Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

Part Two- Rehoused

Mablung sat by the sea, watching the sun’s beams painting the waves in orange and pink and grey. It was a beautiful sight, one that calmed and warmed his heart like in long Ages past the music of Menegroth had done. It was hard to imagine that it was all gone now, the caves, the woods, the whole of Beleriand. That it had long since passed into legend, tales of the most ancient time.

That thought in itself seemed strange to Mablung, as he did not feel like a tale from the most ancient time. Indeed, he felt like time had stopped passing altogether since he had returned from Mandos. Lady Nienna had said that it would be so, that this was the way of Aman, and that this way of being was in truth better suited for the nature of the Eldar than the life in ever-changing, ever-aging Middle-Earth, where time would at once pass so swiftly an elf could do hardly more than grasp at wisps of flying smoke, and drag so much that in made one weary of life itself.

Gulls cried overhead, circling over the bay and over the far off coast-line of Tol Eressëa, just visible in the evening’s haze. The island became ever more populated now that almost all who had lingered in Middle-Earth had left it for good, while at the same time Mandos was emptied of most of its dwellers. It was the home now of many tribes of different woodelves, especially those who liked to keep their distance from the Valar, and of those of the Sindar that kept under their own rule, rather than reuniting with their kin in and around Alqualondë.

Dior and Nimloth had established their realm there, and with them dwelled so many Mablung had loved dearly in his first life- the majority of his own men with their kin, Galadhon with most of his wider family, Oropher, who governed his own people now, helped by his grandson. Thinking of him actually made Mablung chuckle. He knew of course that Oropher desperately longed for his son just because he was his son, but most often Oropher stressed the point of how much he longed to pass rule again on to Thranduil. Mablung privately agreed. Oropher had always been a brilliant and most beloved captain, but Mablung could not imagine him as a king. Of course, Thranduil had been little more than a child when Mablung had died in Menegroth, but he had always liked the boy, and given the reverence and love with which everyone talked of him, he must have done well in leading his people, and in keeping them safe.

Mablung, however, had not made the island his home, and nor had Beleg. However much he agreed with Dior being King of the Sindar, it still hurt just too much to call Lúthien’s son that- for it was a steady reminder of who was missing among them. As if Mablung could ever forget anyway, even for a moment.

Beleg on the other hand had made nowhere his home, but roamed Aman freely, from the cold wastes of Araman to the ever flourishing pastures of Yavanna, and from Lórien to Tol Eressëa itself. That roaming life, Mablung knew, brought Beleg great solace, and he did not begrudge his friend this comfort in the slightest. True, he did rather miss him whenever they were apart, but even so would never even dream of discouraging Beleg in his lifestyle. His own grief seemed as nothing to the burden Beleg bore within his heart, which was after all one of the most profound, most painful hurts there was in Aman- the longing and mourning for a beloved soul that had travelled beyond the confines of Arda.

It humbled Mablung deeply to know that Beleg had willingly shouldered this pain and had still returned among the living, thus honouring Túrin every day anew. Mablung was sure that Túrin would have wanted his companion to truly enjoy life again, so as to show Morgoth that he had no victory at all, not even over them. If it was true what was told, then the passing on of Men was actually a Gift, and after all Túrin had sought to die, had sought relief in death from the torture he had been subject to. He liked to think that all Húrin’s kin had found that- and so if Túrin was in a good place where Morgoth could never reach him, and Beleg was alive and well here in the land of Morgoth’s conquerers, and they held each other in love within their hearts, then the victory in the end was truly theirs.

Mablung often told Beleg that when they spoke of Túrin, which they frequently did when they were together. Sometimes he wondered if they had talked of those things in Mandos as well, he and Beleg, and Elu also. Mablung felt they must have, but could not be altogether sure.

Memory of the Halls was a curious thing- if outright asked, none of the rehoused elves could recall anything from their stay within the Halls, not what they looked like, not what they had learned there, not how it was to have no body. Yet sometimes, one would come across something, the story of an event that had taken place while one had been dead and then suddenly remember that one had already known. That fact made little sense, and Mablung had long since given up to explain it to those who had never known the Halls. They found this state of remembering yet not remembering most often alarming, whilst the rehoused -and Mablung among them- found it to be peaceful, and part of their new life. It was as a dream from which one awoke in the morning and that slipped from one’s grasp even as one tried to remember it, until nothing was left but a warm, reassuring feeling that it had been a good dream.

The only thing that no elf could recall was the rebuilding of their body. Námo himself had explained to Mablung upon their parting that this was a thing better not remembered, and Mablung had no reason to question those words. He did remembered though how very strange it had felt in the beginning, to have eyes again that were blinded by the bright sun, and ears to hear the chatter of the birds. They were so very loud. And skin to feel the soft grass. He had then been given clothes by Vairë and been blessed by Nienna, and then the three Valar had left him alone to get accustomed to being truly alive again. Only once he had achieved that did he notice that he was being watched by tiny black eyes.

“You!” he had exclaimed in joy, “How come you’re here?”

He would have recognised his bird everywhere, but failed to understand how it could be here. He had thought that it must long since have perished, even if it had escaped from Menegroth initially. The bird, however, had hopped onto his hand, twittering almost indignantly.

As if I am a normal bird.

Mablung had smiled.

“Forgive me, little one. I never actually thought about this, and I admit I thought you were.”

And Huan is a normal dog, is he?

“Of course not.”

Good. Now, if you have stopped being stupid, I might inform you that you need not walk far to find your parents and sisters, who are eagerly awaiting you.

Mablung had wasted no time following the bird's advice, and flung himself into his family's awaiting arms not long thereafter. Their reunion had been beyond happy, even if at first Mablung had had no words to talk to them, no names to call them. It mattered not. Glad tears needed no language, nor the gentle braiding of hair or the holding each other close. And once he had grown used again to living among his family, he had also found that he could easily accustom to the tongue of Alqualondë, where his family had dwelled since it was built, and where Mablung chose to settle down as well.