Ballad of Dusk and Dawn
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.
Warnings: AU, Crossover, Slash, Character Death, Attempted Suicide, Severe Child Abuse and Neglect
AN: Based on a prompt by NaTeO11 on AO3. This also has some very strong influences from The Wizarding Prince of Twilight by Marsflame18 and Scion of Somebody, Probably by Drag0nSt0rm.
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. He allows Harry to stand on his own and examine himself. He can feel the weight, but everything is surprisingly balanced. It's not unpleasant and is 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 the 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 still considering that when Eönwë summons his sword, bright and gleaming in the sunlight. Harry knows 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 is still slowly climbing 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 are stirring 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 is expecting 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 is 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. Music 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 haven't 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 is trying 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 in his aura. 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.
"Stop being 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 now 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 to value your own life just as much as another's," 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 will 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.
"It isn't just 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 silent when Eönwë is present, didn't speak for an entire week afterwards.
Naturally, Harry 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 particular 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?
Perhaps 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 particular thoughts on this matter too in the limited time that Harry spent there before wisely 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. 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 had gone 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 blinks as the words wash over him. He's mid-sip, tasting orange with a hint of spice. He glances at his elf with bewilderment.
Gil is completely relaxed across from him. Dressed as casually as Harry's ever seen him in shades of blue, green and ivory. His hair is 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 laugh 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 again 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 is still 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 again. 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 face on his hand.
"Arafinwë and his wife fear that I'm Curufin's," he says then, "and he'd rather battle Moringotto again than say that to my face. Findekáno thinks I'm Artaresto's, as I'm sure he told you, but they've never gotten on."
He pauses to let that sink in, but Harry is silent. Doesn't know what to think. Much less what to say.
"Artaresto supposes I'm Irissë's," 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 shore, 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's 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's 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 steading 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'd been attacked by orcs and other dark creatures. I'd been 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 chair 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 murmur 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.
However, he's been given a new one. 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 after all this time. "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 soft 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 has 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 is settled and that they have plenty of time 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 instead 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 Larien. 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. Larien 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 breathes. 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 stares at Gil like he personally set the sun and moon in the sky.
"I'm no king anymore, my friend," Gil-galad corrects him 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 glittering, 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've been welcome in my house," he states very vehemently. "We would've made a place for you."
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's still smiling, but his gaze has hardened, weight shifting so that he's closer to Harry. "I wasn't 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.
Larien 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 weren't."
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, Larien'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 curled 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 perhaps 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's not like it was when Harry was younger, like with Ron and Hermione. Or even the Weasleys. The DA… But he considers them friends. The closest thing to that he has amongst the elves in Valinor save perhaps for 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 on his staff 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 knows that Inglor and Fingon are aware of each other – Valinor isn't that large a place. His company also knew 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.
Still, Inglor's history as a kinslayer isn't a secret. Eönwë did recognize him, 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 recognize 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 are trembling 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, burning 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 pain 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 song 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 of 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 head. 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 is still shining 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. It's 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 can't 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.
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.
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.
So 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)
Ever Hopeful,
Azar