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.
Princess Idril and her husband live on the coast, about an hour by horse from Alqualondë. It's not an estate like Fingon has, but it's still a traditional elven home large enough for multiple generations of the family. They have staff, but none who live on site according to Celebrían. As far as he knows, there's only three full-time residents with another coming and going as the heavens will, so Harry supposes there's no real need.
Idril herself greets them at the front door with her husband coming outside behind her. Both are fair-haired, and Idril is barefoot but wearing a gown as lovely as anything Findis or Irimë would have. She has some resemblance to the others in the House of Finwë but not as close as Celebrían. Her eyes are a bit more widely spaced and blue like deep waters. Hair a glowing shade of golden that outshines any possible adornments.
Tuor, of course, isn't an elf at all. He doesn't even look like one at first glance. It isn't just the stubble on his face or the round ears that Harry can glimpse through his hair. He's handsome but it's more earthly, more real. When he moves, it's like an actual person and not a mirage. His voice is like listening to a human being and not some supernatural illusion.
It's so achingly familiar that Harry's homesick. That he has to push his mental shields up to full strength and surround himself in ice to clear his thoughts.
It's his good fortune that they get to settle the horses themselves. That he has the time to take a deep breath and center himself. He knows that Gil sees, that he's watching, but Harry is focused on himself, on the frosty cloak he's swung around his proverbial shoulders.
Indilwen nuzzles his neck and sniffs his hair as his world realigns. As he exhales to the count of five and then inhales again. As Gil leans up on his other side to press a kiss to his cheek.
Afterwards, his elf takes his arm and leads him indoors.
Harry doesn't meet Elwing until he's there. She's the first peredhel that he's known of Ainur descent – at least an amount worth acknowledging. There's an air about her, an undertone he heard as soon as they came into range, but it's very subtle. A song where the radio is turned down so low that nothing can truly be heard but a murmur. It's certainly different from the others he's met. It's something else completely.
She'd be lovely, Harry thinks. As beautiful as Finarfin though in an entirely separate fashion. Hair every inch as dark as Harry's own. Black like the night. Like the Void. Eyes a deep, piercing gray, almost dark as her hair but shimmering with the starlight.
She'd be lovely if not for her fear. If not for the fright that twists her features until Harry can barely tell what her face should look like. He feels her terror like a heavy weight on his chest. It's an animal clawing itself into a corner, hoping, praying it wasn't seen. She's motionless, frozen, a mouse caught in a snake's hypnotic glare. She doesn't even inhale until Idril walks in front of her and breaks her line of sight.
She doesn't come to greet them, and absolutely no one comments on it. She stays perfectly in place, petrified, in the corner of the sitting room. Still as a statue. Breaths so shallow that even Harry can't see them. Only her eyes move. Following his every movement.
He stays as far away from her as possible even as Idril leads them into the room. The princess is pleasant, an ideal hostess, soon engaged in discussion with Celebrían on the latest goings-on of their family and doing her best to drag Gil down with them. Tuor allows his wife to take the lead as his attention circles around, and Harry suspects that he misses nothing. No one makes mention of Elwing. Acknowledges her at all.
Harry can't tell if it's out of some weird elven politeness. Some attempt for her to save-face. Or something else entirely. He isn't comfortable enough to ask. Not here. Not now. Perhaps later. When it is he and Gil alone. As it is now, he can only sit in his seat next to Gil. Who has very conveniently leaned forward just enough for Elwing not to see Harry fully.
After about twenty minutes, Tuor simply shakes his head. Even his eyes don't flicker to Elwing or her best impression of a statue, but Harry knows that's what the Man is really seeing. He's kind enough to not comment though. To pick another excuse.
"They'll be at this for hours." He leans forward to say this aside, voice pitched low enough that Harry barely hears it, and he's surprised Tuor can make so little noise.
The Man just motions for Harry to stand and follow him. Harry tips his head before casting a glance back at Celebrían as she happily chats with Idril. Neither really seems to be looking their direction, but Gil does offer a smile before joining back in the conversation.
Elwing is watching them like a doe does a dragon. Her pupils are wide, breaths still too shallow. He can see sweat on her brow, and she's far too stationary. He knows that look. Has seen it on too many faces but never directed at him in quite this manner; he also knows it won't even start to fade until he leaves. And nothing he says or does will make it any easier but going away.
Harry just turns to exit the room and then the house itself through a side door. He trails behind Tuor as he leads them down the path to the beach. There's a small fishing boat berthed, but the dock is big enough for a much larger ship. The Man takes them to one side where there's a hut with baskets and full shelves.
"Do you fish?" Tuor motions to his nets and other supplies.
"With a spear only, I'm afraid," Harry replies, and it's a little sheepish.
The Man looks at him incredulously. "Who taught you to fish with a spear?"
Harry fights to hide his grimace. Oromë was hardly going to use a line and hook. Eönwë tried to convince him that using a sword was perfectly reasonable. Huan wanted him to just wade in and bite one in half. The less said about Tulkas, the better.
"Maniacs," he mutters.
It's the complete truth.
Tuor seems like he can't decide if that's supposed to be a joke, but he gives a small chuckle anyway. His hair is a sandy blond in the sun, shining as he shakes his head. He's a good teacher, Harry discovers. Patient as he shows Harry the nets and traps. Even more so when he demonstrates how to thread the line, select his hook and bait. How to cast properly and reel in. His laugh is rippling, full and deep with happiness when his newest student lands his first fish. He does seem impressed when Harry cleans and packs it away all by hand, just as Oromë always insists. He's never allowed to use magic for that sort of thing.
It's pleasant out here in the sea breeze and sun. Tuor is a good companion, good company, more than happy enough to speak in his mother tongue for hours. It's one of the benefits Harry's had from his relocation; although, he can't say why Eru saw fit to gift him with all the languages of this world, even those of Men that are no longer regularly spoken. Harry doubts anyone does at all in Aman aside from Tuor, his wife and son. Save perhaps a few elves who still remember from the First Age and those who are friends of this House and wish to humor Tuor.
It's an interesting change though. An enjoyable way to pass the day. Away from the house and the things that lead them here. Not to mention, Eldar and even Ainur can be exhausting; it's nice to talk with someone who doesn't have twenty other meanings behind what they say. Usually the one person around Harry like that is Indilwen, and isn't that sad when the only person he can rely on for a straight motive is his horse?
Better yet, he gets to spend time by the ocean. To see the shore and hear the waves in person and not just through Káno. He had so much time with Teddy and Victoire by the water. Watched so much of their lives with that as the background. Teddy wanted him to retire there, to live next to them so badly that Harry had even bought the land. But he'd grown busy with Hogwarts, with the students. Time slipped away from them. Ticked by until there was none left.
"I didn't think you'd like it here so much," Tuor even comments as they start back up the path to the house. As the sun sets.
"My-"
Harry falters. He shifts their catch of the day in his arms and reconsiders his words.
"We used to stay by the shore," he says instead. "That was a long time ago."
Tuor accepts that without any question or comment, which is nothing short of a minor miracle. Harry doesn't quite know what to do with himself when he can talk and not have to worry about alternative interpretations. Or auras pressing him for more information. Songs swirling around with questions unvoiced.
Dinner is a quiet affair. Harry's as far from Elwing as possible and still in the same room. Even arranged so she doesn't have to look across the table to see him. Harry suspects it's Idril's doing, but it's hard to say. She does give them two rooms for the night, Celebrían in one with Harry and Gil in the other. It's a familiar set-up, and Harry would think nothing of it but for Tuor's knowing grin behind his stubble.
Harry wakes right before dawn, head on his elf's shoulder. His bedmate is still in elfish sleep, eyes open and distant, arm beneath Harry's neck and across his back, but Harry's abruptly wide awake. It's not a natural stirring. He's out one moment and is completely alert the next.
He feels something approaching in the distance.
It's familiar. Like a melody he once knew and hums the chorus without thought. A person he's met and names without reintroduction. It's light. Intense and shining. Different than Finarfin. He's the brilliance of the sun without its heat. This is a radiance. A rainbow with every color of the spectrum and some he never knew existed.
It's coming closer. Ever approaching. Heading for the shore.
For the dock, Harry realizes as the seconds turn into minutes and the dawn continues to approach.
There's a sinking feeling then, a gut plunge and punch altogether. It's less like he's gone down a step that's higher up than he thought. More like a Wronski Feint. A plummet off a cliff. From the sky with nothing to stop his rapid descent or the ground speeding up to greet him.
He knows what this is. He knows what approaches.
Even drawing up his shielding to its highest doesn't fully blot it out. Doesn't stop the pull of his gaze. He should need to close his eyes, to shield his vision, but this light doesn't hurt him at all.
Gil-galad rouses beside him and blinks back to himself. Harry isn't sure if it's from his unease or something else, but he feels the arm at his back tight around him and draw him closer.
"Mírimo?"
"Eärendil's here," Harry murmurs, and he isn't entirely sure how he keeps his voice even. He's already lifting his head, unerringly turning to the ship he knows is now docked. He can almost see the Vingilot in his mind's eye, white with sails folded, like a swan coming in to roost.
Gil, bless him, understands immediately.
"We can leave," he says back softly. He sits up just as Harry does, dark hair frizzing with sudden static. "They'll understand. Celebrían will make them understand." There's an urgency to him now. A tension to his spine.
Harry momentarily puts his face in his hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, but grits his teeth. Forces himself to relax. Forces his racing heart to slow. Forces himself to straighten and steels his spine.
"I can't run away from all my problems," he replies and means it.
Since really, he hasn't been that much of a Gryffindor lately. Maybe Fingon was right about that part. Where's his lion spirit? His red and gold pride? Harry feels like he buried that along with everyone else. Sometimes, he looks in the mirror and doesn't even know who's looking back at him.
He's been many things in his life, but a coward has never been one of them.
A hand rubs across his cheek, and Gil-galad gives him a long, searching look. Then, he rises up for a kiss that steals his breath, makes him shudder. Would be very distracting indeed if incessant light didn't keep increasing.
They dress quietly but can hear the household stirring around them. Celebrían meets them in the hallway, likely awoken by the commotion of Eärendil's arrival, but she's fresh as if the early hour isn't a bother at all. As if she hasn't a care in the world, but the look she gives them, the pinching around her eyes before she can smooth it away, that betrays her. She squeezes Harry's free hand in both of hers and rubs the top of her head against his shoulder.
Eärendil is just rising from the breakfast table when they enter the room with Celebrían out in front. He greets her first as his daughter-by-marriage followed by Gil-galad, who he's met many times before. He turns to Harry last, and there's an assessing pause. Evaluating. Considering.
It's different than the glances he still gets in Tirion or how the attendants at Fingon's now look at him. It's not even the fear-filled eyes of Elwing or like the House of Finwë when they saw someone else first. It's closer to how Finarfin first gazed at him. As though looking at his soul to get the measure of him.
The Silmaril on his brow shines like the star it is in truth now. Like a small sun taken from the heavens, but Harry doesn't focus on it as Eärendil studies him. He would prefer not to even see blasted the thing, but there's nowhere in the room he can look and not see the light it casts. Instead, he looks at Eärendil himself. Fair-haired as both of his parents but his is golden like his mother. His eyes though are different; they first appear green but then shift to blue the longer Harry watches.
Eärendil smiles at him then, face morphing into cheerfulness like Harry's passed some sort of test.
"Well met, cousin," he greets and extends a bow.
It's either best or worst decision of his entire life.
The Silmaril isn't alive; Eönwë assured him of this. Nienna confirmed it. Fingolfin and Finarfin and Fingon all called them jewels. Things. Objects. Fanciful if powerful trinkets.
But Harry knows better. He knows that magic has a mind of its own. Knows his wands are alive just as his cloak and his ring are. As his paintings are.
Just as the Silmaril is. And it takes the opportunity when it's given.
It slips free from Eärendil's brow. It escapes. Jumps ship. Sails through the air.
Harry's hand snatches it on the way down thoughtlessly. He's still a seeker, after all. Even without having played for a lifetime, he'll always be the same boy who caught the golden snitch. This really isn't so different.
Only, it is.
Eä pauses. Arda holds her breath for a single instant. Then, the light pulses as Harry's fingers make contact. Something shudders. Something breaks.
Only, it's freeing. Glorious. Like a shackle he didn't even know he was wearing. Like a bird bursting free from his cage and soaring into the endless sky. He hears voices calling for him. Eight of them. All individuals but also together. Only one he truly recognizes but the others are so familiar. Like he dreamed them more than once. Like he's always known them.
He hears the words resound back to him. Phrases of an oath he's never even truly spoken.
Harry comes back to himself, and he's on his knees. Everyone else is laying on the floor in various states of disarray, but they're slowly picking themselves up. Gradually rising to a sitting or even standing position in Eärendil and Gil-galad's cases.
The Silmaril sits innocently in Harry's hand. Beautiful. Shining even brighter than it did before. Pulsing almost happily.
He tosses it thoughtlessly at Eärendil before his mind can even catch up with him, but the half-elf doesn't catch it. Doesn't even try. It hits his chest before falling and landing on the rug with a soft thump. The Silmaril lays there between them, still burning just as brightly, now casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the walls and floor as if trying to chide him for throwing it away.
They all stare at it.
Gil materializes next to him. The elf grabs Harry's hand as if looking for some visible sign of injury, but he already knows there isn't anything.
Instead, Harry feels his life flashing before his eyes because surely he's going to be murdered by someone. Fingon for sure once he figures this out. Maybe Fingolfin or Finarfin for the audacity. Eönwë when he realizes what Harry's done. That's assuming the Valar don't get to him first. Námo likes him well enough, he supposes. Nienna and Vairë will put in a good word. Oromë will either laugh or go shoot something. Manwë… it's hard to tell what he'll do, but he seems reasonable. The others… who knows?
In the grand scheme of things, his crimes seem rather small though. It's not like he stole the Silmaril. He's never said the Oath, not really. At best, he mouthed the words, but magic relies on intent. The only vow he's ever taken was the one as a healer.
Surely, he wasn't under the Oath of Fëanor the entire time, was he? He'd never had the urge to steal a star and certainly didn't want to throttle Eärendil upon meeting him just now.
He lets out a shuddering breath as he feels fingers tighten around his. As the silence stretches out past shock to downright awkwardness.
"So that happened," Harry finally says because it's either that or laugh. Or possibly cry. He isn't sure yet which is worse.
Gil-galad makes a noise beside him, but there aren't words to it.
"Did… did the Oath just break?" Celebrían questions from behind them. She's still stunned but regrouping.
"Something, certainly did," Idril comments also rallying. She's upright now but holds onto the table for balance. Her fingernails dig into the wood hard enough to leave little half-moon grooves.
Tuor is mute as he stands just beside her, as if he doesn't quite know what to think. Elwing is deathly pale, hands clasped in front of her like a prayer; she's far from anyone else in the room. Eärendil… Eärendil is grinning. Laughing to himself like some great burden has lifted from his soul.
"It's no longer mine," the peredhel states. His voice is clear with relief, rejoicing. "I can feel that it won't have me anymore. It'll leave again."
There's a great deal to unpack in that statement, a whole room's worth. No one even attempts to try. Everyone's attention momentarily goes to Eärendil before their eyes stray back to the Silmaril.
"What shall we do then?" Tuor asks and rubs a hand over his face, which has even more growth than yesterday. "We can hardly leave it here on the floor."
That seems to stump everybody as no volunteers are forthcoming. Eärendil has already abdicated. Harry fears that they'll look to him next.
"I think this is a task fit for a king," Celebrían offers in that moment. Her eyes flicker to Gil-galad and stay there so that everyone knows exactly who she means.
Next to Harry, he lets out a long breath and taps his nose with his forefinger.
"I suppose no one else is volunteering."
They're silent to that. Gil looks at Harry, but it's only to squeeze his hand.
"For you, I will," he murmurs very tenderly. His mouth brushes Harry's ear.
Next, Gil-galad moves forward, bending down like he expects the Silmaril to start hissing at him. When it doesn't, he reaches out and picks it up in the same manner one does a bubotuber. It sparkles in his hand, just as luminous as before but otherwise inert. He straightens but holds it as far from this body as possible.
Tuor questions then, "Should we put it in something?"
They all turn as one to gawk at him. Even Elwing.
"'Tis very noticeable," he defends, but the suggestion is sensible enough.
Idril sighs and disappears deeper into the house, but she's only gone for a minute or two before she returns with a blue scarf, material silken with a pattern of starlings. It's thick enough that the light is concealed when wrapped by Gil. It's too large for his pocket, however, but Tuor has a fishing bag that's just the right size.
Task accomplished; they look at each other again. Not entirely sure what to do now.
"Should we give it to Lady Nerdanel? Or someone else?" Harry asks no one in particular.
"We could bring it to grandfather," Celebrían suggests slowly, tapping her fingers together. "Unless you want to take it back to one of the Valar."
"You do know them the best of all of us," Gil acknowledges as he situates the bag across his shoulder.
The others watch their discussion like a quaffle passed back and forth, but they don't add anything. Eärendil honestly doesn't seem to care. Elwing doesn't seem to be listening.
"That would mean a trip to Formenos," Harry tells them with a shake of his head. "Usually they come to me."
And really, Harry isn't entirely sure he wants to try apparating with a Silmaril. Or trying to explain that in the first place to both Gil or Celebrían while Idril's entire family is right there. He supposes that he could send Nienna a message, but he'd have to go somewhere discreet to do that, and he doesn't see that happening any time soon.
"Grandfather's still with cousin," Celebrían says, "he was planning to be there for quite a while."
Which means back to Fingon's they go. Harry's literally just left there; he's only managed a night here. A single solitary night. Harry guesses this means that he's not getting to the sailing portion of this trip.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't glare at the Silmaril as it sets out of sight because it won't do him any good. Harry simply exchanges a glance with Gil as they start planning their immediate return to Tirion.
How splendid.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Káno is taller than Harry expected. Of course, Harry isn't really sure what he expected.
The Ñoldor as a whole are tall, but few seem to be as much as Harry himself in his – admittedly narrow – experience with them. He hasn't truly met any of the other groups, aside from his limited ventures for books, so he doesn't really have much frame of reference aside from what he was told by the Ainur.
But Káno's tall, slender even for an elf. Like he's missed a few too many meals, and really, Harry should remind him to take better care of himself. Should remind him that yes, elves are unaging, but he's pretty sure they can in fact die of hunger if they try hard enough. And that one cannot live on music alone despite what Káno might claim.
The air is serene as Harry leaves the ritual's room, harp in hand. Nienna has already said her goodbyes with a kiss to Harry's cheek, and he knows she'll head to Mandos. She's taken to apparition like a phoenix to fire or a broom to flight, and she uses it to her advantage to move between various places at her leisure.
The sacramental magic is sleepy now. Quiet as it settles into the bones of Formenos. Old ghosts are silent, almost contemplative. Almost considering as the energy of this place lightens more and more. As corruption is washed away and fresh air breathes through.
All physical remnants of his ceremony are gone save for the participants. The salt and quartz dust have permanently burned a pattern into the floor, and Harry knows that it'll always be there now. That with every rite it sinks a little deeper down, and that it's already beyond the foundation and into the bedrock now. He wonders just how far it will reach. How deep it will go with the last few.
It's after midnight now, but Harry's wide awake. Energetic with the light of the full moon and the blessings of the universe; he roams the halls aimlessly without true direction; his mind is a chorus of thoughts and ideas.
The harp is mute in his hands, and he knows that Káno's more overwhelmed by the magic than Harry himself and Nienna. That he'll be pacing the beach with excess energy or possibly even swimming until he settles enough to play. That nothing irritates Káno more than being too hyper to properly focus and he'd rather not even hold his harp at all than have it come out wrong.
It's endearing in a way. More than a bit entertaining to know he's that frazzled. He's found too much amusement and exasperation with Harry at times, so the wand is in the other hand now. Harry enjoys these insights into him. The things Káno shares outright and what he gives quietly.
And now, Harry's seeing more. Seeing him finally.
It's only glimpses. A few seconds, only heartbeats of time, as the ritual reaches a crescendo around them. But it's enough for a momentary glance. For just a tiny view. For a look at the person who's likely his closest friend now and knows him the best aside from Indilwen.
And isn't that a sad state of affairs indeed? Sad that his companions in this place are an elf he's never met face to face, a sapient horse, and harmony given physical forms?
But he still hasn't truly seen Káno, only someone who's like a ghost but not. A mirage. A heat image. Smoke in the mirror. Wispy and wavering. The harp in his grasp, a single ring on his right index finger. His cloak swaying in the ocean breeze.
His features are always indistinct. Obscured by mist.
Harry can't even tell the color of his eyes. But he knows that his hair is dark. Black, Harry would guess, under the swirl of lights. Braided simply but of unclear length.
His right hand is injured. Burned, Harry would guess from the way his fingers are drawn. He hides it well, but Harry is at his core, a healer. A helper. He sees when people are in need and figures it out from there.
He's thin. One of the leanest elves Harry has spied through his short trips to the cities and that disastrous first visit to Tirion.
His clothing seems plain, rough. Enough of him materialized this time for Harry to actually see patches at the elbow and shoulder.
He wonders what he'll see next. What else will be revealed. He still has three more chances. Three more tries. They're a little over the half-way mark. Four out of seven.
His wanderings finally take him outside. To the warm, fresh air and the moon hanging amongst the stars. It's beautiful here, Harry thinks. Petals from the fruit trees in the wind. The endless sky above. The distant circle of winter beyond spring. Formenos behind him like a slumbering sentinel.
He could stay here forever and be satisfied. Be safe. Maybe even happy one day.
Harry allows himself to consider that. To turn over possibilities in his head.
Káno still isn't playing when Harry decides to pack that thought away in the trunk of his mind and put it in the cupboard under the stairs. It's unclear when he'll return; it could still be hours. Although… there's no reason that Harry can't play on his own for a while.
He doesn't even make it through the third tune before he feels Káno arrive. Drawn like a salamander to a flame. Just as Harry knew he would be.
It starts as a duet. As Káno joining in as accompaniment. As a playful back and forth before Harry shifts them into more of a challenge. It's at the edge of his skill level. Approaching and then surpassing it. Káno doesn't notice initially that Harry's ceased. That he's just listening as Káno carries on without him. Harry knows he isn't fooled by the end.
"No reason to stop," Káno admonishes after the final note, and it's ever-so-gently. A small splash of water at his legs.
"This is your show, not mine," Harry tells him. It's friendly, light. "I'm not a musician. Just a painter with a hobby."
There's a noise like a chiding dolphin. "You're hardly just anything."
His tone is affectionate. An ocean breeze that tugs but doesn't pull or push.
"Nothing wrong with a simple life," Harry challenges.
That earns him a chuckle. A strum of the harp.
"Nothing about you is simple either, hinya."
Harry snickers with that one, but he can't disagree. Nothing in his life has ever been classified as simple or easy. He need only look around him to know the truth of that.
He hears Káno laugh, likely at his own comment, and he accompanies it with a jaunty ditty. A great fondness for this elf rises in Harry even as he listens. A pleasing mix of silver sleighbells and ocean chimes.
He thinks about Káno. About his thin shoulders. His patched tunic. A care package wouldn't be that difficult. Really, it wouldn't. He's made reusable portkeys before. It's been a while, certainly, but the process wouldn't be any different here than on Earth. Harry has the power to do it, even all the way to Endor, could scry for Káno's location. Or better yet just tie to his aura directly.
Or maybe something akin to the vanishing cabinet? That would be harder initially but easier in the long-term. A bag to carry that he could blood-link to Káno alone.
As for the contents, he already cooks for himself here, meals for one unless an Ainu is present. And while it's always fascinating to watch their faces when they try some Earth dishes, the ones most dissimilar from elven cuisine, it wouldn't be hard to include Káno. Or even to include some of the excess number of clothes that Vairë and her handmaidens still foist upon him.
Káno knows about his magic already, too. Nienna told him from the beginning; Harry wouldn't have to explain much about the process.
It truly would work out rather well, Harry decides. Káno has taught him so much, has been such a good companion. A friend. The best. His best.
Harry can and will do this for him.
"Have you had dinner yet?" he asks Káno then, and he's not aiming for Slytherin subtle. He's heading right for Hufflepuff purpose.
That earns him several seconds of silence as the elf shifts like a guilty gull. One caught taking fish from the sailor's haul.
"You can't just wander the shore all night," Harry rebukes like the professor he once was.
Káno chuckles, and it's birds tittering. Chirping on the dunes.
"You sound like my mother." He snorts then, and the sound is gloriously real. "Correction, you sound like my brother. I have you know that it's near dawn now. Dinner hour's well past."
"Breakfast then," Harry corrects.
He can't see Káno roll his eyes, but there's a very distinct impression of it.
"What's brought this on?" his friend questions, but he's still cheerful. Still relaxed and lulling like the sound of waves. "You haven't fussed like this in quite some time."
Harry considers his answer. Debates it. Weighs the truth versus deflection. He's never liked lies. Knows that they always come back times three. But reality is a matter of perspective. If there's one thing he's learned in art, it's that standing a little to the left makes the picture appear very differently indeed.
Still… no house can stand on a shaky foundation. Can weather repeated storms if there are cracks.
"I can see you, you know," Harry tells him because he's a Gryffindor at the end of the day.
Káno goes completely still. Not just his music but everything. The tides and sea and sky that make up his essence are motionless. Like he's been struck by a curse. Like he's forgotten how to exist for a moment.
"What? "
It isn't said so much as thought across an echoing chasm. Across an empty shore as the water recedes in preparation for the tsunami.
Harry gazes at the ocean of Káno's being; he's both humbled and alarmed at being able to wreck someone so completely with a single phrase. It's such a terrible and great power. One he's known existed but never quite understood so entirely until now.
It's terrifying. It's all the things Tom Riddle strove to possess, to control that Harry's rejected utterly.
He knows that his eyes are wide and alarmed as he very quickly adds, "Not all of you."
Káno is silent. Deathly so. Like Harry's stabbed him through the back, through the heart, and he's bleeding out onto the sands. There's no struggle. Just horrified immobility.
"When we do the rituals," Harry continues with the insight that he's set something in motion that won't be stopped, "I can see you taking shape."
The harp shudders like Káno just took a deep inhalation. Like he suddenly remembered the need for air.
"Not your face," Harry adds, and it's said with the hope of revival. Of reconciliation. Of salvaging this growing nightmare. "I can't see that. I only see… well, you. That you're thin and don't take very good care of yourself. I didn't mean to spy on you."
"Hinya… I…"
Káno hesitates like he can't get out the words. Like he doesn't know what to say.
The fact that he's stlll here. That he hasn't put down the harp and walked off is at least a good sign. Better than Harry could and should hope for. After all, he knows what it is to need to hide. To want to pretend away the ugly parts and pray that no one ever sees. He's sorry for taking away that safety. For stealing that security.
And he shouldn't ask; it isn't his right. It's not his place. Harry hasn't earned it. Has taken more than Káno was willing to give.
But he can't quite stop himself.
"Does it hurt? When you play?"
He doesn't have to explain. Káno knows what Harry means; he always does.
Káno sighs though. A gust that blows away sea foam and stirs up sand. He sounds tired. Defeated. Like a whale stuck on the beach and unable to fight for freedom any longer.
"Not now," he murmurs after a moment. "It did for a long time but not anymore. Not with…"
Harry closes his eyes. "With the magic?"
"Yes," the older elf admits, and it's reluctantly. "Less each time. It's healing the further we go."
"Even the scar?"
For a second, he doesn't think Káno will answer, but he's too forgiving for his own good. To willing to give what Harry's seeking to take.
"All of it," Káno confirms.
"I'm glad," Harry tells him. "I don't want you to be hurt."
The silence stretching between them is less painful, but he can feel Káno shifting on the sand. Feel him pulling his knees to his chest and setting his harp next to him as surely as if Harry were actually there with him. Dawn is so close, but Káno faces the wrong direction; he's looking west over the water. The sky is still a tapestry of lights. A sea of stars. A window into the cosmos.
"Herurrívë," Káno whispers then.
The world takes a long breath and exhales. Formenos stirs, settles more comfortably on her foundations. The air shifts with a sigh of chill and ice, but it's not foreboding. It's welcoming. Like stepping out into a wonderland.
Harry merely blinks. Once and again. He puzzles at the word – a title maybe? He tilts his head this way and that because it sounds almost like a name. But that can't be right. He doesn't know who that is.
"Herurrívë," Káno repeats, and his voice curls around the syllables.
Harry can hear the faint frost in them like a winter's gentle kiss. Like the first snowfall and children laughing as they run outside the next morning. The rise and fall of their calls to each other. The lilt of Káno's tone. The slowly growing smile in his voice even without seeing it.
A name. It's definitely a name.
"It's a gift. For you," Káno says, and he's warming to tropical waters. Calm and turquoise clear. "We give names to those who are important to us."
It's… When they talked about a new name, Nienna suggested Marcaunon. He took it as a second one because that's what elves did and Harry didn't want to stand out more than necessary.
Hérion was chosen for many reasons. Not the least of which was its simplicity and similarity to his prior name. Close enough that he'd answer to it naturally. The Ainur all had relatively simple names as well. At least the ones they preferred.
This is… This is… It's…
Káno considered this. He can tell. Has put effort and time into it.
"Take it," Káno tells him when Harry doesn't answer, when he can't, "It's yours. I want you to have it."
Harry can't do anything but accept.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Silmaril – Yeet!
Idril – OMG!
Celebrían – OMG!
Elwing – … …
Harry – FML!
Gil-galad – Riding or dying his way through this dumpster fire.
Tuor – So that happened.
Eärendil – Eärendil is a free elf!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Varda – Thinking loving thoughts about creation.
Varda – Vibing with the universe.
Varda – Contemplating the heavens and all her beautiful stars.
Varda – Spitting her morning tea all over herself as a shockwave goes over Aman.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Angrod – What the holy hell was that?
Argon – Picks himself off the floor.
Finrod – Is the Dagor Dagorath starting?
Findis – No, nephew. This was something else entirely.
Fingon – I think… I think the Oath just broke.
Fingolfin – But how? How is that even possible?
Finarfin – Rubs his temples. We know of only one Fëanorion currently free.
All – Look at each other in dismay and horror.
Fingolfin – He wouldn't! Not the Oath!
Fingon – Puts his head in his hands, while regretting every decision he's ever made.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Maglor – Sitting on a beach. Considering. Contemplating. Thinking. Mediating. Pondering. Debating.
Maglor – Sighs.
Maglor – This naming thing is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. How did my mother do this seven times?
AN: And the mystery of Eärendil's eye color since apparently it changed at some point.
-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).
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar