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.
Harry finds that he just doesn't want to get up. He isn't tired per se. Not after sleeping for a day and a half. And truth be told, he never really is. Not anymore. Not for longer than he cares to admit even on Earth. When he would stay up for days even then. Between his actual duties as headmaster and the various unofficial responsibilities that everyone insisted on heaping at his feet. Especially at the end. When the world was dying and every single, solitary person expected him to pull off some sort of miracle.
The fact that he did… well…
Harry fights not to sigh. Gil's still asleep beside him, but dawn is a hairsbreadth away. Normally by now, Harry's long ago risen and wandered off. Gone to do his usual rounds around the kingdom. Perhaps even stopped in his office for extra paperwork for no other reason that because it was there and he was up. Lingered in his favorite garden with Káno's harp. Set off for a thousand other tasks.
Today though, Harry stays at home. Lets his senses wander to check the wards. Ghosts through the city and each of the surrounding towns and villages all from the comfort of his own bed. Cocooned in his quilts with Gil a warm and inviting presence next to him. Head pillowed on his shoulder and breathing in the scent of rain.
He already spoke with Káno this afternoon. A several hours long reassurance that Harry was in fact completely fine and suffered no damage from his celestial field trip. Nienna was more persuasive on that front, however. And Harry's honestly not shocked by that. She's been managing Káno from day one. Since Harry's arrival. Likely before that too judging by many of their prior comments and asides. They aren't as bad as some he knows. Particularly since Harry understands most of the references nowadays, and they always try to include him. So Harry doesn't feel like the third beater in a match like he previously did even with Ron and Hermione.
Small blessings.
Eönwë even came by in the evening. Brought in directly by Nienna and tarrying longer than strictly necessary. Eyes flashing through a kaleidoscope of colors as he sat and listened more than participated in the conversation. Before departing elsewhere with his fellow Ainu in tow. Or more to say that Nienna was kind enough to apparate him away since Eönwë never took up Harry's offer to learn.
Afterwards, it was already evening. Nearly nighttime. And Harry admits that he had zero desire to go anywhere or interact with anyone. He wanted to curl up in their bed with his favorite elf and do absolutely nothing else.
Gil very fortunately had the exact same idea.
Of course, that isn't to say that they've been alone this entire time. He has a whole slew of his painted friends still occupying his walls after all. Resting on branches, under trees, or simply in the soft grasses. Some of them have chosen to emerge and instead lounge about the bedroom.
Even now, Himiko reclines on the windowseat like a queen on a throne. One paw crossed on top of the other and just barely touching the edge. From this angle, Harry can see her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Golden eyes studying him imperiously. As a ruler does a subject kneeling before her.
Inara perches on her favored locale on the footboard, feathers rustling with every breath. Gaze half-lidded but fully aware of everything in the room. Probably everything in the entire tower. She glows like a firefly in the velvety darkness. Brighter than the heavens on the ceiling and almost as much as some of the Ainur.
An entire menagerie is on his walls and has been most of the night. Owls. Kitsune and regular foxes. Thestrals. Unicorns. A stray dragon or seven. Mundane animals. The numbers have only grown since he woke around noon the first time. Almost every single creature that resides in his suite has migrated in here over the course of the last day. They aren't staring at him. Not directly. But it's their way of showing concern. Or possibly support. He hasn't clarified that yet. The last time all of them did this was before he left for Tirion. Though admittedly, there were a lot more unhappy faces then. Not to mention a great deal of squawks, huffs, snorts, and all manner of displeased noises. They haven't started that yet. Thankfully. Though Harry suspects it's only a matter of time. It's not like he planned this or anything. It's not something he ever even imagined would happen. And the Ainur could've been a little clearer with their warnings. They should know that by now. Definitely after all this time. Really they-
"I can hear you thinking," a not-at-all-sleepy voice murmurs next to him.
Gil doesn't see Harry roll his eyes playfully but undoubtedly senses it. He stirs and moves to face him. Scant inches away. Gaze clear like the evening sky after a storm with the blue darkened but carrying the faintest flecks of light.
"Though I have to say it's a pleasant change to find you here," he adds, nose brushing Harry's own.
The kiss isn't a surprise, but it's welcome. Soft and sweet. Lingering as his love looks at him. It isn't clear which of them moves first. But this time, it's deeper, longer. So is the third. And the fourth. The fifth is fiercer. Harder. He feels Gil's weight shifting against him. Trying to tug him back down. He makes a puzzled noise when Harry pulls away. A sound that abruptly cuts off as their kiss ends and Gil finally takes note of the rest of the room.
His face is flushed, cheeks pinking further but now from something else entirely as he realizes their audience. Of course, Harry hadn't ever forgotten them. This is on the border of what they normally allow with so many witnesses hanging around. Usually, everyone clears the area on their own whenever they become a little too affectionate, but there are far too many pairs of eyes on them right now. A fact his love fully recognizes as he abruptly sits up.
Inara chirps at Gil when she notices his attention. Sound pleasant with greeting.
That only makes him blush harder. Harry doesn't laugh; he doesn't. But he does make a shooing motion behind Gil's back that everyone ignores. A gale of embarrassment that isn't his own batters against glacial walls. Water and winds that swirl around in agitation mixed with fluster and just the faintest splash of shame.
Elves aren't shy. Not truly. Not usually. They also don't have the hang-ups that Harry remembers from Earth – the human fascination and revulsion. But Gil is also still relatively new to this, he has to remember. For all his kingly manners and romantic airs, Harry is the only person he's ever kissed. Much less courted or… well, anything else.
Not to mention being stared at in their bedroom is definitely a mood killer.
Harry's spent far too much of his life on display. Like an animal at a zoo. He's had far too many marriage proposals, frantic fans, swooning masses. Too many unmentionables thrown – and charmed – practically in his face even when he was of geriatric age. Dodged love potions, suspicious contracts, and outright blackmail. Not to mention his friend's endeavors to set him up in the early days. Hermione's attempts were the tamest. He won't even mention George and his old Quidditch mates. Or shudder… Andromeda.
Harry snaps his fingers, and the mural around them fills with shadows that billow from the bottom upwards. A smoke that starts gray but soon blots out everything until only black remains. His friends will still be able to see their own world but nothing on his end now. Inara simply tilts her head in confusion; Himiko flicks all nine of her tails and sniffs. They're the sole ones outside, so they're the only two still capable of seeing when Gil casts him a smile. Relaxes even more as Harry lays a hand on his back between his shoulder blades.
"How was Elros?" his elf questions as if trying for a distraction.
For himself or Harry, that part isn't as obvious. But Harry is gracious and grateful for all Gil's given him. Allows the redirection.
"Chipper and chatty as always," he replies. "He certainly had much to say about my… outing."
Gil lifts a brow at him. "He knew?"
"I told him," Harry corrects. "Last night when we spoke. He wanted me to tell someone else about my dreams. Not the ones with him but the other ones." His fingers soothe over the fabric of Gil's sleep tunic. It's silky and fit for a king, but somehow still not quite as fine as what Vairë makes.
"You should speak with Lo… with Irmo." Gil hesitates over the title before simply dropping it entirely. "About controlling your dreams. He can likely offer insight better than anyone else."
Harry shifts his arm so that it's between them now. "I was actually considering that. I haven't been to Lórien in a while, but it's obviously faster for me to travel than them. We'll have to find a time to go."
If the implied invitation is unexpected, Gil doesn't show it.
"And make appropriate excuses," his love adds instead.
Harry nods. "I'm not planning to tell the elves about this any time soon, but it won't be difficult for us to go back and forth."
"If we tell them that you and I are planning a small trip just to ourselves, it'll keep them from asking too many questions." Nevertheless, Gil shakes his head even as he says that. "Are you going to mention Elros? To Irmo or even Nienna?"
"I suppose that I'll have to, won't I?" Harry closes his eyes. "They weren't surprised at all by what happened. Pleased, yes. Excited even. But not surprised. They were expecting this. Who knows what else they're expecting to happen?"
"A trip to Námo is also in order then," Gil decides but then muses, "two brothers of Nienna." He's quiet for a moment as he studies Harry, focus drifting around the room before settling on Inara. "Your powers are certainly interesting, Mírimo. Prophetic dreams. Seeing the dead and coming back from it. Turning into birds. Traveling instantaneously. The ability to create so freely."
"All the Ainur can shapeshift," Harry reminds him. "And all of them would be able to travel like I do if they'd bothered to learn. It's not my fault they weren't interested."
Gil-galad stares at him now.
"What?" Harry asks when that look stretches on.
"You… Nienna can also travel like this, yes?" his love questions. "I saw her do it." His voice is low, raindrops a slow cadence.
"She can," Harry agrees easily enough, but he's not entirely sure where this is going. "That's how she visits so often."
"But you taught her?" Gil presses. "You invented this? Created it?"
Oh. So there it is.
He had apparated spontaneously as a child onto the school roof. Yes, he learned at Hogwarts, but that method was outdated and quite frankly terrible. Dropping it entirely helped him by leaps and bounds when he came up with his own techniques that were even better. Ones that were nearly so far removed from the original spell as to almost be something else entirely. They naturally became the new standard.
So… technically, Harry did create it. He didn't write the book on it – that was one of his apprentices, but it was his teachings. His methods. His trial and error based on what he'd done as a child and then recreated. A way so simple that even a small boy could do it without splinching. Soundless and with less effort. If killing a Dark Lord hadn't gotten him an Order of Merlin, this certainly would have. It nearly earned him another mastery before Harry begged off, stating that two were plenty.
Gil chuckles then. Carefree and bright. Leans forward to kiss him again. Without worry who sees.
Pride washes against Harry even as his love pulls back. Surrounds him like he's just gotten into a warm bath. It's a heady feeling. One that carries him through their morning routine and is still ongoing when he rises from the vanity, braids in his hair – the ones for mastery along with those for artistry. Harry requests the last ones be those for Formenos, and Gil happily obliques him. He's in gray and with a hint of green today. Nabs a pair of boots that he doesn't put on just yet because he doesn't want the other inhabitants to be suspicious of their plans just yet.
Inara, who's remained the entire time while Himiko has settled down for a nap, lets out a happy trill before landing on his shoulder. Her talons are gentle, careful not to catch the embroidery that trails from his collar over the seam. She's light, weight far less that most would expect, but that's just part of her magic. Her golden fire reflects on the ice of his world, but it's more a shine of beauty instead of blinding. She's the core of the sun. The hottest part. Should be enough to melt anything. Rather, she lights up the sky like a beacon.
She rides downstairs alongside him and stays on her new perch even as they enter the kitchen. It's early enough yet that no one else is awake, which fits perfectly with Harry's plan. Gil sets the table for him while he starts on a variety of different dishes. Most are elven – either ones he's had while in Tirion or here in Formenos. However, he sneaks in a few from Earth that are similar but not quite the same. Magic speeds up the process, and Gil makes everything more pleasant still. Inara doesn't move the entire time.
Not even when Nerdanel enters the room almost an hour later. Inara offers a chirp in greeting, but Nerdanel gives everyone a bright smile in return. The redhead has met her before in the weeks she lived here prior to the other elves arriving en masse, but none of them have gotten a good look at her. Or even seen her as more than a speck in the distance.
Caranthir certainly takes a sharp breath when he walks in five minutes later, and Harry idly wonders what he actually sees when he gazes at her; he can't quite be sure what elves perceive versus himself. Gil likely isn't a reliable comparison these days. Still the reactions are almost comical as his Eldar guests drift in one by one.
Fëanor is the next to arrive, and he does a double-take at Harry's newest accessory. His queries all but burn in his aura, but he manages to hold himself together enough to ask them politely. One at a time, actually giving Harry a chance to answer. Before Nerdanel finally hushes him after the tenth. Afterwards, he sits in his chair and watches like a cat staring after a bird. Tail twitching behind and eyes transfixed.
Curufin is next. Much like his father, he seems to question what he initially sees, but he arrives during the interrogation and is seemingly content – and wise enough – not to interrupt. A single glance from his mother keeps him from doing anything more than offering a good morning. But he watches out of the corner of his vision. Not blinking nearly as much as he probably should.
Fingon just puts a hand to his forehead but makes absolutely no comment, while Maedhros seems vaguely amused once the surprise wears off. Fingolfin is rather similar, and he lets out a laugh before wandering to his usual seat. Argon immediately comes over, and he's the only one to offer Inara an introduction. He's also the sole person she – and Harry – allows close enough to touch. Reaching out a gentle hand to stroke the top of her head and receiving a coo in return. The phoenix seemingly grows tired of her game around that time and takes to the air. Offering a warble of farewell before disappearing in whirl of fire and gold with sparkles.
Show-off, Harry thinks. But he hides his grin. While Gil snickers quietly in the background.
The rest of the room – save for Nerdanel – simply goggles.
Half of the household has missed the show, however. Findis enters the room to find them all still gaping, and she goes from one person to the next with suspicion on her face. Finarfin, his sons, and granddaughter all come shortly thereafter and are regaled by Argon. Finrod asks enough eager questions to earn an elbow to his side from Celebrían, but that does little to deter him. Only the not-so-subtle kick beneath the table finally quiets him.
Celegorm and the twins seem to be sorry to have been late to the party, but their mother's pointed look gets them to their chairs better than even Manwë could. The three of them murmur quietly amongst themselves as breakfast starts, however. Celegorm in particular wears an almost boyish expression, one full of excitement with the vaguest hint of roguishness. Not the same as Fëanor or Curufin. Closer to Argon's earlier. Probably closest of all to Oromë when he has a hunt planned. It's the most Celegorm has ever actually resembled him – identical appearance aside. It gentles his normal handsomeness to something realer. Something familiar.
There's a twinge in Harry's heart just thinking about that, so he rather quickly busies himself with fixing Gil's plate. His love in turn quietly sets down a teacup right in front of him and presses lips to his cheek. He gives Harry a look that's a tad too aware as they slide into their chairs on the end of the table. Not even Fëanor asks any more questions with the distraction of the food in front of them. Or it could be the gleam in Nerdanel's eye as piles food in front of him when his plate looks a little too empty. The meal itself passes in relative silence.
Inglor, bless him, arrives quite soon after that. Which really isn't a shock. Harry's felt him visit the castle multiple times since her invasion by the House of Finwë, Fëanor and sons included. And it's no real secret why he'd want to visit old friends and his former liege lord. Harry's hardly going to police that, and the blond has an open invitation to visit regardless. He's one of the few elves who has come on his own recognizance.
Still, it does come as something of a change when Inglor approaches him in the library. Harry hasn't had much time for reading as of late or even sorting through his ever growing collection. He hasn't been through everything in here yet since books are still one of the most common things he receives as a gift. A strange coincidence that's followed him across worlds. Though admittedly, the elves seem to have paid far closer notice to his interests this go around.
Truth be told, he's just buying time here until the coast is clear, but Harry has never truly been one for idleness. Even when sitting, he usually finds something to do with himself whether it's playing or planning or painting. Currently, he's unpacking the latest welcome-back crate that's managed to find its way into his office and inspecting the contents. Gil's meanwhile shelving for him as they talk about whatever random things come to mind. No one else is around since Findis's determined to speak to all of her siblings, and Finarfin and Fingolfin escaped for parts unknown, leaving their children to fend for themselves. Nerdanel took the opportunity to leave with her oldest and his new husband, while Caranthir meandered off on his own. Last Harry saw, Fëanor was actually still at the breakfast table, cup in both hands with his sister across from him. He wishes them the best of luck with that conversation. Which he's purposefully tuning out because it's none of his business thanks ever so much.
Of course, Celegorm and twins were whispering in hushed tones and gesturing as they hurried away to the stables. Which makes it a little difficult to ready Indilwen and Arthion unobtrusively. Truly, he and Gil should've skipped breakfast and headed out immediately on their venture for the day. They'd certainly already be there, but no use crying over spilled potions now.
Inglor appears not terribly long after all of this, but Harry thinks nothing of it. So his bemusement is understandable when the castle whispers that his guard captain is headed his way. More so when the blond appears at the end of the shelves several minutes later and calls out to them. It's accompanied by a brush of his aura like autumn sunshine through the leaves.
"A pleasant surprise to see you this morning," Harry comments, but it's amicably.
The blond inclines his head as he stops by their table. Scanning the book covers momentarily before his attention settles on Harry again.
"I felt it prudent to check in. We haven't seen you for several days."
Harry offers a half-shrug. "Eönwë stopped by," he gives as a vague answer. It's true enough.
Inglor seemingly accepts that. It's a common enough occurrence for the Ainur to come see him. Eönwë basically lives here part-time. A fact his staff knows. Quite well at this point. Inglor doesn't even question it; Harry's very grateful for that.
"We were merely concerned that we hadn't see you," he says instead.
Harry lets that sink in for a moment. "I'm hardly here alone, you know. Even when I leave, it's usually not by myself either."
Inglor merely continues to gaze at him with the same expression. Lips vaguely curled upwards. But he's leaves dancing in the breeze as they fall to the forest floor. Amusement mixed with an undertone of concern.
"We always worry when you are gone," he admits readily enough. "Even with Gil-galad here along with your family. It won't matter if you're a thousand years old or ten thousand. That's the nature of people." He holds up a hand before Harry can even voice his next thought. "Do you not also worry for us?"
Harry knows a trap when he sees one. Gil isn't any help here either. Quiet, watchful of the exchange but knee against his under the table.
Harry lets out a small breath.
"I highly doubt this is the reason you're here. To give me a lecture about wandering off without leaving a note."
Gil lets out an amused noise beside him.
Inglor doesn't respond immediately though. Rather, the blond taps a fingertip on his leg. An almost nervous gesture. One of the few tells he has when delivering ill tidings.
It makes Harry pause. There's a prickle at the edge of his senses as the castle whispers to him at the same time, but it's for a different reason altogether. He nudges Himiko to go investigate. For Inara to go with her. Just in case.
"I wished to speak with you, my king," Inglor says then, tone suddenly serious.
Alone, he means. That particular nuance is abundantly clear.
"There's no one else here," Harry points out. "Almost everyone is outside."
Nerdanel and her sons are now in the winter garden on Harry's favorite bench. Caranthir walks the path through the bamboo grove and over the red bridge. Finrod and Angrod have joined their father and uncle in the training yard with bows in hand. Celebrían sits on the grass under a willow tree, embroidering as she sings to herself. Argon is headed towards the stable, doubtless on this way to join his cousins. Only Fëanor and Findis remain, still in the kitchen.
Harry blinks back to see Inglor watching him. He's polite enough not to glance at Gil, but there's the distinct impression of it.
"He knows everything nowadays that I do," Harry informs him, but it's gentle at the edges. An admission and confession both.
His captain actually allows his mouth to quirk again. An upcurling of his lips that makes the rising tension unravel. He wouldn't be nearly so pleased if he truly came bearing bad news.
"It isn't anything so unfortunate as you were likely starting to imagine," Inglor admits. "I merely wished to…" He hesitates as if searching for his words. "I wished to reaffirm my stance." At Harry's obvious puzzlement, he continues, "You've been very generous with us. Kinder than any has been since we left Aman in the first place. We owe you are our loyalty."
A beat. One. Then two. As Harry digests that. As Gil's eyebrows try to join his hairline.
This is about Fëanor then. Which Harry should've expected honestly. He did on some level. Eventually. He just didn't think Inglor would feel the need to spell things out, but given what happened not so long ago, Harry really should have. And he should probably expect similar statements from the rest of his staff and probably from various denizens of the city as a whole.
"I'm not worried about Fëanor or one of his sons trying to usurp me," Harry tells him honestly.
Since really, that idea is ludicrous. The Ainur wouldn't stand for it for one. Eönwë alone would immediately put a stop to it, and he has very strong opinions on the entire lot of them that he's never been shy on sharing. That doesn't even bring in the rest of them. Harry doubts Manwë would ever approve any of that.
For another, Formenos wouldn't stand for it. Only a part of the population here is Ñoldor. And Harry admits he's worried about how the rest will react to knowing the House of Fëanor is staying with him in the castle. Word's undoubtedly spreading, but he hasn't made any official statements. Despite his bluff to Laerien and Melpomaen earlier, he doesn't actually have the impression that any of them seek to rule. If anything, they mostly seem content to lounge around and explore his home. That's likely to change in the near future once they've settled, but he's not pressing them to seek an occupation or restart their crafts. Not even Curufin has asked after a forge, and he's supposed to be even more craft-obsessed than his father.
Of course, they've been too distracted. Much of their time has been spent with the House of Finwë. There's so much history, Harry knows. So much bad blood between the various people here. So much prior backstabbing and infighting. Most of it caused by Fëanor and his sons. Harry knows there've been in-roads and amends made between various parties. He's walked in on more than one intense discussion between Finrod and Curufin with Angrod looking on. Seen Fingolfin and Fëanor circling each other like cats. And Finarfin too sometimes. Maedhros has been making the rounds to each of his brothers and then to the others with Fingon in tow. While Findis seems to be on a mission to take each one aside for a personal discussion.
That certainly leaves them little time to plot against him.
All of this doesn't even address the manticore in the room. The fact that they're all still under the impression that he's Makalaurë's – Maglor's – son. Which Harry isn't touching with a ten-foot broomstick. That's a conversation he doesn't want to have ever. For any reason. No. Just no.
"I didn't think you would," Inglor agrees, "but they are older. We all knew and served them before. All of my people have assured me that their – our – loyalty is to you first."
There's a tightness in his chest, but Harry breathes by it. There's the steady fall of rain on one side of him with autumn sunlight out front. Both against ice and snow like waves against the shore. Rhythmic and steady. Unending.
"I have no reason to question your loyalty," Harry replies after a few heartbeats. "I'll hardly be angry with you for rekindling your friendships."
Inglor's expression is bright as his world. Brilliant and dazzling. He's still standing, hasn't taken the earlier offered seat. Now uses the opportunity to give a courtly bow.
"Your words mean a great deal to me, my king."
That's naturally when the world goes to hell.
There's a toll. Like a warning bell going off in the distance. Loud. Ringing. As the castle calls out.
Harry knows that Gil hears it when he rises instantly. Inglor must notice something, too. He reacts even before he sees Harry still. Head turning as if trying to track the sound.
Harry's already looking away. He doesn't have to search hard to find her, but she isn't so much alarmed as angered. Snapping and biting and stomping at the interlopers. And that's before Arthion, the castle, and even Himiko join in. Inara, too. He pinches his nose before he can stop himself. Not knowing whether to sigh or bang his head on the table. It's not only the audacity but the sheer bad-timing. And the very bad judgment call.
In lieu of either option, he simply stands.
"Your majesty," Inglor interrupts then, and he's unconcerned.
It takes Harry half a second to realize he's the once being addressed.
"Yes?" he inquires because this isn't the time.
But Inglor merely holds out his hand expectantly.
A million thoughts race through Harry's mind at the look he's given. The implications. The knowledge in that gaze. Ultimately, none of it matters as much as the trust offered.
"Close your eyes," Harry simply says.
Inglor does so immediately and without question. He doesn't even react to see that they're outside an instant later. Completely and utterly unsurprised. Even less so that Gil's right there beside them.
The scene they come upon isn't a massacre. Not quite. No one's dead at least. Harry would've known already if that happened. They're walking wounded – all three of them. Still upright and talking. So that's one less worry at least. He's just wondering how he's going to explain this to Nerdanel and Fëanor… And well, the rest of his family. That's the bigger issue.
One that grows larger as elves appear. As if by magic. Coming not in ones or twos but in a wave. Drawn like salamanders to a flame. Descending down on them like some dark curse.
Beside him, Inglor just exhales slowly and puts a hand to his forehead. Harry doesn't have to be a mind-reader to know what he's thinking. Undoubtedly imaging all the paperwork that might arise from this scenario. Infinitely glad that it happened here at the castle and not in the city proper in front of hundreds of witnesses. If it happens at the castle, it stays in the castle. It's never logged in any of the records unless it's something ever major, so that means less work for everyone. Especially Harry.
Of course, Inglor's likely also trying to reconcile his old bosses with his new one. He never directly served Celegorm or the twins, but Fëanor has appeared along with Maedhros. Not to mention Finarfin though they were friends far more than anything. And the entire household is naturally here for this. Likely drawn but a combination of Eldar hearing, family bonds, and his castle wanting an audience. Harry will really have to speak with her about that. A thought he's still contemplating even as he takes in everything once more.
Celegorm as he struggles to his feet from his knees. Now stumbling but making it under his own power. Head up with defiance but in the middle of the courtyard closest to the stables. Glaring at Inara who no doubt dumped him there without so much as a by-your-leave. She's not even looking at him as she sits on top of the nearest willow, preening her talons as if she's just touched something foul.
The twins are nearby, closer in fact. Out front with Argon behind as he drags them forward. He's the only one uninjured – likely the sole person sensible enough to not be part of this idiocy. An unlucky bystander who happened upon the scene of the crime. He doesn't throw them in front of Harry; he's too nice for that. But he does rather forcefully shove them forward and stands behind so they can't escape. Particularly when their mother comes to stand by Harry's left, ostensibly to fuss over her sons. Though judging by the glint in her eye, he can guess the real reason.
"Are you alright?" Harry inquires with more than a bit of concern as he looks over his three trouble-makers.
It's his headmaster tone. One he uses by default despite all this time. Even as he discreetly casts a diagnostic just to be sure. Harry can admit to himself that he's relieved it comes back with no significant findings. Aside from bruises, scattered abrasions, and wounded pride. He moves to inspect their injuries anyway, healing whatever he finds. Going back and forth to each twin as he stands between them.
"That's not a horse!" Amras declares then, just as Argon nudges him.
His twin is nodding his head so hard that Harry almost worries that it'll come off. They're both worse for wear. Still smoking from their clothes and soot-stained. Hair with so much filth that it's only possible to tell them apart by their voices. Amrod's also missing an entire sleeve, while Amras has half a trouser-leg gone. There are hoof-prints scattered over their persons in a variety of locations. Both look like they've tried to take on a cranky dragonette and lost. Which is likely not that far from the truth.
Harry doesn't have to imagine what happened to them; he's already certain what Indilwen and the castle will not only tell him but show in graphic detail. Just as he's sure it was some combined effort there of. The smoldering is likely Himiko's efforts. He knows that she's remained around, too. Can feel her presence like a whiff of cherry blossoms in the air as she hides in plain sight.
"That's a balrog!" Amrod agrees a bit too quickly.
"Don't let her fool you!" they say together. Voices echoing but breathless. Like they've run a marathon or four. Likely from all manner of monsters chasing after them.
Celegorm remains stubbornly silent though. Wresting his arm from Maedhros' grasp and tossing his head like a proud stallion. He's in even worse shape than the twins. His silvery mane is shorter than at breakfast, but it's irregular and uneven. As though something – someone – has taken a large bite out of it. There's hoof shaped bruise on his cheek, which is already swelling to twice the normal size, and his clothing is shredded, ashen. Still smoking. Covered in bits of hay and who knows what else from the stable floor. Since it looks like he was dragged across.
It's quiet then as everyone processes this. Fëanor has come to be by this wife, while Fingon is now with his husband. Curufin stands between the two groups with Caranthir just beside him. Finrod and Angrod exchange glances with each other and then Findis as she shifts over to them. Finarfin and Fingolfin are together, kings both but aware that this isn't their show. Celebrían floats closer to hover on Gil's free side.
"Did you just lose to a horse?" Curufin finally voices the question all of them are thinking.
Caranthir snorts loudly, but no one even comments on that.
"We told you-" Amras begins.
Maedhros interrupts him, "What exactly were you doing here?"
His tone is cold. Steely. Sharp like a sword. Aimed at Celegorm who's obviously the mastermind of this enterprise.
"We merely wanted to ride," his brother responds at last. It's calm, nonchalant even under the remnants of his bangs.
"Yet, there are horses aplenty here," Fingon comments, but there's a bite to it. "Including all those we brought. Why that one in particular?" He indicates the end of the courtyard.
There, Indilwen stands. Ears flicking from side to side in agitation. Huffing as she glares. If she could shoot laser-beams out of her eyes, there'd be nothing but craters left. However, Harry only worked defensive protections around her. Maybe… No, focus. Think on that later.
"I think I can guess why, yonya." Fëanor's gaze is molten silver, but he's controlled, unbelievably composed as he addresses his children. "She's one of Oromë's herd. Is she not, Tyelkormo?"
Credit where credit is due, Celegorm merely shrugs. His song doesn't hold a single hint of concern. Campfire the same height and color as always. World empty and sullen.
A hand finds Harry's shoulder then as Gil gently pulls Harry away from the twins. They aren't fully healed yet, but his love has seemingly decided they're sufficiently fixed. The strength of his grasp is enough to keep Harry from even trying to go to Celegorm, and his arm settles around Harry's back as they move away three steps. Celebrían drifts over to Harry's other side; close enough to reach out but wise enough not to do so.
Maedhros doesn't yell, but he projects loud enough that Harry almost thinks the city will hear him.
"Stealing from your nephew!" he demands. "That is a new low even for you."
If his words were any colder, frost would coat the ground around them. Fortunately, he doesn't have Harry's gifts.
"It's not stealing," Amrod defends. "We only wanted to borrow her for a bit."
"We were going to bring her right back." Amras lifts his chin but is still overshadowed by Argon looming behind him.
"Eventually, that is?" Fingon counters, and now, there's a flare of true anger. "A few weeks from now? A few months? After he's had to track her down?"
"It was all in good fun," Amras says now.
"Just a little hunt," Celegorm continues. "Just a little game to pass the time."
"No, it was a test to see how he'd react," Caranthir snidely remarks. "A game is only fun if everyone willingly participates." There's a curl to his lip that's very unfriendly. He's too knowing as are his words.
"Now, would we do that?" Amrod asks. Face innocent but eyes predatory. Like a shark that's found blood in the water. A dragon that's seen the doe.
"Are they truly accusing us of such things, brother?" Amras's words are light, almost jesting. The ruin of their clothes belays the ease in his voice.
"I remember how you treated Tyelpë," Finrod speaks up from the back.
Heads snap that direction in surprise. Even Indilwen glances over.
"Particularly when his parents weren't around to protect him," Angrod agrees.
It isn't Celegorm he looks at, but the twins this time. Attention flicking from one to the other but lingering in the general vicinity of both. He isn't Finarfin's radiant light or Findis' eclipse, but his sun is blazing now.
"His mother would have your head if she knew if half of the things you did," he presses on.
Of course, Celebrimbor's father still might judging by the way his eyes narrow into slits. Curufin lets out a little snarl, but Caranthir keeps him from stepping forward. Hand turning white from the pressure he applies to his brother's arm.
Even Celegorm seems surprised by this revelation. Shock flitting over his face before he smooths it again.
Both twins nearly blanch at the looks aimed their direction.
"We didn't-"
"It was-"
They both began to say.
"You didn't mean it that way. It was just a little fun," Caranthir disrupts, but it's falsetto and mocking. "You sound like children."
His youngest siblings glower at him now. Identical expressions of displeasure. Out of all the House, they look the most like Nerdanel, and it's unsettling to see such a glare on someone with her features.
"You know it-"
"They aren't children anymore," Finrod points out with a nod at Curufin.
"No, they aren't," Fingon concurs, but it's softer now. "Herurrívë is the youngest here."
The elves don't glance at each other then, but they don't have to. Harry mightn't be the best at catching their clues; this is a glaringly large one.
"It isn't like-" Amras starts
But his father cuts him off this time.
"That's enough," Fëanor decides then. His tone isn't as sharp as that of his his eldest, but it doesn't need to be. "Go inside. All three of you."
He doesn't have to say which sons he means.
Amrod shakes his head. "We never-"
"Hush, yonya." The echo of his song is a dreadful thing. Fire burning blue. "Go inside."
Amras tires, "Atto-"
Fëanor's eyes flash, but he's utterly calm. Eerily so. Standing with his wife as she clutches his hand.
"Go inside."
His youngest sons abruptly quieten. They stare at him for a few heartbeats before whirling around without further argument. Argon trails closely behind them. Just in case they decide to make a run for it, but even they wouldn't be so foolish as to disobey their father right now.
Celegorm though...
"We aren't elflings to order around," he insists. Stubborn until the last.
Fëanor lets out a single chuckle. More akin to a bark of laughter than anything else. His flames swell on the inside, but he's still seemingly serene. Like the lake his wife is in truth.
"Aren't you though? Just children who quibble amongst yourselves." It's not flippant though. His smile is kind, gentle in the way that Káno's singing is. And there's the same broken quality. The same deep melancholy, deep agony underneath. "We are many terrible things, yonya, but thieves will not be one of those. Your nephew has offered us a great deal of mercy already, and we owe him a debt that we can never think to repay."
He pauses to let that sink in, but no one dares speak. Not even his third son.
Harry just stands on the sidelines like a spectator at quodpot match. Observing the by-play but not an active participant. It's awkward being here, having to hear this. He doesn't know them, not truly. He feels like he didn't just glimpse their dirty laundry but more like it was thrown in his face. He's avoided listening in – spying – on their conversations as they sort out their differences, but there's no avoiding this.
No avoiding Maedhros' boiling anger. Fingon's righteous flare. Curufin's grief, Caranthir's weariness, and Celegorm's disdain. The wounded pride of the twins still lingering in the air. Fëanor and his agonizing regrets. Or Nerdanel's slow sorrow as she silently watches, words frozen in her throat.
Gil tightens the arm around him.
Fëanor looks at Celegorm and no one else. "Your brothers are childish fools, who we've indulged far too long. I expected better from you."
The last words find their target like an arrow from Oromë's bow. His jaw clenches. Teeth grinding visibly. The muscles in his neck spasm tightly enough that Harry can see them jerking. His head is held high, however, as he pivots on his heel and storms after his youngest brothers.
They simply watch him go.
No one else says anything or even moves for several heartbeats. As Nerdanel leans into his side and he turns to rest his head on hers. Fëanor breathes out heavily.
That's the only signal they need. Caranthir brings Curufin to their parents, while Maedhros and Fingon come up on his other side. Quick to head Curufin off before he can rage his way indoors and throttle a pair of redheads. Harry takes the chance to start towards Indilwen, slipping free from Gil. Who trails after him along with Celebrían. Fingon catches his sleeve as he passes, while Nerdanel and Fëanor both turn to him, but Harry merely offers them a smile before sliding away. Fingolfin and the others don't even attempt to slow him down as he goes by them, and Harry's grateful for that.
Indilwen waits for him by the edge of the courtyard. Unexpectedly patient with the entire spectacle that just transpired. Though admittedly, she does love the dramatic. Harry will never admit out loud to any of the elves that his initial diagnostic spells were for her, and he only cast on the twins second. Nevertheless, his longstanding protections did their job beautifully. Indilwen doesn't have a single scratch on her. She barely even has a hair out place. Still, she watches everything with a sharp, belligerent gaze. Eyes fierce and focused. Peering over Harry's shoulder at first Gil and then beyond him to the nearest elves. There's a reason that Harry is the only one who ever rides Indilwen. Aside from that one time with Gil, but he's a special case. Even Fingon, the next most tolerable, has only limited himself to a few scratches along her nose and neck. The Ainur are allowed liberties, but Indilwen has known them far longer and the relationship is different. Káno would likely be the only other elf she wouldn't immediately eviscerate.
Her ears are pointed forward even as Harry comes to her side. The tension doesn't fully bleed out of her frame when as he lays a hand on her mane.
"Hello, my dear," he greets her with a pat. "I'm sorry that I took so long."
She exhales in a huff but leans into his touch. Coat soft beneath his fingers as he threads through it. She likes one particular area scratched, right beneath a black spot, and he finds it immediately. She normally becomes mush in his grasp with this, but today, she doesn't even glance at him. Her attention is instead still fixed forward.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out her angle. Or her intentions once Harry leaves the premises. He sees it in the way she studies them over Harry's shoulder, past Gil entirely. Glaring at Finarfin and Fingolfin. The closest targets.
Harry allows himself a sigh. She flicks her tail at that, but it's the only outward sign she shows that she heard. If anything though, it makes her focus narrow in even more. Of course, she's not angry about herself. No, Indilwen had her fun stomping on her miscreants already. She now has other targets in mind. Only these ones are innocent. Of this particular crime at least.
"Look at me," Harry tells her then. Soothing and sweet. Coaxing as his uses his nails to scratch that one specific spot.
Indilwen is still for a long second. One that stretches out as she keeps staring forward before she lets out an abrupt snort. Blue eyes flick his direction; he lifts a brow at the expression she gives him. It's rather like a toddler pouting in time-out. Like Teddy when he was told to sit quietly after misbehaving. Wanting desperately to come to him but holding back out of sheer spite.
"What have I told you about gnawing on the elves?" he asks her, more rhetorically than not.
There's a noise of astonishment directly behind him, but Harry ignores it as her eyes turn to furious slits. The sound she makes can only be described as hissing. Long and sharp over her teeth before she clacks them together menacingly.
"Now, now," he chides. His touch on her neck is softer than snow, however. "You know they're delicate, and we don't want to damage them."
She gives him a sullen stare like a third-year called out-of-bounds.
Harry gently pets her nose now. "And you know that they're stringy. They won't satisfy you, my dear."
Even as she huffs, there's a guffaw behind them, vaguely hysterical. Harry can't fully tell if its from Caranthir or one of Finarfin's sons. Not Gil – Harry knows his laugh too well. He's also a little too dignified for that sound when others are around. Either way, he can feel Gil's amusement like droplets hitting the castle roof. More falling the longer this goes on.
Indilwen offers a hard whiny then. Followed by a stamp of her front foot. She grinds it into the cobblestones.
Harry runs his hand up and to the top of her head. Right between her ears.
"Yes, I know Eönwë offered you a sword and lessons," he says with a small smile, "and we'll talk more about that."
Another loud snort. More petulant.
"He isn't even here right now," Harry explains ever-so-patiently. "We'd also have to make a sword to suit you."
She clacks her teeth again, but she seemingly sees the logic in that argument. Particularly when he goes in for the kill.
"After all this excitement, I think you deserve a few treats," he says then and slowly starts steering her back to the stable.
Her ears have already perked by this time, and Harry knows he's already won when she follows after him voluntarily. Eagerly even. Allowing Gil to come over to his free side. But the elf's shoulders are shaking, and his cheeks are red from trying to hold in his laughter. Harry doesn't even peer behind him to see what the others look like.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The next few hours are awkward.
Well, they would be if Harry doesn't spend almost the rest of the day convincing Indilwen not to assault the rest of his guests. She seems mollified by evening time. Likely due to the amount of pampering he subjects her to, but by then, he decides to postpone their little jaunt. Instead, he and Gil leave just after dawn. Having had a quick breakfast and taking the time to actually pack a picnic lunch. Enough for themselves, any Ainur they happen to meet, and undoubtedly some four-legged friends. Harry intends only to bring Gil with Indilwen and Arthion as tagalongs. Mostly because this is the chance to introduce his intended in a safe environment – away from the castle. Not to mention get Indilwen far from all the other elves, ones who she tolerates the same way a Muggle child does a trip to the dentist.
They do not make a clean escape.
They don't even make it out of the stables before five shadows emerge like bandits in a highway robbery. Even when, Indilwen snorts at Fingon with narrowed eyes and a swishing tail, he doesn't flinch away. Half an hour later, Harry still isn't quite certain how he managed to acquire so many people on this outing, but they trail behind he and Gil as he takes a back path down the mountain and into the treeline. Following him one by one like a little procession of elven ducklings before finally fanning out. Heads turning this way and that in the case of Maedhros and Fëanor. Which isn't unexpected since this route didn't previously exist.
As for the others, Fingon's naturally next to his husband with Fëanor on his other side, but Harry feels his attention on his back like an incessant itch. Argon simply seems excited to be out of the castle. Taking in everything and not saying much at all. Celebrían rides next to him, and for once, she's without her uncles. Harry's ambivalent about her presence, but neither he nor Gil keep her from coming. She may as well at this point.
Oromë, he knows is in one of his favorite locales in the kingdom. A clearing far off the beaten path and mostly undiscovered save for those who can view it overhead and forest denizens – the only person even vaguely elven who knows it exists is Harry himself. It's still within the bounds of Spring, edged by blossoming trees and a deep creek on one side that Huan likes to splash in. Harry learned to fish here. Spear in hand and dubious expression on his face. It's not terribly far from the city. Nestled in one of the neighboring valleys. And Harry's magic speeds up the trip. It's just long enough for Indilwen to settle. To breathe easier and work through some of her tension before she begins slowing at the approach. He supposes then that he should at least tell them. Give them some type of warning before they see Oromë for themselves. Gil already knows, has even speculated with Harry about it. He's just deciding exactly how to explain to everyone else when Fingon beats him to it.
"Ammë already warned us," his uncle comments. A little too lightly.
It takes Harry a second to realize who Fingon means, but he tips his head in understanding. He's already mentioned Oromë's choice of… features to Nerdanel, so it's only natural she informed her children and husband. Kind of her to save him that conversation.
Harry opens his mouth before promptly closing it. He isn't even sure what he wants to say here. Much less how to make this any less bizarre. Which was why he only wanted to bring Gil along. Not a quarter of his household. He only allowed this at Fingon's insistence, and he still isn't really sure why he let his uncle convince him.
It's will be a broom-wreck; he just knows it. He can feel it the same way Ron used to complain that he could feel bad weather coming by the ache in his hip. Like a dark curse speeding his way that he can't avoid. A feeling that only deepens as they enter the clearing with Harry out front and Gil a hairsbreadth behind him, but Fëanor comes up on his left just as Harry's dismounting. Fingon and Maedhros are next them with Celebrían and Argon in the middle.
Tulkas takes everything in stride at the sudden appearance of the elves, and if he's at all stunned to find more than expected, he doesn't comment. Instead, he wears a broad grin behind his beard. It's something he prefers, Harry's noticed. Short. Neat but blond. Golden. Color less like that of an elf. Similar to Tuor's rather. In fact, Harry would almost mistake him for a Man if not for the shine of his eyes, color a whimsical shade of lilac this time, and the rise of his song.
Harry, in turn, isn't surprised to see Tulkas here. He's the only Ainur who doesn't seem to care what guise Oromë wears. Even Nessa, Oromë's own sister, and Vána react poorly to this guise. Nienna is sadder, quieter than usual. Vairë turns away. Eönwë simply preferred not looking at him. Tulkas though, Harry supposes it's his outlook on life. Or simply his personality. He's very much lives in the now. Yesterday is the past. Tomorrow is yet to come. Plan for the future but the only time that matters is happening as they speak. It's certainly a different mindset than most even in Aman, and for all his preferences for physical things, he has a keen mind and sharp, penetrating way of getting to the root of things.
If only he'd wear a shirt.
Harry knows that he has them. Míriel even made him one when she and Nessa were gossiping, but he only stayed in it for five minutes before it mysteriously disappeared to never be seen again. What happened to cloak doesn't bear repeating. At least his trousers stay on. Mostly.
Harry's still shaking his head to himself at that last part when he's greeted by their aura. The first surrounds him on eager paws. It's the call of the hunt, of the horn and the race of hooves over snow. The other is a laugh that follows, loud and carefree as those heard in any pub or mead hall. Echoing with voices full of every tall-tale imaginable – all of them true, obviously. Both of them, both Valar are bright as the sun in his mind's gaze, Oromë more so. He's wearing a very familiar face as expected, but his dark eyes don't even so much as widen to see all the elves accompanying Harry.
Oromë rises from his crouch, bow over this back, when they come to a full stop. Having seen Celegorm just the day before, it really is a little unsettling how identical Oromë has made himself. Admittedly, Harry knew him first and longer, but it's the background that puts it in perspective. The mannerisms are mostly different; some of them are similar enough that Harry can figure out just how much time they spent together in the past. Harry knew Ron and Hermione for over a century with some decades added on, but in the scheme of things, that was a significant portion of his lifetime ago. Yet, he still catches himself doing or saying things as they would. Even how long it took him to stop putting aside articles for Hermione to read or saving recipes for Ron to try... Those were the hardest habits to break.
Harry can't imagine what viewing Oromë is like for the others here. How eerie it must be. At least, Celegorm is out of Mandos. Is around the castle for them to see any time they want. He can't imagine what it would be like without that reassurance.
Aside from Tulkas, Oromë isn't alone; he rarely is. Huan is his constant companion and has been the entire time Harry has known him. Typically, he has others with him. Various creatures – dogs, horses, the Maiar in his service, and even sometimes elves who he favors and favor him in return; Beleg has gone with him on hunts on numerous occasions. Vána, his wife, comes with him often enough. Nessa as well.
Today, it's only Huan. Gray fur rippling to see all of Harry's party but tail wagging at Harry himself. Letting out a happy yip like an overgrown puppy and running towards him. Rearing up on his hind legs to lick him in the face, paws on his shoulders.
Oromë is a bit more sedate with his arrival. Strolling over like he has all the time in the world and nothing else important to do but wait on his dog to finish. Tulkas is next to him. Which is also not an uncommon occurrence. He wasn't the other night, though Harry suspects they all made the trip here for the sole purpose of checking in.
Mother hens, the lot of them.
"Marcaunon."
Oromë clasps Harry's arm warmly. Standing in front of him for a long moment. Looking with more than eyes. Assessing him from top to bottom with a half-smile before tugging him in closer.
He cares little for elven sensibilities or personal space; Tulkas care even less. But Oromë's arm is warm across Harry's shoulders. Free hand going to inspect his braids. He makes a noncommittal noise that's a melodic hum as a finger glides over one and then the other. Gil's personal braid and the second for Formenos. He even laughs in Harry's ear as he peers by Harry's shoulder. Undoubtedly at the gaggle of elven onlookers.
Harry knows they're staring at the spectacle. He doesn't have to see them to realize that. Surely though, Celegorm was friends with Oromë for countless years. None of this should be startling. Right?
He doesn't even try to contemplate what it must look like when Tulkas has his turn, and Harry's still trying to recover from that when it's time to make introductions. Gil is the first Harry begins to bring forward. But before they can get any further, Tulkas interrupts.
"So… This is the one?" the Ainu says it with a boisterous guffaw, but then, he says most things with a laugh of some sort. He puts one hand on his chin while motioning forward with the other.
It's done casually. Lazily even. Not an entirely rude gesture but certainly not one a king of the Ñoldor usually gets aside from close friends. Harry though has been on the receiving end a thousand times and knows what usually follows, and he isn't in the mood for a drinking contest, wrestling match, or any other feat of strength today.
Oromë merely shifts to stand beside his brother by marriage, while Tulkas gives another laugh.
"Relax, little wing," he comments even as Huan barks. "We shan't harm your precious elf."
Gil doesn't seem the least bit intimidated as he takes another step forward and then another. Which bring him fully to Harry's right side and then beyond.
"Gil-galad, well met," he introduces with a shallow bow.
A beat. Like a hippogriff turning to a supplicant.
"Eönwë speaks well of you," Oromë remarks then. "He told us much on your stay in Formenos and earlier."
"He spoke of me?" Gil can't quite mask the astonishment.
Oromë hums again. "Yes, we were naturally quiet curious to learn that Marcaunon had returned with an elf. One who even now resides with him."
A pause then as Gil digests that. He absentmindedly pets Huan as the hound shoves his head into Gil's leg, but otherwise, he doesn't move.
Oromë waits. Patient as only a hunter can be. While Tulkas takes that as an opportunity to study Gil. Not up and down but straight on. Peering at him with song and eyes. Not encroaching on the rainstorm but inspecting it. Much in the manner of gazing through the window to watch the water pouring down outside.
"Yes, this one," he murmurs after a moment, but it's more to himself. "Definitely this one."
Oromë offers a pleased chuckle. "Indeed."
His dark eyes glitter with starlight as Harry moves up to Gil. As if sensing him shift a cloak of snow around Gil and himself both. It doesn't fully mask their presence, but it keeps others from seeing more than the barest bit of the surface unless he wishes it. Gil's practiced in the way elves are in the mental arts, but if more Ainur are going to be hanging around in the future, Valar specifically – and Harry knows that's a given – he'll have to teach his love how to block their sight more specifically. How to shield himself so they can only see what he wants them to. In the meantime, Harry will do it for them.
Both Valar don't seem the least bit insulted at the action though. In fact, Tulkas' grin widens. Even more so when he sees Gil take Harry's hand.
Meanwhile, their audience has been quiet so far. Too quiet. Something Oromë must agree with.
"Fëanáro. Russandol. Findekáno."
He nods to the three of them in turn. Fëanor and his sons – one by birth and the other by marriage. All of them return the gesture. Even Fëanor, who eyes Oromë like a cat does a hound. But then again, he's met the Vala before. Celegorm was once a great friend to Oromë. Once rode with him on his hunt for sometimes even years away from home. Fëanor would've sought out the Ainu who was interacting so frequently with his child.
"Young Arakáno," Oromë addresses next. Tone warm as a campfire but twice as inviting as anything Celegorm has managed so far. "I have heard much of you."
Argon's startles at that, but he merely nods back. As if not trusting himself to speak.
Oromë loiters for a few seconds before moving to Celebrían. Observing her intently. Inspecting her silver moonlight.
"I do not believe we have met."
"I'm Celebrían," she offers with her own bow. "Well met."
"Daughter of Artanis," Oromë replies, but it isn't a question. "Wife of Elrond, son of Makalaurë."
There's the briefest hesitation. A ripple in the elves but not in Tulkas. Not in Gil either, as if he expected this.
"Yes," she agrees. Her eyes don't drift to Harry, but he feels his attention as clear as day. Like a Lumos in a dark room.
Another pause. Waiting for Oromë to say more, but he doesn't offer anything further to her. Neither comment nor censure.
Huan, who has first drifted over to Fingon and Maedhros for pets, now butts Argon and then Fëanor. The latter is blinks at him. A multitude of emotions flicker over his face and across his aura too fast to track. However, his hand reaches down for a sniff and lick.
Tulkas has his arms crossed loosely over his chest now. Surveying everyone gathered as a father does his brood. There's almost a hint of puzzlement to him as he comes back to Harry.
"So when is the party?" he suddenly questions.
Harry blinks at him. Since he has absolutely, completely, and totally no idea what Tulkas means. Honestly. Really and truly.
That must show on his face because the Vala makes a tutting sound.
"The engagement party, little wing! The engagement party!" Tulkas gestures broadly. "Nessa and Estë have already prepared their gifts."
Harry's eyes widen. He keeps the look of horror from his face by some miracle, but he knows Gil must've sensed it. Certainly so by the way his hand is squeezed. Fingers curling through and around his.
"Surely, you will have a party." Tulkas doesn't pout; his bearded face isn't suited for it at all. Yet, there's a distinct impression of one. "Elves do this, yes?"
Gil fortunately comes in for the save. "Of course, but their family plans it. Their parents, siblings, and grandparents," he replies genuinely enough. "My father and brother are still in Endor, I fear. It'd be difficult to have without them."
Tulkas inclines his head, but there's a gleam to his eyes. Weighing. Considering.
"Marcaunon has kin here," he points out. Cordial but focus sharp as the sword he doesn't need to carry. "It may not be our tradition, but we'd be more than willing to indulge this."
"His mother most certainly would," Oromë agrees. The expression he wears when the stag is in his sight. "She shall be devastated to know you missed out on such a thing even if your father cannot be present."
How nice of him to lay on the guilt trip there. Exactly what Harry wants to deal with right now. Especially in front of an audience. He bites his tongue to keep his retort behind his teeth, but he can see Oromë's brow rise, and Harry feels his chest tighten. Both at the words and the auras that press against him. It isn't exactly a secret that he hates parties. He always has; he hates the attention, faux platitudes, and thoughtless gifts. The elves in Formenos have wanted multiple celebrations. All ostensibly on his behalf, but he's always miraculously managed to convince them to make it about something – anything – else. There won't be any escaping this though. No dodging this particular spell, which targets him like a heat-seeking curse.
And yet… Oromë and Tulkas are calming. Gentling as one would a spooked horse. Soothing murmurs in the background. A hand, physical and metaphorical both, encircles his arm at the elbow on his free side. Touch steady but not forceful. Familiar. The same that's guided him through archery lesions when he barely knew the pointy end of the arrow from the other.
Harry allows himself to relax. To exhale.
Fëanor naturally chooses that moment to step forward.
"Marcaunon has other family on this shore," he reminds, and it isn't aggressive or even angry. More like a firm riposte.
There's a murmur of agreements behind him. Fingon steps forward with Maedhros a half-second before Argon, but Celebrían is there, too.
"Marcaunon's mother," Maedhros inserts, "I'd be most grateful to speak with her on the matter." His hair is bright in the sunlight, almost blood red.
"I too would speak with her," Fëanor agrees, and the burning fire of his eyes is at odds with the sensibleness of his voice.
Fingon intones, "I rather think all of us are eager to meet her." His focus drifts to Harry, but his expression is unreadable even as his aura reaches out.
"I am sure you will soon enough," Oromë answers readily enough.
It seems friendly but sounds vaguely ominous. Almost foreboding. All bite with little bark.
Fëanor smiles back at him. So does Maedhros. Pleasantly. Amiably. With nothing but teeth.
Harry isn't amused by this at all. Any of it. Less so at the laugh Tulkas offers then. Or the bark Huan gives followed by Indilwen's neigh.
Gil just squeezes his hand.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fëanor – Tail practically dancing from side to side. What in Arda was that!?
Inglor – So you got to meet our resident fire-bird.
Fëanor – What a wonderful creature! Where did she ever come from?
Inglor – Totally in on the joke. Oh, around. But just wait until you see the rest.
Fëanor – Ears perking. The rest?
Inglor – Laughs to himself. Oh, we have foxes with nine tails, equines with horns, owls that can deliver mail, and wraith horses.
Fëanor – Blinks. The what now?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Later. After much yelling. Possibly after furniture throwing.
Fëanor – Sons...
Amrod – A little tentatively. Yes, atto?
Amras – What is it?
Celegorm – Pouting.
Fëanor – You're incredibly stupid, but I love you.
Other Sons – Remembering Harry tell Indilwen that she can't have a sword yet.
More!Other Sons – Side-eyeing each other about the mention of Eönwë and lessons.
Fëanor!Again – Also, you're never going near that horse again.
All the Sons of Fëanor Minus One – Nod vigorously.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Sighs. Oromë, you know how weird this is.
Oromë – Still totally wearing Celegorm's face. I don't know what you mean.
Oromë!Again – Makes a totally!Celegorm expression while he says that.
Harry – That! Right there! Stop it!
Also!Harry – Yes, I appreciate the irony of me saying all of this, considering. Waves at himself. But I was born with this face!
Tulkas – I say they fight over who gets to wear it.
Huan – Bark!
Gil-galad – Facepalm. I don't think it works that way.
The Other Elves – O.o
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nerdanel – Have fun on your ride with Marcaunon!
Fingon – We will, ammë!
Fëanor – Only half-listening. How are we ever going to apologize to my grandson for this debacle?
Maedhros – I believe we're going to meet Oromë.
Nerdanel – … About that. Shifty expression that's a bit too much like her other sons.
Maedhros – Yes?
Fingon – Ammë?
Fëanor – Deep in thought. Perhaps we can make him something. That will certainly help distract Curvo.
Maedhros – What is it?
Fingon – What's wrong?
Fëanor – Still contemplating. He doesn't seem to favor jewelry aside from father's ring.
Nerdanel – Well… he's borrowing Tyelkormo's face, dears.
Maedhros – …
Fingon – …
Fëanor – Nodding absentmindedly until…
Fëanor!Again – He what!?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Indilwen – Neigh. Neigh. Snort. Snort. Whiny.
Oromë – Oh, he did. Did he?
Tulkas – What an idiot.
Huan – Bark.
Ammë – mother/mum
Atto – father/dad
Yonya – my son
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
AN: I was imaging Indilwen like Maximus from Tangled.
Also, seriously… The art for Tulkas. So much of it shows him as shirtless. So this is now an in!verse joke.
The twins and Celebrimbor here. In this scenario, Celebrimbor was born before them but not by much, and he was Finwë's first grandchild, so he was given a lot of attention for this initially before the Silmarils, etc. Amrod and Amras were Fëanor's youngest and twins to boot, so that makes them special. However, they had quite a bit of jealousy for Celebrimbor since he was also slightly older – maybe a decade or two – and showed an aptitude for Fëanor's crafting. It was a pretty severe case of one-sided rivalry on their part. Celebrimbor isn't as boisterous as the rest of the family, so he got double-teamed a lot but never really complained since he knew that'd just make it worse. No one quite realized how bad it was until much later when they started comparing mental notes on events, but this was far after the damage was done. I see a lot of Celebrimbor's willingness to deny his family relating back to not just their deeds but personal relationships with him. He was the grandson and loved, but there was so much family drama during his early years that he was either coddled or ignored by everyone in the House of Fëanor save for his parents, and the people closest to him in age were terrible to him. So he was much closer with his cousins. FYI - Mama!Curufin would've gone nuts if she had known any of this. I see Curufin as the sensible, calm parent in that relationship.
And ósanwe (so canon telepathy) – my understanding of this is that everyone (from hobbits to elves to Ainur) can willfully close their minds to keep out even Morgoth and that this doesn't require training. That said, I also feel that surface level things can still be gleaned unless that's closed off, too. Harry though was taught an entirely different method in addition to ósanwe, so his perception of what people can and cannot see isn't accurate. I.e. Harry technically isn't using ósanwe most time (more like a hybrid of it with Legilimency plus other things he learned on Earth). The Ainur could probably keep him out (at least some of them), but he'd overpower everyone else if he wanted to – looking at you Galadriel. What he sees in auras reveals way more of people than ósanwe would/should allow.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) O (Masculine).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar