Yet Were Its Making Good, For This by LadySternchen  

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Of Healing

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Mablung was shaking violently, trying his best not to add his moans to those of the other wounded men that lay around him. He wondered vaguely how many of them were dying, longing for nothing more than a comforting touch or a kind word before they left these shores. He himself wished that Beleg were here, that his friend were one of those tending to the injured. But Beleg was far away, hidden in the birch trees of Neldoreth, shooting any foul creature that escaped battle and sought to come close to Menegroth. Menegroth… Mablung smiled despite all the pain he was in. Fair their stronghold was, and Mablung had not felt so much at home anywhere since leaving Cuiviénen. They had laboured long, Dwarves and Elves alike, and through Melian’s gentle voice, the caves had awoken, become almost sentient. And now that orc attacks came ever more often, and ever closer to the gates, even those who dwelled in the woods surrounding their city rather than within it sought refuge there. Nevertheless, they had lost many people, and even more had come to know and fear the orcs’ blades and arrows.

Morgoth’s assault had still come unlooked for, despite all warning and quiet preparations. How many of those Mablung himself had commanded now lay dead or dying? How many had followed him to their deaths? Mablung mourned them, and yet was not certain that he would not yet come to follow them in return.

Pain, so much pain.

Two of those learned in healing had already shifted his shattered bones back into their correct position and staunched the bleeding as best they could. All Mablung’s determination not to acknowledge his agony had become vain at that point. Never before had he known himself to yell in pain, and the memory of the hurt still lay like a shadow on his spirit. It did not help, either, that the splint with which they had sought to keep his mangled knee in position did nothing at all to make the pain more bearable.

He was so preoccupied with his own plight that he hardly noticed when someone knelt down beside him and took his hand. His very Fëa seemed to relax at the touch, and that told Mablung at once that it was the king himself. A wave of relief washed over Mablung, now that he knew Elu to be alive and well enough to do his duty among the healers. He had last seen him in furious pursuit of every last orc his blade could reach, after the horrors they had witnessed on Amon Ereb. How Elu had seen during that chase, Mablung had no idea, for tears had all but blinded him, and yet no sword-stroke of the king had gone astray, and the orcs had fled before him. But then Mablung, who had held the rear guard, had been wounded, and had known little of the battle thereafter. Fear for Elu had mingled with his excruciating pain there in the mud of the battlefield, his only comfort being the fact that had the king fallen, he would surely have known.

“Mablung, stay awake, I implore you.”

Elu laid his other hand on Mablung’s cheek, and the captain could feel him tremble, so he forced his eyes open once more, becoming aware that he had closed them only in doing so.

“I’m cold…” he breathed, “… and so, so thirsty.”

Fear flickered in his king’s grey eyes. Nonetheless, Elu wrapped him more tightly in his mantle, then held his own waterskin to Mablung’s lips.

“I know…” Elu’s voice shook as he spoke, noticeable even as he tried to hide it. “That is the blood-loss. Drink, and then let me see to your wound.”

Mablung did as bidden, bracing himself against the pain he knew was to come, but Elu’s touch was exceedingly gentle as he laid his hand over Mablung’s knee, singing softly. The song seemed to seep through Mablung's skin and flesh, filling him, and with every word, he felt himself become calmer, and warmer, and the pain more endurable. He had almost dozed off by the time Elu withdrew his hand.

“Can you feel and move your toes?”

“Aye.” Mablung answered, startled out of his sleepiness, and saw relief flicker in Elu’s gaze. Clearly, he had feared that Mablung might lose his leg. He himself had almost expected it, though he had been heartened by the fact that the healers had actually set his fracture, not just tied the leg off.

“Melian could have done so much more, and Thônwen would probably roast me alive for calling that healing, but I think you will be alright. You will live, and likely walk, too. But you need to keep still now, and focus on mending that knee. It still is a serious injury, and you lost a lot of blood.”

Mablung nodded, even managing a faint smile at the idea of what Elmo’s wife would say to all this healing work done on battlefield, and especially healing work done by Elu, who was counted among the healers only because it was an ancient elvish custom to teach the art of healing to the lords from the start. And of course because he was so tightly connected in spirit to the most skilled healer that dwelled on this side of the sea, but Thônwen, who was chief of the healers, very much opposed to that. Mablung cared not at all. Even Melian herself could not have brought him the relief Elu had.

“We will stay here for at least three days. After that, I think, you will be fit to ride.” Elu added now, speaking more to himself than Mablung.

“You cannot tarry on my behalf, lord!” Mablung protested, his sense of duty returning with his strength.

“That is mine to decide. But I do not tarry for your sake only, but for that of all my men who share your fate. Half of them are wounded too severely to safely make it back to Menegroth, and there are those who need to be buried before we head home, anyway. Besides, travelling with so many who are unfit to be moved at all would make us very vulnerable. Should the orcs indeed return, I would much rather meet them here, where we can defend ourselves, than being ambushed on the road. Nay, we will stay here, and rest as best we can. You especially, Mablung. You fought valiantly by my side, allow yourself time for healing from this hurt as well.”

With that, Elu made to rise, but Mablung grasped him by the arm.

“You saved my life.” he whispered, but Elu shook his head.

“Thank the healers who first tended to your wound. Without their skill, my part would only have been to bury you…” his voice broke at the last word, and it was a while ere he had mastered himself again. “Try to sleep a little. I need to see to some other people as well, but I will be back as soon as I can.”

Mablung nodded, and watched Elu walk away, giving orders quietly concerning their makeshift camp and its protection. He meant to stay awake, meant to learn more about who lived still and whom they had lost, but he could not. His eyelids drooped at last, and he fell into a light slumber that momentarily relieved him from his pain.

He woke as he sensed Elu’s presence again. So he had made true his promise and returned to Mablung’s side. But then Mablung heard someone else walking near by, and opening his eyes he saw that it was Galathil, looking teary and battleworn, yet luckily unscathed. Or at least unscathed in body, Mablung thought, for as Elu’s banner-bearer, Galathil had still had to watch his father fall. Nonetheless, he had stood dutifully by the King’s standard until now, until, it seemed, grief had at last got the better of him.

“Will we rest here tonight?” he asked, bowing before Elu, who nodded gravely.

“For tonight, and likely longer. Too many lie desperately wounded, who need the time to heal and rest.”

“Then, lord, I ask leave to join the King’s guard tonight.” Galathil’s voice trembled as he looked up at Elu at last, and added in a low whisper: “I want to be close to you.”

Elu, foregoing all formalities, pulled his grandnephew into his arms, holding him tight and stroking his head gently.

“He did not suffer, did he?” Galathil asked between bitter sobs.

“No. He felt no pain, and I know that his Fëa goes to a good place. I am sorry you had to watch this, little one.”

It was a mark of both their grief that Elu had slipped into belittling Galathil like that while the latter was on duty, and that Galathil did not object, if indeed he had even noticed. For a while, they just stood hugging each other tightly, then Galathil stepped back, straightening his back and wiping his eyes.

“The guard it is, then?” he asked, once again returning to a more formal manner.

“If you wish it, I shall be honoured.”

As Galathil made his way to the other guards, Elu turned at last to Mablung, sitting down on the ground beside him with a deep sigh. He looked exhausted.

“How is the pain?” he asked, trying -and failing- to keep his voice steady.

“Better.” Mablung answered, trying to prop himself up a little, but Elu quickly restrained him.

“Keep still! I believe you without proof.”

Mablung laid back, noting for the first time as he did so that the King’s armour was cleft at his shoulder, and that a bleeding cut ran there from his neck.

“You are wounded as well…”

Elu clicked his tongue impatiently.

“You are unbelievable, Mablung, honestly. You just escaped dying or being crippled for life by the narrowest margin and make a fuss about me being a little scratched? Will you stop worrying about me for nothing and focus on yourself?”

“It is my duty to worry about you, lord.” Mablung answered, though not without a small smile.

They lapsed into silence, yet Elu’s gaze moved ceaselessly over the camp, and Mablung could sense his tension.

“They are restless.”

Mablung bit back a grin.

“They are restless because you are. Nobody here will settle down until you settle down.”

Elu looked utterly bewildered at this, which made Mablung laugh in earnest. Elu had become a wise and mighty king in the uncounted years since his return, but he still made an abysmal warlord. Commanding people had never been his strength, and that showed now more than ever. Mablung chose not to tell him so now, however, saying instead: 
“You are their king. They follow your example. So if you want the camp to settle, find yourself a place to rest for the night.”

Mablung had fully expected for Elu to be somewhat annoyed by the taunt, and so was taken aback as the king hung his head and buried his face in his hands.

“How could I rest after all this? After Denethor and Galadhon?”

His voice broke as he spoke his nephew’s name, and Mablung reached out to grasp Elu’s hand.

“I know. That is why my heart urges me back to Menegroth. So that we shall not lose more people still.”

“No, Mablung. As I said before, we are safer here for now than on the road, and the journey itself would probably kill most of those who are grievously hurt.
And also, I am a awful coward who dreads returning to Menegroth much more than he dreads the orcs. But I have no idea how I am supposed to step before Elmo.”

Mablung winced at the disgust in Elu’s voice, and pressed his hand more tightly.

“You mistake the care for a loved one for cowardice, I think.” he said softly.

Elu snorted.

“Fair words, Mablung. But they make me sound nobler than I am. We buried Galadhon only two days ago, and I should grieve for him, and yet here I sit, alive and well, and fret about my own fear of telling my little brother that his son…”

Elu could not go on, but pressed his hand over his mouth, stifling a sob. Pity gripped Mablung’s heart. He could easily imagine that the dread of telling Elmo that his only child was dead was more terrifying right now to Elu than his own pain, that after all was his business alone. And he had seen Elu trying to keep Galadhon from riding with him, seen him waste not a single thought on his own safety as he had jumped foolhardily from his horse when Galadhon had been wounded. Mablung himself had done all he could to keep his king from harm while the latter had crouched beside his dying nephew, heeding no danger. The actions of a caring uncle, spectacularly unbefitting for a king on battlefield.

They had buried Galadhon together so that his body would not be defiled by hungry orcs, and Mablung had never seen Elu so deeply shaken. Yet they had lingered longer than they should have, as became apparent when Denethor was slain within their plain sight, and yet unreachable for them. Mablung would never forget Elu’s cry of frustration, of grief and guilt, nor the blind fury with which he had charged after the orcs.

“It seems you do grieve after all.” Mablung now said softly, still keeping a firm hold on Elu’s hand, who had by now lost the battle against his tears. “You told me before to allow myself some rest after all this hurt, and the same holds true for you. And if you still need an excuse before yourself, then let it be to keep me company.

“Alright.”

Still trembling with grief, Elu rid himself of his sword and gear and tentatively settled himself more comfortably beside Mablung, before drawing his mantle around himself. As Mablung knew it would, the camp became quieter almost at once, so he allowed himself a small moment of smugness.

“See?”

Elu merely grumbled, which made Mablung grin. This little jest was bliss among all the sorrow and pain, and as healing as any ointment or song.

“Go on, say it.”

“You counselled me well, Captain.”

“I know. But thank you for your praise, my lord!”