Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

---

Laughing

---

“Ha!”

Mablung chuckled. Túrin very seldom showed any emotion -joy even less than sorrow- so seeing him burst out in that gloating yell warmed Mablung’s heart considerably. The boy had from the very beginning been uncommonly skilled with the sword, surpassing even his elven peers in his learning. Beleg insisted, however, that a thorough training in archery was an essential part of any soldier’s education, and a soldier Túrin ever aimed to be. And given Túrin’s dislike for fighting with anything but his much preferred sword, he did extraordinarily well in today’s archery lesson.

Mablung leaned back against the trunk of one of the linden-trees that surrounded the sparring-grounds, watching his fellow captains observe the training of their men, or indeed exercise themselves. Mablung himself sat cooling down after his own fighting- practise, his mind and body still full of the joy training brought to him. And as the king’s chosen sparring-partner, those sessions had special... benefits for Mablung as well, other than just having his thoughts occupied. He was close to Elu then, and could look his fill of him without it being strange at all. But most of all, it was good to see Elu forget his pain through hard training for a little while, and be himself again, truly himself. He would even jest at times, calling his men a bunch of unfaithful traitors to general amusement when they chose to cheer on Captain rather than king. Hearing Elu laugh was the most precious thing to Mablung. It was as if all of Doriath laughed, the veil of grief and foreboding lifted for a moment.

Today though, his thoughts were less on his king than on the latter’s fosterling, whom they both sat watching now. Mablung remembered well the famished boy that Húrin’s son had been when he had first reached Menegroth. The change that had come over him in so short a time was all the more astonishing for that. Well, Mablung mused, short for an elf. For mortal Men, even those few years must indeed be a long time and Túrin certainly could no longer be called a child. Fair he was, and tall, and as he had not yet started to grow a beard, he was almost indistinguishable from any elf as long as he kept his hair open.

The next jeering sound came from Beleg himself, accompanied by the tell-tale thud of the apple hitting the ground. Mablung counted quickly.
He got all of them, he thought admiringly. 
The boy really was making quick progress. Mablung would have to congratulate Beleg on his teaching skills, and also make a mental note never to challenge Húrin’s son in any shooting competition. That could only end in his utter embarrassment.

“I am very proud of you, Túrin!” Mablung heard Beleg say “Not so much because of your archery, but because you worked so hard despite your dislike for it. And it paid off!”

Túrin’s face glowed at the praise.

“Now, are you too tired out already? Or should we delve a little deeper into weapons you would not readily call your own?”

Mablung and Elu both laughed at the expression on Túrin’s face as he turned to Beleg, positively bristling with indignation.

“Tired out? Beleg!”

A mischievous grin spread over Beleg's face.

“I thought so. Well then, as I have them here, how about asking Mablung and the King to show and tell you about their weapons of choice?”

A slight frown creased Túrin’s brow at this, and he glanced uncertainly at Elu.

“But… Mablung usually fights with an axe, but… is not your weapon the sword also, lord? As it is mine?”

Elu smiled gently at Túrin as he answered:
“That really depends on how you define ‘weapon of choice’. I much love my sword, and take great pleasure in sparring, but the weapon I'd choose should I find myself under attack and in dire need of defending myself would still be a very ordinary wooden spear.”

“And make no mistake, Túrin.” Beleg said earnestly “Before you stands, without flattery, Doriath’s most skilled spearman. What I can do with my arrows, he can do with a spear, the limitations of the weapon taken into consideration, obviously. But that is not for today. Today’s lesson will be the use of spear and axe in close combat, and we will let Elu and Mablung show us what can be achieved with those weapons. Let's see how long it takes them to beat me in combat.”

Mablung enjoyed the demonstration greatly. It was very satisfying to be able to show what he could do with his axe, and hear the onlookers admiring cheers. Not many Elves chose the battle-axe as their preferred weapon, that was much rather a thing of the Dwarves, and indeed, it was from the people of Belegost that Mablung had originally learned the art of axe-fighting. Many of his own kinsfolk considered it too heavy, but that was precisely what made Mablung love it. Moving the axe was like taking it to a dance, with all the elegance that involved, and it brought him great joy to be able to show that to others as well.
That joy was quite overshadowed by Beleg, however, when the latter caused gales of laughter by throwing his training-weapon to the ground mere moments after he had picked it up to face Mablung, rubbing the side of his neck.

“Yes, and this is why I do not fight with a weapon that has two ends to put to use… I just beheaded myself. Nay, the axe is not for me.”

Once he was able to control his laughter enough to stand straight, Mablung ruffled Beleg’s braids, which made the archer snarl.

“Head seems still fairly attached to me.” he stated, to another round of cheering.

Beleg grimaced at him, his grin not altogether hiding his wounded pride. Mablung knew perfectly well that the defeat, caused by Beleg's inexperience rather than his own skill, still stung his friend, even if he tried to hide his feelings under a decent amount of self-irony. Not for nothing was Beleg called ‘the Mighty’, and being humbled in combat was not an experience he was particularly used to.

It was probably that which made Beleg fight all the harder with the spear, a weapon with which he was much more familiar. Though more evenly matched against Elu than he had been against Mablung, Beleg still lost to the king- that was, had he not downright refused to acknowledge this defeat. Before long, what had started as a formidable demonstration of spear-fighting ended in a brawl. Mablung chuckled. Sparring with Beleg always ended like that, sooner or later, and everybody knew that it would.

“You’re dead twice already Beleg, so get.. off.. me!” Elu panted, trying to get out from under Beleg, who had pinned him to the ground.

“Unfair, this is. If you order me off, I will have to obey, but you are really only saying that because I am winning this fight!”

“Aye, you would, if you were not dead twice already!”

As Mablung turned away to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes, his gaze fell upon Túrin, who looked back at him in utter bewilderment, staring in disbelief at his foster-father and his tutor, rolling around in the sand like young boys, all dignity forgotten. It had never occurred to Mablung before how very strange that must seem to Túrin, whose own race was ever limited in their play by the confines of the aging of the body, to witness such a thing. He therefore laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, saying:
“Do not take this too seriously, Túrin. They’re playing by now. A little reminiscence of long lost times and oh, I cannot tell you how my heart rejoices. I never expected to witness this again.”

Later, when the fight had at last been settled and the crowd dissolved, Mablung found himself walking back to the caves side by side with Beleg. His friend had hummed and smiled to himself all through cleaning and putting away their equipment, and did not cease to do so even now. He seemed happy, and though Mablung would never begrudge his friend this happiness, it still made him feel a little lonely. Playing over those feelings, he said:
“You know, I’m going to get jealous soon. You never came to Menegroth to visit me here, and now you spend almost more time training Túrin than you spend on the boarders.”

Beleg chuckled, though rather apologetically.

“It is not so, Mablung. But you come to the marches regularly, while Túrin is still much too young to travel so far on his own.”

“Not for long, I think.” Mablung answered. “Soon, he will reach manhood. Surely he will join you then?”

Beleg nodded, his expression turning suddenly serious.

“I would guess so. He is fierce, and determined, and has a fiery heart. Ultimately, of course, he longs for the moment he will leave the confines of Doriath for good, hoping to wield a deadly blow against Morgoth. I dread that day, Mablung. He can but meet his end beyond Doriath, and yet his heart urges him on. He deems his time for action short, and the need of his people great. What am I to say to that? What am I to answer if he asks me to come with him?”

“It might still be that you can convince him of this errand being folly. He listens to you more than to anybody else.” Mablung said gently, sensing Beleg’s pain.

“Aye. But my hopes are not high. Even we, Mablung, who have lived for uncounted years, thought to find glory in battle before the Nírnaeth taught us better. Túrin is a mortal…”

“… and he loves you.” interjected Mablung, noting the red tinge that crept into Beleg’s cheeks. “That counts for much.”

For a while, neither of them spoke, then Beleg sighed.

“I love him, too. I have long tried to deny it, but… I cannot, not truly.”

Mablung bit back a smirk with difficulty. Beleg was clearly uncomfortable, and Mablung himself had too much experience with pining to not feel sorry for his friend, but still it made a very nice change to be the one to comfort for once.

“You need not deny it, Beleg. Nothing hinders you…”

“Yes it does.” Beleg interrupted. “Oh, not mortality, I do not fear that. I know his time is short, but that is not what bothers me. Truth be told, I do not even know what is. I know what he craves, what he wants, and yet I will not encourage him. That must sound so hypocritical coming from me, who fucked his way all through the Great Journey, but this time… no. It is almost as if our relationship were too sacred for such a mundane thing as physical love. Do you remember how we used to abuse Enel for his believes? Well, maybe he was right and we were wrong, but only too young back then to understand?”

Mablung was not altogether sure that he agreed with that, but did not contradict Beleg. This were his feelings after all, and Mablung would not dare to judge their validity.

“I think Túrin is content also with our friendship as it is…” Beleg went on “…and with being brothers-in-arms. Which makes me realise that I have to apologise to you, Mablung. I always thought you were lying to yourself when you said that you were content with the way things are with Elu because I just couldn’t imagine…”

Beleg’s voice trailed off, and Mablung laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, smiling.

“That is true love, Beleg. When the other’s happiness weighs more heavily than your own, and becomes your own. When you would make a fool of yourself for just one laugh, one moment of bliss. When you would forsake your life to save your beloved.”

Beleg nodded, but seemed lost for words otherwise, something that in itself was neigh on unheard of.

“Follow your heart, Beleg, wherever it might lead you. It has never lead you astray, nor me. Only -should it come to it, to you accompanying Túrin on whichever errands are to be his- watch out for yourself as much as him, alright?”

A smile graced Beleg’s lips.

“Don’t you worry about me, Mablung. I always get by, you know me.”

“Yes, I do. This is exactly what has me worried. You are careless.” 
And when Beleg huffed, he added:
“Only remember, will you, that dead is dead in reality? There is no dying twice just because you enjoy the brawl, not even for the mighty Strongbow?”

Again, Beleg nodded, and Mablung, acting on a sudden impulse, slung his arms around his friend.

“I am happy for you, for now. Take every moment of happiness while it lasts. Just promise me to survive the grief of parting from Túrin when it inevitably comes to pass, and return to me. Can you do that?”

Beleg drew back enough to grasp Mablung’s hands, and lock his fingers tightly with his friend’s.

“I promise.”