In The King's Closet by Elwin Fortuna

Chapter 1

Year 468 of the First Age, Barad Eithel

"So, why did you punch him in the face?" Fingon looks at me sternly, but I know him well enough by now to know that he is barely able to keep from laughing. He has called me into his private study, as he did once years ago, and several other times since then, but now I am not afraid like I was that first time.

Being a member of the High King's personal bodyguard, as I have been for the last six years now, ever since returning from five years' leave, has both perils and pleasures. On the one side, my behaviour is monitored much more closely than it ever had been in the army, and the standards expected of me are much higher.

On the other side, Fingon's attitude toward battle matches my own. He trains with us daily, unless prevented by duty, and we are always at the forefront of every skirmish. We are twenty-five in number, including him, but we could probably take down an army of a thousand Orcs on our own and count it a day's work. He is fearless and bold, and I have gone from thinking he was a spoiled, soft, prince, to respect, when he gave it to me, and now to admiration and devotion.

To the point where, if people insult him, I will punch them in the face.

"He said a terribly rude thing about you, my lord," I answer. "And more so, about your, ah, friendship with the House of Feanor."

Fingon can't quite hide a smile. "About the House of Feanor itself, or the leader of that House?"

"It was about you and Maedhros, yes," I say. "Surely you must know that gossip has paired your names together for time out of mind."

"I was not unaware," he answers. "I'm quite bad at keeping secrets of this sort, Ninnachel."

I shrug. "I hardly know why you try, my lord. I have never hidden who I am from anyone." And indeed I have not. Far rather would I endure mockery, scorn, even pain and ill-treatment, than try to keep who I am hidden from the eyes of all. But I have less choice in this matter than he does, in some ways. And he has less choice than I do, in others.

Fingon brings us back to the point. "What did he say?"

I really would prefer not to repeat it. No good ever comes of hearing Orc-words, even if spoken by the lips of an Elf. I sigh. "He said that for all that the Feanorion gave up the kingship, it is he who truly rules these lands, and that you submit to him, and I quote, 'like a little suni in heat'."

An expression passes over Fingon's face, half of laughter, and half of anger. His hand comes up to cover his mouth. "Who was it?" he says, voice slightly muffled.

I tell him, and he sighs, letting his hand fall. "I'd quite like to punch him in the face myself," he says, calmly. "So thank you for doing so, on my behalf. I will just have to settle for a reprimand."

I grin, knowing that this time the reprimand isn't for me. "I count it a pleasure to punch people in the face on your behalf, my lord. Any time you wish it done, pick me for that duty."

He looks over at the pile of paperwork on his desk and sighs. "If only all were as straightforward to deal with as you, there would be no need for it."

"You did not always think so, my lord," I say, remembering all the words I used once about him, although to think that what he does in bed, and with whom, influences his leadership in such a crude way, is far beyond the pale. It betokens a sickness of the mind, as far as I am concerned.

"When I asked, you answered," he says. "You had no reason to believe I would be sympathetic, and yet you spoke anyway."

"What else could I have done?" I say. "I always speak my mind, even if sometimes I speak with my fist."

He laughs briefly. "Yours may have been my first official reprimand, but in the wake of what you said that day, I had so many more to give." He shakes his head. "No one else was so forthright. It took a full two years to sort out who was responsible for the way you had been treated."

He hasn't told me about this before. I know that when I returned, I left behind the main body of the army for his elite picked guard, and received my new set of armour - never have I worn armour that fit so perfectly and felt so right in the wearing! - and have not really mixed, since then, with the people I used to know. I make a slight sound of acknowledgement, hoping he will go on.

He does. "I outright dismissed four from the army who had treated you ill. There were many witnesses to their deeds, and eventually I gathered enough in the way of evidence against them, not only with regard to you but others as well, that I had little choice. It grieves me to know they are still spreading their poison, but now it is against me rather than you. The one you, ah, encountered, I know to be a friend of at least two of the ones I dismissed."

"What more can be done?"

He shakes his head. "I am considering - and of course this would be with Maitimo's approval, which will be hard to win - simply putting an end to the pretence that Maitimo and I are merely friends. You say that gossip pairs our names, and this is true, but what if it were a publicly acknowledged fact, and not gossip at all?"

"Will that not lend credence to those who think you are being unduly influenced, though?" I ask.

He pauses, looking thoughtfully at me. "I do not think so," he says at last. "That sort of poison works now because we try to hide. If we were to simply say, yes, we love each other, and we have since before we walked these shores, it would remove any thought of influence, for Maitimo would always have been who he is to me." His voice goes soft, almost pleading, as if he has forgotten who I am and is speaking instead to someone absent, someone in particular. "Why should we be ashamed of love?"

"You should not, my lord," I say. I do not know Maedhros as more than a tall grim person with long copper hair, and therefore cannot speak to how much he can be persuaded.

I do know that opposites in personality have a strange way of being attracted to each other at times. Indeed I see this in my own relationship with Baindir, who is gentle, kind, and as beautiful as his name would suggest, where I am battle-scarred and rough-mannered at times, and somewhat less than lovely. If this holds true of Fingon and Maedhros, then Maedhros will be cautious and meticulous, whereas my king, deserving as he does the name of 'the Valiant', has something of a tendency to leap on instinct and ask questions later.

Fingon has clearly been thinking along much the same lines, for he smiles suddenly. "Maitimo will either outright tell me it is not possible, or -", he laughs, "- he will insist upon having a Dwarven-style marriage contract drawn up and a very public wedding feast. In any case, now is probably not the best time." He looks at me, thoughtfully. "There is a great plan he is beginning to set in motion," he says, "and we shall see the fruition of it within five years' time. Perhaps, once..." he trails off, not finishing the sentence.

I have an inkling of what this plan might be, vague as it is. Talk of the winning of a Silmaril by a mortal man and the daughter of Thingol has spread like wildfire, lighting all the lands with hope. Morgoth can be conquered, this we have seen.

"May it be so," I say softly, and I am referring to it all - to the destruction of Morgoth, to the winning back of the other two Silmarils, to the joy of my king with the one he loves, to the end of cruel gossip and ill-treatment. May it be so that we can love without fear, and live as we are, no matter who we are.