a place where both our hearts may rest by ohboromir

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River

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“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.”