Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

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Checkmate

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Autumn had come this year with storms that whipped through the woods relentlessly, and piped their eery notes within Menegroth itself, mournful and keening. Mablung stood listening, waiting for the subtle music to start calming him down. The Caves had always done that for him, their ever-ongoing song -be it glad or sorrowful- able to soothe him like little else could.

Not this night, though. Tonight he felt anxious, and tense, and trapped, without being able to pinpoint the reason. True, the overall atmosphere within Doriath grew ever grimmer as the years passed, but this was something else, something more. All conversations within Menegroth seemed hushed these days to Mablung, though they were… not, at least so he thought. His uneasy restlessness reminded him painfully of his encounter with Glaurung before the ruins of Nargothrond, or more precisely the aftermath of the same. Mablung shuddered. Then, too, deep-seated fears had mingled with longing and resentment to create a state of mind in which it was impossible to tell where reality stopped and foreboding started. Or grief.

They had lost so very many. Beren and Lúthien, though Mablung always tried to keep himself from thinking that, for they lived… and yet, and yet. Thônwen with her daughter- and grand-daughter-in-law, shot with all their nandorin guard on their return-journey from Tol Galen, from what should have been a joyful visit, a spark of hope amidst all the darkness. Mablung thought of the two little princes, and how now the shadow of deaths they wouldn’t even remember would lie upon them forever more. He thought of Nimloth and how horrible the news of the attack must have hit her, just after she had had her sons. And he thought of Galathil and Elmo, who in their grief terribly rued their remaining behind. It was no use to tell them that it would not have made a difference, that they would have achieved nothing by accompanying the ellith than being slain themselves. Their feelings guilt would not be assuaged by anything anyone said.
And then there were still Túrin and his family, and of course Beleg. Mablung’s vision blurred at the thought of his friend, grief gripping his heart yet again. He missed him more horribly than he could ever have imagined, his counsel, his strength, but most of all his never-ceasing optimism.

Hardly noticing where his feet were carrying him, he was startled by a soft splash of water, and only thus noticed where he was. To his left, an archway lead to a small grotto, where one of the many underground brooks formed a little pool ere it found its way back into the rock to eventually swell the waters of Esgalduin. The pool was not very deep, and its bottom smooth, and crystals within the grotto’s walls made for spectacular lighting if a lamp was lit within.

Mablung frowned. In summer, that pool was gladly used by many to bathe, but now that winter was almost upon them, the water must be bitterly cold. Surly no-one in their right mind would choose to take a bath in it now? The very thought sent shivers down Mablung’s spine. Even the dwarven smiths accepted gladly the offer to use the heated baths, and they were even hardier than the Elves, and loathe in general to share such private places with their hosts.

His curiosity getting the better of him, Mablung slipped into the room, calling out, so as to give whoever was this mad time to deny him entry. When he received no answer, unease settled in the pit of his stomach, and he called out again, more urgently.

“Why is it of such interest to you who is there, Mablung?”

Mablung stood thunderstruck, opening and closing his mouth like a fish on land. Of all the people he had not expected to see here, the king himself was the most unlikely. His silver hair was dripping wet, damping the tunic Elu had obviously just pulled over his head. 
Mablung understood instantly what this was about. Whenever Elu was overwhelmed with his own emotions, he would do things like that. Not strictly speaking harming himself, but hurting himself, like this was some weird form of punishment.

A feeling that was remarkably close to anger stirred in Mablung’s chest.

“Explain yourself.” he said cooly, and then, correctly interpreting Elu’s hiss, added: “You once told me to speak openly around you whenever I wanted to, so I repeat- please explain what by all the Valar you have been doing, and don’t say 'taking a bath'. I surmised as much.”

“Why ask, then?” Elu asked, not meeting Mablung’s gaze, but combing his hair over one shoulder.

Had Mablung been in a more forgiving mood, he might have let that pass as just the easiest way to comb and re-braid one’s hair, but he knew this was not what this was about. 
Aye, get your whole tunic soaking wet, and then sit outside and be as cold as earthly possible. You unutterable fool! he thought. Changing tactics, he said instead: 
“Forgive me, lord, I overstepped out of surprise. I meant to ask, why not use warm water to wash? As any other sensible being within Menegroth does?”

“That need not be of any concern to you, Captain.” Elu said evenly, still without looking at Mablung, who felt his heart clench at being addressed thus.

But then Elu straightened up and stepped into the brighter light of the aisle, and Mablung stared at him aghast, all wrathful thoughts leaving him. He had not seen his king in a while as Elu spent so much time watching the dwarves work, and the state he was in now downright frightened Mablung. It had always been a bit of an understatement to call Elu slender, as he had ever had always been lean and lanky and had a habit to go off food whenever he was under pressure, but now? He was emaciated, there was no other word for it, and so pale that he looked more like a corpse than anything else.

Mablung knew that he needed to do something. Elu had spent most nights outside in the woods ever since Húrin had cast the Nauglamir at his feet, and Mablung did not doubt at all that he would do so again- or try to do so again, for Mablung would not let that happen. Unable to openly hinder his lord he may be, but he would certainly not be contented with being politely dismissed, even if he chose to let Elu keep this delusion for the moment. He bade the king goodnight, therefore, and took his leave to hurry down to the storage rooms where all the spare clothes were kept.

The room was dark, but Mablung found what he sought quickly nonetheless, borrowing one of Elmo’s cloaks as the king ever kept his own within the royal chambers. Pausing only to warm the clothes by the fire in the Hall, Mablung then swiftly made his way outside into the freezing cold night. He found Elu in exactly the tree he had expected to find him in. Letting out an exasperated sigh no-one could hear over the howling of the wind, he started to climb up as well, calling his lord all sorts of names under his breath as he went.

“I have got you clothes. Warm ones. Don't you dare argue!” he snapped once he reached the branch on which Elu was sitting, by way of any other greeting.

He had half expected anger, but Elu only gazed at him for a moment, then pulled his wet tunic off. When Mablung handed him the dry robes, however, Elu proved unable to put them on, shivering just too violently.

“Will you allow me to robe you, lord?” Mablung asked gently, and was relieved beyond measure to see Elu nod.

As he reached behind Elu’s back to tuck his wet hair out of the fresh tunic, however, that relief turned quickly to sorrow. He had not been so close to Elu in a long time, and holding him now in this would-be embrace tore at Mablung’s heart. He felt like he were holding a dying fawn that was starved and exhausted by a long and merciless winter, and would be hurt by even the gentlest touch. How long, he wondered, would it take one of the High-Elves to starve himself to death? Maybe his dismay showed on his face, for as he faced Elu to fasten the cloak beneath his chin, the king’s expression was one of mingled gratitude and remorse. 

“I just needed to feel the cold. The smithies are stiflingly hot.” he whispered in a shaking voice.

Mablung did not challenge the lie, choosing to keep to the portion of truth that was hidden within. Instead he said:
“I can imagine that. Why not take a break, though? It is not like you are helping them.”

“I cannot. Everything seems so dark whenever I am parted from… whenever the… well.” He struggled for words for a while, then looked up and asked blankly: 
“Am I losing my mind, Mablung?”

The words stabbed Mablung’s heart like knives, but even more so the utter defeat in Elu’s expression.

“I do not know…” he whispered, biting back his own despair “…but even if you are, I stand firmly by your side. As does Melian, and Elmo… but Elu, you look horrible. When have you last eaten?”

He could not hold the question back. Ever since he had seen Elu step into the light, he had wanted to ask precisely that.

“I do not recall it.” Elu answered tonelessly, proving Mablung’s fears right.

“Or slept?”

“I cannot sleep. And I do not dare.”

“Nightmares?” Mablung asked gently.

Elu just nodded. He looked so lost that Mablung would have loved nothing better than to embrace him, hold him, even more so as Elu added:
“I wish all of this could end.”

Mablung forced himself into staying calm. It was not exactly news what Elu was telling him now, but hearing it spoken aloud still caused Mablung significant distress.

“Does Melian know how you feel?”

Stupid question, Mablung chided himself. Of course Melian knew. What he should have asked was ‘Have you told Melian how you feel?’. He suspected, however, that he knew the answer to that question as well, something Elu confirmed a moment later.

“I do not know. I am too ashamed to step under her eyes.”

What for? Mablung almost asked, but caught himself in time. He knew that truly, this was about Lúthien, and probably more directly about Elu’s falling ever more for the light of the Silmaril. They had been fine for so long, or as fine as Elu could be, and Mablung really had no other explanation as to why Elu would go back to where he started after Lúthien following Beren to Mandos. Then, too, he had kept his distance from Melian out of shame, and just like then, that fact quite annoyed Mablung, as this was truly no fault of the queen’s, and she suffered from that separation just as much as Elu did himself.

“That is idiotic.” he said at last. “You know she never blamed you, not even after you tried to lock Lúthien up. Even then, when she was rightfully angry at you, she wanted you by her side. I assure you, she will do everything she can to make life a little easier for you, as she loves you with all her heart, whatever mistakes you might have made or shall make in the future.”

“I don’t deserve that.” Elu said flatly, not even noting the insult Mablung had bestowed upon him.

At this, Mablung grabbed his king by the shoulders.

“You need not deserve it. Love, Elu, is nothing to be deserved, or I should never have deserved to be allowed to be your captain, despite my feelings towards you that were then… let us call them conflicting? But I beg you, please stop torturing the being I cherish above anyone else. Stop torturing yourself! I know I overstep, and I shall readily pay any price, but quite apart from my love towards you that never wavered, you and Melian are both dear friends, and frankly the only thing like a family I have left on these shores. Please Elu, whatever darkness you walk in where it seems to you that no light exists but one long perished, spare us all a thought occasionally whenever you feel the need to do something like dousing yourself in ice-cold water and then walk out into a storm— us all who love you. Please.”

Even as he said it, though, Mablung knew, with a keen and heart-wrenching certainty, that all this would come to naught, that in truth, the king was already lost.