a place where both our hearts may rest by ohboromir

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Evendim

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“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.