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.
His last New Years at Hogwarts is a somber one. Solemn and serious. Bittersweet. Heavy and cloying like the alcohol his Transfiguration master passed around at all three meals. Normally, Harry wouldn't imbibe with the students watching, but none are here for the holidays. Every single one is gone. Either home or something close enough to it to count; Harry always makes sure of it even now.
But they can't have any students here for this. Have to take into account everything and everyone. As they walk the empty halls and grounds and do the final reckonings. As they climb echoing staircases and glance into barren classrooms. As the head house-elf sobs bitterly into her hands and the groundskeeper falls to his knees and their mediwizard murmurs prayers to any deity who will listen. And everyone else looks to Harry for comfort he doesn't know how to find.
He's glad the students don't see any of this.
There are so few of them left now. The last several years have seen the steady decline, the drop-off. It's no surprise really. To honestly be expected. Everyone wants to keep their children at home just that little bit longer. This is the smallest class Hogwarts has had in centuries. Since before he became headmaster. Likely since he was a student himself. The faculty are all still technical employees but only a handful have stayed on; there's more support staff, but even they're the bare minimum nowadays. Most are out in the world. Preparing. Readying themselves for the inevitable changes to come. Steeling themselves for the end.
Harry watches the dawn from the top of his tower, a vague red haze without real glimpse of the sun. He's there again for dusk. Feels his heart plunge with the light beyond the horizon. Takes a steadying breath against the sinking sensation in his gut. The sky is cloudy, dreary. Even the snow is pallid, wan and sickly. More gray and brown than white even in the twilight gloom. Falling like ash in the distance.
None of it touches the grounds. None of it can. Which is decidedly for the best. The children still play here when they can. Still sit on the stands and the Quidditch pitch even though the games have passed into memory.
Harry lets them. Lets them have this normalcy. This normality. The simply act of sitting outside and breathing in fresh air. It's a luxury seldom seen now. It's a debt that past generations owe them but will never be able to repay.
It's quiet outside. Out here. Still. Haunting in a way that even the ghosts, those few who continue to linger, can't manage. The silence is deafening. No call of owls or breeze through the trees. Harry has to pause to even remember the last time he heard those. Likely the only trees left in all of Scotland are those behind the wards right here. Where the forest once stood is nothing but an empty patch. Not a meadow because nothing grows. Just bare earth. Sterile dirt without life.
Hogsmeade itself is a void. A blank space. No homes or streets or people at all. Gone like so much else now.
Only the lake remains. Dark turning to black as night falls. Reflecting the light from the castle and the shimmering dome that shields them from the snow drifting down overhead. But the water is static and unmoving as death.
Soon, Harry thinks. It'll be so soon. This is his last winter here. His last at the only true home he's ever known.
Time's winding down. Is running out. Soon, there will be none left.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The snow falls serenely, soundlessly. In time with the strum of his harp and the beat of his heart. It isn't any particular melody Harry ever learned. Not even a true song. Just a mix of chords and notes as the fancy strikes him. A gentle rise, a dramatic fall. Tempo slowing momentarily as the air stirs.
Nienna sits by him and hums along. Smiling through her tears. Occasionally tipping back to watch the stars. At one point, she even rests her head on Harry's shoulder. Content to curl into his side. Warmth of her form a contrast to the autumn sleet of her aura and tinkling sleighbells that ring out in perfect accompaniment.
Káno is unusually quiet. Subdued. Just listening as Harry plays. He doesn't once join in, but Harry knows that he's there by the crash of waves on the shore. Breath a sigh across the sand. The water is sleepy, sedate. So dark a blue as to be almost purple beneath the night sky but shimmering in the moonlight. Phantom hand settled on Harry's back since nearly the start and soothing circles across the fabric.
It's been too long since they've done this. Too long since it's been only the three of them. Before Tirion, truth be told. One of the nights right before he left. Káno provided much of the music then with Harry's occasional input and Nienna's commentary. As they sat in the great hall on the grass. Even Indilwen hadn't been with them then. Just as she isn't now.
Harry finds that he's missed this. He has so many new distractions these days, and while he's growing increasingly fond of the House of Finwë, they can be overwhelming. That doesn't even factor in Fëanor and his sons. Nerdanel. Gil of course. The greatest distraction of all. And the favorite.
There's something to be said of this, however. Of sitting with Káno and Nienna and having no one else at all. No Ainur to fight for his attention. No elves to ask awkward questions. No one else to share with.
Of being their sole focus. Call Harry selfish, but he'll admit even if only to himself that he relishes this. That after centuries of never being anyone's first priority, it's a pleasant change. That even now, even after all this time, even at his age, he still craves this. It's silly and sentimental and all too childish. And far too comforting. The knowledge that he can – and has – told them just about anything and not been judged for it. He hasn't trusted anyone like that since Ron and Hermione. Even then, there were things he never dared mention to them. Káno and Nienna both know those secrets already. Know almost all of him, and it's a terrifying as it is liberating.
He thinks that Gil will know one day. Someday. They'll be married eventually, and there won't be room for secrets then. Harry isn't sure if they'll even be capable of it. Certainly not in the beginning if Fingon and Maedhros are any metric to judge by.
However, that's in the future. A shining path that lays out before him, but Harry doesn't look down it. Not yet. Not until it feels right.
For now, for this moment, he keeps playing. Allows his fingers to be their own conductor. To let the rhythm and chords wander as his thoughts drift. As he contemplates. Dawn is hours away yet even with the time they've already spent here. Harry barely slept at all. Was already jerking awake as soon as he dozed off. Plagued again by odd, disquieting dreams that sent him straight here to his garden. He can still the images even now when he closes his eyes.
King's Cross packed full and the trains running continuously. Nature burning around a black tower that reaches for the sky. A white city with bodies in the streets and a crumbling tree. A great, burning eye gazing out at a dead land.
It was just a dream, a nightmare. It wasn't real... but it surely felt that way. He even woke to the smell of smoke and the taste of ash, of blood. To the Peverell signet cold on his hand. Freezing more than the ice around them currently. The wand usually doesn't make itself known from the recesses of his pockets, but he feels it today. Vibrating with an odd cadence that's in time to anything that he plays. He wasn't wearing the cloak either, left it behind in his tower, but it somehow settles around him now. Drifting down over him and Nienna both.
He exhales even as he feels her turning against his side. She peers at him then. Lifting her head from his shoulder so that her white blonde hair brushes across the fabric of his robe. Her gaze is fond, but there's a pensive edge. Considering as she studies him before her attention flits to his harp. Her fingers trail over his sleeve to rest on the metal body.
"It seems we are all deep in thought tonight," she muses aloud.
Harry permits himself to pause mid-chord. "I can't say that you're wrong," he admits, "but I'm not the only one quieter than usual."
Káno makes a noncommittal noise at that. It's the first sound he's given in over an hour. A truly peculiar thing for him. He's not made for silence. Always humming or singing. Even his aura is rarely quiet.
"I have much to think about," he allows after several seconds. "Things are not as they once were. Endor is changing. As always." He sighs slightly like a whisper of wind through the reeds. "And yet, Aman is as well now."
There's a choppiness to the water on the shore. A tension, a vibration along the sand. Harry feels Nienna reach out. Sees her draw Káno in as surely as if he sat beside them. Watches as she smooths over his worries.
"What troubles you, dear?" she asks. Kind as always. Delicate as a falling leaf.
Káno hesitates though. Waters uncertain in the ocean of his soul. Restless waves of an approaching storm.
"Is it Fëanor?" Harry questions, and it's quietly. He isn't sure if he worries about the answer or already knows what it'll be.
He can tell that Káno is still considering his response, his words. He does so cautiously. Carefully. More so than he normally is with either of them, and that makes Harry more concerned that anything.
Beside him, Nienna is still. Listening. Fingertips lingering on the harp.
"Fëanáro is… different," Káno finally says. "They all are. They aren't the same as they were at the end. Not from what you tell me. They sound closer to how they once were so very long ago." Another pause then. One that lasts long heartbeats. "Whether that'll last remains to be seen."
"You don't think it's real," Harry states, and it isn't an accusation. More an epiphany. "You think they're… What exactly? Pretending that they repented? That Fëanor is lying to me?"
Harry can't help but think of the older elf then. Of their first meeting. Of his unabashed weeping to even see Harry who looks so much like his missing son. Who everyone believes is his grandson. If anyone was pretending then, or even now, it certainly isn't Fëanor.
"No," Káno denies immediately. Instantly. "For all his many failings, duplicity is by and large not one of them. Fëanáro is honest. Painfully so to the people who know him best."
Harry can't ever see his face, but he can hear the grimace in those words. The echo of it in the flash of memories that he receives. They're lightning fast. Flickering by so quickly that he only has glimpses. Fëanor in the starring role. But Maedhros is there with Nerdanel. Fingon and Fingolfin, too. All of them with the rest of the House along with others Harry knows. Finarfin. Aredhel. Even more. Some of the Ainur as well. Aulë. Oromë. Manwë. Others he doesn't. A large variety of people. Some complete strangers. Others very familiar indeed. But everything flits by so swiftly he can scarcely focus on anything before it's gone.
He blinks away the images, and Nienna's hand tugging on his wrist brings him back to himself fully. Steadies him as she strokes a thumb over his skin. Káno notices their inattention and now projects concern. Which Harry acknowledges with a brush of frost before steering them back on topic.
"If you don't think he's pretending, then what?" he prompts.
The elf is quiet long enough that Harry begins to think he won't answer. Even the sea is silent. Static.
"I worry how easy it is to forget old habits," he eventually murmurs. "I worry that he… that all of them are there with you, while I'm not."
Harry doesn't sigh. Or snort. He doesn't remind Káno that it's his choice to be in Endor. That he was invited back by the Valar personally. Instead, Harry just breathes out. Slowly. Counts to seven.
"I'm hardly here alone. Gil is with me," he reminds, and it's sharp enough to get the elf's attention but still light enough not to draw blood. "This is also my castle, and she's hardly going to let anything happen to me. Neither will Inara or Himiko or Indilwen or-"
"You've made your point, Herurrívë," Káno cuts him off. He lets out a sound that's a rough splash on the rocks. "Even with everything you tell me, I know Fëanáro. He was angry and bitter for so very long that it's hard to remember him as anything else."
Nienna shifts so that her grasp is now on Harry's palm instead. She threads their fingers together. Squeezes once.
"He's living in the same household as Fingolfin and Finarfin, and no one has died yet," Harry points out. "No one has even drawn a weapon, which I do actually have accessible here if anybody wanted one that badly." With his free hand, he runs an idle finger along the harp-strings. "Not to mention that Eönwë has been here, too. They've actually interacted with each other. Fëanor hasn't so much as raised his voice, and believe me, the wards would let me know if he had."
Harry says it all very calmly. Very reasonably. Pleasantly even. Habit, he supposes. From a lifetime of dealing with overly emotional people. Who screamed and yelled and cursed things. And that was just the parents.
Another sigh. Longer than the last. Filled with regret and reverberating with something that Harry'd even call longing. There's pride, too. Mixing in with fondness. Affection blending with fear. Shading in sorrow. More swirling together in a rainbow of colors that glow in the moonlight.
"Your magic is a wonderful thing, hinya, but it's hard not to worry."
Káno seems like he can't decide if he's impressed or exhausted with it all.
"Yet, you tell me not to worry about you," Harry counters. "You tell me that you're an adult who has lived from the Years of the Trees and that I shouldn't concern myself with you wandering Endor aimlessly."
Nienna doesn't laugh, but he has a distinct impression of mirth from her despite the seriousness of the situation. He momentarily tightens his grasp in hers.
Káno, not privy to their exchange, is very unswayed.
"That's different," he insists. "I'm also in Imladris now as you well know and no longer wandering."
"So you plan to stay there permanently then?"
It's technically a question, but Harry knows that Káno will deny it. He has since the first time Harry asked. He always has, and he doesn't disappoint now.
"There are things that I must do, hinya," the elf chides, but there's no bite. "I came to Imladris for a specific purpose. Not to live here forever."
Harry returns, "Elrond wants you to stay though."
Not surprising really, Harry thinks. Elrond is his son. Hasn't seen him for two ages and has missed him dearly. Not to mention that his own wife, Celebrían, is now gone. Is here in fact. With Elrond left to rule their valley alone. He does have his children, but his twin sons are often gone for years, even decades, to slay orcs and hunt with the Dúnedain. His daughter now resides in Lothlórien and rarely returns.
Why wouldn't he want his father there? Why wouldn't he want that support and comfort?
"Yes," Káno admits, and it's reluctantly. Like a fifth-year caught out of bounds. "He hasn't asked, but I know he does. We've had so little time together. We've much to make up for even now, and it is small wonder he wishes for me to be here at all."
"You should stay," Harry tells him honestly.
There's a start at his words. An awkward, surprised pause.
He can feel Káno's shock through the harp and half a world away. It's practically shouting at him. Loud and clear like a bell tolling through the cloudless sky. Or an unexpected rumble of in the distance, origin unknown.
"Hinya-"
"It's better than the shore," Harry interrupts and defends. Both together at the same time.
After all, he hardly wants Káno going back to the coast all alone. Not for any reason. Much better he stays in Imladris for all eternity than aimlessly wandering without even a roof over his head. It's worth any cost for Káno to be properly cared for, and Elrond will see to it. Harry doesn't even have to know him personally to recognize that. Even if it means he'll never meet Harry in person, that's a small price to pay.
Nienna's grip tightens to an almost agonizing degree even as that thought occurs to him. Her tears grow heavier, and they drip down her face to land on the snow. A steady stream that's unceasing.
"He is correct, dear," she adds, tone soft and strange. "Imladris is lovely, and it's a vast improvement from your prior accommodations. It is far superior indeed."
The elf's astonishment only increases with her words. "Nienna, you can't mean-"
"I mean as I say," she tells him." You shouldn't return to the shore where you dwelled before. That time is over and done. One cannot return to the past, after all." Her voice is an autumn chill, cold enough to turn to water to ice but somehow not harsh. Gentle as it soaks in. Cleansing. "One can only live in the present and strive for the future."
A beat of silence. Even Harry's taken aback by her comments. Though he probably shouldn't be at this point in their acquaintance.
Káno's shock slowly fades to contemplation as time stretches on. A strum of faint notes that drifts with the tides. Ebbing and flowing.
"I… will consider your words," he allows at long last.
Nienna inclines her head. "That's all I ask. I too desire better for you. Even if it is elsewhere."
Káno doesn't say anything to that. Perhaps he doesn't even know how to react. Instead, he lets it linger.
"The Council is meeting soon," Nienna comments after another moment.
"Yes," Káno responds, "in the next three weeks with the change of seasons."
"Will you attend?" Harry inquires.
"Elrond and Erestor wish for me to do so," the elf permits, but it's with even more unwillingness. "Laurefindele seems indifferent, but he's wary of my presence here. For understandable reasons, I admit. I do question the wisdom of attending the council when some here wish for me to be exiled again or to face judgment. They weren't pleased when Elrond told them I was already forgiven."
Harry taps on his knee in a solemn cadence. "You've been in Endor for two ages without any issues at all. They wouldn't even have known you were there at all otherwise."
"Eldar have very long memories." Káno's voice is somber, echoing like the depths. "I did terrible things, and I still atone for that regardless of what the Valar say."
"I understand. I truly do, and I even agree with it… to a point," Harry acknowledges, and he actually allows his head to lower minutely, "but I don't believe in punishing people eternally. There should be a set penance or sentence for a crime, and that's it. You can't keep coming up with new punishments because you feel like they haven't suffered enough."
A beat then. A breath.
"Indeed," Nienna agrees.
It's offered freely. Given so easily. Said so simply. If only they could get Káno to believe them.
"This meeting is not to determine punishment for you though," she continues. "Rather, not everyone on the council even knows you are there." Her words are pointed. Aiming right to the heart of the matter.
"No, it is not for me. I'm rather an unexpected surprise. An unforeseen guest," Káno tells them. "Artanis knows that I'm here though; Arwen told her. I suspect she will have a great many things to say to me."
Harry snorts before he can stop himself.
Celebrían did warn him about her mother; when Harry was still talking to her that is. Finarfin has also mentioned his youngest several times, though he painted a more generous picture. Finrod speaks kindly of his only sister, but Harry suspects Angrod's version is probably the most accurate. Wise, strong-willed but with a very sharp tongue. More likely to flay him with words than with her sword.
Nienna casts him a glance beneath her hood, and her eyes glitter but not just from moisture.
"Círdan is already here, ostensibly to see his oldest. He's been strangely tolerant of me," their elf continues, and it's almost more to himself than to them. "I could even say accepting. I've spotted him a few times in the gardens."
"But he hasn't approached you yet?" Harry wonders aloud.
"No, not yet, but he will. It's only a matter a time." Harry doesn't need to see him to know Káno's shaking his head. "He knows far too much already; I suspect Erestor has been filling his ears with all manner of things."
Harry hums in response but keeps his thoughts about that to himself. Gil has told him quite a bit about his father and brother, most of it positive, but he's hardly an impartial advocate for them. Nienna doesn't seem concerned about Círdan though, and he's supposed to be a great friend to Ulmo, so that's enough to mollify Harry. For now.
"Artanis and her entourage should arrive soon," Káno says next. "Likely in a few days. Arwen will be with them along with Mithrandir. As for the other Ist-"
"Don't trust the white wizard," Harry interrupts, and even he isn't sure where that comes from.
"What?"
He can feel both of them staring at him. Her beside and Káno in his fëa and across an ocean. Harry has no idea why he said that, but he knows the reality of it the instant the words fall from this lips. It's the truth. It's a warning.
His breath fogs the air where it hadn't before. The Peverell ring burns on his hand. A frigid presence that chills him to the bone in a way that ice and frost never have. Cold as the Void. Just as gnawing. Snarling and biting. His cloak wraps around him even closer; the wand in his right pocket trembles.
"Herurrívë?"
Káno is breathless now. Alarmed. Waves rising higher.
"Don't trust him," Harry repeats, but he feels very light despite Káno's obvious shock that's edging into distress. It's almost like he's floating. His eyes are closed, but he sees stars. Entire galaxies of possibilities. "He's already betrayed you."
His mother is upright now and grasping his hand in both of hers. Fingers fine-boned but deceptively strong. Tight, painful even, but that's a distant thing. Barely registering.
"What do you know, my dear?" she inquires delicately, deliberately. Reaching out with more than just her physical form.
She's glorious as he gazes at her. Sees her as she truly is. Shimmering. Dazzling. Protecting him as he soars free from shackles of flesh.
"He seeks power," Harry replies, and some distant part of him is surprised by the lack of echo. "He's been seduced by its call. He doesn't even realize how deeply he's trapped. How many chains encircle him now."
The cosmos whisper more secrets the higher he flies. Sing of events and things and people yet to be. That may never even become. Choices. Paths like branches that wind and twist off into the distance so far even he can't see where they go. Coiling and curling. Some crumbling into to dust as he watches. Others forming entirely where an empty space was before.
In none of them though is the white wizard their ally. In some, Harry glimpses him gazing at a golden ring even as he slips it on his finger. In others, he kneels before an armored figure who wears that same ring. In more still, he fights with staff and magic. With his voice and armies against all manner of people. Sometimes, he falls early. Others, he ravages the land before he's slain. By Men. Elves. Other wizards. A dwarf and elf together. A coalition of the races. Once by a hobbit with a glowing blue sword. The faces flicker in and out so quickly that Harry can scarcely catch them all. Some stand out much more than others, however.
His father with his spear in his grasp and bow on his back. Elrond is there; of course, Harry recognizes him without being told. He's too familiar to be anyone else. His sons and daughter as well along with the Númenórean beside them. There are others as well. People who Harry also knows without knowing. An elf with golden locks who reminds him strongly of Celebrían. Another with dark hair standing next to one with a beard, and Harry recognizes he hasn't ever met either but would swear that he has. Somehow. Somewhere.
They flash by in an instant. From one second to the next. Until all Harry can do paint them in the portrait of his mind. Immortalize every image so he won't forget any detail.
"He's fallen to the enemy," his mother murmurs then, but it's not a question this time.
A certainty. A surety. An absolute knowing. Lights blossom like snowdrops in her aura as the realization fills her. As he shares his awareness and their songs flow in perfect harmony. The stars are fading fast though; his view into the universe is slipping away even as he reaches out to grasp on, but it turns to dust-motes an instant later. He looks all around, upwards and down, right and left.
Harry glances backwards then and can see his own aura like a reflection on ice. A winter world with glacial walls and a castle spiraling impossibly high in the sky within. Next to a chasm that's so deep even light can't pierce the bottom, but that's just the outermost layer. Just the surface. Even as Harry peers deeper, he knows what he'll see. What he's glimpsed on his deepest mediations. At the middle, at his core, it's still winter. Still snowy but pristine. Pure with conifers of varying sizes and species. Two trees in particular dominate that landscape though others appear to be growing to match. Shining and stretching out all the way to the stars above and roots digging down. They're set in the very center of him, these trees. One gold and the other silver. Swaying serenely to a song only Harry can hear.
It calls to him now, beckons him back. He feels himself gliding towards Arda and descending down to Formenos. The rest of him is moored there. Tethered with his mother on his right, the Peverell signet on his left, and his father's harp in both hands. There's the tug of other ties, more binds. Gil-galad who bolts upright in their bed with wild eyes searching frantically. The other elves in the castle start to rouse, but Káno steps in front of them instinctively before Harry can even turn that direction. Indilwen and Inara and Himiko and all the others call out to him.
Then, there's Eönwë further away but still at the edge of Harry's kingdom, turning to look over this shoulder. Námo in Mandos as he guides an elf through awakening there but pauses mid-speech. Vairë and Estë as they gossip with Miriel, and all three abruptly fall silent. Oromë with Huan as they walk under the stars, both unerringly now moving his direction. More still who reach out with voices and auras and melodies until… Finally, there's Manwë atop his mountain, in his palace, on his throne as he sits in contemplation. Eyes impossibly blue, startled but pleased as he gazes at Harry. Song a whisper of wind that guides him the rest of the way back down. Hand tarrying on his shoulder before slowly letting go.
Harry blinks then. Settles back into his bones. Inhales sharply. Comes back to himself as his heart remembers that it does in fact have to beat. He swallows in a throat gone dry and raspy. Opens and closes hands that tremble with the effort.
What was…
Where is…
Why is…
He blinks again. His vision is blurred, haloed like he's been starring into the sun. His head feels muddled, stuffed with cotton-wool. He's puzzled. Confused at what just happened.
"You did well," Nienna praises as she leans into him. Solid and warm and very real. "You did so well, my dear heart."
Her arms are a firm reassurance around him. An anchor that keeps him from floating away like Marge that one fateful encounter. Her face peeks up at him from beneath her gray hood, and her eyes are glowing. Are nothing but pure light as she pulls him down, pulls him closer.
"Nienna?"
Káno is urgent. Harp still in Harry's lap and now digging into his legs. He's billowing winds across the coastline. Turbulent waters that crash against the rocks and sand.
"Hinya?"
"Mírimo?"
Harry hears another voice calling him before he can even begin to answer. Sees Gil as he scrambles out of their bed. Breathless. Panting.
"I'm fine," Harry tells them both.
Kano's loud sigh and Gil's inelegant noise are practically in unison.
"I don't-"
"I doubt-"
They talk over each other. Unaware that the other's speaking. On a good day, Harry would easily sort out their words but not now. Not when he feels like he's still riding his old Firebolt when it was brand new. Like he could just zoom off at any moment. Like he's levitating three feet off the ground. He actually glances down to confirm that he isn't.
"Yes, all is well," Nienna agrees. Arms still around him but one hand lifting to stroke his hair from his face.
Harry leans into her touch, into the whisper of magic like a fall evening. It's familiar, reassuring. He doesn't even notice he closes his eyes but does know when they move. He doesn't need to see to recognize that they're back in his tower. The air is different here. Warmer, smelling faintly of tea and books, the underlying scent of Gil that lingers.
His love is next to him a scant second later in fact, now wearing a robe over his bare shoulders. Kneeling in front of him and reaching up to cup his cheek. Taking up all of Harry's vision when he opens his eyes.
"I'm fine," he repeats, but he still feels dreamy, distant. Disconnected.
Gil snorts, but it's twinged with something almost like hysteria. His voice is eerily calm though.
"You say that, Mírimo, when you're actively dying."
"He is uninjured and was in no danger at any time," Nienna says then, and it's only belatedly that Harry realizes she isn't talking to him at all. "He merely needs rest now."
"What happened then?" Gil manages to keep his tone even. His aura is restless, however. Agitated. Crackling with thunder and lightning.
Nienna makes a pleased sound, however. Sleighbells tinkle in Harry's ear and all around them. The stars on the ceiling brighten the room more than usual; he tips his head back to watch them twinkle. Lets the conversation continue around but without him.
"He is learning," Nienna responds. "He is growing into himself and his gifts."
Gil tenses like a bowstring. Drawn and held in position.
"I felt-"
"He did not die," she interrupts. "He isn't an elf who is shackled to this form, but that is a difficult lesson to teach. Trust must be given wholeheartedly and freely to believe it."
The static buzzing across his skin rouses Harry enough for him to glance down. Eyes drifting from Gil in front of him, pale but resolute. To Nienna, soft and serene. They're looking at each other and not him, however.
"Nienna?"
Káno's voice cuts through then. Not forgotten. Merely taking a moment to collect himself. Only slightly shaky when he speaks. Nienna draws the harp away from Harry into her own lap. Holds him there.
"All is well, dear. We knew this day would come."
"Yes," he agrees, "but I didn't think it would be so soon. I certainly didn't think it would be like this."
"Or that Marcaunon would have a gift for true-sight?" she poses.
Káno is quiet for a few seconds. "Did you know of this?" he questions faintly. "Any of this?"
His aura says everything and nothing. The rise and fall of the waves. The crash of the water on the shore. The high, hard reach of the tide.
Her head shake is slight, singular. "Our sight has been veiled for too long in Endor. Even with recent changes, we have yet to recover all that we lost against Moringotto. Our tether to Eru Ilúvatar frayed more than even we realized," she adds with a whisper that's footsteps on hard ice. Cracks forming underneath. "Now, however, that bond is finally healing. The song is different, yes, but it will be whole."
Gil is silent during their exchange. Watching Harry the entire time but clearly listening. Tight and taut still. Eyes nearly gray without much blue left. Harry finds himself lost in the cloudiness of them. In the fog and storm. Thoughts and mind wandering off even as Nienna beckons him back.
"Marcaunon?" she prompts. "Dear heart?" But shakes her head after a few seconds. "Let us get you to bed."
Harry doesn't think to argue. To be honest, he has no desire for it. He's not truly aware enough anyway. Not even voicing a single word, complaint or otherwise when Gil picks him up. The next few minutes are a haze, a daze, and he blinks to find himself tucked beneath their quilts with Nienna leaning over him, hand on his brow. Her lips are softer than a winter's kiss on his skin.
"Ammë?" Harry asks as she pulls back but not away.
Her fingers linger on his face. Touch light, tender. Her voice is a like a sad sigh, however.
"I cannot stay, my dearest. As much as I wish it were different... of late, there is more need of me." Her tears grow in intensity. Heavy. Glittering with starlight.
Harry's still drifting, floating but that statement pierces his thoughts. He actually feels his heart beat harder for a moment. Sees lights behind his eyes. Ones that are gone as quickly as they arrive. It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite open his mouth fast enough. She quiets him before he can even make the offer, and Harry supposes that she knows him too well.
"No, stay with your beloved and rest," she murmurs. "It is enough for you to be here, dear heart."
Her fingers brush hair back. It's unbraided, waiting for Gil's handiwork, but she gently tucks a lock behind his ear.
"I shall return later and sing for you," she tells him, and there's a pause. Heartbeats of silence before she adds, "Know that I will always come when you call for me, no matter what else is occurring or wherever else I may be."
She slips away then. He feels her leave like a child watching at the station as the train departs, but Gil settles in next to him a moment later. Fills that empty spot completely and pulls the covers all the way up. Curls around his back and pulls him in close.
Harry's eyelids are heavy. Weighted. They fall shut on their own without his input or even permission. Gil's warm beside him. One arm around his waist with the other tucked underneath him. Rain is a soft song against the snow. Soothing. Serene and sweet. A lullaby that tugs Harry down further.
Deeper and deeper and...
The bench would be hard beneath him, but there's a cloak tucked along his legs. His head rests against a pillow that rises and falls with breaths. A breeze flutters at his clothes, and it carries the sea alongside. A taste of salt.
Strange, some distant part of him thinks. They aren't near the ocean. Formenos is landlocked save for the lake and rivers. Streams that flow down the mountains. Some that were even there before he arrived.
Harry tries to puzzle at that, but the arm that rests across his back is too distracting. Touch both familiar and yet… It isn't quite right. There's no pulse of twin rings. Fingertips just a tad too coarse and broad.
Some part of him starts to stir at that, makes a noise of protest. The hand on his arm moves away, and his pillow stills completely. He receives a slight laugh in return that rumbles in his ear and jostles him a tad too much, but then, there's an impression of someone leaning more fully against him. Of the shoulder beneath his head shifting to settle back into place.
"Rest, little brother," Elros says then, gentle as sea-mist. "I shall guard your dreams."
And Harry does.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry wakes in stages. In drips like toffee as it moves down a spoon. His eyelids are impossibly heavy, and he's warm, comfortable. Cocooned in downy quilts. It'd be so easy to drift off again, and that's a vague, passing thought that floats around his head for far longer than it normally would. He lies on his side, considering just that before he finally decides to open his eyes. Blue sky greets him as it peeks through the balcony doors. It takes him several more minutes to ponder at that, but a hand strokes his face and distracts him before he can contemplate it too much. Harry gradually turns his head to see his love sitting up against the headboard behind them.
Gil-galad smiles at him. "Good to see you awake. How do you feel?"
"Fine," Harry replies automatically.
But it's true. It is!
Gil snorts before he can stop himself. "How did I know you'd say that?"
It's said fondly. Affectionately. With a touch that cups Harry's face and tilts him just so. Likely for Gil to have a better chance to examine him. Harry allows it. For a variety of reasons. The cobwebs that are in the process of being cleared from his head the longer he's awake. The fact that this is Gil, and he'll always allow it. But mostly because he's startled by the torrent of water that abruptly drenches his aura the moment Gil's skin makes contact. That certainly wakes Harry up. Fully and Completely.
So does the rainsong of desperation that resounds in his ears. Clouds ominous and dark but lightening ever-so-slightly the longer Gil looks at him. He's almost surprised that he isn't soaked in the outside world, but he's bone dry. Both of them are.
Gil's fully dressed, Harry belated notices. Wearing socks but no boots. No braids yet either. Only his bracelet and ring as he usually does nowadays.
Harry isn't dressed. Which is strange, he decides. He remembers being in his robes. Gray ones with and undertunic and trim in Gryffindor red. But now, he's in sleep attire and can't remember how that happened.
To be perfectly honest, his memory is… peculiar. Not blurry but Harry hesitates on calling it accurate. It's so bizarre. So beyond what even he's experienced with the magical world that he wants to call it a dream. Or perhaps a potions-induced hallucination. Since certainly that is the only explanation for what occurred. To call it anything else… To even consider it could be real…
Harry breathes out heavily and sits up. He doesn't truly need the hand Gil offers, but he takes it all the same. Allows himself to be guided over to rest against the pillows. The room is bright, cheerful even with sunlight streaming in. The unicorns graze by the windowseat, but they lift their heads to stare at him. Just as the thestrals do near the bathroom door and the owls in the trees by the armoire. He even spots a flash of orange amidst the foliage, but she disappears before Harry can see more of her. Inara, however, is not in the painting at all and instead perched on the footboard. Tail feathers trailing over the side like a golden waterfall. She lets out a cheerful chirp at his notice, and he feels all of their gazes on him as he draws his knees up to rest his elbows on.
He's used to his friends' attention at times, but this level is unusual. Almost unnerving. Particularly when they continue to watch him. He was only asleep for a few hours. It's not like he was in a coma.
"A few hours?" Gil repeats, and Harry realizes that thought was indeed out loud. "Mírimo, you've been in bed over a day." The elf shakes his head. "You slept all through yesterday morning, afternoon, and night. It's nearly noon again now."
It's Harry's turn to stare.
Gil lets out a little laugh at his expense. "Nienna came several times to check on you. She left not that long ago but said you'd likely wake soon. She'll return in the evening." He takes Harry's hand in his.
"I see," Harry manages eventually. "And what does everyone else think…" he trails off. Not sure he even wants to know the answer.
"Of your absence?" Gil suggests. "Our guests believe you're with Eönwë. Nienna and he came up with your alibi all on their own." He taps his chin with a free finger. "I can't decide if that is for your privacy or theirs, but I don't think they want the others to know what has happened. Both of them seem very pleased by it though."
Harry digests that for a moment. Considers implications. Decides that it's probably for the best. This is decidedly not something he fancies explaining any time soon. After all, he isn't entirely convinced he understands himself what happened. Or if there's any way to make sense of it all.
Did he really…?
Did that actually happen?
Harry has done a number of odd things in his magical career. Even more spectacular ones when he was still a student, but this certainly is taking a high scoring spot. Perhaps not as impressive as some of his feats that end of his time on Earth, but those were a group effort.
There's a sigh then. Not from Harry but from Gil-galad. Who's still sitting right next to him but turns to face him fully. Static buzzing when their knees touch.
"Mírimo… I know I said to warn me in the future, but maybe don't do this while I'm sleeping."
He says it casually. Nonchalantly. And yet, sounds anything but.
"You thought I died."
It's an odd realization. An honest one. Fragments of conversation flowering in his mind the longer he's awake. Growing and budding and opening in all their glorious truth.
"I did," Gil acknowledges, and his tone is aching for all of its softness. Open and wounded. "It felt like it did before. At the hill. Just like then, I could feel you pulling on our bond. That's what woke me." He's quiet for a few heartbeats before adding, "I admit that I panicked in the moment."
Harry doesn't know what's worse. The way he says it or the feel of his aura as he does. The echo of memory. It's a knife that goes all the way through Harry's chest. To his heart and out the other side. Gil's eyes are dry, and there's even a smile on his face. But his world is a monsoon and every breath is like drowning as Harry gazes at him.
Gil though is kind as always and shushes Harry before he can even think to apologize.
"I know you didn't mean for this to happen. Nienna spoke with me; Eönwë did as well." His touch is tender on Harry's skin. "This was not an unexpected occurrence, though it's earlier than they thought it would happen."
That's news to Harry. He would definitely remember this. Would recall being told that he should prepare for out of body, cosmic experiences. That's not something that would slip his mind, and he's never been forgetful in his old age.
"They certainly didn't mention that to me," Harry returns, and it's brisker than he intended. Sharp and barbed.
Stormy eyes gaze at him. Lightning flashes against a snowy sky, but rain blunts the edges.
"Didn't they?" Gil questions, and it's not rhetorical. "Maybe not with words, but I know they share much with you beyond those."
Harry stamps down on the immediate denial. Takes a second to pause, to consider that. Turns it over in his mind and examines it from every angle. The Ainur's lessons aren't always the most straightforward, no. Sometimes downright oblique, and Harry admits that they can be very exasperating in their word choice. When they even speak at all. But to be fair, their first language isn't even verbal. They've been showing him with auras and songs, teaching him as they were taught. He's expanded his abilities. Not just in his shapeshifting or conjuration. They've told him that his magic was growing, and Harry even agreed with them. Then and now.
But maybe they didn't mean the same thing by that.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sometimes, they aren't very good at explaining themselves," he says, and if that isn't the understatement of the century, he doesn't know what is.
Gil is kind enough not to roll his eyes. Or to laugh. Instead, he takes Harry's hand again and runs his fingertips over his ring. Twisting it back into perfect position. He looks at Harry, searching his eyes and face as if there's some sort of answer to be found. Or perhaps simply to reassure himself.
"Will you show me?" he asks then. "What you saw?"
It's phrased as a request. One that Harry could deny if he wanted, and Gil wouldn't hold it against him. Wouldn't fault him for keeping this to himself.
But… Harry plans to marry this elf. Will one day show all of himself anyway. Sharing now will only make that easier, and he does trust Gil. Hesitates only because of the subject matter.
"Sauron is one of the things I saw," he cautions.
His love only inclines his head, however. "I figured as much."
"I didn't want you to go in blindly and see him," Harry continues almost guiltily, like a naughty schoolboy confessing every misdeed, real and imagined. "I think on some level I knew my dreams have been about him, but I couldn't quite put it into words."
"You've been dreaming about him? More than this?"
Gil seems more curious than angry. Though admittedly Harry should have told him earlier.
"For the last week," Harry admits. "I meant to speak with them last… well, the other night, but obviously…"
"I see how that turned out, yes."
Gil nods once, but he's silent afterwards. Patiently looking at Harry like they have all the time in the world. Awaiting the response to his earlier question, Harry recognizes a second too late. He offers a silent apology, one that he knows his love still hears by the squeeze of his hand.
Legilimency as it's practiced in this world isn't so different than what Harry first learned. He's done it with the Ainur basically from the start, and he and Gil have traded surface thoughts both passively and intentionally before. This is far more deliberate. Deeper. He gazes his love directly in the eyes and guides him forward into the perpetual winter wonderland. He feels Gil taking it all in, even as Harry leads him to the library inside of the castle. The place where most of his memories go unless he's stored them away elsewhere.
It's easy enough to draw up the correct ones; they're so recent. The dreams from earlier, that final one, along with what happened in the garden. But the last isn't a flat page when he opens the book. No, it springs out to a three-dimensional image that hovers in front of them. Which is curious and worth investigating, but that's not his purpose here and will be a matter for later.
Harry instead feels Gil's hand in his. Left in his right. They touch the memories together. Everything he saw. Felt. Experienced. It's all relived. Vivid and real as it was the first time.
He isn't exhausted afterwards though. Head not full of fluff. Thoughts clear as any crystal. Harry opens his eyes to find them back in the real world and still sitting on their bed. If any time has passed at all, it's likely only seconds.
Beside him, Gil sways forward. He shoots out a hand to steady himself. Just as Harry moves to catch him, arm curving around his back. They stay like that for a few minutes before Gil eases back and curls into his side.
"That voice at the end," his love begins. It's slow. Halting but not uncertain.
"I know," Harry assents.
A slow exhalation. One drawn out and lingering.
"He didn't live within your lifetime," Gil-galad points out. "You shouldn't know what Elros sounds like. Not directly."
"Only through memories I've seen," Harry admits. "Ones that were shared with me."
That Káno showed him of the twins. As children and then as they grew older. More recently of Elrond as he is now. He sounds so very much like his brother. But also not. Distinct. Identical. And yet his own person.
Though why Harry even dreams of him – sees him – is the real question. Why Elros? Why not someone else? Why not Teddy or Victoire or Hermione or Ron? Why not any of the people he loved over the centuries? Why not one of them?
Of course, what would Harry even say to any of them? What would they think of him now? To see him wearing the guise of the Eldar since he isn't an elf and never will be? How would he explain what became of him when they were all gone? How he ended up here? They'd never understand it, and Harry isn't sure he could ever face their disappointment.
Gil, who must sense his emotions but doesn't quite understand the cause, brushes over his shoulder. Touch soft as a summer shower.
"I can't say that your visions are a surprise exactly," he states. "Elrond has those, too. Elros did. I'm told that Elwing still does. As did her father, brothers, and grandmother. The line is known for it. Of course, the House of Finwë also has its own tendency for visions."
Harry tips his head back as Gil leans into him even more. Rain turns into a drizzle. Thunder quieting and lightning now absent.
"This is certainly beyond a vision though I'd say," his elf continues, and it's thoughtful. Pensive.
Harry doesn't argue at all because it's a true statement. This decidedly beyond simple dreams, too.
"I've talked to the dead before," Harry confesses then, eyes watching painted clouds floating by overhead. "Not just in Mandos or as ghosts."
His elf swiftly turns to looks at him. Face mere inches away when Harry glances back down.
"When I…" He trails off at the wince Gil makes. "You know. When that happens… There's always someone I see waiting for me."
"Always?" his love questions. "The same person?"
"Yes, every time," Harry confirms. "He's… It's someone I knew as a child. He helped me. Guided me before he died."
That's one way of putting it. Yes, there's a whole traincar worth of baggage related to Dumbledore, but time and distance have put much of it into perspective. Harry has also been a headmaster, responsible for the same school even. He can see Dumbledore for all his faults and flaws but also the things he did right. Especially since Harry walked much the same path and dealt with the same evils. And not just the bureaucratic kind. Killing Voldemort – Tom Riddle – was one straw in the broomstick. There were so many others Harry found later. So many worse things that Harry can forgive an old man his sins.
"He died?" Gil repeats. "A mortal then?"
The last part is said quietly, almost a whisper. Like his love is talking to himself.
Harry nods. "He was quite elderly when I knew him, and ever since he's passed on, he's there waiting for me."
"He's still helping you then," Gil-galad comments, but it's to both of them, "even now. After all this time."
That isn't a question at all. It's an assertion. An affirmation.
Harry considers that best way to explain. All the conversations that he's had with Dumbledore in that in-between place. His old headmaster is always genuine and gracious. Harry… not so much sometimes.
"He still gives advice. Occasionally, he just sits with me until I wake up," he agrees.
Gil's dark brows are low over his eyes, which have grown distant. Shadowed even in the brightness of the room. Or perhaps because of it.
"Lords Námo and Irmo have power over spirits; Nienna is their sister. Maybe…" he muses but doesn't finish that thought.
Instead, he glances up, looks at Harry. Gaze unfathomable but lingering. Searching.
"It doesn't matter either way," Gil decides at last. Travels the last few inches to put their foreheads together. Leans forward to breathe the same air. And just holds on.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Caranthir – So… Tell me more about my nephew.
Fingon – Our nephew.
Caranthir – Rolls his eyes. Fine. Our nephew.
Fingon – He's not like the rest of us. He's shy. Quiet.
Caranthir – So you've already said.
Fingon – He's sensible. I haven't seen him bite a single person yet.
Caranthir – I haven't bitten anyone in centuries. That's the twins and Tyelko.
Fingon – Unimpressed look. It's highly effective.
Caranthir – Grudgingly. And sometimes, Curvo. But what he and his wife get up to in the bedroom is their business, and I don't want to know!
Fingon – Sighs and shakes his head. What do you want to know then?
Caranthir – Tell me about the harp.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Gil – Waking up from a dead sleep to Harry leaving his body.
More!Gil – Panic ensues. Much panic. Such panic.
Also!Gil – Wearing only his robe and nothing else when his mother-in-law brings his beloved back in the middle of the night.
Gil!Again – Mírimo, why do I keep ending up in these situations?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fingolfin – Yawning.
Angrod – Also yawning.
Finrod – Yawning from his brother's shoulder.
Finarfin – Yawning but more discreetly.
Argon – Yawning but doesn't care who sees.
Findis – Yawning into her wineglass.
Celebrían – Yawning with her chin resting on her hand.
Fingon – So I take it everyone else also slept terribly last night?
Maedhros – … … …
Fingolfin – Indeed, hinya. I had odd dreams.
Findis – Agrees. They were certainly strange.
Argon – I think we hit the wine a little too hard before bed.
Finrod – I can't really remember what I dreamed, but I know I was floating.
Angrod – Same. Except there was snow.
Finarfin – Turning to his sons. Lady Nienna was there.
Everyone – Looks at each other.
Maedhros – Quietly. I saw Káno… Just for a moment before I awoke.
Everyone – Looks at each other even longer.
Argon – Wait a minute...
AN: Eventually, we'll be back on a regular update schedule that's every 2-3 weeks, but I'll admit that have a bunch of new games due to the recent sale on Steam.
Ammë – mother/mum
-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).
Inara – ray of light or heaven sent in Arabic.
Ever Hopeful,
Azar