a place where both our hearts may rest by ohboromir

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History

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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.