Work Text:
As one of King Elessar’s most trusted advisors, you were required to attend most of his diplomatic meetings. Today was no different. This was just as, if not more, important than most of the events on His Majesty’s agenda. Gondor’s budget was being reallocated for the coming year, and the King needed to sign off on the proposals for each department. Taking into account this past season’s weather events, fundraising, and profits, this year would be one where serious changes were made.
Your role was to stand at his side. To take legible notes. To inform him if a plan was unaffordable, not generous enough, or unwise. He seldom disagreed, as he deemed your judgement trustworthy. You were a loyal, diligent employee, hired almost immediately after the coronation at the King’s request. One does not simply refuse the king of Men. Outside of Gondor’s meeting-rooms, he trusted you with more than political matters. After a few weeks of being invited for tea in the King’s personal quarters, you made time in your schedule to visit him daily. He confided in you his doubts, his fears, his annoyances over a game of chess. You were, admittedly, a decent player, but never beat him. Even if you could, you wouldn’t dare anger your king.
Aragorn was calm and poised, rarely raising his voice. He did not order a servant to make tea for you; he steeped it himself. Each day when you entered his quarters, he would ask How are you faring? And you would answer Very well, thank you. He was kind to those beneath him in social status. Even when very well was not the truth, you could not deny that the daily ritual of leaving the royal court and spending time with him in an unprofessional setting was relaxing and grounding. At first, you saw this arrangement as unprofessional, considering your respective offices. But as he began to vent his concerns, you saw Aragorn not as a king, but as a man. A man with complaints, flaws, petty arguments with his friends and subjects. A man just like everyone else. It would most definitely be unprofessional to admit you liked what you saw.
Today in particular was not a good one for this kind of meeting. It was necessary to proceed with full focus on the dull business of finance, but you were loath to do so. Ever since you woke the light had pierced your eyes in a way that was almost painful. The small rustlings of the meeting-room were cacophonous; your collar itched more than usual. Days like this were more comfortable spent alone, pulling the blanket over your eyes and lying under the weight of it. Unfortunately for you, this was not an option. As you take notes about the budget on your pad, the starched sleeves of your tunic rub against your forearms. You press your lips together to stifle a groan. As if fate itself is mocking you, at this very moment the King turns, requesting your opinion. You push discomfort away, consult your notes to advise him accordingly– when the sudden, unsynchronized turning of pages catches you off guard.
Your brain switches into survival mode. Your breath speeds up. You open your mouth but cannot form words. You hear whispers. There are eyes on you. Too many. Your Majesty is still waiting for an answer. You are delaying the progress of a diplomatic meeting. This is highly unprofessional. Terrified, your eyes dart across the room. The representatives are unamused and anxious to move on.
Perhaps he notices the change in your face. Perhaps he sees the twitch of your hands as you suppress the urge to cover your ears. But perhaps he simply knows you well enough to recognize this reaction as out of the ordinary. He has never seen you like this. And he was never supposed to, you chastise yourself.
“‘Are you alright?” In this room, it is your King, your employer asking after your wellbeing. To him you would clench your jaw and force out the right words and somehow make it through the rest of the uncomfortable proceedings. But to Aragorn the man, you hesitate a moment before shaking your head no.
“This meeting is adjourned.” What.
“Your Majesty, this matter cannot–”
“Adjourned.” He fixes the official who had spoken with such a blindingly furious stare that he cannot refuse. One does not simply refuse the king of Men. You stand silently, limply, as every insufferable head of Gondor’s bureaucratic committees file out of the room.
The two of you are alone.
You are next to him, as always. But now, instead of calmly explaining a resolution, your eyes are fixed at the floor in shame. He reaches both his hands toward you, hesitates, and retracts them. His shadow moves out of your field of vision. You cannot look at him, your desire for his respect vastly outweighed by your humiliation. You flinch at the soft thunk of the high wooden doors. There is a lighter, closer, metallic clink. His footsteps approach tentatively. He once again reaches out his hands.
“May I touch you?” Shaking, your hands find his. He holds them gently, as one would a precious artifact. “Can you speak?” Once again, you feel safe enough to shake your head no. “That’s alright. Can you look at me?” Your gaze cautiously rises to meet his. Before you see his face, you see his crown. Lying on the table, a ways behind him. He has laid aside his kingship to approach you as an equal, as a friend.
Your grip on his hands breaks and you bury your head in his shoulder. Your king, your friend, is there to hold you up. The pair of you stand like that awhile. The rise and fall of his chest is soothing. No words are spoken, but the understanding is clear: he is there for you, there for as long as you need. His fingers card through your hair, grounding you.
“Forgive me,” you murmur into him, pulling away. He doesn’t let you.
“You have done nothing wrong. He pulls back enough to look you in the eyes, his hands firm on your shoulders. “There is nothing to forgive.” His words, the look in his eyes, are so genuine, so full of care for you; there is nothing you can do to dissuade him. You tear yourself from his arms and turn away.
“An employee of the King cannot behave this way! I should have–” What should you have done? You fall into a chair, determinedly facing away from him. You have marred your reputation of discipline, of diplomatic perfection, of steadfast calm. He does not give up.
“Nobody is perfect, not even I. I– I just want to know how I can help you.” You consider the question. Nobody has ever asked. He stands silently behind you, patient as ever. Nobody has ever cared. You start to speak slowly, then the words fall from your lips as easily as song.
“Some days, it feels as if everything is too…much. Too many sounds, too loud, all at once. Too much to take in. Too much eye contact, too much touch. Too bright.” In your periphery, one of the wall torches is extinguished. “Quiet helps. Pressure helps. Physical pressure. Your embrace was…much appreciated. Time alone, to behave as I wish. Or…time with those I trust. Without judgement.” Your words echo in the empty room. Another torch is blown out.
“Is this alright?” You nod. Aragorn takes the seat next to you, pulls it closer. Not wishing to overwhelm you, he intentionally keeps his gaze away when he grabs your hand. Your eyes dart toward him: even in the low light, you can see him blushing.
“Thank you for understanding,” you muster. He squeezes your hand in response.
You squeeze back.