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.


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 imagined. 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 of 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 will 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 or the others 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 new one he gains.

He supposes 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 magically 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 of life 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 a 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 isn't a real elf. Still, it's tough to discern what is and isn't important. There fortunately is 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'd still be with Lord Námo and Lady Vairë."

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. 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're the only one either," he adds with a little laugh.

Harry finds himself preening just a bit at the attention and 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 did anyone ever praise him for his own academic accomplishments. Did anyone ever genuinely care 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 asks 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 know 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.

"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 ocean in front of him. It's silly, Harry knows, such a small thing, but he wants to prove that he has 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 sincerely is 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 little 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 truly 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 to add in 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 gentle as a feather, and Káno is unexpectedly solemn. 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 don't… I really shouldn't 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?"

"It isn't 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 is 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 at last questions. 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 it's 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.

"Don't 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 Harry. Pool with something all too much like fright until his world dims and the only light is from Harry himself.

"I know that they're in Mandos and locked away, but you mustn't 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 has 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 don't 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.

"It's a terrible burden to bear, and you don't deserve that. You don't 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 Lady Vairë or Lords Námo and Eönwë. With any of the other Ainur, for they know who you are, but one day, you'll 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've asked much of you. Too much when I asked you not to come to Endor."

"You're in Endor," Harry gently points out for not the first or even the hundredth time.

"It isn't safe," Káno counters, but it's still so weary, "and it isn't 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 stare 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 gaze 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 steps forward next. 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. Turning the color molten.

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. Her mouth gently curves even as she leads her elf closer. He does so quietly. Almost docilly. 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 brush 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 flickers 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 gaze away. Even Gil is stunned into motionlessness. Reaching out even from the distance separating them but frozen by the tableau in front of him 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. Nevertheless, 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 soft 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 softly 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 to the point 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 gazes 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 look 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 look 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 soothing 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 wine glass as she kicks back on the garnet 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 looks 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 exhales slowly.

Fingon is in 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. Turning away before he can see their reactions.

He finds the sons of Fëanor next; the remaining five are tucked away together in a single guest room. Speaking 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 of the song. He doesn't linger, however. Harry and his music ghost along with another goal in mind.

Gil stares out balcony doors up in their tower, in their suite. He's fully dressed. Waiting for Harry to return. He looks 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 brushes a hand against Harry's translucent cheek.

"I'll find you in the morning, yes?" his love requests, but it's gentle.

He leans in for a kiss before Harry can even nod in answer, and that effectively ends the spell. His face is 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 those initial weeks.

Káno.

So far way 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-grey 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 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 a kiss to her husband's cheek. Next reaching out to squeeze Harry's hand and brush 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're 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 that gaze. 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.

"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 blinking 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 feels exposed in a manner he hasn't 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 what would become of him. It was obvious that Harry would outlive them, but they'd thought it would be mere decades… Not this.

Harry doesn't sigh as he gently extricates himself from that thought. 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 buy time. "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 in greeting 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.

"That 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 flicker 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 gazing at 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's receiving. He does, however, glance between his love and Fëanor. Gil 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 eyes drift to Gil-galad. They're just as intent, focused and accessing.

"Forgive me, but you have a familiar look to you," he comments then, and his tone is unexpectedly polite but all too interested. "I know we have not 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.

"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.

Fëanor 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 awhile 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 been very honest about his family history. Blood children versus adopted matters little to the Eldar. Particularly 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 silent 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 the past." He rubs a fingertip over Harry's ring absently. "I'm 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.

"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. "It's 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," Nerdanel 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 growing blush. "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 messed 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 pleased and now turned neutral. The flames in his eyes are dimming.

"I'm not sure 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. It is 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've done to you. All the suffering I've 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 solemn 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 his wife to the room and back.

This is a guest space, yes. One 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 tops of the distant trees sway in the wind, and the lazy river empties into a lake on 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.


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.


AN: No, Harry didn't realize who Miriel 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.

Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter).

Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) O (Masculine).


Ever Hopeful,

Azar