Starlight by ohboromir

Starlight

It was Naugladur, son of Njal, the King of Nogrod whose axe brought low Mablung of the Heavy Hand.

Mablung had sat him on his knee as a boy.

He had been to Nogrod many times, on errands from the King. He had stayed in the hall of King Njal, just as he had for his father, and his father’s father before him.

(There were too many of them. Mablung was alone; his soldiers he had given orders to help the innocent escape, so that he might complete his Queen’s final order - he would take the jewel to Lúthien)

“Welcome to Nogrod, Captain Mablung. Long have we awaited your coming! Last I saw you I had no grey in my beard.”

“King Njal,” He bowed low, a hand across his chest, and chuckled. “You shall find my hair is still greyer than yours. You are still young.”

“Mahal bless the silver tongue of Elves,” Njal gestured for Mablung to follow him out of the hall and into a receiving room. The Queen sat there with a small child on her lap, who scrambled behind her skirts as she stood to greet him.

“Captain Mablung. It is an honour.”

“Queen Yrsi. The honour is mine, and my lord’s. I bring fair words from Menegroth and fairer gifts; as befitting the coronation of a king.” He had not been invited, of course, but he had not been expecting one; the ceremony for crowning a Dwarf-king was private and he had no wish to intrude.

(He raised his spear, standing before the treasury door. Naugladur was accompanied by twelve strong warriors. But Mablung was mighty, and Mablung was desperate, and three died by his spear and a fourth by his sword. The first blow of Naugladur’s axe connected with the back of his knees as he pulled his sword from the grasp of a dying warrior’s chest.)

“And this must be the young Crown Prince?”

“Naugladur, come now, and greet our guest.”

The child emerged shyly and offered a stiff bow, which Mablung returned – an almost comical gesture, given the child hardly even reached his knees, and the young Dwarf giggled. Mablung’s lips twitched in a smile.

Soon he was seated, listening to Njal recount tales of all that he had missed in the decades since his last visit. Mablung sat on one of the low couches, generously provided specifically for elven visitors, to save them from sitting on the floor – though Mablung would not have minded that.

Naugladur watched him with wide, fascinated eyes as his father talked, watching him drink his tea and eat the sweet cakes he had been offered. Little by little, the young prince edged closer, until he was standing by Mablung’s leg.

(The second blow sliced open his chest. Mablung’s rattling grasp brought up blood. Agony bloomed in his chest, ribs crushed, flesh sliced open. He fell forward, onto his face, the thick dark blood seeping into the stone around him. He could not speak – his voice would not work, even as he tried to call out – for help, for mercy, for an end. The treasury doors burst open.)

“Master Elf,” Naugladur asked, his voice gaining in confidence – they spoke in their shared common tongue, as the prince had not yet learnt Sindarin and Mablung knew only a handful of Khuzdul words. “Will you tell us a story?”

“Hm,” Mablung smiled and sat back, patting his knee, and the young prince climbed up onto his lap, to better here the story Mablung was beginning to tell. “I will tell you a story of starlight. Do you know how the elves came to the forests?”

Naugladur shook his head.

“It was in the ancient days, when there was only bright starlight, no sun and no moon. We had walked far from the shore of our birth, led by the forefathers of elves, led by my lord Thingol.” Mablung began, speaking of the deep forests he had wandered in, the wondrous caves he had explored, the great monsters he had slain in defence of his people. “We wandered down along the river Sirion, with nothing but the stars for company - except ourselves, of course. We loved the forests of Doriath so dearly, we made our home there.”

“You speak of the stars like they were alongside you, Master Elf.” Naugladur giggled, leaning against Mablung, eyes bright with wonder and awe.

“Elves love the starlight as dwarves love the light of gems.”

Njal interrupted with a chuckle. “If King Thingol’s commissions are any measure, elves too love the light of gems.”

“That is true,” Mablung conceded with a laugh of his own. “

“Do you miss the stars, Master Elf, now that we have the Sun?”

Mablung laughed. “In the dark, on the clear nights, we can still see the starlight – it comforts us in our terrors, soothes our grief, guides our paths.”

Naugladur was quiet as Mablung finished his tale. The young prince played with the edge of his sleeve, clearly deep in thought, in the serious yet innocent manner of children.

“You have good stories, Master Elf. Will you tell me more?”

(He crawled towards the open door, even as his life and his insides spilled from him. Naugladur laughed, triumphant, and lifted the Silmaril in its prison of white gems. White gems that twinkled like starlight. Mablung could see nothing else, the shimmering Treelight filling his vision entirely – he raised out a hand, the same hand that had once lifted the Silmaril from the belly of the wolf.

I want see the starlight one last time.

Mablung of the Heavy Hand died in the light of the Trees, encircled by the stars.)