Reprimand And Redress by Elwin Fortuna

Chapter 1

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Year 457 of the First Age, Barad Eithel

"You wished to see me, my lord?" I keep my tone calm, but inside I am terribly afraid. I know what this is about - although I have no idea how copies of that stupid poem managed to get all around the army. I've heard people chanting it in my general direction every night for the last two weeks, and it was inevitable that it would come to the attention of our High King sooner or later.

I'm about to get the dressing down of my life. Perhaps even dismissal from his service. Fingon's only been King for a little less than two years, and I have no idea how he will act, one on one. They call him 'The Valiant', fine as you please, but what has he done for us lately?

He looks up from the desk where he has been reading something or other. "Ah, yes, Ninnachel." He frowns to himself, probably remembering why I'm here. "Please, sit."

"I'd rather not," I say. I know how they manage you, sit you down, then loom over you, impressing you with their authority and power. Fingon's short, unlike his father, and will obviously be using this technique as a way of establishing just exactly who's the commander and who's the soldier, in this equation.

"Very well," Fingon says, and stands, bringing his hands together in somewhat of a nervous gesture. He's keeping the desk between us like a shield.

His voice is too calm, as though he's prepared these words. He probably has. "I have asked you here because I have heard many complaints about your behaviour of late, and I am concerned." He looks down at the paper in his hand, reading from it. "Ninnachel has behaved in a grossly insubordinate and, some might even say, seditious way. He is constantly -", but there I interrupt him.

"See, that's the first problem. I am gwegwin, as everyone knows!"

To be one of the gwegwin is a rare gift. So few are we in number that I have only ever met four others, and this despite having done my best to seek others out. Some gwegwin are born such, different in body than what one would consider standard male or female. This is what I am, part ner, part nis, sum total uniquely myself. Others of the gwegwin find that they do not find happiness as either male or female, and prefer to be known as something else altogether.

In either case, we face at times those who cannot bring themselves to understand us, those who are so invested in their belief that neri and nissi are sundered from one another in fundamental ways, that they hate and despite us for what we cannot help. We bring to light the truth that neri and nissi should be equal in all ways, and the vast gulf that lies between what the Quendi aspire to and what is actually the case.

Fingon gives me a quick, startled, glance, and I realise that he hadn't caught on. Presumably he didn't bother to closely read the poem he's brought me in here to yell at me about, or maybe he was mainly concerned with the fact that I called him some very bad names in it.

"Do they often call you so, referring to you in a way that you would not prefer?" he says, lowering the paper. Our eyes meet properly for the first time, and he looks quite young and more than a little intimidated, himself. It's easy sometimes to forget how much older than him I am. I followed his grandfather to Valinor, and his father back out again, and now they are both gone, and I'm left with this motley bunch of youngsters, the whole lot of them spoilt princes who never fought more than a boar, nor lived off the land as we had to, until they followed Feanor.

"They often do," I say, as mildly as I can. "I have pointed it out many times, but it does not help. It can, at times, make things worse for me."

Fingon frowns, and moves out from behind the desk, dropping the paper altogether. "Tell me," he says.

"Where shall I begin?" I ask. "There are many awful things a gwegwin can be called, but being referred to as 'he' day after day when I am in fact 'they' is painful like water wearing away a stone. Eventually the stone must crumble, and so will I, I fear."

Fingon makes a small murmur of acknowledgement, and I go on. "But that is little compared with other things."

"What other things?" Fingon asks carefully. He leans against the edge of his desk, one hand resting on it, not looking at me.

"I do not know which is worst," I say, and to my horror I feel a lump coming into my throat. I'm not going to cry, not now before my King! "My armour - they have given me armour time after time that fits so poorly that it causes me pain. Every time I complain about it, they don't fix it, they just tell me that I'm so 'unusual' and 'strange' that I can't possibly expect to have well-fitted armour. They say they have no patterns for people like me, and such other things."

Fingon glances up swiftly, and there is, for a moment, undisguised fury in his face. He pulls himself together visibly. "That must be nonsense." He tries for a smile. "You look no more unusual than any of the rest." He tilts his head, remembering. "I have seen you fight," he says. "You were magnificent; you swept away so many and made it look easy. You did all that in armour that was causing you pain? I do not know how."

I can't help but smile a little; his admiration sounds so sincere. But I am not done complaining yet, and this is possibly the most important point.

"Did your father not say that for every ten years of service, each member of his army should have two years of leave? Has that changed?" I ask.

"He did, and it has not," Fingon answers.

"You should know then, that I have served over twenty years faithfully, and have not been allowed leave. Always it has been refused me. They make various excuses, say that too many of the army wish this year off and therefore I must wait, or that we expect this year to be particularly troublesome and therefore fewer are allowed to take leave. Everyone else I know has had their allotted time to spend with their families, but I have not seen my hauthwaid in over six years, and even then it was only for a few days between my duties, when he could spare the time and expense to come to Barad Eithel. We have little enough of our own!" I can feel myself growing angry at the situation, the anger that poisoned me, the anger that makes me seek solace in a bottle to drown it out.

Fingon is looking away from me, thoughtful, emotion playing over his face that I cannot name. I continue, seething now with rage. "I cannot abide this. We have had few enough years together. He is but a farmer, and cannot leave his land for long. I am a soldier - it is what I am, and I would keep him safe if there is anything I can do! I would put my own body as a wall between him and Thangorodrim's walls if I can know he will be safe, but I cannot bear being so long separated from him!" My hands come up to cover my face, and yet my eyes are dry, the grief too deep for tears.

After a moment of silence, I take my hands away, and look up. Fingon is looking at me, sympathy and more written on his face. But I am still angry. There is still a dart inside of me, working its way inward, and it must be spoken, or fester there. "It is few who have the privilege to send their loved ones to safer lands, these days."

The hit lands; so Fingon has read the poem, after all. His face is a study in warring emotions, control and anger battling for dominance. Anger wins: he slams his hand down on the desk, palm flat. "Can I not save one good thing from the wrack and ruin of this family?" he cries out, as if I have wounded him to the heart.

Part of me is deeply sorry that I said what I did, but another part knows it is no less than the truth. "And so think I of my own," I say, calm. "I left much of my family in Valinor, I lost my sister to the Ice, and her husband in battle, and their daughter to captivity in Angband. I will not lose my Baindir, and there is so little, so frighteningly little, that I may do to keep him safe." Strange as it may be to say, I am impressed by his momentary flash of anger rather than otherwise; I feel it has made him vulnerable, given us a place to connect.

Fingon has brought himself back under control again, only his eyes burn bright, in the same way that I know my eyes must be, alight with unshed tears.

"Ereinion," he says. "You know the tale, I do not doubt." I nod. "You must know then that your poem is incorrect: he is not of my seed."

We've come to it now, the poem. The yelling, I don't doubt, will shortly follow. And then the dismissal.

"I spoke metaphorically," I answer, gathering my dignity up around me, even though it is in obvious tatters.

Unexpectedly, Fingon cracks a smile. "I dearly hope the rest was metaphorical, as well," he says. "Especially the lice."

I reach up to feel my head, hair still not grown out very far. I shaved it off four months ago when I started finding lice. Ill-fitting armour may be one thing, but there are horrors beyond comprehending, ones that will lead an Elf to do the unthinkable and take all the hair off one's head in the face of. I'd rather Balrogs, frankly.

"The lice were literal," I say. He shudders visibly.

"I'm going to have to look into that," he says, and then breaks into another strange smile. "You called me a lawyer."

"I called you a lot of things," I say.

He waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "The other ones I've heard before. But I'll have you know I never studied law in Valinor - that was Maitimo." A very odd expression comes over his face at the mention of his cousin's mother-name, a strange yearning look. Suddenly the rumours I've heard make a lot more sense.

There's only one reply I can make. I bow slightly. "Well, then, I heartily apologise. For calling you a lawyer." I sneak a glance up at him. He has visibly relaxed, as if bringing up Maedhros cast a spell of contentment over him. I go on, although I hadn't intended to. "And for the other things, as well."

"That's a good start," he says. "Now what shall we do with you? It's clear that you have been ill-treated, and that I will not stand for, and now knowing what I do about what you have been through, your behaviour makes more sense to me. You are a fine warrior, and I would hate to see such power and grace come to no good end." He takes a deep breath, and looks over me carefully, thoughtfully. "I had in mind, before we talked, to dismiss you. You must have known I was considering this, and probably expected it." I nod, quietly. "I do not wish to do so now, and I do not believe you wish to go."

"No," I say. "I do not wish to go." I find myself falling to my knees in front of him. He looks surprised, but steps forward, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I am a soldier, it is what I was born to do, although I have done many things throughout my life. I was made to protect the ones I love." The tears that would not come before spill out now, unheeded. I look up at him, at the fire hidden in his eyes, and I see Fingon the Valiant, at last, and understand that we have this in common.

"Would you protect me?" he says.

"I would," I say without hesitation.

He nods, slowly, and steps back a little. I stay on my knees, looking up. "Then, Ninnachel, this is what I decree. A leave of absence I give you for five years, to go where you will and do as you please. At the end of those five years, return to me, and choose: you may if you wish, leave my service at that time with no dishonour, or you may stay, and become one of my personal bodyguard."

There must be a look of shock on my face, for he laughs. "Oh, come, it is little more than what is due to you!" he says. "Twenty years apart from your beloved is no pleasant thing to endure." He sighs, and glances eastward, wistfully.

The rumours are definitely true.

"And the armour, and the all the rest?" I find myself saying. It would do little good to come back to the same mess I've been in all along.

Fingon holds out a hand to me, I take it and he pulls me to my feet. I am a little taller than him, I notice, but it matters not. "I will make sure that you and any other gwegwin we may have in our army are treated fairly and with respect. A new suit of armour will be made for you on your return, and you can be sure it will be the very best quality and will fit perfectly. One of my personal bodyguard cannot be held back by their armour, after all." He smiles. "Now go, Ninnachel. Ravish your beloved, build altars to him, whatever you like, and I wish you joy."

I blush furiously, laughing. "Thank you, my king, I plan to," I say, filled with sudden happiness.

He gives me a smile so bright it's like coming into the sunlight after standing in the shade, and in the light of that smile, I make my way out of the room.

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Ninnachel spent five happy years with Baindir on their little farm in Hithlum, but when the five years was up, Ninnachel returned to Barad Eithel and took up a place in the King's bodyguard. They served Fingon faithfully for the next ten years, until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when they were one of the last to fall defending the High King.

Baindir survived the fall of Hithlum and made his way to Cirdan and Gil-galad. When the War of Wrath ended, he chose to head West, and in the West, Ninnachel and Baindir were reunited at last.

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Chapter End Notes

Ninnachel means (roughly) Rainbow Elf. I thought it was fitting.