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Chapter Text

In the quiet hours before dawn, when the stars still clung to the sky and the winds whispered secrets through the boughs of the trees, Finwë stood alone in the chamber that had once been shared by his beloved first wife, Míriel.

The room was carved of pale stone, veined with silver, its tall windows open to the sighing night air, and the soft breath of Laurelin’s first distant golden stirrings had not yet reached its walls. It was a sacred space, unchanged through the centuries, preserved as though her presence might return if everything remained just so.

The walls, though cold and still now, bore the ghost of memories etched too deep to fade. Here, she had sung while brushing her long silver hair, humming lullabies from Cuiviénen. Here, her laughter had once bounced like light across still water, a music that had danced in time with his heartbeat. Finwë could still hear it in the silence if he dared to listen too closely.

The woven tapestries she had once favored still hung, faded but unmarred, threads of twilight-blue and starlight-white tracing the tales she had loved—Telperion in full bloom, stars falling like petals, and the first light over Cuiviénen’s waters. Her loom sat untouched in the corner, covered by a sheet of silk that bore the gentle dust of ages.

He stood at the heart of this quiet mausoleum of memory, one hand resting upon the back of the carved wooden chair she had favored, the other hanging limp at his side. His form, once proud and kingly, seemed bowed under the weight of a grief that time had dulled but never erased.

The only light in the room came from a single candle resting on the low table near the bed. Its flame wavered in the breeze, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the walls like echoes of lives long past.

Upon that table lay a small box—crafted of white oak and inlaid with swirls of silver and gold. The edges were chased in delicate leafwork, reminiscent of the forests east of Cuiviénen, where they had walked together in the days before the call of the Valar had drawn them west. The top of the box was etched with a pattern that few in Valinor would recognize: stars falling into water, a motif once whispered from Elwë’s people and beloved by those born under the darkling sky before the Two Trees.

The box was Míriel’s.

A sacred thing. A hidden thing.

A reliquary for sorrow.

Finwë sat slowly on the bench before the table, his knees stiff, his hands trembling slightly with an ache deeper than age. He traced the design with a fingertip, the memory of her touch fluttering just beneath the surface of his skin. He had not opened this box in centuries. Not since...

Not since they had left the wide, starlit plains of Middle-earth, leaving behind the soil that cradled both memory and mourning.

He lifted the lid.

Inside, wrapped in a cloth as white as the snows of Taniquetil, lay fragments of memory. A tiny pair of soft-stitched shoes, never worn. A strip of fine linen, embroidered with a name in Tengwar script, the thread a shade of silver so pale it caught the candlelight like frost. A lock of downy hair, the color of early dusk.

And beneath it all, a letter. Unfinished. Penned in her hand.

He unfolded it slowly, breath catching as he took in the familiar slant of her writing. It was addressed not to him, but to their child.

My dearest Ardamírë,
If ever you should open your eyes in this world, know that you were longed for more than the stars longed for the sun. Know that your father and I…

The ink bled into the paper, smudged with tears that had dried into history. The letter had never been finished. She had grown too weary. The fire that had once burned so brightly within her had dimmed, not from lack of love—but from too much of it.

Finwë bowed his head over the page, his shoulders shaking. For all the ages that had passed, for all the sons he had loved since—none had filled the quiet, aching space carved by the loss of the one who had come first. The one who had never drawn breath beneath Laurelin’s light.

Others knew of Fëanáro, proud and mighty, the first son of Valinor. They knew of the Silmarils, of glory and fire, of passion that shook the world.

But none remembered the one who came before. The one whose name had been spoken only in whispers, whose memory had been buried beneath millenias of silence.

Ardamírë.

Finwë whispered the name softly, his voice cracking like ice underfoot, breaking the stillness like a stone falling into a pond. The name of the child that had never been. The child who had been loved more deeply than anything else in Arda.

The memory of him so pure, so full of life was like a sharp thorn lodged in his heart. He could still recall his first steps, his laughter, the way he had looked at the stars with wonder in his eyes, just as he had. He could still remember the way he had called for him, his tiny voice so full of joy, before the world had come crashing down around them.

He closed his eyes, as if to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. He hadn’t cried for centuries. Not since the day Míriel had faded, her fëa slipping into the Halls of Mandos like a thread of silver dissolving into mist—leaving him broken and alone, with only the remnants of their shattered dreams.

With only Fëanáro.

Their surviving son had been a flame that burned too brightly, too fiercely, and in his brilliance, he had cast a shadow too deep for Finwë to crawl out of. For so long, Finwë had tried to love him enough to silence the echoes of grief, to drown the memory of the child that came before. But it had never been enough.

Fëanáro had filled the halls with fire, but never warmth. His voice had been strong, but never gentle. And now, in the quiet solitude of this chamber..her chamber, his chamber, the chamber that had once known the breath of a sleeping infant and the lull of a mother’s song Finwë could no longer suppress the grief that gnawed at him like a hungry wolf.

The sob that rose in his throat was raw, unfiltered, ancient. It burst from him like water breaching a dam. His shoulders trembled, and for the first time in uncounted years, the King of the Noldor wept. He wept not only for the wife he had lost, nor for the kingdom he had raised and fractured, but for the son whose existence had been denied by fate itself.

A faint, almost imperceptible sound stirred in the darkened chamber the soft flutter of wings, like the hush of feathers brushing against stone. Finwë opened his reddened eyes, startled, and turned toward the arching doorway.

There, half-shadowed in the flickering candlelight, stood a tall figure, cloaked in deep black robes that flowed like the void between stars. His eyes, solemn and endless, gazed upon Finwë not with coldness, but with sorrowful understanding. His very presence brought with it the hush of stillness, the quiet of unspoken truths long buried.

“Námo,” Finwë said hoarsely, his voice a broken thing scraped raw from the past.

“Why did you come?”

The Vala stepped forward, his footsteps silent as the grave, the folds of his cloak whispering across the floor. In his bearing, there was neither judgment nor condemnation only the presence of one who had borne witness to all the joys and sorrows of Arda.

“Why did you take him?” Finwë asked again, his voice trembling now, hollow and hurting.

“Why did you take my child?”

Námo stood still for a moment, the silence between them heavier than iron. Then, he spoke not with thunder, but with a voice as gentle as dusk’s first sigh, a voice that seemed to carry the mourning of the world.

“You know the answer, Finwë,” said Námo. But the voice was not only his. It echoed faintly, as if layered with another Manwë’s soft as wind in the trees, rippling through time.

“His time was not yet. He was a Jewel, a gift to Arda... but his path was not meant to be.”

The words fell like cold rain.

Finwë’s hand clenched around the carved box, knuckles whitening, as if he could press the pain back into his skin, bury it beneath his flesh.

His path was not meant to be.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to strike something, to cry out against the injustice that had been whispered to him like a lullaby meant to numb. But all he could do was tremble, all he could do was feel the crushing weight of time pressing down on him.

“But why the silence?” He choked, his voice cracking like brittle glass.

“Why the secrecy? Why should I carry this alone, in the dark, as though he never existed? Why should my children...my sons, my daughters be denied his memory? Why should I pretend... pretend that he never was?”

The words hung in the air, raw and trembling, until even the candle flame seemed to quiver in grief.

Námo’s gaze softened. In his silence, there was empathy the kind that only one who had watched every soul pass through the gates of the Halls could understand. He looked not like a judge now, but a mourner, standing before a father who had buried a part of himself that no power in the world could restore.

“I gave you my word, Finwë,” he said at last, his voice quieter still, tinged with the weight of countless sorrows.

“The burden you carry is not yours alone. But the world... the world was not ready for him.”

Finwë looked up, his breath shallow. Námo continued.

“The memory of Ardamírë is too pure, too bright for the darkness that was to come. You know this. Even the whisper of him would have shaken the hearts of the Eldar. The grief, the loss..it would have kindled fire in your House far earlier than it should. It would have unraveled fates, torn threads that had not yet been spun.”

Finwë was silent, staring down at the tiny relics inside the box shoes that had never touched soil, linen that had never swaddled a breath, the letter that had never reached a living ear.

“He was mine,” Finwë whispered, a tremor in his voice.

“He was ours. You say he was too bright for the world... Then why give him to us at all? Why give me a son, only to take him away? You speak of fates and threads, of balance and peace—but you forget the cost. My cost.”

“I forget nothing,” Námo said, and for a moment, his voice turned grave, echoing with the full weight of his office.

“Do not think you are alone in mourning him, Finwë. Every soul that passes through my Halls leaves an imprint. I remember your son. I remember the hope that clung to him like starlight.”

His gaze grew distant, his eyes reflecting memories Finwë could not see. “There will come a time,” He said, softer now.

“ When all that has been buried will return. When the world is healed, when the wounds have closed, and when the darkness has passed. Ardamírë will not be forgotten forever for thy he will return home.”

Finwë’s lips parted, but no words came. His tears fell freely now, sliding silently down his cheeks as he stared at the name stitched into silver thread. He reached out with trembling fingers and touched the cloth, as if to reassure himself that it was real, that he had been real.

“When?” He asked finally, the question barely more than a breath.

“When will the time be right?”

Námo gave no answer. He only looked to the fading stars outside the window, to the sky that awaited the first kiss of the Trees’ mingled light.

Then, silently, he turned and walked away his black cloak sweeping the stone like night falling across the earth. He did not look back.

Finwë remained behind, surrounded by the soft flicker of candlelight, the aching stillness of memory, and the soundless echoes of a lullaby long forgotten. He reached into the box and drew the embroidered cloth gently into his hands, cradling it against his chest.

“Ardamírë,” He whispered again, his voice breaking in two.

The name of the child that had never been.

The child who had been loved more deeply than anything else in Arda.

He stood still, barely breathing, as if the very act of drawing in air might shatter the fragile peace that had settled in the wake of Námo’s departure. The heavy silence of the chamber returned, but now it was heavier, more mournful than before. It bore witness to truths long buried beneath centuries of denial and enforced forgetfulness.

Finwë’s fingers hovered above the box as though unwilling to let it go again this last fragment of a soul he had once held close. His hand trembled as he traced the intricate carvings on the lid, worn smooth over the ages by countless moments just like this one: stolen moments of remembrance, when the weight of forgetting became too much to bear.

The pendant inside was small, but it radiated a kind of light, even without flame or star to catch it. The silver gleamed faintly in the gray half-light, and the emerald stones glistened like tears yet to fall. Its beauty was too fragile for this world, like the child it once belonged to....like Ardamírë himself.

Finwë lifted it delicately, holding it to the dawn light as if the rising sun might reveal some final message hidden in its facets.

He remembered the first time he had seen it, nestled against Ardamírë’s chest, the baby’s tiny fingers curled around the chain. The pendant had been made by Aulë himself, gifted by the Valar to honor a birth that had momentarily stilled even the endless winds of Manwë. A child born of light, of love, and of hope.

And yet that light had been snuffed out far too soon. Not by illness, not by war but by the will of the Powers, by the weight of fate and prophecy and the cruel arithmetic of preserving a future no one truly understood. Ardamírë had been taken, his name erased, his presence scrubbed from memory, save for Finwë who bore it all in silence, his heart a tomb for a child the world would never know.

He clutched the pendant to his chest, pressing it to his heart as the tears finally came, slow and silent, falling down a face aged by sorrow rather than time.

"Why did you not let me mourn him?" he whispered hoarsely, not to Námo he was long gone but to the walls, to the stars, to the One who watched from beyond the circles of the world.

"Why must love be so easily sacrificed for fate?"

No answer came, only the faint golden slivers of dawn breaking through the carved windows of the chamber, illuminating dust motes suspended like stars in the morning stillness.

He walked slowly to the stone pedestal in the center of the room and carefully returned the pendant to its resting place within the box. With deliberate reverence, he closed the lid, the soft click echoing like the final note of a lamentation.

His hands lingered atop the box as if reluctant to let go again. He allowed himself, just this once, to remember it all the first laugh, the tiny hands tugging at his hair, the soft murmur of lullabies sung in the tongue of the Valar, the quiet weight of the infant curled against his chest as he slept. The memory swelled and broke within him like a wave, and for a moment, he almost fell beneath its tide.

Then, breath by trembling breath, he gathered himself.

Finwë turned toward the tall windows and stood as the golden light of Laurelin washed over him, warming the cold stillness in his bones.
He looked out at Tirion, his city, gleaming atop the green hill, unaware of the secret its king had buried deeper than any treasure. His children would rise soon—Fëanáro with his fire, Findis with her gentle grace, and the others who came after, unknowing, untouched by this hidden grief.

And perhaps it was better that way. Perhaps Námo had been right. Perhaps the world was not ready for one so radiant.

But Finwë was not ready to forget.

He closed his eyes again, resting both hands upon the box, as if to seal the memory within his flesh as much as within the stone.

He whispered softly, voice barely audible over the wind stirring the trees outside:

“Ardamírë… my Jewel. You were loved.”

And then, softer still—so soft the wind itself had to lean in to listen:

.

.

.

 

“For thou don’t worry… as shall when the time is right, we will meet again.”

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Legolas sighed in relief as he felt the weight in his shoulders drop.

For the first time in many years, the pull of duty no longer clung to his heart like vines. Gondor had flourished under Aragorn's reign. Ithilien had bloomed with elven touch. Peace true, deep peace had settled over the lands that once bled. His promise was fulfilled. His heart, though aching from farewells, was lightened by the knowledge that he had done all he could.

The sails creaked as the wind filled them further. The boat glided over the waves like a bird in flight, its elven make lending it a grace unlike any vessel of Men.

Behind him, Gimli grunted as the boat rocked slightly under a wave.

“I tell you, if I fall off this cursed thing, I’ll haunt you, Lad.”

Legolas chuckled softly. “I’d sooner dive in after you than face the wrath of your ancestors in the afterlife.”

“Hmph.” Gimli leaned against the side of the boat, beard tangled from the wind.

“The sea is unnatural. A world with no ceilings. No walls. No solid stone to keep your footing—how do you live like this?”

“You don’t live on the sea, my friend,” Legolas replied, his eyes distant. “You pass through it. Like a memory. Like breath.”

Gimli grumbled but said nothing more, pulling his cloak tighter against the morning chill.

Silence settled again, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull. The sky above was cloudless, a vast pale dome that met the sea in an endless horizon. There was no shore behind them. Only blue and wind and light.

Legolas let his thoughts drift.

He thought of Aragorn’s final moments—the aged hands clasping his, the warm voice that still bore the strength of a king. The smile Aragorn had given him before closing his eyes forever would never leave him.

“I pass the world to them now,” Aragorn had said, “but I give my love to you, mellon nîn. You were my brother in arms. My brother in spirit.”

And just like that, a chapter had ended.

Now, they were sailing beyond the page, beyond the borders of the world that knew them.

Legolas looked down at his hands. He did not feel older, but time had touched him in subtle ways. The ache of countless years spent watching change unfold, friendships pass like the seasons. He carried the quiet sorrow that came with being eternal in a mortal land.

“Lad.”

Gimli’s voice was quieter now. There was a heaviness in it.

“Do you think they’ll… accept me?”

Legolas turned.

Gimli stared out across the sea, and though his beard bristled in the wind and his frame remained strong, something about him seemed smaller—worn not by age, but by uncertainty.

“No dwarf has ever set foot in Valinor,” Gimli muttered.
“Not alive, anyway.”

Legolas stepped closer, the wood beneath his boots barely groaning. He placed a hand on Gimli’s shoulder—light, but firm.

“You are not just a dwarf,” He said.

“You are Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves, bearer of the Three Hairs of Galadriel, warrior of the Fellowship, and my dearest friend. You do not go to beg entry, Gimli. You go because your place is there.”

Gimli grunted again, but this time it lacked its usual bluster. “Just don’t expect me to sing with the rest of your people when we land.”

Legolas smiled, gaze drifting again to the east, where the sun had fully risen now. Its light gilded the edges of the boat in gold.

“I will expect nothing,” He said softly. “Only that you remain.”

They stood in silence for a time.

The boat sailed onward, each wave pushing them further into the unknown. But it no longer felt uncertain. The ache of parting lingered, but so did the hope of reunion. Somewhere beyond the veil of sea and sky, a shore awaited them. A place untouched by sorrow and death. A land of peace.

As the wind shifted once more, and the sails pulled them faster toward the west, Legolas tilted his head back, letting the light bathe his face.

The Call of the West had been strong ever since he first glimpsed the Sea, shimmering like liquid glass beneath the twilight sky. It had whispered to him through the waves, sung to him in dreams, beckoning with a pull deeper than memory. He had resisted for many years, despite the yearning in his bones, because his heart was still bound to Middle-earth.

He could not abandon it—not while Aragorn still ruled, not while his Ada still walked the forests of Mirkwood, and certainly not while the echoes of the Fellowship still lingered like a sweet, fading melody.

But time had moved forward, relentlessly.

After Aragorn’s passing, when the great king lay entombed beneath stone and honor, Legolas had returned to Minas Tirith to pay final respects. The city was quieter now, aged with the passage of peace. Arwen had wept in silence, her eyes hollow, her choice to forsake the Undying Lands now complete. Their children stood with solemn dignity, bearing the strength of both mortal and elven blood.

Then, Legolas had journeyed northward, westward visiting the resting places of those who had once fought beside him. Merry and Pippin in Gondor. Samwise, long laid to rest after the twilight of his years. He had gone even to the Shire, standing just beyond the borders where no elf could enter, simply watching the gentle hills and knowing the world had moved on without them.

There, in Rivendell or what remained of it he had met Elladan and Elrohir. The twin sons of Elrond had remained behind, to stay by their sister’s side until her passing and watching of their nephews until it was their time to sail. Their faces, so alike to their father’s, had worn the fatigue of the ages.

It was there he learned the final fates of many.

“Elrond has gone,” Elladan told him, voice hushed with both sorrow and relief. “With the last of our kin from Imladris. Frodo went with him. Bilbo, too.”

“And Maglor?” Legolas had asked, uncertain if he had misheard the name.

Elrohir had nodded. “Yes. Haru walked the shores for centuries, half-song and half-shadow, until Atar found him and took him with them—to Valinor.”

That name—Maglor. A ghost from elder days. The second son of Fëanor, one of the last of the accursed oathbound. A kinslayer. A voice of unparalleled beauty and a heart shattered by sorrow.

The stories of him were legend, even among elves.

Legolas had not known what to think at first. Of all the elves to pass westward, how could it be that he a Feanorian was among them?

And yet, Elrond had been adamant. There were whispers, of course. Bitter murmurs among some who remembered the Havens of Sirion and the blood spilled in the name of the Silmarils. There were those who spat the word “kidnapper” under their breath, unwilling to accept Maglor’s redemption or even his grief.

But Elrond had silenced them with a fury that surprised even Legolas.

“They were not abandoned,” Elrond had once said, eyes blazing.

“Maglor...Atar raised us. Fed us. Sang to us. He carried my brother through fire. He wept with us when we remembered what was lost. He was more a father to us than the bloodline we were born into. Say one word against him again,” Elrond warned,

“and I shall show you the temper of the Feanorians.”

And that had been the end of it.

Even Legolas, long neutral to the tangled webs of old griefs, found himself contemplating the irony. That the sons of Fëanor, infamous for their bloody oath, would show more care to two orphaned elflings than Elwing herself mother of those same children, granddaughter of Lúthien who had choose the Silmarils over own children.

He did not understand it. Legolas had no great desire for jewels or treasures, and the idea of forsaking one’s own children for a glowing stone sickened him.

He had wondered, in idle thought, what might have changed had the last living Feanorians been allowed to hold the Silmaril—if only once. Would it have broken the curse? Ended the Oath? Could such a simple gesture have prevented centuries of grief?

But such musings were wasted now. The Silmarils were long gone one in the sea, one in the earth, and one in the sky, beyond any touch.

Still… it was a comfort, in a strange way, to know that Maglor had not been forsaken. That he had been allowed to pass beyond the circles of the world. That even those steeped in sorrow could find a shore of peace.

As for Legolas, he had made his choice.

He would sail. He would follow the call, not just for himself, but for the promise he made to his Ada, who remained behind for now, but would someday cross the same waters. For the love of his friend Aragorn, and for the memory of all that had passed.

Middle-earth no longer needed him and the sea was calling.

 

~00~ ~00~

The wind was soft across the water, a welcome change from the war-torn howling gales of Middle-earth’s dark corners.

Legolas exhaled slowly, his eyes tracing the shifting silver of the sea as the boat cut silently across the waves. The scent of salt, starlight, and ancient memory clung to the air, and for once, the ache in his heart felt quieted..if only slightly.

It was peaceful. Strangely peaceful.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt such calm. The road behind him was paved with endless strife: years of hunting orcs in Mirkwood, battles against darkness in every form, the long shadow of Sauron still lingering in memory. Even after the victory at the Black Gate, there had been no true rest—not when wounds lingered in the land, not when old trees still whispered of sorrow, not when friends aged and passed away before his eyes.

But now...this silence, this stillness it was foreign.

Legolas blinked at the quiet lapping of the waves and then the sky screamed.

A sudden crack tore through the air, followed by a great burst of wind and then, as if flung from the heavens themselves, a form crashed down from the sky, slamming directly onto Legolas, nearly toppling both him and Gimli overboard.

“By Mahal’s beard—what in the blasted—?” Gimli roared, scrambling to regain his footing as the boat rocked violently beneath them.

Legolas grunted as the weight pinned him down, the wind knocked clean from his lungs. He blinked up to see a cascade of raven-black hair in his face, and what he hoped were not broken ribs cracking beneath pressure.

“Ow. Did I break something? I really hope not. Sorry. I didn’t mean to land on someone,” Came the flustered voice of the stranger, who shifted hurriedly to the side, eyes wide with concern.

Legolas coughed, groaned, and carefully pushed himself upright.

“I think my ribs cracked,” He muttered, brushing salt-spray and black strands of hair from his face.

As he looked up, he got his first proper view of the stranger.

An Ellon, unmistakably elven in every aspect, and striking even by elven standards.

His hair, long and starlight, fell in waves past his knees, like a woven curtain of night sky touched by wind. His skin was pale, yet untouched by age or shadow. But it was his eyes..his eyes that startled Legolas most. A pair of vivid emerald green eyes that gleamed with life and light, so strangely bright that they seemed to shine against the dull gray horizon.

The clothing he wore was foreign woven from strange fabrics and fastened with symbols that neither Legolas nor Gimli recognized. There was no House crest, no sigil of any known elven realm, no indication of rank or allegiance.

“I'm truly, truly sorry,” The Elf began again, straightening himself with visible politeness.

“But may I ask—where am I?”

Legolas studied him with cautious curiosity, ignoring the ache in his ribs. The sea whispered behind them, and the stranger’s confusion was genuine, unfeigned.

“You are on the Ocean of Ulmo,” Legolas answered calmly.

But this only seemed to deepen the Ellon’s bewilderment. His brows furrowed, and he looked around again at the endless rolling sea as if he were trying to anchor himself in reality.

Legolas tried again, this time gently. “Set sailing to Valinor, my friend.”

The Ellon blinked. “Valinor?” He echoed, his voice full of unfamiliarity.

“What is… Valinor?”

Gimli gave Legolas a sharp glance.

Legolas’s brows drew together in thought. There was no recognition in the stranger’s face none. Not at the mention of Ulmo, nor Valinor, nor the sea. It wasn’t the kind of confusion born from injury, nor from fading memory it was genuine ignorance. Whoever this Elf was, he knew nothing of where he had landed.

‘An Avari perhaps?’ Legolas mused silently.

It was the only conclusion he could reach.

The Avari—those who never began the Great Journey. Elves who had refused the summons of the Valar in the First Age and remained in the East, away from the histories sung in the West. They were elusive and few. Most never left their hidden forests. They spoke different dialects, held different customs, and were said to distrust the rest of their kind.

And yet, here one was dropped from the sky no less onto a boat bound for the Undying Lands but far what Legolas knew Avari had dark hair rather than starlight colored hair.

Legolas watched the Ellon as he seated himself awkwardly at the center of the small vessel, hands folded, emerald eyes still darting with wonder and confusion.

A breeze rolled across the waves.

It was said the Avari lived in the deep wilds of Middle-earth especially, came to mind. A cursed forest of whispers and shadow, wrapped in ancient enchantments. Stories told of trees that moved, of hostile spirits, of a magic so thick even seasoned Elves dared not linger there. It was a forest hostile even to their own kind, and yet it was said the Avari thrived within its depths, bound to its strange will.

Legolas narrowed his gaze thoughtfully.

‘Perhaps not so much a miracle that he arrived in such a fashion after all…’

For what was magic, if not unpredictable?

Avari is a race of Elves that are mostly not involved regarding Middle Earth often prefer solitude than socialization. It would be a miracle to convince them to join the last great war that will happen.

They are what you could say Mysterious as rumors often say that lived on the accursed forest. Forest that was filled strange magic and sentinels trees often hostile to Outsiders even towards Elf.

"The Land where you pretty Elves go, lad," Gimli grumbled with a huff, crossing his arms tightly across his chest as he cast a wary glance toward the starlight-haired stranger now seated at the center of their ship.

“Valinor, or whatever song-filled haven you lot dream of. Golden trees, light that doesn’t burn, and—bah—too many pointy ears for my taste.”

His mutterings were laced with typical dwarven irritation, though beneath his tone was the echo of unease. It wasn’t every day that an Elf fell out of the sky.

The Ellon tilted his head slowly, his long starlight hair slipping across his shoulders like liquid snow.

“Elf?” He echoed, blinking at Gimli.

“What Elf?”

Legolas’s body stiffened as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. There was no jest in the stranger’s voice, no sarcasm, no sly mockery. The question had been genuine. Honest. That alone sent a shiver of unease down the Sindar Elf’s spine.

“…Like him, lad.” Gimli jabbed a thick finger toward Legolas with exaggerated exasperation.

“Blond, sharp-eared, all ethereal and brooding—that’s an Elf.”

The dark-haired Elf turned his gaze fully onto Legolas. For a moment, his green eyes scanned Legolas’s form, not with recognition, but with the intensity of someone trying to solve a riddle. He studied the curve of Legolas’s ears, the blonde hair, the finely shaped features. Then, slowly, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“…But I’m not an Elf,” The stranger said at last, voice quiet yet firm.

The air on the ship grew still.

Legolas froze mid-breath. Gimli’s eyes widened. For a single, jarring heartbeat, even the waves seemed to pause.

“…Did that fall knock something loose in your skull, lad?” Gimli finally barked, baffled.

“To the point you can’t even recognize your own kin? Mahal’s beard—this is why I don’t trust magic that drops folk out of the sky!”

The Ellon winced slightly at Gimli’s blunt words, a flicker of offense tightening his jaw. There was no fear in his expression—but something darker, more wary, settled across his features. Legolas noticed it immediately.

“My friend,” Legolas said gently, watching the strange Elf’s reactions with growing concern.

“Could it be that you have forgotten you are an Elf due to the fall? You may have struck your head upon landing. There are healers among my people who have spoken of such wounds—Elrond once called them brain injuries.”

But instead of receiving his words with gratitude or consideration, the Ellon’s expression abruptly changed.

It darkened.

A shadow passed over his face not of evil, but of alarm. Disbelief. Offense. His green eyes narrowed, and his mouth thinned into a tight line, clearly displeased.

“I am a man,” He said, stiffly.

“And certainly a man. Elves—Elves don’t live in water. Or on boats. Or... wherever this is.”

His statement was so final, so stubborn, that Gimli let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“A man?” the dwarf wheezed in disbelief.

“You? Don’t be ridiculous, lad. I’ve seen men, plenty of them, and none looked like they walked straight out of Varda’s jewel-box with stars in their hair!”

But Legolas did not laugh.

He was staring, troubled, at the Ellon. It was not that he refused the idea but rather, he was starting to see the deeper truth. The confusion. The certainty. The way the stranger held himself: proud and self-assured, even on foreign waters, even among strangers.

And the way he said the word “Elf” … like it was foreign to his tongue.

There was no lie in his voice.

Still, Legolas pressed gently, “Then if you are a Man, lad… what is your name?”

Gimli smirked and crossed his arms again, clearly expecting something dramatic. The dwarf was enjoying this far more than he should have, Legolas noted grimly.

The Ellon—Man, rather glared at Gimli, an almost comical spark of indignation flashing in his emerald eyes. Then he turned his gaze between the two of them. Something shifted in him, and for a moment, Legolas sensed a weariness. A loneliness. A strange sense of dislocation that felt older than even his immortal years.

Then came the answer—firm, with the kind of authority that comes from surviving things most would never speak of.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Harry. My name is Harry Potter.”

While somewhere…

In the shadowed silence of the Halls of Mandos, Nàmo stood surrounded by the slow ticking of eternity.

The quiet had always been constant an unchanging rhythm of the dead, of fading spirits awaiting healing or judgment. The stone beneath his feet hummed faintly with the residue of Songs long past. The halls echoed only with whispers of lament and memory, with no room for chaos or interruption.

Until now.

A pulse..no, a shockwave rippled through the fabric of Valinor. Like a harp-string plucked too sharply, the entire land thrummed with the unexpected crescendo of the Song of Eru.

It rang from the deepest roots of the Pelóri to the silver shores of Eldamar, shaking birds from trees and stilling the voices of the Teleri mid-chant. Panic bloomed like wildfire among the Elves, who had not heard such a disruption in their long, eternal peace. Not since the First Music had the air vibrated with such divine intent.

Námo froze, his eyes narrowing beneath the weight of power that was not his own. He, who was the Doomsman of the Valar, the silent Judge of the Dead he was not easily moved. Yet this disturbance was not just divine..it was personal. It called to him like an ancient bell tolling across time.

His fana..the vessel of his presence in the world shuddered with recognition. Not of pain. Not of death.

But of return.

Without another thought, Námo strode through the quiet corridors of the Halls of Waiting, the spirits of the dead drawing back with reverence as he passed. The walls glowed faintly with memory, and as he reached the inner sanctum a room so sacred no other foot but his ever walked upon it the door silently opened before him.

The Hall of the Fëa.

A place older than the Trees. A chamber not of stone, but of light and Song. There, at the very center, stood the Trees of Lineage delicate, silvery constructs that seemed to grow from the music itself.

Every House of the Elves was recorded here, from the ancient stars of Cuiviénen to the most recent fëa to sail westward. Branches of spirit and kin, glowing with colors of life and death.

They shimmered with delicate lights: white for the living, grey for those within his keeping. Faint glows for fading legacies. Golden threads for those touched by greatness. Red scars where Oath and Doom had twisted the Song.

He passed many Trees without pause, until at last he stood before the one that always drew his eye.

The Tree of Finwë.

It was vast..its branches tangled and radiant. At the root stood Finwë, glowing faintly with white-gold, and beside him, two roots diverged: Miriel and Indis, his wives.

From Miriel’s line came a single, once lonely name: Fëanáro, the greatest of the Noldor, known to most as Fëanor. His thread burned in shades of scarlet and gold, powerful and wounded. His name pulsed faintly still in Mandos, still unhealed.

But now…

Námo’s eyes widened.

The once-empty branch beneath Miriel… no longer bore just the single thread of Fëanáro.

There, beside it..new and brilliant shone a golden light so intense that Námo had to shield his gaze, blinking away the radiance. The air thrummed with a harmony both ancient and strangely new, a melody that twisted with joy, sorrow, defiance, and hope.

A second name had emerged.

Where there was only Fëanáro before… now glowed another.

Not merely a flicker—not grey, not lost but golden. Fully alive.

A living soul returned to Arda.

And connected, unmistakably, by a Song-thread not just to Miriel, but to Finwë himself. A true child. A hidden son. A name erased from memory… but not from the Music.

His name was like a heartbeat as Námo stared at it, stunned.

A name known once only to a few—the Valar, Finwë, Miriel, and those sworn to deepest secrecy. A name cast into myth, forgotten by the Elves, thought perished in shadow.

And now… burning with the strength of a returned soul.

Námo whispered it aloud, as if to confirm the truth of it to the silent Halls:

“He has returned.”

His eyes remained fixed on the name that glowed brighter than the sun in Laurelin’s prime. A name shining beneath Fëanor’s branch, bound to the House of Finwë by blood and fate.

A name no longer lost.

.

 

.

 

" Adamire "

 

~00~ ~00~

Harry was not slightly amused.

One moment, he was simply walking through Athens, enjoying the summer night air, half-distracted by the promise of fresh olives from a vendor down the hill, debating whether he should sample the local wine again maybe something dry this time and the next moment?

A bloody black hole. A literal black hole appeared beneath his feet.

It hadn’t even been dramatic.

No lightning, no magical hum, no ancient spell being whispered by shady old men with cryptic prophecies—just a sudden void beneath his boots while he was taking a shortcut through a narrow alley lined with graffiti and the faint scent of street food.

One blink. Firm ground.

The next? Nothing but black.

And now? Now he was here. Wherever here was.

He was being stared at by two fantasy novel escapees—a literal Elf, all sharp cheekbones and blonde hair and a Dwarf, broad-chested and grumbling after crash landing on them in their boat in the middle of a fucking ocean.

Now they were arguing about him. About what he was.

And Harry could feel it. That deep, familiar frustration bubbling under his skin. The one he used to get when people whispered behind his back at Hogwarts, or when the Prophet printed absolute rubbish about him being the Heir of Slytherin. The same expression McGonagall used to call his Long-Suffering Face.

Because despite telling them clearly twice, thank you very much that he was a man, they just kept throwing each other those pitying glances. The kind of looks healers gave patients in Janus Thickey Ward.

It was clear they thought he was delusional.

“You poor lad,” The dwarf had muttered under his breath at one point.

“Must’ve hit his head harder than we thought.”

Harry had been this close to throwing the dwarf in the ocean.

He didn’t care that they’d pulled him out of the brush, didn’t care if he crash landed on them and allow him to stay. That didn’t give them a free pass to look at him like he was some kind of broken mirror.

So now he sat slightly apart from them, rubbing his temples in frustration as he looked up at the dark, velvety sky.

The stars here… they were wrong.

Not just in pattern he knew constellations well enough to see they weren’t familiar—but in presence. One star in particular glowed too brightly. Not in a way that made you think it was near burning out, no. It shone the way fireflies hovered around Harry sometimes when he let his guard down intentional. Curious.

Watching.

He almost mistook it for the North Star, but no. No, there was something different about it. Something ancient. And it pulsed to a rhythm too... musical. Like a hum he could feel more than hear.

He sighed, letting his hand brush over the curve of his ear and winced.

Still pointy.

He had touched it once, twice, twenty times now still bloody pointed.

And Harry had known, hadn’t he? Somewhere deep down, for as long as he could remember, he had always known something didn’t quite fit. That he wasn’t just a wizard.

He had said nothing, because who would believe him? Magic was one thing. Hogwarts was one thing.

But everything else?

The whispers in the forest when he was nine, too quiet for normal ears but too clear to be imagined.

The way the trees bent toward him when he was sad, how their leaves rustled like lullabies on stormy nights. How the wind seemed to change direction to carry his voice further, the water always warmer when he stepped into streams.

It wasn’t just magic..it was alive. It recognized him.

And for a while, he had thought he was going mad.

He remembered vividly being twelve and crouched beside a gnarled old tree speaking to it in a whisper just to check if it would answer back. And it had. Oh, it had.

But the world didn’t have room for boys who talked to trees. So he’d told no one. Not Sirius. Not Hermione. Not even Luna, who might’ve actually believed him.

Then there were the animals.

God, the animals.

He’d long since stopped being surprised when birds followed him. Or when squirrels climbed onto his shoulders mid-walk. Or when large cats stared at him like he was their missing cub. Once, a lion at a reserve in Kenya had bowed its head when he passed. He had pretended not to notice the zookeepers panicking behind him.

He had made peace with being the wizarding version of a Disney princess long ago.

Even if his new friends never let him live it down but even still… there were moments that defied explanation. Moments too strange even for the magical world.

Moments when the elements themselves whispered.

The wind had cried once truly cried when he’d stood by Sirius’s grave.

Fire had flickered in response to his heartbeat. Water sometimes rippled in greeting before he touched it.

And once..just once when he’d collapsed after a duel, earth itself had softened beneath his fall and cradled him like a mother would.

He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t explain it.

And maybe now, looking at these stars, at his reflection in the stream and the ears he couldn’t ignore maybe this all finally explained something.

He wasn’t just a freak.

He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t delusional and maybe just maybe...he wasn’t entirely human, either. At least being an Elf… explained things that he wasn’t crazy or mental.

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as the soft creak of the boat cut through the quiet of the open waters.

He should have expected this.

He should’ve known better than to think peace would last.

It had been a good run, admittedly. Years of dodging Ministry officials, refusing Order offers, and finally faking his death after a particularly long series of exhausting negotiations with the goblins of Gringotts.

In exchange for certain rare artifacts he’d “inherited” from the Blacks, they had agreed to create an airtight illusion of his demise, complete with a magical corpse and a public funeral to end all public funerals.

The wizarding world had mourned. He had disappeared.

For once in his life, he had been free.

No prophecies. No Death Eaters. No aurors trying to recruit him or journalists trying to expose him. Just peace.

He’d spent the last several months hopping from country to country..one moment strolling through Greek vineyards, the next trying obscure local dishes in narrow alleyways. He’d even started sketching in notebooks. Nothing fancy just trees, birds, sea horizons, the curve of a stranger’s smile. It had felt like living.

Then, of course, fate had laughed in his face.

Again.

The black hole had swallowed him faster than he could say “bloody typical.” And now he was in a world where Elves were real not Game of Thrones real, real real—and wizards like him were nothing but myths or unspoken omens.

And crashing—literally crashing into an Elf had not been the grand entrance he would’ve liked. Not to mention nearly crushing the poor bastard when he fell out of the sky.

Legolas hadn’t drawn his blade, to be fair. But the look on his face had been torn between divine awe and mild offense.

Gimli, on the other hand, had been much more vocal, grumbling under his breath about “falling stars with bad aim” and “sorcerous Elves falling from clouds now.” If Harry wasn’t too busy being disoriented at the time, he might’ve taken offense.

Now, two days later, he found himself on a sleek Elven boat, sailing alongside said Elf and Dwarf duo, who bickered like an old married couple.

Truly, exactly like Ron and Draco during their worse days at the Ministry. If Harry squinted hard enough, the resemblance was unsettling.

Legolas with his calm nobility, annoyingly smooth voice, and dry wit. Grimli with his short temper, blunt tongue, and suspiciously fond tone when he insulted the other.

Harry had chuckled more in the last two days than he had in months.

He had expected hostility, suspicion, interrogation but instead, he was offered water, food, clean clothes, and surprisingly, companionship.

Despite his clearly odd arrival, they’d seemed to accept him with wary curiosity rather than fear. They’d asked questions, of course questions he had skillfully dodged with vague stories of his past. Though that did not helped that he looked like an Elf, with the pointed ears If nothing else it was the hair that bring Harry to be speechless.

Though, admittedly, they didn’t believe half of what he said.

Especially not when he’d explained his name.

“Harry,” He had said plainly.

Both had stared.

“You mean Harion?” Legolas asked, tilting his head.

“No. Just Harry.”

Grimli had snorted, muttering something about “Elven names gone lazy.”

Since then, the two had decided to "correct" his name for Elvish standards without his permission, of course.

Still, he couldn’t say he hated their company.

There was something oddly comforting about the way they talked around each other. As if they’d done it for decades snd Harry, somehow, slipped into their rhythm with ease. He didn’t have to perform here. Didn’t have to be Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world. Here, he could just be a quiet presence between two long-standing companions.

They even confided in him, briefly. Told him of a friend they had lost.

Harry had bowed his head, offering the only thing he knew how..his condolences and understanding. He spoke softly of loss, and they, in return, did not ask what ghosts weighed his words down.

There was an unspoken pact there. The kind born between people who knew grief.

He’d taken the time to gather basic knowledge, too. He wasn’t about to wander into Elven society without at least pretending to know what was going on. So he picked up snippets—Valar, Maiar, the different kin of Elves, the disaster of the Kinslayings, and of course, the infamous Oath of Fëanor.

All dramatic, all poetic, and all ending in blood.

The last part..the Dark Lord made his eye twitch because of course there had been a Dark Lord.

It was almost comical now, how easily that title followed him. Voldemort, Grindelwald, that creepy cultist in Uruguay. Now Morgoth. Or was it Sauron?

Whatever. At least this one had already been captured. The war was over. For once, Harry had landed in a world after the final battle.

Which, frankly, was a miracle in itself.

He leaned back now, feeling the gentle sway of the boat beneath him, letting the breeze brush through his hair. Salt from the sea tickled his senses.

Still… something itched.

Something in the water.

He’d felt it since they left the shore. A strange sensation—like being watched.

Not with malice. Just… awareness.

A presence. Something vast and old that watched him from beneath the waves.

He hadn’t said anything. No need to worry the others. It might be nothing. Just the sea playing tricks but it lingered.

Watching. Waiting.

He shook the feeling off as Legolas and Grimli’s conversation grew louder, once again descending into their latest argument: Harry’s name.

“A wandering Elf from the East. Named… er… Harryon,” Legolas offered carefully, as though testing how it sounded in the air.

Harry blinked slowly.

Grimli turned, looked at him, then at Legolas, then back again.

“Really?” Harry asked dryly, one brow arching.

Legolas straightened, ears twitching. “It… sounds Elvish.”

“It sounds lazy,” Grimli added with a grunt, arms crossing.

Harry sighed long and deep, like a man carrying the weight of the cosmos.

And just when he thought they were done…

“How about Harrlon, then?”

Legolas said with a hopeful glance, only to be met with two deadpan stares. He awkwardly looked away, ears turning a very distinct shade of red.

 

Three days later…

“Ashore up ahead!”

Shouted Legolas from the helm of the boat, his voice light as the wind carried it over the waves. His keen eyes were already locked onto the horizon, the island of Tol Eressea just beginning to reveal itself, bathed in the golden light of an afternoon sun.

Harry stood up, brushing the salt from his sleeves as he turned his gaze toward the island. His heart caught in his chest as the silhouette of the island's massive white castle came into view, towering above the trees like something from a dream. It was so pure, so untouched..so impossibly beautiful. If there was any place that could make Hogwarts seem like a shadow of itself, it was this. The architecture was delicate but grand, each spire and column soaring into the sky with an elegance that seemed to whisper through time.

As they drew closer to the shore, Harry took in the sight of Elves gliding across the sea swimming, diving, and laughing with the carefree joy of those who had seen centuries pass.

Their white hair shone like silver almost similar to his, the sunlight catching on their skin, making them seem almost ethereal. There were boats with white sails, drifting calmly along with the current. A quiet hum filled the air as if the island itself was alive with ancient energy, reaching out to touch everything in its presence.

Harry let out a soft breath, feeling as though he were standing on the edge of something vast and ungraspable.

“Lad, you should put your hood up,” A voice said behind him, breaking the reverie.

Harry turned around to find Grimli walking toward the boat’s railing, his beard fluttering slightly in the breeze. The dwarf looked stern, but there was a hint of concern in his gaze. He nodded toward the island, then back to Harry.

“ We did not know if they will take kindly to seeing a strange face on their shores,” Grimli said in his gravelly voice, though it carried no malice, just the pragmatic caution of someone who knew the ways of the world.

“Best not draw too much attention.”

Harry nodded, understanding.

“Thanks, Grimli,”

He said as he reached up to pull his hood over his head, covering his newly pointed ears. The sight of the tall, sleek boat and the whispers of the Elves around him still made him uneasy, though he’d long since accepted this new identity as his own.

It had been a strange journey since he’d fallen into this world. Days blurred into nights.

The name he had chosen for himself—Artamir, meaning “Noble Jewel” in Quenya had fit perfectly when Legolas had suggested it, though Harry had initially been uncertain. He couldn’t explain why, but there was a pull to the name, something deep within him that made it feel… right but also feel wrong at the same time. It wasn’t just the meaning, but the way it seemed to echo in his mind.

Yet, even as he had accepted it, something at the back of his mind warned him not to fully embrace it. That name, Ardamire, had haunted his dreams before, a whisper in the shadows of his sleep, too familiar, too urgent but he had pushed that aside, trusting his instincts.

Artamir was better, he decided. It was a name with a kind of grace and nobility that suited his new form, even though a part of him would always feel out of place.

Elven names were woven with meanings, tied to the ancient roots of their language, and he’d come to realize that despite his uncertainty, there was something about the way he spoke their language that felt… inherent. Sindarin had been the language that he unknowingly spoken on his arrival, but Quenya the formal, more ancient tongue was the language of used mostly upon in Valinor. It was strange, but not unfamiliar. A gift, maybe, or a curse. He hadn’t decided yet.

As they neared the shore, Harry couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of Tol Eressea. The island was alive with vibrant greenery, trees and flowers that seemed to hum with the promise of centuries of stories. The very air seemed imbued with magic, an energy that was different from the raw power he had felt in the wizarding world this magic was softer, more eternal, and more alive.

“ Its beautiful...” Harry muttered to himself, more to break the silence than to expect an answer. His hand ran lightly over the smooth wood of the boat’s railing.

“Tol Eressea... the Undying Lands...”

“Aye,” Grimli answered, his voice softer now, as though he respected the weight of the place. “An island of peace for those who have earned it.”

Harry glanced at the dwarf. “Do you think I’ve earned it?”

Grimli didn’t answer immediately, his eyes reflecting the distance between them as the boat glided closer to the island. Finally, he shrugged, a small grunt of laughter escaping him.

“Hard to say,” He said.

“But I reckon if you’ve made it this far without causing a complete uproar, you’ll be alright. For now.”

Harry chuckled softly, feeling a wave of gratitude toward the dwarf. Despite his gruff exterior, Grimli had proven to be a good companion. A bit blunt, sure, but there was kindness in him that wasn’t hard to see if you knew where to look.

As the boat finally docked on the shore, Harry felt a strange mixture of anticipation and unease. They had arrived. The real journey was about to begin. He wasn’t sure what role he would play in the grand scheme of things here, in this place of timeless grace. Was he truly an Elf? Or was he something… more? Whatever the case, the uncertainty gnawed at him, and the subtle pull of his dreams haunted him like a distant voice.

“We had finally arrive to the Undying Lands,”

Legolas said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a thousand years as he stood at the front of the boat. His eyes, though gentle, held a deeper knowing, as he look beyond.

The keel of the boat slid smoothly onto the soft white sands of Tol Eressëa's shore, the hull cutting a shallow groove in the glittering surf as the sails caught the last breath of sea wind. The ship slowed to a halt, its voyage across the seas finally at an end. The wood creaked as it settled, and the gentle hush of the waves against the shore was only broken by the rustle of movement feet stepping cautiously onto a land ancient and unmarred by mortal sorrow.

Harry stepped off the boat last, his leather boots meeting the sand as though crossing an invisible threshold. There was a different feel to the land beneath him less like stone or earth, and more like something alive. Magic, perhaps, or memory. Or both.

A small crowd had gathered nearby, Elves in pale robes with long hair flowing down their backs, eyes like starlight watching the new arrivals with cautious curiosity. Their murmurs were soft, melodic, but strangely soothing. Most of them turned away after a moment, interest satisfied, drifting like windblown petals back to their lives, but a few lingered. Their attention was not on Harry or even Legolas but Grimli.

Some of the Elves exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable, as they stared at the short and stocky figure beside him. One Elf, youthful in appearance but no doubt older than empires, leaned slightly to whisper to a companion.

Harry chuckled quietly at the sight.

Grimli scowled under his bushy brows.

“What? Never seen a Dwarf before?” He grumbled, crossing his arms.

“Probably think I should’ve stayed back in Middle-earth where the rocks are, eh?”

“They’re just curious,” Harry said with a grin.

“You’re a legend, Grimli. The only Dwarf ever to step foot in Valinor.”

“Aye, well, they can keep their curiosity to themselves,” Grimli huffed, though the twitch of his mustache betrayed amusement.

“Amme! Haru! Haruni!”

Legolas's voice rose in a sudden, almost childlike burst of joy. Harry turned, surprised, just in time to see the Elf prince breaking into a full run, golden hair trailing behind him like silk spun from sunbeams.

He ran straight toward a trio standing at the edge of the tree-lined path that led toward the shining city. Two women and one man stood there, graceful and radiant in a way that made the world around them seem dull by comparison.The man beside them bore the same poise and regality as Legolas his face younger perhaps, or older, it was hard to say with Elves but his features held warmth and mirth as he opened his arms.

Legolas nearly collided with them, his arms thrown around all three as though he were a boy again. The joy in his voice was uncontainable, his laughter echoing softly along the shores. The taller woman cradled his face, brushing his hair back gently, and the man gave a deep, relieved laugh as he pulled Legolas into a firmer embrace.

Harry smiled, his eyes softening at the sight. There was something pure about it—something untainted. A family reunited, bound not by obligation but by love unchanged by the passage of years.

“Would you look at that,” Grimli muttered, stepping up beside him.

“The lad actually acts like a child again.”

Harry chuckled. “Let him be,” He replied, watching the scene with something close to awe and yet…

There it was again.

That hollow ache in his chest, that strange and quiet pain that never seemed to go away, no matter how many places he traveled to or how much time had passed. It wasn’t a wound, not really but a space inside him where something should have been, and never was.

Family.

Every time he saw it..parents embracing their children, siblings laughing together, warmth passed between souls bound by blood or bond something inside him curled in on itself. Longing, yes but also… regret.

He had grown up knowing the idea of family, but never the feeling of it. Letters, stories, faded photographs those had been the extent of his knowledge of James and Lily Potter. Dumbledore’s reassurances, Sirius’s desperate affection, Remus’s tired eyes all of it tried to convince him that he belonged to someone once. That he was loved.

But something always felt… wrong.

He remembered staring at the Mirror of Erised in his first year, seeing his parents in it. But now, years later, he wondered if even that vision had been real. Or just wishful thinking from a child who had never known the touch of a mother’s hand or the sound of a father’s laugh.

Was James really his father? Was Lily really his mother?

So many people said he looked like them. The eyes of his mother. The hair of his father. But Harry had always felt disconnected from them, as if he were a stranger to his own name. There were no memories, no lullabies, no cradle songs. Just silence.

And that silence had followed him even here.

The beauty of Tol Eressëa did not drown out that silence. If anything, it made it clearer, like a melody missing its final note.

Still, he would not change his past. Not truly. Because everything he had lived through every loss, every victory, every sleepless night had forged him into who he was now. Not just Harry Potter, not just the Boy Who Lived, but Artamir..the name of a noble jewel, as Legolas had called it. A gem born of fire and pressure, unbreakable.

But even jewels could feel the cold.

“Hey,” Grimli said suddenly, his voice softer, less gruff. “You okay, Mir?”

Harry blinked, startled from his thoughts. He looked at the dwarf and forced a smile.

“I just remembered something,” He said quietly and the wind carried his voice away.

They had barely a moment to recover before Legolas, bright and grinning like a sunbeam loosed from the sky, was already heading toward them again his long, light steps nearly skipping across the sand in his excitement. His golden hair fluttered in the breeze as he gestured proudly to those behind him.

"Amme, Haru, Haruni," He called with warmth, his voice dancing in the sea air.

" These are my friends. Grimli and Artamir."

Grimli gave a gruff little wave, eyebrows lifted with suspicion and pride. Beside him, Harry followed suit with a polite nod, his gloved hand giving a smaller wave. His hood was still drawn, casting a faint shadow over his face, though his eyes watched the trio with open curiosity.

The first woman to speak had the same unmistakable presence as Legolas..tall, elegant, and sharp-eyed, but her hair fell in rich waves, and her smile held the mischief of someone who knew far more than she let on.

"Oh, so my little Greenleaf had friends, huh?" She teased with a wicked gleam in her eye, crossing her arms as she gave her son a scrutinizing once-over.

Legolas groaned audibly, hiding his face in one hand. "Amme, not in front of them—"

The silver-haired woman beside her, with eyes like obsidian polished to a mirror shine, laughed aloud musical and unrestrained. She leaned into the brunette woman, chuckling softly.

"Still as dramatic as ever," She said with fondness.

Then the man tall, stern-faced, and with hair the color of burnished gold streaked lightly with silver stepped forward. His expression was reserved, though not unfriendly, and his gaze settled on Grimli with a mix of surprise and cautious intrigue.

"Never thought my grandson would befriend a dwarf," he muttered, almost to himself.

"A dwarf..."

Grimli met the stare squarely, his brow arching. “Well, I didn’t think I’d befriend an elf, either, let alone this one,” He said with a snort.

“And yet, here we are.”

The man blinked and then, to everyone’s surprise, let out a dry chuckle. “Touché.”

Before the conversation could drift into awkward silence, the silver-haired woman suddenly gasped.

“Oh my!” She cooed, clapping her hands as she stepped closer to Grimli. “I never knew dwarves were such cuties!”

Grimli's eyes widened in horror.

“What—what are you—madam!”

But she was already crouching, leveling herself to his height with graceful ease. And before Grimli could take a step back, her hands reached out and gently pinched both of his cheeks with surprising affection.

Harry’s laughter bubbled up unbidden at the sight of the usually composed dwarf completely blindsided and flustered.

Grimli spluttered and flailed slightly, uncertain whether to protest, retreat, or faint on the spot. “No one’s ever—cutie?—by Aulë’s hammer, woman, I am not—!”

The man sighed wearily, placing a hand on the silver-haired woman’s shoulder as if he had done so many times before. “Love, that’s enough.”

The woman pouted with mock disappointment but released Grimli with a final affectionate pat.

“You’re no fun,” She murmured, though her eyes sparkled with unrepentant mischief.

Harry had been so entertained by Grimli’s torment that he failed to notice the shift in attention until it was too late.

The silver-haired woman turned her head.

Her eyes landed on him.

His smile froze.

The kind expression she wore hadn't changed but Harry felt an ancient, familiar dread creep down his spine, cold and sharp like the memory of ice against his skin.

‘Oh no,’ He thought, heart skipping a beat.

She was walking toward him now, graceful and slow, like a cat who had found a skittish bird in the grass. Her expression was gentle, warm even, as she approached the hooded figure beside the flustered dwarf.

Harry subconsciously took a step back, barely suppressing the reflex to run. His shoulders stiffened beneath the weight of memory. That smile it wasn’t hers, not really but he’d seen it before.

The wide-eyed, doting gaze.

The soft cooing tones.

The way old women in grocery aisles would reach out with too-soft hands and pinch at his cheeks like he was some kind of porcelain doll they could claim for their own amusement.

“Are you lost, dearie?”

“Oh my, look at this little darling!”

“Just look at those cheeks!”

He could still feel the phantom sting of fingers gripping his face, stretching his skin uncomfortably while he froze under their praise like a rabbit under a hawk’s eye.

That day when Aunt Petunia had taken him grocery shopping, and Harry had gotten separated near the checkout line—he had become an unwilling magnet for an entire fleet of sweet old women. They had cooed, they had pinched, they had ruffled his hair and gushed about his “precious little face.”

It had been worse than facing a dragon.

When his Aunt’s shrill voice finally called him back, he had never been so happy to hear her in his life. He would have hugged her if he hadn’t been too busy fleeing the enemy lines.

Harry had been traumatized that day.

And as he stared into the well-meaning, dangerous eyes of the silver-haired elf woman drawing ever closer, he knew with grim certainty that history was about to repeat itself.

He forced a brittle smile and braced for impact.

‘Please, no pinching,’ He thought desperately.

“Why are you wearing your hood up, child? Aren’t you such a beauty?” The silver-haired woman, Maelwen, though Harry did not yet know her name cooed as she suddenly reached forward.

Harry didn’t have time to retreat. Her soft hands were already cupping his face, cool and gentle yet firm with grandmotherly affection. He blinked, stunned by the unexpected contact, and then—

Pinch.

His whole body jolted in surprise as her fingers grasped his cheeks with far too much enthusiasm for comfort.

"Ah—!"

He gasped, more startled than hurt, but it still made his eyes water a bit from the sheer force of nostalgia-infused horror. He heard a deep snort beside him, and turned slightly without escaping her grip to see Grimli trying very hard not to laugh, his beard twitching and shoulders shaking.

“Haruni! That’s enough...” Legolas groaned behind them, clearly exasperated as he stepped forward.

Maelwen looked at her grandson, expression turning into a playful pout.

“You’re no fun, grandson.”

At that, Harry’s shoulders slumped in relief as her fingers finally let go of his abused cheeks. He gently rubbed them, fighting the urge to whimper.

Now that she had stepped back, Harry finally pieced it all together—this must be the grandmother Legolas had spoken about. The one he’d described with exasperated fondness on their many walks. The one who once scolded his father, Thranduil for being “too stiff” and threw dried berries at Oropher when she was annoyed.

Then a deep, commanding cough cut through the air like a quiet thunderclap, pulling everyone's attention toward the tall elven man with Silver hair and a regal bearing.

“I believe an introduction is necessary,” He said, gaze fixed not on Grimli or Harry but on Maelwen, who had the decency to look sheepish.

“Yes, yes,” Maelwen muttered, waving her hand a bit.

“No need to be so dramatic, love.”

Oropher sighed.

With a calm but firm tone, he finally stepped forward and addressed Harry directly. “I see you’ve befriended my grandson. My name is Oropher, Legolas’s grandfather.”

Harry blinked, eyes widening just slightly. He had expected Oropher to be... well, tall, yes. Intimidating, certainly. But he hadn’t expected the soft grief beneath the formality in his voice the quiet way he studied him as if trying to understand who this stranger was who now stood beside his grandson.

“And I’m Maelwen,” The woman chimed in, cheerful as ever, her earlier teasing forgotten as she smiled warmly at Harry.

“ Legolas’s grandmother,” She added, tossing her braid behind her shoulder with pride.

Harry managed a small nod in return, unsure what to say. The woman had just assaulted his cheeks, after all.

Then the brunette elf woman who had teased Legolas earlier stepped forward, her gentle smile graceful and elegant.

“It’s lovely to meet my Greenleaf’s friends. My name is Aereth, children,” she said, her voice soft and regal in a way that made even the waves pause to listen.

Grimli, looking a bit out of his element, cleared his throat.

“My name is Grimli, my lady,” He said with gruff politeness, trying his best to mimic the formal tone Legolas sometimes used.

It was clear he wasn’t used to such courtly introductions, especially not in the presence of elves. But Aereth merely smiled, nodding her head in approval as if she found his honest effort endearing.

Then her gaze turned toward Harry.

He hesitated. Slowly, he raised his hand to the edge of his hood and pulled it down. The sea breeze caught his hair, tousling it slightly as sunlight touched his features fully for the first time before them. His green eyes met hers.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am. My name is Artamir.” His voice was polite, even steady, though a part of him still tensed in case someone else decided to pinch him.

Aereth chuckled, clearly amused by his well-mannered introduction.

“What a charming name.” There was no teasing in her voice this time just the serene kindness of a mother seeing someone who had walked too long alone.

Then, Maelwen tilted her head curiously, stepping forward again but thankfully made no attempt to touch him this time.

“So, aren’t you going to visit your family, Artamir?” She asked gently.

“We could help you find them. It’s not often we have new arrivals anymore.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, breath hitching faintly. He opened his mouth to respond—but before he could say a word, Legolas stepped in.

“Haruni,” He said softly, yet firmly, “Artamir’s family is probably still in Mandos... They had died not too long ago from the war.”

The words hung in the air like a sudden fog, heavy and mournful.

Harry turned toward him, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. The statement had been delivered so smoothly, so quickly it was as though Legolas had prepared it.

Still in Mandos?

Harry wasn’t sure how Legolas had pieced it together or why he had taken it upon himself to answer but in that moment, a strange, unreadable expression passed across Harry’s face. He didn’t correct him. Not yet.

He didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Maelwen’s hand rose to her mouth in soft horror. Aereth’s eyes shimmered with quiet sorrow.

“Ohh… dear.”

“Eru’s mercy…” Maelwen whispered.

Oropher exhaled through his nose, his gaze turning to the sea as if trying to ease the weight on his chest. Even Grimli had looked away, brow furrowed, beard twitching as if in remembered grief.

Harry stood still beneath the sudden swell of sympathy. Their pity felt heavier than their joy.

And though his name here was Artamir, and though the people surrounding him had never known Harry Potter because he is dead and never exist in this new world, and he bore it in silence.

The air smelled of salt and sun warm, clean, and full of promise. The sea’s gentle waves lapped against the shore in rhythmic cadence, harmonizing with the cries of gulls circling high above. The soft chatter of the Elves in the harbor faded behind Harry as he walked beside Legolas and Grimli, their boots crunching softly on the white sand that paved the pathway toward the elven city nestled against the mountains.

Harry couldn’t help but glance back one last time at the docks where their boat had arrived.

The shimmering sails still swayed slightly, the ropes creaking in the sea breeze, as if the vessel, too, were reluctant to part from its passengers. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe it but there was something final about stepping off that boat, something deep in his chest that whispered this wasn’t just a visit, but a beginning.

As they walked, Legolas chatted animatedly with Aereth, his mother, while Maelwen kept Grimli occupied with a barrage of curious questions. Grimli, for all his stubbornness and flustered pride, was slowly growing more tolerant of her energetic attention even if his ears were turning a suspicious shade of red.

But Harry lagged slightly behind, his steps slower, thoughtful.

His eyes lingered on the distant silhouette of the grand elven city ahead. Its spires glimmered in the morning light, each tower carved in such delicate beauty it almost appeared unreal.

Waterfalls spilled from terraces draped in wisteria and ivy, while bridges of white stone crossed over sparkling canals that wound through the city like veins of liquid silver. And there at the heart of it all was the tallest tower, its balcony open like a throne to the sky.

And on that balcony stood the figure Harry had glimpsed earlier.

He looked again, more closely this time. The figure hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, as if waiting. His white hair shimmered like moonlight, swaying gently in the sea breeze. The long robes he wore rippled slightly, the silver embroidery catching the sunlight like the surface of a frozen lake. But it was the eyes that made Harry pause.

Even at this distance, he could feel the intensity of that gaze blue, piercing, and ancient.

There was something hauntingly familiar in the way that man held himself, in the weight of his presence. Not threatening, but steady, regal, and... somehow connected to Harry, in a way he couldn’t yet explain.

His heart gave a faint, startled thud. That crown coral-shaped, delicate yet commanding almost reminded him of the drawings he had seen in ancient books. Books Hermione had pored over with fascination. Books that had spoken of Mythologies and Legends.

Who was he?

A faint wind tugged at Harry’s hood, loosening it slightly as he stepped forward unconsciously, his eyes still locked on the mysterious figure. But before he could take another step, a voice shouted behind him.

“Mir!”

It was Legolas, his voice cheerful and beckoning, shaking Harry from the moment. The Elf waved at him from ahead, grinning like a boy again, waiting by a flowering archway that led up the stone path toward their new temporary home.

Harry blinked, turning his head back toward the balcony.
He didn’t know. But he did know one thing: whoever that man was, Harry would meet him again. He could feel it in his bones, a quiet tug like a thread connecting their paths.

A future conversation. A future revelation.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, Harry turned back to his friends..no, his companions and jogged forward, laughter escaping him as he heard Grimli complaining loudly about “elf-women and their cheek-pinching.”

He caught up with them just before they disappeared beneath the flowering archway, their voices echoing ahead into the morning light.

His heart was lighter now, despite the strange moment. And as he stepped through the arch, into the warm embrace of sunlight, of laughter, and the scent of wisteria and ocean spray…

He smiled to himself.

‘Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all'

Harry thought, as he looked at the morning sky, watching the seagulls soaring high above toward the castle. Then—his eyes caught movement again.

A figure. Standing at the highest balcony of the castle.

White hair. Blue eyes. The robes. The crown of silver coral and was watching him.

Harry’s breath caught.

“Mir!”

A voice again Legolas. This time closer, louder, almost laughing.

He turned quickly, realizing they had gone ahead further than he thought. Legolas was waving at him, waiting.

Harry shook his head, chuckling, and ran forward so he wouldn’t be left behind.

Excited for the unknown future that was waiting for him in this new adventure.

' It's not like something is waiting for him right? '

Chapter Text

The smell of blood filled the air thick, metallic, suffocating.

It clung to Harry’s skin, his clothes, his very breath as he pressed harder, his trembling hands slick and slippery with crimson.

His heart pounded painfully in his chest, a drumbeat of desperation, as he bent over the man who was slipping further away with every ragged breath.

“No, no, don’t you dare give up on me,”

Harry whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking.

His tears fell unchecked, splashing onto the bloodied ground, mixing with the man’s lifeblood his vision swam, his glasses long gone, but it didn’t matter..he didn’t need to see to know what was happening.

The man’s smile gentle, even now felt like a knife twisting in Harry’s chest. How

could he still smile when his life was draining away in Harry’s arms?

“Help is coming,” Harry repeated desperately, voice cracking.

“They’ll come. Just—just stay awake, please, you can’t leave me here—”

His words turned into choked sobs, shaking so hard that he nearly lost his grip on the cloth pressing into the wound.

But the man’s hand rose, slow and trembling, streaked with blood. Harry froze as the calloused palm cupped his cheek, staining his skin red.

His throat tightened, a fresh wave of tears falling at the warmth of the touch how long had it been since someone had touched him like this—with kindness, with care, with love that asked for nothing in return?

“Harry…” The man’s voice was faint, every syllable a battle.

 

“It’s okay…to run away.”

The words slammed into Harry like a blow. He shook his head frantically, clutching tighter at the man, as though he could anchor him to the world.

“No! I can’t! I can’t just—leave, not when you—”

His voice broke. He buried his face against the man’s chest, shoulders shaking violently but the man continued, unwavering despite his failing strength.

“The world has changed, Harry. It should be the adults who protect the children…not the children protect the adults.”

Harry’s sobs grew louder, rawer, as he listened, every word etching itself into his heart like fire. He couldn’t lose him. Not him too. Not after everything.

“But Harry…”

The man coughed again, wet and harsh, more blood staining his lips. Yet still, he tried to lift his hand, to brush away the tears streaking Harry’s face.

“You’re still young. Too young.”

Harry leaned into the touch as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his tears spilling freely now, his chest aching with the weight of grief too great for someone his age to carry.

“You don’t have to save everyone,”

The man whispered, his voice breaking into a rasp.

“Because it’s not your job…”

His thumb brushed weakly over Harry’s cheekbone, trembling, faltering.

Harry clutched at his hand, pressing it harder against his face, as if to memorize every last bit of warmth.

“Please,” Harry begged brokenly, his voice trembling.

“Don’t leave me, not like everyone else… please—”

The man’s gaze softened. His eyes full of affection, sorrow, and something unspoken met Harry’s emerald green, and for a moment the boy saw not death, not loss, but the love of someone who wanted him to live. Truly live.

“You can run away…” The man whispered, his strength fading.

 

“Live for yourself.”

The words broke something in Harry. His sobs tore out of him, raw and desperate, echoing in the air like the cries of a child who had lost everything far too soon and still, with shaking fingers stained in red, the man wiped Harry’s tears, his smile tender even in the face of death.

His last words were soft, a plea and a benediction both.

 

.

 

.

 

“Be selfish… Ardamire.”

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry sat up abruptly, his lungs dragging in air like a drowning man finally breaking the surface. His fingers dug into the fabric of the sheets as he clutched his chest, feeling the frantic hammering of his heart against his ribs.

The room was dim, bathed in the faint silver glow of Valinor’s eternal twilight but to Harry it felt suffocatingly small.

His whole body trembled, a shiver running down his spine so violently that his teeth nearly chattered. He reached up instinctively, brushing his hand over his cheeks, and felt the dampness there.

 

Tears.

 

He hadn’t even realized he’d been crying until that moment. His breath caught in his throat, a painful lump forming there as the memory of the dream clung to him like cobwebs—warm hands, blood, soft words whispered through labored breaths.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel the image, but the harder he tried, the clearer it became. That voice. That touch. The smell of iron. The plea at the end. It was like a blade twisting in his chest.

Dragging a shaky hand through his hair, Harry tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he leaned against the headboard. Strands of dark hair clung to his damp forehead. He counted his breaths, slow and deliberate.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

The method had always helped him steady himself before—on the battlefield, under the weight of the wand, in the middle of sleepless nights but here in this land of undying light and singing seas, it felt strangely inadequate.

After a few minutes, the hammering of his heart began to settle, though the ache remained—a dull, gnawing pressure that pulsed behind his sternum. He slumped back against the bed, letting himself fall onto the soft sheets, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the dim glow creeping through the open window.

His breath came out in uneven shudders, and for a moment, he simply lay there, listening to the faint distant crash of the sea.

 

He didn’t know why this was happening.

 

He didn’t understand why, ever since setting foot in Valinor, the dreams had come, unbidden and relentless. They had not plagued him in Britain. They had not followed him through his travels. It was only here, in this place of legend, that they returned—clearer, heavier, almost too real to dismiss.

He had tried to reason with himself. New world, new magic, new currents of power that brushed against his own perhaps it was simply his mind trying to make sense of it all, perhaps echoes of someone else’s memory bleeding into his sleep. That’s what he told himself, night after night, when he woke to his own ragged breathing.

But no matter how many excuses he conjured, it was always there. Following him. A shadow curled close to his heart. A name whispered in a language older than his own.

It haunted him even now, lying in the safety of a borrowed bed under a roof built by people who called him friend. It pressed at the edges of his waking thoughts, a memory that wasn’t his but felt as if it had been carved into his bones.

.

 

.

 

That name...... Ardamire

Harry finally removed the arm shielding his eyes, his breath leaving him in one long sigh as if he were exhaling the weight of the dream itself.

Pushing himself upright once more, he sat on the edge of the bed, letting the cool air of the room wash over his still-sensitive skin. He blinked slowly, trying to clear the last haze of sleep from his mind before he let his gaze wander.

The room around him was quiet, untouched by the chaos of his dream.

Its cozy aesthetic was a balm in itself, a gentle mixture of soft brown tones that gave it warmth, balanced by the mint-green curtains that swayed faintly with the breeze. There was a homeliness to it, simple yet tasteful, something that soothed him in a way Hogwarts never had, and even Grimmauld Place could never hope to.

Beside the bed rested a small wooden table, upon which sat two well-worn books and a little clay pot with a leafy plant stretching eagerly toward the light. Straight ahead was a modest cabinet carved with delicate designs that mirrored Elven craft, though unadorned with jewels or gilding.

The room didn’t boast of grandeur or wealth but rather whispered of quiet elegance, a reflection of a people who found beauty in simplicity.

The curtains glowed faintly from the sunlight pressing against them, but the room itself remained dim, the pale light spilling in only in slivers. It felt intimate, a space meant for rest, contemplation and quiet moments away from the eternal radiance of Valinor’s land.

Harry stretched, raising his arms high above his head until he felt the satisfying pull in his muscles.

His shoulders cracked lightly, loosening the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding then, sliding his legs over the side, he slipped his feet into the soft slippers waiting at the floor’s edge and rose to stand.

“Okay… what are we gonna do…”

He muttered under his breath, his voice still husky from sleep. It was more of a ritual now speaking aloud to himself, a habit born of years of being alone and needing the sound of his own voice for company.

His eyes flicked over the room again, noting the rumpled sheets, the dust gathering in the corners, and the faint streaks on the windowpane with a decisive nod, he resolved to start small. First, clean the room then, a bath.

It gave him a sense of order, a way to ground himself before the day swept him away.

He crossed the room to the window, tugging at the curtain cords as the fabric was drawn aside, light burst into the chamber, warm and golden, flooding over the furniture and chasing away the lingering shadows. Harry squinted against the sudden brightness, but soon his eyes adjusted, drinking in the sight of the lush greenery beyond for a moment, he allowed himself to simply stand there, breathing in the freshness of the new day.

It was strange to think how quickly time had passed. Nearly a month had gone by since he had stumbled into this strange, radiant world and in that time, so much had changed.

 

He had become… an Elf.

 

The thought still made him pause sometimes, his reflection in polished metal or still water a stranger’s face staring back. Pointed ears, sharp lines, eyes clearer than they had ever been before. He had grown into this body with an ease that unsettled him, as though it had always been waiting for him.

And yet, amidst the confusion, he had adapted. He had thrown himself into learning the languages of this land, both Sindarin and Quenya. What had first been a blur of foreign words and intricate letters soon became familiar, then fluent. To his own surprise, the words rolled off his tongue as though they had been resting there for years, waiting to be spoken.

Even Legolas had been taken aback. The Elf had studied him with bright, curious eyes, remarking that Harry’s fluency and accent were startlingly precise. He had called him a fast learner, though the compliment had been laced with mild astonishment.

Grimli, on the other hand, had grumbled endlessly about his own struggles with the languages.

Harry had caught more than one muttered complaint about Elvish being “a cursed tongue for twisting the mouth.” The dwarf’s frustration made Legolas smirk, but Harry couldn’t help but laugh quietly at their bickering—it reminded him of Ron and Hermione, in a way.

Still, the most telling moment had come when Legolas admitted something softly, almost reluctantly that if he had not seen Harry learning, if he had not witnessed the careful tutoring and the countless hours of practice, he never would have believed Harry had been new to either language.

The way he spoke, the way he carried the rhythm of the words, it was too natural....too ingrained.

It was as though these languages had always been a part of him, waiting only for the chance to awaken.

____

It had taken him only a couple of minutes to set everything in order. Dust gone, blankets folded neatly, furniture aligned just so—the room gleamed with that fresh, airy sense of cleanliness that always calmed him. Satisfied, Harry padded toward the adjoining bathroom, towel and a change of clothes in hand.

The sound of water filling the basin was a soothing rhythm, the steam curling in the air as he stripped down and stepped beneath its warmth.

The bath was another habit he had taken to in this new world. The Elves viewed cleanliness as part of their grace, and though Harry had always been used to quick showers and stolen moments of quiet in a cramped bathroom, here, bathing had become a small ritual of peace. He let the warmth seep into his skin, washing away the lingering unease of the morning dream by the time he stepped out and wrapped the towel around himself, he felt lighter, his body loose and his mind clearer.

As he dried himself and slipped into fresh clothes, his thoughts drifted as they often did to the situation he had found himself in.

He was, for the moment, living under Legolas’s family’s roof. It was never meant to be permanent, only until he had saved enough money to find a place or, as he half-dreamed, build one of his own. The thought of depending on others still made his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

He had argued at first, stubbornly refusing the offer of hospitality but Legolas, with his steady logic, and Gimli, with his blunt pragmatism, had quickly dismantled his protests.

“You don’t know these lands,” Legolas had said patiently.

“ Nor the ways of Valinor. Even if you wished to stay elsewhere, you would not know where to begin.”

“And even if you did,” Gimli had grumbled,

“ You’ve no coin to your name. Where would you buy a roof, or food, lad? You’ve only us. Best swallow your pride.”

Harry remembered the sting of that truth. He had hated admitting it, but they were right. He didn’t know the Undying Lands, didn’t have any coin to spend, and beyond these two companions, he knew no one. He had little choice but to accept the offer. Still, he had bargained with them, unwilling to take advantage of their kindness without giving something in return.

So, they had settled on a condition: Harry would help with household duties. If he was to stay, he would not remain idle.

That part, however, had not been as simple. Legolas’s mother, Aereth, had immediately refused, horrified at the thought of putting him to work.

“You look far too delicate for such things,” she had said firmly, her voice brooking no argument.

“Your hands are too soft, your frame too fine. You are not to be burdened.”

The words had struck Harry like a slap. He had managed to school his expression, but inside, he bristled. Fragile. Pampered. Spoiled. As though he were some coddled young master who had never lifted a finger in his life.

He had nearly bitten his tongue bloody to hold back a retort. If they had seen his old body..if they had seen the callouses earned from years of scrubbing, cooking, and tending to chores at the Dursleys, or the scars carved across his skin from battles no child should ever have fought they would never have said such things but this new body betrayed him.

It was smooth, unmarred, refined in a way that made him look every inch the pampered Elf he despised being mistaken for. To them, he looked like someone who had never known a day of hardship. And though he told himself it was foolish to care, Harry couldn’t quite shake the sting of being dismissed as fragile.

The resentment only deepened when memories of Hogwarts rose unbidden.

He could still recall the glares, the whispers, the curled lips of disdain, especially from Slytherin House. They had looked at him as though he were privileged, spoiled, arrogant living in comfort while flaunting fame he had never asked for.

And Snape… Snape’s eyes had been the worst, filled with such bitter loathing that Harry had once wondered what he could have possibly done to deserve it.

It hadn’t been until much later that he learned the truth.

A truth twisted and sharpened by a certain headmaster’s carefully chosen omissions and manipulations. Dumbledore’s “little lie,” as Harry bitterly thought of it, had painted him into a corner, had made his years at Hogwarts feel like hell. All those years of hate, mistrust, and misunderstanding, when a few honest words might have changed everything.

Harry’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he tugged his tunic over his head. The memory sat in his chest like a hot coal, simmering with old anger. He could forgive many things, but not that—not the way he had been used, controlled, and left to suffer the consequences.

So, he had made himself a quiet promise. When death finally came for him, and if he met the old goat in the afterlife, there would be no polite words, no reverence for age or station. He would hex the man, if not worse.

Respect your elders? Harry scoffed under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. To hell with that. He had a grudge and it wasn’t one he was ready to let go.

____

Now, his main responsibility in the household was tending the gardens. It was a task Aereth had gently guided him toward after much back and forth, reasoning that the earth would never judge him as fragile or incapable.

The garden didn’t care how soft his hands looked, nor would the flowers shy away from his touch to Harry’s surprise, he had grown to love it.

The soil here was richer, the air sweeter, and the plants almost seemed to hum with life beneath his fingers. It gave him a sense of grounding, a quiet rhythm to his days, something that belonged to him in a world still so new.

Gimli’s absence, however, left a hollow ache in the household. The dwarf had departed more than two weeks ago, answering the call of Aulë’s Halls.

The farewell had been a sad, tear-streaked affair, one that ended with promises of visits and reminders of unbroken bonds of friendship. Even knowing they would see him again, Harry had felt the emptiness of the house when Gimli’s laughter and blunt words no longer filled its halls.

Staying without Gimli had been nerve-racking at first. Harry had worried over his place here whether he was overstaying his welcome, whether he would be seen as a burden but those fears had gradually eased as the days went by.

Legolas’s mother, Aereth, was nothing like Molly Weasley had been.

Molly had loved fiercely, yes, but it had often been smothering, demanding—love that came with strings attached, with expectations Harry had never been able to meet. Aereth, in contrast, was gentle yet firm, a woman who radiated warmth without forcing it.

She never tried to command his choices or insist he follow her way simply because she was older.

She was an understanding soul, treating him not as a boy in need of direction, but as someone capable of deciding for himself. It was a subtle difference, but one that meant the world to Harry.

Her kindness extended to Legolas’s grandparents as well, and together they created an atmosphere unlike anything Harry had ever known there were no suffocating expectations, no false pretenses. It was… nice. A word too simple, perhaps, but one that encapsulated the rare comfort of belonging without strings.

When Harry had once timidly broached the subject of leaving soon, Aereth had shaken her head with a smile.

“You can stay as long as you wish. There is no hurry. You are part of this house now. Besides,” She had added with a mischievous glint.

“ It is like Greenleaf has found a brother.”

The comment had caught Harry entirely off guard, his face burning as he stammered uselessly. Legolas, of course, had laughed softly at his expense, finding amusement in Harry’s flustered expression yet beneath the embarrassment, Harry couldn’t help the warmth that spread through his chest at her words. A brother and A family, of sorts.

Now, stepping out of the bathroom fully dressed in Legolas’s old clothes, Harry felt a small but genuine comfort settle over him.

The garments fit well enough..
comfortable, not too tight against his frame, and cool enough to wear even beneath Valinor’s bright skies. He had to admit, he liked them. They felt lived-in, carrying a quiet familiarity that soothed the unease of wearing something not his own.

Crossing the room, he sat down before the vanity. The polished wood gleamed faintly in the morning light, and his reflection stared back at him with eyes that always seemed too old for his face. He picked up the hairbrush resting on the table, fingers curling around its smooth handle, and began to draw it slowly through his hair.

Each stroke was deliberate, gentle, the bristles gliding through dark strands that now gleamed with a silken quality he still wasn’t used to. He brushed with care, as though grounding himself with every motion, listening to the soft swish of hair falling neatly into place for a moment, the world outside could wait.

This small ritual..simple, quiet was enough.

______

 

He could see the strands of his starlight-colored hair fall against his shoulders, damp from the recent bath, darkening the fabric of his clothes where the drops clung stubbornly.

The shimmer of it caught the morning light through the window, glowing faintly like silver threads woven into living silk. It still startled him sometimes—the sheer otherworldliness of it when he caught sight of his reflection or noticed how the sunlight turned it into a pale halo.

To be honest, on Harry’s part, the change had shocked him deeply at first. His once messy raven hair forever unruly, forever Potter had been replaced with this ethereal shade that belonged to no one he knew, save for a few too many memories of Malfoys with their pale blond locks. The resemblance was enough to make his stomach twist with distaste.

The first time he realized the similarity, he nearly considered cutting it short, but the thought of abandoning something that seemed to belong to this new self stopped him. He’d had enough strangeness in his life already to know that fighting this transformation would do nothing but exhaust him.

Besides, compared to everything else he had survived—the chaos of the wizarding world, dark lords, talking spiders the size of carriages, and plants that tried to devour first-years alive—this was hardly the oddest thing to ever happen to him. Starlight hair was manageable.

If this was the price of starting over, of being someone other than The Harry Potter, then it was one he could accept. At least he had retained his eyes—the same sharp, familiar green, grounding him as the last tether to the boy he used to be without them, he wasn’t sure he would even recognize himself anymore.

Still, the adjustment had been strange. His life had been a constant spiral of ups and downs, always teetering on the edge of something greater or darker, and almost always pulling him into chaos to see that reflected in a body that no longer bore the scars and tired lines of his old one unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

The hair especially—too pristine, too much like the aristocratic Malfoys who had looked down on him with disdain was something he had to push himself to grow used to. Disgust lingered in the back of his throat, but acceptance, reluctant and steady, eventually took its place.

After finishing the last smooth brush through his hair, Harry set the brush back down on the vanity with a small sigh. His fingers reached for a ribbon laid neatly beside it, and with a practiced ease born of necessity, he gathered part of his hair into a low tie at the back.

It wasn’t much, but enough to keep the strands from falling into his face whenever he worked in the garden. Loose pieces framed his face in soft waves, tickling his cheeks, a nuisance he had long since given up on fighting.

Standing, he gave himself a quick once-over, scanning his reflection in the polished mirror. Clothes? Neat enough, if still borrowed. Hair? Tamed into order, or at least as close as it would ever get. The ribbon sat firmly in place, and nothing looked out of order.

Harry ran his hands down the fabric once, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, then patted himself lightly as though to reassure himself that nothing essential had been forgotten.

Satisfied at last, he nodded to himself, a small hum of finality escaping his throat. With that, he turned on his heel and left the room, footsteps soft against the wooden floor as the door clicked shut behind him.

_____

When he stepped out of his room, the quiet air of the hallway greeted him.

The first thing his gaze fell upon was the door directly across from his own — Legolas’s room, its polished wooden frame gleaming faintly in the morning light. He lingered there for a moment, as if the sight of it reminded him of the elf’s presence, before he turned left into the narrow hallway.

The corridor stretched ahead, its walls adorned with finely carved panels that bore faintly floral patterns, a motif that seemed to echo the Elves’ closeness to nature.

His soft steps echoed lightly against the polished floorboards, the kind of sound that in his old life would have gone unnoticed in the chaos of the Burrow or drowned out in the dull hum of Number Four Privet Drive here, though, every step seemed to matter.

Every step carried him further into this strange but comforting reality.

At the end of the hallway, the staircase curved gracefully downward. Harry descended, one hand brushing along the smooth railing, the cool wood pleasant against his skin. As he stepped onto the ground floor, the house’s heart welcomed him: the living room.

It was warm, even without a fire crackling in the hearth. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, casting a golden glow that danced across the floor.

The room’s aesthetic echoed that of his own chamber — polished woods, soft fabrics, and subtle elegance yet here the atmosphere leaned heavily toward the natural. Greenery flourished in almost every corner were vases of fresh-cut flowers resting on low tables, potted plants with cascading leaves hanging near the windows, and a faint scent of herbs lingering in the air as though the room itself breathed life.

Harry instinctively moved toward one of the tall windows, pushing it open with a quiet creak. A rush of morning air swept in, fresh and cool, carrying with it the scent of dew-soaked grass and faint floral perfume. The curtains stirred, fluttering like restless wings, and the room brightened as if the outside world had been invited in.

Harry took it all in with a quiet sense of awe.

The stillness was different from what he had known before at Privet Drive, silence had always been suffocating — a weight, a punishment, a reminder that he was unwanted here silence felt alive, layered with the chirp of birds outside, the faint rustle of leaves, and the steady hum of life that did not demand but instead offered comfort with a soft sigh, he turned away from the windows and made his way toward the kitchen.

It was a simple space, yet it carried the same gentle harmony he had seen throughout the house. Shelves lined with jars of herbs and dried fruits, copper pans gleaming where they hung, and a neat wooden table standing at the center everything bore the marks of care. The kind of home that grew through generations, carefully kept, lovingly tended.

Harry rolled up his sleeves, the familiar motion grounding him as he reached for what he needed to cook breakfast.

The rhythm of preparing food had always soothed him even at the Dursleys’, where he had been ordered to cook rather than invited, he found the motions gave him control when the rest of his life often seemed dictated by others.

Here, though, the act was entirely his own choice. His hands worked with quiet ease, chopping, stirring, and setting things to simmer. The soft crackle of the pan joined the natural symphony drifting in through the open windows, and for the first time in what felt like ages Harry felt… normal.

Still, as he worked, his mind wandered. The house was so quiet, too quiet, and that silence brought with it a bittersweet awareness.

.

 

.

He was alone.

Legolas and his family had departed earlier, off to visit their kin in Valimar. He remembered the way Legolas had hesitated before leaving, his clear eyes shadowed by guilt as if abandoning Harry here was an act of betrayal. Harry had quickly waved off the concerns even smiling in an attempt to reassure him.

Legolas’s mother had even gone as far as to suggest that Harry accompany them, her kindness evident in her tone. The thought alone had unsettled him to be thrust into a family gathering, a stranger among their kin...no, it would have been too much. It was not his place to intrude upon moments meant for blood and belonging.

He had insisted it was fine, that he preferred staying behind, even if it took several rounds of persuasion before they relented. In the end, they left with a mixture of reluctance and trust, reminding him — several times to be careful and so, here he was.

Alone, but not lonely.

As he stirred the pan, he let out a soft sigh, almost surprised by the sound. The weight in his chest felt lighter somehow. This house, this place, was different the peace here felt tangible, wrapping around him like a blanket.

For so long, safety had been a foreign concept — a fleeting illusion between battles, a hope too fragile to hold yet now, in this quiet household, surrounded by simple life and warmth, he realized just how much he had needed it. He had forgotten what it meant to wake without fear, to breathe without the ache of vigilance pressing against his lungs.

The sound of birdsong drifted more clearly now through the open windows, mingling with the soft whistle of the wind. The breeze curled into the room, lifting the strands of his starlight hair and ruffling the edge of his clothes. For a moment, he closed his eyes and simply stood there, listening. Breathing. Feeling.

.

.

It was perfect.

.

.

Almost dreamlike the kind of home and morning he had once only imagined in fleeting wishes, never believing it could be real. He shook his head with a faint, incredulous smile tugging at his lips, pulling himself from the tide of thoughts. Dwelling too long in dreams was dangerous. The food was done, and hunger won out.

He plated his breakfast, set it on the table, and began to eat, the steady clink of cutlery against the plate the only sound to join the chorus of nature outside.

____

After finishing his quiet meal, Harry drifted through the house, letting the morning light guide his steps until he found himself drawn outside. The back door creaked faintly as he pushed it open, and the air that greeted him was fresher, sweeter, carrying with it the mingled scents of soil, dew, and blossoms.

The backyard opened wide, enclosed by trees that swayed lightly with the breeze, their leaves whispering softly above. It was a serene space, untouched by anything but care — the kind of garden that spoke of patience and love poured into it over the years.

Harry had rolled up his sleeves before stepping out, knowing instinctively what he wanted to do.

His hand found the pair of gardening shears lying neatly on a low wooden bench, and he slipped into the familiar rhythm of pruning before him bloomed a cluster of hydrangeas, their blossoms lush and full, each head bursting with shades that seemed almost too vivid to be real.

The colors caught his eyes —blue so deep it reminded him of twilight skies, pink that softened into rose at the edges, violet that glowed faintly in the light, and white so pure it seemed carved from clouds. Harry couldn’t help but smile faintly as he reached forward to trim a stray leaf, his fingers brushing against the velvety petals.

They reminded him of another time. Another place.

His mind wandered unbidden to Privet Drive, back to the square little house with its manicured front lawn and its suffocating atmosphere his Aunt Petunia had always adored hydrangeas, tending them with meticulous care, though her reasons were hardly sentimental.

They were for show proof to the neighbors that she kept the perfect home, the perfect garden, the perfect life. Harry however had seen beyond the shallow pride. He had seen the flowers themselves, in all their shifting colors, and found something beautiful in them that had nothing to do with the woman who owned them.

Often, when his endless list of chores inside was finished or at least when he’d been shoved outside to make himself scarce. Harry was handed the task of tending the back garden at first, it was drudgery he had been young, small and clumsy, the tools far too big for his hands.

Yet over time, he had grown into it. He had learned how to coax life from dry soil, how to cut away what was broken so that the plant could grow stronger. It had been stubborn work, painful even but somewhere along the way it became his own.

He remembered crouching among wilted stalks, dirt smeared on his hands and knees, the sun burning the back of his neck as he worked. He remembered the frustration and the quiet pride when he managed to revive a dying plant, the blossoms returning after weeks of care.

The garden had been the only place at Privet Drive that felt remotely his. Not Dudley’s, not Vernon’s, not Petunia’s but rather his. It had been his refuge, his hidden corner of peace, where he could escape when the walls inside the house pressed too tightly around him.

But even that fragile sanctuary had not always been safe. Dudley, with his constant spite, had taken pleasure in ruining it. Harry could still see it vividly: his cousin’s smug face as he trampled over rows of flowers, pulling them up by the roots, laughing while Harry’s stomach twisted with helpless anger.

The inevitable followed by Petunia’s shrill voice accusing, Vernon’s thunderous fury condemning, and punishment handed out without question. Kneeling on coarse salt scattered across the kitchen tiles until his knees stung and bled. A boy’s quiet rebellion silenced by pain, his small act of creation undone in an instant.

The memory pressed against him like a weight, and Harry exhaled slowly, a sigh slipping past his lips. He stared down at his hands, at the shears he now held. His grip tightened unconsciously, knuckles paling around the metal handle. The faint tremor in his fingers betrayed the ghosts of those days, shadows that even time couldn’t fully erase.

His eyes lingered on his hand for a long moment, the shears gleaming faintly in the sun, before his shoulders eased ever so slightly.

Harry gave his head a small shake, clearing away the lingering heaviness of his thoughts as he bent again to snip at the last stubborn leaf. Time slipped by in its steady rhythm until, before he realized it, the sun had climbed high overhead.

The warmth pressed down upon him, and with it came the telltale sheen of sweat gathering at his brow. He straightened with a low groan, stretching his arms over his head until his back popped and turned to take in the work he had managed through the long morning.

The hydrangeas looked radiant now, their blossoms fuller, the trimmed leaves lending each cluster more definition and grace.

The beds were no longer cluttered but alive, a mosaic of blues, pinks, violets, and whites dancing together. Harry squinted slightly as the light hit them, letting himself admire the sight.

A thought stirred in his mind perhaps he could arrange them by shade, a careful spectrum blending from one color to the next. It would certainly look neat, symmetrical, pleasing to the eye.

But then, with a small shake of his head, Harry discarded the notion. There was something in their disarray that charmed him. Messy, yes, but alive in a way that no measured order could match.

The randomness had its own beauty, a playful atmosphere as if each bloom had chosen where it wanted to belong, clustering together with friends in mischief rather than lining up like soldiers. It made him smile faintly perhaps a part of him related to their quiet rebellion.

His gaze drifted over the rest of the garden, and pride swelled faintly in his chest.

The ground had been tidied, the weeds pulled, the stones he had gathered arranged into small shapes that lent the space more structure without losing its warmth and yo his left, a modest patch of soil bore neat rows where he had recently planted onions, garlic, and peppers.

They were simple, hardy vegetables, but they mattered. The market was a long ride away, an hour at least by horse, and walking would double or even triple that time. Growing his own food was not only practical, it was necessary. The garden would feed him as much as it would soothe him.

The smile tugging at his lips faltered when his eyes lowered to his clothes. His tunic clung damply to his back, streaked with dirt where he had brushed against the soil. His boots were caked in mud, the leather stained and dull under the grime.

He pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. He hated the idea of tracking mess into the house. It was one thing to toil in the garden, another to bring the dirt where it didn’t belong.

Shaking his head, Harry set aside the shears and tugged off his gloves, leaving them neatly on the low bench. He made his way toward the bucket he had filled earlier that morning, dipping his hands into the cool water. The chill was refreshing against his skin as he scrubbed away the soil clinging to his fingers, watching the water cloud faintly with brown.

Once his hands were clean, he crouched to rinse the worst of the mud from his boots, splashing water over them until they looked at least presentable enough not to sully the floors.

Only once he was satisfied did Harry straighten and make his way back inside. The shift from sunlit garden to shaded house brought a welcome relief from the heat, the cool air wrapping around him like a balm.

He climbed the stairs with steady steps and entered his room, heading straight for the wardrobe pulling the doors open, he thumbed through the few clothes neatly folded and hung there, settling on an outfit more suited for travel.

He gathered the garments and slipped into the bathroom to change, leaving behind the damp and dirt-streaked ones.

When he emerged, fresh-clothed, he moved to sit at the edge of the bed. The leather of a clean pair of boots creaked faintly as he pulled them on, tugging the straps into place with careful motions. He glanced once at the bathroom door where his muddied boots sat abandoned inside, a reminder of the morning’s work, before turning back to the present task.

Rising, Harry crossed to the mirror and studied his reflection. His starlight hair gleamed faintly in the softened daylight, though a few stubborn strands had fallen out of place.

He reached up, smoothing them back, his fingers quick and practiced as he retied the ribbon holding part of his hair away from his face. When he was satisfied that nothing was askew, he turned to the cloak draped neatly over the hook by the door.

Lifting it from its place, he swung it over his shoulders, fastening it with deft hands. For a moment, he stood in the room, giving himself a final glance over hair neat, clothes tidy, cloak secure. Nothing missing. Nothing forgotten with a small nod, Harry pushed open the door and stepped out into the hall.

The house was quiet save for the faint hum of wind through the open windows. He descended the stairs each creak of wood underfoot familiar now and soon the front door stood before him with one final breath, he reached forward, unlatched it, and stepped outside.

_______

When Harry reached the front gate, his steps slowed before leaving, he veered to the side toward the modest wooden shed tucked neatly by the corner of the property.

The familiar scent of hay and polished leather greeted him, mingling with the earthy musk of horses as he pushed the door open, a soft, eager sound reached his ears — the snort of a stallion who had clearly recognized him before he even appeared.

“Hello, Sol,”

Harry murmured with a gentle smile, stepping closer his hand extended slowly, palm open, and the black stallion trotted forward with an eager neigh.

The dark tail swished happily in the air, brushing against Harry’s arm when he drew close enough. The sheer warmth of the welcome brought a sense of calm that Harry hadn’t realized he needed.

Sol had once been Oropher’s horse or so Harry had been told.

A magnificent animal, sleek and strong, with a coat so deep in color that it looked as if the night sky itself had been brushed across its hide by all accounts, Sol had been notorious for his mischief, a wild soul that delighted in breaking rules.

Oropher had apparently spent more than a few afternoons chasing after him when the stallion decided to wander or outright bolt. The memory of Maelwe describing Oropher, panting and red-faced as the horse galloped away in triumph, still made Harry chuckle when he thought about it.

But oddly enough, Sol had never shown that same stubbornness to him.

From the very first time Harry had stepped foot into the shed, the stallion had watched him with an unusual stillness, ears pricked as though curious and when Harry reached out, Sol had come forward willingly not with the wary suspicion of a horse who mistrusted people but with the warmth of a creature that had already decided.

From then on, whenever Harry so much as set foot near the shed, Sol would trot forward as if greeting an old friend. He obeyed Harry’s commands without resistance, moving in a way that seemed natural, almost eager to please.

It had baffled Oropher.

The horse that had refused him, thrown him off more than once, and embarrassed him countless times behaved like the gentlest of creatures under Harry’s care. Oropher had muttered endlessly about favoritism, about how the stallion clearly had chosen a new master eventually, with a sigh heavy with both frustration and resignation, he had told Harry to keep the animal.

Harry had resisted at first, flustered at the idea of being gifted something so precious. A horse, and not just any horse but this one, felt far too grand a thing for him to accept but no matter how much he argued, Oropher had simply waved him off.

Sol would not carry him, not even tolerate him and Harry’s attempts to refuse were met only with stubborn persistence. In the end, Harry had given in, though with the quiet embarrassment that always seemed to accompany unexpected kindness.

The first thing he had done was rename the stallion. Sol — short for Soleil, the sun. It was ironic, even confusing, to name a creature dark as midnight after the brightest light in the sky. Anyone who knew the meaning would probably tilt their head in bewilderment, wondering why the name of the sun had been given to a horse that looked like it had been cut from shadow itself but Harry liked it.

The contrast spoke to him.

Sol was fire hidden in darkness, light cloaked in something others might misjudge. A contradiction, a uniqueness that resonated far more with Harry than a neat name like “Night” or “Shadow” ever could. Sol burned brightly even when appearances said he shouldn’t.

Harry’s hand stroked the sleek mane as he leaned his forehead briefly against the stallion’s neck. The warmth of the creature seeped into him, steady and grounding. His lips curved in the faintest of smiles before fading again as his thoughts turned inward.

People had always expected him to shine. To be brave, bold, charming, the perfect hero molded from tales and fantasy but the truth had always been uglier. He had been nothing more than a frightened, skinny boy dragged from a cruel home into a war he never asked for.

The wizarding world had built their image of him on lies and fabrications, painting him into a savior he had never wanted to be and when reality did not meet their fantasy, when he faltered, when he showed that he was human and flawed, their disappointment had been swift and merciless.

Harry let out a breath, bitterness curling in his chest as he pressed his hand more firmly against Sol’s flank his life had been nothing but misery and manipulation, the weight of expectations crushing him long before he had ever been given the chance to decide who he wanted to be.

So no, he did not regret it. He did not regret faking his death, walking away from the ruins of their world, and burying Harry Potter with it.

They could keep their hero, their golden boy, their false savior. He had no interest in playing that role ever again because Harry Potter was dead.

Hadrian was alive or rather Artamir was alive and here, in the Undying Lands, perhaps for the first time, he could finally begin to live.

.

 

.

 

To be selfish...

 

.

 

.

 

Harry reached out and let his palm trail across the smooth line of Sol’s mane, his fingers weaving gently through the strands of the stallion’s hair.

The horse leaned into his touch, letting out a delighted neigh, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the pure joy of it.

“Alright, alright, I get it,”

Harry murmured, patting the stallion one last time. With practiced ease, he untied the rope securing Sol, coiling it neatly before tossing it back into the shed. Turning, Harry began to walk toward the gate, and, as always, Sol followed faithfully at his heels, large hooves thudding softly against the earth.

At the gate, Harry paused just long enough to pull it open, leading Sol through before closing it securely behind him his gaze flickered back toward the house. The sight of it — the warm wooden structure nestled among greenery, sunlight catching on the mint curtains fluttering inside gave him a peculiar sense of belonging.

It wasn’t his home, not truly, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel unwelcome. The thought made something tight in his chest ease, if only a little.

Exhaling, Harry shifted his attention back to Sol with a fluid motion born of weeks of practice, he placed his foot into the stirrup, gripped the saddle, and swung himself up onto the stallion’s back. The leather creaked faintly beneath his weight, and Harry adjusted his seat before gathering the reins securely in his hands.

The hood of his cloak was tugged upward, shadowing his face as the sun blazed above. He gave a small flick of the reins — gentle, but firm enough for Sol to understand. The stallion responded immediately, muscles coiling as he surged forward into a smooth gallop.

The world rushed past him in a blur of green fields and dirt paths, the thrum of hooves steady beneath him. The wind whipped against his face, tugging at strands of his hair that slipped loose from the ribbon, and Harry laughed softly under his breath.

There was something about this moment — the rhythm of the gallop, the sting of the breeze, the endless expanse of open land that filled him with a freedom he hadn’t felt in years.

It reminded him of flying.

Not in a magical, broomstick sense, though the memory of Quidditch hit him sharply now but in that same vein — the weightlessness, the exhilarating rush, the unshakable feeling that, for once, the world could not pin him down. Back then, he had been shackled by fame and expectations, but on a broom, he could escape all of it. Here, on Sol’s back, it was almost the same. Maybe even better.

Harry’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles as he let the stallion carry him onward.

The Undying Lands might not have the conveniences of magic — no Floo Network, no portkeys, no garish Knight Bus lurching down the roads but maybe he didn’t need those things here. Here, there were only horses, carriages, and the steady patience of time itself.

His hand tightened on the reins, and Harry tilted his head back, letting his eyes sweep toward the vast blue sky overhead. It was noon now, the sun blazing high, casting golden light across the fields and hills. Birds soared above, their wings flashing as they wheeled in the air, their songs spilling freely into the wind.

Harry sighed not in weariness, but in quiet contentment and for the first time in a long while, he felt… light.

______

Harry’s journey into Beleriand felt like stepping into a world that still clung to its purity, untouched by the ruin and corruption he had once seen in his own.

After an hour of riding, Sol’s steady gallop had slowed into an easy pace as the city finally came into view.

The glittering shoreline welcomed him first, the sun glinting against the waters where fishing boats bobbed gently, and larger ships stood proudly docked like guardians of the coast.

The salty breeze swept into his lungs, carrying with it the faint chatter of sailors, the creak of ropes against wooden masts, and the cry of seabirds circling above.

As he approached the gates, Harry tugged softly on the reins, urging Sol into a slow trot until they stopped before the entrance. Two guards stood tall, clad in armor that shimmered faintly in the light.

Their spears gleamed, and though their expressions were calm, their eyes were sharp and watchful, clearly trained to notice even the subtlest threat. Harry slid off the saddle with practiced ease, landing quietly on the cobblestone path his boots made a soft thud as he guided Sol toward the stable beside the gate.

Sol gave a soft, contented snort when Harry stroked his mane, clearly reluctant to part ways. Harry chuckled under his breath and leaned close, whispering softly as though sharing a private secret.

“I’ll be back soon, don’t cause too much trouble, alright?”

His hand lingered against the stallion’s warm neck for a moment longer before he tied the reins gently. Sol swished his tail and gave a playful toss of his head as though answering, which made Harry smile faintly.

A young stable boy, no older than fourteen in appearance, hurried over to tend the horse. His hair gleamed silver under the sunlight, his eyes bright with energy as he bowed politely. Harry returned the courtesy with a nod, offering a faint smile before turning toward the gates once more.

The guards gave him a brief once-over as he stepped through their gazes softened, and they offered a greeting, their voices carrying the melodic quality unique to the Elves.

Harry inclined his head in acknowledgment, pulling the hood of his cloak a little lower over his face, though the smile tugging at his lips was genuine.

The city opened before him like a vivid tapestry woven with life. White stone houses stood in neat rows, their walls carved with delicate patterns of vines and blossoms that seemed to breathe with beauty. The roofs caught the sunlight, giving the entire street a serene, welcoming glow.

Everywhere Harry turned, there were people—elves with the pale white or golden blond hair so distinct to their kin yet scattered among them were shades of darker hues, blacks and deeper browns that added variety to the throng.

Children darted through the streets, their laughter ringing out as they chased one another in playful games, weaving between the adults who strolled by with baskets of goods. The murmur of conversation floated in the air, mingling with the occasional sound of a merchant calling out his wares from a stall.

Harry’s eyes traced over the structures as he made his way forward, taking in the artistry in each home though similar in design, there was a harmony in the way they stood orderly without being rigid, every detail complementing the next.

It was clean, organized, and easy on the eyes, as though the entire city had been built with not just practicality but with beauty in mind with each step, he felt the warmth of familiarity settle in his chest.

The memory of his first arrival here stirred faintly, overlapping with the present moment.

It was strange..comforting yet bittersweet to walk again through streets where life thrived so peacefully, untouched by the scars of war he once knew too well and so, with his hood shadowing his features, Harry pressed on toward the heart of the city—the market by the sea, only a few minutes’ walk away.

The sound of waves brushing against the shore began to mix with the lively hum of trade as he drew closer, his senses sharpening in quiet anticipation.

______

The market was lively, full of color and sound—the chatter of merchants haggling with customers, the laughter of children weaving between stalls, and the crisp scent of sea salt carried on the breeze from the nearby shore.

Harry moved with practiced ease through the bustling crowd, his cloak brushing against his legs as he made his way to the shop he always visited.

There, tucked neatly along the main row of stalls, was a stand stacked with fresh vegetables—greens glistening as though dew still clung to them, carrots and roots bundled tightly, and baskets of herbs that gave off a fragrant, earthy aroma behind it stood a Sindar Elf, his silver hair tied loosely back, humming quietly as he arranged the display with a care that spoke of pride in his work.

“Belthir!” Harry called, his voice warm with familiarity.

The Elf paused mid-motion, then turned. Recognition dawned instantly in his bright features, and his whole face lit up.

“Artamir! How are you?”

He exclaimed, stepping around the stall. Without hesitation, Belthir pulled Harry into a quick but genuine hug. Harry chuckled softly at the unexpected show of affection, patting his shoulder in return.

Before Harry could answer, however, a small, high-pitched voice rang out above the noise of the market.

“Atar! Atar! Amir is here!”

Harry blinked, tilting his head just as a small blur rushed toward him. A child, no more than six years old, with soft golden hair that shone in the sun and striking blue eyes that sparkled with excitement, flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around one of his legs.

“Hello, Little Princess,”

Harry greeted, his voice softening as he bent down with ease, he scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against him. The little girl giggled, cheeks flushed, clinging to him as though she hadn’t seen him in years, though Harry had only been gone for some weeks.

Belthir watched the scene, amusement clear in his eyes, but said nothing.

“Amir, you’re finally here! Look what I have made!”

The child—Aranel announced proudly, fumbling with something in her small hands before thrusting it toward Harry.

It was a bracelet, uneven but lovely, crafted from tiny seashells strung together with thread. She held it up to him as though presenting a priceless treasure, her entire face glowing with excitement.

Harry chuckled softly, ruffling her hair as she wriggled in his hold.

“You’ve done well, Princess,”

He said sincerely, fastening the bracelet carefully onto his wrist. Aranel giggled at his praise, burying her face against his shoulder as though to hide her shyness.

“Come, come,” Belthir interrupted, still smiling as he gestured toward the shop.

“Let us go inside.”

Harry nodded, following him in. The inside of the shop smelled faintly of dried herbs and fresh produce, shelves neatly lined with baskets and jars. Aranel still clung to him until Belthir finally coaxed her down, though her small hand refused to let go of Harry’s cloak.

Harry’s mind, however, drifted briefly as they walked. He remembered the first day he had met Belthir and Aranel. He had been unfamiliar with the goods in the market then, wandering aimlessly, uncertain of what to buy or how much.

It was Aranel who had accidentally bumped into his leg, looking up at him with those wide, curious eyes that one moment had been enough to lead him to Belthir, who had taken him in with a warmth that felt rare in this world.

Belthir was easygoing, quick to laugh and quicker still to tease yet beneath his cheerful exterior lay a shadow that surfaced when the subject of Gondolin came up.

Harry had heard the bitterness in his voice when he spoke of his captivity, how he had been kept from leaving the hidden city, denied the chance to be present for his daughter’s birth. It was a wound that had never quite healed, festering into quiet anger that surfaced in those rare unguarded moments.

Harry pitied him deeply for it even though he himself had no lover or wife, he understood at least in part...the depth of what had been stolen from Belthir. The first moments of holding one’s child, of seeing them draw their first breath and cry their first cry… it was a memory that parents carried with them for life.

To be denied that was to lose something irreplaceable.

Harry’s hand flexed absently where Aranel had once more taken it into her small grasp, her tiny fingers gripping with innocent trust.

A small smile tugged at his lips despite the heaviness of his thoughts. He might never know what it was to be a father, but in moments like this, he could at least understand the fragile, precious bond between parent and child making him ask himself sometimes.

What if Lily and James survived? Would they love him like how Belthir love his daughter?

.

 

.

 

.

Even if he is a freak..?

 

Harry shook his head lightly, brushing away the heavy thoughts that lingered in his mind. He allowed himself instead to focus on the warmth of the present moment, lowering himself into one of the sturdy wooden chairs placed near the counter.

The air inside the shop was faintly scented with rosemary and dried sage, mixing with the salt breeze that drifted in through the open window.

Across from him, little Aranel had settled herself on a small stool, her bright blue eyes practically glowing as she launched into an enthusiastic recounting of her day.

She swung her small legs, too short to reach the floor, and waved her hands animatedly as she spoke about how she had helped her father gather shells by the shore, about the bird she swore had followed her halfway home, and about how she had seen a ship painted red and gold just that morning.

Harry listened, smiling softly as her voice tumbled over itself in excitement. There was something soothing in simply sitting there, letting her chatter fill the silence. He leaned back, resting his elbow against the armrest, and let the fond smile linger across his face.

“Here.”

The sudden voice broke through his thoughts, drawing Harry’s attention sharply back to the present. He blinked and turned his head, finding a steaming plate set down before him. Belthir stood there, arms crossed, watching him with a firm but faintly amused expression.

Harry glanced from the plate to the Elf, confusion etched across his features.

“Belthir…?”

“I know you haven’t had lunch yet,” Belthir interrupted matter-of-factly, as though daring Harry to argue.

“Eat.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest—he hadn’t intended to trouble anyone, and truth be told, he had planned to find something later at the market but before he could form the words, a loud, unmistakable rumble echoed from his stomach. Heat immediately rushed to his cheeks, a flush of embarrassment he couldn’t quite suppress.

Belthir’s brows lifted, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as if he were suppressing a smirk. His expression was clear enough.

Go on then, try and refuse now.

Muttering something that barely passed as a “thank you,” Harry quickly ducked his head, focusing intently on the plate before him to avoid Belthir’s smug look.

Satisfied, Belthir reached down and scooped Aranel into his arms.

The little girl pouted, clearly wanting to remain at Harry’s side but her father distracted her easily with quiet words and tickles that sent her squealing with laughter. Harry found himself shaking his head at the sight, lips curving into an unwilling grin at their lively exchange.

Turning back to the food, Harry picked up his fork and took a tentative bite.

The flavor was simple, hearty...vegetables simmered together with a touch of herbs, bread fresh from the oven, and a bit of fish seasoned with salt. It was not the work of a master chef but it didn’t need to be. It carried the warmth of a home-cooked meal, made with care rather than flourish, and that in itself made it taste better than anything extravagant.

He chewed slowly, savoring it more than he thought he would, and as he did, his gaze drifted to the window beside the table. The shutters had been thrown open, allowing sunlight to stream in, and from where he sat he had a clear view of the shore.

The sight was captivating.

White sails dotted the horizon, their movements smooth and graceful as they swayed with the rhythm of the tide. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the distant calls of sailors and the deep sound of horns announcing the arrival of another vessel and the sea breeze carried the faint tang of salt, refreshing and sharp, weaving its way through the shop and around him.

It was noisy, yes—the bustling of the market, the clatter of hooves outside, the laughter of children running past, and the constant murmur of voices rising and falling but it was a kind of noise that felt alive rather than suffocating to Harry, it was peace.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, leaning back slightly in his chair for once, there was no weight pressing down on his chest, no dark shadow looming at the back of his mind. Just the sound of waves, the warmth of food in his belly, the chatter of a child, and the knowledge that, for this moment at least, the world was gentle.

 

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And Harry wouldn’t trade that for anything.

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_________________________________________________________________________

The soft golden glow of the Hall of Fëa flickered across Nàmo’s face as he stood unmoving, eyes fixed upon the ancient Tree that marked the names of Finwë’s line.

Each rune upon its trunk shimmered faintly with the echo of life that had once been or still was bound to Arda but his gaze did not waver from the one name he had not expected to ever blaze again.

The letters of Ardamírë burned softly, not as bright as the day of birth, not as dim as the hour of passing, but alive..undeniably alive.

Nàmo’s expression remained stern, as always, but his long silence and the slow release of his breath revealed the turmoil beneath the mask. He lifted a hand, his fingers hovering just short of the Tree’s surface, as though the mere act of touch would disturb the delicate flicker of fate the name represented.

Behind him, the echo of retreating footsteps faded, the Maia’s presence gone as the heavy doors of the Hall closed with a solemn weight.

The chamber was quiet now, save for the eternal hum of spirits in his keeping souls broken, waiting, or healing in silence. The stillness pressed down, and for the first time in long ages, Nàmo allowed his shoulders to sink ever so slightly.

So many centuries had passed since Ardamírë’s name had last been spoken aloud without grief. His return was something that even he, the Doomsman of Arda, had not foreseen and that troubled him.

“Discreet,” He had commanded.

A necessary precaution.

He could not allow whispers of this discovery to ripple outward. Not to the others. Not yet.

Nàmo’s mind turned, sharp and heavy, circling around a truth he had long guarded: the blindness of his brethren. Manwë, greatest of the Valar, High King beneath Ilúvatar, had a heart that leaned ever toward mercy but it was a mercy too often untethered from wisdom.

His judgments, swayed by hope, had brought calamities beyond repair. The banishment of the Noldor, the silken chains of pardon upon Melkor, the countless wounds that rippled across both Valinor and Middle Earth

And what then, if Manwë knew of this? If word reached his ears that Ardamírë walked again beneath the light of sun and stars?

Nàmo closed his eyes, jaw tightening He could already imagine it. A call to arms hidden beneath the guise of protection, a decree for pursuit that would shackle both Elves and Maiar alike to his will.

Manwë’s strange fixation with the boy—yes, even he could not deny it would twist the act into obsession. The claim that Ardamírë had been “raised by the Valar” would be enough to justify it.

 

Another war.

Another sundering of kin.

 

Another grief that would flood these Halls until the very stones groaned beneath their burden.

No. That, he would not allow.

He opened his eyes again, the glow of Ardamírë’s name reflected like a shard of starlight in his dark gaze. The silence of the Hall pressed deeper, as though listening to the unspoken weight of his thoughts.

Souls stirred faintly, their shadows brushing at the edges of his perception broken voices reaching for solace he could scarcely grant. Too many had already suffered from wars born of pride and blindness, too many were still unraveling in his care, their wounds beyond mending and still… more would come if he faltered now.

His long robes whispered against the floor as he stepped closer to the Tree, the faintest crease forming upon his brow. He had known grief in uncounted forms, had borne witness to the sundering of countless spirits. Yet this..this flickering light of Ardamírë’s return brought something dangerous..hope, mingled with fear.

Tilting his head back slightly, he let out another low sigh, the sound lost in the vast chamber. His lips moved, barely more than a whisper, a question cast into the still air where no answer would return.

“Where are you, Ardamírë…”

The name lingered in the silence, a breath carried into the endless halls of souls, vanishing like mist.

 

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' I hope Eru, that I wouldn't find you before it's too late '