Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

The Feast

The soft clip-clopping of their horses’ hooves sounded muffled on the leaf-strewn path, and yet loud in their wary ears. It felt strange to have left Doriath and its protection, making it hard to believe that only a few decades ago, they had roamed these lands freely in their hunts. It felt like another Age.

“Well, it IS another Age.” Beleg had pointed out when Mablung had voiced his concerns upon their parting. 
Everything was changed now, new and wondrous, but also bright and merciless. Gone was the brilliance of the stars, for even when the moon was not out in the night’s sky, it still seemed to dim the starlight, that had, for so long, been all the light they needed. Even worse -in Mablung’s mind- was the sun, garish and loud. He had never thought that one could hear light, but he could. Everything seemed loud now.

“Is this really the light you once wanted to lead us to?” they had asked their King when the sun had first risen, but Elu had not answered them. His gaze had been upon the new light, looking deeply troubled.
“It is, and yet is not.” Melian had answered in her husband’s stead, seemingly sharing his unease without being able to explain further.

It might yet be, Mablung thought now that he rode beside Daeron, that I shall grow to love the sun and its light and sparkling colours. 
Daeron had assured him he would, as the minstrel had seemed to accustom to the brightness much quicker, just like Lúthien. Yet as for now, Mablung could not, feeling suddenly as a stranger in the lands that were his home. The Eldar they were called after all, the star-people, not the people of sun or moon.

Mablung was rather roughly shaken out of his musings as his horse halted suddenly, nickering softly. Between his stallions black rimmed ears, he could make out colourful tents in the distance. So they had reached their destination at last. He glanced sideways at his companion. Daeron seemed at the same time apprehensive and excited, and Mablung thought he felt the same. He was very curious about the Noldor and their tales, and honoured to be sent as emissary by the King, but still he felt his heart beat somewhere in his throat- what was he, a captain, a warden, supposed to do at a feast that was meant for the great?

Hours later, when the sun that had been starting to rise when they had arrived already began its journey towards the western ocean, Mablung found himself alone among the crowd for a moment. Daeron had left to play with Maglor, so Mablung took the time to let his gaze roam over the scene before his eyes. He could not look his fill on all the colourful hangings and the lamps that were already emitting a soft light, though there was no visible flame within them. And of course on all the different colours and styles of the Noldor’s raiments. 
Proud and in fiery red stood the princes of the house of Fëanor, with their father’s many edged star embroiled upon their chests. Blue and silver were the colours of the king and his house, cool and fair as the moonlight. Only the princess deviated from this, being clad all in pure white. The children of Finarfin were clad in green, gold and a silky fabric embroiled with many shimmering pearls, that seemed blue at times, at others green or grey. Mablung recognised it with ease as the craftwork of Olwë’s wife, or at least as craftwork done under her tutoring. They had all marvelled at it, long ago on starlit shores, and not a few had wondered then whether Uinen had not taught her to weave the sea itself into fabric.

Beside Finrod, who wore so much jewellery that his whole figure seemed to sparkle, Mablung spotted Círdan, and his heart ached with remorse once more. True, Círdan had waved away his and Daeron’s words of regret, and had embraced them both with joy, but Mablung still felt guilt burn within himself. Kind and forgiving as Círdan was, there was no denying that Elu had abandoned the Falas, to hide his people behind Melian’s magic. Mablung had often tried to reason with himself, that they had all been too wounded, too exhausted, too much reduced in numbers to achieve anything but to be utterly destroyed in the quest to free the Falas, and that Eglarest and Brithombar were well walled, but the fact remained that they had abandoned them, and be it with the heaviest of hearts. Elu had not bidden Mablung to bear Círdan any apology, but only to invite him to come to Menegroth if he would, so that Elu might seek his pardon himself. Círdan had gladly accepted the invitation into Doriath, so Mablung willed himself to truly believe that Círdan held no grievances against them.                      

Mablung had let his mind wander, and so did not immediately realise that Fingolfin himself approached him now. He started as Fingolfin spoke, then hastily made to bow to the king, so as to hide his surprise. At the first glimpse he had had of him, Mablung had felt a fierce, piercing pain to his heart, for Fingolfin was the very image of Finwë as Mablung remembered him, safe perhaps that his bearing was much quieter and sterner than Finwë’s had ever been. Soon, however, that pain had been replaced by a sense of unease. There was something strange about all the Noldor, something secretive. They did not mention Finwë or Valinor with even a word during all the talks, nor explained aught about their true motives of their coming back to Middle-Earth. It had been exactly the same with Eärwen’s sons when they had come to Menegroth, and that, together with Queen Melian’s reservations against the Noldor in general, urged Mablung’s heart to caution.

Funnily enough, as he now talked to Fingolfin -being questioned a little about Doriath in general and their strife with Morgoth and about Mablung’s position within the realm- he realised that the king, too, was not altogether at ease.

“It seems I underestimated you, Captain Mablung.” Fingolfin said at last “I will be honest with you, I was a little dismayed to find that of the venerable realm of Doriath, none but two messengers had come. But you are not only messengers, it seems?”

Mablung smiled for the first time, shaking his head at that.

“We are, and again are not. You see, lord, our realm is protected by our queen’s power, as  surly you are aware. But she herself cannot with certainty leave her realm now, and our people do not trust Bauglir to remain in Angband forever, and thus will not risk tearing our protection asunder. And the king would not attend a feast such as this without his queen.”

Mablung was so focused on how to word his answer, in order to at once assure Fingolfin that it was no discourtesy by Doriath’s royal couple not to come in person and at the same time not reveal too much about Melian’s enchantments, that he almost missed the flicker of pain that streaked across Fingolfin’s fine features. He wondered what grief lay there, and what had happened to Fingolfin’s wife to make him and his children come hither without her. But that, truly, was none of his business, as it was no business of Fingolfin’s that the true working of the Girdle was far more complex.

“I see.” Fingolfin said now, apparently overcoming his brief moment of weakness. “So it fell upon you and Daeron to represent your realm. I must say, I would not have thought it possible to ever witness a display of music keener and more skilful than that of my nephew, but it seems that Daeron is more than his equal.”

Again, Mablung inclined his head, smiling.

“Daeron is more than just a skilled minstrel. He is also our lore-master, and there is none who knows more about the history of our people, safe perhaps king and queen. But most of all, he is very close to the king himself, as am I. We both are honoured with our lord’s unlimited trust.”

Something softened in Fingolfin’s solemn face.

“Good.” he said, before biding Mablung farewell for the moment, who sighed with relief.

Whatever stood between their two kindreds, he did not yet know, but at least there were no animosities between them now. He smiled to himself as Daeron and Maglor again began to play together. Elu himself would certainly not have done any better at keeping things friendly, and for that, Mablung was quite pleased with himself.