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 annoys Gil when Harry wakes first. When he slides out of bed and roams off. Harry can't truly help it; he's always been an early riser. Has been for centuries. Since he was a small child and rose before the sun to cook and clean for the Dursleys. Things were different at Fingon's. Harry would have to stay in his room to avoid awkward questions, and even then, that wasn't a guarantee. Of course, he could use the time to draw away from prying eyes. To read in the moonlight through his window. Even once he moved in with Gil, it was much the same.
He doesn't need sleep in the way elves do; he does it more out of habit now. Or admittedly, when he's overwrought. Emotions are always tricky things; exhaust him more than physical exertion ever could. When he was in Mandos, he slept out of boredom, when the Ainur were occupied, he found himself uninspired, or he had nothing else to do.
Now, Harry only sleeps every night because his elf insists. And because it's nice to doze off to Gil next to him, be lulled by the sound of his heartbeat and the feel of rain. Even if he's awake a scant few hours later. And really, he does seem to be more active now that he's home. Possibly the magic of it. Or maybe just the relief of being here. Of finally being able to relax and not having to constantly guard himself.
It gives Harry plenty of time he needs to get things done. After all, in Formenos, he can go around with complete freedom. Nobody bothers him – or even really knows he's there as he checks the city over properly. Investigates the surrounding rings one by one. Examines his wards for any issues. Avoids his staff. Reads any correspondence at his office – the ones that he actually feels like doing – and appropriately replies without ever having to see anyone.
There's plenty of leisure time as well. Enough for him to simply wander during the middle of the night. Walk the grounds. Build his newest garden. Work in the others. Fly with Inara. Gaze at the stars. Ride Indilwen. Play against Káno. Visit with Nienna.
She's there the second week Harry is back, the night after he learned the truth of Laerien and Melpomaen and Inglor, too. She stays for hours but always leaves before dawn. Before Gil wakes, though his elf must suspect someone's stopping by with the glint in his eye in the mornings.
She accompanies Harry on his various tasks. Just as she usually does. It's a familiar, comfortable routine. Nienna at his side. The soft chimes in the late autumn chill. The first snowfall of winter. She's there every night. Always waiting until Harry's alone and Gil's still asleep in their bed. She hasn't once come during the day, but then, she does actually have other places to be. Real responsibilities. Others who also depend on her.
She also hasn't asked about the Silmaril. Not once. Hasn't even hinted to it. The one time Harry brought it up himself, Nienna merely kissed his cheek and turned back to the task at hand without another word. Harry can understand a clear dismissal when it pats him on the face. He doesn't bring it up again. Or the Oath.
Instead, he allows himself to enjoy her company. To delight in the time together after all these months with only a few stolen moments. It's something going right in his life. Something he doesn't have to stress or agonize over.
Unlike his subordinates. That's an entirely different mess. A migraine without the headache. Laerien has already attempted to ambush him after-hours in the office, but he naturally knew she was there and simply let her stew all night. He's also seen Inglor patrolling more on the late-shift, and Harry avoids him easily, too. Melpomaen hasn't tried anything yet; Harry knows that he will. The rest of his employees as well.
Harry isn't sure he's ready for that. Distance and time are letting him come to terms. Allowing him to reflect with the calm sense of detachment that occlumency grants. To review every interaction they've ever had. Every spoken word. Every brush and glimpse of their auras. He still can't see it. Can't find the treachery even knowing what to look for. Understanding so intimately that it's there. All three are so sincere, so genuine. Every day he went hunting with Inglor. Every moment at his desk with Melpomaen. Every time Laerien reminded him to take a break. All of it's so very real that Harry doesn't know what to think. What to believe about any of them now.
First of course was Inglor. He was guarded at first, but there was somehow still a spark of hope in his eyes. A gleam of wonder as he looked at what Harry's built. It was so early then. Before the city was even a passing thought on the horizon. When Harry's only truly started finishing the outside structure and much of the castle's inside isn't even finished. Inglor started the guard with members of his own company but still seemed so surprised when Harry made him the one in charge.
Second was Laerien. She actually came when Formenos was turning into a thriving town. She's equal parts prideful and fiery in the way that Ginny could be when angered, but she was also focused, forged. Harry saw her directing many of the other elves, but it was only when the population truly began booming, and he was starting to feel the press of so many responsibilities he never wanted, that she appeared at his gate. She was even the one to suggest he build an office for himself in the town hall.
Last was Melpomaen. He just appeared one day like he was always there. Answered a notice that some of the others put out for additional assistance. Quiet in the way that Neville was in the early years. Hesitant almost. But Harry knew that he worked harder and more hours than the rest combined. There was a reason, after all, that he was in the office with Harry and Laerien while others who were there longer weren't.
And perhaps all of this is what upsets Harry the most. That out of all those in Formenos, these three should know him the best, but it seems Harry doesn't understand them at all.
Harry sighs at that thought. At the knowledge that he is in fact avoiding them, and that's a very un-Gryffindor thing to do. But part of him will always be a Slytherin. Will always want to tend his wounds in private. To pretend any hurts aren't there and put on a mask of perfect politeness. It's the same part of him that also bets with himself on who it'll be. Which one of them will come to his castle first. Or perhaps first is the wrong sentiment. Maybe it should be, which one of them will try to smooth things over. To explain themselves. To win him back.
Originally, he thinks it'll be Laerien, but he ultimately decides on Inglor. The blond has the most to lose. He's a kinslayer. He repented on bent knee with bowed head before Eönwë at the War of Wrath. Returned for the Valar's judgment. He won't risk Harry's fury. Won't risk the chance of being kicked out.
And isn't that a sad sign indeed of how little they really know Harry after these years? To think so little of him? To believe he would hurt them in such a way? To even consider he would ever force them from their homes?
But Harry recognizes they will, knows they do even now. He doesn't need legilimency for that. He can discern it in the song of the city. In the stray notes that drift up each day that passes and he doesn't come down to see them in person. That float along more and more frequently as time ticks by, and they don't see him walking through the streets, browsing through the shops, and just stopping in for a chat. Most certainly, when he doesn't come to his office during the daylight hours.
It's not everyone, of course. Not even the majority. Much of the populace has no idea what's happened. He hears their confusion. The melody of uncertainty with the low timber of worry that he soothes with a lullaby as they rest and uplifts in the sunshine. It bolsters them, but the concern lingers. He feels more and more of them approaching the gates; none has dared enter. Not yet.
The loudest voices are Laerien, Melpomaen, and Inglor; things always do seem to come in threes. Then, those who know him the best in Formenos itself. Daeron. Gwindor. Beleg. Nimrodel. Mithrellas and her daughter Gilmith. His other staff along with Inglor's company. Others scattering out in the city and then rippling into the surrounding rings.
And how long will it take, Harry wonders? If… when they'll finally seek him out. Before one of them is brave enough to actually come inside.
He'll give it two weeks. No more than that. Melpomaen certainly won't let it drag on longer. Laerien could hold out through sheer stubbornness, but she also likes to know where everybody is and what all they're doing. She won't go too long without checking in. For Inglor though, it's harder to decide. It could be the very next day; it could be a month or four. It depends on his mood. He's always tricky to read when he really wants to keep his thoughts hidden. Far harder than the others.
Harry has his answer soon enough. It's a week and a day.
While Harry spends most of the nights with Nienna, the days are for Gil within the castle itself. It's large enough that they don't run out of things to do, and really, he gets to avoid administrative work, finish Eönwë's painting, plan his new garden, and spend time with his favorite elf. It's a pure win in any other circumstance. Another vacation so soon after the last without the pressing need to return to the tedious aspects he hates and do countless hours of paperwork that seems to reproduce whenever his back is turned.
But then, Inglor has to show up and ruin all his fun.
Harry knows he's outside without ever having to look. Feels him come up the mountain path and hesitate at the gate. All but sees him walk inside and the gate close immediately behind him, a mere hairsbreadth away from a collision. Watches as Inglor casts a weary glance back over his shoulder before he crosses the courtyard with cautious steps. The elf pauses by the main door as the castle looms large and imposing. A dark cloud lingers overhead, casting down a long shadow.
Harry sighs then. He reaches out with calming notes to ease the castle's displeasure at their guest, and she settles into his hand like a grim eager to guard her master but suspicious of interlopers. And really, it's a bit too much.
No matter how unhappy he is with Inglor, Harry senses no malice from him. Only a melancholic resignation. He's had a week to rethink his interactions with all his personnel, and yes, he's delayed this confrontation because part of him wants to see just how they'd react. While another larger part is just tired of it all. The drama. The omissions. The subterfuge.
Elves are so tiresome. Even more than a castle full of teenagers on their worst day.
He isn't annoyed at this point. Not even angry. He's gone through all the stages of grief to a dull sort of acceptance. He's spent years being undermined on Earth; why should Arda be any different? Why should there be loyalty after a mere blink of the eye to beings who live forever? Why should he expect honest regard when at best he's a complete unknown and at worst the son of a murderer?
He's either nothing, a nobody. Or the doppelgänger of a prince turned monster. The last scion of a nightmare house drenched in blood and shackled in Oaths.
Why would anyone ever truly be his friend? Associate with him at all unless they're desperate or have ulterior motives?
He's nothing but a naïve fool for ever thinking otherwise.
Nevertheless, he's postponed this long enough, and Inglor has made the first move. Harry promised himself that if any one of them would come to him properly. If they dared appear at his home, that he would hear them out.
They're just finishing lunch in the kitchen as Inglor stands outside his door, and Gil glances over when he sees Harry take a deep breath. His love offers to come for support, but Harry knows this is something he needs to do on his own. Gil leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips and remains behind to clean up as Harry apparates. Inglor doesn't jump when he meanders around from the side, but his gaze is sharp. Assessing. Normally, Harry warrants a smile. An arm clasp if they haven't seen each other for some time or Inglor has plans to head out on patrol. Today though, he's solemn. Standoffish. Staying a polite distance away.
Harry can't decide if he should be irritated, offended, or saddened. He's some mixture of the three as he motions for Inglor to follow him inside. None of the elves really like being in the main parts of the castle. Certainly not now. Not after Harry's continued refining it over all the decades since their departure to their own houses. He's never bothered to make a drawing room suitable for their sensibilities. The set he has now is only used by Ainur, who are forever delighted by his artwork. And also by Gil-galad, who's weird enough to like just about anything Harry does.
He leads Inglor to the least ostentatious one, which is conveniently right by the entranceway. The captain steps in slowly, and Harry doesn't even have to be looking to know that the white peacocks all turn to stare at the blond as they walk inside. They're still staring until Harry makes a discreet gesture behind his back, and they finally find better things to do with their time. By then, Harry and Inglor are next to the saffron-colored sofas. Those are insanely comfortable, but even though this is Gil's least favorite room, Harry does occasionally come in here for these alone.
Inglor's face is a calm mask as he waits for Harry to sit first. Like usual, he's in his uniform of deep green with gold and silver. His sword is absent, however, and his hair is braided in a style Harry's never seen before. He's sharper in looks than Finarfin, thinner even now. As if he can't make up for the millennia of missed meals. He's slightly shorter as well, but for a Ñoldo, that doesn't mean much. He's still one of the tallest in the city exceeded only by Harry himself, a few of his own party, a handful of other stray Ñoldor, two Sindar, a very particular peredhel originally from Númenor, and now Gil-galad.
"Thank you for taking time to speak with me, my lord," Inglor states then with all the formality of a courtier to his sovereign. It's only missing the bow, and that honestly would be even more over the top.
Harry doesn't sigh. He doesn't throw anything. Beat his head on the wall. Or even pinch his nose.
"Have we truly come to this?" he inquires instead.
Since really, no one in Formenos refers to him so formally. They haven't since the beginning when Harry made it exceptionally clear that he isn't lord of anyone. There are occasionally slip-ups from newcomers, but those are few and far between. Thankfully short-lived.
"It seemed appropriate for the setting," Inglor responds, but there's none of his typical sarcasm. None of the usual sardonic undertones.
Instead, he sounds courteous. Polite. Distant. Exactly how he was in the early days when he didn't quite know what to make of Harry.
"I'm not a lord," Harry says, but it's flat. "I'm not my… I'm not Maglor Fëanorion. I'm not Elros or Elrond or Fëanor either."
"No, you're not any of them," the blond acknowledges with a dip of his head. "But you're my liege lord. My friend, if you'd still have me."
Harry just looks at him. He keeps his expression passive, blank. His shields are up, but the temperature of the room is normal, even pleasant. He wonders what Gil-galad would do right now if he were here. If Fingon were. Fingolfin. He knows exactly what Argon would do because he's spent far too much of his life with Gryffindors. Oddly enough, the same can be said for Findis, who's a Slytherin through and through.
"Am I now?" Harry questions because he isn't any of those people. At the end of the day, he's only Harry, and that has to be enough. "Am I really?"
It's not unreasonable to think that he isn't. Whatever quarrels he had with Ron and Hermione were childish things that went away once they were adults. Never after had they told anyone anything about him that he wanted private, not even to each other. The same for the Weasleys, Teddy, Victoire, Andromeda, even the DA, and later his apprentices and then professors at the school. Even with his lifelong fame, this is a personal betrayal on a level he's never quite had before. Never has anyone he's truly trusted done such a thing. Yes, the Order reported to Dumbledore – but that was before he really knew any of them. This is a different situation entirely. Inglor once lived here; Harry once offered him shelter. Still does, he supposes.
The elf closes his eyes in a slow blink before opening them again. He looks at Harry squarely, fully.
"I deserve that, yes, and I realize that we… That I have overstepped greatly. I've harmed you, and for that, I owe you a sincere apology."
Harry stares at him.
An apology. Or at least, something in the shape of one. An assertion of regret. That's certainly unexpected. Harry so rarely gets these. The one from Fingon was the first in a very long time, and now, here's a second in the span of a few months. Surely, the world must be ending. What next? The Fëanorians leaving Mandos? Morgoth escaping the Void? Aman and Endor becoming one again?
Still, an apology. What a novel thing. It sounds real enough. Feels real enough as well in the song of Inglor's soul, but Harry's learning that isn't as reliable as he thought. That someone can deceive while appearing serene and sincere. And he should've never forgotten the lesson that the best lies are ones that aren't lies at all. He would've made an awful Slytherin in school.
Inglor watches Harry for a long moment, even as he thinks all of this. Poised. As if waiting for a response. When he doesn't get one, he merely continues.
"You've been very tolerant with all of us, so I have no excuse for this." The captain puts his palms flat on his knees, sits straight-backed and almost regal in his civility. "I… We also never fully told you who any of us were, and while you never asked-"
"That isn't what this is about, and you know it," Harry interrupts. "I didn't force anyone to explain themselves or what they'd once been. I never have; that doesn't matter now." His voice is steady but cuts through the room like a knife. "I did expect the same courtesy. I expected to be able to live here and not have to worry about half of Tirion knowing my every move."
Now, it's Inglor's turn to stare. To look at him with incomprehension.
And it's in that very instant, Harry knows. That he realizes the truth.
Inglor has no clue at all. He has no idea why Harry's unhappy with him. Oh, he knows he did something wrong. He knows that Harry's upset by his actions. He even knows what those actions are. But he doesn't understand why.
That's only confirmed with his next few statements.
"They were worried," Inglor explains, but his tone has shifted. It's softer with uncertainty now. "You were here alone."
Harry lifts a sardonic brow at that. Since really, he's never been left by himself long enough to genuinely be alone anywhere. There's always someone dropping in on him. Inglor knows that better than most. Has seen his never-ending line of visitors from Nienna and Vairë to Eönwë to Oromë to Estë and Irmo and so on. He's honestly amazed only Nienna has come so far. That one of the others hasn't shown up yet, but he supposes they know that Gil is here with him, and if he's entirely honest, all of them can probably tell that they've…
Harry lets that thought go. He doesn't rub his temples. He doesn't. He simply crosses his right leg over his left and sets his now threaded fingers on top.
"I didn't even know them until recently. Why would I want you telling them anything about me?" he inquires and doesn't roll his eyes at just the thought. "Why would they even care?"
Inglor pauses then. Gives him a long and searching look. He's baffled by the question. Perplexed. As if he can't fathom what Harry's just asked him. As if the words don't make any sense. As if Harry suddenly started speaking in a language that the blond doesn't know.
Harry can't quite read his expression, but his aura is always autumn. At the beginning, when they first met, it was mist and fog with the trees nearly dead and empty. Nowadays, it's red and orange and yellow crowned in the glorious sunlight. Today though… Today, the leaves fall steadily like raindrops, and all of those currently curl to a dull brown as soon as they touch the forest floor.
"They're your family," Inglor states, and it's carefully.
His posture is so very stiff and unnatural that Harry's reminded of Manwë for a moment. Only the Vala simply doesn't know how to blend in better; Inglor's has a different cause entirely. And where Manwë's tells are more in how he doesn't move than when he does, Harry can see Inglor's fingers twitching the same way they do when he holds his arrow in position too long.
"They're becoming that now," Harry clarifies, "but they weren't then. They were strangers."
Since really, he'd only ever met Fingon and Argon before. On that first trip. None of the rest of the House of Finwë. Gil… well, that's a different story.
The elf isn't gaping at him, but it's awfully close. A bewildered stare. He keeps staring. Like Harry's suddenly said something else odd indeed. Like he's grown another head. Or sprouted wings. Or shifted into a different shape.
He hasn't. He subtly checks just in case.
Inglor begins, "Your parents-"
"Are my parents," Harry disrupts. "They will always be my parents."
The captain seems like he can't decide if he should be pleased or taken aback by the vehemence in that statement. In Harry's voice. Or the glow he knows is in his eyes.
Inglor exhales. The leaves are dropping faster now. Piling up on the ground. The sun is shining through, however. It's still warm, and the rain hasn't truly come.
"Do the Ainur not care for you? Lord Eönwë? Lady Nienna? Lady Vairë? The others?"
It's technically a question but is meant more rhetorically. Since the elf acts like he already knows the answer.
Harry decides to keep humoring him, nonetheless.
"That's different," he replies with a little sigh.
Inglor tilts his head to the left ever-so-slightly. As if encouraging Harry to explain.
"They've known me from the start. They took care of me." He gives a little gesture. "They know me… and I, them. We don't need spies for that."
It'd be impossible to keep the fondness from his voice. The affection. And why would he even bother? Why would Harry fight that? They've been nothing but good to him. Kind. Generous. Willing to teach. To spend time with him. To give him gifts. To indulge his whimsies.
The blond is silent at that. Quiet as he studies Harry, as his gaze momentarily drifts around the room, lingering on the peacocks, and then back. His head is still tilted. His face is odd. Almost pensive. Like he's finally coming to an epiphany.
"You truly don't consider yourself one of us, do you?"
Now, it's Harry's turn to be confused. Which us exactly does Inglor mean? The people in Formenos? Valinor? Arda?
No explanation is forthcoming, unfortunately. Inglor's too lost in reflection.
"I never thought…" he murmurs especially lost in consideration, "we knew you were a peredhel-"
"That again," Harry almost mutters, but it's more to himself.
Inglor studies him once more. As if seeing him for the very first time all over again. Not looking at his face but more his eyes. At something deeper even at the seconds tick by. Harry feels autumn leaves stir against winter snow, but it's a light brush of notes. Almost in greeting. Like what he'd receive from an Ainu when they come to visit. But more tentative. Uncertain of his welcoming.
There are only three elves to truly do this before for him. To do it intentionally and not as it is with Gil-galad. Káno, though they don't technically communicate in person. Miriel, when he's gone to see her with Vairë, but her situation is different as well. Lastly, Fingon and that was such a recent thing, new and fragile. Harry's never had an elf in Formenos try this with him, one of his own people.
There's something about being trusted like this. An awareness of being given something valuable. Something personal and irreplaceable. Harry already sees so much of them, too much, but it's knowing that he's also seen in return. That they don't just view the shell, the façade of an elven prince, the mirage of Maglor Fëanorion… but Harry himself.
For once, Inglor truly looks at him. Sees him. Harry's likely already glimpsed more of him than he ever intended. More than he'll ever honestly comprehend.
As if to prove his point just then, Harry can sense another elf walking along on the mountain path. In truth, he felt them pass by the municipal building around the time he let Inglor in, but their gait is slow and meandering. Pausing along the way as they likely look down at the city and the surrounding landscape. So definitely an elf then. He can always tell when it's an Ainu from their song, though most of them don't bother traveling through the city itself. Elves occasionally come to the gates to peer inside, in the last weeks more frequently, but the wards keep them from seeing anything too incriminating, and they prevent anything or anyone actually hostile or dangerous from entering. Still, he wants people to feel able to seek him out if genuinely needed. If there's ever an emergency.
He isn't concerned though. His wards are serene sentinels, observing but unmoving. Unalarmed. It's someone he vaguely recognizes but can't immediately place though he knows it isn't one of his employees. So Harry tunes out the presence. Comes back to himself.
He sends Inglor a chorus of sleighbells and the sensation of gazing up at flurries in the sunlight. Then, he softly pulls away, leaving the elf blinking at him almost dazedly.
"What all did you tell them?" Harry finally asks.
"Not everything. I didn't even say all that much," Inglor allows after a long moment, most of it spent shaking the snowflakes loose from his mind. "Not even things most of us would consider truly important."
Harry makes a noncommittal sound to that. He thinks they have incredibly different ideas on what's considered vital.
"And who exactly did you tell?"
The blond breathes out through his mouth. He doesn't shift on the sofa, but there's an air of discomfort around him that he can't fully hide.
"Ingoldo, we're-"
"Old friends, yes. I heard." Harry motions for more. "Who else?"
Inglor inclines his head. "Findis. She remains close with my mother."
"Not Fingon?" Harry inquires. He keeps the dread from his voice, keeps the tremble, but it's a near thing. This is the question that he wants answered most of all, and he hates that he isn't sure what he'll do with the answer.
"No," the elf responds with a firm denial, "he merely sent me here in the search for you. He never wanted more information than to know you were safe." Inglor inspects him for a few heartbeats, and Harry isn't sure what he sees, but he adds "Ñolofinwë also only wished to inquire about your safety. Arakáno declined any information but to know that you lived."
Harry doesn't close his eyes. He doesn't breathe out in a rush. But the tension leaves him all the same. Deep inside, past glaciers and icy corridors and at the bottom of a chasm. Buried in a cupboard, a little boy curls in a warm blanket by a fireplace.
"This has to stop," Harry tells him then. It isn't a command, but it feels like one. "You can't just tell them about me. If I want them to know, I'll tell them myself."
A few heartbeats pass, but Inglor lowers his eyes. His head dips a few more inches. He's quiet though, hesitating, as if preparing to admit more sins.
"I know for certain those of my company have sent messages to Irimë and Irissë," he admits after a minute. "I suspect that they've contact with others in Ingoldo's House as well. I know also that Laerien has relayed much to your sister."
Harry doesn't even begin to know how to unpack any of that. Denying his parentage has gotten him nowhere. Somewhere along the lines he's accumulated cousins, aunts, uncles so he might as well have a sister, too.
Harry sighs. Fights not to put his head in his hands as he considers this mess. Allows his attention to drift to the peacocks as their feathers trail the grass. The faint breeze stirs the flowers, which sway in waves of crimson and indigo. The only spots of dissimilar color in the room against the more muted shades.
The House of Finwë did seem to know too much about him. Even from the early weeks of his stay there. Called him Hérion but knew that the Ainur referred to him as Marcaunon. And about his art. The foods he liked. His wine preference. Other favorites. Things that seemed so innocuous until taken with this new information. He hadn't truly put all the pieces together. Thought the attendants in the estate were watching or making notes. Perhaps that they were giving him Maglor's favorites, and those were – unfortunately – also things that Harry liked. Now, he suspects it all came from another source entirely.
It's painting a very uncomfortable picture. One that clearly shows Harry that he'll need to have a very stern talk with not just his office staff but the entirety of his guard and all of Inglor's lot. It isn't something he honestly imagined he'd ever have to do. Especially not since coming to Valinor. The thought never even occurred to him until recently. Why would it? He isn't a celebrity here. He hasn't done anything at all of note. He merely lives here and lets others live here, too. Nothing to see here; nothing at all.
Inglor, who has respectfully waited on him as he deliberated, makes a small noise. Which instantly draws him back. The elf is still looking at him. Expression still thoughtful but now distant. As if gazing far away.
"Your father," he starts, and Harry's immediately off balance. "Your father was our liege before his disappearance. He and your eldest uncle, but I was at the Gap with him after your grandfather fell, and I followed him to Himring with the other survivors. Afterwards…" He takes a deep breath. "Elros left to the lands of Men. Elrond requested that we leave him be, so those of us here now decided to seek judgment and return to Aman. We wandered for two ages, and even those in Tirion couldn't suffer us long. But you… you allowed us to make a home here. You didn't know the truth of us then. Yet, you gave us so much."
And you betrayed me for it, Harry doesn't say. His face is an indifferent mask mastered over too many meetings and even more tragedies. His magic and aura are held tightly at bay behind a wall of ice, but the silence still gives him away. Fills the room and echoes all around them.
Inglor shifts off the sofa, kneels then and bows his head. His right arm crosses his chest so that his hand settles on his heart. His voice is low but carries throughout the room.
"I know my pledge means so little, and I know that I waited too long to give it. You have it just the same, my king."
"Stop that."
Harry's response is immediate, automatic. It's as instinctive as a denial. In many ways, it is one.
Inglor doesn't look up as his autumn sun is covered by a stray cloud. As a biting wind howls through the trees. He shivers, and it isn't from the temperature. It isn't from anything Harry did either. It's all from Inglor himself as his inner self darkens.
In the distance, Harry can sense that the other elf has reached his gate, but he's too preoccupied to check who it is. The presence is so familiar; it's in all likelihood someone from the city itself. Although they could still be a resident of the outer rings.
"My king?"
His voice is steady. He hides his uncertainty so well. If Harry couldn't feel it, he wouldn't even know.
"Stop it," Harry states, and it's extremely firm this time. "Stop that nonsense. Just because I'm mad at you doesn't mean that I'm going to throw you out. You don't have to indenture yourself to me for you to stay."
Inglor's head jerks up this time. His eyes are wide, blue but not the familiar shades of the House of Finwë. They're darker, almost purple as he glances up at Harry. His hand remains over his heart, and his fingers twitch faintly.
Harry questions what he sees. If it's even Harry. If it's someone else entirely.
If he wishes Harry were.
"I am only telling you the truth," the elf tells him, but it's quieter now, kinder. Manner gentling the longer he looks at Harry. "You may not call yourself our king, but that doesn't change the reality of things. You're our king. You're the ruler of this place; it wouldn't even exist without you. None of us would be here. In truth, none of us would stay."
Harry decides right then and there that this is about all he can take of this conversation. His patience is wearing thin enough as it is, and if Inglor's going to bandy about such untrue accusations like that, he can just mosey on right now.
He rises and motions of Inglor to do the same. The captain stares at him blankly.
"My king, what-"
"Get up, Inglor," Harry tells him. "Go home."
That earns him a flicker of worry. Autumn leaves quiver on their trees.
Harry sighs. "Go back to your house or to the city." He adds after a second, "Or wherever you decide."
Inglor stands slowly, and his hand finally drops from this chest. However, he folds both of them behind his back like he's standing at attention.
"I'm not kicking you out of whatever kingdom you seem to think I have," Harry says with a vague wave around him. "But this castle is my home, and I don't want you here right now."
He doesn't wait for Inglor's response and just heads for the door. He's already opened it and is stepping out into the entranceway when he finally hears the elf following after him. Harry doesn't bother to look behind him as he goes for the exit, and he knows that Inglor is hurrying to catch up.
The courtyard is spring warm and splendid. Harry knows without looking that Gil-galad is out here, and sure enough, he's tucked into a corner under a flowering tree. Situated on a bench so that he can see both the front and side entrances, but he's not readily obvious to anyone who enters the courtyard. There's a book in his hands; Harry has significant doubts how much he's truly been reading. And really, Harry's not fooled for a second. He doubts Inglor is either, but the blond says nothing as Harry escorts him back to the path. Only, he freezes as it comes into sight; Inglor nearly barrels into him before stopping at the last possible second.
Nerdanel is standing at the front gate.
Harry doesn't need to see her face to recognize her immediately. She's too distinctive in his mind, his memory. To unique in appearance anyway even with her back turned as she looks downward at the city below.
She's dressed practically today, in trousers with numerous pockets. Her gray work vest has even more, and it's over a linen shirt in a cerulean blue with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is bound in a double plait down her back, but that does nothing to hide the bright cooper sheen. It's particularly dazzling in the sunshine, all the more lovely for the lack of ornaments, and her only jewelry is still the silver ring on her right index finger.
Harry doesn't know what to think. What to say. He simply stands there with Inglor now next to him as they exchange a very startled glance, and then, the blond shakes his head. Harry can feel Gil further back in the courtyard, but he's coming closer now.
Nerdanel has yet to notice them. She's still gazing down the mountain. She wasn't here when Harry let Inglor inside not even an hour earlier, and he's far too shocked for this to be his doing. Harry hasn't even contacted her about the Silmaril yet. There's no conceivable way for anyone else in the House of Finwë to have gotten a message to her this quickly. Not without Harry or another Ainu actively helping them. Unless Eärendil flew to her on his ship, and Harry doesn't believe that one for a single solitary second. Last he saw of Eärendil, the entire immediate family was all heading off on a fishing holiday – Idril and Elwing included.
So why is she here?
Inglor seems to be thinking along the same lines just as Gil steps up to Harry's free side. Which is naturally the exact instant that Nerdanel decides to look over her shoulder.
The expression on her face is not one that Harry can start to categorize.
"Marcaunon," she calls out cheerfully and starts forward at a fast walk that somehow isn't a run.
The gate opens on its own at her advance, but she doesn't break eye contact as she approaches. Harry can only stand there like a deer caught in the dragon's stare when she comes ever closer. His heart pounds in his ears with every step, but somehow, he's not at all nervous. He instead feels strangely calm. Like he's on a boat in the middle of a lake, surrounded by the tranquil water. He finds himself relaxing as she stops before him, mere inches away and peering up. He doesn't even startle as her arms slip around his middle; he finds his own responding instinctively.
Beside him, Gil lets out a little laugh. Inglor is suspiciously silent.
"I'm so glad to see you're here," Nerdanel says as she pulls back. It's just enough to look at him again, but he's still in the circle of her embrace. "I worried you wouldn't have returned yet from Tirion."
"Lucky timing then," Harry remarks for a lack of anything else to say.
Nerdanel simply beams at him. Then, she notices just who's standing to his left.
"Gil-galad! You're here as well, dear."
She speaks it like a known statement. A clear fact. As if Harry wouldn't have come back without him. She gently releases Harry and has swept up Gil in a hug before anyone can say otherwise. Gil-galad, bless him, just goes with it.
Nerdanel turns to the last of their trio next.
"Inglor, too. I haven't seen you in ages I would say." She's no less friendly as she moves to him, but the captain finesses his way out of an embrace. "Look at you!"
"Lady Nerdanel." Inglor bows his head over their clasped hands. "You are as lovely as ever."
"Charmer," she accuses, but it's with a fond smile. "I didn't know you were here. How long have you lived here?" Her eyes flicker around the castle courtyard.
The blond actually seems surprised by the question. "No, my lady. I reside in the city itself. I was only here for a chat," he explains. "I must be off now on patrol though."
"Patrol?" Nerdanel questions, and she seems to be taking in his attire with sudden interest.
Inglor straightens as he steps back. "Yes," he replies. His gaze doesn't go to Harry, but the intent is clear. "I'm captain of the guard here. I've been much honored at the trust shown to me."
A pause then. Only a few heartbeats as they now look at each other. Assessing. Weighing. Deciding where they stand. Autumn leaves stirring faintly in the breeze. Poised to give winter a quiet salute and waiting for acknowledgement.
Then, Harry nods. He offers his own arm; Inglor takes it without hesitation. Grasps it as tightly as he ever has, fingers warm even through the material of Harry's tunic. Harry returns it fully. It's a friendly goodbye with a promise of future tomorrows.
Inglor inclines his head as he steps back. He offers a shallow bow to everyone as he departs. Part of Harry can't help but think it's a lucky escape as Nerdanel shifts back to him. Gil, however, moves in immediately for the save.
"Did you travel all the way here alone?" he inquires, voice ever-so-pleasant as he offers her an arm like a proper escort.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't risk the roads in winter alone. None of us who remember before ever would." She makes a vague gesture with one hand even as the other takes his elbow. "I came with a merchant caravan; all my things are still with them. Down by the stable at the Snowdrop Inn."
Gil makes a noncommittal noise that's somehow still agreeable. "I'm sure we can sort that out later."
"Certainly," Nerdanel agrees pleasantly, but she's already slipping her other arm into Harry's then. Quick as a snidget and twice as stealthy. She beams up at him and pats his wrist.
Harry just blinks at her, while Gil fights not to smirk over her head. He wipes that away just as she turns back to the center, but her attention is now on their surroundings. Gaze flicking to the fully leafed out trees to the blossoming flowers to the butterflies to the other gardens outside of the courtyard. There's a gleam in her eyes as she looks all around and then up at the castle itself as she receives an extra sparkle off the stone in response. Her lips are curled upwards again, and the lake of her soul is calm on the surface, but Harry can feel excitement bubbling up from underneath.
"This place is truly grand; it isn't at all how I expected. My traveling companions certainly didn't do it justice with their stories." She almost hesitates before adding almost in a murmur, "It isn't as it was before."
"You've been here?" Gil questions with surprise as they slowly start heading towards the kitchen entrance.
"Only once," she responds, but it's lower now. "After everyone had left for Endor, my father and I came to see, but we didn't stay long."
Harry feels the tug at his shields. Almost like the tide receding. Pulling him in. But Nerdanel takes a deep breath, and the memory washes away before it can even fully form in Harry's thoughts.
"I dare say that it's very different now than it was then," she adds instead. "The time was much shorter this go around. I thought they were only having me on when they said it wouldn't even take three weeks to get here from Tirion, but as soon as we hit the border for winter, it was like we were flying down the highway."
She says it with an almost joking tone, but Harry must quickly school his features when Gil's eyes flicker his direction. He's wearing his best neutral expression, but he knows that Gil isn't fooled for a single, solitary second.
So yes, he'd enchanted the roads. Sue him. He wanted to make it safer and faster for travelers to get here. Harry's as circumspect as he can be with it. Limits to his side of the line only. As long as everyone stays within thirty yards of the roads, they're relatively good to go. He's even added little way-stops along the route, some of which are now turning into proper villages. The less he has to explain that part to Gil, however, the better.
Nerdanel isn't privy to any of this though. She's instead still taking in all the sights as they pass through the courtyard to the spice and vegetable gardens. Harry can see her interest grow as they pass vegetation he knows she's never seen before as many aren't native to Valinor or even Arda until now.
A few minutes later and they're safely ensconced in the kitchen, having come in through that side. Harry added this way for ease of going from the orchard and food gardens to the pantries and cellars. It was mostly a moot point for him, but when Inglor and his lot were still living here, it was rather essential, and he found that he liked the rearrangement better than the original floorplan. Now, it serves to keep Nerdanel out of his entranceway and far from his great hall, grand staircase, and the main sections of the castle.
The parts that typically upset his Eldar visitors.
Harry leads her inside the room as Gil's now behind them since the door is only wide enough for two at a time. The furniture is ordinary enough, based on what Harry's seen at Fingon's, and it doesn't get more than a cursory glance though her eyes linger a few seconds longer on the carving at the corners and legs. The cabinetry isn't quite the usual elfish fashion since Harry opted for frosted glass doors, but it's close enough, and it's not overtly magical unless one happens to look inside.
Nerdanel's attention is instead riveted on the walls. On the fresco in its Scottish glory.
She covers her mouth with her hand the second she sees the first student whiz by on a broomstick. She drops Harry's arm when she notices more of them moving around Hogsmeade. She walks forward then in a daze, and it's almost to the exact same spot Manwë always loves standing in as Harry cooks for them. She just stares down in utter transfixion. After a moment, her shoulders start shaking, and Harry's startled to hear her laughter.
It's a beautiful, delightful sound. Like water, babbling and playful.
She's still laughing as Gil-galad comes up next to Harry and takes his hand. As they watch her excited astonishment grow. As she looks and looks and keeps looking.
Something in Harry uncurls then. Unravels. A tension he didn't even know existed.
It's also naturally the second Harry hears a trumpet call in the distance. The not-so-far off beat of drums. Of course, Harry always hears him long before he sees him. He doesn't apparate as Harry himself and Nienna do, but Ainur have ways of traveling much faster than elves. Especially within the circles of Harry's power.
Beside him, Gil stirs. Gives him a questioning glance. Even as Nerdanel is nearly nose against his wall as she leans in to study the outside of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
Harry merely smiles back at him. Sends out his own chorus of frost and bells in greeting. Feels the moment he touches down feather-soft outside.
Eönwë is here.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
"I'm worried, Harry."
Hermione's voice is gentle. Calm as a cloudless sky as they sit on the back patio and watch the fireflies dance.
The stars are brilliant and shining overhead. There's no light pollution this far out, and the wards would keep it away regardless. The only other illumination around is from the Burrow as well as the rest of the surrounding Weasleys and the Lovegoods in the distance. The tree-line blocks most of that anyway; Ron and Hermione built here to be close by in case of emergency but still got their privacy.
Hermione is as lovely as ever as they sit and share a nightcap of chocolate. Her hair is rich and brown. Would fall in soft curls if she took the time for it, but she rarely does. There's no gray yet, but Harry's seen a few stray lines developing on her face. Mostly around her eyes and forehead. He suspects it's more from stress than anything. She's the youngest Minister in history, and he's never been prouder. Of course, that might be exceeded when she moves on. Harry knows that she's aiming for Chief Warlock next and eventually Mugwump.
He feels a flicker in her magic against his own, and it's filled with concern. Harry sighs at that. At the conversation he knows is brewing. Roiling and boiling ever higher as Ron comes down the stairs from where he's just finished making sure Hugo and Rose are asleep. It's summer so both are them are home from Hogwarts, but Hermione still insists on a bedtime even though Rose will be entering her fifth year and Hugo his third come September.
There are things that Hermione thinks her children shouldn't be privy to, and Harry's thankful on some level, he supposes. The irony though isn't lost on him. On how much like her mother-in-law Hermione has become. Or the fact that Teddy and Victoire are considering an engagement has only made Hermione that much more determined to see Harry paired off. Not even married or cohabitating at this point. Just steadily seeing someone.
Ron joins them with a happy sigh as he all but flops into the empty chair at their table and immediately reaches for his fork. One would never imagine him as the former Head Auror. Not as he digs into the dessert that Harry made especially for him and has kept under spell for his return. For all that he's the Head of the Department now, he'll still always be the same eleven-year-old that Harry met on that first day. Friendly, outgoing, focused on food.
"Thanks, mate," the redhead states between bites, but unlike when he was younger, he actually swallows and doesn't say this with his mouth full.
He does, however, let out a little blissful sound when he gets to the middle layer. Hermione, who has already finished her slice, doesn't even roll her eyes. Instead, she sips her tea – also made by Harry – to conceal her laugh.
"You should try making this for them next time," Ron adds after another minute when there's nothing but crumbs left on his plate. "Or maybe the lemon blackberry tart; that one's always divine. Or even the raspberry chocolate meringue."
Ron seems to be fantasizing about all of those even as he gazes at the cake in front of him. Instead of reaching for more though, he sets aside his fork.
Harry makes a noise of vague agreement, but he's battling not to lay his head on the table.
Yes, yes, Harry knows he's such a catch. Rich, famous. Destroyed a Dark Lord and survived the Killing Curse. Has two masteries. And don't you know he can cook, too? Won't you date our sad, pathetic friend please?
"I'll keep that in mind."
It's said evenly enough. Without a single hint of sarcasm.
Hermione doesn't seem to believe him at all; she puts down her teacup and reaches across to lay a hand on his.
"We're worried Harry," she says again.
On his other side, Ron nods. He's studying Harry out of the corner of his eye.
"You've been off lately," he adds, and his gaze is Auror-shrewd before he abruptly tucks that away.
"I haven't," Harry denies. "I'm the same as always."
He keeps his tone steady. Doesn't allow himself to seem defensive. To seem guilty. Of which crime, he isn't sure yet.
Hermione squeezes his hand once. "You almost hexed Astra when she tried to kiss you."
Harry grimaces at the reminder. Somehow, despite her busy schedule, she still finds the time to try setting him up. He doesn't know if he should be flattered or exasperated that he's such a high priority on her agenda.
Still, this is just the latest in a long line of dating disasters.
Before that was Xander Blackthorne. And before him was Arlas, a truly dashing goblin with very sharp teeth. Although she looked as disinterested as Harry felt and they called it quits after ten minutes.
Ron isn't much better. He's every bit as concerned about Harry's love life, even if he's a bit more direct. He's already been set up with Camelia Everglade, Gawain Robards, and Brightblood – not all ministry employees, unlike Hermione's choices. And in anyone else that'd be an abuse of power. Hermione, who's undoubtedly starting to lose hope, probably just put down a signup sheet and weeded out from there.
It's both funny and sad. Has gotten him no small amount grief from his friends about his lack of dates. There have been questions. Some pointed. Some awkward.
But it isn't that Harry fancies blokes over birds or vice versa. Or that he has interesting proclivities. Or is secretly harboring an undying flame for Severus Snape. Or even Tom Riddle.
And no, he's not sober enough to think about that conversation right now.
It's just that… well, Harry doesn't fancy anyone.
It isn't a problem. Not for him. He has all the people he needs. He has Ron. Hermione. The Weasleys. Neville and Luna. Teddy and Andromeda. His other friends. His apprentices. His colleagues. His patients.
Why would he need anyone else? His life is full. He's content. Happy even. Busy.
Neither Ron nor Hermione ever believe him when he tells them that. Andromeda doesn't either, but she's subtler about it. Has gently steered the discussion to mutual acquaintances to gauge his expression. Molly and Arthur are concerned, he knows, but have opted to let their son and daughter-in-law take the lead. Fleur too has tried to get in on the act before Bill quietly shut that down, and that's probably why he's the favorite Weasley right now aside from Victoire.
Harry doesn't want them to worry. Even more, he doesn't want them to scheme.
He isn't interested. Plain as that. He shouldn't have to explain further. As much as he loves them, it's no one's business but his, and truth be told, it's not something Harry's comfortable telling them; he already knows how they'll react. Hermione will want to research. Ron will want to talk about it. Andromeda will start planning. Molly will go to her kitchen and cook her fears away, and Arthur will quietly take it all in. Bill and Fleur will whisper to each other. Ginny will roll her eyes, while George will make inappropriate jokes, Percy will try not to laugh, and Charlie will suggest a holiday.
Harry grimaces again even thinking about it.
He isn't going to tell them. It's private. He's allowed his secrets.
It isn't that he's embarrassed. It's more like he doesn't want them to feel guilty. He isn't sure if it's the loss of the horcrux or being slain by Tom. Or maybe even that third Killing Curse. It wasn't like his libido was that strong to begin with. He wasn't ever like his roommates at Hogwarts before they mastered the Silencing Charm and Privacy Wards. He and Ginny only ever exchanged kisses, and she was his one and only girlfriend. Cho and the incident under the mistletoe didn't count.
He doesn't want them to know that he probably won't ever marry or have a family. That Teddy will be the closest he ever comes to a child of his own. At least in this life.
Harry knows it isn't meant to be. That it isn't fair to all the people Ron and Hermione are dragging along because there'll never be a spark. Never be anything he can give them.
That as much as he hopes there's someone out there for him, someone who'd put up with him and all the craziness, he knows there in all likelihood isn't. That he'll walk this life alone. That his time on Earth will be without anyone beside him.
He's accepted that. Made his peace with it. Let that dream quietly die.
Still, there's that little piece of him, the one that tells him to keep waiting. Keep hoping. Keep looking out at the shore and the stars.
It's very hard to silence.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Melpomaen – This is absolutely horrible. Terrible. Head in his hands.
Inglor – Exhales slowly. Yes, indeed. We must make amends.
Laerien – Rubs her temples. We would if we could find him.
Melpomaen – He's been coming here at night; some of the forms are signed in the morning.
Laerien – Taps fingers on her desk in agitation. He always manages to avoid me though.
Inglor – Nods in resolve. Sometimes, you must go to the dragon's lair instead.
Laerien and Melpomaen – Staring at him in shock. Go to the castle? Inside?
Inglor – Nods in nobility. It's the only way. I'll go. It's my duty.
Both of Them – Gasp!
Meanwhile…
Everyone Else in Formenos – Where is our king?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Merchant #1 – King Marcaunon has such a nice grandmother.
Merchant #2 – Yeah, can't believe she's married to Fëanor.
Merchant #3 – Or the mother to all those sons.
Merchant #2 – Hard to believe the king is related, too.
Merchant #1 – Think he knows she's coming?
Merchant #3 – Doubtful. But it's always good for your grandmother to visit.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Inglor – Bowing head and on bent knees. I'm very sorry. I was wrong.
Harry – Sigh. Do you even know what you're apologizing for?
Inglor – Crickets. Then… I made you have a big sad.
Harry – Rubs temple. And?
Inglor – Looks around the room for hints. Makes a face like a puppy who isn't sure why his person is upset. You… want to be out on your own and not have the family breathing down your neck?
Harry – Pinches his nose. I guess that's close enough.
Inglor – Tentatively. Can we be bros again, my king?
Harry – Stop calling me king and maybe.
Somewhere close by…
Eönwë – Looming. Someone made Marcaunon sad. They must pay.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Are we… er… Looks around at the beautiful falling leaves.
Argon – Yeah… I mean. Clears his throat as they ride through the autumn woods.
Angrod – This is still the route from Tirion. The villagers even said 'twas so.
Celebrían – The signs do agree that this is the road, but the distance can't possibly be right. It's much too close.
Findis – Indeed. Rubs her chin in deep thought. I've been checking, but this surely can't be correct.
Fingolfin – Inclines his head. I must admit that I expected everything to be a bit…
Finarfin – Colder, perhaps. Gazes up at the sun shining down on them. I certainly thought there'd be a great deal more snow.
Fingon – Rubbing his temples. Herurrívë, why do I fear this is your doing?
AN: I promise Fëanor and co are coming. We're still getting all the peeps in place.
Inglor is working his way back into good graces, but Harry will have to deal with the rest of them at some point. If only things didn't keep distracting him…
-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