Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

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A Promise

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Mablung sat unmoving before the door of the treasury, his axe resting on his knees, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the ceiling. He hardly ever left his guard-post these days, dutifully doing his Queen’s final bidding. Only in the wee hours of the morning, when he could be sure to be left well alone, he allowed himself the relief of tears, and would at times even nod off. Not that sleep brought him any true rest. It mattered not whether he re-lived all the evil that had happened in his waking memory or his uneasy dreams. There was no escaping either way.

He screwed up his face against the pain, but could not hold back the soft wail of despair that escaped his lips, startling the little bird that kept him company out of its sleep. He reached up to pick the bird from his shoulder, its soft feathers warm and comforting to the touch.

“We need to send word to the Isle of Balar. Lord Círdan must learn of what has befallen.”

It were the first words that Mablung consciously remembered speaking, though he must have talked before, he only could not recall it. Melian nodded.

“He must.” she answered thickly “And so must… Lúthien."

Mablung looked at the Queen in concern. She had not rested at all since Elu’s death, had left his side only once to take back the Nauglamir at the gates. Even now, as all of Doriath seemed to be busy, preparing to lay its King to rest, she sat beside him, her fingers clasped over his hand.

“I shall send messengers to Tol Galen also as soon as the burial is over. But I could not find it in my heart to deny anybody the possibility to say farewell.”

“Nor should you. There is naught Lúthien or Círdan can do, anyway. I would go to Tol Galen myself, but… oh Mablung, I cannot bring myself to. I still see Lúthien as a child, flinging herself into Elu’s arms, and I cannot bear to tell that child that her father is gone. And the stupid thing is, that I am in truth telling a grown woman is no comfort at all, because what I fear even more than hurting her is that she might not care.”

Mablung tentatively reached out and pressed Melian’s shoulder.

“Nay, lady. Lúthien will be distraught. It was I who bade her and Beren farewell when they left Doriath, and believe me, she left both of you with a heavy heart. She bears no grudge against Elu, nor does Beren. But even if they were, learning of his death would still be horrible for Lúthien.”

“All the more should it be I who tells her, but I … can’t. Also because then I would need to let her go again and…”

Her voice broke, and Mablung tightened his grip. He could well imagine that Melian, tormented by her grief as she was right now, could not face that final goodbye from her daughter on top of everything else.

“I rather think, my lady, that Lúthien might prefer not to hear such news from you. Seeing your pain will only hurt her more.”

Melian nodded, then pressed her husband’s hand once more and rose, looking Mablung straight in the eyes for the first time that day.

“Take heed of the Silmaril, Mablung. The doom of Arda is woven around these jewels, and the one won must be guarded well. If it is, then there might still be hope, though I do not see it.”

“Neither do I. But I shall do so regardless. Guard it.”

They looked at each other in silence for a while, and Mablung slowly began to understand that this was another parting, another farewell. It did not surprise him, but it grieved him greatly all the same.

“You are leaving us.”

Melian nodded.

“Dior will soon be King. Believe me, Mablung, I wished I could leave my grandson a realm that is better protected, and not lay that burden upon him and Nimloth, but… I have no more strength left, no power to repel the evil that is now engulfing all of Beleriand. And without Elu, I cannot hold the Girdle. I am of no use to my people any more, though they will likely not understand, will hold themselves abandoned by the queen that once vowed to protect them.”

“They will understand. No-one who saw Lúthien die out of grief for Beren will expect you to… to overcome Elu’s death. No-one who saw you two so in love.”

It was true, Mablung thought. The queen could not die according to the ways of her own kin, but this was probably as close to the death of the Firstborn as a Maia could come. She, like her daughter before, would succumb to the grief for her beloved, would shed her body and travel West as spirit alone.
Maybe his feelings had showed on his face, or Melian had gathered what he was thinking otherwise, for she managed a teary smile at last.

“I can never thank you enough for everything you have done for me, for us, for all of Doriath. Please take care. Do not get yourself hurt.”

“Death shall be my reward, Queen Melian. I shall not leave Elmo, but other than that… I am tired, lady.”

To that, Melian said nothing, but wrapped her arms around him and embraced him, and he held onto her tightly.

“We will meet again, Mablung. I promise.”

“I shall hold onto that.” he mumbled into her black curls, and felt her tighten her embrace.

“And if it is through death that it should come to pass, if you meet Elu in the Halls…”

“…then I will keep an eye on him for you. And see that he gets himself in no trouble, as this seems to have become an unfortunate habit of his lately.”

Melian made a noise that was half sob, half chuckle. Mablung miraculously felt himself smile, too.

“And tell him I will never stop loving him.” she added, tears choking her voice once more.

“He knows. But I shall bear him your love anyway. I look forward to that.”

He felt himself getting drowsy in Melian’s arms before he could think or say any more, and woke again slumped against a pillar, carefully covered in his cloak. Melian was gone, and it did not need much scrutiny to work out that she must have engulfed him in her enchantment, so that he fell into a deep sleep.

He was all alone now beside Elu's body. Or almost alone. Something chirped softly close by, and by the movement of its small feathery body he realised that he held a bird in his hand. He stroked the nightingale’s brown head with one finger, and it looked back at him with beady eyes. Mablung smiled. He could well use a friend right now, as Melian surly had known when she left him this little parting gift, and also, it felt comforting that one of her birds still remained within Menegroth.

It was by the frightened squawk of that selfsame bird that he was aroused, unsure whether he had only been reliving Melian’s parting in his thoughts or actually fallen asleep. There was uproar in the upper levels, that had afore been so quiet. He scrambled to his feet, still drowsy, but gripping the handle of his axe tightly. He knew those shouts, those noises- there was battle in the Thousand Caves, and Mablung was torn between his desire to find out what was going on -and most importantly whether he could do anything to prevent the city’s fall- and his sense of duty, which dictated that he stayed where he was, as was his lady’s final bidding. Ultimately, though, he could not stand to stay put and wait, so he ran as silently as he could up the stairs to the higher levels, and found battle there immediately. A hot wrath rose in the pit of his stomach as he saw who the attackers were. Was it not enough that they had murdered their king? What for did they now return, they whom Mablung had once counted as friends?

The battle was fierce, but for Mablung, the end came swiftly. He had not fought long on that stairwell ere he was joined by Elmo, but even their combined efforts could not prevent the dwarves from getting past them, their true purpose only too clear. Giving chase, Elmo and Mablung caught up with them again before the very doors behind which the Nauglamir was kept. Mablung fought there as he had never done before, and Elmo beside him wielded Elu’s sword, but in the end they were overpowered.

A dwarven blade caught Mablung in the chest and buried itself deeply in his ribcage. He would have yelled in pain, had he only managed to make any sound at all. Instead, hot blood sputtered sickeningly from his mouth as he fell, and he realised with terror that if not one of their attackers chose to finish what they had started, he would drown in his own blood.

The dwarves, however, had no interest in killing for good measure, but only in getting what they had been after from the start. So Mablung was forced to watch, as he lay on the floor coughing and retching, as Elmo was being slain, and the door to the treasury wrenched open at last. Frustration slunk into his dying thoughts. All this had come to nothing. How cruelly fate sought to mock him now, that he could not even revenge his king, his lord, his true love, nor keep the promise he had given his queen.

But then something miraculous happened. As the light of the gem fell upon him, he suddenly felt a great peace, and a calm within him. He cared no more about the pain and the blood, nor about Elmo who lay beside him with an axe embedded in the back of his head.

The light called to him, yet not in a sinister way. It was calling him home.

And as his vision slowly dimmed, he realised with a well of emotion that Elu had died just like that, that he had looked into that selfsame light, perhaps found the same comfort in his instant of death. Mablung had no air in his lungs to mutter his last vow- that he would follow where Elu lead. Where you go, I go. Still, the mere thought was enough to put him at ease,  to console him, console him like the gentle voice of Námo that called him by his name.