Chapter Text
Harry was not happy.
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No...
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Harry was pissed.
His jaw was clenched so tight it could’ve cracked a tooth, his boots striking the cobblestones in sharp, clipped beats as he stalked down the winding roads of Gondolin.
He cut through the narrowest alleys, twisting and turning without pause, moving like someone who knew the art of evasion all too well. His cloak flared with each step, his eyes sharp and alert. He wasn’t just walking; he was hunting for an escape route.
Yet no matter how many corners he took, no matter how many shadowed turns he disappeared into, the sound was always there. Footsteps. Too steady, too persistent, never faltering.
Following.
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Like a goddamn puppy.
On his shoulder, Draco was laughing. Actually laughing. Harry could feel the ferret’s tiny body shaking with mirth, the smug vibrations rumbling against the side of his neck.
“Laugh one more time, Malfoy, and I’ll let you experience what it really means to be a flying squirrel,”
Harry hissed under his breath, his green eyes flicking dangerously toward the pale little creature perched like royalty.
Draco only snickered, his whiskers twitching in smug amusement. He knew Harry’s threats by now..knew them too well.
“Don’t be like that, Pottah,” He drawled, voice thick with sarcasm.
“Besides, you’ve got yourself a little knight in shining armor.”
Harry’s lips twitched in a mix of irritation and disbelief. The mental image Draco’s words conjured Tuor, trailing after him like some heroic golden retriever was enough to make him want to hex something into oblivion. He swore if he had even a fraction of his wand’s power here, Draco would be squeaking and chasing his tail right now.
He whipped around another alley corner, his cloak snapping like a whip behind him, only to hear it.
That voice.
“My Lord, wait for me!”
Harry froze for the briefest second, his entire body shivering in sheer secondhand embarrassment and fury. My Lord. He could feel the eyes of bystanders prickling against his back every time Tuor said it. Slowly, almost painfully, Harry turned his head.
There he was.
Tuor Eladar. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, and looking every inch the earnest hero that Ulmo must have molded with his own hands.
His mannish clothes were simple but dignified, the silver emblem of his lineage gleaming faintly and right now, he was jogging, determined to catch up—expression open, devoted, and gods help Harry, puppy-eyed.
Harry’s lips twitched dangerously, his entire patience wearing thin.
“Go. Away!” Harry snapped, his voice echoing through the narrow street.
“You must have mistaken me for someone else!”
He didn’t wait for Tuor to reply. His pace quickened into a near-sprint, his legs moving with practiced grace before he bent his knees, pushed off, and leapt.
His boots struck the stone wall, finding purchase where none should have been, and with a fluid movement, he vaulted up onto the rooftops. His cloak flared as he landed in a crouch, the city sprawled beneath him, and without a moment’s pause, he took off into the night sky.
Tuor, panting heavily below, tried to follow, craning his head upward like a scolded child left behind. Harry didn’t so much as glance back.
If the man wanted to look like a kicked puppy in front of the whole street, that was his problem.
Because this...this was Harry’s life now.
Tuor Eladar, son of Huor, blessed by Ulmo himself, had been following him ever since that day in the House of the Mole when he knelt and spoke words Harry had tried and failed to forget. Following him with the persistence of a hound who had caught a scent and everyone noticed.
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Everyone.
Raised brows. Judgmental looks. Suspicious whispers when Tuor trailed too close at Harry’s heels. Even Maeglin’s sharp, storm-dark eyes had lingered on the sight with a weight that made Harry’s stomach knot. Harry could still feel the suspicion, the way Maeglin’s gaze burned into the back of his head whenever Tuor hovered near.
It had gotten so bad that the King himself had summoned him.
Harry’s stomach still dropped when he remembered it. Turgon, tall and regal, his piercing gaze like a spear of light. Asking—no, demanding what exactly his relationship was with the mortal messenger of Ulmo. The hall had been silent, every gaze upon him, as though Harry were standing trial.
His mouth had gone dry, but Harry Potter had learned long ago how to lie when cornered. And lie he did. Smooth words, half-truths and careful phrasing, spoken with the innocence of a messenger who knew nothing more than what was needed. Somehow, impossibly, Turgon had believed him.
When it was over, when the tension in his spine had finally loosened, Harry had walked out of that chamber, found Tuor waiting loyally just outside, and snapped.
His hand shot out, smacking the man hard across the shoulder. Tuor had winced, startled, yet still smiled as though Harry’s irritation was something to be endured with patience. That smile had only made it worse.
Harry had grabbed the man’s ear, twisting sharply until Tuor hissed in pain, and Harry hadn’t cared one bit if anyone saw.
Because he had a bone to pick with this blasted man.
And for the life of him, Harry James Potter-Black had never planned to be the center of Gondolin’s attention. His mission had always been clear, always been simple in its singular cruelty: save Maeglin from his miserable fate.
Not Gondolin. Not its doom.
Just Maeglin.
And now here he was, being dragged into the storm he had tried so hard to avoid, with a golden-haired mortal shadow dogging his steps and threatening to unravel everything.
Now why don't we rewind a bit after what happened after Tuor kneeld on one knee....
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The silence that followed Tuor’s declaration was deafening.
The hall had frozen every voice cut short, every whisper smothered in the sudden, heavy weight of stunned disbelief.
Maeglin’s eyes darted between Harry and the kneeling man, his usually composed mask cracking into something more human confusion, suspicion, and even a flicker of unease. The people stood stiff, their heads tilting, black hair and silver locks shifting in unison as they tried to interpret what had just unfolded before them.
Harry, however, felt his stomach plummet into his boots. He didn’t even remember moving until his knees bent slightly, one hand reaching instinctively to help Tuor up, the other still clutching at his cloak where Draco stirred against his neck. His grip trembled. The tremor was slight, but to Harry, it felt like his whole arm shook with the effort of keeping calm.
“Ahahaha,”
Harry laughed, the sound too thin, too brittle, ringing falsely in the charged air.
“He just… mistook me for someone else.”
His words felt flimsy, brittle things, but they were all he had.
He tightened his grip on Tuor’s arm, and the mortal, after the briefest hesitation, let himself be pulled to his feet. Harry’s nails dug into the man’s sleeve, a warning hidden beneath the appearance of assistance.
Tuor’s lips parted, perhaps to correct him, to speak more truths Harry wasn’t ready for, but the glare Harry shot him was sharp enough to slice through the thought. Tuor closed his mouth and inclined his head as though in silent obedience, though his eyes remained too steady, too knowing.
Maeglin frowned, his dark gaze lingering on Tuor a moment longer, suspicion flickering like a spark behind his irises. But Harry, forcing a smile that showed too many teeth, tugged Tuor along before any further questions could be asked.
He adjusted the ferret at his neck, tucking Draco deeper into the little sewn pocket of his cloak. Draco wriggled, grumbling in faint amusement at the tense charade, but Harry ignored him.
His only thought was Get out. Get away from the stares before someone starts connecting dots.
The corridors outside were a maze of stone and shadow, tall archways and narrow turns. Harry’s boots struck sharply against the polished floors as he half-dragged Tuor down a side passage, then another, then another, doubling back once to throw off any curious stragglers.
He knew well enough how Elves worked—how curiosity for them wasn’t idle but ravenous. They were watchers, listeners, gossipers. They would unravel mysteries thread by thread, and if they smelled blood in the water, they would hound it until nothing remained private.
Harry couldn’t afford that.
By the time they reached a less-traveled passage, the silence pressed too heavily against Harry’s ears. He spun, his cloak flaring out, and slammed Tuor against the nearest wall. The mortal grunted at the sudden impact, the stone vibrating faintly beneath the force.
Harry’s forearm pressed hard against Tuor’s chest, pinning him there despite the height difference. His eyes narrowed, a low growl curling in his throat.
“How did you know?”
The words were sharp, biting, and low enough that only Tuor could hear them. They carried none of the false laughter, none of the flimsy excuses just raw suspicion and a demand.
Harry’s green eyes burned, shadowed by something fierce and dangerous. He leaned closer, every muscle taut, waiting, daring Tuor to answer wrong.
The air between them hung heavy, Harry’s demand still echoing faintly in the corridor’s silence.
Tuor did not flinch, though his breath came faster under the pressure of Harry’s arm pinning him to the wall. His blue eyes held steady, unnervingly calm, as though he had expected this reaction from the start.
Harry, however, could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His knuckles were white where they pressed into Tuor’s sleeve, his jaw tight enough to ache.
His thoughts spiraled in all directions danger, exposure, suspicion, and, beneath it all, a flicker of something he didn’t want to name.
“ Again..How did you know?” Harry repeated, softer this time, more dangerous for its low, simmering edge.
Tuor opened his mouth, but before a word could fall, Harry’s breath shuddered out of him. His grip slackened. The fire in his eyes dulled, replaced by the weary shadow of resignation. With a frustrated sound, Harry pushed himself back and away from Tuor, raking a hand through his hair.
He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected anyone here anyone at all to know that name.
Harry could not help but sigh, shaking his head. The tension in his shoulders did not ease, but the fight bled out of him, leaving behind only that gnawing pit in his stomach.
“I didn’t expect anyone would know about my real name,” He muttered under his breath, voice laced with bitterness, “much less the damned title.”
It confirmed one of his greatest fears that they knew..
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The Valar knew.
They had always known. And if that was true, then everything he had done here every bond, every secret was under the watchful eyes of powers he could neither fight nor escape.
The realization was a cold weight settling into his chest, heavier than any battle wound. For so long, he had suspected those strange, fleeting moments when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, when his skin crawled with the certainty that unseen eyes lingered on him.
He would turn, sharply, but there had never been anyone there. Just shadows, just empty air, just silence that stretched too long.
But he hadn’t been imagining it. They had been watching.
Harry exhaled sharply, the sound closer to a scoff than anything else.
If they had known about his existence all this time, then why? Why the delay? Why the endless silence? Why wait until now to send one of their chosen, one of Ulmo’s blessed messengers, to stand before him and call him by a name he had not worn in years?
So why the hesitation?
Harry let out another long sigh, dragging his palm over his face as though to rub the tension from his skin because at the end of the day, he still had things to do.
A purpose, however tangled. A promise to keep. And none of it involved standing here wasting breath with Tuor.
Harry lowered his hand, glaring sidelong at the man still watching him with unreadable calm. He didn’t need to see Tuor’s expression to know what was coming more questions, more recognition, more insistence as Harry’s lips tightened into a grimace.
The shadows of thought lingered with Harry long after Tuor’s words, pressing down on his chest like a weight he could not shake. He had walked away, forced distance between them, and yet the man’s piercing gaze and the undeniable truth in his words still clung to him like a brand.
Harry forced himself to breathe, to keep walking. Dwelling on it would only spiral him deeper, and he could not afford weakness now.
Not when Gondolin’s doom loomed ever closer, not when Maeglin’s fragile trust rested in his hands, not when Draco remained his only anchor in this tangle of lies and fate.
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Fingon stood before his window, his breath fogging faintly against the cold air as he gazed out at the land blanketed in white.
Snow had fallen steadily through the night, covering every surface in its quiet purity, as though Eru Himself had swept his hand over Beleriand to cleanse it of sorrow. For a moment, the sight might have comforted him, but Fingon’s chest only tightened, his sigh escaping like the soft crack of something breaking.
He truly hadn’t expected it.
The knowledge still felt raw, almost unreal, as though it were some illusion conjured by grief or longing but it was no fantasy. It was truth undeniable and sharp, cutting him open with both joy and pain.
Another nephew.
He had another nephew and not just any child, but one born of Irissë.
At first, Fingon had dismissed the faint tug in his fea as a dream born of weariness. But curiosity and perhaps some desperate hope he hadn’t even recognized drove him to dig deeper, to trace the lines of kinship etched into the very fibers of his soul. And what he found had shaken him to his core.
The bond was there, faint and fragile, nearly invisible, as though life itself had tried to conceal it from all eyes. Thin as a spider’s thread, but real. Real enough that Fingon had wept, joy burning hot in his throat, chased swiftly by the anguish of not knowing, of not realizing something so sacred until now.
He pressed a hand to the glass, his palm cold against the frost as memory pulled him back.
It had been months ago, when he had ridden to the Gap to visit his cousin. He remembered the warmth with which Kano had greeted him, though there was always that undercurrent of hostility beneath the welcome. Not toward Fingon, never truly toward him but toward his people, toward the shadows that lingered between their houses.
Fingon had sighed then, as he sighed now. For the wounds between their kin had never healed. Not after the exile, not after the bitter banishment from Tirion.
His atar and his uncle… their bond had been good once, strong and unbreakable despite what whispers the people of Tirion liked to spread. For Fingolfin knew his brother as few others did.
He knew that beneath the fire and the brilliance, beneath the sharp edges and harsher words, Fëanáro had been a man capable of warmth, of laughter, of gentleness with those he loved.
Nonchalant at times, even, though quick to flame into fury when roused. Explosive, like fire itself fierce when angered, unyielding when cornered, and moody as the forge flames that had shaped him.
And yet Fingon could not blame his uncle. Not for his outburst that day, not for the raw wound it had left festering through the years. For his father, too, had believed the punishment unjust, had spoken against it in the chamber of the Valar but the Valar had not listened.
They had never listened snd so his uncle had been cast out, banished from the city of his birth, from the family that loved him still.
It had been cruel, unbearably cruel, to cast him aside for something so petty.
Cruel.
That was the only word that had fit in Fingon’s mind when he thought back to that judgment. Cruel and blind.
And perhaps it was blasphemy, perhaps it was unbecoming of him Finwë’s grandson, Fingolfin’s son, the prince who bore the weight of expectation and the eyes of his people but Fingon no longer cared for the pretenses of holiness.
He had seen too much, lived through too much, to veil his heart in silence.
They never listened.
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They never always did.
Fingon’s jaw clenched as his breath clouded against the frosted glass of his window.
What good had come from Eru placing their people under the “care” of the Valar, when all the Valar had brought to the Children of Ilúvatar was division, sorrow, and chains disguised as gifts? Was this the guardianship of gods? Was this the guidance of higher powers? He could not reconcile the pain carved into their history with the hands that claimed to protect them.
He knew what was expected of him. He had been told from his earliest years: he was to be understanding, patient, forgiving. A bridge where there was strife. A balm where there was wound. A voice of reason among fire. That was what he was supposed to be.
But standing here now, with the weight of truth pressing down on his fea, Fingon could no longer force himself into that mold. He could not..he would not pretend that all was well, nor that their plight was a tragedy sprung only from Morgoth’s poison.
No.
The Valar had sown the seeds long before Morgoth scattered them. They had not meant to, perhaps they had not seen it, in their blindness and in their pride but it was they who had fostered the divisions that festered among the Elves.
It had been they who first drew the lines.
The division of Noldor, Vanyar, and Falmari.
On the surface, it was harmless enough, practical even; kinship grouped by nature, by heritage, by preference of light or sea or craft yet in that sorting lay the first fracture.
A separation that need not have been, but once drawn could never be erased. It should have been a united front, one people bound by their shared creation. Instead, it had become a subtle competition, each kindred measuring itself against the other.
The Valar did not see it. Or perhaps they refused to.
Favoritism bloomed unchecked. Arrogance festered in the blind corners of ignorance. Discord took root, watered not only by Morgoth’s whispers, but by the actions and inactions of those who claimed to be guardians of Arda.
Fingon exhaled a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping from the snow-clad land beyond to the faint reflection cast back upon the glass. His own face stared at him, shadowed by doubt, hard with thought. Black hair framed his features, each side intricately braided with threads of gold that caught faint sparks of the winter light.
He wore the formal robes of his house—deep blue layered with the white of his torso-piece and boots, his hands sheathed in the crisp whiteness of gloves. Regal, as was expected of him. A prince of the Noldor.
And what had the Noldor become?
Prideful. So prideful. But pride was their shield, not their nature. It was born of fear, of pain.
They had not wanted to appear vulnerable, not before the other kindreds, and certainly not before the Valar who had done nothing when their kin bled and fled in terror. Pride was the mask they wore so they would never again bow their heads to those who had abandoned them.
The Vanyar… Fingon’s lips thinned.
The Vanyar had become something else entirely. Arrogant, yes, but with the arrogance of ignorance. They knew nothing of the world beyond their gilded sanctuaries, and they did not care to know. Why should they? They were the beloved, the chosen, the favorites.
The Valar adored them, raised them highest, wreathed them in blessings and light. They built temples in their honor, sang hymns until their throats grew raw, and followed every word as though it were law written into the marrow of Arda and the Valar let them. Encouraged them.
But what was the cost?
Fingon could see it clearly the disdain in the eyes of other Elves, the bitterness simmering beneath the surface.
To the Noldor and the Falmari, the Vanyar were little more than spoiled children, favored beyond reason, coddled until they became blind to hardship and deaf to grief. How could they understand suffering when they had never known it? How could they comprehend sacrifice when everything had always been given?
It was no wonder resentment festered. It was no wonder the other kindreds looked upon the Vanyar with something dangerously close to hatred.
They were the most blessed, yes but that blessing had become a curse to all else.
And yet, what stung more deeply than anything else was not simply the silent divisions that lay beneath the surface, but how they were allowed to fester unchecked, unspoken, as though no one dared to acknowledge the truth.
Fingon could see it, had seen it far too often, especially when the Vanyar traveled beyond their own cities into Tirion.
It was then that the mask of unity slipped most noticeably. The Vanyar, knowingly or unknowingly, carried themselves with a sense of sanctity that weighed upon others like a burden. They made their harmless remarks, jests meant to sound light but sharp as knives to those on the receiving end.
Their questions posed with such feigned innocence carried the sting of superiority, and the resentment that followed grew like an unchecked fire. To the Noldor, who already felt the burn of being deemed lesser than their golden-haired kin, such moments were salt poured into an already festering wound.
In Tirion, the whispers sharpened into voices, and the simmering disdain became impossible to ignore. It was there that hatred rose to its peak, erupting into subtle cruelties and mocking tones, sharpened further after his Haru Finwë took Haruni Indis to wife.
The second marriage was a fracture that split the people as much as it did the House of Finwë, and Fingon had witnessed firsthand the venom it birthed.
He remembered, even now, the sneers that followed his cousins those who carried the unmistakable mark of their mother’s blood, Arafinwë’s children with their golden hair that shone too brightly of Vanyar lineage.
No matter their kindness, no matter their worth, they were branded as “other,” treated with disdain for a heritage they had not chosen. The scorn clung to them in the streets, in the halls, in every passing look. Fingon had watched the way people turned their heads, lips curling as though in contempt, their words poisoned with quiet jabs that pretended at civility but carried malice all the same.
And though his own family was spared the brunt of such vitriol by the inheritance of black hair Noldorin hair, unmistakable and dark they were not free of its weight. The whispers still followed, the accusations and bitterness still clung.
To be kin of Indis, “the mistress,” was enough to mark them, if not outright condemn them. Fingon bore it in silence, but the shadow of it lingered always in the air around him, a reminder that no lineage, no family, no loyalty was truly safe from the cruelty born of division.
It made him sigh, a heaviness pressing against his chest as he leaned into his own thoughts. He had wanted so dearly to believe otherwise. For so long he had trusted in the tales told to him, repeated like lullabies by the palace maids who served close to his Haru.
They would speak of the people’s joy, of their support when Finwë chose to take another wife after Miriel’s passing. They told Fingon that the city had embraced Indis, that his Haru’s happiness was reflected in the hearts of the Noldor. Fingon, young and hopeful then, had wanted to believe it. He had believed it.
But the illusion had shattered. For he had seen it for himself, with his own eyes those cold, disdainful stares that followed Haruni Indis as she walked the halls. Eyes that seemed to pierce her through, cold and sharp as ice.
They were not the eyes of reverence, nor even of neutral regard, but of contempt. Fingon remembered the way they lingered upon her, filled with unspoken judgment, even as their mouths would later utter praise when speaking to Finwë himself.
He had seen it, and once seen, it could not be unseen.
It haunted him, that duplicity. At first, Fingon had thought himself mistaken. Perhaps he had imagined it, he told himself. Perhaps the weariness of his mind had twisted his perception, conjuring shadows where there were none. For how could it be otherwise? How could the people who revered Finwë, who loved their king so deeply, turn such coldness upon the one he chose to share his life with?
It had seemed impossible. Unthinkable. A cruel fancy born only of doubt. And yet, when at last he found the courage to bring his fears to his Atar, he was met not with comfort, but with truth that fell upon him like ice water poured over a flame.
The truth had stung, more than he could bear at the time. His Atar had not softened it with kind words, nor cloaked it in falsehoods to shield him. No, he had spoken plainly, and with that plainness came the realization Fingon had resisted for so long: the Noldor had never wanted his Haru to marry again.
What Fingon had mistaken for unity had only ever been brittle tolerance, and beneath it lay the conviction that Finwë’s second marriage was not a joy to be celebrated, but a wound that would never heal.
To the people, it was betrayal..cheating on the memory of the first wife who had passed too soon. They whispered that Miriel had never given her blessing when she laid down her life, and that without such consent, any second union was a violation of sacred order.
What should have been a renewal of life for their king was twisted in their eyes into an act of selfishness, even cruelty. And when it became known that Haru had married Indis, a Vanyar, a friend of Miriel herself, the rumors blackened further.
Whispers spread through Tirion that there had been something unseemly before Miriel’s passing, that an affair had lurked in shadows long before grief had settled in. The people clung to it, repeated it, sharpened it until it was a blade aimed squarely at Indis and all her kin.
The disdain grew so fierce that it broke beyond murmurs and sharpened looks. It spilled into the streets, into gatherings, into protests. Fingon remembered the stories how his Haru had nearly been overthrown by the will of his own people, how the cries of outrage had shaken the very foundations of Tirion.
It had come to that an act that should have bound his family closer together nearly tore the crown from Finwë’s head.
And only one thing had stayed their hand: his Uncle Naro. Maedhros’s father, the eldest son of Miriel, had spoken then, his voice steady and commanding where others faltered. He had stood before them all, demanding their restraint, urging them to give their reluctant blessing.
Without his word, without the weight of his authority, perhaps the City would have fallen into fracture and ruin then and there. But even with his Uncle Naro’s intervention, the trust between Finwë and his people was damaged beyond repair.
They still loved their king, yes, but no longer with the same wholeness of devotion. Doubt had wormed its way in, and it would not be undone.
For the people adored Miriel still. They had adored her even before their flight to Valinor, before grief had swallowed her. She had been their jewel, their song, their quiet strength.
Fingon had grown up hearing the praises sung of her kindness, how she had sacrificed so much for her people, even in their darkest hour. He had been told how she returned to save children nearly left behind in their desperate fleeing, how she placed herself in danger for the sake of others without hesitation.
To lose her had been a blow so sharp that many of the Noldor had never recovered, and when word of her death spread, despair had followed like a stormcloud.
So when his Haru wed another, it was not simply another queen that stood in Miriel’s place it was an usurper, a shadow seeking to eclipse the brilliance of one they had cherished.
Indis was branded a mistress, and the title clung to her like a curse. No matter what she did, no matter how she sought to prove her worth through action, she was measured against a memory she could never surpass. And every effort she made to serve the Noldor faithfully was undone by the cruel murmur of voices repeating the same judgment: she did not belong.
It was not only the Noldor who voiced their disappointment. The Falmari, too, had spoken in quiet, disapproving tones, their words carrying weight though they rarely raised them to anger. Fingon remembered how sharply it struck him, for the Falmari were not known for their bitterness.
Among the kindreds, they were often overlooked, overshadowed by the splendor of the Vanyar and the pride of the Noldor, yet they had always been steady gentle, forgiving, and more accepting than any other.
If one were to ask which people embodied peace, most would point to the Vanyar, cloaked in sanctity, but Fingon knew better. He had seen it. He had felt it. It was the Falmari, the people of the sea, who truly embodied understanding.
And for them to be disappointed it had carried a weight no one could ignore. The sting of their disapproval reached farther than any sneer of the Noldor or jab of the Vanyar, for it was not born of arrogance or rivalry but of sorrow.
To see the most forgiving kin turn away in dismay was an indictment that even Fingon could not deny. And beyond them, there were still other kindreds, smaller still, scattered in villages, who had no voice in great councils yet whose silence was no less telling.
They were rarely remembered by the larger kindreds, rarely included, but even they whispered, even they carried the same shadow of doubt.
The weight of it all pressed against Fingon’s chest until he could only sigh once more, his breath misting faintly in the cool air of the chamber.
He pushed himself away from the window, his boots making soft thuds against the polished floor as he crossed toward his desk.
The sunlight, now stronger as the day passed, streamed through the high-arched windows and illuminated the room in a wash of pale gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, catching the light like tiny sparks, and there, lying scattered across the carved oak surface of his desk, were the letters.
They were not orderly, not stacked in neat piles as befitted the correspondence of a prince, but strewn haphazardly, evidence of how often Fingon had returned to them. And yet, despite their disarray, there was one mark of consistency each was tied with a slender green ribbon. At the sight of them, Fingon’s lips curved faintly, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He had shared the contents already at least the most vital truths with the rest of their cousins, though only with his Atar’s leave. It had not been an easy choice. Yet in the end, it was deemed necessary.
For though hope seemed faint, there remained always the chance that their paths might one day cross, and foreknowledge could mean the difference between reunion and loss.
The letters spoke plainly enough of Gondolin, the so-called hidden city. A marvel, a sanctuary—or so its people boasted but for all its vaunted beauty and secrecy, it was, in truth, a gilded cage. The writer made no attempt to soften the truth: once within Gondolin’s walls, there was no leaving.
Turgon had decreed it so.
Fingon had not believed it at first. He could not. The thought was absurd, abhorrent. Turgon, his own brother, who had railed louder than any against the Kinslayings, who had thundered in scorn at those who took the lives of their own kin...
How could he then enforce a law that carried with it the same cruel weight? For what else was such a law but the promise of kinslaying? To forbid freedom, to condemn to death those who merely sought the open air beyond stone walls…
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It was a perversion of all Turgon once claimed to stand for.
The irony struck Fingon with a bitterness that tasted of ash.
The brother who had positioned himself as the loudest voice of opposition to bloodshed had, in time, become the very reflection of what he once condemned and with every letter received, every new piece of truth revealed, that irony only sharpened.
He had watched his faith in Turgon wither, letter by letter, until disappointment settled heavily in his heart but it was not only his own heart that bore the wound. When the news was carried to his Atar, when Fingolfin read with his own eyes the proof of his son’s cruelty, he had broken down in a way Fingon had never before seen.
The High King, his father, a pillar of unyielding strength through war, exile, and betrayal, had slumped into his chair, the letters falling from his trembling hands. Fingon had stood at his side, helpless, his own fëa aching as he witnessed tears of grief spill down the face of the one who had always seemed unshakable.
Disappointment, grief, and betrayal those were the companions Fingolfin bore when he learned of Turgon’s deeds. Turgon’s sudden disappearance with his only child and with Irissë but not only that he had taken with him a fourth of their people and half the stores of food.
Their absence had driven the remainder to the edge of starvation, and ruin might have come if not for the swift intervention of Nelyo and his brothers, who provided aid before the stores were wholly exhausted.
And still, despite such reckless abandonment, Fingolfin had not shed a tear. He had shown his disappointment in silence, his judgment in cold finality. It had been enough, in those days, to strip Turgon of his name and place.
The people had clamored for it, and Fingolfin had granted their demand his second son was no longer heir, no longer recognized as his child. A king could not show weakness then, not when betrayal of such magnitude threatened to tear apart what fragile unity remained.
But now..now, with the truth of Gondolin’s laws laid bare in green-ribboned letters the High King could not contain the pain. The weight of Turgon’s betrayal broke him and learned actions, where silence had once sufficed. And Fingon could do nothing but stand beside him, bearing witness to the grief of a father disowning his son not only in duty but in spirit.
At first, Fingon had resisted. Deep in his heart, he could not accept it. He could understand..aye, he could understand why Turgon would be stripped of the title of heir.
That much was within reason, perhaps even necessary.
What his brother had done abandoning their people, stealing away lives and sustenance, and cloaking himself in secrecy was an act that any court of Valinor would have deemed unforgivable.
Banishment, imprisonment, perhaps even exile would have been the expected consequence but disownment as a son? To cut the ties of blood itself? That had struck Fingon as something altogether different, something that pierced deeper than law or duty.
So he had resisted.
He remembered those first arguments vividly, the long evenings in the council chamber when the candles guttered low and the silence stretched heavy between them. Fingon had tried to reason with his father, speaking not only as a prince but as a son and as a brother.
Again and again, he had sought to console him, to ease the bitterness he saw etched into his father’s face.
' Perhaps it is only grief speaking,' Fingon had thought.
'Perhaps, in time, he will relent.'
But Fingolfin had been immovable.
Each attempt Fingon made was met with avoidance. Each gentle question turned aside, each plea answered only with silence or the swift change of subject.
Fingon tried again the next day, and the next, and the next his persistence born not of disobedience, but of desperation. He could not bear the thought of his father severing ties with Turgon so utterly. It was too final, too cruel, too unlike the father he knew att last, in one of those attempts, Fingon had dared to speak the words he thought might soften him.
“Atar, you may regret this in the future. You may look back and find sorrow in what you have done.”
He had spoken them with trembling hands and a voice tight with the weight of his own fear but instead of yielding, his father had snapped.
“Findekáno,” Fingolfin had said, and there was both fire and sorrow in his voice.
.
.
“I thought you knew me best, as my eldest son and my eldest child. I believed you would understand my actions. But it seems that my judgment was wrong.”
.
.
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Fingon had never before in his life felt the sting of his father’s disappointment not in truth, not directed so squarely at him. The rebuke left him frozen, the chamber echoing with the silence that followed. And when at last Fingolfin turned away, Fingon was left standing alone, stunned and hollow.
From that day forth, everything changed. Fingon could feel it, the subtle but undeniable strain that had begun to weave itself into their bond.
His father no longer met his eyes as readily as before, no longer lingered in his presence and Fingon, aching with guilt and wounded pride, tried to mend what had been broken.
He sought him out again and again, seeking the chance to apologize, to bridge the gulf between them but when he finally found the words, his father only stopped him with a raised hand.
“Tell me, Findekáno,” Fingolfin asked, his voice heavy with a weary sadness.
“ Are you apologizing because you know you are wrong, or are you apologizing because it is the right thing to do?”
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended over Fingon’s heart and from that moment, nothing was the same.
For soon after, Fingolfin was gone. He departed for Himlad under the guise of diplomacy, to treat with their cousins and strengthen alliances. Yet Fingon knew the truth in his heart, his Atar was avoiding him and the knowledge left him more wounded than any sharp word ever could.
Fingon had tried to swallow the ache in his chest before, it was easier to pretend that it did not exist that the strange hollow within him was nothing but passing mood, a fleeting ache that would fade once he busied himself with duties and courtesies.
He told himself that it was nothing but exhaustion, or perhaps his pride still smarting from how he had parted from his father with words spoken too sharply. That was all, surely. He was not a needy child; he had never been.
But the ache remained.
Each day it grew heavier, pressing upon him in the silent hours when no one was near. The halls that had once felt vast and alive now seemed like empty caverns where voices echoed but never lingered. Fingon tried to hold himself tall, to embody the poise expected of a prince and heir, but the loneliness gnawed at him until he could scarcely ignore it.
He would remind himself that he was Nolofinwë’s son, that he ought to stand steadfast as his father’s support now more than ever. But even in repeating that truth, he could not silence the bitter truth of his heart that...he felt utterly alone.
He told himself again and again that it was only because he and his father had parted poorly. Perhaps that was all it was. Their bond had been strong once, and now it ached where words had cut too deep. Perhaps this strange pain was nothing but longing for reconciliation.
Yes. That must be it.
But when Nelyo arrived, the illusion crumbled.
It happened swiftly, without warning. One moment he greeted his cousin with practiced composure, the next moment something inside him broke like a fragile dam struck by storm.
Fingon’s throat closed, his eyes burned, and before he knew it he was weeping openly, helplessly against Nelyo’s shoulder. The tears came hard, tearing at him from within as though every grief he had buried clawed its way back to the surface all at once.
He wept, and could not even say why.
Why now, of all times? He was the eldest child. He was meant to be steady, unyielding. He was the example for his siblings. The heir of Nolofinwë, the one who should not falter.
He had not cried when he and his kin were left behind, nor when his youngest brother’s life was lost to cruel fate.
He had not cried when Turgon and Irissë departed, leaving him behind to hold together what remained.
He had not cried when his father leaned upon him with all the weight of expectation and trust.
He had not wept..until now.
And yet in Nelyo’s arms, all of those unspoken sorrows unraveled, spilling free in the dark of the night until his whole body shook with them. It was as if every moment of restraint, every swallowed sob, every forced smile and clenched fist, finally gave way.
Fingon wept until his eyes ached, until morning light crept pale through the windows, and still his cousin said nothing but held him.
Nelyo, with the same patience he had shown in Fingon’s earliest days, simply let him grieve. He did not chide him nor question him, but instead stroked his hair as though when he was still an elfling, listening in quiet understanding while Fingon’s anguish poured forth.
And when the storm at last waned, Fingon sat back, his face heated and his eyes sore, mortified by what he had allowed himself to do. He blushed fiercely, fumbling for dignity, only for Nelyo to meet his gaze with a smile—soft, unshaken, as though what had passed was no burden at all.
“Finno,” Nelyo said gently, his voice carrying both warmth and gravity.
“I do not know what lies between you and Uncle… but do not let it grow into something you cannot mend. Do not let it fester and destroy what bond you share, as it did with us and our own father. Do you understand?”
Fingon could only stare, caught off-guard by the words and the weight they carried. It was no light thing for Nelyo to speak of Uncle Naro, for the wound there was still raw and deep. That he dared even to mention it meant he spoke from his truest heart, no matter how it pained him.
Before Fingon could find any words to answer, Nelyo bent forward and pressed a soft kiss upon his temple a gesture so familiar it brought back memories of childhood, of comfort in simpler times. Then he withdrew, rising to leave, his hand lingering only briefly upon Fingon’s shoulder before he slipped away.
Fingon remained, stunned and silent, left with his cousin’s words echoing in his thoughts, sharp and heavy as a blade.
He knew..he knew that it had cost Nelyo dearly to even utter to uncle’s name and yet he had done so for him.
Fingon sighed softly, forcing his eyes shut as if to will away the lingering images that rose unbidden his weeping in Nelyo’s arms, the gentle kiss upon his brow, the earnest warning left behind like an unhealed wound.
It was years past, and still, the memory returned when he least expected it, carrying both comfort and ache. With a quiet shake of his head, he pressed the memory back into its corner, for he could not afford to drown in it now.
His hand drifted down to the folded parchment upon his desk, freshly arrived not long ago. It was sealed with a mark unfamiliar to most of his household but not to him. He traced the edges of the seal with hesitant fingers, his breath catching ever so slightly.
For all that he longed to know its contents, his hand trembled against the wax as though the words within might leap out to wound him.
Letters brought tidings, and tidings in these days were seldom kind. He knew too well how ink upon parchment could be more dreadful than any sword’s edge.
For a long moment, Fingon merely held it, his thumb brushing over the fold. A part of him wished to cast it aside, unopened, to spare himself the dread. But another part a deeper part could not. He was grateful, after all, for the chance that had first led him to stumble upon the falcon that bore these letters.
Grateful, for had he not, he might have gone his life in ignorance of a truth that now both warmed and tormented him.
A nephew.
A child he had never known existed, hidden away in shadows until fate’s strange hand revealed him.
Through the falcon’s journeys and the steady exchange of letters, Fingon had been granted a window into that hidden life. The mysterious sender, ever cautious, wrote sparingly of themselves but more freely of the boy—Lómion Maeglin, they called him.
Son of twilight and sharp-eyed. Fingon turned the name over in his mind each time he read it, savoring it as if speaking it silently might bring the child nearer. From what little had been shared, he pictured a shy elfling with dark, perceptive eyes, reserved in manner yet watchful in ways that marked him as both thoughtful and wary.
He must be a wonderful child—Fingon could not help but imagine so, even if imagination was all he had.
A soft, wistful smile tugged at his lips before fading, overtaken by the bitterness that lingered ever near. For alongside this newfound bond, another truth coiled within him, sour and painful. The letters spoke of Lómion’s mother, and there his heart twisted. Irissë. His brave, radiant sister, gone.
He clenched his jaw. Even now, grief surged hot at the thought of her, grief sharpened by anger. How could she have met such an end? How could Turgon have borne it so? And why didn't Turgon inforn them?
More and more, as time passed and the silence stretched, Fingon found the bitterness settling into conviction.
He remembered the heated quarrels, the cold distance that had grown between them, and at last the final breaking. And each time he weighed it, he found himself returning to one dreadful thought perhaps his father had been right. Perhaps Nolofinwë’s judgment had not been too harsh after all.
It horrified him to think it.
.
.
And yet…
The more he brooded upon Turgon’s choices how he had handled Irissë’s fate, how he had turned away the more convinced he became.
He stared down at the unopened letter, his hand still trembling faintly, and he could not silence the thought that whispered in the back of his mind that his father’s hand in disowning Turgon had been just.
The realization made his stomach clench with dread, as though he had uttered a curse against his own kin.
Fingon drew a sharp breath, horrified at his own thoughts.
________
Fingon sat heavily upon his chair, the weight of dread pressing down on his shoulders as though unseen hands sought to crush him where he sat. His fingers trembled as they worked at the green ribbon seal, loosening it with care that belied the storm inside him.
Each breath he took was shallow, caught between anticipation and fear. He unfolded the parchment slowly, smoothing it flat against the desk with a hand that quivered despite his effort to hold steady.
His eyes traced the opening lines, and before he realized it, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The greeting was bright, cheerful, and so very alive that it struck at something tender within him.
He did not even notice at first that he was smiling..how long had it been since he last smiled at words upon a page?
Good day, Your Highness!
He read on, drinking in the descriptions as though they were sunlight in a darkened room. Lomion, reading in the library.
Lomion, shy yet secretly enamored with adventure tales, trying to deny it with stubborn pride. Lomion, caught out in his own lies, flustered and adorable, his guardian amused and fond, even the Ferret seeming to join in the gentle conspiracy.
For a fleeting moment, Fingon allowed himself to imagine it. A dark-haired child hunched over a heavy tome, eyes bright with secret wonder, cheeks flushing when teased. The image warmed his heart, easing the ache that so often lay heavy within it.
' A nephew… my nephew, ' He thought with a rush of tenderness.
'If only I could see him with my own eyes…'
But then the tone of the letter shifted. His smile faltered, then vanished entirely as he read the next lines. Words grew weighty, ominous. The scribe’s hand seemed to hesitate upon the page, as if even writing such things was dangerous.
…I fear that I may have to overstep… what I have discovered you may not believe… but I swear to the Valar that what I write is true.
Fingon’s heart stilled, a coldness creeping into his veins. His eyes raced onward, desperate and fearful, until they stumbled upon the words that shattered the air from his lungs.
…apparently Prince Turgon had raised his hands against Lomi—
The sentence broke, unfinished, but it was enough.
The parchment crumpled violently in his grip as his entire body tensed. Fingon’s breath hitched sharply, then came in short, shallow gasps as he stared down at the creased paper. His hand clenched tighter, so tight that the edges dug into his skin, his nails biting into the soft flesh of his palm until he felt the sting.
.
.
“No…”
.
.
He whispered to himself, voice breaking. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.
' Calm down, Finno. Calm down.'
He forced himself into slow, deliberate breaths, though each one scraped against the jagged edges of panic inside him. The sound of the letter crunching in his grip filled the silence, each creak of paper a reminder of the words he had just read.
' You misread it,' He told himself desperately.
' You must have misread it. Turko… he wouldn’t…'
But doubt clawed at him. His mind rebelled against his own plea, images flashing unbidden. Turgon, stern and cold, his hand striking down not an enemy, not a rival—but a child. His sister’s child.
“Irrissë’s son…” Fingon choked, his voice thick with horror. His chest heaved.
The mantra repeated over and over, like a lifeline he could barely cling to.
' He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Especially not Lómion. Not his own nephew. Not Irissë’s child.'
And yet, the dread remained. His hand shook so violently the parchment nearly slipped from his grasp as he forced his eyes open and looked again at the words, pale as death. There was no mistaking them. The truth pressed down like a stone upon his heart, suffocating him.
If this letter was true..if Turgon truly had done this then…
Brother or not, king or not, family or not… Fingon’s jaw clenched, and a fire sparked in his chest. His hand curled into a fist, crushing the letter fully as he rose from his chair, trembling with restrained fury.
' He will learn,' Fingon thought, dark and resolute.
.
.
.
' He will learn why I am called the Valiant son of Nolofinwë. He will learn what it means to harm what is mine to protect.'
.
.
.
Somewhere high within the hidden halls of Gondolin, in the midst of a council meeting, Turgon faltered mid-sentence.
His lips parted, words forgotten, as an inexplicable chill seized him. A shiver ran down his spine, and for an instant, a dreadful sense of doom coiled in his gut before vanishing just as quickly as it had come.
Turgon blinked, unsettled.
' What was that…? '
He wondered, brows knitting as he glanced around the chamber. But the others were watching him expectantly, awaiting his words, and he forced himself to shake it off, returning to his speech as though nothing had happened.
______
Harry could not help but sigh in relief, slamming the wooden door shut behind him and immediately drawing the bolt. His hands were quick, almost frantic, as he moved across the room, shutting the windows one by one.
He didn’t stop until the last curtain was drawn tight, cutting away the faint glow of Gondolin’s lamps outside. Only then did he allow his body to slump into the nearest sofa, his limbs going limp as if every ounce of energy had drained out of him the moment the last latch clicked into place.
His chest rose and fell heavily, his breath loud in the sudden quiet. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes before letting his head fall back against the armrest. The silence didn’t last long.
A small weight shifted on his shoulder, then scurried down to the cushions beside him. Draco stretched his tiny ferret body with deliberate grace before fixing Harry with the sharp, judgmental stare only he could muster.
“Pottah,”
Draco drawled with the same haughty tone Harry had come to know and loathe since school.
“ Never have I ever seen you so exhausted just from being stalked by your knight in shining armor.”
The snicker that followed was like nails down Harry’s spine. His jaw clenched as he turned his head slowly, glaring daggers at the pale ferret who now looked far too smug for his own good.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
The words hissed out through gritted teeth, but Draco only laughed louder, curling on the sofa with his tail flicking lazily as though he had won some unspoken contest.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between throttling the ferret or throwing him out the nearest window. Deciding his energy was too far spent for either option, he simply pushed himself upright and started for the stairs.
The sound of Draco’s snickering followed him all the way to the upper floor, needling at his patience until he shut his bedroom door firmly behind him.
The room greeted him with soft light spilling through the window. Golden warmth touched upon the furniture, chasing away the shadows and revealing the neatness he had tried to maintain. With a long sigh, Harry shrugged off his cloak and hung it upon the rack.
His shoulders ached, his legs throbbed, and even the simple act of moving felt like a chore after the relentless effort of avoiding Tuor these past days.
Oddly enough, fatigue had become his constant companion of late. His body craved sleep at every turn, his eyes growing heavy at the slightest pause.
Muttering under his breath, he massaged the stiffness in his shoulders before collapsing onto the bed with little ceremony.
He didn’t even bother tugging off his boots. The soft mattress seemed to swallow him whole, coaxing a low moan of relief from his lips.
He turned his head lazily to the side, eyes catching on the curtains drawn across the window. Forest green..the very shade Draco had insisted on when Harry had protested he didn’t care. He almost smiled at the memory before another yawn overtook him. His gaze lingered on the fabric as the gentle breeze slipped through the cracks, rustling it faintly.
Birds sang somewhere outside, their chorus weaving a lullaby that soothed his tired mind. His lids grew heavy, his breaths slowed, and within moments Harry drifted into slumber.
.
.
But instead of the sweet dreams he longed for, Harry awoke or perhaps arrived in a place that stole the very breath from his lungs.
He stood upon smooth white marble, polished to an unnatural sheen, stretching endlessly in all directions. Before him loomed a massive throne unlike any he had seen before, cold and oppressive in its grandeur.
Arrayed behind it were twelve colossal seats, each towering like the height of a three-story building, forming a semicircle that seemed to gaze down upon him.
Their sheer scale dwarfed him, making him feel impossibly small in the vast, echoing chamber.
Harry spun, looking for escape, for familiar walls or even the hint of a door, but all he saw was endless marble and towering white pillars that faded into a ceiling he could not see. The silence pressed against his ears, heavy and suffocating. Then—
.
.
.
“Hadrian Potter.”
.
.
The name rang out, cold and absolute. Harry froze, his heart slamming into his ribs.
That was not Estelion. That voice did not belong to the identity he had crafted for himself. It was his real name, his true name, spoken with a weight that seemed to ripple through the air. Slowly, Harry turned.
A figure stood behind him.
It was taller than him by at least a head, cloaked entirely in void-black robes that pooled at its feet like spilled ink. The hood was drawn low, concealing the face in utter darkness.
Yet Harry’s eyes were drawn not to the hidden visage but to the weapon held in one gloved hand is a scythe, long and cruel, its blade gleaming with an otherworldly sheen that made his breath falter.
Recognition surged through him, chilling his veins.
His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as words failed him. Shock rooted him in place, his heart thundering as the figure began to move. Each step was deliberate, measured, the sound echoing hollowly through the chamber.
Though the hood concealed any expression, Harry felt the amusement radiating from the being, as though his fumbling silence was a private jest.
The air grew colder, heavy, thick with a presence that pressed down upon his chest. Then, the voice came again—emotionless, echoing, yet carrying a strange familiarity that made the hairs on Harry’s neck stand on end.
.
.
.
.
.
“Hello, Little Master.”
.
.
.
.
.
" Death..."