Not long after that fruitful exchange with Elrond, Sauron's forces lay siege to Imladris. It led to a miserable year of being locked away indoors, as far away as possible from the firing line of any long-range attacks from the surrounding armies. I saw nothing of Bregedúr, Elrond, and Glorfindel during that time- unsurprisingly, of course; all people fit to fight were on call to assist with the war effort, and they, in particular, were on the front lines.

That's not to say that I had much time to feel lonely, of course. The spouses and parents who remained at home were in a near-constant state of distress, and though, realistically, there was nothing to diagnose, there was plenty to treat. My clinic became so full that I ended up having to bring in group sessions just so everyone could get seen. It was that busy.

Thankfully, with the help of other Eregion Elves, Sauron's forces were eventually driven out of everything east of the Misty Mountains. My heart leapt when I saw Bregedúr, Glorfindel, and Elrond coming up the hill, the wintry early-morning sun glowing listlessly behind them. I let out a whoop of joy and, abandoning all sense and propriety, bolted to them and caught them in my arms, crushing the three of them as I lifted them up all at once.

"I-Rhodri!" squeaked Elrond in disbelief (and possibly mild to moderate embarrassment).

"Someone is happy to see you three," came a smooth baritone voice from behind my mid-air friend sandwich. I didn't recognise the sound. Setting my companions down, I looked behind them and saw a huge, broad-shouldered Elf with light brown hair and shining indigo eyes smiling down at me. He was caked in dirt, as every other returning fighter was, and seemed to be in a very chipper mood.

"Oh," I said quickly, smiling up at him. "I'm happy to see you, too! What's your name?"

Elrond's mouth fell open. Glorfindel, Bregedúr, and this towering stranger, however, laughed heartily.

"I am Ereinion Gil-Galad," he said.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sir," I replied with a deferential nod. "Rhodri's the name."

"Oh, I already know who you are," Gil-Galad said to me with a chortle. "I have heard quite a bit about you from these three."

It was interesting to note, as we walked together up to Elrond's house, how similar small talk is across races. Niceties like "I've heard so much about you," or fitting remarks about the weather were equally as enjoyed here as in my old world.

In fact, I was able to transplant so much of the polite chatter I had used as a human into my conversation with the Elves that I foolishly thought it would be safe to go on autopilot. Not a moment after that fateful decision, I showed myself up by asking the time-honoured British transport enquiry: "So how did you all get here?"

The four of them looked at each other, then at me. Their faces were a mixture of blankness and wondering if they really had been asked such a fatuous question.

"Well, by horse," said Glorfindel, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice. "How else would we have gotten here? Flown, maybe? What a thought!"

The four of them had a good laugh at that, and I did too, relieved that Glorfindel had saved me from having to spend an hour explaining how planes worked to people whose most advanced cross-country transportation medium was a horse and cart.

Less than an hour later, preparations for a huge feast that evening were already well under way. I was surprised there wasn't widespread call for plumbers as these returning soldiers showered; there must have been several tonnes of dirt deposited into the pipelines in the initial hours after their arrival. En route to my office, I could see the tables in the dining hall already being loaded up with all manner of fruits and breads. This was going to be a night to remember.

I had been working on my ever-growing chicken comic most of the day, when about two hours before the feast was due to begin, a confident, strong knock came at the door. I glanced up and saw Gil-Galad standing there, now bathed, groomed, and wearing robes the same colour as his eyes. A small, silver circlet adorned his head. He looked immaculate.

"Hello, Gil-Galad," I greeted him pleasantly.

"Good afternoon, Rhodri. I wonder, do you have a moment?"

"I have many moments," I replied, welcoming him in. He smiled gratefully as he closed the door behind him and approached my desk. "Sit yourself down and have something to drink," I invited, pouring him a glass of water.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the glass. "I, ah, was told by Elrond that you dispense advice for matters of the mind."

"Certainly do," I confirmed with a nod.

"Excellent," he said. "In which case I would appreciate your opinion on a situation of mine."

After subjecting the poor sod to the necessary ethics and confidentiality business and getting the green light, Gil-Galad seemed ready to speak, but was rather overcome. I noticed beads of sweat forming on his brow, and could tell he was panicking.

"Are you having trouble knowing where to start?" I asked after a couple of minutes' silence.

Gil-Galad laughed an unnaturally high, false sort of laugh. "No, no," he said. "I know where to start, but I lack the nerve to begin." His cheeks began to redden. "Imagine a king, lacking the courage to speak," he murmured, thoroughly ashamed.

I smiled reassuringly. "I don't need to imagine it," I said. "I have encountered nervous royalty more than once. You are not the first monarch to feel this way, and you will not be the last."

Gil-Galad looked surprised, but accepted what I had said with a nod. Still, though, he remained silent, and the sweat continued to pour from his brow. He was nervous because there had been silence, and it had choked his ability to speak, even though he knew what he wanted to say. Perhaps he had found the silence threatening, maybe feared another one coming up after he spoke. He might even have been worried that I had been using the silence to scrutinise him. It could have been any number of things. Whatever it was, he had focused on the silence too intensely and found it disarmingly awkward.

Fortunately, I had a fix for that. I took a checkers set from the bookshelf behind me and set it up on my desk between us.

"Play a round with me while you think of where to start," I said, pushing the checkers board a little closer to him. "It'll help you concentrate. Do you want red, or black?"

He chose red, and as we got into the game, he became visibly calmer in moments.

"It's about this feast tonight," he said after making the first move.

"Oh, yes?" I moved a piece forward.

"Well, not just this one. It happens on any social occasion where I have to be in close contact with strangers or people I seldom speak with. Feasts and parties are the worst, but even one-to-one can be difficult."

"What happens when you have to do it?" I asked.

"I become anxious long before I even see anyone," he said. "I sweat, my hands shake, my heart hammers, and my confidence vanishes. It is nerve wracking in the extreme."

"Does it only happen when you have to talk to strangers or acquaintances?"

"Yes, I have no trouble with friends, or when I am busying myself with something." He jumped one of my checkers.

"I see. What in particular do you find nerve wracking about having to speak with strangers?"

"It feels like… well, as though I never have anything to say to them, and then I fear it will become evident that I am nervous, and that others will respect me less for it. Worrying about it makes it even worse."

I swore inwardly as he jumped another of my checkers. "I see. So what are you doing to handle this at the moment? I imagine socialising must be a large part of your job."

"It is, and I manage it quite poorly. Simply by only holding parties as necessary to maintain good relations with other rulers, and avoiding conversing with strangers where possible. But this is absurd. The whole thing is absurd! A king with nothing to say! The idea of it." His face was twisted in a mix of shame, sadness, and anger.

Probably one of the biggest misconceptions people have about mental health issues is who it affects. Folks entertain ideas about the kind of people affected by certain disorders that borders on superstition, and a surprising amount of my job involves setting the record straight. From what he had described to me, Gil-Galad was experiencing social anxiety- an unusually strong fear of being in social situations and of being scrutinised by other people- strong enough that it impacts their job or social life. He seemed to be under the impression that by virtue of being a monarch, he should be immune to such disorders. That was harmful, because all it did was make him ashamed of himself, which only made the problem worse. It was a misconception that had to go, right here, right now.

"Tell, me, Gil-Galad, what makes you think that someone of your position is not liable to experience nervousness in social settings?" I asked him.

Gil-Galad looked at me, speechless again, only this time, he seemed not to know the answer at all.

"You did not become one of a mythical, flawless race when you were crowned High King, Gil-Galad. You are still an Elf, with all of the associated strengths and shortcomings."

"But I have never seen another king-or, indeed, any queen- have troubles like this!" he protested. "They are talkative, charming, and they seem to have an unending reserve of lovely words for anything!"

"Aha," I said, holding a finger up. "You are exactly right. They seem to have an unending reserve! But they do not always! There is a very popular saying in my homeland that was attributed to immense success: 'fake it 'til you make it.' Do you know what that means?"

Gil-Galad blinked so hard I could have sword I heard his eyelids clap, and he shook his head. "I know all of those words, but the context you have put them in is… baffling."

"I'll explain," I said. "Tell me, what would you do differently if you knew what to say to people?"

"Well, I would make many friends, I imagine, and would not hesitate to approach people I didn't know. I would throw more parties, and I expect I would enjoy myself a lot more."

"Right!" I said encouragingly. "So then you must pretend that you already know what to say until you truly believe that you do. It is not as though you are unable to communicate. You have an enormous vocabulary at your disposal; you are knowledgeable, and you are no doubt interested in many things. All the tools are there. Fake it- pretend that you are something- until you make it- meaning until you become that something. That's what most people are doing, you know."

Gil-Galad dropped the checker he was holding and looked at me, absolutely thunderstruck. "But- but that's deceitful," he stammered.

"Are you sure about that, Gil-Galad? It sounds to me like the only deceit going on here is the little voice in your head telling you you aren't able to communicate with others." His shoulders slackened, and he looked down at the checkerboard, saying nothing.

"I saw for myself how confident and joyful and full of conversation you were with Elrond, and we both know how quiet he gets. That looked like the true Gil-Galad to me."

Eyes still down, I saw a hint of a smile. I had one, too. Elrond had such a magical way of bringing out the best in people, and the magic lay just as much in what he didn't say as what he did say. Anyone who knew and loved him smiled when they thought of him, too.

"To be honest with you, Gil-Galad," I said, "I think that you can overcome this completely. Not overnight, of course. Your social ability is a muscle that has to be used regularly. It'll take constant practice, but I do believe you can beat it. For tonight, I think what we should do is make a plan and have a few pointers for conversations. How does that sound?"

He nodded. I took out a piece of paper and started making a list. "First up, I want you to start easy. Pick a couple of people- say, Elrond and Glorfindel, and stay by them for a while. Watch how they talk with others, how they treat moments of silence."
"Which brings me to my next point! Silence is not the enemy. I repeat: silence is not the enemy! When things get quiet with Elrond, what do you think is going on?"

Gil-Galad wrinkled his brow a little. "I suppose I assume he is enjoying the moment. Maybe collecting his thoughts, or simply has nothing to say."

"Excellent. Keep those things in mind when things get a little quiet. Now, for revitalising the conversation, I'm going to tell you what really gets people talking. Are you listening?"

He nodded and watched me closely.

"Taking an interest in them," I enunciated clearly. "People love to talk about themselves. Have them tell you more about something they're interested in. Someone mentions they did great in archery? Great! Get them to tell you about how that went. Ask how their life is going. What they think about how things are going in their kingdom. You're a king. You oversee everything; you'll never run out of things to ask about. Not only will they feel heard, but you'll be a better king for it. I guarantee you, if you listen- genuinely listen to- and care about what they're saying, you'll have people drawn to you like moths to a flame."

There was a small smile tugging at the corner of Gil-Galad's mouth now.

"And look, if you need to escape from the party for a while, come find me, and we'll head back to my office and do a little bit of troubleshooting, all right? I've got plenty more of these sorts of tips, but try those few first and see how you go."

I made one last note and handed him the list. He took it and scanned through.

"Be gentle with yourself?" he said, looking up at me in confusion. It was the note I had scrawled at the bottom.

"Do it," I said. "Do it frequently."

Gil-Galad folded the list, placed it in his pocket, and then turned back to the checkers board, where he jumped his piece over my last remaining one.

"Looks like I win," he said with a smile. I scowled playfully.

"Now, now," he said to me with a twinkle in his eye. "Be gentle with yourself, Rhodri."

I snorted and shook my head, and we both left the office.

Psych Notes

Social anxiety disorder

- Anxiety about social situations where the person could be scrutinised by others, e.g. in parties, when performing, while eating/drinking
- The person worries about symptoms of nervousness being taken badly, e.g. laughed at, causing offence, making things unpleasant
- The relevant social situations always spark anxiety
- The person tries to avoid those situations, or feels nervous the whole way through if unavoidable
- The person feels and acts like the situation is far more threatening than it actually is
- The anxiety lasts at least 6 months
- The anxiety has an impact on the the person socially, personally, or at work
- The anxiety is not because of drugs or another medical condition, and is not the result of another mental disorder that has social anxiety as a symptom
- The anxiety is not because of something that can make a person more vulnerable to intense scrutiny (e.g. an obvious physical disability), or if it is, the anxiety is still excessive relative to what that obvious thing is.