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.
Hermione's hair is gray. It's a starling realization. Intellectually, Harry has noticed this before. Has watched the slow transition over time. The creeping loss of brown as gray seeps in, gradually surpasses, and now has totally replaced any other hue. It's only now that he admits it to himself even in the safety of his own mind. That he acknowledges the implications.
Ron, of course, is completely white. His hair is thinning, yes. Not balding as his father did. As Charlie and George are now. He's slimmer than he once was. Than when he played Quidditch at school or on weekends with his son and daughter. Than when he still chased after criminals and didn't just man a desk at the ministry. Admittedly, it's a very impressive desk nowadays. Certainly so as the Minister, thrice-elected. Before that, he was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for decades and Head Auror even earlier than that.
And Hermione was Minister before him. Then, the Chief Warlock. Now the Mugwump.
But looking now, Harry can't quite view them as he once did. Not as the proud, strong adults. Surely not as the bright-eyed and daring teens he remembers so fondly. Now, he can't overlook the truth staring him in the face. The reality that demands for him to take notice. That all but screams at him to admit what he's known deep down for years.
Harry sighs just as the waiter brings their order, but that isn't even a distraction. Barely buys him any time as cups and the teapot are set down in front of them along with cream and sugar. The air is warm, pleasant with the breeze. They're shaded beneath the striped umbrella that rises from the center of their table. Ron and Hermione sit across from him. Spaced evenly so it's less like an intervention and more like three equal sides of a triangle.
And isn't that the story of his life? Harry, Ron, and Hermione. First the hero with his accomplices. Then the rising stars of the magical world. Forever the three of them. Together on equal footing. It's only later that he felt like the third seeker in a match. The tag-along. The extra. Always there in the background. Forever in the wings.
They've never seemed to mind, however. Never asked him to go away. Never tried to leave him behind. Not until now.
Harry supposes he isn't surprised. He's known it's coming. Even if he didn't want to admit it. Noticed the reluctance in recent years. The prodding Ron needed to run for reelection. The way even Hermione's shoulders sagged when she returned from meetings. The gazes that strayed to windows and pictures and away from paperwork more than it did previously.
No, Harry truly can't say he's surprised at all.
"We're retiring," Hermione states as she stirs milk into her teacup.
No matter how much time has passed she still sounds exactly as she did at eleven. Maturer to be certain. Less bossy and more self-assured. The tone is the same though. Collected. Factual. Clinical almost. Like she swallowed a textbook.
She quietly sets down her spoon as that settles in. Lifting and holding her cup with a simple elegance that she certainly didn't have as a first-year. Not even as Head Girl. No, only time and temperance earned from war and then smaller battles of words and wits. A lifetime of politics and fighting with more than her wand.
She's stately. Regal. None of the Muggles have a monarchy anymore, but she certainly reminds Harry of that with her manner. Brings to mind other ladies he's known over the years. Minerva McGonagall. Narcissa and Andromeda. More recently Victoire and her daughters. There's an undercurrent though, even as she reaches for a scone. A vague tightening around her mouth. The ever-so-slight tension to her neck. If Harry didn't know her so well, he likely wouldn't see it.
"Retiring?" he repeats, and it's phrased as a question, but it's more of a clarification. A confirmation."Both of you?"
"Both of us, mate," Ron agrees instead. His eyes are still a clear blue, but his brows are pure white. "We've decided that it's time. Past time, really."
He gives a solemn nod then. One that couldn't be any different than the boy Harry first met on the train to school, but it's in line with the man he's become. Decisive. Contained. Commanding. Where his wife has a queenly air, Ron unquestionably reminds him of a knight. Brave to the point of foolishness in true Gryffindor fashion but staunchly against evil. Forthright in his thoughts and opinions. And of course, devoted to his lady and family. Can't forget that last part.
"When?" Harry asks slowly, drawing out the word.
Since really, what else can he do? This sounds like a done deal. Less like a work in progress and more like fait accompli. It's good of them to tell him at least.
"Well, Ron isn't running again," Hermione informs him with a motion to her husband. "He'll finish up the last of his term."
So the end of the year then. That's not much time at all in the scheme of things. How long have they been planning this?
Ron continues without missing a beat, "Her session is done in August, and this'll be the final one for her."
His smile is genuine, relaxed. Face the same one Harry has known so long, but there's something brittle about him the longer Harry looks. Something not quite hale. It's not illness; Harry would know if it were, but something else. Like a dented shield that's been overused. A sword exposed to the elements too long. Metal left out to rust.
To be honest, it's not just Ron. Hermione too is much the same way. There's a frail quality to both of them even as they glance at each other and even Harry with such affection. Like a dried flower pressed between the pages of an old book. Preserved but delicate. Liable to flake away with the slightest bit of pressure.
Harry lets out a breath. His tea is steadily cooling in his cup, but he hasn't even tasted it yet. Has no appetite for it now.
"You've been thinking about this for some time, I take it."
He isn't accusing. Merely matter-of-fact. Wondering how long he's missed the signs. How long they were talking about this without his input. Without him.
"We don't want you to think we were leaving you out," Ron responds immediately. Knee bumping Harry's beneath the table even as Hermione reaches out to take his hand.
"We've brought it up to each other before," she acknowledges, "but only as a passing thought. Now though, things started aligning, and we thought..."
Her hands are thin in his. Wrinkled. Fingers slender enough that he knows she's had to resize her wedding band yet again to keep it from slipping off. The skin is pale, blue veins standing out in stark contrast. She used to tan in the summers, he recalls, but he supposes it's hard to do that when one's always indoors and works all the time. Hard to do much of anything.
They don't get summers off like Harry does, which is both a blessing and curse in disguise. He has time to himself, yes. But everyone knows that he's available, and he doesn't have the handy excuse of the school to dissuade them from wanting something. He's forever had a terrible time saying no when faced with someone in need or coupled with a sad, sob story.
Ron and Hermione have never had the illusion of free-time though. They've always worked. Even when their children were small. Sometimes losing nights and weekends. Missing holidays and birthdays. Everyone understands why, but that's time they can't get back. Harry missed so much when the Muggle world died. He was on the front-lines, so to speak, but it's easy to forget that Ron and Hermione were in the background, doing just as much from there.
Her hand tightens around his as if sensing Harry's thoughts. Ron simply smiles at him again, but it's a sad thing. Resigned. Weary.
"We're tired, Harry," Ron tells him then.
His voice has a quality that Harry's never heard before. Has a weight and timbre to it that makes him pause. Makes him take a breath and just look at them.
They both seem so… worn. Tired. Old.
They both seem old.
His heart clenches at that admission. Beats painfully in his chest. Hard and fast. The Peverell signet sets heavy on his free hand. Weighted and cold.
Harry has silver at his temples and stray strands here. There. But otherwise, his hair is black as raven wings and just as full. A few lines but not nearly as many as Ron or Hermione. Not as many as he should. Yes, he's noticed this before. Has recognized that he's aging slowly. It's the magic; his power level makes him live longer. It's how things just are.
Had Dumbledore not tried the ring and then everything else, he easily could've lived for decades more. Tom Riddle possibly could've made it to two centuries even without any additional means. Just on his original magic alone, he was that strong. Harry hasn't ever wanted to consider what that means for him. Not really.
It's a beautiful spring day. The Muggle side is blossoming once again. Recovering as best it can from all the devastation. People are talking in the cafe around them, cheerful as they stroll down the sidewalks. Children play and laugh in the park nearby. There's even the bark of a dog and a church bell tolling. Despite the whispers behind closed doors on the state of their world, there's ostensibly peace.
Everyone's enjoying their lives. Enjoying their weekend without a single care. Mothers with their toddlers. Siblings. Couples. All out together. Harry knows what they must see when they look at their table, however. Not Harry and his two friends. Schoolmates out for an afternoon. Instead, he looks like an adult son with his elderly parents.
And Harry doesn't know which part is worse. The fact that he realizes this. Or that Ron and Hermione do, too.
He looks up then to see Ron watching him. Eyes still just as Auror-keen and observant. All too wise to Harry.
"I know you hate saying it," Ron comments, "but I'll say it for you." He rests both arms on the table in a deceptively relaxed pose, but his words are sharp as ever."You know that you're more powerful than both us. Than anyone in Britain, but we're not you. We're old, Harry. We don't want to do this anymore."
He holds up a finger before Harry can even begin to form a retort. He's the same Ron as he always is, has always been. But all Harry can see is the faint tremor before he sets his hand back down.
"Let me finish," Ron requests, but it's more of a gentle order. A polite command."Harry, you know that we've all given a lot of time and effort. But it's too much for us now, for Hermione and me." He presses his palms flat on the tabletop. "For once, we want to be a little selfish. We want to sleep in and have our hobbies and not have to argue with department heads or other ministers. We want to see the newest generation of our family grow-up in the way that we never got to see with their parents or even grandparents."
"We were always so busy; we missed so much," Hermione chimes in. Her voice is wet with the tears she hasn't shed. "We know that you still love being the headmaster, so don't think for a minute about giving that up yet. Enjoy it for a while longer… but we want to rest. We want to do something different."
Harry swallows. Once. Twice. But the lump in his throat won't go away. It's hard. Dense. Impossible to pass even as the seconds tick by.
"You've more than earned it," Harry manages after a moment.
He means it. He does.
But there's a sense of finality in the air. Of doors closing and nothing opening in their place. Of endings without new beginnings. Of time slipping away. Of sand falling through his grasp until nothing is left.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Caranthir finds him the great hall. The House of Fëanor has all been lurking around, and truth be told, Harry's been expecting an ambush for sometime, he just wasn't sure which one would be the first. Fëanor himself. One of his sons perhaps. Technically Fingon now. Nerdanel both does and doesn't count at this point since she has no real reason to accost Harry and usually knows how to find him anyway. He thought perhaps Maedhros. The eldest and ostensibly leader – even more than their father. Especially after he accompanied everyone to the city earlier in the week. Definitely after learning more of Harry's abilities. And yet, the redhead was at mealtimes and there in passing, but he hasn't sought Harry out.
Not yet anyway.
Instead, it's Caranthir. The middle son.
Harry's spoken to him several times now. Light conversations at meals. Benign topics. Nothing deep or truly meaningful. And yet, Harry's been approached by him more than anyone else in the House outside of Fingon and Nerdanel. He doesn't know what to think about that. Isn't sure if there's a particular meaning behind it. Or if that's simply how Caranthir is.
His main source of information is hardy unbiased, and Káno has been even more reluctant to talk about any of them since their arrival. In fact, he's been stubbornly silent on the matter whenever Harry brings them up. Even now, his harp is quiet as it rests on the grass by Harry's knee. Occupying the empty space between him and his easel. Káno himself has drifted off to sleep by the feel of it, but he was giving an actual rebuke before that. A stern reprimand about watching his back – and his front and his sides – with Fëanor and his sons around. It'd almost be amusing if it weren't so frustrating. Harry hardly needs a lecture about minding himself from someone who wandered the wild shores of Endor – unarmed and alone – for millennia.
Harry's still rolling his eyes over that when he feels Caranthir wake and start meandering through the castle. Looking back, he usually seems to be the first of the elves to rise. Even before Nerdanel much of the time. His search seems systematic today though. Stopping at all the expected spots. The guest kitchen and dinning room. Harry's own kitchen. The entrance hall and front parlors. Wandering ever closer until Harry senses his footsteps come up the double-doors just behind him. He pauses then, as if debating with himself.
Harry lets him. Allows him to linger there and turns back to his art. Or lack thereof. He stares at the blank canvas in front of him as he has practically all night, but inspiration is a distant thing. Wispy and intangible. Hovering at the edges. Beyond his grasp. He's been too distracted, disjointed tonight to focus.
Harry gives a disgusted sigh and leans back on the grass. It's soft beneath his hands, green and vibrant as always. It isn't often he chooses to paint in the great hall anymore. Once, he'd sit here for hours with Káno and Indilwen, but that seems so long ago. Káno obviously isn't returning anytime soon, and it's still too early for Indilwen to have roamed this far. Himiko is beside him though. Having fallen asleep on the grass earlier in the night, which was some time between Káno's lecture on safety and refusal to speak anymore about Fëanor. Even now, she's curled up in a ball of reddish orange fur. Trying her best to become a circle of foxtails with just a single ear peaking out.
His gaze drifts from her on upwards to the painted starlight. Sometimes, he likes to come here for the ceiling alone. It reminds him of Hogwarts. Of his first home. Of other places and people. It's as bitter as it is sweet. A deep ache that Nienna's words, Káno's melodies, and Gil's understanding just can't seem to reach.
It's easy to think here. Easy to distance himself from both the past and the present. It reminds him of what was, but it isn't a replica. There are no house tables. No podium. No raised dais for the professors to dine on. Just a lovely meadow with a beautiful sky overhead. If one didn't know better, they'd never even know it was crafted.
Perhaps the real reason he's here is for some perspective. Some insight. Admittedly, that was the main reason he spoke with Káno earlier, but their conversation veered off course like a train heading the wrong way and never got back on track. Harry didn't even get to mention the topic he really wanted to address.
It's a silly thing. Truly. Just a dream. They're all just dreams. He's had plenty of those before. Centuries of them even.
But this felt different. Felt heavier. Weighted. Tangible in the way that his visions or visits or what-have-yous with his peredhel guest are. Those aren't the same, however. This is something else.
Tonight… Last night – as he has for the past several nights – there was a man. Small. Short. But not a child. With wild, curly hair. Bare feet.
A Hobbit, his mind whispers from everywhere and nowhere. And he knows it to be true.
A glowing blue sword. Face full of determination.
There's something about him though. Something else he carries, but Harry can't quite decide what. Something hidden. A maleficence. A malevolence. A sinister shadow that twists and writhes. A foreboding that stretches out behind him. A prescience. Another person present who Harry can't see clearly.
It reminds him of other dreams. Ones he had in another castle a world and lifetime away. But those he felt like he was living at times, acting out even.
This is more like watching. More like the pensieve. A memory instead of a dream. Or a dream that could become a memory. Something that hasn't happened. Something that never happened, not yet. Harry isn't sure it ever will. He's studied Divination; of course, he has. He's a child of prophecy. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Man-Who-Conquered. Dying but waking again and again. Harry poured over every book, scrap of parchment, scroll fragment he could find that even vaguely hinted at such things. Most were speculation at best. Flights of fancy at worst. Fiction mixed with whispers shaded with suggestions. Divination was the only common theme.
Harry can't say future-sight is ever something he attempted purposefully. Scrying in the present, yes. For the here and now. His previous true-dreams were from his connection to Tom, and those stopped with his death and the loss of the horcrux.
But now… now, why would he dream again? He doesn't carry any shards of Tom Riddle these days. Hasn't done so for ages. Besides, this is a different land entirely. What ties does he have to make him see these things?
The door to the great hall opens slowly behind him. The sound is muffled by the grass, but he can feel the displacement of the air. Senses more than sees Caranthir step through. Hears him take a sudden, sharp breath. A shocked inhalation.
It's silent then. Almost unnaturally so. Even the typical Eldar aura is quiet, and Harry belatedly glances over his shoulder. The distance between them isn't honestly that much, and his sight is more than enough to note that Caranthir's eyes are large, astonished. Staring steadily overhead.
The clouds are few and do little more than frame the stars as they slowly float by. The constellations themselves twinkle merrily, while the eastern part of the room gradually lightens in color. The mountains visible through the windows just below the ceiling are snow-capped, and Harry idly wonders if Caranthir will even recognize that those are also paintings.
Finally, after several long minutes, the elf lets out a low whistle, almost like the call of a startled bird. It's just as he turns his attention to Harry. Their gazes meet with a tingle of acknowledgment.
"Nephew," he greets, voice deep but carrying across the space between them.
"You're up early," Harry replies instead. He casually looks back to the canvas in front of him, but it's just as blank as it was an hour ago. And an hour before that.
His statement is all the invitation the elf needs to come closer. Steadily. Not necessarily sedately. Moving with purpose.
"I've always been an early riser," he comments as he walks through the grass, booted footsteps unsurprisingly soft. "Most of us in the family are, but your father's the notable exception. He usually stays up all hours and is just going to bed around the time I'm getting up."
Harry makes a noncommittal noise in response, but Caranthir doesn't seem the least bit deterred when he comes to a stop on Harry's free side. Himiko is on Harry's right. Ear perking at the sound of their visitor and head shifting so that a single golden eye is visible. There aren't any chairs here. Harry usually conjures himself and any guests something. Or does as he is now, simply sits on the grass with his easel in front. But while the elves are learning more about his magic, he isn't quite comfortable enough for such a display. Not yet. Fortunately, Caranthir spares him from that dilemma when he drops down to settle in next to Harry.
It puts him uncomfortably close to Káno's harp though, which Harry didn't even think to move or hide. He's gotten sloppy, a fact Harry silently chides himself over. He's grown far too at ease with having elves around. Much less his new guests. Once, not so terribly long ago, he barely even let some of the Ainur come near to it. And now, he has an almost-stranger within touching distance if he dares lean forward and reach out.
Caranthir, however, merely glances at the harp for a scant second before his eyes flick away. Turning his head to study the walls and windows.
"A rather interesting space you have here," he states as his attention flits around. "This is your work?"
It's phrased as a question, but he gestures widely to encompass the entire room. Ceiling and floor both. It's a strange motion. Nonchalant and somehow intrigued. As if he's eager to know more but isn't sure his welcome. Or as if Caranthir's fishing for something, but Harry can't quite tell what. He decides to indulge anyway. He may as well be honest at this point; it's not like it's a secret.
"Yes, this was one of the first things I made here in Formenos," Harry returns evenly.
The elf lets out a little snort then, and his mouth curves upwards slowly when he looks back at Harry. His eyes are black and shining in the starlight.
"Atar will be quite beside himself when he sees this."
Harry blinks at that comment, which only earns him another snicker.
"He's seen my art before," Harry reminds him.
It's not like it's hidden. Nerdanel's room has her mural. And that are a number of others scattered around along with portraits and paintings and mosaics and frescos and anything else that Harry felt like making at one point or another. He knows for a fact that the elves have been investigating those. Argon, Finrod, and Angrod in particular seem to be rambling around the castle in search of his artwork like they're on a safari.
Caranthir lifts an eyebrow at him in response. Dark eyes are still studying him, clearly taking note of the now mysteriously absent harp. Which disappeared when his head was turned away, but he doesn't remark on that.
"I saw the armor in the entrance way," the elf says instead. "Is that yours as well?"
It was, but probably not in the way that Caranthir thinks. It wasn't conjured. Harry actually sung that into existence under the supervision of Eönwë. Even the enhancements on it were done much the same way. A challenge his Maia friend issued and Harry accepted.
"That was a… trial project," Harry deflects. "An experiment. I was trying different techniques."
His companion keeps gazing at him. Expression somewhere between vaguely inquisitive and politely neutral. It's the usual look the elves give him when he does something strange, but there's an undercurrent in Caranthir's aura, a flare of fire under the trees. It's an emotion that Harry can't fully discern and certainly one the Eldar don't typically have when he's around.
"You made everything in the castle then?" Caranthir asks next. Tone even. Perfectly casual.
And it's the question Harry knew was coming. He isn't surprised by it at all. He's already admitted it before. To Gil. To Nerdanel. To the entire House of Finwë. It's actually starting to be easier now.
"Most everything," Harry affirms after a brief second of hesitation. "There are a few things here and there that I was gifted or bought, but almost everything in the newer parts I made."
The elf is quiet for a long moment. Digesting this. But he doesn't look away. No, he observes Harry's face the entire time. Watches every minute change. Not challenging but studying. Searching his eyes as if willing Harry not to looking away.
"He'd be very proud, you know," Caranthir tells Harry, and his expression is soft, gentle in a way that makes him look far too much like Míriel. "He will be very proud to see this," the elf corrects. "Your father… He'll be proud of everything you've accomplished here."
Harry lets out a breath that is only the faintest bit shaky at those words. It's odd to hear them. Even odder to be comforted by them. He isn't a boy. Isn't a child. Hasn't been in so long. He doesn't need anyone's approval. He doesn't.
And yet...
"My father has never seen any of my artwork," Harry admits, and he doesn't even know why he says it.
Caranthir exhales. It's slowly and to the count of seven; his aura is warm as it brushes against Harry. Embers burning and bright. He doesn't offer platitudes or condolences or any empty words at all. He simply puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and leaves it there. He doesn't say anything else for the rest of the time they sit together.
It's only later, after Gil fetches them for breakfast and they're already walking away from the great hall, that Harry realizes he wasn't even thinking of James Potter.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Mandos is strange.
Harry doesn't know any other way to describe it. He's been many places. Traveled Earth and traversed every continent and each ocean. Seen the highest mountains. The deepest valleys. Deserts. Tundras. Rain forests. Savannas. Been miles underground in goblin caverns and visited all the hidden magical cities.
Mandos isn't like any of them.
He doesn't know if he's inside. Belowground. If this is a different world. A new plane of existence. A vivid dream. An outright hallucination. A dying delusion. Some combination thereof.
He hasn't tried leaving; he realistically doesn't have anywhere else to go. He isn't sure what's outside. If there really is an outside. He supposes that there is. That there must be. That if he took a blind apparition jump out he wouldn't just float off in the ether for the rest of forever. That he'd end up somewhere.
Of course, that's assuming that he can even leave. That this isn't some type of purgatory and he just thinks that he's corporal. He can't be sure at this point of anything. Can't be certain if he's truly alive. Or actually dead.
He thinks he's alive. He feels like he's alive. Breathes. Sleeps. Can even eat and drink. But those are strange, too. Less like necessities and more like indulgences. Like whims. Things he does because he wishes and not because his body demands it.
He hasn't tried going without. To be honest, Harry isn't sure his new acquaintances… friends… jailers… hosts… whatever they are… Harry isn't sure they'd allow him to go without food or water even as an experiment. They certainly wouldn't approve; he knows enough of them to recognize that. Whatever force – person – that brought him here has told them far too much about him. More than Harry himself likely ever would've for a very long time, but no use crying over spilled potions. The truth is out there now, and admittedly, it's a little refreshing not to have to pretend.
Still, it's an adjustment. Just like everything else.
Their level of interest, of attention certainly is. No one has paid this much mind to him in ages. Has asked about his likes and dislikes. Has shown such genuine interest and wanted absolutely nothing in return.
Perhaps that's the most unsettling thing of all.
The Ainur are always there. Helpful. Happy to see him. Eager to indulge his whimsies or even just to visit. To have their auras brush against his own. He's only truly alone is in his room. Even then, Harry has a feeling that while he isn't being watched outright, he's still being passively monitored. Much like the wards at Hogwarts. Present and aware but not intrusive.
It's just a bit daunting. He hasn't been this closely observed since Dumbledore still lived. Since the Order was still at its height. Even his legion of fans were never like this. Of course, they never had this level of capability either.
It makes Harry feel rather wrong-footed. Out of place.
Everything here does.
Harry himself does now. He looks such the same, yes. Younger for certain. As he did when he was a young man sans the glass. And with ears delicately pointed where they weren't before. Taller than he ever was. Maybe as he would've been in a kinder life with a family who actually loved him. But if wishes were thestrals…
At least, his magic is intact. Stronger than ever. It always is after each death. His abilities with wandless magic have grown tremendously over time, and even after the third Killing Curse, he could cast without one. He kept a wand for a combination of more difficult spells and appearances.
Now, he doesn't even bother. Both of his wands stay tucked away. Out of sight. Out of mind. Just in case.
Even time is odd here. There isn't actually day or night. The light comes from everywhere and nowhere and the level never changes. Harry thinks he's been here a few weeks. Two or three at best. Not even a month. But he honestly can't tell. For all he knows, it's only been a day or possibly a year or maybe no time at all. Perhaps it doesn't even exist in this place.
He doesn't know. There's no real reference for it. Nothing really changes. The parts of Mandos he's managed to wander seem the same. Look the same. Feel the same. There are other sections, he knows. Places where others reside. But Harry's never met any of them. Never seen any of the Eldar that Nienna has mentioned. Harry can't even begin to imagine what they're like.
The only people he knows are the Ainur who reside here.
Only, a different Ainu is here now. One Harry has never seen before. He's met all of the Maiar in Mandos. Nienna even confirmed that, but this certainly isn't one of them. Not even close.
Harry's first impression of him is the color white. Armor gleaming and pure as driven snow. Patterned with feathers on the upper chest and shoulders like folded wings.
He's tall. More so than Harry is now. Imposing. Face blank and unreadable. Eyes shifting in color the longer Harry watches. The longer he stares back in return. Amber to purple to green.
He isn't like the others. All mild auras. Even Námo. Dour as he usually is but forever sober and somber. Song slow and deliberate.
This Ainu… He's in armor for one; he's armed for another. Sword at his side.
They haven't said so outright, but Harry knows that Námo, Vairë, and Nienna are the most powerful here in Mandos. They're obviously in charge, too. The others all defer to them. Call them Valar with voices just this side of reverence. There's something about Nienna in particular that whispers to Harry. That sparks his interest and draws his eye. That pulls at his mind and magic.
This one though... His aura isn't like theirs either. They aren't fighters. Not warriors. He is, however. Harry wouldn't even need to see the sword to know that. It's in the war-drums as steady as a heartbeat. The trumpet call that leads men off to battle.
He's not as strong as the three Valar, Harry can tell that, too. But more powerful than the rest here. Than the other Maiar. There's a sharp edge to his aura. A sense of poise. Of watchfulness.
"You are Harry," the Ainu states then, and it's with a certainty and self-control that few others possess. Even in this place.
Harry blinks but offers something of a smile. "So I'm told."
The sarcasm is obviously lost on his newest acquaintance. Possibly for linguistic reasons though it's hard to say. Or he may simply not be the joking type. He seems too efficient for that. Almost robotic with his speech and even more so with his movements. Scarcely even blinking and chest barely rising like he forgets to breathe.
"I am called Eönwë," he introduces with scarcely a pause. "Herald of Manwë."
Harry lifts a brow at that but offers a polite nod in return. That last part, the name, doesn't mean all that much to him, but he suspects it's someone important by the context clues. Knowing his luck, probably the boss of this place. Nienna and Vairë have mentioned giving him lessons, and it's looking like Harry probably should take them up on that offer if they're going to be throwing out phrases like that.
Harry still doesn't know how to feel about it though. Much less any of this. Mandos. This new Ainu. His permanent move from Earth.
This isn't what he wanted. This wasn't his choice. His goal. Or even a possibility he ever considered. He never meant to come here. He's still reeling from all of it.
Listless. Drifting. Unmoored. Untethered.
He thought… He honestly thought it'd be… That he could finally… That it would just be o-
A hand touches his wrist then. Brief. Fleeting. Startling.
Harry's head jerks up to see Eönwë still staring at him. Unblinking. Searching. Demeanor easing ever-so-slightly. His face remains expressionless. Posture still stiff and formal. But in his aura, there are milder notes now. Faint. Gentle as a feather floating on air. His eyes shift to a sky blue.
The Ainu don't touch him as a rule. Only Nienna and Vairë are the exceptions. Harry isn't sure if it's cultural or something else as they don't even seem to touch each other much. More like dragons passing in the night. Coming close but never quite within reach.
But Eönwë's fingertips are light on his wrist. Delicate like he fears his own strength. Hovering just above Harry's skin afterwards as if he wants to reach out again.
His voice when he speaks is downy soft. Eyes shining with their own light.
"I am very pleased to meet you."
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Celegorm – Alright. Let's recap. What have we learned so far?
Caranthir – Excuse me. I'm in charge here.
Celegorm – We didn't agree to that.
Amras – Raises hand. I agreed to that.
Amrod – I think it should be Findekáno.
Fingon – Me? Points to self. Maitimo is the leader.
Caranthir – That's the same thing nowadays.
Amrod – Shouldn't it be atar?
Amras – At least, it isn't us.
Curufin – Rolls eyes. I don't think anyone's the leader.
Fëanor – Your mother's the one in charge.
Maedhros – Sighs to himself. Why do they all act like children?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Finrod – Happily eating cookies that Harry made earlier in the day.
Angrod – Happily drinking tea that they found in Harry's cupboards.
Argon – Happily daydreaming with his chin on his hands.
Findis – Happily sipping wine from Harry's cellar.
Finarfin – Happily skipping out on his responsibilities.
Fingolfin – You know, it's rather nice here.
Nerdanel – I do think so, brother.
In the distance, the loud racket of the House of Fëanor arguing with each other.
Finrod – Pleasantly. What a nostalgic sound.
Angrod – Haven't heard that in a long time.
Findis – I've oddly missed it.
Everyone Else – Murmurs of agreement.
In the background, a there's a harsh thump. Noises of pain.
Nerdanel – Sighs. I hope they aren't biting each other again.
Finarfin – Or pulling their hair out.
Argon – Findekáno pinches your ear.
Fingolfin – He learned that from Makalaurë.
Angrod & Finrod – Nod in unison.
Angrod – He did do that a lot, I recall.
Finrod – Admittedly, we probably deserved it.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry & Gil – Sitting serenely on their balcony. Listening to the castle complaining about their elven infestation.
Harry – I'm not even going to ask what they're doing down there.
Gil – Shrugs. I'm glad I'm not actually related to this family, but I'm also marrying into this hot mess.
Harry – Eh… I hear the Western Sea is lovely this time of year.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
After delivering Harry like a stork bringing a baby and giving only half of the explanation...
Eru – So please take good care of him. He's very delicate.
Nienna – Eru brought (me a baby) us a gift.
Maiar in the Hallway – O.o
Vairë – Giddy. We get to keep him!
Namo – Head in his hands. Yes, dear, we get to keep him.
Maiar – It's a baby but not a baby.
Nienna – Studying Harry and brushing hair from his face. He seems very sad.
Eru – About that…
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Manwë – Nienna has a son.
Varda – Nods regally but then starts mumbling under her breath. Vairë is keeping him all to herself though.
Manwë – Will I ever get to meet him?
Varda – Still mumbling. She's going to stack the deck against me, I know it.
Manwë – Will she ever allow it?
Varda – Muttering now. How will I ever get to be the favorite?
Both – Pause. Look at each other. Eönwë, we need you!
Atar - father
AN: This was a bit of a transitional chapter, and it's not as long as others mostly due to holiday time, sickness, and other random encounters that have occurred. Lucky me.
-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).
Himiko – sun child in Japanese. Also the name of a queen.
Ever Hopeful,
Azar