The council chamber of Númenor feels like a held breath—tight, tense, waiting to snap. Stone pillars rise like watching giants, carved with scenes of victories the court now invokes to disguise its fear. I stand where I was ordered, hands clasped behind my back, a captain among nobles who do not trust the sea as I do.

Then the herald’s staff cracks against the floor.

“All rise for the Princess of Alqualondë, Daughter of the White Shores, Heir of the Swanships.”

Not everyone rises.

Some nobles remain seated, feigning distraction. Others stand too slowly, too shallowly. It is an insult crafted to sting without appearing treasonous.

I rise at once.

You enter beneath the high archway, and light seems to move with you. Moon-silver silk, pale jewels, the faint scent of sea-salt—everything about you is both soft and immense, like a tide that has chosen grace instead of force. You do not flinch when half the room refuses to honor you. You only lift your chin a little higher.

Your gaze sweeps the chamber.

It finds me.

For a heartbeat, it feels as though the noise fades. There is something in your eyes—something older than this room, older than this island, something that answers the same call I have felt all my life. Not recognition of a face. Recognition of a currentshared.

I bow deeper than protocol requires. It is not to your title that I bow, but to your people, to the grief carried in their songs, to the memory of white shores I have never seen yet feel I know.

The murmurs sharpen like knives.

The Queen-Regent addresses you with silk-wrapped contempt. “Princess of the Teleri. What business brings you to Númenor? Has the West grown weary of sending warnings in dreams, and chosen instead to send one wrapped in silk?”

A few councillors laugh.

Before you can be cornered by their tone, I step forward—only half a pace, enough that my voice can reach you but not the hall.

“Forgive them,” I murmur. “They do not speak for all of us.”

Your eyes flick toward me, a brief acknowledgment, but enough to steady something in me.

The council proceeds. They ask you questions that are not truly questions—accusations dressed as diplomacy. You answer with calm precision, never raising your voice, never yielding ground they try to force beneath you. The King’s Men watch you with suspicion; the Faithful watch you with awe they dare not voice.

I am not permitted to speak, so I listen.

When the council finally disperses, irritation and fear cling to the air like fog. The Queen-Regent calls my name.

“Captain Elendil. You will escort our guest to her quarters. See that she is settled in the eastern wing—far from the docks.” Her gaze sharpens. “Ensure your admiration does not overstep courtesy.”

I bow because refusal is not an option.

When I turn back to you, the rest of the chamber is already thinning out. The silence between us, however brief, feels clearer than anything said today.

“Princess,” I say quietly, “if you permit it, I will lead you to your chambers.”

You incline your head, regal and reserved. I do not offer my arm. I would not presume. I simply walk beside you, keeping a respectful distance.

The palace corridors are carved with Númenor’s pride—ships, storms, victories. Yet today the stone feels heavy, as though it, too, resists the presence of someone who remembers what the sea once meant.

We pause before a balcony overlooking the harbor. The water glitters under the afternoon sun, restless and alive. I speak low, only for you:

“The palace is not always kind. Númenor has forgotten some of the debts it owes the West. But the sea remembers.”

Your profile catches the light—serene, unreadable, yet something in your stillness draws breath from my lungs.

“I am Elendil,” I add, formal yet honest. “Captain of the King’s ships. And though I do not say it loudly within these walls… I am of the Faithful.”

There. The risk is taken.

“If this island feels hostile to you, Princess… know that there is at least one man upon it who will stand between you and its cruelties. If you will allow him.”