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ladysternchen · 14 days ago

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If It Be Your Will

Morning-mist rose from the river on the third morning after the flight, as though Esgalduin veiled itself in grief. The mist veiled them, gave them shelter when none other existed, and to honour that shelter, they all remained quiet, carrying out all necessary tasks in utter silence. That was, until the wail of grief and terror, uttered by one who had been sent to the riverbank to collect water, rent the still air.

~~~

Melian had but a moment’s warning ere her entire world was violently turned upside down. Maintaining the Girdle came naturally to her these days, without needing her conscious thought or effort. She kept away whoever had no business being in Doriath, shut out the voices and mental attacks that Mairon would hurl at her, hardly noticing that she was doing it at all.

This, however, was different. Very, very different.

Like a stab to her heart by a spear of ice, she felt his power engulf her, smiting her. Against this foe she had never fought, never attempted to fight, seeing that against his powers, she was utterly helpless. Now at last, that which she had always secretly dreaded was upon them–Melkor had turned his deadly gaze upon Doriath. She had long wondered why she had been allowed to keep her little refuge for so long, when he hated her still more passionately than he hated the Children. The answer was clear to her now; she, and her realm together alongside her, were but playthings to Melkor, to toy with as he pleased. Never an earnest threat to him, unworthy of his interest until the mood struck him, and he finally turned his fell attention towards Doriath. He was playing with her now, like a fox would play with a mouse, rejoicing in her despair and growing fear.

Only when Elu beside her yelled in pain, however, did she fully understand Morgoth’s terrible plan. The court about them erupted in panicked voices, but Melian hardly noticed them, her mind too focused on Morgoth’s assault on both herself and her beloved. She felt his ghastly grip on her, felt his hands on her throat and her chest. He wounded her not, but she well understood his intention. She had seen too many of her sisters fall to Morgoth’s preferred form of torture not to recognise what he implied. He was breaching her Girdle, in a very literal way, slinking his loathsome fingers between her legs. Melian squirmed, trying to flee Melkor’s assault, but there was no escaping, no way for her to prevent him from taking what he wanted. Never had she felt so humiliated, her dignity so violated, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to shed her body, to become again naught but spirit. She wanted to be able to face Melkor like they had faced each other in the beginning of days, to snarl at him, to bestow upon him every insult she could think of. And above all, get away from the nauseating feeling of his touch.

But leaving her body would mean leaving Elu behind, who loved her, who needed her. For him, she needed to stay within her own body, and her right mind. For him, she needed to stay strong.

He had sunk to his knees on the ground, his head bowed, his hands clutching at his stomach, while crimson droplets covered the tiled floor before him as he bled from nose and mouth. Melian crouched down beside him, her fear for her husband enough to release her from the state of frozen terror she had been trapped in since Melkor’s attack began. Gently, she stroked back his hair, and saw with terror that blood was also running from his eyes like tears, and from his ears. She forced his face upwards with shaking hands, checking for injuries, but found no sign of any damage done, save for the blood. Yet his grey eyes looked right through her without seeing, and when she called his name softly, he gave no sign that he had heard.

“He blinded me. I cannot see nor hear or speak. Melian…”

Relieved though she was that he reached out to her through their minds’ connection, it still pained her to sense his fear and despair. She hastened to reassure him, therefore, to undo what she could undo of this foul sorcery...

“He did not, beloved. This is wizardry, naught more. Look at me now, and hear my voice!”

She tenderly brushed his eyelids with her fingers, then his ears and lips, all the while calling him softly. To Melian, the few moments that passed thus felt like eternity, though it really only was moments before his gaze focused on her once more, and he reached up with trembling fingers, covering her hand with his- the spell at last was broken. For a few shuddering breaths, they just stared at each other. Then Melian rose, shaking and feeling weaker than she had ever felt, reaching out to Elu to help him to his feet. The turmoil in the Hall had made way for a deathly silence, and Melian could feel all eyes focused on them. Elu grasped her arm, trying to get to his feet, but another strangled cry escaped him, and he sank back, his body shaking with pain. Or else with the effort of fighting back whatever Morgoth bestowed on him, Melian thought uneasily. Mablung and Elmo both hurried to his side, their concern written clearly on their faces. Elu, however, frantically waved them off.

“No. Stay away from me!”

They both halted, fear and pain etched on their faces, and Melian wondered for a moment whether Morgoth made her husband see strange visions, as was his wont, perhaps have their features contorted until Elmo and Mablung resembled orcs? But then Elu spoke again, and though his voice was hoarse and shaky, he still mastered enough authority that all in the Hall harkened.

“Nobody approaches me. All my people are to leave, as Doriath is no longer safe. Seal the doors of this hall, gather what supplies you need, and above all, make sure, absolutely sure, that there is no weapon left within Menegroth!”

Mablung glanced at Elmo, the same bewildered terror written across their faces, then removed the sword he was girt with, along with his knives and his axe, and handed his weapons to one of his men, motioning for them to leave the Hall. He then made his way slowly and carefully to the dais on which Elu still crouched, letting himself fall on one knee upon reaching it.

“Lord…” he began softly. “…I am unarmed. Will you tell me now what has befallen?”

Elu, shivering uncontrollably now, lifted his head just enough to look at Mablung, and when he spoke, it was as a plea, not an order.

“Stay away from me, Mablung, please! I know not how long I can withstand Morgoth, nor what he might make me do once I succumb.”

Melian’s heart contorted in her chest. How long indeed? And more importantly, what would happen to him when the time came and his strength was spent?

Oh, accursed foe of all Eä. Melkor could hardly have done anything to wound her more than this–waiting patiently until Elu had entangled himself in his doom before assaulting them, biding his time until they had lost their child–no, their children. It was not only Lúthien who had turned away from them, but Túrin, too, and even though Melian had guarded her heart against loving a parent’s love again, Elu had not. To him, the human child had been as dear as his own flesh and blood, and Túrin’s loss a devastating blow. The cruelest part of all perhaps was knowing that Morgoth did not care about Elu in the slightest. An Elvenking was nothing more to him than a fly that he sought to smite, that he had proven when he had done away with the kings and lords of the Noldor. No. She was the true target of this whole affair. And the only reason Elu now had to go through this torture was that he was the being she loved the most. Melian could no longer sense Morgoth’s presence now, and the only reason she could think of for him leaving her be was that Elu was the easier target. How desperately she wished for their places to be exchanged, to be able to bear the brunt of Morgoth’s wrath herself, rather than having to watch her husband suffer.

When Elu spoke once more, tearing Melian out of her dark musings as he did so, his voice was breathless and pleading.

“Mablung, Elmo… I need you to leave me. Take as many people as you can with you and leave Menegroth, leave Doriath if you can. Lead them to Círdan. If anything is still safe, it is the Isle of Balar. Here…” he pulled the signet ring from his finger and handed it to a thunderstruck Elmo, “…take that to Círdan. He or you must now govern who will be left to govern.”

“Elu, I will never…”

“To Círdan! You must lead them there, and the ring will leave no questions unanswered.”

Melian’s heart clenched hearing him say that, but before she could say or do anything, Elmo had knelt down on the floor beside Elu, ignoring his brother’s efforts to get away from him.

“I will not leave you.”

“Yes, Elmo, you will. You are still my little brother, and I will protect you as long as I live. Morgoth has breached through the Girdle, it is only a matter of time until all this here is swarming with orcs–or until he chooses to use me as a weapon. And if he does, it will be those dearest to me that will be in the gravest danger. Please, Elmo. Go, seal this hall and go! All of you!”

It hurt to hear Elu send Elmo away, his Elmo, whom he had ever kept as close as possible, and even more to see Elmo bite his lips to keep his tears from falling.

“He cannot harm me, whatever might happen. I will go nowhere and stay with him until the end, I swear I will not abandon him. But you must heed your King’s order. You must leave.”

The words had left Melian’s lips ere she had truly thought them through, borne from the desire to ease the terrible pain caused to both brothers as well as Mablung by the parting. And she indeed would not abandon her husband now, whatever might befall. Even if he were able to truly harm her, she would not leave him to fight this battle alone. The very thought made her want to cry in dismay as it was.

“Melian… he wants you. You know he wants you and through me…”

“I am not leaving you.”

“Fine,” Elu panted, his hands curled into fists. “Everyone else, out, now!”

“Mablung!”

Melian herself knew not where the sudden impulse came from, nor why she did now what she had always refrained from doing, and called out to anyone but her husband in ósanwe. As it was, Mablung looked at her in surprise, but in the ruckus that had broken out at Elu’s command, nobody seemed to notice.

“Go down to the treasuries, get the Silmaril, and take it to Tol Galen. Tell Lúthien what has befallen, but do all in your power to prevent her from doing anything foolhardy. She cannot save Doriath, nor her father. All this will be over long before you reach the river Adurant.”

Mablung gazed at her, tears now running down his cheeks, tears Melian knew he was crying for his lord rather than his home. Nonetheless, he bowed in assent and made his way through the crowd to where the stairwell led to the lower levels of Menegroth.

“My lady?” she heard his voice in her head even as he vanished from sight, “I will obey any command you give regardless, and it is not my place to ask aught in return, but if I ever earned your favour, I beg you to keep your promise. I could not bear to leave King Elu otherwise.”

Even through the many emotions cursing through Mablung, all laid bare to her now that he had allowed her into his mind, Melian could easily discern Mablung’s utter despair, despair that drove him to a frankness he would elsewise never have displayed.

“I will keep my promise, Mablung. And oh, I wish I could reward you for your loyalty in better ways than just that, for you bear my love, and the King’s, as you know.”

“There can be no higher reward, my lady. As long as I know you both to be together, my heart shall be light.”

The time until the last person had left Menegroth seemed to Melian like all Ages of Arda, while she could do nothing more than watch in despair, both her people, whom she loved, leave forever, and Elu battling to remain in his own right mind. But had she known what would come after, she would have gladly seen it last a little longer.

Nothing, ever, could have prepared her for the long hours that followed, for being forced to watch Elu fight against Morgoth’s grip on him and lose, bit by bit. There simply was nothing more horrid. When in the beginning she could still talk to her husband, calm and comfort him, he withdrew ever more into his own searing mind as time wore on, and by the time the sun rose outside the caves the following morning, he no longer recognised her.

Never had she felt more alone. She had withdrawn to the dais, huddled on the ground at the foot of her own throne, and wrapped her dress as closely around her as she could, as though it were a comforting blanket she could wrap herself in. A blanket she could hide under, so that she need not see her beloved succumbing to Morgoth’s foul powers more and more, become a puppet in this grotesque play that she, in return, was forced to watch. She knew not what to do, whether to try and break through Morgoth’s enchantments or not. She decided against it in the end, scared of what her trying might do to Elu, that she might do even more damage than was already done, but she could hardly bear it. More agonising still was the thought that he might die under this torture, and think himself abandoned by her, without her ever having the chance to prove otherwise. Still, out of options, she had no choice but to watch him tearing at his hair, scratching and biting himself, hitting his head and bare hands against the pillars of the Hall, shouting at thin air as if he thought himself trapped, or else betrayed by someone close to him. He made no sense whatsoever.

Time dragged. Twice, Melian tried getting up from her place by the thrones, but both times her movement seemed to unhinge Elu even more. As causing him even more fear was the very last thing she wanted, she remained where she was, until by the following evening, she could not stand watching any longer. Elu had visibly reached the end of his strength, and Melian would not stand by and allow him to succumb to Morgoth’s mental torture alone. Still, it felt remarkably more like approaching a scared animal than her husband when she finally did get up and walked over to him, careful not to startle him. He crouched by one of the pillars, trembling with both exhaustion and fear, blood running down his face and arms where he had injured himself, strands of his silver hair still between his fingers. It was the most pitiful sight she had ever seen.

“Elu…”

He jerked his head and winced, but did not answer her.

“Beloved…”

Elu raised his gaze to her, but then shrank back, his eyes wide with terror.

“Get away from me!”

It hurt. A lot. It hurt even though Melian knew that he was not himself, that this was all Morgoth’s doing; and yet, seeing Elu being afraid of her stung.

“Do you not know your own wife? It is I, Elu, please come back to me!”

Something flickered within his grey eyes.

“Melian…” he croaked.

“I am here. Oh beloved, I am here.”

And without another word, she pulled him into her arms, cradling his shaking form, while relief gushed through her like the melting waters of spring, released from their frosty prison at last. Being able to hold him again, to feel him close, to not be alone, made all her sorrow grow faint and distant. She should have done this long ago.

“I am so scared,” he muttered into her hair, his words hardly intelligible.

“I know you are. I am, too. But we will get through this, just as we got through everything. Trust our bond, dearest.”

“I do.”

Melian pulled back a little, kissing his brow lovingly, but Elu shrank away from her again.

“Don’t. I feel so dirty.”

“You are not. This is Morgoth’s doing, nothing more. But even if you were, do you think that would discourage me?”

“I… no. But I do not want you to… to…”

He faltered, but Melian did not need him to formulate the words, anyway. It went without saying that they would hold each other no matter what, if need be even were one of them doused in orcs’ piss, but that would not make it a comfortable experience. Their bond could bear that sort of honesty. Yet Melian would still have quite preferred that, for dirt could be washed off. What Elu was referring to was much harder to get rid of—the feeling of being tarnished, of being defiled by Bauglir within.

“Let’s give you a bath, meleth. You are cold as ice, and wounded, and the warm water will help with both. And then we need to get some rest…”

“No!” he panted frantically.

Elu’s refusal to rest came as no surprise, little though she wanted to admit it.

“Hush. Alright. But you cannot go much longer without any sleep!”

There was no solution. Elu had had to fight with all the might of his spirit to keep Morgoth from utterly seizing control, to not give in to the images he was being shown. If he were to allow his mind to relax in sleep, Morgoth would surely take that chance. But without rest, hallucinations borne of his exhaustion would soon mingle with Morgoth’s efforts.

They had no way out.

“The Silmaril,” Elu exclaimed suddenly, his face once more alight with hope. “Melian, let me get the Silmaril. With its strength I will…”

Melian felt dizzy with dread for a moment. She had known this would come ever since sending Mablung off with the jewel, but that knowledge had done nothing to prepare her for it. Still, she squared her shoulders, bracing herself for the inevitable argument she was about to face. It could not be helped, anyway, so better get it out of her way now.

“No. No, you would not. This is but what Morgoth wants. And besides, you cannot use it now, neither for defence nor for comfort. The Silmaril is gone.”

“Gone?”

She hated the incredulity in his voice, and the anger, the wrath even.

“Gone. I sent Mablung to take it to Tol Galen. It will be safe with Beren and Lúthien. For the time being.”

“How… how could you?” Elu’s indignation rendered him momentarily speechless. “How could you betray me so? How could Mablung betray me so? You… I trusted you, both of you. I trusted you more than I trust myself!”

“Leave Mablung out of this. He did not betray you, and your saying that alone would kill him if he knew. He did nothing wrong whatsoever; he only obeyed his Queen’s command. So if you want to rage at someone, let it be me. This was wholly my responsibility.”

“You… you call yourself my wife. I trusted you…”

“…more than you trusted yourself, yes, you already said.”

Melian hated the coldness in her own voice, but could not hold her own anger at bay any longer, either. It was infuriating. For years and years, she had made herself forgive time and again, had chosen to overlook Elu’s mounting obsession with Fëanor’s jewel, had swallowed her own hurt and grief and been the sensible one. She had comforted and consoled, even while desperately needing his comfort in turn. How she would have wished for him to hold her, to bear her wailing when the calamity of their loss choked her. But he had never done that, had withdrawn from her out of shame rather than face the consequences of his stupidity.

Conscience murmured at this point. In a small part of her heart, Melian knew that she was being unjust right now, that Lúthien’s choice was as little or much her fault as it was Elu’s, that it had moreover been she herself who had tethered Elu to life after Lúthien and Beren’s first deaths, had forced him to endure a pain that was too vast for his heart to bear. Could she, in all honesty, blame him for getting ensnared by the light of the Silmaril? Could she blame him for seeking comfort in its light when all else turned ever darker? Could she really blame him for his words now, when his mind was so firmly in the grip of Melkor?

Still, that small voice within her would not drown out her surging rage. If anything, her defiance fuelled the suppressed anger that had bubbled within her for so long even further, until finally, it reached its boiling point.

“You know, Elu, before you enlighten me with how much of a failure I am as a wife, I might just remind you that you have not exactly been the epitome of a good husband lately, either. Have I been of any value to you since you’ve acquired the Silmaril, with its light unblemished? Have you, for a moment, when holding that thing to your chest, spared a thought to the fact that I mourned as well? That it is not only you who is going to lose your child?”

“Leave Lúthien out of this!” Elu retorted, his voice rising.

Melian only just kept herself from wincing. He had not shouted at her since after Galadhon’s death, when she had tried to calm down and stop his pointless, self-destructive outburst.

“No, I will not. She is my child, too; I am her mother, and I am going to lose her just like you. It hurts. It hurts so much that I want to tear my heart from my chest, and still, it is always you, and you alone, who is allowed to wear his grief on his sleeve. I am sick and tired of always being the sensible one, while you get to react to every whim that ails you. Why is it that you suddenly forego the counsel of your Queen? Might I remind you of who and what I am? But you don’t even care, do you? You do not care how I feel in all of this. Tell me, when exactly have you stopped truly loving me?”

The sudden movement of his hand startled her, though there was no need- he had stopped his movement mid-motion, ere his fingers could close around her robes, a look of mingled terror and remorse dawning on his face. Melian stared back at him, grappling with what had just happened. Never, in all the long years of their marriage, had she ever known him to take a disagreement to a physical level with anyone, and that he should aim to hurt her was unthinkable. Not even Morgoth’s influence was enough to warrant that.

He had not touched her, though, had not lost control, and with that thought came the realisation of what horrible accusation she had hurled at him, an accusation she had not believed true for even a moment. Saying it nonetheless was almost enough for her to deserve his manhandling her. Almost. But in any case, he had not touched her, so wondering who had played dirtier and whose words and actions were the fouler was utterly pointless.

They stared at each other for what felt to Melian like an eternity before they simultaneously reached out to wrap their arms around one another.

“I am so, so sorry.”

“I am, too.”

She meant it, too, and hoped that he knew that she was talking not only about their argument but about all that had gone wrong before.

“I love you,” Elu said pleadingly, as though terrified that she might indeed doubt it. “If ever I have given you the impression that anything in the world matters more to me than you, then I am a terrible husband indeed.”

“You are not. I never meant what I said, I just…”

“You need not tell me how it feels when one’s temper gets the better of one. I might be called an expert in that matter,” Elu interrupted her with a wry smile on his face, a look so endearingly familiar that she chuckled, too.

The moment of mirth was fleeting and did not distract her from the gravity of their situation for long, but it was at least a sparkle of light amidst the darkness.

“The baths, then? You really need to get somewhere warm.”

It was the most tremendous relief to see him nod.

Melian had walked the corridors of Menegroth more times than she could count, knew each and every one of them in detail, but as they walked through them now from the Hall up to the baths, they seemed strange and unfamiliar to her. Never before had she known Menegroth to be completely empty, and somehow, that made everything seem vaster, more intimidating, grim even. Elu, too, seemed to share her unease, turning every few steps. She need not ask to know that he was constantly fooled into thinking himself followed.

“There is no one here, love. We are quite alone,” she reassured him softly.

It was no lie, either. Melian felt the caves as though they were part of her, and thus knew that they were the only living, breathing things left within Menegroth. Even her nightingales had taken flight at her bidding. They were utterly alone.

The two of them reached the baths without incident, and she was glad of it, for Elu became more and more agitated with every step they took, despite her reassurances. She herself felt uneasy as well, even though she knew that there was no one with them that could harm them just now, but she suspected that this had more to do with how strange this felt than with an actual sense of danger. She would never have dreamed of ever heating the baths herself together with Elu, when this had always been work that was done for them, either by her handmaidens or those in charge of keeping the baths in working order. She had not usually been in this room together with her husband, either, but surrounded by her women, who had carefully helped her unbraid, comb, wash, and re-braid her hair. Elu had usually chosen to be left utterly alone, only sometimes accompanied by Elmo or another of his most trusted lords and captains, and left his wet hair for her to take care of later on in their private chambers. In any case, being in here with him felt very peculiar. Not that it was an uncomfortable feeling, not at all. Rather, lighting the fire almost felt like they were back again in the first years of their marriage, when they had wandered Beleriand alone, unbound by duty. It was fitting, really, that it should end like this, too.

A deep sadness swept through her at that thought and settled within her heart. It was undoubtedly the end, and there was no use in lying to herself about it, but still the mere sound of the words in her head made her throat tight with unshed tears. Worse still, the realisation made her feel like a deceiver as she helped Elu undress, as she rid herself of her own gown and lowered herself into the warm water. How could she keep acting as though she was protecting Elu? How could she comfort him when, in reality, she knew that they were doomed? Still, she did just that, leaning against the smooth stone basin and allowing him to lay his head on her chest so that he was almost entirely submerged in warm water. It was so, so beautiful, and all the more agonising for it.

“Thank you,” he mumbled after a while, without raising his head.

“What for, meleth?”

“For letting the Silmaril go. I could never have done it, but now that it is gone… I should never have…”

“Hush. Don’t, love. I know.”

She could not bear to hear him say it, speak aloud what had tortured him for decades now. Listening to his ever-whirling thoughts was quite enough.

“It was doom, Elu, a doom far more important than our lives here, and far mightier than I am, too, that brought the Silmaril to Doriath. I should not have tried to resist it. Had I been open with you from the start, none of this might have happened.”

“But you thought you could handle it alone, that you had to handle it alone. Forgive me that I behaved so childishly, and robbed you of… of the opportunity of bearing this together.”

Melian nodded, trusting that he would feel her movement. She could not bring herself to speak just yet.

“Will it be safe? For Lúthien and Beren to hold it without any sort of protection? Will it not betray them to their deaths?”

“I think so, yes. Their path is hidden from me, but the jewel will find its purpose. And before you say it,” she cut him off, noting how he had drawn breath to protest, “of course I know that you do not care about the Silmaril staying safe, but of Lúthien and Beren. But they, too, have been made marionettes in this, and they must now play their part to the end, just like us.”

Silence fell between them once more, only broken by the occasional splash whenever Melian poured some warm water over Elu’s exposed shoulder to keep him from getting cold.

After some time, Elu broke the silence once more, this time raising his head from her breast and looking her in the eyes.

“I want you to do it, my love,” he said firmly, startling Melian out of her preoccupied brooding.

“What do you want me to do, beloved?”

Unease immediately stirred within Melian at his words, though she tried to ignore it yet. There was a curious look on Elu’s pale face, something almost resembling his wry smile. It was a look that plainly said, ‘So playing games is what we do here now?’

Her unease had grown into a lump in her throat by now, and try as she might, she could not swallow it. She knew what Elu meant, of course she knew, but that did not make it any easier to bear.

“We both know how this is going to end, Melian. And I would much rather die in your arms, and in my own right mind, than run around deranged and as Morgoth’s thrall until my body is at last worn out enough for me to leave it. So if you can find that strength within you, beloved, please end my life.”

The sound that escaped her sounded pitiful even in her own ears, even though his words came as no surprise. He hummed sympathetically and sat up straighter to pull her into his arms, comforting her, when she felt that really, she should be comforting him.

“I would not ask this of you if I saw any other way. I know not if I should have the strength to do it myself, but… I can see, of course, why it is unjust to demand such of you and not try to overcome my own fear. But there is more, I dare not wield a weapon, not when I cannot be sure of… well.”

“Stop it. Just… stop. Please. I… I will do it if that be your will. Here? Now?”

He pondered her words for a while, then said in a voice that was surprisingly steady:

“I would love to breathe fresh air once more and feel the wind on my skin. But yours is the hard part in this, and if it is easier for you to do it here, I have no objections.”

She nodded solemnly, even though the relief that coursed through her made her almost giddy. It was borrowed time, yes, but time to still spend with the man she loved nonetheless.

“How?”

“Stab me. My heart has always been yours; it will not shrink even from your knife.”

Melian inadvertently reached out to place her palm on his chest, shivering despite the warm water. Wounding an Elf, the creation of the Father, was unthinkable, to maim something so perfect, so beautiful. Wounding–no, murdering–her own husband was beyond unthinkable. Taking his life, she might achieve, but then she would take hers, too. True immortality be damned. She could not survive such an act.

And why could they not flee, run, hide, live only as husband and wife, alone as they had done in these few blissful–what was it? Weeks? Months? Years? There had not even been days back then, not really. Could they not do as they had done in Nan Elmoth, between their awakening from their trance and their leaving in search of Elu’s people? Surely, if they were no longer King and Queen, Morgoth would lose interest? She sensed the change that had come over Elu even now, sensed Morgoth’s grip loosen. Elu’s decision to die seemed to have done the trick already.

But then, horribly, she had her answer. She felt him, felt his hand again on her throat, choking her, his other hand wandering to her breasts. His iron grip on her flesh hurt, hurt so much that she hardly noticed how he forced her legs apart, making the terror of feeling him enter her all the greater. Melian knew no longer where she was or who she was, knew only that having a body forced her to feel, while existing as a being of spirit meant that this was not a delusion, but real–terribly, terribly real.

She thought then, absurdly, of Arien, who had endured the same at Morgoth’s hands, and had lived; so maybe if Melian lay still, if she did not struggle, it would be over before long? But then she remembered that Arien had shed her body thereafter, never to take physical form again, to remain as naked flame. Melian could not be without her body, not anymore, not when it was the shrine of the most sacred…

Morgoth laughed. Laughed as he pushed further, as she screamed in pain. She could see him with her waking eye, hovering above her in all his terrible majesty, could see him as she had known him from their beginning. He would rip her apart from within, would destroy her body, would turn her into a fell spirit that did his bidding; there was no doubt about that. This was what it meant to die…

“Melian!”

This was not Melkor calling, and the arms that held her were not his.

“Melian, wake up, wake up, please. Please come back to me.”

She opened her eyes once more, her head swimming, only to look into Elu’s stricken face. Not even at the height of his own torture had he looked as harassed as he did now, and she could feel him shaking even through her own shivering. Yet still he held her secure, and moreover, he had pulled her onto his lap in a way that made his thigh rest between her legs–a true, physical barrier against the mental images that Morgoth had planted in her mind. She wondered for a moment how he had known, and almost as if he were answering her unasked question, he said:

“You’re bleeding.”

She was still too weak to speak, was almost tempted to slip away, to leave her body behind, but then Elu sobbed, cradling her more tightly against his chest, and pity, if nothing else, kept her in the here and now.

“Beloved… I need not ask what he did. I know it. I know how real it feels. And I cannot even give you the comfort you gave me. I know it was not only an illusion, not for you,” he cried openly now, his tears dripping onto her face. “I am so sorry. I am sorry I could not prevent it.”

“How can you still hold me, then?”

The words came out much harsher than she had intended, yet she could do nothing about it. Where the sudden anger came from, she could not tell, nor why it made her snap at Elu of all people, true, loving Elu, who held her despite a monster having just taken what should be his, and his alone. She felt dirty. Unworthy of his love. If she could not use her hurt to fight, then she wanted to hide.

Elu, however, just stared at her, and in his bewildered gaze lay the only comfort that could truly reach her.

“How could I let go? I love you. How could I let go of you when you need me most, useless though I am in the battle of Powers? I can do naught but love you, and that I will do forever. And besides, all this is my fault. He… he lost his grip on me, once my decision to die was made. He cannot control me now. And he took that out on you. But Melian, please listen to me–you cannot win this. Not against Bauglir. Let us go together. Please Melian, let us be safe.”

Melian laughed an utterly mirthless laugh, bitter as the cup she had been made to drink.

“There is no safety for me, Elu. The moment I shed my body, I am subject to Morgoth’s lust with no barrier between him and me.”

Miraculously, Elu appeared to become calmer with every shudder that ran through Melian, and not even her scorn seemed to reach him.

“I think there is. If you kill me, Melian, Námo will call me–and under his protection, you can flee Ennor, too. And in Aman, you will be safe, as will I be. And if Lord Námo is merciful, we will one day be reunited. Please!”

Melian hid her face against her husband’s chest, relieved and humbled at once. And even in all her misery, she felt pride–there had been no need for her to explain to Elu what had prompted Morgoth’s attack, no need for her to always be the wise one, the one to find solutions. He had proven yet again (as though Melian had ever doubted it) that he was worthy of the union with one of her own people, that he had the strength to support their bond even in his current state. It was this pride, and the love that rushed through her alongside it, that gave her the strength to go on. Only with new hope came old defiance.

“I cannot give in. Not like this. If he thinks he can rape me and torture you without…”

“Melian, please don’t pick this fight. He will destroy you. I do not care what he does to me, but if you… please. Let us go together, I beg you, my lady!”

Melian’s chest was heaving, her gaze locked with Elu’s, before she finally lowered her eyes as a gesture of agreement. She could not argue with what he had said, and once she overcame the horrible feeling of being trapped in her own helplessness, she could begin to see the comfort that lay in Elu’s words. Going home, being safe… and most of all leaving Middle-earth together with her husband–this was in fact worth more than revenge that in truth could but hurt her rather than Morgoth.

A few more moments of silence passed between them, then they both nodded simultaneously. They rose from the water, Melian with a supporting arm wrapped around Elu’s waist, and stepped out onto the stone floor. The fire they had lit to heat the water had burned itself out by now, but it had still warmed the room enough to keep Melian, at least, from shivering. It was more comfortable once they were both dry nonetheless, almost comfortable enough to tempt her to lie down somewhere and snuggle with her husband. To fall asleep beside him one more time… alas, they had no time for such things. She must do one dreadful thing still, before they put their plan into action. Melian thus left Elu in the baths amidst reassurances that she would be back in only a moment, and hastened through the empty passageways to their bedchamber. If she had to do what she must, then she would do it in style at least.

When she returned to the baths not long after, she found to her relief that Elu was quite calm, much more at ease than he had been before. And he had not waited idly, either, for he held out her court dress to her, almost making her laugh. So he had thought as she had. They would go in all regal splendour, something they had both never cared about in all the long years of their reign. Now, however, it mattered greatly. Morgoth would not defeat them. They would leave this world unconquered and crowned, and on their own terms. Nothing he did to them would rob them of their dignity.

True, it would likely take an unreasonably long time to get dressed this way, especially for herself. Elu refusing to be touched by anyone but his closest family and friends meant that it was her who had helped him into formal robes often enough–Melian herself, however, had always had the help of her ladies when getting dressed in her court-robes. They were too complicated to put on for a single person. A brief flash of longing shot through her at the thought of her handmaidens. She hoped, prayed that they were alright, that they would find a way to safety. In their absence, however, Elu himself would have to work out where all the clasps and decorative chains went.

It turned out that Melian had somewhat underestimated her husband, for he helped her dress with ease, covering her bruised chest and neck with exceeding gentleness, and braiding her hair. It felt as though he poured all his devotion for her into each careful movement, the best and only ointment for her wounded spirit. Only when he finally placed her crown on her head with a bow of reverence, did she feel dread return to her heart. She would have given much for this to take a little longer, for a bit more time. She hid her feelings, though, so as not to unsettle Elu, and returned the gesture, arranging his newly woven braids beneath his own crown. At the very last, she threw Elu’s cloak over his shoulders.

“So that is what you went to fetch,” he said smiling. “Thank you, meleth.”

Melian returned his smile, not fooled by his words. She knew that he was well aware of what she had in truth gone to fetch–the weapon that would soon slice through his heart. She left his words unchallenged, nonetheless. There was simply too much comfort in pretending; and besides, she had gone to bring him his mantle as well, so there was no open lie in her assent to his statement.

“I thought it might be a comfort to you.”

“So it is.”

They both knew they could not linger any longer; they must act before courage left them, or Morgoth would find a way to thwart their clever plan. So they gave each other a nod of encouragement, and left the baths without a backward glance, their hands locked so tightly it hurt.

Up the stairs that had become infamous amongst the inhabitants of Menegroth through no fault of their own, and only because so many Elves had slipped on them when they had left the baths a little too hastily, their wet feet slipping on the sleek stone. Past the niche in which Lúthien and Daeron had loved to sit when the weather was poor, playing and singing and dancing. What Melian would not give to turn back time, to give them back this innocence. Up more stairs, down corridors she herself had adorned with her tapestries. Each step held a memory, a story.

“Do we set fire to the halls?” Elu asked when they had reached the gates at long last, yet still too soon, and stepped out onto the bridge.

“No. Menegroth itself is of no use to Morgoth. Leave our city be.”

This was not strictly speaking true, of course, as Menegroth was a stronghold unrivalled by any within Beleriand, and if Morgoth or his foul servants wanted to, they could very well use it to their advantage. Melian still could not bear the idea of setting ablaze all they had worked so tirelessly to build, what had become as dear to them both as a living thing, and if Elu felt anything but relief at her words, he hid his emotions well. Melian’s own heart raced as she put a shaking hand beneath her mantle, and finally pulled out the hunting knife she had taken from their bedchamber alongside Elu’s cloak, the only weapon left within Menegroth if their subjects had been as thorough as Melian knew them to be. They both looked down at it, then Elu reached out to caress the blade with one finger.

“Oromë’s,” he said softly.

“Yes. I thought it fitting. It was also the only weapon I was sure no one had thought about, hidden away in your personal chest as it was.”

She looked up into his eyes, which she realised belatedly had been a mistake. The love she saw there only made her feel even more like a traitor, the task that lay before her more undoable.

“I cannot do this,” she whispered desperately. “I know I have to, but how can I… how can I take the life most precious to me? How can I hurt you so?”

Elu did not answer immediately, but took both her hands still clasped over the knife in his, bringing them slowly and deliberately to his lips, kissing their entwined fingers.

“You are going to save me, Melian. We will be together, remember?”

He waited until she had nodded, then added, his voice growing serious:

“Do not hesitate. Push the knife to the hilt in one go. As long as you do it swiftly, I will not be in pain.”

“Are you not scared?”

“I am terrified. But we will be together until the very end, and beyond our end to a new beginning. I cannot imagine that I will ever be free from grief. But as long as I know that we will have each other, I want to go on.”

He bent over to kiss her tenderly, and through his newfound hope, she found hers, too. He was right. They had been through too much to ever become again who they had been, to ever be whole again, but as long as she could flee back into his arms when the night turned dark, or exchange a look with him and know she was understood, she would endure anything.

“On the count of three,” he said sombrely.

She nodded shakily and gestured to him to turn around, setting the knife against his chest. She would have more strength like this, and moreover, standing in this position meant that she did not have to see.

“I love you, Elu.”

“I know. I love you, too. Oh Melian, if only I knew how to thank you, or tell you what this means to me.” He paused for a moment, then added firmly: “Are you ready?”

“No. I will never be. But I will do it regardless.”

“Neither am I. But one…”

Melian made up her mind in a fraction of a second.

Before he had the chance to count to two, she pushed the knife into her husband’s chest with all the force she could muster, and knew instantly that it had found its mark. Elu did not scream, but the choked gasp that escaped his throat told of a pain way beyond expression. He swayed, yet Melian held him upright still.

“Forgive me. I wanted to end it before you grew too scared.”

Before I grew too scared.

She needed him to understand, to know that she had not betrayed him, that she had only strived to make the unbearable easier for him.

“Out!” he rasped, and Melian pulled the knife out amidst a gush of scarlet blood.

The way they had positioned themselves on the arched bridge made her stand slightly above him, allowing him to lay his head back onto her shoulder, and her to cradle him in his death throes.

“Th…thank you, m…my love.”

He but breathed the words into her ear, but she heard them nonetheless, over the thundering of her own heart.

“I am with you,” she sobbed. “I will hold you, I will hold you forever!”

“You are so unspeakably brave,” she told him wordlessly, finally daring to open her mind to him again. She had expected resentment of some sort, seeing that she had just stabbed him, but what she felt amidst all his searing pain was love, nothing but unconditional love, and gratitude.

“Not me… you, beloved,” came his reply.

The darkness that had already been fraying the edges of his mind engulfed him entirely now, extinguishing all feeling. He had used his very last thought to tell her he was proud of her.

Melian felt Elu’s knees give way, and stopped holding against it, allowing his slackening body to throw her off balance. She felt the low rampart hit the hollows of her knees, endured the moment of fright of keeling over backwards, and let herself fall, her arms still firmly around Elu’s now limp form, and into Esgalduin’s awaiting waves.

Mist rose from the river on the third morning after the flight, as though Esgalduin veiled itself in grief. The mist veiled them, too, until their thunderstruck people found their still entwined bodies by the shores of the river amidst wails of shock and grief. They pulled the bodies from the water, but when they tried to prise Melian’s fingers open so that they could lay them side by side, they found themselves unable to, her grip unyielding even after her spirit had left its house. They buried their King and Queen in their eternal embrace, therefore, and prayed to the Valar to keep them well. And their prayer was answered.

(Thank you so much @ariagreenleaf for beta-reading. Your help was invaluable ❤️)

#alternate fall of Doriath #melian #elu thingol #tw: sexual assault #tw: suidice #assisted suicide/killing on demand #mental torture #mind control (kind of)#silmarillion fanfiction #ao3 #swg

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