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.
Mind the warnings for the chapter please.
He wakes to the rain. His eyelids are heavy, weightier than all the galleons in all the vaults in Gringotts, and it's the effort of a thousand dragons to lift them even a hairsbreadth. The sky is dark above him, and the stars are diamonds in the velvet sky, but droplets streak down his face.
He puzzles at that, like cogs turning in a clock, but it's toffee slow. Sticky and gummy in the same way his mind feels. The ground beneath his head is pliable. A warm pillow that rises and falls with breaths and echoes with a faint heartbeat. His ears are muffled by the buzz of voices. Some soft. One loud. Another sobbing. The last yearning just behind him as he feels his hair brushed by fingers while his left hand is grasped in another.
Something's wrong; Harry can't quite figure out what.
The sky above him is dark. And that doesn't make sense.
It isn't dawn. It's supposed to be dawn. It always is when he awakens. When he comes back from that between place.
There aren't any clouds. And that doesn't make sense either. The sky is perfectly clear, but water drips onto his cheek and down to his mouth. It tastes salty.
Not rain. Tears.
He puzzles at that for longer than he probably should. Thinking over where he is and how he's gotten here.
Where is this? Where is he?
What the hell is this?
Harry feels his breath cool. Feels his skin chill and body twitch in memory, but it's disjointed and only half-recalled.
The hand in his hair stills. Stops mid-stroke. His fingers are squeezed tightly enough that his rings cut into his skin. He feels his living pillow shift beneath his head, but it's Fingon who looks at him first. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, glassy. He's disheveled, braids loose, and gold thread unraveling but tangled with debris. There are streaks of dirt on his skin, soil on his tunic. He'd look like he fell off a mountain and bounced all the way down except there isn't a single sign of injury.
His gaze meets Harry's just as he thinks that. Fingon freezes like he's been hit by Petrificus Totalus. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. Seconds pass before he gives an entire body jolt, makes a noise like he's dying. Like he's taken an arrow to the heart but has somehow managed to stay upright.
"Hinya-"
Fingolfin's beside him, Harry realizes, kneeling just by his legs. Head bent with his hands griping his trousers like a lifeline. He's looking away, over Harry to his other side. But now, he's turning to his son. He follows his line of sight and sways. Actually sways like he'll faint. Shoots a hand out to steady himself on the muddy ground.
"Ara," he murmurs urgently. "Ara, look." He's now grasping Harry's leg like he can't believe this is real.
There's a sharp inhale on his right. So quick and abrupt that it can't be called anything else than a gasp. Hands are on this face then, and golden hair tickles his nose as Finarfin bends over to stare him in the eyes. He's close, too close, gaze like a gleam on glass.
"Er… Hello," Harry manages for a lack of anything else. It's slightly rough, hoarse. Surprised he's able to say anything at all, but he's very uncomfortable with the sudden invasion of his personal space. "What're we doing?"
He hears someone laugh at his feet, but there's more than a bit of hysteria. He can't see who it is as Finarfin takes up his entire field of vision.
Then… Light. Burning.
Harry feels like he's suddenly staring into the sun. Like light itself is trying to burst into his mind, rifle through the pages, blaze through the shelves, incinerate all the way through to the core. It burns. Not as fire but like staring into a supernova. A lance of pure energy through his eyes and thoughts. A voice searing through to break upon the glacier and try to resonate in the depths.
Cold – pure and absolute as the deepest bite of winter, as the song of the Veil, as the kiss of death – rises up from within Harry. So freezing that it burns right back. That it steals air and life until only the crackle of icicles is left. It howls out with fangs and claws from behind his shields, and he feels when it draws blood.
Abruptly, there's only one set of hands still touching him, but those are chill-free and gentle. Tender as the one in his hair glides by his ear to cup his jaw. The other slides between his fingers and curls together.
Harry's alone in his mind now. Finarfin is near breathless beside him, both palms already discoloring. He's panting, fogging the air as he bows his head in apology. He doesn't touch Harry again, but he also doesn't move away. He stays kneeling, half-frozen, with a circle of snow and ice crystals riming the ground around him.
Someone is soothing Harry as the cold growls further. There's soft humming in a melody that makes him falter. That makes the frost fold back and settle once more inside.
"He's not trying to hurt you, Mírimo," Gil-galad says from behind and above him. "He was just looking to make sure it was in fact you."
Harry peers up at him as he feels refreshing chill seep through bones. As it eats through the cobwebs in his head. As his thoughts become easier. As they shift into translucent, pure ice.
The night is sharper. Clearer.
He can remember.
The earth groaning. The shriek of Indilwen in the distance. The world falling out beneath them. A millisecond to react and the choice is obvious. Harry's so used to saving others that he doesn't even think to help himself. And why would he? He can't be hurt. Not really. He'll recover from anything if given a little time.
Now, he's here on his back with them gathered around, and it's pretty obvious what happened. He glances from one elf to the next. They're all filthy but otherwise unscathed. He can hear the horses in the background, quietly whickering, so they're seemingly fine, too.
Still, this looks like the scene of a grisly murder minus the blood. Like a funeral in the forest.
It's Harry's own.
Gil-galad has an expression that's equal parts absolute relief and joyous celebration. Like every holiday and birthday have come early and arrived right in the nick of time. He's delicate as his thumb rubs over Harry's cheek. He's the most put-together of everyone, the cleanest, but his earrings and cloak are missing. His eyes are very shiny as they look down at Harry.
"I'm so glad you're back," his elf whispers, but his voice breaks at the end.
Harry wants to reach for him. However, he's distracted when Fingon is suddenly there again. Edging into his sight just as Finarfin did earlier. But there's no attack to go with it. Only the warmth of a fireplace on a winter's night.
"It is you," Fingon murmurs. Surprised but relieved. "You were hiding very hard until just now."
"I was here the entire time," Harry insists. His voice is still rough but healing the more he speaks. The more frost that coats it.
They all look at him in a stunned sort of silence. Like they don't quite know how to respond.
"Nephew," Fingolfin begins, "do you…"
But it's like he can't quite get the words out.
"You were very hurt," Gil-galad manages. He's still touching Harry's face but trembles ever-so-slightly.
"I'm fine."
It's an automatic reply. Said before Harry can stop himself. Habit built over a lifetime of pretending that he isn't a freak.
He thinks about sitting up. Fingertips move to his forehead as if to keep him down.
"You are not fine," Gil-galad counters clearly and rather firmly. His hand is kind though, gentle and yearning. "You were hurt badly, so please let us help you."
Harry doesn't roll his eyes; he very much wants to. He feels them quietly judging him, feels the weight of their thoughts and speculation, and he hates it. Hates the attention. Hates all of this.
"I'm fine," he repeats. There's a frosty bite behind it.
"You just…" Fingon opens and closes him mouth like he can't even find the words. Like he's been confronted with an impossibility and his mind refuses to accept it. "You died."
He says it like he can't believe it himself. Like this is an awful nightmare and he'll wake up in his bed any moment.
His father squeezes his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
"Did I?" Harry asks.
Because really, what else is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to explain this? What does he even tell them?
"You were dead," Fingon insists, and there's an edge. Sharp like a blade. Twice as deep. His eyes are still red but now wild. He's snatched Harry's left hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
"We felt you die," Finarfin adds from Harry's right.
It's the first he's spoke the entire time. His head is lifted now, but he meets Harry's gaze. He doesn't reach for him again, however. His clothes are still dusted with icicles, and his hands are folded in his lap, skin red and raw.
Harry truly feels guilty for that. He hadn't meant to cause harm. To hurt Finarfin. He'd only wanted him to stop. To keep his mind to himself.
He sends out a brush of magic. A soft healing spell.
Next to him, Finarfin starts. He flexes his fingers. Green eyes are large, unreadable, as he looks up.
Harry avoids his gaze.
"Nothing happened," he says then. He's tired. He just wants to get up and out of here.
Fingon makes an inarticulate sound that's half-exasperation, half-frenzy. The seriousness of the situation and recent circumstances are likely the only reasons he hasn't taken Harry's shoulders to shaky sense into him.
"I saw you die."
It's loud enough to echo through the surviving treetops. Fingon is hot, furious. With himself. With Harry. With the universe. It's hard to tell.
"It wasn't as bad this time," Harry tries to explain, but it's weak. Shaky.
"This has happened before?" Fingolfin gasps.
He's appalled, horrified. His face is bloodless. would be white but for the drying mud splatters. He's a mess of twigs and tangles, and Harry idly wonders if he'll have to cut his hair to get everything out.
"Nephew?"
All of them are staring at him again. Harry just closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at them. So he doesn't have to see their expressions while he feels the shock and horror.
"I always get better."
But Harry isn't sure if it's to them or to himself.
He always gets better. And really, that's the problem. Isn't it? It's not the first time he's fallen. Most certainly not the first time he's died.
He was so much younger then. So innocent in the ways of the universe and the hardships that awaited him. Privet Drive was the entirety of his world, but it was still a dangerous place for him if no one else. Bleeding from his hands and leg, he slipped. It was natural. He only just turned five and was small for his age. Chased up a tree by Marge's dog.
He woke the next morning gazing at the sky as it turned from purple to pink to blue. The Dursleys left him out all night and only screamed at him to make breakfast the next morning. They hadn't even noticed or cared what happened to him.
There were other times in that house. Possibly more than even Harry remembers. More than he dares. After all, how long can someone go without water? Harry made it for two days, but he was six and poorly hydrated to start. A long weekend trapped underneath the stairs.
And a frying pan to the head? At eight, he staggered to his cupboard with a terrible headache and went to sleep.
As always, he wakes afterwards with the sunrise. With vague memories of being somewhere else, but Harry's so young then, they're little more than dreams. Even as an adult, he can't pull the recollections forward fully; he honestly doesn't try very hard to do so. Too scared of what else he might uncover.
Magic should've protected him. After all, Neville Longbottom bounced when thrown from a window, but Harry's was busy powering blood wards to keep him safe from Dark Lords and Death Eaters and all manner of nasty magical surprises; never the monsters inside of them. They drained so much from him that it's a wonder Harry managed as much accidental magic as he had. Apparition. Color-Changing Charm. Shrinking Jinx.
The wards never protected him from the things that really mattered.
Hogwarts, deathtrap that it was when Harry was a student, was somehow safer for him. He was old enough by then, had a wand who loved him, had friends to look out for him. Had teachers who – sometimes – even tried. Even the altercation with Voldemort in his first year, the basilisk in his second, dementors, a Triwizard Tournament, Death Eaters, all of it – Harry didn't die until the Killing Curse struck him. Until he offered himself up for the slaughter just like was raised to do.
A year later was the anniversary; Harry returned from abroad just to be there. The DA naturally met at the Hog's Head. There were drinks and remembrances and far too many stories. Harry bought Neville a round and somehow never left his table. The two of them were the last to go, long after even Aberforth gave up for the night. They were too drunk to apparate, and Aberforth had refused a Floo in his pub. Both were staggering off use the community one when a green light struck Harry in the back.
But it's late. They were out all night. Dawn was scant minutes away; Harry's barely even gone before he's already waking up. Neville's hovering over him and Amycus Carrow's decapitated corpse was already cooling beside them.
Self-defense, the Aurors said. Clearest case they ever saw. Neville's Diffindo was pure reflex. He never breathed a word of what really happened; he never even hinted to it. Offered up the oath on his own and swore it that same day. Took that secret to his grave without ever mentioning it again.
Harry first suspected then, but he buried the truth down deep. It's easy to write off. Easy to ignore. He'd already survived this curse before, after all. Being immune to a single spell wasn't unnecessarily unheard of, even if it was one that's before this been considered impossible.
Later, he can't pretend anymore. Not when he woke in his quarters at Hogwarts. When there's still the taste of poison in his mouth and on his tongue. When he brewed it himself.
Harry knew then. Didn't want to believe it. Not then. Not until he failed again six months later.
There were spells to restart a heart. Used when someone was alive, they could stop it. Especially if someone knew what they were doing. Harry, for all that hadn't been an official healer in over a century, still kept his skills intact. Still practiced and read the latest publications. Attended conferences when the opportunity arose. Gave coverage in the hospital wing and kept all his credentials up.
Harry knew what he was doing more than most. Knew that it'd be harder to cover up but not impossible. Especially if set in a temporary rune on paper that would burn away after. Better yet, it was the summer, it could be days before he was found. Long enough for the magic to dissipate.
Like always though, Harry woke as the sun rose with a trace of ash on his hand. A flash of a train station in his mind. And Dumbledore's words ringing in his ears.
Harry forces that memory away. Buries it down beneath slush and snow. Surrounds himself in cloak of frost. But the world is spinning even with his eyes closed. He's beset by vertigo. Like a boat rocking in a hurricane.
"Herurrívë!"
He thinks… He thinks he hears Káno calling for him. But his harp isn't here. Is securely tucked away in their room, spelled to be secret and safe so that no one can take him away. He smells the sea on the faint breeze though. Feels the waves start to pull at him. A hand reaching for his shoulder, another for his face. Fingertips touching his cheek. Lake clear eyes framed by black hair, peering-
"Hérion."
The tides recede. Are withdrawn as someone else brushes strands from his forehead, as he sucks in air. His equilibrium resets. The universe shivers and tilts to the left.
"Mírimo, come back."
Gil-galad now.
Harry realizes he's been quiet too long as he finally opens his eyes. He won't look that way, however. Can't look that way. Has to gaze anywhere else and the elves immediately around him. The only safe area is at his feet.
Finrod, Argon, and Angrod sit. Silently. Observing. Harry honestly forgot they were there.
Finrod's the first to notice his interest. To lift his dirty head. He inches forward, a bit closer to his father.
"So… you're a peredhel then," he says, and it's less a question and more a statement. He's oddly composed. Harry can't tell if it's shock or self-possession. His face is guileless. Calm. Candid even. Looking at Harry the same way he always has.
Argon's to his right and now behind, hands in his lap. He seems tired more than anything as he leans against Angrod, who has an arm around his upper back.
"Who-" Argon begins.
He's pinched hard by his cousin before he can get out more than a word.
"Not the time," Angrod hisses.
"But Luthien didn't-" Finrod also starts.
Angrod rounds on him, too. "Not the time," he repeats through clinched teeth.
Harry can't see his face from this angle, but both Argon and Finrod immediately hush. Fingolfin turns to them then and gestures. There's motion at Harry's feet as someone stands, but he isn't sure who it is as his own elf has leaned forward and Harry's attention is directed upwards.
"Let me up," he says then. It's more like a command.
Harry needs to stand. He needs to get up. To get out of here.
"I'm told you know some healing," Finarfin replies instead, very ironically. "So you know why I can't do that." He puts a hand on Harry's wrist more delicately than expected.
Harry makes a sound like a growling griffin in the back of his throat, but Finarfin doesn't let go. His nails are dirty and broken with dried blood underneath.
Gil-galad softly shushes him, fingers at his scalp, and starts humming again. It's the same song he gives while they sit at the vanity. It's so familiar that it makes Harry's chest ache. Makes his breathing catch in his throat and his eyes burn until he blinks it away.
His elf keeps humming, louder now. He cards through hair in steady strokes, and something in Harry is lulled. Something inside of him slowly gives a chilling huff before curling up nose to tail and drifting off with dreams of a warmth at his back. Of sitting together as they do every morning.
Harry just lies there, a little dazed. Much of the building tension flows out. He feels lighter, calmer. Can take deeper breaths. But there's still a lingering twist in his stomach and a clench in his teeth he can't quite shake. There's a fuzziness in his vision that makes him want to shut his eyes and sleep for the next month.
Finarfin leans back over him after a few minutes. His golden mane is messy and wild, the left side is flaked with grime and bits of grass. He looks like went three rounds with a chomping cabbage and probably wasn't the victor, but his green eyes are alert and sharp like broken glass as he slips an arm underneath Harry's knees.
"Let me help you, nephew," the king says, and it's kind. Gentler than he probably deserves after earlier.
Harry doesn't even have a chance to object. He picks up Harry like he weighs nothing and stands back up just as easily. It'd be impressive if it isn't so utterly embarrassing to be carried like a blushing bride.
They're at the bottom of the hill now, Harry realizes very belatedly; he doesn't want to think too much on how that happened. The horses are there, waiting. Indilwen is unsaddled, and Harry puzzles at that for a second. More so at the fact that she's kneeling as she turns to peer at him with obvious concern in her equine face. But then, Gil-galad is settling onto her back, and she doesn't even seem fazed.
Harry's handed off in the same manner that Ron and Hermione used to exchange their resting children. Gil-galad takes him effortlessly and eases him in front with their knees touching. He doesn't immediately help Harry swing over, instead taking a moment to look at him. To clear away stray leaves and grass.
Harry leans into him. Into his steadiness and steadfastness.
It's too much. It's all too much. It's most of the things he didn't want people to know in this life and all the things in the last. He doesn't know if he should be afraid or relieved.
But here Gil-galad is. So noble. So gentle and kind. Still humming to soothe him. Still running a hand over his back.
His lips are by Harry's cheek. Soft, sweet.
Harry kisses him.
It isn't fully chaste. His mouth is parted, and it's more aggressive than Harry would like. But he feels static on this skin. Sees the swirling storm in Gil-galad's eyes and knows that it's his fault. That Harry did this. Put it there.
Gil-galad is frozen underneath his lips, however; Harry knows he's made a mistake. He has blood on his tongue and must taste of death. He immediately retreats.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I-"
Gil-galad surges forward to kiss him urgently. Desperately. His nose collides with Harry's, but it's not hard enough to cause actual pain. A hand comes to his jaw to tip him sideways and down, while the other snakes around to the back of his neck. Infinitely tender as it cups his head.
The pressing need for air is the only reason they part, but it's by less than any inch. Harry manages a single gasp before he's kissed again. Just as fiercely.
He can't think. Doesn't want to. All he can do is feel. A mouth against his, intense, yearning. Gil-galad's heart wildly beating underneath his hands as they rest on his chest, fingers clenching the collar of his tunic.
Beneath him, Indilwen stirs.
Harry is suddenly very aware of their audience as he abruptly withdraws. Finarfin, however, has turned to his own horse. Finrod's already astride, while Angrod is in the process. Fingolfin stands by Fingon as he mounts while Argon waits on his other side.
Not one of them looks their direction, but Harry isn't fooled for a second.
He finds that he just doesn't care as Gil-galad reaches for him again. Kisses him once more. Longer this time. Steals his breath until he has to pull away and inhale roughly. Then, he rests his forehead against Harry's own, hand still cradling his neck. He gazes at Harry for a long moment but says absolutely nothing. His eyes are dark clouds, and there's a crackling of electricity in his touch.
But like always, he's careful of Harry. Cautious as he finally helps him the rest of the way over Indilwen's back. Shifting him into place so that both of them are now facing the same direction. He settles behind, knees to thighs, chest to back with his right arm around Harry's waist and his left hand on top of Harry's own. The reigns are in Harry lap, but neither bothers to pick them up.
Indilwen rises slowly then. Carefully. Doesn't even stumble under their combined weight.
Everyone else is waiting for them. Nobody says a thing as Finarfin takes the lead followed by Angrod with Gil-galad's horse, Arthion. Harry and Gil-galad are in the middle, Argon and Finrod on either side. Fingon and his father trail behind them.
They ride in silence. The only noises are those of the night around them mixed with the jingle of the tack and the hooves of the horses. It'll take them three hours to get back to Fingon's estate. That's assuming nothing else happens. Harry could apparate, but… He did just die. He should probably sleep that off first. And maybe recover a little more.
Not to mention trying to explain that part. By the time he would finish, they'd likely already be back.
And well…
"Are you hurt?" Gil-galad asks in Harry's ear then. Voice pitched low enough that only he can hear.
Harry lets out a deliberate breath. He blinks his eyes, trying to clear them. But he already knows it won't work.
"Only when it happens," he allows very slowly, haltingly, "and then, I'm usually fine." The arm around him tightens, and he reluctantly adds, "Sometimes, a headache but often little else."
There's a pause.
Indilwen continues her pace unerringly but without direction from either of them. She knows the way; she'll get them home.
The hand on his traces over the delicate skin in a nonsensical pattern. Runs over the Peverell signet and the blue lapis ring that Harry still wears on his index finger.
"And now?"
Harry wants to lie. Wants to deny the migraine building behind his right eye. It's not there yet. Just lights and his vision clouding. It's the first headache he's actually had as an elf, but it's also the first time he's died as one. If he were at Hogwarts, he'd consider a potion, but they never work in this scenario no matter how much he's experimented. Nothing did but time and rest.
"Now, too," he finally admits.
He can see the aura spreading. Blurring out half his sight in a halo of brightness. The right is completely gone, like fog on glass with light shining through. It'll be soon now, he knows. The migraine itself will be here before they make it back. It's probably less than an hour away.
It'll be bad, he thinks. Worse than usual. The longer they take to come on, the harder they are. The first he'd had with the poison had only been the top of the cauldron; he'd more severe ones than that later. But he can deal with it; he has before. The Cruciatus was still worse.
"I'm not a trained healer; none of us are here," Gil-galad states then, and Harry can feel him turning as if glancing around, "but we've learned over the ages. We can try to help you."
"I am a trained healer," Harry tells him, and it's only a little bitter. "Nothing works. I'll have to sleep it off."
He feels more than hears Gil-galad hesitate for a second before sighing. He relaxes against Harry's back and squeezes his hand tightly. A mouth presses against the side of his ear.
"Then, rest while we ride. I'll keep watch for us," he promises.
Harry just nods and lets his eyes flutter closed. It's easier when he can't see. When he doesn't have to battle the blurriness. He fortunately isn't prone to nausea, or no one would be happy on this trip. That's the one symptom he rarely has. So small favors, he supposes.
The next few hours are long though. If they had regular horses, they'd have to take breaks, but this is Valinor and nothing here is normal. They ride without stopping, and Harry manages a restless doze. It's limited by a building pressure in his skull that starts just after the first hour. It's dull, throbbing. Worsening a little bit more with every heartbeat.
By the time they make it back to the estate, it's past midnight. Harry's in quiet agony. He's wordlessly praying to Nienna for a lack of anything else to do, and he needs every bit of mercy he can get.
They don't even bother going to the stables and instead head for the courtyard outside the main door. Indilwen kneels again, but this time, Fingon is there. He smells of grass, mud, and sweat with a hint of salt. There's a scent that's uniquely him underneath though as he tucks Harry's head into his neck. One arm is beneath his knees and the other around his back, lifting him like a child being carried off to bed. As before, Harry's feet aren't even allowed to touch the ground. He's beyond caring now. He's so exhausted that he again feels distant, sluggish. Or perhaps that's the migraine talking. Screaming in his skull and battering at the doors of his head.
He can hear them murmuring around him, but his eyes are shut. Someone is stroking back his hair; he can barely feel it. There's numbness over his right forehead that's sneaking down his nose like a thief in the night; it's accompanied by an odd tingle that both burns and stings and reminds him of Hagrid's crossbreeding attempts.
"I thought he was fine."
"It started on the way back."
"How long ago?"
"Open your eyes, Mírimo. Let me see."
He bats away the hand that's reaching for his face with a frosty snap. Buries deeper into Fingon's collar. They're now inside the entryway. Harry hadn't even felt them move.
"What happened?"
It's Celebrían. Winded. Anxious.
"There was an accident. Everyone else is fine."
"Because he made sure of it."
There's an awkward pause. Harry feels Fingon shift.
"What? It's true."
"Brother?"
Findis now. Voice high-pitched with concern.
"I promise no one else is harmed."
"But you all look…"
"Fetch a healer."
Fingolfin talking to… someone.
"You knew Luthien, Findarato-"
"She certainly wasn't like this."
"Mírimo."
"Nephew."
Two people call him. Address him directly now. He feels someone carding over his scalp.
There's a pulse just behind his eyes. It's deep and rhythmic. Deteriorating with every second.
"I just want to sleep," Harry tells them.
"I'm not sure that's safe, nephew."
"Let the healer look at you."
"It'll go away if you let me rest," Harry argues, but the fingers are admittedly just a bit comforting. Tender and staying towards the back of his head.
"You're in pain."
"It isn't getting better."
"It will. Always does." Harry feels lips press to the crown, but that's fine, too. It's a welcome distraction from the numb prickle that's reached his chin.
"Prince Findekáno?"
"She can help you."
It's whispered into the top of his hair.
"Let me sleep," Harry mumbles. "Please."
It's close to begging.
Fingon sighs.
They're walking again. A long hallway. Then upwards. Stairs.
"Let me have him."
Gil-galad.
"We'll just go to our bed."
They falter as Fingon considers. As if deciding which room.
Bad enough, he's been carried through the entire house, but Harry's knows that he likely can't walk at this point without stumbling. The agony behind his eye is an anvil, pounded in time with his heart. The tingling has spread like a skrewt stinging down the side of his face and skittering to his neck. He can feel it creeping towards his arm now. If he isn't careful when he talks, he'll bite his lip.
Fingon reluctantly hands him over, more gently than if he were spun glass, and Harry doesn't even care that he's being passed around. He just wants someone to take him to his room so he can collapse in the cool, darkness and sleep until the sun burns out.
He can hear Fingon follow them until they're at the last hallway, but for once, he stops there. Harry's eyes are closed and stay that way as they pass windows. As they continue down the corridor all the way to the end.
"Do you truly want rest first? Gil-galad asks as they enter the door. "Or perhaps a bath?"
"Bed," Harry slurs from against his chest, and his face is so numb on that side that he can't feel the fabric of the tunic across his skin anymore. His head throbs like an open wound, and he knows if he lifts his eyelids, there'll be tears from the anguish of it.
There's a pause then. A murmur of magic as the world stands still. Only, it doesn't come from Harry.
He'd know her anywhere though. Would know the winter mists of her song as she reaches for him. He opens his eyes despite the pain, despite the anguish, and there are fingertips on his cheeks.
Nienna is here.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fingolfin – Sigh.
Finarfin – Heavier sigh.
Fingon – Heaviest sigh with his hands on his head.
Argon – Are we just going to ignore that happened?
Angrod – What exactly do you want us to do?
Finrod – Raises hand.
Angrod – Put your hand back down, brother.
Findis – Ignore what?
Celebrían – What happened?
The Others – Looking at each other. Pointing to Finrod. You explain.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad – This is fine. This is totally fine. Watching his entire world fall apart, rearrange, and come back together in the span of five minutes. I'm totally fine.
Narrator Voice – He was not fine.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna – Feels her spidey sense tingling while the bat signal goes off.
Vairë – What's that?
Námo – Looking around suspiciously.
Nienna – I've somewhere to be. Far away from here. Completely innocent. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all. Toodles.
Námo – Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
AN: Are you sure that was a migraine, Harry?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Arthion – royal.
Ever Hopeful,
Azar