What Love There Is

Summary: The boys are sent on a journey...

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Doriath, 20 First Age

"...but out of Doriath there came but two messengers, Mablung and Daeron, bearing greetings from the King." The Silmarillion

Mablung spat on the ground to clear his mouth from the dust of the training ring. The afternoon sun of an exceptionally warm and dry Spring combined with the prolonged exercise had left him drenched in sweat and eager for a bath and a quiet evening. It was with a mix of contrariety and apprehension that he saw the king's messenger approaching.

The elf bowed as slightly as it was admissible and then proclaimed in his screechy voice, "You are to meet his Majesty, Elu Thingol and his Queen, Melian the Maia before dinner in the Green Room. Be there before sunset."

He turned his back and walked away, not waiting for an answer, or gracing Mablung with the least bit of delicacy. Mablung was used to the general contempt of palace staff toward him, in virtue of his own lack of interest in the courtly life his father's position could afford him, so his annoyance was more connected with the lateness of the delivery of the message than with the rudeness.

Cursing between his teeth, he ran to his improvised office in the barracks, calling for a couple of his scouts to join him. They reviewed the latest news from the outside as fast as they could, and Mablung added to the roll of maps they gathered a report on his company's state of affairs he had just finished. Looking outside, he realised he wouldn't have time for a bath before meeting the king. He ran to his cabin, splashed some water on his face and under his arms, dried himself with a few quick pats, and grabbed the first tunic from his sparsely populated wardrobe. A quick dusting to his leggings and boots and a summary combing of his hair would have to do, since there was no time to find something better to wear and put it on. He ran all the five miles which separated the palace from his quarters with the rolls in his hand, but still the sun out-raced him and he had to endure Thingol's butler condescending "Tsk" before being lead to the Green Room as if he did not know the way.

Fortunately, the room was empty when he arrived. Known for demanding strict punctuality to his subjects, Thingol was quite flexible when it came to himself. Mablung sighed in relief, letting the soothing green light which named the room exert its effect. This was one of the few rooms in Thingol's cave palace with natural light, and Mablung had always loved it, even as child, before the sun had taken its place in the sky and the room was not known as Green as the star light was too pale to give it colour.

Meeting Thingol was never a pleasant occasion. Thingol was stern to say the least and avoided a person's eyes while addressing them, which Mablung found exceedingly off-putting. Fortunately, their meetings were always brief: Mablung reported, Thingol questioned, hoping to find something amiss, Thingol was normally disappointed, Thingol let the mouse go.

Mablung was trying to improve his aspect when he heard voices coming from the garden. Thingol's dry laughter, accompanied by Melian's, and a soft, musical chuckle Mablung knew all too well: Daeron, the king's lapdog. He pursed his lips and prepared himself for the entry of the trio in the room.

He bowed before Thingol, trying to ignore the stickiness of his skin and the overall feeling of dirtiness. "My Lord, my Lady," he said.

He stood straight and tall, perhaps too straight, and then he relaxed slightly, in an effort to look more like an experienced soldier and the son of a noble than a green soldier. The corner of his eye caught a glimpse of a smile in Daeron's lips and Mablung seethed, though he made an effort to keep his carefully neutral and hopefully dignified expression.

Only as Thingol bade them to seat did Mablung wonder why would a minstrel be called to a meeting with a soldier. They all took their places but Mablung, being farther, was left with the last chair, opposite to Thingol, to increase his discomfort. He carefully placed the roll of maps and the report upon his knees, wondering about the reason for Daeron's presence in the meeting. Before he could make any advancement on his conjectures, Thingol spoke.

"We have an invitation from our dear Noldo friends," Thingol said with the well-known acerbic note he reserved for the newcomers.

Mablung raised an eyebrow. The king probably needed him to organise an escort for his representatives... but that still didn't explain Daeron, although several possibilities crossed Mablung's mind.

Thingol continued. "That idiot, Fingolfin, seems to think that he and his trumpets are responsible for the rising of the sun... and that we are stupid enough to be thankful for his gift. He is planning a celebration and has invited us. Naturally I will not attend, nor will my queen, but I need sharp eyes and keen ears up there." Thingol paused and looked at Mablung and Daeron through squinted eyes.

"I'm sending you. Not too low that Fingolfin can complain about my lack of manners, not too high that he can actually feel honoured. I hope the fool realises it as soon as he sees you."

Beside Thingol, Melian nodded and smiled. "Probably her idea," Mablung thought bitterly and her smile widened distinctly as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He quickly averted his eyes, which fell upon Daeron, catching the moment his ever-present grin turned into a thin line.

Daeron kept silent and so Mablung tried to fill the silence. "Yes, my lord. When do we leave?"

"You have a week to prepare," Thingol said. "I have a few matters to discuss with you before you leave and we need some time to prepare the mandatory gifts, but we shouldn't take any longer than that, since I need you to arrive there a few days earlier and spend some time to explore your surroundings."

Daeron nodded slowly. Mablung could perfectly imagine that he was less than pleased with the situation, but Daeron was Thingol's lapdog, a well-trained puppet who would do anything do be close to the royal family and to the one member who Mablung really liked, Lúthien.

It was a surprise when Daeron did what he had lacked the courage to do.

"Shouldn't one of us be older and more experienced, my Lord?"

Thingol pressed his lips. "Yes, I managed to think of that option all by myself, thank you. I have good motives to send you two, rest assured."

Daeron started an apology, but Thingol cut him short. "Mablung was chosen because he is one of my best captains and Beleg is needed here. He will be able to collect the military information I need and keep you safe during the travel. And you, Daeron, will do as a courtesan. I could send your father, but that would be too much distinction for Fingolfin. Besides, your aptitude for idle gossip will be of great use. I need to know who is who in Fingolfin's court, what are their prices and where are their week spots."

Mablung had thought that he could not be more astonished after the first announcement, but Thingol's reserved compliment, followed by the setting of Daeron in his place had managed to achieve that feat.

Thingol and Melian rose, instantly followed by Daeron and Mablung. But while Daeron executed the rise-and-bow movement with perfect grace, Mablung let the forgotten maps slide form his lap into the ground, where they unfolded. The heat started rising from his collar, but Thingol headed for the garden without a comment. He was starting to feel relief, when Thingol stopped at the door and looked back.

"I hope you take better care of your appearance in the Noldo court than here, Mablung. We already have a reputation for being half-wild, ignorant, feeble, and dim-witted. No need to add dirty to it."

Thingol left, followed by Melian, and Daeron fell to his chair with a loud thud.

"Charming, isn't he?" he asked, slouching with practised ease.

Mablung was busy gathering the maps from around his feet, but he raised his head, surprised at Daeron for the second time in the day and in a long time of acquaintance.

Daeron lifted an eyebrow. "What?"

"That's not the type of comment I expected from someone so devoted to the thought of becoming his son-in-law."

Daeron's short laugh seemed more like a bark. "Courting Lúthien doesn't make me dumb, deaf or blind. If you'd spend more time in the court, as it is right for someone of your birth, you would know a lot more about your peers and perhaps stop wagging your tail at the slightest mention of Beleg."

Mablung crunched the maps in his hand, but contained himself. After a tense silence, he retorted. "I'd rather spend the rest of my life doing honoured labour with the son of a blacksmith than another minute with a minstrel whose head is full of spite and air."

He left the room in big, angry steps, but Daeron's snort followed him.

Twilight had come and gone during the interview, but Mablung appreciated the darkness. Instead of paying a visit to his parents, as he had intended, he decided he had already endured enough criticism for one day and went on a long tortuous walk. When he finally arrived to the cabin he called home above all others, he simply dropped to the bed, over the covers and slept.

Much against his habit, he overslept. Only when one of his men knocked on the door to warn him that a scouting party had arrived in the dawn, did Mablung wake. He undressed and took his much needed and desired bath, thinking on the events of the previous day.

Spies, Thingol wanted spies. Mablung didn't have any feelings of great friendship towards the Noldo, but for him, spying on kin was somewhat repulsive, however the necessity was great. Still, if he had to do it, why send with him Daeron? He was not the most congenial sort, but he did have court manners and of all the people... Daeron. Daeron with his snide remarks, Daeron with his hauteur...

Mablung finished dressing and went outside in search for food, deciding not to let the thought of two months in the company of Daeron bother him. Much to his surprise, when he had managed to subdue the thought for a while, Daeron showed up in the training grounds. He wore brand new plain brown clothing which yelled to all those present, 'I've never seen battle!'

He gave a polite nod in Mablung's direction, and headed for the armoury, emerging with a bow and a quiver in his hands. Mablung sighed. What on Earth was the fool thinking? Daeron was reputed for not being to able shoot even the quietest hare...

Before any of his soldiers could be hurt, Mablung intercepted him. "Daeron, what-"

"Oh please, Mablung, stop before you ask a stupid question. Obviously, I don't intend to rely on your protection during this trip and a bit of practice never hurt anyone."

Mablung bit his tongue. "Suit yourself. Don't be surprise if you hear laughter, though. We are not known for having kind feelings and exacerbated sensibility."

"Exacerbated sensibility... I'm in awe. You know polysyllabic words."

Daeron turned his back on Mablung and left for the target range. Mablung decided not to care, and returned to his office. Near supper time, he heard laughter and a song approaching, and he smiled until he heard a familiar, rich voice in their midst. He came to the window, and there was Daeron fraternising with his men. Mablung pulled the curtain and turned away, still in time to hear Daeron's polite refusal of the invitation for dinner.

The little hypocrite, Mablung thought. Always obsessed with birth and station, but eager enough for attention to try and captivate his soldiers. To Angband with him... but in one thing Thingol was right: Daeron could make friends with an Orc, if he wanted to. Reluctantly he admitted to himself that the minstrel might not be such a bad choice.

The week followed in its due course, Mablung preparing maps, provisions, steeds, and weapons for the trip, taking care of his usual duties, and occasionally being called to the palace for yet another last minute thought from Thingol, who seemed to think that Mablung couldn't think for himself, despite his previous praise.

Daeron continued training in his afternoon with the knives and the bow, but they managed to avoid each other successfully. What Mablung couldn't avoid was hearing his men at supper, commenting on Daeron's progress, Daeron's songs, Daeron's amiability, Daeron's jokes, Daeron's perspectives of marrying Lúthien, Daeron's favour with the king, Daeron's physical assets... Wasn't it enough that he would have to withstand Daeron's daily presence for two months? He thought his teeth would become worn from so much grinding.

The day for their departure finally came. Keeping to his manner, Thingol sent them some last minute notes by his messenger, but not the smallest word of good-luck and goodbye. Mablung and Daeron endured the screechy self-important voice with equal scowls, and then headed off through the woods in the early dawn. They rode in silence, until the sun was approaching the zenith. Then Mablung halted his horse, and said to Daeron, "Time to stop."

They ate in silence. Mablung preferred it that way, and was relieved that at least for now Daeron kept his remarks all to himself. After the quick meal and a bit of rest for themselves and the horses, they rode the afternoon away, until it was time to search for a camp.

When they found a suitable clearing Mablung said, "We'll rest here for the night."

He busied himself grooming his horse, but stopped, when after a few minutes Daeron still sat on his.

"Do you plan on sleeping there?" he asked, half annoyed, half amused.

Daeron frowned and dismounted. A loud moan emerged from his throat, but he kept his face hidden behind the horse. "Sore," he muttered between his teeth.

"Eh, I can imagine." Mablung was surprised by the slight feeling of sympathy for Daeron.

"Go rest a bit. I'll take care of your horse."

"I can do it," he heard from behind the horse.

By the time Daeron finished his self-imposed chore, Mablung had already cleared a circle and gathered wood to start a fire. He was still somewhat amused at the exaggerated slowness of Daeron's movements.

"It's a bit late to find a rabbit for supper, so I think we could do with a nice infusion, dried fruits and some of Melian's lembas..." Mablung suggested.

"Fine." Daeron flexed his knees to sit on a rock near the fire, but he hesitated and returned to his standing position.

Mablung snorted. "Sorry. I shouldn't laugh but... it's funny."

Daeron nodded but did not reply to Mablung's surprise, spurring a generous impulse. "If you can walk up to the stream we passed a few yards behind, you could soak there for a while. It does help."

Daeron nodded again, and turned his slumped shoulders on Mablung, heading for the stream.

Half-an-hour later, Mablung had prepared the tea, set out the food and had even cleaned out the ground to make improvised beds for the night, but Daeron was still absent. Mablung followed Daeron's path until he found the stream. Daeron sat in the water, leaning against a rock with his eyes closed.

"Daeron," Mablung called.

"I heard you," came the weary answer. "I'll be out in a minute."

"I'm going to wash myself downstream, so soak a while longer if you need."

A low growl was Daeron's only reply.

Mablung walked downstream, washed quickly, and returned to the camp through the same path. Daeron was sitting by the coals, fully dressed, sipping tea.

"I'll be fine." Daeron said. "I would have been fine if we had ridden for a couple hours less, and I think that with tonight's rest I'll do fine tomorrow. I won't be a hindrance."

Mablung nodded. They sat by the fire in silence for a couple of hours. Mablung checked his weapons as it was always his habit, and Daeron reached for his lyre but after a few idle chords, he let it rest. They went to sleep in peace, comforted to know they were still within the safety of home and their lady's protection.

The week went on, days filled with silent riding, nights filled with sparse conversation about necessary issues and sound sleep. Despite the silence, there was no climate of animosity. Daeron was enduring the riding much better, and often played, but rarely sung. Mablung was glad of this voluntary truce and enjoyed the trip.

On the evening of the ninth day, after a meal of roasted rabbit and berries, Mablung rose and stretched.

"Off to sleep so soon?" Daeron asked.

"No. We're not so close to home now. I think it's time we start having night watches."

Daeron nodded. "So I'd better go to sleep now, to be fresh and rested when your half of the night is over."

Mablung raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Daeron asked.

"Nothing... I wasn't counting on you keeping watch, that was all," Mablung said non-committally.

"Why not?" Daeron straightened up and his voice raised. "Am I not trustworthy? People who chose to live in the court are all irresponsible dimwits, aren't they? Oh yes, we are all useless sycophants unless we prefer to yield a weapon and do something grandiose like killing."

"Protecting our people is certainly more useful than pursuing the king's daughter for personal favour." Mablung only realised he had shouted when he saw tiny specks of saliva flying in front of him.

"Sod it," he said, before Daeron could bring his stunned stutters to a full reply. "I guess I was stupid to think that you could keep your trap shut for long enough."

He stomped away from the camp, and spent the whole night circling through the woods, letting his anger wear off. The woods were dark and quiet except for an occasional owl, the rustling of a fox, the breeze before the dawn. Eventually, he calmed down. He had to admit that Daeron had a point: he tended to lump all the people who he had left behind in one standard of behaviour, making a few exceptions for a couple of closer friends and his parents. He had always felt invaded, hurt by the expectations set upon him in the court; the decision of trying an alternative path for his life had almost taken itself. He had always felt shy and awkward, he had always been shocked by how much compromise between principle and practice people were willing to make to thrive in the court. He had used his training and natural ability for tracking and shooting game to impress Beleg, who he had met far in the woods during a longer hunt, and then he had stalked him until Beleg had decided to accept him conditionally in his company. His parents had been shocked, even Thingol had called him for explanations but for the first time in his life, Mablung felt home.

He had never missed court life and, every time he had to engage in formal functions, he always met the ending of the ceremonies and meetings with profound relief. But when he thought back, he had to admit that not every body there was egoist, egocentric, hypocrite and... useless. He had to admit he didn't really know Daeron. They had crossed each other's way on some occasions but if Mablung had to be truthful, he had to admit his opinion of Daeron was based on his expectations and not in real knowledge. The climate of hostility that rose every time they met didn't help at all. On some times Mablung had the distinct impression that Daeron was poking him to react...  but Daeron's attitude during the trip denied some of his assumptions over the minstrel's character.

By dawn, he had decided that he had been out of line... but he was not willing to apologise, not yet. He returned to the camp and found Daeron dressed and packed, sitting by the fire with a mug in his hands. He sat opposite to him and picked up the mug prepared for him.

"Thank you," he growled.

Daeron's lips formed a thin line, but he nodded in acknowledgement.

They rode all day in silence, the gestures of the previous days so completely rehearsed  that dispensed any small talk. After dinner, Daeron broke the silence. "I'll stand watch this evening."

He rose and picked up his bow and quiver. Mablung meant to say something, to give him some directions, but Daeron's quiet dignity stopped him. Despite his lack of confidence in Daeron's untrained guarding, Mablung fell asleep, the weariness of a blank night and the travelling weighing on him.

He woke startled by a hand on his shoulder. It was still dark and the cool of early dawn had pervaded his body, but instinct and years of training made him immediately alert.

"I think I saw movement in the distance," Daeron whispered.

Mablung nodded, and quietly followed Daeron until they reached a high tree, which Daeron climbed. Mablung followed, surprised by Daeron's competence. Daeron had been right: a faint rustle could be heard coming from the North and, with a keen eye, now and then flashes of green and brown could be seen moving through the foliage.

Mablung sighed in relief. "Those are our own. A party returning home, no doubt. But you did a good job, nonetheless."

They went down the tree and back to their camp to eat and prepare to resume their travelling.

Mablung's respect for Daeron and his abilities had increased and he was able to rest peacefully in the nights he was not on watch. Still he found himself pitying that the neutral, yet comfortable silence from the first days of travelling had vanished. He didn't intend to become Daeron's best friend, but they could co-exist in a more pleasant way. He tried to start small conversations about the food, the sleeping places, other things, but Daeron replied mostly with nods and monosyllables.

Days followed each other. Doriath was now behind, and they continued their journey North, following the Teiglin's margin. Soon they would reach their destiny at the pools of Ivrin and Mablung found himself longing more and more for Daeron's previous restrained affability. One night, after a particularly arduous day, he made another try.

"You haven't sung in a while... Saving yourself for the Noldo?" He meant it as a joke, but it sounded harsh, belligerent, and false.

Daeron looked up from his plate. "I try not to annoy you."

Mablung realised it was true. Daeron was not sulking, he was merely avoiding him. He bit his lip. He didn't want Daeron to avoid him. Apart from pragmatic considerations about the importance of their unity in face of their mission, Mablung wanted to bridge the gap he had so voluntarily dug between them.

"You do not annoy me... I mean, sometimes, but I suppose I annoy you too and that can't be helped."

Daeron nodded reluctantly and the heavy silence fell on them again.

The evening sky had run from golds to blues and then to deep darkness. It was time for Mablung to stand watch. He rose slowly, watching the light painting red highlights in Daeron's dark brown hair, and not for the first time since their journey had started, he thought that Lúthien would never understand the beauty hidden in his severe features.

"Well, I'll be off then," he said, not expecting a reply.

He walked into the night, disappointed that Daeron had yet again refused his attempt of friendliness. He found a nice high spot, from where he could see the clearing of their camp and the surroundings. Very soon, he saw Daeron putting away his lyre and preparing for the night, which consisted simply in taking off his boots and slipping into the improvised bed. From his standing point, Mablung could see the red gleaming of the fire in Daeron's face and one of his square, graceful hands sneaking out of the covers. His fingers closed around his bow and he turned his eyes away. It was probably the most natural thing that interest, and even desire should arise, since they were forced to spend so much time together... but Daeron was not interested and he himself knew that his feelings were shallow, mere reflections of loneliness and an idle curiosity.

Daeron was in love with Lúthien, that much should be obvious, if he cared to admit that his companion could have motives other than political. Everyone knew that his feelings were not reciprocated, but Daeron had held fast to his aspirations regarding Lúthien for long. That he never mentioned her was not unexpected to Mablung – after all they had not become friends. Still, he should know better than to think about the king's minstrel and his long pale thighs as he had seen them under the water, or his frown of concentration when he played, or the bulge between his thighs, or his sullen dignity for that matter. No good would ever come from that.

Mablung's eyes and thoughts roamed through the night until dawn relieved him from his watch. The day started as so many others, in silence, but by mid morning Daeron spoke as they rode side by side.

"Why do you detest us so?" he asked.

Startled, Mablung only said, "I don't."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, and Mablung had to add at last. "I don't hate the individuals, just they way they come together. I don't fit there, I don't know how to play those games."

He thought Daeron wouldn't answer but after a while he said, "I know. I know what you mean. But it's really not that bad and you shouldn't pass judgement so easily upon us all. Do you think we all consider you unintelligent for having chosen to be a soldier?"

"I've given this much consideration in the last weeks..." Mablung admitted. "I realise I've allowed for a few bad experiences to taint my view..." He let the thought hanging in the air. He didn't like remembering his childhood and early years, the fierce competition among the courtesan children, the constant gossip and backstabbing, the ever-shifting loyalties.

Daeron cut through his thoughts with a determined voice. "Yes, well, I have to admit that I've always felt a particular grudge against you for your attitude, although I can understand your motives if not your radical cut with us. It's as if you bring out the worst in me."

Mablung snorted. He certainly knew that feeling.

That day, when they stopped for lunch and a nap they afforded themselves a few jocose comments about stale lembas and mouldy dried fruits. Mablung was happy, much happier than something so simple and unimportant should have made him, but he saw that Daeron also appreciated the renewed good-will between them.

They continued their journey north the following day, enjoying their new-found rapport, but Mablung felt a weight settling in as they came closer and closer to the source of the Narog, as if time would not be enough. They met the first patrols, then a few settlements, and while Daeron kept his cheery mood and talked with anticipation of the forthcoming events, Mablung simply nodded, thinking that soon they would drift apart again.

The green fields with all their beauty didn't move him – he was an elf of the forest, not a farmer. The fine weapons of the Noldor they met raised his interest, but it was his firm belief that the yielding was as important as the weapon and these Noldor seemed somewhat relaxed, as if every creature in Middle-earth should fear them just by their reputation. They continued their travel until they finally reached the main camp, which threatened to swallow the town. Thingol wouldn't be pleased to know that so many people had gathered before their arrival, but Mablung was sure that they were in plenty of time to execute his instructions and spy on their kin.

They ambled through the tents until they reached paved roads and stone dwellings. They stopped at the largest house. A boy came for their horses and they went in. As they had expected, it was where Fingolfin stayed. His butler welcomed them and assigned them rooms at another building and a guide. He also invited them on the behalf of the king to dine at the main hall when the evening came.

They followed the boy with their horses by the reins, until they found the house in which they were to stay. They were assigned two large rooms with many windows and a connecting door. As soon as the boy left the room, Mablung dropped to the bed and stretched with a loud sigh.

"I though hardened warriors didn't enjoy the comforts of a soft bed..." Daeron said as he walked to one of the windows.

Mablung yawned and stretched further. "We don't. I'm just making sure it's safe and adequate for you."

He heard Daeron's snort coming from behind, and enjoed the temporary rest and the easy banter he shared with Daeron, now that they were no longer enemies.

"I suppose I should go to my room and let you sleep," Daeron said.

"Mmm..." Mablung was already half-asleep when the door closed softly.

A few hours later the boy woke them both, asking if they would rather visit the bath houses of the town or if they would prefer to bathe in their own rooms. A single glance at each other was enough for them to choose being guided to the bathhouses. Upon arriving, instead of finding numerous elves of diverse origin as they had expected, they found the bathhouse was nearly empty and instead of big common pools as they had in Doriath, there were small pools in separated rooms.

"Most people come here in the morning," the boy offered as an excuse to their questioning glances.

In one way, Mablung was happy: the socialising and the implied spying would have to start later and for now they would just enjoy the hot water dissolving the grime that all the quick washing on the road had not taken away. He undressed, facing the bench where he deposited his clothes, scrubbed quickly, and then slipped into the water. It was hotter than he expected and he cringed when it touched his soft parts.

Daeron laughed.

"Ah, so you don't have balls of steel, as they say," he said, slipping into the water more carefully than his friend.

Mablung looked up, baffled. "Now that's the kind of expression I would never expect from you."

Daeron laughed again before sinking deeper into the water with a sigh of satisfaction.

Mablung sighed too, as the warmth dissolved the weariness of the travel from his muscles. "Who says that?" he asked at length.

"Your men. They also make jokes about your 'Heavy Hand'. I wonder what you do to them..." Daeron's laugh was short-lived, as Mablung swiftly moved to his side and pushed him under water.

Daeron emerged laughing. "Thanks. I was needing a good hair wash."

They reclined in the stone seats side by side, too tired and old for more boyish playing, but enjoying the comradeship between them.

Daeron was the first to leave the water. In the dark mists of the room, his pale skin and lean form seemed almost unreal. Mablung watched as his buttocks contracted in movement, how a dark shadow showed between his thighs, promising soft, darker skin and a hard sex, and he felt his own tingling in response. Daeron turned to face him.

"Aren't you coming? We must prepare for the evening's dinner..."

"I'll be out in a minute."

Mablung averted his eyes and tried to stare at the water while Daeron finished dressing, but his eyes tended to run to Daeron's body at the slightest hint of movement.

"Later, then," Daeron said as he left.

Mablung sunk in the water as soon as he heard the door closing. Against his will his sex was now hard against his belly, aroused by the unprecedented intimacy and the flowing of the water around it. After the first time in the river, he had seldom seen Daeron naked, as they washed separately. Now, he felt stupid and embarrassed. Fortunately, Daeron hadn't noticed. His hand took initiative, first his fingers ghosting his glans, then running all the way down to his sack, and finally grabbing hard and pulling strongly, as images of Daeron's naked skin on his haunted him. He sat in the water panting when it was over, wishing this was the last time, but knowing that Daeron had been too often in his thoughts of late.

When he returned to the house, Daeron had already changed into a silk tunic and velvet leggings. The sober cut in dark greens with golden accents fitted Daeron perfectly, making him look like a true forest prince. Mablung ran up the stairs to his room and found an outfit already laid on his bed. He changed quickly, then returned to the main hall.

"Thank you," he said to Daeron.

"You are welcome. I imagined you wouldn't have much time left so..."

Mablung nodded and they left for Fingolfin's palace.

Upon arriving there, they were formally introduced by a herald of portentous voice. Many faces turned to meet them as they advanced in the great hall to salute Fingolfin. They could see many Noldo, with their overly elaborated clothes and coiffures, but also elves from the Falas in their perpetual greys. Mablung recognised Círdan among the crowd, and by his side Galdor. Both nodded to him. To their left, they could see a mass of elves of Sindarin appearance, probably of the peoples who wandered through the woods of Beleriand outside the kingdom of Doriath, and closer to the throne, more Noldor, but with something different about them... Mablung's eyes landed on the taller one and the red hair immediately told him it was Maedhros, son of Fëanor, and his people.

Behind Maedhros, choosing the darker corners of the hall, the Green elves from Ossiriand avoided all others. Mablung was surprised that they had come at all, and angry that Thingol had not seen that, rather than humiliating his host by sending just two representatives, he had humiliated his people, since even the half-savage elves had managed to be more graceful.

At the end of the hall was Fingolfin and his nephew Finrod. Mablung had never seen them but the gold of their hair had been sung enough for tales of its unusual colour to reach Doriath.

"Welcome to this Mereth Aderthad," said Fingolfin in his heavily accented Sindarin. "May we hope to build ever-lasting friendships in this Feast of Reuniting and that our peoples prosper together."

Both Daeron and Mablung bowed again, and Daeron replied, "May it be as you say, great lord. On behalf of our king and our people we offer you our friendship and good-will."

Mablung and Daeron stepped back and found a place for themselves in the crowd as even more newcomers arrived. At last, they were led to the hall where dinner should take place. They were seated between Círdan's group and a party of Ossiriand elves, far enough from Fingolfin to stop any attempt of conversation, but close enough to honour their position.

The night went slowly. They had been informed that this was a simple informal dinner, but everything seemed to deny it, as dish after dish of elaborate meats and decorative vegetables were brought to the table. Círdan's people, like themselves, ate little. The Green elves conversed only among themselves, answering to Daeron's polite inquiries with laconicism, so soon Mablung and Daeron devoted their sole attention to Círdan and his group. Galdor was closer to Mablung and they engaged in a lively discussion of combat techniques on sea as compared with fighting in a wood environment. They had known each other for long, although not well, and Mablung was glad that Galdor was such pleasant company. Daeron too managed to captivate his neighbours and draw them into a conversation about old musical lore from the sea, since the Teleri took pride in their affection for music.

Still, when the last dessert dishes were finally taken from the table and the guests started leaving, both were pleased to be heading home.

As they walked back, Daeron said, "See, that wasn't so bad..."

"No, it wasn't," Mablung agreed. "I wish the king would be more open to the outside world," he added, only to repent instantly. Daeron might not be as bad as he had judged him but he was still too close to the king to hear such opinions.

"Me too..." said Daeron, to his surprise. "I think we might be missing some great opportunities on the count of stubbornness and pride..."

"Did you hear interesting news?" he asked suddenly, changing the topic.

"Only if you are a soldier, I'd say..." Mablung admitted.

"Ooh, then you must hear this precious bit of gossip." Daeron grabbed Mablung's arm and came closer. "Did you notice that Fingolfin's son was not seated by his father's side?"

Mablung emitted a guttural sound that might have been a 'yes'.

"Well, our Teleri friends and apparently everyone else seem to think that he is always by his cousin's side out of more than friendship." Daeron raised his eyebrow suggestively.

"That is none of our business." Suddenly Mablung withdrew his arm from Daeron's and stood apart.

"You're being rather prudish, I have to say," chastised Daeron. "It is our business in the measure that Fingolfin can hardly approve. You've seen how prudish these Noldor can be. I'm not sure they would be more shocked because they are cousins or because both are male. Anyway, if there is such potential tension between Fingolfin and Fëanor's eldest, Thingol should know."

Mablung nodded and proceeded walking silently. Daeron was right, of course, but still, he had disliked the comment.

"Hey," Daeron called after a few moments. "Why are you upset? Thinking of Beleg?"

By now, Mablung already knew Daeron well enough to know it was meant as a joke, not an offence, but anger flared in him.

"Leave Beleg alone," he growled, trying to contain himself.

"Why don't you ever talk about him?" Daeron insisted, and Mablung realised he was slurring ever so slightly.

"You're drunk. There's nothing to talk about. Period," he said just as they reached their house. "Now go to bed."

"All alone?"

Mablung stepped back. Earlier in the baths he had reasoned that Daeron's comment about his private parts had been casual, but now he had the distinct impression that the minstrel was indeed flirting. And he didn't know what to make of it, except that it was late, they had drunk stronger wine than what they were used to and perhaps all the talk about Maedhros and Fingon had spurred Daeron's curiosity.

"Go in," he simply said when he recovered his wits.

Daeron entered obediently, but not without brushing Mablung's chest with his shoulder.

"Fuck!" Mablung swore when the door to Daeron's room closed loudly upstairs.

The next morning, Mablung had almost finished his breakfast when Daeron came into the dining room. He was pale and his eyes squinted when he crossed the light squares coming from the windows.

"Good morning," he muttered, as he sat by Mablung's side.

"Good morning."

"I suppose I acted like an ass last night... I apologise. Your private business is your own."

Daeron kept his eyes on his cup, on his bread and on his hands.

"No harm done," Mablung said. "But there is nothing to talk about, really," he heard himself adding in an impulse.

Embarrassed, he rose. "If you'll excuse me, Galdor is expecting me for a stroll around town. He's promised to introduce me to a few people. We'll meet at lunch time, then."

He tried to follow Galdor's instructions to reach their camp, for Círdan had preferred to keep his people all together, but his mind kept returning to the absurd need he felt of making Daeron know that the rumours about him and Beleg were false, and so he ended up taking a few wrong turns. He had had a crush on his captain, many years before when they had met and he had become a simple soldier, but he had never pursued anything more than friendship, for Beleg was clearly not interested in yet another infatuated boy, and he had to justify his decision for leaving the palace for the soldier's life in terms of desire and aptitude for the job, not as a whim. Still his love-sick glances at Beleg had earned them a permanent reputation for having an affair. Love between two adults of the same gender was neither reproached nor condoned within Thingol's people, but it had always annoyed Mablung that people would assume when, sadly, there was nothing to assume. Time had replaced his earlier infatuation with a solid affection for Beleg, nothing more.

He finally found the Teleri camp and Galdor, and managed to keep his mind off Daeron. They spent the morning in congenial conviviality: Galdor did seem to know everybody in his camp and elsewhere. By lunch time they had visited half of the town, and Galdor with his warm Teleri hospitality insisted Mablung have lunch with them and stayed for the afternoon. A fleeting thought of Daeron waiting for him crossed Mablung's mind, but he took the invitation nonetheless.

A few hours later, they parted.

"Fortunately tonight we won't have yet another stuffy Noldor dinner, but feel free to join us for dinner and bring your minstrel friend too, if you'd like," Galdor invited.

Mablung snorted... so he and Daeron weren't the only ones who thought the Noldor tried too hard to impress.

"Thank you, my friend," he said clasping Galdor's arm, "but I think we'll stay in tonight."

He returned to his house, but Daeron was not there yet. He would only arrive a few hours later, bringing with him a couple of Green elves. Mablung was surprised, but when Daeron's new friends left, an explanation came.

"They are not too friendly at first, but I guess that if you're free to make a few snide comments about the newcomers they can warm up a bit... and a few sips of wine help too." Daeron winked.

"Galdor showed me around today..."

"Was it nice?"

"It's amazing how he knows everyone... you'll have to work hard to compete with him," Mablung teased.

"Ooh, I intend to. Compete with him." Daeron cast Mablung a sly look, but then he sat up from his slouching position.

"I'm sorry. Of late I seem to exceed myself after a few drinks."

He rose and went to his bedroom without a further word, leaving Mablung absorbed in thought.

Before they knew it, a week had gone by. Both had been busy making acquaintances, exploring their sites, observing the Noldor and the other peoples gathered there. They only met at night, but Daeron seemed to have abandoned his flirting and innuendo. Rather than being relieved, Mablung felt disappointed. Still, they sat by the fire sipping their wine and talking about their achievements, the trivial things that had happened, points still in need of investigation... On occasion, Mablung felt like baiting Daeron, but he respected Daeron's obvious lack of interest.

And so the day for the big celebration arrived. As they prepared for the banquet and subsequent festivities, Mablung contemplated the outcome of this journey: Thingol wouldn't be pleased at all. Being little more than messengers with the niceties of noble blood, they had received minimal attention from Fingolfin and those close to him. The Noldo king had called them for a private audience where many pleasant words of no consequence had flowed, but then had forgotten about then. Later, Daeron had been called for a second audience, but this time it was just to ask him to sing at the festival night.

It was Thingol's own fault, of course. In his impulse to insult Fingolfin he had made sure that the Noldo king would have a good excuse not to dispense his messengers too much time. Thingol was intelligent enough to understand this, and to know that precious information could be easily garnered by other means, but he was proud and irascible enough to chastise them for not having infiltrated further with the princes of the Noldor.

He finished dressing, and went down the stairs to the hall where Daeron already expected him, dressed in his best silks. More than admiration for a single individual, Mablung felt proud for his people upon seeing he who was thought to be the best minstrel of the Sindar ready to perform. Daeron smiled at him, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Ready?"

Mablung smiled and nodded. He was glad they had managed to overcome their differences.

This time they had been attributed better seats at the king's table. Círdan had also been promoted, but several of his escort, Galdor included, had been seated in lesser tables presided by Finrod, the two eldest sons of Fëanor and Fingon. The conversations were more formal and reserved. After a while, Mablung was glad that they had been spared a more intimate acquaintance with Fingolfin, for he seemed incapable of uttering more than plain, common-sense, dull observations. Mablung realised that he had to be intelligent and sharp to rule his people, and that this was probably only his diplomatic mode of avoiding matters of any consequence, but still... On more than one occasion he saw Daeron restraining a yawn.

The night went on and the party was slowly transferred to the streets and then to the fields where gigantic fires were lit, in honour of the sun. There was singing and dancing, accompanied by musicians of all the peoples, but when Fingolfin joined them, the merriment subsided. Fingolfin stood high on a rock and talked for long to the crowd about ice, wrath, and darkness, then hope, bravery, and friendship.

These were lovely ideals, but Mablung had had a week to confirm that Thingol, despite his temper, was right in one thing: the Noldor did think they were superior to the Sindar and many of them hardly disguised it. Some were disdainful, some were charitable, but all were equally full of themselves and oblivious to the fact that the Sindar excelled in many arts and had been equally gifted with minds and talents of their own.

Mablung watched as Fingolfin announced the best of two worlds, and introduced Daeron to be followed by Maglor. Daeron came forth and sang a simple song of deep meaning, which spoke of green buds, shy flowers, fresh waters running from thinned ice, blue skies and cold air promising a new cycle. The song brought more a sense of serenity than overflowing joy, a certainty that everything had always been so and would always be. It was a song for the tree people, but also for the folk of the meadows. Even the Teleri smiled and hummed along the last chords as they too knew these simple truths Daeron spoke of.

A wave of applause rose from the crowd and Daeron humbly bowed and stepped away to make place for Maglor. And Maglor sang about great feats, roaring thunder, raging seas, and the children of Ilúvatar, all grey-eyed and black-haired in his version, standing proud against the force of Nature, the enemies, and the darkness, invincible as a mercy of their valour and cunning. Whereas Daeron had been soft and tender, Maglor exceeded in strength. Mablung felt the whole song, with its embellished chords, with the excessive modulation of Maglor's undoubtedly fine voice, was a message of force and a warning for caution. Yes, no tale of the sons of Fëanor was exaggerated.

Before it had ended a hand landed on his arm, and pulled him back from the crowd.

"I hadn't realised it was a contest. I guess I was stupid," Daeron said, even as the applause roared.

"Well, I hadn't realised that we were here to celebrate the great Noldor feats..." Mablung sneered. "Come on, let's have some wine."

Mablung put his arm around Daeron's shoulders and dragged him over to where the barrels were. Friends came and went, and inevitably the singing was mentioned. Mablung started feeling annoyance at everyone's good intentions. Maglor's song had been very good, excellent even, but it had been more an exhibition of technique and an ill-disguised feeling of superiority, than a tribute to the sun, the spring or anything related to the occasion. Daeron could, if he wanted, reproduce all the complicated chords and create his own for that matter; he needed no complacent words of comfort, however well-meant.

"Come on, let's go home," Mablung said after a few mugs of wine.

They walked in silence, greeting those who came their way, and leaning on one another now and then, until they reached the empty streets.

"I supposed that they are all embarrassed and possibly angry because I let that twit..." Daeron was stopped in the middle of his burst by an undignified hiccup.

"That's what you think." Mablung said. "Here, go in," he said, opening the door to their house.

They followed to the parlour, and Mablung continued his thought. "The Noldo should be embarrassed for not being able to choose the right time for the right thing and for being so obsessed with self-adulation. None of our people think less..."

He stopped as Daeron suddenly turned and kissed him. Years later Mablung would still think of that kiss and be stunned. It would become a blurry, liquefied moment in his mind, from which emerged a pristine and sharp memory of the quick turn which should have been impossible to hold under that wine, the touching of our lips which should have been dastardly, but it was so soft, so soft that it was incomparable.

But in that moment it burned him. They parted, quickly and silently. Shocked, Mablung stared at his hands on Daeron's shoulders, at his lips smiling an impossibly silly smile. A disturbing warmth crawled from his chest to his neck, and, devoid of any witty comments, he said almost to himself, "The least you could do is to repeat that."

He raised his eyes to Daeron's, to find him staring back, the stupid, adorable smile still hanging on his mouth, until he said, "All right."

The second kiss was still surprising; almost too surprising for Mablung to notice the details, the taste of Daeron's lips, the tiny blue veins in his eyelids, their hearts racing.

They were somewhat clumsy. Daeron's tongue brushed Mablung's upper teeth, their noses bumped, Daeron almost choked when Mablung pushed his tongue completely into his mouth, but, Elbereth, was that sweet. They parted gasping, only to kiss again, more furiously than before. Daeron was rubbing his hardness against Mablung's, their hands ran all over each other, air was far from being enough but they still sought more kisses, as their hands dove under their clothes, clasped around buttocks.

Mablung buried his face in Daeron's neck, drowning in his scent. "Upstairs," he said.

They practically ran, unbuttoning their clothes as they went, reaching for their hair to release it from its constrains. They fell heavily to Mablung's bed and rolled  on it, again and again, tasting bitter wine and sweet saliva from each other's mouth. Then all clothes were gone, and only desire was left to warm them in the sweet night air.

Still lying on his back as he had landed, Mablung pulled Daeron's hips closer to him, letting their legs tangle further. The contact was not enough, he had to have more friction, something, and then Daeron's hand was on him, doing what he had done so often, the foreign feeling of a strong, but softer hand making him moan, Daeron's hot rod pressed so closely to his hip. Mablung growled, and flipped Daeron on the bed, nestling between his thighs, eagerly seeking his mouth.

They spent the rest of the night discovering each other, learning of ways to touch, taste, breathe the other in, dispensing with words for once. Morning came and they rested in each other's arms.

"You're very charitable, cheering up a poor soul like me," Daeron said at last, into Mablung's shoulder.

Mablung laughed. "One does as he can..." he replied, but banter wasn't enough. He kissed Daeron, holding his face in his hand.

"I've been wanting to do this for a while now..." he said.

Daeron grinned. "I know."

Mablung laughed. "My, my, modesty suits you so well."

They lay there smiling until Irmo took them to other lands.

Morning came and with it, their last day in town. They visited Fingolfin in the morning to take leave from him as it was appropriate, and in the afternoon, each went their way, to visit the friends they had made. They met for dinner, and talked throughout the meal about their stay, the people they had met, the things they had learned to report to Thingol. After dinner they hesitated by the living room door, but both burst out laughing and ran up the stairs into the bedroom. The Noldo maid would be scandalised when she saw the sheets, but they were far from caring.

They rose with the dawn, invigorated despite the lack of sleep, packed the last items, broke their fast and left. For many days they talked about everything and nothing, spent nights awake, their sense of security made dormant by desire, but the closer they got to home, the more Mablung wanted to ask the crucial questions which tormented him. As they saw Doriath's formless black-green become individual trees, Mablung's mood darkened. The further they rode in, the more silent he became, until one day, lying on Daeron's shoulder on the verge of sleep, he voiced his worries.

"Daeron?"

"Mmm?"

"We will arrive home the day after tomorrow..."

"Yes..."

"How will it be?"

"I don't know. I didn't think of it."

In other circumstances or on another night Mablung would have said "Liar!" and started a mock wrestle, but not tonight. He drew apart from Daeron.

"People know you have your eyes set on Lúthien... Do you love her?"

Daeron turned to lie on his side, facing away from Mablung. "I used to," he replied at length. "But for a while now, I can never be sure if it's love or hate. She leads me on and on, but she never lets me touch her... come close to her..."

Mablung stayed silent, revolving possibilities in his mind.

"What will happen, then?" he asked, when it was clear Daeron would offer no further answer.

"Does something have to happen? Can't we be as we are?"

"We can." Mablung lay back by Daeron's side, spooning against his back. His sigh was not one of contentment, as in so many other nights and his heart was as dark as the night. Inside he knew, he knew with certainty that this was not the end of it, and that is what spurred him to keep the matter alive.

"But how will it be, then? Will you come and visit me, will you move in to my house?..."

Daeron sighed. "I don't want to think about this now."

Mablung turned to lie on his back. "I do."

"Fine, then. I love my life. I loved what happened between us, I'd love to have it continued, but I don't plan to leave my life as the king's minstrel to become the chief captain's whore."

Mablung sat up and Daeron turned to face the shouts. "Living with me would make you a whore? I'm sure you'd prefer to continue as a lapdog then."

"Better that than living like a hog in a one-room shack." Daeron's eyes narrowed, but they never left Mablung as he impulsively rose from his side and put on his trousers.

They stared at each other for long.

"Why?" Mablung asked at last, all anger in his voice replaced with disappointment.

Daeron bit his lips, searching for time. "Mablung... if you could only see how easily you could be so much more... you were the perfect ambassador on this trip, despite your unwillingness. Why can't you move into the palace and follow in your father's shoes?"

"You'd have me, then?" Mablung asked bitterly.

"I like you. I've desired you for long, even before this trip began. I think you are noble, intelligent, kind, affable... this has been wonderful, every day, every night... but I'm not willing to give up my life..."

"Neither am I willing to give up mine," Mablung cut. "But is it impossible for us both to keep our own?"

"Think! Your soldiers would probably make bawdy jokes and approve. Their captain such a great elf that he managed to steal Daeron, the minstrel from Lúthien, fairest thing under the sky. But would I be respected? I can see it plainly, I can even hear the jokes people would make every time I went down to spend the night with you, or every time you deigned to visit me. We are different, Mablung. I could never live with constant scorn about me. Why won't you come and build something with me?"

"I'd die there." Mablung looked straight into Daeron's eyes and he knew he was telling the truth.

"Then this is it," Daeron said and Mablung lay back by his side for the rest of the night.

They travelled for two more days before reaching home. They spent their days in silence, meditating, and the nights saying good-bye to what they had found. On several occasions Mablung felt the urge to speak, to state how stupid the whole situation was, but he stopped himself. He felt confused, bitter, lonely, as if his insides were made of shattered glass, but one general idea emerged from his frustration: there was a reason for this. Neither he, nor Daeron were free.

Daeron hung on to a love that he no longer felt, and coupled it with ideas of grandeur as an excuse to avoid giving in to another. Mablung himself hung on the hard-won freedom of his soldier's life. To be honest with himself he had to admit that the reason he was alone and available for Daeron was that he had ran away from anything more than a few brief encounters for physical release. He could have pursued Beleg after he had proven his valour... He could have found someone else...

So in the end, they would not be separated because of external constrains, but because a part of them refused the idea of changing to accomodate another. Still it hurt him. For once, he would have liked to try. What they had was so much more than he had ever expected to find with another, but it was so much less than what he wanted, needed, to be allowed to keep.

Maybe it was fate or ill-fate for that matter. Some people would say that there is you and your will alone beneath the starlight. Others would say that you make your circumstances, that one voice can change the world... but Mablung was not convinced. All he knew was that it had been no mistake, no matter how awkward and hurtful its end would be. Daeron held on to him in the dark as if he were driftwood in a wreck and Mablung wondered if he thought the same thoughts. He could not believe that this had been mere sport for Daeron, but sometimes, love, what love there is, was not enough. He did not regret his happiness of before. It had been no mistake. That he had to believe.

The End