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.
Nerdanel is in his kitchen.
The smell of breakfast in progress wafts out to the hallway to greet him, and he doesn't have to see her to know that she's there. It's early yet. Before sunrise. Harry's up as usual, but Gil won't wake until dawn, and it usually takes him a little while to get bathed and dressed. This is the normal time for Harry to poke around and start their first meal of the day. Sure, he could just conjure a four-course feast, but no matter what Hermione always said, it doesn't taste the same. Ron forever agreed with him, which of course he did. So had all the other Weasleys including those who joined the family by marriage.
Harry is alone in the corridor as Eönwë's wandered off for the moment. Possibly to his suite, which is mostly for storage as far as Harry can tell. It's ostensibly a guest room, but it's not like Harry has a real need for those these days. Various others have also been claimed, but Harry lets the Ainur do as they will. At this point, those spaces are basically theirs since they do what they want regardless. Eönwë's even started decorating his, if one can call displaying all his weapons and paintings that. The magic of the castle keeps it all clean regardless, and Harry only goes in there at his invitation.
Though Harry does suppose if he's going to eventually invite Fingon and the others that he should go ahead and make sure somewhere is set aside for them. Most of the hallway Nerdanel is on lies empty even from Harry's use. He only ever opened the front part when larger parties were in need of more space until arrangements could be made in the city. The Ainur have mostly stuck to the west side, but the north is closest to the original part of the fortress, and none of them have claimed that area. Harry himself hasn't done much with it aside from building the structures. Even the north and the northeast towers are completely bare.
He's asked Nienna her opinion on the matter several times, on what he should do with it all, but she's never truly given him one. Not to mention that she's currently absent, but then, she didn't stop by last night. Considering that he already has two guests, that's probably a good thing. Eönwë was more than pleased enough to accompany Harry on his usual nocturnal errands, and really, the Ainur can be a little territorial with his attention at times. Even with each other.
He doesn't want a repeat of Oromë, Eönwë, and Tulkas in a snit like a set of teenaged girls while Vairë provided a very dignified commentary. The only bright spot was that none of the elves saw that.
Harry grimaces at the memory, even as he considers his guest situation. Sometime between their return from the floating village on the summer lake and Harry going upstairs for a long shower – because again, magic sometimes isn't the answer – Nerdanel apparently wandered in. It's a direct route from her room, literally down the corridor and around the corner, and he showed her last night. Nonetheless, Harry doesn't know what to think as he hesitates outside the door.
He's already wrongfooted today. Woke at his usual time after a scant two hours or so of sleep with dreams of Fingon and Fingolfin and all the rest. They were in his kingdom, in the ring of summer, gazing with amazement at the crape myrtles and willows that barrier between the road and the river. He's had dreams of them for over a week in the outer reaches of Formenos, traversing from winter through autumn edging into summer, and a part of Harry admits that he's more than a bit wistful in their absence. Wonders how they'd view this place that he's built. And maybe he really should work on inviting them.
That's a consideration for later. He already has a guest. Two guests? A guest and a roommate? Gil's different; he's a permanent addition.
Harry sighs as he shifts from one foot to the other. Even more, Harry doesn't quite know what to do with her. With this break in his routine. It's the same way every morning since he returned with his love beside him. He makes them breakfast, and they eat together in the kitchen. Gil then braids his hair before they set out on their daily venture – or adventure.
Only, Nerdanel is in his kitchen. Harry can hear her moving around. Hear her singing to herself as she opens and closes cabinet doors. Hear her cracking eggs first and then chopping something else.
It's so strange being out here with someone else inside. This is technically a secondary kitchen, but Harry considers it his personal space. Large enough for him to entertain whichever Ainur are over and to cook or bake anything he wants. The table seats twelve; the most he's ever had here were seven including Harry when Nienna, Vairë plus Námo, Eönwë, and Oromë with Huan were all present at the same time and actually getting along. Well, it could've been eight, but Indilwen declined to come inside, and Káno is a harp who doesn't tend to talk much when Ainur aside from Nienna are around.
If only Harry could move Nerdanel to the other kitchen in this part of the castle, which is just down the hallway and right at the intersection with the two guest wings; it's the one that Inglor's lot used when they were here. Much closer in size to what Hogwarts had. Meant to serve the great hall, but they never bothered with that and instead used the tables already there.
The original part of the castle has the third kitchen. Like most things there, Harry has done little aside from making sure it stays clean. He hasn't even done more than peek inside for several years and sees no reason to change that.
But this one is Harry's. It's part of his morning. It's his space. His kitchen.
His curiosity finally gets the better of him around the time that he begins realizing how ridiculous he looks loitering outside. The door is already open; he rarely closes it. So it's easy enough to step instead and slowly walk past the table to the far end where she stands next to the counter.
Nerdanel beams when she notices him. A knife is in one hand as she carefully uses it to push onion and peppers into a bowl that already has the eggs. A pan is heating on the stove next to her for the elfish equivalent of omelets; at least, that's his assumption based on the other ingredients she has set out. The oven is also turned on, and judging by the smell, it's baking something with berries and cinnamon.
Nerdanel's been through his larder then. All the cabinets too since the table is set with plates, silverware, glasses, and even napkins. The vase of snowdrops in the middle has been watered too, and they are blooming as lovely as always.
"Marcaunon," she greets cheerfully, wiping her hands on her apron. It's one that Harry keeps hanging off to the side next to a small closet for kitchen linens.
She's dressed similarly to yesterday minus the vest. Her shirt is a lilac today, sleeves again rolled to her elbows. Her pants are a dark gray that's almost black and have so many pockets that Harry's struggling to count them all. Her vibrant hair is again in two plaits, but she's momentarily twisted those together in a bun to keep them out of her cooking.
She's barefoot, but so is Harry. He's momentarily struck by the oddness of that. Most Ñoldor seem to prefer shoes, even while inside or in their own homes, and Idril is the only other one he's seen voluntarily wander around in such a manner. Gil will only be barefoot when they're in their room at Fingon's or their suite upstairs. In spite of the fact that the entire castle is his home now, Gil is never without shoes other times.
"You're up early this morning," she says, but it's friendly. Warmth washing against him like water on the lakeshore as she adds a sprinkle of salt to her bowl.
"I'm always up at this time," he returns as she continues her work by chopping mushrooms next.
Harry steps up to help her then, but she turns to block him.
"No, no. Let me," Nerdanel insists, and she gives a shake of her head. "My treat. It's nice to cook for someone again." She scrunches her nose when she smiles. "I just wasn't sure how much to make or how many servants work here. I haven't seen any of them yet."
That statement certainly gives Harry pause.
"Servants?" he repeats blankly. "None. I've never had servants here. Only Gil and I live in the castle all the time. Eönwë comes and goes, and-"
"Lord Eönwë is still here?" Nerdanel interrupts. She's so surprised she stops mid-motion. Her knife just dangles in the air.
Harry blinks at her. "In his room, but he'll be by a bit. He usually comes down about a half-hour or so from now."
Her eyes widen. They're clear and blue like the cleanest and purest water. They remind him of someone else, but Harry can't quite decide who. Right now, however, they're startled. Staring at him like he just said that Morgoth was coming to breakfast. Only slightly less horrified.
Bother. Elves and their strangeness with Ainur.
Nerdanel seemed fine with him yesterday, though admittedly Harry did most of the talking. With Eönwë sitting at the head of the table – his preferred spot and the usual chair for Ainur guests. Harry and Gil next to each other in the middle. And Nerdanel across from them. Dinner was one of the meals Harry made and stashed previously to keep on hand in emergencies, and he rather thinks the situation was close to qualifying.
Nerdanel shakes her head then. As if to loosen cobwebs. Or perhaps to shake free some thoughts.
"I… hm… Yes, of course. Why wouldn't he still be here?" she comments, but it's mostly to herself. "He'll be rightly joining us. I'll make more then." She immediately starts slicing again. Finishing the mushrooms and moving onto tomatoes with the speed and gusto of one possessed.
Harry watches her for a moment. "I'll just start on the tea then."
Nerdanel offers him a nod as Harry turns to his cupboards. He knows where everything is, and it's a familiar thing to heat water the old-fashioned way. The pot will keep it warm indefinitely, so Harry isn't at all worried as he goes ahead and makes a black tea with hibiscus to go alongside the raspberry friands that Nerdanel has just pulled from the oven. He has the pot and basket of baked goods on the table around the same time she finishes the omelets, which is right as Gil strolls inside.
He's naturally surprised to see who's at the stove, but he doesn't even break stride as he greets them both and then presses his lips to Harry's cheek. He does, however, pause next to Harry when Eönwë appears a second later. The Maia offers both of them a very slight bow of his head as he comes over to the table, but they're spared from saying anything as Nerdanel announces that breakfast is ready.
It's an interesting meal. More so than dinner. Eönwë is quiet as usual but a steady beat in the background. Nerdanel is chatty, the splash on the shoreline and the chirp of otters. Gil and she talk through most of the meal with input from Harry and very little from Eönwë.
Gil is pleasant as usual, but there's a low rumble in his aura. The feeling of dark clouds in the distance. Harry noticed it yesterday afternoon, and it's still present today, but he hasn't quite figured out why. His elf was decidedly cagey last night as they went to bed and Harry ran a hand across his back.
Even now, as he sits next to Harry. The same feeling lingers. It's buried deep. Past whatever type of shielding elves have. Harry knows Nerdanel can't tell; they don't know each other well enough for that. Eönwë likely can't either, but sometimes, it's hard to decide with him. Harry is leaning more towards no because there hasn't been a single hitch to his song and he usually sends inquiring notes when people behave in ways he doesn't expect.
He hasn't even queried why Gil is on Harry's other side today. This is the third meal that they've shared with him present, two here and one in Tirion. But Gil is now on his left. It's not his usual seat, and Harry is slowly growing suspicious over why they've switched places today. It's put Harry himself closer to Eönwë this time, but Nerdanel is still across from them, though more so Gil. Ever since Tirion, Gil has always sat on his right at mealtimes. It's been that way since whoever – probably Findis – made the arrangements, and it's rather off-putting to have him somewhere else. It also doesn't help that Harry's briefly reminded of what occurred on this exact spot yesterday after breakfast. As Gil-galad beckoned Harry over to his chair once he finished his braids, pressing a kiss to his cheek and next his neck, and then…
He feels the tips of his ears heating. Beside him, Gil clears his throat. Eönwë's drum beat pauses, and a chorus of feathers brush against him in question. Nerdanel simply smiles into her teacup.
The meal is fortunately finished around this time. A good thing as Harry's appetite can't decide what it wants to do. Gil equally seems to be done but lingers over his eggs. Eönwë though has cleared his plate and is observing everyone. As if waiting for them to finish.
"Marcaunon, I would speak with you if you will allow," the Maia states, "on a matter we did not address last night."
His melody rises and stretches out like a pair of wings before abruptly dropping back down low. His face remains blank, eyes gray today. Harry isn't sure what to make of that color.
"You might as well say it in front of everyone," he comments.
Eönwë's gaze does not flicker to Nerdanel or Gil-galad. However, Harry can feel a few notes drift both directions before the Maia inclines his head.
"I thought it prudent to inform you that Lord Námo is sending guests your way."
Harry feels his eyebrows lift. He's long figured out about that tendency to route his newly released elves here; it wasn't exactly that hard to put the pieces together once he started talking with them. Harry supposes it's a type of compliment. Though he really wishes Námo would just tell him directly instead of making other people play messenger.
"Do you know how many this time?" Harry asks very mildly before he takes a sip of his tea.
Eönwë still looks at him. His song is focused now, a swirl of beats and trumpets and pinions that drift down to touch Harry's face and hair.
"Seven."
It's said calmly. Matter-of-factly.
But there's a silence afterwards. A quietness to the room. A hesitation.
Nerdanel gazes at them with an unreadable expression. Harry can't see her hands, which are now in her lap, but her lake is eerily calm. Placid. Water without a single ripple.
Next to him, Gil is solemn. Fingers reaching to clutch Harry's elbow. His grip is tight. Would be painful if Harry were a true elf. There's a jolt of static to his touch. A crackle that arcs across Harry's shirt to his bare skin.
Harry merely sets down his cup before taking Gil's hand in his. Steadily. Gently. As he contemplates the situation. He's prepared for such occasions. Spoke multiple times with the villagers along the road on what to look for. Gave them money and supplies to hand out to any travelers who seem in need.
Elves are proud though. A universality he's found common to the entire lot. Every single one of them from the Avari to the Ñoldor to the Teleri. They may each have their quirks, but all of them are proud. Usually too proud to accept charity, but there's other ways to make it happen. Some subtle. Some not.
They won't take it from Harry himself, but if offered from others, those they perceived to have once been in similar straights, that certainly makes it easier. Inglor's oddly a favorite for that, even with his history. Maybe because of it. Seeing that he's now in a trusted position again. That Harry allows him such freedom and prestige. Even the non-Ñoldor have taken to him and his company very strongly, and Harry can't quite puzzle that one out. He suspects it's an elvish thing that he'll never fully understand even ten thousand years from now despite Gil's best efforts to explain.
"I'll speak with Inglor then, shall I?" Harry says at last. After slow heartbeats of reflection.
Nerdanel closes her eyes across the table. Gil leans into him, knee brushing and hands pressing against his side.
"Inglor, yes. I will seek him out on your behalf." The Maia's aura gives a single drumbeat, but there's a sharp edge that slices at his tone before it's sheathed. "They know him well."
Harry understands immediately. So apparently do Nerdanel and Gil-galad.
Kinslayers. Followers of Fëanor. That's what Eönwë means. It's not that uncommon for them to arrive here; they've few other places to go. Few other places that will take them.
"They're more than welcome here; I'd never turn them away," Harry responds, and it's honest. Truthful.
Gil breathes out in a long sigh, even as he squeezes Harry's fingers. Nerdanel, however, remains silent. She simply sits with her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap as if in prayer. Eönwë looks at him for a long moment, and something in his features softens even as his expression somehow manages to stay exactly the same. His eyes shift to blue as Harry watches.
"You are as always so very generous, Marcaunon."
He says nothing else after that. Neither does anyone else.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil-galad loves the city. He's bright and excited as they walk through the streets. Skin buzzing with electricity against Harry's grasp as he points out various landmarks, shops, houses, fountains, parks, street vendors… Everything basically. He's all but glowing as Harry shows him his preferred routes to avoid crowds, tells him anecdotes about various things, greets the citizens as they go, and leads him down through the levels. The oldest part of the city is closest to the castle and his office, the newer sections are in subsequent tiers towards the sides and bottom. The latest edition is the furthest to the west, at the base of the neighboring mountain and near the orchards; they peer down at it from their vantagepoint and admire the rising watch tower in the morning sunlight.
It's just the two of them today. They've spent the last weeks with their guests, but Nerdanel and Eönwë are back at the castle. Harry quietly questions the wisdom of that, but once, Nerdanel got over her shock of a Maia loitering around, she quickly warmed to him. And Eönwë to her. The fact that she possesses an in-depth and truly awe-inspiring knowledge of the forging process of all manners of things is a complete coincidence. Naturally.
Harry still isn't sure how long Nerdanel plans to stay. Although admittedly, elven concepts of hospitality are a bit strange to him. Fingon did explain it as best he could, but it's still baffling. Not to mention Fingon would've let him stay there for years without kicking him out, so Harry can't quite tell what is and isn't proper. She certainly did pack for the long haul, but again, so did Gil. Nerdanel didn't have the advantage of magic to shrink everything down into a convenient deck of cards though. She instead had three carriages waiting for her at the inn that Harry retrieved the same night she arrived, and he suspected that she's already sent for more.
That's a problem for another day, however. Today is a time for Harry to take Gil exploring now that he's comfortable enough leaving Nerdanel with only Eönwë for supervision. Or perhaps it's the other way around.
They meander the streets for hours after breakfast, and Harry leads him down to the mid-tiers to show him the central library and artisan halls. They take one of the public elevators back to the top, a feature that the elves were very excited to see when Harry first suggested it. A number of them have even witnessed those in dwarven mines and halls before, but apparently, the idea never quite transitioned over to their side until now. The much smaller versions in his castle are powered by magic, though the ones in the city use the mountain streams, and that's an idea the Eldar came up with on their own. All Harry did was make the initial suggestion and voilà! They're extremely popular for use. Just as the escalators are. Shocker that.
Gil is suitably impressed by both, which makes Harry grin as he leads them to his favorite shop. Which is two streets over from his office and tucked into a corner near a courtyard with a musical mosaic fountain. The store isn't one for art supply, though there are several of those, likely more than even he knows. Instead, it's a multi-storied bookshop with a spiral staircase, which always seems to draw Harry inside for an hour or three whenever he stops by. It was the very first bookstore in the city, barely more than a village then, and Harry was the first customer. The owners are a couple – one Ñoldo and another Sinda – and they were among the earliest settlers in Formenos after Inglor's group. Their son and his wife are the tailors next door, and their granddaughter runs the bakery on the other side of that. The newest addition to the family won't be here at this hour, and Harry only points out the building because he has a feeling that they'll never make it anywhere else if they go inside.
He has other plans for now. Especially this close to noon.
"I want to show you the best spot in the entire city," he tells Gil then, tugging on his hand and leading him to the east down the main thoroughfare that direction.
The city has expanded downwards and now west. The east has filled in well, but there's no tier immediately below this one. It skips two levels before the city again wraps around that direction, and it isn't due to the terrain or instability. They simply don't want anything else too close. Want the area to remain open without any other surrounding buildings, not only so that the trees can flourish, but so that the most precious commodity in the kingdom can be better secured with open sightlines. The only other structures around are the gazebo in the park and a watch tower with a guardhouse along the wall that extends around the entire city.
The street they stroll along is broad and open, and the shops have slowly transitioned to only houses. Those soon fall away to only spaced trees with garland in their branches and ribbons around their trunks. There's a single stone building not far away with wide, arched windows and a pavilion attached in the back. It's a colorful place. Full of banners and flags and wreathes, and even the aura here is just so alive to Harry's vision. So much realer than anywhere else he's seen in Valinor. Filled with so many different songs, notes jumbling together, that Harry has trouble untangling them. It should all be a discordant mess, but there's a melody in the chaos. A harmony to the wild scores and accidental falls and reckless rises. A beauty in the eager flaws that grow stronger and surer each day.
Two guards are stationed by the front doors, and they salute Harry as soon as they spot him, but he merely offers a wave back. He knows that another pair are at each exit with even more roaming the property; Harry doesn't have to look at Gil-galad to feel his perplexity. More so as they grow closer and the cacophony in the background increases in strength.
Beside him, his elf misses a step. Harry catches him, and they stand there for what seems like an eternity. Listening to the sounds of so many young voices. Singing. Shouting. Laughing.
"What is this place?"
It's said in a whisper. Like Gil can't believe what he's hearing. Much less what he's seeing when the doors are practically thrown open. When adults and children start streaming out.
"Mírimo, what is this?"
It's said with disbelief. With wonder. With awe.
His love's eyes are blue-gray rings around his blown pupils. Incredibly large at the sight before him. Staring like he can't bring himself to look away.
Harry doesn't chuckle, but it's a near thing.
"It's a school," he simply replies.
Gil finally looks at him. And it's only to gaze at him like he's lost his mind. Or like Gil thinks he's lost his own. Possibly like they both have.
Harry reaches up to touch his cheek in reassurance. "Have you never been to one?"
"I… I visited Númenor before," he murmurs. It's softly, eyes so impossibly huge as he watches the children now running after each other around the building. "The dwarves… They've their youngest in groups before they know their craft."
"They do that here, too." Harry cups his face. "Their parents send them once they decide they're old enough, and when they've found a craft, they leave to apprentice. They're here about half the day before returning to their families in the afternoons. Most tell me they like having the mornings to work without having to worry what everyone is up to." He says the last with a chuckle and a grin.
Gil blinks at him. He gives Harry a searching look, but Harry just keeps smiling. Gil slowly turns back to the school. He's quiet for a few moments. Just soaking everything in.
"Who are the others?" he asks at last. "The adults?"
Harry inclines his head. "Most are volunteers. Parents. Family members. People in the city who want to teach or have knowledge of a particular subject." He ticks off his fingers. "Others just like being around kids and come by whenever they're free. There are several paid positions for people who're here all the time though."
Daeron is the main professor, the first they had and still chief amongst them. Knowledgeable in a great many things. Having lived in both Endor and Aman. As well as among all varieties of elves. He's one of the few people Harry voluntarily plays for and with – though admittedly, never Káno's harp.
He's on the back pavilion cleaning up after lessons and patiently interacting with the stragglers. Several of whom are underfoot or dangling from his robes. A smile tugs at his mouth as he carries his flute under one arm with an elfing all but swinging on that elbow while the other hand balances a stack of papers.
Gwindor though is the headmaster, and Harry finds that he's a fine choice. Thoughtful, gentle with the children. Infinitely patient with dark, vigilant eyes that watch them like they're the most precious things in the world. It's an attitude that Harry fully supports.
Even now, he stands amongst them, gray-silver hair blowing in the breeze, as either their families come to fetch them or the other adults escort the rest home. The crowd around the school is still large. They've just let out at noon, and most people tend to linger for a while to picnic in the park next door. Several children run over when they notice him, and Harry deftly avoids or withstands their tackles, but each gets a hug in return. Most are eager to hear of his time in Tirion. A few even ask about Gil, but their parents call them back before Harry has a chance to explain.
He takes that opportunity to lead his elf towards the park. It's always a lovely place to visit with a grassy meadow in the middle, trees with swings, and a mountain stream curling across the southern end. There's a pack of children by his favorite bench on that side, and Harry suspects he knows why. They do tend to linger there in hopes that he'll stop by, especially if he hasn't for a time.
There's well over a dozen of them with the adults further off in the background preparing lunch. They give Harry pleased but surprised looks as they see him pass with Gil-galad, and some call out greetings. The children haven't noticed him yet, too busy with their game. If they were human, Harry would say they were from eight to about thirteen; ages work differently for elves though. They're all under fifty, he knows, since most of the students have settled on a craft by that time with rare exceptions. The majority are closer to their adult heights by then too, but the taller elves naturally take longer; Inglor once mentioned that he was still growing nearly into his eighties. Harry can't imagine how long it would've taken Argon.
The stone bench is tucked away beneath a crape myrtle with both purple and red blooms. Gil sits almost dazedly on his right as they gaze out at the elflings rolling across the grass.
"There's so many," he whispers after several long minutes.
Harry turns to him.
"Children," Gil clarifies. "There's so many children here. I've never seen so many all at once." He can only shake his head as his eyes stare forward in wonder. "Coming to Aman, I was amazed to see a dozen or sometimes a little more in Alqualondë and Tirion at the same time. That was as many as we had growing up, but that's nothing compared to this."
He glances at Harry then, and his eyes flash with light. There's a heaviness of ozone. A pressure of thunder and rain.
"How have you done this?"
"Me?" Harry questions in disbelief. "I can assure you that none of these are mine."
Gil gives an inelegant snort at that answer but still looks at him. "You know what I meant." He reaches out to grip Harry's hand as it lays in his lap, fingertips running over his ring. "Elves have children when we're safe. When we feel secure enough in our lives and homes."
Harry moves his head to the blossoms above them. He knows it's more than that; he and Estë have had many conversations on this topic. Even though his craft is primarily painting now, he'll always be a healer. He's taken lessons with her – the wisest and best in Valinor – when she offered and even asked for more when he realized just how much Formenos was growing. She's more than happy to accommodate him.
Pregnancy here isn't like it is on Earth. It's a joining of fëa, of souls. It's difficult. Even dangerous in a way he hadn't imagined before even if every other physical need is met and the mother is in excellent health. It can actually weaken the soul until the body goes with it, and an elf dies – possibly both parents even or other family members who have lent their strength. Or until the child dies before they can be born. Or until the soul is too damaged to try again. It's worse for twins, and elves have them so rarely. They don't have additional children afterwards, and there's only one line known for doing so, but they're descendants of a Maia.
Harry didn't want that for Formenos. Wants this place to be as magical and secure as he can. Wants it to truly be a home for all her residents. He pours that desire into the wards and foundations and the very bones. He suspects the elves can tell this on some level. Maybe can even draw from it.
His eyes watch a set of twin brothers chasing each around a tree. On the other side of the park is a younger pair of twin sisters. Beside him, Gil is seeing the same thing as he rubs his thumb across the back of Harry's hand.
"The energy of this place… I don't know how to describe it," his elf tells him. "It feel like I'm not only safe, but that anything is possible." He squeezes the hand in his. "Mírimo, you may not call yourself king, but you rule not only this city but the entire kingdom. You're the one they all look to for guidance. They all love you; the children adore you. I can tell from just watching them interact with you."
Harry closes his eyes against the accusation, head still tipped back, and doesn't look at Gil. His elf just squeezes his hand again, harder this time.
"They pay taxes, don't they?"
It's a non sequitur, but Harry has a suspicion where this is going.
"They do," he allows slowly, eyes still closed.
Gil toys with his ring. "And some of that goes to you?"
"It's a salary," Harry defends, at last glancing at him. "Since I do the administration. Everyone in the office makes one; it wouldn't be fair otherwise."
"Let me guess; Pri-" Gil corrects himself, "Laerien made you take one alongside them." He has a brow lifted, but his lips are curving.
Harry nods. He really doesn't like where this is going.
"She does the financials of the city?"
Gil asks like he already knows the answer.
"With my approval," Harry acknowledges. He doesn't like this game at all.
"So you know how much they make?" his elf questions, threading their fingers together now as if to draw him closer.
"It's the same I do. I double-check every time."
Harry always reads the financials and goes over them with a fine-tooth comb. Not because he thinks that his staff would ever cheat or embezzle – not even now. More because he knows they'd attempt very hard to overpay him. Would bury it under fancy terms and secondary funds to try to hide the truth, but he's wise to them. He's fought the Ministry and Board of Governors for Hogwarts far too long to be fooled. Not to mention all those years of battling the Muggle governments later on. He learned so much just watching Steelclaw and his army of accountants.
His employees do, however, keep him from paying for newcomers through his own funds. The city itself does that now. Likely out of the money Harry refuses, but as long as everyone is taken care of in the end, it really doesn't matter to him.
"Do you pay taxes?" Gil inquires next.
Harry doesn't sigh. "Of course," he responds. "They tried that trick on me once, but I didn't fall for it. Or when they tried to double-pay me on accident a few times. Or for the artwork around Formenos." Harry mentally keeps tally and almost feels like he should draw it in the air. "Or for the crops. Or the other things I've done for the city."
Gil shakes his head. "Special discounts in stores?" he suggests next.
"Those, too." Harry exhales slowly. "The traveling merchants are just as bad."
There's an amused sound.
"Mysterious gifts and you never find the benefactor?"
Harry doesn't glare at him, but he thinks he should on principle. His love just laughs at him. He doesn't have to explain more. His point is thoroughly made. Harry knows when he's beaten.
Gil leans up to press a kiss to his cheek in consolation.
Fortunately for Harry, it's around that time that the children finally realize that they have an audience. One of the girls notices him first. She's a little older but not the oldest, looks closer to eleven, but has somehow found herself the de facto leader. She's the daughter of the bookshop owners, Gwindor's niece. A cheerful child with honey brown hair and the blue eyes of her Ñoldo father.
"Prince Marcaunon!" she calls out, waving to him with both hands and immediately running over.
This naturally attracts the attention of the entire group, and they descend on Harry like a pack of overeager, cuddly wolves. Fortunately, he's already stood in the interim, so the best they can do is try their best to bowl his feet out from under him as they throw their arms around his legs and barnacle themselves to his side.
Gil, who's still next to him, has wisely taken several steps back. He's laughing outright now. Completely delighted. Harry can't blame him; he rather is, too.
"Prince?" Harry inquires as he looks down at his captors.
They just grin up at him. A sea of happy, glowing faces. Several of them are missing milk teeth so their smiles have noticeable gaps.
"You told us not to call you lord or king, so uncle said I should call you prince!" she declares.
Harry must admit that they got him with that one. He won't concede defeat just yet though.
"I believe that's against the spirit of things," he argues back with a friendly tone. "And it's Hérion."
The youngest of the boys sticks his tongue out. "Nah. Atya said that you're King Marcaunon."
"It's prince!" another boy hisses right back to him.
"Prince Marcaunon," he corrects, only slightly stumbling over the syllables of the name both times.
Harry doesn't sigh. Since he knows it isn't their fault. He can't quite say which one it was, but he knows one of his people decided that Hérion wasn't dignified enough, and they've been aided and abetted by Formenos as a whole on this. The fact that the Ainur all call him Marcaunon has only solidified this in the populace's minds. Harry hoped that by introducing himself without their input in Tirion, he'd have a foothold, but that doesn't seem to be going in his favor either.
And really, why does he always have to argue with elves about what they call him?
"Marcaunon is just fine," he tells the children then.
That earns him some skeptical looks, and honestly, that's a little too much. He can't help but laugh again. Gil does, too. A wonderful, full sound. Which naturally attracts their attention, and they turn their heads almost in unison.
"Who's that?" two different elflings say at the same time from opposite ends of the pack.
Harry chuckles but sobers a second later. He's thankfully managed to keep both arms free and uses his left to gesture.
"This is Gil-galad," he introduces. "He's come to stay with me."
Instantly, the children look at Gil with a keen interest. There's an almost predatory air as they assess him for a few seconds. Attention going from his dark blue tunic with silvery thread to the single ring he wears to the emerald earrings, which are his only other jewelry. His hair is loose down his back with only a few key braids. He certainly appears far more relaxed that he did when Harry first met him.
Whatever they see, Gil seems to have passed some sort of test as the children on the side nearest to him pull away from Harry. Moving to open the circle so that they're around both of them now.
Then, the interrogation starts.
"Do you live in the castle, too?"
"How long are you staying?"
"Are you from Endor?"
"Isn't there a king with that name?"
The questions fly by faster than Gil can even begin to answer them.
"How do you know the prince?"
"Why are you living with him?"
"Are you getting married?"
"Is there going to be party?"
All of them seem particularly eager at that prospect.
"Amil said that there's always a big party after two elves become one!" a boy says a second later.
Gil lets out a little snort, but Harry can feel himself flushing. He latches onto the next question like a lifeline.
"Do you have a ring?"
"I do," Harry says, ears still hot and thankfully hidden by his hair. He knows his face is slightly red as he shows them his hand.
"It's so pretty!" a pair of girls exclaim in unity, and Harry knows that they're cousins, the daughters of sisters. Years so close that they might as well be sisters themselves.
Gwindor's niece takes his left hand to inspect his ring even as the other elflings crowd around. She reaches out to inspect the lapis with her small, delicate fingers, but there's a frown on her face.
"It's on the wrong hand," she tells him then.
"Oh?" Harry questions pleasantly. "Is it?"
She looks up at him, still holding on. "It's supposed to be on the right."
His gaze flickers to Gil out of the corner of his eye. His love is watching the exchange quietly, expression a polite mask, but the storm of his soul is a lightning flash with thunder.
Harry glances back. There are a thousand ways to redirect her, but ultimately, he decides that he just doesn't want to.
"Will you do the honors then?" he asks very softly.
Her eyes widen to an almost comical level, but she's solemn and completely steady as she slides the ring from his left to his right index fingers. He takes a few heartbeats to admire it in the sunlight before smiling at her.
"Perfect fit."
That earns him a burst of excited titters. They all circle around even tighter to look at his ring's new home and somehow manage to push Gil in next to him.
Harry laughs at that.
More so when they're finally called by their families soon afterwards. The expression of absolute despondence on each and every face shouldn't be so hilarious. There's a collective sigh, some grumbling, but the children all slowly start ambling away to their lunch a few seconds later. Gwindor's niece is the last to leave, and Harry ruffles her hair before she chases after the others.
Then, it's just the pair of them. Just Harry and Gil. Who both sit back on their bench. Not ready to leave just yet. Just enjoying the park and the world around them.
Harry is at least. Gil's looking at him more than he is anything else, and Harry can tell he's preparing himself, but it's not quite time for that conversation yet. Harry has something else to do first.
"I have something for you," he states instead, and it's both true and a distraction.
His elf hesitates, watches as he pulls a box from his inner pocket, and the look on his face is confused as Harry lifts the lid. Inside is a bracelet; it's probably not like one his elf has ever had before. The design is a feather, details as real as the actual thing but seemingly made of metal. In the light of the sun, it shimmers gold and then red like a dancing fire. However, a cloud passes then, a shadow falls over them, and the bracelet is the silvery blue-white of ice and frost.
"It's beautiful," Gil-galad breathes.
He can hardly look away as he allows Harry to fit it around his left wrist. The bracelet glows as Harry closes the clasp and it touches Gil's bare skin. Now, no one will ever be able to take off but Gil himself. Not even Harry unless he has permission.
"It does something?"
It's not suspicious but said with true curiosity.
"Several somethings," Harry replies coyly.
He flicks a finger, and the charm lays down around them like a soft blanket but encompasses them fully as a bubble would. It's invisible to everyone but Harry, and in his gaze, glows a shimmering purple. He's tested this spell on several Ainur, including Nienna, so he's confident that the elves won't hear anything he doesn't allow. Even if they tried to read lips, they'd get nothing but a conversation about paint colors.
"This will keep you completely safe from fire and heat," Harry tells him, both hands once again cupping Gil's own. He feels when his elf's pulse speeds up. "Ice. Cold. Water, too."
"Mírimo… I…"
"You take care of me," he says as Gil stumbles over his words. "Let me take care of you." Harry traces the pattern with his fingers; he's still holding both of his love's hands and has no plans to let go. "I know it's not always easy being here. I'm sorry that I didn't realize sooner that they were upsetting you."
Gil doesn't look away, but Harry feels the air pressure shift. Tastes the cool rain in the air.
"They don't upset me," his love starts to say, but he pauses at Harry's raised eyebrow. "It's not Lord Eönwë or Lady Nienna, not truly, and before you ask, sparring with him was different."
"You could fight back," Harry comments with understanding and watches as his elf nods. "But now, you can't; we remind you of someone else."
"You don't," Gil denies emphatically, immediately. "You never have. You're not like them."
Harry looks at him. It's with both sadness and understanding.
"I am, my dear," he responds. "Have you not realized yet that I'm not an elf where it counts?" Harry gestures up and down at himself with one hand. "This is all window-dressing. It's a façade at best."
"I told you that didn't matter, and I meant it. I still do." Gil breathes out hard enough his nostrils flare. "You're as far away from him as possible, and truly… they are as well, but I know you'll never harm me."
He shifts the bracelet on his wrist, quiet for a moment as they gaze at each other. Harry only has one of his hands now, thumb running over his pulse.
"Tell me more, will you?" Gil asks then. "On what you've made me?"
Harry allows himself to be redirected. Allows his love to have this distance.
He nods. "You'll be able to travel anywhere within the wards just like I do; that's anywhere within the borders and not just the city." At the perplexed blink he receives, Harry elaborates, "The bracelet will do it for you. You've only to think about where you want to go, and it'll take you there. Even if you're somewhere else, like Tirion, you can come back here instantly at any time."
Gil stares at him like he can't possibly be real. Like all of this a dream and he'll wake up at any second. When he doesn't, he can only close his eyes and open them again. Look at his bracelet as if it's an impossibility.
"This is from the feather?"
It's said softly. Almost in a whisper.
"In part, yes," Harry replies and reaches up to brush hair back from his face. "Not the one Inara gave you but another she gifted me earlier. Yours is still for you to use however you want."
Inara's magic was powerful, yes, but not this much. This one is bound with Harry's own. With his very essence. With a breath of winter winds and a core of never-melting ice enmeshed with a phoenix's eternal fire and life. Drawn and woven together until they'll never be separated again.
The elves are terrible gossips, and Vairë's history lessons are thorough. Harry knows how Gil came to Mandos and Valinor. It doesn't take a genius to realize that flame may have some poor connotations for him; if Harry can soothe that worry, keep him safe in the meantime and make his life easier, all the better.
Gil just looks at him again. Observes him with lightning in his eyes before leaning up.
The kiss is tender. Lingering. With a hand sliding around to cradle his head. Which only makes the new bracelet press against his skin with a pleasant tingle.
Gil-galad sighs into his mouth when it does.
Harry knows that they're in full view. That the elves can see them, but they've spent the last several hours walking the city, hand in hand. If that hasn't given things away, then his people weren't paying much attention, and he highly doubts that. Besides, this is Formenos; this is his home. He doesn't mind if they know. His love isn't a dirty little secret. Harry isn't ashamed of him or anything that they do. Some of it is private, yes. Just between them.
But the Eldar certainly aren't shy in this regard. He knows they're being watched, but he finds that he just doesn't care. Doesn't even mind the buzz of their pleased laughter in the background as they shoo the children further away. The rumors will certainly be flying now; Harry will let them.
This time, they'll even be true.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The western sea isn't what he expected. Though, to be fair, Harry isn't sure what he expected. The shore is rocky with very little beach, and it looks out at the Door of Night. So Harry can understand why it isn't a popular vacation destination.
Nienna's Halls are relatively empty. There are Maiar present, but far fewer than in Mandos or Lórien or part of Oromë's hunt. Some would call this place dreary with darker, more somber tones, but Harry's lived in Grimmauld Place and Privet Drive. Nienna doesn't have anything on them.
Rather, it's soothing here. Contemplative. Amongst the shadows are pockets of light and color and sound. Sometimes paintings from Harry. But often other things. Pottery. Statues. Even musical instruments that will occasionally play themselves one at a time. Her personal dwelling is separate from the Halls, both physically and spiritually. An odd thing really since she is the mistress of this place, but Harry thinks he can understand the need for distance. The desire for somewhere private to go.
He follows her as she leaves and walks along the cliffs. Her pace is sedate but steady as they go together, and she passes the time by telling him a story about the making of the Door in the distance. She's just getting to the part about Morgoth when the path starts leading them downwards, and despite how narrow it is, they somehow manage to walk side by side. She's just finishing when they reach the end, midway down with the walls of the cliff above and around them.
View of the Door is blocked now by the stone, and all Harry can see out is the water as it splashes against the rocks. The sky is turning a vivid red mixed with streaks of purple and gold as the sun approaches the horizon.
It's so stunning. More so as he feels Nienna's hand reach out and take his.
A breath. A blink. And they're inside… Somewhere.
Harry isn't entirely sure if it's in the cliff itself or they've been transported elsewhere. He supposes that it really doesn't matter in the end. He's been to Lórien. He still technically resides in Mandos. But he's never actually gone to the private places where the Valar truly dwell. He honestly doesn't know what to expect, but at the same time, he somehow also isn't surprised.
The floors are the color of light marble, but the walls seemingly can't decide what they want to be. One minute, it's gray. The next a soft blue. Then green. The furniture is the same strange material used in his own room in Mandos – one that isn't metal or stone or wood or plastic. Something otherworldly.
She shows him what would ordinarily be considered a kitchen table. Only, it's not like any kitchen he's ever seen, but he isn't sure what else to consider this room. It's open, airy. Stirred by a breeze from nowhere. The windows are like those from the magical world, looking out at places far away – a fortress on a frozen mountain, a distant shore with a wide beach, an elven city high above a valley.
One of Harry's paintings hangs on the wall, the very first one he made in this world. He remembers giving it to her. How fascinated she was with the glimpse of Hogwarts as the castle rises impossibly large and glittering in the background. All the first-year students floating across the lake on their journey to reach their new school.
In a corner is an enormous harp. One that's nearly the size of Nienna herself. Silvery and shining as if with its own light. A somber melody drifts from it even as Harry settles in his chair, and something in the song stirs at his heart.
He puzzles at that even as he continues looking around. Noting every little detail as she somehow produces a complete tea set with snacks. The tea is lavender and berry. Floral but almost tart as he sips. There's a vacant seat across from him, he notices. It's odd really. Harry has the distinct impression that Nienna very seldom allows anyone to come here, and yet, there are three chairs at this table. One for Nienna herself. Another that Harry occupies. A third which is empty.
He wonders who else she has over, but that's a rather personal thing to ask. She does have two brothers though. And two sisters by marriage so perhaps them?
"Yes, they do visit," Nienna says then, and she's a cool rain on a December morning. "Rarely now. I most often go to them."
Harry glances at her. Wondering if he did in fact say that aloud or if she honestly read his mind. He knows the Ainur are certainly capable of that, but he thinks he'd be able to tell. At least, he hopes he would.
Nienna's mouth curves just the slightest bit then, and Harry thinks it must be because she's guessing. She knows him well enough at this point to read his aura like an open book at times, and there's something comforting in that.
However, even the small smile she's managed falls away as she considers his unvoiced comment.
"I have few visitors, but keeping three places is habit," she replies as her eyes stray to the empty space and linger.
"For Námo and Irmo?" Harry purposefully says aloud now.
Nienna comes back to him, but something like a shadow cross her face as her head turns. As her hair obscures the source-less light for the scantest second.
"For them as well, yes," she acknowledges, but it's softer.
Harry hesitates at her words. There's something to her cadence. To the ache of her song. To the winter rain slowly shifting to sleet and the dead leaves that crunch on the ground.
"Are they…" Harry starts, but he hesitates.
Familial relationships have never been his strong point, and admittedly, understanding how that works for the Ainur is both very simple and infinitely complicated. They are not creatures of flesh and bone for all that they can take those forms, so kinship works on an entirely different level. Despite having siblings and spouses, blood does not make them related. The music, the soul of creation does, which is a very heavy concept even on the best day. Even contemplating how they came into existence… well, Harry's thought about that perhaps far too much and he isn't going back into that fairy ring any time soon.
"Are they not your brothers?" he inquires after a brief pause.
Vairë explained that to him before. Surely, she wasn't wrong. Vairë was Námo's wife; she should know his sister. Particularly as they are close friends. Harry sees them often with each other in Mandos. Sometimes alone but usually together.
Nienna's head dips. She always wears her hood; this is the first that Harry's seen it pushed back. She must've done so when they came inside. Harry can see her hair for once, roots and all, paler than even the lightest cloud. White as driven snow.
"They are now," she replies, "but not always, no. Once, I had other brothers."
Harry blinks at that. Feels his eyebrows rise. He isn't quite sure what to make of that, so he says nothing. Lets her talk. Maybe that's what she needs. She listens to the sorrows of others. To their hurts. But he wonders how often they hear hers. How often she receives the same comfort she offers.
"Once," Nienna continues, and her head is still bowed over the cup between her hands, "before we made this world, I was the youngest of three. I was the last song of Eru to complete a harmony. That was eons ago by your reckoning. Even by the understanding of the elves."
Her aura is still sleet. Neither snow nor rain. Freezing. Chilling to the bone as it falls and ices over everything around it. Harry reaches for her anyway. Touches skin to skin and doesn't care that it's cold enough to burn even him.
"We – all of us – are not as we were then."
She finally looks at him, but he doesn't know what to call the expression on her face. Remembrance? Grief? Despair?
"We thought we knew so much and didn't truly understand our own ignorance," she explains, but her words are faint, distant and echoing. "I am supposed to be merciful. I am supposed to see good in all beings, but there is one where I could not. Where I searched as deeply as I could and found nothing."
His fingers curl around her wrist and give a squeeze of encouragement. The room is so cold around them, and her tea is a solid block in her mug.
"I looked at him and saw only evil. I saw only the desire for power. He wishes to rule all and bend others to his will." Her tears are frozen on her face. Like rain when it hits icy air. "That was at the end though. That was after betrayal and so much pain. He fooled us too many times prior to that. As for my other brother…" She shakes her head slowly. "The other could only see his lies. He could not fathom the truth, or perhaps he did not wish to do so. Even now, he does so reluctantly."
Nienna's silent then. Quiet. Lost.
"What happened," Harry questions. It's as gentle as the kiss of snow.
"One brother fell fully into his evil." She isn't human or even elven, but her hands tremble. "As for the other, we quarreled. Words were said that cannot be unsaid. Thoughts shared that were better left to one's self."
She doesn't have to say their names for Harry to know who she means. The memory flows over him, ghosts past his shields like they don't even exist. They're translucent, transparent. Like phantoms called forth. Destroying nothing. Not able to interact with the living world at all.
He's never met Morgoth as far as he knows, and he hopes that he never will. Still, there's a tingle of foreboding down his spine. A sense of recognition as Harry glimpses him as he once was. Before Arda. Afterwards. Hair dark, black like the Void, but a flash of green as he turns away, and Harry's struck by the knowledge that was lost when the corruption grew too much. When it started to truly show and was impossible to hide in his eyes any longer. When the rot stole any other color from him.
That's when Nienna first knew, but Manwë didn't admit it even then. Perhaps he couldn't.
Harry exhales as the memory dies. As the visage of Morgoth and Manwë fades into nothingness. He's struck by an itch of familiarity. By a shiver of something he can't name. Harry can't find words to describe it, however, and he lets it float away.
His fingers are still on Nienna's skin, and it's chilled. Cool beneath his touch. He breathes a Warming Charm over both of them. Over the table, cups. Room itself. It takes a moment. Fights against the aching cold, but he pours in more power. Tells the frost and ice to go back to sleep, and they listen – reluctantly at first – but then with more and more agreement as the air around them turns from frigid to temperate.
Nienna sighs then. Takes a deep breath and exhales.
"Námo and Irmo took me in," she continues after a long moment of staring into her tea. "They made me their sister, and now, it is truth. Their wives are now my sisters as well, and my family is grown."
"You're still Manwë's sister though, right? I mean," Harry clarifies when she glances away from the rising steam, "I'm not sure how that works here."
"We… never truly renounced each other," she acknowledges, "but the bond is dormant. Slumbering."
Harry can see it on his mind's canvas then. Witness it take shape as if a brush is drawing it out in front of him. An enormous bear hibernating in the fiercest part of winter. In a deep, dark cave without a single mote of light. Burrowed in against the cold. She may stay there forever. Or one day, spring may arrive. Warmth may start to seep in, and she may rouse once more.
"And Morgoth?" he asks at last.
She gives a little laugh, but there's no humor at all. It's more like a sigh. A patter of sleet against the window as she gazes up at his face and directly into his eyes.
"Shattered. He did that himself as soon as he fled Aman." She allows the tears to drop to the table now that her skin is warmer. "He didn't want us to track him, or perhaps he simply wanted to hurt us even more."
It certainly did, she doesn't say.
But Harry knows. Understands in that instant how deeply he injured she and Manwë both. Sees it like he saw the other images. The memory of it reflecting in her thoughts. The agony. The stabbing pain deep in her soul like a knife straight through the heart. Sharp and fierce enough that their physical forms were dying, their songs warped and discordant. Even as they dealt with grieving Ñoldor and tried to figure out what to do for the Trees.
Harry soothes over the faint scar he finds buried under the winter snow now that he knows where to look. It's old. Looks like someone with greater skill than he has worked tirelessly to heal everything, but it's still present. Still a dead area in the landscape where nothing grows and the drifts are slushy and gray.
"Do the elves know any of this?" Harry wonders then, and it's partially to himself.
"I've told only one other and now you," she informs him solemnly as she still looks in his eyes and nothing else. "Perhaps the others have, but I know my chosen brothers and sisters never would for they would not want to cause me pain. I know Manwë would not for it grieves him to have… lost both siblings."
"Would you take him back?" he inquires because he honestly isn't sure of the answer. "If he apologized?"
Nienna is quiet then. Reflective. Her tears are slower now, nearly stopped. But some griefs are beyond that. Some are so profound that nothing can ever genuinely express them.
"Perhaps," she says next. Her tone is a stab of an icicle, but it's directed inward, at herself. "Perhaps it is not only he who has to apologize."
Heartbeats of silence as they look at each other. Nienna breaks first.
"He is wise, Manwë," she murmurs, "but his true weakness is that he doesn't understand evil. He does not understand the drives behind it. He does not know the need for power or possession. The lust. The greed. It isn't his nature to see those things, and he has struggled to comprehend it all. Even more, he struggles to grasp why Melkórë did and became what he has."
"But you aren't like that."
Not a question. Not quite. Harry comprehends more of his new home and the Valar's role here every day.
"Yes… and no." She makes a middling gesture. "I don't think any of us who are now in Aman ever will truly understand evil in such a manner because we do not share those desires. We haven't suffered in the way others have though. Not as those who live in Endor." She pauses for the briefest second. "Not as you have, Marcaunon."
Harry lets that one go. Doesn't rise to the bait.
Nienna, as always, is merciful enough not to push him, but her aura brushes against him in a request for forgiveness, like a kiss against his cheek.
"I asked for forgiveness for Melkórë," she corrects herself, "for Moringotto. Time and again, I have done so. First, when Arda was shaped, and he caused discord in the Song. We – the Ainur – met as a group to decide whether he would be invited to truly join us. If he would be allowed to come to Arda with us or if he would stay in the Timeless Halls with Eru Ilúvatar. There was an impasse." Nienna's voice is both withdrawn and very tired. "Manwë asked for my thoughts. It was I who swayed them, who convinced them at last to allow Moringotto to come with us. The other Ainur trusted us, Manwë and I, on the matter. Why wouldn't they? We were his siblings. We knew him best and vouched for him. If I had said no... If I had even stayed silent, so much would be different now. So much pain and grief would've been avoided."
Harry doesn't sigh, but he does run his fingers over her wrist in steady circles. She's older than this world, but there's something impossibly fragile in her as they sit at her table next to her black rose tea set.
"You're the Lady of Mercy; that's your nature. You said it yourself. You'd ask for it for anyone." Harry shouldn't have to point out the obvious, but sometimes, it really is hard to see the trees for the forest. "He put you in an impossible position. He asked you to decide already knowing what you'd say."
"I do not think that was on purpose," she defends, but it's weak. Exhausted. "Not now."
"But at the time?"
She merely inclines her head.
"And later, in Valinor…" Harry lets out a breath. "Of course, you'd ask for mercy. Again… it's your nature, but it's also his to not see the evil in people."
"It is as you said," she admits. "I will ask for mercy as I always do. Manwë knows this, but…"
She looks at him then, and Harry can never see the color of her eyes behind her tears, but there's a vision in them. An image of three siblings with diverging paths. One leaves early to never return. Two stay frustratingly close but don't connect, never touch, as time stretches ever onwards.
Nienna breaks the spell only by looking away. Only by gazing at her harp in the corner which now sits silent. Listening.
"Manwë knows I will always ask for mercy," she comments then, "but I am not sure he understands it. He is wise in many things, but in people… perhaps that is truly his greatest weakness."
Harry exhales harder. He taps on the table with his free hand. The room is temperate now, but she's still winter sleet. Slower now. Just as her tears have slowed. He suspects it's more out of fatigue than relief though.
Harry understands. He does. Really. Truly. Knows what it is to forgive but have no closure.
He isn't Tom Riddle's brother. Isn't Tom Riddle's anything. Doesn't consider himself his enemy. Not after all this time. Not even that long after Hogwarts to be honest.
Nienna offers him this truth, and he'll offer her one of his own. He pitied Tom. Still pities him. Always will.
He never told Ron or Hermione or anyone else. How could he? How could he explain that no matter how badly Tom Riddle hurt him, Harry felt sorry for the monster he became? For the upbringing he endured as a magical child in a religious orphanage during the Depression? For the years as a poor mudblood in Hogwarts? For being sent back to a war-torn Muggle World? For learning the truth of his parents and conception? For all the things that shaped him from a deeply terrified but proud child to a power-hungry, mad genius who never had anyone to guide or even love him?
Harry spent almost fifteen years with part of Tom's soul. From the time he was a toddler to when he was nearly an adult. Is it any wonder that he still misses him sometimes? That he even prays his soul did manage to heal and he's found some type of peace?
He tells her as much. Tells her of regrets. Of wishes that he could have done something different. Something more.
It isn't the same. Except when it is.
Nienna actually smiles at him then. It's a small thing. Barely there. Just a vague curl of her lips. Soft, frail but real.
And sometimes that's enough.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Past!Nerdanel – Whose son is besties with a Vala. Please remember to feed and water him regularly, Oromë!
Also Past!Nerdanel – All my idiot children swore an Oath to three murder stones and made the Valar cry. Now one of them wears my son's face because he can't cope.
More Recent!Nerdanel – My relationship with the Valar is weird now that all my sons but one are in prison.
Present!Nerdanel – My grandchild is supposed to be a peredhel, isn't he? Hm… Lord Eönwë is hanging around an awful lot, but a mother would know her child's spouse. Shrugs.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Citizen #1 – So that's him?
Citizen #2 – Yep! That's the one.
Citizen #3 – Heard he was king in Endor.
Citizen #4 – Confirming nod. The last king of the Ñoldor.
Citizen #2 – Fought Sauron, too.
Citizen #3 – Rubs chin. Impressive credentials.
Citizen #1 – I think he'll do nicely.
Citizen #4 – Shrugs. It' not like we get a say in this or anything.
All of Them – True.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Not-Really-Canonical-But-Mentioned-In-The-Lore
Harry – Really, Nienna? Bat wings?
Nienna – Embarrassed shrug. It was a phase.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Nienna – So I have two brothers.
Harry – Yeah, I know this.
Nienna – No, not those two brothers. My other two brothers.
Harry – ?
Nienna – It's very tragic. Nods solemnly. Did I mention that it's about Morgoth?
Harry – 0_o
Nienna – I know, my dear. My brothers… One is evil, and the other's an idiot.
Harry – Facepalm.
Somewhere else in Valinor…
Manwë – I feel as though someone is calling me.
Varda – Yes, yes, I'm sure they are.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor and sons slowly meandering to the outer areas of Formenos. Looking at the lovely winter garden followed by the autumn forests, then the summer lake, and finally the mountains in spring.
Caranthir – Coming to a decision. I think I need to go back to Mandos.
Celegorm – What?!
Curufin – Why?!
Caranthir – They obviously put me back together wrong; I'm hallucinating.
Amrod – Raises hand.
Amras – Us, too!
Celegorm – Now that you mention it…
Curufin – Grudgingly. There may be some impossible things I'm seeing here.
All of Them – Looking at each other. Glancing over at their oldest brother and father who are in very deep discussion just down the road.
Caranthir – So if all of us are seeing this…
Somewhere in Mandos…
Námo – Has a sudden sense of doom. Freezes for a moment before it goes away on its own. Sighs in relief.
AN: So in doing a deep dive, Nienna was originally the sister of Manwë and Melkor and was the strongest of the female Vala. Her siblings were changed to Námo and Irmo, but what if both things are true? The lore for Nienna is wild fyi, so I decided to play with canon a little bit because it adds even more depth to her character. Not to mention the sister of Morgoth ending up with a son of Fëanor? Talk about soap opera here. I didn't know any of this when I was plotting this story out, so you know.
Next chapter should be out in 2 weeks. I was lucky to get this one done early because I don't write in order so had a lot of random parts done previously.
-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