Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

The Shadows Lengthening

The ground on which Mablung sat was cold, and however much he tried to cover himself with his cloak, he could not get himself comfortable. It was a moonless night, and breezy, and under the glimmering stars he could make out the summit of Amon Ethir looming above the treetops. He had no desire to go there, no desire to go even a step further. But he would have to, as soon as the morning dawned, and hope against hope that Morwen would heed his command and stay there, so that he need not look out for her while he tried to find out what had befallen in Nargothrond. Not that he truly expected Morwen to do as he told her, but he still kept a faint hope that she might after all be subject to reason, at least occasionally. Her valour notwithstanding, there was no way she could do any good in entering the caves with them, so Mablung prayed that she would stay out of danger at least of her daughter’s sake.

When they had first discovered that Nienor had followed them, Mablung had almost laughed, a little, very much to himself. How Morwen could have expected her daughter to stay behind when she herself chose to forego Melian’s counsel? Headstrong they all were, and Nienor was very much her parents’ daughter there. Mablung was also rather impressed by how she had fooled them into believing her to be one of the guard, and how she had stood up to Morwen with love and steadfastness rather than Túrin’s cold rage, but very affectively for it. And oh, it served Morwen right to have her own counsel and dread disregarded, and then she could see how she liked it… but no, no, he must not think such a horrid thing. He knew little of Morwen’s suffering, he must not be so mean.

Overall, he had to admit that his good upbringing seemed to have recently left him, especially where Húrin’s wife and daughter were concerned. It was very unseemly to argue with them as he had done earlier that day when he had called them both fey, but he could not help it. A dread had settled on his heart the moment he had stepped out of the Girdle, and it intensified with every hour they travelled.
He could imagine no way in which this could end in anything but catastrophe. Maybe it was that which made him so irate, that he saw no possibility for a good ending to that errand, one that in itself was grim enough. Mablung well remembered Finrod, and Orodreth, and had very much liked them. The mere thought of going to investigate the remnants of their realm and of what he might discover there made his blood run cold. Why, why, were they in such a situation now, where there was no way out?

Again and again he had wondered where he had gone wrong, what he could have done to prevent getting where they were now. He had defended Túrin, had he not, and reprimanded Saeros? Had he not met Túrin with kindness and respect even after that vain fool that had been Saeros had been slain? Had not Túrin’s case been handled by all within Doriath with the uttermost fairness and goodwill, and his mother and sister received with honour later on? Where had they gone so badly astray that they deserve such wrong as they now faced? Where had they gone so wrong as to deserve losing Beleg?

Mablung buried his face against the rough wool of his mantle, trying his best to stifle the sob that wanted to escape him. He had tried so hard all along not to think of his friend and wonder again how it was that he had met his end, but it was no surprise that his grief had proven stronger than his will in the end. Never before had Mablung felt so alone. He missed Beleg more horribly than he could ever have imagined, his counsel, his strength, but most of all his never-ceasing optimism. While Beleg had lived, Mablung had always managed to hold onto hope, or regain it, but now that Beleg lay dead, all seemed lost. Now that Beleg lay dead… how could the archer be dead? Beleg, who had been so bubbly, so full of life, who could not be restrained by neither friend nor foe, what evil could have befallen him in the end? And again, Mablung wondered where his grave was, if, indeed, his body rested in a grave. He could not imagine him dead.

Mablung looked up only when he sensed someone stir close by, and was not at all surprised to see Morwen rise from her camp. She found rest no more than he did, and Mablung did not expect her to, now that she had come so close to discovering her son’s fate.

“I, um, apologise for what I said earlier. I should not have insulted you so, my lady, nor Nienor.” he said, rather awkwardly, as she walked over to him.

“And yet you stand by your words, Captain.”

Mablung nodded.

“I do so indeed. This is a delicate task, and I fear that we are going to do great evil with it.”

He wanted to say more, to lay open his thoughts once more to Morwen, but he knew that that would come to naught, so he let silence fall between them. Only after some time, Morwen broke it, saying:
“I don’t get you, Mablung. You are valiant, and you scorn no danger, and saying of your brave deeds run afar in all Beleriand, and yet you ever counsel caution. What is it you fear? Death?”

Mablung thought about her words for a while.

“I do not fear death…” he said at length “…at least not my own. But I do fear the suffering of those I cherish, and the destruction of beauty, and good. I fear Morgoth’s horrid designs.”

“Trust an elf to fear that. But you say you do not fear your death, well, nor do I fear mine.  I fear to never reunite with my kin ere I shall vanish again from this world without a trace. Why can you not understand this? Our years on this Earth are short compared to yours, we must spend our time with those we love ere it is…”

“Spare me with the predicament of mortal transience, lady, I implore you. My people know of its bitterness.”

Mablung had not meant to interrupt her, to display once more such rudeness to her, but his unrest had got the better of him for good. And also, he could not bear any thought of Beren or Lúthien on top of everything else -especially Túrin- tonight.

“And yet you would confine me.” Morwen argued heatedly, though her voice was still low. “You would keep me from my son until all hope to see him once more is gone beyond recovery. If, indeed, there is any. But even burying his bones should put my heart at ease more than remaining in a cage.”

“Doriath is no cage, Lady Morwen, but a refuge. Your parting was not hindered, nor your children’s. The Queen keeps none prisoner. You asked me what made me ever counsel caution- well, this does. Wisdom does. Melian does not think that Morgoth is a foe that can be conquered, and even were she not a being more wise than any of us, I would agree with her.”

“And what would you do instead? Would you hide forever? And let Morgoth wrack all the lands that are not protected? And then what? What do you think will happen when Morgoth turns at last towards Doriath in all his fell might? Do you truly trust that the Girdle will withstand that?”

To this, Mablung said nothing. 
No, he did not think the Girdle would stand forever. How could it, when they said that there was no mightier being within Arda than Morgoth? He did not tell Morwen that, however. Instead he said gently:
“I perceive your impatience for the shortness of the time you linger within Arda, and yet, would you not rather spend that time in peace than seek to shorten it even further, and make it more grievous?”

At this, Morwen laughed a mirthless laugh.

“Do you have children, Captain?”

Mablung shook his head.

“Then you know naught of grief!” she shot at him, her eyes gleaming.

It is too much. Mablung jumped to his feet, drawing breath to speak, no, shout at her, throw at her that the knows grief, even if he does not know that grief. Or at least not the way she knew it. But was he not forced to watch that selfsame grief tear the one he loved beyond all else to pieces? Was not that grief the very thing he feared would one day tear the protection of their realm asunder, when all that she had endured that her race was not meant to endure finally brought Melian to her knees? And yet no word crossed his lips.

His sudden -albeit silent- outburst had startled her, which he had not wanted, so he let himself sink back to his knees, raising his face instead to the star-strewn skies. That same starry sky had watched his birth, his childhood games, his long-lost home. But to Cuiviénen there was no returning, they said, nor to the days of their journey. And the words came to his lips as from a former life, along with a long buried memory of a burnt-down campfire and the comfort of friends, and the exhilaration of a first kiss.

He sang, and with every note his heart was relieved a little more of the crushing fear that held it ransom. It was only when he had ended, his face cold and wet with tears, that he noticed Morwen staring at him.

“Well. And there was I thinking I understood the alliances within Doriath. I may be mistaken, but is that not the tongue the princes of the Noldor speak amongst themselves? And is it not forbidden by the law of your King? Then you are bold indeed, Mablung!”

Her words were hard, though he discerned the pity in her voice nonetheless, which told him that she had noticed his tears.

“Nay lady, ’tis not, though you cannot know it. And the King would not begrudge me this song, as it was he who once brought it to us, a praise of our Lady Elbereth, who gifted to us the light of her stars. I named her Varda in my song as I believe the exiles do still. Yet my words were not their language, but the tongue of our childhood that we spoke when these lands were free and hale, and no blood nor grievances divided us from our kinsfolk. Alas, alas for all the hurts, old and new, and those yet to come.”

To that, Morwen said nothing.