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.
They stare at him. Of course, they do. It's only natural, Harry decides, when confronted with the duplicate of a beloved and long-absent sibling. One dearly missed and clearly loved. Harry feels the weight of their attention as they go from their parents – Fëanor and Nerdanel – and back. The aforementioned couple enter the room in front of him, now paused by one set of picture windows that overlook his koi pond and out into his bamboo grove. Fëanor seems surprised to see most of his extended family here, though truthfully how much of last night he remembers is debatable. Which is probably for the best.
Gil is beside Harry as they hover just inside the doorway of one of the larger parlors. It's the usual room that welcomes bigger groups to the castle, and he supposes this counts. Fëanor and his sons make seven plus the eight of Fingolfin's group and three with Harry, Gil, and Nerdanel. That's eighteen. This is the most people his castle has seen in years.
Everyone's spread out inside, and Harry can tell they've been here for a while by the flow of the conversations, which falter midstream at their arrival. It's an interesting contrast to have their focus on him but with such artful ignorance of the swaying bamboo leaves on the walls or the stealthy swish of fox tails that Harry glimpses between the stalks. Despite the early hour – it's only midmorning – he can already tell Findis has been in the wine cellar by the glass of dark liquid in her hand. Finarfin and Fingolfin are dressed less formally than the day before. Although they still wear diadems, everything is much less ornate. Argon is attired casually, which isn't all that odd, but he seems ready for spar or a hunt or some other outdoor activity.
Fingon is the most surprising, however. He's without crown or even his signature gold-threaded braids. Arm and arm with his new husband, songs twining and flowing together as they sit on a single loveseat on the far wall. Heads bent together but lifting the instant Harry comes into sight. Maedhros' regard is like a blade. His gaze is sharp and unblinking beneath his vibrant, vivid brows. Which are somewhere between scarlet and crimson, but the sunlight from the windows casts a metallic gleam to his hair as he turns to observe Harry fully.
Near them is a familiar elf. One with argent locks and dark, glittering eyes. He's perched on the arm of a cherry-blossom pink settee with Celebrían seated properly next to him but opposite Finrod and Angrod. This must be Celegorm the Fair. For all that Harry's seen this visage before, it certainly isn't Oromë. Everything's wrong from the way he holds himself – one knee drawn up to his chest, booted foot resting on the edge of the sofa – to the braids in his hair to the aura that coils around his skin. It's like looking at a funhouse mirror. An illusion crafted in the likeness but without the spirit, and Harry finds himself unsettled. Glancing away before he draws attention.
Next is Curufin, and there's no mistaking which son he is as he stands impossibly straight. Enough so that even Eönwë would be impressed. His back is to the tiled fireplace, arms crossed over his chest with a hand on his chin as if deep in thought. His face is neutral, blank, but despite the fact the hearth is behind him, flames still flicker in his eyes. Harry's been told by Káno that Curufin's the most like his father, and Harry very much believes that. He appears – to put it bluntly – rather like Fëanor took a photo of himself and turned it into a person. Into a son. The similarity is startling, even by elfish standards with their tendency to have children strongly resembling one parent. Closer inspection does show subtle differences. The slightest angle of a jaw and the tip of a nose. The years Harry's spent training with Káno allow him to pick up the variation in their voices as he speaks with Findis and Finarfin.
Then, there are the twins. Once identical, Harry knows. Now not. Amras the youngest of all and Amrod with hair a darker red. There's other differences that Harry can see, but it's hard to say what would be obvious to him versus a true elf and vice versa. The pair of them appear relaxed at first glance, but Harry notes that they face the entire room and keep their backs to an empty corner. Where one steps forward, the other shifts laterally as if to flank. It's automatic, unconscious as they stand with Argon between them, conversing and laughing in low but excited tones. He's taller than the pair by a full head and besides, but all three of them have the same blue-gray eyes that mark the entire line of Finwë.
The last son is the closest to the door and drawing nearer still. Stopping in front of him seconds later. Inches away. Closer than the people of Formenos normally get except those Harry truly considers his friends. His gaze is as black as the locks that fall across his shoulders as he studies Harry from top to bottom and back. He isn't as pale as the others, complexion much closer to Nerdanel, but while the twins have more of her roundness in their cheeks, there's someone else in his face. Not quite Fëanor or the House of Finwë. If anything, he reminds Harry of Míriel, Vairë's handmaiden. Though admittedly, he isn't nearly so translucent.
"You're Marcaunon?" he asks then, and it's said like a clarification. A confirmation. His voice is deep. More so than even his father. Not as much as Námo and Irmo but deeper than any Eldar Harry has met so far.
"I am," Harry replies as he faces him fully. Gil is now at his shoulder but not quite close enough for Harry to feel his warmth.
The new elf offers him a smile, and there's something in the expression that Harry can't quite describe. Something that catches his breath in his chest.
"Carnistir," the elf introduces, "Caranthir if you prefer Sindarin… but I think you knew that."
Harry inclines his head if only so he can look away. For all that Káno rarely has kind things to say about the House of Fëanor when speaking of them directly, he's thorough in making sure Harry recognizes each on sight and by name. Not to mention knows a number of other things about them and their respective characters.
Carnistir the Dark. The fourth son, the middle brother in the literal since. In both order of birth and height. If not deposition. Allegedly the bluntest and quickest to anger but also the quietest. The one most prone to going off alone and being content with his own company. But always there when needed – Káno's forever firm on that last part.
He searches Harry's face now in much the same way Fëanor did earlier, just hours before. Tracing his features and remaining on Harry's eyes the longest. But he does something completely unexpected then. Something that Fëanor didn't do, and there are arms wrapping around Harry before he realizes it's happening. Pulling him forward in an unexpected embrace that he never even sees coming. Firm but gentle. Warm and impossibly affectionate for a stranger he's only now met for the first time. His fëa reaches for Harry just as his arms do, and Harry doesn't think to fight it.
Then…
He sees a great forest. One meant to be cleansed and renewed by fire in an eternal dance of destruction and rebirth. And indeed, there are embers forever smoldering just beneath the surface. A slow, creeping burn that could flare up at any instant. Flash into a blazing torrent. Or simply continue to simmer beneath his feet. They brighten with each step as he twists around, but they never so much as scorch.
Smoke lingers in a haze between the trees, however, and there's something unnatural in the bruised color the longer he looks. It sends a tingle of foreboding down Harry's spine. Spidery fingers of disconcertment. A walk over his grave. A deep ache forms in his chest; it reminds him of the aftermath of being stabbed just before the knife is removed and the body has fully comprehended what's happened. Harry recognizes immediately this isn't his own feeling in the first place. That the discomfort tugging at him belongs to another, but that won't do at all.
He calls up a healing breath of frost before he can think to stop himself. Before he can even reconsider his actions. It's a harder battle than expected though. The smoke twists and writhes like a shadowy nest of tentacles, and each one frozen away to dust reveals two more. Throwing out a burst of light like a reflection on the ice only destroys a dozen but more swarm in. It's time for a direct approach then, and the Peverell signet burns with glacial intensity as he extends his opposite hand. The smoke tries to flee, to disappear into the canopy, as if wise to what he intends, but it's already too late. The haze is oddly solid, thick and syrupy with malice, as he grasps hold. Dripping black like oil and trying to stain his aura. But it flakes away the closer it gets to his skin. Dies completely underneath his touch until nothing's left all. The air finally clears as wisps fade away completely, and sunshine filters in from above. He feels the forest relax around him like soft snow flurries. Hears Caranthir sigh in the real world.
Harry pulls back to find himself with an arm still around his upper back and a hand on the junction between his neck and shoulder. Fingers barely touching a braid in his hair. There's a muffled laugh, little more than a huff of amused air, next to him.
"A winter prince for a winter palace," Caranthir muses. "So that was you with the Oath as well, nephew." His dark eyes are both pointed and strangely fond. Affectionate as they look at Harry for long seconds stretching onward. "As much as I appreciate everything you've done for us and now me personally, all of this was both very well done and entirely foolish."
Harry has no clue what to even say to that. How to even formulate a response. Less so as he squeezes Harry again before stepping back. But only so he can half-turn and tug Harry with him deeper into the room. His arm is still around Harry's back as he moves, and his grip is leading not menacing. Steadying. Guiding him forward.
The twins meet him halfway. Too impatient to wait for their older brother. They're both beaming as they look him over, expressions identical. Mirror images of each other aside for the shade of hair. Eager but all too toothful.
"Another nephew!" Amras greets, and it's very cheerfully.
"Splendid!" Amrod agrees after a few seconds. He's just as eager, using the same tone that George would've when Fred still lived.
Harry feels his heart skip a beat, and it takes all his self-control to keep his thoughts from showing in his expression. However, he feels Caranthir shift against him, arm curling tighter.
"One actually younger than us this time," Amras continues. His voice is almost but not quite the same as his twin's. Higher in pitch than Fëanor but oddly reminding Harry of a hunting horn.
"It's so nice to be the big brothers for once," Amrod adds. Eyes lighting up just as Nerdanel's do when she's excited.
There's something youthful in them. Boyish and vivacious. Very much like Argon but also different. A hidden keenness. An undertone that's a little world-wearier. A little more jaded beneath the surface. Also like George but now after Fred died. When the jokes were harsher. Meaner. With fangs and talons. A wild beast that's slightly tamed but never domesticated, and there's always a risk of a bite too hard or a playtime too violent.
They observe Harry kindly though, claws sheathed, and his shields are up this time. Strengthened in preparation. He only has a fleeting glimpse of a shared world. Of two giant lanterns with distinct but related designs, one occupying each end. Both are bronze with frosted glass, but the first is circular. Sitting in a glade with grazing deer and an ambling bear in the background, but the trees are gnarled and the grass browned. The second is square, lies amidst a thicket. Owls rest on the creaking, burnt branches while smaller animals peer out around the trunks.
The vision is fleeting, gone almost as soon as it begins, and he endures their embraces graciously. Allows Amras to rest a momentary hand on his elbow and for Amrod to trail fingers down his arm. Caranthir guides him away before anything more, but Harry feels their attention on his back as he's led to the next sibling.
Curufin awaits. Seemingly proud and strong as Findis and Finarfin excuse themselves to give the illusion of privacy. He's arrogant with his arms crossed over his chest and his chin lifted, but his eyes give him away. How glassy they seem. How dull the gray of the iris. How he watches Harry the way a man does a memory. With a sort of wistful longing for things long lost and never to be returned. For times and places and people always out of reach. He seem so much like Fëanor, but the look is one Harry still sees in his own reflection all these years later. He has an unexpected swell of kinship. Of empathy.
"Marcaunon," Curufin addresses, but there's a solemn strain.
His touch on Harry's wrist is enough for him to glimpse the inner forge. It differs from Fëanor's in the arrangement, and where the father's is buried in ash, the son's is flooded. Harry draws his shields even tighter together at the wave of anguish that nearly splashes him in the face when Curufin leans in.
"You truly are my brother's then," he whispers. "I had hoped…"
The last is said so faintly that Harry barely even hears it. He glimpses the murky waters despite shifting his glacier tighter towards him. There are ripples though nothing moves, and there's a menacing air to the entire area. An ominous awareness that something lurks underneath that can't be seen.
Curufin lets go just then. Withdrawing to the fireplace. Putting hands in his sleeves as if suddenly chilled.
"One day, you will meet my son," he comments, but it's more to himself. "Yes, you'll meet my Tyelpë."
"One day, brother," Caranthir agrees, and it's softly. Said so that no one else in the rooms can listen in. "He's safe with his mother in Mandos. No one will harm either of them there."
Curufin doesn't answer. Instead, he turns away. Now facing the hearth and watching the flames. Shoulders stiff and back impossibly straight. Harry glances between the brothers as the seconds tick by, but Caranthir merely exhales and directs him along.
Oromë's face waits him, but it's not the Vala behind those black eyes. It's peculiar to see the same face and have a stranger stare back at him. Not like speaking with the twins. Somehow, it's different, but the words elude him when Harry tries to explain why even to himself. Celegorm rises to his feet at their approach. He's nearly of a height with Harry himself. Barely shorter by a hairsbreadth. But his smile makes something in Harry ache.
He clasps Harry's arm the exact same way that Oromë usually does, and that only makes everything worse. The song isn't the right one. The aura he sees is different. There's no hunt through grassy plains, over hills, and into the woods. No brays and barks. No stamp of hooves. No horn calling out to the pack.
Instead, Harry now sits by a campfire, but it's empty. The fire crackles and sparks merrily, but there's no other sound around him at all. Not even the wind through the leaves or blades of grass. The spaces across from him are larger for their bareness, and Harry knows that something – someone – is missing. More than one person. That there should be an entire group gathered around. Yet, there's no one at all. Hasn't been for a long time. Ages.
Harry backs out instantly. Retreats to the real world with a whirl of his robe.
Celegorm merely gives him a puzzled look. Unsure what just happened. Still gripping Harry's arm but head now cocked to the side in much the manner of a curious canine. He studies Harry with a raised eyebrow, but when no answer is forthcoming, he merely blinks. He's still grasping Harry's arm, and his aura tries to encroach unintentionally, but Harry's shields have already compensated. Adjusted to the intrusion.
"Well met, nephew," Celegorm addresses him after a few more seconds. "Good to finally see you in person."
He moves back to inspect Harry in the same manner that all the others have. As if comparing him to a memory. Looking for every dissimilarity, every flaw, and taking note of it. He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat the longer he takes.
"There really isn't anything of your mother in you at all, is there? I could almost think you were my brother standing before me," he decides then, one finger coming up to tap on his cheek. "Except for the eyes. Those certainly are not from our line."
An awkward beat. Harry feels the absurd need to laugh at that statement, but he somehow contains it. Behind him, he can practically hear the groan of utter defeat and despair. The rest of the room – clearly listening in – is a mix of amusement, embarrassment, or some combination thereof on his behalf.
"Tyelko, behave," Caranthir orders, and there's almost a gruff growl to the words.
"What?" Celegorm questions as he turns to his brother, and his manner is so nonchalant that it has to be authentic. "We were all thinking it. Just look at him." He gestures pointedly at Harry, who has stepped back. "Makalaurë couldn't have a more perfect likeness of himself if he tried."
Caranthir lets out a harsh sigh. "You don't tell people that immediately upon meeting them. Much less your nephew," he expresses. "That's at the very least a conversation for later on."
"Oh, come on, Moryo." Celegorm waves him off. "You're hardly one to criticize me on points of etiquette."
Harry, who has slipped completely free during this exchange, backs away further. Neither brother notices. They're too busy glaring at each other now.
"Someone has to do it," Caranthir continues with narrowed eyes. "Obviously, you've forgotten everything."
Celegorm shakes his head. "There wasn't anything to forget. None of that matters anyway."
They move closer together then as if in tandem. Still glaring. Caranthir has a finger pointed at his brother, while Celegorm has a hand on his hip.
"Sometimes," Caranthir counters, "I wonder why I even bother."
"Sometimes, all you are is a bother," Celegorm challenges.
Harry tunes out their conversation at this point, which becomes little more than background noise as he heads for the final and oldest sibling. Who has risen at his approach and now stands with Fingon's hand tucked into his elbow and another on the small of his back. As if both comforting and supporting him. His eyes are every bit as sharp, as fierce as any sword. Color a shining silver that's the same as Fingon's own. The same shade shared by Fëanor and Fingolfin. He's the only one of the brothers taller than Harry himself. Not as much as Argon, though that difference is surprisingly small. It isn't often Harry has to look upwards at anyone these days. For Argon definitely. For a few Ainur, yes. That certainly includes Eönwë and Manwë as well. Most of the ones he knows seem to hover around his level as Oromë does – though admittedly Harry now recognizes that wasn't for the reasons he first thought. Nienna and Vairë prefer to be shorter, deceivingly delicate.
Maedhros is different than his brothers, Harry decides. Yes, there's the same sense of fire beneath it all. The ancient caldera with magma hidden from view, but there's something else, too. Something lingering underneath. Something almost unnerving in the intensity of his attention. Or... it would be if Harry hadn't spent his youth facing down dementors, dragons, Dark Lords, and the like. Still, there's an edge of danger. Argon is tall, taller, but even when Harry feared their reaction at the Silmaril, he was never genuinely frightening. He's a Gryffindor through and through. Honest and honorable. Too noble for his own good.
Maedhros even when compared to the Ainur... Manwë is the King of the Valar, but Harry has never once thought of him as anything but kind. Despite his surprise at their first meeting, he was soft in his shock. All of the Ainur are. He's always unfailingly gentle. No matter how bizarre Harry must seem to them, they've indulged every question and corrected any misstep with the mild manner of someone handling fine china. Of an owner with a beloved and coddled pet.
Harry, however, understands now why the sons of Fëanor are so infamous. Why even the elves of Formenos whisper about them when they think Harry can't hear. The House hides it well; he'll give them that. Their time in Mandos has undoubtedly smoothed most of the rough edges, and Harry knows that he sees and senses things that the Eldar probably don't.
Maedhros though… Káno warns of Maedhros in particular. Has said that of all of the sons of Fëanor, he's the most perilous, the least to be trusted. The one most likely to do Harry harm. Has admonished him time and again to never seek Maedhros out for any reason. And if confronted by him to leave as soon as possible. To guard his back as diligently as Káno wished Harry would his front. Káno speaks of all of them with extreme familiarity but Maedhros especially. With the manner of a personal betrayal. Of someone who once trusted wholeheartedly and blindly but suffered terribly in return. Of someone who paid in blood and tears for his loyalty. Harry's never want to wound Káno further with asking, but now...
Now, Harry doesn't know what to think. About any of this. Any of them. Káno says such awful things about each and everyone of them from Fëanor on down, but Harry's time in Tirion was learning all the rest. All the details that everyone leaves out while recounting the histories. The stories that make them real people.
Maedhros is the one Káno blames the most. Fears and curses more than the rest put together.
And yet...
Fingon loves him. Waited for him for two ages. Married him. In Harry's own home, which he will never point out to anyone. Ever.
Fingon wouldn't have done those things for just anyone. He's many things, but fundamentally good is certainly the top of that list. And at the end of the day, Harry trusts Fingon. Trusts that his uncle will actually look out for him as best he can and not throw him under the manticore or to the werewolves. And isn't that a thought more daunting than Maedhros could ever be in a thousand lifetimes?
Still, the longer Harry's in the room with him. The more he feels his song. The more he sees cracks along the brim and in his foundations. Some are fine, faint. Others are gaping and jagged, and not even Fingon's presence or his time in Mandos has been enough to heal these over.
Harry walks to them of his own accord. Caranthir still hasn't noticed, remaining behind to argue with Celegorm in the manner of small children, of siblings. Harry goes on his own. It's a short distance truly, but it feels long for the attention of everyone else in the room as they pretend very hard to act like they aren't staring.
"Nephew," Fingon greets, and he's beaming.
He steps free of his new husband to bring Harry into a brief embrace. His entire aura is luminous. Glowing and radiant like he's swallowed the sun. Infectious as it brightens the sky of Harry's own world until the ice and snow are dazzling.
"Congratulations," Harry offers with his own genuine smile.
Fingon merely chuckles and guides Harry forward before he can even say anything else. Before he can even give the words he's quietly been rehearsing in this mind. Fingon's too eager for his own introduction to even hear them.
"This is my husband," he says, drawing all three of them together. "Your oldest uncle, Maitimo."
Harry's at a crossroads. He could do nothing and follow their lead. He could listen to that inner voice, which sounds so much like Káno at times and move back. Or he could take a risk, believe in his own judgment. The part of him that tells him to form his own opinions.
Maedhros is taller than him, but Harry spent much of his life on Earth with that same problem. So it isn't much for him to lean in with one hand settling on the elf's shoulder and the other sliding around to his back; arms come up around him automatically. As if trying to catch him. Startled. Surprised. There's a fragile quality to Maedhros' grasp. As if he worries the slightest pressure will break Harry. His breath catches when Harry tightens his own hold.
Beside them, Fingon lets out a little laugh. Harry can feel the shock in the room at large, even Gil has an echo of it. He's edging closer, Harry knows, has been hanging in the periphery this entire time. Ready to flood in if needed but allowing Harry this chance on his own terms.
"Herurrívë," Maedhros murmurs then, and it's so low that the only other person close enough to hear is Fingon.
Harry inhales sharply in response.
They're married; they share knowledge. Everything Fingon knows about Harry, Maedhros does now, too. Including what Káno calls him. And who and what he thinks Harry is.
"Yes," Harry replies but is unsure how to continue.
There's a snort at his hesitation. Stunning, loud, and unexpectedly fond.
"It suits you."
Maedhros' gaze has softened, warmed. Simmering now like hot springs. Not boiling but close enough that Harry can almost feel the steam. The elf moves back, although it's only by a single step. Unlike the others, he doesn't inspect Harry like a particularly impressive sculpture or portrait come to life. Instead, he looks at green eyes without blinking.
"I'm glad to finally meet you, nephew," he says just as quietly as before.
His voice is familiar and foreign. Like listening to a memory. Similar to his brothers and father but there's a quality all his own. Aching and deep. Wounded.
He sounds like Káno. It's there in rise and fall of his words. Not just the accent when Káno can't stop himself. In the way he says Harry's name. The shape of the syllables.
Before Harry can even go anywhere with that thought, that realization, Fëanor and Nerdanel are there. Striding over like Morgoth himself chases them. They've made their own circuit around the room, but it's obvious they have one more destination in mind. Maedhros and Fingon glance at his parents, and Harry takes the opportunity to ease over to Gil, who settles into his side like he was there the entire time. A gentle drizzle of rain washes away the residuals of everyone else so that only the two of them remain. Harry lets out a slow exhale and slides their fingers together. Watches as Nerdanel hugs both Maedhros and Fingon at the same time. There are tears in her eyes as she disengages and whispers words for them alone.
Then, Fëanor stands before them. Gaze flicking from one to the other and back. There's a pleased curl to his mouth, and his fire is white, bright with happiness.
"Finally, yonya. You certainly took your time with things."
Only, it's Fingon he hugs tightly. Holding on like Fëanor hasn't seen him in millennia. Which to be fair...
"I'm so glad to at last call you my son," Fëanor states as he pulls back just enough to look Fingon in the eyes, hands on his shoulders.
Nerdanel adds cheerfully from beside her husband, "Such a joyous day. We knew straightaway that it was you who joined our House."
Harry tries very hard not to consider the implications of that. He suppresses that entire line of thought for all its worth and buries it under snow and ice. He steadfastly stares at the window just past the Eldar in front of him and makes eye contact with absolutely none of them as Fëanor and Nerdanel continue to gush about their newest son by marriage, Fingon beams like this is the best day of his entire life, and Maedhros stands steadily at his side.
Next to him, Gil glances over and lifts an eyebrow, while Harry feels the tips of his ears heat before he can't control it. That earns him a head tilt, but all he can do is shrug helplessly. He knows he'll be explaining this to Gil later, however.
Much later.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Melpomaen arrives at midafternoon. Precisely when the sun is between her zenith and the horizon. To be expected, Harry supposes. His aide is very good at following instructions to the letter. Even more expected is that he isn't alone. Laerien awaits on his right. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. Hands folded behind her back in a posture that's so much like Minerva McGonagall that Harry nearly snickers before he can stop himself.
At least, it's only the three of them currently. His other guests are in various parts of the castle, poking around, investigating every square inch, or otherwise making a nuisance of themselves under Nerdanel's affable but vigilant eye. He has another soon to arrive. Harry can hear his song like a clarion call, reaching out as a feathered wing in salutation, but he hasn't made it to the city proper. Not yet anyway but soon.
Gil meanwhile is nearby. Loitering. Hovering. He's ostensibly left them alone in the very same room that Harry spoke with Melpomaen in… Was it really just yesterday? Just last night? It feels like so much has happened since then. Honestly.
Both Laerien and Melpomaen rise as soon as Harry walks in, and there's an odd, almost awkward pause as they stare at him. Especially when he settles on the sofa opposite without preamble and leans back. They keep standing, keep staring even after he motions for them to sit.
"Melpomaen, thank you for returning," he greets first and gives a polite nod. "Laerien, it's been awhile."
"My king," she starts.
Harry just lifts an eyebrow at her. His gaze is pointed. Unblinking as the seconds tick by.
Laerien hesitates, but she accedes first.
"Marcaunon," she allows.
It's good enough, he thinks and again gestures for them to have a seat. This time, Melpomaen does so. It's reluctantly though, and he perches on the edge. Laerien, however, remains on her feet for a moment longer as her pride drives her to be defiant, but her sensibilities win out in the end. She arrays herself like a proper princess. Dress draped all around her and over robe flared outward. All that's missing is a fan.
Another pause then. Stretching out. Persisting in the air like an ominous stench.
"Yes?" Harry prompts. If only because he does have other things to do today and other guests to tend. One in particular coming ever closer.
It's Melpomaen who speaks this time surprisingly enough.
"Just as I said last night, sire, I came to beg your pardon. I wronged you. I broke your trust." His assistant corrects himself, "We broke your trust."
His face is pleading. Entire manner beseeching. From the way he's nearly tipping off the settee to the nervous movements of his fingers.
Laerien lets out a little sigh next to him. She's poised. Professional. But her song reverberates with an odd tenor. A murmur of discontent.
"It wasn't our intention to harm you, but we did," she admits, and his steward actually sounds regretful. Remorseful even.
That isn't an apology though. Frankly, nothing from them is. There are admissions of guilt, yes. But little else. Contrite that they were caught but not enough to tell him they were sorry to lie in the first place.
"So you did," Harry acknowledges. His words are light but not teasing. Not at all. Not today. "But what you intended and what occurred are not the same thing."
"My- Marcaunon," Melpomaen stumbles over the name, "we never meant-"
"For me to find out," Harry finishes for him. "Yes, I noticed that."
"No," his aide denies, and it's with an unexpected vehemence that echoes in the room and makes the willows on the walls jerk upright. "No, we didn't mean to upset you. We wanted to help you. Celebrían sent me... Sent both of us here to watch over you."
"To watch me," Harry amends with a dismissive flick of his fingers.
"To watch over you," Melpomaen insists. His nails dig into his palms as he curls them under. "She wanted me to watch out for you."
"Your sister cares for you deeply," Laerien inserts, and she's going for a consoling tone. "She worried for you here – alone – without any family."
Harry doesn't roll his eyes at that; it's a rather near thing. Celebrían was so worried about him that she sent two other people instead of coming herself. A fact he won't point out because he shouldn't have to do so.
Instead, Harry looks at them. It isn't a glare, but it's firm. Unyielding.
"We could be here all day debating back and forth, but in the end, the result is the same." He steeples his fingers and rests them on his knee. "Celebrían's still a practical stranger to me even now. She sent you pair to spy on me when I'd never even met her in the first place and knew only of her existence as a footnote on a family tree. Besides, I've not met her husband or been to Imladris."
His eyes shift from one of them to the other and back. Melpomaen's face has paled, hands white-knuckled. Laerien is stiff, silent as she sits straight-backed.
"You both took advantage of me," Harry states. His voice doesn't rise or fall. It remains even and reasonable. Controlled. "Certainly of my ignorance and willingness to give everyone a fresh start here. You knew I was allowing anyone in without questioning their background, and you used that."
"My king, I swear that I am loyal to you," Melpomaen implores with a hand rising to rest over his heart now.
"Perhaps," Harry allows, but his mouth curves ever-so-slightly in what should be a friendly look and somehow isn't. "Perhaps not. That remains to be seen, doesn't it? I should also think that Gil-galad's rather convenient betrothal has absolutely nothing at all to do with that statement."
Both of them again stare at him. They're stupefied, stunned at his words. Gaze at him like they've never seen him before, and to be honest, they've not met this version of him. He's always been cordial, mild in his dealings with them. Very much aware of his own strange nature and tenuous grasp on elven sensibilities. He's allowed them too much leeway; that stops now.
Laerien is better at controlling her surprise, but as it always is with the Eldar, their auras give them away. Melpomaen's sun is shaded by clouds now and her forest has grown quiet, quivering as something shifts in the trees.
Harry tilts his head. "You definitely took your time coming here. Neither of you even showed up at all until my family arrived."
Until Celebrían was here, goes unsaid. They both hear it, nonetheless.
Melpomaen gasps. "I didn't-"
"That isn't-" Laerien begins.
They try to talk at the same time but falter and glance at each other.
"Celebrían," they say together.
"Doesn't live here," Harry interrupts. "She isn't in charge here. Neither is Elrond. Nor is our father," he asserts, and there's an edge that's razor sharp but not cutting. Not yet. "You insist that I'm the ruler here, and you can't have it both ways. Either I'm in charge, and you defer to me and only me. Or… I'm not."
Harry taps his forefingers together as they digest that. As they consider his words. As he watches the proverbial gears turning. As he sees their thoughts begin heading down the exact path he knew they would.
Maybe their timing isn't a coincidence, but it actually works in his favor now.
"And if it's not me," Harry remarks then. Neutral. Pleasant. Devastating. "Well, I'm sure Fëanor would be more than happy to resume his rightful place."
Melpomaen visibly fades. Skin paling further until he's nearly a ghost. Until snow holds more color. His eyes are huge; irises completely erased by the size of his pupils. Meanwhile, Laerien is the opposite but somehow the same. Face flushing as she makes a small noise that immediately dies in her throat. She trembles as she grips the hem of her robe.
"You would… Truly…"
Her tone is faint, weak. Unable to truly form her question.
"I would what?" Harry inquires idly. "Return Formenos to her founder? I have no quarrel with him or any of his sons. Why would I?" He offers them both a gentle, genuine smile. "After all, they'll be residing here with me anyway."
The quiet doesn't so much linger as loom. Hang heavy in the air like a weighted breath. Bated. Gasping.
"You would truly give up everything you've built here?"
Laerien's found her voice now, and she says it like a demand, but her aura is a cacophony of sound. Of disparate noises without rhythm or purpose. There's only shock mixed with horror and a dash of desolation.
Melpomaen is little better. His sun is completely blotted out by clouds blacker than ink stains on a once clear sky. Everything else is shades of gray, darkening with every passing second.
If anything that makes Harry's resolve grow stronger. Firmer. The acceptance that they only seem to recognize consequence when it affects them personally.
"I can always build again," he reminds them. "I never wanted to rule in the first place. It was at the insistence of the Eldar here that I do."
Melpomaen has the look of a man in the middle of a nightmare. Laerien simply seems like she can't believe what she's hearing.
"This is your kingdom!" she declares, but it's somehow just short of a shout. "You made Formenos what it is."
"I know." Harry merely shrugs in much the manner he's seen the House of Finwë do. Irimë and even Findis. Elegant but nonchalant. "But it's never something I wanted."
Somehow, she doesn't splutter. She's still a princess, after all. But she works to find the words. Struggling and nearly breathless.
"You would throw this all away?"
Harry regards her without blinking. "Throw what away exactly?" he poses. "A kingship I don't want and never did? Subordinates who clearly don't trust me or my judgment?"
Laerien has no answer for that. None is needed as her mouth clicks shut audibly, and her teeth nearly catch her tongue. Her song shudders like a hurricane through the trees before falling deathly still.
It's Melpomaen who dares to ask, "What of those who have made this our home?"
He sounds defeated, wrecked. World now only black with no sunlight left.
"Are more than welcome to stay," Harry responds before adding, "under new management. If not Fëanor, then likely whichever son desires it."
Both of their songs jolt at that.
"And you, sire?"
Laerien is emotionless now. Voice empty. Her eyes glitter with moisture that she barely contains.
Harry forces down the guilt before it can even rear its ugly head. It isn't his nature to be cruel, but if he doesn't make them understand now, they never will. He isn't their doormat. He isn't a handy wand to pick up and use whenever they need and then tuck in a drawer out of sight.
"Nienna lives on the western sea; it's quite lovely there," he offers with a real affection at mention of her. "She's made it clear I'm more than welcome to join her."
If Harry thought they were staring before, it's nothing compared to the twin expressions they give him now. Melpomaen gapes in the manner of someone who has just escaped a horrific Quidditch accident but his friends weren't so lucky. While all the stages of grief flicker over Laerien's face before she finally settles on a mixture of realization and resignation.
"So that is it then?" she whispers at last. Her gaze is distant, looking at nothing. "For both of us?"
"Don't be silly," Harry admonishes them. He sends out a hint of frost that flicks both in the forehead.
Laerien jumps and sucks in a breath. Melpomaen blinks owlishly at him. Once. Twice. They both appear startled as if waking from a bad dream.
"I'm not throwing you out."
Not yet.
"This is your one and only chance," Harry tells them. "I've been through this with Inglor. I'm sure he told you my stance on things. Though I think you already know why when I say that you both are getting a harsher lesson."
He pauses, but neither does more than look at him. Watch him in the way a deer does a dragon. Not daring to blink. Harry can feel the glow to his own eyes as he gazes right back, and he doesn't even need to speak louder. His point is made readily enough.
"Formenos and her people come first. When your families come to Valinor, they're more than welcome to join you here, and if they settle elsewhere, I won't police your time or relationship with them." Harry holds up a finger then before than can even think to give an objection. "Anything I tell you or you learn in confidence is just that. If it gets spread to other places and I find out its from you, then you're out. You won't be let back in for any reason."
It's a generous offer all things considered. More forgiving than they seemingly thought they'd get. The acceptance of that fact lights in their eyes as they shift to kneel on the carpet in front of him. A faint flicker rises on the horizon of Melpomaen's word, and a strum of notes floats through Laerien's forest.
"Yes, my king," they say together, still kneeling with heads bowed.
Harry doesn't bother to correct them. He merely nods to himself.
"I'm glad we've come to this understanding," he says next and waits until their eyes lift. "Now, why don't you both take the rest of the day off, and I'll see you tomorrow morning in my office."
He rises then in a single motion. Towering over them even when they slowly stand. Melpomaen barely comes up to his shoulder; Laerien doesn't manage that. They've been next to him before. Thousands of times even. But this is the first that they've ever regarded him as they do now. As if they genuinely respect him. As if they aren't just humoring him.
Even Laerien offers a low – not perfunctory – bow. Neither looks up as they follow him to the entranceway of the castle. Not even when they leave through the side door.
Gil not-so-mysteriously appears a scant five seconds later. Stepping from the shadows of a convenient suite of armor that was on the opposite side of the hall when Harry started this meeting. Undoubtedly the castle's doing then. Menaces, both of them – castle and elf.
"You were listening."
It isn't a question. But not quite an accusation either.
Gil merely grins as slips an arm around Harry's middle. His touch is familiar, safe.
"I wasn't too harsh," Harry defends.
"Not harsh enough, I think," Gil counsels. "Inglor came weeks ago. Melpomaen needs to be brave enough to face his mistakes, and Laerien was trying to wait you out. You were right to censure them for that."
He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek but doesn't pull away. His love just studies him instead. Searching his eyes for long heartbeats.
"Would you really leave?" he inquires.
It's said casually, but there's an intensity to the rain in his song. A force behind the droplets as they hit the ground.
Harry squeezes his hand. "It's always a possibility... but a very small one," he concedes. "I like it here. I have friends here. Laerien and Melpomaen hardly represent a fraction of a percentage of the people in Formenos. I'd send them away before I'd ever leave myself."
Gil's thumb runs across the back of his fingers. He lets out a soft breath.
"An excellent bluff then. We'll make a king of you yet," he allows, and it's cheerfully.
Harry chuckles, but he's not done. Instead, he bends down for a chaste brush of lips.
"Besides," he comments as he shifts back, and his grin is pure Hufflepuff guilelessness with a Slytherin underneath, "if I ever did decide to leave, I'd just take the castle with me."
Gil's eyes widen for a second before he lets out a hearty laugh. "Mírimo, you certainly would do that."
"Of course, I wouldn't let all this hard work go to waste," Harry adds reasonably. "Maybe I could set her on a cloud and we'd just float around."
Gil laughs again. Hard enough this time that he snorts.
"I don't know what's worse," he says once he's managed to compose himself slightly. "The fact that you're serious… or the fact that you'd succeed."
Harry merely smiles at him before he leans in again. Forehead dipping to rest against Gil's neck. He feels rain settle against him like a soothing song, and he closes his eyes at this little indulgence. At these few moments just for them while everyone else in the castle is otherwise occupied. Nerdanel, Fëanor, and their sons are in the guest wing with Fingon all gathered together in a single room. While Finrod speculates with Celebrían about the plants in the garden. Finarfin, Angrod, and Findis have discovered his library and meander around the shelves. Finally, Fingolfin and Argon are half-way up the stairs of the conservatory tower.
It's just Harry and Gil here now, but he already knows it won't last. Not when there's a beat of war-drums. A call of trumpets in greeting. Outside and slightly to the south where the training courtyard sits.
Gil lifts an eyebrow at him as he straightens. Harry inclines his head, and his love simply lets out a lengthy exhale before pulling away to take his hand. They gaze at each other for a second.
Slow or fast? Walk or…
The rain shifts to more meandering rate, and Harry takes that as his cue. He tugs Gil along beside him. They fall in step easily. Pace sedate but with purpose.
After all, Eönwë is waiting.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He traces out the symbol in chalk. The triangle first in one unbroken motion. The circle is next, made much the same. The line is last and done in a single continuous stroke. The salt is laid down next followed by the quartz dust. He mixes the remainder in equal parts with lily petals for the third. The stones are added last. Each set into place by hand with the utmost care so that nothing is smeared and the entire process doesn't have to be redone. It's dawn when he starts and not quite midmorning when he finishes. The ritual itself won't be until midnight, so Harry allows himself some minutes to relax as he surveys his work.
Everything is perfect.
Harry takes cautious steps backwards to the doorway. He's currently in the center of the old fortress, the very heart of the compound. Ironically, this room appears to have once been a forge. Fire long gone out. Tools left forgotten but without a speck of rust.
Now, everything has been removed and stored away. Now, it'll be used to cleanse. To rebirth from the ashes. To lay the foundation for something new. To burn away phantoms and aching memories that cling to this empty place. That's an event – a problem – for later though. For tonight. When Nienna and Káno join him for their first purification.
Now, as he stops in the great hall, Harry is alone save for Indilwen. She nuzzles at his hand as he strokes it up and down her head. He takes a few long moments to brush and redo the braids of her mane, neglected as they've been these last several days. She nickers when he finishes, snorting into his ear. Harry thinks for a second that she'll bid him to join her. Direct him to recline in the grass, but instead, she nudges him towards the stairs.
Harry puzzles at that. Doubly so when she gives a more forceful push since he isn't moving fast enough. He merely holds his hands up in defeat. Taking the hint. He might as well head for his tower anyway. He's a little too energetic, too nervous, to rest. Not truly in the mood to build further, but there's always something he can find to do. Something he can plan or sketch out or contemplate.
However, before he can even get upstairs, Harry discovers that there's someone else awaiting him. Hears her song drifting like gossamer strands in the breeze. Fine and nearly invisible until caught by the sunlight.
Vairë isn't in her favorite spot by the newly installed window. No, her back is to him as she bends over to inspect the blueprints he's drawn out for the castle. Her hands are empty, but Harry knows her well enough that he'll find a surprise somewhere later. It's a game she delights in playing. One Harry still isn't entirely sure the rules or purpose of, but he's reasonably sure she's winning.
"Marcaunon," she says as she turns to him, dress a silken whisper on the floor. Harry can just make out the curve of her mouth behind her veil; she takes his hands as he comes over.
"Vairë, a pleasure as always," he welcomes very sincerely.
"Nienna is not here?" she inquires, but it's obvious she already knows the answer as she makes no move to look or search out with her song.
"Later." He offers her a seat, which she declines with a proper wave. "Likely after sunset."
"I actually hoped you would join me today." Her voice is as ethereal as her veil but somehow fills the room with both light and sound.
Harry tips his head back in surprise. "I have to be back by midnight," he reminds her.
She gives him a little laugh like crystal chimes. She's always shorter than him. Always chooses a form that has to peer up into his eyes, but somehow, Harry feels smaller as she mildly chides him.
"And yet, you can travel quickly, yes?"
It's posed as a question, but she already knows that answer, too.
Harry responds with a raised brow; that only earns him delicate notes that twine around him as surely as an embrace. Her aura is deceptively dainty, fragile like a spiderweb. But there's an unseen strength.
"Will you travel with me now?" Vairë asks then, voice light as summer linen. "My rooms await us both if you're willing."
Harry knows when he's being set-up. He doesn't have to see her song to know it's coming. The Ainur rarely do something without twenty-six motivations. But she's caught him at the perfect time, hasn't she? Nienna isn't around nor are any of the others. Harry has absolutely no reason nor legitimate excuse to refuse.
He simply smiles at her in resignation and lays a hand on her wrist, but she slides her arm into his an instant later. Settles against him like a cloak draping over his elbow. Harry allows it without comment. An instant later they are in the private area she prefers inside of Mandos. Which is indeed already occupied. Harry isn't surprised at all; he really isn't. He gives the ladies a nod, having met all of them before.
There's naturally Vairë herself, who squeezes his arm before gliding over to sit next to her second sister by marriage. Estë is already at the table, hands cradling a cup like one would a prayer. The fourth and final occupant is the only other elf in the room; she gracefully motions to the chair beside her.
"Come sit with us, Marcaunon," she indicates. Her hair shines like the moon in the dim lighting, but her face is gentle, and her black eyes are fathomless but kind. "You haven't eaten yet."
It isn't a question. Vairë answers for him anyway.
"He has been working since before daybreak. I thought he deserved a reprieve," she says with the air of one gossiping about a naughty child.
Harry ignores that as he comes to the empty place across from Estë. The tablecloth is genuine lace, he notes, as he slips into his seat. Sheer with a pattern as intricate as an individual snowflake, and it takes him a second, but Harry realizes that's exactly what it resembles. He gives a little laugh at that since there's no doubt where exactly it came from or who created it.
He glances up to find them studying him. A pale gray plate with a white rim appears in front of him. Not by magic. More Estë's slight of hand. Talent that is. She would've been cardsharp in another life.
"Míriel has made us pastries," she comments with a lullaby in her tone. Her gaze is dreamy and distant, the color of moonstone but twice as bright.
The aforementioned Míriel gives him a beatific smile. Her argent hair is a lovely contrast to the deep blue dress she wears. Harry knows now that she's an elf, but there's something insubstantial, ethereal about her. Something far closer to spirit and even more otherworldly than the other Eldar he's met. Something almost translucent when he look at her. As if he can see through her form to the other side.
She also doesn't feel like an elf. Her aura certainly doesn't. The quality and shape is far more like the Maiar he knows, and he supposes that it's the length of time she's been in Mandos. Just from speaking with her, he understands it's been ages. Longer now that anyone else here, although he doesn't know why she lingers. It's none of his business either way, and it's good to see Míriel besides. She's a serene but genial presence. Always pleased to greet him. Though to be honest, for all that she's Vairë's handmaiden, Harry has most often seen her while he meets with Estë. Those talks are something of an in-depth discussion of their differing healing methods and lessons from Estë herself.
That doesn't seem to be the agenda for the day though, which is probably for the best. There's still the possibility this could still turn into an impromptu tailoring session, however. Which wouldn't be the first time between Vairë and Míriel. He's had to expand his closet twice already for a reason, after all. Best not think too hard on that or he'll jinx himself.
Instead, Harry settles more fully in his chair as Vairë fills his cup and the scent of black tea floats upwards. Harry doesn't see it, but somehow the plate in front him is filled between one blink and the next. For a magic trick, it's rather impressive, but he's seen it before. What is astonishing is the dessert itself. The only treacle that exists in this world as far as Harry knows is what he's made himself, but this is suspiciously similar. Not quite the same but close enough that he feels his eyebrow rising of its own accord. Míriel merely winks at him over her teacup when he glances her direction. Vairë graciously pretends not to notice, while Estë finishes serving everyone.
Conversation drifts then, and it's an odd situation to recognize that no matter how far from his first home Harry now is, somethings never change. The need for people to gossip is one of them. The Ainur would certainly never call it that; would never even consider the possibility. But a broomstick is a broomstick, and dragon is a dragon.
Harry hears more in the next hour or so about the various goings-on with the other Ainur than if those individuals told him themselves. Varda and Manwë with the new statue the Eldar are building on Taniquetil. Oromë taking his hunt all the way to the northern wastes. Tulkas challenging Eönwë to a spear throwing contest. Ulmo actually washing up on the southern shore.
Harry contributes little to the discussion. Simply listening as it flows around him. Making all the appropriate noises. Eating anything they put in front of him. Steadily sipping his tea, which he keeps refilling with a flick of his fingers.
Míriel periodically glances at him. Studying him in her peripheral vision but not addressing him directly except to offer him more pastries.
Estë stirs her cup by making a swirling motion with her finger as she speaks of her own husband and his siblings. For someone who mostly stays in the Gardens of Lórien, she knows an awfully lot about what everyone is doing.
Vairë never removes her veil. Not even while eating. She's also too dignified to reach underneath. Not that she needs to do so. Harry doesn't see her drink at all, but her cup keeps getting emptier. Every time he looks away, more of her tart is missing, too. Harry doesn't question that. Not at all. Not even once. He's old enough now to recognize that it's sometimes better not to know.
Instead, he settles in his chair. Enjoys his tea and treacle tart. Listens to the conversation and soaks up the company. He doesn't think about his upcoming ritual, the first of seven. Or his future plans for Formenos. Or anything but the here and now.
Behind her veil, Vairë smiles to herself.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Caranthir – So our parents are indisposed.
Amras – Yep, and with our nephew.
Caranthir – And our oldest brother is off getting married.
Amrod – Also yep, and I could live without that knowledge.
Caranthir – Our next oldest brother is MIA.
Curufin – Probably in Endor still.
Caranthir – The third oldest is irresponsible.
Celegorm – Hey! I'm not irresponsible.
The Others – Look at him in disbelief.
Curufin – Need we remind you of Doriath?
Celegorm – That wasn't me who lost those twins. That was my men.
Caranthir – Curvo, also spent most of the First Age babysitting you.
Celegorm – He did NOT.
Amras – He totally did.
Amrod – He truly did.
Curufin – Nods in agreement. Very menacingly.
Celegorm – Crosses his arms across his chest. Pouts.
Caranthir – Points to himself. That means I'm in charge.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – Congratulations, my son!
Nerdanel – We're so happy for you. This has been a long time in coming.
Fingon – Thank you, father, mother.
Fëanor – You won me a lot of money!
Fingon – Gasp! That was you!
Nerdanel – Son, could not you have waited another night?
Fingon – Shocked! You, too?!
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – A son? Makalaurë has a son?
Maedhros – Yes, we've established this.
Fëanor – But… but how? How did this happen?
The Ambarussa – Look at each other, their siblings, and then their father.
Celegorm – Giggling in the background so hard he falls to the floor.
Caranthir – Sighs and rubs his temples.
Curufin – I trust you know exactly how this happens, atar.
Nerdanel – Dear husband, I can show you if you want.
Sons of Fëanor – Help! We're not old enough for this!
AN: Yonya – my son.
Also, did Harry just tell his subordinates that Nienna is his mother while also challenging them not to tell anyone… Insert sinister, Slytherin laugh.
And ugh… elven heights. Fact checking this is a nightmare. For this story, Argon is taller than Turgon (barely-ish which is a family joke), then Maedhros. Maglor (and Harry) are next very closely followed by Celegorm. Fingolfin, Fëanor, Fingon are all about the same with Gil-galad in there, too. The rest are arrayed afterwards.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) O (Masculine).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar