Chapter Text
Harry wakes to the scent of blood. Metallic, heavy as it itches at his nose. Thick with viscous and terrible things. Overpowering. Nauseating with its intensity until he can't smell anything else.
Taste is second. Iron on his lips. Hot. Acidic. Bitter bile joining deep across his tongue.
Sound comes next in little droplets. Gasps, hollow and broken. The creak of armor from this other side. His own breathing as his lungs relearn how to function. A whistle of air across this throat.
Touch now. The weight on his arm and shoulder. A tickle of hair against his chin. Water as it drips down the skin of his neck in the junction where his tunic doesn't fully cover. Cobblestones firm beneath his back. Liquid as it congeals against his robe in a sticky discomfort.
The burning cold of the Peverell ring on his finger. A gnawing freeze that ices his veins all the way to his heart.
A hand that cups his cheek. Gentle as snow drifting down from the endless sky above.
He opens his eyes.
She looks back at him. White-blonde hair loose from her gray hood. Timeless. Unlined. Unaging but so impossibly ancient as she gazes at him through her tears.
Nienna forever weeps. Now though, she cries furiously. Large, heaving sobs that shake her entire body as she leans over him. There's still starlight in her eyes despite the moisture. Glowing and luminescent. Brighter than the sun overhead.
Eönwë kneels on his left side. Near. So, so very close but not daring to touch. Sword still in his right hand but resting against his knee for a fast draw. He's helm-less, hair bronze and razor-straight. But there's fresh blood on his gauntlets. Specks of it across his chestplate. An even fainter, fine mist that stains his face.
Magic comes with a rush of comprehension. Harry can sense more than see the circle around the three of them. A barrier of fog and haze. A shield. Against all intruders. Against elven onlookers who he knows occupy the space just outside. Against a voice reaching from beyond the ocean who Nienna brushes away as one does a stray string.
The sound of wardrums is a steady thrum in Harry's soul. Resounding against frost but never causing the slightest crack. Feathery wings of music, of illusionary light fan out over him like a blanket as Harry blinks in time to the beat.
Other Ainur he can feel just at the edges – all Maiar. Some are known to him. Others still strangers. All reaching out one by one to offer wordless reassurance. More approach in rapid succession from every direction. Maiar and Valar both. Coming in by land, sea, and sky.
"Marcaunon."
He isn't sure which of them calls his name. Eönwë or Nienna. Likely both together.
Harry exhales then. Flexes the fingers of his left hand, but it's still too heavy to lift with the signet that weighs him down as surely as a noose.
This is a known scene to him. An old tableau. Harry's died enough times now that this is both strange and all too familiar. There are far too many people for one – Nienna and Eönwë are just the beginning. For another, it's far too early. The sun's still shining. Hasn't even reach the zenith.
Memory returns last. He trembles with it. With the recollection and the knowledge. The realization that despite all the horrible things on Earth, all the things he's lived through, this is a horrific first for him. The phantom pain that lingers before Nienna soothes it all away.
She's singing to him, he belatedly recognizes. Not on a physical level. It's deeper than that. Past snow and ice. Through layers all the way down to trees of gold and silver. With motes of light settling on a branch until each brightens in splendor.
Only then, does she stop. Only then, does she pull back to the outside world.
And when Harry opens his eyes the second time, he can now hear it in the background. The pained moaning. The whimpers of the injured and dying.
It's just past them. On the street beyond his limited line of sight.
"Do not look," she murmurs then, turning his head away before he can begin to lift his chin.
"I didn't hurt them," he tells her automatically. Urging, willing her to believe him.
He didn't; Harry knows that he didn't. Even when appeasing words failed and he was swarmed even more rapidly than he anticipated. He didn't want to apparate. Didn't need to add that to his list of sins. Death, he can deal with that. Has done so before and will undoubtedly do so again. He can't harm the people here. Not when he doesn't know what he did to incur their wrath, but he swears that he never harmed a single hair on their heads. They were furious from the instant they saw him. Eyes first wide and then narrowed. Harsh mutters amongst themselves but so many of them that Harry couldn't sort anything out. It didn't take a genius to feel the hostility hissing from their auras. The growling notes. Snarls of sound and warning.
He should've run at the first sight of a blade. Or even at the glimpse of a fishing spear. He isn't sure now why he didn't. Gryffindor pride was left in the dirt centuries ago in the face of good sense, but even that's failed him in this moment. He just… It's...
Valinor is supposed to be safe. They – the Ainur – promised him it was. That it is. That this is his home now. That he's welcome here.
But… But… He's an interloper to this land. He isn't one of them. He isn't an elf either. It all makes sense, he supposes in some exhausted corner of his mind. They must've guessed. Must've seen through his ruse.
What other reason could there be?
Nienna's soft in her sorrow. As if sensing the turn of his thoughts. Touch so light as she brushes his hair from his skin that it's more like an autumn sigh.
"I know you did not, hinya."
Footsteps now. Before he can even think to reply. Louder still. A group of them. Numerous and growing.
The elf in front is old, Harry thinks. Not the age of an Ainu. But there's a width and depth to his aura as he storms over like dark clouds approaching inland. Others are just at his back. Many others. But none of them have his power or presence. Though Harry can hear metallic sounds as each one moves.
They slow as they arrive at the aftermath. Harry hears them whispering. Hears the gasps of surprise, of dismay and horror. The hurried movements to the survivors. The back and forth between them. The unbridled rage as they surge forward once more but stagger back at Nienna's barrier. Even more stunned as it shimmers into view and flares outwards by several yards preemptively.
She doesn't even glance up.
"Olwë," Nienna addresses, but she makes no move to stand. Makes no move to leave Harry's side. Fingers still carding through his hair.
"Lady Nienna!" the elf – Olwë – calls back. Flustered. Shocked at seeing her. "Lord Eönwë! Alas, my lord and lady, if only your arrival coincided with good tidings. Yet, there is a murderer on our very streets."
"Yes, King of the Falmari, there was a murder in your streets," Eönwë agrees. Expression blank but irises shifting from amber to gold with a flash like lightening.
In the distance, there's a rumble of thunder. The sky is cloudless and clear, but there's a scent of ozone as more Ainur are carried closer with the tempest winds high above.
Olwë falters. Hesitates. Harry knows that he's taking stock of the situation. Harry himself is blocked from view, but he can feel the gaze trying to penetrate around the fog and the two Ainu who shield him.
"My lady, my lord…" he begins, and it's earnest but firm. "It would seem that you are tending to our intruder... as is your duty, but we also need your assistance."
Nienna does not respond. She neither shifts nor speaks. Perhaps that's answer enough.
Olwë takes it as one.
"You would aid a kinslayer before us?"
It's posed as a question but has the swell of demand.
"One who comes here yet again!" Olwë's tone is a flood of righteous wrath now. A growing wave that starts to crest. "Who has once more slaughtered us--"
"Marcaunon is many things," Nienna interrupts, and she casts aside the water as easily as the ocean does a single droplet of rain. Voice delicate as ever but strange in inflection. "He is not party to your quarrels, however, and he explained as much to your kin. Yet, they found offense in his appearance alone. This is their work."
She doesn't have to gesture at all. Meaning crystal clear.
The subsequent silence is sharp. Jagged. Like ground and broken glass.
"None of this was by this hand or deed," Nienna continues, and she finally looks away from Harry towards the elves gathered. "I would not have you speak of him in such a manner."
Olwë isn't to be deterred. "My lady, surely, this is warranted?" He's more astounded than anything now. "You can see for yourself the state of things here. How else did this come to be?"
He's desperate. Reaching. Seeking. A little boy lost and hopeless for answers. For comfort.
The truth is bitter. Terrible as any poison.
"Would you not also do the same, Olwë of the Teleri?" Nienna poses simply. "Would you not also rescue your child?"
The quiet then is so loud it deafens. It aches. It devastates. The elves let out a single, anguished noise in almost unison and go silent. Eönwë's grip tightens minutely on his sword, but he's otherwise motionless. Inscrutable. Only his aura shifts with anticipation.
Harry has never met Olwë and now hopes they never do. Not after the way his song dies away. Fades into darkness even as he still stands before them.
"Your... child?"
It's a murmur. Repeated as one does the utterance of a nightmare. Of waking to find that reality is worse than any dream could ever be.
Nienna doesn't reply to that either, however. She's already turned away. Gazing upwards for the barest of seconds with something almost like relief before she moves back to Harry. The last he sees of this place, of Alqualondë and her people, is Manwë's arrival. A flutter of silken robes and feathers. Blue eyes flashing his direction.
Then, Nienna takes him away.