthfully, for the most part, he's self-taught. His formal education was more to fill in the gaps. For the history, the name of techniques, or to make contacts. The majority of the rest, Harry figured out on his own through dusty books or good, old fashioned trial and error. He's never taken any students for this either.
His love sighs as if reading his thoughts. Or perhaps sensing the shape of them with the way frost is building a wall of denial inside him.
"You're a member of the guild here, are you not?" Gil asks like he doesn't already know.
Harry fights a sigh. He hates when they play this game.
"Well, yes... but--"
"You thought that they were just humoring you," his elf proposes.
"No, not quite, but it's my city," Harry explains, and it's so very reasonable. "So they had to let me join, didn't they?"
At least, they thought they did. The healer's guild, too. Harry never would've pushed the issue, but the Eldar were wide-eyed with astonishment when he asked. He had because it frankly sounded interesting. He was a member of several organizations on Earth, but those related to his fields of study were the ones he actually enjoyed. He liked talking with other members and learning of their projects. The conferences he tolerated, but he finds himself missing those at times, too. Missing the interaction and connections with people who share his interests. The guilds here are similar enough to be nostalgic. There isn't one for Potions specifically, but musicians have their own, and he's been by with Daeron. Harry likes to think he's a passable enough player to get in.
So yes, Harry is a guild member for the artists. Pays his dues the same as everyone else, despite their best efforts. And his reply here should be answer enough, but the betrayal comes from an unexpected source.
"The mural in the guildhall is your work, is it not?" Eönwë questions from behind him. Nearly forgotten for a moment.
Harry exhales slowly. A little stunned that his friend actually knew that. Has he been to the hall? Gone inside? Seen the fountain?
"It is, yes," Harry admits. Almost guiltily.
"I surmise that was a sufficient mastery test then," Eönwë states evenly enough, but his aura is radiant. Less light gleaming off a sword. More a halo. A corona of a star.
"Mural?"
Gil's far too interested in this now. Harry is a captive audience – literally in this case, as Eönwë is still actively holding part of his hair. Now on his left and working on the matching trio.
"It's…" Harry can feel the ebb and flow of the storm against him, and he reconsiders his words. "I suppose that I'll have to show you later."
"Yes." Gil chuckles. "Next time we're headed that way."
He's so pleased with himself as he says it. Like he's won a prize. His song shimmers into a rainbow. Red shifting all the way through to violet with his delight and echoing with his mirth.
"Perhaps we can even finally convince you to wear these," his love teases with a gesture to his temples. "Maybe you'll even place them yourself."
"Me?" Harry repeats, completely ignoring the first part of that statement. "I've only braided Indilwen's mane."
Gil stills. The laughter fades all at once. Leaving behind only the rumble of dark clouds on the horizon.
Behind him, Eönwë pauses. Hands tense and unmoving.
"No one else?" Gil questions, tone now low, a combination of perplexed and surprised.
"Who else would there be?" Harry returns. "No one ever asks me. This isn't something the Ainur usually do either." He gives a slight shrug, barely a twitch of his shoulders. "Besides, Nienna wears her hood, and Vairë always has her veil."
"No," Eönwë agrees as he uses a finger to gently smooth back several stray strands behind Harry's ear. "This is not one of our traditions."
The Maia's own hair is likely too short for it as it is. Not that it would matter with a shapeshifter. Though that would be an awkward ask.
Tulkas and Nessa probably don't have the patience necessary to sit still long enough for Harry to do a proper job of it. Not unless he used magic and that would defeat the purpose.
Oromë is the only one Harry's seen consistently have any braids, but Harry suspects that it's because Celegorm once wore those. Not out of a true want to have his hair in that fashion.
Hard to say what Námo, Irmo, and Estë would allow. Manwë wouldn't understand why Harry would offer at all, and it's unclear how much any of the others would either.
"I suppose, Miriel might let me," Harry muses after a few heartbeats of contemplation, "but she usually has her hair loose."
Out of the corner of his vision, Harry sees Gil staring without blinking. Watches his blue-gray eyes darken with some unknown emotion. Feels the thunder resound and catches the flash of lightning.
"No one else at all? Not even…" His voice drifts as he gazes off in thought "You never do your own hair," he realizes. But it's low, quiet and pensive. Almost lost beneath the noise of the growing tempest.
"No," Harry agrees. "It's rather hard to judge if I'm doing it correctly with only myself."
His elf goes completely soundless then. His eyes are nearly black clouds, and there's static where their knees touch. Even more when he reaches for Harry.
"Mírimo, I--"
"It doesn't matter," Harry interrupts before he can finish the rest of that statement, and he offers Gil a sincere smile. "I have you to do it for me know."
His elf closes his eyes for a several seconds before looking at him again. Eönwë is a silent sentinel behind them. Once again braiding but slower now. Movements even more deliberate.
"I had to learn all the guild braids as part of my education," Gil-galad tells him then. "There is one specifically for a master painter, but I can't say I have ever done it before."
There's a beat before Harry admits, "I don't know that one."
The hand that settles on his wrist is warm. Reassuring. Thumb running over his pulse.
"I'll teach it to you," his loves says, and it's less an offer and more a certainty.
Harry breathes for a moment allowing another smile. Fuller this time. Realer.
Káno tries, but there's only so much he can do when they can't see each other. Harry learns just by interacting with the elves in the city and seeing who wears what, but those for his craft specifically, he hasn't seen as far as he knows. There are few in Formenos who bother with that as their primary craft, most prefer it as secondary or even a hobby. Káno hasn't taught it to him either. Of course, Káno has never seen any of his work as far as Harry knows. Not unless Nienna brought smaller pieces to show him, but he's never asked Harry to send anything, not even a sketch.
Gil disrupts his thoughts, "There is another for the ruler of a community. You've earned that as well."
Harry snaps back to himself at that comment. Even more so as realization sinks in.
"Is that what you've been putting in my hair?"
It isn't an accusation. Not quite. But Harry can't fully contain the unease.
"No, Mírimo," his love denies mildly. He now takes Harry's hand in both of his. "I wouldn't do that without your permission."
Harry exhales slowly and offers a squeeze in apology. It's returned fully.
"What do mine say? When you do them?" he clarifies.
"You don't know?" His elf seems sounds surprised by this.
"I'd say that I know more than half of the time," Harry guesses with a little wiggle of his index fingers, "but not everything you used. The ones that say I'm a Ñoldo and even that I'm from Formenos; I know those quite well. The others for when we were courting and now that we're betrothed."
Gil inclines his head, but he hesitates then. He doesn't look away. Yet, there's a reluctance in his manner. In the fall of rain, which has softened from a torrent to a refreshing spring drizzle.
"I also use the one for the House of Finwë," he confesses.
Harry doesn't sigh because he already figured that had to be in there. It's naturally only for members or retainers of the House. He may as well have put out a sign declaring himself part of the family. Splendid.
His love has a guilty cast to his face at the look Harry gives him.
"There's also one that represents my personal House," Gil adds with another caress against his wrist. "In truth, this is the same braid that Círdan and Erestor use."
"I bet everyone loved that in Endor when they figured it out."
His elf lets out a snort. "Oh, they did. They could hardly contain their kind words."
Harry offers a laugh of his own. There's a flicker of puzzlement behind him as Eönwë quietly follows the conversation, but he doesn't say anything. Harry decides to let it go.
"None for the House of Fëanor?" he inquires instead.
"I admit that I don't actually know it." Gil merely shakes his head. "You will have to ask Nerdanel or one of your uncles to teach it to you."
Harry makes a noncommittal noise but doesn't give a true reply; he doesn't need to turn his head to listen. In fact, he still can't as Eönwë has yet to let go. Having now moved further back so that Harry can't quite tell what exactly he's doing anymore. Either way, Harry doesn't need to move to know that they have company incoming. He's felt them meet in the corridor and stop to converse with one another, but he hasn't cared enough to listen in. Now, both have finally appeared and linger in the shadows.
"Or perhaps Fëanor himself," Harry allows next; he flicks his eyes to the side.
Gil glances over his shoulder, and there's a lightning strike of surprise. Eönwë, in turn, slows slightly but continues on; drumbeat steady and unerring. Trumpet in the background but rising in volume as if calling out a warning.
Fëanor stands at the arched entrance to the courtyard. He's in a deep red today, Harry notes, almost the color of currants. Which means they've discovered the wardrobe of clothing Harry left for them at least; each piece magicked to fit perfectly on the first person who tries it on and to not appear as if it's changed size at all. He's learned his lesson on that part long ago when still on Earth, thanks so much.
Celebrían's beside and a half-step behind him. She's strangely enough in green today. A color that Harry rarely sees her wear. But her dress is graduate shades, hair done in a style that makes both of Gil-galad's brows rise.
Fëanor and Celebrían wear a similar expression, perplexed and just a tad unsure. Not identical but one that Harry's seen countless times before, and to be honest, he isn't particularly surprised by their staring. It's the usual look elves bear when one of the Ainur does something unexpected. And indeed, they seem to be fixated on Eönwë. Who finishes one last braid before finally glancing up.
"Fëanáro," he says blandly.
A tick.
"Eönwë." It's the quick, impersonal response.
No titles, Harry notices. He isn't sure if that's a good sign or a very bad one. It's quiet in the courtyard afterwards. Broken only by the sounds of the birds in the distance and the castle stirring, waking up for a new day.
Minutes pass by. Despite the greeting, Fëanor keeps staring. There's no burst of his legendary temple. No flare of flames. Or gnash of teeth. No, he honestly doesn't seem angry at all. More befuddled, bewildered than anything. Proverbial cat tail twisting behind him and ears twitching. Argent gaze fixated on the hand that Eönwë has shifted to rest on the junction between Harry's neck and his shoulder, pupils unnaturally large in the growing light as the sun crests over the parapets.
Eönwë, in turn, is stiff. Silent. Song draping over Harry like a feathery cloak. Fingers curling tighter the longer the moment drags on.
Celebrían dons a suspiciously neutral countenance. One Harry recognizes from himself when he's in an unknown situation and trying very hard not to draw attention.
Gil, bless him, comes in for the save.
"Good morning, Fëanáro, Celebrían. Fancy seeing you here."
They both blink in tandem. As if waking from a dream. She gives a small shake of her head. He takes a sharp breath before walking properly into the courtyard.
"Marcaunon," he says then, "your grandmother bid me to fetch you." He nods to the other elf "And you as well, Gil-galad."
A drumbeat. A flicker of fire. Both assessing from opposite sides. As a moonlit sky fills the backdrop and rain on snow sits in the middle.
Eönwë has no expression. Fëanor can't seem to decide which one to wear. Harry doesn't pinch his nose; he doesn't sigh. But it's far too early for this.
"Thank you," he replies with an up-curling of his lips, and Harry makes a split-second decision when he continues with, "Will you let her know that we'll be right there?"
Whiskers quiver. Fëanor inclines his head a second later. He goes from Harry to Gil to Eönwë and back. However, he leaves without another word. Celebrían casts them – him – another look. But she says nothing as she trails after her husband's grandfather.
Harry allows himself a long exhalation when they're all the way down the corridor and around the corner. Which is naturally the moment Eönwë moves from behind him to stand at his free side. Drum an unusual tempo. Not aggressive but almost agitated. Louder than normal and faster, too.
"You're not coming?"
Harry knows before he even asks. He isn't shocked by this, not really. Not after that. Not with as many elves here now. Eönwë is acquainted with the House of Finwë at least in passing, but he isn't social by nature. He doesn't even spend much time with other Ainur aside from Harry himself, Nienna, Ilmarë, or Tulkas and Oromë. And of course, Manwë and Varda. Occasionally, Vairë and Námo but less so.
The Maia doesn't shake his head, but there's a sense of loss even though he's yet to move away.
"Not today, no. I will leave you to your guests, but I shall visit you later, Marcaunon."
His eyes shift to amber as he looks at Harry, and there's a pause. Lingering. Filling the space between them. Beating in time like a heart.
In a softer timbre like a whisper, he adds, "Be safe."
He walks away before Harry can even reply.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The walk down the mountain side is enjoyable. It's a lovely spring day. Which to be fair, it's always a lovely spring day in Formenos. Even when it rains, the water is warm and purposeful. Usually brief cloud bursts in the afternoons with a subsequent rainbow or light precipitation that the children delight in dancing through. Fog is a rare treat, usually restricted to dawn-time, and snow is rarer still. Limited only to the occasions when Harry forgets himself.
This morning is especially beautiful. The mist rising from the base of the mountain has long burned off even this early, and there isn't a cloud in the azure sky. The view from the top feels like it goes forever. Harry can actually glimpse the edge of the summer ring in the far distance. Sees the eagles circling around their new nest in the east. Inara is a glittering, golden shimmer far above, and his love tracks her easily, but the others have to shade their eyes against the sunlight and still can't seem to puzzle out what exactly they're seeing.
Harry and Gil are out front while Fingolfin and Argon trail immediately behind followed by Celegorm while Fingon and Maedhros walk arm in arm at the end of the line. Harry still isn't quite sure how he's accumulated so many people on this venture, particularly when they weren't invited and merely chose to follow after breakfast. It's a minor miracle that more haven't come along, but Fëanor and Nerdanel opted to spend time with just themselves while their other sons explore the castle grounds, and Findis alongside the House of Finarfin make themselves scarce. Eönwë has wandered off as he's wont to do, taking to leaving immediately after dawn, and Harry has barely seen him in the last week since his return. He can feel the Maia in the greater area around Formenos itself but doesn't pry since he's free to do as he will without Harry looking over his shoulder.
It's only due to apparition that he made it down here the week before to speak with his staff in private and without a posse. However, Harry was not able to escape their notice this time, so it's an interesting procession that passes through the gates into the city itself and then into the municipal building. Gilmith is stationed at the main desk, situated so that she can both see the entrance and down the hallway; she looks up with a startled expression that quickly morphs to delighted when she notices Harry. Though she nearly does a double-take when Celegorm smiles at her, but she schools her features swiftly enough as she stands to offer a soft bow and personally escorts Harry to his office. Opening the double doors before he can even reach for the handle.
Laerien and Melpomaen are already inside as expected. They rise and offer their own bows that are far too excessive for Harry's tastes. Truth be both, they've both been subdued since their meeting. Quiet and contemplative but efficient as ever. Melpomaen comes closer promptly, stopping precisely four feet away as if awaiting orders. Standing on Harry's free side and farther from Gil. Laerien, meanwhile, follows at a more stately pace. Poised, impartial as she glances to his guests but still offering a regal nod.
"My king," Laerien greets with her hands folded behind her back. "Gil-galad. Guests."
Harry doesn't roll his eyes; Gil stifles a laugh next to him. The others are a mix of reactions but mostly interested. He can hazard some guesses why. There are Gilmith and Laerien, both seemingly Silvan. Two more they passed in the halfway, one Avar and another Sinda. Melpomaen is the only Ñoldo so far that they've seen. He does have a few Falmari as well. The only group of elves Harry doesn't have on staff is Vanyar. Inglor's mother is one, but he claims nothing of her people. The same for the other three individuals in his employ with mixed heritage.
He can feel the spark of curiosity from Fingolfin in particular. Argon's more intrigued by the mural that encompasses the entire room, stretching across all the walls, save where it's broken by the doors and windows. Fingon seems to be studying the general layout instead, while Maedhros takes in everything. Celegorm's attention drifts from Gilmith as she leaves to Laerien, but he mostly appears bored.
"My seneschal," Harry introduces then, "Laerien, and this is my assistant, Melpomaen."
He names off each of his companions in turn, and they don't stare at either Fëanorion; they're too polite for that. They even manage to maintain a genial air, likely in large part due to the fact that Celegorm has wandered to the balcony doors and further away. Maedhros, in turn, remains by his husband, somehow managing to make himself unobtrusive.
Still, Harry can hear the unease in their songs. The discordant notes that drift up like a black mist over their inner worlds. The clouds that cross Melpomaen's sun and the shadows in Laerien's woods. Of course, Melpomaen doesn't look at them, while Laerien watches them a tad too much. Harry isn't surprised when he barely has a chance to approach his own desk before his aide has stepped closer.
"Sire, we have the budget prepared for you. I can bring everything here," he murmurs, "but Gilmith has her papers in the sea room."
Harry somehow doesn't snort. Since really, he hoped that cleverer names would catch on. His eyes flick to his family, but he did come here to do actual work and not to entertain them. Laerien offers him a faint nod as he excuses himself from the room. Only, Gil follows after this time. Which isn't unwelcome.
They step across the hall; Melpomaen shuts the door behind them. Gil lets out a whistle as he catches a glimpse of the scene on the wall. Gaze following the flow of water and the fish at they dart around. Harry merely smiles as his assistant leads him to mid-sized stack of papers, on top is a summary in very familiar handwriting. Another chair is quickly set right next to his without Harry even having to ask. Melpomaen really is too much sometimes, Harry decides as he starts looking over each document, but he's soon lost in numbers. Math is the same across worlds, and this is a subject he's always done well in despite the Dursleys efforts. He may not have taken Arithmancy at Hogwarts, but he did study it later on his own for a variety of reasons. And admittedly, Muggles were far more advanced than magicals ever dreamed in this field anyway.
Harry idly makes corrections as he scans through the first page. There's only a few. Less than he did on prior attempts, which is always good sign. He reaches the bottom easily enough, and Gil tilts his head beside him. Actually glances at him as Harry flips to the next page.
Read. Nothing to change this time. Turn page. One small mistake a quarter-way through. Another page. Two errors this time. One simple. The other setting off a cascade effect that goes almost to the bottom of the page, but it's still simple enough to remedy.
Gil stares at him now, but Harry will get to him in a minute. It's easier if he does this uninterrupted. Just as math is genuinely unchanged; paperwork is the same across worlds, and they've fortunately set it up here for maximum efficiency since Laerien has no patience for flowery nonsense, and many of the others don't either.
Harry normally manages the city budget by himself with others handing him all their final accountings over for his review and approval, which is his actual task for today. Gilmith is his usual helper here, given her experience with her father's lands, with Melpomaen's occasional input. But Harry's been gone for so long – first with Tirion and then with… other things, so Melpomaen has picked up the slack in his absence while Laerien did other duties. For all his recent anger, Harry truly would be lost without them. Formenos would be a sinking ship without a paddle or a sail. A broomstick without bristles.
He knows that the city – not to mention the kingdom as a whole – is far too large for him to manage alone. He supposes that it's time to hire an actual accountant or three and make this a proper department. Especially with their growing revenue base, which has been split between various people to manage. He'll have to put out notice. Or do actual interviews for a position, which isn't something Harry has ever had to do in Valinor. Admittedly, it's a daunting thought since he isn't entirely certain how he would even verify qualifications aside from direct observation of tasks, but he wouldn't be able to check references outside of the city.
That's a problem for another day, however. As Harry has reached the end his stack. He looks up to see that Gil now watches him with a bemused expression. His elf lets out a little noise before he gives a small shake of his head. Much to Harry's surprise, his love leans forward to offer a soft press of lips.
"I don't know why I'm even surprised," Gil comments more to himself.
Harry blinks at him. That only earns him another kiss.
He's still quite nonplussed as Gil takes his hand and pulls them both to their feet. Melpomaen stands further away from the desk than earlier. His cheeks are very pink now; he's turned his head to the side. Inspects the seahorses on the wall like he's never seen them before. He doesn't make eye contact as he escorts them back to the main office, and he also doesn't follow them inside. They arrive to the tail-end of Laerien's speech to all newcomers. Gil's never heard it, but he undoubtedly will at some point. Most likely as a spectator since even Harry's retainers wouldn't dare give it to him in any other manner. Not now at least. Harry's heard it in passing but never in its entirety. Though he supposes that he really should at some point just in case.
Laerien stands in the center of the room, hands still clasped behind her. Fingolfin is closest with Argon on his left. Fingon and Maedhros are naturally together, further back, just beside Harry's desk. While Celegorm leans against the edge of the bay window, knee bent and foot resting against the wall.
Harry knows exactly which part they've walked in on. It's inevitable really that his family's found out about this. Better that they hear it here really. Before they start meandering around Formenos and someone brings it up. Since Harry knows they will. Somehow. Someway. Alongside other things Harry has very much failed to hide effectively.
Laerien pauses right as she gets to the most damning aspect. Her eyes flicker to Harry for the barest instant, and he inclines his head a scant few millimeters in allowance. It's part of her normal speech anyway. Nothing that they can't find out just talking to people in the city.
"Hunting rules?"
It's said with disbelief. Celegorm has a smirk that's rather skeptical but also mixed with hints of mischief and a little bit too much disdain. It's such an odd expression to see here and now – one that reminds him far too much a young Draco Malfoy before he encountered the harsh slap of the real world. It makes Harry hesitate several seconds, doubly so since he's used to another wearing this face. Someone who would never, ever, look at Laerien or any elf in such a manner. Oromë is many things – prideful, terrible in his anger, morose in his sadness – but he doesn't see any of the Eldar as lesser.
Laerien isn't amused by any of this.
"Don't shoot any black birds," she tells him strongly, fiercely. It's just this side of an order.
"No black birds?" Celegorm questions, and now, there's bewilderment melded with suspicion. Like a child being told that Yule is canceled and demanding to know why. This time, it's almost comical. Amusing even.
That doesn't last long though. Not when Laerien continues.
"Not the black ones," she confirms. "Better yet, please avoid any black animals just to be safe. Except the bears," she allows with a sniff. "Any of those are fine. Wolves are up to Inglor's discretion."
Everyone but Harry simply stares at her. Even Gil. There's a heartbeat. Another.
Then, Argon nods like he's had a sudden epiphany. Fingolfin simply laughs into his hand. Maedhros crosses his arms over his chest, stiff as a statue, while Celegorm buffs his fingernails on his collar. Fingon makes a sound without words, but it seems both tired and pained. Harry glances at him with concern, though he's as warm as ever. Curling just a bit tighter around Harry's shoulders. Gil-galad hasn't looked at him, but fingers are now around Harry's wrist. There's a distinct impression of amusement soaking in with each droplet.
Laerien merely observes them with her usual cool detachment. It's the same expression she wears when encountering particularly troublesome merchants, irritating artisans, or couriers who just cannot take a hint.
She continues, "No eagles either. No golden birds, especially if they look to be on fire. No foxes with more than one tail. Finally, no horses with a horn or wings. No matter how much like a skeleton or wraith they seem."
There's another pause. Longer this time. Silence stretching out to fill the room.
"That is an interesting list," Fingolfin finally says, and it's diplomatically. Exceedingly so.
Laerien arches a single brow at him. "Indeed, but an accurate one."
"I understand," Fingolfin replies. "This will not be a problem on our end."
"My thanks then," she permits, and it even sounds honest. Studying him for a long moment before she turns back to Harry. "Is there anything else I can do for you, my king?"
Harry fights a sigh. "I think that's enough," he manages. "Will you give us a few minutes?"
Laerien's answer is another bow before departing with a sweep of her robes. Another moment of quiet later, Celegorm wanders off in the opposite direction. Towards the front of the building and not-at-all heading for the desk Gilmith once again occupies. Harry did see her surprise earlier, likely due to his appearance and not for the reason Celegorm thinks, but he won't get very far with Harry's fellow peredhel at all. She disdains jewelry as the Silvan sometimes do, so Celegorm has no reason to suspect she's already married and her youngest grandson attends the school.
Nevertheless, there's an odd chill to the air as he watches Celegorm go, and he makes a mental note to not only be on the lookout whenever he's out flying but to warn the others just in case. Arrows will do little more than annoy Harry. Though truthfully, the same can be said for Inara. But others will be seriously harmed by them, and Harry won't tolerate that at all.
There's a chuckle to his right just then, and Harry turns his head to see all the rest staring at him. He's met by a variety of expressions. However, the prevailing emotion seems to be somewhere between resignation and entertainment.
"No black animals?" Fingon queries. He's moved much closer, almost but not quite invading Harry's personal space.
"Nephew, care to explain?" Fingolfin lets out a faint snort.
Even Gil studies him, a hand at his chin. "Mírimo?"
"Don't tell me that someone shot you?" Argon guesses with eerie accuracy.
Harry fights to keep the guilt from his face, but he isn't sure how successful he is when he sees Fingon's eyebrows go to this hairline. That's followed by Fingolfin laughing outright alongside his youngest. Gil just sighs. Maedhros remains behind all of them. Watching the exchange with an unreadable expression.
"It only happened the one time," Harry defends with a slight grimace at the memory.
Beleg was rather apologetic even. Mortified. Thoroughly so. No, he hadn't seen Harry shift back, but it wasn't that hard to guess when there was no crow and only an annoyed Harry with an arrow in hand. A suspiciously familiar arrow. The only thing that would've made the situation worse is if Harry apparated away right then. Instead, he dealt with a very remorseful elf and his hunting party trying to tend to him. Completely ignoring his assurances that he was in fact fine and did not need their help.
Now, Laerien has her list, and all newcomers are warned by both the guards and bulletins in the city. They don't directly mention Harry, but the implication is undoubtedly known by this point judging by all the things Laerien outright implied. Not to mention that Beleg's group didn't exactly keep the story quiet. And really is it any wonder that people in Formenos haven't figured out Harry isn't one of them? How the rest of Valinor doesn't know by this point is a minor miracle.
Harry truly is a terrible elf.
"What all can you turn into?" Argon asks next, and there's an eagerness to his voice that doesn't even subside when his brother moves to stare at him. "What? There was that owl at the estate. You know the one."
Fingon blankly regards his youngest sibling. Who shakes his head in something like mock-despair.
"You know, gorgeous bird. He has these glossy black feathers with just the faintest hint of white at the tips and amber eyes," Argon explains, and he waves his hand with excitement. "He was new in the last so many months and a species I'd never seen before. Only came out in the late evenings and at night. I never spotted him any other times, and Irissë and I searched for his nest but never found it."
Harry battles harder to keep his face indifferent, and he's reasonably sure that he succeeds. Only, Gil is becoming far too adept at reading him.
"Really, Mírimo?"
Argon has the look of a child when every present they've ever wanted is under the tree. He's practically rubbing his hands together before he abruptly points a finger at Harry.
"Forget going on the roof at night? You were flying off!" his cousin accuses. "No wonder we could never figure out where you were. Talk about a wild goose chase."
Fingolfin's forehead is slightly red from the force of containing his mirth. There's another chuckle at that statement.
"He might've literally turned into a goose, yonya."
That brings Argon up short. He blinks several times as that thought percolates through. The expression he gives then is one Harry has never seen an elf over the age of a hundred wear. Face slack and pupils dilated, like a despondent and lost mooncalf. He's over a full head taller but seems sadder and more pathetic the longer no one says anything.
Harry doesn't know if he should defend himself or put his head in hands.
"Well…" he begins. "Not a goose."
That doesn't seem to mollify Argon at all.
"I had no idea you were looking for me," Harry tries then. "At least, not as an owl.
His cousin rubs a hand over his face and lets out a noise that is half-groan, half-snort. Warm and inviting as always, but there are distinct chords of exasperation playing against humor with a twinge of embarrassment floating underneath.
"I'm sorry," Harry apologizes, though he isn't entirely certain what for in this case.
Argon, hand still over his face, steps in closer. Before Harry can even respond, an arm is slung over his shoulder and he's tucked into his cousin's side. He isn't sure what to make of this reaction honestly. Less so when Argon begins laughing quietly. A peek over at Gil-galad only shows a grin, while Fingolfin seems to have equally lost his mind like his youngest. Fingon mutters something that Harry can't hear, and he isn't sure is even for him. Only Maedhros still seems sensible. Expression bland.
"This is something you've always been able to do?" he inquires, noticing Harry's attention.
He's been quiet until this point. Sanely saying nothing. Observing the proceedings with sharp, silvery eyes that miss nothing and give away even less. His voice cuts through the room like a knife. Not menacing or harsh but very deliberate with his timbre and choice of words.
Argon has now gone very still next to him. Gil equally so on his other side. Fingolfin and even Fingon say nothing as Harry looks only at Maedhros. They already know; he may as well admit more.
"Since I was very young," he acknowledges softly.
In point of fact, he was barely eighteen the first time he shifted. Which by elven standards is little more than a toddler. A child definitely. Even by Harry's own reckoning, he was insanely young then.
"You can only turn into animals?" Maedhros questions with the same inflection, hair the color of fresh blood in the bright light of the windows.
Harry doesn't look away. Doesn't look at anyone else in the room. Even though they are the furthest from each other.
"I've not tried anything else," he admits with a lifted chin. "The first time wasn't intentional, but I learned how to control it."
Harry knows they want to ask him more, Argon and Gil especially, but Maedhros is the one he watches. Fëanor is a curious cat; his thoughts are easy to discern. But son isn't like father. His face is perfectly neutral, composure even better than Laerien's. Beneath deep waters there's a roil. A strain of low notes that resound all the way through to the lava underneath.
"What did you become?"
Only, it's Fingon who asks. As if trying to draw Harry's attention away. He allows it only because this is his uncle who is so kind to him.
"A bird."
He pauses as Argon's arm tightens. Gil isn't touching him, but precipitation falls steadily against frost and snow. Echoes in the same calming lull that sends him to sleep every night. He doesn't have to see the state of his inner world to know that his cupboard still has a fire cheerily blazing in the hearth, cozier than ever with blankets and fluffy pillows.
Harry exhales. It's in time to a chorus of melodies flowing together in his mind.
"Things that fly are easy," he explains. It's both terrifying and liberating to admit. To stop pretending, even if it's only this little bit. "Birds are best of all. I didn't really have to work for those, but everything else I actually had to learn."
They digest that quicker than Harry would prefer, but it's better than awkward silence, he supposes. Better than any other reaction he could hope for really. Especially when he keeps dropping these kind of revelations on them. The fact that there are more has probably occurred to them by this point, but Harry is steadfastly not going there today.
It doesn't seem Fingon or anyone else wants to either since everybody universally decides that the conversation is over at this point. Well, almost everyone.
Argon has one final question as he turns Harry and puts both hands on his shoulders.
"So you'll show me later, right?" his cousin asks. At Harry's puzzled expression, Argon clarifies with a wide, almost manic grin, "You know, the owl? The other forms?"
All Harry can do is gawk at him. Keep gawking like he's grown another head. Maybe a few arms and a leg or two.
Fingolfin lets out a bark of laughter a few seconds later. Gil just sighs, while Fingon groans. Maedhros is wisely silent.
Naturally, that's the exact moment Celegorm wanders back into the room.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry is the first to hold him. He's cleaned up the best he can with a literal newborn in his arms, while surveying his surroundings like a battlefield. A conjured blanket and wordless spells he remembers from his apprentice days tell him what his instincts already know. That aside from the early arrival, everything is perfect. Veela are hardy if volatile by nature, and each charm is for his own reassurance and the infant's comfort more than anything.
Victoire is all smiles despite her tears. Which are from happiness more than anything even as she turns to revive her husband. Teddy – hardened Auror – lies passed out on the floor. Having landed there sometime ago. He's not injured. More overwrought and overexcited at the arrival of his firstborn.
They all expected more time. Victoire wanted a home-birth with her mother. Surrounded by her maternal family as they've done for thousands of years.
Instead, Harry received a frantic fire-call at two in the morning because Bill and Fleur were on the continent, and Teddy panicked. He didn't even think to reach out to his own grandmother, Andromeda. Called Harry – and only Harry. They never thought things would go so swiftly. Especially with a first child, but Émeric is too eager to greet the world to wait another measly month. Much less any longer than an hour once he decided it was time.
And now, he rests in Harry's hold. Blue eyes open and looking straight up in wonder. Hair dark brown tufts that stick out in all directions. It's allegedly too early to know if he'll be a metamorphmagus like his father, but Harry can hear the familiar timbre of it in his magic. Like a jazz ensemble playing on the radio in the background. So he thinks the answer will be a resounding, yes.
It's strange holding a child so young, Harry decides as he bundles Émeric just a bit tighter. Teddy, he met several months after he was born. Even Hugh and Rose, he didn't get to see for hours afterwards as he wasn't Hermione's healer. Rose was born around dawn, so Harry met her at lunch that same day. But Hugh came after midnight, and Hermione had complications, so Harry didn't get to see either of them until late afternoon. Only immediate family was allowed in earlier.
This is different. More intimate. Harry certainly feels like he's intruding as he gently slides her son into Victoire's awaiting arms. He checks on Teddy then, who's now sitting on the bed next to them. Dazed expression rapidly being replaced with awe.
Afterwards, once Harry's cleansed everything in the entire room. Made mother and child as comfortable as magically manageable. Confirmed again that Teddy is indeed functional. Harry stands awkwardly to the side. That feeling only intensifies when Victoire starts singing to her son. More so when Teddy joins her.
The hymn is beautiful. Both haunting and welcoming. Mesmerizing as she rests a hand on her son's cheek. Teddy slips an arm around her waist and sets his chin on her shoulder. They look so happy in that moment. So complete. Perfectly in love with each other and their son.
It's a private time; Harry knows he should leave. Already planning to do so as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.
But Victoire looks up then. Her hymn stops abruptly. Almost like a record scratch and then static.
"Don't go," she says as if knowing exactly what he intends. "Stay here. Join us, Harry."
It's half-pleading, half-command. She's gone from elated to sorrowful in an instant.
Teddy's right beside her in more ways than one. Both of them gaze at him like this is some sort of personal betrayal. Like he's insulted their entire line, set their house ablaze, and stolen their chocolate frog collection simultaneously.
"You can't be thinking of leaving. We need you here!" Teddy all but declares. Hair going from turquoise to Weasley red and now raven black.
Harry falters. "I--"
"You have to stay!" Victoire insists. "We haven't even finished the song! It's for parents," she tells him, and her blue eyes are full of fire, of lights that aren't at all present in the room.
Her mouth works soundlessly for a moment then; she seems like there's far more she wants to says. Indeed, the next part is both devastating and joyous.
"And grandparents," she adds. "It's also for grandparents."
Her chin lifts as she issues that proclamation. That damnation. Her hair is a mess of blonde, sweaty tangles, but she's a regal queen on her throne of pillows. Son swaddled in her arms as she glares down at the lowly supplicant before her.
"For family," Teddy agrees completely, and he looks at Harry directly even as he does. Eyes now a familiar shade of green.
Complete silence. Broken only by Émeric's coos. And the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.
"Sit in the chair, Harry," Teddy orders when the minutes stretch on and he doesn't say anything in response.
It isn't voice of an Auror, however. It also isn't a godson's tone either. It's something else. Something more. Connection one that Harry promised he wouldn't steal from Remus or Tonks. Or Andy. And he won't.
He won't.
But they aren't here. And the first two never will be.
Harry obeys without any argument. Slowly eases into the chair at the beside, the one he originally conjured for Teddy barely an hour ago. Both of them smile as he settles. Wait to restart their hymn until they're certain he's ready. It's slower than before but building as Harry tentatively joins in. As the magic of family and home and new life swirls and flows. Dances and soars on wings of silver into the night sky.
He laughs with the joy of it even as Victoire and Teddy both cry.
The shore is usually temperate, and it's only the first week of October. It's still too early. Far too warm, but outside, it's snowing .
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fëanor – Sits uncharacteristically silent and staring off at nothing.
Also!Fëanor – To himself. I was put back together wrong. That has to be it.
Everyone – Studiously trying not to stare. Fails at that.
Nerdanel – Concerned. Husband, whatever do you mean?
Fëanor – My lovely wife, I fear that I may need more time in Mandos.
Nerdanel – ... ...
Fingolfin – Whispering aside. We should tell him.
Finarfin – Also whispering. Yes, it's the right thing to do.
Both – Glance at each other. Deciding which of them it'll be.
Findis – Sighs tiredly. Rolls her eyes. Brother, you aren't any crazier than usual.
Fëanor - ( ب_ب )
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon – Stars in his eyes. This is the best day ever!
Fingon – Brother, we can approach this like reasonable adults.
Argon – Not listening at all. He can turn into any animal. What about a horse? No, no, a wolf! Oh, I know. A dog!
Fingolfin – Son, I'm sure Herurrívë appreciates your enthusiasm.
Argon – Did he really mean any bird? Like all of them? Sudden realization. He could be a giant eagle; he could take me on rides!
Maedhros – It's no use. He's lost to us.
The Other Two – Nod in agreement.
Argon – I wonder if… Rubs hands together gleefully while mumbling incoherently to himself.
Celegorm – Wanders back over. What in Aman is going on in here?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fingolfin – Filling in his youngest (and closest) sibling on what he just learned.
Finarfin – Rubbing his temples. I can tell there's more.
Fingolfin – Nods reluctantly. Herurrívë said this has been going on since he was very young.
Both – Considering the implications of that statement.
Fingolfin – Imaging his nephew as a toddler turning into a bird and becoming stuck that way.
Finarfin – Imaging Maglor chasing after a bird as it flies away and never seeing him again.
Both – Now staring at each other in abject horror.
Notes:
AN: So I'll be on holiday and won't work on this story while I'm gone but will still answer comments/reviews. The next chapter will be about mid-December, but I wanted this one up early as an apology.
Also, Maedhros was totally thinking of Elwing here. And yeah, a shapeshifting toddler who can fly is any parent's nightmare.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 23: Chapter 23
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione's hair is gray. It's a starling realization. Intellectually, Harry has noticed this before. Has watched the slow transition over time. The creeping loss of brown as gray seeps in, gradually surpasses, and now has totally replaced any other hue. It's only now that he admits it to himself even in the safety of his own mind. That he acknowledges the implications.
Ron, of course, is completely white. His hair is thinning, yes. Not balding as his father did. As Charlie and George are now. He's slimmer than he once was. Than when he played Quidditch at school or on weekends with his son and daughter. Than when he still chased after criminals and didn't just man a desk at the ministry. Admittedly, it's a very impressive desk nowadays. Certainly so as the Minister, thrice-elected. Before that, he was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for decades and Head Auror even earlier than that.
And Hermione was Minister before him. Then, the Chief Warlock. Now the Mugwump.
But looking now, Harry can't quite view them as he once did. Not as the proud, strong adults. Surely not as the bright-eyed and daring teens he remembers so fondly. Now, he can't overlook the truth staring him in the face. The reality that demands for him to take notice. That all but screams at him to admit what he's known deep down for years.
Harry sighs just as the waiter brings their order, but that isn't even a distraction. Barely buys him any time as cups and the teapot are set down in front of them along with cream and sugar. The air is warm, pleasant with the breeze. They're shaded beneath the striped umbrella that rises from the center of their table. Ron and Hermione sit across from him. Spaced evenly so it's less like an intervention and more like three equal sides of a triangle.
And isn't that the story of his life? Harry, Ron, and Hermione. First the hero with his accomplices. Then, the rising stars of the magical world. Forever the three of them. Together on equal footing. It's only later that he felt like the third seeker in a match. The tag-along. The extra. Always there in the background. Forever in the wings.
They've never seemed to mind, however. Never asked him to go away. Never tried to leave him behind. Not until now.
Harry supposes he isn't surprised. He's known it's coming. Even if he didn't want to admit it. Noticed the reluctance in recent years. The prodding Ron needed to run for reelection. The way even Hermione's shoulders sagged when she returned from meetings. The gazes that strayed to windows and pictures and away from paperwork more than it did previously.
No, Harry truly can't say he's surprised at all.
"We're retiring," Hermione states as she stirs milk into her teacup.
No matter how much time has passed she still sounds exactly as she did at eleven. Maturer to be certain. Less bossy and more self-assured. The tone is the same though. Collected. Factual. Clinical almost. Like she swallowed a textbook.
She quietly sets down her spoon as that settles in. Lifting and holding her cup with a simple elegance that she certainly didn't have as a first-year. Not even as a prefect. No, only time and temperance earned from war and then smaller battles of words and wits. A lifetime of politics and fighting with more than her wand.
She's stately. Regal. None of the Muggles have a monarchy anymore, but she certainly reminds Harry of that with her manner. Brings to mind other ladies he's known over the years. Minerva McGonagall. Narcissa and Andromeda. More recently Victoire and her daughters. There's an undercurrent though, even as she reaches for a scone. A vague tightening around her mouth. The ever-so-slight tension to her neck. If Harry didn't know her so well, he likely wouldn't see it.
"Retiring?" he repeats, and it's phrased as a question, but it's more of a clarification. A confirmation."Both of you?"
"Both of us, mate," Ron agrees instead. His eyes are still a clear blue, but his brows are pure white. "We've decided that it's time. Past time, really."
He gives a solemn nod then. One that couldn't be any different than the boy Harry first met on the train to school, but it's in line with the man he's become. Decisive. Contained. Commanding. Where his wife has a queenly air, Ron unquestionably reminds him of a knight. Brave to the point of foolishness in true Gryffindor fashion but staunchly against evil. Forthright in his thoughts and opinions. And of course, devoted to his lady and family. Can't forget that last part.
"When?" Harry asks slowly, drawing out the word.
Since really, what else can he do? This sounds like a done deal. Less like a work in progress and more like fait accompli. It's good of them to tell him at least.
"Well, Ron isn't running again," Hermione informs him with a motion to her husband. "He'll finish up the last of his term."
So the end of the year then. That's not much time at all in the scheme of things. How long have they been planning this?
Ron continues without missing a beat, "Her session is done in August, and this'll be the final one for her."
His smile is genuine, relaxed. Face the same one Harry has known so long, but there's something brittle about him the longer Harry looks. Something not quite hale. It's not illness; Harry would know if it were, but there's something else. Like a dented shield that's been overused. A sword exposed to the elements too long. Metal left out to rust.
To be honest, it's not just Ron. Hermione too is much the same way. There's a frail quality to both of them even as they look at each other and even Harry with such affection. Like a dried flower pressed between the pages of an old book. Preserved but delicate. Liable to flake away with the slightest bit of pressure.
Harry lets out a breath. His tea is steadily cooling in his cup, but he hasn't even tasted it yet. Has no appetite for it now.
"You've been thinking about this for some time, I take it."
He isn't accusing. Merely matter-of-fact. Wondering how long he's missed the signs. How long they were talking about this without his input. Without him.
"We don't want you to think we were leaving you out," Ron responds, and it's immediate. Knee bumping Harry's beneath the table even as Hermione reaches out to take his hand.
"We've brought it up to each other before," she acknowledges, "but only as a passing fancy. Now though, things started aligning, and we thought..."
Her hands are thin in his. Wrinkled. Fingers slender enough that he knows she's had to resize her wedding band yet again to keep it from slipping off. The skin is pale, blue veins standing out in stark contrast. She used to tan in the summers, he recalls, but he supposes it's hard to do that when one's always indoors and works all the time. Hard to do much of anything.
They don't get summers off like Harry does, which is both a blessing and curse in disguise. He has time to himself, yes. But everyone knows that he's available, and he doesn't have the handy excuse of the school to dissuade them from wanting something. He's forever had a terrible time saying no when faced with someone in need or coupled with a sad, sob story.
Ron and Hermione have never had the illusion of free-time though. They've always worked. Even when their children were small. Sometimes losing nights and weekends. Missing holidays and birthdays. Everyone understands why, but that's time they can't get back. Harry missed so much when the Muggle world died. He was on the front-lines, so to speak, but it's easy to forget that Ron and Hermione were in the background, doing just as much from there.
Her hand tightens around his as if sensing Harry's thoughts. Ron simply smiles at him again, but it's a sad thing. Resigned. Weary.
"We're tired, Harry," Ron tells him then.
His voice has a quality that Harry's never heard before. Has a weight and timbre to it that makes him pause. Makes him take a breath and just look at them.
They both seem so… worn. Tired. Old.
They both seem old.
His heart clenches at that admission. Beats painfully in his chest. Hard and fast. The Peverell signet sets heavy on his free hand. Weighted and cold.
Harry has silver at his temples and stray strands here. There. But otherwise, his hair is black as raven wings and just as full. A few lines but not nearly as many as Ron or Hermione. Not as many as he should. Yes, he's noticed this before. Has recognized that he's aging slowly. It's the magic; his power level makes him live longer. It's just how things are.
Had Dumbledore not tried the ring and then everything else, he easily could've lived for decades more. Tom Riddle possibly could've made it to two centuries even without any additional means. Just on his original magic alone, he was that strong. Harry hasn't ever wanted to consider what that means for him. Not really.
He breathes out. Several times.
It's a beautiful spring day. The Muggle side is blossoming once again. Recovering as best it can from all the devastation. People are talking in the cafe around them, cheerful as they stroll down the sidewalks. Children play and laugh in the park nearby. There's even the bark of a dog and a church bell tolling. Despite the whispers behind closed doors on the state of their world, there's ostensibly peace.
Everyone's enjoying their lives. Enjoying their weekend without a single care. Mothers with their toddlers. Siblings. Couples. All out together. Harry knows what they must see when they look at their table, however. Not Harry and his two friends. Schoolmates out for an afternoon. No, he looks like an adult son with his elderly parents. And Harry doesn't know which part is worse. The fact that he realizes this. Or that Ron and Hermione do, too.
He looks up then to see Ron watching him. Eyes still just as Auror-keen and observant. All too wise to Harry.
"I know you hate saying it," Ron comments, "but I'll say it for you." He rests both arms on the table in a deceptively relaxed pose, but his words are sharp as ever."You know that you're more powerful than both us. Than anyone in Britain, but we're not you. We're old, Harry. We don't want to do this anymore."
He holds up a single finger before Harry can even begin to form a retort. He's the same Ron as he always is, has always been. But all Harry can see is the faint tremor before he sets his hand back down.
"Let me finish," Ron requests, but it's more of a gentle order. A polite command."Harry, you know that we've all given a lot of time and effort. But it's too much for us now, for Hermione and me." He presses his palms flat on the tabletop. "For once, we want to be a little selfish. We want to sleep in and have our hobbies and not have to argue with department heads or other ministers. We want to see the newest generation of our family grow-up in the way that we never got to see with their parents or even grandparents."
"We were always so busy; we missed so much," Hermione chimes in. Her voice is wet with the tears she hasn't shed. "We know that you still love being the headmaster, so don't think for a minute about giving that up yet. Enjoy it for a while longer… but we want to rest. We want to do something different."
Harry swallows. Once. Twice. But the lump in his throat won't go away. It's hard. Dense. Impossible to pass even as the seconds tick by.
"You've more than earned it," Harry manages after a moment.
He means it. He does.
But there's a sense of finality in the air. Of doors closing and nothing opening in their place. Of endings without new beginnings. Of time slipping away. Of sand falling through his grasp until nothing is left.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Caranthir finds him the great hall. The House of Fëanor has all been lurking around, and truth be told, Harry's been expecting an ambush for sometime, he just wasn't sure which one would be the first. Fëanor himself. One of his sons perhaps. Technically Fingon now. Nerdanel both does and doesn't count at this point since she has no real reason to accost Harry and usually knows how to find him anyway. He thought perhaps Maedhros. The eldest and ostensibly leader – even more than their father. Especially after he accompanied everyone to the city earlier in the week. Definitely after learning more of Harry's abilities. And yet, the redhead was at mealtimes and there in passing, but he hasn't sought Harry out.
Not yet anyway.
Instead, it's Caranthir. The middle son.
Harry's spoken to him several times now. Light conversations at meals. Benign topics. Nothing deep or truly meaningful. And yet, Harry's been approached by him more than anyone else in the House outside of Fingon and Nerdanel. He doesn't know what to think about that. Isn't sure if there's a particular meaning behind it. Or if that's simply how Caranthir is.
His main source of information is hardy unbiased, and Káno's even more reluctant to talk about any of them since their arrival. In fact, he's stubbornly silent on the matter whenever Harry brings them up. Even now, his harp remains quiet as it rests on the grass by Harry's knee. Occupying the empty space between him and his easel. Káno himself has drifted off to sleep by the feel of it, but he was giving an actual rebuke before that. A stern reprimand about watching his back – and his front and his sides – with Fëanor and his sons around. It'd almost be amusing if it weren't so frustrating. Harry hardly needs a lecture about minding himself from someone who wandered the wild shores of Endor unarmed and alone for millennia.
Harry's still rolling his eyes over that when he feels Caranthir wake and start meandering through the castle. Looking back, he usually seems to be the first of the elves to rise. Even before Nerdanel half of the time. His search seems systematic today though. Stopping at all the expected spots. The guest kitchen and dinning room. Harry's own kitchen. The entrance hall and front parlors. Wandering ever closer until Harry senses his footsteps come up the double-doors just behind him. He pauses then, as if debating with himself.
Harry lets him. Allows him to linger there and turns back to his art. Or lack thereof. He stares at the blank canvas in front of him as he has practically all night, but inspiration is a distant thing. Wispy and intangible. Hovering at the edges. Beyond his grasp. He's been too distracted, disjointed tonight to focus.
Harry gives a disgusted sigh and leans back on the grass. It's soft beneath his hands, green and vibrant as always. It isn't often he chooses to paint in the great hall anymore. Once, he'd sit here for hours with Káno and Indilwen, but that seems so long ago. Káno obviously isn't returning anytime soon, and it's still too early for Indilwen to have roamed this far. Himiko is beside him though. Having fallen asleep on the grass earlier in the night, which was some time between Káno's lecture on safety and refusal to speak anymore about Fëanor. Even now, she's curled up in a ball of reddish orange fur. Trying her best to become a circle of foxtails with just a single ear peeking out.
His gaze shifts from her on upwards to the painted starlight. Sometimes, he likes to come here for the ceiling alone. It reminds him of Hogwarts. Of his first home. Of other places and people. It's as bitter as it is sweet. A deep ache that Nienna's words, Káno's melodies, and Gil's understanding just can't seem to reach.
It's easy to think here. Easy to distance himself from both the past and the present. It reminds him of what was, but it isn't a replica. There are no house tables. No podium. No raised dais for the professors to dine on. Just a lovely meadow with a beautiful sky overhead. If one didn't know better, they'd never even realize it was crafted.
Maybe the real reason he's here is for some perspective. Some insight. Admittedly, that was the main reason he spoke with Káno earlier, but their conversation veered off course like a train heading the wrong way and never got back on track. Harry didn't even get to mention the topic he really wanted to address.
It's a silly thing. Truly. Just a dream. They're all just dreams. He's had plenty of those before. Centuries of them even.
But this felt different. Felt heavier. Weighted. Tangible in the way that his visions or visits or what-have-yous with his peredhel guest are. Those aren't the same, however. This is something else.
Tonight… Last night – as he has for the past several nights – there was a man. Small. Short. But not a child. With wild, curly hair. Bare feet.
A Hobbit, his mind whispers from everywhere and nowhere. And he knows it to be true.
A glowing blue sword. Face full of determination.
There's something about him though. Something else he carries, but Harry can't quite decide what. Something hidden. A maleficence. A malevolence. A sinister shadow that twists and writhes. A foreboding that stretches out behind him. A prescience. Another person present who Harry can't see clearly.
It reminds him of other dreams. Ones he had in another castle a world and lifetime away. But those he felt like he was living at times, acting out even. This is more like watching. More like the Pensieve. A memory instead of a dream. Or a dream that could become a memory. Something that hasn't happened. Something that never happened, not yet. Harry isn't sure it ever will. He's studied Divination; of course, he has. He's a child of prophecy. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Man-Who-Conquered. Dying but waking again and again. Harry poured over every book, scrap of parchment, scroll fragment he could find that even vaguely hinted at such things. Most were speculation at best. Flights of fancy at worst. Fiction mixed with whispers shaded with suggestions. Divination was the only common theme.
Harry can't say future-sight is ever something he attempted purposefully outside of class. Scrying in the present, yes. For the here and now. His previous true-dreams were from his connection to Tom, and those stopped with his death and the loss of the horcrux.
But now… now, why would he dream again? He doesn't carry any shards of Tom Riddle these days. Hasn't done so for ages. Besides, this is a different land entirely. What ties does he have to make him see these things?
The door to the great hall opens slowly behind him then. The sound is muffled by the grass, but he can feel the displacement of the air. Senses more than sees Caranthir step through. Hears him take a sudden, sharp breath. A shocked inhalation.
It's silent afterwards. Almost unnaturally so. Even the typical Eldar aura is quiet, and Harry belatedly glances over his shoulder. The distance between them isn't honestly that much, and his sight is more than enough to note that Caranthir's eyes are large, astonished. Staring steadily overhead.
The clouds are few and do little more than frame the stars as they slowly float by. The constellations themselves twinkle merrily, while the eastern part of the room gradually lightens in color. The mountains visible through the windows just below the ceiling are snow-capped, and Harry idly wonders if Caranthir will even recognize that those are also paintings.
Finally, after several long minutes, the elf lets out a low whistle, almost like the call of a startled bird. It's just as he turns his attention to Harry. Their gazes meet with a tingle of acknowledgment.
"Nephew," he greets, voice deep but carrying across the space between them.
"You're up early," Harry replies.
His statement is all the invitation the elf needs to come closer. Steadily. Not necessarily sedately. Moving with purpose as Harry casually looks back to the canvas in front of him, but it's just as blank as it was an hour ago. And an hour before that.
"I've always been an early riser," Caranthir comments, walking through the grass, booted footsteps unsurprisingly soft. "Most of us in the family are, but your father's the notable exception. He usually stays up all hours and is just going to bed around the time I get up."
Harry makes a noncommittal noise in response, but Caranthir doesn't seem the least bit deterred when he comes to a stop on Harry's free side. Himiko is on Harry's right. Ear perking at the sound of their visitor and head shifting so that a single golden eye is visible, but she otherwise doesn't move. There aren't any chairs here. Harry usually conjures himself and any guests something. Or does as he is now, simply sits on the grass with his easel in front. But while the elves are learning more about his magic, he isn't quite comfortable enough for such a display. Not yet. Fortunately, Caranthir spares him from that dilemma when he drops down to settle in next to Harry.
It puts him uncomfortably close to Káno's harp though, which Harry didn't even think to move or hide. He's gotten sloppy, a fact Harry mentally chides himself over. He's grown far too at ease with having elves around. Much less his new guests. Once, not so terribly long ago, he barely even let some of the Ainur come near to it. And now, he has an almost-stranger within touching distance if he dares lean forward and reach out.
Caranthir, however, merely glances at the harp for a scant second before his eyes flick away. Turning his head to study the walls and windows.
"A rather interesting space you have here," he states as his attention flits around. "This is your work?"
It's phrased as a question, but he gestures widely to encompass the entire room. Ceiling and floor both. It's a strange motion. Nonchalant and somehow intrigued. As if he's eager to know more but isn't sure his welcome. Or as if Caranthir's fishing for something, but Harry can't quite tell what. He decides to indulge anyway. He may as well be honest at this point; it isn't like this is a secret.
"This was one of the first things I made here in Formenos," Harry returns evenly.
The elf lets out a little snort then, and his mouth gradually curves upwards when he looks back at Harry. His eyes are black and shining in the starlight.
"Atar will be quite beside himself when he sees this."
Harry blinks at that comment, which only earns him another snicker.
"He's seen my art before," Harry reminds him.
It isn't like that's hidden. Nerdanel's room has her mural. And that are a number of others scattered around along with portraits and paintings and mosaics and frescos and anything else that Harry felt like making at one point or another. He knows for a fact that the elves have been investigating those. Argon, Finrod, and Angrod in particular seem to be rambling around the castle in search of his artwork like they're on a safari.
Caranthir lifts an eyebrow at him in response. Still studying him, clearly taking note of the now mysteriously absent harp. Which disappeared when his head was turned away, but he doesn't remark on that.
"I saw the armor in the entrance way," the elf says instead. "Is that yours as well?"
It was, but probably not in the way that Caranthir thinks. It wasn't conjured. Harry actually sung that into existence under the supervision of Eönwë. Even the enhancements on it were done much the same way. A challenge his Maia friend issued and Harry accepted.
"That was a… trial project," Harry deflects. "An experiment. I was trying different techniques."
His companion keeps gazing at him. Expression somewhere between vaguely inquisitive and politely neutral. It's the usual look the elves give him when he does something strange, but there's an undercurrent in Caranthir's aura, a flare of fire under the trees. It's an emotion Harry can't fully discern and certainly one the Eldar don't typically have when he's around.
"You made everything in the castle then?" Caranthir asks next. Tone even. Perfectly casual.
And it's the question Harry knew was coming. He isn't surprised by it at all. He's already admitted it before. To Gil. To Nerdanel. To the entire House of Finwë. It's actually starting to be easier now.
"Most everything," Harry affirms after a brief second of hesitation. "There are a few things here and there that I was gifted or bought, but almost everything in the newer parts I made."
The elf is quiet for a long moment. Digesting this. But he doesn't look away. No, he observes Harry's face the entire time. Watches every minute change. Not challenging but studying. Searching his eyes as if willing Harry not to looking away.
"He'd be very proud, you know," Caranthir tells Harry, and his expression is soft, gentle in a way that makes him look far too much like Míriel. "He will be very proud to see this," the elf corrects. "Your father… He'll be proud of everything you have accomplished here."
Harry lets out a breath that is only the faintest bit shaky at those words. It's odd to hear them. Even odder to be comforted by them. He isn't a boy. Isn't a child. Hasn't been in so long. He doesn't need anyone's approval. He doesn't.
And yet...
"My father has never seen any of my artwork," Harry admits, and he doesn't even know why he says it.
Caranthir exhales. It's slowly and to the count of seven; his aura is warm as it brushes against Harry. Embers burning and bright. He doesn't offer platitudes or condolences or any empty words at all. He simply puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and leaves it there. He doesn't say anything else for the rest of the time they sit together.
It's only later, after Gil fetches them for breakfast and they're already walking away from the great hall, that Harry realizes he wasn't even thinking of James Potter.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Mandos is strange.
Harry doesn't know any other way to describe it. He's been many places. Traveled Earth and traversed every continent and each ocean. Seen the highest mountains. The deepest valleys. Deserts. Tundras. Rain forests. Savannas. Been miles underground in goblin caverns and visited all the hidden magical cities.
Mandos isn't like any of them.
He doesn't know if he's inside. Belowground. If this is a different world. A new plane of existence. A vivid dream. An outright hallucination. A dying delusion. Some combination thereof.
He hasn't tried leaving; he realistically doesn't have anywhere else to go. He isn't sure what's outside. If there really is an outside. He supposes that there is. That there must be. That if he took a blind apparition jump out he wouldn't just float off in the ether for the rest of forever. That he'd end up somewhere.
Of course, that's assuming that he can even leave. That this isn't some type of purgatory and he just thinks that he's corporal. He can't be sure at this point of anything. Can't be certain if he's truly alive. Or actually dead.
He thinks he's alive. He feels like he's alive. Breathes. Sleeps. Can even eat and drink. But those are strange, too. Less like necessities and more like indulgences. Like whims. Things he does because he wishes and not because his body demands it.
He hasn't tried going without. To be honest, Harry isn't sure his new acquaintances… friends… jailers… hosts… whatever they are… Harry isn't sure they'd allow him to go without food or water even as an experiment. They certainly wouldn't approve; he knows enough of them to recognize that. Whatever force – person – that brought him here has told them far too much about him. More than Harry himself likely ever would've for a very long time, but no use crying over spilled potions. The truth is out there now, and admittedly, it's a little refreshing not to have to pretend.
Still, it's an adjustment. Just like everything else.
Their level of interest, of attention certainly is. No one has paid this much mind to him in centuries. Has asked about his likes and dislikes. Has shown such genuine interest and wanted absolutely nothing in return.
Perhaps that's the most unsettling thing of all.
The Ainur are always there. Helpful. Happy to see him. Eager to indulge his whimsies or even just to visit. To have their auras brush against his own. He's only truly alone is in his room. Even then, Harry has a feeling that while he isn't being watched outright, he's still being passively monitored. Much like the wards at Hogwarts. Present and aware but not intrusive.
It's just a bit daunting. He hasn't been this closely observed since Dumbledore still lived. Since the Order was still at its height. Even his legion of fans were never like this. Of course, they never had this level of capability either.
It makes Harry feel rather wrong-footed. Out of place.
Everything here does.
Harry himself does now. He looks such the same, yes. Younger for certain. As he did when he was a young man sans the glass. And with ears delicately pointed where they weren't before. Taller than he ever was. Maybe as he would've been in a kinder life with a family who actually loved him. But if wishes were thestrals…
At least, his magic is intact. Stronger than ever. It always is after each death. His abilities with wandless magic have grown tremendously over time, and even after the third Killing Curse, he could cast without one. He kept a wand for a combination of more difficult spells and appearances.
Now, he doesn't even bother. Both of his wands stay tucked away. Out of sight. Out of mind. Just in case.
Even time is odd here. There isn't actually day or night. The light comes from everywhere and nowhere and the level never changes. Harry thinks he's been here a few weeks. Two or three at best. Not even a month. But he honestly can't tell. For all he knows, it's only been a day or possibly a year or maybe no time at all. Perhaps it doesn't even exist in this place.
He doesn't know. There's no real reference for it. Nothing really changes. The parts of Mandos he's managed to wander seem the same. Look the same. Feel the same. There are other sections, he understands. Places where others reside. But Harry's never met any of them. Never seen any of the Eldar that Nienna has mentioned. Harry can't even begin to imagine what they're like.
The only people he knows are the Ainur who reside here.
Only, a different Ainu is here now. One Harry has never seen before. He's met all of the Maiar in Mandos. Nienna even confirmed that, but this certainly isn't one of them. Not even close.
Harry's first impression of him is the color white. Armor gleaming and pure as driven snow. Patterned with feathers on the upper chest and shoulders like folded wings. He's tall. More so than Harry is now. Imposing. Face blank and unreadable. Eyes shifting in color the longer Harry observes. The longer he stares back in return. Amber to purple to green.
He isn't like the others. All mild auras. Even Námo. Dour as he usually is but forever sober and somber. Song slow and deliberate.
This Ainu… He's in armor for one; he's armed for another. Sword at his side.
They haven't said so outright, but Harry knows that Námo, Vairë, and Nienna are the most powerful here in Mandos. They're obviously in charge, too. The others all defer to them. Call them Valar with voices just this side of reverence. There's something about Nienna in particular that whispers to Harry. That sparks his interest and draws his eye. That pulls at his mind and magic.
This one though... His aura isn't like theirs either. They aren't fighters. Not warriors. He is, however. Harry wouldn't even need to see the sword to know that. It's in the war-drums as steady as a heartbeat. The trumpet call that leads men off to battle.
He's not as strong as the three Valar; Harry can tell that, too. But he's more powerful than the rest here. Than the other Maiar. There's a sharp edge to his aura. A sense of poise. Of watchfulness.
"You are Harry," the Ainu states then, and it's with a certainty and self-control that few others possess. Even in this place.
Harry blinks but offers something of a smile. "So I'm told."
The sarcasm is obviously lost on his newest acquaintance. Possibly for linguistic reasons though it's hard to say. Or he may simply not be the joking type. He seems too efficient for that. Almost robotic with his speech and even more so with his movements. Scarcely even blinking and chest barely rising like he forgets to breathe.
"I am called Eönwë," he introduces with scarcely a pause. "Herald of Manwë."
Harry lifts a brow at that but offers a polite nod in return. That last part, the name, doesn't mean all that much to him, but he suspects it's someone important by the context clues. Knowing his luck, probably the boss of this entire place. Nienna and Vairë have mentioned giving him lessons, and it's looking like Harry probably should take them up on that offer if they're going to be throwing out phrases like that.
Harry still doesn't know how to feel about it though. Much less any of this. Mandos. This new Ainu. His permanent move from Earth.
This isn't what he wanted. This wasn't his choice. His goal. Or even a possibility he ever considered. He never meant to come here. He's still reeling from all of it.
Listless. Drifting. Unmoored. Untethered.
He thought… He honestly thought it'd be… That he could finally… That it would just be o-
A hand touches his wrist then. Brief. Fleeting. Startling.
Harry's head jerks up to see Eönwë still staring at him. Unblinking. Searching. Demeanor easing ever-so-slightly. His face remains expressionless. Posture still stiff and formal. But in his aura, there are milder notes now. Faint. Gentle as a feather floating on air. His eyes shift to a sky blue.
The Ainu don't touch him as a rule. Only Nienna and Vairë are the exceptions. Harry isn't sure if it's cultural or something else as they don't even seem to touch each other much. More like brooms in flight or dragons passing in the night. Coming close but never quite within reach.
But Eönwë's fingertips are light on his wrist. Delicate like he fears his own strength. Hovering just above Harry's skin afterwards as if he wants to reach out again.
His voice when he speaks is downy soft. Eyes shining with their own light.
"I am very pleased to meet you. "
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Celegorm – Alright. Let's recap. What have we learned so far?
Caranthir – Excuse me. I'm in charge here.
Celegorm – We didn't agree to that.
Amras – Raises hand. I agreed to that.
Amrod – I think it should be Findekáno.
Fingon – Me? Points to self. Maitimo is the leader.
Caranthir – That's the same thing nowadays.
Amrod – Shouldn't it be atar?
Amras – At least, it isn't us.
Curufin – Rolls eyes. I don't think anyone's the leader.
Fëanor – Your mother's the one in charge.
Maedhros – Sighs to himself. Why do they all act like children?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Happily eating cookies that Harry made earlier in the day.
Angrod – Happily drinking tea that they found in Harry's cupboards.
Argon – Happily daydreaming with his chin on his hands.
Findis – Happily sipping wine from Harry's cellar.
Finarfin – Happily skipping out on his responsibilities.
Fingolfin – You know, it's rather nice here.
Nerdanel – I do think so, brother.
In the distance, the loud racket of the House of Fëanor arguing with each other.
Finrod – Pleasantly. What a nostalgic sound.
Angrod – Haven't heard that in a long time.
Findis – I've oddly missed it.
Everyone Else – Murmurs of agreement.
In the background, a there's a harsh thump. Noises of pain.
Nerdanel – Sighs. I hope they aren't biting each other again.
Finarfin – Or pulling their hair out.
Argon – Findekáno pinches your ear.
Fingolfin – He learned that from Makalaurë.
Angrod & Finrod – Nod in unison.
Angrod – He did do that a lot, I recall.
Finrod – Admittedly, we probably deserved it.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry & Gil – Sitting serenely on their balcony. Listening to the castle complaining about their elven infestation.
Harry – I'm not even going to ask what they're doing down there.
Gil – Shrugs. I'm glad I'm not actually related to this family, but I'm also marrying into this hot mess.
Harry – Eh… I hear the Western Sea is lovely this time of year.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
After delivering Harry like a stork bringing a baby and giving only half of the explanation...
Eru – So please take good care of him. He's very delicate.
Nienna – Eru brought me a baby us a gift.
Maiar in the Hallway – O.o
Vairë – Giddy. We get to keep him!
Namo – Head in his hands. Yes, dear, we get to keep him.
Maiar – It's a baby but not a baby.
Nienna – Studying Harry and brushing hair from his face. He seems very sad.
Eru – About that…
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Manwë – My sister Nienna has a son.
Varda – Nods regally but then starts mumbling under her breath. Vairë is keeping him all to herself though.
Manwë – Will I ever get to meet him?
Varda – Still mumbling. She's going to stack the deck against me, I know it.
Manwë – Will she ever allow it?
Varda – Muttering now. How will I ever get to be the favorite?
Both – Pause. Look at each other. Eönwë, we need you!
Notes:
Atar – father
AN: This was a bit of a transitional chapter, and it’s not as long as others mostly due to holiday time, sickness, and other random encounters that have occurred. Lucky me.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Himiko – sun child in Japanese. Also the name of a queen.
Chapter 24
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
His last New Years at Hogwarts is a somber one. Solemn and serious. Bittersweet. Heavy and cloying like the alcohol his Transfiguration master passed around at all three meals. Normally, Harry wouldn't imbibe with the students watching, but none are here for the holidays. Every single one is gone. Either home or something close enough to it to count; Harry always makes sure of it even now.
But they can't have any students here for this. Have to take into account everything and everyone. As they walk the empty halls and grounds and do the final reckonings. As they climb echoing staircases and glance into barren classrooms. As the head house-elf sobs bitterly into her hands and the groundskeeper falls to his knees and their mediwizard murmurs prayers to any deity who will listen. And everyone else looks to Harry for comfort he doesn't know how to find.
He's glad the students don't see any of this.
There are so few of them left now. The last several years have seen the steady decline, the drop-off. It's no surprise really. Honestly to be expected. Everyone wants to keep their children at home just that little bit longer. This is the smallest class Hogwarts has had in centuries. Since before he became headmaster. Likely since he was a student himself. The faculty are all still technical employees but only a handful have stayed on; there's more support staff, but even they're the bare minimum nowadays. Most are out in the world. Preparing. Readying themselves for the inevitable changes to come. Steeling themselves for the end.
Harry watches the dawn from the top of his tower, a vague red haze without real glimpse of the sun. He's there again for dusk. Feels his heart plunge with the light beyond the horizon. Takes a steadying breath against the sinking sensation in his gut. The sky is cloudy, dreary. Even the snow is pallid, wan and sickly. More gray and brown than white even in the twilight gloom. Falling like ash in the distance.
None of it touches the grounds. None of it can. Which is decidedly for the best. The children still play here when they can. Still sit on the stands and the Quidditch pitch even though the games have passed into memory.
Harry lets them. Lets them have this normalcy. This normality. The simply act of sitting outside and breathing in fresh air. It's a luxury seldom seen now. It's a debt that past generations owe them but will never be able to repay.
It's quiet outside. Out here. Still. Haunting in a way that even the ghosts, those few who continue to linger, can't manage. The silence is deafening. No call of owls or breeze through the trees. Harry has to pause to even remember the last time he heard those. Likely the only trees left in all of Scotland are those behind the wards right here. Where the forest once stood is nothing but an empty patch. Not a meadow because nothing grows. Just bare earth. Sterile dirt without life.
Hogsmeade itself is a void. A blank space. No homes or streets or people at all. Gone like so much else now.
Only the lake remains. Dark turning to black as night falls. Reflecting the light from the castle and the shimmering dome that shields them from the snow drifting down overhead. But the water is static and unmoving as death.
Soon, Harry thinks. It'll be so soon. This is his last winter here. His last at the only true home he's ever known.
Time's winding down. Is running out. Soon, there will be none left.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The snow falls serenely, soundlessly. In time with the strum of his harp and the beat of his heart. It isn't any particular melody Harry ever learned. Not even a true song. Just a mix of chords and notes as the fancy strikes him. A gentle rise, a dramatic fall. Tempo slowing momentarily as the air stirs.
Nienna sits by him and hums along. Smiling through her tears. Occasionally tipping back to watch the stars. At one point, she even rests her head on Harry's shoulder. Content to curl into his side. Warmth of her form a contrast to the autumn sleet of her aura and tinkling sleighbells that ring out in perfect accompaniment.
Káno is unusually quiet. Subdued. Just listening as Harry plays. He doesn't once join in, but Harry knows that he's there by the crash of waves on the shore. Breath a sigh across the sand. The water is sleepy, sedate. So dark a blue as to be almost purple beneath the night sky but shimmering in the moonlight. Phantom hand settled on Harry's back since nearly the start and soothing circles across the fabric.
It's been too long since they've done this. Too long since it's been only the three of them. Before Tirion, truth be told. One of the nights right before he left. Káno provided much of the music then with Harry's occasional input and Nienna's commentary. As they sat in the great hall on the grass. Even Indilwen hadn't been with them then. Just as she isn't now.
Harry finds that he's missed this. He has so many new distractions these days, and while he's growing increasingly fond of the House of Finwë, they can be overwhelming. That doesn't even factor in Fëanor and his sons. Nerdanel. Gil of course. The greatest distraction of all. And the favorite.
There's something to be said of this, however. Of sitting with Káno and Nienna and having no one else at all. No Ainur to fight for his attention. No elves to ask awkward questions. No one else to share with.
Of being their sole focus. Call Harry selfish, but he'll admit even if only to himself that he relishes this. That after centuries of never being anyone's first priority, it's a pleasant change. That even now, even after all this time, even at his age, he still craves this. It's silly and sentimental and all too childish. And far too comforting. The knowledge that he can – and has – told them just about anything and not been judged for it. He hasn't trusted anyone like that since Ron and Hermione. Even then, there were things he never dared mention to them. Káno and Nienna both know those secrets already. Know almost all of him, and it's as terrifying as it is liberating.
He thinks that Gil will know one day. Someday. They'll be married eventually, and there won't be room for secrets then. Harry isn't sure if they'll even be capable of it. Certainly not in the beginning if Fingon and Maedhros are any metric to judge by.
However, that's in the future. A shining path that lays out before him, but Harry doesn't look down it. Not yet. Not until it feels right.
For now, for this moment, he keeps playing. Allows his fingers to be their own conductor. To let the rhythm and chords wander as his thoughts drift. As he contemplates. Dawn is hours away yet even with the time they've already spent here. Harry barely slept at all. Was already jerking awake as soon as he dozed off. Plagued again by odd, disquieting dreams that sent him straight here to his garden. He can still see the images even now when he closes his eyes.
King's Cross packed full and the trains running continuously. Nature burning around a black tower that reaches for the sky. A white city with bodies in the streets and a crumbling tree. A great, burning eye gazing out at a dead land.
It was just a dream, a nightmare. It wasn't real... but it surely felt that way. He even woke to the smell of smoke and the taste of ash, of blood. To the Peverell signet cold on his hand. Freezing more than the ice around them currently. The wand usually doesn't make itself known from the recesses of his pockets, but he feels it today. Vibrating with an odd cadence that's in time to anything that he plays. He wasn't wearing the cloak either, left it behind in his tower, but it somehow settles around him now. Drifting down over him and Nienna both.
He exhales even as he feels her turning against his side. She peers at him then. Lifting her head from his shoulder so that her white blonde hair brushes across the fabric of his collar. Her gaze is fond, but there's a pensive edge. Considering as she studies him before her attention flickers to his harp. Her fingers trail over his sleeve to rest on the metal body.
"It seems we are all deep in thought tonight," she muses aloud.
Harry permits himself to pause mid-chord. "I can't say that you're wrong," he admits, "but I'm not the only one quieter than usual."
Káno makes a noncommittal noise at that. It's the first sound he's given in over an hour. A truly peculiar thing for him. He's not made for silence. Always humming or singing. Even his aura is rarely quiet.
"I have much to think about," he allows after several seconds. "Things are not as they once were. Endor is changing. As always." He sighs slightly like a whisper of wind through the reeds. "And yet, Aman is as well now."
There's a choppiness to the water on the shore. A tension, a vibration along the sand. Harry feels Nienna reach out. Sees her draw Káno in as surely as if he sat beside them. Watches as she smooths over his worries.
"What troubles you, dear?" she asks. Kind as always. Delicate as a falling leaf.
Káno hesitates though. Waters uncertain in the ocean of his soul. Restless waves of an approaching storm.
"Is it Fëanor?" Harry questions, and it's quietly. He isn't sure if he worries about the answer or already knows what it'll be.
He can tell that Káno is still considering his response, his words. He does so cautiously. Carefully. More so than he normally is with either of them, and that makes Harry more concerned that anything.
Beside him, Nienna is still. Listening. Fingertips lingering on the harp.
"Fëanáro is… different," Káno finally says. "They all are. They aren't the same as they were at the end. Not from what you tell me. They sound closer to how they once were so very long ago." Another pause then. One that lasts long heartbeats. "Whether that lasts... well, it remains to be seen."
"You don't think it's real," Harry states, and it isn't an accusation. More an epiphany. "You think they're… What exactly? Pretending that they repented? That Fëanor is lying to me?"
Harry can't help but think of Fëanor then. Of their first meeting. Of his unabashed weeping to even see Harry who looks so much like his missing son. Who everybody believes is his grandson. If anyone was pretending then, or even now, it certainly isn't Fëanor.
"No," Káno denies immediately. Instantly. "For all his many failings, duplicity is by and large not one of them. Fëanáro is honest. Painfully so to the people who know him best."
Harry can't ever see his face, but he can hear the grimace in those words. The echo of it in the flash of memories that he receives. They're lightning fast. Flickering by so quickly that he only has glimpses. Fëanor in the starring role. But Maedhros is there with Nerdanel. Fingon and Fingolfin, too. All of them with the rest of the House along with others Harry knows. Finarfin. Aredhel. Even more. Some of the Ainur as well. Aulë. Oromë. Manwë. Others he doesn't. A large variety of people. Some complete strangers. Others very familiar indeed. But everything flits by so swiftly he can scarcely focus on anything before it's gone.
He blinks away the images, and Nienna's hand tugging on his wrist brings him back to himself fully. Steadies him as she strokes a thumb over his skin. Káno notices their inattention and now projects concern. Which Harry acknowledges with a brush of frost before steering them back on topic.
"If you don't think he's pretending, then what?" he prompts.
The elf is quiet long enough that Harry begins to think he won't answer. Even the sea is silent. Static.
"I worry how easy it is to forget old habits," he eventually murmurs. "I worry that he… that all of them are there with you, while I'm not."
Harry doesn't sigh. Or snort. He doesn't remind Káno that it's his choice to be in Endor. That he was invited back by the Valar personally. Instead, Harry just breathes out. Slowly. Counts to seven.
"I'm hardly here alone. Gil is with me," he reminds, and it's sharp enough to get the elf's attention but still light enough not to draw blood. "This is also my castle, and she's hardly going to let anything happen to me. Neither will Inara or Himiko or Indilwen or--"
"You've made your point, Herurrívë," Káno cuts him off. He lets out a sound that's a rough splash on the rocks. "Even with everything you tell me, I know Fëanáro. He was angry and bitter for so very long that it's hard to remember him as anything else."
Nienna shifts so that her grasp is now on Harry's palm instead. She threads their fingers together. Squeezes once.
"He's living in the same household as Fingolfin and Finarfin, and no one has died yet," Harry points out. "No one has even drawn a weapon, which I do actually have accessible here if anybody wanted one that badly." With his free hand, he runs an idle finger along the harp-strings. "Not to mention that Eönwë has been here, too. They've actually interacted with each other. Fëanor hasn't so much as raised his voice, and believe me, the wards would let me know if he had."
Harry says it all very calmly. Very reasonably. Pleasantly even. Habit, he supposes. From a lifetime of dealing with overly emotional people. Who screamed and yelled and cursed things. And that was just the parents.
Another sigh. Longer than the last. Filled with regret and reverberating with something that Harry'd even call longing. There's pride, too. Mixing in with fondness. Affection blending with fear. Shading in sorrow. More swirling together in a rainbow of colors that glow in the moonlight.
"Your magic is a wonderful thing, hinya, but it's hard not to worry."
Káno seems like he can't decide if he's impressed or exhausted with it all.
"Yet, you tell me not to worry about you," Harry counters. "You tell me that you're an adult who has lived from the Years of the Trees and that I shouldn't concern myself with you wandering Endor aimlessly."
Nienna doesn't laugh, but he has a distinct impression of mirth from her despite the seriousness of the situation. He momentarily tightens his grasp in hers.
Káno, not privy to their exchange, is very unswayed.
"That is different," he insists. "I'm also in Imladris now as you well know and no longer wandering."
"So you plan to stay there permanently then?"
It's technically a question, but Harry knows that Káno will deny it. He has since the first time Harry asked. He always has, and he doesn't disappoint now.
"There are things that I must do, hinya," the elf chides, but there's no bite. "I came to Imladris for a specific purpose. Not to live here forever."
Harry returns, "Elrond wants you to stay though."
Not surprising really, Harry thinks. Elrond is his son. Hasn't seen him for two ages and has missed him dearly. Not to mention that his own wife, Celebrían, is now gone. Is here in fact. With Elrond left to rule their valley alone. He does have his children, but his twin sons are often absent for years, even decades, to slay orcs and hunt with the Dúnedain. His daughter now resides in Lothlórien and rarely returns.
Why wouldn't he want his father there? Why wouldn't he want that support and comfort?
"Yes," Káno admits, and it's reluctantly. Like a fifth-year caught out of bounds. "He has not asked, but I know he does. We had so little time together. We've much to make up for even now, and it is small wonder he wishes for me to be here at all."
"You should stay," Harry tells him honestly.
There's a start at his words. An awkward, surprised pause.
He can feel Káno's shock through the harp and half a world away. It's practically shouting at him. Loud and clear like a bell tolling through the cloudless sky. Or an unexpected rumble of in the distance, origin unknown.
"Hinya--"
"It's better than the shore," Harry interrupts and defends. Both together at the same time.
After all, he hardly wants Káno going back to the coast all alone. Not for any reason. Much better he stays in Imladris for all eternity than aimlessly wandering without even a roof over his head. It's worth any cost for Káno to be properly cared for, and Elrond will see to it. Harry doesn't even have to know him personally to recognize that. Even if it means he'll never meet Harry in person, that's a small price to pay.
Nienna's grip tightens to an almost agonizing degree even as that thought occurs to him. Her tears grow heavier, and they drip down her face to land on the snow. A steady stream that's unceasing.
"He is correct, dear," she adds, tone soft and strange. "Imladris is lovely and a vast improvement from your prior accommodations. Far superior indeed."
The elf's astonishment only increases with her words. "Nienna, you can't mean--"
"I mean as I say," she tells him. "You should not return to the shore where you dwelled before. That time is over and done. One cannot return to the past, after all." Her voice is an autumn chill, cold enough to turn to water to ice but somehow not harsh. Gentle as it soaks in. Cleansing. "One can only live in the present and strive for the future."
A beat of silence. Even Harry's taken aback by her comments. Though he probably shouldn't be at this point in their acquaintance.
Káno's shock slowly fades to contemplation as time stretches on. A strum of faint notes that drifts with the tides. Ebbing and flowing.
"I… will consider your words," he allows at long last.
Nienna inclines her head. "That is all I ask. I too desire better for you. Even if it is elsewhere."
Káno doesn't say anything to that. Perhaps he doesn't even know how to react. Instead, he lets it linger.
"The Council is meeting soon," Nienna comments after another moment.
"Yes," Káno responds, "in the next three weeks with the change of seasons."
"Will you attend?" Harry inquires.
"Elrond and Erestor wish for me to do so," the elf permits, but it's with even more unwillingness. "Laurefindele seems indifferent, but he remains wary of my presence here. For understandable reasons, I admit. I do question the wisdom of attending the council when some here wish for me to be exiled again or to face judgment. They weren't pleased when Elrond told them I was already forgiven."
Harry taps on his knee in a solemn cadence. "You've been in Endor for two ages without any issues at all. They wouldn't even have known you were there at all otherwise."
"Eldar have very long memories." Káno's voice is somber, echoing like the depths. "I did terrible things, and I still atone for that regardless of what the Valar say."
"I understand. I truly do, and I even agree with it… to a point," Harry acknowledges, and he actually allows his head to lower minutely, "but I don't believe in punishing people eternally. There should be a set penance or sentence for a crime, and that's it. You can't keep coming up with new punishments because you feel like they haven't suffered enough."
A beat then. A breath.
"Indeed," Nienna agrees.
It's offered freely. Given so easily. Said so simply. If only they could get Káno to believe them.
"This meeting is not to determine punishment for you though," she continues. "Rather, not everyone on the council even knows you are there." Her words are pointed. Aiming right to the heart of the matter.
"No, it is not for me. I am a rather an unexpected surprise. An unforeseen guest," Káno tells them. "Artanis knows that I'm here though; Arwen told her. I suspect she will have a great many things to say to me."
Harry snorts before he can stop himself.
Celebrían did warn him about her mother; when Harry was still talking to her that is. Finarfin has also mentioned his youngest several times, though he painted a more generous picture. Finrod speaks kindly of his only sister, but Harry suspects Angrod's version is probably the most accurate. Wise, strong-willed but with a very sharp tongue. More likely to flay him with words than with her sword.
Nienna casts him a glance beneath her hood, and her eyes glitter but not just from moisture.
"Círdan is already here, ostensibly to see his oldest. He is strangely tolerant of me," their elf continues, and it's almost more to himself than to them. "I could even say accepting. I've spotted him a few times in the gardens."
"But he hasn't approached you yet?" Harry wonders aloud.
"No, not yet, but he will. It's only a matter a time." Harry doesn't need to see him to know Káno's shaking his head. "He knows far too much already; I suspect Erestor has been filling his ears with all manner of things."
Harry hums in response but keeps his thoughts about that to himself. Gil has told him quite a bit about his father and brother, most of it positive, but he's hardly an impartial advocate for them. Nienna doesn't seem concerned about Círdan though, and he's supposed to be a great friend to Ulmo, so that's enough to mollify Harry. For now.
"Artanis and her entourage should arrive soon," Káno says next. "Likely in a few days. Arwen will be with them along with Mithrandir. As for the other Ist-"
"Don't trust the white wizard," Harry interrupts, and even he isn't sure where that comes from.
"What?"
He can feel both of them staring at him. Her beside and Káno in his fëa and across an ocean. Harry has no idea why he said that, but he knows the reality of it the instant the words fall from this lips. It's the truth. It's a warning.
His breath fogs the air where it hadn't before. The Peverell ring burns on his hand. A frigid presence that chills him to the bone in a way that ice and frost never have. Cold as the Void. Just as gnawing. Snarling and biting. His cloak wraps around him even closer; the wand in his right pocket trembles.
"Herurrívë?"
Káno is breathless now. Alarmed. Waves rising higher.
"Don't trust him," Harry repeats, but he feels very light despite Káno's obvious shock that's edging into distress. It's almost like he's floating. His eyes are closed, but he sees stars. Entire galaxies of possibilities. "He's already betrayed you."
His mother is upright now and grasping his hand in both of hers. Fingers fine-boned but deceptively strong. Tight, painful even, but that's a distant thing. Barely registering.
"What do you know, my dear?" she inquires delicately, deliberately. Reaching out with more than just her physical form.
She's glorious as he gazes at her. Sees her as she truly is. Shimmering. Dazzling. Protecting him as he soars free from shackles of flesh.
"He seeks power," Harry replies, and some distant part of him is surprised by the lack of echo. "He's been seduced by its call. He doesn't even realize how deeply he's trapped. How many chains encircle him now."
The cosmos whisper more secrets the higher he flies. Sing of events and things and people yet to be. That may never even become. Choices. Paths like branches that wind and twist off into the distance so far even he can't see where they go. Coiling and curling. Some crumbling into to dust as he watches. Others forming entirely where an empty space was before.
In none of them though is the white wizard their ally. In some, Harry glimpses him gazing at a golden ring even as he slips it on his finger. In others, he kneels before an armored figure who wears that same ring. In more still, he fights with staff and magic. With his voice and armies against all manner of people. Sometimes, he falls early. Others, he ravages the land before he's slain. By Men. Elves. Other wizards. A dwarf and elf together. A coalition of the races. Once by a hobbit with a glowing blue sword. The faces flicker in and out so quickly that Harry can scarcely catch them all. Some stand out much more than others, however.
His father with his spear in his grasp and bow on his back. Elrond is there; of course, Harry recognizes him without being told. He's too familiar to be anyone else. His sons and daughter as well along with the Númenórean beside them. There are others as well. People who Harry also knows without knowing. An elf with golden locks who reminds him strongly of Celebrían. Another with dark hair standing next to one with a beard, and Harry recognizes he hasn't ever met either but would swear that he has. Somehow. Somewhere.
They flash by in an instant. From one second to the next. Until all Harry can do paint them in the portrait of his mind. Immortalize every image so he won't forget any detail.
"He's fallen to the enemy," his mother murmurs then, but it's not a question this time.
A certainty. A surety. An absolute knowing. Lights blossom like snowdrops in her aura as the realization fills her. As he shares his awareness and their songs flow in perfect harmony. The stars are fading fast though; his view into the universe is slipping away even as he reaches out to grasp on, but it turns to dust-motes an instant later. He looks all around, upwards and down, right and left.
Harry glances backwards then and can see his own aura like a reflection on ice. A winter world with glacial walls and a castle spiraling impossibly high in the sky within. Next to a chasm that's so deep even light can't pierce the bottom, but that's just the outermost layer. Just the surface. Even as Harry peers deeper, he knows what he'll see. What he's glimpsed on his deepest mediations. At the middle, at his core, it's still winter. Still snowy but pristine. Pure with conifers of varying sizes and species. Two trees in particular dominate that landscape though others appear to be growing to match. Shining and stretching out all the way to the stars above and roots digging down. They're set in the very center of him, these trees. One gold and the other silver. Swaying serenely to a song only Harry can hear.
It calls to him now, beckons him back. He feels himself gliding towards Arda and descending down to Formenos. The rest of him is moored there. Tethered with his mother on his right, the Peverell signet on his left, and his father's harp in both hands. There's the tug of other ties, more binds. Gil-galad who bolts upright in their bed with wild eyes searching frantically. The other elves in the castle start to rouse, but Káno steps in front of them instinctively before Harry can even turn that direction. Indilwen and Inara and Himiko and all the others call out to him.
Then, there's Eönwë further away but still at the edge of Harry's kingdom, turning to look over this shoulder. Námo in Mandos as he guides an elf through awakening there but pauses mid-speech. Vairë and Estë as they gossip with Miriel, and all three abruptly fall silent. Oromë with Huan as they walk under the stars, both unerringly now moving his direction. More still who reach out with voices and auras and melodies until… Finally, there's Manwë atop his mountain, in his palace, on his throne as he sits in contemplation. Eyes impossibly blue, startled but pleased as he gazes at Harry. Song a whisper of wind that guides him the rest of the way back down. Hand tarrying on his shoulder before slowly letting go.
Harry blinks then. Settles back into his bones. Inhales sharply. Comes back to himself as his heart remembers that it does in fact have to beat. He swallows in a throat gone dry and raspy. Opens and closes hands that tremble with the effort.
What was…
Where is…
Why is…
He blinks again. His vision is blurred, haloed like he's been starring into the sun. His head feels muddled, stuffed with cotton-wool. He's puzzled. Confused at what just happened.
"You did well," Nienna praises as she leans into him. Solid and warm and very real. "You did so well, my dear heart."
Her arms are a firm reassurance around him. An anchor that keeps him from floating away like Marge that one fateful encounter. Her face peeks up at him from beneath her gray hood, and her eyes are glowing. Are nothing but pure light as she pulls him down, pulls him closer.
"Nienna?"
Káno is urgent. Harp still in Harry's lap and now digging into his legs. He's billowing winds across the coastline. Turbulent waters that crash against the rocks and sand.
"Hinya?"
"Mírimo?"
Harry hears another voice calling him before he can even begin to answer. Sees Gil as he scrambles out of their bed. Breathless. Panting.
"I'm fine," Harry tells them both.
Kano's loud sigh and Gil's inelegant noise are practically in unison.
"I don't--"
"I doubt--"
They talk over each other. Unaware that the other's speaking. On a good day, Harry would easily sort out their words but not now. Not when he feels like he's still riding his old Firebolt when it was brand new. Like he could just zoom off at any moment. Like he's levitating three feet off the ground. He actually glances down to confirm that he isn't.
"Yes, all is well," Nienna agrees. Arms still around him but one hand lifting to stroke his hair from his face.
Harry leans into her touch, into the whisper of magic like a fall evening. It's familiar, reassuring. He doesn't even notice he closes his eyes but does know when they move. He doesn't need to see to recognize that they're back in his tower. The air is different here. Warmer, smelling faintly of tea and books, the underlying scent of Gil that lingers.
His love is next to him a scant second later in fact, now wearing a robe over his bare shoulders. Kneeling in front of him and reaching up to cup his cheek. Taking up all of Harry's vision when he opens his eyes.
"I'm fine," he repeats, but he still feels dreamy, distant. Disconnected.
Gil snorts, but it's twinged with something almost like hysteria. His voice is eerily calm though.
"You say that, Mírimo, when you're actively dying."
"He is uninjured and was in no danger at any time," Nienna says then, and it's only belatedly that Harry realizes she isn't talking to him at all. "He merely needs rest now."
"What happened then?" Gil manages to keep his tone even. His aura is restless, however. Agitated. Crackling with thunder and lightning.
Nienna makes a pleased sound, however. Sleighbells tinkle in Harry's ear and all around them. The stars on the ceiling brighten the room more than usual; he tips his head back to watch them twinkle. Lets the conversation continue around but without him.
"He is learning," Nienna responds. "He is growing into himself and his gifts."
Gil tenses like a bowstring. Drawn and held in position.
"I felt--"
"He did not die," she interrupts. "He isn't an elf who is shackled to this form, but that is a difficult lesson to teach. Trust must be given wholeheartedly and freely to believe it."
The static buzzing across his skin rouses Harry enough for him to glance down. Eyes drifting from Gil in front of him, pale but resolute. To Nienna, soft and serene. They're looking at each other and not him, however.
"Nienna?"
Káno's voice cuts through then. Not forgotten. Merely taking a moment to collect himself. Only slightly shaky when he speaks. Nienna draws the harp away from Harry into her own lap. Holds him there.
"All is well, dear. We knew this day would come."
"Yes," he agrees, "but I didn't think it would be so soon. I certainly didn't think it would be like this."
"Or that Marcaunon would have a gift for true-sight?" she poses.
Káno is quiet for a few seconds. "Did you know of this?" he questions faintly. "Any of this?"
His aura says everything and nothing. The rise and fall of the waves. The crash of the water on the shore. The high, hard reach of the tide.
Her head shake is slight, singular. "Our sight has been veiled for too long in Endor. Even with recent changes, we have yet to recover all that we lost against Moringotto. Our tether to Eru Ilúvatar frayed more than even we realized," she adds with a whisper that's footsteps on hard ice. Cracks forming underneath. "Now, however, that bond is finally healing. The song is different, yes, but it will be whole."
Gil is silent during their exchange. Watching Harry the entire time but clearly listening. Tight and taut still. Eyes nearly gray without much blue left. Harry finds himself lost in the cloudiness of them. In the fog and storm. Thoughts and mind wandering off even as Nienna beckons him back.
"Marcaunon?" she prompts. "Dear heart?" But shakes her head after a few seconds. "Let us get you to bed."
Harry doesn't think to argue. To be honest, he has no desire for it. He's not truly aware enough anyway. Not even voicing a single word, complaint or otherwise when Gil picks him up. The next few minutes are a haze, a daze, and he blinks to find himself tucked beneath their quilts with Nienna leaning over him, hand on his brow. Her lips are softer than a winter's kiss on his skin.
"Ammë?" Harry asks as she pulls back but not away.
Her fingers linger on his face. Touch light, tender. Her voice is a like a sad sigh, however.
"I cannot stay, my dearest. As much as I wish it were different... of late, there is more need of me." Her tears grow in intensity. Heavy. Glittering with starlight.
Harry's still drifting, floating but that statement pierces his thoughts. He actually feels his heart beat harder for a moment. Sees lights behind his eyes. Ones that are gone as quickly as they arrive. It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite open his mouth fast enough. She quiets him before he can even make the offer, and Harry supposes that she knows him too well.
"No, stay with your beloved and rest," she murmurs. "It is enough for you to be here, dear heart."
Her fingers brush hair back. It's unbraided, waiting for Gil's handiwork, but she gently tucks a lock behind his ear.
"I shall return later and sing for you," she tells him, and there's a pause. Heartbeats of silence before she adds, "Know that I will always come when you call for me, no matter what else is occurring or wherever else I may be."
She slips away then. He feels her leave like a child watching at the station as the train departs, but Gil settles in next to him a moment later. Fills that empty spot completely and pulls the covers all the way up. Curls around his back and pulls him in close.
Harry's eyelids are heavy. Weighted. They fall shut on their own without his input or even permission. Gil's warm beside him. One arm around his waist with the other tucked underneath him. Rain is a soft song against the snow. Soothing. Serene and sweet. A lullaby that tugs Harry down further.
Deeper and deeper and...
The bench would be hard beneath him, but there's a cloak tucked along his legs. His head rests against a pillow that rises and falls with breaths. A breeze flutters at his clothes, and it carries the sea alongside. A taste of salt.
Strange, some distant part of him thinks. They aren't near the ocean. Formenos is landlocked save for the lakes and rivers. Streams that flow down the mountains. Some that were even there before he arrived.
Harry tries to puzzle at that, but the arm that rests across his back is too distracting. Touch both familiar and yet… It isn't quite right. There's no pulse of twin rings. Fingertips just a tad too coarse and broad.
Some part of him starts to stir at that, makes a noise of protest. The hand on his arm moves away, and his pillow stills completely. He receives a slight laugh in return that rumbles in his ear and jostles him a tad too much, but then, there's an impression of someone leaning more fully against him. Of the shoulder beneath his head shifting to settle back into place.
"Rest, little brother," Elros says then, gentle as sea-mist. "I shall guard your dreams."
And Harry does.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry wakes in stages. In drips like toffee as it moves down a spoon. His eyelids are impossibly heavy, and he's warm, comfortable. Cocooned in downy quilts. It'd be so easy to drift off again, and that's a vague, passing thought that floats around his head for far longer than it normally would. He lies on his side, considering just that before he finally decides to open his eyes. Blue sky greets him as it peeks through the balcony doors. It takes him several more minutes to ponder at that, but a hand strokes his face and distracts him before he can contemplate it too much. Harry gradually turns his head to see his love sitting up against the headboard behind them.
Gil-galad smiles at him. "Good to see you awake. How do you feel?"
"Fine," Harry replies automatically.
But it's true. It is!
Gil snorts before he can stop himself. "How did I know you'd say that?"
It's said fondly. Affectionately. With a touch that cups Harry's face and tilts him just so. Likely for Gil to have a better chance to examine him. Harry allows it. For a variety of reasons. The cobwebs that are in the process of being cleared from his head the longer he's awake. The fact that this is Gil, and he'll always allow it. But mostly because he's startled by the torrent of water that abruptly drenches his aura the moment Gil's skin makes contact. That certainly wakes Harry up. Fully and Completely.
So does the rainsong of desperation that resounds in his ears. Clouds ominous and dark but lightening ever-so-slightly the longer Gil looks at him. He's almost surprised that he isn't soaked in the outside world, but he's bone dry. Both of them are.
Gil's fully dressed, Harry belated notices. Wearing socks but no boots. No braids yet either. Only his bracelet and ring as he usually does nowadays.
Harry isn't dressed. Which is strange, he decides. He remembers being in his robes. Gray ones with and undertunic and trim in Gryffindor red. But now, he's in sleep attire and can't remember how that happened.
To be perfectly honest, his memory is… peculiar. Not blurry but Harry hesitates on calling it accurate. It's so bizarre. So beyond what even he's experienced with the magical world that he wants to call it a dream. Or perhaps a potions-induced hallucination. Since certainly that is the only explanation for what occurred. To call it anything else… To even consider it could be real…
Harry breathes out heavily and sits up. He doesn't truly need the hand Gil offers, but he takes it all the same. Allows himself to be guided over to rest against the pillows. The room is bright, cheerful even with sunlight streaming in. The unicorns graze by the windowseat, but they lift their heads to stare at him. Just as the thestrals do near the bathroom door and the owls in the trees by the armoire. He even spots a flash of orange amidst the foliage, but she disappears before Harry can see more of her. Inara, however, is not in the painting at all and instead perched on the footboard. Tail feathers trailing over the side like a golden waterfall. She lets out a cheerful chirp at his notice, and he feels all of their gazes on him as he draws his knees up to rest his elbows on.
He's used to his friends' attention at times, but this level is unusual. Almost unnerving. Particularly when they continue to watch him. He was only asleep for a few hours. It's not like he was in a coma.
"A few hours?" Gil repeats, and Harry realizes that thought was indeed out loud. "Mírimo, you've been in bed over a day." The elf shakes his head. "You slept all through yesterday morning, afternoon, and night. It's nearly noon again now."
It's Harry's turn to stare.
Gil lets out a little laugh at his expense. "Nienna came several times to check on you. She left not that long ago but said you'd likely wake soon. She'll return in the evening." He takes Harry's hand in his.
"I see," Harry manages eventually. "And what does everyone else think…" he trails off. Not sure he even wants to know the answer.
"Of your absence?" Gil suggests. "Our guests believe you're with Eönwë. Nienna and he came up with your alibi all on their own." He taps his chin with a free finger. "I can't decide if that is for your privacy or theirs, but I don't think they want the others to know what has happened. Both of them seem very pleased by it though."
Harry digests that for a moment. Considers implications. Decides that it's probably for the best. This is decidedly not something he fancies explaining any time soon. After all, he isn't entirely convinced he understands himself what happened. Or if there's any way to make sense of it all.
Did he really…?
Did that actually happen?
Harry has done a number of odd things in his magical career. Even more spectacular ones when he was still a student, but this certainly is taking a high scoring spot. Perhaps not as impressive as some of his feats that end of his time on Earth, but those were a group effort.
There's a sigh then. Not from Harry but from Gil-galad. Who's still sitting right next to him but turns to face him fully. Static buzzing when their knees touch.
"Mírimo… I know I said to warn me in the future, but maybe don't do this while I'm sleeping."
He says it casually. Nonchalantly. And yet, sounds anything but.
"You thought I died."
It's an odd realization. An honest one. Fragments of conversation flowering in his mind the longer he's awake. Growing and budding and opening in all their glorious truth.
"I did," Gil acknowledges, and his tone is aching for all of its softness. Open and wounded. "It felt like it did before. At the hill. Just like then, I could feel you pulling on our bond. That's what woke me." He's quiet for a few heartbeats before adding, "I admit that I panicked in the moment."
Harry doesn't know what's worse. The way he says it or the feel of his aura as he does. The echo of memory. It's a knife that goes all the way through Harry's chest. To his heart and out the other side. Gil's eyes are dry, and there's even a smile on his face. But his world is a monsoon and every breath is like drowning as Harry gazes at him.
Gil though is kind as always and shushes Harry before he can even think to apologize.
"I know you didn't mean for this to happen. Nienna spoke with me; Eönwë did as well." His touch is tender on Harry's skin. "This was not an unexpected occurrence, though it's earlier than they thought it would happen."
That's news to Harry. He would definitely remember this. Would recall being told that he should prepare for out of body, cosmic experiences. That's not something that would slip his mind, and he's never been forgetful in his old age.
"They certainly didn't mention that to me," Harry returns, and it's brisker than he intended. Sharp and barbed.
Stormy eyes gaze at him. Lightning flashes against a snowy sky, but rain blunts the edges.
"Didn't they?" Gil questions, and it's not rhetorical. "Maybe not with words, but I know they share much with you beyond those."
Harry stamps down on the immediate denial. Takes a second to pause, to consider that. Turns it over in his mind and examines it from every angle. The Ainur's lessons aren't always the most straightforward, no. Sometimes downright oblique, and Harry admits that they can be very exasperating in their word choice. When they even speak at all. But to be fair, their first language isn't even verbal. They've been showing him with auras and songs, teaching him as they were taught. He's expanded his abilities. Not just in his shapeshifting or conjuration. They've told him that his magic was growing, and Harry even agreed with them. Then and now.
But maybe they didn't mean the same thing by that.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sometimes, they aren't very good at explaining themselves," he says, and if that isn't the understatement of the century, he doesn't know what is.
Gil is kind enough not to roll his eyes. Or to laugh. Instead, he takes Harry's hand again and runs his fingertips over his ring. Twisting it back into perfect position. He looks at Harry, searching his eyes and face as if there's some sort of answer to be found. Or perhaps simply to reassure himself.
"Will you show me?" he asks then. "What you saw?"
It's phrased as a request. One that Harry could deny if he wanted, and Gil wouldn't hold it against him. Wouldn't fault him for keeping this to himself.
But… Harry plans to marry this elf. Will one day show all of himself anyway. Sharing now will only make that easier, and he does trust Gil. Hesitates only because of the subject matter.
"Sauron is one of the things I saw," he cautions.
His love only inclines his head, however. "I figured as much."
"I didn't want you to go in blindly and see him," Harry continues almost guiltily, like a naughty schoolboy confessing every misdeed, real and imagined. "I think on some level I knew my dreams have been about him, but I couldn't quite put it into words."
"You've been dreaming about him? More than this?"
Gil seems more curious than angry. Though admittedly Harry should have told him earlier.
"For the last week," Harry admits. "I meant to speak with them last… well, the other night, but obviously…"
"I see how that turned out, yes."
Gil nods once, but he's silent afterwards. Patiently looking at Harry like they have all the time in the world. Awaiting the response to his earlier question, Harry recognizes a second too late. He offers a silent apology, one that he knows his love still hears by the squeeze of his hand.
Legilimency as it's practiced in this world isn't so different than what Harry first learned. He's done it with the Ainur basically from the start, and he and Gil have traded surface thoughts both passively and intentionally before. This is far more deliberate. Deeper. He gazes his love directly in the eyes and guides him forward into the perpetual winter wonderland. He feels Gil taking it all in, even as Harry leads him to the library inside of the castle. The place where most of his memories go unless he's stored them away elsewhere.
It's easy enough to draw up the correct ones; they're so recent. The dreams from earlier, that final one, along with what happened in the garden. But the last isn't a flat page when he opens the book. No, it springs out to a three-dimensional image that hovers in front of them. Which is curious and worth investigating, but that's not his purpose here and will be a matter for later.
Harry instead feels Gil's hand in his. Left in his right. They touch the memories together. Everything he saw. Felt. Experienced. It's all relived. Vivid and real as it was the first time.
He isn't exhausted afterwards though. Head not full of fluff. Thoughts clear as any crystal. Harry opens his eyes to find them back in the real world and still sitting on their bed. If any time has passed at all, it's likely only seconds.
Beside him, Gil sways forward. He shoots out a hand to steady himself. Just as Harry moves to catch him, arm curving around his back. They stay like that for a few minutes before Gil eases back and curls into his side.
"That voice at the end," his love begins. It's slow. Halting but not uncertain.
"I know," Harry assents.
A slow exhalation. One drawn out and lingering.
"He didn't live within your lifetime," Gil-galad points out. "You shouldn't know what Elros sounds like. Not directly."
"Only through memories I've seen," Harry admits. "Ones that were shared with me."
That Káno showed him of the twins. As children and then as they grew older. More recently of Elrond as he is now. He sounds so very much like his brother. But also not. Distinct. Identical. And yet his own person.
Though why Harry even dreams of him – sees him – is the real question. Why Elros? Why not someone else? Why not Teddy or Victoire or Hermione or Ron? Why not any of the people he loved over the centuries? Why not one of them?
Of course, what would Harry even say to any of them? What would they think of him now? To see him wearing the guise of the Eldar since he isn't an elf and never will be? How would he explain what became of him when they were all gone? How he ended up here? They'd never understand it, and Harry isn't sure he could ever face their disappointment.
Gil, who must sense his emotions but doesn't quite understand the cause, brushes over his shoulder. Touch soft as a summer shower.
"I can't say that your visions are a surprise exactly," he states. "Elrond has those, too. Elros did. I'm told that Elwing still does. As did her father, brothers, and grandmother. The line is known for it. Of course, the House of Finwë also has its own tendency for visions."
Harry tips his head back as Gil leans into him even more. Rain turns into a drizzle. Thunder quieting and lightning now absent.
"This is certainly beyond a vision though I'd say," his elf continues, and it's thoughtful. Pensive.
Harry doesn't argue at all because it's a true statement. This decidedly beyond simple dreams, too.
"I've talked to the dead before," Harry confesses then, eyes watching painted clouds floating by overhead. "Not just in Mandos or as ghosts."
His elf swiftly turns to looks at him. Face mere inches away when Harry glances back down.
"When I…" He trails off at the wince Gil makes. "You know. When that happens… There's always someone I see waiting for me."
"Always?" his love questions. "The same person?"
"Yes, every time," Harry confirms. "He's… It's someone I knew as a child. He helped me. Guided me before he died."
That's one way of putting it. Yes, there's a whole traincar worth of baggage related to Dumbledore, but time and distance have put much of it into perspective. Harry has also been a headmaster, responsible for the same school even. He can see Dumbledore for all his faults and flaws but also the things he did right. Especially since Harry walked much the same path and dealt with the same evils. And not just the bureaucratic kind. Killing Voldemort – Tom Riddle – was one straw in the broomstick. There were so many others Harry found later. So many worse things that Harry can forgive an old man his sins.
"He died?" Gil repeats. "A mortal then?"
The last part is said quietly, almost a whisper. Like his love is talking to himself.
Harry nods. "He was quite elderly when I knew him, and ever since he's passed on, he's there waiting for me."
"He's still helping you then," Gil-galad comments, but it's to both of them, "even now. After all this time."
That isn't a question at all. It's an assertion. An affirmation.
Harry considers that best way to explain. All the conversations that he's had with Dumbledore in that in-between place. His old headmaster is always genuine and gracious. Harry… not so much sometimes.
"He still gives advice. Occasionally, he just sits with me until I wake up," he agrees.
Gil's dark brows are low over his eyes, which have grown distant. Shadowed even in the brightness of the room. Or perhaps because of it.
"Lords Námo and Irmo have power over spirits; Nienna is their sister. Maybe…" he muses but doesn't finish that thought.
Instead, he glances up, looks at Harry. Gaze unfathomable but lingering. Searching.
"It doesn't matter either way," Gil decides at last. Travels the last few inches to put their foreheads together. Leans forward to breathe the same air. And just holds on.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Caranthir – So… Tell me more about my nephew.
Fingon – Our nephew.
Caranthir – Rolls his eyes. Fine. Our nephew.
Fingon – He's not like the rest of us. He's shy. Quiet.
Caranthir – So you've already said.
Fingon – He's sensible. I haven't seen him bite a single person yet.
Caranthir – I haven't bitten anyone in centuries. That's the twins and Tyelko.
Fingon – Unimpressed look. It's highly effective.
Caranthir – Grudgingly. And sometimes, Curvo. But what he and his wife get up to in the bedroom is their business, and I don't want to know!
Fingon – Sighs and shakes his head. What do you want to know then?
Caranthir – Tell me about the harp.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil – Waking up from a dead sleep to Harry leaving his body.
More!Gil – Panic ensues. Much panic. Such panic.
Also!Gil – Wearing only his robe and nothing else when his mother-in-law brings his beloved back in the middle of the night.
Gil!Again – Mírimo, why do I keep ending up in these situations?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fingolfin – Yawning.
Angrod – Also yawning.
Finrod – Yawning from his brother's shoulder.
Finarfin – Yawning but more discreetly.
Argon – Yawning but doesn't care who sees.
Findis – Yawning into her wineglass.
Celebrían – Yawning with her chin resting on her hand.
Fingon – So I take it everyone else also slept terribly last night?
Maedhros – … … …
Fingolfin – Indeed, hinya. I had odd dreams.
Findis – Agrees. They were certainly strange.
Argon – I think we hit the wine a little too hard before bed.
Finrod – I can't really remember what I dreamed, but I know I was floating.
Angrod – Same. Except there was snow.
Finarfin – Turning to his sons. Lady Nienna was there.
Everyone – Looks at each other.
Maedhros – Quietly. I saw Káno… Just for a moment before I awoke.
Everyone – Looks at each other even longer.
Argon – Wait a minute...
Notes:
Ammë – mother/mum
AN: Eventually, we'll be back on a regular update schedule that's every 2-3 weeks, but I'll admit that have a bunch of new games due to the recent sale on Steam.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Himiko – sun child in Japanese. Also the name of a queen.
Inara – ray of light or heaven sent in Arabic.
Chapter 25
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry finds that he just doesn't want to get up. He isn't tired per se. Not after sleeping for a day and a half. And truth be told, he never really is. Not anymore. Not for longer than he cares to admit even on Earth. When he would stay up for days even then. Between his actual duties as headmaster and the various unofficial responsibilities that everyone insisted on heaping at his feet. Especially at the end. When the world was dying and every single, solitary person expected him to pull off some sort of miracle.
The fact that he did… well…
Harry fights not to sigh. Gil's still asleep beside him, but dawn is a hairsbreadth away. Normally by now, Harry's long ago risen and wandered off. Gone to do his usual rounds around the kingdom. Perhaps even stopped in his office for extra paperwork for no other reason that because it was there and he was up. Lingered in his favorite garden with Káno's harp. Set off for a thousand other tasks.
Today though, Harry stays at home. Lets his senses wander to check the wards. Ghosts through the city and each of the surrounding towns and villages all from the comfort of his own bed. Cocooned in his quilts with Gil a warm and inviting presence next to him. Head pillowed on his shoulder and breathing in the scent of rain.
He already spoke with Káno this afternoon. A several hours long reassurance that Harry was in fact completely fine and suffered no damage from his celestial field trip. Nienna was more persuasive on that front, however. And Harry's honestly not shocked by that. She's been managing Káno from day one. Since Harry's arrival. Likely before that too judging by many of their prior comments and asides. They aren't as bad as some he knows. Particularly since Harry understands most of the references nowadays, and they always try to include him. So Harry doesn't feel like the third beater in a match like he previously did even with Ron and Hermione.
Small blessings.
Eönwë even came by in the evening. Brought in directly by Nienna and tarrying longer than strictly necessary. Eyes flashing through a kaleidoscope of colors as he sat and listened more than participated in the conversation. Before departing elsewhere with his fellow Ainu in tow. Or more to say that Nienna was kind enough to apparate him away since Eönwë never took up Harry's offer to learn.
Afterwards, it was already evening. Nearly nighttime. And Harry admits that he had zero desire to go anywhere or interact with anyone. He wanted to curl up in their bed with his favorite elf and do absolutely nothing else.
Gil very fortunately had the exact same idea.
Of course, that isn't to say that they've been alone this entire time. He has a whole slew of his painted friends still occupying his walls after all. Resting on branches, under trees, or simply in the soft grasses. Some of them have chosen to emerge and instead lounge about the bedroom.
Even now, Himiko reclines on the windowseat like a queen on a throne. One paw crossed on top of the other and just barely touching the edge. From this angle, Harry can see her reflection in the vanity mirror. Golden eyes studying him imperiously. As a ruler does a subject kneeling before her.
Inara perches on her favored locale on the footboard, feathers rustling with every breath. Gaze half-lidded but fully aware of everything in the room. Probably everything in the entire tower. She glows like a firefly in the velvety darkness. Brighter than the heavens on the ceiling and almost as much as some of the Ainur.
An entire menagerie is on his walls and has been most of the night. Owls. Kitsune and regular foxes. Thestrals. Unicorns. A stray dragon or seven. Along with the newer additions of hippogriffs and griffins. Mundane animals. The numbers have only grown since he woke around noon the first time. Almost every single creature that resides in his suite has migrated in here over the course of the last day. They aren't staring at him. Not directly. But it's their way of showing concern. Or possibly support. He hasn't clarified that yet. The last time all of them did this was before he left for Tirion. Though admittedly, there were a lot more unhappy faces then. Not to mention a great deal of squawks, huffs, snorts, and all manner of displeased noises. They haven't started that yet. Thankfully. Though Harry suspects it's only a matter of time. It's not like he planned this or anything. It's not something he ever even imagined would happen. And the Ainur could've been a little clearer with their warnings. They should know that by now. Definitely after all this time. Really they-
"I can hear you thinking," a not-at-all-sleepy voice murmurs next to him.
Gil doesn't see Harry roll his eyes playfully but undoubtedly senses it. He stirs and moves to face him. Scant inches away. Gaze clear like the evening sky after a storm with the blue darkened but carrying the faintest flecks of light.
"Though I have to say it's a pleasant change to find you here," he adds, nose brushing Harry's own.
The kiss isn't a surprise, but it's welcome. Soft and sweet. Lingering as his love looks at him. It isn't clear which of them moves first. But this time, it's deeper, longer. So is the third. And the fourth. The fifth is fiercer. Harder. He feels Gil's weight shifting against him. Trying to tug him back down. He makes a puzzled noise when Harry pulls away. A sound that abruptly cuts off as their kiss ends and Gil finally takes note of the rest of the room.
His face is flushed, cheeks pinking further but now from something else entirely as he realizes their audience. Of course, Harry hadn't ever forgotten them. This is on the border of what they normally allow with so many witnesses hanging around. Usually, everyone clears the area on their own whenever they become a little too affectionate, but there are far too many pairs of eyes on them right now. A fact his love fully recognizes as he abruptly sits up.
Inara chirps at Gil when she notices his attention. Offering a pleasant sound.
That only makes him blush harder. Harry doesn't laugh; he doesn't. But he does make a shooing motion behind Gil's back that everyone ignores. A gale of embarrassment that isn't his own batters against glacial walls. Water and winds that swirl around in agitation mixed with fluster and just the faintest splash of shame.
Elves aren't shy. Not truly. Not usually. They also don't have the hang-ups that Harry remembers from Earth – the human fascination and revulsion. But Gil's also still relatively new to this, he has to remember. For all his kingly manners and romantic airs, Harry's the only person he's ever kissed. Much less courted or… well, anything else.
Of course, being stared at in their bedroom is definitely a mood killer.
Harry's spent far too much of his life on display. Like an animal at a zoo. He's had far too many marriage proposals, frantic fans, swooning masses. Too many unmentionables thrown – and charmed – practically in his face even when he was of geriatric age. Dodged love potions, suspicious contracts, and outright blackmail. Not to mention his friend's endeavors to set him up in the early days. Hermione's attempts were the tamest. He won't even get into George and his old Quidditch mates. Or shudder… Andromeda.
Harry snaps his fingers, and the mural around them fills with shadows that billow from the bottom upwards. A smoke that starts gray but soon blots out everything until only black remains. His friends will still be able to view their own world but nothing on his end now. Inara simply tilts her head in confusion; Himiko flicks all nine of her tails and sniffs. They're the sole ones outside, so they're the only two still capable of seeing when Gil casts him a smile. Relaxes even more as Harry lays a hand on his back between his shoulder blades.
"How was Elros?" his elf questions as if trying for a distraction.
For himself or Harry, that part isn't as obvious. But Harry is gracious and grateful for all Gil's given him. Allows the redirection.
"Chipper and chatty," he replies. "He certainly had much to say about a lot of things. That includes my… outing."
Gil lifts a brow at him. "He knew?"
"I told him," Harry corrects. "Last night when we spoke. He wanted me to tell someone else about my dreams. Not the ones with him but the other ones." His fingers soothe over the fabric of Gil's sleep tunic. It's silky and fit for a king, but somehow still not quite as fine as what Vairë makes.
"You should speak with Lo… with Irmo." Gil hesitates over the title before simply dropping it entirely. "About controlling your dreams. He can likely offer insight better than anyone else."
Harry shifts his arm so that it's between them now. "I was actually considering that. I haven't been to Lórien in a while, but it's obviously faster for me to travel than them. We'll have to find a time to go."
If the implied invitation is unexpected, Gil doesn't show it.
"And make appropriate excuses," his love adds instead.
Harry nods. "I'm not planning to tell the elves about this any time soon, but it won't be difficult for us to go back and forth."
"If we tell them that you and I are planning a small trip just to ourselves, it'll keep them from asking too many questions." Nevertheless, Gil shakes his head even as he says that. "Are you going to mention Elros? To Irmo or even Nienna?"
"I suppose that I'll have to, won't I?" Harry closes his eyes. "They weren't surprised at all by what happened. Pleased, yes. Excited even. But not surprised. They were expecting this. Who knows what else they're expecting to happen?"
"A trip to Námo is also in order then," Gil decides but then muses, "two brothers of Nienna." He's quiet for a moment as he studies Harry, focus drifting around the room before settling on Inara. "Your powers are certainly interesting, Mírimo. Prophetic dreams. Seeing the dead and coming back from it. Turning into birds. Traveling instantaneously. The ability to create so freely."
"All the Ainur can shapeshift," Harry reminds him. "And all of them would be able to travel like I do if they'd bothered to learn. It's not my fault they weren't interested."
Gil-galad stares at him now.
"What?" Harry asks when that look stretches on.
"You… Nienna can also travel like this, yes?" his love questions. "I saw her do it." His voice is low, raindrops a slow cadence.
"She can," Harry agrees easily enough, but he's not entirely sure where this is going. "That's how she visits so often."
"But you taught her?" Gil presses. "You invented this? Created it?"
Oh. So there it is.
He had apparated spontaneously as a child onto the school roof. Yes, he learned at Hogwarts, but that method was outdated and quite frankly terrible. Dropping it entirely helped him by leaps and bounds when he came up with his own techniques that were even better. Ones that were nearly so far removed from the original spell as to almost be something else entirely. They naturally became the new standard.
So… technically, Harry did create it. He didn't write the book on it – that was one of his apprentices, but it was his teachings. His methods. His trial and error based on what he'd done as a child and then recreated. A way so simple that even a small boy could do it without splinching. Soundless and with less effort. If killing a Dark Lord hadn't gotten him an Order of Merlin, this certainly would have. It nearly earned him another mastery before Harry begged off, stating that two were plenty.
Gil chuckles then. Carefree and bright. Leans forward to kiss him again. Without worry who sees.
Pride washes against Harry even as his love pulls back. Surrounds him like he's just gotten into a warm bath. It's a heady feeling. One that carries him through their morning routine and is still ongoing when he rises from the vanity, braids in his hair – the ones for mastery along with those for artistry. Harry requests the last ones be those for Formenos, and Gil happily obliques him. He's in gray and with a hint of green today. Nabs a pair of boots that he doesn't put on just yet because he doesn't want the other inhabitants to be suspicious of their plans just yet.
Inara, who's remained the entire time while Himiko has settled down for a nap, lets out a happy trill before landing on his shoulder. Her talons are gentle, careful not to catch the embroidery that trails from his collar over the seam. She's light, weight far less that most would expect, but that's just part of her magic. Her golden fire reflects on the ice of his world, but it's more a shine of beauty instead of blinding. She's the core of the sun. The hottest part. Should be enough to melt anything. Rather, she lights up the sky like a beacon.
She rides downstairs alongside him and stays on her new perch even as they enter the kitchen. It's early enough yet that no one else is awake, which fits perfectly with Harry's plan. Gil sets the table for him while he starts on a variety of different dishes. Most are elven – either ones he's had while in Tirion or here in Formenos. However, he sneaks in a few from Earth that are similar but not quite the same. Magic speeds up the process, and Gil makes everything more pleasant still. Inara doesn't move the entire time.
Not even when Nerdanel enters the room almost an hour later. Inara offers a chirp in greeting, but Nerdanel gives everyone a bright smile in return. The redhead has met her before in the weeks she lived here prior to the other elves arriving en masse, but none of them have gotten a good look at her. Or even seen her as more than a speck in the distance.
Caranthir certainly takes a sharp breath when he walks in five minutes later, and Harry idly wonders what he actually sees when he gazes at her; he can't quite be sure what elves perceive versus himself. Gil likely isn't a reliable comparison these days. Still the reactions are almost comical as his Eldar guests drift in one by one.
Fëanor is the next to arrive, and he does a double-take at Harry's newest accessory. His queries all but burn in his aura, but he manages to hold himself together enough to ask them politely. One at a time, actually giving Harry a chance to answer. Before Nerdanel finally hushes him after the tenth. Afterwards, he sits in his chair and watches like a cat staring after a bird. Tail twitching behind and eyes transfixed.
Curufin is next. Much like his father, he seems to question what he initially sees, but he arrives during the interrogation and is seemingly content – and wise enough – not to interrupt. A single glance from his mother keeps him from doing anything more than offering a good morning. But he watches out of the corner of his vision. Not blinking nearly as much as he probably should.
Fingon just puts a hand to his forehead but makes absolutely no comment, while Maedhros seems vaguely amused once the surprise wears off. Fingolfin is rather similar, and he lets out a laugh before wandering to his usual seat. Argon immediately comes over, and he's the only one to offer Inara an introduction. He's also the sole person she – and Harry – allows close enough to touch. Reaching out a gentle hand to stroke the top of her head and receiving a coo in return. The phoenix seemingly grows tired of her game around that time and takes to the air. Offering a warble of farewell before disappearing in whirl of fire and gold with sparkles.
Show-off, Harry thinks. But he hides his grin. While Gil snickers quietly in the background.
The rest of the room – save for Nerdanel – simply goggles.
Half of the household has missed the show, however. Findis enters the room to find them all still gaping, and she goes from one person to the next with suspicion on her face. Finarfin, his sons, and granddaughter all come shortly thereafter and are regaled by Argon. Finrod asks enough eager questions to earn an elbow to his side from Celebrían, but that does little to deter him. Only the not-so-subtle kick beneath the table finally quiets him.
Celegorm and the twins seem to be sorry to have been late to the party, but their mother's pointed look gets them to their chairs better than even Manwë could. The three of them murmur quietly amongst themselves as breakfast starts, however. Celegorm in particular wears an almost boyish expression, one full of excitement with the vaguest hint of roguishness. Not the same as Fëanor or Curufin. Closer to Argon's earlier. Probably closest of all to Oromë when he has a hunt planned. It's the most Celegorm has ever actually resembled him – identical appearance aside. It gentles his normal handsomeness to something realer. Something familiar.
There's a twinge in Harry's heart just thinking about that, so he rather quickly busies himself with fixing Gil's plate. His love in turn quietly sets down a teacup right in front of him and presses lips to his cheek. He gives Harry a look that's a tad too aware as they slide into their chairs on the end of the table. Not even Fëanor asks any more questions with the distraction of the food in front of them. Or it could be the gleam in Nerdanel's eye as she piles food in front of him when his plate looks a little too empty. The meal itself passes in relative silence.
Inglor, bless him, arrives quite soon after that. Which really isn't a shock. Harry's felt him visit the castle multiple times since her invasion by the House of Finwë, Fëanor and sons included. And it's no real secret why he'd want to visit old friends and his former liege lord. Harry's hardly going to police that, and the blond has an open invitation to visit regardless. He's one of the few elves who has come on his own recognizance.
Still, it does come as something of a change when Inglor approaches him in the library. Harry hasn't had much time for reading as of late or even sorting through his ever growing collection. He hasn't been through everything in here yet since books are still one of the most common things he receives as a gift. A strange coincidence that's followed him across worlds. Though admittedly, the elves seem to have paid far closer notice to his interests this go around.
Truth be told, he's just buying time here until the coast is clear, but Harry has never truly been one for idleness. Even when sitting, he usually finds something to do with himself whether it's playing or planning or painting. Currently, he's unpacking the latest welcome-back crate that's managed to find its way into his office and inspecting the contents. Gil's meanwhile shelving for him as they talk about whatever random things come to mind. No one else is around since Findis's determined to speak to all of her siblings, and Finarfin and Fingolfin escaped for parts unknown, leaving their children to fend for themselves. Nerdanel took the opportunity to leave with her oldest and his new husband, while Caranthir meandered off on his own. Last Harry saw, Fëanor was actually still at the breakfast table, cup in both hands with his sister across from him. He wishes them the best of luck with that conversation. Which he's purposefully tuning out because it's none of his business thanks ever so much.
Of course, Celegorm and twins were whispering in hushed tones and gesturing as they hurried away to the stables. Which makes it a little difficult to ready Indilwen and Arthion unobtrusively. Truly, he and Gil should've skipped breakfast and headed out immediately on their venture for the day. They'd certainly already be there, but no use crying over spilled potions now.
Inglor appears not terribly long after all of this, but Harry thinks nothing of it. So his bemusement is understandable when the castle whispers that his guard captain is headed his way. More so when the blond appears at the end of the shelves several minutes later and calls out to them. It's accompanied by a brush of his aura like autumn sunshine through the leaves.
"A pleasant surprise to see you this morning," Harry comments, but it's amicably.
The blond inclines his head as he stops by their table. Scanning the book covers momentarily before his attention settles on Harry again.
"I felt it prudent to check in. We haven't seen you for several days."
Harry offers a half-shrug. "Eönwë stopped by," he gives as a vague answer. It's true enough.
Inglor seemingly accepts that. It's a common enough occurrence for the Ainur to come see him. Eönwë basically lives here part-time. A fact his staff knows. Quite well at this point. Inglor doesn't even question it; Harry's very grateful for that.
"We were merely concerned that we hadn't see you," he says instead.
Harry lets that sink in for a moment. "I'm hardly here alone, you know. Even when I leave, it's usually not by myself either."
Inglor merely continues to gaze at him with the same expression. Lips vaguely curled upwards. But he's leaves dancing in the breeze as they fall to the forest floor. Exasperation mixed with an undertone of concern.
"We always worry when you are gone," he admits readily enough. "Even with Gil-galad here along with your family. It won't matter if you're a thousand years old or ten thousand. That's the nature of people." He holds up a hand before Harry can even voice his next thought. "Do you not also worry for us?"
Harry knows a trap when he sees one. Gil isn't any help here either. Quiet, watchful of the exchange but knee against his under the table.
Harry lets out a small breath.
"I highly doubt this is the reason you're here. To give me a lecture about wandering off without leaving a note."
Gil lets out an amused noise beside him.
Inglor doesn't respond immediately though. Rather, the blond flexes his fingers repeatedly. An almost nervous gesture. One of the few tells he has when delivering ill tidings.
It makes Harry pause. There's a prickle at the edge of his senses as the castle whispers to him at the same time, but it's for a different reason altogether. He nudges Himiko to go investigate. For Inara to go with her. Just in case.
"I wished to speak with you, my king," Inglor says then, tone suddenly serious.
Alone, he means. That particular nuance is abundantly clear.
"There's no one else here," Harry points out. "Almost everyone is outside."
Nerdanel and her sons are now in the winter garden on Harry's favorite bench. Caranthir walks the path through the bamboo grove and follows along to the arched red bridge. Finrod and Angrod have joined their father and uncle in the training yard with bows in hand. Celebrían sits on the grass under a willow tree, embroidering as she sings to herself. Argon heads towards the stable, doubtless on this way to join his cousins. Only Fëanor and Findis remain, still in the kitchen.
Harry blinks back to see Inglor watching him. He's polite enough not to glance at Gil, but there's the distinct impression of it.
"He knows everything nowadays that I do," Harry informs him, but it's gentle at the edges. An admission and confession both.
His captain actually allows his mouth to quirk again. An upcurling of his lips that makes the rising tension unravel. He wouldn't be nearly so pleased if he truly came bearing bad news.
"Nothing I have to say is so unfortunate as you were likely starting to imagine," Inglor admits. "I merely wished to…" He hesitates as if searching for his words. "I wished to reaffirm my stance." At Harry's obvious puzzlement, he continues, "You've been very generous with us. Kinder than any has been since we left Aman in the first place. We owe you our loyalty."
A beat. One. Then two. As Harry digests that. As Gil's eyebrows try to join his hairline.
This is about Fëanor then. Which Harry should've expected honestly. He did on some level. Eventually. He just didn't think Inglor would feel the need to spell things out, but given what happened not so long ago, Harry really should have. And he should probably expect similar statements from the rest of his staff and probably from various denizens of the city as a whole.
"I'm not worried about Fëanor or one of his sons trying to usurp me," Harry tells him honestly.
Since really, that idea is ludicrous. The Ainur wouldn't stand for it for one. Eönwë alone would immediately put a stop to it, and he has very strong opinions on the entire lot of them that he's never been shy on sharing. That doesn't even bring in the rest of them. Harry doubts Manwë would ever approve any of that.
For another, Formenos wouldn't stand for it. Only a part of the population here is Ñoldor. And Harry admits he's worried about how the rest will react to knowing the House of Fëanor is staying with him in the castle. Word's undoubtedly spreading, but he hasn't made any official statements. Despite his bluff to Laerien and Melpomaen earlier, he doesn't actually have the impression that any of them seek to rule. If anything, they mostly seem content to lounge around and explore his home. That's likely to change in the near future once they've settled, but he's not pressing them to seek an occupation or restart their crafts. Not even Curufin has asked after a forge, and he's supposed to be even more craft-obsessed than his father.
Of course, they've been too distracted. Much of their time has been spent with the House of Finwë. There's so much history, Harry knows. So much bad blood between the various people here. So much prior backstabbing and infighting. Most of it caused by Fëanor and his sons. Harry knows there've been in-roads and amends made between various parties. He's walked in on more than one intense discussion between Finrod and Curufin with Angrod looking on. Seen Fingolfin and Fëanor circling each other like alley cats. And Finarfin too sometimes. Maedhros has been making the rounds to each of his brothers and then to the others with Fingon in tow. While Findis seems to be on a mission to take each one aside for a personal discussion.
That certainly leaves them little time to plot against him.
All of this doesn't even address the manticore in the room. The fact that they're all still under the impression that he's Makalaurë's – Maglor's – son. Which Harry isn't touching with a ten-foot broomstick. That's a conversation he doesn't want to have ever. For any reason. No. Just no.
"I didn't think you would," Inglor agrees, "but they are older. We all knew and served them before. All of my people have assured me that their – our – loyalty is to you first."
There's a tightness in his chest, but Harry breathes by it. There's the steady fall of rain on one side of him with autumn sunlight out front. Both against ice and snow like waves against the shore. Rhythmic and steady. Unending.
"I have no reason to question your loyalty," Harry replies after a few heartbeats. "I'll hardly be angry with you for rekindling your friendships."
Inglor's expression is bright as his world. Brilliant and dazzling. He's still standing, hasn't taken the earlier offered seat. Now uses the opportunity to give a courtly bow.
"Your words mean a great deal to me, my king."
That's naturally when the world goes to hell.
There's a toll. Like a warning bell going off in the distance. Loud. Ringing. As the castle calls out.
Harry knows that Gil hears it when he rises instantly. Inglor must notice something, too. He reacts even before he sees Harry still. Head turning as if trying to track the sound.
Harry's already looking away. He doesn't have to search hard to find her, but she isn't so much alarmed as angered. Snapping and biting and stomping at the interlopers. And that's before Arthion, the castle, and even Himiko join in. Inara, too. He pinches his nose before he can stop himself. Not knowing whether to sigh or bang his head on the table. It's not only the audacity but the sheer bad-timing. And the very bad judgment call.
In lieu of either option, he just stands.
"Your majesty," Inglor interrupts then, and he's unconcerned.
It takes Harry half a second to realize he's the one being addressed.
"Yes?" he inquires because this isn't the time.
But Inglor merely holds out his hand expectantly.
A million thoughts race through Harry's mind at the look he's given. The implications. The knowledge in that gaze. Ultimately, none of it matters as much as the trust offered.
"Close your eyes," Harry simply says.
Inglor does so immediately and without question. He doesn't even react to see that they're outside an instant later. Completely and utterly unsurprised. Even less so that Gil's right there beside them.
The scene they come upon isn't a massacre. Not quite. No one's dead at least. Harry would've known already if that happened. They're walking wounded – all three of them. Still upright and talking. So that's one less worry at least. He's just wondering how he's going to explain this to Nerdanel and Fëanor… And well, the rest of his family. That's the bigger issue. One that grows larger as elves appear. As if by magic. Coming not in ones or twos but in a wave. Drawn like salamanders to a flame. Descending down on them like some dark curse.
Beside him, Inglor just exhales slowly and puts a hand to his forehead. Harry doesn't have to be a mind-reader to know what he's thinking. Undoubtedly imaging all the paperwork that might arise from this scenario. Infinitely glad that it happened here at the castle and not in the city proper in front of hundreds of witnesses. If it happens at the castle, it stays in the castle. It's never logged in any of the records unless it's something truly major, so that means less work for everyone. Especially Harry.
Of course, Inglor's likely also trying to reconcile his old bosses with his new one. He never directly served Celegorm or the twins, but Fëanor has appeared along with Maedhros. Not to mention Finarfin though they were friends far more than anything. And the entire household is naturally here for this. Likely drawn by a combination of Eldar hearing, family bonds, and his castle wanting an audience. Harry will really have to speak with her about that. A thought he's still contemplating even as he takes in everything once more.
Celegorm as he struggles to his feet from his knees. Now stumbling but making it under his own power. Head up with defiance, in the middle of the courtyard closest to the stables. Glaring at Inara, who no doubt dumped him there without so much as a by-your-leave. She's not even looking at him as she sits on top of the nearest willow, preening her talons as if she's just touched something foul.
The twins are nearby, closer in fact. Out front with Argon behind as he drags them forward. He's the only one uninjured – likely the sole person sensible enough to not be part of this idiocy. An unlucky bystander who happened upon the scene of the crime. He doesn't throw them in front of Harry; he's too nice for that. But he does rather forcefully shove them forward and stands behind so they can't escape. Particularly when their mother comes to stand by Harry's left, ostensibly to fuss over her sons. Though judging by the glint in her eye, he can guess the real reason.
"Are you alright?" Harry inquires with more than a bit of concern as he looks over his three troublemakers.
It's his headmaster tone. One he uses by default despite all this time. Even as he discreetly casts a diagnostic just to be sure. Harry can admit to himself that he's relieved it comes back with no significant findings. Aside from bruises, scattered abrasions, and wounded pride. He moves to inspect their injuries anyway, healing whatever he finds. Going back and forth to each twin as he stands between them.
"That's not a horse!" Amras declares then, just as Argon nudges him.
His twin is nodding his head so hard that Harry almost worries that it'll come off. They're both worse for wear. Still smoking from their clothes and soot-stained. Hair with so much filth that it's only possible to tell them apart by their voices. Amrod's also missing an entire sleeve, while Amras has half a trouser-leg gone. There are hoof-prints scattered over their persons in a variety of locations. Both look like they've tried to take on a cranky dragonette and lost. Which is likely not that far from the truth.
Harry doesn't have to imagine what happened to them; he's already certain what Indilwen and the castle won't only tell him but show in graphic detail. Just as he's sure it was some combined effort there of. The smoldering is likely Himiko's efforts. He knows that she's remained around, too. Can feel her presence like a whiff of cherry blossoms in the air as she hides in plain sight.
"That's a balrog!" Amrod agrees a bit too quickly.
"Don't let her fool you!" they say together. Voices echoing but breathless. Like they've run a marathon or four. Likely from all manner of monsters chasing after them.
Celegorm remains stubbornly silent though. Wresting his arm from Maedhros' grasp and tossing his head like a proud stallion. He's in even worse shape than the twins. His silvery mane is shorter than at breakfast, but it's irregular and uneven. As though something – someone – has taken a large bite out of it. There's hoof shaped bruise on his cheek, which's already swelling to twice the normal size, and his clothing is shredded, ashen. Still smoking. Covered in bits of hay and who knows what else from the stable floor. Since it looks like he was dragged across.
It's quiet then as everyone processes this. Fëanor has come to be by this wife, while Fingon's now with his husband. Curufin stands between the two groups with Caranthir just beside him. Finrod and Angrod exchange glances with each other and then Findis as she shifts over to them. Finarfin and Fingolfin are together, kings both but aware that this isn't their show. Celebrían floats closer to hover on Gil's free side.
"Did you just lose to a horse?" Curufin finally voices the question all of them are thinking.
Caranthir snorts loudly, but no one even comments on that.
"We told you--" Amras begins.
Maedhros interrupts him, "What exactly were you doing here?"
His tone is cold. Steely. Sharp like a sword. Aimed at Celegorm who's obviously the mastermind of this enterprise.
"We merely wanted to ride," his brother responds at last. It's calm, nonchalant even under the remnants of his bangs.
"Yet, there are horses aplenty here," Fingon comments, but there's a bite to it. "Including all those we brought. Why that one in particular?" He indicates the end of the courtyard.
There, Indilwen stands. Ears flicking from side to side in agitation. Huffing as she glares. If she could shoot laser-beams out of her eyes, there'd be nothing but craters left. However, Harry only worked defensive protections around her. Maybe… No, focus. Think on that later.
"I think I can guess why, yonya." Fëanor's gaze is molten silver, but he's controlled, unbelievably composed as he addresses his sons. "She's one of Oromë's herd. Is she not, Tyelkormo?"
Credit where credit is due, Celegorm merely shrugs. His song doesn't hold a single hint of concern. Campfire the same height and color as always. World empty and sullen.
A hand finds Harry's shoulder then as Gil gently pulls Harry away from the twins. They aren't fully healed yet, but his love has seemingly decided they're sufficiently fixed. The strength of his grasp is enough to keep Harry from even trying to go to Celegorm, and his arm settles around Harry's back as they move away three steps. Celebrían drifts over to Harry's other side; close enough to reach out but wise enough not to do so.
Maedhros doesn't yell, but he projects loud enough that Harry almost thinks the city will hear him.
"Stealing from your nephew!" he demands. "That is a new low even for you."
If his words were any colder, frost would coat the ground around them. Fortunately, he doesn't have Harry's gifts.
"It's not stealing," Amrod defends. "We only wanted to borrow her for a bit."
"We were going to bring her right back." Amras lifts his chin but is still overshadowed by Argon looming behind him.
"Eventually, that is?" Fingon counters, and now, there's a flare of true anger. "A few weeks from now? A few months? After he's had to track her down?"
"It was all in good fun," Amras says now.
"Just a little hunt," Celegorm continues. "Just a little game to pass the time."
"No, it was a test to see how he'd react," Caranthir snidely remarks. "A game is only fun if everyone willingly participates." There's a curl to his lip that's very unfriendly. He's too knowing as are his words.
"Now, would we do that?" Amrod asks. Face innocent but eyes predatory. Like a shark that's found blood in the water. A dragon that's seen the doe.
"Are they truly accusing us of such things, brother?" Amras's words are light, almost jesting. The ruin of their clothes belays the ease in his voice.
"I remember how you treated Tyelpë," Finrod speaks up from the back.
Heads snap that direction in surprise. Even Indilwen glances over.
"Particularly when his parents weren't around to protect him," Angrod agrees.
It isn't Celegorm he looks at, but the twins this time. Attention flicking from one to the other but lingering in the general vicinity of both. He isn't Finarfin's radiant light or Findis' eclipse, but his sun is blazing now.
"His mother would have your head if she knew if half of the things you did," he presses on.
Of course, Celebrimbor's father still might judging by the way his eyes narrow into slits. Curufin lets out a little snarl, but Caranthir keeps him from stepping forward. Hand turning white from the pressure he applies to his brother's arm.
Even Celegorm seems surprised by this revelation. Shock flitting over his face before he smooths it again.
Both twins nearly blanch at the looks aimed their direction.
"We didn't--"
"It was--"
They both began to say.
"You didn't mean it that way. It was just a little fun," Caranthir disrupts, but it's falsetto and mocking. "You sound like children."
His youngest siblings glower at him now. Identical expressions of displeasure. Out of all the House, they look the most like Nerdanel, and it's unsettling to see such a glare on someone with her features.
"You know it--"
"They aren't children anymore," Finrod points out with a nod at Curufin.
"No, they aren't," Fingon concurs, but it's softer now. "Herurrívë is the youngest here."
The elves don't glance at each other then, but they don't have to. Harry mightn't be the best at catching their clues; this is a glaringly large one.
"It isn't like--" Amras starts
But his father cuts him off this time.
"That's enough," Fëanor decides then. His tone isn't as sharp as that of his his eldest, but it doesn't need to be. "Go inside. All three of you."
He doesn't have to say which sons he means.
Amrod shakes his head. "We never--"
"Hush, yonya." The echo of his song is a dreadful thing. Fire burning blue. "Go inside."
Amras tires, "Atto--"
Fëanor's eyes flash, but he's utterly calm. Eerily so. Standing with his wife as she clutches his hand.
"Go inside."
His youngest sons abruptly quieten. They stare at him for a few heartbeats before whirling around without further argument. Argon trails closely behind them. Just in case they decide to make a run for it, but even they wouldn't be so foolish as to disobey their father right now.
Celegorm though...
"We aren't elflings to order around," he insists. Stubborn until the last.
Fëanor lets out a single chuckle. More akin to a bark of laughter than anything else. His flames swell on the inside, but he's still seemingly serene. Like the lake his wife is in truth.
"Are you not though? Just children who quibble amongst yourselves." It's not flippant though. His smile is kind, gentle in the way that Káno's singing is. And there's the same broken quality. The same deep melancholy, deep agony underneath. "We are many terrible things, yonya, but thieves will not be one of those. Your nephew has offered us a great deal of mercy already, and we owe him a debt that we can never think to repay."
He pauses to let that sink in, but no one dares speak. Not even his third son.
Harry just stands on the sidelines like a spectator at quodpot match. Observing the by-play but not an active participant. It's awkward being here, having to hear this. He doesn't know them, not truly. He feels like he didn't just glimpse their dirty laundry but more like it was thrown in his face. He's avoided listening in – spying – on their conversations as they sort out their differences, but there's no avoiding this.
No avoiding Maedhros' boiling anger. Fingon's righteous flare. Curufin's grief, Caranthir's weariness, and Celegorm's disdain. The wounded pride of the twins still lingering in the air. Fëanor and his agonizing regrets. Or Nerdanel's slow sorrow as she silently watches, words frozen in her throat.
Gil tightens the arm around him.
Fëanor looks at Celegorm and no one else. "Your brothers are childish fools, who we indulged far too long. I expected better from you."
The last words find their target like an arrow from Oromë's bow. Celegorm's jaw clenches. Teeth grinding visibly. The muscles in his neck spasm tightly enough that Harry can see them jerking. His head is held high, however, as he pivots on his heel and storms after his youngest brothers.
They simply watch him go.
No one else says anything or even moves for several heartbeats. As Nerdanel leans into his side and he turns to rest his head on hers. Fëanor breathes out heavily.
That's the only signal they need. Caranthir brings Curufin to their parents, while Maedhros and Fingon come up on his other side. Quick to head Curufin off before he can rage his way indoors and throttle a pair of redheads. Harry takes the chance to start towards Indilwen, slipping free from Gil. Who trails after him along with Celebrían. Fingon catches his sleeve as he passes, while Nerdanel and Fëanor both turn to him, but Harry merely offers them a smile before sliding away. Fingolfin and the others don't even attempt to slow him down as he goes by them, and Harry's grateful for that.
Indilwen waits for him by the edge of the courtyard. Unexpectedly patient with the entire spectacle that just transpired. Though admittedly, she does love the dramatic. Harry will never admit out loud to any of the elves that his initial diagnostic spells were for her, and he only cast on the twins second. Nevertheless, his longstanding protections did their job beautifully. Indilwen doesn't have a single scratch on her. She barely even has a hair out place. Still, she watches everything with a sharp, belligerent gaze. Eyes fierce and focused. Peering over Harry's shoulder at first Gil and then beyond him to the nearest elves. There's a reason that Harry is the only one who ever rides Indilwen. Aside from that one time with Gil, but he's a special case. Even Fingon, the next most tolerable, has only limited himself to a few scratches along her nose and neck. The Ainur are allowed liberties, but Indilwen has known them far longer and the relationship is different. Káno would likely be the only other elf she wouldn't immediately eviscerate.
Her ears are pointed forward even as Harry comes to her side. The tension doesn't fully bleed out of her frame when as he lays a hand on her mane.
"Hello, my dear," he greets her with a pat. "I'm sorry that I took so long."
She exhales in a huff but leans into his touch. Coat soft beneath his fingers as he threads through it. She likes one specific area scratched, right beneath a black spot, and he finds it immediately. She normally becomes mush in his grasp with this, but today, she doesn't even glance at him. Her attention's instead still fixed forward.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out her angle. Or her intentions once Harry leaves the premises. He sees it in the way she studies them over Harry's shoulder, past Gil entirely. Glaring at Finarfin and Fingolfin. The closest targets.
Harry allows himself a sigh. She flicks her tail at that, but it's the only outward sign she shows that she heard. If anything though, it makes her focus narrow in even more. Of course, she's not angry about herself. No, Indilwen had her fun stomping on her miscreants already. She now has other targets in mind. Only these ones are innocent. Of this particular crime at least.
"Look at me," Harry tells her then. Soothing and sweet. Coaxing as his uses his nails to scratch that one spot.
Indilwen's still for a long second. One that stretches out as she keeps staring forward before she lets out an abrupt snort. Blue eyes flick his direction; he lifts a brow at the expression she gives him. It's rather like a toddler pouting in time-out. Like Teddy when he was told to sit quietly after misbehaving. Wanting desperately to come to him but holding back out of sheer spite.
"What've I told you about gnawing on the elves?" he asks her, more rhetorically than not.
There's a noise of astonishment directly behind him, but Harry ignores it as her eyes turn to furious slits. The sound she makes can only be described as hissing. Long and sharp over her teeth before she clacks them together menacingly.
"Now, now," he chides. His touch on her neck is softer than snow, however. "You know they're delicate, and we don't want to damage them."
She gives him a sullen stare like a third-year called out-of-bounds.
Harry gently pets her nose now. "And you know that they're stringy. They won't satisfy you, my dear."
Even as she huffs, there's a guffaw behind them, vaguely hysterical. Harry can't fully tell if its from Caranthir or one of Finarfin's sons. Not Gil – Harry knows his laugh too well. He's also a little too dignified for that sound when others are around. Either way, he can feel Gil's amusement like droplets hitting the castle roof. More falling the longer this goes on.
Indilwen offers a hard whinny then. Followed by a stamp of her front foot. She grinds it into the cobblestones.
Harry runs his hand up and to the top of her head. Right between her ears.
"Yes, I know Eönwë offered you a sword and lessons," he says with a small smile, "and we'll talk more about that."
Another loud snort. More petulant.
"He isn't even here right now," Harry explains ever-so-patiently. "We'd also have to make a sword to suit you."
She clacks her teeth again, but she seemingly sees the logic in that argument. Particularly when he goes in for the kill.
"After all this excitement, I think you deserve a few treats," he says then and slowly starts steering her back to the stable.
Her ears have already perked by this time, and Harry knows he's already won when she follows after him voluntarily. Eagerly even. Allowing Gil to come over to his free side. But the elf's shoulders are shaking, and his cheeks are red from trying to hold in his laughter. Harry doesn't even peer behind him to see what the others look like.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The next few hours are awkward.
Well, they would be if Harry doesn't spend almost the rest of the day convincing Indilwen not to assault his guests. She seems mollified by evening time. Likely due to the amount of pampering he subjects her to, but by then, he decides to postpone their little jaunt. Instead, he and Gil leave just after dawn. Having had a quick breakfast and taking the time to actually pack a picnic lunch. Enough for themselves, any Ainur they happen to meet, and undoubtedly some four-legged friends. Harry intends only to bring Gil with Indilwen and Arthion as tagalongs. Mostly because this is the chance to introduce his intended in a safe environment – away from the castle. Not to mention get Indilwen far from all the other elves, ones who she tolerates the same way a Muggle child does a trip to the dentist.
They do not make a clean escape.
They don't even make it out of the stables before five shadows emerge like bandits in a highway robbery. Even when Indilwen snorts at Fingon with narrowed eyes and a swishing tail, he doesn't flinch away. Half an hour later, Harry still isn't quite certain how he managed to acquire so many people on this outing, but they trail behind he and Gil as he takes a back path down the mountain and into the treeline. Following him one by one like a little procession of elven ducklings before finally fanning out. Heads turning this way and that in the case of Maedhros and Fëanor. Which isn't unexpected since this route didn't previously exist.
As for the others, Fingon's naturally next to his husband with Fëanor on his other side, but Harry feels his attention on his back like an incessant itch. Argon simply seems excited to be out of the castle. Taking in everything and not saying much at all. Celebrían rides next to him, and for once, she's without her uncles. Harry's ambivalent about her presence, but neither he nor Gil keep her from coming. She may as well at this point.
Oromë, he knows is in one of his favorite locales in the kingdom. A clearing far off the beaten path and mostly undiscovered save for those who can view it overhead and forest denizens – the only person even vaguely elven who knows it exists is Harry himself. It's still within the bounds of Spring, edged by blossoming trees and a deep creek on one side that Huan likes to splash in. Harry learned to fish here. Spear in hand and dubious expression on his face. It's not terribly far from the city. Nestled in one of the neighboring valleys. And Harry's magic speeds up the trip. It's just long enough for Indilwen to settle. To breathe easier and work through some of her tension before she begins slowing at the approach. He supposes then that he should at least tell them. Give them some type of warning before they see Oromë for themselves. Gil already knows, has even speculated with Harry about it. He's just deciding exactly how to explain to everyone else when Fingon beats him to it.
"Ammë already warned us," his uncle comments. A little too lightly.
It takes Harry a second to realize who Fingon means, but he tips his head in understanding. He's already mentioned Oromë's choice of… features to Nerdanel, so it's only natural she informed her children and husband. Kind of her to save him that conversation.
Harry opens his mouth before promptly closing it. He isn't even sure what he wants to say here. Much less how to make this any less bizarre. Which was why he only wanted to bring Gil along. Not a quarter of his household. He only allowed this at Fingon's insistence, and he still isn't really sure why he let his uncle convince him.
It'll be a broom-wreck; he just knows it. He can feel it the same way Ron used to complain that he could feel bad weather coming by the ache in his hip. Like a dark curse speeding his way that he can't avoid. A feeling that only deepens as they enter the clearing with Harry out front and Gil a hairsbreadth behind him, but Fëanor comes up on his left just as Harry's dismounting. Fingon and Maedhros are next them with Celebrían and Argon in the middle.
Tulkas takes everything in stride at the sudden appearance of the elves, and if he's at all stunned to find more than expected, he doesn't comment. Instead, he wears a broad grin behind his beard. It's something he prefers, Harry's noticed. Short. Neat but blond. Golden. Color less like that of an elf. Similar to Tuor's rather. In fact, Harry would almost mistake him for a Man if not for the shine of his eyes, color a whimsical shade of lilac this time, and the rise of his song.
Harry, in turn, isn't surprised to see Tulkas here. He's the only Ainur who doesn't seem to care what guise Oromë wears. Even Nessa, Oromë's own sister, and Vána react poorly to this guise. Nienna is sadder, quieter than usual. Vairë turns away. Eönwë simply tries not looking at him. Tulkas though, Harry supposes it's his outlook on life. Or simply his personality. He's very much lives in the now. Yesterday's the past. Tomorrow's yet to come. Plan for the future, but the only time that matters is happening as they speak. It's certainly a different mindset than most. Even in Aman, and for all his preferences for physical things, he has a keen mind and sharp, penetrating way of getting to the root of things.
If only he'd wear a shirt.
Harry knows that he has them. Míriel even made him one when she and Nessa were gossiping, but he only stayed in it for five minutes before it mysteriously disappeared to never be seen again. What happened to cloak doesn't bear repeating. At least his trousers stay on. Mostly.
Harry's still shaking his head to himself at that last part when he's greeted by their aura. The first surrounds him on eager paws. It's the call of the hunt, of the horn and the race of hooves over snow. The other is a laugh that follows, loud and carefree as those heard in any pub or mead hall. Echoing with voices full of every tall-tale imaginable – all of them true, obviously. Both of them, both Valar are bright as the sun in his mind's gaze, Oromë more so. He's wearing a very familiar face as expected, but his dark eyes don't even so much as widen to see all the elves accompanying Harry.
Oromë rises from his crouch, bow over this back, when they come to a full stop. Having seen Celegorm just the day before, it really is a little unsettling how identical Oromë has made himself. Admittedly, Harry knew him first and longer, but it's the background that puts it in perspective. The mannerisms are mostly different; some of them are similar enough that Harry can figure out just how much time they spent together in the past. Harry knew Ron and Hermione for over a century with some decades added on, but in the scheme of things, that was a significant portion of his lifetime ago. Yet, he still catches himself doing or saying things as they would. Even how long it took him to stop putting aside articles for Hermione to read or saving recipes for Ron to try... Those were the hardest habits to break.
Harry can't imagine what viewing Oromë is like for the others here. How eerie it must be. At least, Celegorm is out of Mandos. Is around the castle for them to see any time they want. He can't imagine what it would be like without that reassurance.
Aside from Tulkas, Oromë isn't alone; he rarely is. Huan's his constant companion and has been the entire time Harry's known him. Typically, he has others with him. Various creatures – dogs, horses, the Maiar in his service, and even sometimes elves who he favors and favor him in return; Beleg has gone with him on hunts numerous times. Vána, his wife, comes with him often enough. Nessa as well.
Today, it's only Huan. Gray fur rippling to see all of Harry's party but tail wagging at Harry himself. Letting out a happy yip like an overgrown puppy and running towards him. Rearing up on his hind legs to lick him in the face, paws on his shoulders.
Oromë's a bit more sedate with his arrival. Strolling over like he has all the time in the world and nothing else important to do but wait on his dog to finish. Tulkas stands next to him. Which is also not an uncommon occurrence. He wasn't the other night, though Harry suspects they all made the trip here for the sole purpose of checking in.
Mother hens, the lot of them.
"Marcaunon."
Oromë clasps Harry's arm warmly. Lingering in front of him for a long moment. Looking with more than eyes. Assessing him from top to bottom with a half-smile before tugging him in closer.
He cares little for elven sensibilities or personal space; Tulkas cares even less. But Oromë's arm is warm across Harry's shoulders. Free hand going to inspect his braids. He makes a noncommittal noise that's a melodic hum as a finger glides over one and then the other. Gil's personal braid and the second for Formenos. He even laughs in Harry's ear as he peers by his shoulder. Undoubtedly at the gaggle of elven onlookers.
Harry knows they're staring at the spectacle. He doesn't have to see them to realize that. Surely though, Celegorm was friends with Oromë for countless years. None of this should be startling. Right?
He doesn't even try to contemplate what it must look like when Tulkas has his turn, and Harry's still trying to recover from that when it's time to make introductions. Gil's naturally the first Harry begins to bring forward. But before they can get any further, Tulkas interrupts.
"So… This is the one?" the Ainu says it with a boisterous guffaw, but then, he says most things with a laugh of some sort. He puts one hand on his chin while motioning forward with the other.
It's done casually. Lazily even. Not an entirely rude gesture but certainly not one a king of the Ñoldor usually gets aside from close friends. Harry though has been on the receiving end a thousand times and knows what usually follows, and he isn't in the mood for a drinking contest, wrestling match, or any other feat of strength today. Oromë merely shifts beside his brother by marriage, while Tulkas gives another chuckle.
"Relax, little wing," he comments even as Huan barks. "We shan't harm your precious elf."
Gil doesn't seem the least bit intimidated as he takes several steps forward. Which bring him fully to Harry's right side and then beyond.
"Gil-galad, well met," he introduces with a shallow bow.
A beat. Like a hippogriff turning to a supplicant.
"Eönwë speaks well of you," Oromë remarks then. "He told us much on your stay in Formenos and earlier."
"He spoke of me?" Gil can't quite mask the astonishment.
Oromë hums again. "Yes, we were naturally quite curious to learn that Marcaunon had returned with an elf. One who even now resides with him."
A pause then as Gil digests that. He absentmindedly pets Huan as the hound shoves his head into Gil's leg, but otherwise, he doesn't move.
Oromë waits. Patient as only a hunter can be. While Tulkas takes that as an opportunity to study Gil. Not up and down but straight on. Peering at him with song and eyes. Not encroaching on the rainstorm but inspecting it. Much in the manner of someone gazing through the window to watch the water pouring down outside.
"Yes, this one," he murmurs after a moment, but it's more to himself. "Definitely this one."
Oromë offers a pleased chuckle. "Indeed."
His dark gaze glitters with starlight as Harry moves up to Gil. As if sensing the shift, the cloak of snow now thrown around Gil and himself both. It doesn't fully mask their presence, but it keeps others from seeing more than the barest bit of the surface unless he wishes it. Gil's practiced in the way elves are in the mental arts, but if more Ainur are going to be hanging around in the future, Valar specifically – and Harry knows that's a given – he'll have to teach his love how to block their sight. How to shield himself so they can only see what he wants them to. In the meantime, Harry will do it for them.
Both Valar don't seem the least bit insulted at the action though. In fact, Tulkas' grin widens. Even more so when he sees Gil take Harry's hand.
Meanwhile, their audience has been quiet so far. Too quiet. Something Oromë must agree with.
"Fëanáro. Russandol. Findekáno."
He nods to the three of them in turn. Fëanor and his sons – one by birth and the other by marriage. All of them return the gesture. Even Fëanor, who eyes Oromë like a kitten does a hound. But then again, he's met the Vala before. Celegorm was once a great friend to Oromë. Once rode with him on his hunt for sometimes even years away from home. Fëanor would've sought out the Ainu who was interacting so frequently with his child.
"Young Arakáno," Oromë addresses next. Tone warm as a campfire but twice as inviting as anything Celegorm has managed so far. "I have heard much of you."
Argon's startles at that, but he merely nods back. As if not trusting himself to speak.
Oromë loiters for a few seconds before moving to Celebrían. Observing her intently. Inspecting her silver moonlight.
"I do not believe we have met."
"I am Celebrían," she offers with her own bow. "Well met."
"Daughter of Artanis," Oromë replies, but it isn't a question. "Wife of Elrond, son of Makalaurë."
There's the briefest hesitation. A ripple in the elves but not in Tulkas. Not in Gil either, as if he expected this.
"Yes," she agrees. Her eyes don't drift to Harry, but he feels his attention as clear as day. Like a Lumos in a dark room.
Another pause. Waiting for Oromë to say more, but he doesn't offer anything further to her. Neither comment nor censure.
Huan, who has first drifted over to Fingon and Maedhros for pets, now butts Argon and then Fëanor. The latter just blinks at him. A multitude of emotions flicker over his face and across his aura too fast to track. However, his hand reaches down for a sniff and lick.
Tulkas has his arms crossed loosely over his chest now. Surveying everyone gathered as a father does his brood. There's almost a hint of puzzlement to him as he comes back to Harry.
"So when is the party?" he suddenly questions.
Harry blinks at him. Since he has absolutely, completely, and totally no idea what Tulkas means. Honestly. Really and truly.
That must show on his face because the Vala makes a tutting sound.
"The engagement party, little wing! The engagement party!" Tulkas gestures broadly. "Nessa and Estë have already prepared their gifts."
Harry's eyes widen. He keeps the look of horror from his face by some miracle, but he knows Gil must've sensed it. Certainly so by the way his hand is squeezed. Fingers curling through and around his.
"Surely, you will have a party." Tulkas doesn't pout; his bearded face isn't suited for it at all. Yet, there's a distinct impression of one. "Elves do this, yes?"
Gil fortunately comes in for the save. "Of course, but their family plans it. Their parents, siblings, and grandparents," he replies genuinely enough. "My father and brother are still in Endor, I fear. It'd be difficult to have without them."
Tulkas inclines his head, but there's a gleam to his eyes. Weighing. Considering.
"Marcaunon has kin here," he points out. Cordial but focus sharp as the sword he doesn't need to carry. "It may not be our tradition, but we'd be more than willing to indulge this."
"His mother most certainly would," Oromë agrees. The expression he wears when the stag is in his sights. "She shall be devastated to know you missed out on such a thing even if your father cannot be present."
How nice of him to lay on the guilt trip there. Exactly what Harry wants to deal with right now. Especially in front of an audience. He bites his tongue to keep his retort behind his teeth, but he can see Oromë's brow rise, and Harry feels his chest tighten. Both at the words and the auras that press against him. It isn't exactly a secret that he hates parties. He always has; he hates the attention, faux platitudes, and thoughtless gifts. The elves in Formenos have wanted multiple celebrations. All ostensibly on his behalf, but he's always miraculously managed to convince them to make it about something – anything – else. There won't be any escaping this though. No dodging this particular spell, which targets him like a heat-seeking curse.
And yet… Oromë and Tulkas are calming. Gentling as one would a spooked horse. Soothing murmurs in the background. A hand, physical and metaphorical both, encircles his arm at the elbow on his free side. Touch steady but not forceful. Familiar. The same that's guided him through archery lesions when he barely knew the pointy end of the arrow from the other.
Harry allows himself to relax. To exhale.
Fëanor naturally chooses that moment to step forward.
"Marcaunon has other family on this shore," he reminds, and it isn't aggressive or even angry. More like a firm riposte.
There's a murmur of agreements behind him. Fingon steps forward with Maedhros a half-second before Argon, but Celebrían is there, too.
"Marcaunon's mother," Maedhros inserts, "I'd be most grateful to speak with her on the matter." His hair is bright in the sunlight, almost blood red.
"I too would speak with her," Fëanor agrees, and the burning fire of his eyes is at odds with the sensibleness of his voice.
Fingon intones, "I rather think all of us are eager to meet her." His focus drifts to Harry, but his expression is unreadable even as his aura reaches out.
"I am sure you will soon enough," Oromë answers readily enough.
It seems friendly but sounds vaguely ominous. Almost foreboding. All bite with little bark.
Fëanor smiles back at him. So does Maedhros. Pleasantly. Amiably. With nothing but teeth.
Harry isn't amused by this at all. Any of it. Less so at the laugh Tulkas offers then. Or the bark Huan gives followed by Indilwen's neigh.
Gil just squeezes his hand.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fëanor – Tail practically dancing from side to side. What in Arda was that!?
Inglor – So you got to meet our resident fire-bird.
Fëanor – What a wonderful creature! Where did she ever come from?
Inglor – Totally in on the joke. Oh, around. But just wait until you see the rest.
Fëanor – Ears perking. The rest?
Inglor – Laughs to himself. Oh, we have foxes with nine tails, equines with horns, owls that can deliver mail, and wraith horses.
Fëanor – Blinks. The what now?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Later. After much yelling. Possibly after furniture throwing.
Fëanor – Sons...
Amrod – A little tentatively. Yes, atto?
Amras – What is it?
Celegorm – Pouting.
Fëanor – You're incredibly stupid, but I love you.
Other Sons – Remembering Harry tell Indilwen that she can't have a sword yet.
More!Other Sons – Side-eyeing each other about the mention of Eönwë and lessons.
Fëanor!Again – Also, you're never going near that horse again.
All the Sons of Fëanor Minus One – Nod vigorously.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Sighs. Oromë, you know how weird this is.
Oromë – Still totally wearing Celegorm's face. I don't know what you mean.
Oromë!Again – Makes a totally!Celegorm expression while he says that.
Harry – That! Right there! Stop it!
Also!Harry – Yes, I appreciate the irony of me saying all of this, considering. Waves at himself. But I was born with this face!
Tulkas – I say they fight over who gets to wear it.
Huan – Bark!
Gil-galad – Facepalm. I don't think it works that way.
The Other Elves – O.o
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nerdanel – Have fun on your ride with Marcaunon!
Fingon – We will, ammë!
Fëanor – Only half-listening. How are we ever going to apologize to my grandson for this debacle?
Maedhros – I believe we're going to meet Oromë.
Nerdanel – … About that. Shifty expression that's a bit too much like her other sons.
Maedhros – Yes?
Fingon – Ammë?
Fëanor – Deep in thought. Perhaps we can make him something. That will certainly help distract Curvo.
Maedhros – What is it?
Fingon – What's wrong?
Fëanor – Still contemplating. He doesn't seem to favor jewelry aside from father's ring.
Nerdanel – Well… he's borrowing Tyelkormo's face, dears.
Maedhros – …
Fingon – …
Fëanor – Nodding absentmindedly until…
Fëanor!Again – He what!?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Indilwen – Neigh. Neigh. Snort. Snort. Whinny.
Oromë – Oh, he did. Did he?
Tulkas – What an idiot.
Huan – Bark.
Notes:
Ammë – mother/mum
Atto – father/dad
Yonya – my son
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-AN: I was imaging Indilwen like Maximus from Tangled.
Also, seriously… The art for Tulkas. So much of it shows him as shirtless. So this is now an in!verse joke.
The twins and Celebrimbor here. In this scenario, Celebrimbor was born before them but not by much, and he was Finwë's first grandchild, so he was given a lot of attention for this initially before the Silmarils, etc. Amrod and Amras were Fëanor's youngest and twins to boot, so that makes them special. However, they had quite a bit of jealousy for Celebrimbor since he was also slightly older – maybe a decade or two – and showed an aptitude for Fëanor's crafting. It was a pretty severe case of one-sided rivalry on their part. Celebrimbor isn't as boisterous as the rest of the family, so he got double-teamed a lot but never really complained since he knew that'd just make it worse. No one quite realized how bad it was until much later when they started comparing mental notes on events, but this was far after the damage was done. I see a lot of Celebrimbor's willingness to deny his family relating back to not just their deeds but personal relationships with him. He was the grandson and loved, but there was so much family drama during his early years that he was either coddled or ignored by everyone in the House of Fëanor save for his parents, and the people closest to him in age were terrible to him. So he was much closer with his cousins. FYI - Mama!Curufin would've gone nuts if she had known any of this. I see Curufin as the sensible, calm parent in that relationship.
And ósanwe (so canon telepathy) – my understanding of this is that everyone (from hobbits to elves to Ainur) can willfully close their minds to keep out even Morgoth and that this doesn't require training. That said, I also feel that surface level things can still be gleaned unless that's closed off, too. Harry though was taught an entirely different method in addition to ósanwe, so his perception of what people can and cannot see isn't accurate. I.e. Harry technically isn't using ósanwe most time (more like a hybrid of it with Legilimency plus other things he learned on Earth). The Ainur could probably keep him out (at least some of them), but he'd overpower everyone else if he wanted to – looking at you, Galadriel. What he sees in auras reveals way more of people than ósanwe would/should allow.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Himiko – sun child in Japanese. Also the name of a queen.
Inara – ray of light or heaven sent in Arabic.
Chapter 26: Chapter 26
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Harry Potter."
The voice calls out as he walks down the path back towards the castle in the early morning. It's just late enough for the shops to be open but only so, and barely anyone else's about as he strolls away from Hogsmeade. The air is warm, clean within the wards that rise overhead, and the birds are singing, while the bees are buzzing. It's taken him so long to be comfortable enough to come back to the village after the third Killing Curse, but he still limits his time here. His heart speeds up before he can stop himself, but the presence is known. Familiar enough to register as a non-threat. He turns to glance to the left towards a connecting byway.
And there, she is. Emerging from the shadows of the hedges.
She looks good for a grandmum. Much less the mother of four adult sons, two sets of twins. Spry. Glowing in the sunlight. As if she could climb up a mountain, chase after a snorkack, or wrestle a cockatrice. Likely all at the same time. While wearing a dress. But not heels. Ankle safety is key.
"Luna," he greets with a laugh, "it's been awhile."
Indeed, it has. Nearly a year. Since last summer when everyone met up at the Hog's Head – now run by a cousin of Aberforth and something of a tourist trap meets historical site. It's nigh impossible to find a seat, especially during the warmer months and around holidays. Private parties are exclusive, limited, and only available to members of the resistance.
Luna herself is in just as much high demand these days. Even more than before. Earth isn't the same as it was prior to the Muggle war, but she's been instrumental at restarting much of the animal populations while Neville works on the greenery. Magic just needs a little bit of blood. Or a fang. A claw. Some fur. The irony of necromancy helping them revive the world isn't lost on Harry, but they don't have parts of everything. At least not readily available. Luna seems to have a power all her own in finding those. In searching out hidden crevasses and hollows to discover exactly what they need and exactly when they need it.
"Too long for friends," she agrees readily, "I got your most recent letter; Fawkes didn't even scorch it this time. I apologize for not writing back sooner. We've been a bit busy on our end."
Indeed, they undoubtedly have. It isn't every day that her oldest grandkids turn eleven, another set of twins. Harry knows that there was a big celebration just the other week, but he missed the party due to an emergency board meeting over that incident with three fourth-years, a pair of fifth-years with one particular third-year, and Harry doesn't even want to contemplate all the paperwork he still has do. In the meantime, he sent his congratulations and of course gifts. A few fun things but also some in anticipation of upcoming Hogwarts days. The parents were most appreciative to have early access to the recommended shopping list.
"We missed you at the party," Luna tells him, and the smile she gives is beatific as she floats over. "I hope it wasn't anything too terrible."
Harry somehow keeps the full grimace from his face but only just.
Having an all out pranking war break out between six students with copious injuries on the sidelines isn't his ideal Saturday. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt, but this isn't Dumbledore's days. People are actually informed of what's going on now. Parents are told when their children are involved. Students are disciplined appropriately, and anything involving an out of school suspension goes before the board. All six will be spending the next week at home with their families and contemplating their actions.
"Nothing worse than Fred and George did back in the day," he comments after a pause. "Admittedly, it's taken much more seriously now."
Luna gives a solemn nod mid-stride, but her steps are light as air. As if she too has wings and doesn't just dote on beings who do. Her blonde hair is still long, even more so than it was in school. But now, it's braided into a crown around her head with spring flowers woven in, and the color seems to be shifting towards silver. He can't quite decide if it's due to age or the result of some charm. Likely a mix of both. She wears pants beneath her dress, black and stretchy with the pattern of vines. Her hem ends just above her knees in the front, but her boots are mid-calf, and there's a vague sense of mud to them even without any visible.
"I'm glad that everyone's in good hands at Hogwarts," she states as she reaches him. There's a sparkle in her eyes though, even as her face shifts into a true grin and her nose crinkles. "I hear a congratulations is in order, headmaster."
The final word is said with emphasis. With a laugh of delight and happiness both.
News certainly travels fast if Luna heard about it already. Before Harry even had a chance to let her know. The decision on his promotion was only made two days ago, and it hasn't even been officially announced. Much less hit the papers yet.
"Ron told me," Luna offers then. As if reading his mind. "Hermione, too. And Susan followed by Hannah just yesterday when we were in Diagon."
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose at the antics of all his friends. Luna likely notices, but she's still listing names.
"George, Jordan, and Angelina also flagged us down. Then, we saw Fleur at Gringotts--"
He chuckles for a lack of anything else to do. "I take it that you heard."
"You could say that, yes." But her twinkle is transcendent. Radiant as her joy. "Oh, Harry. I'm so happy for you!" She takes both of her hands in his. "I know how much Hogwarts has always meant to you."
Her grip is tight. Squeezing just long enough before she releases him.
Harry isn't eleven anymore. He isn't even the same fifteen year-old-boy she first met. He still can't keep the pleased curl of his lips hidden.
"I can't lie and say I'm surprised," he admits, "but…"
"It still doesn't quite feel real?" She giggles like a little girl. Cheerful and carefree. "When does it become official?"
Her mood is infectious. Harry's own is already bright, despite his meeting with the board, but it's now reaching greater heights.
"When term ends, I'll be the new headmaster, but the announcement will be May 1 st ."
She puts her hands over her mouth now as if to help contain her excitement. It doesn't work. Not when she's all but bouncing up on her toes. Luna somehow manages to sound sensible though.
"Filius is remaining for a year?"
He isn't surprised that she knows of the old tradition. Even with how long it's been since a retiring headmaster stayed on as a professor to ease the transition. Of course, this fell out of favor in the last several generations. Minerva passed in her sleep almost three decades ago. Prior to her, Snape and Dumbledore were both killed. Dippet simply didn't care to stay on, and his portrait doesn't even know why.
"He wants to be there for just a while longer," Harry confirms. "The headache of dealing with the board is a little too much, I think, but I admit that I've already been helping him the last several years. He misses teaching, especially the younger ones. He isn't fully ready to hang up his hat just yet."
Harry isn't the deputy, but he knows that she won't shed a single tear at being passed over for this promotion. If anything, she'll laugh at his misfortune while congratulating herself on a job well done. She's been more than willing to have Harry deal with the board and the Ministry both on Hogwarts' behalf. Argues that they like him more. An unfortunate truth.
"Understandable." Luna gives a consoling sound. "He's the last of them, isn't he? From our time at school?"
Harry inclines his head. "Aurora resigned almost five years past now."
She's enjoying her new position in Rome and still sends regular messages. Sprout left to manage Neville's vast gardens and keeps the home-front while he travels. Even Hagrid's gone now, having decided to search out any surviving giants. Madams Pince and Pomfrey departed together for warmer shores away from the harsh Scottish winters. Hooch was actually caught out in the Muggle world during the blasts, and no one has seen her since. Others retired here and there for one reason or another. Filius Flitwick is the last of the old guard. The only one left who taught under Dumbledore. Who was there during the war.
Hogwarts is filled with newcomers these days. Some who were students during that last battle, but many who weren't. Who look at the memorials with only a vague since of unease. Who are the children or grandchildren or no relation at all to anyone.
It's an odd thing really. The passage of time. The memories start to fog and how easily the world seems to forget.
Now, Luna's own grandkids will arrive in September. Harry's met them many times, just as he has their parents and Luna's other sons. All of them are much like their mother. He thinks that maybe he'll try to lure at least one of them to be faculty now that he has a real say in the management of things. Perhaps one day he can even get Rolf or even Luna to stay, improbable – impossible – as that thought is. They like their wanderings too much. Live too much for the adventure and it keeps them young when some of their classmates look three steps from the grave.
Admittedly, Luna did have a slower start than them; she was the last to marry out of their friend group aside from Harry himself. A full decade, nearly two after everyone else. Harry will never admit to anyone how jealous he was when she finally did. Not for Luna herself, lovely as she is. But that they were the final two remaining – the last ones standing so to speak. It was a little disheartening to be left behind yet again. That he too wanted someone to look at him and no one else, and it was becoming more obvious that he wasn't getting any younger but nobody who truly matched him was forthcoming. Which only brought on the increasingly unsubtle hints as the years dragged by. Not to mention Andromeda's more… colorful choices in matchmaking.
Luna meanwhile was living her happily-ever-after. Still is with Rolf in tow. Harry can admit that he's envious. A little more than he's comfortable with on deep soul-searching. That despite the fact he doesn't want to compromise on his choice as much as common sense and his friends urge him differently… well, perhaps he's as much an idiot as Severus Snape always said he was.
Which leaves him here, the upcoming headmaster of a school he's never had any kids attend. A godson, yes. He'd asked Teddy to be more, to be his father in truth. Twice. But was turned down both times. Once when Teddy first turned seventeen and was an adult by magical law. Then again when his oldest was poised to start Hogwarts. Harry understands why Teddy said no. Andromeda still lives, and she'd never forgive either of them for an adoption even after all this time. And now, Teddy's a grandfather himself; it's too late in the game now. They've said their piece, made their stance on things clear regardless of official titles.
Harry hasn't asked a third time. He won't. He just has to live with things as they are.
A touch on his arm brings him back. Harry doesn't start, but he does look over to see Luna watching him. Her face is unreadable, but the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed.
"Come with me to breakfast," she say then. Her voice isn't pleading, but her fingers twist in the sleeve of his robe. Like a child for all that she isn't one. "We haven't talked in ages."
It's both an invitation and a lifeline. A rope thrown to a drowning man.
"I… Yes, yes, of course," Harry responds, and his tone is deceptively light. "You've yet to tell me about South America." He offers his arm like a true gentleman.
A pause. A breath. Her hand still on his sleeve. Eyes searching his face.
Luna blinks then. Glances away before she accepts, and they walk back towards Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks is always open, but it shouldn't be too busy yet. Perhaps a few early birds milling about. Just right for an old pair of friends catching up.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It doesn't take much for Harry to decide that he really don't like this side of Káno. It isn't the badgering per se, though he could admittedly do without that. He's had enough of it for one lifetime and doesn't want his second go-around to have more of the same. Perhaps that's why he gives in to Fingon so easily. Some type of strange trained response to the particular tone he uses. One which does almost remind Harry of a combination of Hermione and Andromeda at times with a fair bit of Molly mixed it and just a hint of Minerva McGonagall.
No, it's more the hostility. Not towards Harry himself but more his house-guests. Naturally, Káno knows all about The Incident – capital letters definitely warranted. Harry wasn't planning to tell him for a while, possibly years. Not until he could find an appropriate way to word everything that is. Unfortunately, that's taken quite literally out of his hands courtesy of Indilwen. Or more frankly, Indilwen telling Oromë, who in turn mentioned it to Eönwë. Who tattled to Nienna. And she promptly went to Káno.
Who Harry has purposefully not talked to for a week. Just to postpone this conversation.
Of course, the elf naturally went ballistic with all the subtly of a Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-Bang. How Valinor can't hear his temper tantrum all the way from Imladris, Harry will never know. But it also means that Elrond's undoubtedly getting an earful. Probably Erestor, Arwen, and everyone else, too.
He just sighs as the sound of Káno's voice washes over him. Forever gentle to Harry at least. Despite the harsh words and volume. The elf's temper is a fierce thing, but it isn't usually so evident. He's of course seen it sparked before, and retrospectively, it's almost always been in regards to this specific family. The baggage is enough for an entire train car at this point, but Harry hates being caught in the crossfire. He doesn't even want to be a spectator in the stands. He much prefers to stay at home, comfy in his castle and far away from all this nonsense.
He wasn't even hurt; Indilwen wasn't either. The elves were far more in danger than anything. Their bruises and Celegorm's hair should be enough reminder for them to behave. Not to mention that they now have over a dozen minders watching them like a student attempting to go out-of-bounds right in front of room full of prefects. Harry's more concerned about the twins' safety than anything to be honest. Especially seeing as it'd taken Finrod, Argon, and Fingolfin to pull Curufin off of them a few days later. The youngest Fëanorions are definitely the worst for wear at this point.
Gil hasn't let Harry heal them either.
So now, he's here. Contemplating what would happen if he just left the harp and went to bed. Of course, he could simply apparate it to the far northern reaches for a few weeks. Or leave it in Come and Go Room. A really strong Silencing Charm perhaps. Take it to Nienna's since this is at least partially her fault. Harry admittedly doesn't truly need the harp to talk to Káno. It's mostly for sentimental value at this point.
Another sigh.
Káno's still going, but Harry's tuned him out. Making appropriate noises at all the right intervals. A skill he first learned in school and has carried along for centuries. It's taken him far in life and will undoubtedly take him even further.
And now, they're here. It's around the second reiteration of the exact same talking points. Like a broken transcription. By now, Harry has actually put away his sketch pad, which he pulled out at the beginning of Kano's lecture, doodling out his ever growing collection of animalized versions of his guests. Fëanor most certainly is a black cat. Tail and ears twitching as he investigates his surroundings. Celegorm, he thinks, is a horse. Fitting definitely. And it's with no small amount glee that Harry draws the mane trailing behind him as he gallops across the page. Amras and Amrod are raccoons – red instead of gray but with the same markings. One with a head stuck in a basket and the other with a paw caught in a flower pot.
He hasn't decided on the others yet. Not even Nerdanel. But maybe an otter? Playful and splashing across a lake?
Harry's still half-contemplating this as Káno's voice flows around him. Harp next to him. Perched on the bench in his favorite garden as the snow floats down. They're just getting to the end of the diatribe, but before the elf can take a deep breath and start back for a third round, Harry interrupts.
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
Káno abruptly stops. Scratches out like a record.
It's an honest question. For all that he's lectured, the elf hasn't offered any solutions. Provided no alternatives.
"Do you want me to challenge them to a duel to avenge my honor?" Harry asks, but it's not genuinely rhetorical. "Fight them one by one in single combat? Show them the error of their dastardly ways?"
Harry can't see his face, but he knows that Káno has rolled his eyes.
"Stop being dramatic," the elf tells him ironically.
Harry snorts. Since really. Kettles and pots here.
"Really now?" he comments.
"This is serious, hinya."
As a manticore attack. Only slightly less gory. Far more boring.
"What exactly do you want me to do?" Harry repeats, and he can't keep the sharpness out. The edge that bleeds in and gleams in the moonlight. "Do you want me to kick them out? Where would they even go?" he poses, which is a legitimate question. "Who else would have them? Finarfin wouldn't even let Inglor stay in Tirion; do you honestly think he'd let them?"
Káno has no answer to that. He's silent. Still. As if finally considering this reality.
Harry's on a roll now though. He isn't Káno. He has thought about this. Contemplated the actual options. Only to realize there aren't any.
"Or do you want me to send them to Alqualondë? I'm sure Gil's uncle would love that." He breathes out in a huff. "Maybe I can have Manwë take them in? Or better yet, I'll just ask Námo to take them back. I'm sure he'll gladly do so."
He feels more than sees Káno flinch. They both know what a trip to Mandos normally means for an elf. Most don't go there voluntarily. Harry returns to visit and Aredhel for her son. If there are others, Harry doesn't really know of them.
"The only other option is for me to leave," Harry continues, but now, he goes for blunt honesty. "For me to abandon everything I've built in Formenos. All the friends I have here. Is that what you want?"
There's a gust of air. Like a sigh across the sands.
"You've made your point, hinya."
Káno doesn't sound sullen. If anything, he seems tired. As if all the earlier righteous energy has evaporated. Like mist in the sunlight.
"No, I don't think I have." Harry's grip tightens around the harp. "You pushed all that time for me to go to Tirion and to Fingon. You wanted me to build a connection with him. I did, and well, surprise. Maedhros is his husband now. He's hardly going anywhere without him. So you don't get one without the other."
"You don't understand--"
"Don't understand what exactly?
Maybe that's the real question. All the things Harry doesn't understand. How much of it's because no one will give a proper explanation. Has even bothered to try.
The elf doesn't answer.
"What don't I understand?" Harry repeats, but he's met with more silence. "Why won't you tell me?" His chest is heavy now. Aching. He exhales through it.
Harry knows for all Káno's praise and the soft moments, that actions speak louder than words. That what he says and what he does, those don't always align. That for all even Káno likes to coddle and pretend Harry is a fragile piece of glass, he isn't as honest as he should be. As he could be. That there are things he holds back, and Harry suspects, there are things he's purposefully left vague. Lets Harry reach his own – wrong – conclusions about.
It… He doesn't…
"You trust me so little even now," Harry murmurs, and he isn't sure which of them it's meant for.
The noise Káno makes is part-wounded, part-exasperated, part-fond.
"Herurrívë…"
He always says the name the way Arthur Weasley addressed his children. Like he can't decide if he's proud or on the way to a nervous breakdown.
"I do trust you," Káno insists. "I can still worry and trust you at the same time."
It even sounds sincere. His aura has settled. Sea soothing and serene waves that lap at the shore. Breeze tugging at Harry's robe as if to wrap it more fully around his shoulders. Song soft. Gentle. Sweet even.
Harry's learned how easily the Eldar can deceive with those, however. He just breathes out slowly.
"We both know that's a lie. You don't trust my judgment. You don't even trust me to se--"
Harry stops himself before he says too much. Stops so abruptly that his teeth click together.
He feels Gil stir; he's upstairs in their suite. Reading in bed. At first waiting for Harry to return but now engaged in the story in front of him. He pauses mid-sentence to reach out. To press a kiss to Harry's cheek just as real as if they sat next to each other. But he lets Harry have this moment with Káno alone.
He's not the only one to notice Harry's slip though. To turn his direction. At least Nienna allows a quick reassurance. A fleeting touch. The other Ainur look his way but hesitate when they see who he speaks with. The elves though… They can only glimpse Harry's side, and how much of that is debatable. He can feel their attention even as he deflects them away.
Káno is the worst offender of all. He reaches for Harry like the moon does the tide, but Harry moves away. Retreats back until he only sees the garden around him and nothing of Káno's own aura. Harry can still hear him calling out; he simply ignores it. He fills the awkwardness between them with harp-music. With the opening chords of a song they both know so well. Which is ironic as it's the elf's own trick against him. A tactic that Káno himself has employed in the past before more than once when he doesn't wish to talk anymore.
How he feels being on the receiving end… well, Harry doesn't know and he doesn't care. He simply keeps playing. Immediately starting another song when the first ends. Then a third. A fourth. Fifth. Káno gets the message sometime around the seventh, but he stays until they're nearly in double-digits. When it's well and truly clear that Harry will keep going just to keep from speaking with him. Harry feels him linger for a moment after he withdraws on his end before he retreats entirely. Fading further and further away into the hallways of Imladris. Undoubtedly to seek out Elrond. Possibly even Arwen or one of the others newly arrived from Lothlórien.
Harry's alone then. Still playing. More for his peace of mind than anything else. To calm his heart. To sort out his thoughts before he goes up to bed so that he doesn't bother Gil.
His solitude doesn't last long; he knows when Maedhros and Fingon stand outside the entrance to the garden. Felt them headed his way before Káno even fully departed. But their pace was sedate. Not hesitant, more like testing the waters. Seeing if Harry's willing for them to approach. But if he wanted to disappear before their arrival, he would have. Harry allows them in, lets both sense his location and hear the music float past the hedges that separate his current position from the maze next door. He can glimpse them now, observes as Fingon brushes a hand over this husband's cheek before he follows the path inside. Maedhros, in turn, settles down just inside the boundary between areas. Back against the green, hedgerow but head turned upwards as he watches the snowfall. Fingon continues Harry's direction. It's not far at all; the garden isn't terribly large – roughly the size of a Quidditch pitch. Maedhros can hear him just fine, Harry knows, but he merely closes his eyes when the opening notes of the newest melody drift out.
It's one that his uncle also recognizes as he hums along even as he approaches. His steps slow unconsciously before he moves to sit in the empty space next to Harry, the spot Gil normally occupies. He's still wearing the same clothes from earlier in the day, which are fine enough for the rest of the castle and even the city. But it's hard for Harry to decide what's too cold for an elf even now. This area was made with Gil – and even Nerdanel – in mind, but either way, he casts a Warming Charm just in case. The motion is discreet, the barest twitch of his fingers, but somehow, it's noticed anyway.
Fingon's shoulder bumps his very gently. Not even hard enough for Harry to miss a note. It is enough, however, for him to reconsider his next choice of song, and he picks an old favorite. One of the first he mastered under Káno's guidance.
Fingon goes motionless next to him. His eyes are open but stare are nothing. Lost in distant thoughts and memories. Harry catches the briefest flickers of them, and he nearly fumbles the chorus in his surprise. It's startling really. The face he sees. How much they look alike. The sameness is eerie as Maglor also holds a silver harp just as Harry does now – one similar enough to be the same. Raven black hair flowing down his back. Fingers callused and nails bitten as if absentmindedly. His eyes are the one true difference, a lake clear blue, framed by long lashes. He even wears a familiar smile that Harry's seen in reflections and photos more than once.
Fingon shutters the image away before Harry can see more. Before he can have a deeper look. Before he can genuinely study Maglor Fëanorion for the first time. His uncle comes back to himself with a nearly audible snap just as the song fades. His hand on Harry's wrist keeps him from starting the next, not that he even thinks he's capable of doing so right now.
"That was lovely, nephew," Fingon says after a steadying breath.
Harry merely accepts the compliment. He feels off-kilter, off-balance. Strangely exposed even as he puts the harp to the side. Despite the fact that this is his own garden, the very grounds of his castle, he feels like he's out in the open. Maybe its because Maedhros still lingers. Neither leaving nor joining them. Simply sitting with his breath fogging the air.
His uncle mouth curls upwards. "You are well?"
It's phrased as a question, but Fingon's gaze is searching. Seeking. Shining silver in the moonlight.
Harry knows immediately what this is about. The same conversations he's tried to dodge the last week in fact. The very reason he'd come down here so that Gil didn't have to hear Káno's tirade about the entire line of Fëanor.
"I'm fine," Harry answers.
It's even true, but it earns him a disbelieving look. One with a wrinkle of doubt between Fingon's brows.
"They didn't lay a single finger on me and didn't even manage to hurt Indilwen either," Harry points out for what seems like the thousandth time already. "No one was really hurt. If anything, you should be looking after all three of them." He considers that for a heartbeat. "Or just the Ambarussa, really. I think Curufin may legitimately strangle them."
He feels more than sees Maedhros put a hand to his forehead. But not even Fingon argues against that. His uncle just shakes his head.
"Curvo is… dealing with things."
Harry lifts an eyebrow at that.
"In his own way. Rather poorly," Fingon corrects and exhales to the count of seven. "He misses Tyelpë dearly, and after what happened with his son, any harm to him, real or perceived… He'll act as any concerned father would." His fingertips drum on his knee. "I can't say your father would act any differently."
Harry half-winces. It's an automatic expression. One he can't fully contain and that Fingon definitely sees.
"I wasn't hurt at all," Harry reminds him. "Besides, this is hardly the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Or even in the city in general."
Admittedly, crimes in Formenos are few and very far in-between. Most of the cases are handled directly by Inglor and his guard because they're so minor. Largely limited to disputes on borrowed property, a little too much rowdiness after drinking, arguments on too similar outfits, foolery gone wrong, and the occasional missing confectionery. Harry's rarely called to sit judgment on much of anything. The worst case to come before him in the last decade was a pair of sisters quarreling over ownership of a necklace and their subsequent brawl that expanded to involve their spouses, children, parents, and extended family while the neighbors cheered on from the sidelines. It wasn't even that nice a necklace before it was destroyed in the commotion, and no one could account for where it came from in the first place. Now, it's still in pieces, resting in the place of honor – shame – on the mantel of their parents' house as a reminder.
Things in the castle are dealt with by Harry personally, but those are different situations as well since most of the people there are newly from Mandos or wanderers from other regions. Harry supplies them directly with anything they need. None of them have ever been audacious enough to steal from him. Of course, Eönwë's normally in attendance when any of the Eldar are staying here. And if not him, another Ainur can typically be found.
This whole situation is so absurd that Harry just wants to laugh. That feels like the only appropriate response.
"I'm still sorry that they tried." Fingon's touch on his wrist is firm but not painful. "I'm sorry that they haven't acted towards you as they should."
"Why are you apologizing for them?"
Since really? Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but it's only because of his years as a professor and then a headmaster. He's heard every excuse in the book and likely enough to fill up an entire library.
"They're all adults," he continues a second later. "You aren't their keeper. Or their father."
Though admittedly both Fëanor and Nerdanel have already apologized on behalf of their sons. The former seemed both contrite and personally offended on Harry's behalf. The latter wasn't much better, but at least, she didn't cry from frustration. Or hiss ultimatums to her own children under her breath. Or puff up like some elven cat. All of which Harry is eternally grateful for. He's learned to manage volatile teenagers and their parents. Not… whatever this is.
As for all three offenders, they haven't said anything at all. Not unexpected really. Especially when the youngest two are half-hiding from Curufin, half-mulishly glaring at everyone else. Celegorm's likely too busy mourning the loss of his locks. At least according to Celebrían, who has taken it as her personal duty to keep him apprised of everything. She's also the one to tell Harry about Findis' helpful offer to simply shave Celegorm's head. Something, he swiftly declined, and he's apparently been avoiding her as one does a boggart ever since.
And now, here's Fingon – and Maedhros by extension. When should Harry expect Caranthir and Curufin? Since he seems to be collecting the entire House? At this rate all of them will offer an apology but the guilty parties.
That trip to see Irmo sounds more appealing by the day.
Fingon fortunately can't hear these particular thoughts. Which is likely for the best. Especially as the moment stretches on and Harry realizes he's yet again run into some misunderstanding. A cultural quirk that he should know but doesn't. Or maybe one he was even taught but hasn't thought to conceptualize in this regard. It seems his uncle is thinking along those same lines as they observe one another.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand.
"Is it the part about ruling Formenos?" he inquires. "Or them staying in my castle? Or my father?"
"All of those, really," Fingon allows after a second. "The first two make them terrible guests and certainly would earn them a boot out the door. That could even be literally depending on how close a relationship you have. The last makes it even worse as you're the youngest member of the House, without any parents around, and should be protected by the others." He holds up one finger before Harry can even think to object to that last part. "It does not matter how old you are; you are still the youngest. The twins were in an odd spot with Tyelpë as he was older than them, even if only by a little, but they were all been on equal footing. You though, dear nephew…"
His uncle merely clicks his tongue. His aura is unexpectedly weighted. Heavy like flames given substance. Flickering behind the grate with an amber glow.
"It does not matter that you are the King of Formenos or have been acting as the de facto Head of the House," Fingon continues, "you're still the youngest by a large margin. That includes the entire line of Finwë as a whole." He shakes his head. "Even Celebrían's youngest is millennia older than you."
He breaths out then. Gradual. Slow to the beat of his heart. His eyes lock on Harry squarely. Securely.
"Herurrívë, I'm not sure how to say this without causing you some sort of offense, but I feel that being direct is probably best with you."
Harry blinks. Once. Twice. Eyebrows lifting at that entire statement. He can't say that Fingon's wrong, but what on Arda?
"Go on," he prompts when his uncle remains quiet. "What is it?"
Fingon drums on his knee again. "Lord Eönwë is here. We've seen him several times; he even seems to live here at least partially," he states, tone steady but strange.
"What about Eönwë?"
Is this about the spar? Harry thought there weren't any hard feelings about that. Not really. He knows that Eönwë's still unhappy about Harry's death. Especially since he was ostensibly in the elves' care when it happened. And he's been very stubborn on accepting Harry's own responsibility in that matter, his own carelessness.
"You seem very close," his uncle comments. "He was exceptionally… concerned about you in Tirion."
Harry gives him a look. It's very unimpressed. Since this is the most oblique way of getting to the point possible and will likely take the rest of the night at this rate.
"I thought you were going to be direct."
Maedhros snorts in the distance, but Fingon ignores that.
"Fine then." There's a hint of challenge in his uncle's tone. "What exactly is your relationship with each other?"
"Our relationship?" Harry repeats.
Eh…
Way to put him on the spot, Fingon. Maybe Harry shouldn't have goaded him.
How to even begin to explain this one? How much to even say? What to share? Most of it isn't even his to do so? Manwë and Eönwë likely wouldn't appreciate it, and Harry's been around long enough to know a paternal connection when he sees one. To hear how they speak to one another when no outsiders are present and the conversations are mostly through song.
He also doesn't want to throw Nienna under the manticore here. Clearly, her own kinship with Manwë is a private thing, and the only ones who know – outside of the Ainur present at the beginning of the world and therefore witnesses to the whole thing – are Harry and Káno. As much as Harry's coming to like Fingon, he doesn't think it's his place to air this particular dirty robe. Not here. Not now.
"We're friends," he decides after the barest hesitation. "You could technically say I'm his student."
His uncle merely continues looking at him. "What does he teach you?"
It's asked almost casually, but Harry knows there's some sort of trick here. A trap. He just can't see where it is.
Honesty is probably the best policy, however. Easier to manage in the long run.
"Mostly combat. The sword and spear are his preference."
The elf gives a thoughtful hum. "Not surprising," he permits. "I suspect your father's still reluctant to touch a weapon after all that happened. I know that he threw his sword away."
Harry wisely remains silent. Truthfully, what could he even say? Fingon fortunately keeps going before he can even think of a reply.
"He stays here during your training?"
"Well, not only because of that. We're also friends, like I told you." Harry considers for a few seconds. "I thought it was fine for elves to live with their teachers?"
He's seen it in the city. When they apprentice, it isn't uncommon for them to live with their masters for sometimes decades or longer. Eönwë staying here really isn't that different.
"It can be," his uncle allows, but his gaze is far too heavy. "It does usually amount to an adoption for those orphaned or otherwise unaccompanied."
A pause as that sinks in. Silence that's unexpectedly tense. There's a breathless sense of anticipation, of expectancy. Not just from Fingon but from Maedhros, too. And Harry just wants to sigh.
So that's what this is about. Which...
"All the Ainur are family already," Harry points out since Fingon seems confused on that part. "Maybe not in the way the elves are, but that's not exactly a secret among us."
The way his uncle studies him is peculiar. Almost sad. Wistful.
"You're also Eldar, nephew."
It's said mildly. Soft as an evening curled up by the fireplace.
"Not really," Harry confesses. "Not where it counts. You surely know that by now. I thought that was the entire point of this intervention." He gestures vaguely. "As for living here, who else would you even want me to invite? I was on speaking terms with exactly two elves when I left Mandos."
And Káno's still a world away while Miriel has expressed no desire to ever depart. They actively kept him away from Finwë, and Harry knows now it's because they wouldn't want him sharing anything with Indis, his second wife. More recently, Elros doesn't consider himself an elf at all anymore; if he ever did in the first place. Harry's never even spoken with Elrond or his children or any of Gil's family, so none of them count.
"They're the only ones not here now in the kingdom even as we speak. Save perhaps a few stragglers of your family," Harry concludes with another motion. Wider this time. More encompassing.
Must not forget Aredhel and Irimë. Or Eärendil and Idril. Elwing too, he supposes. Tuor's not an elf, but why not?
Fingon's face remains carefully neutral throughout his entire monologue. Remaining that way as the seconds tick by. Maedhros, he knows, is still there. Sitting by the entrance. Head tilted and listening intently. Hands curled into fists in his lap.
"And your mother?"
That question both does and doesn't surprise Harry. He knew it was going to come up at some point, somewhere in here. It's more astonishing Fingon took so long to get there.
"What about her?"
His next part is actually a statement more than anything.
"She has left you here."
It's said like an accusation. Firm with a flare of unexpected heat from next to him and another from close by.
"She hasn't," Harry insists, and it's immediate, reflexive even. "She barely left me alone in Mandos if that's what you're worried about. She's here all the time now. I see her almost daily."
Fingon stares at him. His face has shifted. Gone from mournful to concerned to something else entirely. It's an odd expression. One that Harry can't quite name.
"At night," Harry adds as that expression doesn't lessen. "While everyone else sleeps. She comes to see me. Most recently, we visit here. In this very garden." He motions around him in a large circle. To the bench and snow and flowers and trees. "She stays until dawn."
His uncle keeps gaping at him. Eyes fixed as he processes this information. Both the revelation that Nienna is actually present in his life and about Harry's terrible sleeping habits.
"Does Gil-galad know?"
It's asked almost tentatively. And after a long moment.
"Yes, he's met her." Harry nods. "Several times here but also when she came to see me in Tirion."
"In Tirion?" Fingon's astonishment is a burst of light and warmth that he quickly reels back. Once more crackling in the hearth. "When?"
"You know when," Harry counters.
His uncle turns inwards as he searches his memories. "That night," he murmurs at last. "That's why you wanted us to leave you alone."
Harry doesn't disagree. "She came and healed me."
Fingon gazes at him again. Examines him with sharp, metallic eyes.
"She doesn't want to see any of us, does she?"
"That was my request," Harry admits, but he doesn't glance away. "She only came to Tirion to heal me, but I asked before that for all of them to let me go there alone. Don't blame her for that. Eönwë wouldn't have come either except for what happened."
The elf exhales abruptly. "And now?"
"Now…" Harry offers a half-shrug. "I don't think she quite knows what to do with any of you."
"And isn't sure her welcome?" Fingon poses.
Harry inclines his head. "I can say that their reputation proceeds them."
"I imagine she was told even worse things. As were you." Fingon tips back to study the stars. "He likely warned her to avoid all of us. Probably even asked her to do so." He traces over the constellations. "We would've welcomed her in my home; I know atto would've as well. Just as we welcomed you."
Yes, Fingon and Fingolfin certainly would have. Even Finarfin, Findis, Irimë, and all the rest. But that would've been a political nightmare, and they both know it. Fingon doesn't even need to know her name, her identity, to realize that. To understand that an Ainu showing up to claim kinship would have repercussions.
"I know that now," Harry acknowledges, "but..."
"But?" Fingon encourages with a small curve of his mouth.
"But elves usually only come to us if they want something." Harry isn't sure if he should look at him or away. "It isn't to chat and invite us to tea because they like our company."
His uncle doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. His warmth dims. Fuzzes out at the edges. Fades the longer the silences stretches on. Maedhros is cold as ice in the background. Stiff like a statue.
"I think you know even better than me how complicated the relationship is between the two groups," Fingon says at last. "Particularly between our family and the Ainur."
Harry can't say that he's wrong. Can't argue against any of the whispers he's ever heard in Formenos. Or the history lessons Vairë and Nienna gave him. Or even the truths Eönwë has offered.
And now, everyone and their brother thinks he's part Ainu. Which is not a bad assumption to make given his magic. And not all that far from accurate.
"What do they know about me?" Harry questions then. "I mean, Fëanor and the rest. Has anyone…"
He makes a vague gesture.
Fingon doesn't laugh, but his smile is gentle.
"Oh, my dear husband knows. Ammë and atto both do, too. Moryo's certainly figured it out, and I suspect Curvo as well. Both of them are the clever sort." His demeanor shifts to vaguely annoyed. "As for as our three miscreants, I doubt there are any thoughts in those heads. I don't believe any of this is related at all. Fortunately or unfortunately, however you wish to take things."
So they're just berks. Fantastic. That means Káno was right. At least a little.
Urgh.
"I can't say I wasn't warned about them." Harry puts a palm to his forehead.
Fingon actual lets out a little chuckle at that. "I suppose you were." He glances at the harp for a fleeting second. "He would've told you all manner of things about each and every one of us."
"Everything about you was good," Harry consoles, both himself and his uncle. "He always wanted me to seek you out in particular."
A myriad of emotions flash across Fingon's face in an instant. Grief, affection, regret, relief.
"I rather ruined that with our first meeting. I admit that wasn't my finest moment," his uncle remarks, and it's deceptively cheerful.
"You were surprised." Harry nudges him. "You recovered from it well though. Much better than some."
A hand goes to his shoulder then and squeezes tightly, but there's an echo in his aura. One that reverberates until Harry feels Maedhros reach out. Fingon's quiet then, contemplative. Content to sit in companionable silence next to him. They only leave when Harry hears Gil call for him to come inside.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry doesn't run. He's rather proud of himself for that. The urge to flee is admittedly stronger than he'll ever admit. He can face Dark Lords, dementors, dragons, enraged parents, and very determined admirers, but this is toeing the line. It's an entirely un-Gryffindor reaction. One he isn't even proud to have, but it's there. And he knows that Gil at least senses it when he sees Harry whip his head around in something approaching horror. That's admittedly not the normal reaction to guests, but given how things have been in the two weeks between The Incident, then Oromë and Tulkas… Well, the last thing Harry needs is more Ainur here. Which means it's naturally the time they decide to come calling.
And really, why would he ever flee from Vairë? Much less Eönwë?
Why indeed?
He feels their approach first thing that morning. When he's just slipped from bed and not even gotten ready yet. It isn't even dawn outside, and the only other person awake is Gil.
His only saving grace is that it'll at least take them some time to arrive, so he does have a chance to dress. But that also means that Harry's left with a quiet sort of dread. Like a clock ticking down to his demise. Even going out to intercept them won't do much good since Vairë will insist on following him back anyway. Eönwë has a room here, too. So a pointless endeavor.
Harry instead just allows Gil as much opportunity as he wants braiding his hair and even puts on boots to complete the outfit his love picks out. One person – if nobody else – will be happy with him today. And it's going to be Gil if Harry has to die trying.
His elf rolls his eyes at his dramatics as they arrive downstairs, but there's still time to burn yet. Breakfast is easy enough to make. Mostly a distraction to keep Harry busy, and they don't eat with their elven guests. Instead retreating to their private space for what would normally be a romantic meal for two but turns more into a strategy session.
Gil – traitor that he is – actually seems excited by the prospect of Vairë's arrival. He's met Eönwë already. He knows Nienna along with Tulkas and Oromë now, too. But aside from them, the only other Vala he's met is Námo. Which was under much less fortunate circumstances. Vairë is a more mysterious figure in Eldar lore. One not often seen. Few can claim to have seen her, much less hosted her personally. Not to mention that he wants to meet more of Harry's non-Eldar kin.
A fact he makes very clear as he wraps an arm around Harry's waist while one hand pulls down his chin for a long kiss. Which is the exact moment the elves finish breakfast and head out into the castle. And Eönwë and Vairë announce themselves.
At least, they're punctual.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Káno – Blah, blah, blah. Lecture, lecture.
Harry – Uh huh. Yep. Totally. Continues drawing.
Káno – And another thing…
Harry – To himself. I think Celegorm would make a fine horse.
Indilwen – Somewhere else. Neigh.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Elrond – Listening to his father continue to lecture his youngest brother.
Arwen – Also standing in the background, amused and bemused.
Both – Glancing at each other.
Arwen – Has he…?
Elrond – Always been this way
Arwen – Nods slowly.
Elrond – Insert montage flashback.
Elrond!Again – He's mellowed some, but yes.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Curufin – Hunting.
Ambarussa – Running.
Celebrían – Observing.
Caranthir – Speculating.
Finrod, Angrod, Argon – Spectating.
Fingolfin – How long do you think it takes to get out of Mandos a second time?
Finarfin – You're assuming that Lord Námo would ever allow them out?
Findis – Sips her wine and laughs to herself. Bets, anyone?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – Our sons… Hiss, mumble, grumble.
Nerdanel – Sigh. Oh, I know, dear.
Both – Furiously cleaning his old forge.
Also!Both – Studying the odd design on the floor before carefully ignoring it.
Nerdanel – Marcaunon acts like it doesn't bother him, but he's a sensitive soul.
Fëanor – Sniffs suspiciously; but it's dusty. Just like Káno then.
Nerdanel – So much like him. Continues cleaning. You haven't seen it yet, but I know Moryo mentioned the harp.
Fëanor – Nods to himself. I know just the thing for him then.
Notes:
Atto – father/dad
AN: We didn't make it to the dinner from hell; I tried. Fingon wanted his discussion in this chapter though. Sigh.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 27: Chapter 27
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry's day could be more stressful, he supposes. He could be back on Earth. Facing the world after the nuclear apocalypse and living in a tent in the ruins of civilization. With an unending stream of dying, crying, screaming patients. And little hope for relief. This certainly isn't the worst day of his life. Not by a large margin. Not even his worst on Valinor.
It's still not an experience he wants for a repeat performance. It starts out well enough.
Harry greets them in entrance hall. Since why wouldn't he? Eönwë is already aware of Harry's new permanent housemates, and Vairë's undoubtedly heard all about it by this point, but he figures he should at least give them a few moments without two dozen Eldar bearing down on them, Gil notwithstanding.
Vairë's enchanting as always. Demure with her veil that covers her from top of her head to below her chest. Her dress is the lightest shade of sage. Ephemeral and shimmering like dew on new leaves as she steps into Harry's personal space. She isn't quite tall enough to reach him even when Harry bends down, but he still takes both of her hands as she looks upwards.
"Such a pleasure to see you, dear," she says, and there's a sense of joy in her words. Of radiance as her chords rise to greet his. Threading through snow in a tapestry of lights. "It has been too long, and you haven't even come to show me your beloved."
Harry doesn't blush, but he also can't look away as she frees one hand to reach up further and brush his cheek. Her touch is delicate like cobwebs, but there's a strength present as her aura beckons him to a harmony of well-wishes and uncomplicated happiness.
Meanwhile, not far away at all, another pair nods in greeting.
"Eönwë."
"Gil-galad."
They don't get any closer to each other. No physical contact at all, but the Ainur aren't much for that. Gil admittedly doesn't know Eönwë well yet either. They've all the time in the world for that later, and undoubtedly more than a few friendly spars are in their future. Not that Gil honestly seems to mind. Both of them stand there, like two stars sharing an orbit but never quite meeting, while Vairë continues peering up at Harry. She only pulls away after a several heartbeats. Fingertips still on Harry's skin before he gentle steers her over to Gil.
His love offers a courtly bow. Flourishing and deep. He doesn't back up when the Vala glides directly in front of him. Far nearer than Eönwë got just now. Even closer than Oromë and Tulkas.
"Well met, Gil-galad of Formenos. My sister speaks so fondly of you." She offers both her hands, which Gil immediately takes. "I bid you welcome."
"Mírimo also speaks well of you," he counters with a smile, "Lady Vairë."
But she quiets him at the last part.
"Just Vairë," she corrects and gives a squeeze before letting go. "I much prefer that to any titles." The upcurling of her mouth is just barely visible. Like a cheshire cat where nothing else of her is seen.
Were either of them human, Harry knows the obvious joke that would follow. But neither is. Instead, she shifts the two steps over to Harry's side. Vairë already knows that their time alone is running out. Can sense the elves approaching. But she has no plans to leave just yet. Not when she's only arrived. She merely threads her arm through Harry's own and rests her head on his shoulder.
Every single elf in residence is naturally there to witness the last part. As that's the exact second they all arrive en masse. And yes, he really needs to speak with the castle about just letting everyone and their brother traipse through at inopportune times. Especially when he's meeting people. It's fait accompli now, however, and there's an awkward, stunned sort of silence as they assess Harry's newest guest. Eönwë, they just ignore for the most part. Nerdanel of course seeks him out often, but she's the outlier in that one. Most of the others can't quite decide what to do with him. Fëanor's split between treating him like a hallucination and some personal punishment from the Valar. Like Sisyphus and the boulder only this time a test of his repentance and patience.
Vairë though is a mystery. It even takes them a minute to recognize who this is. Which to be fair, she's not often seen, but he knows when understanding dawns. Senses it in the way that first Fëanor swiftly followed by his brothers, sister, and cleverer sons – Fingon included – all stare. Nerdanel isn't the least bit perturbed, nor is Celebrían. Conversely, Argon seems thrilled. Finrod and Angrod merely share a look with each other before settling in like they're at the theater. Audience to the best show in all of Arda.
The Vala simply inclines her head, palm over her heart in greeting as she introduces herself before Harry can even attempt to do so. She's rotated now, but she's still standing next to him, so close the sleeves of her dress brush his robe. A fact the elves definitely don't miss.
Fingon, he knows, certainly doesn't as he comes forward. For once, leaving Maedhros a few steps behind him and out of her immediate line of sight. His attention doesn't travel to Harry at all as they speak, but Harry's far too aware of it, and he foresees another uncomfortable conversation or three headed his direction. But those are for another time and place. Not when Harry has a Vala visitor. Fingon's too circumspect for that.
Fëanor though… Harry sees him square his shoulders out of the corner of his eye, and Harry knows exactly who'll go next. He's naturally proven correct when they move forward together. Nerdanel is all bright smiles as she offers her name. Her husband is stiffer. Stiller. Like a man walking to his execution, dignity intact.
"I am Fëanáro," he introduces, and his tone is neutral. Polite. On his absolute best behavior.
Which Harry appreciates. As he really doesn't want to have to explain to Káno about the inevitable brawl that'd break out if they dared insult her in Eönwë's presence. The next part though… well, Harry supposes he should've seen it coming.
"Míriel's son," the Vala says just then, and she's absolutely overjoyed. Delighted even to see the only child of her friend. "I am glad to see you looking so well." Her words and song resound with her sincerity. Hands folding together as if in prayer.
Fëanor visibly falters. Nearly stumbles until his wife steadies him. Whatever he expects, it certainly isn't this. Frozen between stupor and surprise. Fire smothered by shock. Little more than smoldering embers as he faces someone who not only greets him with genuine gladness but speaks of his mother with the same.
Harry isn't an idiot. He knows Míriel's story; heard it from the source. He's also not so foolish that he hasn't realized the implications of it. All the little hints from various parties – Káno, Inglor, Míriel herself. Later the elves in Tirion as they spoke – and carefully didn't speak – of Indis. Harry spent his early years as the unwanted intruder in a household. The situation wasn't exactly the same, but the jealousy is similar enough. Petunia envied her sister for everything she had until the bitter end, and she took that out on Harry for no other reason than he was there while Lily Evans Potter wasn't. Fëanor is Finwë's blood-son, but Harry can understand a stepmother not wanting the reminder of a first wife around. The visual representation that her husband loved before; that but for a stroke of fortune, she would've spent eternity alone while Míriel remained outside of Mandos instead.
Elves, after all, marry once. They find their soulmate, their one true love, and accept no others. Finwë is the exception to the rule.
Fëanor's spent most of his life with his mother as a memory. Treated as a soiled garment to be shoved in a cupboard and not spoken of except in whispers. A scary story and warning all in one. A lesson to others that even death can happen in Valinor. It's little wonder Fëanor pushed himself as he did. Worked harder than anyone to achieve. To prove his worth.
Harry knows that feeling all too well.
"She is very dear to me, your mother," Vairë continues. "Long has she been my companion. She will be glad to know you are here."
A blink, a beat, and she's magically closer to Fëanor and gazing up at him. Her face is hidden, always hidden, but there's an almost tangible weight as she studies his features.
"I can see her in you, yes. Just there." She moves as if to reach out.
He just stares at her. Dazed. Eyes glassy and turning blank. Inner forge soundless but not empty. Simply paused like he's been hit by Immobulus. Harry isn't sure if they've ever met before to be honest. The way Fëanor looks at her now… well, Harry has a feeling this may be their first real encounter. It's probably for the best when Nerdanel slowly and softly leads him away. He follows without another word. Lost his own world.
The Vala merely offers a bow at their backs. Harry keeps his sigh internal but hears Gil echo it.
Things don't truly improve from there as Harry introduces each elf in turn. Vigilant to a repeat performance. Astonishment is still the universal emotion at Vairë's abrupt arrival, but they hide it well. Some better than others. They've undoubtedly all heard about Oromë and Tulkas by this point for whatever it's worth, and Harry doesn't want a repetition of that at all. So he gradually starts steering Vairë towards the stairs, and she's gracious enough to understand his hints. Unfortunately, she's not the only one to catch on, and Nerdanel does wrangle a promise out of him to be back in time for dinner with their guests in tow. Something that Findis swiftly seconds with a chorus of agreement from just about everyone else.
Which brings Harry to here.
"Stop pacing the floors, Mírimo," Gil comments idly as he observes from the sofa. "You'll wear a hole in the carpet."
Harry casts him a look over his shoulder. First of all, he isn't pacing. He's merely contemplating their sitting room from different angles. Second, he highly doubts that simply walking could do much of anything. This rug was woven by Vairë herself. He'd like to meet the person capable of wearing it through.
Gil snorts then. Having undoubtedly caught that, but he doesn't disagree.
"It is very lovely," he acknowledges. "I saw Findis inspecting the one in the parlor earlier, and Angrod even asked me where it was from."
His love's naturally savvy enough to realize that Vairë made those, too. Just as she made the ones in their suite. For someone who never met her before this morning, Gil's come to recognize her work with alarming accuracy. Harry blames the two lofty stacks of clothing that she deposited on the other sofa earlier. Which Vairë brought courtesy of the enchanted pouch Harry made for her as one of his earliest gifts. Of course, Gil's expression at realizing that half of everything is in fact for him... that remains decidedly comical even hours later, and Harry keeps catching his gaze drifting back. By mutual agreement, they've limited themselves to just the first twenty items. Any more is likely to bog them down to the point that they'll get nothing else done for the rest of the day – possibly the next, too. Especially with the king's ransom worth of items that Harry knows for a fact has to be held up and in place by magic.
Vairë and Míriel have certainly been very hard at work, it seems. They've likely been holding onto things for Harry, but Gil's can only have been made in the last so many months. Though again, time in Mandos is odd, and Námo does allegedly control that, though Harry doubts he would for such a petty reason. Harry will have to get back at all of them for this. A gift or invitation of some sort in equivalent exchange. He'll need to consider the matter further. Contemplate what the ladies would like and what Námo would least expect. Gil will likely want to contribute, too.
As for now, only the two of them remain in their suite. The Ainur have always been free to roam, so Harry didn't stop either Eönwë or Vairë when they wandered off earlier. It's easy enough to know what the former is doing since Harry felt him head for the city, and he's currently in Inglor's direct vicinity along with no small amount of the guard. Vairë's still around; she floats through the hallways aimlessly but always seems to slip past any elf who happens to be nearby. Meaning that he'll soon find another tapestry in some random location.
That's a matter for later though. Harry currently finds himself oddly remiss. Dinner is barely an hour away, but there's nothing to do. Nerdanel kicked him out of the kitchen when he stopped by, and she was all sparkles and sunshine when she quite literally forced him out the door. Harry just caught a glimpse of her helpers – the twins and Celegorm along with Maedhros, Fingon, and Fëanor. The castle's ever gleeful to tell him all about the Ambarussa on kitchen duty, peeling and dicing like their lives depended on it. Celegorm is similarly on punishment detail, doing every drudging task his mother desires.
As for the others, Harry knows that Celebrían, Finarfin, and Findis are holed up in the formal dinning room, and he doesn't even want to think about what those three are doing in there. Ditto for Finrod who's been in the large linen closet off the side for almost two hours. While Curufin and Fingolfin stand in the section with all the spare dishware he's made over the years. Angrod, Argon, and Caranthir are still off in the cellars, and Harry wants to know even less about that.
Arms slide around his waist then, and Gil presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. Directly next to his ear. It's an effective tactic in distracting him. That of course is his love's plan all along. There's a snicker before Gil pulls back and beckons him towards their bedroom.
Harry isn't fooled for a second, however.
"It's silly to change before dinner," he points out for not the first time. "We aren't dirty and have hardly done anything at all today."
Gil smiles guilelessly at him. Eyes glittering with sparks of electricity on the blue-gray background. He doesn't do anything else.
Harry exhales after a long moment.
His love takes his victory with good grace and offers a chaste kiss to his lips. Instead of bringing him to their wardrobe though, he turns to look over what they've already removed from their newest acquisitions. In short order and what feels like the blink of an eye, Harry finds himself in an entirely different outfit, and he isn't entirely certain how that happened. Now wearing a deep green with accents in gold at the collar and sleeves over a pair of matte black trousers. Gil's also swapped, but he's in an almost royal blue though the seams are the same shade as Harry's tunic, and the embroidery appears to be done in a matching metallic thread. It's a little too coordinated. Really. Harry knows once they actually start looking at everything he's going to notice similar themes.
Gil's far too entertained though as he oversees everything. Nodding to himself with utter satisfaction.
"Green is truly your color, Mírimo. La--" He clears his throat. "Vairë clearly knows this, and she's brought you such wonderful things."
"She's brought us things," Harry amends.
His elf makes a noncommittal sound but doesn't argue the point. Gil instead uses the opportunity to lead him over to the vanity to further freshen up. Adding beads to his own hair that weren't there this morning. Along with a few select pieces of jewelry. One in particular that Gil hesitates over before holding up for inspection. A teardrop pendant in shifting shades like light across the water – aqua, turquoise, cerulean, and even the white of cresting waves. The chain is metal, but Harry recognizes that it isn't silver even with a cursory glance.
"This belonged to ada," Gil tells him, and it's heavy with memory. "He gave it to me when I was very young so that I'd know I was always part of the family. It was among the things that Celebrían brought to me."
His fingers trace over the clasp even as the rest of the necklace dangles free in this hand. A far as adornments goes, it's incredibly simple. Not something most Ñoldor would ever dream of wearing, save perhaps elflings.
"I know you don't much like this sort of thing…" Gil begins.
Harry looks at him first in the mirror but then glances over his shoulder. "Help me put it on?"
His love does so wordlessly. Settling the metal against Harry's skin with the same manner one does when handling the finest crystal. His touch is light, lingering as he tucks the pendant underneath Harry's tunic so that only the very top of the chain is visible and barely at that. He doesn't explain though. Doesn't have to. This is something for them only. No one else's invited.
He kisses Harry sweetly. Slowly afterwards. Pulling back just even so their noses brush.
They arrive downstairs exactly on time afterwards. Harry's hand rests on Gil's arm like a proper escort. Vairë and Eönwë practically materialize just as the chime strikes and the double doors open, and Harry still isn't sure why he decided on that specific architectural feature. He's never eaten in the dining room before or really had any reason to do so. The Ainur don't care for formalities as Eldar see them; they always seem happy enough when he invites them to a meal in his kitchen. Nevertheless, he supposes that the elves have their reasons, and if Nerdanel wants a dinner party that badly, Harry will allow her one. Especially since it cost him zero effort.
This is a large enough room for everyone anyway. The table is more than enough to comfortably sit the twenty people present with elbow room to spare – even without using the enchantments present. Harry remembers meals with the Weasleys and later Lupins when things got too crowded, and he kept that in mind when this room was first created. Even if he never really planned to use this space, mostly included it because it seemed strange to have a castle without one. He can't say it turned out badly.
Silver birch trees sway in a nonexistent wind on all four walls, although they're currently barren. The default season is winter, and the snow falls steadily through the forest and from the ceiling above the table. There's a beauty in the starkness, but Harry knows how elves feel about the cold. He could've offered to change the background for them earlier; no use crying over spilled potions now though. Curufin, he notices, keeps looking at the walls and then overhead. Studying the flakes as they drift down and the branches as those shift in the wind.
Still, Harry is a bit impressed at the transformation. He has to admit that the elves outdid themselves. His table itself is covered with an elegant cloth of an almost glittery gray, a shimmering shade that offsets the white plates along with the golden flatware and candelabras. Not to mention the tasteful and scant decorations. Someone has copied the previous napkin folding, but they've done so in alternating colors with the first almost matching Harry, the next coordinating with Gil, and the last in a dark red. The dishes… Harry pauses the longest to examine them; he remembers making these. Recalls painting the filigree pattern on every piece, the curl to each leaf, adding the softest swirl so that they'd float along the surface. And when he finished, they were placed in his cabinets to collect proverbial dust. Only for his elven guests to dig them out like an army of helpful little badgers.
Findis especially seems pleased as she assesses his expression. She's also changed, Harry realizes. Now, in a much more refined outfit of aubergine tulle and silk, one that makes her look like the princess she is in truth. Her hair's redone as well with twists and combs, a diamond diadem strategically placed. There's a particular braid she has that he notices others in the room wearing – all of the elves from Tirion and even Harry himself currently. Fëanor's immediate family have their own identical hair style, Fingon included here as well. Harry isn't a genius, but he can deduce House symbolism, and he's wise enough to keep his comments to himself as he peeks around to everybody in turn.
They've all similarly smarted up. Harry really shouldn't be surprised by their level of ostentatiousness at this point, but really, the Ñoldor don't do subtle; Argon is proof enough of that. Everyone appears to be headed for some posh party, and Harry knows he didn't give any of the Fëanorions the adornments they now wear, so it has to be from Nerdanel or possibly Fingon. Visibly, Harry himself has only his ring and now the chain of his necklace. Gil also has his bracelet and ring, but he's added earrings and a pin to his collar. Neither of them have anything resembling a crown. Harry because he doesn't own one, despite the best efforts of some – Laerien, Inglor, Formenos at large. Gil-galad because he's finally allowed to go without.
Fëanor and Maedhros similarly don't have circlets. Nerdanel does, but hers is the most tasteful of the bunch. Situated higher than normal so that it blends in with the coppery sheen of her hair but gleams every time she turns her head. She's stunning as always, dress seemingly black, but Harry knows better when she comes over to greet him.
The pleasantries take on a slightly more forced nature when Eönwë and Vairë enter the room, but Nerdanel immediately walks over to them. Thankfully, nobody expects much small talk before the meal. Even better someone, probably Findis, has left name cards in front of every seat. A wasted effort as Eönwë completely ignores his and sits on Vairë's right – in what should be Harry's chair as he's never at the head. The Maia's clearly unwilling to be across the table from Harry though. A fact that's confirmed by the very pointed and unblinking stare he gives, and Harry just moves to the next seat over with Gil in tow. The elves shuffle themselves around this, but Harry sees Fingolfin's grin before he composes himself and goes to take the now empty spot on the Vala's left. Likely to act as a further buffer between the Ainur and Maedhros as all of Fingolfin's immediate family are between them. Nerdanel is at the opposite end with her husband on her right. The twins and Celegorm, Harry notes, are sandwiched in between their House. Likely in an attempt to keep them from trouble. Though the former remain away from Curufin with Findis the next closest to them. Finarfin, his sons, and Celebrían are happily – or unhappily – stuck in the middle.
Give credit where it's due, the elves genuinely try very hard to keep the discussion reasonable. Eönwë isn't the worst conversation partner ever, but he isn't inherently chatty. Fortunately, Vairë is much more amicable. Few Eldar have dealings with her outside of Mandos, but she's more used to them than many of her brethren, and she's deft enough to actually address each person by name and inquire about their recent activities. This seems to throw them more than anything. Thought admittedly, Fingolfin seems mostly puzzled when he offers her wine, and she accepts. Especially when he can visibly see her glass slowly emptying without her hands once leaving her chair. The same for the first course, and Harry catches more than just Argon watching with utter fascination.
Throughout it all, Vairë is pleasant company. Showing authentic interest in all that the elves say. She even directs questions at Fëanor. Who seems to have mostly recovered from earlier, and he answers readily enough. Though his fictitious cat ears twitch ever-so-slightly.
It's around the time the fourth course ends that the topic at long last drifts to what the Eldar actually want to discuss.
"So," Celebrían says with all the sugariness of a treacle tart, "Lady Vairë, we're all eager to hear more of Marcaunon when he was younger."
Vairë doesn't giggle, but there's a distinct peal of merriment to her song. The tinkle of a bell. Chimes in the wind that tease his hair like a hand through the strands.
"He has always been very kind and earnest," she responds. "Biddable even. Sweet and generous with his favor." Even with her eyes veiled, Harry can feel the weight of them as if daring him to contradict her. "Marcaunon is not so different now as he was then. Older but not lesser for it."
A breath. Followed by a kaleidoscope of different emotions. The loudest are Fingon's acceptance and Fingolfin's understanding. Nerdanel and Fëanor both have a rueful sort of sorrow. Maedhros seems somewhere between his husband and parents. Gil remains the solid presence that keeps Harry from being overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught. By the deluge that nearly knocks him backwards before he can steady himself. Eönwë barely moves at all, but there's a drumbeat and a feather soft touch. One both of song and a hand at Harry's elbow. Vairë keeps her own aura gossamer light.
"I dare say he has his mother's gentle nature," she adds with the slightest inclination of her head Celebrían's direction. "He is far too forgiving, but that is also his strength, yes? He is not one to hold a grievance if given a little time. Perhaps if given some sincerity as well."
Celebrían smiles back at her. It's small though. Almost sad.
Harry would never kick Vairë beneath the table. That isn't the sort of relationship they have, and he isn't some hooligan who resorts to violence when someone says something he doesn't like. But really, Vairë? This is hardly the time or place.
He's spared from even trying to form a response by Celegorm of all people.
"How do you even know him?" he half-asks, half-demands before anyone else can even think to offer something else. His silver hair is shoulder-length now, brushed back so it isn't so obvious. "I can't say he is someone I would expect you to befriend."
It's just this side of rude for the Eldar. Too direct for polite company, but Fëanor and his sons aren't known for their tact.
Vairë doesn't offend easily. Is made of sterner stuff than the dainty persona suggests.
"By your reckoning, Marcaunon is peredhel," she replies as if that explains everything.
Which for an Ainur, it does. Most of the elves seem to grasp some secret meaning from her words. Harry doesn't roll his eyes; he doesn't.
"You say that like I'm the only one in existence," Harry retorts, but it's fond if a little exasperated.
"You are very much one of kind, dear," the Vala contradicts, and her inflection tells him everything he needs to know about her thoughts.
She's in fine form this evening. Truly, she is.
"Not hardly. There are others."
Since honestly, he can think of dozens of peredhil off the top of his head alone. Without trying. And those are just the ones he knows on a personal basis. That he interacts with on something bordering on frequently. That's not counting the others in this city alone. Much less the rest of his kingdom.
Aman and Endor surely have even more.
"He means their little club," Gil intones then, but it's with a wash of affection.
It certainly lets the cat out amongst the pixies though. The elves turn to Harry in eerie unison. The expression that Fingon, Fingolfin, and Fëanor all give him is nearly identical. Which would ordinarily be quite amusing.
"A club?" Findis repeats in clear disbelief. Her face is a polite mask, one that would do any Slytherin proud, but there's almost a spasm to her aura.
Harry's used to people treating him strangely by this point in his life. So he just ignores it.
"It's not truly a club." He doesn't chide Gil for misleading them. "We're just a group of friends who sometimes meet for drinks and a chat."
After all, it's nice to hear from others who aren't fully elven. Who understand what it is to be different than all the people around them. Harry really doesn't do much talking; he mostly sits and listens to the others. He didn't grow up anywhere near as they had, but he likes to learn about their experiences. To actually know about the rest of this world. And they're kind enough to include him.
The people in his kingdom really and sincerely are the best.
"Who comes to this?" Fingolfin inquires. It's mild in delivery, but there's another decided spike in interest.
Harry casts a glance around the room. Everyone's watching him expectantly.
"Well…" he beings, "you've met Gilmith, and there's--"
"Gilmith?" Argon interrupts. "The nis who works in your office."
Harry doesn't sigh or roll his eyes. "Yes, my friend who also works in my office. Her father was a Númenórean, but her brother chose mor--"
"A Númenórean?" Maedhros cuts in. Louder than expected as shock colors his tones. Bright with astonishment that frizzes the air around them.
"Yes," Harry answers simply.
The entire table, save for the Ainur and Gil, stares at him now. Some in open disbelief.
Celebrían clears her throat. "As in one of Elros' descendants?" she questions. Delicate. Careful. Of what he isn't entirely sure.
"One of his followers as far as we can tell," Harry clarifies. Slower this time.
Which Elros found hilarious when Harry mentioned it. He was glad at least some of his people managed to make it to Valinor through legitimate means. Not that Harry plans to tell anyone of that conversation. Aside from Gil. And probably Nienna.
"How many?" Angrod now, and his tone is unexpectedly tremulous. "How many others? How many Eldar have--"
He abruptly cuts himself off. His skin is pale, blue irises a small ring around the pupil as he gazes off into nothing. Finrod likewise is motionless. Finarfin just exhales and closes his eyes.
"In this city, how many others?" the last asks. He sounds tired. Aged and worn.
"A fair amount."
It's a vague answer because they genuinely don't need to know. If his people want to tell someone, they will. Gilmith's open about her origins. As is her husband – also born in Númenor and wisely leaving before all the ruckus started. Not to mention their three children and grandchildren. Their daughter's wife too actually. She's originally from Imladris, and come to think of it, she's indeed the descendant of the Númenóreans via the Dúnedain. Hm… He really should mention that to Elros, too. She might be a more direct relative than Gilmith. Harry doesn't know the Dúnedain lines, but Elros likely would since he's met all of them. At least the ones not living.
Not all of the peredhil are Númenóreans of course. There are admittedly a number in the city with their surviving parent and any siblings who also chose the Eldar, though not all of them did. There's also some from Eregion, and – Harry suspects but can't prove – that several at least mightn't be the descendants of Men. After all, there's at least one confirmed marriage of an elf to a dwarf, and he knows the ballads to prove it. Not to mention there's witnesses and it's a matter of public record by this point. Others are more discrete. Still, judging by some of the novels of this world...
"I thought… I just assumed there weren't many," Finrod confesses.
In existence, he apparently means. Which Harry frankly is confused about. Given how many elves were previously in Endor, is it this surprising? For all the purebloods in his last world liked to pretend otherwise, marriages between groups was quite common. Not just between magical humans and Muggles but between other species. It can't be that different here, right?
"It isn't something people advertise, I imagine," Gil supplies before Harry can say anything else.
Celebrían, now that she's realized that there are in fact Númenóreans here, doesn't actually seem astonished by this revelation, but she's the only one. Then again, she lived in Imladris with the Dúnedain as frequent visitors along with numerous others, and her own spouse and children are all peredhil. She likely knows more. Probably shares some of the same acquaintances as Harry.
"Are they all from Númenor?" Finarfin again. Straight-backed in his chair but his hands aren't visible.
Harry shakes his head. "No, not all of us."
Finrod exhales at his response. "How many are from Bel--"
The rest of his question is lost as Celegorm abruptly slams a hand down on the table.
"You can stop pretending now." His words are serrated. Cutting. "It's obvious what this is."
Like a Quidditch match, the audience and their attention go to the opposing side. Maedhros immediately shoots him a warning look, which Celegorm deflects like any prized beater. Fëanor and Nerdanel flank him, but Celegorm simply flies higher. Now, he stands on his feet. Leaning on the table with both hands, chair nearly knocked to the floor before Caranthir catches it. His glare's scorching, directed right down the sidelines at Harry, but Eönwë and Vairë are at the fringes of it.
"This… None of this," he declares with a wide gesture around, nearly hitting both Curufin and Caranthir who're on either side of him, "was made by any elf."
Harry knows what he means. He does. It isn't something that's wholly unexpected. They've been so accommodating of him so far, but he knew this would come eventually.
Celebrían though… Maybe she see some hidden meaning. Some slight that Harry's missed. She isn't an Ainu, but Harry has to admit that she's as impressive as one as her song flares out. Moonlight bright. Blazing as the sun. Argent hair billowing over her shoulder now and eyes flashing azure fire.
"I can assure you that Herurrívë is every bit as elven as the rest of us. He--"
Celegorm cuts her off. "You," he points at her, "stay out of this. I was not talking with you, and I don't care what you have to say."
His words are biting, and Harry very much doesn't like the way Celegorm grasps his fork when he sets his hand back on the table. These days, Harry prefers words to wands so to speak. Especially in his correction of students. He's never believed in corporal punishment, not after experiencing the Dursleys' and then later Umbridge's idea of it. Celegorm isn't one of his pupils; he's a guest-turned-roommate. Harry's his landlord, he supposes. Though he clearly isn't receiving any benefit from this arrangement.
"You do not get to be rude to her," Harry tells him coolly. "Whatever issue you have with me, she's done nothing to you."
"Of course, you'd defend her," Celegorm counters in what feels like a complete non sequitur. "She is little better than you."
"That is your niece," Fëanor reminds his third son, and it's a rebuke as his focus strays to first Celebrían and then her grandfather, Finarfin.
Celegorm shrugs it off. "You both may dance to their tune and frolic under their banner. You," he jabs his finger at Harry now, "may even crown yourself king, but this is all a lie."
So that's his angle then. Ironic as Harry definitely doesn't wear anything resembling one of those, but it's becoming very clear what Celegorm means. Harry doesn't even need to read his aura to feel his attention flicker to Vairë followed by Eönwë and back.
Harry chuckles before he can stop himself. "You can think what you want; that doesn't change the truth."
"Tyelko, that's enough," Maedhros orders, trying to keep Celegorm from saying more, but he's too far away. Between Celebrían and his husband.
"Come off, Nelyo. You can't honestly expect me to believe that this castle and this city magically sprung up. Here of all places!" Harry hears more than sees Caranthir smack his brother in an attempt to stop him, but Celegorm keeps going. "You know what this place was like before. No one in their right mind would ever desire to live in Formenos voluntarily. Only exiles and unwanted trash came here, and now, it's some paradise!" The impact of his palm is even harder on the tabletop. "This is a sham!"
Next to him, Gil's a roiling thundercloud, but Harry has a hold on his wrist to keep him in his chair. He hardly wants this dinner party to turn into a duel.
Celegorm though doesn't seem bothered by that prospect.
"You may've sold yourself to them, but I certainly--"
"You're more than welcome to leave," Harry interrupts before anyone else can get a word in.
A wise decision since Fingon looks two seconds from throwing his glass all the way across the distance. Though admittedly Argon has his fork at the ready as if calculating the angle, and Harry's suspicious about where Fingolfin's knife got to; Finarfin's as well now that he's really looking. He can feel anger rising from all around. Churning from Maedhros but sweltering from Caranthir and Curufin while the twins draw together wearily as if deciding the odds of making it out the double doors. Finarfin is a harsh glint of sunlight; his sister and sons aren't much better. Celebrían still blazes, contained, controlled, but hesitating as if wanting to reach out. Only, Nerdanel and Fëanor seem truly composed. Disappointed. The latter in particular studies his third child with the eyes of someone seeing all his mistakes being repeated.
The Ainur are silent, still. Watchful. Waiting.
Eönwë is a sheathed sword currently in hand but not yet drawn. He's poised. Ready. But won't move unless it's to defend. Situated between Vairë and Harry as if to shield them both. The Vala though observes it all with a tingle of anticipation. The same expectancy one has when seeing a play they have before or a reading a well-loved book. Harry wonders what she's glimpsed in her weaving even as his grip tightens on Gil's sleeve, and there's the sting of static against his skin. The hurricane gale that howls but quiets at his touch.
"I'm not holding anyone hostage here," Harry continues far too reasonably. An adult speaking with a tantruming toddler. "If you want leave, then just go."
A hesitation then. A breath. Surprise even as Celegorm realizes his blunder. Grasps for a distraction.
"Oh, so you aim to kick us out already."
A nasty accusation that one. Especially given the trouble Harry went through on convincing Káno about keeping them.
"Now, you're just being contrary." Harry motions in casual censure. "Stay or leave. Pick one and be done with it. No need to make a mockery of yourself."
Celegorm's nostrils flare. "You're brave now that they arrived."
"Or perhaps you don't know me at all," Harry counters, but it's as mild as a winter morning without snowfall.
The elf scoffs. His expression is one that Oromë wouldn't ever wear. No matter how furious and disappointed he happens to be with Harry. Not that he gives much cause for that. Harry does tend to stay away from most vices – murder, larceny, and loitering included. His days of daring adventure are long past. Now, he just deals with petty things and sometimes pettier people.
"You may look like Makalaurë," Celegorm decides, and it's abruptly. Like he's had a sudden revelation. "But you aren't him."
"Congratulations on noticing." Harry can't fully keep the sarcasm from bleeding through. "Surely, your skills of observation are unrivaled."
Beside him, Gil's both too amused at the jest but also vigilant. Guarding Harry's flank as if anticipating for the rest of the House to jump in. But no one says anything, which Harry appreciates. This is his show and his home. Whatever fantasy Celegorm has constructed is clearly this side of delusional. Of course, the apparent grudge he has against the Ainur – likely Oromë – is his own to settle. He doesn't need to drag everybody else down with him on this steadily sinking broom.
Kindly leave the rest of them alone. Please. And thank you.
"You think he'd approve of any of this?" the elf continues, regrettably not party to Harry's inner monologue. "Of allowing them in here?"
Celegorm means it as a test. As a feint to draw him out. To flare his temper.
Harry doesn't bother rising to the bait.
"Maybe you don't know him either."
After all, he doesn't know about two ages time spent alone. When every single one of his brothers and even his father were gone and his mother so far away. With a single Vala for company. For an ocean full of regrets, of laments with only warmth for the lady who sat with him by the shore and weathered all the storms. The silver ring on his right hand that speaks of promises made and accepted.
No, Celegorm doesn't know him now. He brooded in Mandos during all of this, and Harry can't say how much he actually learned from it.
"There seems to be some misconceptions," Harry states then. Firm enough that Celegorm doesn't try to disrupt. "This castle was built by me. The city is run by me. So yes, Formenos isn't the same as before, but you're more than welcome to go your separate way."
A pause as that sinks in. Then...
"Wait!" Amras all but commands. Cutting through the entire discussion and derailing it like a train going off the tracks.
Harry just pinches the bridge of his nose. Only Gil and the Ainur see. All the others have now swiveled to face the twins.
"This really is Formenos?" Amrod continues. Both hands in front of him and gesticulating wildly. "They weren't just having us on?"
Everyone simply looks at them. Even Eönwë. It's hard to tell with Vairë, but Harry thinks that she may be smirking. The Ambarussa are unfazed by all the scrutiny. Instead, they both regard Harry with a steady sort of determination. Silently demanding an answer.
"Clearly," Curufin intones after a few heartbeats of awkwardness, "our parents used up every bit of intelligence before they had you."
There's snort from across the table, definitely Argon's doing. But it's echoed by Finrod and Angrod. Even more telling, neither Nerdanel nor Fëanor disagree. If anything, both of them seem exceptionally pained. Their father especially.
"I've no clue what happened with Tyelko though," Caranthir agrees and dodges the elbow aimed his direction.
The twins and Celegorm don't seem the least little bit amused by this exchange. But Maedhros speaks up before they can do more than scowl.
"Yes, little brother," he answers and sounds defeated. Like he's on the battlefield and is the only sane man left. "This is in fact Formenos."
Fingon lays a hand on his forearm. "Obviously, there have been a great deal of… renovations to the fortress and surrounding landscape."
"I can also confirm that this is Formenos," Fingolfin chimes in helpfully.
"Indeed," Findis agrees, "we traveled the route from Tirion here." She runs a fingertip over the rim of her wineglass. "Everything is certainly improved from prior years, but they are correct."
"How do you explain the weather then?" Amras insists, although he seems more uncertain now.
"You were the one who said this was a Vala's castle," Amrod whirls on Caranthir accusingly. "Don't blame us for being confused."
Vairë lets out a little laugh into her hand. Eönwë allows a single beat. Like a wing coming down quickly to rustle the air. He's otherwise soundless. There's a flash of lightning across Gil's aura. A momentarily buzz, but Harry already knows what he'll say.
"If you haven't figured that part out yet, there's no helping you," Maedhros retorts first, and his eyes are like a glint of steel.
There's a muffled thump on the end of the table. It's followed by a metallic clang.
"No, stabbing your brothers won't make them any smarter," Fëanor comments as he deftly takes the knife from Curufin.
"Kicking them won't either," Nerdanel adds as she casts a glance at Caranthir.
He offers a nonchalant shrug in return and starts eating again. The perfect picture of innocence. It's almost believable. Almost.
Amras frowns. "That didn't explain anything."
Harry sighs again. It's Gil turn now to squeeze his hand. Tightly, reassuringly. Straightening his ring. He knows exactly what Harry intends. Since really, all of this is just tiresome. Why does he even bother hiding? Why does he even care what they think?
Harry gently frees his right hand. Lifting it so that everyone at the table has a clear view. Making sure that all of them are paying attention, that every single elven eye is fixed his direction. Before he gives an exaggerated wave. One that he only does to make it obvious that the magic's from him and no one else.
The effect is instantaneous.
The turkey in the middle of the table is suddenly alive again. Gobbling. Looking around for a second and then strutting towards the far edge. The plates and silverware also stand up and give a pirouette before beginning a slow waltz. Each napkin now flashes through every shade of the rainbow in time to the song the glasses currently produce. The candelabras play themselves like violins in perfect unison. Bubbles in all shapes and sizes join the falling snowflakes, and each releases a burst of color when popped.
The elves goggle at the spectacle. Wide-eyed. Even open-mouthed in some cases.
Harry lets everything continue for a minute longer before another gesture for reversal. Gil's muffled laughter is now the only other sound as he buries his face in Harry's arm. Then, Nerdanel claps in delight, and now, Fëanor excitedly inspects his plate and utensils. Curufin is a mirror-image to him, and Caranthir just cackles to himself with his head thrown back. Further down, Finrod pokes the turkey centerpiece with his fork. Angrod, instead of chastising his older sibling, leans forward to scrutinize the process. Across from them, their father and Findis are topping off their glasses after just draining them dry all at once. Celebrían cups a bubble in front of her in both palms, having managed to hold onto it the entire time. Fingolfin merely nods to himself, one hand on Argon's shoulder to keep him in his chair as he tries to join his cousins with their inspection of the centerpiece. Meanwhile, Maedhros pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand and exhales. Fingon just looks directly across the table at Harry with fond if exasperated expression. Eönwë offers the faint upwards curve of his mouth, which Harry glimpses out of the corner of his eye. Vairë is forever obscured, but her aura rests against him like a head tucked under his chin.
Of course the guest of the hour, Celegorm, falls back in his chair with both hands on the armrest. He closes his mouth with an audible snap. The twins immediately bend towards each other but are silent in the way of elves communicating internally. They turn in unison to Harry a moment later, however.
"We would like to say and given new developments," Amrod starts then.
"That we deeply regret the earlier events which transpired between us," Amras proceeds.
Harry merely lifts an eyebrow at them.
"You have our sincerest apologies," they say together and in perfect sync. With winning grins that just barely begin to wilt the longer Harry continues looking at them.
He does so without blinking. Head tilted just so. Fingers now steepled in front of him as he leans back. Gil has sat up now, earlier mirth controlled. Observing the exchange as a griffin does the deer that's wandered too close. Hand settling on Harry's elbow.
The other Eldar have quieted, paused to watch, but at least, they're circumspect. Not even Nerdanel speaks up. Harry will give the twins' credit though. They don't fidget; they're too disciplined for that. Too much Fëanor's sons. He can sense their uncertainty nonetheless. Particularly now that they recognize they've wandered into the dragon's den and have very much poked him in the eye. The reality of that situation seems to be sinking in the more seconds that tick by and Harry doesn't say anything. Their unease is a prickle of little claws against his skin. The skittering of a raccoon that's seen his fellow fall into a trap without any clue how to go about a rescue or to even save himself.
Harry won't be the first to break. Not the first to blink or glance away. Indeed, he isn't. As the minutes stretch uncomfortably long for even the elves.
"Please don't turn us into anything unnatural," the twins finally request. It's with a less confident tone, eyes flicking to the side for a second before they glance back.
A pause. Harry's other brow lifts.
Then...
"You can turn me into anything you want," Argon volunteers with excitement. Brilliant and bursting.
Harry's focus immediately shifts to him, and he hears more than sees both twins exhale. There's a ripple of different emotions in the room, but it ebbs and washes out too fast for him to identify and match to every person.
Argon isn't the least bit fazed. "I'm thinking something fierce but majes--"
Fingolfin actually puts his hand over his youngest son's mouth. It muffles the rest of his statement but barely deters him as he merely starts thinking very hard in Harry's direction. He catches glimpses of various animal forms – fur, talons, wings, and claws.
Harry doesn't know if he should laugh or wish for a lightning strike from Manwë. Vairë and Eönwë certainly aren't helping here. The first is enjoying this too much. The second wouldn't even understand the request.
"We'll talk about that later," Harry says instead for a lack of anything else.
Quiet descends. Broken only by the sound of Findis refilling her wineglass for the eighth time this evening, and Angrod also hands over his own. Caranthir decides that the turkey is safe to eat and helps himself. While Finrod leans forward with morbid fascination. Celebrían still has her bubble but now places it in her soup bowl. Finarfin has his elbows on the table, fingertips massaging his temples. Fingolfin still holds onto his youngest, while his oldest and Maedhros lean in to prevent any escape attempts. Fëanor and Nerdanel have their heads bent together, and Curufin steadily reaches over to steal their dishes to study each in turn. The Ambarussa remain unobtrusive as possible like a scolded pet that's slunk out of sight, and Celegorm just leans back in his chair, now pushed away from the table, with his hand over his face.
The Ainur observe all of this with the air of a visitor at the zoo. Or someone on safari that's being completely ignored by the residents. Keen to see the elves in their natural environment now that their presence has been forgotten. If Harry didn't know better, he'd think that there was a Disillusionment Charm in place.
"So…" Curufin finally inserts after a few long moments, having finally finishing inspecting all the tableware, "I believe it is safe to assume you did in fact craft this place." It's said it more than a bit of admiration.
So they're getting it. At long last. Wonders will never cease.
"Save for a few gifts or things I bought," Harry confirms yet again. He wonders how many times he'll have to tell people this. The elves from Tirion should already know. Caranthir as well since they've had this conversation before.
Do none of them ever talk to each other?
"I know the paintings were definitely you," Caranthir comments as if reading his mind. He's still steadily working his way through his meal as if the last thirty minutes hadn't happened.
Harry inclines his head. "Yes, those were indeed me."
"The masonry?" Fëanor asks next.
Harry's willing to forgive him the slight bit of shock in his voice. He's likely had a rough time of things today. Idiot children included.
"Also me." Is the simple response.
"Furniture?" Celebrían now. Bubble still intact.
Harry just nods.
"Even the slide?" Argon again. Having finally freed himself from his father.
Harry just looks at him.
The… slide?
"In the tower," Argon explains cheerfully. "The middle one."
The slide in the tower?
Harry's eyes widen. He lets out a laugh. Keeps laughing. A touch surreal.
Just like in Hogwarts to keep unwanted students out of the dormitories. Only in this case, it's prevent people from intruding. Harry rather forgot about it until now. The Ainur all have access if they want, and obviously, Gil does. But he set the wards to keep the elves out when he first invited Inglor's company to stay, and he never bothered to change it. He knows his current guests are gallivanting around the castle, but he didn't realize that anyone tried to climb the staircase to his private living space. Argon undoubtedly experienced a wild ride depending on how determined he was.
Next to him, Gil shakes his head in vexation.
"That's to keep you from snooping," his elf says, but there's a little too much enjoyment.
Argon doesn't look the least bit abashed by this.
"Just how many times did you try?" Gil inquires.
"Just me?" Argon considers the matter. "Six before atto made me stop."
Harry glances at Fingolfin who offers a helpless shrug, but he can't hide his own chuckle. And admittedly, it's a bit absurd for an elf thousands of years old to continuously run up a staircase just to slide back down. Harry has the distinct impression that the castle thought it more a game than anything. Which is why he's only learning of it now.
Finrod offers a self-deprecating grin. "I must admit that I also was caught thrice."
"I as well," Angrod concurs. "Though I had the sense to stop after the first time."
"And me," Caranthir declares. "Just once."
"Also me," Curufin agrees. "Four times."
Findis raises her glass in solidarity. Finarfin lifts a hand. The twins do almost guiltily, and they jerk their heads at Celegorm as does Curufin. The only ones who don't are Fingon, Maedhros, Celebrían, Nerdanel, and Fëanor.
Honestly. It isn't surprising the elves tried to go up there. What's more startling is that it's taken so long for someone to ask about it. Though he would've thought it obvious when they never found his room. Nerdanel's never said a thing about it, and she's been here the longest.
"That's where our suite is," Harry states just to make it clear.
If anything, that makes it worse. A spark of… something goes through the elves. A mix of unease and discontentment tinged with sadness. They don't look at the Ainur. Purposefully. In the way that one ignores the pink manticore in the room.
Fingolfin hides his emotions well. "Ah… of course," he admits and seems so sensible, "a natural location for the ruler to look out over the kingdom."
A murmur of agreement, but it's hollow. False enough to make his teeth ache. Eönwë doesn't draw attention to himself, but Harry sees his breathing still. Vairë radiates her own sort of melancholy now. Not unlike Nienna when Káno still roamed the shore.
"Mírimo's atelier is also there," Gil clarifies then, but Harry isn't entirely sure why.
Whatever he was hoping for with that addition, it doesn't seem to work. The elves are just as unhappy as before.
"Have you always lived here alone?"
Fëanor's question is asked almost softly, but it cuts through the room like a knife. Sharp. Drawing blood.
Only, it isn't Harry who ripostes. Eönwë has largely been quiet so far. Content to sit on the sidelines. But now, his hackles rise even as his song gathers to a razor-thin edge.
"Marcaunon is not alone," the Maia disagrees. "He is never alone."
Fëanor's actually pensive at that answer. Concerned in the way that only a parent can be… but he's considering. Searching Harry's face as if seeking something or someone in particular.
It's his brother who argues back.
"Yes," Fingolfin allows, "Gil-galad is here with him now."
But not earlier, goes unsaid. Not before.
Eönwë is too dignified to roll his eyes and likely wouldn't know to do that anyway. He's blank as usual, but there's a bite underneath.
"How swiftly you assume that without the Eldar the world lies empty."
"Is it any surprise that we are concerned for Marcaunon?" Findis says next. "We learned of him only by coincidence."
"At Laurë's insistence," Fingon corrects, and his chin lifts when they all pivoted to him. "I know it was his urging for Herurrívë to seek me out."
"None of us would know him without that," Nerdanel decides, fragile before Fëanor pulls her closer.
"Do you still fault the Ñoldor for their defiance then?" Finarfin poses, but it's directed at Vairë. "There are still some on Mandos who have yet to be returned despite their far lesser or even nonexistent crimes."
The Vala's sorrow is nearly palpable. Tangible like fine silk draping across a chair.
"A person's time in Mandos is their own. We do not force them through the doors if they do not wish to leave," she expresses. "The actions of the Ñoldor are also their own. Your kin sits at this very table alongside us, but you doubt the sincerity of our forgiveness."
Eönwë again. Proud but always loyal. Patient and attentive through every single lesson and misstep along the way.
"If we held a grievance, Marcaunon would not be here."
His voice is as even as always, but the echo... The undertone says everything the Maia doesn't as he reaches out. The others at the table are stiff. Scarcely breathing as Eönwë's aura fans out like a wing. Rising up in a shimmering heat that Harry can feel behind him, and guessing by the expressions of the elves across from him, he's not the only person who sees it this time. The Maia settles down against Harry, going through his chair to curl around his back so that the feather-tips just barely brush Gil. His eyes flick towards them for the barest second, but he doesn't move away.
It's as subtle as a Bombardment Spell to the room. Likely as destructive. Fëanor and Nerdanel both look at Harry like he's just died in front of them. Celebrían, Caranthir, and Curufin aren't much better. Findis, Finarfin and his sons are visibly shaken like the witnesses of a horrible Quidditch accident. Fingolfin has a stoic look of resignation, while Argon's wistful. The Ambarussa keep themselves neutral; Celegorm still has a hand over his face. Maedhros exhales slowly, shakily. And Fingon...
"My nephew--" he begins.
"He is not only your nephew," Eönwë merely talks over him before his amber gaze cuts to Fëanor and Nerdanel. "Or your grandchild."
"He was ours long before you ever knew him," Vairë intones. "He is one of us now as he has always been."
"He is still my nephew," Fingon insists without pause. "Until he tells me otherwise himself."
His gaze flickers to Harry, who's trying very hard to stay out of this. He remembers far too many disagreements over the years between Molly, Fleur, Hermione, Andy and later all the assorted ladies in the greater Weasley family. He recalls every bit of that far too well to want to step into the line of fire. Even when he's topic at hand. Best they say it all right in front of him here and now than behind his back later.
Nonetheless, he nods at his uncle. Glad for the acknowledgment. Gladder still for the smile he receives back from Fingon and Maedhros. Followed by Fingolfin and Argon, both of who seem relieved.
"And what of your parents?" Fëanor questions, addressing Harry directly, tone strange and empty. "Where are they?"
Harry's heart jolts at the question. At the weight of expectancy. The heaviness that threatens to pull him under lake waters until Gil grabs his arm to pull him back up.
"What of our son?" Nerdanel's tears spill down her cheeks now. "Why is he not here?"
There's a desperation to her voice. One he's heard in a thousand other mothers, but it's different coming from her. It hits harder. Reaches deeper. Crashes against him in waves of fresh water that remind him of another shore entirely.
Harry tastes cooper on his tongue.
"He's in Endor," he finds himself saying. Steadier than he feels. "He refused to leave."
Her eyes are lake blue, clear and familiar. Growing horrified as his words sink in.
"Why would--"
A bell in the nonexistent breeze as Vairë draws focus back to herself. As Harry grasps Gil's hand like a lifeline. A safe harbor in the storm.
"That is a matter you will need to address with him," she states, but it isn't unkindly. "It is not us who have delayed his return. Though I do know he now resides in the house of his middle child."
Gil's grip tightens painfully as soon as she adds the last part, but he eases when he realizes that his nails are digging into Harry's skin. He settles for toying with the ring, tracing over it repetitively.
"Elrond," Celebrían whispers more to herself. Her palm settles over her heart even as she takes a shallow, gasping breath.
"Yes," Vairë agrees. "I am told he stays with his older son in Imladris as an honored guest. As befitting the father of the city's lord." She allows that to settle for a second before adding, "I assume this is a permanent arrangement."
Nerdanel opens her mouth. Only to promptly close it. As if she honestly isn't sure how to respond. How to react. What else to say.
Harry perfectly agrees. He thinks they've all said far too much.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
A wild Fëanor appears!
Fëanor – Meow! Raw!
Vairë – Attacks with Friendly Greeting.
Fëanor – Dodges.
Vairë – Uses ability I Know Your Mother. It's Super Effective!
Fëanor – Is dazed!
Fëanor – Stumbles.
A wild Fëanor is defeated!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nerdanel – Glancing over her shoulder at her husband, who's sitting at the kitchen table.
Fingon – Also watching his uncle father as he stares off into space.
Maedhros – Keeping an eye on the troublemakers just in case.
Nerdanel – Walks over to see that her husband has finished making all the perfectly symmetrical pie crusts, kneaded dough for the bread like a madman, and is now helping his sons dice onions.
More!Nerdanel – Leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek.
Fëanor – Hm… Oh, yes, dear. Absentmindedly continues working.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Celegorm – Aha! A peredhel! Just as I thought.
Celegorm!Continuing – I see how this is. He's a stooge of the Valar. Just like Eärendil (half-Man, half-Elf).
Celegorm!Most – Of course, she defends him. She's married to another peredhel.
A few moments later…
Celegorm – ( ._. )
Celegorm!Also– Grudgingly. I may've miscalculated.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Past!Nerdanel – Exploring the castle early on. What an interesting room! Why don't we ever use this?
Present!Nerdanel – A dinner party! I know just the place.
Later!Nerdanel – This room is cursed.
Fëanor – No, our children are just idiots. All of them.
Fingon – Exists.
Fëanor – Not that one.
Maedhros – Exists, too.
Fëanor – That one is also acceptable.
Curufin & Caranthir – Present and accounted for.
Fëanor – They're fine, I guess.
Celegorm – Hangs head. I'll put on the dunce crown.
The Twin – Volunteer as tribute. Us, too.
Maglor in Imladris – Achoo!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finarfin – Moping over his youngest son when he realizes how many peredhil are in this city.
More!Finarfin – Now realizing how badly the death episode and attempted mind peek could've gone for him.
Further!Finarfin – Drains his wineglass.
Findis – Pours them both more.
Definitely!Findis – We aren't nearly drunk enough for this.
Finarfin – Why is it always Fëanor's branch of the family?
Finarfin!Again – My children are always so well-behaved and never cause any trouble what-so-ever.
Elsewhere in Endor…
Galadriel – Feels a sudden chill and sense of foreboding.
Somewhere in Mandos…
Aegnor – Ears burning. Someone's talking about me.
Nienna – Pats him consolingly on the shoulder. Something good, surely.
Notes:
Atto – father/dad.
Nis – female elf.
Peredhil – half-elves; the plural for peredhel (half-elf). This is Sindarin, and there’s perelda (singular) and pereldar (plural) for Quenya, but peredhel is more commonly known so handwavy.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-AN: Birch trees symbolize rebirth, renewal, growth. Silver birch in particular is called the Lady of the Woods and is known for its ability to survive in harsh conditions.
Aegnor is the youngest son of Finarfin who loved the mortal Andreth, but they never wed for reasons (looking at you, Finrod), so he’s still in Mandos awaiting the do-over of the world when she’ll come back.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 28: Chapter 28
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The conference is boring. Most of them are if he's really honest. Long lectures. Even longer meetings. And all the droning on. It's not like they don't know what's happening. What's been obvious for decades or even longer. If one only bothers to look. Everyone else might prefer to close their eyes. To stick their fingers in their ears and turn their heads away, but Harry's never had that luxury.
He's always known. Some deep down part of him. Felt it in the ache in his teeth. In the thump in his heart. The tingle down his spine even as all the others celebrated every new revitalization. It was only buying them time. It was all an illusion. A fever dream. A pretty, little lie.
Everyone else's finally admitting it, too. They've now opened their eyes to the truth Harry's known all this time.
Still, despite the urgency of the situation, he's already been here three days and not a single person has managed to get to anything resembling a point. Or more specifically, the point. They hem and haw and dance around the topic like an antsy Ravenclaw who doesn't want to admit to a messed up potion. Throwing out phrases like environmental failure and ecological degradation with all their charts and graphs and statistics that say everything but explain nothing. Harry will die of old age before anyone ever deigns to do that; something he determines very early on in this debacle. He isn't even a speaker here. Invited because of his age, past deeds, and likely their hope that he'll actually have some clue what to do.
Since apparently nobody else does.
All his years have taught him patience if nothing else. He passes the time gauging the general mood in the room while noting who else's actually present. This is what's supposed to be the biggest gathering of the minds in generations – ha! No small amount of Hogwarts graduates have made their way to the audience, which is at least reassuring. Almost all of them approach him during the intermissions in a mix of half-reminiscence, half-relief. It's a bittersweet reunion if nothing else. Reminding him of the reason he's here but also of how much time has passed since they were under his care. The most senior are elderly now, appear even older than Harry himself, and he can practically see the hourglass running out. Hear that clock counting down. One, he knows won't even live another year. Call it healer's intuition, but Harry can tell in the way that her skin is papery thin as her hands rest in his. At the deep circles beneath her eyes, which are so cloudy with age that even magic can't keep them clear.
The Peverell ring is chilly on his finger after that. It's felt weighted ever since the Muggle devastation, but it's grown more so with each passing year. Now, there's a coldness to it as he slips back into his seat. He's in a back corner with only the wall behind him. In perfect position to see the entire room. His vision's far better these days than people imagine, but his glasses are part of the package. The persona. A fashion accessory that they expect to see, yes, but also a way to keep him more unassuming. For all the things Dumbledore got wrong, he at least knew what he was doing on that front.
Two lectures, both of which tell him absolutely nothing, and Harry perks up as someone new approaches the podium. He's never meet her before, but he already knows exactly who she is. He recognizes the soft smile she gives as she's introduced. The manner in which she holds her head. Even the way her hair changes from blond to brown to black at the seriousness in her voice.
It's been... so many years. He doesn't want to think how long, and he refuses to count through or acknowledge that he knows precisely the time since they last spoke with him. Since one of them even went to Hogwarts at all; he still can't decide if it's easier or harder that way. Lupin is something of a famous name now. Known for their metamorphmagus-skill but also for being notable innovators, curse-breakers, and even fellow educators. He's quietly kept track of their achievements. Of Teddy and Victoire's family. Even as it grew and grew. As more names joined in and branched off. He knows that almost all of them left Britain. Some to the States. Others to France and parts of Europe. A few even to Australia and New Zealand.
The cottage by the sea is Harry's now. Again. Inherited from the youngest granddaughter so that it'd stay in the family and he'd always have a home. But it sits empty. Dark. Lifeless. He stops by once a year to check the wards but never actually goes inside. There's no point doing more. No need to bother. Its reason for being is long gone.
So is his.
He's accepted that. Accepted it even if only to himself.
He only truly has memories now. Looking up at the stage, at a stranger with Victoire's laugh. Harry closes his eyes at the sound. Even with the terrible burden that brings them here, the heavy weight, she nevertheless tries to lighten the mood. To brighten their day just a bit. The cadence of her voice isn't quite the same, but it's similar. Familiar. Washes over him like waves on the shore. The accent is wrong. Word choice too modern for this current century.
And yet...
All he can do is sit and listen. He doesn't seek her out afterwards. Doesn't hate himself that much even now.
Too bad she doesn't seem to agree.
How much is coincidence and how much is planned he'll never know. But she finds him the next day as everyone breaks for lunch. Comes right up to his corner as he finishes speaking with a former pupil. Boxes him in before he can even think to leave.
Talk is polite. Pleasant even. Stilted in the way of strangers who've never had cause to meet before. As familiar as she is, Harry doesn't know her at all, and it's jarring. Like an off-key song. A melody played in the wrong chord. A verse with an incorrect rhyme.
Harry resolves very quickly that he needs to get out of this conversation and this place. He says all the right words. Gives a genteel gesture even as he mentions preexisting plans but she follows him as he heads for the door. Only there, does she allow a semblance of a goodbye.
"My grandpère speaks well of you," she calls after him.
It honestly catches Harry off guard. It's been a courteous dance so far. Steps known and expected. But now, she's made an unforeseen move, and he finds himself wrong-footed. Wavering in how to respond.
Unfortunately, she doesn't give him the chance.
"Best headmaster Hogwarts has ever had," she continues without missing a single beat.
Iron on his tongue now. Metallic and harsh as he bites down on his response. Harry's smile is fixed. Frozen. He's perfected his mask over a lifetime of the press taking his picture during some of his worst moments. When he's had to speak with people and shake hands with those who've literally killed him. Sometimes even hours before.
Anyone who grew up with him would know this expression. Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys. Certainly Teddy and Victoire and their children.
She doesn't even notice the difference.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon ambushes him before he can even walk all the way in the kitchen. Harry's used to overeager children by this point in his life, so he at least doesn't go wands-blazing so to speak. Nevertheless, he has to admit a certain amount of surprise to have a full-grown elf all but lunge for him while he's still half in the doorway.
The castle, traitor that she is, doesn't even warn him. Fortunately, Harry apparated into the corridor. A habit he's trying to build now that he has elven house guests and doesn't want to randomly appear wherever they happen to be. Magically poofing into existence in front of people who've literally fought for their lives is never the best idea. Not to mention their prior experiences with other magic-users is likely not the best, and Harry would prefer to avoid bodily harm this early in the day. That and he'd rather not have to explain this particular form of transportation before he's even had his morning tea.
Nerdanel has graciously never brought it up, and Fëanor has never seemed to realize what exactly happened. Harry understands it's only a matter of time for the others. Inglor's obviously experienced it firsthand, but Harry knows that he's slipped over the years. That Inglor – and Formenos at large – suspects him of a great many things. Most of them likely true. Some still exaggerated but not nearly as embellished as he'd like to imagine.
In his defense, magic was openly practiced on Earth the majority of his adult life. The Ainur are far too fascinated by everything he does. Gil's also an awful enabler.
It's a recipe for disaster.
Regardless, he's rather shocked to find Argon in his kitchen in the first place. He doesn't quite manage to tackle Harry; he's too far away for that, and Harry still has the reflexes of someone who dodged bludgers and Death Eaters. It's close enough though that there's zero doubt Argon immediately jumped to his feet the instant he recognized Harry was on his way. Harry should be more vigilant, he knows, but this is his home. He has a castle who allegedly watches out for him. He didn't think to check if anyone else was awake since none of them ever are at this time. It's too early for even Nerdanel or Caranthir. Only Gil's up, still getting ready. Harry's just here to fetch breakfast for them; he didn't expect to be accosted.
Argon's polite enough to maintain a scant few inches of space, but he's bright. Buzzing with energy and good cheer. Like a third-year on their first sugar rush from Hogsmeade.
"Good morning, cousin!" he greets very bubbly indeed.
He's in different clothing than last night, which is a relief at least. That rules out the more obvious suspects, including an all-night bender. Of course, Harry isn't quite sure what he'd do if Argon sat down here, ostensibly waiting for him the entire time. His outfit is definitely more relaxed than yesterday. Something much closer to his usual attire and akin to daywear for the avid outdoorsman, noble edition. He looks like he's on his way for a ride, hunt, or any other activity that involves the wide world beyond. That doesn't explain why he's here, however. An answer isn't forthcoming either as he merely beams when Harry returns his greeting and slowly walks past him. Careful not to fully turn his back in much the manner of someone facing a griffin or an unruly hippogriff.
Harry sends the castle a quiet question then, but he merely receives back a mental shrug along with an image of Argon standing in his room and talking at his ceiling. It's quite a picture indeed. A shocking one to comprehend just how much his cousin has figured out. The elves have always been leery of the castle dating back to the time this was just an abandoned fortress in the forsaken winter. Have assumed hauntings and all manner of ill omens. None of them have ever recognized how sapient she truly is. Not until now.
Harry doesn't know what to think about that at all. Can't decide if he's relived, worried, astounded, or some combination of the three. He's contemplating that as he ventures closer to the cabinets. Very aware that he's being followed. Argon isn't quite on his heels, but he's close enough that Harry can sense the warmth radiating off of him. Trailing after like a duckling. Like the elflings in the kingdom. Likely just as enthused.
Harry tries not to laugh. It's an odd thing really for someone older than the sun to remind him of a small child, of fresh-faced eleven-year-olds with their first glimpse of Hogwarts. And yet, Argon does just that as he stops directly to Harry's left but positioned so he has a very clear view of the larder door. His aura is shining, gleaming with anticipation. Like a pupil waiting for spell to be cast. Which probably isn't too far off the mark.
Decision time now. Harry can do things the Muggle way. The manner he's more or less been following since his guests arrived. Or he can just lean into the inevitable. It isn't like Argon doesn't already know at this point. He's gotten an up-close and spectacular view.
Harry shoots him a grin, and before his cousin can even react, ingredients are already floating free. Eggs. Flour. Vanilla. A variety of fruits. Even more as a mixing bowl joins in and the custard starts forming at an accelerated pace. More glassware intercepts the rapidly forming crusts which fly into the oven assembly line fashion before appearing seconds later, perfectly crisp. Ready to receive their filling at precise intervals. With an exacting artistic flare and differing design on top of each. Breakfast is done before Argon even collects himself enough to stop gawking. He closes his mouth with an audible snap, and a single tart floats over to hover in front of him. Harry hears him give a half-hysterical noise before he reaches out, and it settles in his palm like a bird coming in to roost.
That's naturally the second Gil ambles into the room, prompt as ever. Harry has suspicions that the castle's treachery goes further than anticipated, but his love merely leans in for a long kiss. More tarts drift over, but Harry sends the remainder on their way along with dishes, flatware, and drinks to the rest of the household. Quietly enough that they'll wake up to find breakfast in their rooms with no idea how that even happened. Or how he manage to get so close without any of them noticing.
Harry isn't mean or vengeful by nature, but well… He'd let them stew on that. Guilty thoughts, guilty conscience. Sometimes, he let his students choose their own punishment; they were certainly more creative in that than he ever could be. Gil casts him a lingering glance even as he thinks that, and they sit next to each other at the table, Argon across from them. He's inspecting his breakfast carefully as he eats. Half-savoring, half-studying every bite as one does a new specimen. Harry just lets him have his fun, enjoying the tea that Argon didn't even notice brewing in the background.
The meal itself is peaceful. A stark contrast to the night before. Harry thinks that it'll be nice to get away today. Far away. To the edge of his kingdom even. Admittedly, there are a few duties that while he hasn't fully neglected, he's put off a bit. The bears and wolves along the far border have been a bit uppity lately. Elves don't head that direction much at all, but they aren't the only denizens under his purview. And the eagles did mention it to him not terribly long ago when they stopped in for a visit – mostly with Inara. They do tend to hunt that direction themselves and don't like the competition. Especially with their younger members still vulnerable to ambushes.
Besides, it'll be a nice getaway after the disaster of yesterday. Harry admittedly isn't sure how he feels about that mess. Vairë has naturally departed already for her own home. Leaving like a thief in the night. Mission accomplished. Which Harry suspects was largely to cause chaos, but he's smart enough to keep that to himself. Eönwë's still here. Lurking about as he does best. Currently prowling through the city as he waits for Inglor and more of his company to come on shift. Probably for no other reason than to find new victims… sparring partners.
Harry's still considering that when he glances over at Argon. Idea suddenly forming. It's wild. Just a bit crazy. Certainly very Gryffindor. Gil's immediately amused by even he suggestion of it forming in Harry's mind. He just shakes his head, wholly unhelpful, but opts to remain home. Laughing at him the entire time.
And that brings Harry to here. On the border between autumn and winter, north of the castle. Golden grasses in front with snow-tipped trees just behind. For a regular person, it'd likely take weeks to get here, but apparition does have its perks as Argon's just learned. The elf can't seem to determine if he's more pleased or amazed by it. Though his attention is quickly diverted away when he does a full circle to get his bearings and the bewilderment only grows when he notes that the sun's to his left.
"We're behind the city," Argon realizes then. His pupils are wide. Blown like a little boy who sees all the presents under the tree come Christmas morning.
He guffaws then. Loud and carefree. Infectious even as Harry grins back at him. He really doesn't need to point though. Harry knows exactly where they are after all, but he does follow Argon's line of sight to the mountains in the far off distance. Barely glimpsed over the horizon. Elven vision likely isn't good enough to discern that this is only the tail-end of the range that borders Formenos; the castle and city themselves are out of view. It also isn't obvious to the casual observer – at least, not the ones who can't fly – but the castle lays in the exact middle of his kingdom. The area as a whole is mountainous, but that's along the midline and closer to the center. The south starts relatively flat before turning hilly and then rising further. Beyond Formenos though, in the upper half, the landscape shifts to plateaus filled with summer flowers. Before sloping down into deep valleys with rivers and waterfalls surrounded by trees with fall leaves. Then leveling into the wintry landscape of the pine forest.
Almost all of it is pristine. Nearly untouched. Not many Eldar have spread out this direction yet at all; just scattered hamlets here and there. Never individuals. The smallest group, Harry knows, has six. Even those who truly want to leave it all behind and be far from their brethren, don't come alone. Most common are Avari, those still wary of everyone. Next are Silvan, equally skeptical of the others. The Sindar are fewer, but Harry's picked up enough refugees from Thingol that he's never had the heart – much less the desire – to curtail their freedom to wander. Ñoldor who roam here are not kinslayers as one might think, but most often crafters in search of a perfect location for this or that. The Falmari and Vanyar are the least numerous in his kingdom, but he has some stragglers from them, too. The former prefer to stay along the great lake, but Harry's made much smaller ones on this side with an eye for the future. As for the Vanyar, those who look to Harry either married outside their own group. Or have left for very personal reasons indeed.
Next to Harry, Argon's still beaming even as he shades his eyes against the morning sun. He stands at Harry's side but kneels down to inspect the grass. Despite the height difference, he matches pace easily a moment later when they walk along the border. Indilwen's absent today. Left at home. Harry doesn't fully trust her too close to any elf right now. Not to mention, a walk in the woods will be rather nice for a change. Although it may get a bit a drafty since his companion isn't dressed for the weather.
Harry flicks a finger then, and a hooded cloak of cobalt blue settles on Argon's shoulders. He lets out a happy sound as matching pair of gloves appear and float in front of him. Harry merely smirks to himself; Argon likely won't notice the enchantments for awhile.
He lets his cousin have a moment to inspect his new additions and peers back at the mountains in the distance. Something tugs at his memory as he traces over the tallest peak near the middle. There's a pull at his mind. A whisper almost. An echo. The shape's wrong. The range here is too high even this far away, but the shadow of the morning sunlight almost corrects that. Almost tricks even his eyes into seeing something else. A different place entirely. One he's never truly glimpsed and yet… Yet...
The wind bites deep. Cold. Bitter. He doesn't sink into the snow like most of the others, and his steps are sure. Confident as only someone who's lived in this land for ages can be. He uses the blunt end of his spear to check the path just in case. First in line. Trailblazer. Even his elven blood should be half-frozen, but the precious clothing he wears, it all keeps him warm no matter what. Gifts. Treasured now more than ever. For what he lost. For what he threw away and desperately seeks to find again.
He hears a fell voice on the air even before the first rumble above their heads. Foul words of a fallen Maia that echo through the mountains.
"Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse; nai yarvaxea rasselya!"
Mith--
Argon touches his elbow, and Harry sucks in a deep breath. Finds himself escaping the avalanche of his mind. The relentless crush of thought and almost-memory. He throws it away forcefully. Before shoving it into a box and onto a shelf. Exhales mist and fog like the temperature is much lower than he knows it to be, but now's hardly the time for this. He waves off Argon's concerned look, offers a benign curve of his lips. Steadies himself for a second before turning and walking into the treeline with his cousin hurrying to catch up.
It's easy enough to distract him. Especially once Argon spots wolf tracks in the snow and the hunt is on. Working with him is definitely an experience. It isn't quite like the trip from Tirion. For one, it's just the two of them; there's no horses either. Argon's agile despite his size. Quick and surprisingly stealthy even without magic to quiet his footsteps. Nimble as he darts in and around the trees. Swift to spot their quarry but completely unnoticed.
The wolves never even stand a chance. Harry hangs back through most of it and picks off stragglers, but Argon is the star of the show. Humble but triumphant in his victory. Immediately ready for more as Harry motions for him to continue. Hours pass, sun steadily climbing higher, as Argon weaves his way through the woods. Felling bears, wolves, even a pair of stray saber cats. He doesn't miss a single shot. Aiming for eyes and the inside of mouths. An impressive feat when considering that he only has his regular bow. Not to mention that he hasn't had the direct benefit of Oromë's instruction.
They take a break just after noon. Mostly because they've been at this for hours, and their haul is getting a little ridiculous. Harry's brought everything with them so far, but now seems the time for his least favorite part. He's just carrying forward a black bear when he feels more than sees Argon pause in sharpening his knives. The elf doesn't quite stare as Harry hefts her down right in front, weight more awkward than anything. It's done magicless as Harry doesn't have to use that for every little part of his life. Still, the look Argon gives him is decidedly one of surprise as he nudges a paw that's roughly the size of one of Harry's portraits. It doesn't budge.
"What?" Harry asks then.
Since really? They've just spent the morning fighting all manner of hungry wildlife, but this is the part that gets to him?
Argon allows a little snicker but shakes his head. "Just surprised is all."
"It's not heavy," Harry defends. Adjusting a little more to prove his point.
"For you maybe." Argon holds his hands out as if measuring. "We could ride that into battle. Likely with Fin and Nelyo alongside."
Harry glances down at the bear and back. She isn't that big, hyperbole aside. It isn't like he's lugging around a dragon. Harry can see his point, however. Tulkas and Oromë would simply throw her over their shoulders and be on their way; Eönwë is far too dignified for that admittedly. Harry's used to them as his measurement. It's always hard to judge where he stands compared to elves, but he can't say that Inglor would be able to do that. Nor Gil if he's truly honest.
He frowns and side-eyes his cousin, who guilelessly looks back at him. Face placid as if nothing at all's the matter. Argon's already seen him manhandling the whole lot anyway, so it's rather moot for Harry to pretend otherwise. A point they both agree on.
"I shall leave all the heavy-lifting to you then," the elf jests, but it's said mildly. With a tone that's a bit too much like Fingon. While his expression is more like their father.
Harry gazes at him for another second, but finally, he nods. Lets that go without further comment. Simply stepping back to contemplate his angle of attack so to speak. Oromë never lets him use magic for any of this, but he really doesn't fancy being here all night. While Harry could undoubtedly handle that without issue, the same can't be said for Argon. Harry will admit that they did get a little carried away earlier. Hunted more in a shorter period of time than he usually does with Inglor, but too late to do anything about that now.
Eh… What Oromë doesn't know won't kill him. Harry shrugs to himself and casually searches around for any witnesses. Feathered and otherwise. There aren't any. He glances back to his accomplice. Who's once more sharpening his knives in preparation. Argon does hesitate as Harry lets out a low whistle to catch his attention.
"I won't tell Oromë if you don't." Harry wiggles his fingers to indicate his intentions.
Argon blinks slowly. Eyes flickering to the bear and then back. Understanding lights over his features a heartbeat later. His knives disappear almost immediately. Likely so he can focus with the same intensity he has all day as Harry lets the magic happen. It's over in minutes, everything neatly separated and packed away. Argon merrily salutes him as he now sits cross-legged on a fallen tree trunk. Nibbling on the fruit tarts that Harry made for them earlier. Occasionally turning to see the snowflakes drift down to land on his glove before disappearing completely.
It's tranquil. Almost surreal.
"'Tis nice here. Peaceful," Argon decides after they've rested for longer than they probably should have. "Before, I only ever came to this area when Oromë still claimed it as a hunting ground, but few ever braved the cold to venture here. Tyelko-- I mean…"
"It's fine to mention them, you know," Harry tells him with something that's a mix between a sigh and a snort. He leans over from his own resting spot and offers his thermos. "I promise not to fly off the handle."
Argon simply takes a drink as he peers around more. Blue-gray eyes taking in everything with the same unbridled captivation Harry's earlier magic did. The snow falls soft and lazy. Covers the land like a white blanket. Pure, untouched save for the browns and greens that peek through. The trees themselves, the underbrush. The occasional animal blending in, a hare here. Crow there. The flash of red from hidden berries in the foliage. Everything is muffled. Serene. Air crisp and barely fogging around them.
It certainly paints a very distinct picture. One that captures Argon the longer he looks.
"I admit that I never imagined winter could be this way. This is…" he trails off before taking a breath. "Your garden is contained. Tame even. This is wild and free but certainly nothing like the Helcaraxë."
Harry should think not. He definitely didn't want a glacier in his backyard. Thanks ever so much.
"I like the snow," Harry simply says. "I've always found it calming."
Even going back to his very first winter at Hogwarts, watching out the window at the blizzard beyond. Safe and warm inside. Secure in the first home he ever had. Maybe that's when it truly became real to him that he was away from the Dursleys. That it wasn't all a fantastical dream. And later, all those holidays spent at the castle with most of the residents gone. Few dared to bother him then. Or even remembered to do so with their own plans. Winter was one of the rare times he actually had to himself; his summers somehow ended up being claimed by one thing or the other. More so as the world worsened.
Even as a child, he worked nonstop for the Durlseys with the sun roasting him overhead. There were always more chores then. More hours of daylight to torment him. Oddly enough, they were kinder in the colder months. Let him be locked away in his cupboard. Secure and snug if forgotten.
Snow and ice are safer. They're pure. Untainted by Tom Riddle. By anyone. He always knows when someone trespasses in his mindscape by the footprints left behind.
"Herurrívë suites you," Argon decides just then.
He's studying Harry now more than the landscape. Observing his expression. He isn't close enough to nudge Harry, but he does reach out to place a hand on his arm.
"I admit surprise that none of them use it."
The Ainur. That's what he means. None of them call him Herurrívë. Only Káno does. Or did. Harry supposes that they heard Káno call for him that night, when he died. How else would they know that name? Or did Gil tell them? Did one of the others?
"Marcaunon is from the Ainur side," Harry informs him, but it's almost wistfully. "Ammë gave it to me."
His cousin pauses. Tilts his head with curiosity. It's an odd motion. One that reminds him more of an inquisitive cat. Of Fëanor actually. A startling realizing. But also not really.
"Nienna is your mother, yes?" Argon asks, but even as he does, it's obvious that he already knows.
Harry can only nod. There's an odd flutter to his heart. Not nervousness but not quite relief either.
"It isn't a secret," he adds, but it's lower than before. "I mean, no has really asked."
"You are much like her, I think." Argon hums. "I only saw her in Mandos, but she came by often to speak with us. She walked with me when I finally departed. All the way to the outside where my own ammë, uncle, and auntie were waiting."
Harry remembers Argon telling him earlier that he was the first of their family to leave Mandos. Before even his own father or any of the others. Finarfin avoided Mandos entirely; he would've returned with the host led by Eönwë by that point, however. Findis and Anairë – Argon's mother – never left in the first place. That was long before Harry came to Valinor by at least an age he reckons. Except… Except the Ainur did keep him separated from the elves now that he considers the matter. The only one he ever met in Mandos was Míriel who's half-spirit these days anyway. And Káno, of course.
Time moves strangely in Mandos; Harry's known that from the beginning. Harry himself could make it speed up or slow down in Formenos if he wanted. Likely in various parts if he has a mind to do it. He just never fully considered that Námo and the others can do the same. It's a disquieting thought now that he's having it. One he doesn't quite know what to do with. Most elves don't include their years in Mandos in their ages, but Harry thought he at least had a rough idea of how long he was there. Now, he really isn't so sure. For all he knows, it was even longer than he originally estimated. He'd have to ask one of the Ainur to know for sure.
"Atto has figured it out, I think." Argon interrupts his musings. "Lady Vairë rather made it obvious last night."
So Fingolfin knows as well. Probably Fingon and Maedhros then, too. Findis possibly, although Harry isn't as close with her. Hard to say with Celebrían these days. Equally hard to tell what goes on in Finrod's head. Angrod tends to keep his thoughts to himself unless he feels it's warranted. The same for his father, Finarfin. Nerdanel may know thanks to Eönwë, and if so, Fëanor would as well by this point if she deigned to share. As for their other sons, who knows? Harry doubts most of them would've kept it quiet.
It isn't that he's ashamed for them to know. More aware of the implications. How odd elves are about certain things. That Nienna has allowed him such leeway. Encouraged it even. That the other Ainur even play along. That they've permitted a stranger into their midst and tolerated such indulgences.
"How long have you known?" he wonders aloud. Trying to determine how obvious he's been.
Argon chuckles. It's warm. Full of life and pure, honest joy.
"You look like cousin. Yet, certain things you say and do reminded me of someone. I just couldn't figure who it was." He taps his knee with the fingers of his right hand in a familiar cadence just as his brother often does. "You healed them – Tyelko and the twins – when all three tried to goad you. Their actions were met with kindness and not anger. I knew for certain then." His expression eases minutely, fainter at the edges, eyes far too wise. "You say this isn't a secret, but it burdens you."
Not for the reasons Argon thinks, but Harry can't lie and say that he's wrong. That Harry knows he's in too deep and can't ever get out now. That he doesn't comprehend exactly what and who the trees in the very center of his soul represent. The very foundation of who he's allowed himself to become.
For all that Argon isn't his father or brother, he's just as shrewd in his own way. But there's also an unexpected sadness to him. A note of melancholy beneath the sunshine.
"I too have always been the youngest." His cousin still smiles as he looks out at the woods, but his gaze is unfocused. "The twins and Tyelpë were already adults when I was born. Artanis was, too. None of them wanted me to come to Endor. Atto feels guilty that I died in there, but even more of him is glad that I missed the truly terrible parts."
It's a distraction even as much as it's a confession for another's sin. A father's guilt. A son left behind by time and circumstance.
"You wouldn't have stayed," Harry responds. "They never could've kept you here while they went into danger."
"No," Argon agrees. "Atto understands that as well, and I think that makes it worse for all of us. They went through so much that I cannot even imagine, but now, I'm back with them. Whole. Undamaged in a way that they are not."
Left behind again. With his family but separated by experiences as they were fighting and he was already in Mandos. Harry isn't sure if he was in Alqualondë with Fingon, but Argon traversed the Helcaraxë alongside everyone else. Then, they watched him die. The youngest. Before they moved on as best they could. While Argon could only wait for them.
Harry definitely knows what that feels like, and he realizes what he's going to offer then. Recognizes before he even says it. Sees the truth of it unfolding as surely as both of them sitting there. How it'll become reality is a bit of a mystery, but it will. He could make the potion, Harry supposes. Even the revised version he came up with. But between his powers and elven intuition, he has a feeling they won't need it. He isn't entirely certain that Eldar can even learn such a thing. Elwing did, he knows, but she's still part Maia. And from what he's heard, Ulmo helped in there somewhere.
They'll just have to wing it and hope for the best, but Harry has a good feeling about this.
"You know I can take the form of animals," he finds himself saying, "but would you like to learn?"
Silence then. Only filled by the swaying of the branches in the breeze. The slight swish of snowfall.
Argon's face is slack. Startled.
"I don't know how many forms it'll be yet," Harry goes on, "and I know it'll take time--"
"Yes," his cousin interrupts.
"Of course," Harry continues, "I don't know how long that could be."
"I mean that I agree!" The elf lets out a noise of absolute excitement. "Yes, I want you to teach me!"
He's on his feet and in front of Harry now, grabbing both of his arms. Towering above him but bending down so that they're not quite nose to nose. Eager. Bright. Reckless and seeking.
"I will," Harry tells him. And means it. Will see it through to the end if only to keep this happiness from fading.
Argon swallows hard. He's slightly dyspneic with emotion. Actually trembling from it.
"You offer me something unique when I've never been," he explains, and the warmth of his expression doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I am not important enough to be anything but the spare prince. I shan't ever be my brothers or our father. I was never even worth Moringotto's notice, but you… I…" He can't even continue afterwards. One hand covering his mouth as he breathes in and out trying to calm himself.
Harry watches him, absorbing everything he just said. Didn't say. He won't give empty words or platitudes. Hollow sympathies. Argon deserves better than those.
"You're my friend," he says instead. He grasps the arm next to his.
A pause as Argon stares back at him.
"Your cousin," he corrects, but it's amused now.
Harry can't say that he has ever been one of those before. The Dursleys treated him as a combination servant and unwanted stain on the family tree. Even later, when Dudley was an adult and they exchanged the occasional letter, there was an understandable distance. Not even the realization that Dudley's oldest daughter was magical changed that. Much less the knowledge that his youngest was, too. Harry made sure that the appropriate parties were aware of their existence so that they could go to one of the new magical primary schools. But it was done distantly. As one would for a stranger. At broom-length.
This is a different circumstance entirely. Harry likes Argon. His forthright nature that's also silly enthusiasm. He isn't Fingon or Fingolfin, but there's an awareness to him. A goodness. And despite the hiccups and stumbles along the way, this is nothing like Harry's childhood. Is literally and metaphorically a world away.
"I think we can be both," he finally states.
But it's genuine. Open. Raw and honest. An offer as surely as the earlier one he just made.
They study each other for a long moment. Stretching out between them in the winter wonderland.
"Rívë," Argon murmurs then.
Harry doesn't snort, but well, Herurrívë is rather a mouthful. He can agree on that. Most elven names are. At least in this family. They never do anything by halves. Everything is over the top. Overly dramatic. Overly done.
His cousin just laughs in agreement and acceptance both.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"If you're going to duel to the death, please do it outside," Harry says nearly a week later. "I don't want blood on the carpets."
The last is added in direct address of the scene of pure brotherly love and mutual understanding he's come across. Naturally. Of course. Nothing else could possibly be going on here. Why would he ever think any differently?
Fëanor and Fingolfin are certainly not arguing. Politely or otherwise. The former with his arms crossed over his chest. The latter with a lifted chin, nostrils flaring. Finarfin isn't there to play referee either. Or spectator. Glancing from one to the other like a little boy caught between feuding parents.
It's all a friendly discussion. Not an airing of grievances from ages past. Not at all.
That this takes place far off the beaten path and away from this other guests is pure coincidence. As is the fact that Nerdanel has wandered down to the edge of the city alongside Curufin and Caranthir. While Celebrían finally leaves her embroidery and explores the vineyard with Findis in tow. The twins are behaving – for once – under the watchful eyes of Angrod and Finrod. Argon still mediates in a secluded section of the garden that Harry showed him earlier. Celegorm makes himself scarce, holing up in a far corner of the property like a dog licking his wounds. Maedhros and Fingon, last but not least, are likely canoodling or… something. The less Harry knows about that, the better.
As for the three sons of Finwë, they're here. Gathered together. In a mostly forgotten room. At the end of a hallway. That almost no one ever uses but Harry himself.
Nothing to see here. Move along.
Earlier, Harry sighed the instant he felt them all heading this direction. But he permitted it for the same reason he usually lets family drama play out as long as it doesn't involve him. It's only when their voices rose to an uncomfortable decibel and stayed there that he determines it's time to intervene. That and the fact that their current location unfortunately has a lot of makeshift weaponry if they've a mind to it. Though why they all seem to be astonished to see him now, he'll never know.
Fëanor and Fingolfin both visibly recoil. More at his arrival than his words. Whirling around in amusing synchronicity that they'll forever deny. Older brother turning to the left and younger to the right. In perfect time together. Their matching expressions emphasize how closely they resemble each other. Finarfin is further back. Not near enough to be called the middle but not favoring either side, and Harry has an odd pang of sympathy for Finwë as he inspects the tableau before him. Wondering if this is how he felt seeing his children quarrel and squabble all those millennia as they denied their ties to one another but never him.
Three pairs of eyes stare as if startled to find him there. Simply existing. A guilty air floats across the room. Like a trio of fourth-years caught at something. But there isn't a single drop of Firewhisky to be found anywhere.
"Grandson," Fëanor greets, the first to recover, "I did not expect to see you here." His tone is unexpectedly fond despite the lingering tension that's thick like smoke without a single flame.
"Yes," Harry acknowledges, "it's always so shocking to see me in my own home."
Fingolfin clears his throat. "We did not expect your return for several hours yet, nephew. Artanáro informed me earlier of his intentions to escort you to the city."
Harry isn't fooled by that deflection; he doesn't for a minute believe that Gil's in on this. His love is sneaky when he thinks something is for Harry's own good but isn't actively deceitful. Besides, Gil only rolled his eyes when Harry informed him about this gathering of the minds. Not to mention the very unflattering things he muttered under his breath in Sindarin. Words Harry won't be repeating any time soon.
"We've been there and back already," he tells them instead. His focus shifts from one elf to the next. "This is an interesting place to run into each other."
True enough. It's an over-glorified closet more than anything. A junk room. A dumping ground for various projects, extra furniture, and just random objects Harry still isn't quite sure what to do with. Some are impractical gifts. Others, his less than successful experiments that he's never had the heart to disassemble or discard. Harry's always been sentimental like that.
Fingolfin offers a truly beatific smile accompanied with a hum. As if stalling for time.
Finarfin swoops in for the save though with all the dignity of a king surrounded by a mismatched furnishings. Behind him is a wardrobe in mahogany with uneven legs and doors that aren't quite the same size, one of Harry's first attempts at crafting through song alone.
"We were exploring the area," the blond states. It's effortless enough to nearly be genuine. Complete with a soft curl of his lips.
"I see," Harry comments. "You simply decided to stop along the way for a chat."
They don't look at each other, but he has the distinct impression that they want to. It's almost comical really how they can go from shouting loudly enough that he can hear them at the end of the corridor to pretending that everything's daises and sunshine and butter mellow at the drop of wand. Siblings, he supposes.
"'Tis a friendly discourse amongst brothers. No reason for concern, grandson." Fëanor again. Burning and bright as always.
Fingolfin though is so good with his eye crinkle, it's almost believable. "I am certain you understand completely."
Finarfin even twinkles at him. Golden, shining just as he did at their first meeting. Harry sees Fëanor twitch at that, but he keeps his mouth shut. Discretion the better part of valor and so on.
"I've never met Elrond," he reminds them. Mostly just to be contrary.
Elros is dead, he doesn't say. Which at this point is moot since Harry knows him anyway. Speaks with him nightly now. Sees him more lately than he does Nienna. Certainly more than he ever has Káno. In person at least.
They aren't privy to that secret though, and this at least causes cracks in the facade. Now, all three of them fight variations of a grimace. Fëanor's is the most obvious but the quickest to smooth out. Fingolfin tilts down, chin to chest. Finarfin simply closes his eyes.
"That was ill-spoken of me," Fingolfin apologizes after the silence stretches on a little too long.
Harry waves it off but doesn't rise to the bait. To the offered distraction. He knows his uncle's game here. Recognizes that if he doesn't say anything long enough that somebody will fill the void. It's just a matter of which one.
Will it be Fëanor? Oldest. Reckless genius. Sinner seeking redemption.
Fingolfin? Middle child. Seemingly sensible but just as rash.
Finarfin? Youngest. Left behind time and again but now king.
Somehow, Harry both is and isn't surprised when the last son of Finwë speaks.
"We were not dueling," Finarfin assures again. "We merely wished for a chance to reminisce on the past."
Harry doesn't snort at such a spin on the truth. Findis is the Slytherin of the family, but Finarfin can obviously give her a run for her galleons. He glances from a half-hobbled table with three legs to the stacks of detritus that nearly reach the ceiling and are admittedly held up by magic. The paintings, unenchanted, that lean against each other in the corner by the door. Crates with goodness-only-knows what inside. Rolled up rugs in a pile on top of another wardrobe, this one white.
Entertainment more than anything colors his speech now. "With this interesting choice of venue," Harry counters, "forgive me if I find that rather far fetched."
Another few ticks of silence. Still awkward. Fëanor looks away like a cat that just lost the staring contest. While Finarfin gives a slow exhale and momentarily gazes up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers.
"I suppose we deserve that, nephew." Fingolfin gives a bow of his head.
"We merely wished to speak away from the rest," Finarfin confesses next. Motioning with one hand.
"We did not mean to cause you alarm," Feanor finally admits, "but it did not remain confined as intended."
At last, the truth of the matter. And really, is that so hard?
Harry's gracious enough to keep that to himself, but he can hear Gil's laughter ring out from across the castle.
He offers his own nod and smile. "I'm glad to see you sorting things out as it were." He lifts a brow at them, tone sharpening ever-so-slightly. "Though I don't want to have to explain to your children if anything happens or I have to go all the way to Mandos to visit."
That earns him an odd look, almost alarmed. Harry can't tell which part, however. The platitude or the polite lecture. Maybe he should've been a sterner. After all, they did leave Findis out of this sibling-reunion. She's the voice of reason in the family. And much of the sanity.
"Mandos, grandson?" Fëanor asks then, and there's something in the lilt of the words. In the way ash settles against his tongue. His silver eyes gleam. He's closer now, having stepped forward as if wanting to reach out but unsure his welcome.
Fingolfin and Finarfin are solemn. Still. The latter has drawn nearer. In the center of the room and away from the walls. Closer to his brother. Closer to Harry and Feanor.
Harry isn't sure what to make of the sudden shift. Of the renewed tension that throbs like a heart.
"You do know that I've been in Mandos, too?"
It's phrased as a question since he honestly isn't sure at this point. Fingon knows. So does Argon. He's also spoken with Fingolfin and Aredhel about it before, but he isn't sure it's come up with Finarfin prior to this. Much less Fëanor. Indeed, the oldest of Finwë's sons seems even more troubled by that statement. Hand lifting but fingers grasping at only air.
"Lady Vairë made it clear you were familiar with she and her husband, yes," Finarfin states. Expression an unreadable mask.
That's certainly one way of putting it.
"I stayed with them," Harry concurs.
"None of us ever saw you there," Fingolfin remarks. "My children nor I recall that. Though I admit, I am not sure of your age or if our times did overlap."
There's a troubling echo to his song. A reverberation that would go through the floor were he an Ainur. But his aura is held more tightly to him than that. Flickering to and fro.
"I didn't see any elves while I was there." Harry corrects after a second, "Well, only one elf really, but she also stays separate."
A blink. A hesitation.
Fëanor's the first to realize. He inhales in a sharp rush, and that's all the hint his brothers need as they first stare at him and then Harry. A mix of disbelief and awe.
"You know Lady Míriel?" Finarfin's aura is gleaming, full of shock and almost eagerness that's definitely like his oldest son.
Harry's puzzled. That answer is pretty obvious. Or at least, he thinks it is.
"Yes," he replies slowly, "she's part of Vairë's retinue."
"You… You truly know her though." Fëanor has inched forward again. Not quite invading Harry's personal space but very close to it. Knees brushing the edge of his robe. "You have spoken with her."
"Of course, I have." Harry can't help the bewilderment. Since this has definitely taken a turn somewhere along the way. "Why wouldn't I? We've often sat and chatted."
Fëanor for once in his life doesn't seem to know what to say. Or what to do. Fingers unfurling only to curl back under seconds later.
"I… They…" he begins but stumbles over his words. "They never allowed me to see her."
It's barely more than a whisper. A breath of air given shape. A longing that takes form as surely as if he drew it out with ink and paper. A boy, little more than a toddler, grasping a hand so much larger. Lórien's garden rising impossibly high around him. She lays on a raised platform, covered in white flowers, but her shell is empty. Fëa departed.
A shift now. Fëanor's taller. Older but still so painfully young and filled with angry fire. Burning. Deep and scorching. Furious before the doors of Mandos. Screaming as loudly as he can. But someone – an elf who can only be his father – bodily carries him away. Even as tears stream down both their faces.
Fëanor shudders then. Trembles at the memory.
"She would see you. If you wanted," Harry tells him with all the gentleness in the world. "Míriel. She'd let you come to her."
"Truly?"
The hope isn't even hidden. It's obvious for all the world to hear and see. Painful and aching.
Finarfin isn't cruel by nature, but Harry senses that he's something of a pessimist. He naturally tries to rain on their Quidditch match.
"Lord Námo would never permit this," the blond informs them, but it's said with an almost bitter edge. Like a poison aimed at the drinker. "He favors very few."
Harry just looks at him, eyebrow lifted. Since that definitely sounded personal.
"Did you ask?"
It's given reasonably. Sensibly. As one questions a small child on whether they remembered their coat and shoes.
There's a beat of quiet. Stilted. Dense. It's answer enough.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. Rubs just below his temple at the phantom headache. Maybe it'd be easier if he had one because this family in particular seems to bring on the urge to bang his head into things.
Prima donnas. Every single one of them. The entire House.
"Míriel was unwell. Not incarcerated," he emphasizes. "It isn't like she was a criminal. We do allow visitors at a hospital, you know. Námo does, too. Your niece is even one of them."
Námo's stern, after all, but not cruel. Guests are few to Mandos, but they do exist. Elves sensible enough to petition to see their family members. Harry doesn't know much about that since it isn't his purview, but he doubts Námo would turn a sincere request down.
It's Fingolfin this time who speaks up. Mostly because Fëanor's now lost in thought. While Finarfin flares out like the sun on the brightest day of the year.
"Yes…" his uncle responds, "but Irissë petitioned directly."
Harry nods along. "That's what I'm saying. She asked permission. Like any reasonable person would. As Mandos is technically a place of rest and healing. She was even allowed to bring others with her. Your sister for instance."
Irimë's still there even. So is Aredhel. Both visiting the latter's only child. Neither seem in any hurry of leaving from what Vairë mentioned earlier, though Harry has suspicions it isn't only for Lómion's sake. Though Harry wonders if Fingolfin has even met his grandson. He supposes that his uncle must have. He's been with Aredhel on one of her journeys there. Surely. Right? Everyone was so nonchalant about Irimë going that Harry's assumed it. Now, Harry isn't nearly so certain of that as he sees a flurry of emotions cross not only Fingolfin's face but Finarfin's as well.
Fëanor, meanwhile, remains pensive. Forge silent and still.
Finarfin breaks first. He's king of the Ñoldor. Always cool, composed. Even when they all bounced down a hillside and Harry died in front of them. Now, however, he's a father without his third child for three ages. Fearing to not see him again countless more.
"My son… Aikanáro… Would Lord Námo..."
He falters. Words weighted on his tongue. Heavy and tumbling. He pleads with his green eyes like shattered sea glass. But Harry already knows what he wants most. He doesn't need to hear it to understand that yearning.
"If you asked, yes." Harry's mild as he agrees, even more so as he adds, "I could approach him on your behalf."
Harry doesn't know what it's like to be a wanted child. To have a father who misses him and eagerly awaits his return, but the way Finarfin gazes at him now makes his chest clench.
"You would do this for us?"
For me, he means.
"I'd never keep you from seeing your son," Harry assures, but his focus flicks to Fingolfin for the barest instance. Then back.
Finarfin doesn't notice. He simply slumps like a windup toy that's lost power. Golden hair slides in front of his face in the manner of a cloud passing in front of the sun. Only, it doesn't reemerge. Remaining blotted out. Shadowed as his shoulders begin to shake. As rain starts to fall with soft gasps.
Before Harry can even think of stepping forward, Fingolfin's already there. Drawing his youngest brother in as only an older sibling can. Voice pitched so low that not even Harry can hear the words he whispers. Even more, a hand on Harry's wrist guides him back. Fëanor's grasp is kind as he tugs Harry to stand at his side, fingertips pinpoints of warmth against his skin.
"Come, little brother," Fingolfin says now, loud enough for everyone but still gentle as a wool blanket during winter. "Let us tell your other sons and mine the good news."
Finarfin doesn't reply verbally; Harry isn't certain he even can. Instead, he docilely allows his brother to lead him from the room. Fingolfin's hand catches Harry's free arm as they pass, gives a single squeeze. Fond and familiar. Argent gaze suspiciously bright as he meets Harry's eye.
Then, they're gone. Harry doesn't even have to ask the castle to give them the shortest route possible back to Finarfin's room. He has a feeling that his uncle will take it without much prompting. Only Harry and Fëanor remain afterwards. Standing next to each other in the sudden silence. It's hardly the only time they've been alone. Though it isn't any less strange. Harry still isn't quite sure what to do with this elf without the comforting buffer of another person.
Fëanor stares after his brothers as if he wants to follow. His mouth is a thin line. Harsh almost but easing as he notices Harry's attention. He can practically see all the thoughts that flit across Fëanor's mind in rapid succession. Speed alone impressive. Volume even more. At last, Fëanor seems to settle on what he deems a safe topic.
"I shan't duel in your home or harm anyone in your care," he announces. "I know my word means little, but you have it."
His flames burn with sincerity. Almost aching for Harry to believe him. Despite all sanity and that little voice deep inside that suspiciously sounds like Káno, Harry does. He isn't nearly as rash or impulsive as he was during his schooldays. He likes to think he's actually reasonable most of the time, and he knows that he tries to see the best in people even when they can't see it themselves. He even understands that auras can deceive… but maybe he simply wants to believe Fëanor. Wants this to be real.
Tom Riddle never had the chance. Is it so strange that he wants this for another person? Wants him not to squander this opportunity?
"You shouldn't be so harsh on yourself," Harry replies. "If anything, I think your word is one of your strong points. Though you don't use it sensibly."
Fëanor actually laughs then. Short. With just the faintest hint of mirth.
"Aye." His mouth quirks upwards. "That is the most kindly way I have ever been called a fool."
Not the only way, Harry doesn't point out. But he likely knows that.
Fool. Madman. Lunatic. Harry's been called the same things himself. Usually to his face. He wouldn't say any of it's untrue.
As if sensing the mood shift, Fëanor exhales. His smile is sharper now. Pained even.
"I know my sons have once again done you a terrible dis--"
Harry holds up a hand before the elf can even get the words out. He already knows where this is going. He's been through this already once before.
Celegorm can think what he wants. All of them can. Harry honestly doesn't care. What does it matter at this point?
"Stop apologizing for him. For any of them." He gives a half-shrug. "It means nothing coming from you. It wasn't your fault."
That draws Fëanor up short. It seems Harry developing a knack of knocking the wind out of his broom. He certainly seems unsure how to respond. Just looking at Harry like he hasn't quite seen anything like him before.
"I do not often hear that," he admits finally.
There's a resounding truth to that statement.
Harry was so frequently blamed for everything at the Dursleys. Every single solitary thing that possibly went wrong. Despite the fact that it most definitely wasn't his magic. Fëanor has done a great many terrible deeds, but Harry wonders how often Fëanor was the scapegoat leading up to that. How much of it was Morgoth purposefully setting them up versus Fëanor's natural proclivities versus the tension in the family as a whole. Some combination thereof.
"I suppose you don't," Harry permits, "but I don't believe in blaming people for things they didn't do. All of your sons are millennia old. They don't need you to run interference. Your actions are your responsibility alone. As are theirs."
He isn't sure what he expects to that statement. Anger maybe. Even a denial. Fëanor though is smiling again. His head tilts slightly to the side, and there's a particular spark to his eyes as he watches Harry.
"You resemble my son greatly when you do that," he remarks. "Your expression just now." A chuckle follows that warms the room. "He often lectured his brothers, but he did so with naught but love. He cared for them even when they were such imbeciles. Though he always made certain they learned from it."
Harry's quiet as he listens. Equal parts eager but also conflicted.
"You do not speak of him," Fëanor continues, but his demeanor shifts. Gentles. "My son. You never say his name or talk of your time with him. I know you also refuse the treasures of our House, and you wear only the braids of my father's kin."
It's only because he's so close, only because he's watching every minute change to Harry's expression, that he sees. The flicker of uncertainty meeting resignation mixed with a distant sort of loss.
"He never taught you."
A statement and not a question. A realization.
Harry wavers for the briefest instant. How could he even begin to explain this? What could he even say? Fëanor already knows Káno refuses to see him, but how can Harry tell him that they've honestly never met? That Harry knows his fëa but not the sound of his voice and only has stolen glimpses?
Fëanor, however, takes his silence for something else entirely.
He breathes out to the count of seven. "No, I suppose that is too much a shackle to us."
At Harry's stunned look, he merely shakes his head. He still grips Harry's wrist. Has never let go the entire time they've spoken, and his grasp tightens.
"For whatever you may think of me, I am not blind to the faults of my sons." A sigh then, longer and harder. "Nelyo takes all the burdens but little of the glory, even to the detriment of himself. Moryo is too quiet; he feels too distant even when they draw him closer. The Ambarussa and Tyelko are immature idiots, who leave the thinking to their brothers. Curvo is far too much my reflection, and that is a curse as much as a boon."
He pauses. Lets that sink in and settle. Harry could break his hold if he wanted. Could leave. But he's frozen.
"Káno though…" Fëanor has to feel Harry flinch at the name but keeps going. "His temper is hardest to spark, but for all that he loves deeply, he is also the least forgiving. Every slight and argument long fades away to the rest, but he always remembers. His nature is that of his mother, but this is all from me." His hand is hot, almost blistering against Harry's skin. "I have no doubt he told you much of us, but I assure you that it was honest in its horridness. Foul words for our foul natures and deeds but all of them true."
There isn't wrath in his voice. Only sorrow. Only ashes that choke out the sky and cover everything until it's unrecognizable.
"I know not what quarrels lie between you," Fëanor murmurs now, "or what excuse he gives to not be here by your side, but you are my grandson." His grip should be painful but somehow isn't. It's strong enough to steady Harry as he repeats, "You are my grandson, and I hope one day to earn the trust, the faith, you have shown us."
With that, Fëanor lets him go.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Nerdanel – Oh, how wonderful. Marcaunon made breakfast.
Fëanor – Nods. Our grandson is truly a generous spirit.
Maedhros – Arms crossed but still impressed.
Fingon – Quietly. I can't decide if this is a good sign or a very bad one.
Caranthir – Just keeps eating. I really like this place. Breakfast and entertainment.
Curufin – Too busy looking at the different designs on top to pay attention to the conversation.
Amras – He sent us food, too.
Amrod – It wasn't even poisoned.
Celegorm – Thoroughly paranoid now. How did he get in?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon – Yeah! I get to be the special one!
Fingon – You seem cheerful today.
Maedhros – Suspiciously so.
Findis – What did you do?
Argon – I went on a life-changing field trip an adventure!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Flips light switch.
Fëanor – Hiss.
Fingolfin – Growl.
Finarfin – Menacing sparkle.
Harry – What are you three doing in here?
Them – Nothing!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Sometime later…
Eärwen – Cheerfully listening to her sons talk about visiting their cousin.
Eärwen!Too – That sounds like quite an adventure!
Finrod – We haven't even gotten to the good parts yet, ammë!
Angrod – There's so much more to tell you.
Recounting their time in Formenos...
Eärwen – O.o
More!Eärwen – I wanted to see the turkey! Turning to her husband. You never take me anywhere fun!
Finarfin – Wait. There's even more, my love.
Eärwen – Blinks. There is?
Finarfin – Sighs. Wonders how to even tell her the rest. Yes, it's about our son...
Notes:
Ammë – mother/mum
Atto – father/dad
AN: Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse; nai yarvaxea rasselya! – Wake up cruel Redhorn! May your horn be bloodstained!
Aegnor (also called Aikanáro) – is the third and youngest son of Finarfin.
Some of the ages for the elves may be wrong as it was a little difficult to decide where some of them were in the timeline, but for this story, Argon is the youngest grandchild of Finwë born in Valinor, and he was born after the twins, Celebrimbor, and Galadriel.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 29: Chapter 29
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The fortress is gray stone. A surprising light shade but there's still a sense of foreboding as Harry peers upwards at the walls around them. It all seems impossibly high. Impossibly tall. But then, he's only a small boy here. It's hard to guess his age. Perhaps seven or eight for a human, but for a peredhel child of Eldar, Maiar, and Edain descent, it's honestly hard to say.
Elrond stands next to him. A mirror image, he assumes, to the person whose memories he now traverses. They walk together through the corridors, steps in perfect sync. Auras aligned. Ebbing together as a river flows from a waterfall into the sea. World a panoramic as their perceptions blend. They pass by a surprising number of familiar faces. Some who Harry knows quite well from his own time. He should at this point. Several of them work in his office. Even more are in his guard. More yet now reside in his city, occupy other key positions or are related to those who do.
It's something Harry knew but had never quite conceptualized in this manner, and he contemplates that as the memory leads him further into Elros' past. He's had dreams like this before. Ones where he's someone else. Of course, Harry has. Those go back all the way. Practically to the beginning when Tom still accidentally possessed him in his sleep. This reminds him a tad too much of that, and it isn't like a Pensieve at all. Harry sees from Elros' eyes. Follows along as the twins continue on their path. Hand in hand. In search of something; Harry isn't quite sure what yet.
They wander through a hallway and then another. Adults pass them by with nods and smiles and kind words, but no one stops them even as they head into a courtyard. The sky is just lightening into true morning overhead, but like the rest of the fortress, everything buzzes with activity. Elves move to and fro on important errands but always seem incredibly aware of the two small forms in their midst. One person in particular notices more than anybody, which isn't truly a surprise.
Maedhros stands by a trio of horses, riders already astride and ready to set off, but he isn't as Harry knows him. Only as he's heard of him in stories. Seen him in flickers from Fingon and the others. His eyes are shadowed. A dark, brooding hue. More charcoal than silver. Face a patchwork of scars that are still stark against his pale skin. Right arm tucked into the cloak thrown over that side. His hair though remains the same blood red color. But it's shaggy, coils over his shoulders almost carelessly with knots. Tangling even more as the breeze picks up. His tunic and breeches have certainly seen better days. Not nearly the quality of what he wears now, but the bracer on his left arm is clean and well-looked after. As is the sword he carries. One longer than the twins are tall.
His attention sweeps through the courtyard in broad strokes, but Harry feels that focus narrow on them like the point of a knife. Sharp but not unkind. Attentive. Vigilant. But there's a sense that both elflings are included under the auspice of his protection as his eyes seem to scrutinize every obstacle in their path. Incredibly aware as his gaze shifts to somebody behind them. He doesn't call out to the twins or anyone else, but Harry feels more than hears another person coming forward at his unspoken summons. He isn't even shocked by now to see who it is. To witness the lone flash of golden blond in this entire place as Inglor appears from the left.
For an immortal elf who's allegedly younger now than he's ever been during Harry's time with him, he looks ten thousand years older. Face lined and tired in a way Harry's never seen him. Not even when he spent two ages wandering Valinor and came to Formenos expecting a ruin in the winter storms. His tone though is calm, even gentle as he urges the twins to follow. Leading Elrond and Elros to the opposite side of the courtyard under Maedhros' watchful eyes before they head back inside. Then, they're down another corridor and Inglor only pauses to whisper to another elf Harry doesn't know who hurries off in the opposite direction and around a corner of this maze. Where the blond brings them to is something of a surprise though. Harry isn't quite sure what he expected to be honest. Maybe the kitchen. Or the great hall. Or even back to wherever they sleep.
Instead, it looks like it began life as something of an office. Desk by the windows but turned so the occupant can gaze out. Yet, there's a floor harp that rests in place of honor along the main wall. The very first thing visitors see. It's alongside a drum. A stand with a flute. Other scattered instruments. The shelves around the edges are stuffed full with a mix of books and music sheets. In the center is a woven rug of crimson and two smaller, shorter tables with chairs. The perfect size for twin children not fully grown.
An elf with raven black hair rests at desk, but he's turned to face outside. He answers Inglor's announcement though, and Harry knows this voice. It's different from this side. From outside his own body, but he's heard it before in recordings. In notes that he's dictated to himself. Letters to friends. Messages to colleagues. The inflection is painfully similar but not quite the same that Harry himself would use. Just slightly right of center. The pace a hairsbreadth slower. Word choice more archaic than Harry knows his own to be, and the accent is one he's trained out of using.
Seconds aren't nearly enough time to prepare. To steel himself for the person who greets them. Who rises and approaches slowly, hands open and out front. Spaced wide but low. Almost like wanting an embrace but more to appear nonthreatening to two small elflings who already know he's a kinslayer. Especially when Elros steps forward and slightly in front of his brother.
Harry feels himself mesmerized. Captivated as the elf kneels in front of them. His entire world narrows down to the person before him. The edges of his vision have whited out until he can't even view Inglor or Elrond anymore. Tunneled in on just one thing.
He only sees Maglor Fëanorion. Who peers at him with eyes that match Nerdanel's perfectly. Clear blue. Calm as the sea on a cloudless day. But the face, Harry's seen that a million times before in the mirror. Even knows the dark circles and the lines of his brow from stress.
This isn't like the glimpse from Fingon. This is a thousand times worse. More intense. Vivid.
But the hand that touches his shoulder is feather-gentle. Delicate. Curling around and settling as a tender warmth.
"Hinya, I am glad to see you today."
He doesn't hear Elros' response. Or Elrond's. Or even the next few minutes of conversation. There's too much static in Harry's ears and his thoughts. A buzzing vibration that blankets out everything but the elf who still kneels before him.
A chuckle then. Small but genuine. Followed by a smile from Maglor. This is so similar, so familiar that Harry feels like he's floating. That he's far away from himself. From Elros. Even as he keeps looking on. Keeps staring the same way a starving dog does a meal. Begging for the tiniest scrap.
It's exactly the same way Harry himself used to laugh with Teddy, and Harry feels physically ill now. Feels hot and cold and nauseated and...
He wakes suddenly. Less gasp and more shaky inhale. Harder than intended. Painful even as he turns his head upwards to taken in more air. Stomach roiling once before he quiets it with a forceful spell. Heart beating fast, heavy in his chest. The ceiling above him is an ocean of stars. Constellations and twinkling lights that belie the shake of his hands as he flexes his inexplicably numb fingers.
Gil stirs next to him. Arm under Harry's neck. Undoubtedly rousing to sudden the tension.
"Another dream?" he asks, but it's alert. More awake than even Harry realizes.
He follows Harry as he sits up. Squeezes his right hand as it trembles again. Eyes wide and concerned, searching Harry's face as best he can in the starlight.
"Mírimo, you're…"
Harry already knows. He feels the moisture as it drips down his cheeks before he wipes it away. Tastes the salt when he fails to get everything.
"Elros showed me... I… It's..."
He can't find the words. Isn't sure how to even say it. What can he actually say? That he's horribly jealous of a six thousand year old memory? That he can't handle watching two small boys receive reassurance in a world gone wrong? It's a nasty, awful part of him that recognizes these thoughts are far too close to the truth than Harry's ever acknowledged before. He doesn't like what that says about him, and he honestly isn't ready to share that with someone else. To have anybody, least of all this particular person, know that such a part of him exists.
He takes a breath that's a little too shuddering. But at least it's calmer. Heart slowing down to a more acceptable pace.
Gil is patient like always. Simply observing him with concern that falls down in a cadence of steady droplets. Soaking through deeper than he's ever allowed it before, and maybe that's the worst part. How worried Gill is. Having to look him in the eyes and being unwilling, unable to admit any of this.
Some Gryffindor he is. Not that much of a Slytherin either. A pretty terrible Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw isn't looking that great either.
Harry snorts even at the thought. More a short huff of air than anything else. But also tells himself to stop it. That he's too old for this. Gives himself a firm nudge to wrap up this little pity party. It's late, and he's tired. Far, far too exhausted. Weary in a way that no amount of sleep will ever fix.
"Mírimo..." Gil begins, but Harry cuts him off.
"Elros offered to show me when they were young," he confesses, but he can't look away even as he says it. "They were just boys, and it must've been sometime after Sirion. It was… I didn't expect… I don't know what I expected."
Gil studies him again. He seems to be weighing his words. Harry can practically see him searching through options and discarding them rapid-fire. Debating with himself even as he runs a thumb in steady strokes over Harry's wrist.
"You are allowed to be angry with him."
That isn't what Harry thought he'd say. Not at all. He doesn't quite know how to react. Especially when it's so obvious that Gil doesn't mean Elros.
"I'm not angry," Harry replies immediately. Automatically.
Guilty, yes. Furious, no. The implications of why his love thinks he should be… well, Harry isn't going that road right now.
Gil gives his own huff. "Not angry enough," he chides, but it's cotton wool soft. "You've been happy. Upset. Annoyed. Generous. Unfailingly patient and kind. I have yet to see you angry with any of them. Not truly even Celebrían." He allows a second before continuing, "I know that Ainur and Eldar do not experience emotions the same, but even Lo- even Eönwë expressed anger when I spoke to him of Tyelkormo and the Ambarussa."
"You told him about that?"
Harry isn't quite incredulous, but he's close. He did know that Eönwë and Gil spoke, were on something like friendly terms, but he hadn't really considered the topic.
"Of course." His love's touch is warm against his chilled skin. "It isn't a secret, Mírimo. You claim them as your kin. Your family. Why would I not tell them of this?"
It's a question but not quite rhetorical. Harry can't argue against it. Since it's nothing but the truth.
He can't be like Káno. Can't say that the Ainur are his family only when it's convenient. When he needs to prove a point or wants something. Either they are. Or they aren't. There really isn't an in-between here.
And if they are, that means a certain degree of obligation on his end, too. Not just in tending to their needs but in being honest with his own and his circumstances. They do tend to get upset when he doesn't tell them things. Truth be told, he's the same way when they leave out key details.
Maybe all of them aren't so great at this.
"They care for you greatly, but you're forever surprised when they show it." Gil's far too earnest as he leans forward. "You don't truly allow yourself to voice your displeasure and even unhappiness with any of us. We will not think less of you for this. I must admit that you've been far better behaved than most any one of them by far."
Harry doesn't pinch his nose or bite his tongue. There's the taste of iron in his mouth already. Hot. Heavy.
"Need I remind you about Celebrían?" he counters. "I wasn't kind to her when she first arrived here."
"That is scarcely anything at all." Gil gives a dismissive sniff. "Despite any of that, you've permitted her to remain this entire time. You even sheltered and fed her. Tolerated her attempts to reconcile without understanding her own wrongdoing."
For being this early and having been woken from sleep only minutes before, his love is unquestionably too aware right now. Voicing thoughts Harry recognizes he's had for sometime. Likely never finding the right moment to give them. Not until now. The middle of the night while everyone else in the castle, including all of the painted inhabitants, slumber.
Harry honestly doesn't know how to respond. Really, what can he even say to this?
"She surprised you that day. Thought to be fair, they all did," his elf continues. "You allowed them to stay. You've done this for every single one of them. Nerdanel. Fëanáro. Their sons. You cannot tell me that you genuinely expected any of them before they arrived here."
Harry doesn't glance away at the look he receives. He's stared down dragons and Dark Lords. He can face his own betrothed when Gil starts difficult conversations.
"No," he admits, and it isn't even grudgingly. "I didn't."
Gil nods once. "You also cannot say that if you had more time to prepare with Celebrían, you wouldn't have reacted at all." His eyes glow in the starlight. "You simply would have allowed it to go unacknowledged."
Harry knows the trap laid out before him. Sees it as clearly as if the can the sun at midday. But there's no avoiding it now.
"This isn't an attack. Let me help you, Mírimo."
It isn't begging, but it's close. The hand previously on his arm now cups his face. Soon joined by another. Expression earnest. Searching.
"You don't have to bear the weight by yourself. You have my support, and I know you're aware of this. Not just of your kingdom but for all things." Gil's even nearer now, barely inches away and sharing the same air. "You've been harmed by others for so long that you take this as a natural and expected thing."
That is dangerously close to the truth.
Gil doesn't know what happened on Earth. Doesn't know about Earth at all. Harry needs to tell him. Will tell him before they're wed. He won't be a hypocrite. Won't bind Gil to him with no way out. Not when he has no idea who he's actually marrying. It's just hard to even think about sometimes. Hard to even allow himself to remember. He doesn't just avoid the elven method of sleep out of preference. Frankly, some of it is not wanting to re-experience things he prefer to stay buried.
His love simply kisses him before he can even try to formulate an answer. Chaste but tender. Slow to pull away but gentle as he guides Harry to lay back down and curl up next to him. Fingers stroking through his hair and over his back in aimless circles. He doesn't say a single thing else. Lets the song of his soul do all the soothing for him.
Harry drifts. It's surprisingly easy. Safe and secure with his love wrapped around him. Very solid and very real and very there.
He falls asleep between one breath and the next.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He's been back to Mandos on numerous occasions, but this is undoubtedly the first for Gil-galad since he departed. Of course, his betrothed hasn't been to his part of Mandos; it really isn't open to the Eldar at all. Only Harry and Miriel have ever been allowed in as far as he knows, and Gil makes three.
Harry apparates them directly to his old room, and his love actually spends several minutes just looking around. Seemingly surprised by the existence of such a space. It's largely as it was when Harry first arrived as he did take most of his possessions with him, but there are changes that linger. Extra furniture they added that they've never removed. They'll occasionally still leave a gift here for him, just waiting for him to pop in again. Indeed, Harry finds several. Along with two letters – one for him and another alongside a request to deliver to the intended recipient. Harry pockets both with a grin, even as Gil examines the area like he's never quite seen anything like it. Entire demeanor peculiar as he takes Harry's hand and allows himself to be led down the hallway. He's still entirely too curious as they go along. Pace much slower than normal so he can peer at the tapestries and various paintings on the walls. Not to mention greet all the passing Maiar who Harry knows are just finding excuses at this point.
The path to Námo's preferred haven isn't even that far away, but it takes much more time than anticipated. Luckily, Harry's already sent word of his plan to visit, so he knows that the Vala is expecting them. The Ainur don't typically stand on custom and tend to just arrive as it suits them, but Harry prefers to let them know beforehand for a variety of reasons. The least of all is that they actually do have jobs, and he doesn't just want to barge in during something important.
Námo awaits in what Harry would normally call his office or maybe a study. As close to it as the Ainur seem to get anyway. The furnishings are the same strange material that's used elsewhere in Mandos. Light still sourceless. Walls covered in works from Vairë and quite a number of Harry's own. Windows that change views to locations around all of Arda – currently settled on the middle of the ocean. There are in fact books, and Harry's even seen Námo reading them before; has gone through them himself when he still resided here. One of his easels rests in the corner, left in case he ever feels a burst of inspiration while visiting. Which has been known to happen.
The Vala himself doesn't move as they enter the room. Perfectly still. Solemn as always but black eyes glittering as his attention shifts from Harry to Gil and back.
"Marcaunon," Námo greets. Already standing beside the chairs in the middle of the room.
He doesn't smile; Harry honestly thinks the apocalypse would be upon them if he did. Morgoth returning from the void. Manwë and Nienna reconciling. Tulkas wearing a shirt for more than five minutes. Still there's a hint of welcome. A note to his song that's somehow lighter. Brighter than the somber tones so reminiscent of a funeral chant.
"You have brought a guest," he comments, but it's as bland as someone remarking on dry paint. "We have met before, Gil-galad of Formenos. My wife and sister are quite keen to speak of you. As are… others."
Translation – they've been gossiping like old biddies at their garden fence.
Harry rolls his eyes. "I'm sure they've all had plenty to say."
The Vala doesn't respond, but his silence is answer enough. He merely takes his seat while Harry moves to his usual spot and directs Gil down next to him. Vairë isn't here, so there aren't snacks or tea. The chairs are always in this room, which is likely the only reason they're even available. Námo isn't one for pleasantries. At best, they bore him. At worst, they try his patience.
His temper isn't easy to spark, but Harry's seen it before directed at others. Typically fools or Fëanorions. The same thing really. Harry knows that sight of his harp annoys Námo for understandable reasons. Much less mention of the rest of the House.
Hopefully, he has a better opinion of Káno's sons.
Harry feels his interest like a church organ. Resounding and deep. Melancholic but with a focused air.
"Your message was vague," Námo states then, right down to business. "I am not your usual choice for counsel, and my lady wife has traveled to Lórien."
Harry acknowledges that with a dip of his head. "I'm sad that I missed her, but it was you I wanted to speak with actually."
A note of puzzlement. Not shown on Námo's face but rising up from the chorus. Really, between Eönwë, Námo, and Manwë, Harry has gotten insanely good at judging the Ainur's moods. It's certainly not done by their expressions.
"I'm sure ammë told you about my true-sight dreams," Harry proceeds, "but there've been others."
"Dreams are my brother's domain," Námo reminds him, but there's no true censure.
"If I may," Gil interrupts mildly, "dreams in this case seem to merely be the method of contact. It's more the person he speaks with while he sleeps. That is why we are here."
More confusion. This time with a refrain of concern. One that grows as Námo's focus fixes on Harry.
"Elros," Harry clarifies then. "I talk to Elros when I sleep. Every night now."
Námo stills. There are only so many people Harry can mean here. Elves do occasionally share the same name, even outside of family lines, but there's only one who Harry would possibly mention.
"Elros Tar-Minyatur is dead."
Námo's answer is firm. Final.
"Yes," Gil replies with a gesture of his hand, "so you can see the dilemma."
"He is truly dead," the Vala insists. He's already straight-backed, but now, he resembles a king on a throne. "He is beyond the circles of this world and onto where mortals dwell when they pass out of my Halls. Even I cannot reach them there. Moringotto in the Void cannot reach them either. Only Eru--"
He abruptly quiets. He's looking past Harry's shoulder to the view of the windows beyond, at the open ocean without anything else in sight. A ripple passes across his aura. Loud enough that Gil flinches at the sound. Startling with its intensity. Even more with its meaning as Námo laughs a second time.
"Oh, young corvid. Your powers splendidly grow." His song aches in a different way now. "I confess that I did not foresee this particular aspect of them. Although mayhaps I should have. Your own tie with death and prior experiences… yes." His words are more musings to himself than them, but he turns to full attention at Harry now without blinking. "You favor your mother so strongly we all presumed much; I see now the errors in our assumptions."
A pause as that sinks in. As fingers reach out from beside him to wrap around Harry's own and squeeze.
"Nienna does not have dominion over death or dreams," Gil points out, but it's a little breathlessly. "I assume this is something from you."
Námo doesn't smile, but there's a sense of amusement. Almost as if entertained by the challenge. By an elf questioning him on this.
"We share powers the stronger our ties. His mother offers her mercy and empathy." The Vala's voice drops even lower than usual, rumbling through the air. "Yet, she is my sister as she is that of Irmo. Vairë is my wife. Others are our kin in ways you cannot fathom."
Gil doesn't back down as he lifts his chin. "And Marcaunon is your nephew. He draws from all of you."
"Yes."
It's said simply. With an inflection Harry can't recognize. Not from Námo. However, the Doomsman has glanced away from him to Gil again. Attention fixed and focused.
"From all who would claim him and be claimed in return. Those who offer themselves freely and receive back the same." Námo gives a slow blink, but it's too languid to be natural. "A song of one can be exceptional, but it shall never be as exquisite as many in harmony."
Gil merely looks at him. Not quite comprehending. Námo doesn't sigh at his ignorance though, and Harry appreciates him in more for it.
"Moringotto was once the most powerful of all. His knowledge exceeded that of any other, but he lacked true insight and sought the counsel of none, for he considered all others beneath him. Even Eru Ilúvatar was someone to be defied." There's something hypnotic as he says it. Almost pensive with remembrance. "Moringotto destroyed his ties for he saw them as naught but a weakness and in turn weakened himself even as he weakened us. He may have carved out our gifts from himself, but we kept what pieces we earned from him."
That isn't a revelation to Harry. Not really. Not knowing Nienna and Manwë as he does. Both wouldn't want to give up the only remaining fragments they had of Melkor. For all his evil, there were still parts of him to admire. Determination. Intelligence. Decisiveness. Tom Riddle had those, too.
Harry sees Gil's brow furrow as he considers this, but there's no bolt of anger or even true surprise. More contemplation. Consideration. The steady drip of it in the background.
"Mírimo has never met Moringotto," Gil says next, but Harry can't quite follow this logic. This non sequitur.
Námo offers a noncommittal flick of his finger before he can even ask. "Neither has he met King Finwë of the Ñoldor and yet wears the ring of his legacy."
That Harry does understand. He casts a sharp glance at the Vala since it's too much of a hint for things he knows his mother wouldn't want shared. Not yet. Yes, Gil will know when they're married, but that hasn't happened yet. Nienna deserves the chance to tell Gil on her own if she decides to do that first. Especially as he'll be her son by marriage.
Námo merely regards him back placidly. Face blank and without a single trace of guilt in his aura like he hadn't just attempted to air the biggest piece of Ainur dirty laundry. It's to Gil-galad. But still!
Gil, bless him, is kind enough to let this comment go. Undoubtedly sensing the strain. The tension like a taut wire.
"Elros also has a bond with Mírimo now," he mentions. "I can't be sure how much the others sense it, but I feel it when he sleeps next to me."
Harry doesn't blush at that implication. Námo thankfully remains impassive.
"Time will strengthen this further and permit it to flourish enough for others to also view." There's a second, a heartbeat before he inquires, "I take it that this is a new development?"
"Very new," Harry confirms.
Námo taps that single fingertip on the arm of his chair. "More will come. He shall not be forever confined to the land of dreams."
Harry exhales. "Are you saying that I'll be able to talk to Elros while I'm awake?"
That's not something he considered before. Looking at the surprise on Gil's face and the flash of lightening against his skin, his love definitely hadn't either. Harry isn't sure how he feels about any of this. Feels about possessing powers that the Ainur don't. This is their world. Their masterpiece. He's just a tourist.
"Irmo is the sovereign of dreams," Námo stresses, but it's almost mild. "Reason dictates that you too will have powers in this domain. You no longer require your father's harp to reach him. It merely facilitated that connection. As that with your brother grows, you shall hear him clearer. Your own gifts mayhaps grant this with others one day."
Harry lets that sink in. Turns it over in his thoughts a few times and examines it from this angle and that. Really, honestly, he likes this less and less the more he hears, but… it isn't like he knows a lot of mortals on this world. Tuor is still very much alive, thanks ever so much. Elros also sought him out, so Harry assumed at least some of that's on his end. Who else would try to reach him here? Who else would even know he exists?
He's drawing a large blank with that one. It's something to ponder on more though.
Next to him, Gil runs a thumb over the back of his hand, but Harry isn't sure which of them is supposed to be comforted by the gesture.
"Elros found Mírimo though. Not the other way around," his love puts voice to Harry's own thoughts.
"Elros Tar-Minyatur carries an echo of Melian," the Doomsman responds with another tap of his finger. "Marcaunon and he share a father, and my sister is kin. He has power where other mortals do not. His connection is the strongest, but there are more links. Others who also have pieces of Melian or who may call to the House of Marcaunon's father. The stronger his association with them, the more who will glimpse him."
Gil's grip is tight now. Painful even. As he comes to some sort of conclusion. Harry glances at him worriedly, but he's met with only a sense of profound relief. Of a weight off his shoulders. Of a burden lifted from his heart. There's a distinct impression that without their audience, Gil would certainly be celebrating.
He has to settle for curling more fully into Harry's aura.
Námo just observes them without comment. Permits them their moment before he abruptly stills.
"Come now." He makes a single motion that encompasses them both. "We shall travel to Lórien to converse more with my brother. That is your intention once you leave here, is it not?"
Harry really can't argue with that logic. "It is," he affirms, but it's slower, hesitating. "We thought to seek his opinion, too."
"Indeed." The Vala gives a single, sharp nod. "We shall consider the matter as one then."
Námo rises. Actually seems to be preparing himself for the journey then and there, but Harry calls him back.
"There's one more thing before we go," he begins.
Námo pauses, glances to him. He's silent, unconcerned. Patient as only the immortal can be.
"The elves… They spoke with me earlier," Harry explains. "They requested to visit their families."
That earns him a stray note. Not surprise. Not quite. But not exasperation either.
"You come on their behalf?" Námo questions. His gaze is firm on Harry. Shutting out Gil entirely now.
"Finarfin wishes to see his son, and I know Fingolfin would like to see his grandson," Harry goes on. "Aredhel's already permitted."
"This is not forbidden," the Vala replies simply.
"I told them this." Harry gives a wide motion. "I think that they're unsure their welcome."
Námo doesn't respond to that. At least not verbally. There's definitely a refrain of vexation now. One that doesn't circle around either of his guests but floats off into the nether.
"Would you also allow Curufin to return?" Harry dares to inquire, even as Gil shifts closer to the edge of his seat.
The Doomsman scrutinizes Harry. Eyes narrowing slightly. Irritation decidedly growing.
"The kinslayer has only recently departed these Halls."
There's emotion in his tone, one Harry recognizes whenever the House of Fëanor is brought up in conversation. It's typically followed by curses, but Námo avoids that part. Usually.
"His wife and only child are still here," Harry remarks. "Is it so strange for a father to want to see his family? His son?"
A flicker then. A whisper of something without words. It echoes out but dissipates before Harry can make sense of it.
Námo stands up and bodily turns away then. So fast he's a blur. Chin lifted and shoulders squared.
"If any kinslayer is brave enough to approach me," he responds after a long few heartbeats, "then they may return as well."
Another pause. This time more pleasant.
"Thank you," Harry tells him and means it. Puts every ounce of sincerity into this own song. "For this and for your wisdom."
The Vala lowers his gaze for a moment before peering back at him. "You do not need to thank me for doing my duty."
"But I do appreciate your help," Harry says as he also rises.
Námo doesn't reply to that. Not immediately. Instead, he merely studies Harry. Searches his face. He looks at Harry's eyes the longest. As if memorizing the shape. The color.
"All that we can offer, and you ask naught for yourself. You seek only wisdom. Guidance." The deep melody of his song aches as it brushes and blends against Harry's own. "You truly are nothing alike."
Quiet then. From Námo and Harry both. Gil, too. Coming to his love's side to take his hand.
Námo just watches before he beckons them forward. "Come, young corvid," he states, but it's with a solemn gravitas. Heavy and resounding. "Bring your betrothed. Let us away to my brother's domain."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"Something bothers you, my dearest," Nienna says. Her voice is soft as the snowfall in his soul but infinitely warmer. Her gait is slow, sedate as she inspects the night-blooming flowers.
They've already traversed the hedge maze. Fed the koi in the pond. Listened to the birds and wind chimes. Tended the blossoms even. Now, they follow the path all throughout the gardens, start to finish and once again. Meandering. Gil walked with them earlier, but he's wandered off for a nightcap with Finarfin and Fingolfin. Likely to spread the good news since Curufin's also present and Fëanor along with Nerdanel aren't terribly far away. Argon's with Finrod and Angrod alongside Caranthir; they're all playing a card game, while the twins sit on the sidelines and provide commentary. Celebrían works on her embroidery once more, but Findis has cornered Celegorm, and Harry wants absolutely nothing to do with that.
Harry pauses as a pair of the sparrows lean out of their nest to sleepily greet him, and he offers a few treats in return. Nienna observes fondly but says nothing. Giving him all the time in the world to formulate his thoughts. She isn't wrong per se, but she now knows of his visits with Elros. Of course, she does. The Ainur can't keep a secret involving Harry if Arda depended on it. Not that this is really a secret at all, so naturally, every single one of them knows and debates with each other. Eönwë even stopped in yesterday to inquire – read, politely interrogate – about his nocturnal meetings.
They all at least seem pleasantly surprised. Shocked, yes. But delighted. He knows they're speculating what other abilities will pop up next. They aren't the Eldar to take wagers, but a friendly competition and bragging rights? That definitely sounds likes something they'd do – Oromë, Tulkas, and Nessa the chief offenders. And Irmo. Aulë, too. Probably Yavanna though she'd never admit it. Eönwë certainly won't either.
Káno though… Harry hasn't heard his opinion on this yet. Has steadfastly kept that connection closed and ignored the gentle waves beckoning him to come outside. He knows Nienna has told him. Knew the second he approached Námo that it wouldn't remain between them. The Ainur only see this as a triumph. Proof of his power. Proof that he's becoming more. On some level, Harry's right there with them. On another, this is concerning. Intimidating in a way that learning magic never was and never will be. That learning songs from Ainur isn't. This is something that Námo himself revealed he can't do, and Harry doesn't know where to even begin with that. He isn't sure he likes the implications. Or what it means for the world he's found himself in. He isn't meant to be here; he isn't a natural power to this place. He's always considered himself a benign traveler. Incidental. Helpful even at times. Accidental on his part if intentional on another's.
Now, he wonders if he's like a cosmic malignancy. A malady. Spreading misfortune everywhere he goes. Infecting and invading his hosts while they're too kind to be rid of him.
This isn't a thought he's ready to voice yet. One that bears much more consideration before he brings it up. If ever. Nienna would deny it anyway. Regardless of the truth. She'd deny with her dying breath, the final stanza of her song, that he brought anything but joy. She's too kind, too compassionate for anything else.
So Harry turns to other topics instead. Other happenings. There are certainly enough of those as of late. It isn't hard to settle on one.
Celebrían. Moon bright. Dress the color of new leaves. Hair braided as the people of Formenos do but otherwise a waterfall of silver down her back. Holding a gift wrapped in alabaster silk with ribbons in very familiar hues. Inside, a mantle. Gold but embroidered with a deep green and argent thread. Done with such painstaking care. Likely since her arrival.
"I don't possess the talents of Lady Míriel nor Lady Vairë, but I gift this to you."
He shares the memory with his mother even as they cross over the bridge and take the route towards the bamboo grove. Her pace is staid but unerring. Each step light, not even leaving a trace. Not a single pebble out of place as the path transitions from tiles to gravel.
"A gift fit for a king," Nienna acknowledges after a moment of contemplation. "One made by her own hand."
Harry merely tips his head as they follow the path to a crossroads, but Nienna leads them to the right without pause. A lesser used route that eventually shortcuts through other areas.
Harry's very aware of the implications. Celebrían undoubtedly is as well. She's half-Ñoldo by way of her mother, but even the Sindar have customs related to this. Receiving a gift made by someone from their personal craft. Much less one with the particular patterns she chose.
Gift for a king indeed.
He doesn't sigh, but he very much wants to.
"She seeks your forgiveness," his mother remarks, hand brushing across leaves as they pass. Touch scarcely more than the barest breeze.
"I think she already has it," Harry admits.
Truth be told, Gil was right. As usual. He hadn't been nearly as angry at Celebrían as he could've been. Hurt, yes. Upset, definitely. Dramatic… Likely that one, too. He should've used his words better to explain himself, and he probably should get around to that sooner rather than later. Let her know that they may not be where the once were. Not just yet, but it isn't an impossible mountain to climb. That if he can forgive Inglor and Laerien and Melpomaen, there's room for her, too. He's never truly one to hold a grudge long. Never has been. It simply isn't in him.
"Gil and I talked about it," he adds. "I should speak with her when I've the chance, I suppose."
His love will at least be gracious enough not to gloat. Small victories.
Harry notices the curve of Nienna mouth despite the shadow of her hood even as they take the left fork once and then again. Coming up to the far side of the maze but walking along the outer edge. Her aura is like an autumn haze tonight. A murmur of sleet over fallen leaves. Beneath all of it though is an undertone of her husband. A harmony that won't ever been separated from her. A tie that's too embedded now. One she's willingly entrenched in herself. The tides as they reach the shore. He likes to believe that the sleigh bells and crunch of frost have a permanent home, too.
She's an interesting contrast, he thinks. The somberness of Námo. Manwë's sincerity. Estë's gentleness. Hints from each of the others. What in her comes from Morgoth; he can't really be sure. She and Manwë favor white for their hair, and Harry's scrutinized their features enough to recognize that their usual forms are quite similar. That isn't a coincidence, but he can't decide which one of them it comes from first. Possibly both at the same time though neither is likely to admit it. Though not necessarily for the same reason.
"This is not all that weighs on your heart," Nienna comments as they round a corner and continue to follow the hedges.
Harry doesn't contradict her. He hesitates on the next part, nonetheless.
There are a dozen different worries he could name here. Various thoughts he could give to words, but few of them he wishes to share just yet. Fewer he wants to ruminate out loud. However, there's always one in particular so close to his heart, and he hovers over it before taking the plunge.
"He's still in Imladris." Harry doesn't have to say who he means. "He'll stay there until Elrond sails."
It's said with an absolute certainty. He doesn't have to be a seer to know that this is the truth. For however long Elrond remains in Endor, Káno will stay there, too. He can feel it in his bones. In the blizzard in the back of his thoughts. Too many things are in motion there now. Too many shadows grow. He can see the impression of them behind his eyelids even in his waking hours.
Elros may try to block them. He suspects that Nienna and the others are actively attempting, too. But if the future wants to be seen, it will find a way.
"Divided loyalties are never easy," she agrees. Not privy to that thought.
Honestly, he isn't sure how much of Káno's loyalty he actually has. A lot less than he deluded himself into believing, Harry knows. This was a new and strange place when he arrived, and Harry was dependent first on the Ainur's good natures. Then, on Káno's kindness. He clung to all of them more than he should have. Reluctant to leave Mandos until they practically shoved him out the door. Hiding in Formenos before the elves turned up. Asking to come to Káno even after it's perfectly obvious he isn't wanted. But… but...
Harry has access to something – someone – Káno does want now. Who he speaks of with affection and yearning. Who he's already lost for so long and has the chance to have back. Káno has reunited with his middle son, and Harry now can bridge him to the eldest. He knows the request will one day come; doesn't need to be a seer for that one either. Nor for how he already senses Nerdanel and Fëanor forming their own appeal to him. Few of the people here are fools; they've undoubtedly figured out that he has contact with Káno. It won't be long now until they ask for the same. Until both want even more things, answers Harry can't give.
They reach the end of the hedges and step into an open area. Beyond will lead them to his winter garden, but they stop here. Harry's added benches. Mostly recalling Maedhros' reluctance to venture farther past previously, although it doesn't seem to be an issue this time. He knows the pair of them are there. Likely waiting. Aware of Harry's nocturnal preferences. Hoping for a friendly conversation or perhaps wanting to glimpse someone else entirely.
Nienna isn't quite ready to go on. She instead guides him in next to her on the closest seat. Tucks her arm into his elbow even as she leans into his side. Káno is the one who usually sings to soothe him, but right now, she hums a familiar chorus that has him taking a deep breath. Relaxing bit by bit the tension that he hasn't even wanted to acknowledge. He supposes that he shouldn't be surprised that Fingon and Maedhros are waiting for them. Both are incredibly curious about Harry, Fingon more openly than his spouse, and his family isn't exactly a secret. Harry isn't ashamed of Nienna, but he does honor her privacy. Respected Káno's desire to keep this separate. To be circumspect.
Harry knew that it wouldn't last forever.
Argon knows now, and it's a relief more than anything. Easier to have a friend – a cousin – who's aware. Who frankly doesn't seem to care at all.
Fingolfin, Harry can't decide yet what he's even realized. And what his uncle thinks of this, he doesn't know either.
Nerdanel? Fëanor? Hard to say. Since the latter probably wouldn't have managed to keep it a secret from his oldest sons.
Inglor suspects, Harry knows. How can he not by this point? Although he won't ever say anything until Harry does.
Laerien and Melpomaen. Harry all but told them. Even made it a challenge. A dare for them to keep their silence.
Others on his staff? His friends in the city? They all have to suspect. Daeron and Beleg were originally from Doriath. Knew Luthien and Melian personally. They aren't the only ones either. Harry hasn't been as discreet with his abilities as he could've been
He feels more than sees when Maedhros and Fingon stir from their spot. As they recognize that their quarry has stopped and decide to take the show to them. He knows when they start to approach. But Nienna keeps him firmly in place with her tone alone.
"They merely wish to meet me, my dear. I confess that 'tis past the time."
Her words are calm, light. But there's still a twinge of something that's not quite unease as the two elves come closer. As they emerge into view. Neither falters at the sight of her as they stop a proper distance away. Not so far as a supplicant but not so near as a family member. A favorable distance in-between.
"Nephew." Fingon is bright despite the late hour, and he turns to offer a shallow bow. "Lady Nienna."
He doesn't seem astonished to see her. Not the least little bit. Nor does Maedhros honestly, although he gazes at them with something like a mix of wistfulness and sorrow.
"Findekáno. Russandol." Both names are said with gladness touched by deeper things. "It brings me joy to see you again. Come. Sit with us."
Her smile is sincere through her tears as the pair eases down across from them. Fingon on the right and Maedhros on the left. So close as to be touching but it's done thoughtlessly. Without intention. There's silence afterwards. One that yawns and stretches out like a child drifting off to sleep. Nienna is content to stay at Harry's side. Completely at ease and unfazed. Fingon's attention drifts from Harry to her and back. Focused. Intent. As if cataloging their interactions and the curl of her hand on Harry's arm. Maedhros remains still, but there's a tremble underneath. A roil of emotion and a glint in his silvery eyes that's all too painful.
"All that time in Mandos," he says at last, "yet you said nothing."
It isn't an accusation. If anything, Maedhros seems tired. World weary and exhausted.
Nienna inclines her head momentarily in apology. "I never meant to deceive you, and my counsel to you was always genuine. I wanted nothing more than to offer you this truth."
Her words are heartfelt. Unfeigned. Harry knows she doesn't mean to share with him the memories. The knowledge that she so often sought each Fëanorion, Maedhros in particular. That she sat with them. Sang to them. Learned some of the darkest secrets they were willing to share. That she healed each as best she could, but a not-so-small piece of her wonders if their belief in her would've been truer if they knew the real reason she cared so much for them. If a brother's wife – a sister by marriage – would've been trusted where a Vala was not.
Maedhros just looks at her. A myriad of emotions flicker across his aura, but the surface is placid.
Nienna bows lowers. Her sorrow is nearly palpable. Is a mist that he can see rising around them, but only on their side of the path. The other is still clear. Still moonlit.
"I must first look to my husband." But it's fainter now like sleet on a window. "His wishes must take precedent."
Harry closes his eyes at that. She isn't addressing him, but somehow, each word is a lance to his heart. A knife stuck firmly between his ribs. A fog that numbs his lips and tongue.
"He didn't want us to know."
A statement from Fingon. Not a question.
"Even now, he does not wish for us to speak in this manner." Nienna's fingers tangle in Harry's sleeve almost like a young girl's would, and her weight shifts beside him, "but things are not as they were."
"Herurrívë welcomes us now," Fingon acknowledges. "We reside with him and will remain here."
Harry exhales, opens his eyes to watch the two elves. His uncles. By choice. By marriage. He gauges their auras, expressions. Fingon earnest. Maedhros contemplative.
This isn't anything Harry hasn't considered himself. Even if they haven't addressed it directly. After all, Maedhros is here now; he's unlikely to be welcome in Tirion any time soon. Despite the fact that Fingon's household is there. Harry's also taken on Argon as something of a student, so that's another person to remain. Fingolfin will hardly want to leave his children behind for long periods either. Harry suspects his wife, Anairë, to arrive at some point, if only to celebrate her son's marriage. Not to mention that Aredhel will eventually find her way here too, not to be left out.
That isn't even getting into the House of Fëanor or the rest of the extended family. Harry suspects he'll have more permanent guests sticking around somewhere in here. Likely in the castle with him since he isn't quite ready to expose his citizens to the full reality of Fëanorions living amongst them. If he could even manage to get them out the door without copious use of magic. Though to be honest, it was never his intention to oust any of the rightful owners. If anything, he's grateful that Fëanor and Nerdanel haven't complained about the additions he made.
"Yes," Harry finally says, "you will. For however long you like."
It's both an assurance and a promise. One that Fingon recognizes as they gaze at each other. His uncle places a hand over his heart in return.
"He knows we are here?" Maedhros questions then. "All of us? Even our parents and brothers?" He examines Nienna carefully. The speed of her tears as they drip freely. The path they take to the ground.
She lifts her gaze to meet his, but her face is half-hidden by her hood. Mist lingers by their feet and in the air with every breath.
"I told him," Harry confesses, and their focus immediately locks on him. Sharp. Pointed.
He doesn't swallow. Doesn't shift guiltily at the attention. Doesn't do anything but prepare himself, and there's a breathless pause as they consider. As they recognize the implications.
"You do speak with him then," Fingon comments, but it's strangely sad. Melancholy.
"All the way in Endor?" Maedhros now. Low. Almost careful. Like someone probing at the edges of a wound.
"Distance doesn't seem to matter."
Harry gives a half-shrug. Little more than a lift of his shoulder on his free side. It's nothing but the truth. Imladris is certainly farther than the shore, and it hasn't changed anything.
There are a hundred ways that Fingon could respond to this. A thousand more for his husband. All of them blare across both their songs like music played at top speed, but his voice when it comes is unexpectedly subdued.
"He is well?" Maedhros asks. Eyes too glossy and gleaming.
"He is, yes." Harry somehow manages a smile. "Elrond and his children, too. I'm told much of them, but we've never spoken."
The redhead gives a slow nod. Expression calm but there's a storm brewing underneath. Dark clouds in his world and a rumble that's more than thunder.
"How long?" Maedhros clarifies at his puzzled look, "How long have you spoken with him in such a manner?"
Harry isn't particularly sure why this matters. Not at this point. Still, Nienna replies for him. Before he can even think to respond.
"Marcaunon could reach his father even while still in Mandos."
The fingers on Maedhros' left hand curl every-so-slightly before Fingon shifts to tap against his knee.
"It was him who called you that night," he muses aloud. "I believed it was… but alas, wishful thinking."
"You heard that?" Harry questions a little faintly.
But then, that does make sense if he considers it. How else would they know what Káno calls him?
Fingon just looks at him. As if sensing the turn of his thoughts.
"Herurrívë," he says. It quite frankly doesn't need the emphasis.
Harry sighs at that. "I suppose that I should've figured that out sooner."
It isn't grumbled or even dismayed. Not even embarrassed. Though he's baffled why Gil didn't mention this. Why nobody called him out earlier? Why a single one of them didn't bring it up?
Harry's momentarily distracted, pondering this as the others turn back to each other. However, they're silent. Almost waiting. Nienna beside him with her wispy shroud. The two elves leaning closer to one another.
"Lady Nienna," Maedhros states then, oddly formal, "if I may, I wish to speak with you more."
Maedhros doesn't glance at Harry, but he has the distinct impression that he isn't invited to this part of the conversation. He can take the hint, however. They deserve the chance to speak with each other privately without him hovering. Without his intrusion.
He feels Nienna's grasp against his sleeve with those words. Feels the haze of her soul as its nearly visible around him. But he can also sense her agreement.
Harry merely exhales. Once and then again.
"I'll see you tomorrow then?" he poses as he turns to her.
Nienna's touch is forever soft. Hand rising to his cheek.
"Tomorrow, my dear." Her eyes are visible to him alone. Glittering in the darkness.
Her fingers linger longer before pulling back. Coming back down like snowfall even as her other arm momentarily tightens around him. She's slow to release him, slow to let go, and she seems strangely small, sitting there on the bench alone. Harry hesitates as he steps away, suddenly unsure. But then, Fingon is beside him.
He believed his uncle would stay behind, too. That only Harry would leave. Instead, Fingon is quick to stand when he does, leaning down to press a kiss to his husband's cheek. He's over with Harry seconds later.
"Goodnight, nephew," Maedhros calls as they move to leave.
"Goodnight," Harry returns with a wave to both of them as Fingon's arm settles around his shoulders. Familiar, warm. Pulling him in close. Leading him away.
Their footsteps don't echo. Aren't especially loud. Harry knows that they follow each one, even without glancing back. He doesn't need to. He can see everything just fine in his mind's eye.
Maedhros and his vivid hair against the darkness of the garden. But his being shining in the moonlight.
Nienna across from him, cloaked in gray and fog. Hooded as always, face unseen.
Neither says anything until Harry's all the way back inside.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fëanor – Kicks door open. Ñolo!
Fingolfin – What? Fëanáro? It's the middle of the night!
Fëanor – Doesn't matter! Had to tell someone!
Fingolfin – Oddly touched. And you came here?
Fëanor – Had to tell! Nienna!
Fingolfin – Nienna?
Fëanor – And my son!
Fingolfin – And your son? What- Oh!
Fëanor – Waving arms very dramatically. Yes!
Fingolfin – Secretly already suspected. You know, that explains so much.
Thumping on the walls around them.
Everyone in the Surrounding Rooms – Can you both be quiet? We're trying to rest!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Caranthir – So bets, people. Place your bets.
Finrod – Raises his hand. Lord Eönwë.
Angrod – We already told you, brother. It's not Lord Eönwë.
Curufin – Strategically placed far away from the twins. Slightly tipsy. Ilmarë. Has to be.
Amrod – I know. It's Varda!
Everyone – Stares at him. Even Amras.
Caranthir – She's married to Manwë, you idiot.
Amras – Scoffs. Don't be stupid! It's Oromë.
Angrod – Sighs. He's also married.
Amras – How about Vairë?
Finrod – With a laugh. Now, you're just being difficult.
Amrod – Oh! Námo!
Caranthir – Hisses.
Curufin – Looks at them with absolute disgust. Why would you wish that upon us?
Ambarussa Together – Vána then!
Caranthir – You can't just keep naming random Valar.
Celegorm – Nienna.
Everyone – Turns to him. Goggles.
Celegorm – Shrugs. She's the only one left. Everyone else's taken but Ulmo, and I refuse to be related to him.
Curufin – Hand on his chin. That's… fair. I will accept this logic.
Caranthir – You've actually considered this. For once in your life, you had a thought.
Celegorm – Throws pillow at him.
Caranthir – Dodges.
The Ambarussa – Let out a battle cry.
Fëanorions – Now fighting each other.
Finrod and Angrod – Sitting on the sidelines. Looking at each other with wide eyes. An epiphany has occurred.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Findis – You know, the only choices are Ulmo or Nienna.
Findis!Again – Takes a long sip of wine straight from the bottle.
Finarfin – Snatches that right from her hand. Takes his own drink.
More!Finarfin – I'm very much aware.
Both – Shake their heads
Both!Take Two – Put their heads in their hands.
Nerdanel – Teehee!
Notes:
AN: The Nienna scene was rewritten about five times, and I'm still not fully satisfied with it.
Also the series of spin-off ideas - Song of Stars and Twilight
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 30: Chapter 30
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"No."
On some level, Harry knows this would be the answer. He isn't really all that surprised. He debated with himself even making the offer, but there's always been that little spark of hope, that ember he's nursed these years. It flickers now. Dims at the harshness of the word.
"I mean it," Teddy tells him, and he's stern. Just this side of furious. Hair flashing from bright red to deep purple to an acidic yellow. "The answer is no."
The table between them is short. Meant only for two. Maybe three if they're very friendly. There's never been need of a larger one here in the house that Harry ostensibly lives in. Between his hours at St Mungo's, the extra he puts in making potions for the school on the side, and all the time he spends with the ever-expanding Weasley clan, Andromeda, and his myriad of friends… well, there really isn't much use for it. Even now, Harry somehow finds himself bringing meals to Andy or just cooking at her house to begin with. That doesn't even count when Molly invites him over or any of the others. Now, that he considers it, he don't spend all that much time here. It's mostly a place to sleep and store his stuff.
Now, he and Teddy sit at opposite sides; it feels like a mile separates them. Like an impassable chasm. Like Harry's staring up from the base of a mountain to the top in the distance as Teddy leans forward on his elbows.
"Bloody hell," his godson mutters then as he head drops into his hands momentarily, "I can't believe you even asked me."
Harry doesn't sensor him for his language. He isn't Andromeda. Doesn't really care about his godson's choice of words when it's just them. Teddy's an adult now by magical reckoning. Just turned seventeen last week, but this is the first chance Harry's truly had to be alone with him since that day. The first opportunity for just the two of them, and what a terrible dinner this has turned out to be. Teddy's favorite meal and dessert were perfectly fine, but that's taken a nosedive off a cliff. The grin he just wore has evaporated away like mist in the scorching sunlight. Leaving behind a blazing fury that builds with very passing moment.
"You know how gran'll react when she hears about this."
Teddy doesn't slam his palms down on the tabletop, but Harry knows he's tempted. Can see it in the way his fingers flex as he puts them next to his now empty plate.
"I know," Harry replies, and it's softly, gently. Tone not quite pleading. "But this isn't about her. It's for you."
"It is about her," Teddy counters. His eyes cycle through hues so fast that they're a blur. A kaleidoscope. "She's my gran. You can't throw her away just because I'm of age now."
Harry shakes his head in denial. "It isn't like that at all."
This isn't what he meant. Isn't what he intended. How he planned this to go. He's envisioned this moment. He'll admit, even if only to himself, that he's thought about it dozens of times. Possibly hundreds. What he should say. How Teddy would respond. He wants to think that he's surprised. But really, he isn't. As much as he wants this, part of him knew even before he asked what the answer would be. What it's always been when he even hinted this to Andy before. And it seems Teddy has the same fear.
"She'll still be your gran. She always will be. That won't ever change." He smiles at his godson and reaches out, but Teddy shifts away. "I'm not trying to take that from either of you."
"You are," Teddy insists. He balls his hands into fists that sit on the edge of the table. Just out of range. "Don't try to steal me. I'm not yours."
Harry's chest tightens at the words. At the accusation. It's painful. Constricting. Harsh. More so than Teddy probably intended. But also more honest.
"I'm not--" he tries to explain.
"You aren't my dad, Harry," Teddy interrupts, and it's brutal for how easily he says that. Somehow bloodless and all the worse for it. "You'll never be my dad."
His eyes change to a familiar green but stay there for the barest of instances before phasing to blue. Then gray. Brown. Black. So quickly that it's a smear of shades.
Harry just stares at him numbly. Ears ringing. Skin tingling and cold.
"I know," he responds. It's faint. Hollow. "I know."
Believe him, Harry knows. He's always known. From that first time he held Teddy to when he watched his godson board the train to Hogwarts at eleven to his birthday party last week when he turned seventeen. All the seconds in-between. He's so very much aware that he isn't Teddy's father. Or Andromeda's son. Or their family. Or anyone's really. That at the end of the day, all his friends go back to their homes and their lives. And he comes here. All alone.
Harry very much knows.
He only watches as Teddy pushes off from the table and stands. As his godson moves farther from him.
"We'll just pretend this never happened," Teddy decides.
It's with a sense of finality. Of certainty. Of a door that was barely open now slamming shut. Never to reopen. Forever closed and barred. Teddy just nods to himself. Not looking at Harry at all as he turns away completely.
Teddy can apparate perfectly, almost soundlessly. Of course, he can. Harry spent all last summer teaching him his own personal method. Guiding him in magic that he's shared with so few others. He uses it now to leave without a trace, and Harry feels more than hears him go. Recognizes as soon as he's left outside the wards.
Harry doesn't follow. He's still in his chair at the table. In the same position as before.
He stays there for a very long time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad is the trusting sort. He doesn't suspect a thing at all that morning as they dress. As far as he knows, they don't have any plans today. Nothing more interesting than a day at home. Possibly some painting since he's an agreeable model. Not to mention that Harry's now working on something very specific indeed. More than one thing, truth be told.
Maybe he thinks they'll walk around the gardens and even head to the orchards or the little vineyard Harry's been coaxing along. Or perhaps wander down to his office again to check on things and then linger in the city for longer than strictly necessarily. Or go for a ride, one that conveniently keeps them occupied for most of the day. Or possibly even just stay up here in their suite away from other elves altogether, content to spend time with only each other.
Harry can't say any of those sound terrible, but he certainly has other things in mind.
It doesn't take much to prompt his love to their dressing table. Of course, Gil's been trying to cajole Harry into this and relenting just makes things easier. Though he does feel like he spends an inordinate amount of time making sure each strand is equal parts, but Gil is patient through it all. He doesn't even make helpful suggestions or do more than docilely sit there as Harry works. He isn't the least bit intimated by the fact that the mirror only gives him the barest view until the very end, but he waits to lean forward for his final inspect until everything's completely finished. Though he does anticipate the next move.
"Let me see first, Mírimo," he comments with an amused sound. "Before you use your gifts to correct any perceived mistakes."
Harry lifts an eyebrow at him in the mirror but does as he's asked. Observing as Gil slowly moves his head one way and then the other. He grins the entire time; bright and pleased. It's a little thing really, but it's so easy to make him happy. Besides, this has ended up better than Harry anticipated. Working on Indilwen's mane has imparted some degree of skill. Still, the right is slightly higher while the left doesn't quite lay flat the way he'd prefer, but he allows his love a long moment of inspection before he soothes that over with a whisper of magic.
"You are far too hard on yourself." Gil's a little bit too smug as he turns around. "I'm perfectly fine with your work. Indilwen certainly is, and she is a tougher audience."
Harry snorts. "She bites. You don't."
Which isn't untrue. Harry's gotten his fair-share of nibbles. Especially in the beginning when he pulled a little too hard. Or things didn't fit her sense of aesthetics. But she hasn't done that in ages. At least, not for that reason.
He expects a laugh in response, but Gil just gazes at him underneath his lashes. It's a peculiar look. One with an unexpected weight. A heat. Almost a challenge. His hand finds Harry's wrist, thumb stroking along his skin, without breaking eye contact. Slow and steady. The curve of his mouth is particular. Shifting to something that certainly isn't in line with Harry's plot for the day.
He has to look away. Can't be distracted. He has other plans for them, and Gil has to know something's up judging by the near smirk he wears when he slowly stands and allows his arms to slip around Harry's sides. He doesn't ask where they're going though. Merely closes his eyes and waits patiently. Only opening them when he feels the change in air pressure. Or maybe the different scents on the breeze. The birdsong in the distance.
His shock is a flash of lightning without thunder. A brilliant ray that splits the stillness as he turns in the circle of Harry's arms and takes in everything. Treeline behind them in full summer foliage, leafed out and glorious. The edge of the shore they now stand on, sandy and smooth beneath their feet. Water serene, so calm, so clear that it reflects the mountains beyond in flawless detail.
Harry times it just right. They're on the western side. Positioned perfectly to witness the sun as it peeks over the trees, ready to greet the day. Arien is in fine form today indeed, arriving almost like they planned it that way, and Harry almost imagines he can see her even from here. The sky is currently cloudless, already starting a shift to blue, and the water glitters out in front of them.
"Mírimo."
It's said as an awed murmur while Gil gazes out at the crystal-clear lake. One that stretches before them like a shimmering tapestry. His love may be a Ñoldor king, but he claims the Sindar. Claims Círdan as his father, and Harry recognizes how much he loves the water. Has heard it in his voice as he speaks of his childhood. Of his prior misadventures. Of even his time here in Valinor.
Harry doesn't have an ocean to offer him. He does have this, however.
"Do you like it?"
A kiss is his answer. Excited and breathless. But only for a second before Gil's pulling back. Eager to see more. To watch as the sun crests over the treetops and reflects on the water.
"Where are we?" he asks with wonder. Awe. Giddy laughter like a child.
Harry can even picture him now. Wide blue-gray eyes and dark tunic. Hair pulled back as an older boy, barely any taller, holds his hand. While they watch the waves. See the ships start out, sails unfurling.
But he blinks and the image is gone. Replaced by Gil-galad as Harry's always known him.
"We're still within our borders," Harry replies with his own excitement building. "South and east of the city."
Gil absorbs that answer and the sight before them. Mesmerized as the sun continues to rise. His bracelet shields him from the glare, so he doesn't even shade his eyes. Just enjoys the view along with the melody of the waking birds. Attention flitting over every detail as if trying to memorize each little thing.
"This is much larger than the lake near Tirion," Gil finally determines some minutes later. Having searched from one horizon to the next, assessing the distance.
Harry nods in agreement. It's also increasing in size as he expands. As with many things in his kingdom. He doesn't have to explain that part to his elf, who's seen more than once just how Harry operates.
Of course, his elf also has to recognize other dissimilarities as unlike the other, this lake is inhabited. Something Gil definitely notices as his eyes trace along the shore, studying the scattered settlements that've popped up along its edges. But there's a specific one that Harry wants him to see. Directing his focus towards the southern side. He knows immediately when Gil spots it.
His love inhales sharply. Eyes large, lovely in the early morning light.
"That isn't on an island. It actually floats on the water! How--" Gil starts to question.
Harry simply wiggles his fingers. His beloved lets out a chortle. It's loud. Delighted.
"Mírimo," Gil rebukes, "if you were trying to hide your powers, you rather failed."
But it's said with such light. Such happiness raining in that there's a prismatic effect of colors. All the way through the spectrum. It's as dazzling as the grin Gil gives him. Beaming and brilliant. Somehow even more so as Harry takes his hand.
It's early enough that the village has just started to awaken, but Harry apparates them there without anyone the wiser. They are noticed though as they wander around the mosaic-lined streets and Harry points out all the places of interest. The docks, complete with boats – though none as grand as those in Gil's thoughts. Piers and a few earlier fishers already at work. The central courtyard and bubbling fountains. The chief's home, occupants just rousing. Even the quiet little office where they keep records for Harry and his staff to review. It's not a particularly long tour, taking slightly more than an hour, but it's certainly more time than it was previously. Further proof of the burgeoning population.
They wander into the market to find some elves are already out and about even now. Harry's recognized immediately, and he still can't decide if this is a good thing or not, although they all seem far too pleased to see Gil with him. Gossip travels lightning fast no matter which world he's in, so Harry isn't the least little bit astonished that they all know of his betrothal. He wouldn't be shocked if there was some type of announcement made – official or otherwise knowing his citizens.
Gil takes it all in stride. Just as he has with the people in the city, nosy as they are at times. He's too gracious by far as they continue to explore, and really, Harry should call this a town by now given the size. This is becoming something of a popular place, after all. He's even come by in the recent months with Nienna to redo all the wards. Not that they know this part. Though he wonders how much any of them can sense. A thing to ponder for another time, however, as he has other matters for today.
Breakfast is locally sourced. From a lovely pair of ladies with kind eyes, who try very hard not to accept payment. Harry's an expert at this game though, so he manages it quite handedly after a minute more. It's worth the effort though for the look at Gil's face when he finally tastes his pastry as they sit side by side on the edge of a small pier, water a comfortable distance below. His expression is the same boyish excitement as before, now mixed with a wistful sort of nostalgia. He's quiet as he eats. Content to look out at the lake as the townspeople go about their day, but he glances back after he finishes. There's a speculative cast to his face. Almost puzzled. As if searching his memory.
"They're from Beleriand," Gil says then. Indicating the couple who are now serving an ever growing line of customers. "I thought I recognized them."
Harry shifts so he can see without making it terribly obvious. Studying both through the large window at the front of their shop. They float around each other effortlessly. So carefree and content with the world. A stark contrast to how Harry first met them, and he doesn't want to stain this day, doesn't want to add the black mark. Yet, they deserve this truth.
"They were in Sirion. At the end." It's added quietly, tone pitched down. "But they were willing to give me a chance."
They were so gracious. Gentle. Forgiving to someone they thought the son of their worst enemy. Even now, they greet him with genuine gladness every time they see him. Purposefully invited him to return to their shop. Treated him the same as anyone else in his kingdom does.
Gil-galad turns to him now. Rain-song a slower cadence, clouds darkening. Every elf knows this story. Knows of the final day of Sirion and the horror there. The Third Kinslaying. Who led it.
"Was it…"
He's charitable enough not to say the name out loud. Or to voice their tie. Harry merely inclines his head.
"They actually told you?" Gil questions now. It's breathless for a different reason. Low. Almost angry.
Harry soothes a hand over his arm. Up and down. Like the rise and fall of the tides.
"I can usually tell," he admits.
There's a certain way some react to him. A flinch. An initial revulsion. The abject fear. It's obvious when they aren't just seeing the face of a kinslayer. When it's personal. Most've been amazingly accepting when they recognize their mistake if hollow in the way of a mind that's tired and needs rest. Usually just twisting away without another word. A few even try apologize. As if that makes it any better.
Elwing is bad enough. The others are so much worse. Looking at him and seeing someone else entirely. Not as the House of Finwë does. But as one watching a nightmare come to life. A horror from their worst fears. A monster given form.
Inglor and his company apologize to them all on bent knee with bowed heads, but Harry doesn't quite know how to make this better. This is a crime he hasn't ever committed, and he's punished for it all the same. Even when he isn't.
Gil hasn't had to see that part yet. Harry accepts that it's only a matter of time. Formenos still grows. More people arrive everyday, and while many of them have heard of his resemblance to Maglor, most don't seem to realize just how close it truly is. Not that Harry can blame them. Even he didn't quite understand it himself.
Of course, the best is yet to come. Harry hasn't forgotten about his invitation to Alqualondë. That looms like dark cloud on the horizon. Despite what Laerien thinks, not all of his avoidance is due to awkwardness. After all, why wouldn't he look forward to going there? To ground zero? Facing scores of past Fëanorion victims all at once and constantly having to feel their pain and sorrow? He'll even get to stay there for months if not years before being allowed to escape. That sounds like such a fantastic time all around for everyone involved.
Bother.
"Tyelpë had much the same in the beginning," Gil's voice shines in like a lighthouse on the rocky shore. "As did Gildor. Even when both denied their fathers." He moves nearer to Harry's side. "Tyelpë's mother is also a kinslayer though, and he lost her in Endor so early. They tell me that she's still with him in Mandos, but I know nothing of where Inglor's wife has gone."
Harry breathes out slowly. "He's never mentioned her. I expect that he hasn't seen her in a very long time."
He shifts and settles against his love. Not as close as he would if they were truly alone but closer than they were seconds before. Feels Gil sigh next to him, even as an arm slides around his back.
"You know him well?" he asks, grasping onto the change of topic. "Celebrimbor?"
His elf makes a noncommittal noise. "Not nearly as well as Elrond does," he allows, "but we were friends, yes. I'm glad to know his family can see him in Mandos, including Elrond when he arrives."
Harry turns his head to look at him fully. "You think he'll still be there?"
"His… passing," Gil carefully chooses the word, "was horrific. Tyelpë trusted Annatar. Sauron," he corrects and somehow keeps his tone even. "He was in mourning and vulnerable. You know that his spouse was a dwarf, was already deceased; they won't meet again until the remaking of the world. I don't have to tell you either how his paternal family is long fractured, but his mother is the only child of her parents. I doubt her Falmari father has many kind words for her or anyone who still looks to the House of Fëanor."
"They disowned both of them?" Harry isn't shocked, but this is also something he didn't know. "Celebrimbor and his mother?"
He wants to believe he's incorrect, but he understands perfectly fine. For all that elves can be so different from the people of Earth, they can still be so very much the same. Harry may not know any of them personally, but he recognizes that Celebrimbor was in an impossible situation. Young and with both parents following Fëanor, who was also his paternal grandfather. It's impressive alone that he didn't participate in any of the kinslayings, but it saddens Harry that the other side of Celebrimbor's family doesn't see that.
"Yes," Gil agrees, "her for the kinslaying in Alqualondë. Him for following his father's House to Endor. I made inquiries on his behalf, and I know Celebrían has as well. They would not meet with either of us."
Harry sighs at that, and he knows that Gil can sense his unhappiness since he mirrors it. Their day out is off to such an auspicious start so far, and Harry mentally kicks himself for letting the conversation drift this way. Though to be fair, most of their discussion do tend to take a turn for the morbid or bizarre somewhere along the way.
They fortunately let that topic die soon after by mutual agreement. Since really, what else is there to say?
Neither speaks for a while. Content just to sit together and watch the marketplace gradually come alive. It's not much yet. Certainly not like those the city now boasts. Especially not the grand market held monthly. But Harry acknowledges to a degree of fascination with observing the elves mill about. Stopping here and there. To bargain. To chat. He knows each of them by name, and they know him. There's something comforting in that.
Not just them. Everyone in the kingdom who has actually lived here for any length of time. Harry's gone to meet them all at least once. So that they'll always recognize him and be welcomed. It's rather like greeting new students at Hogwarts. Harry never forgot a single one of his that he taught first as a healer, then a professor, and later as a headmaster. This is just a larger scale.
He'll just be bringing Gil along with him from now on. As he is today. Even if he isn't making introductions. But that isn't the primary reason they're out here.
Harry helps Gil to his feet then and motions to follow him. More elves are around now. Though none have come down the little pier that Gil and Harry have claimed, he knows they've been watched this entire time. Subtly of course. Will hidden smiles and laughter. Those follow them as Harry leads Gil back through the town to the little spot he always uses for apparition. It's even warded for that very purpose. So that the elves see and know nothing.
They arrive back at the same location from before. It's near enough to one of Harry's favorite spots already, and the view is still just as spectacular. Mountains above them reflected like a mirror image on the lake. So perfect a visage that it's hard to tell which is the reality. This isn't anything like Tirion or other parts of Valinor. Or even like Scotland. Despite how long Harry lived there. It was never his intention to recreate any of that.
He sees Gil eyeing everything speculatively as they start to walk along the shoreline. He knows that his love recognizes the vista from the painting Harry has in his study, but Gil never quite connected where it was from before this. His love's attention drifts to the water, and Harry already knows what he wants without even having to say anything at all. Harry knows how to swim luckily; it really isn't that different across worlds. The Third Task was so very long ago, but he did learn properly after that. First when he traveled and then continued right alongside Teddy. Admittedly, it was ages since he did when he first came to Arda, but Oromë is nothing if not practical. Though paranoid might be a better word. Envisioning scenarios that are likely never to happen now matter how many ages pass. Harry indulges him mostly because it costs him nothing except a little effort and time. Which he has plenty of.
The lake is warm despite the morning hour, but Harry admits he isn't the best judge of things. Gil's too distracted sorting himself out, and his bracelet makes it a moot point anyway. Lets him slip out of his boots, tunic and underlayers without noticing any difference at all as he ventures in. Stopping when he's knee deep, but it's clear enough for him to gaze all the way to the bottom even as he walks in further. Harry observes him from the shore for a while. Lets him explore on his own, but he notices that Gil hasn't dived under yet. It isn't deep enough yet; the shallows stretch for around twenty to thirty meters, slowly slanting downwards but before the depths are truly accessible. Which certainly keeps Gil from noticing one particular feature of his bracelet. Though there will be time for that later, Harry supposes.
Not to mention that his love will have his pick of fish and other manner of creatures if he ever decides to catch anything here, but all of them have Yavanna and Oromë's stamp of approval. Though admittedly, some can only be found in Harry's kingdom and nowhere else in Valinor or even Arda as a whole. A smattering of creatures he distantly remembers from his primary school days, more from his travels, and a number from Luna's tales. None of the giant squid who reside in the deeper waters are in this little area right now, so Harry won't be able to show them off just yet, but he can't wait for Gil's reaction. The elves who live on the lake are very much aware of them at the point, but they all know by now how docile they truly are. Most are content to live and let live. Others exist in a happy bubble of denial.
Gil doesn't go much further in that thigh-height before he glances back to the shoreline where Harry still stands. He calls for Harry to join him, and really, it doesn't take much. Harry didn't even need the invitation, but he was admittedly a little distracted. Content to watch his elf as he always is. Harry feels the same level of scrutiny as he joins Gil. Which is probably why he never sees Harry's sneak attack coming. The expression on his face afterwards, water dripping down from this sodden hair, promises retribution.
Then, it's all out war.
Harry promptly gets splashed right back. And the battle is on. He doesn't use magic. He's realized now though that he's stronger than elves. Faster, too. But this is just play, so he purposefully slows down. Not enough to just let Gil win; more to make it fair. It's a draw at the end though. Mostly because Harry can tell Gil needs a break, and he requests a truce. One that he earns with a breathy huff as his love declares their battle a stalemate but promises a rematch at a latter time.
Time passes idly afterwards. Floating by like the clouds that Harry's silently summoned to help reduce some of the sweltering heat over this part of his kingdom. Even if he and Gil won't notice much of it, their people will. Indeed, his love is too busy with his new discovery in the magic of his bracelet, diving beneath the water, to pay attention to much of anything else. Finding all sorts of creatures, plants, not to mention treasures that Harry created for anyone willing and able to explore the bottom. Pearls. Shells. All manner of semi-precious gemstones dotting the lake-bed. It's probably for the best that none of the rest of the House of Finwë has managed to make it here yet.
Noon finally sees them back to the shore. Resting on a conjured blanket after Harry dries them both with a spell. Gil's pulled all of his hair in a single braid down his back. Now hard at word at doing the same for Harry, not fully paying attention to the basket that sets in front of him. Which means that he doesn't at first notice as everything's unpacked with a snap of the finger, but he glances up from his task only to startle. Brow lifted but Harry grins. That grows wider after his love leans forward
"Where did you learn to make this?" Gil inquires, not without a bit of astonishment. "Any of this?"
He can't decide if he wants to gape at Harry or the food in front of him. A dish, several of them he by rights shouldn't know how to make. But all's fair in love and entrees. He's merely let his Slytherin side out a bit to learn. Not to mention used Melpomaen to his advantage.
"Ask me no questions, and I shall tell you no lies," Harry replies solemnly.
Gil blinks once. Then again. Harry doesn't manage to keep his face placid more than another second before he chuckles.
"I wanted to do something for you," he says then.
"Mírimo," his elf chides, "you don't have to do any of this."
"I like doing this," Harry corrects. "I like giving you gifts and showing you places."
Showing him off, Harry thinks but doesn't say. But that's part of it, too. Gil-galad does so much for him, and he wants to give some appreciation back. While also letting his people know that this is someone special. Someone he trusts and loves and hopes that they will, too.
The look Gil gives him back is worth all the effort Harry's gone through to plan today and more. Eyes sparkling the entire time they eat. With every taste and each bite. Even the wine Harry brought. Though Gil inspects the label for a very long time.
After lunch, they lie back on their blanket and just watch the clouds. Pointing out the shapes is more of an Earth thing, but Gil takes to the game very fast. Though he tends to say his look more like people he previously knew – or even still knows – and then usually shares an embarrassing story about them afterwards. Harry learns a little too much about Celebrían and Elrond before their marriage, more about Celebrimbor, and a number of very strange details of Sauron as Annatar. He's sure Huan and Finrod will certainly appreciate all of that.
Harry feels that his own are rather benign. That one looks like a dog. This, a manticore. The third, a little too much like one of Hagrid's creations. He traces them out with his fingertip to show his love what he means, and maybe animates the drawing a little with frost and sparks.
Gil rolls his eyes even as he laughs.
A cloud that most definitely resembles a ship is Harry's best work of all. If he has to say so himself. Outlying the bow and filling in some waves.
"Do you think we'll ever get to go on the Vingilot?" Harry muses after a few minutes of this.
He can turn into birds. Can fly himself. Even without a broomstick. Still, there's something about a boat on the air. That's special.
"Eärendil will hardly deny you the opportunity." Gil watches with fascination as the sails flare out, and it floats of into the sky on an imaginary sea. "You freed him from the Silmaril and ages more of his burden as its guardian. He'll do much for you."
Harry moves his head to look at him. They're next to each other, Gil on his right, but his love is still observing the ever shrinking ship as it disappears in the distance.
"We've only met the one time," Harry reminds him.
Since really, that was it. A spectacular and awkward meeting to be sure. Especially since Harry's acquisition of the Silmaril was accidental more than anything. And that trip was cut frustratingly short. He did get to fish with Tuor though; that part was nice. Harry really should see if he'd be willing to do it again. It was certainly more relaxing that ever trying while Oromë looks over this shoulder the entire time. While Tulkas guffaws in the background and Huan splashes everywhere. Sometimes Nessa and Vána come just to gawk and offer unhelpful pointers.
Gil snorts. "Trust me, Mírimo. Eärendil and his parents think highly of you." He's too mirthful but swiftly sobers. "Elwing… She is unwell, but I think one day she will find peace."
Harry isn't quite sure how to respond to that. The first part or the ending.
His betrothed just reaches out to take his hand.
"We'll go sailing soon," he decides in a change of topic. "I have a small boat that I keep, which will be perfect for the two of us."
There's a drizzle of excitement beneath his words. A cadence in his tone that belies his anticipation.
"I've never been," Harry admits. It isn't reluctantly, but his voice is somber somehow.
"Never?" his love questions.
Harry shakes his head. They're so close that it's barely a motion at all.
"I've hardly ever even been on a boat. Maybe nine times."
The Dursleys took him on their desperate escape from the Hogwarts letters and then back again with Hagrid. Across the lake on his first journey to the school. Then, with Dumbledore in the horcrux cave. He did guide the first-years himself as a professor several times once Hagrid left, but he never got to ride the boats on exiting the school in his own seventh year. It hasn't come up that much since he's been in Valinor either.
"I've not been on the ocean before," he adds. "Not really"
It's something of a confession. For all that he's traveled the world and lived on an island for centuries – and now again another. He's never truly been on the ocean aside from the aforementioned times. When the Dursleys wanted to deny him magic and Dumbledore wanted a horcrux. And Harry definitely doesn't count those.
"Your father lived on the coast for two ages," Gil points out after a long pause. He twists at Harry's ring. A habit he's developed for comfort. Though which of them he does it for now, Harry isn't sure.
"He's hardly taken me for boat rides," Harry remarks, and the expression he receives back is focused. Intense despite the mildness of Gil's words.
"I do not think Ulmo would've minded."
He says it so plainly. So easily. As if the wrath of a Vala is the only thing that stopped Harry. He wishes it were that simple.
Harry exhales slowly, but he doesn't look away.
"I've not met him before," he responds.
"No?" Gil has a gift for keeping his tone even and sensible. For sounding like he isn't nearly as interested as he really is. "He mostly stays in Endor, but he has ventured to Aman again more recently. So I suppose it's only a matter of time."
The moment of truth. Harry could turn away. Say something… anything else. Or he could make good on promises he's previously made. Even if only to himself. Give voice to the thoughts he's had tumbling in his mind so often now.
"You know that I've never been to Endor."
It's less like lancing a wound. More like opening the curtains and letting light in. It isn't even as much an admission as it could be. In all honesty, it likely isn't anything that Gil doesn't already wonder. Hasn't worked out for himself. He is the clever sort. He's also coming to know Harry. For better or worse. All his tells. The things he says. And doesn't.
"Suspected?" Gil rolls his entire body to face him but doesn't let go of his hand. "Yes, Mírimo. I suspected that your time with him was very limited, but I hoped that I was wrong. He's just as reticent as you are."
He means Káno. That much is obvious. He only has that particular tightening around his eyes when Káno comes up in the conversation. The rest of House of Fëanor and even the namesake himself doesn't earn it. Not even Maedhros. Just Káno.
Harry breathes out again. "You've been speaking with him."
"You do leave his harp unguarded upstairs," his love comments. He settles in closer. "I took it as an invitation that I was free to seek him out."
So they do talk when Harry isn't around. He figured they did, but neither Gil nor Káno confirmed it until now. Harry wants them to get along. Wants to balance the most important people in his life. He can't say that Gil's been very quiet in his opinions though. Or that he cares for the carefully neutral way Káno talks about Gil in return. Harry wasn't born yesterday. He mayn't be an elf, but he comprehends enough about them to know that they're polite only for his sake. He can only imagine what they say to each other when he isn't around.
He can feel the weight of Gil's attention even as he thinks that. Sees his brow furrow just so.
"You have the power and ability to go to him at any time."
It's just as mild as before. Reasonable. Logical even.
Harry points out, "So does ammë. She could bring him here if he wanted." Or if she forced the matter. "He's refused to see me."
And isn't that the actual problem? More than anything else? The knife that slides in just a bit deeper whenever they talk. Each time Káno turns him away.
"Has he said why?" Gil inquires. Softly now. Mild like a spring rain.
"It's too dangerous," Harry responds.
But it's empty. As meaningless now as it was the first time.
Gil's free hand reaches out to touch his face.
"For you or for him?"
That's the real question, isn't it? One that Harry's quietly pondered on himself for such a long time now. Just how much of an excuse this is. If Endor is genuinely so dangerous. And if so, would it not be better for Káno to travel here? Or at least back and forth then?
Gil sighs. They don't share all their thoughts. Not just yet. It's still enough that he understands Harry's right now.
"I think," his love begins, "that it is easy to hide far away from repercussions and responsibilities. That he can live with his laments. That he can wander the shore with his regrets as long as he doesn't have to see what it does to others, including his own sons."
He pauses now. As if to gauge Harry's reaction.
"This is about Elrond and Elros," he asserts.
"This is also about you," Gil counters and grips his hand tightly between them. "He takes the easy parts, the easy path, and never has to help you with the wreckage he left here. That he left for you to repair. You've done wonders for your House reputation, for his personal one, and that is despite him. Not because of him."
None of this is a lie. For all that it seems to twist every single of his interactions with Káno, Harry can't say any of this is untrue. He also can't say he hasn't thought similarly. How different it would be. How much simpler things here in Valinor and Formenos would be even now if Káno were physically here with him. And not just as a voice from far away.
Harry wants to claim that Káno tries, but that feels like a lie. Like a halfhearted wish. A losing battle. Harry doesn't even really believe that himself. Not anymore.
Gil's magnanimous even in his victory. Tender as he leans in until the tips of their noses brush.
"You deserve better than the scraps he gives you, Mírimo."
It's offered so gently. So kindly.
Gil doesn't even press the advantage afterwards. He's too merciful. Generous and noble as always. Simply pulls back to press a kiss to Harry's nose before leaning down to rest his head on Harry's shoulder. Tucking himself fully into Harry's side. Face almost buried in his neck. Tickling his skin with every breath. Quiet as he lets Harry collect himself.
"One day," he says after several minutes, when the breaths beneath his ear ease, "you'll tell me more of that other land. Of the mentor you still see even now."
It's not phrased as a question. None of it is. More a certainly. A surety. Calmly stated but not as a demand. Gil's too canny by far. Harry's admitted to never going to Middle Earth but was still somewhere with mortals, so he logically had to have been somewhere aside from Valinor.
"Later," Gil determines before Harry can even form a response to that, "tell me later. For now, I just want to enjoy our day together."
He doesn't yawn then, but there's a sense of it. A vague need to rest that itches across Harry's skin. He knows that Gil hasn't been sleeping as much as usual. Not since Harry's jaunt down Elros' memories. It doesn't take much to figure out why. Even though he can hardly prevent Elros from seeking Harry out, he can interrupt them. Can wake Harry up if he feels it's warranted.
Now though, the tables are turned. Harry can see that Gil's late nights are catching up with him the longer they lie like this. Listening to the birds and the breeze and the water. Enjoying the sunlight and company of each other. He feels Gil begin to drift the more time stretches on. Even as he makes a noise of contentment.
"I want to stay here forever," Gil murmurs, and it's dreamily.
Harry manages a laugh at that. It's surprisingly light, even carefree.
"I do technically own this lake," he comments. "We can come whenever we want."
His elf snuggles impossibly closer to him as he says that. "You made it?"
"I did," he confirms and strokes back hair from Gil's face.
He offers the image of the winter wasteland that was here before. It's both a memory and almost a dream sequence. Given as a brush of knowledge. The transition as he tamed the land and shaped, painted it into a summer paradise. Growing the small depression with a barely there stream. More and more until Harry stands before nothing but tranquil lake waters.
"Amazing."
Gil exhales as the last image flows off. He's already floating away, slipping into tides and ships and far away lands.
Harry just watches him as his love's face relaxes and breathing grows soft. But even then, the warm wash of trust and affection never fully stops. Never goes away no matter what Gil's doing. Or even when he sleeps. Forever raining down in the back of his thoughts in reassurance. Precious and dear.
He finds that couldn't agree more.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"Mírimo."
Harry makes a sound to show that he's listening, but he keeps painting. Delicately shading in one leaf and then another. Smoothing the transition from golden to amber. Tracing along a branch just so. Switching to a second then a third before pulling back to inspect his work. He nods to himself.
Yes, an autumn theme was unquestionably an excellent starting point. But she'll like watching the seasons change, he thinks. Delight in seeing the dainty snowflakes, blossoming flowers, and gentle rains as day fades into night. It's shaping up even better than he originally envisioned, and he knows the final product will be perfect down to every last detail. To every flagstone and mountain stream. Káno not only has a gift for descriptive storytelling; he's a fountain of information. Melpomaen also has a keen eye. Although admittedly, neither understands the real reason behind his interest.
The grass of the great hall is soft as Harry sits back with his feet tucked beneath him, easel out front. This canvas is larger than Fingon's. Almost as big as the one he gave Eönwë so recently. But definitely the appropriate size for this vista. Anything else wouldn't do it justice. He isn't finished yet. Only about three-fourths done since Gil insists on regular mealtimes and going to bed nightly along with breaks just to do something else. Not to mention their earlier adventure to the lake and trips down to their city. Still, those are something of a welcome reprieve. Do little to stop the vision he has for this and perchance have even given him more time to refine it.
"We have guests."
His focus flickers to Gil-galad, who's still beside him. However, his love no longer reclines back, book forgotten next to him as he observes Harry work. Instead, his head tilts to the side in a subtle gesture towards the double-doored entrance. Harry's own attention drifts that way, but he starts when he realizes he has a coterie of elves gathered. He hears the castle snicker at him as he glances from one to the next.
Fëanor and several sons. Curufin. Caranthir. Maedhros with Fingon. Only the twins and Celegorm are missing. Well, and his last son. His second.
And Nerdanel, of course. Best not forget her.
Harry blinks at the sight that assails him. Fëanor and Curufin with their heads tipped back, wearing twin expressions of wonderment. Fingon as he kneels down to inspect the grass, hand running through through the blades. Maedhros, standing in profile beside a window, peering at the painted glass. All the while Caranthir just has his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head.
The tableau continues in that fashion for several minutes even as Harry faintly ponders on just how long they've been there. Too long, he learns belatedly, as the castle is smug to inform.
Beside him, Gil even gives a cheerful huff.
"Good afternoon," he greets, which carries throughout the room. "What brings you by on such a pleasant day?"
Fëanor's chin jerks down sharply enough that Harry almost has a sympathetic twinge in his own neck. The surprise on his face remains, but even from here, Harry can see the upwards curl of his lips. Feel the mix of awe, pride, and genuine joy blazing out as he starts towards them. Fingon stands as he passes, swift to follow with Maedhros soon joining. Curufin hasn't stopped staring at the ceiling, but Caranthir deftly tugs him forward and steers him over to stand with everyone else. They come to a stop just as Harry and Gil rise.
"Grandson."
Fëanor moves lightening-quick and grasps his elbows before Harry can even think to step back. His eyes are bright, burning. For all that Curufin hasn't lowered his head, Fëanor now only looks at Harry.
"Your craft is truly a marvel," the elf tells him with all the seriousness in the world. "I confess that I thought I knew the scope of it before. Now that Moryo has brought us here, I am so glad to see how wrong I was."
Harry isn't quite sure how to respond to that. Gil isn't any help either. Too amused to say anything in his defense. Harry sees his shoulders shaking out of the corner of his eye. Mirth contained but only barely.
Fortunately though, Fëanor doesn't wait for an answer.
"I expect that you grandmother knows of this place," he continues. "She was far too coy earlier when she declined to join us."
Caranthir snorts at that last part. "She was already well aware when I spoke with her." He still has a hand on Curufin's shoulder. Likely to keep him in place. "I suspect she found this room some time ago."
And conveniently didn't mention it to anyone. Harry knows exactly why Nerdanel's his favorite. Sorry, Fingon.
Gil snickers beside him but covers it up with a little cough. It isn't believable at all.
"She did explore on her one before your arrival," Harry vaguely agrees. "Or maybe Eönwë showed her."
Fëanor doesn't even twitch at the name now. That's likely a good sign for his newest daughter-in-law. Though Harry isn't sure yet how much Nienna and Fëanor have spoken. Or even if they have since he left Mandos.
In fact, Fëanor himself seems a little too keen to know her schedule when he addresses Harry next.
"Your mother… she will visit later?" he asks. Tone a fusion of formal and interested. A cat who regally sits just out of reach. While watching the proceedings with thinly veiled interest. Tail twitching behind him.
"If not today, then likely tomorrow," Harry confirms. He doesn't look past the elf to his gathered sons or to Gil standing next to them. He doesn't.
"Good. Good," Fëanor repeats. "It gladdens me to hear that."
Harry nods and gives a noncommittal sound. He's hardly in charge of Nienna's social calendar, but he knows that Maedhros has spoken with her twice on his own as well as once with Fingon. They seem to be the ones in charge of her inclusion into the family or whatever it is that they're doing. Harry is purposefully staying out of it. She's come to see him separately, although that hasn't been much the last few weeks. He isn't sure if it's due to limited time, different priorities, and the thin thread of tension that's risen in their interactions. Not just with Nienna but with Káno, too. A strain in the notes that flow between the three of them. Or rather, between them and Harry.
He suspects that he's the one to blame for it.
Though admittedly, it could also be the more pressing situation at hand – Nienna's integration with her in-laws. She's been very tight-lipped on everything. Only giving reassurance that when Harry questioned her. Harry isn't sure he believes that. Especially with the speculative looks his family thinks he doesn't notice. More than once, he's caught Nerdanel studying him out of the corner of his eye. Face unreadable and aura solemn. Fingon isn't any better. Nor is Fingolfin. Argon merely bumped shoulders with him and told him not to worry, but he's the only one Harry asked directly.
No one has approached him about Káno yet. Though a not-so-small part of him wonders if that's happening now. If the reason for this gathering is a confrontation.
Fëanor's song, however, seems too exultant for that. Even as the elf himself just looks at him. An enduring flame waiting for him to finish his musings. It's an odd thing really. But then, Fëanor is a father to seven and a grandfather. He seems perfectly content for Harry to take his time now. Confirming that he has Harry's attention before he speaks.
"I know you care nothing for formalities," the elf begins, "but there are things we wished to share with you. It is all long overdue I must say."
Harry allows his gaze to stray to the others now, but he gets only warmth back. Even Curufin watches almost wistfully. Caranthir seems far, far too entertained. Fingon looks at him with a fond sort of patience, while Maedhros wears a soft smile.
Fëanor's grip tightens on his arms where he still holds on.
"Gifts." He clarifies at the perplexed look he receives, "For you, grandson."
Harry blinks at them all several times. More especially at the large box that Maedhros has in one arm and tucked against his side. Not so much hidden from view previously. More seen and dismissed as unimportant.
Harry really should know better. Fingon is kind enough to take pity on him, however.
"We've missed several momentous occasions in your life, nephew. Not to mention, you are our host," his uncle explains. "We were admittedly distracted at the start of our visit, and it never quite seemed the proper time."
Harry considers the logic of this. He did bring Fingon a variety of things for hosting him that second time. Especially since the first try was rather roughshod, entirely unexpected, and ended so abruptly. He can't say that this is unanticipated. More like Harry hoped to avoid it. The Ainur give him things and don't mind reciprocation. The Eldar are trickier than that and always appear overwhelmed when Harry tries to return the favor.
The elves around him aren't aware of his thoughts outside of Gil, however. Who stays by his side even as Fëanor finally moves back and to the left, but it's only a few steps as Maedhros comes forward. Fingon's beside him as he always he is now. The rest all arrange around him in a semi-circle as if gathering around for a proclamation. The attention is almost unnerving, but Harry's been stared at his entire life. This is nothing. Even in Formenos, he's had the unfortunate need to make rare announcements with hundreds and sometimes thousands assembled.
He merely settles for inspecting their offering and gives it all the appropriate consideration. He's learned that at least. Part from Káno. Part from his own time amongst the elves and the spectacle that the Ñoldor in particular favor when gifting things. The Sindar aren't much better. The Falmari, those he has, are at least more relaxed than their cousins. He doesn't know enough Vanyar to decide, but the Silvan and Avari are much more casual. Just as likely to leave something on his desk or just hand it to him as he passes them by. No ceremony involved. Here, Harry feels like he's the belle of the ball. Or the sole child at party with a mound of presents in front of him. He suspects that was rather Dudley's experience of things with his parents and Marge.
Harry keeps his face appropriately neutral with that thought, turning back to the task at hand. Shifting closer to trace his fingers over the perfectly straight lines. There's no paper. That's not something elves do. Instead, they use boxes. Usually wooden, carved. Or wrapped in silk. Sometimes even linen. Or more recently cotton cloth from Harry's own kingdom. Dyed in a variety of shades representing the giver or recipient. All the way from pure snow white to the dark blue of night and every color in-between.
The box here is a worthy enough gift, one that elves would use as a keepsake, and Harry suspects Fëanor or Curufin – likely both – have spent a suspicious amount of time on it. The wood is polished, not stained, but smooth. Gleaming and finished in a way that elves have perfected which was never quite right on Earth. Harry trails over the symbol outlined in actual silver and gold on top. The heraldry of Formenos, complete with the Deathly Hallows in the middle. It opens soundlessly without a single noise from the hinges or lock, but the contents are all covered by dark silk. Not black but close. So deep a hue that the green is only glimpsed as Harry starts to move it to the side. Excitement buzzes in the air now. Louder from his audience than from Harry himself. Even Gil inches closer, ever curious as Harry lifts the silken edge and peers at the contents.
Paintbrushes. A full set in every length and width that Harry could ever imagine or even need. All with fine metallic handles, unlike his usual wooden ones. He picks up a brush right in front to inspect the heft, the grip, but it's absolutely splendid. Just as he knew it would be. His gaze travels over it slowly as he inspects dainty engravings before drifting to the bristles. It takes him a second to realize that it's actual hair he's seeing. Unquestionably familiar. A light silvery shade that only one person in this castle has. Celebrían's isn't quite the same; hers has faint hints of gold hidden within. Oh, but one of Fëanor's sons does have light-colored hair.
Caranthir lets out another snort at Harry's lingering inspection. As if guessing his thoughts.
"A little recompense on his part." He gives an uncaring shrug at his brother's suffering. "It was uneven anyway, so ammë trimmed for him."
Harry can both hear and feel Gil-galad chortling next to him as he doesn't bother to hide it this time. Obviously wondering just how voluntary Celegorm's contribution to this enterprise truly was. Harry's wise enough not to ask. He just replaces the brush in it's proper place, slotting it into the holder that holds all the rest. Naturally arranged by size.
But even with all those, that doesn't account for the depth of the box. Harry chances a glance up at the expectant faces around him before pushing the silk back further. And there they are. Right beneath all the brushes. Really, he should've expected this from the very first glimpse inside.
Paints. So many paints. All neatly organized. That certainly explains the size of the box. Most definitely so as he pulls several free. These are more esoteric hues than Harry saw in Tirion. A variety that he thinks aren't regularly available for anyone but the most serious artists and probably made for or by them personally. That's what Harry usually does. It seems that so do Fëanor and his sons, judging by the amount here. Shades he didn't even know that the elves could make to be honest. Some that would be difficult without significant amounts of time or know-how. Others that even the peoples on Earth would've struggled to produce.
Harry doesn't want to contemplate the cost of this. Or the effort involved. He can do things the regular way but has magic to help him. Can create just about anything he wants or needs. It's a lot harder for the elves, master craftsmen or not. It takes them time. Labor. Materials.
Fëanor beams at the expression Harry knows he has to be wearing. Forge bright and fire dancing. Exhilarated to witness Harry's reaction.
"For each of my sons, I made them things for their craft. 'Tis only right that I do the same for you," he states, and it's all but a declaration. A flare of heat and light. "This is so little to offer, but it will do. For now."
He nods to himself as if in promise even as Fingon directs Harry to the top right corner. Tucked to one side is another box. Much smaller. Harry thought he caught the aroma earlier, and now without the woodsy scent of the larger container masking it, everything's much clearer as he picks it up. The scent of tea leaves and the mix of spice intermingled with other fragrances. Harry grows a variety of his own tea and trades for even more. However, here are some he didn't even know existed in Valinor. All neatly packaged and labeled for his use.
"We knew you wouldn't accept jewels," his uncle relates, "but we thought this a reasonable compromise."
Harry glances up from his rather close inspection of a packet. Black tea with candied pieces of a fruit he doesn't recognize and tiny purple flowers. It smells almost like the desserts Molly Weasley once made when The Burrow still had an orchard. Nostalgic but not bittersweet. More a comforting familiarity.
"I like tea," Harry remarks, and it isn't defensively. More than anything, he's touched that they actually paid attention to his preferences.
Fingon grins at him. "We noticed." But he says it with affection. "This isn't the full offering we brought, merely a sample. Auntie Findis has the rest in her room. Uncle Arafinwë, he obtained it all. Most are from Tol Eressëa or the southern coast."
Those aren't short trips for elves. They can't functionally teleport like Harry can, so he imagines these were likely bartered or bought through their contacts. Findis would certainly have those. Not to mention that Finarfin is the king of the Ñoldor, and son-in-law to the Falmari king. Still, nothing here is cheap. Not after factoring in exotic ingredients, storage, and travel. Of course, between the time it would've taken them to get to Formenos from when he left Tirion and they arrived here, they didn't have much time to arrange this. Especially if they brought it with them. Likely some of the paints, too. Though he imagines many of these were made by Fëanor and even Nerdanel on site. The paintbrushes definitely were along with the container.
He has a suspicion that this isn't everything either. They likely have even more hidden away. Just waiting for the right moment.
It's all too much really. Every single part of it. They don't owe him anything. Host or not. Their company is enough.
"Thank you," he tells them and means it.
The sky overhead is blue and cloudless. Radiant as Harry feels right now. The people in Formenos give him things. The Ainur leave him trinkets and all sorts of items. Many of them quite compatible with his interests, but this… This is personalized. These are made specifically for Harry. Or obtained with his tastes in mind.
Gil deftly takes the tea from his hands before even needing to be asked, and maybe he knows Harry a little too well. While Harry acknowledges that he isn't the most demonstrative person. Especially compared to the elves in general. This deserves extra effort.
Fingon meets him halfway, arm around his shoulder and drawing him in. Taking a long moment before turning to bring Harry to Maedhros. The redhead doesn't hesitate this time, having already passed off his burden. His grip is tighter now, more certain. Caranthir swans in next. Shoving the box back at Maedhros and stepping in before anyone else can get any ideas. Curufin just seems surprised to be included, but his hands settle on Harry's back momentarily before he steps away. Fëanor is last but certainly not least.
He guides Harry slightly away though. Enough for the others to get the hint, and even Gil drifts away to speak with Caranthir. Far enough that there's more than an illusion of privacy.
"Grandson," Fëanor says when he's certain they're alone, "I also thank you for the great gift you brought me. 'Tis truly a treasure. More than you can ever know."
There's something in his tone that tells Harry he could've given Fëanor the moon, and the elf couldn't possibly be happier. Maybe the sun and the moon both. But then, the first letter from a mother is more priceless than that. Personal words for her son who Harry isn't even sure knows her voice. Harry doesn't consider it a gift, not from him. Not when Míriel left it for him to deliver. It's more like transferring something from one friend to another. And he doesn't want Fëanor to feel obligated by it, but the elf quiets him before he can attempt a response.
"Findekáno warned me that you would not see the worth, but alas…" He shakes his head and gives a chuckle that could even be called disbelieving.
He simply studies Harry now. Searching his face but not as he did before. Not as if he looks for someone else.
"I find that I understand things more clearly now," Fëanor offers then. "I see why you say so little of Makalaurë."
Harry feels his heart skip a beat. Opens his mouth without any clue how to answer, but Fëanor presses on before he can.
"I have done a great many terrible things in my life. So much harm I did to my family – my wife and sons. Yet, I have never once begrudged them no matter how excruciating things became or how far into madness I sank." His tone is grave, full of ashes and dust. Full of memories as he continues, "I do not begrudge them now the choices they make or the lives they have, but I admit that I comprehend my own father's sorrow far better than I did before."
He gazes at Harry with eyes silver and shining. Too liquid bright in the painted sunlight. Full of regret. Remorse. For many things that Harry can't even grasp all of them before it's all shuttered away.
Fëanor sighs then, loud and long.
"If only we had known you sooner," he muses. "We missed so very much."
Harry doesn't look away. Can't. But he has to say it.
"I could've found you earlier," he admits.
It isn't a lie. He thinks he knows where they were in Mandos truth be told. Just outside the areas where the Ainur reside. Kept close for better supervision. Harry could've sought them out if he wanted. Could've defied Káno. Even Námo didn't explicitly tell him he wasn't allowed to roam elsewhere. It was implied that they wanted him to stay away from the elves, but he was never told outright. More like directed other places whenever he wandered that direction in the beginning. After a while, they weren't that worried about any attempts. Confident in his character and nature.
It would've been easy to slip away. To see for himself.
He hadn't. Only part of that was keeping Káno happy. The other wasn't even fear of getting caught. More not wanting to see, to feel the Ainur's disappointment. To know that he betrayed their generosity and faith in him. In his younger days, Harry would've gone anyway. Not given much thought to the emotions of anyone else.
But he isn't that person anymore. He's had his own trust broken too many times.
"And I could have not been there at all. I could have been a better man altogether," Fëanor counters. He smiles then. Brittle, bent like a sword that's not been fully reforged. "I shall be a better one now."
He presses something into Harry's palm then, but the elf folds Harry's hand over before he can see. There's silk beneath this fingertips, and he can discern the shape it wraps around, but the contents are a puzzle. He blinks at Fëanor questioningly. The look he receives back is one Harry's not seen him wear before. Something that wouldn't be out of place for Fingon or Nienna. Too familiar. Too fond.
It makes Harry's breath catch. Even as Fëanor squeezes his arm one final time and brings him back over to everyone else. To Gil. Handing him over with that same smile as before and wandering off to speak with his oldest.
Harry stares after him.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He still has Fëanor's gift in hand several days later. Running his fingers over the carved beak and detailed feathers. The shimmering black stone that shifts to an eerily familiar green for the eyes. The transition so seamless that even Harry has a hard time spotting the faint lines where one material ends and the other begins. The sheer amount of time even a small piece like this must've taken along with everything else… When did Fëanor even make this?
It's as all things this family does, insanely overdone and over-the-top. Gil certainly was surprised to see it. Pupils first impossible large but then solemn. Contemplative as he inspected the little statue before handing it back with all the ceremony of a healer delivering a firstborn. Only to promptly roll his eyes when Harry dropped it into his pocket for safekeeping. That action also earned him a kiss to the forehead before being whisked away upstairs to change for dinner, and the matter was purposefully forgotten. Though Harry can admit even if only to himself that he found his attention and hand wandering back every so often. Including now as he sits with Káno's harp in the dunes by Teddy's old cottage.
It's empty. Just an illusion the room has provided him, shaped by his own memory, but there's something comforting in the view when he turns his head and sees it in the background. And admittedly, it's nice to truly be alone for once. To not have to glance over his shoulder with almost-anticipation. He's so infested with elves these days that this seems to be the only place for a private conversation. Too many people are interested in his gardens, and Gil loiters in their suite. Not to mention that Eönwë lurks around at odd times, and Harry knows he's in the training courtyard even now with Finarfin and Fingolfin. Fingon and Maedhros are suspiciously close by, though Harry suspects a different Ainur is coming to meet them judging by her sudden appearance within the wards.
But for now, Harry can have a chance to speak to Káno without risk of anyone interrupting. Though Harry can acknowledge that he's largely been avoiding Káno. Now more than ever before. It's a strange thing really. For someone he used to speak with daily before Tirion, it's become increasingly infrequent, and Harry admits that mostly on his part. That this has been his doing. His choice. Káno, for all that he now lives in Imladris, would still reach out to him each night if Harry allowed it.
They haven't spoken about Elros either. That topic is a looming thundercloud overhead. One Harry spots darkening ever-so-slightly while Káno's seemingly unaware. Ostensibly ignorant. Harry knows better. Even if Nienna herself hasn't mentioned it. She's very much aware at this point. So her husband is, too. But neither even makes a reference, and he doesn't know what to think about that. Finds himself nearly antsy with expectation of words that just don't come. Disconcerted even now as Káno contents himself with telling Harry about the latest goings-on of Imladris. Of getting to know Arwen and her brothers and even Estel, who has ventured home to meet his many times great-grandfather.
Inevitably that leads back to Harry's own burgeoning elven population. Káno does tend to use their chats as an opportunity for a polite interrogation about the House of Fëanor. He seems particularly keen on Maedhros today. Asking both obliquely and outright. Fingon naturally comes up, too. Káno seems a little too interested in their recent marriage and the time afterwards, much like professors after-hours keen to gossip. Playing coy but so very eager to know more.
Harry doesn't have much more to share from what he's already said. Káno doesn't push so much as saunter. Finesse his way around to find out more. To figure out what they've been doing. If they leave to go anywhere. All the little details like Harry's some type of spy or gossip rag.
"No, they mostly stay at the castle," he tells him, which is true enough.
Maedhros and Fingon have only really left when they follow Harry somewhere else. Down to his office in the city. That one time to see Oromë and Tulkas. Otherwise, they just stay here. Wandering the grounds. Spending time with the extended family, including Harry himself.
They're kind of boring in all honesty. Hovering somewhere between the blissful honeymoon phase and old married couple.
Harry hopes that Gil-galad and he don't come off this way.
"Just in the castle?" Káno prompts. "Nothing else? Surely, you see them?"
Harry isn't fooled by his tone. The feigned ignorance. Káno already knows that he sees Fingon regularly. It's Maedhros he really wants to know about, but Harry isn't playing this game.
"You know that I do. You also know that I speak with them," he retorts but then decides to turn the tables. "Lately… well, they want to talk more about you."
The sound of the waves as they hit the shore is his only answer. The breeze as it flows across the sand. There are gulls, but that's just an illusion created by the room. Even the Silmaril is a distant echo. Content to float along with the evening stars in the illusionary sky and leave them to their conversation.
"Is that so hard to believe?" Harry asks after several long minutes without a reply. His fingers strum a single note. "That they wonder about you?"
"They know about the harp?" Káno is nearly hoarse. A strange thing for someone not physically there. Stranger still is the odd cast to the horizon. The color of a brewing storm.
"They know that I speak to you," Harry corrects. "They aren't idiots. It isn't exactly hard to figure out that we've some type of contact even before I told them. Ammë admitted it, too."
The elf is quiet to that, but Harry allows him a second. Lets that sink in fully as the wind picks up.
"They worry about you," he adds. "Where you are. What happened to you."
Nerdanel still hasn't asked him directly, but Harry sees the question in her eyes. One, he now realizes she'll never ask because she thinks it pains him. And isn't that the sharp stab of guilt every time he says nothing back! Each instance he bites his tongue and remains silent. He knows that Fingon and Maedhros both want to know more. That Fëanor yearns for it, too. All of them do.
But Harry underestimated their patience. And their compassion. He too judged them on being kinslayers and discounted that they may care about the feelings of another. Someone they claim as family.
Harry exhales slowly. Feels his heart beat seven times as he does.
"They want their brother back. Nerdanel, Fëanor… they want their son back." He plucks another chord, somber and seeking. "I'm sure you can understand that."
Káno's breath hitches, but he's still and echoing silence. Resounding for the soundlessness. It's a low blow admittedly. Harry's tired of this all, however. Weary of being stuck in the middle. This entire farce. Of Káno on one side and the House of Fëanor – of Finwë – on the other. Of being right between them with their disparate desires. Of being just a second-rate copy. For Elros. For everyone. A poor substitute when they can't have the original. In the shape and likeness but without any of the substance.
"I'm going to tell them the truth," Harry states then.
It isn't a decision he's made lightly. Gil already suspects. Knows he's never been to Endor. Has to recognize he's never actually met Káno. Is just waiting for the confirmation.
"Hinya…"
He offers it breathlessly almost. Surprised. A splash against Harry's soul when the water of the room hasn't even touched him.
"I can't lie to them," Harry insists. "Or sit back and say nothing. Let them assume. I can't pretend anymore that I'm your son."
Káno laughs.
It's jolting in the quiet between them. In the ominous clouds the room has summoned and the turbulence in Harry's own mind. It's so unexpected that he almost flinches. But somehow, it's also loud and reverberating across the ocean the separates them.
"Herurrívë," he says now, and it's reproving, "you are my son."
His tone is so sensible. So reasonable, as if he tries to convince Harry of nothing more than to wear a coat outside in the rain. To use an umbrella and remember his wellies.
"Am I?" Harry questions before he can stop himself, but he's uneasy. Off balance and teetering. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "No, I'm not."
"Hinya," the elf responds, still just as logical, "you can deny it others as much as you want, but we both know the truth." His huff of exasperation is a pelican ruffling his feathers. "I surmised from your mother that your words didn't fool anyone anyway."
"I'm not your son," Harry repeats. "I can't be."
The second part is softer, more to himself. Turned inward as he replays the last several minutes. Trying to make sense of them.
Káno just gives a sound like Molly Weasley hearing about the twins' antics.
"I have three sons. Who could else could possibly be the last?" He's somehow just so sensible despite the denials. "Elros. Elrond. Then you. Ask anyone in Aman, and they'll tell you. They all know who you are by now."
"No." Firmer now but not sharp. Solid as Harry finds his footing. "Ammë said you were my teacher."
He realizes his mistake even as he says it, but it's too late. Káno would roll his eyes if he thought Harry could see it. Probably already has.
"And yet, you call my wife your mother," he points out with a chuckle. Fond. Affectionate. "I call you hinya. What else do you think I meant?"
Harry returns, "She lets me call her that, and I have no idea what you meant."
It isn't like with Gil or with Fingon. Who both clarified things when they worried that Harry didn't understand. Who continue to clarify even now. Káno's never explained what he means, and if Harry didn't magically speak the language on waking up here, he honestly doubts Káno would've ever taught that word to him. Would've forever left him guessing.
Káno exhales. Harry notices him tap a finger against the harp as if they sat next to each other. Side by side and not nearly a world away.
"Why would I mean anything but what I say every time we speak? From the moment we first spoke?" The elf gives it as a question but acts like he knows the answer already. "You are my child."
"I'm not," Harry insists. "I've never been."
He isn't frustrated. Not yet. Not quite. More astounded. Yes, Káno calls him hinya, but he's never meant it. Not like that.
"You honestly think that?"
Did Harry say that aloud? Think it too hard? Does the difference matter? Why would he ever consider Káno his…
Harry shoves that thought away as if he used a Banishing charm. He's a little surprised Káno doesn't feel the impact.
"Why wouldn't you?" the elf queries now, but all his humor is gone.
Harry can give dozens of reasons. Hundreds even over their acquaintance. Some small, minuscule. Others titanic. Káno acts like he hasn't noticed any of them. Like they don't exist. Like every time Harry second-guessed himself didn't matter.
There's a flicker of annoyance. Glaring on ice like focused sunlight and slowly smoldering. For once though, Harry doesn't stamp it out. He lets it shimmer. Lets it breathe in and out. Fuels it with things he hasn't ever mentioned but always pondered on.
"Tell me," he begins, "is it normal for elves to wait over a century to name their children? You didn't do that to the twins."
It's rhetorical more than anything. Harry already knows the answer. Knows that for all he hasn't confirmed with Námo exactly, he has a general idea how long he was in Mandos. Also understands that not all elves follow the same conventions, but even the Sindar and Silvan give a name at birth or on adoption though a formal designation comes later. To not offer one immediately, that's an outright rejection. Aredhel's told him quite a bit about that. Vehement and furious even now. After all this time.
There's a rumble, but it doesn't come from the room around him. It's from the harp in his hands. Vibrating with tension.
"How do you know that?" Káno sounds like he was hit by the spray. Like he's coughing up water. "Did Nelyo tell you? Nienna?" He hitches as he asks, "Did Elros?"
Harry is completely unconcerned by the deflection. The lack of denial. Or maybe he's tired of those, too.
"You can't claim that I'm your son and then be surprised when your actual one tells me things."
Harry doesn't say, when everyone starts comparing their experiences and he realizes that it was very dissimilar indeed. Even taking into account the entire mess of the First Age.
"It was a very different time then," Káno manages.
As a defense, it's a weak one. Barely worth mentioning.
"I know you treated the twins differently," Harry replies softly. "You named both of them as a father would, but you didn't do that for me."
Yes, Káno gave him a name but almost as an afterthought. Certainly not as a parent was supposed to offer one. He isn't much for ceremony, but for important things… well, Harry likes to think he's worth at least some consideration. Or at least the option. Not to find out after the fact that if he's truly considered an elf, he was the oldest one lacking another parent-name. Since there's always someone else around willing to step in earlier. Any of the other Ainur could've done so. Instead, Harry chose his own, one which makes them grimace every time they hear it. Likely at least some part of why the elves in Formenos have tried so hard to drop it, too.
But that's a problem for later. He faces a different one now. Something that's long festered under the surface. That Harry's allowed to stay in the shadows. Hidden in the depths. Now, he's dragging it screaming into the light.
And maybe he's more than annoyed now. Perhaps he's letting that spark grow. Fanning it into a fine flame.
"You made it obvious that there was a line in the sand between us," he asserts, dangerously calm in the same way he is when facing death and dismemberment. "You didn't want certain things and were only willing to offer others in friendship. I tried very hard to respect that."
There's a serenity in the rising anger. In the blend of heat and cold. One that compliments each other more than stifles. That doesn't even pollute his world with smoke. It's cleansing if anything. Burning away all the thorns that he's permitted to fester.
Káno instead is drowning. Sodden and shaking. Even as he sits in a chair on dry land. In Imladris. Leagues and leagues from any sea.
"It isn't like that," he justifies. Aching. Sorrowful.
Harry laughs now. It isn't amused.
"I didn't even know your real name."
The wave when it comes, knocks the elf off his feet. Leaves him on his back and staring at the ceiling. In utter confusion of how reality could change so suddenly.
"When?" Maglor's tone is pleading. "When did you realize?"
Harry glances away from the harp. His eyes are distant, peering back at Teddy's cottage and then around the illusion around him at large. Familiar and missed so dearly.
"It wasn't hard to figure out; I suspected when I was still in Mandos," Harry informs him. "You weren't nearly as subtle as you imagine. There were plenty of clues. You spoke of your brothers and sometimes slipped with the names." He chuckles then, but it's a mirthless, bitter sound. "If I can piece together your epic ballad from fragments, did you not think I couldn't put that together?"
"I…"
Maglor clearly has no answer because he obviously never considered it. Never deemed Harry as anything but a simpleton. But a foolish child playing dress-up.
"Did you think I was such an idiot not to have figured it?" Harry doesn't even give the elf a chance to answer. "To not realize who you really were? All this time?"
He looks back to see Maglor still a drenched mess as he shakily rises to his knees on the floor. A growing puddle forming around him. It's ironic really. All those times that Harry wanted to see him, he does so effortlessly now. Glimpses him as easily as he can see his own hand as it lays on the harp.
Harry supposes it's time for his own confession now, however.
"I just didn't want to admit that someone I lo- that someone I trusted has lied to me in such an enormous way the entire time I've known him. It was easier to think that I had to be wrong." He snorts at his own stupidity here. "Or maybe it was easier pretending that it wasn't all a lie."
It'd be kinder if Harry struck him. If he stabbed Maglor. The noise he makes is like a wounded animal. Desperate and injured. Saturated robe dragging him down, hair plastered to his face.
"It wasn't a lie. It never has been."
He's begging to be believed. But there's another laugh in response. Fuller but more broken for it. Jagged at the edges.
"You lied to me for centuries," Harry retorts with a gnash of frost. One that ices over the water that soaks Maglor still. "The entire time I was in Mandos and over the century since I've been out and in Formenos. I didn't even know your full name until I read it in a book."
A measly book. Blue cover. Innocuous title. He didn't keep it in his library. Instead, it's locked in his private office. In a drawer in his study here in the castle. Kept separate so that no one else ever has to see. It's from Tirion, that very first trip, while Fingon showed him the city. He even insisted on paying. Harry still wonders if he knew the contents; if it was some sort of test. He hasn't dared ask yet, can't decide if the truth is worth the knowing.
Harry can't think of that yet. He won't. The way it felt to see Makalaurë Kanafinwë written on those pages. To have his entire world crumble beneath him. But even when he shoved that knowledge down as deep as he could, he could never escape it. There were reminders everywhere; Harry couldn't run away even in Formenos. If it isn't Inglor and his company, there's someone else questioning him on his appearance. Not even his castle is safe. After all, the symbol on the harp is their House crest. Maglor's former room in the old fortress has copies of songs he long ago taught to Harry, some of them original pieces. Not to mention the melody that Finarfin recognized at their first meeting is the same one that Maglor always sings.
And what a glorious idiot he felt like, still feels like when he finally acknowledged who Káno – who Maglor – really was. All that time he denied being his son. All those people he told. For every bit of his building ire, it's humiliation and shame that burn at him now like a torch lit at his feet. The Dursleys did so many things to embarrass him. To degrade him. This is so much worse. Drawn out over these years so that every single person he knows in this world is now involved. How foolish he seems to each one of them.
Harry can admit that he didn't want it to be true. That it was easier to keep Káno and Maglor separate. Rather than face something he's known all along. The worst part is that this is more than just Maglor. This is deeper. It involves all of the Ainur who know he has the harp – Nienna of course. Námo and Vairë. Oromë. Tulkas. Nessa and Vána. Eönwë. Others.
They all knew. All actively participated in the charade, but he can't figure out why. There are so many things he could feel right now, but he isn't sad at all. He's embarrassed, frustrated and angry. Furious at them. At himself. It's always the same; he never learns. People here are just more patient. Play the long game. The long con.
There's a crack in the background as Maglor at last frees himself from the ice. As he scrambles back to the harp over the frozen puddles on the floor.
"I never meant for this to happen," the elf implores. "You could have--"
"You could have what?" Harry interrupts sharply. "Come to you? When you hadn't been truthful a single day I'd known you." He gives a derisive sound. "You lied to me. They – the Ainur – all covered for you. The one person I had left to trust was a horse; I didn't have anyone else. I was isolated then. I barely knew any elves. I'd literally just met Fingon; I hardly even knew him. Not to mention, he mistook me for you that first time. And you… You refused to see me."
"Is that why--"
"Why I left Tirion the first time?" Harry finishes the question for him again. "Formenos was safe. It wasn't Mandos. Or Tirion. It was abandoned."
Unwanted. Broken. Like how Harry felt whenever he even tried to consider the truth. So he just pushed it down. As far as it could. Past the cupboard and even deeper. Fighting whenever someone tried to drag it back out into the light. But every time they did, he couldn't quite suppress it down as much. And little by little, it came to the surface.
Now, it's here for everyone to see. All the terrible glory.
Maglor's quiet now. Uncertain. How much of Harry's emotions that he catches is hard to say. Probably more than Harry would normally want to share. He's just beyond caring. Beyond trying anymore. Letting the moments tick by with only sullen silence between them. With only the steady bleed of resentment.
"I know that I'm not what you wanted," Harry says. At last gives words to deepest doubt he's had since coming here. "I know that Eru dropped me off and expected you to care for me, and that isn't fair to you."
It wasn't on their doorstep this time, next to the milk bottles. The sentiment is the same though. Left without agreement and likely any real knowledge on Maglor's part. It's a testament to his character that he's treated Harry as kindly as he has, been so charitable to the unexpected burden dumped on him.
"That is not true! None of that is true," Maglor affirms loudly, vehemently. With abject shock that ripples throughout. "You're my son. I love you."
Harry closes his eyes.
He'll never admit what it means to hear this. Or how long he's wanted it. He isn't a child, but it's an old dream he thought truly faded. Burned away to ash. A person can only take so many rejections before hope dies. Before it withers away as dust on the wind. All these years spent being pulled closer with one hand while he's shoved away with the other. Maglor has offered him nothing but contradictions. Naught but empty words he's never meant.
Perhaps Harry's simply done with it all. With competing against ghosts. With always being too much or not enough.
"I don't believe you."
It's said quietly. Harry hasn't yelled this entire time. Too many years of dealing with screaming parents and children have taught him a patience that he never had when he was younger. He's more reserved in his fury when he finally allows himself to feel it. Still, there's something liberating in this admission. In at last being honest.
"Hinya…"
"Don't call me that. Don't pretend." It's his turn to chide. The same way he once admonished his students. "You said it yourself; you've never even met me."
They're strangers after all. Harry only knows a fragment, a figment. All of Maglor's understanding is based on whatever fancies Nienna told him initially and the secrets Eru gave away without Harry's permission. No wonder the foundation crumbles now. It's built on quicksand. Sinking down faster than they can climb free.
That settles it then. It's simple really.
"I supposed that we don't have much reason to keep up this farce now. It's better just to let things lie," Harry comments. Even as he nods to himself. "You can go your way, and I can go mine."
It takes a second for his words to penetrate, but Harry knows when they do. When he hears the breath Maglor sucks in. When he feels the elf's world go completely and utterly still. Silent. Quiet as a grave.
"No," the elf retorts. "No. Never."
It's fierce. Shouted even. As Maglor struggles to reach for him.
But Harry jerks back.
"We don't have to drag this out," he deflects. "It's better this way."
"Don't do this. Please."
Did Elwing beg? Did any of the others? The ones Harry now harbors within his borders? There isn't any satisfaction in hearing Maglor now. If anything, Harry just wants it to be over. He doesn't desire to hear Maglor debase himself. He isn't Morgoth; he takes no pleasure in this.
"Please, hinya." It's aching. Fracturing at each word. Maglor's world darkens with every passing second. "We can sort this out."
But it's too late for that. He's already chosen.
"You decided not to see me, and I've decided not to speak to you," Harry relates ever-so-succinctly. Sensibly. "We both get what we want this way. I thought you'd be happy."
It seems wrong to end things on that note. To let over two centuries of their acquaintance go without some type of farewell even with how things concluded. To have these be his last words to Maglor.
Maybe he is a sentimental fool, but he can at least offer him something kinder.
"Have a good life," Harry tells him and means it. "Take care of yourself."
He lets go before Maglor can even begin to form a reply. His subsequent shouts are muffled. Growing more distant as Harry builds walls between them. He stands a minute later but leaves the harp in the sand. Upright. Supported by gentle curves in the dune. Far back enough that the water will never reach. It's both one of the hardest and easiest things he's ever done to leave it behind. The latter because he could turn at any second and retrieve it, but the former because he forces himself to keep walking. To keep going as the room provides him a door.
Harry hesitates at the threshold. He can still hear Maglor calling after him. Begging for him to come back. But if he passes through, he knows that will fall silent. That the blocks he's steadily forming will prevent Maglor from reaching out to him any other way.
It's a decision of a thousand cuts. None of them deep enough to kill but each accumulating until the wound is grievous indeed. Hemorrhaging in a steady stream that even Harry can't quite stop.
He walks out to the sound of Maglor shouting his name one last time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Nerdanel – Comes back to their room to find her husband slumped over his desk with wrinkled papers in hand.
Nerdanel!Again – So nostalgic. Teehee.
Nerdanel!Final – Gently takes Míriel's letter and puts a blanket over his shoulders.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Caranthir – So do we have everything together?
Maedhros – Sighs. We can go through the list.
Curufin – The box. Shows off in front of him proudly.
Fingon – Check.
Nerdanel – Raises her hand. I just finished the last of the paints.
Maedhros – Check but needs to be organized.
Amrod – Volunteers as tribute.
Amras – We can do that.
Fingon – Paintbrushes?
Fëanor – Rubbing his chin. Only a few remain, but we might need more… supplies.
Everyone – Purposefully doesn't look somewhere particular in the room.
Maedhros – Very dryly. Really?
Fingon – That's unfortunate.
Celegorm – Grudgingly. I suppose I can help.
Caranthir – Snickers to himself. Check.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fingolfin – The tea was a wonderful idea, hinya.
Argon – Thanks. I figured he would enjoy it.
Finrod – Hopefully, he likes the rest.
Findis – Oh, we're holding on that for now.
Angrod – Nods. Good to have something in reserve.
Celebrían – Was it difficult getting everything on time, grandfather?
Finarfin – We are fortunate that your grandmother and aunt have many friends willing to help out.
Argon – Whispers. Auntie threatened them.
Findis – Sniffs. Nothing so uncouth.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – Makalaurë… Sigh.
Fëanor!Again – Why is he such a fool?
Fëanor!More – Does he not understand what he does to us? To his son?
Nerdanel – Just listening as she sits next to him.
Fëanor – Realization. Is this how my father felt? All this time?
Nerdanel – Pats his cheek. Oh, husband. You've only just now recognized this?
Fëanor – ( ب_ب )
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Maglor – Herurrívë!
Silence.
Maglor – Herurrívë!
Silence.
Maglor – Softer now. Nienna.
Notes:
Gildor Inglorion – A canon character from LotR and Inglor's son. Or literally Gildor, Son of Inglor. Canon names were swapped around a few times and Inglor was originally Finrod (I believe), but that was later changed and Finrod canonically has no children, but Gildor remained in the text. In this verse, he had a falling out with his kinslaying father and joined Finrod's group but now remains one of the last of them still in Middle Earth.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-AN: Happy anniversary to this story on the 28th. One year! Wooo!
The Maglor scene was actually one of the first parts I conceptualized, and it's gradually evolved as the story progressed. Their confrontation was always planned since that relationship definitely has a lot going on in the background.
Also Fëanor. He's genuinely remorseful because let's be honest, the Ainur of this verse wouldn't have let him out otherwise (since they learned their lesson with Morgoth). Only, Fëanor is now on the other side of things with an obstinate son who won't listen/reach out to him, is actively suspicious of his siblings, and only trusts his wife and children. Fëanor definitely empathizes with his father now. Character growth is amazing.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 31: Chapter 31
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He doesn't know what to think about Fingon. Their first meeting was certainly dramatic enough, and even over a month later, Harry's still debating with himself over the matter. Not only that but the fact that he's still here at all now. It seems that every time he's finally wrapped up this little adventure, Fingon has come up with something else to show him. Another reason for him to stay longer.
A day trip around the city.
The arrival of his brother, Argon.
An awkward dinner here.
Something a little too much like a tea party there.
The whole experience is an exercise in the surreal. More so that living in Mandos with the Ainur.
Harry's treated like an honored guest. Like he isn't a stranger off the street or a case of mistaken identity. Rather like someone of pedigree and importance. Despite his numerous protests.
His room is richly appointed. Perhaps a bit too much so, if Harry's completely honest. The Magical world was hardly known for its subtle and tasteful decor, but somehow, he's never quite felt so much like a boy barely stumbled out of his cupboard as he does now. The Ainur's domains are otherworldly in more ways than one, but not even they make him quite this awkward. Those are mystical in a manner that few things on Earth even dreamed of matching. This is posh. Pricey. Far to expensive for his comfort level.
Not to mention, the wardrobe is full of clothing that's just his size. Harry doesn't even know where to begin with that. There the instant Harry opens the doors that first evening. Just waiting for him. Not new but painstakingly preserved. With a sense of age that isn't physical. Harry can almost imagine a scent lingering in the fabrics. Hear the rise and fall of the ocean as he pulls on the least ostentatious tunic he finds the next morning.
The meals are all princely quality. The type of setting that Harry expects at the most formal dinners. All the more uncomfortable for the fact that it's only the two – then three – of them in the dinning room. And Harry's placed right next to his host.
It's quite exhausting.
Harry wants to leave. To go back to his room in Mandos. But he knows the Ainur won't allow that. Maybe a night or two. They've already made it clear enough that's it. He's overstayed his welcome. If he travels to another of their domains, they'll likely just kick him out, too.
Is it truly surprising that he lingers? That he allows Fingon his excuses? After all, where else is is Harry supposed to go?
It doesn't help that Káno wants him to stay. Urges him to do so those few stolen moments Harry's dared speak to him. He does so quietly, worried that someone will either overhear or see the harp. A silly fear with his wards, but one that Harry can't fully shake. He doesn't want to risk it though. Káno's been his constant companion since practically the beginning. And aside from Indilwen and a visit with Nienna, the only one of his friends to see him since he left Mandos. He didn't realize how hard it would be without everyone else, without the Ainur. How used he was to their presence. And admittedly wandering the wilds of Valinor isn't nearly so fun without Oromë, Huan, or the rest.
It's amazing how much he's come to depend on them. How much he misses them now, but the Ainur always intended for him to seek out the elves. Harry just didn't think it would be in such a manner. All but shoving him out the proverbial door and making themselves scarce afterwards. He also doesn't want to consider how bothered he is by that either. How easily it was for them to put him to the side and seemingly forget about him. He'd almost even believe that if not for the fact that he can hear their auras lingering. Feel their attention subtly shifting his direction. It's out of sight, but perhaps they don't even realize that he can sense their scrutiny like a melody in the back of his mind.
He doesn't know what to do with that either.
Harry puts it out of his mind though for the sake of Fingon's most recent venture to the grand market. Which is held monthly and the last was naturally the first week Harry was here. How convenient for Fingon to forget until this very moment. Harry has to admit that it's an interesting enough experience. Wistful and nostalgic even to watch the elves wandering around and browsing. Now that they aren't overtly staring at him, as they did on the day of his arrival, he can appreciate how long it's been for him. How long it was since he last saw this many people in one place. Carefree. Untroubled.
Something that Earth hadn't been for a long time.
Harry meanders through both the surrounding shops and the open-air stalls. Though he hesitates to use that term for the latter given their marble columns and silk overhangs. Far too many eyes still follow him as he peruses the wares, but Harry's an old hand at that game. Used to the attention after these centuries. Even as Fingon does his best impression of a barnacle. Or maybe a burr. Stuck a little too close to his side.
Of course, Fingon attempts to buy him anything that his gaze so much as lingers on too long. Which is how Harry ends up with a matched pair of quilts, a new dressing table complete with bench, and a trio books. Harry sighs to himself afterwards and very pointedly doesn't look at much of anything else for the next several hours. Especially when he returns from dinner to find the table has appeared in his room and replaced the one that previously sat there. While one of the quilts is now on the bed; he doesn't look for the other.
The books, conveniently left out on the desk, are at least interesting in a morbid sort of way. The first two occupy his attention that night more than Harry's willing to admit, but really, he shouldn't be surprised in what elves find entertaining. He doubts, however, Fingon would've bought them if he knew the contents. Harry's hardly a stranger to this sort of thing. He was headmaster at a school full of hormonal students. Has lectured more than once on safeties and sensibilities not to mention discretion. What he has here are fairly tame by Earth standards. Especially compared to what he knows Hermione and Victoire read. Those were purely fiction though. These put a little too much emphasis on historical for their romances. Still, he chuckles a bit too much to himself as he settles in. Imaging the expression on Fingon's face if he any idea.
Harry doesn't actually look at the third book at all until several days later. Once he's finished the other two and tried very hard not to laugh every time he saw his host. The last is the largest volume of the trio, more than double the size of the others combined. The cover and binding are in graduated shades of blue with the darkest shade in front and the title in gilded lettering.
"Investigation and Insight into the Last Days of the Trees and the Flight of the Ñoldor," he reads out loud.
It sounds dull enough. Like one of the dry treatises assigned during his own education, but this isn't a topic that the Ainur ever truly like discussing. Káno even less so. He hasn't heard the elven opinion on the matter, but it's all laid out before him now, he supposes. Bound together under a cover and in impersonal letters of black on the cream-colored pages. He may as well take a look; it isn't like he has anything else to do with himself, and Harry has nothing but time on this hands. He reclines on the bed, pillows at his back, as he rests against the headboard. There's enough moonlight streaming in the windows that he doesn't need anything else, and he'll have hours and hours yet until dawn. Until anyone else in the house stirs.
Yet, it's only once he actually starts reading that the proverbial bolt of lightning hits him. That he truly recognizes what he holds. This book is about the House of Fëanor. There are sections for the namesake himself, others for each of his sons, a separate one for Finwë followed by another for the rest of his House, and even a final part the end for the other major players. It's something for everyone here. Each member of the House; they're even laid out in order.
Fëanáro Curufinwë
Maitimo Nelyafinwë
Makalaurë Kanafinwë
There's a frizzle in his thoughts even as his eyes trace over the name. As all the breath rushes out of his lungs with the force of tornado. As a tingle spreads from his fingertips to his palms all the way up his arms. He tastes copper in his mouth as the book falls from his suddenly useless hands to his lap, but he doesn't even notice the impact. His entire body has gone numb. Lifeless for all that his heart still beats. There's a sound of a cupboard door slamming shut deep in his mind, and he's alone. Shuttered. Glacial cliffs reaching impossibly high. But his chest burns. Blazes. Melts under the onslaught. Crackles like fragile glass. Like too thin ice giving way. Sheering off underneath until he goes under.
Followed by blessed emptiness.
Harry feels himself slide from the bed. Stand. He goes through the motions thoughtlessly. Automatically. A broom that flies itself without an owner. Can only watch himself summon all his belongings. Shrink and tuck them into his pocket. Straighten the room with a flick of his finger. Clean the blood that has dripped down to the bedspread. Apparate to Indilwen in her stall. See her startled expression as she glances up at him, eyes widening even more as his cloak settles over his shoulders.
Then…
He wakes to the sound of distant birds singing. The rustle of leaves. The smell of the air just at dawn. The peek of light as the sun rises.
Indilwen's at his back. Her head curls down and around to rest on his lap. Even as his right hand sets on her neck, fingers twined in her mane. His cloak is across his other side and that arm, wand in hand, and he wonders why he even has those out as he opens his eyes. Only to blink in befuddlement of where they are.
It's… Where is this?
He slowly scans around. This way and that. Putting the puzzle pieces together slowly. In fragments.
It's a courtyard. Old. Weathered. With grass between all the flagstones and trees gone wild. Flowers boldly blossoming without any sense of rhyme or rhythm. There's a house to his left, and it looks much the same. Empty. Abandoned. Forgotten in a way that nothing else in Valinor he's seen so far has been. But there's a strength here. A defiance to the stones and walls that don't appear the least crumbled. A sense of familiarity. As he looks at the crest above the door and in the center of the courtyard. Just beyond his feet.
Harry isn't sure how long he sits there. Half-staring. Half-studying his surroundings. Lulled by the atmosphere and Indilwen as she continues to sleep. He can feel her exhaustion as she nuzzles into his leg, but her rest isn't peaceful. Ears flickering. Nostrils flaring. Tail swishing at specters. He soothes that away even as he tries to ward off the cobwebs in his own mind. Flickers of old dreams. Dumbledore and the train station. A wizened hand on his shoulder. Voices frantically calling out for him from far away. A ballad of desperate yearning like the moon seeking the tides.
He can hear it now even in the background, and the harp comes to him with a single thought. But the ocean is turbulent. A tempest. Sky so dark that Harry can't see anything at all from the shoreline except when lightning flashes. His own words are lost to the howling of the wind and the hurricane sands. So Harry does the first thing that comes to mind. He plucks several strings in a chorus.
Káno abruptly stops playing. Everything immediately stills, silences.
"Hinya," he breathes. It's said like a man who's seen a ghost. One not feared but sorely missed. "Oh, hinya. I was so worried."
"I'm fine," Harry replies immediately.
The water is calmer now, but it crashes to the shore with the force of an Expulso.
"It's been--" His friend lets out a sound like sigh mixed with a sob. "Nienna could not find you anywhere!"
"I'm still in Tirion," Harry tells him. Sending out a pulse of magic to confirm his suspicions.
And indeed, he's correct. Or close enough to it. Definitely within the Ñoldor's purview and not nearly far enough away from Fingon or elves in general. Not for Harry to be comfortable staying here for longer than it takes Indilwen to wake up.
"You left Findekáno," Káno continues, but it's less an accusation and more a distressed plea. "We didn't know where you went. We thought… Whatever may have happened, I--"
"Nothing happened," Harry counters. Not quite sharp but still firm enough to interrupt. "I'm simply… looking around. I'm seeing the world. Just like everyone wanted."
It's a little white lie. Harmless. Victimless. Bloodless.
"You were gone," the elf retorts. His tone is hollow. Distorted. Fractured. "You were gone," he repeats.
And there's a stab of sharp agony all the way to Harry's bones. Quick but deep before Káno can control himself again. Before he takes a step back even as Harry knows he wants desperately to reach out again.
We… I… I can't lose you." He says it breathlessly. Like he can't get enough air.
"I've hardly gone anywhere at all," Harry denies. Deflects. Says almost in jest. In the typical pattern of their banter.
Káno doesn't laugh as usual. Instead, the seaside trembles around him. The clouds rumble and blacken. Rain, not waves, soaks the shore.
"Your mother is coming," the elf informs him.
Harry starts so abruptly that Indilwen lets out a snort. Her eyelids flutter.
"Why would she come?" he questions back, and there's a flare of frost. "I'm fine."
"Hinya--"
"Dearest?"
He opens his eyes to Nienna. To his mother.
She's the only one he's ever really known. Lily Potter gave her life for him, but she's always been a voice in her worst – and last – moments. A memory as she's slain. A phantom that the ring drew forth and he never dared dwell too long on how real that actually was.
Molly and Andy had their own children. Ones who they mourned deeply the rest of their lives and Harry knew it was never his right to take the place of what they lost.
But Nienna is very real. Very present. Welcoming. Has spent more time with him, truly been by him longer than any single person on Earth ever managed. She's never made him doubt her affection even as he hesitated on what to name it.
Not until now.
Now, he examines her as she waits before him. Now, he wonders if he knows her at all. How much he's ever mattered. He admits there are things he could and should've said earlier, but the illusion was comforting. The lie was easier. He's an intruder in this world. Was from the very start. He was lost and alone. Long before he ever came here. The Ainur just make it so simple to forget that he isn't one of them; Nienna makes it so easy. With every word and each soft smile. With every touch and each reassurance.
But… But… She's never called him her son. Even her husband refers to her as his mother, but she's never reciprocated. Has allowed him leeway the other direction. Hasn't ever corrected him.
Harry sighs. He lifts his head from his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Takes a long few minutes to study her. Hair all but white beneath her gray hood, but her dress is a soft green, almost effervescent. The light from the windows is a halo around her, but she's radiant enough without it. Standing in front of him as he sits in his atelier. Song forever mournful.
She's lovely. Always lovely. Kind. Generous.
He can't trust any of it. Doesn't know how much of it's truth or wishful thinking or just plain delusion.
There's an anger that shifts underneath the surface of his world, and she has to hear it in his aura. In the icy fangs and sting of the cold winds. In the overhead clouds that have absolutely nothing to do with his beloved. Gil, he knows, is still in their suite. Giving Harry the space he needs after his argument with K--Maglor. But he receives a brush of awareness. An inquiry. An offer.
Harry declines. This is his battle.
"Why?" he asks her.
It's a simple question for such a terrible thing. He doesn't even have to explain. She knows what he wants. Knows him too well.
Her weeping is a steady stream, endless, as she gazes at him. He wonders now how much of it is genuinely for him. Or for someone else.
"He was not ready for you to know." It's faint like fog. Gray and obscuring. "We were not ready."
Harry isn't surprised by that. Not really. But it doesn't make it any easier to hear. Doesn't lessen the blow. Doesn't make the knife to his chest feel less real. So much so that he actually glances down to confirm that he hasn't been stabbed again. He has before. This is similar enough that it's hard to tell the difference. That he expects a real wound instead of an imaginary one.
He should've known her loyalty would be with her husband. Not the stranger Eru bestowed like a Yule goose. It's obvious. It genuinely is She even told him from the beginning. Only the gift was never meant for him; Harry himself was the offering. Packaged and delivered. He wants to be upset. To fill with righteous fury. To even argue as he did with Maglor. To rage and curse as he would've in his younger days. When Tom Riddle still sat nestled against his soul. Leeching in his thoughts and actions. But so much of him changed with the second Killing Curse. Or maybe so much of Harry became himself again. Whoever that may be these days.
Now, he just stares at her. Metallic taste on his tongue. Numbness in his core. Tingling across his skin.
Nienna steps in closer to him. She's autumn leaves in a slow fall. A murmur against the floor as she reaches for him.
"I never meant to hurt you, my dear."
Harry looks at her. At the tears ever flowing, eyes fathomless with starlight. At hands that have comforted him right from the start. He listens to the notes that move for him like a faithful mist.
He shifts away.
"You failed."
Somehow, he keep his tone steady. Words matter-of-fact. Empty of inflection.
She freezes. Stricken as surely as if he lashed out. She hovers, poised but still, expecting the wintry bite that never comes.
"I want you to leave."
He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't yell. It isn't even harsh.
She's a Vala. Is older than the world. Ageless and immortal. Desolate. Chorus dropping out completely.
"Dearest…" she whispers. It's a mix of horrified and devastated. More so than any other time he's ever seen her. Even when she spoke of and remembered Melkor.
Harry has to close his eyes at the expression she wears. Has to blink for a moment to steady himself. He stands up if only to get further away. To build distance.
It's better this way. Better to stop pretending. Better to let the lie finally die. She deserves more than the resentment brewing beneath the surface. That even now shoots shadowy tendrils across the snowfields. Better to end this here before he says, does something they'll both regret. Setting her free is the kindest thing he can do for her now.
"I want you to leave," he repeats. Takes a heavy, hard breath. "And not come back."
What is it for a heart to break? His has been in pieces for such a long time. Stitched together only to be rended apart again and again. Until he discarded the fragments on the floor and simply stepped over them.
Hers shatters. Shards that impale both of them. Harry shrugs off the impact; it's only pain. It'll pass. It always does.
"You cannot mean this."
She gives it so faintly that he can barely even hear despite how close they still are. Her physical form flickers even as she shakes her head in utter rejection, total denial. The reality of her blurs at the edges, but her glory is swallowed by her anguish.
"My dear--"
"Your loyalty is to your husband," he interrupts, explains. Gentle as he delivers the killing blow. "It'd be cruel of me to expect anything else of you."
The silence that follows is sickly. Actively dying in front of him. Withering away to ashes and dust. Nienna stares at him for a moment that lasts into eternity. For infinity stretching out. Reaching across a vast chasm but never quite grasping on. Finally, she lowers her head in defeat. In recognition. In complete and utter resignation. In surrender.
She vanishes.
Harry exhales shakily. Once. Twice. Again. More as he collapses back into this favorite armchair. He's alone in the room. Alone in his mind with barriers pulled high. His love is a steady, soft beat. A cadence of comfort as he appears. Not by magic but by simply opening the door and walking inside. He doesn't say anything as he comes over to put a hand on Harry's arm. Merely stands in quiet support. Reassuring and real. Even as Harry slips into his inner world to assess the damage.
It's amazingly calm. Still clouded with a warm rain that somehow melts nothing, but the winds have stopped. His castle, his palace is pristine. Surrounded by thick ice. Even further in, his cupboard is untouched. Still warmer, more welcoming as it's been the last months. Contents disheveled but somehow undamaged.
He goes deeper. Down and down. And there they are. The two tallest trees – silver and gold. So close as to be almost intertwined. The center of his world. The foundation he's built his life on since coming here. Others are all around, smaller, shorter. But some are growing fast. Gaining ground even as he observes. One outshines them all, but Harry isn't here for that, for him. Has to force his eyes away as he takes a step towards the middle.
The tree of gold shivers, sobs in waves. The leaves of the silver fall continuously as Harry watches. As he inspects them both with a critical eye. A not so small part of him wants to tear them down. Rip them out by the very roots that run so deep, that dig so far into his core. Cut out every single piece of them until nothing is left. Set those remains alight and burn it all down. To make them feel exactly how he does. To make them feel everything. Each hurt. Every wound. All of them.
Only…
He takes a shuddering breath and releases it to the count of seven. Takes another and does the same. Draws himself up and away. Opens his eyes in the outside world and just keeps breathing. Each exhale a mist of air as the temperature around him drops slightly. As Gil kneels down in front of him. They don't speak as his love strokes a finger over his cheek, and Harry lets his heart rate slow. Gil is still quiet, still watching him as he draws his shields up even more. Higher and tighter than he ever has since coming here. Walling off paths and parts of himself wholly in a way that he never has before. Leaving only select ones alone. Catching flashes of startled alarm before each cuts off completely.
Eönwë's is the sharpest. The clang of a sword against metal that rattles his teeth. Resounding not in his soul but in the backdrop of the castle. An echo that every single person inside has to have heard. Even the most oblivious resident.
Gil offers him a mournful smile then. Takes his hand, lifts it to place a kiss on the back before releasing. Harry gives a single nod and apparates downstairs. This isn't a confrontation he ever expected. None of them have been, but he may as well make it three for three today. Maglor. Nienna. And now, Eönwë.
He knows the House of Finwë loiters in the background. Just out of sight but never out of mind. Finarfin and Fingolfin are the closest. Were in the training courtyard with Eönwë earlier, but Maedhros and Fingon are quickly approaching. Followed by others. Celebrían with her two uncles, Finrod and Angrod. Findis, Nerdanel, and Fëanor are coming from the far side and will take longer. Argon though is at the nearest hallway from the other side.
The last thing Harry wants to do is make a spectacle of himself. However, it's a bit late for that. Definitely so as the Maia approaches at a rapid clip. Down the corridor but stopping directly in front of Harry with a precision that would make many a Quidditch fanatic weep. Eönwë doesn't touch him. Doesn't actually reach out or block his path. But there's a shimmery wing made of light and song that stretches out. Long enough that it extends until feathers nearly brush the wall. Harry either has the option to walk through it or stop. He does the latter, and it isn't only because he doesn't know what would happen if he kept going.
"Marcaunon," the Maia says, and his tone is flat. Inflectionless. Benign like he addresses nothing more than inconvenient weather.
And yet, there's something else. The slightest tremble in the call of the trumpet. The faintest hesitation in the war drum. His eyes are dark, deep. Color obscured completely until Harry can't even tell what it should be. He doesn't really want to do this here. Doesn't want to air their dirty laundry for his elven family to see, but Eönwë doesn't give him a chance for anything else as notes curl across his wrist. Urging him forward even as they curve around to settle on his shoulder and soothe over this back.
Harry shrugs them off.
Eönwë doesn't show his shock on his face. He's too controlled for that, but it's in his aura. In the stutter of the rhythm. The faintest flutter of feather-tips.
"You had to know I'd figure it all out eventually," Harry murmurs, softly enough that only the two of them can hear as elves are nearly upon them.
A missed beat then. Dropped completely. Stuttering in the refrain as more notes come in too early or too late. Eönwë watches him now without blinking. Without breathing. Such mundane things forgotten. He doesn't offer any defense though. Much less an apology.
Why would Harry ever expect that?
He steps back as his uncles round the corner. Fingolfin is first along with Finarfin. Both are still in their practice armor, swords in their sheaths, but available if needed. Fingon and Maedhros arrive together, not quite appearing to have run but near to it. Argon comes from the other direction. Is the closest in truth but stops a mostly polite distance away.
"Please leave," Harry states then. Louder than before.
It's clear who he addresses. More so as he further solidifies the walls in his mind. Meters-thick ice that grows even more as the seconds pass. The Maia doesn't look at anyone else but him. Harry would think he hasn't noticed their audience but for the knowledge of his character.
"Marcaunon," Eönwë repeats. Voice actually lowered.
"Leave," Harry interrupts before he can add more.
His friend says nothing back. Says nothing else. Just stares at him with a blank expression but something else entirely brewing under the surface.
Harry finds that he lacks the patience for that now. For that today.
"Just go," he says then.
But Eönwë doesn't. He hesitates. Seemingly unsure. Song questioning. Focus shifting to the elves and back.
Harry won't ask him again, however. In fact, he doesn't.
Eönwë has trained with him. Trained him. He knows Harry's abilities better than just about anyone, but he's just as shocked as them. Isn't prepared at all. Or maybe he never quite realized how much harder Harry could've tried during their lessons if he'd a mind to it.
Forced apparition isn't the most pleasant thing on a good day. Is downright terrible the rest of the time. Harry's gentle as he can be, even as Eönwë fights him, but Harry already knows he'll win. This is Harry's castle in Harry's kingdom. This is his domain. Eönwë is many things, but he isn't the boss here. He isn't the king. He isn't one of the Valar.
He disappears with a single blare of the trumpet and much to the startlement of their elven onlookers. Harry though can't quite fight off the guilty feeling at that last note of betrayal. Not as he gazes at the empty spot where Eönwë just was, and he nearly jumps when an arm comes up to settle on his shoulders. Harry stiffens for an instant before relaxing as Argon pulls him in closer. Not quite into his side but rather near to it.
"Where did you send him?" his cousin asks almost solemnly.
Appropriate for the situation. But Harry just wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
"Near Tol Eressëa."
It's a watery landing. Not nearly as harsh a one as Harry could've given him. More a surprise splashdown.
Eönwë can swim. And fly. He'll be fine.
It'll just take him a little while to get back. Since he never did learn to apparate. Only Nienna knows, but she's already gone. He felt her leave Valinor completely even with their connection closed. Likely gone to join her husband in a distant, different land entirely. The same place they've forbidden Harry to go.
Typical.
Argon gives something of a half-amused, half-bemused snicker. It's better than it could be, Harry supposes. The arm around him tightens, but Harry doesn't dare relax. Not yet.
Nienna may have left, but other Ainur are headed this way. Harry doesn't need a bond to feel their intent like a pulse. It's a rhythm in the very sky, seas, and earth. Louder with each passing second. They can't get here instantly though. Not without Nienna or Harry himself to play taxi. It gives him plenty of opportunity
He lets the wards rise. Hears the bells toll as power cascades through. The elves will see; he knows they will. This much magic will be visible, won't be subtle. Will be a sheen across the air. A glimmer over the entire kingdom. The elves will still be able to move freely though, along with the eagles and all the others. The Ainur, however, are personae non grata. The Valar could get in if they wanted badly enough. Harry even concedes that he couldn't really do much against them if they'd a mind to it, but he'd make them work for it. Make them fight for every inch.
He wouldn't; he won't. He hasn't a kingdom to consider. People who depend on him to keep them safe, and fighting the Valar is hardly good for their continued collective health and sanity. But the wards are enough of a sign for the Ainur to back off.
He doesn't have to be connected to them to hear their distress on the winds. Their calls to him. He sees Manwë's eyes flick his direction. Harry holds his gaze. Peers straight back at him as the seconds tick by. Doesn't blink at all. Doesn't glance way. Looking into blue, blue eyes that are impossibly deep with emotions Harry doesn't want to name. Harry keeps gazing at him until he's blocked from view. Until Fingon moves in front of him, Maedhros just behind.
After that, Manwë and all of the Ainur are out of sight and out of his mind.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"No snow," Gil muses.
It's said very softly. So quietly that it has to be to himself. He stands by the balcony doors of their suite, peering down at the grounds. It's later than usual, and the sun has already almost fully risen, but admittedly, Harry has little urge to get up. He's still in his dressing gown. Perching on the edge of their bed and contemplating even going downstairs versus just summoning breakfast from the cupboard.
He isn't hiding. He isn't!
He's tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical fatigue or having been up all night, baking away his stress with his love right beside him. It's more from going through all the stages of grief, sliding past acceptance and straight into exhaustion. That doesn't begin to cover how he feels after explaining to Gil all the events of yesterday. And yet, somehow, Harry's also utterly calm. Has kept his more negative emotions in check. His walls are still up. Still a glacier in truth on the inside, and he confesses to a deep hollow sort of ache where each Ainur normally flows in. Heavier with Eönwë's spot. The worst with Nienna and Ká--Maglor. He hasn't dared look further. Peeked down deeper. Inspected his core again. Isn't sure how he'll react to what still dwells there. Intact but beckoning him to come back. Come home.
It's both too much and not enough. Too late to make a difference.
He's far too weary as he observes Gil survey their kingdom, and Harry doesn't know how he's supposed to feel otherwise. Embarrassed that his elven family saw what they did, little as it was. Resentful that the Ainur treated him like a coddled pet and not a person, an adult with real agency. Angry at himself for allowing all of this to go on so long. For permitting it to fester while he happy lived with his own delusions.
Nonetheless, he has to admit, if grudgingly and only to himself, that he has zero desire to address the looming questions on the horizon. His elven kin are always so subtle about it, ever indirect and inscrutable in their approach. Harry's grown to notice the cues though. The slight shift in their auras along with the twitch of an eyebrow. A curve of the mouth here. The flicker of focus to one another as if comparing notes. He knows that they spent most of the evening either whispering to each other or in silent ósanwe.
He simply doesn't know what to say. How to explain. How to confess that he's thrown out their son, daughter-in-law, and one of his own best friends. It needed to be said. Needed to be done. But it's a bit dramatic in retrospect. More so when Harry recalls all those times he told them that he wasn't Maglor's… well, anything. All those refutations that they never believed. Even Fingon was just indulging him.
Harry really is such an idiot. He learned absolutely nothing in all his centuries. He was so keen to tell them the truth. To explain to them once again that it was all just a misunderstanding. That Káno… That Maglor was only his friend. His closest, yes. His teacher and confidant certainly. The husband of someone Harry considered his mother. But Maglor himself was not his father.
What does he tell them now? What reality is there? When he embraced a lie because the alternative is so much worse? What does he say to Nerdanel and Fëanor? Or Elros? Much less Fingolfin and Argon? The others?
Fingon?
What is the truth anymore? He's a wizard, yes and always. But also a peredhel, and he isn't ashamed to admit that. Even if it was a change he never asked for. It's part of him now.
Harry just isn't sure who he's supposed to be sometimes.
King of Formenos. Son of Nienna and Maglor. Member of the House of Finwë. Of Fëanor even. He's allowed himself to quietly indulge all of these, but is he really this person? Is it horrible of him to not be certain anymore? Particularly when everybody pushes him to be someone else. When being just Harry isn't good enough. He thought he was done with this after Hogwarts, but the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose even as he flops back on their bed. The painted sky overhead is steadily turning lighter, and Inara floats by with a friendly flap of her wings. Himiko dozes on the wall near the lake along with a number of others in various locations. Downstairs, Nerdanel is already awake, but she hesitates at the entrance to the kitchen. Peeking inside with a frown and hesitating in the doorway until Caranthir arrives. More of his family are stirring by then, but Harry's attention drifts.
Gil hasn't left his spot. Still, there's a sense of warmth. Of summer rain descending down. Harry curls closer into it. Luxuriating in the offered comfort. In the knowledge that at least one person – who isn't a horse or a painting – doesn't have an ulterior motive. Is content merely to exist alongside him. Will be honest with him no matter what.
And maybe, despite everything, Harry isn't nearly as upset as he thought he would be. Hurt, yes. Frustrated, definitely. But managing. Learning to accept this new reality.
"It only snowed a little yesterday," Harry finally replies. "It won't today."
He says it with surety. With recognition that he's likely overthinking all of this. That he doesn't have to explain anything if he doesn't want to yet. That Fingon and Maedhros and his family will let him not say anything at all until he's ready.
It's an odd realization but a welcome one.
His love glances back to him, but there's an unreadable expression on his face. He's gone through the gamut with Harry already. Sorrowful. Relieved. Now pensive. Eyes shifting to gray as he comes over to sit at his side on their bed. Even in his dressing gown with hair loose, he's regal. Ethereal even. But the hand that takes Harry's is very solid and real.
"Mírimo," he begins, and it's almost tentative, "it snowed in Tirion when you were upset."
Harry just gazes up at him blankly.
It… really? He hadn't really noticed before, but he searches his memory to think back.
Gil inclines his head to the unspoken question.
"The night you went to talk to Findekáno alone. Before we traveled to see Itarillë and Tuor," his love clarifies. Fingertips smooth and steady as he traces a pattern into Harry's skin. "It started snowing. Nothing heavy. Just light flurries, but that was first time it ever snowed in the city in all the years it's existed. At least, that's what Findis and Arafinwë said."
Harry sits up suddenly. He opens his mouth but then closes it. Blinks several times.
It snows in Formenos. Of course, it does. It's supposed to be winter here. Always and ever. Harry changed that. Made it into something new, something different. But no one is particularly surprised by the occasional flakes. The citizens here have never truly commented on it or even grumbled. Have never even hinted that they suspected the cause was something else. Was Harry himself.
But it… He… They've always known. Haven't they? All this time?
Harry isn't sure if he should be impressed by their discretion or a bit embarrassed that they know his emotional control isn't the greatest. Perhaps a combination of the two.
Gil's gaze is gentle, gracious as he continues. "It was also cold enough to frost the night I found you on the roof and again the night you..."
The night he died, Harry fills in the rest. He exhales in a rush. Not quite forceful but faster than intended. He can't say if all of that was due to him directly. Or a manifestation of death. Though to be fair, that's the same thing, isn't it? That's what Námo meant, didn't he?
"We could see our breath all the way back," Gil adds. "I think if we had stayed still long enough it would've come, and later if your m-- if Nienna had not arrive when she did."
This isn't an accusation. Or a condemnation. Harry can't give a denial to a truth they both know.
Tirion is forever the summer. Always. Even during the rainy season, it's still humid and warm. Even when Telperion and Laurelin darkened – died. The mountaintops have snow at the very peaks, but never the city and surrounding hills. Certainly not the valleys.
"None of this is a surprise," his love assures. Tender but holding on, keeping him from pulling free. "I know you don't feel cold or even heat the way I do."
The way elves do, he means. Which is obvious. There are plenty of examples Harry can recall where the elves seem miserable at the extremes of temperature. Inglor and his company when they first came to Formenos. All the times making sure they were comfortable. Including more recently in his winter garden. Even in Tirion when he watched Findis and Celebrían swelter in the sun after too long.
"Is that why Celebrían was trying to dress me?"
It's an epiphany. A Lumos that lights up in startled realization.
Gil lifts his free shoulder in a shrug. "We thought you were unwell. That being alone… being away from family had affected your fëa."
The surrealness of the moment isn't lost on Harry even if he comprehends the logic in it. He knows that a not so small number of the elves who come to Formenos have this issue. It's something the Ainur can't fully resolve on their own. Harry isn't so foolish as to think that Námo isn't unaware of the problem. Or that his invitation to the House of Finwë is entirely altruistic. If they visit, it's very likely the news will spread and spur others into doing the same. Which will undoubtedly help some of Námo's more troubled and troublesome guests. A win all around.
Harry shakes his head. "And now?" he questions.
"Now," Gil responds, watching him carefully, "I know more of what to expect and how to help you."
Which explained him picking out Harry's outfits each day. And positioning himself at meals so that Harry's closer to the end of the table and way from others. His keenness to meet each of the Ainur despite his personal experiences. Not to mention some rather pointed questions Gil's asked around the office and to the staff.
His elf always seems to sense his thoughts nowadays. He lets out a little laugh.
"I'm just glad that sometimes you let me," he comments with a squeeze of his hand
"I do," Harry counters easily. "I let you help."
"Sometimes," Gil corrects.
"I do," Harry insists.
The chuckle he receives rather sounds like a snort now. Fond but more than a bit exasperated.
"You stayed up for days to finish Findekáno's painting despite my urging," Gil tells Harry blithely, "and you barely even noticed! You wouldn't leave the room and only ate because I brought it to you." There's a pause as he lets that sink in. "The one you just completed for Celebrían... you would've worked through the night, every night, if I had not come get you for bed."
His love just looks at him after that statement. Eyebrow raised.
Harry doesn't shrink under that, but he can't exactly say that he's wrong on that either. His love does remind him to have regular meals and breaks. Before him, Harry usually just worked until a project was completed. Regardless of whatever it was or the size. The bigger ones were done in stages, but he has to confess that much of why he didn't continue endlessly was because the Ainur would interrupt. The ceiling in the great hall is his largest work by far but also the one they were most determined to sidetrack.
Bother.
"You know I'm not an elf..." he starts to say.
Gil-galad stops him though. "I know, Mírimo." His touch is so incredibly gentle as he leans in. "Maybe I don't want you to be." His face is very close, eyes large and bright. "I waited for you for so, so long. You haven't disappointed me yet."
How can this be one of the hardest things Harry's ever had to hear? How can it make him hurt more inside than sending away both of his parents?
"I…"
Gil kisses him softly. Once and then again on his forehead. Before pulling back.
"You still pretend," his love murmurs, "even with me."
Harry swallows but gives a nod. "It isn't intentional. It's just hard to stop." He lets Gil guide him more fully into his side, allows his head to rest on his love's shoulder. "I mean, I've spent all this time hiding what I could do. Especially…"
He feels more than sees Gil grimace. Hears his heart skip a beat.
"I could hardly show people that," Harry continues. "They wouldn't have exactly been calm about it, and even with elves, things that'll harm them won't do much to me. Even less as I've gotten older."
There's a few seconds of silence as that settles in. As his love considers it.
"You were more worried about us," Gil acknowledges at last. "You saved us."
And not yourself, goes unspoken.
Harry ignores that part.
"Of course," he asserts, "I was worried. A hillside fell on you!"
The noise Gil makes is pure vexation. "It fell on you, too!"
Harry doesn't move from his position, but he soothes a hand over Gil's own. From an objective standpoint, he understands why his beloved is upset, but Harry was ultimately unharmed. He always is.
"I was fine."
The sound Gil makes isn't a laugh. It's too exasperated for that. He exhales roughly, and Harry can all but hearing him counting to seven.
"Mírimo, we have very different interpretations of fine."
"I'm always fine," Harry insists. "You don't understand."
"Explain it to me," Gil says, but it's softer. Beckoning. Beseeching.
Harry allows himself a minute to organize his thoughts. To put words to things he knows inherently but has never actually voiced.
"You said you know I'm not an elf, but you expect me to be just like one when I'm not." A beat. A pause as he glances at Gil in profile. "It isn't just shape-shifting or being impervious to the weather or not needing sleep."
"Ainur do sleep," his love points out. "You also sleep."
"Not the ways elves have to," Harry returns.
Harry could and has gone weeks without. Possibly even longer since he wasn't actively tracking it. Sleep is a habit. Something to occupy his time. Only a necessity because his love insists and so he can speak with Elros now. It isn't the same for elves who need it. Gil could likely stay up for a few days without too many terrible effects aside from fatigue, but Harry recognizes that most of the Eldar like the indulgence of resting each night. Especially the ones who've lived in Middle Earth. Or maybe Harry just knows an excess number of people who went with far too many sleepiness nights.
His love lets out a little huff at that but doesn't disagree. He's soft rainfall as they sit there. As he processes. As he inspects the idea from every angle.
"Ainur don't have to eat," Gil allows, but it's contemplative. Considering. "They do it for other reasons but not to live."
"Habit mostly," Harry agrees. "To share a meal with someone or from when I was young. To make recipes I remember or to share them with other people. Sometimes, it's to learn new ones."
Gil makes a humming sound and taps his bracelet. Traces over the feathered pattern.
"I suppose that fire…?"
It's a vague inquiry. But Harry knows what he means. What he worries over. What still dwells in Gil's own nightmares.
"Doesn't do anything but harm my clothing," he reassures.
His love doesn't seem entirely convinced. More like he's trying to suppress both his own hopes and fears simultaneously.
"If it was from a Maia?" he presses.
"Eönwë's second sword has never burned me," Harry admits. "Cut me, yes. Multiple times. But never burned me. Fire isn't his element."
But he did overpower Sauron; Harry knows that story. Heard it from one of the participants. Harry isn't so foolish that he doesn't realize at least some of what Eönwë's training was supposed to be for. He supposes that Gil has also put the pieces together, clever as he is. Knows exactly what Eönwë was attempting. They were becoming something like friends before...
Well, there won't be much of that now though. No more Eönwë here. No more Nienna. Likely no more Ainur.
His loves merely lets out a small huff then. Rests his head on Harry's own, even as he takes his hand again. He doesn't say anything else. Neither of them does for a long time.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Númenor must've truly been grand, Harry decides, as he stares out. Past the stone railing that he currently leans on. Over the impossibly high city walls and cliffs to the turquoise waters below. The palace behind him is a gleaming white in the sunlight. Spectacular and grandiose in the way that everyone in Arda seems to prefer, but there's a sense of realism to it, despite the dreamworld he currently inhabits. It's rather like the feeling he gets from Elros himself and Tuor, of course. A mortal quality. A flicker of humanity for all that they aren't supposed to be that.
How much of this was built in Elros' lifetime is unclear, but Harry suspects this city before him is the island at the height of her glory. At the very peak. The pinnacle. Before it all came ignominiously, disgracefully crashing down into the seas and sank straight to the bottom.
The aforementioned king is in his usual spot on his favorite bench beneath a white tree. Crown lower on his brow than usual as he repeatedly tosses his head like a proud stallion. His arms are crossed. As are his legs. Right foot tapping rapidly on nothing but air. Even from here, Harry can hear the truly impress stream of cursing. Which is continuous, non-repeating, and in multiple languages. Nerdanel and Fëanor's honor haven't been besmirched, but Maglor has been accused of doing some heinous and anatomically impossible things with orcs, balrogs, and Ungoliant.
Exhausting that line of thought, Elros switches to questioning Maglor's hygiene habits several minutes later. Having already condemned his intelligence, musical ability, and hair in something less like a diatribe and more like a vigorous dissertation to some imagined audience. Harry isn't sure if he should take that last one as a personal insult though considering how much they resemble each other, but he chooses to let it slide as he wanders back over unnoticed. Largely because Elros is too distracted with his new line of insults, but he abruptly quiets as Harry sits down next to him. Remaining silent as Harry settles.
His expression is hard to read at times. Hidden as it is beneath his beard. However, his eyes are piercing. Unexpectedly solemn despite his earlier words. Hand warm as it settles on Harry's elbow.
"Little brother," he says but lets out a long sigh.
He shakes his head then. As if words alone can't quite contain the force of his ire. And maybe they can't as Elros' fingers drum on his knee. The sentiment is appreciated though. His creative use of descriptors aside. But perhaps the most fitting is the simplest. The most succinct.
"Even after all this time," Elros adds with a weary tone, "after all that has happened, our father remains such a fool."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Ainur – Jealously holding onto Harry and keeping him separated from the elves in Mandos.
Ainur!Again – Slowly, oh-so-slowly allowing him to go on field-trips and to see the outside world.
Harry – Not even trying to leave on his own even when the door is left wide open.
Ainur – O.o
Ainur!More – Whispering to each other about what to do.
Nienna – It is time to fly the nest, my dear. Yeet!
Harry – Oof. Looks around with confusion. Where am I supposed to go?
Nienna – Try Tirion! It's lovely this time of year.
Ainur – Pretending not to follow him around.
Harry – I can totally still hear you.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Amras – Psst.
Amrod – Hey.
Celegorm – Yeah.
The Twins – How good a swimmer are you?
Celegorm – Pauses. Frowns. Not that good.
Caranthir – You lot are such idiots.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Inglor – 'Tis snowing again.
Laerien – Sighs. But stares fixedly at the paperwork in front of her.
Melpomaen – Happy, you think? Or…
Inglor – Peers at the flurries coming down. Nay. Not happy.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil – Finding Harry lying on their bed with an incredibly innocent, not all suspicious book.
Gil!Again – Inspects the title and then the pages. Tilts his head. Lifts his eyebrow.
Gil!More – I can't believe you read this trash.
Harry – Used to ridiculous things being written about him.
Harry!Too – Chuckles. It's actually quite funny.
Gil – Sighs heavily. That's exactly what Elrond says.
Somewhere Else...
Fingon – Looks around and over his shoulders. Shivers.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Maglor – Moping in Imladris. Herurrívë...
More!Maglor – Ears burning very, very fiercely.
Also!Maglor – Why do I feel so incredibly insulted right now?
Maglor!Again – Eh… It doesn't matter. (◞‸◟)
Elrond – Shakes his head. Times like this, I really wish Elros was here.
Notes:
Telperion and Laurelin – the silver and gold trees in Valinor that provided light for the world before the sun.
Itarillë = Idril. Tuor's wife and granddaughter of Fingolfin. She is the mother of Eärendil, so grandmother of Elrond and Elros. I added family tree links to the top to make it easier to see where people belong on here.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-AN: So I totally head!canon that the elves not-so-secretly have a huge swath of historical fiction and romances that they write/read for entertainment. Which can be very awkward when all your historical figures can still be walking around or get out of Mandos at any time. Some people are way more popular for stories than others, but the House of Finwë with all its drama… Yeah, super popular. Especially the House of Fëanor with all those single sons.
The books Harry picked up are specifically about Fingon and Maedhros. No, Fingon did not realize that. Did the bookseller? You decide.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Chapter 32: Chapter 32
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A week passes quietly. His elven family says absolutely nothing about what they witnessed. About the spectacle Harry made of himself. They act like everything is perfectly fine, perfectly normal. Even the kitchen with every surface covered in desserts – from cakes to pies to biscuits and on – doesn't earn a single comment aside from Finrod's absolute glee. Angrod is better at hiding it, but he looks no less delighted by the sheer variety of confectioneries. Harry even catches the twins snatching more than a few in the same manner that a niffler pilfers gold. As though worried someone will take back their treasures. But even the twins and Celegorm do little more than glance Harry's direction or give him passing nods in the hallways. He can't decide if their discretion is respect, acceptance, or self-preservation.
Not even Gil brings up the lack of any Ainu in their kingdom. Nor the mysterious absence of the harp from his place of honor on their mantle. He merely kisses Harry every morning and night, curls around him in their bed, and strokes back his hair. His only outward sign is a little too much satisfaction in the cadence of his song. A little too much contentment. But then, he's hardly unhappy here. He sees this as Harry finally asserting himself.
And Harry can't say he's wrong. But he also can't say it was the right way either. That this couldn't have been done better. That he didn't let his emotions get the best of him in the moment.
Perhaps it's best that his elven family is letting things lie. It isn't indifference or nonchalance, but Harry doesn't quite know what to do with this either. With being allowed space and time to sort himself out, and not having someone push or question him. Hermione never really did learn that trick. Not that many of the other Weasleys were any better. Ron and Teddy tended more towards just asking Harry about things outright, though they could be circumspect when needed. The Ainur usually just hover, in-person or by their auras.
Harry's appreciative of the breathing room that morning as he and Argon move to their preferred spot in the gardens. For not having to explain himself. For no other inquiries about his ability to banish a Maia from his kingdom aside from his cousin's initial one. Argon himself is all bright enthusiasm as usual. He's been nothing but that the entire time during his lessons, despite their lack of real progress. Still, teaching an immortal elf is something of a novelty. Oh, don't get him wrong. Harry's had adult students before. A number of them as a healer, though that's been longer than he wants to think about. Argon is admittedly his oldest pupil by far. Lest he count the Ainur, and that was a rather different situation. More a tit-for-tat really. Nienna and Vairë learned from him, but he gained far more from them besides. The others were always more reluctant. More hesitant. Harry still doesn't truly comprehend why. He offered in the beginning and never again since with the sideways looks and strange chords they all gave him in response.
It's better to have an enthusiastic pupil. One eager to learn from him. Argon's certainly that and more patient besides than the average teenager. Far more inclined to listen. Focused on everything Harry says and actually doing his homework. Harry even admits that he's better company. Less likely to throw out random spells and burn a hole in the wall or his own eyebrows. Nonetheless, there's something nostalgic in this. Something that settles inside him even as Harry rubs idly over his sternum, just beneath Gil's pendant. As his cousin sits down in front of him, legs crossed with his feet tucked underneath.
Argon offers him a warm grin. Too cheerful by far for all that they haven't anything to show for their attempts, but he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by that either. Mostly, he seems fascinated in watching Harry go through various forms as examples, just as eager about the next as the last. Harry'd genuinely suspect that as an ulterior motive if not for the utter concentration. The honest endeavor. Showing up for every session with an absolute concentration and dedication. If only his other pupils had shown this level of commitment. Even some of his mastery students didn't put forth this much effort.
Harry just hates to disappoint him; he wants this to work. He understands on some level that is should, but he hasn't figured out how. He knows that elves have their own type of magic. Harry's even seen it in action by observing his own citizens time and again. Witnessed the power of their songs to shape the world. Or simpler things in their crafts or even daily lives. He simply can't deduce how to coax that out into what they need now. He already recognizes going the most traditional route with the mandrake leaf won't get them anywhere. It's unknown to this world, would only exist if Harry made it. The potion doesn't feel right either. So he tried newer methods, but meditation hasn't help, and it isn't for lack of ability on Argon's part. He certainly has the skill to focus appropriately. The talent to clear his mind and direct his thoughts. Not unexpected for someone this old or with experience in ósanwe.
Harry's going to have rethink this. To look outside the grimoire so to speak. Or maybe it's time to go back to the basics. For Harry to to change his own process. To shift back to what made things work in the first place. To revisit what he taught all his other students.
He contemplates that even as he studies Argon across from him. Near enough that their knees brush when Harry shifts. He doesn't often see elves with their eyes closed, but Argon does now as he clears his mind and thoughts. His song is warm, inviting, trying to pull Harry in unconsciously. Calling out for him as a schoolboy does his mates. It takes no small effort to step back. To allow Argon to continue his task alone.
Instead, Harry turns his mind outward to their surroundings as a distraction. This garden nook is little more than an alcove. Tucked away so the others won't bother them, but truly, they've respected his time with Argon on this. Haven't tried to find where they go or even attempted to spy or sit in. Fëanor and Curufin in particular are very intrigued, though it's unclear how much they actually know about the background, the purpose.
Harry's gaze trails over the hanging ivy. The flowering vines with orange blossoms. The clover patch that they sit on now. Soft and cushioning. All of this was made by Harry's magic alone. By his thoughts and desires bringing it forth. The same for the garden as a whole. The entire castle is a dream shaped into actuality. The idle reveries he's had since boyhood in his cupboard and even as an adult. Desires of what he could, would build if he could do anything. If he could make whatever he wanted without concern for someone else. Coming to Arda finally gave him a chance to make it real. To let his magic be free in a way it never was before. When he had to hide so many things he could do. So much of what he was. But the Ainur already knew. The elves are starting to now. It's finally beginning to sink in that they genuinely don't care. Harry can actually believe that it doesn't matter, and once he believes something, once it becomes solidified in his heart and in his mind...
Well, that's the core of it really. Magic at it's most fundamental is belief. It's the building block of willpower. The foundation that the entire system rests on. Belief is emotion that becomes willpower which in turn becomes truth.
"Belief is reality. If you believe something hard enough, it'll be true," Harry explains with a wave of his wand to the board. It's nothing but a prop these days. It isn't even a proper spell that he's cast for the words to appear, but his class doesn't know that. They think he's merely cast silently.
"Professor!" one of them, a Ravenclaw girl, exclaims with her hand held high. "That isn't how it works."
She's familiar to him; she should be. He goes to enough of the Weasley family reunions to know Percy's first great granddaughter. The distinctive red hair is still the biggest give away, however.
"That's exactly how it works," he replies reasonably. "I know each one of you's had accidental magic at some point."
He looks out at the group in front of him and their dubious expressions. All four Houses are gathered together for this particular demonstration. The same one he's had for the last so many years, and the same one he'll keep having. It's become something of a tradition.
"But that was little kid stuff!" a Gryffindor responds. "I just wanted my brother's Nimbus."
Harry recognizes him as the younger sibling of two older students, both Gryffindors. He idly wonders what they told him about this little lecture.
"It came to you though, didn't it?" he questions but already has his answer when the boy frowns at him. "You wanted it. Believed it'd come to you, and it did."
"That isn't the same thing as this. We're only first-years," a third student adds. Slytherin this time and so very sensible. "You can't expect real magic from us."
"Everyone knows kids aren't strong enough until their magic grows more," a fourth chimes in, Hufflepuff now. Taller than the others but calmer as he speaks.
"Everyone believes that they know," Harry corrects, and it's gently. "Remember, all great discoveries happened because someone was willing to explore further than what people thought they knew."
"This is a seven year potion," a different Ravenclaw now, blond this time and resembling Draco and Scorpius Malfoy far too much."We don't have the magic to make it."
"Not even all of us together," another Gryffindor.
"Not unless you help," Hufflepuff again by the windows.
"It's a simple potion really. The steps are very straightforward," Harry tells them. "Everyone together will be more than enough."
"But you said that we'd be the ones doing everything," Slytherin once more but from the back.
"You will," he reassures. "I'll give you the directions and be right here with you, but this'll be all you."
That certainly quiets the lot of them. It doesn't keep them from glancing at their neighbors with shared looks of disbelief. If nothing else, this lecture always does promote House unity.
"Surely," Harry continues and tries not to laugh, "some of you know from your older relatives that I do this every year and that not one class has failed yet."
"Not one?" the Ravenclaw from the front row, just left of center.
"Never," he assures.
It's even true. Not one year has ever failed this assignment. Even though it's a seventh year potion. Even though it allegedly requires magic that no eleven-year-old should possess even in a group. All of them have always made it correctly.
"How do you know?" a Slytherin. Young. So very young.
But they all are. Seemingly younger each year. Or maybe he's just older.
Harry smiles at all them. Taking a moment to look at each and every student.
"I believe that you can."
"Argon," Harry says then.
His cousin instantly perks up. Eyes opening and focusing on him. Last vestiges of his meditation tucked away with an ease that his other pupils would envy. Harry grins at that even as he studies him. Ponders on everything he knows about Argon. His character. His personality and principles. His general outlook on life. His preferences, dislikes.
He can see the shadow of something the longer he considers. Shape taking form in his mind's eye, and he wants to chuckle at the irony of it, but he really shouldn't be surprised at this junction. Not at the colorful fur, the hunter's claws, or the noble, fierce bearing.
Harry can make this a reality. Now, that he sees this, he can make it happen. After all, he already believed it on some level. Why else would he use this form to represent Argon in his drawings?
He reflects on if he should do this. If it's the right thing to do. If he should take the choice away. If he's limiting Argon based on what Harry believes is best for him. On Harry's vision and his opinion. Not Argon's own.
But...
This world isn't the same as his last. For all the similarities, there are intrinsic differences. The people are only part of that. All of Harry's lessons with Káno never quite prepared him for how elves would be in truth. How accepting they can be of things. Including of him, of Harry. Or how easily they adjusted to fit his presence.
Besides, Harry's already proven that more than one form is possible. They just need to open the door in the first place. Just need to get the process started. More will come from there with time and effort. That they have in abundance.
Argon still looks at him. Waits for him. Patient and expectant. Certain that Harry has the answer, that they'll figure it out together regardless. Harry's struck by this level of confidence in him. By the ease they have with one another in this moment. How much trust. How comfortably they sit together here with none of the others around. None of their elven kin. None of the Ainur obliviously. But not one of Harry's painted friends is nearby either. The castle is always aware to some degree, but most of her attention is elsewhere, focused on the twins as Fingon and Fingolfin train against them with Maedhros, Finarfin, and Celegorm on the sidelines. Even Gil is with Caranthir and Fëanor currently as Nerdanel flits around in the background. Angrod and Finrod have dragged Curufin from his forge to actually get real sunlight in the front courtyard, and Findis is with Celebrían on one of the balconies.
It's strange how easily they've fit into things here. How simple it's been for them to become part of his routine. Part of his life without him realizing it. They aren't the Ainur. Far from it. But he isn't nearly so alone as he thought he would be without them. Even though he half-expects them to arrive almost any day now. But even if they were to never come back to him again, Harry has people here. Before on Earth, it was just him for so long, he still forgets sometimes that it doesn't have to be like that anymore. That he doesn't wake to a world fading to ashes and dust with all colors lost. To vibrant songs that fall to a silence worse than death, to only empty nothingness.
Maybe… Maybe it isn't just belief Harry needs. Maybe belief is just the start.
He looks up to see Argon still waiting on him. Just watching with a soft curl of his mouth. But Harry already has his decision made. He did promise to teach Argon this, after all. What better way to prove his worth than to give his cousin a form entirely unique in this world?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
There's something awkward in standing here, waiting for Celebrían. In loitering in his own hallway, thankfully empty aside from the suites of armor as they whisper to each other and cast him speculative glances. Harry could search her out by aura alone, but this is at his invitation, and Harry figures that he's already made things difficult for her enough. Patiently waiting is the least he can do at this point with how long he's dragged this out. He's just glad she was willing to give him a chance. Willing to meet away from his other family members and knowing looks cast his direction at lunch today.
She smiles when she rounds the corner. Eyes kind and happy to see him. She's in silver today with a sash of green, and Harry isn't so naive not to notice the spectrum shift in her wardrobe. The change of colors to include shades not previously seen in Tirion, but he hasn't commented on it. Merely allowed the observation to pass, seen but unacknowledged. In true elven fashion.
She stops a polite distance away from him. Closer than he's allowed previously but not as much so as she would've once upon a time.
"Herurrívë."
It's offered in her usual pleasant tone, but there's a buzz of nervousness underneath. Like she isn't quite confident as she appears, and he supposes that's rather his fault. He's put this off for far too long.
"Celebrían," he returns. "Thank you for coming. I know that we haven't had much time together lately, and I wanted a chance to change that."
The smile he receives back is a little too eager, a little too radiant. She glows like a moon trying to outshine the sun, and Harry notes that the braids in her hair aren't the same ones from earlier in the day. Her jewelry is different, too. He also has the distinct impression that she considered changing her entire outfit but hesitated on it until time for their meet-up ran out.
Harry wisely decides not to even think about any of this. Instead, he merely inclines his head as she inches forward until she stands just inside the circle of what elves would consider appropriate distance for acquaintances but too far for friends and family. He offers an arm then. Curious to see if she'll accept, but he doesn't have to wait more than a heartbeat or two before she's already there. Tucking her elbow into his and tipping her head up to beam at him. He can feel her aura vibrating with happiness as he guides her into the great hall, matching his pace to hers. She doesn't seem entirely surprised by the surroundings, so he knows that she's at least looked inside before, but she does peek at the grass as she steps out onto it and then to the ceiling. He stops them not quite a third of the way into the room. Harry feels her puzzlement as she glances first at him and then at the canvas that's facing sideways. Turned to that she can't quite see the contents.
"I wanted to show you something first," he offers, guiding her closer. "I know it doesn't make up for anything that happened, but I hope you'll accept it."
"Herurrívë, what…"
She trails off as her attention slides to the painting that's now in front of them. The one he earlier set-up in anticipation. She stands there, now in a daze and only moves when Harry leads her forward with her suddenly shaky steps. His hand is a large reason she manages to stay standing, but he doesn't blame her at all for that. He knows exactly what she sees. Follows her eyes as she traces over the bubbling fountain in the courtyard to the birds that flit across the sky to the stonework of every visible building. Most especially the elves wandering by in the foreground. Joined by the occasional Dúnedain. The rare dwarf. A lone hobbit.
Celebrían lets out a little sob at the sight of Imladris in all her glory. Exactly as Maglor described it. As Melpomaen and all the others have told him for all these years. Even some of Celebrían's own depictions. Each and every building. Pathway. Waterfall. Tree. It's autumn now. Leaves crowned and glorious to match a distant shore. Everything currently is real-time and will remain so as long as the Eldar dwell there. Afterwards, when they one day finally leave, it'll shift to a reminder of what once was. A perfectly preserved view from Celebrían's own balcony.
She sways as she stands directly in front of it all. In front of the painting he spent so much time perfecting just for her. In apology. For his hope that this can make up for his actions since her arrival here.
"How did you ever…"
Her voice is faint. Trailing off to nothingness as she just continues to stare. Her lips are parted slightly, but no other words escape as she ghosts over each of the elves as they continue about their day. Her gaze lingers longer on particular individuals. A harried male with his a stack of papers who almost collides with another carrying a lute. A third with shining golden hair, nearly as long as Finarfin's, saves them both from disaster. Harry recognizes Erestor from Gil's memories. The second looks very much like Melpomaen and has to be his father, Lindir. The last Harry suspects is Glorfindel based on descriptions by Maglor. It's a busy thoroughfare though, and indeed, there are others passing by the trio with familiar appearances to people he knows from Formenos, but they're strangers by and far. Most certainly as are the Dúnedain and others.
None of them know they're being watched, but it's a public area. This is nothing so terrible as to intrude on their privacy. Nothing more can be perceived than what she'd already know if she were at her other home, but there's a longing in her gaze. A deep desire to have back what she sees. To hold on and never let go.
Particularly as a lovely lady approaches, one who stops to greet the three elves. She's certainly very familiar to Harry, but he's never seen her before. However, he understands immediately who she must be. Who she is to Celebrían as she lifts a trembling hand that reaches out to rest on the painting's frame. As she stares without blinking at the scene, watching for long minutes until all of them are out of sight.
Celebrían exhales then. Shaking. Heavy.
"This is… 'Tis… How… I…"
She stumbles over the words. Can't find what she wants to say.
"For you," he replies anyway.
He still has her arm. Supports much of her weight to keep her on her feet. But he doesn't fault her when she keeps staring off from him, at the painting. When she can't even tear her eyes away yet.
"I know what it's like to wish for a home you'll never have again," Harry tells her. "For people you desperately want to see."
She somehow finally manages to force her gaze from Imladris. Her eyes shimmer in the light, but she's unashamed of her tears as they pour down her face. The expression on her face is one he hasn't seen before, but he still recognizes. Has worn it before himself countless times when he thinks of what he once had. She moves with unexpected swiftness then. Less a gentle movement and more a twisting lunge. Harry's so startled by it that he barely has time to do more than catch her. She gives a watery laugh as her head presses firmly into his chest, arms wrapped so tightly around his middle that he'll only break-free through dubious methods.
"How? How did you ever manage this?" she says it with a voice muffled by his tunic. "You've never been to Imladris."
"But I know people from there."
Most of them are full-time residents here. Either in the city proper or in the surrounding settlements. More and more are coming each week with the trading caravans alongside a wave of people from Lindon. Harry knows it has everything to do with Gil-galad, who before this had no physical kingdom in Valinor to house his former subjects and no real desire to rebuild such a place. Now, he has a ready-made one as it were. Not that there already wasn't a variety of former Imladris – and Lindon – residents already here. Melpomaen an excellent example thereof.
The sound she gives is half-delighted but half-longing. Catching in her throat and mixing in with the force of her sobs. Harry soothes a hand over her back. Just as he has for Gil and Nienna more recently but also others so long ago – Victoire and Luna and even more lost to him. He holds her as she cries. As she digs her fingers into his back. Time doesn't have much meaning until she finally slows. Until she rests against him more out of exhaustion than anything else.
"I'm sorry," she whispers but doesn't say for what.
Harry doesn't hush her, but maybe it's time to offer her something more than a painting. She deserves some truth, too.
"I was very unwell when I came to Aman," he murmurs over the top of her head. "Gil told you?"
It's phrased as a question, but Harry already suspects the answer. She is Gil's closest friend here. His sister by the reckoning of the elves given his relationship with Elrond. Harry isn't naive enough to not realize that they didn't talk about him, especially before… well, Harry's overly dramatic moment when Celebrían arrived in Formenos. Of course, Gil's confirmed it himself, and he can't say that he's upset that they do. He talks about people with Elros, too.
"Not everything," she hedges, "but he has eluded to it, yes. Though I never want you to think your beloved has betrayed your confidence."
Harry wouldn't ever think that. Would never think that Gil has told her or anyone something Harry isn't ready to share himself. Gil has already been more than generous enough indulging Harry on this. On so many things honestly. Harry does need to not so much repay or reward him but thank him for all that he does. For his patience and his kindness and his love. Most especially that last part.
"I wasn't… Mandos was the right place for me thinking back," Harry acknowledges. "Not just because of how I arrived here. I needed the healing, too."
She's tense now. He feels her stiffen, but he can't back away because if anything, she's holding on tighter. Squeezing him to point that he'd be concerned if he were human anymore.
"Your fëa is still injured," she responds softly. "I mayn't have the insight of my mother or be a healer as my husband, but I can still see this."
Harry knows what she means. He sees it himself every time he looks at his own world. The chasm clear as ice that reflects the sunlight. It's part of him as much as his eyes or the frost or the castle in his soul. A wound that goes down deep. That strikes at the very palace of his soul and leads to the hidden parts. He uses it as a defense now. Has learned to shape it into an advantage, but he isn't so foolish as not know all the things that caused it. What's made it widen. Deepen. Even here in Arda.
"Some things are harder to heal."
Which is something of an understatement. How much of what happened in the past is due to others? Due to years on Earth and so many terrible things? How much now is from to him not being honest with and about himself? His own needs?
Celebrían's tears are heavy enough to soak through his tunic. "I want you to know how sorry I am for my part in this," she insists. "There are many things that I should have done differently. That I would do differently now if you would allow it."
He knows what she means. Knows that she would've come here herself and not just sent Laerien and Melpomaen as spies. She meant well. Meant it as elves do. As a helping hand in a bid for independence when they're barely adults going out into the world. She meant it as a boon, and Harry can see that with time and distance. Her hurt to him was a little thing in the scheme of it all. In comparison to the others he's had in his life. Especially recently. After all, he even gave Nienna and Maglor an opportunity to explain themselves. Laerien, Melpomaen, and Inglor as well. Celebrían, he didn't until now. That's on him.
"We were strangers until so recently. I know that isn't how the Eldar see it," he continues even as she now peers up at him, eyes still damp, "but I wasn't ready until recently to acknowledge much less address… well, a lot. I wouldn't have been receptive at all to knowing you. It also isn't fair to expect you to come here. Or to make you to look after me when you had your own needs."
He knows her story. Not all the details and he won't steal it from her accidentally. The Ainur recognize what he glimpses from them as does Gil, but the elves haven't fully realized this yet, and he won't do that to her. If she wants him to know, she'll tell him.
"I owe you an apology, too," Harry confesses. "I didn't handle this as well as I should, and I know I didn't make your stay here pleasant." He shakes his head when he feels her start to object. "I reacted very poorly, and there isn't an excuse for that. Not when I didn't even hear your side."
"Oh, honeg." She reaches for his cheek. "I am fine here. You were too kind even in your anger. You looked after me perfectly."
Her touch is tender. Gentle as Nienna's ever was. Her eyes are blue though. Don't have the starlight behind her tears. But he's suddenly hit by a sense of homesickness. His chest is inexplicably heavy, burning but empty until he fills it with the sudden breath he takes. With the feeling of Gil's thunderstorm rising and a chorus of his elven family to permeate the void. Celebrían kindly doesn't say anything. She merely stands with him and allows her moonsong to flow around them. It isn't the same, but he supposes that's his fault. He let himself grow too used to something that was never really his.
She lets him step back after a minute. Just a half-pace. Barely a few inches. Enough for a little distance. She's still watching him though. Head tipped back. Focused. Intent. Nose scrunching as Findis and Irimë and even Angrod do when they are sometimes considering. The ear wiggle is all Finarfin and Finrod though.
"You are so much like him, you know," she states then, tone stronger now. Brighter and lighter both. "'Tis more than the way you look but also the things you say and do."
Harry doesn't even flinch at the comment nowadays. He's used to the comparison to Maglor, but he's more puzzled to it than anything right now. Since there's no possible way for Celebrían to have ever met him. She's too young; she was born in the Second Age. She missed the entire debacle of the First Age and hasn't even seen her father in-law in person. She certainly can't possible mean any of the others here. Maybe Celebrimbor?
She actually giggles. Genuinely giggles like a schoolgirl at the bemused expression he has to be wearing.
"Your brother," she clarifies with hand over her mouth, "You are so much like your brother."
That does bring him up short. He thinks for a heart-stopping moment that she means Elros. That she somehow knows. But then, reality reasserts itself.
Elrond. Of course, who else?
She lets out another titter. The look she gives him is far too aware, too wise. As if she can search his face and see every guilty sin laid out. However, she's too kind as she leans in and upwards to press a kiss to his cheek.
Her gaze drifts back to the painting afterwards. No one is visible now outside of a few birds and the swaying trees. It's the wrong time of day, he supposes, but Celebrían likely knows everyone's schedule by heart. He suspects she'll have the precise times to expect them to wander by, and he won't be surprised to find her missing from daily activities then. At least for the next several weeks or until Inara returns from her errand.
There's a wistful chord now. To the moonlit refrain that echoes through her fëa. It's nostalgic, full of grief. Yearning. He sees her fingers twitch. Her hand move slightly. As if trying to lift of its own accord. To reach for something – someone – out of view. This feels like such a small gift to give her. A glimpse but not a touch of her child and only one, not all three. Celebrían knows that they all live, but this is proof of at least her daughter's true wellness. That's a cold comfort, however. Not much of one to give any mother. He's had to impart terrible news to so many people over his life. Has always been the bearer of bad tidings. Or the one left behind. The one left to mourn. To grieve for people lost and never to be seen again. No one has ever missed Harry like this. Has ever wanted to see him this badly. Lily and James weren't even willing to leave Britain to spare his life, to save him from the prophecy. Maglor – Káno – called him hinya for over two centuries but never once came to see him or allowed the reverse. Nienna never referred to him as her child at all. Such a wondrous little lie while it lasted.
Celebrían isn't any of them though.
"You'll see them again. All of them for real. Elrond. Your twins. Even your daughter again," he murmurs then, but it's loud enough in the short distance between them for her to hear. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you will."
Her head turns towards him so quickly that it has to be painful, but she says nothing. She just gazes at him in silence after that declaration. Shocked. Stunned but there's something else shimmering in her eyes. Something that rises in her chest with spread wings and trills out a melody as beautiful as any phoenix. As clear as the image he sees of mother and daughter reuniting on this very shore, sun blazing in the sky.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry has to credit Manwë on his punctuality. Not to mention his manners. The Vala arrives without fanfare and stands just outside the wards on the eastern edge. Away from where any of the elves would notice, which automatically earns him bonus House points but the Eldar are still in the lead this term by a significant margin. He doesn't touch the wards at all. Not physically or with his aura, but he does allow a subtle few notes to rise as if in half-question and half-greeting.
It's just after dawn. Time that Harry is well awake and about by, already downstairs with Gil, who glances up at he pauses mid-sip. Harry allows his tea to hover there, allows himself a few heartbeats, but he already knows the response he'll give. He's already telling the wards to let Manwë inside, which they do with the slightest hitch of hesitation. Flicking back at him as if asking that he's really sure about this. Harry nods, and that's that.
Manwë steps through with a gentle bow of his head in acceptance. It'll be a little while yet for him to arrive at the castle since he's going at a fairly sedate pace. Steady but unhurried. Properly poised and polite. Acknowledging the eagles as they come to greet him.
Beside him at their breakfast table, Gil watches. His expression is puzzled, and Harry knows it's because he doesn't recognize their guest. His love has met many of the Valar by this point, including Ulmo via his father, Círdan. But this is a presence Gil wouldn't immediately identify. There is, however, a suspicion in the refrain threading around them and a sense of almost nervousness.
"It's only Manwë," Harry explains as he swallows from his cup.
The look Gil gives him is wide-eyed. Which really! He shouldn't be nearly so shocked at this junction. Not especially after Harry forced Eönwë out and raised the wards three weeks ago. He's honestly expected one of the Valar to show up sooner or later. His Galleons were on either Vairë or Manwë. Though Oromë's still also a distinct possibility. Estë's too passive to come without one of the others, and Irmo will hesitate because Nienna's involved. Tulkas is the most willing to give Harry space to work through things on his own. Námo isn't exactly neutral with Harry's current guests and isn't known for his desire to handle emotionally-charged issues. Aulë, Yavanna, Vána, and Nessa will all come eventually but likely only once one of the others have. Not to mention, he's never met Varda directly or Ulmo, and Harry has only felt either as a song in the stars or on the tides.
Of the Maia, Eönwë certainly is the closest to him. And Harry knows he could've handled all of that much better in retrospect. Not his proudest moment by far. No matter how unhappy he was at the time. Or how much it still hurts to know they actively deceived him. Practically from the beginning. Played into the charade at Káno's behest.
Harry rubs at his sternum even as he thinks that, fingers shifting to toy with his pendant through his tunic. Gil just sets down his fork, only halfway through his quiche. He seems perturbed, but Harry sends him a questioning brush of frost and an idea, an invitation really. He feels his love turn inward, and Harry offers no resistance before Gil starts ghosting through his memories. Not the entirety of them with Manwë since they don't have that kind of time. But Harry knows when he pauses to take a closer look at various ones. To watch each play out. He's gone through baker's dozen when he finally pulls back and gives a little laugh. One that's a mix of exasperation, humor, and a touch of humility. He leans against Harry in reassurance.
"Just Manwë indeed. I forget how intimidating I and the Kings of the Ñoldor seem to regular elves." Gil muses, "It's all a matter of perspective." A fingertip taps on the table as he considers, "I always tried so hard to be approachable, but I was never nearly as successful as you are here. Or as Elrond is."
It's the second time in as many days Harry's heard something of a comparison with his middle sibling, and it's sure what to make of it. Gil simply shakes his head then, momentarily lost in reveries. Sending him images of a city rising above the sea and a great kingdom stretching across the land. Flashes of a palace with white marbled halls and golden columns. Snatches, fragments of an elf Harry already knows. One who looks far, far too much like Elros minus the beard. Of course, he's much taller than in the memories Elros has shared so far.
Gil chuckles at that comparison. "Alas, he spent his formative years surrounded by giants, but he'd have you know that he is of reasonable height."
Harry can sense the story behind those words. One that his love is far too delighted to share with him as they stand up from the table, which Harry cleans with a casual wave. Gil's still telling him about Elrond's early struggles as they make their way to the library's second floor and the study he has off the west end. The castle has directed his guest there, which is probably for the best. It's out of the way of the hustle and bustle of his elven family as they rise and greet the day. Not to mention it's a room Manwë is already familiar with. It doesn't have the enthusiastic fresco of the kitchen or relaxed atmosphere therein. However, the space is large enough to not feel crowded with Gil alongside. Not to mention the ceiling here depicts the creation story of Arda. As relayed to Harry by dozens of witnesses and their firsthand accounts.
Oromë in particular always seems to find a bizarre amusement in seeing his painted likeness. Though most of the others are somewhere between intrigued and contemplative. Námo forever gives baleful glares at one section, though Harry knows he'd deny it if accused outright. Nienna prefers to look at Melkor with almost wistfulness, a sentiment that Manwë shares.
Gil has only been inside here casually before, hasn't had much reason to go in aside from their initial tour. He hesitates by the entrance, visibly squares his shoulders, and he seems ready to march off to battle. Harry stops him with a touch to his wrist, a hand that slides down to take another even as his love glances at him. Harry simply smiles back, bends down to give him a quick kiss. Not at all caring that despite the fact Manwë can't see them, his aura has already risen in salutation. It's muted though, unable to fully harmonize with the pathway blocked.
They walk through the door together, magic making it wide enough just this once. The room beyond both is and isn't all that dissimilar from this office at Hogwarts. The basics are the same, built-in bookshelves that house his more precious and prized volumes, including reproductions of ones from Earth. Large desk along the far wall with a myriad of hidden drawers. Enchanted windows currently showing the orchard. An enormous fireplace with a mosaic mantle and background, but the chairs in front are still cozy. The wood is all dark, nearly black with a deep gleam. Other colors in here are all brighter, lighter. White, silver, shades of blue and green, even hints of gold.
Manwë stands in Nienna's customary spot, but he's already turning away from Melkor's visage as they enter. He's in his usual form today, ears still rounded as they peek out from beneath his hair. His favorite crown has been traded though. It's subtler today, more subdued.
"Marcaunon." He inclines his head in a movement so precise that Melpomaen would weep with envy. His focus shifts. "Gil-galad of Formenos."
The bow Gil offers isn't nearly so low as an elf would normally give. Most definitely not to the king of the Valar. More akin to how other rulers greet one another, which is fitting to be honest. Though Harry's been told by more than one person – Maglor, Laerien, various others in Formenos – that a number of people actually kneel. Eönwë seems perturbed by this every time it even comes up in conversation, which is more often than one would think. Nonetheless, Manwë gives no censure, and there's a pleasant chime to the breeze that stirs the room.
"Well met," Gil offers back. His voice is even. Body relaxed as Manwë approaches.
The Vala stops precisely two steps in front of them. Air pressure rises but not uncomfortably so as he reaches out to Harry, but the strain politely hovers between them. Not encroaching. Waiting for his reaction.
"I am pleased to see you so well," Manwë says then.
He means it; Harry can tell. Plus, Manwë isn't one for subterfuge. He wouldn't see much purpose in it.
"I can say the same for you," Harry replies. "You haven't been by in a while."
It isn't meant as a slight, and Manwë doesn't take it that way.
"Indeed," he accepts, "I was unsure if your other kin would welcome my intrusion. Yet, I find that recent events necessitated I seek you out in-person."
Harry doesn't need to be a genius to figure out what he means. It's obvious by the swirl of the winds around them. The way they usually weave through but now waver. Unsure of his welcome.
Of all the Valar Harry has personally met, Manwë is the one he's spent the least time with. He isn't under any delusions on why that is. Nienna's own claim on him was enough for Manwë to be reluctant to intrude. Even when Harry invited him back personally, there was always a sense of hesitance. A lingering worry.
And yet, he's the first one to show back up. The others have all tried to reach out to Harry through song, but he rebuffed them each time. None of them have come by physically. Not yet. That's only a matter of when and not if.
"I don't have much to say to them right now."
Manwë considers this even as Harry gestures for him to take a seat. Motioning for the chairs by the fireplace. One of which he widens into a loveseat. A conjured table complete with snacks summoned from the kitchen soon joins. Harry almost feels like he's doing something clandestine here even as he adds that last part. As if with this many sweets and pastries, Finrod will suddenly appear, but then, with as much baking as Harry's done the last few weeks, Finrod and the rest of his family have more than enough to satiate themselves on.
He feels Manwë's focus on him the entire time he prepares a plate first for his Valar guest and then as he does the same for Gil, while his love arranges the teapot. That attention intensifies as he adds a few of Gil's favorites and arranges them just so with a bit of quiche from earlier. His elf didn't get to finish breakfast, after all.
"Your mother does not bring her chosen to see us," the Vala observes as Harry completes his task.
His response is immediate, more of a retort than anything else.
"Nienna does as she wants."
A beat of quiet as Gil sets down a cup in front of him before taking the plate from his hands.
"You are displeased with her."
A statement of fact. There's a vibration underneath his words. A reverberation almost like an echo. As if Manwë shares the sentiment. As though Manwë is vexed but not at Harry.
"I don't think I'm the only one," Harry comments. It's lighter, gentler than his recent barb. An apology as he gives his own notes back.
Manwë doesn't nod. He doesn't twitch. There's no visible sign at all. There so rarely is. He only breathes because he reminds himself to do it. To appear more natural. Which Harry acknowledges has to be very unsettling for the elves.
"She came to me," Manwë provides instead, "as did Eönwë and others. They confessed of things they previously concealed to either myself or to you. I suspect you have discovered this already."
Harry's brow furrows at both the implications and the specifics of this. Since it sounds like the other Valar and Eönwë purposefully kept Manwë – and likely Varda – in the dark. Probably at Nienna's urging. What all they hid, Harry isn't quite certain on. Though he can figure out why given Nienna and Manwë's prior issues. Typical really. For being an entirely new world, with new peoples, family drama seems to be frightfully the same.
Bother.
Harry's own plate is still empty as he watches Manwë contemplate the lemon blueberry torte in front of him. He doesn't startle as Gil nudges the treacle tart closer, but Harry interprets the implication perfectly.
"It was never forbidden for you to contact your father or for you to go to him. He is even now welcome here in Aman," Manwë continues, still inspecting his dessert as if it holds all the mysteries of the universe. "Eru Ilúvatar decreed it so, and he is wed to your mother and father to you. We would not block his return."
Harry puzzles at the meaning of that entire statement. Of what Manwë could possible be getting to. Since the Ainur can never be direct about anything. Ever.
He glances at Gil. Who looks at him at the same instant. Neither shrugs, but both are obvious in their confusion.
"You did not need surreptitious means to reach him," Manwë adds. He has fork in hand now, but his attention is back on Harry.
Which is roughly around the time that it's finally crystal clear.
The harp. He means the harp. They never told Manwë about it all. Harry's actually incredulous as even registers that. As he thinks back, but he recalls that Manwë has never seen him with it. Harry would always put it away if Káno expressed discomfort with any particular Ainu, and given Nienna's history with Manwë, Harry always took it as a matter of course to not force them together.
"You thought I was visiting him this entire time."
That realization hits Harry like a lightning bolt. As surely as if Manwë threw one at him.
"You can travel great distances and taught your mother the same skill. It was a natural conclusion." Manwë's explanation is so succinct. So reasonable. "I refrained from observing excessively close out of respect for her wishes and your own. I sent Eönwë so that you may be protected and guided, for there is little left in this world that could challenge him directly."
Harry opens his mouth only to abruptly close it since he quite frankly isn't sure how to respond. That last part isn't anything he didn't suspect on some level though. Manwë waited to come see him until Harry was out of Mandos, out of Námo's domain, and formed one of his own. Yet, Eönwë was one of the earliest Ainur that Harry met. The first Maia not under Námo's direct influence. He was also the first person to take Harry out of Mandos without going to another Vala's domain. It was temporarily and only a short trip to look around the western, largely uninhabited side. Eönwë kept visiting Harry. Actively sought him out and trained him. Even insisted that he do so more strongly than any of the others ever did. And learn things that weren't of personal interest to Harry. He'd just never considered Eönwë to be a proxy. To be anything other than his friend. Intellectually, he's long accepted that Eönwë worked for Manwë, but that's not a worldview Harry truly comprehends. Even having his own kingdom and after having run Hogwarts so long, this is outside his ken.
That's not even getting to Manwë himself. He doesn't want to think Nienna or the others kept him away. Not intentionally. But Manwë likely didn't feel welcomed either. It feels wrong to badmouth any of them, especially Nienna when she isn't here to defend herself. Harry doesn't want to do that either. The quarrel he has with her and her husband isn't anyone else's business either – save Gil's really.
"Maybe they worried you wouldn't grant permission."
It seems weak as an excuse, but given their past and the way things are between them, Harry feels it's the right answer. Nienna didn't trust Manwë as she should have. But then, none of them did. Did they? Not one of them mentioned the harp to him. Not even Eönwë. Maybe he felt it wasn't his place. Not to Harry to tell the truth of Maglor. Or with Manwë to mention it in the first place. Or perhaps he deferred to Nienna's wishes on the matter as subordinate to her and as this is her spouse.
It's all a stark reminder that while Harry knows them quite well there's still a lot he doesn't fully understand. Not to mention that things for the Ainur aren't all sunshine and butter mellow. Even without Morgoth actively tearing them apart, there are still hurts between them. Still rifts, fractures that haven't been healed after all this time. Nienna and Manwë is the most obvious but not the only. Harry doesn't want to be the one to worsen those things. Doesn't want to be the cause of more issues.
"I don't think she did it to hurt you personally," he continues. "I think she… I think she was afraid of how you would react. Sometimes, worry and fear cloud our judgment."
Maybe that's a little too perceptive. A little too much light shining down on dark shadows. To the point Harry has to take a breath. That Gil's studying him strangely now.
"A son knows his mother well," Manwë decides.
It would be almost a reprimand, but he sounds tired. Lost and alone. Standing in the starlight with the recognition that Morgoth is forever lost to them and that his sister forgives everyone but him. Has chosen new brothers, a new family, and walked away. That he has never met her chosen and was not invited to greet her son.
Harry's attention flicks to Gil then, and a decision stands before him. A precipice. He could say nothing. Could allow their tie to go unacknowledged as the two of them have for so very long. Or he could be honest. He won't be his pare- He won't be Nienna and Maglor. He won't lie to Gil for convenience. Wants him to know exactly what a broom-wreck he's getting himself into before they get married. Before the cauldron explodes in his face.
"She's your sister," Harry responds after a few heartbeats. "You've known her far longer than me."
Gil blinks beside him but gives a little laugh, which is the only outward sign. The most surprising thing is the lack of any other reaction. Even his aura is calm as a spring shower. A soft drizzle without even a flash of lightning. There's nothing else. No other flicker. No astonishment.
Gil it seems wouldn't be shocked at this point if Eru himself arrived for a spot of tea and a scone.
Manwë simply watches him. Even without their bond open, Harry can hear the shriek of the hurricane winds before they're silenced.
"That is a tie no one has acknowledged in ages long past." His tone rumbles with the emotion of his song. "Since before the Eldar awoke in a distant land."
"It isn't less true for that," Harry counters, but it's soft as the earliest snowfall. As the first breath of winter.
Manwë tips his head down, white hair gleaming brighter than his crown, even as the air in the room stirs. As the pressure of a brewing storm builds. It isn't uncomfortable, not yet, and Manwë is always aware of Harry. Of Gil-galad now, too. Of those who are more delicate and easier to break than him. Which, to be fair, is everyone.
He doesn't so much exhale as just stops breathing for a moment, and the air quiets. Everything stills.
He looks so much like Nienna right now. It isn't just his appearance, though their physical forms always seem to oddly mirror each other. It's in the manner his song moves. The low, melancholic notes. She's autumn turning into winter. The rain as it shifts to sleet and snow. But Manwë is the same season though earlier. The fall winds as they carry the golden leaves. The glory of the storms before they turn to blizzards.
What was Melkor, he wonders? Where should he be in this?
"Even if Eru Ilúvatar had not ruled it so," Manwë begins, and his voice isn't just physical but a reverberation that can almost be seen, "I would have permitted you to venture forth to Endor." There's a second of hesitation before he confirms, "Alongside other liberties that we take for granted. We cannot claim you as one of us but behave as though you are not."
That's… a lot to consider. A heavy statement. Rather like being handed the keys to the proverbial kingdom. A blank permission form to the forbidden section. Harry's been circumspect in many ways. Not the least of which is because there are things he knows from Earth that he most definitely never wants introduced here. At least not due to him. If they eventually come up with that on their own, well...
Even the knowledge that he's from an entirely different world alone would be earth-shattering. On an intellectual level, the elves understand that the Ainur are from outside Arda, that they shaped it. But it's another thing entirely for them to realize that whole other worlds exist. Filled with people that the Ainur have no hand in and are outside their influence. This is the kind of knowledge that could destroy them as a society, and Harry hasn't breathed a word of it to anyone.
Gil's different. They already share thoughts, and he knows Harry hasn't been to Endor, but they haven't quite gotten to what that actually means yet. Of course, they'll be wed one day, so he'll know everything Harry does then. But he'll be told before; it isn't fair otherwise.
Maglor knows obviously, but he's married to Nienna; the information is contained. Maglor won't ever share it with anyone else. Say what Harry will about him; he at least doesn't doubt that.
The others? Harry isn't sure he could ever tell any of them. Save Elros. Who already knows that he isn't Maglor's son by birth and who isn't exactly in a position to spread gossip around. That's something to consider at least.
The Vala continues to study him even as Harry does just that. Expression blank but gaze alight. Glowing. Azure shifting to cobalt but with starlight underneath. Air heavier and thick, almost tangible beneath his palms.
"You seem troubled by my words," Manwë expresses, and the inflection brings Harry up short. "Alas, this I fear is proof again, for I know now that the Eldar see many of our actions at best as slights, at worst as cruelties."
Harry frowns now, but he knows which ones in particular what he means. What Manwë thinks of even now. Catches the flicker of them across his eyes just from their proximity, no bond needed. Two Trees dying. Manwë's physical form following with Nienna's not far behind. The Ñoldor as they call for retribution, for vengeance. An Oath, a curse. Blood and violence in the streets. Ships departing Valinor never to return. Others risking the deadly ice just to leave.
"You did what you though to be best with the information you had," Harry responds as he blinks away the memories.
"Nay," Manwë disagrees. "I did not consider their perspective as heavily as I should." His blue eyes deepen to midnight and keep going. "In many ways, I was unable to truly comprehend their struggles, and I was not alone in this."
Another echo to his tone now. A somber undercurrent that cuts through like a fell wind. Cold in the way that Harry's aura isn't. Dark and spiraling inwards. He offers comfort the only way he knows how, the only way the Ainur really recognize. He lets the walls between them melt. If he's honest with himself, they'd already started the second Manwë arrived and stepped through the wards. Harry just speeds up the process. Allows that connection to swirl to life. To whirlwind through the snowfields and twist, twirl past castle walls. Faster than any broom or even his own wings could ever hope to carry him. To fly upwards and free.
Beside him, Gil inhales at the rush. As his own aura picks up the refrain. Rainstorm blending in perfectly. Manwë doesn't move closer. Doesn't reposition in his chair at all. But he somehow sits easier. Rests lighter. The entire atmosphere is different. Fresher. Buoyant. Like a feather that floats by.
Harry smiles at him. At the way his eyes brighten. At how the air settles in the room. It's strange though to hear only Manwë and not the rest. A song of one without the others.
"A song of two. Now three," Manwë corrects, and he doesn't glance at Gil-galad, but his meaning is clear. "Long have I hoped for harmony with the Eldar. Yet, I find it here and now."
He doesn't laugh, but there's a sense of joy. Of wonder even. Of delight in the welcome granted to him by his sister's son and his beloved.
That feeling tightens something in Harry's own chest. He knows that Gil too is as surprised as he is saddened by it. Even as Manwë just looks at them, but it's softer at the edges now.
"Things are not as they were," he decides, "Nienna has a child in you. Her spouse already has a living son and he in turn has children. You now will be wed." His gaze drifts to Gil, who inclines his head. "The Eldar are not so dissimilar in their thoughts on this matter as our own. Their ties to us flourish where once they faltered."
That's a good thing. A momentous thing.
But it's all rather convenient, isn't it? A dark thought, a pessimistic whisper to have in the back of his mind, but not one Harry can't say he hasn't had before. Not just here and now but at the coincidence of it all.
If Harry were a pettier man, he'd say this was plan all along. He isn't one, but he a child of prophecy. He recognizes a cosmic scheme when he sees it. The Eldar and Ainur are related by marriage through Thingol and Melian, and while the connection continues on in Elrond's family, the Dúnedain, and others, it never grew further. Never drew them closer to the Ainur. Then, Eru delivers Nienna a shiny new toy. One practically with a bow on top, and the House of Fëanor – Finwë – suddenly realizes it's now connected to the Valar via marriage. And not only this but also through the shared kid they think they have.
He won't be paranoid here. Not about Gil. Not when he looked at the sea and stars and knew that someone was out there waiting for him. Not when he traveled all over Earth with the understanding that he wouldn't find the person he was seeking there. He won't give that up. Not when Harry's finally found him. Not now and not here.
Gil squeezes his hand.
Harry exhales. Lets that entire station of ideas go. Lets every single train rush off down the tracks and take those worries with them. Lets his love put an arm around his shoulders, not caring of their audience. Even lets Manwë reach out to him with his aura as Eönwë usually does, as Nienna always does. Harry permits it from both of them and reciprocates right back. Eases their own worries in return.
Gil's are largely for and about him, but there are others. His people as they remained restless in Aman. Now as they come to their new home here in Formenos. His father and brothers – Erestor and Elrond both. The remaining elves in Endor along with the mortal races there. Sauron still lurking in the fringes.
Manwë's are for the Ainur as a whole and as individuals – Harry and even Maglor included. Eönwë and Nienna in particular but even his dear Varda. All of the Eldar regardless of location. The entirety of Aman and Endor as a whole – the latter less shadowed from his sight now than previously. Sauron again and those who once looked to Morgoth. Even Melkor himself locked away in the Void but never fully forgotten.
"Pleasant outcomes need not be a slight against you, Marcaunon." It's said kindly. Gently as a falling leaf. "Even if all you worry is true, you also benefited. Perhaps the result is incidental or entirely meant for you above others." He pauses before adding, "I confess that the greater workings of Ea are oftentimes beyond me now; I am unable to offer you more certainty."
As far as profound statements go, this isn't one of them. But Harry doesn't need empty consolation or useless platitudes. None of them do.
But the Vala isn't quite done.
"Your nature is to search for the poorer conclusion even when all seemingly is well. I suspect this is due to harsh lessons from earlier times," Manwë observes, surprisingly intuitive for someone who doesn't understand people well. "You are not the only of our kin with doubts, and I fear we have not alleviated them as we should have before. As I said, you are either one of us, our equal, or you are not."
The first part of that is a little too accurate. Maybe Nienna doesn't give her middle brother enough credit. Or he simply understands Harry at this point. For all that he's the Vala Harry met the last, this is a degree of insight Harry isn't sure many of the others would have.
The latter half, well… it actually isn't their job to coddle him. Or to sugarcoat this world and it's realities, good or ill. To conceal the negative aspects as best they can so that he's left with only partial truths and a cauldron full of questions, uncertainties. Harry's rightfully starting to wonder if that's the real problem here. If this isn't malice but some warped sort of well intention. A grandiose, more enduring version of Molly Weasley's determination to shelter her children – and Harry, too – from the grim nature of the first war and rising darkness in Britain. Dumbledore concealed the prophecy and horcrux from him for almost two decades. The Ainur work on a longer, much slower time scale.
But still? Is that it? Is this genuinely the answer? Good plans and well-wishing but not an ounce of honesty in a strange sense of protecting him?
So the road to hell and all that then.
Harry pinches his nose with one hand at just the thought, but it's one he's going to have to shelve for another time. Especially as that's right around the time he notices what he's neglected the last little while and as his castle does prod him to pay attention. Which naturally means his relatives are involved seeing as an entire pack of elves is headed this way. Something that Manwë has seemingly also realized as has Gil as they turn to him.
Harry's hand moves to rub his temple. He could misdirect them. Have the castle send them on a wild snorkack hunt. But he largely suspects they already knows he has a guest over, and honestly, it isn't worth the hassle. Besides, it's probably better to have them meet in a controlled environment. Not to mention that he isn't entirely sure how much everyone is on the same page here on what it really means for Maglor to have wed Nienna. Especially since the Ainur all sees themselves as kin. The House of Fëanor should be thrilled at all their new relations. The more the merrier and all that.
Harry and Gil exchange a glance at that, and the former doesn't even bother to hide his snort as he takes his fork for another bite of treacle tart. Manwë sends him a puzzled chord at that just as he feels the elves coming up the stairs. Harry savors a bite, even as his love offers him another, bigger piece. Gil has just finished handing that over when the door opens on its own in perfect dramatic timing, and Harry does need to talk to the castle about that one day. The expressions each of them wears as Harry gives them a casual wave isn't nearly as comical as the discordance in their auras as they spot the Vala sitting on his other side.
"Fëanáro. Findis. Ñolofinwë. Arafinwë. Nelyafinwë. Findekáno."
Manwë greets each of them in turn, but he doesn't rise from his seat. In fact, he even brings his cup back from where the teapot has been filling it and takes a small sip afterwards. Harry would think it an intimidation tactic or even nonchalance, but honestly, he isn't sure that would ever occur to most of the Ainur.
Gil snickers faintly at the awkward pause that ensues. "A pleasure to see you all this fine morning. Do come in and join us."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"I can't believe I'm going to be a grandpa," Ron says, not for the first time, but it's with all the awe in the world.
He laughs once again at just the idea of it. There's a twinkle in his eyes. The same one he has whenever he sees Hermione or his two kids, and his cheeks are rosy from the Firewhisky in his tumbler. Or maybe just good cheer. Not that Harry can blame him.
It's a strange thought to even contemplate this new reality. Intellectually, Harry knows that Rose is an adult now. He was at her graduation. He's met her husband. Bloody hell! He was at their wedding. Still, it's an odd world they dwell in now. One where they're old enough to have reached this point. Where Rose is no longer the tiny baby swaddled in Hermione's arms or the girl with a hand on her hip while the other scolded her cousins or even the prefect then head girl of Hogwarts. Now, she's a Master Enchantress and Spell-Crafter both.
And soon-to-be mum. Can't forget that part.
Ron lets out a loud guffaw then and tosses back the remnants of his drink. Harry watches him with his own grin. It's good to see him like this. Good to see Ron so carefree when he's been so wane and worn lately. So worried. Everyone in the Ministry has been tense. All the magicals have with more and more seers reporting the same thing. Giving the same dire warnings. Everybody knows that it's a certainty now. That the mundane – the Muggle – world is swiftly coming to an end.
But there's still time left. Still sand in the hourglass. Still ticks on the clock remaining even as Harry can all but see the countdown in front of his eyes. Knows that it'll be so soon now.
That's a worry for a different day. For tomorrow.
For now, it's just the two of them as they wait for Hermione to finally be free from her desk. Now, it's just the two of them as they celebrate their good fortune and the growth of their family.
Harry pours them both another round as he finishes off his own glass.
"Do you ever regret not marrying Ginny?"
The question is so far off the Quidditch pitch, that it's across the grounds, through the castle and back towards the lake. Harry just blinks at the complete non sequitur. Since really? He hasn't entertained anything even remotely romantic about Ginny since roughly around the time of the second Killing Curse, and what that says about him personally and about the fragment of Tom Riddle's soul… well, Harry prefers never to contemplate that too much or too deeply.
Besides, he knows where her heart truly lies. Even now. Even with her own love aging so much quicker without the blessing of his own magic. She would never give him up for this world and any others. For any possible thing Harry could ever offer her.
"And lose your three nieces?" he redirects instead.
And wasn't that a surprise? Ginny having only girls. Molly and Arthur ending up with so many granddaughters. Fate's little joke at their expense, he supposes. Or revenge to their sons in the first place.
Ron snorts loudly. Likely thinking along the same lines.
"You know that's not what I meant, you git." He elbows Harry in the side, but it isn't even rough enough to slosh either of their drinks.
Harry chuckles in response. "I'll find him eventually," he says, and it's with absolute certainty. "I will."
Ron gazes at him now. Eyes still bright, hopeful and happy. But there's a sharpness underneath. An unexpected soberness.
"That's what you always say."
"I'll keep saying it," Harry replies, but it's softer. With a fading curve to his lips as his eyes drift off to the distance. To the slowly appearing stars that glow overhead, visible because the wards block the lights of the nearby village. He can't see the ocean from here; it's too far. But he swears that he hears the call of gulls, smells rain on the air.
During one of his truly lucid times, Sirius once told him that James Potter fell in love at first sight. That he took a single look at Harry's mother and never even glanced at anyone else ever again. Yes, it took him six years to convince Lily of the same, but he never faltered in his devotion from that very first instant.
Harry wants that. Needs it badly enough to spend his entire life alone otherwise. That he'll have someone who looks at him the same way. Or he'll have no one at all. He's compromised and done so much for other people. He's going to be selfish in this. It's silly and childish and completely idiotic, and he will never, ever tell anybody about it. But he knows there's someone out there waiting for him. Someone who thinks about him and dreams what he'll be like. Who gazes at the shore and the stars and the horizon and wonders where he is, too.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Argon – Glad to spend more time with you, cousin!
Also!Argon – Even if I don't get to talk at all.
More!Argon – I hope that wasn't intentional.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Past!Varda – So go with your aunt to help your new cousin.
Past!Manwë – Yes, and follow her guidance.
Past!Eönwë – Salutes. Right!
Past!Manwë & Past!Varda – Nothing terrible could possibly happen due to these instructions.
Sometime later…
Eönwë – Well, this is an inconvenient situation I find myself in.
More!Eönwë – Perhaps we should've told him his father's true name earlier.
Manwë & Varda – Wait. What?
Record screeching noise. Long awkward pause.
Varda – Sighs. Eönwë, we sent you to help your cousin. Not get involved in your aunt's schemes.
Vairë – Hey!
Varda – No, not you.
Estë – Eh…
Varda – Not you either.
Yavanna – Smartly decides to be somewhere else.
Nessa & Vána – Um…
Varda – Sighs. No!
Nienna – Exists.
Varda – Points. Yes, that one.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The Sons of Finwë – We're here!
Fëanor – Smugly. Sorry to crash this party.
Fingolfin – Laughing. Hate to drop in like this.
Finarfin – Innocently. Our invitation was clearly lost in transit.
Findis – Facepalm. I can't believe that I'm actually related to these idiots.
Findis!Too – Also, was this room here the entire time? How did none of us notice before?
Fingon & Maedhros – We don't know them… but don't mind if we do.
Elsewhere in the castle.
Finrod – Ears wiggle. Nose twitches.
Finrod!Again – Someone is eating dessert without me.
Angrod – Puts a hand to his forehead. Not this again.
Notes:
Honeg – little brother in Sindarin.
Sea-longing/Unquiet of Ulmo – the desire for elves in Middle Earth to sail west and back to Aman.
In order – Elros, Elrond, and Harry. Also in order – Melkor, Manwë, Nienna. So Harry is the youngest of the youngest.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-AN: As usual, I did research for Argon's proposed form and earlier writings for Tolkien did have precursors to Sauron with it, but obliviously that does not exist in this universe. So Argon gets to be special!
Also by excluding Harry's children, there were three next!gen male Weasleys – the sons of Ron, George, and Bill. The rest were all girls. In this AU, Rose didn't marry Scorpius which was referenced in an earlier chapter.
There will be a requested side piece for Gil posted tomorrow in the collections.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
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