a place where both our hearts may rest by ohboromir

Doom had come to Doriath. The King was dead. The Queen was gone. Mablung’s hands were empty.

Bring the Silmaril to Lúthien.

Melian’s order rang in Mablung’s ears as he stumbled through the halls of Menegroth. His hands were empty – where was his spear? Where was the jewel? How could he take it to her if his hands were empty? What would become of Doriath without it, now that the Girdle was gone? His people needed him, the last authority left alive, until Lúthien came. He could not fail. They needed him.

The world was a blur of colour and sound. His face was wet with blood and tears, unwillingly shed. The agony was focused on a point just below his ribs, every inhale soaking his tunic in more blood. His breath came in a rattling wheeze, and his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to his knees on the stairs. Oh, why had they built so very many stairs?

Death. He felt it, he thought, as he struggled to pull himself up the stairs on his hands and knees. The call of Mandos in his ears, tugging at his spirit. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist. Would he see Beleg again, when he shed his body for the embrace of the Halls? It would not be so terrible to die, if he could see Beleg again.

He collapsed again at the top of the stairs, a smear of blood behind him. Mablung rolled onto his back, the starry ceiling of Menegroth above him. He always imagined he would die in battle, but he had never thought it would be here, under the ground, and alone. He had always imagined he would fall with Beleg at his side – something romantic and brave and valiant, deaths they would sing songs to. Who would sing of him, dying alone at the top of this damned bloody staircase?

No – he was not alone. Someone was shouting, but Mablung could not hear the words. He could only hear Beleg, calling his name – his rich laugh, the lilting bird-song of his voice, the warmth and comfort and safety of him. Would there be singing, in Mandos? He wanted to hear him sing again. He would take back every teasing word he had ever said about his voice, just to hear him sing again.

Someone else – no, there were two people – lifted him over their shoulders. He hung limply between them. Mablung wanted to stop them. There was no need for a healer. Bring them for those who could still be saved. He would welcome death, now, if it would bring him closer to holding his husband in his arms again. For the guilt and grief at his failure to stay and defend Doriath, he was sure no one would deny him his chance to be reunited with the one person he loved above all else in the world.

Doriath was lost – what else had he to live for, if not for Doriath, if not for Beleg? Both were lost, and Mablung would be too, and they would be lost together, inseparable in death as they had once been in life. Perhaps they would write songs of that; of love, of the joy of being together again, of how there could not be one without the other.

He felt himself being lowered onto the ground, onto something soft. There was a healer standing over him, hands pressed to his side to stem the flow of blood. They were talking to him, begging him to stay awake, shouting for more hands and more bandages. Mablung smiled. He was glad he was not alone.

He let the darkness claim him and closed his eyes.

And then something happened that he did not expect: Mablung opened his eyes.

There was a woman leaning over him, partially obscuring his view of the tiled ceiling. His brow creased; Doriath did not have tiled ceilings, certainly not ones painted with dancing fishes. He shifted, and the woman put her hand on his chest and pushed him back down.

“No need for fussing. Your regular nurse will be back soon.” She sounded mildly amused, “I sent him off to make himself useful; for all he claims to be a healer, he spends more worrying over every little twitch than doing anything that would actually help.”

His frown deepened. Did she expect him to know what she was talking about?

“Where…?”

“Sirion.” She finished adjusting his bandages and stepped back, and Mablung could properly focus on her face. She was real, solid, made of flesh; alive. And so was he. If he tried to remember how he had gotten here, there was only pain and confusion. Sirion, so far from Menegroth. Who had carried him so far? How had he lived? He had felt death’s call in his spirit.

He was almost disappointed: he had been so looking forward to seeing Beleg again.

“But I was dying.”

“Your people love you, Captain. Did you think they would leave you to die?” She scolded him gently, “They brought you - and other wounded, of course - by wagon. We have better healers here now.”

Now Doriath is ruined. Now Melian is gone. Now his king was dead; now that his friends and his husband and soldiers he had trained from childhood were dead. And yet Mablung had been doomed to remain.

“What news from Menegroth? Did they send for the Princess? Was there a second attack?”

But the woman would not answer his questions. He could tell by the look on her face – and he had been a patient many times before. He knew how healers were. When he opened his mouth, he was told not to worry, to rest, to heal. But there was so much to worry about. Why did they never understand, it was not so simple as putting it out of his mind?

The woman paused in her tasks and looked to the hallway.

“Ah. Here he is. I will leave you two.”

She heard the footsteps in the hall as clearly as Mablung, and hurried from the room – but not before Mablung caught the hint of a smile on her lips, as though she were in on some little joke.

The door creaked open again. Mablung’s heart stopped. Perhaps he was dead after all and this was just a vision of Mandos.

Beleg Cúthalion – his Beleg, his husband, silver as the stars – came through the door, arms full of fresh sheets for the bed. Their eyes met. The bedsheets fell to the floor in a heap.

And then Beleg’s warm arms were around him, his face pressed to Mablung’s neck. Mablung fought against the pain to wrap his arms around him in turn, pressing soft lips to his hair, breathing in the reality of him – he still smelt of beech-wood and pine, even here by the Sea.

Fourteen years. Fourteen years, he had been lost to him. Those years had passed in quiet grief; he had heard from those in Brethil of Beleg’s fate, and though he had thought to search Dorthonion for a grave, he had never been able to bring himself to do it.

Now, like the shade that haunted his dreams, he was returned.

Beleg shifted, moving back, and Mablung grasped him tighter. “Stay.”

“I am not going anywhere without you again.” Beleg pulled himself free and sat on the chair by the bed, taking one of Mablung’s hands in his own and holding it, clasping between both of his. His eyes were watery, he hardly blinked. “Never again. I swear, I swear it. Oh, meleth-nin…”

Mablung curled their fingers together. “I thought you…” The words tasted like bile. “I thought you were dead.”

Beleg’s face clouded with guilt. “I thought the news had reached you.”

“You could have brought it yourself.” It was hard to keep the hint of sharpness from his words; had Beleg been here all these years, while Mablung grieved him?

“No,” Beleg’s gaze darted to their joined hands. “I could not have. I was as near to death as you were in Doriath, I was in the grave, Mablung, when He – when Lord Araw pulled me from the dirt –”

“The Lord of the Forests pulled you from the dirt?”

“Yes. Did I not just say so? You remember- he was always fond of me.” Beleg frowned, and leaned forward, brushing his fingers through Mablung’s hair. “You do remember, don’t you? You do not have a head wound, do you? I tended you best I could, I did not find any.”

“I am fine. Stop fussing. I want to know the story.”

“Oh, yes. Lord Araw saved me, he came to me, in the form of a great beast, and dug me from my grave. He saved me, Mablung, but I was so weak, I could hardly move. He brought me here on his back.” Beleg gestured to the room with his free hand. “And here I have been since, too weak and wounded to do anything but lie in my bed. If it were not for his power, I would be long departed to the Halls of Waiting.”

“You are not abed now.”

“No.” Beleg admitted, “I tried to send word to Doriath, but you know I do not write, so I suppose the messenger must not have passed through the Girdle. And… I could not go back there, Mablung. It would have been too much for me.”

Guilt rose anew in Mablung’s heart. He thought of sweet Niënor, of brave Morwen, of Túrin, the boy he had seen grow into a man. All of them dust now, and neither he nor Beleg had been able to hold back the tide of fate, no matter how they had tried. He closed his eyes. Of course, Beleg had not wanted to return so soon – what was fourteen years to one as old as either of them? It would only have been a cruel reminder of his failures.

“Doriath…” Mablung opened his eyes again, “Elwë, the Silmaril, I was… I was supposed to bring it to the princess.”

Beleg shook his head. “Dior is king of Doriath now. He has it. It is our burden no longer. We have played our part, and look at what it has cost us.”

Mablung squeezed his hand.

“When I am well, we will leave this place. I want to see the wilds again, Beleg. I have hidden away in Doriath too long – if war in Beleriand is inevitable, I want to die free, not armoured and desperate.”

He remembered how they had once desired glory. How they had once wanted to take part in great deeds. And how that battle had ended in nothing but betrayal and bloodshed. No, Mablung did not wish to be a warrior any longer – he longed for his books and journals, for the comfort of song and the company of friends.

Beleg exhaled deeply. “We will not be soldiers again; not captains, not lords, only Beleg and Mablung.”

He pressed his forehead to Mablung’s, and then kissed him softly.

“You need to sleep. Your wounds were serious. We have all the time in the world to talk. Sleep now, and I will be here when you wake.”

Mablung smiled and closed his eyes.

They were soldiers again in the end, once more, when Sirion fell, bow and spear defending their kin. But when the Calaquendi came over the sea, with their shining spears and golden armour, they declined both ship and sword, and remained among the civilians – prepared to muster a last stand if it came to it.

But it did not.

It ended.

There was peace.

The waters rose and swallowed Beleriand; swallowed the world that they had known. They let their suffering be swallowed with it; let the Sea take all their grief and erode it away, until their hearts were light again. It could not undo their hurts, but to know that they at last had a chance for peace was like healing from the hands of Estë herself. The Sea would not erase their memories – those they cherished, and shut away in their hearts, where the world could not tarnish them.

Círdan had offered them welcome in Mithlond, but they had other plans. If they were not to be counted among the Great and the Wise, – Beleg protested they should be counted among the Old, if nothing else, but that did not win them a place on any council – then they would relish their freedom.

Once, so very long ago, they had walked the length of Middle Earth. Now they planned to do it again, to cross Ered Luin and walk east until they could no more – and they planned to take their time, and savour the joy of discovery.

“You will bring the snow down upon us if you keep singing.”

His cheerful song – more a chant, really, a recanting of different birds and their traits – faded as Beleg laughed, hopping up onto a boulder and turning to look back at Mablung. “You always pretend my singing is terrible.”

“Terrible? It is loud.” Mablung retorted, hiking up to meet him. “Did you not learn your lesson the last time we walked here?”

Beleg remembered it exactly. Charged with scouting the path ahead, his carelessness (or as he would call it, carefreeness) in climbing an outcrop of rock had dislodged a large wall of snow, trapping the rest of the progress on the other side, and causing such a delay Araw had sent one of his maiar to help clear a path. Beleg did not see why it had been such a big deal; they had been walking slowly already, what was a few more days' delay? The snow would have melted eventually.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He placed his hands on his hips and looked upwards at the towering mountain. “Besides, singing about birds does not cause snow to fall. Now, if you would like, I shall sing of falling snow, and we can test the theory.”

“Have mercy, please. There is no need for that.” Mablung laughed, holding up his hands in defeat. “Do you see any caves from up there?”

Beleg shaded his eyes against the sun. “To the north east, the rock dips away. An overhang, if not a cave. A good spot for a campfire all the same.”

He jumped back down, landing lightly atop the snow. They had been walking through the mountains for almost a whole season now, taking their time to investigate every cave and valley. Only a few weeks ago they had spent five days mapping a large cave system, the deepest part filled floor to ceiling with glittering crystals, so beautiful that they had wept, and spent the night pretending to be in Menegroth again.

“Lead the way.” Mablung adjusted his pack and followed Beleg through the snow. For all his teasing, Beleg thought, looking back over his shoulder at him, Mablung was happy to hum along to his tune.

The mountains dipped and rose around them, waves of stone reaching for the sky. The snow was thick and soft as moss, covering almost every inch of ground. Time had not dimmed the majesty of Ered Luin, nor had it lessened Beleg’s awe of them. The rock was as old and mighty and as revered by him as any ancient oak. Nor was it barren. Alpine plants peaked through the rocks, cheerful sprouts of green and tiny pink and white flowers, growing stubbornly as if from the rock itself.

That was one thing he was looking forward to on the other side. Evendim, the green hills were called, or so Mablung’s map – another generous gift from Círdan – claimed. Green and wide as far an elf-eye could see, meadow flowers and lakes of clear water. He imagined himself bathing in warm sunlight, cushioned by grass. A sweet dream after the harsh beauty of the mountains.

His song picked up again, his voice light and cheerful; no one would ever tell legends of his musical gift, but it was an honest voice, made to sound in forest glades and around campfires, not king’s halls. In the distance, he heard the answering call of a winter wren.

The shelf of rock he had spotted was a cave after all. Beleg grinned, looking back again to Mablung. “We will have a proper camp tonight after all. It looks cosy.”

Mablung raised an eyebrow.

Cosy was not the right word. It was a small cave – even if they set themselves up right at the back, they would hear the whistling wind, and the ground was hard and bare, thick with dirt and debris. No one, elf nor beast, had set foot in here for a long time – if ever at all. But Beleg ducked inside and cleared a patch of ground with his boot, setting down his pack.

“I will find us some firewood.” Mablung decided, handing his pack to Beleg. They carried spares, of course, but both of them would rather save it for an occasion where they really could not find any wood.

“By the time you return, this will be the most comfortable cave you have ever slept in.”

He was gone only an hour, but Beleg had worked hard. He had cleared more of the ground, marking out a spot for their fire, and laid out the soft pelts from their packs for them to sleep on. Belthronding had been wrapped in her protective cloth and laid by their packs, and he had done the same for Mablung’s spear, laying the weapons atop each other.

Taking off his cloak and boots, he took a moment to stretch his feet before he sat down and began preparing their rations to be heated – soup tonight that Mablung had prepared at their last camp, with the last of their bread and the sweet spring berries that Beleg had dutifully collected. Not a glamorous meal, but shared between the two of them in the comfort of each other’s arms, Beleg would not have chosen anything else.

Mablung returned with his arms full of wood. Beleg took it from him with a kiss on his cold cheek, and set about making their fire while Mablung made himself comfortable. Before long, the fire was crackling and the soup was warm in their bellies.

“You know,” Beleg offered Mablung his last berry, later, as he lay with his head against his folded cloak. “I think I understand dwarves better now. Mountains are quite pleasant places, when one is not harried by sure-footed foes.”

“Uh-huh.” Mablung took the fruit without lifting his gaze from his journal, where he was scribbling away with a piece of charcoal. Beleg frowned.

“You are not listening to me.”

“I am always listening, meleth-nin.”

“You only call me that when you want me to be quiet.” Beleg argued, crawling over to wedge himself between Mablung and the book. There was half a page of writing that Beleg could not read, and beneath it the form of a wren was taking shape, caught mid-flight.

“I call you it other times, too.” Mablung teased, stopping his sketching to press a kiss to the top of Beleg’s head. “You do not complain then.”

Satisfied with the attention, Beleg shuffled down so his head was on Mablung’s firm thigh – his favourite pillow in the world, second only to his husband’s chest – and let him continue drawing.

Mablung smiled down at him, and paused again to kiss him softly.

The night passed that way; Beleg nestled against Mablung’s leg with his cloak as a blanket, Mablung sketching until the light grew too faint, and then he curled around Beleg, adding his cloak to their bed.

They were out with the dawn, descending the mountain path into Eriador for the first time in years uncounted.

Purest delight sprang up in their hearts. Beleg jogged ahead to the river, and throwing aside all that he carried, leapt into the cool water. Mablung’s laughter echoed with his as he raced to join him.

Their travels continued in the same way. They would walk slowly, sometimes hand in hand, sometimes singing, always bright and joyful. Time meant nothing to them. The green plains and hills of Evendim stretched out endlessly as they meandered through, taking time to sit and watch trees grow, to talk with saplings and mighty ancients, to bathe in every river and lake they found.

They did not know how long it had been when they finally wandered into the path of other elves – Sindar by their tongue, settled around a lake larger than any they had found so far. After much excited chatter, they were led to the largest house on the shore, where silver and gold banners fluttered in the wind. Their guide excused herself, and vanished through a side door. Moments later, another elf emerged.

“My friends!” Celeborn of Doriath embraced them as though they had never been parted. “We have been awaiting your visit – Galadriel said you would be coming soon.”

“You have been keeping tabs on us?” Beleg laughed. “It is not like you to be so worried.”

“Things have changed me.”

At that moment, there was a burst of shrill laughter, the sound of glass breaking, and a little girl came racing into the hall, as fast as her little feet would carry her. Her round face was smeared with paint, the tips of her silvery hair coloured green.

“Ada! Ada!” She tugged on his sleeve, until he bent and lifted her into his arms. Only then did she seem to notice the strangers in her home, and stared at them, chewing on the cuff of her sleeve.

“Celebrían,” Celeborn said gently, “These are Ada’s friends. Beleg, and Mablung.”

Beleg placed a hand over his heart and gave her a small bow. “It is an honour to meet you, little lady Celebrían.”

“I dyed my hair, see?” She held up the green ends of her hair. “Do you like it?”

“It is very beautiful,” Mablung agreed, “Very lovely. You have a good eye.”

Her round face glowed with delight. Celeborn smiled. “Come, my friends. There is much to catch you up on.”

*

“But uncle,” Celebrían, on the cusp of adolescence, lifted the potted rose up towards the sun. “How do you know that they want to talk to you?”

“Plants always want to talk.” Beleg was kneeling in the dirt of Celeborn’s garden, in the process of planting out the seedlings which he had nurtured for the past few weeks. Celebrían was his companion this afternoon – or rather his apprentice, eager to sit by him and learn all he knew of flower, root and stem. “Flowers in particular. They like to listen to talk of beautiful things; art and music and fair maidens.”

“And they will understand me, if I talk to them like we talk now?”

“Yes. Now,” he smoothed the earth down around his latest row of seedlings, patting it down firmly. “It will take some practice to be able to understand them in turn, but I am sure a talented child, like yourself, will pick it up quickly. You have to spend time with them, let them know you and your song. And then they will open up to you, and you will grow the most beautiful roses in the world.”

Celebrían leaned over to plant the next seedling, and he knelt back and watched her, wiping his brow. He had never had a child, but he imagined himself in that moment with a little girl of his own, teaching her the secrets of the earth and the forest, and his heart swelled. Ah, it was not his fate, he knew, but he would indulge in the fantasy.

“How goes the hard work?” A shadow fell over them, as Mablung approached, his face bright and cheerful – wind-flushed. He had been out riding with Celeborn. His braid was coming undone. Beleg gestured to their progress; a good third of the plants had been set in place.

“It goes well, with the help of my apprentice here.”

Celebrían giggled. “Uncle Beleg has been teaching me to talk to plants.”

“I see,” Mablung crouched on the other side of the raised bed, reaching for a trowel. “Well, with two chatty caretakers, these flowers are sure to bloom bright and early. But we had best finish planting them out, or they will never grow at all.”

They continued their work another hour, regaling Celebrían with tales of the strangest and most fantastic plants they had ever seen – the great triple-tree of Hírilorn, where they had passed many summers, the strange talking trees that they had met on the Great Journey, blooming gold flowers without a name in the strange and wild places of the world. Celebrían adored it all, announcing with delight that one day she would have a garden that would rival Vána’s, the envy of all the world. Both Beleg and Mablung agreed that this was a lofty and noble goal, fitting of the daughter of such might and power, and assured her they would visit her gardens when they were in their first bloom.

With the sinking of the sun, all garden work was finished, and Celebrían was whisked away by her nursemaid to wash and change for dinner; her uncles left to their own devices.

They joined Celeborn and Galadriel at dinner that evening, as was their custom most days, and after the dishes had been cleared away, and Celebrían sent yawning off to her bed, the adults retired to a small drawing room, seating themselves on low couches with glasses of wine and sweet cakes.

Celeborn reclined against the back of his couch, glass balanced on the arm, while Galadriel leaned against him, her legs up on the opposite arm of the couch, as she recounted the contents of a letter from the High King, or as she called him, her dearest grand-nephew.

Mablung was listening intently, commenting mostly to suggest he thought Gil-Galad’s policies sensible. He was stretched out like a cat, taking an entire couch from himself with the throw over his legs. Beleg sat on the floor, as he preferred, and was nodding along while helping himself to the snacks.

“We are thinking of moving east, once Celebrían is a little older.” Celeborn interrupted, much to Beleg’s relief, as Galadriel and Mablung seemed about to launch into an animated discussion of Gil-Galad’s economic policy. “Oropher says there are great forests over the Misty Mountains, where we might make homes of our own. Evendim is lovely, but I miss the forest.”

“I remember,” Beleg agreed, “You were not born then, and nor was Oropher, but there are – were, though I do not see why they would no longer be there – such vast and wondrous forests on the other side of the mountains. We were thinking of going there – I would like to see the Anduin again, for my part.”

“That was where Lenwë’s folk departed, was it not?” Mablung added.

“It was,” Beleg looked wistful, “I suppose they might still be there.”

“You should come with us.” Galadriel suggested, “It will not be for some time yet; we want Celebrían to be older, for the travelling, and we have much to plan. We want to go with Amdír, do you remember him?”

Mablung snorted. “How could anyone forget the dread when he stood up to give his opinion? When Amdír speaks, it is like an entire age is passing.”

Galadriel laughed. “Yes, well, he and Amroth wish to live in a forest again, and so does Celeborn.”

“A gracious invitation,” Beleg replied, “And one I am sure we will take you up on – though I do not think we are quite ready to give up our wandering ways.”

“The day you do, Beleg Cúthalion,” Celeborn declared, “The stars will fall from the sky.”

The night continued with more friendly teasing, the hall ringing with the sound of elvish laughter until the small hours. All was well in the world.

“I’m not going to drop you.”

Mablung had Beleg balanced on his shoulders, so that he could reach into the tree and start arranging the softer branches into a floor for the talan, his arms wrapped around Beleg’s strong legs. A fairer burden he had never carried, true, but Beleg was more wriggling and troublesome than any.

Beleg paused in his work and looked down at him. “Promise?”

Mablung poked him in the calf. “Are you finished yet?”

“Almost.”

Mablung shifted him on his shoulders and looked back behind them, at the flowing river. On their departure from Evendim – later than they had intended, but laden with gifts and good will – they had trekked over the mountains in the company of a party of men, who had shown them the safest route down to the river in exchange for nothing more than a share of their meals and their stories.

Now they had plans: they would make a home here in the trees, by the water’s edge, and live as they had on the Journey. He was looking forward to it; already he had plans to make their talan more homely.

“That should hold.” He felt the weight lifted off his shoulders as Beleg pulled himself up to stand on the platform he had made, bouncing up and down on it to test its strength. With a satisfied grin, he wiped his brow. It would hold - not that either of them had ever doubted that it would; they had built so many outdoor shelters in their lives. If anyone in the world were experts in it, it was the two of them.

And so, their life by the Anduin began.

In the evening, they lay under the stars, talking of nothing but their plans for their home. Beleg sat against the grand trunk of the tree, and with Mablung’s head on his lap. He wound his fingers through his hair. Mablung opened his eyes.

Beleg was staring down at him, eyes shining with adoration.

Few people had ever called Mablung beautiful; they saw his features as stern, hard, as though he were made of stone. Handsome, but not beautiful. But Beleg saw it and he always reminded Mablung of it. He saw it in the soft crinkling in the corner of his eyes. The way his hair was as soft as spun silk, the deep brown of chestnut-bark. The way he carried himself, graceful and confident, so that nothing in the world could shake him.

“You are beautiful…”

Mablung arched an eyebrow, a fond smile on those beloved lips. Beleg could not help himself; he leaned down, and kissed him.

Mablung reached up and wound his fingers into Beleg’s hair, tugging him closer. The kiss deepened, awakening burning desire in Beleg’s blood. So easily Mablung could spark fire in him.

Mablung pulled him over him, both their hands flying in a frenzied desire to rid them both of clothes, between clumsy kisses and soft moans, until finally they were bare chest to bare chest.

Beleg sat back, straddling Mablung and grinding against his groin, watching the lust flash in Mablung’s eyes. For a second, he paused to admire him again.

He wished he were an artist, to capture Mablung’s face in paint or sculpture. Oromë himself could not have been so handsome, nor Tulkas so well-formed.

“Beleg…” Mablung reached for him, but Beleg pinned his hands together.

“Let me adore you.”

Mablung opened his mouth to protest - he always insisted he did not need adoring - but Beleg swallowed it with another kiss and Mablung sighed against his lips, soft and content.

Beleg’s lips left a path of sweet kisses along his throat and jaw, taunting, never lingering as long as Mablung wanted. Down that firm chest, worshipping each scar with his lips, until Mablung was hard and trembling beneath him.

He rolled his hips, pressing against Mablung’s hard cock, earning a guttural groan that sent a bolt of lightning down his spine. Beleg repeated the motion, sneaking a hand behind him to wrap around Mablung’s cock, sweeping his thumb over the head and slicking his hand.

“Beleg…” Mablung’s breathless moan set Beleg’s heart aflutter, his own neglected cock aching. “Meleth-nin. I want you.”

“Patience, beloved.”

Beleg shuffled back - gracefully, he would insist! - and sank between Mablung’s legs. He licked a stripe from Mablung’s hole to the base of his cock, making him arch desperately. Beleg laved at his balls letting Mablung tug at his hair and whine, as he mouthed along his cock. Perhaps another time he would have teased Mablung until he came like this, but it had been a long day of work, and Beleg had not worked up his own patience.

He straddled him again, slicking himself with spit and angling himself before he sank down, taking Mablung inch by inch. Beneath him, Mablung held his breath, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes, dark as the earth with lust.

In unison they groaned as Beleg sat himself fully in Mablung’s lap. Their hands grasped each other tightly. And then Beleg rose up, strong thighs flexing, and dropped himself down again, and again, setting a desperate pace.

Sweat slicked their bodies, Mablung’s hands digging into his hips to guide him as he rocked up into him. Beleg planted a hand on his chest, the other curling around his own length. With a whine like the wind in the trees, Beleg spilled over his hand and Mablung’s answering groan reverberated through him as he followed him over the edge into bliss.

As the last light faded, Beleg curled against Mablung, having cleaned themselves with the cool river water.

The night passed.

Then another, and another. Summer cooled to autumn, when they wove the red and orange leaves into their hair, and then into winter, which they spent in their talan, wrapped in each other’s cloaks and singing merry old songs.

Again, and again the seasons turned, but Beleg and Mablung were unchanging. Their home was filled with laughter – they hunted and foraged and fished, and food was always in generous supply. Beleg wove nets from river fibres and Mablung made spears for fish and snares for rabbits. Every night, they sang under the stars, naming them for friends long gone over the Sea, and in spring they danced together on the flowery banks of the Anduin until the Sun had sunk out of view.

It was summer once more when the sound of hooves caught Mablung’s attention. In the years they had dwelt here, there had been few passersby – mostly dwarves travelling to the mountains. But he could hear the snatches of voices, in a tongue he did not recognise. It did not sound Dwarvish.

He looked up from his fishing spot and held a hand to shield his eyes from the Sun. Yes, riders – fair haired Men on strong horses. Curious, he called out to them, in a tongue of Men he knew.

“Hail, friends!”

The travellers, as they approached, looked wary. By the way their horses were laden, Mablung judged them to be merchants, perhaps.

“Peace, my friends, I do not mean harm. Only I heard your words on the wind, and your tongue is strange to me.”

The leader of the strangers replied in halting Westron. “Who are you, to stop us on this road? Do you ask for a ransom?”

He shook his head stiffly, surprised. He was not used to wary wanderers.

“No – I only wish to know who you are and what tongue you speak. I have a passion for the tongues of Men.”

Still, they looked uncertain. Mablung was about to simply tell them to go on, and forget they had met him, when Beleg returned from his stroll.

“Ah, Mablung, you have made friends!” His bright smile was unmistakably friendly, and Mablung saw the strangers relax a little. Valar, Beleg’s smile. Mablung often thought the light of Ilúvatar himself was caught in it, in the way his cheeks dimpled and his eyes crinkled ever so slightly.

Beleg, seemingly unaware he had made such a difference, continued. “You must tell me all about yourself! Come, share our supper, it is all fresh, and there is plenty for you all.”

Like that, the tension was broken. The horses were left to graze, the travellers gathered around their fire with bowls and cups filled. Talk was a little difficult; these were horse-lords, Éothéod, they called themselves, and they had their own tongue alongside Westron that most of them knew better.

But Mablung had a fast ear and a strong determination, and as evening fell, he was talking along with them in their own language, awkward but understandable. These men were scouts of a kind, sent to discover if it was safe to bring their bulk of their people down this road. The Éothéod, Mablung learned, lived in the Vales of Anduin – but few travelled this particular road, since it was known that a king of elves had built his halls in the Greenwood some hundred years hence. All tales they had heard of elves were strange and dangerous, and thus they preferred to avoid them.

“You are afraid of elves?” Mablung asked, between a sip of his home-brewed mead.

“Yes.” One of the Éothéod answered, “For we hear such stories of you! At once you are both whimsical and fearsome – they say an elf can steal your voice, to sing with in the wilds!”

“That is not so,” Mablung laughed, “But it would be quite a trick if we could. But I would say you are wise to be wary. Most elves are very strange – but if your horse trusts them, have no fear.”

The night continued, with the swapping of songs and stories and more of Mablung’s cooking. As the night drew on, many of them stopped to sleep, until it was only two of the Éothéod and the elves who sat around the fire.

“Do they tell the name of this elf king? Perhaps old Celeborn has finally earned himself a crown.” Beleg asked, curious, though his ear for their tongue was not as good.

Mablung laughed at that, but after a quick exchange, shook his head. “They do not – but I doubt it is him.”

“Ah, probably not. A pity. I would love to know what people would say about him, if he were a strange forest king.”

That caught the attention of one of their guests, and Mablung was soon engrossed in telling the tale of Doriath in all its glory, as Beleg drifted into a half-sleep on his lap. As he finished, one of the Éothéod smiled, though her eyes were watery.

“A great loss to the world.” She said, softly, and Mablung nodded softly in answer. “But do not grieve; you brought love out of it, did you not? There is peace to be found in that.”

Yes, Mablung thought, there was.

*

When winter came again, they decided to retreat into the Greenwood.

There, they found a greater welcome than they had expected. The King of the Wood-elves was Oropher of Doriath. Oropher, the elf who had sat across from Mablung at council meetings, who he had debated petty points of policy with, who had played cards and drank with – a king!

And his son is a prince. Thranduil had been one of the most talented young recruits Mablung had ever trained, though he wasn’t so young now. He would make a fine prince, with his strong will and sharp mind.

“Oropher, I can hardly believe it!” Beleg echoed his thoughts as a guard led them down into the wood-king’s halls.

Mablung hummed his amused agreement, admiring the architecture. It was as if Oropher had captured the memory of Menegroth in his halls; the high arches, the ceiling carved with vines and flowers and fruits. He recognised some of the designs as Oropher’s device, but there were other patterns he did not know. Nandorin symbols, perhaps?

Oropher rushed down from his throne to greet them, throwing his arms around them both with a great shout of laughter.

“You have come at last! Celeborn wrote years ago to say you were travelling this way. I was beginning to think the two of you were lost on the road.”

Mablung laughed. “Is it being lost if it is on purpose?”

“True, true,” He ushered them into a more private room. “We all love getting lost in the woods these days. It is far more pleasant now that the forests are safe.”

Safe was perhaps relative, but Mablung did not argue. “I take it, then, we are welcome to stay?”

“Of course! I have already had a room prepared for you; I am sure you will be glad of a bed. Have you been sleeping on the ground?”

“I built a talan.” Beleg said, proudly, “And it was very comfortable, actually. As good as any bed.”

Mablung rolled his shoulders. “That is easy for you to say, Beleg, when you have spent three hundred years using me as your pillow. I will be glad of a mattress.”

Oropher chuckled, pouring them both a drink from a pitcher of ruby red wine. “You have not changed, my friends.”

“No,” Mablung sat down and sipped his drink, “We have not. But neither have you. Or rather, neither has your taste in design. This is Menegroth come again – perhaps fairer, for all these halls are of the woods themselves.”

Oropher’s eyes watered a little, his smile turning bittersweet. “Fair words, Mablung. Thank you. I just wish…”

I just wish more of them were here to see it. Mablung did not need to hear those words to know it.

He grasped his old friend by the shoulder and squeezed firmly.

“We are here now, until you get sick of us – now open up that bottle of wine and toast to their memory.”

*

Thranduil burst into the dining room still in his ranging gear. His eyes were bright and his face was pink with cold. He scanned the room, and then he broke into a grin.

“I won!” he laughed, and dropped into a chair. “I beat him – I can’t believe it; I actually beat him back.”

Mablung looked behind him down the hall. Where was Beleg? The two of them had been out exploring, but they had promised to be back for dinner. Here was Thranduil – but Beleg was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he, then?”

“He was behind me – then we said we would race. I am sure he will be here any moment.”

The moment passed. Another and another. One more, long and drawn out. There was no sign of Beleg. Thranduil shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking out down the hallway as if Beleg would appear out of nowhere. He did not.

A deep pain began in Mablung’s chest, deep in the left of his breast, the soreness where he had once been wounded. But the pain was not from any injury. It was panic, pure, cold dread. The night was cold and the woods were still unfamiliar to them. The thought of Beleg, alone out there, made him nauseous.

It was an unreasonable fear.

But he and Beleg had hardly been apart since they had crossed Ered Luin – not for more than a few hours, and never had one of them been in danger while the other was safe. It was a terrible feeling; but he had never felt like this before, not in the old days. They had spent months or years apart then and he had never been this afraid. What had become of him?

“I will go look for him.” He said into the silence of the room and before Oropher or Thranduil could answer him, he was striding out of the hall. A few moments later, he heard Thranduil rushing to catch up with him.

“I’m sure he’s just wandered the wrong way, Mablung. There’s no need to be worried.”

“I am not worried.”

“You look worried.”

Mablung did not reply.

The Greenwood seemed so different in the dark. The trees were bent and creeping, twisted branches reaching out like long clawed fingers. Every rustle of the leaves felt like eyes on him, watching, waiting, like a cat stalking its prey. Thranduil showed him the path they had been on. It split off two ways. Thranduil took the left path while Mablung took the right.

The trees began closing in on him. His chest grew tighter as he walked, as if his own ribs were trying to crush his heart. He could see his breath forming in the air in front of him – when had it gotten so cold? – and now the rustling of the branches was faint behind the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

What if he is hurt? What if he was found by wolves or bears or boars? What if there were servants of the enemy in the Greenwood, unknown and unseen? What if he had fallen from a tree and broken something and now, he was laying in the dirt, bloody and in pain, so alone as his life faded from his –

“Mablung! Mablung, is that you?”

Beleg’s voice was the sweetest sound in the world. Mablung’s heart could have burst in euphoria as he scrambled to the edge of the ditch, peering over the side with such haste he almost fell down it himself. There, sitting in the damp leaves and smiling sheepishly up at him, was his husband, whole and alive and mostly unharmed.

“My saviour,” he chuckled, still looking embarrassed, “My darling husband, the light of my life - I think I’ve broken my ankle.”

Mablung exhaled deeply through his nose and laughed, high and breathy. He could not even cringe at the barrage of love-names – he was just relieved to see Beleg being his ridiculous self.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that? You’ll make me go grey, one of these days.”

Beleg only grinned up at him. “I think you would look very handsome with grey hair. What do the Edain call it – a silver fox?”

“Perhaps I’ll leave you here, actually.”

“Mablung, don’t be like that.”

Thranduil jogged over to them, and began to scale the ditch. Thranduil looped Beleg’s arm over his shoulder and together with Mablung, the two of them lifted Beleg back to the path.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again, you know that, yes?”

Beleg hobbled along beside him, and paused to kiss his cheek.

“I wouldn’t ever want to be.”

As sheltered as the Greenwood was, time still marched on within it, and Beleg grew restless. It was almost as if it was too much like Menegroth – he had grown restless and unnerved when he was there too, longing for the wilds and the freedom to range as he willed. He was not made for this kind of life; when the novelty of being still had worn off, he longed for the road again.

But he did not want to disturb Mablung’s peace. He loved to watch him; how he complained less and less of his old pains, how his smiles came more frequently, he had even taken up music again. Beleg had not heard him play since Lúthien was a child. He wanted to move on. But how could he ask Mablung to give up this comforting life? Or worse, leave him here while he went off alone? He had sworn not to leave his side again - and the world was less beautiful without him, greyer and duller.

But fortunately - and as Beleg should have known, truthfully - Mablung knew him too well to miss the signs. One spring morning, almost a century to the day after they had come to the Greenwood, he walked into their bedroom to find his husband organising his pack.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing. We’ll leave once the next storm passes.” Mablung did not look up from where he was examining a sock that needed darning.

“Leave?”

“Do you think I have not noticed? You have longing in your eyes.”

“I always have longing in my eyes when I look at you, dearest.”

“Insatiable fiend.” Mablung rolled his eyes, but his smile still brimmed with affection. “That is not what I mean. You want to go wandering again. So, we will go.”

“I don’t want to take you away from our life here.”

“We crossed the Mountains to see the world. We cannot stay here forever – perhaps we will come back around, once we have seen enough.” Mablung assured him, and Beleg’s anxiety was soothed. He was right. This was not taking away from Mablung – it was something he wanted, too, it was for them.

Just as Mablung had said, they left the Greenwood after the next spring storm, having said their farewells and gathered fresh supplies. It was with a light heart and eager feet that they wandered south, through the blooming forests until they reached the forest road, and from there they followed the Celduin river.

The road was peaceful, for the most part. There were few things out there that they feared, and no word of dangers in the wider world had reached them. After several weeks on the road, the sea of Rhûn flowed out before them.

Beleg’s heart trembled. Cuiviénen, dearest long-lost Cuiviénen, the great lake that had greeted him when he had taken his first steps in the world. This was not that lake, but it stirred the memory of it all the same, and his eyes pricked with tears.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

The water was blue as sapphires, rippling softly in the breeze. The earth was warm and dark, emerald grass grazed by the proud kine, who paid elves little attention. Beleg did not answer Mablung, but made his way to the lakeshore, removing his boots to sink his feet into the sun warmed water. Mablung joined him a moment later, sitting on a boulder.

“Do you remember when we came here on the March?”

“When Olwë made rafts? Oh – we should make ourselves a little boat!”

The idea made Beleg’s eyes light up, and he waded hurriedly out the water, only to come shuffling back a few moments later.

“There’s a current. A little raft will do.”

Mablung carried, habitually, a hand-axe on his belt, and he set about felling logs while Beleg carried them to the shore, lining them up. It was hot and tiring work, and both elves soon grew irritable. As it turned out, ship-building was not as easy as either of them had remembered.

“You’re not tying the knot properly.” Mablung batted Beleg’s hands away from the piece of twine he was fighting with. Beleg batted his way back.

“I know how to tie a knot, Mablung. I’m not a child.”

“You could have fooled me.” Mablung rolled his eyes, and stepped back. When Beleg had finished securing the twine, they crouched to lift the raft, but the knot came undone in a moment, and all the logs tumbled back to the ground.

“Don’t say –”

“I told you so.” Mablung snatched the twine from Beleg, who snatched it back. Mablung scowled. “Some woodsman you are.”

Beleg rolled his eyes. “I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas.”

“If you would just let me do it –”

“You can’t do everything for me all the time, Mablung.” Beleg, hot, tired and frustrated, snapped. “You always do this! You always think you can fix everything for me – can’t you let me do something on my own for once?!”

“Last time I did that, you disappeared for fifteen years.” Mablung threw up his hands. “Varda forbid I try to help you! Eru made you as stubborn as he did foolish.” he turned on his heel and stalked back up to their camp, kicking an empty flask over.

“Now who is being childish?” Beleg would not stand here and argue; he hated to argue with Mablung, feeling always that he was not quite well spoken enough to argue his point well, while Mablung seemed to dance verbal circles around him. He stormed off in the opposite direction, muttering under his breath about stubborn husbands who thought they knew better.

When he was sure he was out of earshot of the camp, he sat himself down in the grass, and picked at it, grumbling, until his anger abated. He was not angry at Mablung, really - he was tired, he was hungry, the memory of Cuiviénen was almost overwhelming, and he just wanted to do something nice: to float lazily on the water in their raft.

And Mablung had only been trying to help - Beleg had snapped first. Nothing Mablung had said was strictly untrue: Beleg would be the first to admit that he was stubborn, that he was impulsive and reckless and unwise, that he had abandoned Doriath all those years ago. It did not hurt to hear - it hurt to know his ways frustrated Mablung, when he could no more change himself as he could undo the past.

Something would have to be done about it.

He knew what he would do. Go back to Mablung, apologise, kiss and make up. Let him fix the raft; tease him about naming it after him. Ask him to sing - Mablung loved to sing, but he was so bashful about it. Asking to hear it would cheer him up. They could still have their peaceful evening.

His foul moods had always passed quickly: he was as changeable as a breeze, but given to joy by nature, and by the time the sky had darkened, Beleg was feeling light hearted again.

It was just a silly little fight – some food and water would cheer them up again, he thought, as he wandered back towards the camp. It was not as though they had not argued before – in Doriath they had disagreed often, though shouting matches were somewhat rarer. By morning, this would be forgotten.

“Mablung?”

The campsite was empty, Mablung’s spear in the dirt. Fear sparked in Beleg’s heart. Where would Mablung have gone without his spear, unarmed? Maybe he had just stepped away for a walk but – no, something was definitely wrong. His heart was entwined with Mablung’s, it had been since their marriage under the stars centuries ago.

Mablung never went into the wild without his spear.

In the still air, Beleg closed his eyes and listened. His ears twitched; he took in the sound of birds, the water, the call of nature. Nothing stood out at first. He focused harder, listening for any sign of Mablung’s footsteps or voice. No hunter in the world had hearing as keen as his.

Then, faintly on the breeze: his name. Beleg. Help me.

That was all he needed to be sure that his husband was in danger. He clutched Belthronding and fled on light feet towards the sound with single minded focus, his hair streaming behind him. Over green grass and stony shoreline, over boulder and earth and the low growing shrubs. As he passed over a large rock, he saw Mablung.

Mablung, surrounded by wolves, unarmed. He had one in a headlock, wrestling the beast in the dust. Beleg wasted not another moment – his arrows flew, one after another, each into the skull of a wolf through the eye, even the one that twisted on the ground with Mablung. Beleg’s hand did not waver and he did not miss.

As the last beast died, Beleg flew to Mablung’s side and pulled him into his arms, shaking with tears. Alive, Mablung was alive, breathing hard as he embraced him in return. Safe, safe, they were safe and together.

“I knew.” He murmured after a moment, “I knew, it wasn’t right, you didn’t take the spear, we argued, I feared… I wouldn’t want that to be the last thing I said to you, I had a whole plan, I didn’t think you would be in dan-”

“Oh, Beleg…”” Mablung held his face, cutting him off; Beleg could see his eyes were watery, though he had not yet cried. “Oh, my sweet fool. I love you.”

Mablung held their foreheads together. He said nothing else. The two of them remained in the dirt, just savouring each other’s presence. Silence passed. One minute, five, ten, twenty – and then, softly, Mablung chuckled. Beleg frowned at him.

“I think I know how to fix the boat.”

It was, in the end, a simple fix: a different knot, a new angle, and their boat - a raft, really, with a little set of paddles and nothing more - bobbed safely in the water. They kept their gear hidden and dry on the shore, prepared their meal for the night, and paddled it out into the middle of the lake.

That evening, as their little raft floated in circles out on the water under the stars, they found peace.

*

Their time in Rhûn was short; it stirred too many long, sad memories in both of them, despite the beauty and peacefulness of the land. Their path continued, though they had left the road behind. Over the wild and free lands to the south of the Greenwood they roamed, speaking with joy and warmth to everyone they met.

After some weeks of wandering another forest sprung up before him, the trees young and spry, growing older and taller as they ventured in, spring bluebells and little white blooms carpeting the earth - Lúthien’s Niphredil, here, of all places!

Beleg knelt and picked one of the niphredil blooms, cradling it in his hands for a moment before he reached to tuck it into Mablung’s braid.

“A piece of …” Home, he wanted to say, but the forests of Doriath did not feel like home anymore. These lands were home now, familiar and yet new and beautiful. Beleg couldn’t say when the change had happened: only that now, Eriador’s wilds were his home. “A piece of the past, for your hair.”

Mablung’s smile was bittersweet, and he did not answer, but he picked a matching flower for Beleg’s hair.

Over the sound of a bubbling stream, they heard a high clear voice. Beleg turned, and his eyes caught a flicker of movement in the trees.

Oh!

There were elves in these woods – was this what remained of Lenwë’s people, kin of the Green-Elves they had sheltered in Doriath?

He wanted to find them. Beleg did not spare Mablung a second glance before he sprinted off through the flowers, as swift as Nessa’s dance. In the trees, above and around him, he heard elvish voices laughing. Yet still they eluded him; where Beleg was fast the wood-elves were faster, where he was subtle, they were more so, where he was sharp-eyed, they were more well-hidden.

Onward he ran, and behind him he heard Mablung following. The laughter and singing drew him deeper and deeper into the woods, and the trees grew thicker, wider, older. Suddenly, Beleg realised he was lost – where was the path? The flowers had faded into thick undergrowth. The singing had ceased. He slowed to a halt and turned around.

“Mablung?”

“I am here.” Mablung came to his side.

“Do you see the path?”

Mablung sighed. “No – you are really too old to be darting off, Beleg. We are lost.”

“I am as youthful as a spring day, thank you very much.”

“A spring day before the rising of the Sun, perhaps.” Mablung snorted, to which Beleg had no retort. “Come. We might as well keep walking.”

There was little choice; going back seemed pointless. This forest would be as good for exploring as the sweet flower-glades they had left behind, despite being much darker.

There was no path to follow, but Beleg had a strong instinct for direction, and he led the way. At first, they walked in silence, quiet contemplation of the beauty of their surroundings. But beauty spurred elves to music, and softly, a song began between them.

They sang of autumn’s golden boughs, waving the breeze, branches laden with the last of the year’s fruit, ripe and sweet. The song turned to winter, to bright holly-berries in the dark nests of ever-green leaves, to creeping ivy and mistletoe, and the fragrant clematis and hellebore which had witnessed them bind themselves to each other, so many years ago.

Louder their voices rose, as the song turned to spring.

Spring’s song was of pink blossoms and hopeful shrubs, the shoots of green leaves; yellow daffodil and the dearest niphredil. And then answering came a booming voice, rich as the oak: once-more elf song had brought life to the forest.

Before them a great and mighty tree stirred, and moved, and blinked, and the booming voice sang with them of summer – golden fields ready for harvest, the meadows in fullest bloom, all the colours and the joys of warm days and nights; the days of summer were days for feasting and for singing.

“Elves in Fangorn’s old forest!” The voice said, as the song was picked up by more and more trees, carried over the forest. “And these are voices Fangorn knows, and remembers, for these are the voices that sang to him in his youth; Beleg and Mablung walk again under these fair branches!”

“Fangorn!” Beleg laughed and both elves bowed deeply. “Indeed, we do; but I had not thought we might stray into your lands. Forgive your trespass as old friends – I am sure you have much to tell us, and we you!”

“That is so.” Fangorn answered, “For if the memory of elves is long, that of the Ents is longer. Come, and meet more of my folk – here we have beeches and ashes and oaks, hawthorns and redwoods. Come, and introduce yourselves to those who have heard much of you.”

By the time the sun had set that evening, they had only just finished saying hello.

Fangorn was greatly pleased to have them in his forests, and both of them made fast friends among the younger trees. It was a pleasant time, full of reminiscing, of singing and delight. They drank the sweet ent-draught and hunted under the twilight branches. Mablung composed poetry and taught the Entings to recite it. Beleg tended the trees as carefully as an Ent, and sang flowers and fruits into season.

So long they dwelt under the fair branches of Fangorn, that stories of them passed from memory into legend; two wanderers of old who had gone into the wilds and never returned, who had become part of the forests themselves. Great deeds were far behind them now, but history remembered their valour, their loyalty, their pride. Was it a surprise, then, that people told tales of them still? They had defied death and war and doom - they had found their own peace in the deep woods of the world. Few lived now who remembered them, this side of the Sea. To the elflings of the world, they were a fairytale.

But it could not last.

Beleg climbed each morning to the top of the tallest tree, and gazed out over the horizon.

“There is smoke to the North.”

Mablung shrugged. “Eregion’s forges.”

“It is a great deal more than that; if that is Ost-in-Edhil, the entire city is on fire.”

A shadow passed over the forest.

“We should go and help them.”

Beleg scrambled his way down, and set to gathering his things.

“We have never seen Ost-in-Edhil; do you think we might meet this Lord Celebrimbor, after we help him save his city?”

Mablung laughed. “Perhaps. Though I think he will be a little too busy to sit down to dinner with us, if that is what you are hoping.”

“You know me too well.” A snort of laughter. “We’ll see.”

It was a fire, but it was not only the city that was burning. The very earth was aflame. Thick, acrid smoke choked them as they approached the plains above the city, but it was replaced steadily by a smell that made Mablung’s stomach turn: the sickly smell of burning flesh.

The last time he had smelt it had been when the Balrogs had descended on the gathered armies of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and for one terrible moment, he thought he could hear the crackling of fiery whips. Bile rose in his throat, and Mablung - Mablung of the Heavy Hand, who had never fled from any foe - almost turned back. Let Eregion burn; this was not something they could fight.

But then a group of fleeing elves rushed towards them, parents carrying weeping elflings, pursued by soldiers wearing a sigil he did not recognise and his heart steeled.

Belthronding sung behind him, the arrows arching over their heads to find their mark in the gaps of their armour. Mablung rushed in, getting between the fleeing elves and the soldiers. His spear swung around, cutting them off. Though it had been years since he or it had seen battle, he was as graceful as ever, a towering terror of swift death. It was like a dance, a dance with the steps burned into his muscles, each movement coming to him without thought or decision - in battle, there was no time for thought, when his foes were bearing down upon him.

“I will get them to safety! Hold your ground, Mablung.” Beleg’s voice carried over the clashing of steel. Mablung felt a sudden tightness in his chest. He did not like being apart. But there was no chance to argue; another wave of the eye-marked soldiers was upon him.

Mablung’s defence was valiant. He stood alone but unmatched, for these soldiers were Men, and hastily trained by Mablung’s guess, and against him they stood little chance.

He held his ground until there were no more; the rest, he assumed, had fled, or taken other paths. Twenty men lay dead before him - a remarkable defence for one elf alone, but Mablung felt no pride. Only emptiness - what had these deaths won? A handful of fleeing civilians’ lives.

What had these men died for? What general had sent them out to their deaths? What had they been promised? Riches, glory, land - was that the price of Eregion?

Mablung looked towards Ost-in-Edhil. The smoke blackened the sky. The screaming had died down, and now a heavy silence rolled over the plains. Mablung’s ears rang with it.

Suddenly he perceived something greater than himself, something terrible and unrelenting. The ruin of the world once again; fields of blood and swamps overflowing with the dead. A figure, towering, in black iron armour. Destruction and death. Flames consumed the forests and ash polluted the sea; and amid it all, people, suffering and weeping.

His blood ran cold. He could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart. Mablung turned his back on Eregion and fled into the forests after Beleg.

He ran until his feet would carry him no further, until the dreadful silence was as far from him as it could be, but it was not enough. Overwhelmed, he did not know where to turn, where to look, how to think.

And then: “Mablung!”

Beleg’s voice shattered the silence and the world crashed around Mablung. He pulled Mablung into his arms; inhaling the smell of smoke and sweat and battle-blood. His relief was so strong Mablung felt it, and in the shadow of the ruins of Eregion, he let his grief pour out.

Mablung wept into his lover’s arms. He wept for Eregion, a city built on hope, for all her people now dead or fleeing. He wept for himself, for the glimpse of the horror he had seen coming. For Beleg, whose heart he knew would want to remain. Was the world always to be doomed? Where one evil drowned, would another arise from the ruins to replace it?

He sank to his knees. The world seemed to fall away, and he was falling through the vast, empty expanse of despair - it would never be enough, there would never be peace, there would never be a world he did not have to defend.

“My love,” Beleg’s words were soft as rain; Mablung was no longer falling, caught in the warmth of his love. “My Mablung, it is alright. I have you. I have you.”

There was no need for him to explain; between them, they always knew each other’s hearts. Beleg laid his hand over his cheek, caressing his face. For Beleg’s playfulness, there was true wisdom in him, and Mablung tried to listen.

“This is not our fight. We have done what we can; leave this to kings and lords. We will keep going; west, to safer lands and greener fields. We will make our own peace.”

Mablung pressed his face into Beleg’s chest, wiping his tears on his tunic - it smelled still of smoke. He let out a long, heavy sigh.

Beleg was right. They had shed enough of their own blood in defence of Beleriand - Eriador would have to be someone else’s fight.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” One of the elves they had saved, a lanky Noldo, nervously cleared his throat. “But do you know where we are?”

Mablung hurriedly wiped his eyes and looked up. The refugees were huddled together, ashen and anxious. Unarmed, with nothing to their names - they could not leave them out here.

“I heard there is a refuge in the Mountains.” One woman spoke up. She had torn the sleeve of her dress to bandage her leg. He would have to have Beleg tend to their wounds.

“We will guide you to the pass.” Beleg announced, without consulting him. But he did not need to. Mablung knew Beleg’s conscience would allow nothing less. It was not as far as it seemed. What was a little more walking in their life?

On they walked, Beleg leading the way through the woods, and Mablung bringing up the rear, making sure no one fell behind.

Over the days, their weary companions blossomed. At first they were quiet, saving for weeping and groaning, the exhaustion and grief deep within them. But there was nothing like forest air and Beleg’s company for the sick and grieved, as Mablung knew first hand. They soon grew more talkative, among each other and with the two of them, though Mablung was not in the mood for much talking.

”I am glad we found elves to save us.” One remarked, trudging along. “And not Men. I have heard terrible tales of men who save elves.”

Behind them, Mablung tensed.

“Men.” His friend scoffed. “If one had found us, who do you think he would have slain first? Or perhaps he would have just led us into the arms of the Enemy.”

He saw Beleg’s ears twitch.

“You’re thinking of Turambar. No, I don’t think most of them are that foolish.”

“I don’t know, they say Nargothrond wasn’t the end of his foolery, they say he w-”

“He was not a fool.” Beleg’s tone was clipped.

Mablung winced. He should have intervened. Turambar was the one topic they never discussed. It was a grief so complex and heavy that neither knew how to begin.

Mablung would not have begun it like this.

“You talk as if you were there!” The Noldo laughed. “Come now, Master Archer, you cannot deny that he was foolhardy. All the scholars say so.”

“The scholars did not know him.”

“And a good thing for it, else we would have none!” The second Noldo argued. “You cannot argue with history, archer.”

“I can.” Beleg’s brow creased.

You cannot argue with history. Mablung feared the truth in those words. He and Beleg were history. Eregion was history too, now - would these elves be remembered as poorly as dear Turambar? Would they be cowards, who had fled? Tragic victims with not even a name? Elves may remember, but the minds of Men did not stretch back very far.

“I was there.” Beleg was saying, sharp as ice. Mablung snapped out of his thoughts. “I knew him - he was not a fool. He was not cruel. Scholars can be wrong. You are wrong.”

His words had shaken their companions, and their pace had slowed almost to a halt.

“But that would make you…” The Noldo shrank back, as Beleg approached him. Afraid. There was a strange light in Beleg’s eyes. And yet, Mablung did not feel inclined to interrupt. Beleg was right.

“You should not speak of things you do not understand.”

“But this is history.” The Noldo held his ground. “It is a fact. He was a reckless and foolish mortal, who brought nothing but death.”

Beleg’s eyes flashed. Mablung darted forward and caught his hand before he slapped the Noldo across the face.

“Easy, Beleg.”

The Noldo shrank away, wide eyed, fearful.

“Beleg.” he repeated, understanding his mistake. “I… I apologise. I did not realise that- I am sorry.”

Beleg stared, silent, at a spot behind the Noldo’s head.. Mablung saw the tears forming in his eyes - hearing Turambar disparaged pained him. He lowered his hand slowly, and without a word, turned and continued leading them up the path.

Mablung sighed.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on the Noldo’s shoulder, diffusing the tension.

“We should keep walking.”

As it turned out, they did not have to walk much further. A scouting party was waiting for them - or rather, a scouting party was heading out to search for any survivors of the attack on Eregion, and they were the first to wander into their path.

Mablung handed the care of the refugees over to them, talking quietly with their leader.

“You should come with us. The Valley is a safe haven. It’s peaceful.”

Mablung looked over at Beleg, who lurked on the edges of the camp in silence.

“No. We are going west. But thank you.”

“If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

“... Thank you.”

Their charges seen safely to the valley, they walked quietly back down the path.

They did not talk about it. Mablung could not find the right thing to say, and Beleg had seemed happier now, as if he had let the incident slip from his mind. Mablung knew he was ignoring it.

Perhaps it was better that way. He could not deepen the wound if he did not touch it.

The day crept onwards.

Mablung was lost in his own thoughts.

They had left the smoking ruin of Eregion behind them, but Mablung could not shake it from his mind.

When he closed his eyes, he saw it, he heard the screaming, felt the smoke in the back of his throat. Despite Beleg’s words, his heart was uneasy. Darkness may be held at bay for now, but he had seen two homes ruined by war; he did not believe that even King Gil-Galad could hold this shadow away for long. Mablung did not want to see a third home ravaged and burnt - but to leave Middle-Earth might mean to leave Beleg, and that he could not do.

Beleg sang softly to himself, and now and then he remarked on something interesting: the old forest melted into a rushing river, which they crossed with a log bridge, and then into wide rolling hills.

“There’s a patch of woodland up ahead.” Beleg broke their comfortable silence, just as dusk was beginning to fall.

“A good place for sleeping.” His hand was gentle on Mablung’s arm, his face lined with worry.

Mablung smiled back at him. If he was a grand tree, then Beleg was the climbing vine, weaving through his branches and keeping him strong. He hated to see him worried. “It will be a warm night. We won’t need a shelter.”

He saw the worry fade a little in Beleg’s eyes, and smiled. They stayed up late that night, not talking, but laying in the soft grass and listening to the world around them: the soft whisper of leaves and the scurrying of creatures. Beleg fell asleep with his head on Mablung’s chest, but rest came more slowly to Mablung himself. In the distance, he kept thinking he could hear the screaming of children.

But eventually, Irmo’s nets entrapped him, and he drifted off to sleep.

The midday light dripped through the leaves of the forest. Mablung opened his eyes to the green canopy above him, the heaviness of his heart lessened by the beauty of it; he had love in him for this land still, and though war had ravaged it, there were places still untouched. If they could stay here in this peaceful moment, he could be happy, he could forget what he had seen in Eregion, and set aside his guilt.

The feel of Beleg’s hand on his chest roused him from his musings. Beleg had climbed onto his lap, and his eyes were dark and sparkling. Mablung knew that look, and so did his body, blood sparking as Beleg’s nimble fingers unlaced his tunic, slipping underneath to dance across his skin. Beleg’s hair fell around them like a silver veil as he leaned in and kissed him, his lips as sweet as morning dew.

“Ma! Ma! Ma, look!”

The rush of small feet, the high excitement of a child’s voice; Beleg fell back, reaching for Belthronding reflexively, and Mablung was quickly on his feet, tunic and hair in disarray; he felt rather like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, like a child caught sneaking sweets from the pantry.

“What are they, Ma?” A child came racing through the bushes, followed by a short woman with a head of dark ringlets, who was undoubtedly the girl’s mother. Dwarves, perhaps, but Mablung - who had, in his life, met a great number of dwarves - had never seen a dwarf so entirely beardless. Men, then, he decided, of a kind he had never met.

The woman stared at them, eyes wide in - was it fear? Shock? - and she reached out to pull her child back to her. “Dahlia, careful dear, you don’t know where they’ve been.”

That made Beleg laugh behind him, and the tension broke at the musical sound.

“We have been to many places. But we are no danger to you, my good lady. We are elves.”

“What’s an elf, Ma?” Dahlia wriggled free of her mother’s fearful grasp. Mablung felt compelled to crouch and smile at her.

“Elves are… Well, we are probably very much like you. Do you live in the forest?”

Dahlia giggled. “Of course not - we live in the town!”

Her mother, having seemingly set her caution aside, held out her hand. “Azalea Bramblefoot, mayor of Pincup. First mayor ever to be elected here, you know.”

Mablung shook her hand, somewhat startled by her change in demeanour. Here, he supposed, was Pincup. Mayor Bramblefoot shook his hand very firmly.

“We’ve never had elves as guests before. I hope you eat chicken pie; Falco Mugwort makes a delightful chicken and mushroom pie, big enough to feed five hobbits, though by the looks of you, you could eat as much as any hobbit.”

“We don’t mean to intrude on your hospitality, mayor.” Behind him, he heard Beleg murmur: what is a hobbit?

“Nonsense!” Clearly, she was no longer wary of them. She motioned for them to follow her, slipping through the trees, as at home as any wood-elf. “What kind of mayor would I be, if I didn’t offer our guests supper? And you are in our forest, so that makes you a guest - Dahlia, stop gawking and run along and tell your father to make the guest room up - two beds.”

“Oh,” Beleg interrupted, “One bed would be just fine.”

“One bed, then, dears.”

Pincup was more of a hamlet than a village; several curious homes set into the earth like badger-burrows, small houses with smoking chimneys that seemed mostly to be storefronts. The doors of the burrow-houses were painted in bright colours, the gardens full of attentively tended plots of flowers and ornamental plants. But behind the homes stretched farmer’s fields, freshly sowed, and Mablung could hear the braying of cows and the screeching of chickens - Beleg had always wanted chickens.

The burrow-house they were led to was one of the largest, another wide-eyed, barefoot child in the garden, watching them with a half-eaten loaf of bread in their hands. Mablung glanced back at Beleg - his weakness for elflings and men-children was so endearing, and it evidently extended to these children too; he had stopped by the gate to crouch in the dirt and show the child, who inched ever closer, something in the flowerbed.

Mablung whistled for him to follow as the mayor opened the door, and the two of them ducked inside.

Ducked, because the ceiling was awfully low. Mablung was almost bent in half, and a glance to the side showed him that Beleg did not fare much better, his head grazing the ceiling with each step - though he would probably be fine without his boots.

A brown-skinned, curly-haired man came out of the kitchen. He wore a bright green waistcoat, with silver buttons that were shaped like acorns. By the look of him, he was probably the father of Dahlia - and many others, if the number of place settings Mablung could see on the table behind him was anything to go by.

“So, these are the elves my daughter has caught in the woods!” The man shook Mablung’s hand with such vigour that Mablung was taken aback. “Wiglaf Bramblefoot. Gracious, I never got your name.”

“I am Mablung, and my husband is Beleg.” Behind him, Beleg gave an awkward half bow. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Bramblefoot. And a beautiful garden!”

“Why thank you, Mr. Mablung. It is my pride and joy. Do elves keep gardens - oh, listen to me blathering on. Come, sit! Dahlia, be a dear and bring the teapot in.”

They settled in a dining room, Mablung cross-legged on the floor and Beleg in an armchair that with him in it, looked like something from a child’s dollhouse. The Bramblefoots sat in their own chairs and Dahlia brought out the tea, and a tray of soft jam pastries. Mablung heard Beleg’s stomach growl.

“So, Mr. Mablung,” Azalea sipped her tea daintily. “What brings elves to our village?”

“We are wanderers. We did not mean to intrude.”

“It is no intrusion - we have never had such fair guests.”

“You’re too kind,” Mablung offered his kindest smile. “We will lend our hands where we are needed.”

“What kind of things do elves do? You look strong - you’d make a good farmhand.”

“I have a way with plants,” Beleg agreed, brushing the crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “I could have a look at your gardens, perhaps, see what the plants tell me.”

Mayor Bramblefoot looked quite surprised. Mablung did not blame her; non-Elves were often surprised to hear of elves speaking with plants. He had used to make the children in villages near Menegroth laugh with it when he had visited.

“That would be quite helpful.”

Beside them, Mr. Bramblefoot and Beleg had devolved into a lengthy conversation about gardening.

“Ma, can we go play now?” Dahlia looked up at Mablung with wide eyes. “I want the elves to play with us - we found them!”

“Mr. Mablung doesn’t want to -”

“Oh, no, it’s alright. What kind of games do you like, Dahlia?” He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp.

“We like… hide and seek. Do you know how to play?” She tugged on his arm and pulled him to his feet - Mablung suppressed a wince as his head smashed against the ceiling.

Dahlia dragged him outside, where he found a gaggle of children waiting for him. They all seemed so very small; they might have been eight or nine years old or as young as five, but he could not tell.

“Can you count to ten, Mr. Elf?” One young boy asked. He nodded and sat on the garden wall, covering his eyes. He heard giggling and rushing feet. One, two, three…

At ten, he opened his eyes. Immediately he could see a pair of hairy feet poking out from under the neighbour’s rose bush. He laughed.

“Ah, such sneaky and swift hiders. Where could they be…”

The game lasted several hours. He made a great show of struggling to find them, and the children were so delighted they demanded another round and then another, and then demanded that he hide while they sought - Mablung gave in to it, laughing along with them, and the time quickly got away from him. He only realised it had been several hours when their parents began to call them for their dinner.

Mablung followed Dahlia back inside. He saw an older hobbit-child setting the table; he was quite surprised to see ten places set; one for him, one for Beleg, and then the six Bramblefoot children and their parents. Hobbits certainly had large families. Mayor Bramblefoot ushered him in.

“There you are, Mr. Mablung, wash your hands and take a seat - my, have you been playing in the dirt with the little ones? The state of your shirt!”

Mablung looked down. His shirt was stained with squashed berries and mud. He smiled sheepishly. “Ah. Yes, I’ve made quite a mess -” his eye caught Beleg coming in through the kitchen, equally as dirty. “And it seems I am not alone. What have you been up to?”

“We’ve been gardening.”

The mayor shook her head in fond exasperation. “As terrible as children, it seems elves are. Put them in the basket in the hallway; Wiglaf is doing the laundry tomorrow.”

Wiglaf called out from the kitchen: “Pie coming through!”

It turned out that that was just the start. They may have been half the size of the elves, but these hobbits could easily match them in appetite; three courses and a dessert later, and with many glasses of watered-down wine, it was finally over. The children cleared the table, and though Mablung offered to help with the washing up, he and Beleg were rushed into the living room for a cup of tea.

Mablung sat on the floor again and rested his head on Beleg’s knee, listening to him tell Mayor Bramblefoot of their travels. Without realising it, he was dozing off, lulled into sleep by the peaceful atmosphere and the gentle sound of Beleg’s voice.

“I think I better get him to bed. It is past his bedtime.” Beleg lightly shook him awake. “Come, Mablung. You’ll do your back in sleeping like that.”

Mablung stood and stretched. “Goodnight, Mayor Bramblefoot. Mr. Bramblefoot.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Mablung.” Mayor Bramblefoot smiled at him from her chair, watching them walk down the hall to the guest room.

It was a sweet little room, with a large bed, a coverlet of whimsical pink flowers, and candles burning by the bed.

A basket waited for their laundry by the door, and the two of them got ready for bed. Beleg folded their clothes for washing and for good measure, put their nightclothes in the basket too, while Mablung brushed and oiled his hair. Naked, he checked the lock on the door and then settled on top of the covers.

Finally ready for bed, Mablung flopped on the mattress beside Beleg, and let out a long, tired groan.

“Valar, I do not think we have been in a real bed since we left Oropher’s. I forgot how nice it feels.”

“You’re going soft in your old age, Mablung.”

“Says you. You looked positively domestic today.”

“Are you saying I was not domestic before?”

“I have lived beside you for more than three thousand years. You are not domestic.”

Beleg snorted, and employed a change of topic, as he always did when he had no good argument.

“Do you know what else we have not done in a bed since we left the Greenwood?”

Mablung’s interest was immediately caught. He propped himself up on his elbows to look at Beleg, suddenly quite aware that both of them were naked. “All these years, and you are mad for me still.”

“If you are too tired, old man, I have two good hands.”

“Did you hear me protest?”

He crawled up the bed to sit between Beleg’s legs, which parted instinctively for him.

“Always eager, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Beleg pulled him down into a bruising kiss, throwing his arms around his shoulders. Mablung kissed him until their lungs burned, and then followed it with another gasping kiss. Beleg rolled his hips up against him.

Mablung rolled a thumb over his nipple, until it was pebbled and hard and Beleg was whining. He sank further down, lapping at his left nipple with his tongue, first the flat and then the tip, delighting in how the flush deepened from the tips of his ears to his navel, a sweet pink. He traced the line of Beleg’s scar, where it stretched from shoulder to hip. The years had not faded it, and it stood out more starkly where the sun had warmed the skin around it. At first he had feared to touch it, afraid the memory was too painful even now the wound was healed. But now he pressed feather-light kisses along the path of it, and Beleg made a soft noise in response, eyes closed in bliss.

He could have spent hours like that, teasing and watching Beleg. Laying on his side, he continued his teasing, sinking a hand between Beleg’s legs to taunt him, running dancing fingers over the firm skin of his thighs. Beleg whined again, and Mablung rewarded him by removing his hand.

“Patience, meleth-nin.”

“That is easy for you to ask for. You are neglecting yourself.” Beleg wrapped his long fingers around Mablung’s cock, stroking him slowly. Mablung closed his eyes and savoured the sensation.

“Do you want me to dig out the oil?”

Beleg’s grip tightened on his cock, as if to stop him from pulling away. “No.” He brought his free hand to his lips and slicked his fingers with his tongue. He made such a show of it - Valar, his Beleg loved to show off. The wonderful things that that tongue could do…

Knowing the effect that had on Mablung, Beleg shuffled back on the bed and braced himself with one hand, then teased his hole with his slicked fingers. Mablung watched with rapt attention and a hand on his leaking cock, as Beleg sunk two fingers into himself with a drawn-out moan.

“They’ll hear us…”

“Damn.” Beleg bit his lip to try and quiet himself as he added a third finger. Mablung stroked his cock, holding back his own moans.

“Need you, Mablung.” Beleg’s breathless voice broke any resolve Mablung had had towards more teasing. He settled over him again, lacing their fingers together. Beleg grasped the sheets with his free hand as Mablung slowly sank into him.

Valar, it always felt like Beleg was made for him. He took him so beautifully, so perfectly, so easily - it must have been fate’s design, for them to be together. No pleasure in the world could have been so divine.

He rocked him into the mattress, sparing him no mercy in revenge for his earlier teasing. He was not too old and tired to wear Beleg out yet. Beleg hooked his legs around his hips, encouraging him deeper still. It still was not enough.

The bedframe creaked softly, but Mablung was too lost in the tight heat of Beleg, who muffled his gasps and moans by kissing and biting at whatever bare skin he could reach. A shift, a new angle, and suddenly Beleg arched like his bow beneath him, taut and clenching as he spilled between them.

Mablung fucked him through it, chasing his own release as Beleg relaxed limp and boneless beneath him. With a groan he buried in Beleg’s shoulder, he spilled inside him, eyes closed. Valar…

“Beleg…”

Spent at last, Mablung rolled onto his back beside Beleg, leaving all their cleaning for the morning. He pressed a tender kiss to his husband’s temple; Beleg was in quite a daze still, eyes closed, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

“I could get used to a life like this; a domestic life. You, me, some chickens. Goats. Our own little vegetable plot. I could cook for you every night.”

Beleg’s eyes fluttered open. Mablung could not read the expression in them - something between wanting and fearing. No, he could not see Beleg living like this. Not for very long - but he could imagine it, could imagine waiting at home for him, and listening to him tell stories of adventure and (hopefully) mild peril. If the world were not so dangerous…

“Would you let me name the chickens?” Beleg asked sleepily, a world away from Mablung’s anxieties. He kissed him softly.

“Of course.”

They remained guests of the Bramblefoots for quite some time; welcome guests, of course. Strong hands and eager workers were always welcome; they helped dig more of the burrow-houses, twelve, in the whole time they were.

They celebrated birthdays and weddings - Dahlia grew from an inquisitive child into an even more inquisitive tweenager, but she and her siblings, and all the village children, still sat and listened attentively to Beleg’s stories of far-away lands and great heroes.

Mablung made good friends with the mayor and her husband, and many hours were spent discussing the details of bureaucracy and democracy, for Azalea Bramblefoot had grand ambitions for the expansion of Pincup and a dynasty of Bramblefoot mayors.

Each year when the harvest rolled around, they helped to bring it in, and to prepare the feast in celebration of it. It felt, in some ways, like they had always been there, so easily did they fall into village life.

But though springs came and went, there remained a winter in Mablung’s heart. The long years had given him much time for thinking - like many elves, he did not make decisions quickly - and at last his mind was resolved; he would seek the Sea, and more importantly, Círdan’s advice on how to heal his heart.

Their goodbyes were fond and tearful. Dahlia promised to take care of Beleg’s roses; Azalea Bramblefoot thanked them in grand words for all they had done, and named them friends of Pincup for life. Beleg wept openly. Mablung told them he would take tales of them to all the elf-lords this side of the Sea.

For generations, hobbit children were named in their honour - at first for friends, and then for heroes of the past, and then for their own ancestors. Perhaps there would remain, in that small green corner of Middle-Earth, a piece of Beleriand forevermore.

The road to Mithlond was long and winding, but a more peaceful land Beleg had never seen, and it made his heart uneasy. In the first days he had burnt through his share of the extra snacks they had brought from Pincup, for fear of saying something foolish. Mablung had laughed at his appetite and offered to share his; Beleg had told him to save them for later.

Why should peace make him uneasy? It was all he should be hoping for, wasn’t it? A life of peace and quiet where they did not have to watch over their shoulders.

He knew why; the sea. They had not seen it since they had left the Havens of Sirion. Beleg feared what it would awaken in Mablung’s heart - a desire for Aman, a desire to leave. Mablung had always loved the sea; he was far more Telerin than Beleg had ever been. The sea was in his blood - and given how troubled he had been by the sight they had seen in Eregion; it was certain that he would want to sail.

Could Beleg leave? The idea was not as horrible as it had once been; Eriador was beautiful and wild but it was not Beleriand, nor would it ever be, and it did not hold the same place in his memories as Beleriand had. If he had been asked to leave Beleriand, he would have refused outright. Mablung had not asked him to leave Eriador, but Beleg knew that he would. Would it be as hard as he had always assumed, when the moment came? Or would it be easy; stepping into the promise of a future?

He thought of Mablung, working in the small farms of the village. How blissful he had been, at home in the domesticity of it all.

Perhaps they could have a home like in Valinor; there would be forests there, he hoped, for them to range and hunt in, and they could come home to their own little house and garden - the sudden image of them hosting dinner parties and making tea made him smile. Perhaps their friends would be there, re-embodied and waiting, and they would never be short of guests. It might not be so terrible.

But still the fear of boredom lurked in the back of his mind. It would not release him.

As Mithlond’s silver roofs appeared ahead of them, Beleg resolved to have an answer the next time Mablung asked. He hoped it would be soon; the wondering and questioning was worse than having to give an answer - he trusted his instinct. He would know in the moment what his choice would be. Forethought had never been his strength.

The cries of the gulls welcomed them, echoing the clattering of hammers and the chattering voices of shipwrights and sailors, fishers and divers. The streets were bustling with life, elflings running through the alleys, market-stalls overflowing. It was like Falas, how it had been when Beleg had visited it in the days of old; he should not be surprised, given Círdan was still the lord here. In the distance he could hear an elvish voice singing. He half expected to turn a corner and see Elwë by the sea, or Nimloth dancing, or Daeron playing on his pipes.

But they were gone. Nothing but bones under the water in crumbling ruins.

A wave of grief threatened to swallow him; how could a life this normal continue when those they had loved were not here to live it? Did these people not know? Did they not feel the loss of that world as keenly as Beleg?

Ah, but some of them would never have seen it - most of them, perhaps. They did not know what had been lost. Did they remember it at all - or was it but history to them, something confined to the pages of books and the tales of scholars?

He thought of the Eregion elves and how they had spoken of their lives: as history, as legend, to be discussed and quarrelled over - as if it had not been real. As if they had not lived it, glorious and painful as it was.

You cannot argue with history.

Was that all they were, now? Stories, told and retold so many times they did not recognise themselves?

In silence, they wandered down to the soft sands. It was still warm, though daylight was fading.

“It is strange, isn’t it?” Mablung gazed out over the water. Grief made his voice heavy. “Círdan has made Falas come again. I thought I might find it comforting - but it does not comfort, Beleg.”

Beleg took his hand and laced their fingers together. “Does it not?”

“No. I feel… old. Worn. In Evendim, in the Greenwood, in Fangorn - I felt young there, young and joyful. It felt like a new beginning. This… this is not that feeling. And we cannot go back. Even as we stand here, war is coming. Has come, for Eregion. I do not have the strength in me for another war.”

Beleg was silent. He leaned his head on Mablung’s shoulder and they watched the sun set, slowly sinking behind the sea. In its golden glow, Beleg made his decision.

“I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy.”

For all the love he bore Middle Earth, Mablung was dearer to him than anything else.

“You wish to go to Valinor - if you asked, Círdan would have a ship for you as soon as you desired.”

“For me…” Mablung repeated softly, “For me alone? I do not want to be apart from you. But yes, I wish to go; my time in Middle-Earth is spent, I think, and I do not think all the forests of the world could replenish it.

Beleg reached and cupped his face, turning Mablung’s head to look at him. He held his face in his hands, admiring him for a long moment. Then he kissed him, with all the sweet tenderness of the evening.

“I promised you once that I was not going anywhere without you again. I have never gone back on my word before, and I do not intend to start now. I will come with you. I love these lands; but I am ready for a new adventure.”

Mablung pressed his forehead to Beleg’s, and as the moon rose over Beleriand, their hearts were at peace.

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed this :)

It was incredibly fun to write and the longest fic I've ever written solo, to date, and who better for that honour to go than everyone's favourite Sindar boys.

Thanks again to @lycheesodas for their art, ideas and encouragement <3 - find her on tumblr here!

And my tumblr is here