Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You know you do not act rightly. It is a privilege, to be charged with the tending of his majesty’s chambers, ensuring that everything in them is ready to be a comfort to him, succor in these hard times of the Enemy’s threat. It is certainly not appropriate to use the privilege for personal gain - no more to satisfy curiosity than it would be if you were to steal from his table. 

And of course you would not dream of such action were the King spending the night with the Queen herself (and not only for the reason that you would be certain to be caught.) But the Lady Melian’s chambers are elsewhere. And you are curious.

You had seen the Noldor prince when he came, of course. When he bowed to their majesties in the throne room, presented the petition for land for his people to live on as they brought war to the Enemy. You had found him courteous, and gifted in his speech (and beautiful, of course). 

And - you had seen the sleeve of his robe, drawn over what you have heard is the lack of a hand. You remembered the whispers, of this prince, that he had served the Ainur of Aman, that he had been taken by Bauglir himself, kept by Gorthaur in the Iron Prison. Rescued on the wings of an Eagle of Manwë. 

And - you walk these hallways often, in your duties. Had seen him again after the feast, following his majesty with eyes cast down. Had heard from your friend who tends the guest rooms that the one made up for him seemed undisturbed through the night.

So, when it is morning and his majesty has still not left his chambers - you go into them yourself. As is your work, of course, as you do many times. But you could have waited, you could have tended to other rooms. And you could say it simply escaped your attention, that today was different from another day, that perhaps you ought act differently. But - it did not. That is not so.

His majesty is at his table, by his concentration perhaps in some osanwë conversation with the Elders. He does not take notice of you as you tend to the fire, replace old water with the fresh, place fresh flowers into the vases around the room. He never takes notice of you, at this work - has no reason to. You do not disturb him, and you would not, of course, dream even to violate a privacy of his. (Certainly not in any way that would reach his ears.) He is the King, and his attention is for higher things. Such is the way.

But this day, he is not the only one in the room. In the wide bed among embroidered sheets and pillows, the prince of the Noldor lies still asleep. (You retreat, quickly, from sheets you might another day have freshened. You head to other work. You turn, perhaps, more often than you might another day. The King still does not take notice of you.)

He is not peaceful in his sleep. Lies fitfully, turns back and forth, the sheets stirred up by his movements. That is one way you see it, when he wakes - another movement and then he falls still, some other shift behind his face for a moment before he opens his eyes (you find yourself stepping behind a wardrobe door which you are near), and turns, and smiles again at the king.

His majesty must also notice his waking. Turns also to face him.

“Good morning, your majesty.” He sits up in the bed, a casual movement seeing a sleeve cover his right wrist again. “If your majesty might excuse me, perhaps I might wash and dress myself for breakfast? I would not wish to keep your subjects waiting on me.” You know what the King looks like when he raises eyebrows. Know that is his expression even when you cannot see it, as he rises, walks to the bed to stand in front of the Noldor prince.

“Do you seek to offend me, Valinorion?” The Noldo has his eyes downcast again.

“Of course not, your majesty.”

“Do you think I prize the lands of this continent so little, that I would sell them for a night of service?”

“Of course not your majesty. I know it is a great request I have come with. I apologize for any offense I may have given.”

The King steps even closer to him, pitches his voice in what seems close to menace. “Do you think I am some petty lord, that such a paltry gift is appropriate to offer to me?”

“Of course not your majesty. My deepest apologies for any offence, your majesty.” The King nods. You see his hand move to grip the Noldo’s shoulder. There is something in - behind - the Noldo’s face for a moment, but it is so fleeting you think, the next moment, you are not certain what you even saw.

“I am here to be at your service, your majesty, and your command. Whatever you wish or require as your gift, please take from me. I would not offer you less.” The King nods again.

“Very well then. Perhaps even some Valinorions still know their manners.” He pushes, and the Noldo prince falls back on the bed, red hair scattering against white fabric. In another moment he is on the bed himself, one hand gathering the Noldo prince’s wrists, holding them together.

You know your work, and you know your place, and you know when you have dared far too much.

You flee.

Chapter Text

It’s a balancing act.

His Majesty of Doriath doesn’t want him to be defiant , wants him to be deferential and obeisant, wants to be pleased by his own station and authority and ‘due’.

His Majesty wants to rebuke him, to punish him and feel justified in it, to issue censure and feel his preeminence over his guest.

“I have heard Dame Elanordil,” he begins, this day, when they are in a hallway after a council. (To significant councils he would not be permitted, of course, but a discussion of the naming of a garden is not of a consequence to keep from his ears. And so he had been there, sitting on the stool at his Majesty’s side, gaze lowered, quiet and ornamental, to the room and to the King.)

His Majesty slaps him. Not with his palm, the way he does to leave a handprint, but neatly still, not violently enough for him to fall. “That is Lady Elanordil, to you, Noldo.” It is a good mistake to let himself make for this. The correct balance for his Majesty, and no harm to anyone, and easy to issue rebuke for. He lowers his eyes again, bites his lip. “Of course, your Majesty. My apologies. Respect and honor to you and to the Lady Elanordil.”

He can feel the King’s eyes on him. Cold, as they are, but he knows the small satisfaction behind them, at this. “You will serve Lady Elanordil’s wine at dinner, to show apology and respect to her.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“And perhaps you should study our ways again, if you forget so easily.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The King begins to turn away, addresses him again over his shoulder.

“Attend to me.” He knows in which direction in this palace the King’s rooms are, know when that is the direction they go.

He does not raise his hand to the mark on his face (hardly needs to, to know what it will appear like.) He follows.