The great court of Numenor was thick with murmured voices and ceremonial stillness—ambassadors, nobles, warriors, all gathered to witness the arrival of the Western delegation. Annatar stood among them. To all eyes, he was serene—a vision of nobility, his face fair, his golden hair like sunlight carved into form. His robes shimmered in white and bronze. He was the Lord of Gifts, the Bright One, the friend of Men.

None saw the stillness behind his gaze. The way his breath caught. The quiet unraveling within.

Because she had come.

She stepped through the archway, flanked by Maia and Elven emissaries, her robes pale as starlight, her bearing as poised as the high cliffs above the sea. Her face was calm, distant, and radiant—not with power, but presence. Unshaken. Eternal.

And Annatar—Mairon—watched her approach as if the world itself had stopped turning.

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He had not spoken her name in an age. Not aloud. Not even within the depths of his own mind. He had locked that name away, buried it beneath molten ambition and the silence of long wars. And yet, the moment he saw her, it returned with aching clarity.

And time—time gave way.

He was no longer in Númenor.

He was beneath the silver boughs of Valinor, walking alone along the bank of a stream that shimmered with the mingled light of the Two Trees. And there she was—barefoot, her legs dipped into the cool water, plucking wildflowers with careless delight. She did not rise when she saw him. She only glanced up, smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re scowling again, Mairon,” she said, threading a stem through her hair. “I thought you were supposed to be the radiant one.”

He’d crossed his arms. “That’s not the proper way to weave a circlet.”

“Then come fix it.”

He hesitated. Then stepped forward. Sat beside her. Took the bloom from her fingers, and carefully, almost reverently, tucked it behind her ear.

“There,” he said.

She looked at him, her grin softening. “See? You're better at gentleness than you pretend to be.”

He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. The light had caught in her eyes, and for a moment, he saw nothing else.

He would carry that silence—their silence—for an eternity.

Now, centuries later, in a hall of kings, she passed before him again.

And their eyes met.

His mask never slipped, but his soul shattered like glass beneath it. He searched her gaze, desperate for a flicker of recognition, for some sign that she saw him—beneath the fair form, beneath the lie.

But there was nothing.

She did not know him.

Or worse—she did. And chose not to see.

She looked upon Annatar as one might a foreign noble, a curiosity, a possible danger. Not as the friend she once braided flowers for. Not as the one who had once watched the stars with her in perfect silence. Not as the Maia who once would have followed her anywhere.

He inclined his head in greeting—subtle, distant, diplomatic. It felt like swallowing fire. As she turned away, the memory struck again, sharp and unbidden.

It was twilight in Valinor. The wind off the sea was cold, and she stood beside him on the cliffs, her hair loose and dark against the dying light.

“I’m leaving,” he had said.

“I know,” she whispered.

He turned toward her. “Come with me.”

Her eyes had filled with sorrow, but she didn’t step back. “You’re not the only one who sees what is broken.”

“Then come with me.”

She had turned to face him fully. The wind pulled at her hair. “You want to break more, to force it into your shape. I want to heal. We are not walking the same path.”

He hadn’t replied. He hadn’t known how.

She had stepped back—not in fear, but in finality. “You’ll wear a mask so long, Mairon, that one day no one will know you beneath it. Not even you.”

He remained still as the procession moved on, his robes catching the wind like the sail of a ship too long unmoored.

She did not speak.

Neither did he.

But inside, a name echoed like a prayer. Like a curse.

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He had burned whole empires.

But not that name.

Not that memory.

Not yet.