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.
Manwë is in his kitchen.
Harry knows it's the Lord of the Valar – their king, he supposes. It couldn't possibly be anyone else. What other person would have this aura? Who else would have a song like this? One of gales and cyclones and yet so completely and utterly calm. The proverbial eye of the hurricane. Hail dancing in the air. Lightning trapped in a glass bottle.
He's half-turned, in profile, as he studies the fresco on the wall. There's a sense of motion to him even as he's leaned over to examine the likeness of the Scottish countryside and Hogsmeade that spans the room. Harry can't see his eyes but can still follow his gaze from Hogwarts in the distance to the awaiting harvests in the fields to the students milling about the village, happily laughing as they go from store to store.
Harry inspects him in turn. His robe and hair flutter as if in a breeze, and the scent of rain loiters in the room. He's in graduated shades of blue from deepest summer night to a friendly sky color, and his hair is paler than the whitest clouds. His crown is gold with platinum wings extended over the sides and a trio of sapphires in the middle. His ears though are the surprise; they're rounded in the way of humans. Of Men. He's the first person in this world Harry's seen like this.
And maybe that's why. Perhaps that's why there's something recognizable about him. A sense of knowing. Of familiarity. But this is the first they've actually seen each other.
Harry supposes it could be due to the other Ainur he's encountered. Maybe some combination of Eönwë and Ilmarë and the Valar. Harry's met most of them at this point, even if only in passing. Only Varda and Ulmo remain now.
Manwë finally straightens. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny of Harry's latest work.
"Marcaunon," the Vala greets but doesn't move.
His voice is a storm for all that the syllables are soft. Harry can feel the power of it in the air, in the floor beneath his bare feet. He can still smell rain, but the air is gentle as it swirls around his shoulders and across his back as if asking him to step forward. Harry does, leaving the doorway and entering the kitchen properly. The breeze circles around him like a particularly curious crow as he stops a polite distance away.
Manwë turns then with the ease of a leaf in the wind. He's handsome. Of course, he is. All the Ainur are. Exactly symmetrical with chiseled features that are an artist's dream. Eyes a blue so intense that it glows. Lips a perfect cupid's bow.
Harry can feel Manwë's full attention now. Hear the symphony of storms as it assesses him from toe on up. Observes him with something beyond human or even elven senses. Autumn gales sweep against winter's frost in a swirl of meeting. Rising and falling until floating into a harmony.
Manwë smiles, and Harry takes a deep breath at the rush. At the uplifting refrain and the current that bolsters him when he falters. That smoothly corrects each missed note and soothes over any discordance.
It's breathtaking. It's humbling. It lifts his chin when he tries to bow his head. Tells him that he is worthy. Makes all his insecurities and fears feel so small. So far away.
But then, the air rises.
At last, he looks Harry in the eyes. Manwë stills. The music dies.
It's a complete absence of movement. Like a wind-up toy that's run out of energy. Like a statue carved of marble. Like the Muggle photographs Petunia used to have of Dudley. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. Harry can't even hear his heart beating.
His inner song is muted in a way that Harry's never heard of any other Ainu. There are no notes. No sounds. Only absolute silence that stretches out long enough for Harry to feel his own ice become a different sort of cold. For him to become truly concerned.
He thinks maybe he should do something? Get someone? Call for Nienna? He's broken Manwë, and he doesn't even know how he did it.
Just as Harry starts to inch closer, the music restarts. Faraway at first. A low rumble like distant thunder. The shift of displaced air.
Manwë is still staring at him, however.
"Green…"
It said like a whisper of wind. Like air rustling fallen leaves. Like the crackle of electricity before the lightning strike.
Harry feels the static across his skin. Smells the ozone. Sees the flash when he blinks.
Perhaps the last is what breaks the spell. Manwë's suddenly looking upwards then. He still isn't breathing yet, but that and his heart restart a few seconds later. The gales come next. Twirl around him like whirligig. Fast first and then slowing to a soft breeze. Manwë seems almost contrite when he ducks his head a moment later. When his attention finally rests on Harry again. Settles back on his eyes and remains fixed there. The intensity of his look is at odds with the gentleness of his melody as it flows between them.
"I apologize. Someone… someone once favored this color," he murmurs, and it's the pause between the flash and the thunder. "It surprised me to see it in the face of another."
Harry considers that statement.
Ainur are shapeshifters; Harry knows this – he's technically one himself. Some, like Vána and Nessa and Tulkas, shift frequently. Others, like Nienna, do so very rarely. But even with that, there are certainly forms and hues they prefer. That they use over and over again. Some are even as distinctive as their songs themselves. Some unique to certain families or couples or individuals and not used by anyone else.
"They're from my mother," Harry finally replies.
It's the truth, but not something anyone in this world has questioned or ever discussed until now. It's been so long since he even really thought of Lily or James Potter as more than a stray thought, or a denial about his parentage to the elves, and it's almost humorous to be doing so now. With the Lord of the Valar of all people.
Manwë looks at him for what feels like ages before giving a single, small nod.
"Your mother…" he muses. "Yes, of course."
It's said with an odd tone, but at this point, Harry simply lets it go. He offers a noncommittal sound as he turns and heads to the larder. It seems he'll be making enough for two tonight, he thinks. Running through ingredients in his head as he opens the door and is greeted by a waft of cool air, courtesy of the Cooling and Preservation Charms.
"What would you like?" Harry asks as he inspects the shelves.
That only earns him a perplexed expression. White eyebrows drawn low over those blue, blue eyes.
"For dinner?" Harry tries again, and he doesn't laugh because all the Ainu are like this. "What would you like?"
Manwë merely gazes at him. He blinks and even breathes in measured intervals. As if he's literally set a timer to remind himself to do so and not because it occurs naturally. It'd be odd, if Harry weren't so used to it by this point. Now, it's almost comical.
"I have no preference," Manwë responds. His voice is echoing gusts across the mountaintops, distant and eerie, but his song is utterly intrigued. A Kneazle with twitching whiskers. An owl turning his head this way and that.
Well, now. No preference, eh? That leaves an entire world of possibilities then.
Harry merely grins.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It shouldn't surprise Harry how much of a production it becomes just to leave Fingon's house. Between the farewell dinner the night before, complete with still awkward attendants, and the nightcap that lasts past midnight, they're up early to finish packing.
His own trunk is shrunk and tucked away. Arranged with a wave of his hand when Gil-galad is bathing that morning. That earns him a suspicious and lasting look. Doubly so when he does the same for the last of Gil's things the second his back is turn and then pockets everything, too. His elf doesn't comment on that or the fact that they seemingly have zero belongings with them when they go downstairs. They do earn several sly glances from the rest of the House of Finwë, but nobody challenges them, not even Findis. Argon seems like he's itching to say something, but Harry sees Angrod very discreetly step on his foot. And that's that.
The entire household sees them off. Celebrían offers to come with them once again, but Gil redirects her effortlessly. Fingon and Fingolfin embrace him hard enough that Harry begins to worry about his ribs, and there's a round of hugs from everyone even Finarfin, which he accepts with good grace. Fingon follows them to the stables, embraces him one final time, and whispers something into his hair so faintly that even Harry can't hear it. Then, he watches with an unreadable expression while they mount and stands beside Indilwen as they prepare to leave
Harry reaches down. However, Fingon gazes at him without compression for a split second before grasping his arm.
"Thank you," Harry tells him. He doesn't have to explain for what.
Fingon squeezes back tightly. "Be safe, nephew."
He lets go and steps back then. Lets them both pass. Gives a salute in farewell to Gil-galad. Watches as they go through the gate.
Harry can still feel the weight of his gaze as they move onto the road. Their pace is sedate for now. Slow and relaxed. Letting the horses ease into what everyone assumes will be a long journey. Harry allows them think what they will. He knows the truth of things. Soon, his elf will also. The woods thicken around them as the road continues. Harry casts one last look over his shoulder as they go around the first bend. As the estate disappears into the trees.
Then, they're free. They avoid Tirion proper by mutual agreement, and Harry takes the lead since this is his show. The traditional route to Formenos will take well over a month by horseback, even riding nonstop from dusk until dawn. It's closer to seven weeks at a more leisurely pace, assuming the roads are good. More like nine with bad weather, which is what most people presume they'll have along the way. They'd be wrong, of course. The region doesn't really have that anymore or problems with the route at all. Harry's made sure of that.
Regardless, he has an incredible shortcut. He leads them past the outskirts of Tirion and casts out his senses. He's already whispered to the birds to keep a lookout for him, and they're his little eager spies as they reach a sleepy and empty stretch of the road thirty minutes later. There's a village not terribly far away, but Harry knows that the only elf within three miles is the one he's taking with him.
Indilwen veers off to the left before he can even direct her, and some subtle spells will keep any trace of them from being formed or found. Harry can feel Gil's confusion and anticipation both as they reach a small break in the trees. Indilwen comes to a stop, and Harry dismounts easily, holding out a hand that Gil accepts with a very puzzled expression as he's drawn towards Harry. Indilwen nickers behind him, but she stays within the appropriate radius and nudges her fellow horse a bit closer. He knows that Indilwen has been coaching Arthion for the last several days; she's friendly like that. Good enough to prepare him for Harry's preferred method of travel.
She's used to it by now. Has been brought home this way enough that it's old news. She knows the drill. Knows the exact area of grounds they'll appear, the zone that Harry's spelled to keep everyone and everything else out just in case. It isn't Fidelius, but it works just as well, and Harry doesn't have to worry about holding a secret. The elves don't go to the castle grounds without overt invitation, and they rarely even come to gate unless they know he's there. It usually doesn't bother Harry; if anything, it's a boon since he can use his magic freely and doesn't have to worry about his decorative tastes giving them all a collective aneurysm.
Conversely, having seen how Fingon's staff has reacted to him in the last several weeks, Harry's starting to see this in a different light entirely. He knows the citizens of Formenos are suspicious of him. That he hasn't been as circumspect as he probably should've been, and in his defense, he was there first and never imagined that anyone else but Ainur would ever show up. Much less become his de facto roommates until their own residences were built. But he was hardly going to turn out Inglor and his company much less all the others as they came. Most looking lost or alone or even afraid.
The elf this time though… He's coming at Harry's personal invitation. He's coming for Harry himself.
"What are we doing?" Gil at last asks as he searches Harry's face. As they stand in the tiny clearing that's barely big enough for the pair of them and the two Meras.
That question earns him a winning smile.
"Going to Formenos," Harry tells him, and there's mirth in his voice. "In style."
He's almost giddy. Anxious and excited both. It's the same feeling he used to have with Quidditch. Part nerves. Part breathless expectation. Enjoyment. Knowledge that he's about to show his elf something that only Ainur and Indilwen have seen.
Gil watched Nienna do this, but Harry doesn't think he quite put the pieces together. That he's realized the significance of it. That Harry cannot only do this too but did it first. Can do it better.
His love is so trusting as Harry puts a hand on his face. His mouth is warm against Harry's own. Pliant and soft. Eyes fluttering closed. Arms curling around his upper back.
"You're trying to distract me," he says breathlessly between kisses before Harry bends down again. "It w-"
Gil freezes as he suddenly realizes that they're no longer in the woods. His jaw drops. Harry's grip on him is the only reason that he doesn't stumble, doesn't fall. He's stunned, practically stupefied, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Indilwen offers an amused whicker as she flicks her ear and tail both. She nudges a dazed Arthion. Then, she begins ambling off to her awaiting stable; the magic there will deal with her saddle and bridle without any further input on Harry's part. A good thing as Harry is a little busy keeping his elf from becoming one with the ground and the grass underneath them. Birds nearby chirp at his predicament and in greeting both; Formenos itself choruses out. Embracing him in song and sensation.
It's a perfect spring morning. His garden is serene around them with blossoms on the breeze. This quiet corner is secluded. Hidden. Tucked away between the bamboo grove and the orchard. The ideal apparition spot.
"Mírimo," Gil-galad breathes.
"Do you like it?" Harry inquires, and really, he's a bit too innocent with his tone. Káno would never believe him.
That earns him an incredulous glance. He has a million questions, and it's obvious he has no idea where to even start. But he can see when the surprise morphs into intrigue. He can see Gil itching to investigate. To leave their little alcove. To follow the path around the trees. To see where it leads. His elf actually leans away from him, starts peering around with interest. There'll be more time for exploration later; Harry wants to show him inside first. They'll start at the top and work their way down, he thinks. That makes the most sense. Besides, he's rather proud of how it all turned out, and he finds that he's keen for Gil to see.
"Come with me."
Harry immediately has his attention again. He crooks a finger; he's given a raised eyebrow in response.
"Where are we going now?" Gil questions, but it's curious more than anything.
"That would be telling," Harry says rather coyly.
"Let me see this time," he requests.
Harry snickers. "No, my way is much better." He beckons Gil closer to him. "It's very disorienting if you're paying too much attention. It'll be better once you get used to it though."
He gets a very unimpressed look morphing into a head tilt for that, but Harry just offers him a partial shrug of his shoulders in return.
"Trust me."
His elf shakes his head fondly but moves against him almost instantly. He slants his face up with a small smile.
The kiss is deeper this time. Slower. Harry forgets himself for a moment. Wrapped around his favorite person, surrounded by his own magic and the music of home. Listening to the rise and fall of a welcoming serenade as it settles into his bones. Feeling every ounce of built-up tension bleed out.
They stand like that until Indilwen whickers impatiently at him. Harry doesn't break away, doesn't even look as he waves her off. Gil chuckles against his mouth and grips the back of his neck a tad bit more firmly. Harry finally pulls back with a single playful nip to his bottom lip that earns him a raised brow, but then, his elf is very thoroughly distracted by the change of venue.
Harry feels and sees him gasp. Observes all the emotions flash over his face lightning quick.
Gil-galad, however, just stares. Keeps staring as he turns this way and that, blue-gray eyes large. Going from each wall to the ceiling above. It's a beautiful sky with a few scant fluffy clouds that lazily drift by. Dragonflies and leaves dance in the breeze. The style isn't Harry usual one, but he has to admit that it came out perfectly. That it's exactly as he envisioned and everything he wanted. That the study in particular makes him think of the Gryffindor common room and happy times so very long ago.
His elf swallows as he moves his attention to the floors and the seamless wood like the trees of the forest. The overlying rugs are naturally from Vairë. Made with dozens of different shades and thousands of separate threads woven together with the skill of this world's greatest master. Green is currently beneath their feet, shifting from the color of glacial ice to the deepest shadows in the thicket.
There's a sound without words or true meaning as Gil looks at the furniture next. Harry does agree that turned out especially well when he grew each piece. Coaxing and shaping them just so. The stone of the tables is from Aulë, just as the seedlings are from Yavanna. Eönwë naturally brought the sword and shield over the fireplace, and Gil-galad's interest lingers on the heraldry.
He goes to the walls again. The trees are truly dazzling. Gold and green and red and orange. An array of vibrant colors that dance in the wind. It's autumn currently, but by the end of the week, it'll be winter. Then spring followed by summer. It's a familiar pattern. One that Harry's followed for a lifetime, and he wants his own home to have it if nowhere else in his kingdom. It's a private thing. A remembrance of what he once had and will never have again.
He has to shut that thought away in the cupboard of his mind lest he go down paths he doesn't want to tread, and he does so quickly. Smoothly enough that Gil doesn't even notice. And Harry's all smiles again when he steps up next to his elf. As Gil gazes at the sitting room wall in astonishment.
A fox is swishing all her nine tails at him; she's lounging on a pile of orange and brown leaves. Her ears are relaxed, nose twitching with interest at the pair before her. Harry can barely contain his amusement, and he casts a glance around the room to see who else he can find. The unicorn herd likes to graze in his bedroom near the window seat. The thestrals prefer the thicket closer to the bathroom door, but the owls always seem to congregate near his armoire. Besides, it's daytime, so they're likely sleeping. Inara can often be found with them, but sometimes, she's by the lake or just flying around. And there, she is. Perched in the apple tree by the banks. Feathers golden and glowing in the sunshine.
Perfect.
Harry reaches out to take Gil's hand, which earns him a squeeze in return, as he tugs him to the other side of the room and closer to the balcony. He winks at Himiko before they leave, receives a regal nod of her lupine head as she goes back to her nap.
Inara calls out an inspiring refrain at their approach. Lifting her beak and their spirits at the same time. If Gil-galad was startled by Himiko, he's stunned by Inara. He's speechless. And why wouldn't he be? It's not every day one meets a phoenix. Especially for the first time.
She's gorgeous. Tail feathers long and luxurious. Wings shapely. Eyes wise. There's far less red to her than Fawkes, but she's the same size and shape. Her song is just as lovely. Just as sweet.
She chirps after she finishes. Politely asking for a name. For an introduction.
"Inara, this is Gil-galad," Harry announces, and fingers tighten around the hand in his. "He's come to stay with me."
She gives a happy warble. She extends her right wing to them.
Gil just stares at her. A moment ticks by.
"Go on," Harry urges him with a soft nudge. "She's waiting."
His elf blinks then. As if very confused. Gaze darting from Harry to Inara and back.
Harry merely smiles and leads him forward. Gently guiding him. Her feathers are every bit as silky and smooth as Harry remembers; Inara preens, makes a pleased sound at the touch. She leans in, closing her cobalt eyes. As always, she's a warm summer day. A welcoming trill. A hug from a friend.
"How is this possible?" Gil murmurs to himself even as his fingers slide over her head and wing.
Inara coos at the attention for several minutes before finally straightening and stretching. She trills several notes and then rises into the air, flying over their heads and across the ceiling. However, a shadow lingers on the floor, growing in size. Gil glances up in astonishment as a single feather floats down to land on his outstretched palm. It's golden but shimmers white and then red as it shifts in the light. He just stares at it in complete disbelief.
Then, he puts his other hand over his mouth as a slightly hysterical giggle escapes him. He's still holding the feather like spun glass as he turns in a slow circle. Eyes darting all around like he can't decide what to look at.
"Mírimo," he finally whispers, "what is this place?"
Harry feels the tips of his ears and his cheeks both heating at the shock in his elf's voice. At the underlying wonder and amazement. Gil-galad looks at all his handiwork like it's a triumph. A true marvel.
It's more than a little embarrassing really.
The only one who ever truly comes here is Nienna, and she'd tell Harry it's lovely even if he did it blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back. Vairë has only been by once, and that was when he wasn't even finished. She'll come to his atelier but never his apartment. Yes, Káno is here but only as a harp; he's never actually seen any of it. The others gave him things to decorate; yet, they never come inside. Aside from Nienna, only Vairë and Eönwë ever venture up here at all. Oromë and Huan go to the top of the stairs but no further. Nobody else even enters into the tower.
This is his private area, his sanctuary.
But… He's willing to share. There's more than enough room in here for someone else. Room in his life, too.
"This is my home."
His elf is looking only at him now. His eyes are storm clouds, but the emotion in them isn't entirely innocent.
"You made this?" he questions, and his tone is lower now. Deeper.
"More or less, yes," Harry allows, but he can't contain the upwards curve of his mouth. Or the redness he feels creeping across his skin.
Gil-galad laughs and laughs then. Loud and carefree. Eyes crinkling at the corners. Flushed with something other than embarrassment. Very real and very solid as he tucks the feather away in a pocket and suddenly whirls to pull Harry against him. Gil has one arm around his back and the other hand on his neck, cradling his head as fingers tangle in his hair. The look on his face is different now. Changed from what it was earlier. The color of his eyes is darker. There's no sensation of static on his skin, but there's certainly a buzz of electricity between them. Humming with anticipation.
It occurs to Harry right then that aside from his paintings, they are very much alone here. No interfering relatives, gossipy staff, or nosy elves in general. No one else but them.
"I-"
Gil quiets him with a fleeting fingertip to his lips before moving to grasp his hand and twisting his ring. His nose brushes Harry's as he leans up, but his mouth hovers. Asking. Waiting. There's a question between them. One that he's never dared ask. One not so long ago, Harry had not even considered a possibility. Had never allowed as an option. But he does now, and he already knows the answer.
He gives a single, decisive nod.
They don't do much talking after that.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry slips out of bed sometime later. The room is dark, but he sees perfectly even in the dim light through the windows and from the ceiling. The tapestry of stars above him shimmers with the half-moon slowly sinking towards the horizon, but it'll be hours yet before the sun arrives.
His dressing gown is silken against his bare skin as he slips it on. The rug is almost black beneath his feet, instead of the blue he knows it to be in truth, but it's warm as he stands and ties his sash. He pauses for a very long moment to glance over his shoulder at Gil still asleep and buried in the covers; eyes open but unfocused and turn inwards. Harry knows he won't wake for a while, and that should be more than enough time.
But just in case…
He flicks his finger to make Gil-galad's belongings the right size and in an easily found location. Another flick has Harry cleaned and dressed, moving into the main room via the balcony because he prefers this route at night for the view. It's breathtaking as expected. City dark and resting. Not ready to rouse.
Today will be a day just for them. A long tour of the castle. A chance to show Gil the remainder of his home and not just the apartment upstairs. He hasn't even been into the rest of the tower yet, and Harry would be a poor host indeed not to show him his atelier, library, kitchen, gardens, owlery… the list goes on. He did once promise him the observatory, too.
Harry feels his ears heat at that memory, but he allows himself to loiter against the stone banister for a several minutes before going to the opposite door. He does summon some breakfast from the charmed cabinet in the kitchen, covered and spelled to stay fresh just in case he isn't back in time. It wouldn't do to leave his guest hungry, after all. Harry will survive skipping meals; elves though can die of starvation if they try hard enough, and they missed both lunch and dinner yesterday.
He ghosts through the door to the corridor next, and it shuts noiselessly behind him. His atelier is just down the hallway, and Harry is there in less than a minute. He knows the way so well he could walk it in the pitch dark. Or with his eyes closed. Probably while asleep.
Vairë's portrait is still there. Harry never did find a different home for her, and with what she now conceals, it's most likely for the best. She's been quite content staying here. Happy to watch him work and to gaze out the windows. She isn't like the other paintings; she never seems to leave her frame, but Harry has seen visitors. And Námo is always with her, forever napping with his head pillowed on her lap.
It's the production of a mere second for the biggest secret in all of Formenos to appear, possibly in all of Valinor. For one thing, he's never shown anyone. No one else has ever been here. Not elf or Ainu. Harry's not sure if they ever will. It's special. Just for him. Where he goes when he truly wants to be alone.
The room takes shape around him. Forms into being with a single thought; he decides on a place of comfort today. On somewhere he misses like a lost limb. He hears the surf before he sees it, hidden as the shore is by the sand. He follows the path through the dunes to the ocean. It's still dark, but it'll be dawn soon. The air is moist but almost warm with the summer breeze, and Harry knows it'll be a beautiful, cloudless day. He knows this place so well. Has been here ten thousand times before. In real life and his dreams.
He stands close enough for the water to just barely reach his toes as he stares out. He can hear birds. Even see the shadows of them, but he knows it's all an illusion. Just as the plants and everything else here feel so real but ultimately aren't. There's a hollowness to their aura, an undertone in their song, that rings false even as every other sense tells him it's very much truth.
He's truly alone here. The room can't bring back the dead, can't give true life. Can only remake this place but not the people. Even a glance over his shoulder shows a darkened cottage. Not a single light turned on. It's as it was when Harry first had it built, not as it became over the decades. As it grew with Teddy and Victoire's family.
It's like a memory given an actual physical form. Far exceeding any Pensieve but never equal to reality. To the world time has stolen away.
Harry doesn't know how long he stands there letting the tides break at his feet. The sky is staying dark and the only illumination is that of the stars. The moon is hidden, and he thinks it's due to his mood more than anything. The room is even cleverer than he initially planned, perhaps even more than its original counterpart. He's not prepared for daybreak, and he knows the sun won't come until then. Until he's good and ready.
Harry sighs even thinking that. At the implications. There are certain things he can't admit yet, even to himself. But maybe, one day. Someday.
That's not for today, however. Today, he has another mission.
The Silmaril is bright as ever in his hand. Luminous and glowing as it emerges from the scarf wrapping that he kept it in even when placed in his pocket earlier. It brightens to his touch, growing even more radiant, but it hesitates as it senses his intentions. Pulsing once and then twice as if questioning. Harry can feel its bafflement as it considers his plan and then its gradual but willing accord.
Harry offers it his own chorus of thanks and lets the Silmaril lift from his hand to hover. Bids it to go further still. It does so slowly, hesitantly, like a fawn stepping out from the foliage. Then, it flits into the sky until it once again becomes a star, brilliant and beautiful, dancing with its kin comets across the heavens.
Harry nods with satisfaction.
The Silmaril will be safe here. Safer than anywhere else he can keep it until Nerdanel takes it or he can find another solution.
Harry watches for another minute or so before he turns. A silver doorway has appeared. It's freestanding at the end of the path but already open, and he steps through without a glance back. He feels it close behind him, and he's in his atelier. He does throw a look over his shoulder then, but the door has already disappeared from the painting. Nevertheless, Vairë and Námo guard the entrance so well anyway that he has no worries about any unwanted visitors.
Like usual, only the lady is awake, and he waves at her before making his way into the corridor. It's just a short jaunt to his own suite, and Gil-galad is already up and active inside. Exploring with an expression that's part-wonder and part-bemusement.
"Mírimo," Gil calls before he can even fully walk inside his sitting room. "You were gone."
He's fully bathed and dressed but hair unbraided; his breakfast is already eaten on the table by the window, remnants carefully stacked. Harry belated realizes that he's been gone longer than intended indeed. Gil now stands by his fireplace, fingers trailing over the carvings. Harry only did the enhancements and masonry; the rest was a gift from Oromë.
"Just sorting something out." Harry offers a press of lips in apology and greeting both.
Gil-galad accepts this fully, hums against him. He wrinkles his nose afterwards. It's a rather charming expression.
"You smell like the sea," his elf comments; it's with confusion more than anything.
Harry gives a sheepish sound and runs a finger over his robes. They're pristine a second later, and the trail of sand he'd brought with him has also disappeared. Gil blinks at that before chuckling. Before leaning up to kiss him again, this time on his cheek, brushing noses afterwards. He's warm and smiling as he pulls back but not away.
Harry has so many plans colliding in his mind. So many ideas on where to start. So many things he wants to show. To see his elf experience.
They have the time to do it properly. Indilwen, he knows, won't leave the grounds for at least another few days. She's as much a homebody as Harry himself, and none of the elves will come by unless they know he's back. Besides, she's circumspect enough to give him time before Formenos at large realizes he's returned, so the earliest they'll be knocking at the gate will be five or so days. Even better would be a week, but it's hard to say how restless Indilwen will feel with Arthion to keep her company. She tolerates him better than any other horse, but Harry doesn't know how long that patience will last without Harry as a buffer.
The Ainur are a different story, but Harry is hardly going to hide from them. Still, they usually wait awhile before making an appearance. He'll have plenty of time to give the full tour, but there's something that Harry's been planning to do first. Something that's been coiling at the edge of his thoughts. This is merely the first opportunity he can guarantee they won't have an audience.
Harry knows exactly what he needs to do first.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet," he says then.
Gil-galad's expression is momentarily baffled, but he's nodding. This is all the permission Harry needs. There's butterflies in his stomach as he goes to the mantle; it's the place of honor. Where a harp normally stays when Harry has no reason to hide him. In fact, he's there now after Harry unpacked him earlier. Silent, sleeping.
The harp is pristine as always. Polished and gleaming as Harry keeps it. Strings immaculate as if brand new. Harry walks back to find Gil sitting on one of the sofas. He lifts a brow at his approach. More so as Harry settles in next to him.
"This is a harp, Mírimo," Gil-galad tells him gently. As if he's suddenly very concerned for Harry's sanity.
That only earns him a grin. Harry waves a hand around the entire room to all the still moving creatures on the walls that so captivated his love yesterday. Ones that are still intermittently catching his eyes even now.
"And these are just paintings," Harry counters.
Gil snorts at that. "I concede your point."
Harry flashes him a grin and beckons him closer. All he needs is a single touch, and then, Gil will hear Káno as Harry does. The transition is instantaneous. The room around them is still there but dropping away. Fading to the background as the shore takes up the forefront. As it unfolds before him like a flower blooming.
He can't see Káno. Not really. But he feels an arm around his back, a hand on his cheek, as surely as if the elf truly stood in front of him.
"Herurrívë."
His voice is fathomless, aching and deep. The sea of his soul is choppy. Water agitated and rough against the rocks. There are dark clouds in the sky but no rain. Not yet.
Harry knows that he's in trouble though. Knows that this is his doing.
"She told you, didn't she?" Harry asks, and he doesn't even have to say who he means. Since really, that's the only explanation for this.
"Of course, she told me, hinya. She came to me that same night; how could she not?" It's a chastisement. Stern, sharp but somehow also gentle like a sword wrapped in silk. "I heard you call for me. I felt you die."
Káno falters then. Voice dropping out. Words failing him.
The wind howls across the sand. A wave crashes along the cliffs. There's thunder in the distance before Káno can get himself back under control.
So it's that then. It could be worse, Harry supposes. Still bad enough.
For once, he's glad not to see Káno's face. Not to see his eyes or the look he knows must be there. Shame is hot and heavy in his chest. It tightens against his ribs and makes his breaths shallow. He hadn't thought to seek out Káno sooner than now. Had truly thought that he'd dreamed the whole encounter. Simple wish fulfillment under stress. He'd wanted Káno there very badly. Wanted his calm and his comfort.
"I'm sorry."
It's a confession and an apology both. Signed and sealed in blood. He means it. Truly. More than words can ever convey.
Káno just sighs. There's a downpour over the ocean now. Rain that falls in sheets. So hard that the horizon can't be seen.
"Hinya, I'm not angry," he begins. "I just wanted to know that you were safe. That someone was taking care of you."
Harry has his head bowed, even though Káno can't see it. The wind is an arm that tugs at him. Urges him closer like a hand between his shoulder blades that draws him in.
"I was fine," he says in a tired tone.
Káno makes a sound of discordant notes. Of complete and utter disbelief. It's like the sea telling a fish to go climb a tree.
"You may recover immediately, but this doesn't mean you are well."
"I was fine," Harry repeats very slowly but keeps the coldness from his words. "No lasting damage. She took care of me."
Káno snorts. It's such an inelegant sound for someone like him.
"Somehow, I only believe that last part," he states doubtfully. "But I know you won't ever admit to anything else even if Eru above asked you."
Harry isn't quite sure how to reply to that, so he chooses not to say anything. He just allows the breeze to flutter at his hair and the currents to curl around his ankles.
Káno sighs. He's almost pained. Like he's been injured somehow. But Harry would know if he had.
"Herurrívë," the elf questions then, and he seems like he can't decide if he's exasperated or fond, "the Oath?"
It's Harry's turn to inhale sharply.
"Ah… that," he murmurs. It's not said sheepishly. It isn't.
Harry grimaces because his companion can't see it. He hardly wants a lecture about the Oath of Fëanor. Somehow, he managed to escape one thus far, and he has no desire to get one from Káno of all people.
"Yes, that." His voice is stronger, more jagged. "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth-"
"Of course, you're worth it," Harry cut offs him off immediately. Fiercely.
Káno talks over him. "Hinya, I never wanted you to do this. I'd never ask you to risk yours-"
"I was never in danger," Harry interrupts again, and there's a snap of frost that cools the air between them. "I never felt any urge to throttle anyone or assault Eärendil. The Silmaril practically threw itself at me, and…" The cold is ferocious now, biting. "And even if it didn't, you'll always be worth it."
There's stunned silence. There's only the noise of waves against the sand. The rain has stopped, too surprised to continue. The wind has died. Even the sky is clear currently.
And Harry can see it now.
Káno is the sea. Lives and wanders by the coast as he has for the last two ages. But the more Harry looks around them, the more he realizes that the only ocean he feels is Káno himself. There's a sense of trees nearby. Of mountains. Of waterfalls and babbling brooks. Of elves and even a few Men in the distance.
Where is this? Where on earth is Káno?
He wonders at that even as Harry senses him rallying, but this isn't finished yet. He still has more to say. More that he's needed to say but hasn't dared before.
"You lecture me on safety, but I want the same for you," Harry informs him then. He's snow falling on the shore, but it's softer now, almost gentle. "If you won't take care of yourself, then I'll do it for you."
There's another snort. Like an abrupt tangle of notes.
"I hardly think Lord Oromë will approve of you sending your bow to me, hinya. Regardless of your motivations."
Harry just gives a little chuckle at the splash of water against his legs.
"He shouldn't have given me three extras if he didn't intend for me to regift a few," he counters. "How's it doing?"
Káno makes a noise like a seagull caught by a stray net. "Spectacularly."
There's a pause, and Harry knows that more's coming. He even suspects what it'll be.
"Somehow," Káno starts, "I never seem to run out of arrows. Strange that."
The ocean air is now warm as it flows around him. The breeze tugs at his clothes with affection and irritation both.
So he's broken the laws of physics just a little. Completely worth it to ensure that Káno stays safe. The extra enhancements on his weapons are a nice little bonus that he never has to know about. It's not like Harry made them obvious. No fire or double arrows. Good and subtle this time.
"How interesting," Harry comments right back. It's completely nonchalant.
Káno doesn't believe him for a single, solitary second.
"And the spear, hinya?" His tone is a disappointed tide. "I doubt Lord Eönwë approves of that."
Harry snaps his fingers once and taps his chin. "He watched me send it. Besides, you only said no armor. I left that out."
"You can't send me your armor, Herurrívë," the older elf chides. "That definitely will give the wrong impression." A slow exhale like a surfacing whale. "I don't want to be chased from one end of Arda to the other."
"They'll hardly chase you," Harry disputes, rolling his eyes at the dramatics that are a little too much like Fingon. "They can't be bothered to do much of anything these days, so I doubt the Eldar will even notice. No one else will suspect a thing."
"The Dúnedain are descendants of Elros," Káno reminds him. "They'll definitely notice and definitely know who I am."
Harry considers that. "I thought they liked us. Elrond, too."
"It's been a very long time for them, hinya. The ones who still work with Elrond will remember best and honor family ties. There are others… Others, I most certainly wouldn't want to meet alone. Or ever."
He's quiet after that addition. Contemplative.
But that doesn't last as Harry feels his interest stirring. As the ocean gives a little churn and the surf becomes a bit higher. As seagulls and pelicans lift their heads to peek around.
"Herurrívë, is there something you want to tell me?" he inquires then. He seems very intent. Very knowing.
Harry blinks once. Twice. He hesitates.
Káno can't see the flush that spreads from his ears to his cheeks, but Gil certainly can as Harry realizes exactly who has been listening in this entire time. Completely overlooked in the background.
Harry gives a little, embarrassed cough as Gil shifts closer to him in an amused roil of his own storm clouds. So different from Káno's. Warm like summer rain.
"This is Gil-galad," Harry introduces, sounding stronger at the end of the sentence.
"Ah…" Káno laughs then, and it's chimes in the ocean breeze. "I've heard so very much about you."
Harry knows his entire face is red. Burning. He can feel Gil's delight at that. At all the new information he's now privy to. Harry has the sudden urge to scream into a pillow, but that would be even more awkward to explain.
"Well met," Gil returns with a metaphorical bow, not aware of Harry's thoughts. "It's certainly interesting to finally meet you."
A pause that lingers. As if Harry's two elves are assessing each other. Ocean vs lightning. Shore vs storm.
"I think there's much for us to talk about, no?" Káno decides then.
It both is and isn't a question. Káno voice is pleasant, polite. Even sweet.
Harry can feel Gil shifting next to him, settling deeper into the sofa. He's inclining his head.
"Yes, I think that would be best."
Káno's attention goes back to Harry then. It's gentle as sea mist on his face. Tender as the lullaby he still plays when Harry is restless.
"If you would, Herurrívë."
He has the impression of a smile, but Harry gets the hint. He sighs, sends a soft swirl of frost in farewell and allows himself to be shooed away. Lets his fingers slowly lift from the harp. There's one final brush of tides against him before he breaks contact.
Then, he's back in his sitting room. Next to Gil on the sofa. Stil smelling ocean air.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Argon – So… Should I start packing today or tomorrow?
Angrod – I'm thinking we give them six weeks.
Fingon – It'll take them at least that long just to get back to Formenos. Won't admit that he already started packing.
Finrod – True. Is ready to go now.
Celebrían – Seven weeks then. Has also been planning.
Fingolfin – Better make it eight. Ditto.
Finarfin – Sigh. Knows he should stay behind and actually do his job. Doesn't want to, however.
Findis – Yes, that should be more than enough time. Laughs to herself and raises her wine glass.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Meanwhile in Formenos…
Citizen #1 – So the star's gone.
Citizen #2 – You know what that means…
Citizen #3 – Yep! Our king finally went for it!
All Three – Nod in unison.
Citizen #3 – So who won the bet?
Citizen #2 – We'll have to check in with Laerien. She was keeping track.
Citizen #1 – It definitely wasn't me. I think Melpomaen did but not sure who else.
Citizen #3 – Whoever it was is filthy rich now. You could probably buy half of Tirion with how much was riding on this.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harp!Maglor – Totally forgotten about by Harry.
Harp!Maglor – Totally there when his son and future son-in-law are having their private time.
Regular!Maglor – Thinks about all the times he was an alibi for Fingon and Maedhros. Understands that karma is coming home to roost.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Best friends with Káno and talking with him for hours every day.
Also Harry – Looking around Formenos and then later Tirion. Squinting at places that seem just like those from Káno's stories.
Harry, Again – Having strange feelings of déjà vu when Káno talks about his family.
More Harry – I will absolutely and purposefully not think about this strange series of coincidences in relation to my elf bestie and the guy who everyone thinks is my dad. Sticks fingers in his ears. Lalala.
AN: Oh, Harry. All the things you don't admit out loud (or even to yourself) are one day going to come back to bite you in the ass. Same for Maglor.
No, Gil and Harry are not married yet.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter)
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) O (Masculine)
Arthion – royal.
Himiko – sun child in Japanese. Also the name of a queen.
Inara – ray of light or heaven sent in Arabic.
Ever Hopeful,
Azar