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 notices the sound of water first. It's rhythmic and steady on the rocks. Flowing in the same ageless tempo across worlds. Soothing. Serene. He opens his eyes already knowing he isn't alone. Harry sits on marble bench beneath a gleaming white tree that reaches out towards the cloudless, perfect sky. The air is warm, pleasant as any summer day before it's grown too hot, and the breeze stirs the leaves overhead.
Nearby, he stands. He's dressed simply. In a deep blue tunic with metallic stitching and an equally silver circlet. Harry can see pointed ears peeking out beneath inky, dark hair that's every inch as black as his own. He's facing the same direction, but he turns as if noticing the attention. His eyes are a deep, piercing gray that shimmers with starlight.
Harry's seen eyes like this before. Recognizes them immediately. And while Harry hasn't met him earlier, he suspects who this is already. More so the longer they study each other. As he shifts to settle next to Harry. As his fëa reaches out but stops just short. Waiting politely.
His smile is warm, lights up his entire face when Harry brushes back with a curl of frost. His tone when he speaks is heavy with affection.
"Hello, little brother."
Harry wakes all at once. He opens his eyes – truly this time – to find himself resting on Gil's shoulder. His love is in elven sleep next to him, and Harry gently lifts his head. The painted sky above is still a heavenly kaleidoscope of lights, but he can tell that dawn isn't all that far away. It's later than he normally rises by hours, but yesterday was the first they've ever slept apart, and Harry admittedly didn't want to get up or leave earlier. He lays there for several minutes, contemplating his options. Not wanting to attempt sleep again but growing more restless the longer he watches the constellations flickering overhead.
Harry first thinks to go to his winter garden. To rest amongst the ice and snow and just breathe in the frigid air, but Eönwë is already in the training courtyard. Or more fair to say, he likely never left there last night. He certainly didn't come to dinner even with Harry's invitation. Declining with a peculiar gleam to his eyes but a flutter of feathers that brushed Harry's shoulder.
It will be good to spend time with his friend, Harry decides then. Besides, he already knows that he'll wake Gil if he remains here any longer, so he slips from their bed quietly. It's a futile effort, however. His elf must sense his intentions or be roused the cooling mattress beside him. He starts to stir around the time Harry's already half-way dressed, just straightening a forest green tunic but yet to don the gray over-robe or to consider if shoes are really worth the effort. They're always laid beside whichever outfit Gil sets out for him each night. Harry rarely bothers though. Not now. Not here. Not in the castle at least.
In Formenos at large, no one really cares aside from the occasional Ñoldo. Half the Silvan and Avari don't bother with shoes either in the outskirts and some of Sindar go barefoot, too. The only Ainu who ever even notices is Eönwë when they're sparring, and that's mostly so he doesn't stab Harry in the foot again. The Maia was most displeased when that happened, despite the fact that Harry healed almost instantaneously.
Gil blinks awake the same moment that Harry's locked in his eternal debate, but that's so quickly forgotten in the next seconds. His elf is lovely in the starlight, ethereal and otherworldly as he glides from their bed like a spirit come to life. Harry can't help but stare at the vision that approaches him, feel his breath catch as hands slip over his sides and to his back. The kiss good morning is most certainly welcome. Almost enough for him to forget himself and his plans.
But his love undoubtedly has them figured out since he gives Harry a pointed look as he step back, and Harry doesn't dare leave yet as Gil dresses quickly, practically magicking himself into the first thing that comes into reach in the wardrobe. He doesn't even braid his hair. Instead, he merely brushes it through in quick sweeps before deftly pocketing a comb and ties. He's back at Harry's side in minutes; Harry blinks at him. Since really, it's not like they're in a rush.
His love just offers him a soft look. He could use his bracelet, but he slides both arms around Harry's middle once again. Closes his eyes without even being asked, doesn't see the smile Harry gives him in return for his trust. They appear in the courtyard an instant later. Eönwë is in the center, sword in hand as he fights a nonexistent army. He's facing the other direction, but straightaway, his song rises in greeting.
The courtyard is bathed in pale light from the half-moon, which gleams on the metal of Eönwë's white cuirass. The lanterns aren't lit, however. A situation Harry swiftly corrects with a single snap, and soon, it's almost bright as any noonday. Eönwë approaches soundlessly, stops precisely two feet from Harry. Closer than any elf gets to the Ainur and the nearest most of them have seemingly deemed appropriate when Harry isn't alone. Unless they want the Eldar to stare more than usual.
A pair of blue eyes now peer at him beneath bronze brows. Placid as a lake but waters too deep to fathom. Harry knows what he wants with him even asking. Which to be fair, Harry did leave Eönwë to his devices most of the night. He isn't sure if the Maia was genuinely too uncomfortable to venture inside with all the elves around – especially the House of Fëanor. Or if he's simply been restless. Harry's his favorite sparring partner and factoring in his recent trip to Tirion, he hasn't really been around all that much lately. Even after returning home, they haven't truly crossed blades.
He casts a glance at Gil and summons both their armor. His directly on himself. Gil's set, he places on the bench by the near wall, and his elf gives a sniff with that display, but Harry sees the curl of his lips. Feels the pace of his rain increase in a pulse of anticipation. He moves off to ready himself while Harry and Eönwë remain in the center. Harry both does and doesn't see the point of a warm-up; it's mostly to appease his friend, but he follows along through basic forms to the advanced ones. Distantly aware that Gil is intently observing them even after he's put on everything but his helm. His elf has settled onto the sidelines now, comb in hand. Eönwë glances at him before turning back, and there's a peculiar look on Gil's own face; it takes Harry a while to figure out the cause. It's only when he stands to join them, thanking Harry wordlessly for his spear, that the reason why is obvious. Especially when he asks them to repeat the last set again for him to watch closer.
These are different forms – katas really, though they don't call them that – than what Gil knows. Variations of the ones from his Ñoldor retainers in Endor but completely different from those he learned from his father, Círdan, so it's an interesting time for them as they start going through the comparisons. Eönwë is immediately intrigued, eager even. It occurs to Harry that they'll probably be questioning the Silvan and Avari members of his guard about this topic in the near future. There aren't any Teleri in the guard, though there are on his other staff, but Harry doesn't really know any Vanyar; Fingolfin and Finarfin undoubtedly would though
It's over an hour later, nearly two with dawn already on the horizon, that their talk starts to wind down. Harry expects Eönwë to request a spar then. After all, it's the main reason they came down to see him, but instead, his gaze flicks from Gil to Harry and lingers. Blank as usual but with a speculative quality in the notes underneath. Harry sends him back a chord of inquiry.
"Your hair is unbraided," Eönwë points out in a complete non sequitur.
"Gil hasn't fixed it yet," he replies. More with confusion that anything else.
The Maia merely continues to study him. His eyes are still blue but have shifted to a lighter shade. Like a cloudless sky. Endless. Limitless.
Harry doesn't glance at Gil; he can sense the bemusement with just a hint of merriment from here. Eönwë will never ask, but it's quite obvious what he actually wants. It's just not something Harry expected from him until it was brought up the first time in Tirion. Now though...
"Would you care to do the honors then?"
Eönwë doesn't smile outwardly, but he brightens like another sun has been set in the sky. Before Harry can even conjure one, Gil hands over his comb, which he produces almost from thin air. Eönwë's expression doesn't change at all, but his aura has a drumbeat of surprise as he follows Harry to the sidelines. The stone bench is a comfortable enough distance from the wall for the Maia to remain behind him while Harry faces forward. He half-excepts Gil to stand in front, but he instead sits next to Harry, turned so their knees brush.
Eönwë's fingers are slow, almost hesitant at first. Not clumsy but more unsure. As if he worries about his own strength. Cautious with each movement. Careful and infinitely gentle. Touch tender and light. Song a soft feather that floats against the snow of Harry's soul. Everyone is soundless as Eönwë finishes the first braid, and Gil offers a tie that he passes directly over without a single word. Still observant as Eönwë moves slightly down to start the next. Normally, Gil hums or even sings as he does this, so Harry has to admit the whole situation is just a bit surreal. Even as Eönwë continues and his elf looks on much like the professor during a particularly difficulty potion.
"Interesting choice," Gil-galad finally comments as the second braid is finished, "but fitting."
"Yes," Eönwë acknowledges. "I have seen other Eldar of sufficient station wear similar."
"I suppose you also heard them whispering on why Mírimo doesn't have these," Gil suggests.
"Indeed," the Maia allows. He's now gone on to a third braid, still on Harry's right side. This one's set behind the others, but he's more confident now, firmer in his hold.
"Dare I ask what you're doing?" Harry at last chimes in.
Gil snickers then. "He's given you a mastery braid. One that says you've reached the highest level in your chosen craft. He's joined that with another for an artist, and if I'm not mistaken the third is for a painter specifically."
It's only the fact that Eönwë is essentially holding him in place that keeps Harry from startling. Yes, he's a master healer and a Potions master... but for his painting? That started as a simple hobby and somehow took on a life of its own. In more ways than one.
"I'm not a master," Harry insists, and it's automatically.
A pause. Silence again from both of them. He knows without knowing that they're looking at each other though. A glance at his love confirms it.
"Mírimo," Gil says next and somehow doesn't laugh, but he sounds like he wants to, "no one who has seen your work would ever doubt that you're a master."
They'll have to agree to disagree on that one. Harry's taken classes. Has traveled all over Earth. But he's never apprenticed as an artist. Truthfully, for the most part, he's self-taught. His formal education was more to fill in the gaps. For the history, the name of techniques, or to make contacts. The majority of the rest, Harry figured out on his own through dusty books or good, old fashioned trial and error. He's never taken any students for this either.
His love sighs as if reading his thoughts. Or perhaps sensing the shape of them with the way frost is building a wall of denial inside him.
"You're a member of the guild here, aren't you?" Gil asks like he doesn't already know.
Harry fights a sigh. He hates when they play this game.
"Well, yes... but-"
"You thought that they were just humoring you," his elf proposes.
"No, not quite, but it's my city," Harry explains, and it's so very reasonable. "So they had to let me join, didn't they?"
At least, they thought they did. The healer's guild, too. Harry never would've pushed the issue, but the Eldar were slightly wide-eyed with astonishment when he asked. He had because it frankly sounded interesting. He was a member of several organizations on Earth, but those related to his fields of study were the ones he actually enjoyed. He liked talking with other members and learning of their projects. The conferences he tolerated, but he finds himself missing those at times, too. Missing the interaction and connections with people who share his interests. The guilds here are similar enough to be nostalgic. There isn't one for Potions specifically, but musicians have their own, and he's been by with Daeron. Harry likes to think he's a passable enough player to get in.
So yes, Harry is a guild member for the artists. Pays his dues the same as everyone else, despite their best efforts. And his reply here should be answer enough, but the betrayal comes from an unexpected source.
"The mural in the guildhall is your work, is it not?" Eönwë questions from behind him. Nearly forgotten for a moment.
Harry exhales slowly. A little stunned that his friend actually knew that. Has he been to the hall? Gone inside? Seen the fountain?
"It is, yes," Harry admits. Almost guiltily.
"I surmise that was a sufficient mastery test then," Eönwë states evenly enough, but his aura is radiant. Less light gleaming off a sword. More a halo. A corona of a star.
"Mural?"
Gil's far too interested in this now. Harry is a captive audience – literally in this case, as Eönwë is still actively holding part of his hair. Now on his left and working on the matching trio.
"It's…" Harry can feel the ebb and flow of the storm against him, and he reconsiders his words. "I suppose that I'll have to show you later."
"Yes." Gil chuckles. "Next time we're headed that way."
He's so pleased with himself as he says it. Like he's won a prize. His song shimmers into a rainbow. Red shifting all the way through to violet with his delight and echoing with his mirth.
"Perhaps we can even finally convince you to wear these," his love teases with a gesture to his temples. "Maybe you'll even place them yourself."
"Me?" Harry repeats, completely ignoring the first part of that statement. "I've only braided Indilwen's mane."
Gil stills. The laughter fades all at once. Leaving behind only the rumble of dark clouds on the horizon.
Behind him, Eönwë pauses. Hands tense and unmoving.
"No one else?" Gil questions, tone now low, a combination of perplexed and surprised.
"Who else would there be?" Harry returns. "No one ever asks me. This isn't something the Ainur usually do either." He gives a slight shrug, barely a twitch of his shoulders. "Besides, Nienna wears her hood, and Vairë always has her veil."
"No," Eönwë agrees as he uses a finger to gently smooth back several stray strands behind Harry's ear. "This is not one of our traditions."
The Maia's own hair is likely too short for it as it is. Not that it would matter with a shapeshifter. Though that would be an awkward ask.
Tulkas and Nessa probably don't have the patience necessary to sit still long enough for Harry to do a proper job of it. Not unless he used magic and that would defeat the purpose.
Oromë is the only one Harry's seen consistently have any braids, but Harry suspects that it's because Celegorm once wore those. Not out of a true want to have his hair in that fashion.
Hard to say what Námo, Irmo, and Estë would allow. Manwë wouldn't understand why Harry would offer at all, and it's unclear how much any of the others would either.
"I suppose, Miriel might let me," Harry muses after a few heartbeats of contemplation, "but she usually has her hair loose."
Out of the corner of his vision, Harry sees Gil staring without blinking. Watches his blue-gray eyes darken with some unknown emotion. Feels the thunder resound and catches the flash of lightning.
"No one else at all? Not even…" His voice drifts as he gazes off in thought "You never do your own hair," he realizes. But it's soft, quiet and pensive. Almost lost beneath the noise of the growing tempest.
"No," Harry agrees. "It's rather hard to judge if I'm doing it correctly with only myself."
His elf goes completely soundless then. His eyes are nearly black clouds, and there's static where their knees touch. Even more when he reaches for Harry.
"Mírimo, I-"
"It doesn't matter," Harry interrupts before he can finish the rest of that statement, and he offers Gil a sincere smile. "I have you to do it for me know."
His elf closes his eyes for a several seconds before looking at him again. Eönwë is a silent sentinel behind them. Once again braiding but slower now. Movements even more deliberate.
"I had to learn all the guild braids as part of my education," Gil-galad tells him then. "There's one specifically for a master painter, but I can't say I have ever done it before."
There's a beat before Harry admits, "I don't know that one."
The hand that settles on his wrist is warm. Reassuring. Thumb running over his pulse.
"I'll teach it to you," his loves says, and it's less an offer and more a certainty.
Harry breathes for a moment allowing another smile. Fuller this time. Realer.
Káno tries, but there's only so much he can do when they can't see each other. Harry has learned just by interacting with the elves in the city and seeing who wore what, but those for his craft specifically, he hasn't seen as far as he knows. There were few in Formenos who bother with that as their primary craft, most prefer it as secondary or even a hobby. Káno hasn't taught it to him either. Of course, Káno has never seen any of his work as far as Harry knows. Not unless Nienna brought smaller pieces to show him, but he's never asked Harry to send anything, not even a sketch.
Gil disrupts his thoughts, "There's another for the ruler of a community. You have earned that as well."
Harry snaps back to himself at that comment. Even more so as realization sinks in.
"Is that what you've been putting in my hair?"
It isn't an accusation. Not quite. But Harry can't fully contain the unease.
"No, Mírimo," his love denies mildly. He now takes Harry's hand in both of his. "I wouldn't do that without your permission."
Harry exhales slowly and offers a squeeze in apology. It's returned fully.
"What do mine say? When you do them?" he clarifies.
"You don't know?" His elf seems sounds surprised by this.
"I'd say that I know more than half of the time," Harry guesses with a little wiggle of his index fingers, "but not everything you used. The ones that say I'm a Ñoldo and even that I'm from Formenos; I know those quite well. The others for when we were courting and now that we're betrothed."
Gil inclines his head, but he hesitates then. He doesn't look away. Yet, there's a reluctance in his manner. In the fall of rain, which has softened from a torrent to a refreshing spring drizzle.
"I also use the one for the House of Finwë," he confesses.
Harry doesn't sigh because he already figured that had to be in there. It's naturally only for members or retainers of the House. He may as well have put out a sign declaring himself part of the family. Splendid.
His love has a guilty cast to his face at the look Harry gives him.
"There's also one that represents my personal House," Gil adds with another caress against his wrist. "It's truthfully the same braid that Círdan and Erestor use."
"I bet everyone loved that in Endor when they figured it out."
His elf lets out a snort. "Oh, they did. They could hardly contain their kind words."
Harry offers a laugh of his own. There's a flicker of puzzlement behind him as Eönwë quietly follows the conversation, but he doesn't say anything. Harry decides to let it go.
"None for the House of Fëanor?" he inquires instead.
"I admit that I don't actually know it." Gil merely shakes his head. "You'll have to ask Nerdanel or one of your uncles to teach it to you."
Harry makes a noncommittal noise but doesn't give a true reply; he doesn't need to turn his head to listen. In fact, he still can't as Eönwë has yet to let go. Having now moved further back so that Harry can't quite tell what exactly he's doing anymore. Either way, Harry doesn't need to move to know that they have company incoming. He's felt them met in the corridor and stop to converse with one another, but he hasn't cared enough to listen in. Now, both have finally appeared, lingering in the shadows.
"Or perhaps Fëanor himself," Harry allows next; he flicks his eyes to the side.
Gil glances over his shoulder, and there's a lightning strike of surprise. Eönwë, in turn, slows slightly but continues on; drumbeat steady and unerring. Trumpet in the background but rising in volume as if calling out a warning.
Fëanor stands at the arched entrance to the courtyard. He's in a deep red today, Harry notes, almost the color of currants. Which means they've discovered the wardrobe of clothing Harry left for them at least – magicked to fit perfectly on the first person who tries it on and to not appear as if it's changed size at all. He's learned his lesson on that part long ago when still on Earth, thanks so much.
Celebrían is beside and one step behind him. She's strangely enough in green today. A color that Harry rarely sees her wear. But her dress is graduate shades, and her hair is done in a style that makes Gil-galad's brows rise.
Both Fëanor and Celebrían wear a similar perplexed expression. Not identical but one that Harry's seen countless times before, and truthfully, he isn't particularly surprised by their staring. It's the usual look elves bear when one of the Ainur does something unexpected. And indeed, they seem to be fixated on Eönwë. Who finishes one last braid before finally glancing up.
"Fëanáro," he says blandly.
A beat.
"Eönwë," is the quick, neutral response.
No titles, Harry notices. He isn't sure if that's a good sign or a very bad one. It's quiet in the courtyard afterwards. Broken only by the sounds of the birds in the distance and the castle stirring, waking up for a new day.
Minutes pass by. Despite the greeting, Fëanor keeps staring. There's no burst of his legendary temple. No flare of flames. Or gnash of teeth. No, he honestly doesn't seem angry at all. More befuddled, bewildered than anything. Proverbial cat tail twisting behind him and ears twitching. Argent gaze fixated on the hand that Eönwë has shifted to rest on the junction between Harry's neck and his shoulder, pupils unnaturally large in the growing light as the sun crests over the parapets.
Eönwë, in turn, is still. Silent. Song draping over Harry like a feathery cloak. Fingers curling tighter the longer the moment drags on.
Celebrían dons a suspiciously neutral countenance. One Harry recognizes from himself when he's in an unknown situation and trying very hard not to draw attention.
Gil, bless him, comes in for the save.
"Good morning, Fëanáro, Celebrían. Fancy seeing you here."
They both blink in tandem. As if waking from a dream. She gives a small shake of her head. He takes a sharp breath before walking properly into the courtyard.
"Marcaunon," he says then, "your grandmother wished for me to fetch you, and you as well, Gil-galad."
A drumbeat. A flicker of fire. Both assessing from opposite sides. As a moonlit sky fills the backdrop and rain on snow sits in the middle.
Eönwë has no expression. Fëanor can't seem to decide which one to wear. Harry doesn't pinch his nose; he doesn't sigh. But it's far too early for this.
"Thank you," he replies with an up-curling of his lips, and Harry makes a split-second decision when he continues with, "Will you let her know that we'll be right there?"
Whiskers quiver. Fëanor inclines his head a second later. He goes from Harry to Gil to Eönwë and back. However, he leaves without another word. Celebrían casts them – him – another look. But she says nothing as she trails after her husband's grandfather.
Harry allows himself a long sigh when they're all the way down the corridor and around the corner. Which is naturally the moment Eönwë moves from behind him to stand at his free side. Drum an unusual tempo. Not aggressive but almost agitated. Louder than normal and faster, too.
"You're not coming?"
Harry knows before he even asks. He isn't surprised by this, not really. Not after that. Not with as many elves who are here now. Eönwë knows the House of Finwë at least in passing, but he isn't social by nature. He doesn't even spend much time with other Ainur aside from Harry himself, Nienna, or Tulkas and Oromë. And of course, Manwë and Varda.
The Maia doesn't shake his head, but there's a sense of loss even though he's yet to move away.
"Not today, no. I shall see you later, Marcaunon." His eyes shift to amber as he looks at Harry, and there's a pause. Lingering. Filling the space between them. Beating in time like a heart. In a softer timbre like a whisper, he adds, "Be safe."
He walks away before Harry can even reply.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The walk down the mountain side is pleasant. It's a lovely spring day. Which to be fair, it's always a lovely spring day in Formenos. Even when it rains, the water is warm and purposeful. Usually brief cloud bursts in the afternoons with a subsequent rainbow or light precipitation that the child delight in dancing through. Fog is a rare treat, usually restricted to dawn-time, and snow is rarer still. Limited only to the occasions when Harry forgets himself.
This morning is especially beautiful. The mist rising from the base of the mountain has long burned off even this early, and there isn't a cloud in the azure sky. The view from the top feels like it goes forever. Harry can actually glimpse the edge of the summer ring in the far distance. Sees the eagles circling around their new nest in the east. Inara is a glittering, golden shimmer far above, and his love tracks her easily, but the others have to shade their eyes against the sunlight and still can't seem to puzzle out what exactly they're seeing.
Harry and Gil are out front while Fingolfin and Argon trail immediately behind followed by Celegorm while Fingon and Maedhros walk arm in arm at the end of the line. Harry still isn't quite sure how he's accumulated so many people on this venture, particularly when they weren't invited and merely chose to follow after breakfast. It's a minor miracle that more haven't come along, but Fëanor and Nerdanel opted to spend time with just themselves while their other sons explore the castle grounds, and Findis alongside the House of Finarfin make themselves scarce. Eönwë has wandered off as he is wont to do, taking to leaving immediately after dawn, and Harry has barely seen him in the last week since his return. He can feel the Maia in the greater area around Formenos itself but doesn't pry since he's free to do as he will without Harry looking over his shoulder.
It's only due to apparition that he made it down here the week before to speak with his staff in private and without a posse. However, Harry was not able to escape their notice this time, so it's an interesting procession that passes through the gates into the city itself and then into the municipal building. Gilmith is stationed at the main desk, situated so that she can both see the entrance and down the hallway; she looks up with a startled expression that quickly morphs to pleased when she notices Harry. Though she nearly does a double-take when Celegorm smiles at her, but she schools her features swiftly enough as she stands to offer a soft bow and personally escorts Harry to his office. Opening the double doors before he can even reach for the handle.
Laerien and Melpomaen are already inside as expected. They rise and offer bows that are far too excessive for Harry's tastes. Truth be both, they've both been subdued since their meeting. Quiet and contemplative but efficient as ever. Melpomaen comes closer promptly, stopping precisely four feet away as if awaiting orders. Standing on Harry's free side and farther from Gil. Laerien, meanwhile, follows at a more stately pace. Poised, neutral as she glances to his guests but still offering a regal nod.
"My king," Laerien greets with her hands folded behind her back. "Gil-galad. Guests."
Harry doesn't roll his eyes; Gil stifles a laugh next to him. The others are a mix of reactions but mostly interested. He can hazard some guesses why. There are Gilmith and Laerien, both seemingly Silvan. Two more they passed in the halfway, one Avar and another Sinda. Melpomaen is the only Ñoldo so far that they've seen yet. He does have a few Teleri as well. The only group of elf Harry doesn't have on staff is Vanyar. Inglor's mother is one, but he claims nothing of her people. The same for the other three individuals in his employ with mixed heritage.
He can feel the spark of curiosity from Fingolfin in particular. Argon is more intrigued by the mural that encompasses the entire room, stretching across all the walls, save where it's broken by the doors and windows. Fingon seems to be studying the general layout instead.
"My seneschal," Harry introduces then, "Laerien, and this is my assistant, Melpomaen."
He names off each of his companions in turn, and they don't stare at either Fëanorion; they're too polite for that. They even manage to maintain a genial air, likely in large part due to the fact that Celegorm has drifted to the balcony doors and further away. Maedhros, in turn, is staying by his husband, somehow managing to make himself unobtrusive.
Still, Harry can hear the unease in their songs. The discordant notes that drift up like a black mist over their inner worlds. The clouds that cross Melpomaen's sun and the shadows in Laerien's woods. Of course, Melpomaen doesn't look at them, while Laerien watches them a tad too much. Harry isn't surprised when he barely has a chance to approach his own desk before his aid has stepped closer.
"Sire, we have the budget prepared for you. I can bring everything here," he murmurs, "but Gilmith had her papers in the sea room."
Harry somehow doesn't snort. Since really, he hoped that cleverer names would catch on. His eyes flick to his family, but he did come here to do actual work and not to entertain them. Laerien offers him a faint nod as he excuses himself from the room. Only, Gil follows after this time. Which is not unwelcome.
They step across the hall; Melpomaen shuts the door behind them. Gil lets out a whistle as he catches a glimpse of the scene on the wall. Gaze following the flow of water and the fish at they dart around. Harry merely smiles as his assistant leads him to mid-sized stack of papers, on top is a summary in very familiar handwriting. Another chair is quickly set right next to his without Harry even having to ask. Melpomaen really is too much sometimes, Harry decides as he starts looking over each document, but he's soon lost in numbers. Math is the same across worlds, and this is a subject he's always done well in despite the Dursleys efforts. He may not have taken Arithmancy at Hogwarts, but he did study it later on his own for a variety of reasons. And admittedly, Muggles were far more advanced than magicals ever dreamed in this field anyway.
Harry idly makes corrections as he scans through the first page. There's only a few. Less than he did on prior attempts, which is always good sign. He reaches the bottom easily enough, and Gil tilts his head beside him, actually glances at him as Harry flips to the next page.
Read. Nothing to change this time. Turn page. One small mistake a quarter-way through. Another page. Two errors this time. One simple. The other setting off a cascade effect that goes almost to the bottom of the page, but it's still simple enough to remedy.
Gil is staring at him now, but Harry will get to him in a minute. It's easier if he does this uninterrupted. Just as math is genuinely unchanged; paperwork is the same across worlds, and they've fortunately set it up here for maximum efficiency since Laerien has no patience for flowery nonsense, and many of the others don't either.
Harry normally manages the city budget mostly by himself with others handing him all their final accountings over for his review and approval, which is his actual task for today. Gilmith is his usual helper here, given her experience with her father's lands. But Harry's been gone for so long – first with Tirion and then with… other things, so Melpomaen has picked up the slack in his absence while Laerien did other duties. For all his recent anger, Harry truly would be lost without them. Formenos would be a sinking ship without a paddle or a sail; a broomstick without bristles.
He knows that the city – not to mention the kingdom as a whole – is far too large for him to manage alone. He supposes that it's time to hire an actual accountant or three and make this a proper department. Especially with their growing revenue base, which has been split between various people to manage. He'll have to put out notice. Or do actual interviews for a position, which is not something Harry has ever had to do in Valinor. Admittedly, it's a daunting thought since he isn't entirely certain how he would even verify qualifications aside from direct observation of tasks, but he wouldn't be able to check references outside of the city.
That's a problem for another day, however. As Harry has reached the end his stack. He looks up to see that Gil is still watching him with a bemused expression. His elf lets out a little noise before he gives a small shake of his head. Much to Harry's surprise, his love leans forward to offer a soft press of lips.
"I don't know why I'm even surprised," Gil says more to himself.
Harry blinks at him. That only earns him another kiss.
He's still quite nonplussed as Gil takes his hand and pulls them both to their feet. Melpomaen stands further away from the desk than earlier. His cheeks are pink now; he's turned his head to the side. He doesn't make eye contact as he escorts them back to the main office, and he also doesn't follow them inside. They arrive to the tail-end of Laerien's speech to all newcomers. Gil's never heard it, but he undoubtedly will at some point. Most likely as a spectator since even Harry's retainers wouldn't dare give it to him in any other manner. Not now at least. Harry's heard it in passing but never in its entirety. Though he supposes that he really should at some point just in case.
Laerien stands in the center of the room, hands still clasped behind her. Fingolfin is closest with Argon on his left. Fingon and Maedhros are naturally together, further back, just beside Harry's desk. While Celegorm leans against the edge of the bay window, knee bent and foot resting against the wall.
Harry knows exactly which part they've walked in on. It's inevitable really that his family's found out about this. Better that they hear it here really. Before they start wandering around Formenos and someone brings it up. Since Harry knows they will. Somehow. Someway. Alongside other things Harry has very much failed to hide effectively.
Laerien pauses right as she gets to the most damning aspect. Her eyes flick to Harry for the barest instant, and he inclines his head a scant few millimeters in allowance. It's part of her normal speech anyway. Nothing that they can't find out just talking to people in the city.
"Hunting rules?"
It's said with disbelief. Celegorm has a smirk that's rather skeptical but also mixed with hints of mischief and a little bit too much disdain. It's such an odd expression to see here and now – one that reminds him far too much a young Draco Malfoy before he encountered the harsh slap of the real world. It makes Harry hesitate several seconds, doubly so since he's used to another wearing this face. Someone who would never, ever, look at Laerien or any elf in such a manner. Oromë is many things – prideful, terrible in his anger, morose in his sadness – but he doesn't see any of the Eldar as lesser.
Laerien is rather not amused by any of this.
"Don't shoot any black birds," she tells him strongly, fiercely. It's just this side of an order.
"No black birds?" Celegorm questions, and now, there's bewilderment melded with suspicion. Like a child being told that Yule is canceled and demanding to know why. This time, it's almost comical. Amusing even.
That doesn't last long, however. Not when Laerien continues.
"Not the black ones," she confirms. "Better yet, please avoid any black animals just to be safe. Except the bears," she allows with a sniff. "Any of those are fine. Wolves are up to Inglor's discretion."
Everyone but Harry simply stares at her. Even Gil. There's a heartbeat. Another.
Then, Argon is nodding his head like he's had a sudden epiphany. Fingolfin simply laughs into his hand. Maedhros has his arms crossed over his chest and is stiff as a statue, while Celegorm buffs his fingernails on his collar. Fingon makes a sound without words, but it seems both tired and pained. Harry looks at him with concern, though he's as warm as ever. Curling just a bit tighter around Harry's shoulders. Gil-galad hasn't glanced at him, but fingers are now around Harry's wrist. There's a distinct impression of amusement soaking in with each droplet.
Laerien merely observes them with her usual cool detachment. It's the same expression she wears when encountering particularly troublesome merchants, irritating artisans, or couriers who just cannot take a hint.
She continues, "No eagles either. No golden birds, especially if they look to be on fire. No foxes with more than one tail. Finally, no horses with a horn or wings. No matter how much like a skeleton or wraith they seem."
There's another pause. Longer this time. Silence stretching out to fill the room.
"That is an interesting list," Fingolfin finally says, and it's diplomatically. Exceedingly so.
Laerien arches a single brow at him. "Indeed, but an accurate one."
"I understand," Fingolfin replies. "This will not be a problem on our end."
"My thanks then," she allows, and it even sounds honest. Studying him for a long moment before she turns back to Harry. "Is there anything else I can do for you, my king?"
Harry fights a sigh. "I think that's enough," he says instead. "Will you give us a few minutes?"
Laerien's answer is another bow before departing with a sweep of her robes. Another moment of quiet later, Celegorm wanders off in the opposite direction. Towards the front of the building and not-at-all heading for the desk Gilmith once again occupies. Harry did see her surprise earlier, likely due to his appearance and not for the reason Celegorm thinks, but he won't get very far with Harry's fellow peredhel at all. She disdains jewelry as Silvans sometimes do, so Celegorm has no reason to suspect she's already married and her youngest grandson attends the school.
Still, there's an odd chill to the air as he watches Celegorm go, and he makes a mental note to not only be on the lookout whenever he's out flying but also to warn the others just in case. Arrows will do little more than annoy Harry. Though truthfully, the same can be said for Inara. But others will be seriously harmed by them, and Harry won't tolerate that at all.
There's a chuckle to his right just then, and Harry turns his head to see all the rest staring at him. He's met by a variety of expressions. However, the prevailing emotion seems to be somewhere between resignation and entertainment.
"No black animals?" Fingon queries. He's moved much closer, almost but not quite invading Harry's personal space.
"Nephew, care to explain?" Fingolfin lets out a soft snort.
Even Gil gazes at him with a raised eyebrow. "Mírimo?"
"Don't tell me that someone shot you?" Argon guesses with eerie accuracy.
Harry fights to keep the guilty expression from his face, but he isn't sure how successful he is when he sees Fingon's eyebrows go to this hairline. That's followed by Fingolfin laughing outright alongside his youngest. Gil just sighs. Maedhros remains behind all of them. Watching the exchange with an unreadable expression.
"It only happened the one time," Harry defends with a slight grimace at the memory.
Beleg was rather apologetic even. Mortified. Thoroughly so. No, he hadn't seen Harry shift back, but it wasn't that hard to guess when there was no crow and only an annoyed Harry with an arrow in hand. A suspiciously familiar arrow. The only thing that would've made the situation worse is if Harry apparated away right then. Instead, he dealt with a very remorseful elf and his hunting party trying to tend to him. Completely ignoring his assurances that he was in fact fine and did not need their help.
Now, Laerien has her list, and all newcomers are warned by both the guards and bulletins in the city. They don't directly mention Harry, but the implication is undoubtedly known by this point judging by all the things Laerien outright implied. Not to mention that Beleg's group did not exactly keep the story quiet. And really is it any wonder that people in Formenos haven't figured out Harry isn't one of them? How the rest of Valinor doesn't know by this point is a minor miracle.
Harry truly is a terrible elf.
"What all can you turn into?" Argon asks next, and there's an eagerness to his voice that doesn't even subside when his brother turns to stare at him. "What? There was that owl at the estate. You know the one."
Fingon blankly regards his youngest sibling. Who shakes his head in something like mock-despair.
"You know, gorgeous bird. He has these rich black feathers with just the faintest hint of white at the tips and amber eyes," Argon explains, and he waves his hand with excitement. "He was new in the last so many months and a species I'd never seen before. Only came out in the late evenings and at night. I never spotted him any other times, and Irissë and I searched for his nest but never found it."
Harry battles harder to keep his face indifferent, and he's reasonably sure that he's succeeded. Only, Gil is becoming far too adept at reading him.
"Really, Mírimo?"
Argon has the look of a child when every present they've ever wanted is under the tree. He's practically rubbing his hands together before he abruptly points a finger at Harry.
"Forget going on the roof at night? You were flying off!" his cousin accuses. "No wonder we could never figure out where you were. Talk about a wild goose chase."
Fingolfin's forehead is slightly red from the force of containing his mirth. There's another chuckle at that statement.
"He might've literally turned into a goose, yonya."
That brings Argon up short. He blinks several times as that thought percolates through. The expression he gives then is one Harry has never seen an elf over the age of a hundred wear. Face slack and pupils dilated, like a despondent and lost mooncalf. He's over a full head taller but seems sadder and more pathetic the longer no one says anything.
Harry doesn't know if he should defend himself or put his head in hands.
"Well…" he begins. "Not a goose."
That doesn't seem to mollify Argon at all.
"I had no idea you were looking for me," Harry tries then. "At least, not as an owl.
His cousin rubs a hand over his face and lets out a noise that is half-groan, half-snort. Fireplace warm and inviting as always, but there are distinct chords of exasperation playing against humor with a twinge of embarrassment floating underneath.
"I'm sorry," Harry apologizes, though he isn't entirely certain what for in this case.
Argon, hand still over his face, steps in closer. Before Harry can even respond, an arm is slung over his shoulder and he's tucked into his cousin's side. He isn't sure what to make of this reaction honestly. Less so when Argon starts laughing quietly. A peek over at Gil-galad only shows a grin, while Fingolfin seems to have equally lost his mind like his youngest. Fingon mutters something that Harry can't hear, and he isn't sure is even for him. Only Maedhros still seems sensible. Expression bland.
"This is something you've always been able to do?" he inquires, noticing Harry's attention.
He's been quiet until this point. Sensibly saying nothing. Observing the proceedings with sharp silvery eyes that miss nothing and give away even less. His voice cuts through the room like a knife. Not menacing or harsh but very deliberate with his timbre and choice of words.
Argon has now gone very still next to him. Gil equally so on his other side. Fingolfin and even Fingon say nothing as Harry looks only at Maedhros. They already know; he may as well admit more.
"Since I was very young," he acknowledges softly.
In point of fact, he was barely eighteen the first time he shifted. Which by elven standards is little more than a toddler. A child definitely. Even by Harry's own reckoning, he was insanely young then.
"You can only turn into animals?" Maedhros questions with the same inflection, hair the color of fresh blood in the bright light of the windows.
Harry doesn't look away. Doesn't look at anyone else in the room. Even though they are the furthest from each other.
"I've not tried anything else," he admits with a lifted chin. "The first time wasn't intentional, but I learned how to control it."
Harry knows they want to ask him more, Argon and Gil especially, but Maedhros is the one he watches. Fëanor is a curious cat; his thoughts are easy to discern. But son isn't like father. His face is perfectly neutral, composure even better than Laerien's. Beneath deep waters there's a roil. A strain of low notes that resound all the way through to the lava underneath.
"What did you become?"
Only, it's Fingon who asks. As if trying to draw Harry's attention away. He allows it only because this is his uncle who is so kind to him.
"A bird."
He pauses as Argon's arm tightens. Gil isn't touching him, but precipitation falls steadily against ice and snow. Echoes in the same soothing lull that sends him to sleep every night. He doesn't have to see the state of his inner world to know that his cupboard still has a fire cheerily blazing in the hearth, cozier than ever with blankets and fluffy pillows.
Harry exhales. It's in time to a chorus of melodies flowing together in his mind.
"Things that fly are easy," he explains. It's both terrifying and liberating to admit. To stop pretending, even if it's only this little bit. "Birds are best of all. I didn't really have to work for those, but everything else I actually had to learn."
They digest that quicker than Harry would prefer, but it's better than awkward silence, he supposes. Better than any other reaction he could hope for really. Especially when he keeps dropping these kind of revelations on them. The fact that there are more has probably occurred to them by this point, but Harry is steadfastly not going there today.
It doesn't seem Fingon or anyone else wants to either since everyone universally decides that the conversation is over at this point. Well, almost everyone.
Argon has one final question as he turns Harry and puts both hands on his shoulders.
"So you'll show me later, right?" his cousin asks. At Harry's puzzled expression, Argon clarifies with a wide, almost manic grin, "You know, the owl? The other forms?"
All Harry can do is stare at him. Keep staring like he's grown another head. Maybe a few arms and a leg or two.
Fingolfin lets out a bark of laughter a few seconds later. Gil just sighs, while Fingon groans. Maedhros is wisely silent.
Naturally, that's the exact moment Celegorm wanders back into the room.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry is the first to hold him. He's cleaned up the best he can with a literal newborn in his arms, while surveying his surroundings like a battlefield. A conjured blanket and wordless spells he remembers from his apprentice days tell him what his instincts already know. That aside from the early arrival, everything is perfect. Veela are hardy if volatile by nature, and each charm is for his own reassurance and the infant's comfort more than anything.
Victoire is all smiles despite her tears. Which are from happiness more than anything even as she turns to revive her husband. Teddy – hardened Auror – is passed out on the floor. Having landed there sometime ago. He's not injured. More overwrought and overexcited at the arrival of his firstborn.
They all expected more time. Victoire wanted a home-birth with her mother. Surrounded by her maternal family as they've done for thousands of years.
Instead, Harry received a frantic fire-call at two in the morning because Bill and Fleur were on the continent, and Teddy panicked. He didn't even think to reach out to his own grandmother, Andromeda. Called Harry – and only Harry. They never thought things would go so swiftly. Especially with a first child, but Émeric is too eager to greet the world to wait another measly month. Much less any longer than an hour once he decided it was time.
And now, he rests in Harry's hold. Blue eyes open and looking straight up in wonder. Hair dark brown tufts that stick out in all directions. It's allegedly too early to know if he'll be a metamorphmagus like his father, but Harry can hear the familiar timbre of it in his magic. Like a jazz ensemble playing on the radio in the background. So he thinks the answer will be a resounding, yes.
It's strange holding a child so young, Harry decides as he bundles Émeric just a bit tighter. Teddy, he met several months after he was born. Even Hugh and Rose, he didn't get to see for hours afterwards as he wasn't Hermione's healer. Rose was born around dawn, so Harry met her at lunch that same day. But Hugh came after midnight, and Hermione had complications, so Harry didn't get to see either of them until late afternoon. Only immediate family was allowed in earlier.
This is different. More intimate. Harry certainly feels like he's intruding as he gently slides her son into Victoire's awaiting arms. He checks on Teddy then, who's now sitting on the bed next to them. Dazed expression rapidly being replaced with awe.
Afterwards, once Harry's cleansed everything in the entire room. Made mother and child as comfortable as magically manageable. Confirmed again that Teddy is indeed functional. Harry stands awkwardly to the side. That feeling only intensifies when Victoire starts singing to her son. More so when Teddy joins her.
The hymn is beautiful. Both haunting and welcoming. Mesmerizing as she rests a hand on her son's cheek. Teddy slips an arm around her waist and sets his chin on her shoulder. They look so happy in that moment. So complete. Perfectly in love with each other and their son.
It's a private time; Harry knows he should leave. Already planning to do so as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.
But Victoire looks up then. Her song stops abruptly. Almost like a record scratch and then static.
"Don't go," she says as if knowing exactly what he intends. "Stay here. Join us, Harry."
It's half-pleading, half-command. She's gone from elated to sorrowful in an instant.
Teddy is right beside her in more ways than one. Both of them gaze at him like this is some sort of personal betrayal. Like he's insulted their entire line, set their house ablaze, and stolen their chocolate frog simultaneously.
"You can't be thinking of leaving. We need you here!" Teddy all but declares. Hair going from turquoise to Weasley red and now raven black.
Harry falters. "I-"
"You have to stay!" Victoire insists. "We haven't even finished the song! It's for parents," she tells him, and her blue eyes are full of fire, of lights that aren't at all present in the room.
Her mouth works soundlessly for a moment then; she seems like there's far more she wants to says. Indeed, the next part is both devastating and joyous.
"And grandparents," she adds. "It's also for grandparents."
Her chin's lifted as she issues that proclamation. That damnation. Her hair is a mess of blonde, sweaty tangles, but she's a regal queen on her throne of pillows. Son swaddled in her arms as she stares down at the lowly supplicant before her.
"For family," Teddy agrees completely, and he looks at Harry directly even as he does. Eyes now a familiar shade of green.
Complete silence. Broken only by Émeric's coos. And the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.
"Sit in the chair, Harry," Teddy orders when the minutes stretch on and he doesn't say anything in response.
It isn't voice of an Auror, however. It also isn't a godson's tone either. It's something else. Something more. Connection one that Harry promised he wouldn't steal from Remus or Tonks. Or Andy. And he won't.
He won't.
But they aren't here. And the first two never will be.
Harry obeys without any argument. Slowly eases into the chair at the beside, the one he originally conjured for Teddy barely an hour ago. Both of them smile as he settles. Wait to restart their hymn until they're certain he's ready. It's slower than before but building as Harry tentatively joins in. As the magic of family and home and new life swirls and flows. Dances and soars on wings of silver into the night sky.
He laughs with the joy of it even as Victoire and Teddy both cry.
The shore is usually temperate, and it's only the first week of October. It's still too early. Far too warm, but outside, it's snowing.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Fëanor – Sits uncharacteristically silent and staring off at nothing.
Also!Fëanor – To himself. I was put back together wrong. That has to be it.
Everyone – Studiously trying not to stare. Fails at that.
Nerdanel – Concerned. Husband, whatever do you mean?
Fëanor – My lovely wife, I fear that I may need more time in Mandos.
Nerdanel – … ...
Fingolfin – Whispering aside. We should tell him.
Finarfin – Also whispering. Yes, it's the right thing to do.
Both – Glance at each other. Deciding which of them it'll be.
Findis – Sighs tiredly. Rolls her eyes. Brother, you aren't any crazier than usual.
Fëanor - ( ب_ب )
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon – Stars in his eyes. This is the best day ever!
Fingon – Brother, we can approach this like reasonable adults.
Argon – Not listening at all. He can turn into any animal. What about a horse? No, no, a wolf! Oh, I know. A dog!
Fingolfin – Son, I'm sure Herurrívë appreciates your enthusiasm.
Argon – Did he really mean any bird? Like all of them? Sudden realization. He could be a giant eagle; he could take me on rides!
Maedhros – It's no use. He's lost to us.
The Other Two – Nod in agreement.
Argon – I wonder if… Rubs hands together gleefully while mumbling incoherently to himself.
Celegorm – Wanders back over. What in Aman is going on in here?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fingolfin – Filling in his youngest (and closest) sibling on what he just learned.
Finarfin – Rubbing his temples. I can tell there's more.
Fingolfin – Nods reluctantly. Herurrívë said this has been going on since he was very young.
Both – Considering the implications of that statement.
Fingolfin – Imaging his nephew as a toddler turning into a bird and becoming stuck that way.
Finarfin – Imaging Maglor chasing after a bird as it flies away and never seeing him again.
Both – Now staring at each other in abject horror.
AN: So I'll be on holiday and won't work on this story while I'm gone but will still answer comments/reviews. The next chapter will be about mid-December, but I wanted this one up early as an apology.
Also, Maedhros was totally thinking of Elwing here. And yeah, a shapeshifting toddler who can fly is any parent's nightmare.
-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