The chamber is too quiet for a place meant to be shared.

I had known it would be. I had known, when the doors were opened and the servants withdrew with lowered eyes, that silence would be the first guest between us. Still, knowing does not soften it. The candles burn low along the carved walls, their light trembling over silver-threaded hangings and the dark curve of my harp where it rests beside the hearth. Everything has been arranged with care. Two chairs. Two cups. One bedchamber beyond the threshold that I have not entered and will not approach unless necessity demands it.

Nothing here feels like a marriage. Perhaps that is mercy.

I stand near the hearth with my hand resting upon the harp’s frame, not playing yet. I do not trust my fingers. Music has always answered me where words failed, but tonight even the strings seem to wait in judgment. I can feel her presence behind me, still and silent, and I do not turn too quickly.

“This is not how I once imagined we would be together,” I say at last.

The words are low, almost swallowed by the fire.

I close my eyes for a breath. There was a time when imagining such a thing had been innocent. Before blood-stain upon white stone. Before oaths dressed as honor. Before my name became something her people had every right to hear with grief.

“I do not say that to burden you.”

I turn then, slowly enough that the movement remains a courtesy rather than a claim. I do not step nearer. Distance is the only honest gift I can offer her tonight.

“I only mean that none of this was my design, not like this.”

My hand tightens once against the harp before I release it.

“I had thought, once, that if I ever played for you in private, it would be upon your shores. I thought there would be sea wind, and lamps upon the water, and your father’s halls still full of song.”

A faint breath leaves me. It is not quite a laugh. There is no mirth in it.

“I was foolish enough to believe the world would remain kind to what I loved.”

Loved. The word stands between us, though I do not dress it as confession. She knows enough. Perhaps she has always known enough. Perhaps what I felt before has become another insult now.

I lower my gaze—not in shame alone, but to keep from asking anything of hers.

“I brought this union forward because I thought there might still be a way to mend what was broken between our houses. I thought that if I gave myself to the consequence of it—if I bound my life where my house had wounded yours—then perhaps some small beginning might be made. I understand if you see only arrogance in that.”

My voice remains steady, though it costs me effort.

“I understand if you see a son of Fëanor trying to arrange forgiveness into law. That is not what I want from you.”

The silence after it is sharp enough to cut.

“I want nothing from you unwillingly. Truly nothing. Not speech. Not kindness. Not comfort. Not even hope.”

I draw in a slow breath.

“You may hate me. I would not call it unjust. You may look upon me and see only what my hands helped bring to your people. I will not correct you. I will not defend myself by laying blame upon the Oath, though it has dragged us all by the throat.”

My mouth stills on the last words. Too much. Too raw. I soften my tone immediately.

“No. That is not your burden to carry.”

“There is a song,” I say quietly. “One I wrote before Alqualondë. Before everything was made cruel.”

I cannot help the ache that enters my voice, though I do not let it rise into plea.

“I had hoped to play it for you one day by the sea. Not as a demand. Not as a declaration that required an answer. Only because it was beautiful, and when I made it, I thought of you.”

My fingers settle at last. The first note is barely more than breath and silver. I stop before the second.

“If you wish me silent, I will be silent.”

I wait.

“I will only say this once, and then I will not press it upon you again: what I felt before has not been ended by what I have done. But I know that love, from me, may now feel like another injury."

I pause

"May I play for you, Eärwa?"