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.
Harry sits in a garden of snow and evergreens. Indilwen is at his back as he rests on her shoulder, her neck curled around his hip. She's sleeping in a half-doze with little soft snores that she'll deny to her dying day, but that only adds to the ambiance. Everything is serene in the moonlight. The only other sounds are his harp and the tinkling of ice crystals. His castle rises above him in the darkness like a silent sentinel, watching over them, guarding his serenade in the night.
The notes rise and fall as he contemplates his work. It's coming along nicely, nearly complete. Just needs a few touches here and there. Harry added the fountain just yesterday, but the icicles have formed beautifully, and the lights swirl around in a dance of rime and shimmers. He only started building this section when he returned with Gil-galad from Tirion, but he's incredibly pleased with how everything's turned out. Before it was an empty space, left alone until inspiration struck, but now, it's more than his latest project. Not just something to fill the hours until dawn. It's a private space for him to play surrounded by chill and frost and the knowledge that he doesn't have to hide or apologize.
It's a much smaller version of what encircles the whole of Harry's kingdom. A gentle haven with a dusting of snow that blankets everything. Snowdrops bloom along with rare flowers impervious to cold, and not all of them are originally magical. The roses certainly are – a special variety that blossoms a glowing argent and never in the sunlight. His black hellebore is as well, preferring to grow when the flakes are coming down. The purple primroses and blue crocus are pure Muggle varieties, however, similar to the ones Petunia had so long ago. The others are a mix, scattered together at his whim, but all of them are Earth-based. Nothing from Arda is here. Even the trees are all from his memories. A collection of conifers painted with crystals and ice until they twinkle like frosted glass in the starlight.
Aside from Indilwen, Harry's otherwise alone as he sits and plays to the winter jasmine and camellia around his bent knees. Eönwë has been in and out of the castle for the last week; Nienna stopped in yesterday and the day before to watch him work. Inara drifted in a few times, but she's been oddly listless lately so didn't stay. Instead, Indilwen is his most frequent companion here, and on these nights, just as now, she lays down with her head stretched out near his knee, and Harry leans against her with Káno's harp in his lap. It's just as they did those first months in the fortress when it was only them bedding down in the great hall. Even later on when they kept the grass there and would stare up at the forming sky of the ceiling as it slowly came together under his hand.
That – all of it – feels like a lifetime ago. It was such an odd time. A new adventure. Harry reflects back on it with fondness. With surprising happiness.
Indilwen is sweetly dreaming as they recline near the single bench. Like the low walls and paths, it's formed of pure ice and coaxed to take shape. Charmed to never melt but also not to be so terribly cold to anyone who touches. Indilwen tolerates the lower temperatures after all these years of practice and Harry's magic to bolster her; Gil certainly will now with his new gift. But the Ainur do wander around freely, and some of them are not as resistant. Not to mention that Nerdanel's still here, and he wouldn't want her to fetch a chill or get frostbite. Cold is one of the Eldar's true weaknesses after wine, it seems.
It's late. Or perhaps early is the correct term. Enough so that dawn is a soon to come dream. Káno's already departed for the night; he does require more rest than Harry ever will. The soothing melody won't disturb him though. If anything, it's one known for putting elflings to sleep, and Harry has been choosing similar music in the last few hours. Given the number of songs he knows at this point, he could keep going well until noon and still not run out or repeat. As it is, dawn will eventually arrive, and it's almost time for Harry to rise and head in. It's his turn today in the kitchen, but if he lingers too long, he knows that Nerdanel will use the opportunity to skip ahead.
He continues to play softly for now. The notes familiar and ancient. A song that Káno was sung as a child by his parents. Just as his own grandfather once did the same.
There's someone lingering on the edge of his senses as he comes to an end. Not on his side but on Káno's. It isn't someone Harry's met before, but there's something very recognizable. As if Harry should know this person. This elf, Harry's absolutely sure of that. Male. Sure of that one, too. He hasn't touched the harp. Hasn't come close enough for Harry to catch more than a glimpse of water steadily flowing over rocks. Of waterfalls in a deep valley. Of other presences even more distant around him. Some also familiar. Others complete strangers.
Káno has naturally not said anything at all about this. Hasn't mentioned moving from the shore at all. Or that he's acquired some new – possibly old – friends. Harry isn't sure if this is a good sign. Or a very bad one. If this is progress. If it means that Káno's at last ready and able to not spend the next millennia lamenting on a beach. Or if it means something's happened.
Either way, if Káno wants him to know, he'll tell Harry. Until then, he'll wait. Patient as the winter awaiting the spring. Watching. Supporting him best he can from half a world away.
His melody finishes with a single long note. One that slowly fades away to nothingness. Harry considers another song, but he pauses. Waits to see what the other person will do. If he'll come closer. If he'll leave. If he'll simply linger.
Minutes pass, and it seems like the last option. Harry has the impression of someone settling in. Sitting on the floor by a doorway while the harp is on a bedside table. Káno, he knows is dozing. Can feel the slow rhythm of his waves on the shore of his soul, soothed and soothing in turn. Repetitive in elfish sleep. Káno wouldn't be so relaxed if this person were a threat; he wouldn't rest unless it's someone he trusts completely.
Harry considers that for a moment. Something gentle but appropriately difficult. He smiles to himself.
Then, he starts a song that this elf wouldn't have ever heard. A hymn that Fleur and later Victoire sang at the birth of all their children. It's meant to be done by both parents, but Harry's grown in skill enough to do the two parts seamlessly. He can feel his listener's shock as he switches from one to the other without missing a single note. He's half-way through when Gil arrives, but Harry carries on without stumbling. He merely meets his love's gaze as he continues all the way to the finish line before ending with a little flourish. How his distant audience reacts, Harry isn't quite sure as he puts the harp to the side.
Indilwen stirs then. Ears twitching at the sound of footsteps approaching despite the music. Lifting her head when Gil's boots touch the path several yards away. Her blue eyes are fully alert in seconds but relax immediately when she realizes who it is. Then, she lets out a yawn large enough for Harry to chuckle.
"So this is where you've been going," Gil comments as he ambles over, already bathed and dressed. In layers of blue and green with golden ivy embroidered on the outer robe. His bracelet and ring are his only adornment aside from his braids.
It's only now starting to truly brighten outside and far too early for him to normally be up. Even using the shortcut from the apartment in the tower to the ground floor, Gil is never ready this soon. The bracelet though brings him here instantly, but he must be awake for that. Which he is, strangely enough.
Hm…
"I was curious," Gil replies to the question Harry hasn't even asked, but he laughs afterwards. "And now, I have a way to follow you."
That's true enough. Gil's taken to his bracelet swimmingly. He popped all over the castle yesterday in a trial of it, but he hasn't tried anywhere in the city yet, and Harry really hasn't had the chance to show him the outer rings. That's certainly something to do since Gil will be able to travel more freely there on his own now.
"You need only ask," Harry tells him as he straightens his legs from beneath him and stands in a single motion. "I'd take you anywhere you want, and I'd tell you anything I was doing."
Behind them, Indilwen also rises. Rubbing her nose on Harry's arm and receiving a caress in return. She ambles off after that without a backwards glance. Harry watches her before returning to Gil and gestures to the garden around him.
"This is hardly a secret. You knew I was building this."
His elf spins in a slow circle to peer around before he moves to the bench just steps away. He doesn't motion for Harry to join him, but the intention is clear. Gil doesn't even ease himself down until Harry is seated there. However, there's a slight hesitation. A slowness in the way he turns to Harry that's completely baffling. More so as his earlier mirth dies away.
"Yes, I did," Gil responds, and his voice is odder still. "But you always seem reluctant to play."
"For others. Not for you," Harry admits. "Some of that was to keep them from discovering the harp."
His elf seems to consider that, but there's another pause. More hesitation. A weighing of words. Or maybe a rehearsal of them. He has the air of someone who very much wishes to say something but isn't quite sure of the wisdom. Or the outcome.
"Mírimo," he finally says, "earlier with the children…" He trails off momentarily before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "Maybe I haven't explained things as I should have. Perhaps I assumed things. You keep giving me things like your painting and now this bracelet." His fingers trace the feather pattern. "Only, I didn't state outright my intentions and what I wanted from you."
Harry can only sit and gaze at him. He isn't sure how to respond. Isn't quite sure where this is going.
"I think that's obvious," Harry comments after a moment of his love looking at him with an earnest but worried expression. "I'm rather sure we want the same thing really."
It's a reasonable statement. An even more reasonable assumption. They obviously have a connection, one that's growing with each passing hour. Gil let Harry stay with him in Tirion and journeyed here with him. They touch in a manner definitely beyond friendship. Sleep in the same bed as a couple does. Engage in other adult activities. Elves aren't casual about any of that; certainly not as the mortal races are. They marry once, for life, without divorce. Save for exceedingly rare exceptions. Gil's also carried the Silmaril for him. An artifact people murdered, betrayed, and destroyed countless lives to have. Returned it to him without comment, returned it to him so easily. Of course, he now has a bracelet that's the proverbial keys to Harry's kingdom.
Not to mention the ring. Best not forget about that.
His elf is observing him now. Eyes large and unreadable. His aura gives him away though. It's troubled. Rumbling. Anxious even. It's as if he fears that Harry is ignorant. As if he thinks that Harry doesn't grasp the meaning of his gift. Hasn't this entire time. A misconception on how much Harry has understood the goings-on.
So maybe that's it. Maybe Gil doesn't realize Harry knows.
"You gave me a ring," Harry reminds him. "I do understand the implications of getting one of those. After all, are we not already engaged? Betrothed really?" he corrects absentmindedly.
The manner might be a bit different than on Earth. Along with the placement. Harry's is now on the correct finger; Gil-galad's still lags a bit behind. But that isn't the point. Not yet.
Gil's breath hitches. He blinks. Once and again.
"That was… That was right after the roof."
Harry inclines his head. It's cheerful. Honest.
"Yes, it was."
"But… that early?" Gil asks, and he genuinely seems confused by this.
Harry isn't entirely sure why. He thinks their stance on things should be blatantly clear, but he'll humor him. Or perhaps this is another elfish thing? Maybe they must make their intentions unmistakable? Have to say it outright?
"I've never been as ignorant of elven courtships as everyone seems to imagine," Harry responds, but it's tender. "My parents were quite thorough in my education, you know. Even the things I didn't think would ever apply to me."
And yes, those were some awkward conversations with Nienna and Káno that he didn't wish to repeat. Ever. He has much more sympathy for Ron and all his siblings and the sex-talk they received from Molly and Arthur. Harry still has secondhand embarrassment just thinking about that. He's fortunate to have escaped it himself by swearing that he learned it all in primary school – which was true enough. From a certain point of view.
The fact that he's a trained healer and was a headmaster…. Well, those are different. That's impersonal. Detached. He's delivered babies and lectured students on safe practices enough to make even Poppy Pomfrey proud. Much less Molly.
Anyway, back to matter at hand.
"But you never said—" Gil begins.
"You didn't either," Harry points out.
His elf is still staring at him. "You accepted it."
Harry beams at him. He reaches forward to cup Gil's face with his right hand.
"I did," he agrees. "I allowed you to place it on my finger and kept wearing it. I still wear it." He strokes a thumb over an unlined cheek. "Maybe I was ready to try living. Even if I didn't want to admit it to myself yet."
Gil's eyes are sad then. Going from worried to relieved to anguished. He wants to ask; Harry knows he does. But he won't like the answer, and it'll certainly kill the mood. Instead, he swipes his thumb over his elf's lips before leaning forward to give him a chaste kiss. When he pulls back, Gil is gripping his other hand tightly in both of his own.
"Tell me about the ring," Harry says after a few seconds. It's both a request and a distraction. "I know there's something about it."
Otherwise, Finarfin and Fingon and Fingolfin wouldn't have kept staring at it. Findis, too. But she was far more subtle about things. Irimë didn't care if anyone caught her watching, and the fact that Harry hadn't was all the more suspicious. Then, there was Aredhel whispering to Celebrían so faintly that even Harry couldn't hear what she said. Not to mention that Angrod and Finrod's matching smirks were telling as was Argon's grin.
"It's lapis," Gil explains slowly, carefully. As if gauging his reaction. "For seeing your own worth. It's also the stone for royalty. Both worn by and given to." That earns him a raised eyebrow, but he lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "It also means that I wanted to gain your friendship along with your love."
As if he doesn't already have both. As if he hasn't practically from the start. It just took a while for Harry to admit that. And maybe it is understandable why Gil's been concerned? Harry possibly could've been more honest to both of them. To Gil and himself.
Harry strokes his cheek again in apology, and his elf leans into it. The snow is slow, tranquil as it falls around them. Almost glowing in the rapidly dawning light. But Gil is the brightest thing around. Warm and radiant.
"A ring from one's own hand means they'll give anything their love needs, yes?" Harry questions as he remembers what Káno taught before.
He doesn't startle, but Harry can tell Gil's surprised he knew that.
"Or that you support your love in anything," his elf adds. His tone is low, and his eyes don't leave Harry's face. "Versus a new ring. That means building a new life together. New beginnings."
"This is an heirloom," Harry comments as his ring is squeezed against his skin. "I can tell from the feel of it. You're the strongest essence, but there are echoes of other people here, too."
Distant. Faint even with ages past but still lingering. Fingon. Fingolfin. They're the ones he recognizes without trying. There are others who're familiar, but Harry has no name for them.
If any of this is a revelation, Gil doesn't show it. He just nods instead.
"I told you lapis is for royalty. This set in particular," Gil-galad confesses, and there's something in the way he says it, something very telling. "The one each of us has… these have been worn by the High Kings of the Ñoldor."
And there it is.
Harry can deny he's a king or a prince or even a lord, but he wears the ring of one. Has done so openly. Shown this ring off even.
Silly him.
Gil dips his head but doesn't look away as he adds, "Finwë had them first. A gift from his oldest son. They were passed back to him when Finwë died and then along the line in the First Age."
"And then to you," Harry realizes.
Now to him. To Harry. How ironic, he thinks. What strange luck.
His love seems to agree as he inches closer.
"I've had them longer than anyone but Finwë himself. Elrond retrieved them when…" He grimaces and doesn't finish.
When he died, Gil means. When he fell in battle. When he was killed by Sauron. When he was burned alive.
Frost curls around them both at that thought. Encircling. Wrapping them in a safe cloak of cold and rime. Warding and warning both to phantoms far away.
Gil simply relaxes into it.
"He refused to wear them. He refused to be the next king, so I was the last in Endor." His love sighs then, and a storm cloud passes through the frost for a scant second. "Celebrían carried them with her when she sailed. One of the first things she did was return them to me. I tried to give them to Fingon and Fingolfin, but they refused. Finarfin told me not to even bother."
Gil-galad is silent then. Contemplative. But if anyone has earned the right to carry these, it's him.
"You may not be a Ñoldo by birth, but from what everyone tells me, you did right by them." Harry leans down to press their foreheads together. "More than that, you carried them through terrible times into prosperity and through war again. You sacrificed for them and shouldered their burdens; they didn't want to take that acknowledgment from you even if they don't know the half of it."
His elf doesn't reply to that. To be honest, there isn't much to say against the truth. Instead, Harry allows him a minute before asking him a different question. One he's been considering for some time as he touches Gil's hand.
"Will you?"
Harry doesn't have to explain. His love knows what he intends. Left for courtship. Right for a true engagement. Harry's kept his on the proper side since it was moved yesterday. Changing Gil's means that he also agrees.
"That's a betrothal," his love points out unhelpfully. As if Harry doesn't already know. "It's much harder to end than a courtship."
Harry just looks at him. Green eyes shining in the soft morning light.
"Why would I want to end it?"
Gil opens his mouth before promptly closing it. He observes Harry, searching.
"It's only supposed to last a year and then marriage," he murmurs after a few seconds.
Harry snorts. Tell that to Finrod. He can see that Gil's thinking the same thing though as his lips quirk.
"I know." Harry gives him a small, fond smile in return. "We already share a bed and… other things. If you'll have me, I want you to share my life. I want you to stay with me."
A pause then. A held breath. The breeze in the trees stills. The snowflakes even seem to hesitate, seem to stop completely, but Gil-galad is truly beaming as he offers his hands. Harry takes the twin ring slowly from his left. It slides onto his right with a sense of finality. Of correctness. Of promises being made and aching to be kept.
Storm blue eyes are observing him when he glances up. His face is very close. Nose brushing Harry's own. Static is on his skin where their hands touch.
"We could get married right now," Gil whispers then.
Harry feels his heart speeding up. Drumming in his ears. More so as Gil leans forward to kiss him.
Harry gasps. Almost dizzy. The air is heavy with the press of lightning that won't strike. With thunder rumbling overhead. With flurries now swirling around. He doesn't know what to think, and soon enough, he isn't bothering to try as Gil presses against him. There's want and desire and longing until they all spiral together. Until Harry can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
Until…
Until…
Until Harry's peering up at him. Puzzled. He isn't entirely sure how it happened, but his back is flat on the bench, ice firm beneath him as Gil hovers above. His love's face is flushed, eyes dark but glittering in the dawning sun. Electricity buzzes where Harry's hand is around his neck, holding him tightly in place; despite their positions, one of Gil's legs is pinned beneath his. They're both fully clothed save for Gil's robe, which is now pillowed beneath Harry's head, and he doesn't know how that happened either.
Snow pours down around them. Enough so that they're both in actual danger of being covered; there's a layer three inches deep already on the unused parts of the bench and the ground nearby.
Gil laughs then. Following Harry's gaze. Both terribly amused and delighted by his reaction. But he's also shaking his head, almost regretfully.
"No, not yet," he decides, more than a little breathless. "Not here."
He presses a final kiss to Harry's temple, and it takes a moment for his heart to calm. A few minutes more for them to untangle and for both to sit up. For Harry to pull the robe back around Gil's shoulders and magic out the wrinkles. Gil-galad is holding his hand the entire time as they stand and walk together back inside.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It occurs to Harry that afternoon, while Nerdanel and Gil follow him out of in the kitchen after watching him bake, that he really needs to start paying more attention to who's entering his wards. Yes, there are thousands every day coming inside, not even counting those exiting, but one would think he could notice his own family. After all, this is the second time it's happened in the last month or so.
Maybe he should train the wards to recognize them all? It shouldn't be that hard.
In his defense, however, he set those to measure hostile intent. Malignant purposes. Not positive ones. He also mostly searches for people he expects in Formenos. Inglor and his company. The guard. The children, Daeron, and Gwindor. His other friends. Laerien and Melpomaen and his staff. Merchants, both permanent and traveling. The various guild-members. Artisans. Anybody else he interacts with on a regular basis.
Now, Gil-galad.
Why would he ever expect Nerdanel? Much less half of the House of Finwë? And who next? Indis? Olwë? Thingol? Should he just roll out the red carpet?
As it is, Harry can only stare towards the gate as the first horses arrive. He just dreamed this so recently, and a not so small part of him wonders if he's still asleep. The same part that's even now questioning his sanity. Wondering if it's possible for him to hallucinate as he is now. Or maybe this is a very elaborate fantasy. An illusion gone awry.
An even larger part of him hopes it's real. He loves being home. Loves having Gil and Eönwë and Nienna and Nerdanel now, too. All of them here. But he finds that he's missed the others. Missed his talks with Fingolfin in the evening. Argon's easy grin. Finrod and his music. Angrod's sensibleness. Findis with her insight. Aredhel and Irimë – absent but not forgotten.
Fingon, Harry misses him most of all. Regardless of how much he worries.
Celebrían may not be the friend he hoped she was, but he misses her, too.
Still part of him thinks this must be a dream. Even though he knows that it can't possibly be when Gil-galad stands next to him, chuckling like this is both the best and worst day ever. Nerdanel is on his other side, hands clasped in front of her mouth as she gasps in joy. The gates, traitors that they are, have let the lot of them inside his courtyard without so much as a by-your-leave. Now, the House of Finwë and what seems like a third of their worldly possessions are practically on his doorstep.
Fingon is the first to him. Of course, he is. But Harry has already moved to embrace him before the elf can even get his arms up. He laughs in Harry's ear, squeezing him back just as tightly. Warm and solid and very real.
Harry trembles against him.
"You're really here," he whispers in astonishment.
Somehow, he's squeezed even tighter.
"Of course, nephew," Fingon responds.
But they're so close Harry can't even see his face. He can only feel the breath against his cheek and the heat of a hearth curling around him deep down inside. Beyond glacial walls and icy corridors. That feeling is still present when Fingon finally pulls back, and it's only far enough to study Harry with an intensity that's almost unnerving. Whatever he sees must be reassuring though since his smile is relaxed and open.
"It's good to finally see you," the elf murmurs, and it's so very fond.
Harry can only nod, and he's spared finding the right words in response since Fingolfin chooses that moment to appear. Between one blink and the next, he's suddenly beside them. Father and son exchange a single look before he bumps Fingon out of the way impatiently, and Harry has a second to startle at that before he's swept into another hug.
The sensation of warmth intensifies as if cocoa – or hot cider – has been placed in his hands. The cupboard of his mind feels almost cozy then, inviting. Harry can all but hear the crackle of the fireplace even as he feels Fingolfin's hand drawing him in closer. He's so very comfortable that Harry finds himself leaning forward to rest his head on Fingolfin's shoulder that's just in front of him. Fingertips rub soothing circles on his back, but the elf doesn't say anything. Doesn't even rush Harry along as they stand there. He instead presses a kiss to Harry's brow.
Harry jerks up then. Stares at him in surprise for a second. However, Argon shoves Fingolfin out of the way before Harry can even figure out what to say.
He's like a fur mantle dropping around Harry's shoulder. A blanket draping down with edges tucked in. His cupboard is downright pleasant now. Mug held in both hands and hearth in front. The chill he's always had, one that doesn't come from his own power or from anything centered in winter, is finally subdued.
Harry exhales.
He opens his eyes to see Argon smiling down at him.
"Back with us, cousin?" he asks, but there's affection in his voice.
Argon has one arm around Harry's back as the other hovers near his chin. He searches Harry's face for a long few heartbeats but finally settles his hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry blinks a few times in lieu of answering. He peers about to all the elves gathered, and it's indeed the crowd he left not even two months ago in Tirion.
Fingon, of course, and his father. They're now exchanging embraces with Nerdanel, who seems delighted to see them. She's talking very animatedly as she grins up at her brother by marriage.
Findis is nearby along with Finarfin. Politely waiting their turn while they speak with each other in hushed tones.
Angrod and Finrod are just a few steps away from Harry and Argon. Both watching with amusement.
Celebrían is right next to Gil-galad, but they aren't touching. Her face is amiable as always, poised. Nevertheless, Harry hears the discordance from here. Can see the clouds wandering in front of the pale moonlight and night sky of her soul as she senses the physical and spiritual distance between herself and one of her oldest friends. The brother-claimed to her husband. He feels the vague unease in her song as she reaches for Gil, and he gently but firmly rebuffs her.
Harry nods to himself at that. His attention flickers back to Argon, who waits for him without complaint.
"What are you doing here?" Harry finally asks.
Since really, that is the question of the hour.
It's said more with friendly surprise than as a demand. Argon chortles next to him, but Celebrían beats him to an answer.
"We came to see you, silly," she tells him as she glides over to stand in front of him.
Harry knows what she expects. What even two months ago he would've offered freely. But Harry also knows other things now. He knows of Laerien and Melpomaen. Who Celebrían sent here under false pretenses. Who lied and pretended to care for him. Who Harry hasn't spoken to at all since that day. Who try to ambush him in the city. Who expect Harry to bend to their whims.
Not like Inglor who came to Harry and apologized directly. Who has made other overtures of recompense.
Harry finds him much easier to forgive.
The other two. Celebrían. Most certainly not.
She falters before she can reach for him, but it's already too late. Harry knows when Argon feels him stiffen and start to withdrawal inwards. The arm around Harry guides him backwards instinctively. Until there's a noticeable gap, a gulf, that stands between Celebrían and them. The look she gives him then is one of astonishment turning into sadness and edging into something almost like betrayal.
Only, she doesn't get to feel like that.
There's a flare of anger, cold and biting, like an icicle shaking on an overhead branch. Threatening to fall. One sharpened by the wind to a knife's point.
Harry quickly stamps it down.
He hears more than sees the others shifting in the background, but Gil is the one to step up. His elf is polite, perfectly mannered, pleasant, but Harry can hear the unspoken statement. Knows enough about elven traditions to realize a rejection of a visitor from a host is a poor sign indeed. The others seem to look between her and Harry, but none of them say anything as Gil-galad directs her to the left side. There's an air of uncertainty, of utter confusion, around Celebrían. The moon in her sky is shadowed as she slowly moves to join her two uncles, who have shifted further away as if to shield her. But that's not until casting a final glance at Harry, and he stares back at her neutrally.
There's a tension now. A soundtrack of friction as everyone's auras rise and fall with unvoiced questions. Fingon and Fingolfin are still earnest and reassuring. Argon has yet to step from his side. Gil is the steady beat of rain in the back of his mind, but the others are little pinpoints of concern.
Finarfin approaches then. Sedate. Almost careful. Harry goes greet him properly, and the tight line of the king's shoulders relaxes though he genuinely seems surprised when Harry doesn't hesitate to hug him. It's very brief, but it still counts.
His bright hair is flowing down his back, contained only by artfully placed braids and a diadem that Harry's not seen before. One of silver and gold set with clear stones that seem to glow with their own light. It's even more intricate than those he usually wears, and now that he's really looking, Fingolfin's circlet of blue topaz is as well. He inspects the others, and indeed confirms for all that they've been traveling, they seem rather well-dressed. Even more so than their usual attire in Tirion, and Harry would probably feel underdressed if Gil hadn't recently taken over selecting and laying out his clothes the night before. Still, he does know enough about elfish manners that he has to fight to not roll his eyes.
Fortunately, that's interrupted as Findis is there next, and she lets out a low chuckle from behind her favorite fan. Harry follows her direct line of her sight as it zeroes in on the ring now on his right hand. Her aura is the blaze of a solar eclipse. Breathtaking but deceptive. Seemingly shading the sun but enough to burn out a man's eyes. It's even more brilliant now, corona radiating outward in a circle of pure white light.
"It seems we arrived at an auspicious time," she decides then but makes no further comments as she slowly stands on her toes, making sure that Harry has seen, before she presses a kiss to his cheek.
Angrod merely snickers as he sneaks in next, beating out his brother. Everyone is relaxed again. Easy and joyous as the topic of interest moves on, and Harry knows that was Findis' intention all along.
"It was snowing earlier. This morning at dawn," Finrod says as he comes up last but not least. "Does it do that often?" He's oh-so-bright, beaming and happy to be there.
"Sometimes," Harry replies, suddenly cagey.
Gil doesn't snort as he walks over to stand by Harry, but there's a distinct impression of mirth. He really shouldn't be so cavalier about this one, however. The situation was partially his fault. At least half of the blame was on him for it.
"Splendid," Finrod replies. He seems so pleased by Harry's answer as he moves back by his brother and father. "I have missed the snow. It really isn't the same after being in Endor."
Angrod rolls his eyes. "This was admittedly much nicer than we ever had there. It came and went in minutes, and everything was dry a half-hour later."
There are some nods in agreement. Though Harry sees a few assessing looks thrown his way when they think he won't notice, and Findis in particular seems to be evaluating him as one would when confronted with an animal in his natural habitat.
"Just the three of you live here?" Finarfin inquires then.
Harry isn't sure if that's meant as a distraction or an honest question.
"Eönwë left early this morning," Nerdanel speaks up before Harry or Gil can respond. "He said he'd likely return tomorrow."
The newcomers pause to process that. They don't look at each other, but Harry can feel their songs shift. Fingolfin and Fingon tighten around him, while Argon brushes him like a cub poking out with a paw in confusion.
"Lord Eönwë?" Finarfin clarifies very slowly as his brother and oldest nephew exchange a pointed gaze.
"Oh, yes," Nerdanel responds. It's with a bright, sunny smile. "He lives here, too."
"Of course, he does," Finrod automatically agrees. "Par-"
The rest of his sentence is lost as Angrod steps onto his foot. Finarfin takes the opportunity to relocate directly in front so that neither of his sons is in view. Fingolfin shifts in beside him in an almost choreographed move.
"You certainly seem on good terms with him, Nel," he comments, but it's sociable. Conversational. Completely ignoring anything Finrod just tried to say.
Nerdanel merely grins back. It's absolutely amicable, but Harry has the distinct impression of a goblin, all white teeth.
"Certainly," she says, "it's natural with how much time we spend together. Besides, he is my newest inspiration!"
"He's modeling for you, sister?" Findis queries, and she can't keep the surprise from her voice.
"He was rather flattered when I asked," Nerdanel reveals. "He said that only Marcaunon ever did so before."
They all don't look at Harry. Deliberately so. He still has the distinction notion of being stared out. Of being quietly weighed and measured. Judged.
It's unnerving. Not more so than other times at Hogwarts. Or even walking the streets in Tirion. Admittedly, having these particular people do it feels different. Not painful per se but a deeper impression. Like leaving footprints in the sand on the shore. Even the warmth that curls across him isn't enough to dispel the rising unease. More so as they start drifting through the courtyard towards the castle entrance.
Harry permits himself one final moment of comfort. Of indulgence. Of the hearth and the blanket and the cocoa in his cupboard. Of the feeling that they truly belong there. Of the thought that he could actually keep them.
Then, he locks all of it away. Whispers chords that instantly have their connection muted.
Fingolfin immediately looks over his shoulder, just as Fingon hesitates and Argon stops mid-step. Harry only offers them a civil smile as he follows after his guests, Gil beside him as always and Nerdanel out front and in the lead. His face is a perfect mask. Prepared and polished by centuries of political functions with people who would murder him in the middle of the night. Who have assassinated him. Who spoke pleasing words to his face, shook his hand, clasped him on the shoulder. Only to poison or stab or even curse him later on that week or sometimes even that very night.
Such things were only dying. What Harry dreads will come in the next few moments is a fate worse than that.
The conversation flows around him. Little things. Meaningless pleasantries and gossip. But he knows that they're taking in everything. The warm spring air, the flowering trees, the butterflies and birds… all the rest. The outside of his home is damning enough. They haven't gotten to the interesting parts out here either. They haven't even left the main courtyard, the most benign and neutral place in all of the castle and her grounds.
The inside is so much worse. And they're inching closer to the doors with every passing second.
There's little Harry can do to stop them. Nothing short of throwing them out. He doesn't have a way to explain that without sounding and seeming like a lunatic.
Of course, it wouldn't be the first time. Not even the hundredth.
Gryffindor bravery mixed with Slytherin sense keeps him from making a complete fool of himself by either running away or slamming the door in everyone's face as the castle opens for them. Gil-galad's hand on his elbow keeps him from stumbling as they cross the threshold. It doesn't take long at all; Harry knew it wouldn't. He doesn't even have to follow their eyes. Harry can guess what they're all looking at.
Fingolfin stands next to the lion statues, watching the closest flick his tail with amusement. Finarfin takes an abrupt step back as a suit of armor salutes him with a sword. Finrod has moved to investigate the grand staircase, but he's now running in place as it attempts to carry him further upwards. Argon gapes at the portrait of Teddy and Victoire as children as they happily wave at him. Findis inspects the painted ivy that reaches out tendrils to touch her as she inches closer, while Celebrían studies the kaleidoscope patterns on the stone floor. Angrod's head tips back as he peers upwards at the animated stained-glass ceiling. And Fingon… Fingon just stares at Harry.
"Nephew," he urgently whispers.
Harry turns to him. Almost warily. Cautiously.
"Yes?"
He's proud that his voice is calm. Reasonable. He feels everything but. He hasn't had any time to prepare. Any time to… well, hide. Anything. Everything. It's all here. In full magical glory. Out in the open. Why? Why was he so stupid to do this? Why has he not learned this lesson? He's just had one unexpected visitor show up in the form of Nerdanel; why didn't it occur to him that others would come?
This is it. This is the moment he's been quietly dreading. Ever since he started realizing how much their opinions really meant to him. How much they have come to matter to him. How much he fears they'll turn away if they had even the faintest idea of what they've unwittingly invited in. As if dying and returning isn't bad enough. At least, they can all pretend that didn't happen. This is so much harder to hide.
This isn't like with Gil; Harry invited him specifically. Had time to prepare himself. And admittedly, Gil has seen his fair share of Harry's magic in the time they've spent together before coming here. Promised him that none of it mattered. Meant it.
Nerdanel is different, too. She's been spending time with Eönwë. Harry gave her a tour of the castle, and she practically cackled with delight during the entire thing. She's… Well, Harry isn't quite sure what to think of her yet. She's starting to fall in the same category as Gil. Peculiar enough to think that his home is a fantastic place. Perhaps that's what it means to be part of the House of Fëanor; it's so easy to forget that she's the matriarch.
Fingon isn't a Fëanorion. Not quite. Not yet. Maybe not ever if he never manages to reunite with his love again.
Nonetheless, it's his opinion that Harry worries over the most as they all move to face him. Even Finrod has been rescued from the stairs by this point. A part of him wants to look away, but despite everything that's happened, despite how much of a coward he's allowed himself to become, Harry is still a Gryffindor. He gazes at Fingon directly in the eye.
"What is this place?" Argon at last asks the question all of them want to know.
"This is where we live," Nerdanel answers back immediately, and it's cheerful with a side to side of her head as she beams. Braids swaying behind her.
"Is this your doing, Herurrívë?" Fingolfin probes; his tone is soft. Gentle with something like concern.
Harry glances from one of them to the next but doesn't say anything. He honestly isn't sure how to answer. They're handling this a lot better than some of the others he's brought here. There aren't any tears. No murmurs of shock. Or whispered prayers to the Valar. However, he's very hesitant to check their auras. To gauge their real feelings. He's keeping his own tightly wrapped over himself. Allowing only his thread to Gil to remain vibrant and awake. The others he's sung to a restless sleep the second they started approaching the door. Even Nerdanel's – seemingly newer than the others – is dozing.
As for Nerdanel and Gil, they view the exchange, but even the latter hasn't stepped in. He's a steady support, yes. An encouraging presence that bolsters him, but he's letting Harry have the chance to fight his own battle. To choose his own path forward.
The silence stretches out. Time ticks by in a steady march. They all keep gazing at him expectantly.
It seems there's no getting out of this, and really, it's better to do it all in one swoop. To hack off all the heads of the hydra at once and just be done with it. Better for Harry before he grows more attached. Before he's in so deep that he can't fly out on his own. Before he's left alone in this castle with only echoes.
"Yes, it was me," he finally admits but says nothing else.
Gil's grip tightens on his arm. His thumb rubs across the fabric of his sleeve, and there's static in his touch as he shifts to stand nearer.
Nerdanel, Harry notes, has drifted closer as well. At the very edge of his periphery so that he'll have to turn his head to see her properly as she takes up the other side behind his shoulder. That can't possibly be a coincidence. He hopes it isn't.
The castle vibrates beneath his bare feet in a hum of affection, and he knows the elves have heard or felt it on some level by the way that Finrod and Argon both peer down. Finarfin's eyes have narrowed ever-so-slightly. Celebrían has her fingers clasped in front of her and seems like she wants nothing more than to go to Harry, but Angrod has a hand on her arm. Fingolfin and his oldest son still look at Harry with an expression he doesn't dare name.
Then, Findis sighs. She rests her fan against her cheek with a tired expression.
"I haven't had nearly enough to drink for this," she decides.
It's a sentiment Harry readily shares.
"Dinner will be soon," he comments after a few heartbeats.
That earns him a few chuckles. Whether it's from nervous relief or genuine humor, that doesn't matter. It does serve to lighten the mood. Gil offers a winning grin then. All charm and sparkle as he offers them the way to the least offensive parlor. His guests don't glance amongst themselves, that would be a little too rude by elven standards, nor do they hesitate too long. Only Fingolfin and Fingon remain behind. The former stands by the entrance to the sitting room, while the latter comes over to Harry directly. Nerdanel takes that as her cue to head for the kitchen. But not before a brush against Harry and squeezing his wrist as she goes.
Fingon stops in front of Harry, and he's quiet until the door to the parlor closes with a soft click. Afterwards, he exhales, and it's only then that Harry realizes he was holding his breath.
He reaches out to grasp Harry's shoulder. "Come back, nephew."
Harry feels Fingon's aura as it shifts. As the connection between them stirs and starts to waken. As it fights the spell Harry has it under.
"Come back," Fingon urges. "Don't hide."
His hand is hot. Seeping through the layers of Harry's robe, tunic, and undershirt like he's standing too close to the fireplace. But there's also comfort in it. In the underlying rhythm and the way his fingers curl around Harry's shoulder. The tie, the path that leads him to Fingon wakes the same way a child rouses from sleep. Sitting up with a stretch overhead and a large yawn. Settling back into his soul like it's always been there.
His cupboard goes from barren to comfortable again as Fingon makes himself home, and there's a knock on the door that Harry knows is Fingolfin. He lets the older elf in with a single thought and next frees the connections to Argon, Nerdanel, and the others in the castle. He feels them rousing but comes back to the real world before evidence of their arrival fills in.
Harry blinks aware to find both father and son peering up at him. Fingon still grips his shoulder, but Fingolfin has a hand on his back as if to steady him. To keep him upright. They wear identical expressions, and Harry's struck by how much they look alike with their matching hair and eyes as well as being the same height save for perhaps a millimeter. With elfish lack of aging, they seem more like brothers. He knows of other elven families that are like this, and Harry's always found it odd how similar they can be to their children in a way that humans never quite seemed to duplicate.
Despite all those years of being told he was just like James Potter, Harry's seen enough photos – not to mention his shade and some memories later on – to know that he's never been so close to him in appearance as this. That resemblance was superficial at best; more so with the shape of his glasses and the messiness of his hair. Falling away when those changed.
But looking at these two? Change the way Fingon braids his hair. Switch their coronets and clothes as well as their swords. They could likely pass for each other to non-family members. Argon wouldn't be able to. He's too tall for one, and his eyes are a different hue. Turgon, Harry hasn't met to know for sure. Aredhel, Irimë, and Findis resemble each other rather closely aside from coloration. Finarfin's line is a little further away but they all favor one another more.
He briefly wonders about Fëanor and his House. Harry himself is supposed to be just like Maglor, be his doppelganger. However, examining Fingolfin and his son right now, he's very startled to realize that a number of his own features are staring right back at him. The shape of the eyes, yes. The line of his nose and arch of brow. The color of his hair even.
How has he not noticed this before? How has he not realized?
He glances from one to the other and back, but it doesn't change the truth before him. If anything, that only makes it more real. Makes it that much more obvious.
"Nephew?" Fingolfin asks then.
Harry recognizes he's been silent for far too long. Gaping at them both like an idiot. He puts all thoughts of similarities, family familiarity, under lock and key in the dungeon of his mind. Next, he buries it under frost, sleet, ice, and snow.
Fingon and Fingolfin shiver at the same time. He thaws them with a discrete spell that still earns him a raised eyebrow, but they reluctantly permit him to step away. They're even more averse to rejoining the others of their House, but it's only with assurances that he's going to Nerdanel that they both do.
Harry gives himself only a moment to collect himself once he's around the corner and heading for the kitchen, but by that time, he's already considering the next things to be done. He absentmindedly directs their carriages – still in his courtyard – to the back side of the castle. Indilwen, he knows, has already led their horses away. Their belongings he sends directly to the new guest rooms he just finished earlier in the week. Harry's eternally glad that he decided to work on those as soon as Eönwë spoke with him. The camping trip from hell so long ago was one of many lessons. The greatest of which is over-preparedness. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing right, early, and in triplicate.
Of course, he always has enough to feed an army, much less unexpected guests. An old habit he's kept across worlds when there were more Weasleys and Lupins than he knew what to do with. Harry has a number of meals stashed away for various occasions. More so in the last fortnight.
Still, that doesn't get to the more pressing concern of dinner. He does technically have a formal dinning room, multiple in fact, but Harry's never eaten in any of them despite all the years he's lived here. He's never felt the need, and Ainur honestly didn't care. Nerdanel has stayed in the kitchen with them from the first night, and all the other elves were too spooked to want to explore much.
Eh…
Harry's saved from having to decide what to do in this unforeseen situation when Nerdanel takes the choice from him. He's now in his kitchen and coming over to join her by the ovens, but she gently steers him towards the dish cabinets instead. Harry just blinks at her in confusion.
"Well, set the table, dear," she instructs him. "I'm already working on the food for tonight."
He opens his mouth to argue but promptly closes it. Since really, what's the point? Nerdanel undoubtedly has a better grasp on an appropriate meal than anything Harry would pick. He instead just gets to work. Of course, Harry could use magic to do this, but he admittedly needs the extra time to center himself. He has posh enough linens and china from when he's entertained the Ainur. Mostly because it amused Vairë and Estë while baffling Manwë. The set he selects is regal enough but the most mundane ones he has. It's a backdrop of pure white with silver snowdrops, which move so minutely that one questions whether it's actually happening at all. At least until the food touches. Then, they bloom.
He's just finished up with the last forest green napkin when Nerdanel calls for him. She's setting up on the sideboard so that everyone can serve themselves, and she's put out a variety of dishes from his storage, representing both Valinor and Earth. She winks at Harry when she sees him surveying the spread. Over the top is putting it lightly. More so when she has him bring in bottles casks of wine from his cellar, basically one per person and two for Findis. Extra casks tucked away just in case. Some are gifts from the Ainur, others from the vineyards in his own kingdom, a few are even from the grapes he grows himself on the castle grounds.
He glances at her when the last of it is arranged, and he can see the full effect of her handiwork. It seems like there's enough here for half of the city. She gives him a sweet smile when Harry mentions that. It only grows a moment later when Gil enters with the House of Finwë trailing behind like little ducklings. Heads turning this way and that as they peek around. Fingon's nostrils flaring is the only visible sign of his surprise; a look that his father mirrors perfectly. Argon lets out a low whistle when he notices the fresco, and Finrod claps his hands together in excitement. Findis pulls both of them forward before they can be even more distracted as Finarfin carefully turns to inspect the entire room. Celebrían hesitates as she walks by to join her uncle, while Angrod's already examining the napkins on the table, and yes, Harry maybe went a little overboard when he folded them.
Gil-galad faithfully returns to Harry's side then. He leans up to kiss him on the cheek even as he takes his hand. Which is about the time that everyone is facing him. The next problem is one that hasn't even occurred to Harry until Nerdanel is already directing them. She's in her element, conducting the entire group like a schoolmistress, sending each person to the proper place with a single word. Sometimes even just a glance.
Harry knows this is his castle, his kitchen, but for once, he's glad not to have to deal with this. Dinner parties have always been an exercise in tedium to organize and one of the jobs that he genuinely loathed as headmaster. Socializing with his staff was a delight, but the set-up was painful and the execution even more so. Particularly if it involved the governors, Ministry, or anyone outside of the school itself. This has always been one task he happily delegated.
No one comments as Harry and Gil take the right corner of the table with Fingolfin and his sons across from them followed by Finrod. Nerdanel moves to stand at the opposite end, pulling Finarfin and Findis in next to her. Angrod is on Gil's other side as a buffer since Celebrían is next to her grandfather, not quite as far from Harry as possible but still out of his line of sight.
The head of the table is left completely empty out of habit more than anything, no place setting at all. Eönwë still hasn't returned, and Harry can sense him far beyond the boundaries of the wards. There aren't any other Ainu nearby, so he honestly hadn't thought to put anyone there. It does earn him some penetrating looks, but Harry lifts his chin and gazes back at them evenly.
There's a pause before they take their plates and help themselves. He sees a few sneaking test nibbles – Argon and Finrod chief amongst them – but nobody puts something back or refuses to try anything. The room is relatively hushed as they settle in, but Harry feels Gil's aura flowing around him in an amused current. Rainwater pattering with a sense of anticipation as he watches the others. Nerdanel's lake is tranquil as ever, but underneath the waters is a similar stream of expectancy.
"Compliments to the chef," Finarfin offers after several minutes, and there's an odd tone to his voice. Like he can't decide if he's surprised, impressed, or bemused. Some combined of the three maybe.
Nerdanel chuckles at that. She has the air of someone whose moment has finally come.
"Marcaunon has been a busy little bee lately," she replies.
That stops them short.
"You made this?" Fingon asks almost uncertainly.
Harry inclines his head in answer, and Argon gestures to the entire table and the sideboard behind him.
"All of this?"
It's in the form of a question, but it's said more like a demand.
"Who else is there?" Harry points out. "This is my kitchen."
"Indeed," Fingolfin responds. He takes a drink of his wine, but Harry can see his shoulders shaking as he laughs behind his glass.
Dinner is an interesting affair after that. His guests are lovely company. Hungry for more than food. Oh-so-curious. Especially once the wine really starts flowing and Harry quietly magics more from the cellars to an empty cabinet just in case. He answers some questions. Deflects others. Outright evades more. Gil aids and abets him with a knee against his the entire time.
Dessert comes after they've eaten more than Harry thought possible. More than anyone but Ron and Victoire ever could have. It's an amazing accomplishment. He just hopes they've saved room. Especially once he uncovers the cake and divvies up the pieces. They gaze at it strangely. Which, to be fair, no one aside from Nerdanel and Gil has ever tasted the key ingredient, and the color is certainly different than other treats in Valinor. So he can understand their hesitation. Nevertheless, Nerdanel is hiding her grin behind her hand, while Gil laughs outright. That seems to spur them on.
The entire room is soundless save for the scrape of silverware, but Harry knows he has a hit by the shock that ripples out in a wave from each and every one of them. By the wide eyes. By the excited whispers around the table. By the notes of delight in each song that radiate through the room.
"Marry me," Finrod breathes with something like a moan.
There's a sudden hush of silence at the table. It lasts for only a second before there's a chorus of laughter from all sides. Harry, used to even weirder marriage proposals at this point in his life, isn't even fazed.
"Won't Amarië be jealous?" Fingolfin questions, but he's nodding his head, fork still in hand.
Finrod just takes another bite with an expression of pure bliss. "She'll be angry if I didn't," he mumbles around chocolate and raspberry.
No one complains about his lack of manners. Not even Findis or his brother.
"True," Angrod admits instead. "The pair of you can burn water." He's already finished his slice and is eyeing the main dessert like he wonders how much he'll be allowed. Or possibly he's concerned that someone may try to stab him if gets up for extra.
Harry takes pity on him and goes to fetch it. Doling out more to the enjoyment of all his guests. Though they seem saddened to see that finishes off the cake. There's another full one stored away, but they don't know that yet.
"This certainly explains your good mood," Argon decides as he nods his head across the table at Gil.
Celebrían reaches behind her uncle to pat his cheek. "You're looking very… full, dear. Perhaps it's all this fine dining."
Gil gives her a very unamused expression, but he accepts the contact. Which is the most he's truly permitted from her all day. A testament to his forgiveness. Or possibly to the amount of alcohol that everyone's consumed during dinner. Findis alone has finished her third bottle and is half-way through her fourth, and Harry is for once glad for all those years of gifts he's stashed away.
"I'm sure Herurrívë will help him work it off," Angrod wickedly chimes in right then.
Finrod nearly snorts his cake through his nose. Fingon chokes, while Fingolfin hurriedly pats him on the back, even as he smiles. Findis rolls her eyes as she sips from her glass, and Finarfin hides his smirk by turning his head. Nerdanel covers her mouth with her hand. Harry gives him a thoroughly apathetic look; he's heard worse from his own students. Much less catcalls and all manner of people who threw their unmentionables at him. This is downright tame in comparison. He isn't ashamed of anything he and Gil do; nevertheless, he sees Gil's cheeks reddening out of the corner of his eye.
"I don't get it," Argon says after an awkward pause.
He's gazing at them all in confusion, fork in his hand but end resting on the table. Eyes flickering from one relative to the next as if asking for an explanation. They all stare right back at him. There are a few chortles before they can stop themselves, but those are quickly aborted.
"There, there, nephew," Findis tells him a moment later and reaches out to rub his shoulder consolingly.
Across from them, Angrod sets his napkin aside. He steeples his fingers in front of him on the table.
"You see, Arakáno," he begins very solemnly. "When two elves-"
"You can explain it to him later," Harry cuts him off. His voice is firmer than usual, but it's not enough to stop the snickers.
Next to him, the tips of Gil's ears are Weasley-red, and Harry doesn't need to fully look at him to know that his face is blazing. He can feel Gil shifting in the seat next to him, and it's with more than a twinge of discomfort. His skin is flushed but not from the wine as he places a hand on top of Harry's own.
Finrod offers them a beatific smile. "I'm sure we could clarify for you as well, Herurrívë, Gil-galad." His eyes are practically sparkling. "Perhaps some tips?"
"It's only right to ensure that you have an appropriate understanding, wouldn't you agree?" Angrod questions. It's in jest, but there's a slight wicked edge to his tone.
Harry stares back at him expressionlessly. Even as frost and snow curl around Gil to gently soothe the heat spreading from his face into his neck. There are dark clouds on Gil's horizon and flash of lightning, but he lifts his chin despite everything. Harry, in turn, glances from Finrod's oh-so-innocent expression to Argon's honest puzzlement to Angrod's light mockery to Findis' not-all-hidden amusement. Celebrían can't truly be seen from this position, and that's probably for the best, but he can glimpse the upwards curl of even Finarfin's mouth. Fingon and Fingolfin share a quick look. A wordless exchange that conveys everything and nothing in mere seconds. But before either can speak up or Harry can say something he probably won't regret, Nerdanel sets down her glass just loud enough to draw everyone's attention.
"That's so kind of you, nephew," she all but coos at Angrod with a lovely curl of her mouth. "Eldalótë is truly blessed to have you as a husband. All those years of practicing in closets and under tables have surely made for a very happy marriage."
There's a snort from Gil's other side, even as he squeezes Harry's hand. That's followed by more tittering across the table.
Nerdanel isn't finished yet, however.
"And you, Findarato," she says next. Sweet as honey. "Such a nice boy. So helpful to your Amarië that time you both lost your clothes and—"
"Now, now," Finarfin cuts in. "It was all in good cheer. Wasn't it, my sons?"
He says this amicably, smile gentle, nose even crinkling as he turns to his children. He's the light of the sun on a summer day without a single cloud in the sky. The perfect picture of an elven king with his crown, golden hair, and sea glass eyes. But there's something in the way he tilts his head just so that sobers them completely.
"Yes, atto," Finrod and Angrod chorus together like naughty schoolboys.
Finafin's smile widens even as Fingolfin ducks his head to hide his obvious humor, while Argon simply shakes his head and digs into his second piece of cake. Fingon surveys the table like a battlefield, but Celebrían still isn't visible from this angle. Findis pours another round for everyone. Nerdanel merely inclines her head.
Finarfin turns back to Harry and Gil then.
"It is something of a family tradition to give a newly betrothed couple a… let us say merry welcome," he says with a particular lilt.
There's another snort, and it's clear that Celebrían is the culprit.
"When Elrond and I announced our intentions," she inserts, "Ada gave us a happy toast while naneth drank enough for three and challenged him to a contest of insults. Tyelpë was the judge."
Gil's aura shifts at the memory. Storm clouds lighter in color and thunder fading to normal levels.
"I do recall that very clearly," he allows. "They were both so drunk at the end that they passed out before finishing."
The entire table – even Finrod and Angrod – laugh at that statement.
"Who won?" Fingolfin inquires. There's a twinkle in his eyes even as he asks.
"It was declared a draw," Gil informs them.
More mirth then. More wine, too. Congratulations. Stories. Memories. Angrod offers his own embarrassing anecdotes in apology, and Finrod shares several, too. Finarfin and Fingolfin chime in with tales of their own betrothals and early marriages, and Harry does snicker at learning that Finarfin was so intimidated by his father-in-law that he didn't call Olwë by name until after his eldest son was born. Nerdanel adds in her own experiences with a fine, fiery, frustrating elf who was her father's apprentice. She wears a distant expression as her chin rests on her hand, but her lake is tranquil. Pensive as she gazes at something with senses beyond sight.
Talk drifts then. To Celebrían's mother and her husband. Finarfin has never met the latter, but both his sons have and they're more than willing to share.
It's around that time that Harry nudges Gil with the barest breath of frost. His love looks at him, and Harry's eyes flicks towards where the front gate would be; he sends the thought of it. Gil blinks, but Harry perfectly understands the question he's received back.
"Who?"
Melpomaen is the answer. Harry knew the instant his assistant set foot on the mountain path; he always does, but his attention has been elsewhere. Dinner. His family. He still noticed Melpomaen slowly heading this way. Even made note of Inglor returning to the city not so long ago, but Harry's kept his shields tight and focused on the here and now. He wants to be able to trust people. Wants his faith not to be misplaced. Part of that isn't watching over their shoulders all the time. Believing that they know what to do and will do it. Inglor will see to the newcomers in the city itself. Or worst case, he'll bring them to the castle, and Harry will fortunately have enough space to put them up. Yes, the House of Finwë will be present, but at this point, it really doesn't matter.
Gil's eyes widen. "Here?" he whispers aloud but only softly enough for Harry to hear. "Now?"
Harry nods.
Gil closes his eyes and inhales slowly; he knows without asking that Harry's going to head him off before this becomes an absolute broom-wreck. Fortunately, everyone else at the table is buzzed sufficiently that a subtle use of magic gets him out of his seat and the room before they notice he's gone. If he makes this fast enough, they likely won't question things. Too much.
It isn't that far from the kitchen, but with apparition, it's mere seconds. If Melpomaen is shocked to see Harry answering the door before he can even fully approach, he hides it well. His assistant seems thinner than when Harry last saw him. Aura with clouds shading the sun of his spring dawn, but he follows Harry inside and into a parlor without a word. It's not the same one Inglor sat in not so long ago, so there are no peacocks on the wall to glare at his visitor. Instead, there's nothing but sleepy vines and willows that doze in the moonlight. Melpomaen carefully doesn't look at anything but the furniture and floor, which is probably for the best.
He does, however, offer a bow. One that takes him down precisely forty-five degrees. It's rather impressive feat, truth be told, but Harry still fights not to roll his eyes at the audacity of his aide choosing now – of all times – to finally show his face. Harry would be truly annoyed if he weren't so pressed for time, for the need to return to his family.
"What are you doing here?" he says, and it somehow doesn't come out as a demand.
No, Harry sounds surprisingly reasonable given the circumstances. It's his headmaster voice. Gentle authority. A tone that is pleasant, kind, but also obeyed. Works like magic. Even here.
Melpomaen bows even lower. Now at sixty degrees with a hand over his heart. Gaze fixed on the plush carpet.
"I have come to beg your pardon, my king."
It's said quietly but with enough conviction that Harry starts to wonder which Valar he's angered lately. Maybe Námo – he has been sending more strays. Oromë does have an interesting sense of humor after all. Tulkas would've just challenged him to a friendly drinking contest or wrestling match and been done with it. Manwë though… He's the one to believe in forgiveness and second chances.
Harry doesn't sigh. Or roll his eyes. Or beat his head on the wall.
"I appreciate your words," he accedes but adds, "now, isn't the time for them."
He watches as Melpomaen blinks but stays perfectly in position. There's a flicker of uncertainty. A burst of cold air across the expanse of a wakening flowers.
"Sire?"
Harry reaches out to straighten him from his bow. Melpomaen all but gapes at him afterwards. More so when Harry shakes his head.
"You know better than that, but anyway… Right now, I have guests. We can address this tomorrow," he states. It's polite but firm.
"Tomorrow?" Melpomaen repeats almost inanely. Like he can't quite believe what he's hearing.
"Yes, tomorrow," Harry agrees but wags a single finger. "Not too early. Sometime in the afternoon." He pats the elf on the arm in a consoling gesture.
Melpomaen swallows once before nodding. "Yes, si-Marcaunon."
His hands are tucked into his robes, but the tension in his shoulders relaxes even as Harry leads him out of the parlor and next to a shortcut that takes them just beyond the greater kitchen. He can see Melpomaen glancing all about. As if confused how they suddenly ended up in this section. Harry merely motions him onward as they continue down the hallway, around a corner, through another passage, and they're at the back exit. It's the quieter way. The least used door that almost no one knows of. Leading to the greenhouses and by the orchards. Then to a smaller gate in a higher section of the mountain path. The route is fairly straightforward, and Harry knows the castle will guide him along. Indilwen also waits by the back door, having roused at his silent call. Melpomaen nearly startles when he sees her blue eyes staring directly at him. She whickers in greeting and flicks her tail to get the elf going when he keeps standing there.
Melpomaen moves.
Harry wishes them a good night and watches both disappear, giving another few seconds. Then, he apparates back to the entrance hall already knowing it's empty. That's not the real destination though. No, the final guests of the night have finally made their appearance while he was distracted with Melpomaen, and it's only right that he welcomes them. So much for returning to the kitchen with no one the wiser; they've certainly noticed his absence by now, but too late for that, he supposes.
The courtyard outside is brightly lit despite the late hour, and his elven eyes are keen enough to make out details he never would've imagined as a mere human. The seven males – neri – are clearly Ñoldor. All of them are dressed plainly; most of the elves who arrive here are. Shades of black and dark gray are the most prominent. There's something very familiar about them as Harry observes everyone. In their auras and their appearance. Only one does he recognize immediately, the sole person among them with argent hair. Harry doesn't know his name, but he's seen Oromë wear that face hundreds if not thousands of times. Nevertheless, he doesn't have to see those deep eyes or hear his voice to know that this isn't his friend. That this will be a stranger staring back at him.
Three more of the newcomers have thick, dark tresses that are certainly black in daylight, and a pair of them are so close in appearance that Harry almost mistakes them for twins. Their coloration is identical. Their height as well. Even their clothes are nearly so, but there are very subtle differences in the timbre of their voices, the curve of a chin and the pout of a mouth. The most notable dissimilarity, however, is the fact that one – the closest to where Harry stands – now holds Nerdanel tightly in his arms. Her hands are on his face, foreheads touching, and they look at nothing but each other.
A true set of twins stands further back, and Harry knows without knowing that they were once identical but are no longer so. Their hair is the most obvious difference. One is a burnished cooper that rivals Nerdanel. While the other's has darkened, deepened.
Near to them is another redhead; his mane is richer and more vibrant than any Harry's ever seen. He's tall. Nearly as much as Argon. Bending over Fingon, who has both arms wrapping around his waist, leaning into the hand that cups his cheek. Harry has the distinct impression that he's missed a heated kiss. Possibly two.
Everyone is looking away when he arrives, focused on Fingon instead. Even Gil-galad who stands beside Finarfin. They are nearer to the middle of the courtyard, speaking with Inglor and two of the newcomers. Gil's song reaches out to greet him, but no one else pays Harry the least bit of attention as he pauses in the entranceway. Which suits him just fine as he surveys the courtyard like a general inspecting the battlefield.
Then, fate changes. The tides shift. The faint spring breeze blows a different direction as he walks forward.
The elf with Fingon glances his way.
His eyes immediately widen. Irises turn to thin silvery-gray rings. There's a flare of absolute astonished shock. Of lava-hot surprise that morphs into the deathly lull prior to the eruption. Before the subsequent tsunami sweeps through.
All those gathered fall silent. Blinking as if unsure why. Even the leaves still and the birds in the trees tremble as they feel it.
Then…
"Káno?"
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Harry – Hm… I guess those weren't dreams after all.
Formenos – Nods sagely. I tried telling you.
Harry – Even the ones about Fëanor and his sons were accurate.
Formenos – You think?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry – Appearing very overwhelmed at the prospect of his guests.
Also!Harry – Wearing an expression like a man going to his execution. Or a Fëanorion when confronted with a social responsibility.
Nerdanel – I know this look well.
Definitely!Nerdanel – Don't worry, grandson. Nana has this!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finarfin – Celebrían, my granddaughter, is there something you want to tell us?
Celebrían – Shakes her head. No, I have no idea what that was.
Finrod – Come now, niece. Be honest.
Angrod – Surely, you must know something.
Celebrían – Nothing. Thinking very hard. I suppose I can ask Laerien and Melpomaen.
The Other Three – Wait a minute…
Several moments and a heck of an explanation later…
Finrod – Making an exceptionally pained noise with his head in his hands.
Finarfin – Rethinking every life choice that has led him here. Granddaughter… Sighs heavily.
Angrod – Rubbing his forehead. Did it not occur to you that a Fëanorion maybe, possibly, just the tiniest bit would take your spies poorly?
Celebrían – …No? You also had Inglor here.
Finarfin – Someone who worked for his father and my nephew knew we sent.
Celebrían – Awkward pause. …This is bad.
The Other Three – Nod in complete and total agreement.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Once Upon A Time…
Celebrimbor – Contestants, ready round forty-seven.
Galadriel and Elrond – Facing each other with empty wine bottles lined in front.
Galadriel – Looks at her opponent squarely over her glass. Wonders why there are two of him.
Elrond – Blinking excessively while swaying in his seat.
Celebrimbor – Ladies first this time.
Galadriel – You… You are such a Fëanorion!
Elrond – Gasps. Thank you! That really means a lot. Sniffle.
Gil-galad – Cackling in the background.
Celebrían – Shakes her head in disbelief. That's not an insult.
Celeborn – Daintily sipping his drink and watching their shenanigans.
Erestor – Pretending he doesn't know any of them, while taking bets on the sly.
Celebrimbor – Sniffs haughtily. You lose points for that one, Artanis.
Several Rounds Later…
Elrond – Takes a drink. Spills more.
Galadriel – Takes a drink. Spills slightly less.
Both of Them – Wobbling. Wobbling. Then… Thunk. Snore.
Celebrían – What's that it, I guess. Who won?
Celebrimbor – The victor, milady. Points to the wine.
AN: All the gang's here now!
-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