Ballad of Dusk and Dawn
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.
Warnings: AU, Crossover, Slash, Character Death, Attempted Suicide
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.
Painting, Harry's found, is more like a dance. At its foundation is the underlying song of creation. The beat turns to the steps of enchanting, to the rhythm of arithmancy as the picture takes form. To the back and forth of time and space as they shift into patterns. Pigments, then. Possibilities. A shuffle here. A twirl there. A dip. A swirl of light and color.
His project, his masterpiece, is only half-finished though. It's a slow process, gradual as cautious brushstrokes, but this has to be perfect. He won't accept anything else. He thinks he's been building to this his entire life. Learning to recreate it since he was eleven and looked up with wonder at his very first home.
Other pieces are completed around Formenos. Landscapes. Abstracts. A fresco he did on a lark in the kitchen. Some three-dimensional works are on various floors and walls – though Eönwë had an odd liking for the one in the entrance hall. Even a portrait or five of various Ainur who were keen and intrigued models.
Vairë's is his favorite so far. It isn't, as some would think, of her halls with a loom behind her. Instead, she rests in a field of wildflowers and is weaving the world into place as she kneels with her husband's head in her lap. Námo always sleeps. Harry hasn't once seen him open his eyes since the portrait was set, and really, Harry doesn't blame him. Running Mandos is exhausting work, and he deserves his rest.
She hangs just outside his atelier, but he thinks she won't be content to stay there forever. He has set himself up a study, an office really, but has little reason to go there for now. Perhaps in the future though. She may like it there by a window. Able to gaze at the grounds below.
Eönwë, he has just about figured out. Harry may even take a break for it. A change of pace to relax for working overhead.
Nienna, he has yet to make one for her… but someday. When he decides the right background, when he's solidified in his mind the scene to give her.
One day, Káno will have a portrait here, too. When Harry has a face for him. When he has more than music and sorrows and a name. That's a distant future though.
For now, Harry works on his masterpiece.
He's been at this since dawn, but time is difficult to measure here. The land itself is forever winter, and the first circle of Formenos is a blooming spring equinox of equal day and night.
Fatigue as an elf is a strange thing. It decreased, oddly enough, as he aged when still human – and Harry doesn't want to think too much on that. But now, tiredness is more a mental state than a physical one. He sleeps because his mind tells him to do so, not because his body demands it. Previously, in Mandos, he slept due to boredom. When the Ainur were busy and before his two friends, when he'd little else to occupy himself. In Formenos, there's always something to do. Something to mend or enchant. To change or grow or paint. There's Indilwen and Káno, who always need or want his attention. Often just his company.
"Perhaps it's time for a break, dear," Nienna calls to him like a sleighbell in the snow.
She rests in the squishy purple armchair Harry conjured for her earlier. Her toes dig into the grass and flowers that still make up the ground until Harry one day creates a proper floor. Or perhaps he'll leave it, Harry thinks, as Indilwen continues to graze here more than not. Even now, she's over by the side door. Head down but ears perked.
Káno's next to Nienna, also on an armchair, playing as usual. There's an occasional pause when she speaks to him. Harry can't always hear what they say, and to be honest, he's not truly listening. Though he knows she was earlier describing his progress so far.
"You've been working nonstop for hours," Káno adds with a wash of notes.
Harry pauses to squint at them and then the windows. He's astonished to see that it's completely black outside.
The ceiling itself won't start reflecting the sky until he's finished. Until he sets the final enchantments. Currently, part of it is fluffy white clouds while the section by the doors is dark thunderheads with flashes of lightning. His present portion is a veritable tapestry of stars, but he hadn't thought that represented reality just yet.
Harry allows himself a moment to set aside his brushes and stretch before telling the ladder to lower him down, which it does cheerily enough. An absentminded flick of his fingers cleans everything off his clothes as he meanders over to them, but before Harry can even think of making another chair for himself, Nienna is already reaching. Pulling Káno's harp to her.
"Sit here," she states, and it isn't quite a command. It's too genteel for that.
From somewhere, she produces a teacup and saucer. The contents are steaming but somehow not too hot as he sips – ginger and sweet orange with a hint of cardamom.
Harry raises an eyebrow at that one. Since she must be raiding his herb garden if not his cabinets. But no… this isn't a blend he's made. And nothing has been missing. He would've remembered both.
Nienna covers her mouth with her hand at his look. Her tears are gradual again today, barely there. Harry belatedly notices a table on her other side with a full tea service. There are other shapes underneath that he can't make out from this angle.
Where has that even come from? Where has any of this come from?
Harry looks at the cup again – white lilies on a dark blue background with gold trim. It's not one of his. Not a pattern he recognizes. He decorated his himself – snowdrops for the first set that he most often uses. Ivy on the newest, which is actually still in the process of being finished; that one he'll probably give away.
At his very puzzled expression, Nienna finally offers, "This is a gift for you."
"For me?" he repeats.
Since this – her manner and the entire situation – is decidedly strange. The Ainur have given him many things. Nienna especially. But never quite like this. They've never made a production of it before. Harry can't quite figure it out. Can't quite put the pieces together and make the picture whole again.
Fortunately, they take pity on him.
"On your old world, you said that they celebrated the day of your birth, yes?" Káno questions with a strum. There's a scent of sea salt and the feeling of the tide at his ankles.
Harry blinks. He feels vaguely fuzzy. Like he's been hit with a hex and now can't quite think straight. Maybe he's more tired than he thought. What time is it?
"I…"
"It's different here," Káno tells him. "Usually for elflings or special begetting days."
"Your ways are not our ways though," Nienna adds, and her tears are growing heavier now, "and you've bent to our expectations so much."
She lays a hand over the harp strings and plucks several notes. They ring out with foam and frost but warm to autumn rains.
"You said you celebrated at midnight," she continues, a little breathy with anticipation. Tipping her head back as she waits for her cue. "And midnight is-"
The clock in the hallway, one Fëanor made so long ago, chimes exactly then. Once and again. Twelve times.
Nienna's laugh is a carol of bells even through her crying.
"Now, I believe."
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Dinner, it turns out, is an interesting farewell. Aredhel leaves tomorrow, Irimë in tow, to travel to Mandos. Visitors are rare as there's usually only one way in. Námo allows few others to enter, fewer to leave, and the fewest still to roam freely. Aredhel's a special case, he's been told by multiple sources, including Námo himself. As is her son. Harry isn't sure he wants to know the details. He isn't planning to ask.
They retire to a separate area, something of a strange mishmash of a conservatory and music hall, after eating. There are braziers at intervals with the largest in the center, and Harry spends perhaps too much time evaluating the mural that extends around the entire room. The ceiling's arched glass, but all that can be seen overhead now is dark storm clouds.
Talk is light. Reminiscent more than anything. Mainly about people Harry hasn't met. Mostly relatives, to be fair. Aredhel's only child – but never her husband. Finarfin's other and youngest son, Aegnor, also still in Mandos. Celebrían's parents, both on Endor with her husband and children.
There's Queen Indis. Harry's seen her from afar, very briefly, but they've fortunately never met. He has zero desire to ever do so with all the things that Argon's said. And that Fingon and Angrod have very carefully not said.
Orodreth is apparently trying to build an underground city, and while that truthfully sounds interesting, Harry's juggling more than enough as is. The only way he'd go there currently would be as a cute, very innocuous animal that no one would ever associate with his actual form in a million years.
Same for Turgon. Though his venture seems to be the far more successful of the two.
Finduilas, Orodreth's only daughter, is with her grandmother currently as Angrod has been here.
Idril is the one who interests Harry the most – she and her husband, who's the only Man in Valinor. They live outside of Alqualondë, directly on the coast, and Celebrían's planning a visit soon as they're her in-laws. She invites Harry along when she sees him perk up at the mention of Tuor. Harry must admit he's intrigued. He has no idea if Men here are humans or something else, and really, there's a bit of homesickness at the opportunity to find out.
The conversation drifts as more alcohol is consumed. Everyone had something with dinner, and they've been rather free with the wine since moving to this new room. Everyone but Harry. He'd one sniff and known this is a much stronger concoction than earlier. He quietly charms his first cup into juice and hasn't bothered to have any refills. No one else has noticed, and that's his first clue.
The second is when Fëanor is brought up. For once, it's not entirely negative. Or a list of every terrible thing he's ever done. Or a recitation of his various adventures – sometimes misadventures – from Fingolfin. It's pleasant really to hear about his accomplishments from those who know him well.
The third occurs as Gil-galad gets progressively closer as time's gone on, but not a single one of them bats an eye. Not even now as he sits with his ankle hooked around Harry's own. They share a long bench, an arm resting on the back behind Harry's head. A hand toys with his hair, fingers slipping through black strands and tangling into the ends. Of course, even Gil-galad has quickly worked his way through two wine bottles by himself, now well onto his third.
The atmosphere is relaxed, cozy despite the rain overhead that's coming down in sheets on the glass ceiling. It does make an interesting accompaniment to Finrod's lyre. Though admittedly the quality of his performance isn't quite up to standard. Harry's heard him flubbing the lines to his last two songs. He's missed part of the chord at the end just now, but no one else really seems bothered. He's sure that Beren and Lúthien probably don't mind that much either.
"Care to join him?" Finarfin inquires when he notices Harry interest in his oldest son.
He's pink-cheeked along with the rest of them, and Harry doesn't even try to count the containers scattered around him and his brother on the floor. Some are on their sides, but they're drained to the point that they don't even drip onto the rug.
"What do you say, nephew?" Fingolfin chimes in. He's beaming, pleasantly buzzed but not all the way gone. Not yet. "I'm curious of your skill."
Harry's eyes widen. He feels Gil-galad's fingers in his hair still.
When Finarfin hadn't initially made mention of the harp and the days turned into weeks, Harry thought himself safe. Oh, how wrong he was.
"Do you play?" Finrod asks then, and he's almost vibrating with excitement. Seemingly ready to shove a random instrument into his hands then and there.
"He does," Finarfin confirms before Harry can even think to deny it. "A harp."
They all look at their king in stunned shock. He lifts a shoulder in a motion that would normally be elegant but is a tad too swaying.
"I heard him the first day I was here. He was by the back corner of the property," Finarfin explains easily enough to his suddenly very intrigued audience. "I followed the sound."
"Aha! So that's where you go!" Irimë declares, and she's entirely too pleased with herself. Her reward is another round.
Finrod has risen and is now moving about the room in search of something. It's not hard to figure out what. However, he's as graceful as a fourth-year who's discovered Firewhisky a bit too early.
"Need help?" Angrod questions as he glances over the back of his chair.
"No."
There's a muffled thump from somewhere to the right, but Harry doesn't bother to look.
"Maybe."
Angrod puts his drink down with a soft clink as he goes to rescue his brother. They return a second later, thankfully without any harps, but Finrod's hair is mussed.
"Sing for us instead," he suggests as he sits a little too forcefully.
"No." Harry shakes his head in denial.
"Come on," Argon prompts. "It can't be any worse than Irissë." He smirks at his own joke safely out of range of his sister.
"No," Harry repeats and waves his hand in clear dismissal.
"Please, please," Irimë begs.
"No," he states for a third time, and it's very firm now. He puts just the barest nip of power into it. Of hoar frost that drops the temperature in the room a few degrees.
Gil-galad shivers next to him before Harry puts a hand on his arm in apology and casts a wordless Warming Charm.
There's a brief pause then. Before Findis raises her goblet at him in salute.
"Well, now," she actually sounds impressed. "You do have teeth. I was wondering when those would finally come out."
"We're going to work on this shyness," Irimë decides. Completely unperturbed. "It must be from your mother since it certainly didn't come from Makalaurë's side."
Another awkward silence. Followed by a snort from Harry's left and then laughter that's wine-twinged from all angles.
"They certainly aren't shy," Fingolfin agrees. His tone is warm though. Reflective.
Finarfin nudges him affectionately. "I cannot admit that's a fault of theirs."
"Brother does like to talk about every project," Fingolfin acknowledges. It's fond, however. Said with a soft smile.
"You can't get him to be silent," Findis adds, and there's a barb beneath her prim exterior. Maybe it's all the alcohol as there's a flush to her face and gleam to her eyes not usually present. "None of them are."
"No, Carnistir doesn't say much," Aredhel corrects, resting her face on her hand and twirling a piece of hair like a young girl. "He prefers to be left to his own devices."
"Toiling away in some forgotten corner until you practically fall on him," Argon adds as he stretches overhead.
There's a round of agreement to that. Celebrían gives a refill to everyone, regardless of how much their cup already has, before trundling off to sit in a different chair than before. She gives a momentary flash of puzzlement, but it's quickly forgotten as she discovers an empty cup that she fills for herself.
"Maitimo can be quiet," Fingon muses. His eyes are far away as he wears a dreamy expression.
Finarfin and Fingolfin both scoff at the same time.
"Nelyo is passionate," his uncle clarifies.
"And I wouldn't say that anything you do with him is quiet," Fingolfin mutters into his drink, but it's low enough that only Harry and Finarfin, who're closest to him, hear.
"Curvo never speaks much either," Angrod comments then to the entire group. "Always too busy with his forge." His head's tipped back, and he looks at the rain as it hits the glass above them.
Finrod has an odd expression but remains silent.
"He's just an ass," Argon disagrees. "He may look just like uncle, but he has the personality of a sodden badger with a rash." He rolls his eyes as he motions Findis to pass him another bottle.
Fingon laughs then. Loud and carefree. Mirth lighting his expression entirely.
"No, my dear sweet, little brother, that was because you-"
He's abruptly cut off as Argon throws a pillow in his face. It hits him squarely before tumbling to the floor. Fingon doesn't even try to duck.
"I thought we agreed never to mention that again!"
Argon wags a finger in his general direction, but when he points, it's slightly off center. Fingon guffaws hard enough that his forehead reddens.
"You agreed maybe," Aredhel cuts in from his other side, "but the rest of us never did."
"Sister!" Argon gasps with absolute betrayal. His pupils are too blown for the light of the room and his voice is a little too loud. "You know? Did Tyelko tell you?"
"The twins," she corrects with a winning grin.
"Menaces. All of you. It was their idea in the first place." He hisses like an angry Kneazle.
"And yet," Aredhel taunts, "you went through with it."
Argon answer is a noise without words. Without real vowels or syllables.
There's more drunken laughter followed by the clink of glass bottles and metal cups. Alcohol is being consumed in such amounts that Harry's a little surprised that everyone is still coherent. But then again, he's never seen any of them imbibe to this extent before.
A knee is on top of his now, calves pressed together despite Harry repeatedly putting him back in his seat. Gil-galad's face is in his neck, breath warm across his skin but tickling when he giggles like a lad. No one seems to care about that as Irimë shakes some wine invitingly in his direction that Harry very politely redirects to Fingolfin.
"Don't worry," she tells him consolingly, "your father's a good egg."
"He's always the one they go to," Findis agrees as she sinks further and further into her chair, sliding so far down at one point that she's nearly on the floor.
"The good child," Finarfin admits.
He and his brother are arm and arm now. Giving a joyous toast.
"Well, except for… You know." Angrod gives a vague gesture that makes his drink slosh dangerously.
"The kinslaying and child-theft," Irimë says helpfully. She drains the rest of her wine in one long swallow and blearily looks around for more.
Celebrían uses her foot to nudge a container closer towards her aunt. "I don't think they were stolen," she replies.
"Rescued," Fingon insists. His chin is in his hand, and he has his coronet around one finger as he spins it in circles. "Maitimo and Laurë rescued them."
"Is it rescue when you caused the situation?" Gil-galad finally asks. He's been relatively quiet so far, ever since he put his head on Harry's shoulder the first time. One arm is now around Harry's lower back, hand settled on his side while the other still holds a goblet. At least he's not trying to climb into Harry's lap anymore, which he considers a small victory.
"What did Elrond tell you?" Finarfin questions, and he honestly seems curious.
"My husband loves his father very dearly," Celebrían says in a complete non-answer.
Apparently, it means something to the elves though.
"Wonder what Eärendil thinks about that," Finrod muses to no one in particular before going back to humming to himself. His lyre is now missing as are his bracelets and one earring.
Celebrían rests back against her chair's arm and closes her eyes. "It hasn't come up."
No one seems to have an answer to that, but to be honest, no one really seems to care. Finrod and Argon start a loud song that's more in competition than in harmony. Fingon joins them part-way through but at a different verse, which grows only more confusing when Irimë does the same a minute later. Angrod is lost in his own world as he watches the rain, while Aredhel and Findis start a debate but seem to be arguing about different topics at the same time. Finarfin and Fingolfin lean against each other, speaking in low voices with the occasional boyish giggle. Celebrían is fully curled up in her chair, goblet having slipped from her hand and now turned over on the floor. Gil-galad seems content to finally stay where he is, fingers twisting and tangling Harry's hair.
Sometime after midnight, the wine runs dry. Which finally seems to be the signal for everyone to stagger off to bed.
Harry's hugged repeatedly before he can even get them out of the room. First by Fingon. Then Argon with a very masculine backslap afterwards. Celebrían is gentler but holds on the longest and kisses both cheeks. Fingon again before his father pulls him off to take his place, and he's in turn elbowed out of the way by his own daughter. Harry isn't ashamed to admit that he uses Gil-galad to block Irimë and Angrod, but Findis slips in then to slide her arm in his and put her head on his shoulder. Finrod half-swoops, half-stumbles in next, and Harry's very resigned by this time. He dodges Finarfin only by turning Finrod directly into his father's waiting arms.
Then, when they're finally close enough to the door – and why had they sat in the back – Harry makes a break for it. Gil-galad, of course, is wrapped around him like the giant squid the entire time.
For a drunk who has to be helped down the corridors and up the stairs, he has a remarkably nice singing voice. He serenades Harry with what he suspects is a dwarven ballad, but admittedly, the verses keep being mixed up. So instead of winning his heart's desire, Narvi seems to be forever stuck in Moria, forging a bow for his love.
Harry's fortunately stronger as an elf and can get him through the bedroom door, into the room itself, and on the bed without much struggle. Gil-galad is minimal help at this point. Alternating between bard, cephalopod, and inert object. Harry isn't sure if elves can drown, and he doesn't particularly want to find out. So there won't be a bath tonight; that'll be a concern for tomorrow.
The singing stops roughly around the time Harry gets him situated on the pillow. His eyes are unfocused then, but he's still awake, at least somewhat. He'll feel it tomorrow, Harry knows. Even an elven constitution won't be able to shake this off completely.
Harry sighs, but it's fond if a little exasperated. He lays a hand on Gil-galad's forehead and sends out a faint pulse of power. He can feel the alcohol there, circulating through, and gently unravels it like one would a tangled vine. Another whisper bolsters his system so that he wakes refreshed and with no nasty lingering effects.
Gil-galad blinks at him hazily as Harry pulls back but not away.
"Mírimo." Only, it's said with a yawn. "You did something."
The words are sleepy but not at all accusing.
"So you'll feel better in the morning," Harry murmurs and tucks a strand of dark hair behind his ear.
He peers at Harry with such a puzzled expression – like a jarvey faced with an Arithmancy equation. Harry struggles not to laugh. He shouldn't, but it's such a bizarre look on someone normally so poised. To see him squint stormy blue eyes like he's truly forgotten that two and two is indeed four.
Harry brushes the rest of his hair from his face, even as Gil-galad slowly starts blinking more. It's the work of only a minute – with subtle but liberal use of magic – to divest him of his jewelry and braids. Boots are at the base of the armoire, but Harry leaves his clothes the same. That's a step too far for now.
The covers are a little trickier, but it's warm inside so Harry only reaches for the quilt still folded on the foot of the bed from this morning. He draws it up but doesn't tuck it too tightly in case he moves in the night. Harry has barely even stepped away when Gil-galad calls out.
"Don't go."
But he's more than half-asleep already. Intoxicated and finally starting to slur.
"This is my room, too," Harry reminds him with just a bit of mirth. "I'm just changing."
"Yes." Gil-galad is drowsy and distant as he's pulled into dreams. "Stay with me."
He's out before Harry can even form a response.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry falls in love suddenly. Has his mind fill with wonder and all thoughts of anyone else fade away. His gaze follows her immediately as his heartbeat speeds up.
How can he not? How can it not? How can he not know this was the moment he's been waiting for? That his entire life has led him to this instant?
She's the most exquisite thing he's ever seen.
Her coat is a dazzling white with a dusting of black spots. Like a reverse snowfall. Her mane and tail are long and flowing, a midnight drape that trails after her as she gallops. She tosses her head like the queen she is. An empress surveying her domain as she weaves first through the trees and then leaps over the small stream in the distance. Her gait is sure, effortless, graceful. Like a dancer on stage where every move is practiced to perfection but so natural. She rounds the field and faces them. She slows to a trot. Next to a walk. She stops. She looks at him then.
Her eyes are bluer than the sky at midsummer. Cloudless. Endless. And far too clever. Glittering with an intelligence that's undeniable even if Oromë hadn't taught him their language.
She neighs then. Paws the ground with her right front hoof three times. Part greeting and part challenge. Defiance.
Harry knows he's met his match.
"She's beautiful," he breathes.
Beside him, Oromë laughs. It's echoing as a hunting horn. Far too amused.
The form he's taken today, and many days actually, has silvery hair but a face close enough to Harry's that they could be brothers. His eyes are dark, color unfathomable. Something about this shape makes the other Ainur unexpectedly sad. Makes Vána grasp his hand and cry into his collar. She's not here today though, else he would've picked something else.
This shape doesn't seem to bother Huan at all, however. He wags his tail even as he rests on the grass on all fours. Observing everything and missing nothing at all. Huan barks as Harry absently scratches his head, and the sentiment is shared.
The other horses in the herd graze in the distance, but Harry already knows that she's different. She's more than they are. Could tell from the instant he saw her. Oromë has already promised an introduction. Has said that they could be companions if Harry can make a good enough impression. If he can win her over. Can gain her heart.
"Are you sure?" Harry thinks to question.
Because certainly someone so magnificent couldn't possibly be for him.
Oromë watches her as she pauses to nibble the grass. As if the mere Vala in front of her is no concern and is beneath her notice. He shakes his head. Rubs a hand over his chin aggressively enough that the quiver on his back shakes.
"Yo-" There's an abrupt pause then as he finally glances at Harry. "Nienna believed she would be most suited to you," he says instead.
His manner is still entertained, but there's an undertone now. A whisper of something else that Harry can't name. Perhaps on a different day. Maybe if he weren't so distracted. Harry just lets it go. Lets it be blown away on the wind like a stray leaf. He has more important things anyway.
Harry starts walking then. Slowly. Steadily.
She stops eating, and her ears perk as her head lifts. She isn't a hippogriff, but they have the correct idea of things. People, even those with four legs instead of two, deserve respect and honor.
Harry comes to a halt several yards from her, a courteous distance for a subject to their ruler. He offers a solemn bow from the waist with his left hand over his heart.
"Milady," he states. "I'm called Marcaunon. Well met."
She merely looks at him and flicks an ear. Harry is still in his bow, has not risen without her permission. But he can feel the weight of her interest.
Behind him, both Oromë and Huan are silent. A moment ticks by. Another. A third. Harry doesn't move at all.
Then, she inclines her head. He straightens but doesn't approach further.
"May I have your name?" he asks instead.
He watches her consider the request. Sees her decide if he's worth the time. The energy. The effort.
There's an equine nicker. A gust as she exhales. Her tail swishes. And yet, he receives an impression of a meadow with flowers blooming.
"That's very lovely, milady," Harry praises, and it's genuine. Said with a smile and hint of awe. "May I call you Indilwen?"
Blue eyes look at him with consideration. Searching. Assessing. Measuring. He meets her gaze dead on. Doesn't blink. Doesn't look away for a single second.
Then, she gives a stately nod and steps forward. Her nose in his hands is infinitely soft as she breathes in his scent. Her teeth are even gentler when he conjures an apple to feed her, running his free fingers through her mane as she eats. She allows him to scratch along her neck afterwards and nuzzles into his shoulder.
"Well done," he hears Oromë murmur behind him, sounding all-too-satisfied. "Very well done."
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Káno – So he's still working on the ceiling?
Nienna – It's a very nice ceiling.
Káno – Not sure what to think about this. I'm sure it's lovely.
Nienna – You could say he… Elevated it. Vaulted it even to a whole new level.
Káno – Did you just… make a ceiling pun?
Nienna – Little laugh. No, never.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Lalala. The end.
Everyone – Claps with way too much enthusiasm.
Harry – In an aside to himself – That was terrible. How drunk is he?
Finarfin – What was that, nephew?
Fingolfin – Oh, yeah. My brother totally ratted you out said you play.
Everyone – Pretty please!
Harry – Absolutely not.
Gil-galad – Mírimo, you've been holding out on me.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Hearts and stars in his eyes.
Oromë – Oh, yeah. I'm the best matchmaker.
Huan – Bark! Tail-wag!
Indilwen – Excited neigh!
Gil-galad – What am I, chopped liver?
AN: Harry the one (mostly) sober person trying to wrangle the drunks.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar