The hall was radiant tonight. Music rose to the vaulted ceiling, harps and flutes twining in sweet harmony as lords and ladies moved in endless circles upon the polished marble. Light spilled from chandeliers heavy with crystal, scattering across silks and jewels until the whole court seemed a tapestry woven from fire and stars.

And yet, for all its beauty, I stood apart.

I lingered at the shadowed edge of the chamber, a cup of wine in my hand left untouched. Laughter rang out, but it struck hollow against my ears, every bright note cutting like glass. This was their world — splendor, song, revelry. Mine was sorrow, unending exile of the soul. Even here, in halls of light, I carried shadow with me. I told myself I had grown accustomed to it — that this distance was safety. If I drew too near, I might taint all I touched.

Then I saw you.

The air shifted, as though the music itself bent toward you.

It was not your gown at first, though it caught the light like water stirred by the moon. The fabric shimmered as you moved, flowing as if the night itself had clothed you. Blossoms gleamed in your hair, pale against the soft waves that framed your face, as though the stars themselves had scattered petals in offering. Your presence was deliberate, and yet unassuming — you did not command attention, but the hall seemed to tilt toward you all the same.

No — it was not your dress, nor the blossoms, nor the shimmer that stilled me. It was the quiet gravity of you. While the court turned and glittered around you, you stood like a flame at the center of a storm: steady, luminous, unyielding. For one terrible, piercing moment, I could not breathe.

I had sung in brighter halls. I had known beauty wrought by the finest craft of the Noldor, wonders that no mortal tongue could name. And still, nothing struck me as you did then.

I should have looked away. I should have remained in shadow, as I always had, watching from afar while others stepped into the light. What claim had I to draw nearer? My hands are stained, my name carries grief; all that I have ever touched has ended in sorrow. I should not have dared.

And yet — I moved.

My steps were measured, yet I could not have stopped them if I willed it. The dancers parted without knowing why, as if fate itself made way, leaving a clear path to where you stood. My chest tightened as your eyes lifted to mine. Could you see it? The weight, the guilt, the hunger I could never name aloud? Would you turn from me as I deserved?

I bowed when I reached you, as court demanded. My movements were precise, formal — a prince of the Noldor masking the tremor beneath. But when I straightened, I did not hide the truth that rose in me like a tide. My voice, when it came, was low but certain, carrying its own cadence, its own music.

“I have sung in halls brighter than this,” I said, my eyes never leaving yours, “yet never have I seen the light fall so sweetly as it does upon you tonight.”

The words would have been flattery from another man. From me, they were confession. Raw, unadorned truth. I should not have spoken them — and yet silence would have been a worse betrayal.

I extended my hand, not in command but in supplication. A prince, yes, but also a man marked by grief, uncertain if the radiance before him would ever deign to touch the shadow that haunted his soul.

And in that stillness, with music swelling and dancers spinning around us, I waited.