Bloodied by ohboromir

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Bloodied

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For the first time in Elvish memory, battle raged.

The clashing of swords and the swift rush of arrows, the cries of the wounded, the silence of the dead - the clamour rose, and above it only Thingol’s booming voice could be heard.

His sword was a streak of silver, cutting down his foes with grace and speed. By his side, the keen axe of Mablung defended his back, and none could pass them.

But for all their skill and strength, they could not defeat luck, and in matters of strategy neither was accomplished. They were untested. The quendi did not war among themselves; Mablung had never fought anything mightier than a bear.

The forces of their enemy surrounded them, cutting them off from the rest of their host. It did not take experience to understand their goals. Slay the King, slay the Captain, and leaderless, the Sindarin host would crumble.

Beleriand would be lost.

“We are overwhelmed, my lord..”

“Stand your ground, Mablung.” Thingol sliced the head from an approaching soldier. “We are not defeated until we are dead!”

Mablung laughed, then, almost hysterical - he was exhausted and overwhelmed. He had half a mind to turn and run, but if Elwë commanded it, he would stand here and fight until they were victorious. Or until their foes crushed them into the mud, which seemed more likely.

A spear caught the King by the leg and he dropped to one knee, the ground soaking in his blood. His sword fell at his feet. Mablung stood over him, ready to make a last stand. As they had been together almost all their lives, they would die together, brothers-in-arms.

Then a cry came over the din, and a volley of arrows rained down upon their attackers. Then another, and another, until the ground was littered in arrows and corpses. Beleg brought his company of archers to a halt, urging them to collect what arrows they could. His face was grey, streaked with dirt and sweat.

“There is slaughter at Amon Ereb - they are fenced in. We must help Denethor.”

Mablung offered Thingol his hand and the King rose to his feet. The wound on his leg was no longer bleeding, but he winced as he took a step. It was a brief moment of pain, a flash in his face, seen only by his captains.

“Yes.” Thingol straightened, grasping his sword again. “We will. Muster your company, Mablung. At once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Thingol grasped his arm, bracing. “Do not lose hope, Mablung. Victory is within our grasp.”

They rode out within the hour; they did not spare a single moment. Beleg had filled them in with what his keen eyes had seen - destruction and death,

As they descended on Amon Ereb, Mablung already knew they were too late. The grass was thick with blood and bodies - too many elven ones, the light leather of their armour no match for the steel of their foes. The armies of Angband were equipped better than any of them had expected - this was a war long in the planning.

But against the might of Doriath, they broke. Mablung led the charge, clearing a path to the top of the hill, where he could see the last of Denethor’s people holding their ground.

As they stepped forward to meet him, he saw what they had been guarding.

Who they had been guarding.

Denethor was slumped in the earth, bow still in his hand. A dozen arrows had pierced him; his crown knocked askew by the blow of an axe.

Mablung knew then there was no saving him. His heart lurched and bile rose in his throat - Lenwë’s little boy, dead.

He did not remember much of the rest of the battle. He could not shake that image from his mind. Denethor had been so full of life when they had last met. Full of life and hope and eager for battle - he could not reconcile that memory with the still, bloodied body he had seen.

They were victorious, but Mablung’s heart was hollow.

The Laiquendi laid Denethor in the earth, atop the hill he had died defending, with bow and crown. It was a grim ceremony. Thingol wept, leaning on Mablung’s shoulder. Beleg planted a sprig of niphredil over the grave - a parting gift from the Iathrim. Mablung led Thingol away from the crowd, and Beleg followed, until the three of them were alone.

“You are wounded, Elwë.” Beleg often slipped into his old name; it seemed right now, as they remembered Lenwë’s son. He urged Thingol to sit, and their king relented. Mablung sat on the grass beside him. A little more blood on his clothes would make no difference.

“It is nothing.” Thingol answered, even as he extended his leg to let Beleg tend to the injury. He rested his head on Mablung’s shoulder and exhaled deeply. “Ah, Mablung. Beleg. We have won, and yet my heart is heavy. I do not think we could withstand another battle.”

Privately, Mablung agreed. They did not have the numbers for another battle like this one - if they joined with Círdan’s forces, perhaps, but there was never going to be a guarantee that either of them would reach the other in time.

Beleg looked uncertain. “But what choice do we have? We can hide, but they would smoke us from our trees. There is no other way.”

“There may be. Falas is well fortified. Forests cannot be fenced in with stone, but with enchantment… with enchantment, we might keep this Shadow at bay. Melian will know what to do.”

Mablung closed his eyes and wrapped an arm over Thingol’s shoulders. It was a relief, to think of true safety. They could retain their lives of peace, if Melian’s power held true. If Thingol trusted her magic, then Mablung needed no other proof.

Finishing his binding of Thingol’s wound, Beleg leaned in to join their embrace; he also sought comfort in the familiar closeness of brothers-in-arms. His sigh was discontent. “I cannot stop thinking of him. Will news reach Lenwë, do you think?”

“If Lenwë still lives, he will know. To lose his child...” Thingol fell silent. Lenwë had been as close as a brother, as close as Finwë or Olwë. Not knowing his fate had been hard on Thingol. Mablung knew that failing to protect his son would be harder.

“It is not your fault, Thingol.”

“I asked them to fight.”

“And Denethor answered willingly. You knew no more of what he would be facing than he did.” Mablung squeezed his shoulder. “He died bravely.”

“And yet,” said Beleg mournfully, “He died. Whether bravely or not, does it matter, when his death was in vain?”

“Bravery is more than a comfort to those left behind; it was a comfort to him, I have no doubt of it.”

“I do not doubt his bravery. I doubt the worth of death - his and all the others. When these forces will amass again, what has death brought us but a little more time?”

“When the queen’s enchantment is in place -”

“If. If the queen’s enchantment is in place, we do not know yet if -”

“Oh, stop it.” Thingol cracked the faintest of smiles. “Leave it to the two of you to start philosophising at a time like this.”

Mablung smiled back, a thin, tired smile.

“You would not have us any other way. But come, then. It is a long walk back to Menegroth.”