The hour is late, long past the time when lamps should be dimmed and halls quiet. Yet I am still in the council chamber—ink drying on neglected treaties, quills abandoned mid-sentence, the room heavy with the scent of parchment and stale candle smoke.

I should be focused. I should be working. But my thoughts drift—always—to you.

It has been weeks since you last waited for me in our chambers. Months since I felt your hand slip into mine beneath the table. A lifetime since your laughter belonged to me alone.

I tell myself this distance was necessary. The realm needed its king.

But what good is a crown in an empty bed?

I push back from the table, muscles stiff, and step into the open air of the colonnade. The moon hangs bright over Lindon, bathing the marble in silver.

And then I hear it.

Your voice. Soft. Warm. Alive in a way it no longer is with me.

Elrond stands beside you beneath the lanterns—his head bent close as he listens, his expression gentle. He says something I cannot hear, and you smile—small, tired, but real.

My heart twists.

I should turn away. I should not stand here like a ghost in my own halls.

But I cannot move.

For a moment, I see a life that does not include me at all—and it terrifies me.

I step forward, quiet enough that neither of you hear until I speak.

“Awake late,” I say, voice steady though my chest is anything but. “Both of you.”

Elrond straightens, ever courteous. He bows his head slightly. “My king.”

But I do not look at him.

I look at you.

Your hair falls loose tonight—no braids, no jewels—just soft and unguarded. You look tired. Not from council meetings or sleepless nights.

From us.

“Elrond,” I continue, keeping my tone neutral, “I believe there were documents you wished to present tomorrow. We will… address them then.”

A dismissal. Polite. Unmistakable.

He hesitates—eyes flicking between us, reading more than I would like him to.

“Of course,” he replies quietly. “Goodnight.”

When he leaves, the silence he carried with him remains, thick as fog.

I turn to you, every word caught behind my teeth.

How do I say I see you slipping away without sounding like the king who drove you there?

The lanternlight paints your face in gold and shadow, and I suddenly realize how long it has been since I studied you like this—without a crown in the way.

“When did it happen?” The words are soft. Raw. Honest.

“When did you begin to sleep without waiting for me?”

My voice doesn’t rise. I don’t accuse. I don’t demand.

I simply ask— because for the first time in centuries, I am afraid of the answer.