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.
It could still be days, the healers say. Could be weeks even.
The entire family gathers in the cottage turned home by the sea. Waits for the inevitable. They have four children, nine grandchildren, and more great grandchildren. The Lupin clan is large now. Not as boisterous as the Weasleys but lively. Loving.
It's a quiet time though. Little ones weeping and not entirely sure why. Hanging on their parents' hands and tugging on his robes, asking why everyone is so sad. Why grand-père is always sleeping. The adults look at him for direction, for some sense of normalcy. For some glimmer of hope. Not ready to let go.
The mourning has already started.
Or perhaps it never ended.
Victoire's already gone, buried over two years ago. That was the beginning of the end. That was when the light started to die in Teddy's eyes. When his hands first shook and his gaze dimmed.
The loss of their son, Émeric, and their granddaughter, Élise, barely even four months later was a worse blow. A runic malfunction. An accident. Quick, they said. Likely died before either even realized something was wrong.
Such a cold comfort for the family. For an old man who's already outlived his wife, her siblings, both sets of parents. For Harry himself who helps identify the remains so that no one else has to.
Teddy spirals then. Forgets names. Birthdays. Relationships.
Asks for his wife. His granddaughter.
Most days, he thinks Harry is his son.
He takes a sabbatical from Hogwarts because they refuse his resignation. Tell him to take as long as he needs and that the school will be waiting for him when he's ready. Harry accepts; he doesn't have the energy to fight them.
Spends the next twenty-three months caring for his godson as he falls apart. Takes over his household. Manages all his affairs. Gives him his potions. Fixes his meals. Does everything for him as he stops talking. Walking. Eating. Now drinking.
It isn't a burden. Teddy is his godson, his heir. Would be his son but he could never truly bring himself to steal that one last thing from Andromeda who was so good to him.
It could still be days, the healers say, and the lead… Harry remembers her as a bright-eyed first-year. Has it really been that long ago?
Harry knows it'll be tonight though. That Teddy won't make it to see the sunrise.
All the remaining children and grandchildren and other relatives are in bed or sleeping away their vigil. Harry's the last of his generation left, and so little of Teddy's yet lives, but he's the oldest of them. The oldest of those born to the second wave of Order members.
Harry sits by his bedside like he does every night. It's where he's slept for over a year now. Teddy's breathing is slow but still steady. Hair wispy and white with age. He hasn't been able to shift for two years, not since Victoire. Harry knows if his eyes were open, they'd been a clouded brown, fading with time.
He doesn't see an old, sick man on his death bed, however.
Instead, Harry sees a little boy who holds his hand as they walk through Diagon. Who he visits every weekend for the nineteen months he travels the world. Who changes his coloration and even face-shape at the drop of a hat. Whose favorite thing in the world is to give himself green eyes and black hair when they go to the Muggle world and have them fawn over how much he looks like his dad.
Time has run away from him though. Has stolen everything that's ever mattered one piece at a time.
"I love you," Harry tells him.
His elbows rest on the bed; one hand is on the pulse in Teddy's neck. The inhalations are more gradual now, growing further apart. The heartbeat beneath his fingertips is thready and weak.
"I'm sorry never said it enough."
Teddy may hear him. He may not. He doesn't respond either way.
The Peverell signet is heavy on Harry's other hand as it sits on Teddy's arm. It's forever slightly chilled but cold as a winter's bite today. It's a temptation. Always is. Always will be.
Nevertheless, he promised himself when the ring returned – stone whole and perfect – that he wouldn't use it. That he'd let people go. That he wouldn't torture them by making them stay here. Neither ghost nor true spirit.
Teddy takes a breath. But there aren't any more after that. He's deathly still underneath Harry's touch, and there's a feeling of something leaving the room.
Harry sighs and falls back into his chair. At a loss of what else to do. There's nothing else, is there?
He doesn't go to wake the household. He lets them sleep. Let them have this rest.
It doesn't matter now anyways.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna is by his side immediately. She appears like a vision in the snow, hooded and glowing.
Gil-galad's startled. Harry can feel his heart speed up before he can control himself. He doesn't step back, but he shifts. Like he's going to take Harry away. Like he's never been so close to an Ainu, but surely, that can't be right?
Nienna pauses. She reaches for him slower now. Movements choreographed.
"You're in pain, my dearest," she says like a sad sigh.
The hand that goes to his temple is the only reason he doesn't have to close his eyes from the brightness as she moves into his field of vision fully. Nienna always weeps, but her tears are heavy. A deluge as she leans in to inspect him. The music starts like freezing rainfall in the distance.
Her song is soft, light. Floating around him like a gentle fog. Flowing through and easing every hurt. Soothing every ache away like it never existed at all. She ends with a kiss to his forehead, directly where his scar once sat.
Harry opens his eyes, unsure when he closed them. He lifts his head as she takes two steps back, and Gil-galad lets him slide down to the floor in the space between. There's a hand still at his waist, twisting into his tunic as if trying to pull him back, but Harry's reluctantly released forward.
"All better now, I think," Nienna murmurs as he curves his head over her and she touches his cheek.
He's filthy, Harry realizes very belatedly. Both he and Gil-galad are. Still covered in grass, dried earth, and whatever else has made it here with them. Dirt is in his hair. His outer robe is missing. He can feel blood dried along his hairline and itching on the tip of his nose. Mudslides are hardly good for the complexion, after all.
Nienna doesn't seem to notice that at all. She simply looks at him through her tears, but they now seem more from relief.
Harry flicks a finger at his side. He feels more than sees Gil-galad's sudden surprise as the spell washes over them both. As their clothes turn pristine. As everything in the last few hours is erased. As all their missing items reappear in a neat pile in their chair. As they're both left whole and new.
Nienna watches everything with an expectant air. Her expression is knowing, attentive.
"Do be careful, my dearest." Her fingertips on his face are as delicate as snowflakes. As raindrops.
Harry nods once, a tad sheepish that this even happened. That he ignored his instincts and let it go so far. That there were a million signs, and he still walked to his death yet again.
"I will," he replies, and it's more than a little contrite as he leans into her hand, into the song of winter rain that curls around him in an embrace.
Nienna accepts that. Pats his cheek fondly, affectionately. She peers past him after a few seconds.
Harry blinks, and she's by Gil-galad now. Touching his shoulder, pausing as he nearly jumps. She allows him a second before she stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. She lingers there, words too faint for even Harry to hear. Gil-galad stares at her with eyes wide and pupils too dilated for even the darkness of the room as she glides back to Harry.
She caresses him in a goodbye that's come too soon. Her voice is wispy like autumn mist. Faint. Just for him.
"Look after him, yes? He needs you now."
There's lips to his cheek for just an instant. Then, she's gone as rapidly as she came.
The room is dimmer for her absence. Much emptier even with the two of them still there. Harry sighs at the loss. Gil-galad lets out a shuddering breath.
It takes Harry a second, but he supposes that he shouldn't be surprised. Truthfully, he isn't. Not really. It's been a long night already, and it's not even done yet.
"Gil." It's said tenderly, pensively like snowfall in the early spring.
His elf's head is bowed, however, turned away. Harry can't see his face, but his shoulders shake. Static sparks off of him when Harry reaches for his wrist. The air's turned heavy, dense like a coming storm.
Harry goes to him. Pulls him in. Pulls him close.
"I'm here," he murmurs with a hand on his back.
Gil-galad's face is still hidden, but Harry doesn't have to see the dampness to know it's there. To feel him tremble or hear his shaking gasps. To feel his aura swirl around them with building winds. To bear the weight leaning against him. Harry slides his other arm around Gil-galad's shoulders and puts their heads together.
"You died."
It isn't an accusation, but it's repeated like one. Murmured to his skin like an indictment.
"You died." Gil-galad's voice breaks, and he shudders to hold in a sob. "Eru above, you died."
"I'm fine," Harry says back and means it. "Really this time."
Gil-galad finally looks up at him. His irises are nearly gray, blue almost completely gone, and far too glassy.
"Stay with me," he whispers. His tone is tight, low. Ragged. Bleeding.
It's pleading. It's imploring. It's a dagger to Harry's heart. Straight between his ribs and plunging deep. It's hemorrhaging and wounded and praying for mercy.
His fingers twist into Harry's clothes and hair. He's shivering. Not from cold. From something worse. Something darker. Harder.
"Stay with me," he repeats in a beg when he doesn't get an answer.
Harry kisses him then. Gentler than they had before. A brush of mouths and breath.
It's a promise. A vow.
He'll keep it as long as he can.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry wakes with a head buried in the back of his neck and an arm around his waist. Gil-galad is curled behind him, a leg threaded through his. He's comfortable, cozy. Safe from the world and the reality of yesterday. He's alive. He's healed.
He's fine. Really, he is.
But somehow, he's also not.
Harry doesn't want to think about it, but he can't stop. Can't forget that everyone saw. That they know. That a secret he's held through two worlds is now out in the open. It's a very bitter potion to swallow. A hard truth to accept. If he never had to show anyone, if he never had to say it aloud, it never became fact.
He really is immortal. And that's terrifying.
"I can hear you thinking," Gil-galad says then. His voice is clear, awake.
Harry doesn't startle, but he does exhale slowly. He rolls, but the hand around his waist stays. Somehow, another snakes underneath him even as he moves.
"How are you?" Harry questions because that's a safer thing. More important anyway. He reaches up to rest fingertips on Gil-galad's throat as if feeling his pulse.
It's an important thing to ask. More important than Harry's worries. It took so long for Gil to calm down, for him to let it all out. For him to even relax enough to sleep. Harry held him through it all. Whispered reassurances for what had to be hours before his eyelids drifted shut in sheer exhaustion.
But now, this morning, Gil… just smiles at him. His eyes are back to their normal color. They're clear and warm. Bright. He even gives a little laugh at Harry's question. Leans forward to brush a nose against Harry's own.
"I think I should ask you that," his elf comments. "I wasn't the one who was hurt."
Harry can't help but flinch, retreat. He sits up, and Gil-galad lets him. Lets him slide to the side of the bed but doesn't fully let him flee.
"Mírimo," he calls after as Harry starts shifting his feet to the floor, "I already knew."
Harry stops mid-motion. Feels his heart stutter in his chest. His vision is tunneling in before he takes a breath. Inhales deeply enough that it almost hurts.
Gil-galad has inched forward. As if to catch him. He lifts his hands appealingly when Harry stares at him.
"It wasn't hard to figure out," Gil-galad explains. It's very calm, candid. "You're a peredhel, but your mannerisms aren't that of a Man. You most certainly aren't a dwarf or any other race of Arda."
Harry swallows hard. He knows he's already pinching the bridge of his nose but can't stop himself. He feels unsteady, off-balance, teetering.
"I…"
But he can't get it out. Here's his chance. His golden opportunity. But his words fail him. He wants to tell the truth; he does. Whatever Gil-galad thinks can't even be close to it.
There's a hand on his back, and Harry realizes it's to keep him from dropping off the bed. He's tugged closer to the center and away from the edge. Settled so that they're facing each other still, so that Gil-galad can stop him from falling.
"I'm still here," his elf says, and his touch is so caring. "I don't care what you are or who your parents are. It doesn't matter."
Harry swallows again. He breathes through his nose because his mouth doesn't want to work.
"I'm sorry" is all he can manage.
But he's hushed with a finger to his lips.
"Stop that." The same finger taps his nose. "You owe no explanations or apologies."
Harry wants to believe that; he does. Wants to believe that he'd still mean it if he knew the truth. Elves are immortal, but Harry shouldn't be. He isn't one of them. Not really. Not where it counts.
Gil-galad doesn't know what he's accepted. Who he's allowed in.
"It doesn't matter."
Harry knows that his face must reflect his thoughts, but a hand is tipping his chin. Tilting his face.
It's still new. Being kissed like this. Like he's something precious and fragile. Valued.
Gil-galad gazes at him afterwards, doesn't let him run away until his breathing is easier and his body relaxes. Harry slumps against him, doesn't try to say anything else. Just lets himself stay there until he finally feels strong enough to sit up.
Breakfast is on the vanity bench. Brought earlier by Celebrían when they didn't come down, and Harry hadn't even stirred at her entering the room at all. That was a little over an hour before, but Gil-galad allowed him to sleep until he awoke on his own. They eat in bed, and it's a little bit surreal. Something he hasn't done since he was a Hogwarts student, spending Boxing Day with the Weasleys. They don't talk about anything substantial, and Harry feels himself relaxing even more. Letting the tension in his gut bleed away as a hand strokes his back.
He knows their peace won't last though. Feels it – him – coming from literal miles away. Harry just can't be bothered to actually get up or dressed until mid-morning when there's a very frantic knocking on their door.
Finrod doesn't even wait for permission to burst inside.
"Lord Eönwë is here," he announces with the same voice one might use at the arrival of their firstborn.
Harry gives him a very unimpressed look. Gil just glances from one of them to the other.
"And?" Harry asks as Finrod stands in the middle of the bedroom like a small child who's come to fetch mum and dad. He idly tries to decide which one he's supposed to be.
"He's asking for you," the blond reports and rocks on his heels.
"That's friendly," Harry returns. "Tell him we'll be down in a bit." He gives a shooing motion.
Gil-galad makes a noise beside him. It's half-laugh and half-snort.
"But it's… Lord Eönwë," Finrod says as if that explains everything.
It really doesn't. Harry's known Eönwë way too long at this point and has had to put up with him the entire time. He can wait; it's not like it'll kill him.
"And we aren't even dressed," Harry points out with a gesture to the pair of them. "Or do you think he'd fancy Gil's dressing gown that much?"
Finrod splutters, and the very tip of his ears turn red. Next to Harry, his own elf is shaking as he tries to repress his mirth. Harry waves Finrod out of their room, using just a little pinch of magic to speed him along, and finally slides out of bed. He makes a point of taking extra time in the bath just to be difficult. If he knows Eönwë at all, he's secretly enjoying the additional moments for the intimidation factor alone. Not to mention just looking at things. The Ainur all enjoy poking around Formenos; Harry's sure he'll find something interesting here, too.
Gil-galad, already bathed, is staring in their armoire when he exits the bathroom. He's partially dressed but hasn't any outer layers or ornaments.
"Eönwë won't care if you show up in your best robes or full armor," Harry tells him as he brushes past. "Well, he may take the latter as an invitation."
That brings Gil-galad up short.
"You just…" He can't seem to find the words he wants. "You know him well?"
"He taught me how to use a sword," Harry reminds him as he inspects what's been laid out for him. It's green – of course, it is. A very pale shade with darker embroidery. The fabric itself is light, airy and breathable even with the underlayers.
"Yes, you'd said that," his elf acknowledges with a distracted and puzzled expression. He seems to be suddenly re-evaluating many things judging by the distant gleam in his gaze. "I suppose it does make sense in retrospect."
He doesn't explain that statement at all. Merely looking at Harry for a long second before turning back to his wardrobe. He mutters in Sindarin to himself as he rifles around inside and only stops when he goes to work on Harry's braids.
Eönwë awaits them in the receiving room sometime later. He's in his usual form, tall and imposing with hair that's an almost metallic bronze. It's short. Shorter than anyone else Harry's seen in Valinor. Coming only to the top of his collar and straight as a pin. He towers over everyone present, even Argon, who is more than a full head taller than Harry himself. He can tell Eönwë's already in a mood before they even came downstairs. Knew before he was even in the building. Could hear it echoing in his song when Harry was still getting dressed and the Maia chorused out a greeting.
Eönwë has his back to the door. Facing Fingon and the others like some afternoon intervention gone wrong. Probably doing the Ainur equivalent of a stare-down where they aren't sleeping but conveniently don't blink for thirty minutes straight. It's a rather effective tactic, and Harry's seen it used on quite a number of elves in Formenos when they want Harry's attention but someone just won't take a hint.
This is confirmed when he turns and immediately glances from Harry to Gil-galad. They're arm in arm as they come through the doorway, but that look might make a lesser elf rethink every choice that has led him here.
"So this is the one?"
It's neutral. Monotone and monochrome. Black and white without any other colors shaded in. As blank as the Maia's face.
Harry knows that look very well though. He's seen it so many times. Eönwë usually wears that expression; the aura gives him away like always, nevertheless. He's war-drums and the call of battle. The rising clarion call that lets Harry know he wants nothing more than to take someone out back and have a spar or three dozen. He may even break out the flames.
Harry is fireproof for the most part. His elf probably not.
"Behave," Harry tells Eönwë then with a very stern tone. He motions for Gil-galad to sit by Fingon, which he does reluctantly, while Harry faces the Ainu alone.
That earns him the barest upcurving of Eönwë's mouth. So faint it's hard to discern. Harry knows it's there along with the concern he conceals from the elves. He's somber, Eönwë. Stoic. He's still waters. A statue carved from ice. Stone hewn into a sword.
But there's always something going on underneath the surface. Always something churning within. Little tells. Cracks in the mask.
Eönwë's eyes are amber today, glowing in his face like the sun at dusk. The color is warm; the face is cold. There's no anger. No fear. Nothing is shown.
But Harry knows that he's very worried.
"You are well?" Eönwë inquires. His tone is flat, inflectionless, but he's shifted so that a hand is at Harry's elbow. It's concealed from view as long fingers curl around tightly but not enough to leave a mark.
"I was only gone for a few minutes," Harry responds.
Eönwë makes a small, noncommittal noise. Barely a whisper on the wind. His gaze is searching. His song reaches out, like a low funeral march. Too faint for the elves to hear, but they'll feel it in their bones. Will sense the vibrations in the floor.
It wraps around Harry like a feathery cloak, like an embrace. Tender in the way that he watched Ron comfort Hugo and Rose. Be comforted in turn by his brothers.
"Death isn't something to overcome lightly." His power is warm on Harry's back between his shoulder blades. "Even if one recovers quickly as you do."
Harry sighs but doesn't look away. The Maia examines his face, and it'd be clinically if he didn't know the intent behind it. Harry lets his shields relax enough, lets the glacial barrier shift so that Eönwë can peek past and see the already healing damage inside. A downy soft touch soothes over the wound, and his grip on Harry's elbow squeezes ever-slightly-more before releasing him entirely.
"All will be well then."
It's polite, distant. Eönwë has yet to step back though. He's still in Harry's personal space and leaning in. An amber gaze is still studying him.
"You've never let me braid your hair," Eönwë comments then with the very same tone, but it's almost an aside. He reaches up to touch the one at Harry's temple with a single finger. It's in full view of the elves behind him though they likely can't hear what was just said.
"I didn't know you wanted to," Harry answers for a lack of anything else to say.
Whatever Eönwë has taken it to mean, he isn't entirely sure. But he suspects it's become an invitation for the future. Especially when he feels a curl of satisfaction. There's already building expectancy as Eönwë half-turns. As if finally remembering to include the Eldar.
"No sparring today, I think. Not between you and I." Then his attention flicks to Gil-galad before drifting to Fingon and the others. It fixes on Finarfin the longest. "I think I shall find other volunteers."
Harry follows his path. The elves are making themselves appear not to stare, but it's a terrible act that he doesn't believe for a single minute.
"No flames," he orders firmly.
Eönwë does not outwardly acknowledge that. Nevertheless, there's a touch of melody against his shoulder that's a reassuring grasp as he steps forward.
Harry rolls his eyes behind him.
That's how he finds himself in the training courtyard hours later. The sun is still high in the sky but definitely past noon, blazing and radiant as Harry sits at the metal garden table they've brought out for observation. Findis and Celebrían sit on either side of him as they sip tea with ice in their glasses.
Eönwë is front and center. He's materialized his armor, white and gold, like some avenging angel. Complete with feathers patterned strategically enough that Harry almost put his palm to his forehead the first time he saw it. Fortunately, his sword is the same one he usually spars with. No fires or dazzling lights today. This is a test of strength and skill only. He doesn't need anything else to make his point. Maybe it'd be different if they allowed song into the mix, but by mutual agreement – and Eönwë's challenge – that's left off the field.
It's, in short, a massacre.
"I rather say they let themselves go," Findis comments as she sees Fingolfin hit the ground yet again.
Celebrían stifles her titter behind her hand, but Harry can see her ears twitching. They watch as Fingolfin taps out when Eönwë's blade hovers by his neck, his own sword firmly beneath the Maia's booted foot. Eönwë backs up immediately, shifting away to stand in the middle of the courtyard. The elf takes a minute to gather himself but stands on his own, refusing the hand his youngest offers to him.
Then, it's Argon's own turn. He fares better than his father, but it's still over quickly. He limps off after his brother helps him to his feet.
Harry honestly isn't sure he'd do any better. He's seen battle. Some even with makeshift spears and clubs when people were desperate enough and they came hoping to invade the camps. Admittedly, he never truly wielded anything aside from the one memorable time with the basilisk and that hardly counted. Most of his fights were either with pure magic or through use of cunning because gallantly going off to get maimed or his comrades killed while civilians depended on him was the height of stupidity.
Yes, he spars with Eönwë regularly and receives much the same treatment that the elves are getting now. Only usually, there's a lot more instruction thrown in and a lot less retribution. Eönwë doesn't pull his punches, however. Metaphorically or otherwise. Tulkas doesn't either.
Harry's shakes his head to himself even as he thinks that. He sips his tea, but it's now lukewarm in the heat. It's an easy thing to fix. The pitcher on the table is just in front of him, and he discreetly taps the side with his forefinger, feels the ice revive inside. He swirls the contents to remix everything evenly before pulling back.
Celebrían watches him from the corner of her vision but says nothing.
Harry likes her all the more for it.
The fairy's not in the proverbial sack at this point, but it's nice not to be called out. And really, he'd forgotten how pleasant it was to be so open with his magic. To not have to worry about using it. The Ainur don't care aside from their obvious interest. The Eldar do have magic of their own, but it's so different. Harry's grown uncomfortable. More aware of his use in a way he hasn't since the Statute of Secrecy days.
But Harry can't really get more spectacular than coming back from the dead, and everyone here knows about that now. It'll be a matter of time before the rest of the household followed by Tirion, and then Valinor does as well. Even if the House of Finwë says nothing, the staff will. Harry knows they were there last night. That they heard much of the explanation to Findis and Celebrían. No one's confronted him directly yet, but that's largely because Eönwë is here.
Of course, having an Ainu – Manwe's own Maia – show up for him… Well, that's not discreet.
Harry knows his people in Formenos wonder about him. He's not an idiot. He sees the looks they give when they think he can't see. Nonetheless, they've kept his secrets, and Harry owes them for that.
It's all rather moot now.
Harry looks from one lady to the next. From Findis with her refined bearing to Celebrían, sweet and silvery. Both of them offer him a smile when they notice his attention – Celebrían's is warm, open. Findis is more muted, but her attention lingers longer.
Maybe it never mattered at all. He can only hope. Pray to Nienna and Manwë both.
Findis pours him tea as they watch Finarfin somehow manage to walk off the field with a kingly dignity and no hitch at all. He's not totally in armor; it's too humid, too sweltering for that. Even the elves look uncomfortable in this swampy heat. Only Eönwë and Harry don't seem to mind. The first is in full armor now, sans only his helmet, as if they could forget who this is. The latter has switched to lighter materials only because that's what Gil laid out for him this morning.
Celebrían's in an airy sun dress today, a gauzy baby blue with a bird pattern. Findis is similarly attired in lilac with embroidered flowers that Harry knows she did herself. Both have silk fans on the table in front of them that they occasionally use when the sun and clouds are being particularly obstinate. It isn't shaded at all here, and elves never seem to have gotten the hang of umbrellas. Perhaps that's something he can introduce.
Harry stirs a faint, cooling breeze around the table when he sees them reaching for their fans at the same time, and Celebrían flashes another grin his direction. Findis offers him a raised eyebrow. Regardless, he sees her lips curl upwards with approval.
Neither comments, however.
Harry takes pity and shifts the air in the entire courtyard then. Gradually, softly. A refreshing, coolness to combat the heat.
Eönwë's attention strays to him in that instant before flickering back to his current opponent. Fingon holds his blade at the ready, but he's too honorable to strike when Eönwë's distracted. Which is his first mistake.
They exchange a flurry of blows. Back and forth. Kicking up dust as Fingon ducks out of the way, but it's not quick enough. Eönwë is far too fast. Too strong. Even without music to enhance him. He isn't Morgoth, but combat is his joy. He's drilled every day in anticipation of fights to come. Of a final battle at the end of time and a role Harry doesn't quite understand yet.
Fingon has held up the best, but then, he practices routinely. Harry's seen him with Gil-galad, sword versus spear, and occasionally Argon.
Gil-galad is the next, but he's taking a breather now. Leaning against his spear nearby with his eyes closed. Harry sends a subtle healing spell his way – just a little pick-me-up to improve his energy and revitalize him. His eyes snap open immediately though, and his head rises. He offers Harry a winning grin and a salute.
The rest range in skill, but Harry would guess Finarfin and Fingolfin are about equal. They both appear rather rusty though, and Argon is doing better overall. Of course, Finrod bowed out after the first spar and is now lounging on a bench with one hand over his face to block out the sun with his brother fanning both of them. Angrod's naturally the most sensible of the lot and has sat out this entire thing.
The most determined is Finarfin surprisingly enough. Coming back more than anyone. His hair is braided around his skull, but loose strands are plastered to his face with sweat and dirt. There's a large bruise forming on his cheek, the result of a hilt he hadn't been able to block swiftly enough.
Fingolfin isn't in better condition, resting on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his back against a bench. His bottom lip is swollen and bloodied.
Argon sits right next to him. His left eye is already blackening, puffy but not yet obscuring his sight; Harry will heal it for him once they're done. Will heal all of them once they're done. They'll need it.
His attention drifts back to the middle.
Eönwë is poised, weapon held in an almost-salute. He's as fresh as they were when they started hours ago. As relaxed as he would be sitting in Harry's garden and watching as he paints.
Fingon has a cut above his right brow that's once again slowly oozing and another near the opposite ear that he gained with a risky dodge into Eönwë's guard instead of around. It still wasn't enough. He drips with sweat, and even with the sun behind him and in Eönwë's vision, he doesn't have the energy to fully press it as an advantage. The Maia is upon him almost faster than Harry can follow. He isn't even sure how Fingon can get his sword up in enough time. Eönwë bears down on him, but somehow, the elf doesn't buckle.
Harry will make one hell of a portrait from this, he knows! He already has the image fixed in his mind, locked and stored away on a shelf for later review when he's back on Formenos with the proper time to do it justice. Still, he'll probably do some sketches later when he's in his room later tonight. He could do some now, he supposes, but he doesn't want the distraction. Doesn't want to miss out.
The earlier scene with Gil and his spear. That too will warrant special attention. Perhaps he can entice him to spar later for further material.
Harry considers that possibility.
Fingon hits the ground then and rolls towards their table but stops several feet short. His blade is in the opposite direction. Fingolfin kindly picks it up for him as Gil-galad helps him stand. Eönwë merely watches. Harry blinks, having unfortunately missed several steps during his daydreaming. Findis and Celebrían exchange a long-suffering look as Finarfin steps up yet again.
"Grandfather and uncle both fought Morgoth personally," Celebrían tells Harry then, "but grandfather hasn't picked up a sword in an age I'd wager. Uncle may not be very far behind once you count his time in Mandos." She taps the table as her attention goes from Finarfin to Fingolfin, but then, she casts a glance at Finrod that Harry follows. "Some of them prefer music to arms."
Harry wraps his hands around his glass. Lets the coolness seep into his skin.
"Perhaps this will motivate them properly," Findis states.
Her face is perfectly composed, but Harry knows that she's groaning on the inside as she watches her youngest sibling's feet knocked from underneath him. Still, there's fondness in her face as she looks around the courtyard. At her brothers. At her nephews and niece.
Harry's known many Slytherins before, lived with Andromeda while she was his master. Findis is silk over steel, he thinks. A blade in a velvet wrapping. Concealed so that no one even knows it's there. He can feel the dagger sheathed at her left wrist. The second at her ankle. A third hidden in her dress.
Harry recognizes a serpent when he sees one. Snakes are perfectly polite until one steps on them.
This is all in good fun here. Perhaps more than a bit of lesson and some penance, too. But if it truly turned serious. If Eönwë truly tried to hurt any of them… She wouldn't stab him in the back. Not this one. She'd go for the throat.
"They've grown soft," Findis adds. There's more than a hint of censure.
"It's easy to do here," Celebrían admits, but she's more forgiving. "Easy to forget what it's like out there."
"Easy to forget that Morgoth isn't truly gone," Findis murmurs, and there's an edge. Sharp but not drawing blood. Not yet. "He won't content himself to the void forever. He'll always seek a way back in."
"He'll eventually find a crack. Or make one," Harry adds, and there's a prickle with his words.
Something like a walk over a grave or an echo in an empty room. It's not yet. Not now. Not even soon. But lingering just out of sight. Around the corner and down the hall a few paces. Like a shadow one knows is there but can't see.
They look at Harry then. Celebrían is concerned. Findis is… afraid. She hides it well. Beneath the exterior of regal calm, underneath a simmering anger. Even deeper down.
Morgoth did kill her father, after all. And then her middle brother, even though he's hale and hearty now, if a little bruised. Morgoth also destroyed her older brother so thoroughly he went mad and took his sons with him. She has a right to fear him, but Harry feels her resolve harden even as he thinks that. Even as she studies him and her worry seeps through.
"And you, nephew?"
But he knows what she's really asking. He puts a hand on her hers as it rests on the tabletop.
"No lasting damage," he swears.
She lets out a gradual breath. Her eyes are the same pale blue as Argon's, almost gray. Finwë's eyes, he was told before. Her hair is nearly the same golden hue as Finarfin's, but her face is almost entirely Fingolfin's and those of his children.
Harry wonders what she sees when she looks at him.
Her fingers curl around his knuckles, and she squeezes. Just once. Then, she let's go.
"Good," she says and reaches for her glass, "good."
They're just about finished Harry decides then. It's getting a little too late. A little too close to evening as he pushes back from the table.
Harry starts with Finrod as he's the closest and already reclining. He's the most intact, has barely anything at all, but he still offers an appreciative smile when Harry puts a hand on his arm. A single tingle of magic has him completely whole. Harry turns as he's sitting up, but Angrod catches his elbow. He gives a single pat before releasing him and nods his head.
Next are Argon and Fingolfin. Harry crouches between them with a hand on each. Argon bumps his shoulder affectionately in thanks, but Fingolfin wraps an arm around his upper back and tugs him closer before he can stand. He's dirty and sweaty; Harry isn't entirely sure why he allows this but doesn't push away. Fingolfin laughs next to him, in much better spirits now as Harry pulls him to his feet.
Gil-galad welcomes him with an embrace, free hand sliding around his side and guiding him in, while his other still holds his spear. Harry presses a lingering kiss to his cheek and lets the contact heal him the rest of the way.
"Having fun?" Harry queries as they watch Eönwë and Finarfin circle one another.
Gil-galad offers him a victorious grin. "Oh, he isn't angry with me. Merely testing my limits." He snuggles just a bit closer as they observe for a moment more, lifting to brush against Harry's ear. "Finish up but I'll be waiting at dinner."
He nudges Harry on then with a knowing look.
Fingon sits alone. An elbow is on his knee as his face rests in his palm, but he looks up as Harry takes his free one. He inhales at the rush of cool energy, and his expression is soft at the ends. He reaches out before Harry can leave, gripping the junction between this neck and shoulder, but it's easy. More a reassurance.
Finarfin is last. Harry meets him before he can fully leave the middle of the courtyard and takes his elbow. Heals him even as he's steering over to the vacant seat at the table with Findis and Celebrían. The king is pensive as Harry turns away.
No one has stepped back into the center yet, so Harry walks to Eönwë. He feels them watching, but at this point, he's rather used to it.
"Are you happy now?" Harry inquires, and he already knows the answer.
Eönwë's melody is a drum in the deep. There's an echo of satisfaction as his attention sweeps over the elves arrayed in the courtyard.
"Your honor is avenged, I believe, yes."
Harry doesn't even want to start with that broom-wreck. Instead, he arches an eyebrow and asks the question that may get him assassinated in the night. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Are you staying for dinner?"
Eönwë doesn't snort. He's far too dignified for that. The corner of his mouth twitches as he inclines his head to Fingon
"That one has already invited me, so I shall."
Harry nods and motions him to follow. The others will need time to shuffle upstairs, bathe, change, and rethink their life choices. Ainur don't have to do those sorts of things, but it'll be nice to chat with him one-on-one, and Harry's prior room still stands empty.
Eönwë follows sedately. Gil-galad just laughs in the background as the others round on Fingon.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Everyone Downstairs – Looking at each other.
Clock – Ticking.
Fingolfin – Rubbing a hand on his face.
Finarfin – Tapping his fingers on the breakfast table.
Finrod – Do you think we should go check on them?
Fingon – Sighs heavily.
Celebrían – Immediately runs upstairs.
Gil-galad – Shhhhhhh!
Harry – Drooling.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Do you want a portrait of yourself looking awesome (while you beat up my family)?
Eönwë – Solemn nod. I shall hang it in the palace.
Narrator Voice – Several weeks later.
Manwë – Also nods as he studies the floor to ceiling painting. You are very dashing, my friend.
Eönwë – Hand on chin. Marcaunon captured the scene perfectly.
The Vanyar – Whispering amongst themselves with very worried expressions.
Varda – What the hell is this?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
All The Elves – Watching as Eönwë and Harry leave to go upstairs.
Argon – So…
Angrod – You don't think…
Finrod – Nods happily. Makalaurë did very well for himself.
Findis – I'm honestly not sure I want to know how this happened.
Celebrían – My husband… Giggles to herself.
Fingolfin – Looks at his brother.
Finarfin – Looks right back at him.
Both – Shake their heads.
Fingon – Maitimo is going to lose his mind.
Gil-galad – Wisely staying silent.
AN: No capes! Said in Edna Mode's voice.
Eönwë was almost the pairing in this story when I wrote this scene way back. Almost. Maybe a spin-off one-shot in the future.
-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