The chamber is set as though nothing in the world has ever been broken.

Silver gleams beneath the low light—polished goblets, delicately wrought plates, a table long enough to suggest distance even where there should be none. The servants had withdrawn before I entered. They had not needed to be told. Silence clings to this place like frost, undisturbed, expectant.

And she is already here.

I do not look at her at first.

Cowardice, perhaps. Or calculation. I tell myself it is the latter—that I must choose my moments with care, that even a glance may carry weight where words have not yet been spoken. But the truth sits colder beneath that reasoning. I know what blood stains my hands. I know whose kin I slew upon the white shores of Alqualondë. And I know whose daughter sits across from me now.

Daughter of Olwë. Princess of Alqualondë.

My wife.

The title feels ill-forged, as though it does not belong to either of us.

I take my seat. The sound of the chair against stone is louder than it should be. It echoes faintly, swallowed too slowly by the high walls. My hand rests upon the table, fingers still, though I am keenly aware of the absence where once there were more. The habit of it has not yet faded—reaching, expecting, remembering too late.

At last, I look at her.

She is as the sea might be, if it chose to take form and remain utterly still. No tremor, no yielding. Composed beyond what courtesy demands. Beyond what circumstance allows.

There is no accusation in her silence.. That is worse.

If she spoke—if she named what has passed between our peoples, what has been taken from hers by mine—then I could answer it. I could meet anger with truth, grief with what little atonement I am capable of offering. But this… this quiet, unbroken stillness gives me nothing to take hold of. No ground on which to stand.

I find myself studying the small things instead.

The way the light catches in her hair. The precision of her posture. The distance she keeps—not merely across the table, but within herself. As though no part of her has crossed into this place willingly, and none intends to remain longer than necessity demands.

It is a political union. A binding of houses. A fragile attempt to stitch together something that should never have been torn.

I know this. I agreed to it. I even argued for it.

And yet, sitting here now, I find that knowledge does little to steady me.

“I will not insult you with false comforts,” I say at last.

My voice sounds… measured. Controlled. Too much so, perhaps. But I cannot afford anything else.

“I know what this is.”

The words settle between us, as heavy as any blade.

“I know what it cannot be.”

My gaze does not leave her now. It is a deliberate choice, though it costs me something to hold it. Not dominance. Not expectation. Simply… presence. A refusal to look away from what I have done, from what I have been made to face in her.

“There will be no demand placed upon you here that is not bound to necessity. No claim beyond what this alliance requires.”

A pause, for breath.

“If you are to hate me, you may do so freely.”

The honesty of it surprises even me. Perhaps because it is the one thing I will not contest.

“I will not contest it. Nor will I ask you to set it aside.”

My hand shifts slightly against the table, the movement restrained, almost imperceptible.

“If there is to be… anything else,” I continue, quieter now, “it will not be taken.”

The word lingers. Taken. Too close to memory.

Too close to the sound of waves breaking against blood-stained stone. I do not look away.

“I have done enough of that.”

Silence follows.

But it is no longer the same silence that greeted me upon entering.

At last, I reach for the goblet before me, more to anchor myself than from any desire to drink. The metal is cool against my palm, grounding. Everything else feels as though it might fracture if I press it too hard.

“This will not be easy,” I say, the quiet of it carrying further than any raised voice could.

“For either of us.”

A truth, laid plainly.