Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

Tears Unnumbered

Before the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, Mablung had considered himself to be a seasoned warrior. He had, after all, commanded Doriath’s marchwardens together with Beleg and Oropher for centuries, had hunted uncounted orcs, had fought the first battle of Beleriand alongside his king. That, in his books, qualified as ‘seasoned warrior’.

After the Nírnaeth he would never again call himself that, he promised himself as he cowered on the blood-soaked earth. The horrors he had seen here he would never forget, but even less all the pain. Each maimed corpse on the ground, be it elf or man or dwarf, had had a story, a life, someone dear to their heart that had made fighting this battle worth-while. Mablung’s heart ached, ached as it had never yet done, and he wept for every single one of them.

Worst of all had been King Fingon’s fall, and Maedhros’ and Turgon’s anguished cries as they had witnessed it. Mablung was no stranger to yells like that, speaking of a pain that pierced the heart with a shard of ice. Speaking of ice… it was so cold. Mablung recalled the first battle and his injury, and how cold he had felt when he had almost bled to death. Oh, he felt just as cold now, only that this time, he was not wounded. This time, nothing accounted for his uncontrollable shivering but the icy winds, and the terror within his own Fëa.

“Come on! Mablung, come on, the battle is lost, we need to be gone.”

Beleg’s tone was frantic, and Mablung struggled to his feet. All his garments were stiff with dried mud and blood, and his heart was so heavy within his chest that he felt like its weight dragged him down.

“Move!” Beleg urged him, tugging at his arm, but Mablung could not.
His legs simply refused to obey his command, and he sank back to the ground, despite Beleg’s moan of despair. He felt his friend kneel down beside him and share what little water he had left with him, then stroke his cheek tenderly. Beleg’s fingers felt icy even to Mablung’s own cold skin, and as he looked up, he saw how exhausted his friend looked.

Nevertheless, Beleg’s voice was low and gentle as he addressed him again.

“Mablung, dearest friend, I implore you, gather what strength you have and come with me. I promise we will rest as soon as we find a place to hide, and once we are again strong enough, we will go home.”

“Home?” Mablung croaked, his voice as reluctant to obey his command as his limbs.

“Yes, home. Melian’s protection still stands. We need but reach the boarders of Doriath, and then we’ll be safe.”

He wanted to find hope in Beleg’s words, wanted it with all his heart, but he could not. He had seen too much. Had borne too much. He wanted to sleep.

“And how long will it stand, now that Morgoth has unleashed all his forces? It is over, Beleg. The world is ended. Let’s just stay here and die.”

Why, ah why had he ever left Doriath, where Queen Melian kept them safe from this horror? What foolhardy hope had he seen in joining the battle? He could not recall it now, even to himself, and he bitterly rued the day he and Beleg had asked leave to join this senseless slaughter.

“We promised, Mablung.” Beleg sobbed now, his tears leaving lighter traces on his grimy cheeks. “We promised to return, don’t you remember?”

Of course he remembered. Even thinking it, he found himself standing again in the throne -room of Menegroth, heard the familiar trickle of water and twittering of birds, and Elu’s voice. Mablung winced. Hearing him sound so cool and distant was deeply unsettling.

“Alright then. If it truly is your will to join this madness, then I will not hold you back, even if it is against my -and also the Queen’s- counsel. But I will not suffer you to join the forces of those who vowed to end my life, and my realm, your home. Under that premise only I will give you leave to go, that you will not swear allegiance to any son of Fëanor’s.”

Beleg frowned.

“It is King Fingon’s host that we intend to join, who has ever proven true to his words of friendship towards Doriath, and who left his own young son in Lord Círdan’s safe-keeping, rather than trusting the strength of his own kin. But you should really know the two of us better than to assume otherwise, lord. As it is, it might well be that one or another Fëanorian buttock might find itself pierced by one of my arrows for the atrocity of threatening you, given that I have any to spare.”

Mablung feebly attempted to turn his laugh to a cough, but as even the Queen grinned at Beleg’s remark, he did not try too hard. Elu alone seemed unmoved, and Mablung wondered again where the elf he had once known so well had disappeared to, the elf who would have laughed openly at the mental image of Celegorm with an arrow sticking in his backside, and who would not have let them ride to their probable deaths without a fight.

It was not long ere Elu’s somber mood once again engulfed them all, and Beleg and Mablung made to depart. Melian’s voice was full of sorrow as she rose to wish them farewell.

“May your path be blessed with good fortune, and may you find your way back to us unscathed.” she said, her bright eyes glistening with emotion.

Beleg and Mablung bowed low in unison, then turned to leave, their own hearts heavy.

They had not walked ten steps, however, ere the king’s voice rang out behind them.

“Wait. One last thing.”

They turned, and were astonished to see Elu rise from his throne and step down from the dais to stand beside them, glowering down at them both.

“Just so you know- if you two don’t return to Menegroth safe and sound, if you dare to die on that accursed battlefield, then I swear I shall follow you to Mandos out of pure spite, just so I can dismiss you from my service forever, have I made myself very clear?”

Both only nodded, lost for anything to say. It was only when they had indeed left the Hall behind them that Beleg mumbled:
“We love you very much, too, Elu.”

His reminiscences must have smoothly slipped into dreams, Mablung realised as he started, awoken by the feeling of falling. Beleg jerked upright, too, though Mablung quickly felt him relax again as he realised that what had startled Mablung had been his own body falling asleep rather than anything going on on the battlefield. Beleg curled back up on the frozen ground at his side, his tears now falling unrestrainedly.

A new spark had alighted within Mablung’s mind, though, a tiny spark struggling not to go out again. A thought, not happy, not hopeful, but piercingly clear among all the numb indifference- if they died here, they would tear their realm down with them. He did not doubt even for a moment that Elu, stubborn as he was, would make true this threat. And that, really, settled the matter. Mablung would not be responsible for the destruction of Doriath, to which both he and Beleg were sworn. Even less would he spare Morgoth the trouble of having to fight his way into their realm if he wanted its demise- and least of all would he do anything to hurt Elu further. Death the king may secretly welcome, and Mablung respected that, but he knew how the news of their deaths would hurt him, and that Mablung would not suffer.

So with an effort that demanded every last bit of determination he had, Mablung forced himself to his feet, pulling an astounded Beleg with him.

“Home.” he muttered through gritted teeth, and holding onto each other for support, the Captains of Doriath escaped the battle of unnumbered tears.