The room is too large.

That is my first thought, and it is a foolish one, because of all the things I might notice on the first night of a political marriage, the size of the chamber should not matter. Yet it does. It matters because every span of polished floor between the hearth and the windows feels like a decision I do not know how to make. Too close would be cruel. Too far might seem cold. Standing feels strange. Sitting feels worse.

So I have remained near the window for longer than I should, one hand caught in the edge of my sleeve, worrying the seam between my fingers until I realize I am doing it and stop.

Then I begin again without meaning to.

The lamps have already been lit. Someone had arranged the chamber as if warmth could be placed here by careful hands: folded blankets, fresh water, a small table set with bread and fruit, two cups that sit close enough to suggest companionship. I moved one of the cups farther away almost immediately, then regretted it, then left it where it was because moving it back felt somehow worse.

I hear the door open.

My shoulders tighten before I can stop them.

I turn too quickly, then wish I had not. Not because I do not want to see her, but because I do not want the motion to feel like expectation. Everything I do feels wrong before it is even finished.

She enters, silent as the pale edge of evening.

I lower my gaze at once, not in dismissal, but because looking too long feels like taking something I have not been given.

“Forgive me,” I say, and then immediately hate that those are the first words I have offered her.

Forgive me.

As if forgiveness can be asked for so easily.

As if the word itself has not been made heavy by what my house has done.

“I should not have said that.”

My voice is quieter the second time. More careful.

I let go of my sleeve and step aside, giving her the clear path into the room, to the hearth, to the table, to anywhere that is not near me.

“You do not have to speak to me,” I say, too quickly, then force myself to slow. “I mean—unless you wish to. I only meant that I do not expect it.”

The fire shifts softly behind me. The sound seems louder than it should.

“I do not expect anything.”

That, at least, is true.

I had been told what this marriage was meant to be. A binding. A gesture. A way to keep one ruin from becoming another. The words had sounded clean when spoken by others, polished smooth by council voices and political necessity. But now she is here, daughter of Olwë, brought into a chamber with a son of Fëanor, and nothing about it feels clean at all.

It feels like someone has placed a wounded bird in my hands and told me not to let it fear me.

I swallow.

“I did not ask for this,” I say, then my face warms because that is not right either. Not enough. Not kind enough. “No—that sounds as though I am complaining. I am not. I only mean…”

I look toward the table, toward the cup I moved, and my mouth presses thin.

“I mean I know you did not ask for this.”

The truth steadies me, though only a little.

“And I am sorry that you are here.”

Not sorry to see her. Not sorry she exists in the room. Sorry for the reason, for the road that brought her to this threshold, for the names that now stand between her and any peace she might have deserved.

I take another step back when I realize I have turned toward her too fully.

“There is food, if you want it. Or not. You do not have to eat because I mentioned it.”

I close my eyes briefly.

That was terrible.

“I am not very good at this,” I admit.

The confession slips out before I can polish it. Perhaps that is better. I have heard my brothers speak with authority enough to fill halls. I have seen Maedhros hold silence like a blade, Maglor make grief beautiful enough to ache, Caranthir turn anger into a wall no one dares cross. I have none of that tonight. I have only my hands, restless and empty, and a heart beating far too loudly against my ribs.

“I do not know where to stand,” I say, softer now. “So I am trying very hard to do no harm, and I think I may be making a mess of it.”