Songs Unspoken

Elrond.

Peredhel.

They call me that as if I am cut in half, caught between being human and elf yet failing at both.

As if my soul is partially immortal and partially embraces the gift of death. I have seen many humans seek me out, eager to speak to me, to see me—as though I am a spectacle, an oddity, a marvel.

They assume that the human blood in me makes me more sympathetic to their needs, more prone to understanding their joys and their sufferings.

And yet, among them, I always feel a little out of place. However, there is a certain joy in those rare moments when they try to include me in their celebrations. When I witness the rawness of human emotions, I feel Elros standing beside me.

My blood and my bone.

I could not breathe when I heard the news of his passing. I did not know how to inhale the very air that had been denied to him.

He was the one who accustomed me to humankind, the reason I understood them as I did—for my brother, my twin, my other half, had chosen to be one of them, while I had not.

When Varohil came to me with his grim expression, bringing word of a witch asking for me, I assumed she had sought me out because she believed my half-elven nature would make me more understanding, or that I was a safer choice for her.

I misunderstood.

Celin sought me because she had read that I was kind.

I have never been accused of cruelty—but then, neither have many elves. But to be known, to be remembered for kindness? That flattered me. Perhaps it is one of the best things anyone could hope for.

This frightened, fragile soul was left in my hands, to be prepared—mostly—for her entrance into Lindon. I taught her the customs of Númenor and the etiquette of the court. I silently prayed she would not call anyone a guy, that she would remember to curtsy when necessary, and—most importantly—that she would address Gil-galad as my king.

She refused. “He is not my king,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

We compromised on Your Majesty.

Her mannerisms were too casual, too simple, utterly devoid of the careful reverence most humans carried when speaking to us. It was not rudeness—no, it was something else entirely. A lack of awe, perhaps? Or rather, an unawareness of the weight our presence should have carried.

Even in her anger, even in her distress, she did not tread lightly, did not measure her words with the hesitation I had come to expect from mortals in the company of elves, let alone their king.

And yet, I could not call her defiant. There was no arrogance in her demeanor, no challenge in her tone. It was simply who she was—unguarded, unshaped by the customs that dictated interactions between our kinds. Had she not been trapped in such a dire situation, I suspected she might even have been sweet.

There was a warmth in her, buried beneath fear, a lightness that had not yet been entirely extinguished. But it was distant now, buried beneath the weight of what had been done to her. We had not tormented her, at least not willingly. But we had caged her, and that was not so different.

The poor girl was utterly detached from everything she had known, stranded in a place of uncertainty, not knowing whether this was her final destination or if fate would whisk her away again.

Day by day, she grew more restless, both subtly and not-so-subtly complaining about not being allowed to go outside. Yet, she had a sharp mind. She learned quickly—our histories, our stories—but she was so used to being herself that reshaping her into a proper, standard presence in Lindon seemed an impossible task.

But I would try.

The king and I spoke of other matters beyond her hearing. She had enough to deal with, and we still did not trust her enough to include her.

Ten days had passed since she was given a room—since she had gained some semblance of privacy. Her main companions were Thalion and me. I had noticed the redness around her eyes; it didn’t take a genius to know she was crying herself to sleep. I gave her a potion, and it helped a bit—at least she slept adequately.

On the eleventh day, Thalion brought a deck of cards and asked if he could play a game with her. He has a kind soul, so of course, I allowed it. It lifted her spirits. Ours, however, were weighed down.

It had been some time since the king had been unsettled, and Celin’s appearance had only worsened it. Rightfully so. Gil-galad was not a man to fret without reason. He had earned peace and had ruled wisely and justly for many long years.

“Galadriel—why is she not back?” he asked, his fists clenched.

Galadriel. My kin. My friend. A commander, a capable one. After losing all three of her brothers and the disappearance of Celeborn, she had turned her grief into purpose. She hunted evil across Middle-earth, hoping to find traces of Sauron. No one had heard of him for decades—perhaps even millennia. The king was nearly convinced he would never return. Almost.

But he believed that provoking the darkness would have more consequences than allowing it to stay buried in some forsaken, forgotten place.

Galadriel thought differently. If it had been her decision alone, she would have waged war in every direction. But the king would not allow soldiers to die for her restlessness. Every life lost was a burden upon his shoulders. He protected Lindon and its people—be it from evil, or from Galadriel’s relentless pursuit of it. Finally, he had agreed to let her and a small group of volunteers venture east and south. But she was meant to remain within the reach of our patrols, within the regions where we still had communication.

It had been six months since we last received word from her. And now, with Celin’s sudden appearance, matters were growing even more complicated.

The king, Círdan, and I spoke at length. Gil-galad refused to send anyone after her. He chose patience over pursuit. Círdan agreed. I, however, wondered if—now that we had a human among us—we ought to reconsider. When I voiced my thoughts, Gil-galad said: "Her presence has already changed the waves. To our benefit or not? We will find out in time, but only if we look carefully. Adding more to that wave?" He shook his head. "That shall turn them into a storm."

I trusted him and Círdan. Even if I hadn’t, I was grateful that I was not the one making the final decisions.

My task was to prepare Celin. Most of the time, I was left to deal with a restless girl, disappointment evident in her gaze whenever she looked at me—a look of judgment. Whether it was directed at me or the book she was holding, I could not tell.

I reported her progress to the king—which, truthfully, was not impressive—but the things I had learned about her world were magnificent.

Oh, Valar. The things she spoke of. How I longed to see them! To look inside a body and see the bones, to witness a child in its mother’s womb. A miracle! Gil-galad shared my fascination. We had discussed her words at length. It reminded us of a time when we were young when the world still had something new to offer us. I had not felt that in nearly two thousand years, and I suspected the king was no different.

He had kept what she called protein bars—some kind of food. Our curiosity was unbearable, but the king framed it as an order: "Lady Celin, I hope you can indulge us in these things you call food?"

She eyed us suspiciously. "You kept them in your vault?"

"No," the king answered.

She asked for them back, unwrapped one, and explained the outer material was called plastic—something harmful to nature. We looked at the strange brown substance inside. She broke it into three pieces, giving one to the king, one to me, and keeping the rest. "I’m giving the other one to Thalion and Círdan," she informed us.

"You only get this much."

We were amused. We only bit into it after she had eaten hers. It was delicious. Her face lit up, and she grinned. "Good, huh?"

"Yes," I admitted, and in return, I told her about our own confections, promising to bring her more.

She turned to Gil-galad. "What about my other belongings?"

He sighed, clearly uninterested in the topic. "Your jewelry will remain confiscated for now," he said flatly. "And you will never see your clothes again."

She narrowed her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Why? Do you wanna wear them?" Her tone was half-mocking, half-indignant. "Not your size"

Gil-galad stiffened as if she had just questioned the honor of his entire bloodline. His expression was something caught between outrage and speechlessness. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his gaze to me. "I see your lessons in etiquette and decorum have progressed splendidly," he said dryly.

This time, I was the one who sighed.

Without another word, the king left, and we resumed our lessons, though I suspected Celin was far from finished pushing his patience.

Thalion’s efforts to engage her in cards had bought me some time, delaying the storm brewing within her—but not vanquishing it.

The inevitable came on the fifteenth day of her confinement. I had felt it coming. She had grown increasingly hostile toward both me and the king. But that day, she was different. Her eyes were red from crying. The potion I had given her had dulled her melancholy for a time, but not enough. I knew it wouldn’t be.

It was one of those days when she couldn’t take it anymore. We had argued, about the same subject, when she would get out of that room.

She struggled to hold back her tears. She was trying so hard, but it wasn’t enough. Not when the weight of loneliness, of isolation, of sheer helplessness, pressed down on her like an iron shackle. She let out a sharp breath, her hands shaking now. Then, suddenly, she gave up. The fight drained from her in an instant. She turned to me and said, voice devoid of any emotion, “Leave me alone.”

I didn’t.

That turned out to be a mistake. I handed her a cup of water, a silent offering. I reached out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She immediately leaned away, widening the space between us. I withdrew my hand, watching as she wiped her face with quick, frustrated movements.

Then, she looked at me, her expression sharp and unreadable. “You elves think you’re so wise, so just,” she said bitterly. “That you are the very reflection of goodness in this world.”

I sighed. “My dear Celin, this is not forever. Soon—”

“Soon?” she cut me off, voice rising. “You have caged me here, offering me games like I am some simpleminded fool, and you expect me to be grateful? You had better let me out.”

I inhaled slowly, keeping my tone even. “It is not my decision. And you are not ready.”

Her eyes flashed. “It is your decision. If you say so, the king will agree. And what am I not ready for, exactly? To imitate you? To bow and curtsy like some trained animal? To meet your impossibly high standards?” Her voice cracked, raw and angry. “I will never be fucking ‘ready’ for that.”

She started pacing, her movements restless, almost frantic. I hesitated. “Celin, please, calm down—”

She whirled on me, eyes blazing. Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest object—a book—and hurled it at me. “I am not an animal!” she shouted. “Stop treating me like one!”

The book struck my shoulder. I didn’t move. I probably deserved that. I truly did not know what to say. So I bowed !! slightly, turned, and left the room.

I locked the door. Thalion stood in the corridor, as always, his quiet presence a constant. He had heard everything. I had done what I could. Without a word, I turned and strode straight to Gil-galad. He needed to know.

There was a storm brewing in her, and I feared she would act on it. On what, exactly? I didn’t know. But something was inevitable, and it would not end well.

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow. “She hit you?”

I nodded. “Yes, but I’m more worried about her state.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She will calm down. Then you will talk to her and make her understand. We cannot rush things just because she feels bad—and because you were hit by a book.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up, almost amused. “This girl is amusing.” I wasn’t in the mood for his humor.

“Gil-galad! I saw rage in her eyes. Melancholy. Come with me and speak to her yourself.”

He sighed, muttering under his breath something about how I couldn’t even manage one human girl. We arrived at her door, and I pushed it open—only to be met with a horrible scene.

Celin was on the floor, her back hunched, her hand pressed tightly against her chest. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, her shoulders trembling with the effort. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes unfocused. Before I knew it, I was at her side. “Celin—what’s happening?”

Gil-galad knelt beside me, his eyes widening in alarm. Between gasping breaths, she managed to whisper, “I won’t see or hear anything in a moment. Just—just take me outside.” She barely got the words out before her body shuddered.

Gil-galad didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, he scooped her up. For all his usual poise, there was urgency in the way he moved. He carried her hurriedly from her room to his own chambers—closer than any courtyard—and straight onto his private balcony. I followed on his heels, my own heart pounding.

She was clenched against him, fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. Her breaths came fast, uneven, almost wheezing. Her skin—so pale it looked like marble. He set her down on the grass, but didn’t completely release her. He kept one arm around her, steadying her as she shakily pressed her palms to the earth.

Tears slipped from her eyes, falling silently onto the grass beneath her. His hand remained on her back. “Breathe,” he said, his voice lower than usual, filled with something I rarely saw in him—guilt.

I had seen this kind of state before—on the battlefield, in the faces of men who had witnessed horrors beyond their soul’s capacity to endure. But here she was, a lone girl, crumbling under the weight of something we had failed to comprehend. We had done this to her. We had kept her caged when she was already lost. We had demanded patience when she had nothing left to hold onto. Instead of sheltering her fragile, lonely soul, we had only deepened her suffering.

Her breathing gradually slowed, though it was still strained. King stayed silent, his hand still resting on her back. When I saw the worst had passed, I ran inside to fetch her something to drink. I had to do something—anything—to help, even if it was just a cup of water. I returned as fast as my feet would allow, carrying two bottles—one filled with water, the other a soothing potion. She was curled up, shivering despite the warmth of the night. As I approached, Gil-galad’s gaze lifted to me. There was something in his eyes—a plea, almost, as if willing me to say something, to do something. They had not spoken.

Celin’s breathing had steadied somewhat, though her shoulders still trembled. I knelt beside her and offered the water.

She took it with shaking fingers and sipped, her lips barely parting. Then she set the bottle aside and covered her face with her hands, her shoulders rising and falling with silent sobs.

Gil-galad hesitated, then finally asked, “Do you need something? More water, perhaps?”

Our eyes met briefly, each silently urging the other to find the right words—something kind, something true. But nothing came. We had both failed her.

After a long pause, Celin spoke, her voice raw and hoarse. “Did it have to come to this?” She let out a bitter, trembling breath. “For you to see me like this? Crying. Weak. Humiliated.”

Gil-galad reached out, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before gently trying to take her hand. She flinched, pulling away before he could make contact. He withdrew immediately, exhaling quietly, as if he had expected no less. Still, his next words were unexpected. “It is I who is ashamed” he admitted, his voice low. “Please, forgive me. I failed to care for someone under my protection.”

She did not look up. Her tears continued to fall, silent and unrelenting. I couldn’t bear to watch her like this. I was a healer—I was supposed to know how to help. And right now, I knew that her pulse was frantic, her body trembling not just from sorrow, but from sheer exhaustion. She needed rest before her exhaustion consumed her entirely.

I uncorked the second bottle and held it out to her. “Celin,” I said gently. “Drink this. It will soothe you.”

She looked at me through tear-streaked lashes, those wide, frightened eyes searching mine as if deciding whether to trust me. Then, finally, she gave a small nod. I helped her bring the vial to her lips, and she swallowed obediently.

Within seconds, the potion took effect—her breathing slowed, her body sagged, and she slumped forward, unconscious. Straight onto my lap. I caught her instinctively, arms steadying her limp form. For a long moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was the faint rustle of the night breeze.

Then, finally, I shifted her slightly to hold her more securely. “We will fix this,” I murmured.

We argued briefly about where to let her sleep. Her own room was out of the question, as was Gil-galad’s. In the end, we settled on the king’s private garden—a serene space just beyond his balcony, open to the sky. It already had a small bed with cushions, and more importantly, there were no enclosing walls around her.

I lifted her and carried her there. I leaned her down on the bed, adjusting the blankets, carefully arranging cushions around her head, ensuring she would be as comfortable as possible. I spent far too long fussing over it.

Behind me, the king finally sighed. “Elrond, stop. She is comfortable.”

But I couldn’t stop. Guilt gnawed at me, and I moved another cushion as if it would somehow atone for my failures. Only when I realized I was merely trying to soothe my own conscience did I finally relent and step back.

We sat down in the chairs nearby, neither of us speaking at first. The silence stretched between us, heavy and unspoken. Then, quietly, I murmured, “We didn’t see it coming.”

Gil-galad gave a slow nod. He looked grief-stricken, his expression dark with thought. He was not used to failing, especially when it came to those under his care. “We did her wrong,” he admitted at last.

“We simply didn’t care. I could have brought her here sometimes—she never asked for much.”

I nodded. “We have forgotten about humans… and the fragility of their souls.”

I glanced toward Celin, her face peaceful now in sleep, though the faint traces of tears still clung to her lashes. “She has no one here, Gil-galad. She is the loneliest being in the whole world.”

The king let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning back in his chair. “Something tells me we will fail her again,” he admitted. “She is unpredictable. And she doesn’t let on much.”

I sighed. “She is private.”

We waited, speaking in hushed tones about what should be done. She wasn’t ready to go out, that much was clear—but perhaps she didn’t have to be. Our elvish perfectionism had blinded us to the simple fact that readiness was not always a prerequisite for action. We debated this quietly, both of us reluctant to admit how gravely we had misjudged her situation.

Then, we heard soft steps approaching.

Lord Círdan.

I saw Gil-galad straighten slightly, bracing himself. I did the same. We both knew what was coming—a well-earned chastisement—and in that moment, we felt like boys again, awaiting the rebuke of an elder. Círdan regarded us with a look of quiet disappointment. “I heard from Thalion.”

We nodded, already prepared to explain ourselves. We did so carefully, making sure to sound sufficiently guilty. Círdan had always been kinder when we confessed our arrogance and foolishness without resistance. He listened, then simply dismissed us with a wave of his hand. “Leave,” he said. “She will not be happy to see your faces tomorrow.”

There was no arguing with that. As we turned to go, he settled himself beside her, his presence steady, grounding. And then, softly, he began to hum a melody—one of those ancient songs of comfort, low and soothing as the tide. I cast one last glance over my shoulder before stepping away. She was still asleep, but at least she was breathing normally now.

That, for the moment, was enough.

Gil-galad.

What have we done? Or rather—what have I done?

It was I who kept her locked away. I who denied her the open air, when a simple word to Elrond could have allowed her to walk in the gardens. It would have cost us nothing, and yet I had chosen restraint over reason.

It was beneath us to hold a lone maiden in confinement until she collapsed—but in our defense, we had not known and ignored the signs.

Such things I had only ever witnessed on the battlefield—men gasping, shaking, drowning in the aftermath of war, their minds shattered by horrors too great to bear. But this? This seemed no siege or no looming enemy.

And yet, to her—it was. The walls, the locked doors, the isolation in a completely new world—they had become her captors.

And I, the leader of the army that held her prisoner.

Through the window, we watched her sleep—her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, her face finally calm under the influence of Elrond’s draught.

Elrond exhaled beside me. "We should let her out."

I nodded. "Yes."

He suggested the archives first—as he had done the last week, a controlled, familiar place, a space where she might find purpose without overwhelming exposure. A safe choice and a measured step. I agreed and It was time to see how this little human would fare among us.

And more importantly—what her presence truly meant for Lindon.

After we had exhausted every discussion about the vulnerability of the human mind and body, Elrond finally left to rest—guilt etched into every inch of his face. Despite how much Celin had tested his patience, she had grown on him.

I found Círdan in the gardens, sitting in the quiet stillness of the night. He had stopped singing, though I suspected his voice had filled the space before my arrival.

Without a word, I sat beside him on the grass. The earth beneath my hands was cool, soft, grounding. It had always soothed me—and I needed that now. These past days, my mind had been a whirlwind of thoughts, of uncertainty and speculation.

Círdan, spoke first.

"It is all right to fear the unknown, Ereinion. But it is folly to close our eyes to the glimpses within. Her presence will change the tides. Better to let the tides move than to keep them at bay—until the dam breaks."

I let out a slow breath, nodding.

"Aye. Elrond will see her out. And I will watch."

Círdan inclined his head. "I trust you will do well."

I exhaled. "I do not trust in that. I will do what I must."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Then do it day by day. You cannot have any grand plan. Her situation is unpredictable—or perhaps it will turn out to be utterly mundane."

For once, I wished for the latter. But something told me Círdan already knew—it would be anything but mundane.

I exhaled slowly, "If I were that lucky, perhaps. But I doubt mundanity is her trait." I glanced at Círdan. "She hit Elrond with a book."

Círdan smirked, his amusement evident. "I would love to see her hit you with something stronger. You’ve grown too accustomed to courtesy."

I shrugged, unbothered. "It comes with being a king. And, if I am honest, I rather enjoy it. One of the few advantages of my position."

He chuckled. "That, I cannot argue."

After a pause, his tone turned more serious. "You may face a different kind of dispute than you expect."

I glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"She will meet men, Ereinion." His voice was steady, knowing. "Not just elves—there are many men in Lindon. Some even in your halls. People will notice her. A beautiful woman with an air of mystery will intrigue them."

I turned back to Celin, her body completely still beneath the blankets.

She looked at peace—finally, far away from the weight of our words and our worries.

I thought back to the night she had chastised us for our "poor manners" when she was forced to sleep in my bed—a night where she had been unafraid to scold even a king. Tonight, at least, she could not chastise us, she would not wake for hours.

I leaned back on my hands and smirked slightly. "Shall I prepare myself for petty fights, then?"

Círdan did not return my smile. Instead, he watched me carefully. "You should prepare yourself for many things."

Then, with quiet certainty, he added—"We have both seen how far the idiocy and greed of men can go when it comes to women. We have seen centuries of alliances crumble over a single dispute for one."

His words settled over me like a weight I had not considered before. I did not like the thought and had never considered it.

I had thought about how she would fare among the humans in my court. I had weighed the advantages of her knowledge, even considered how she might contribute to their lives—how, with guidance, she might help them grow. By extension, she would benefit us. But this? This kind of problem?

It had never crossed my mind. Among my kin, such disputes were rare, but his words lingered, unsettling in their truth.

I shook my head. "Then I would at least enjoy seeing her hurl things at them—her aim might improve."

Círdan gave me a pointed look. "You seem far too pleased with yourself at Elrond’s expense."

I exhaled, leaning back on my hands. "That could be the highlight of this decade for me—" Then my smile faded, and I sighed. "If she had not collapsed after it."

And just like that, the guilt crept back into my chest. I inhaled slowly, forcing the weight of it to settle rather than drown me.

I will make it up to her.

I was not there when she woke.

By then, I had been called away for a meeting with Arafin, who oversaw the training of our scholars. I have organized my thoughts—considered how to speak to her in the evening. Elrond had already reported to me that he planned to take her to the archives the next day.

And I felt an urge to apologize. Yes. Apologize.

I had been taught, long ago, that a mistake is a mistake, regardless of whom it is made against. Elf, human, or dwarf—it is not weakness to acknowledge it. But beyond that, I needed to emphasize caution.

When I entered her chamber that evening, she bid me entry without hesitation. She was alone, bathed, damp haired and refreshed—the redness around her eyes gone. A relief. 

She sat on a sofa, curled in on herself, knees drawn up as she stared out the window. And when she finally acknowledged me, it was with utter indifference. A single word.

"Hi."

Flat and dismissive. She did not even look at me. Her gaze remained fixed on the world beyond the window.

I cleared my throat, keeping my tone steady. "Lady Celin, I hope you have rested well."

"Hum."

Hum?

I had been addressed with many things in my life. But this? This was a hum. I kept my face carefully controlled.

"I believe I owe you an apology. We could have done better. I—"

She cut me off, flat, unbothered.

"Elrond has told me everything. No need to make a grand speech about your incompetence in understanding a human thrown into your halls."

I stilled and for a rare moment in my long life, I did not know what to say.

I had expected many things—anger, sharp words, even quiet resentment. I had even prepared myself for a cold indifference, a refusal to forgive, a refusal to engage. But this?

She had dismissed me outright. Not even acknowledging the attempt. I exhaled slowly, measuring my response. If she did not wish to hear it, I would not force it upon her.

"Very well," I said simply.

Instead, I continued, voice calm. "I believe you are also aware of the new arrangement?"

Another "Hum."

Still not looking at me. I was still standing. I had thought this conversation would be brief, but I could see now that patience was required. I pulled out a chair and sat down and summoned all my restraint and began again.

"My lady, I hope you understand the gravity of your presence here. The truth of your arrival, the trust I am placing in you—"

She turned toward me abruptly, her dark eyes wide, unblinking. And then—a question I did not expect.

"When will you stop playing with me?"

I frowned slightly. "Pardon me?"

She stared at me, her dark eyes unyielding.

"You do not trust me," she accused. "You think I am a fool who will somehow manage to blurt out to someone that I am from another world."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "And let me think—if I do say it, who would believe me? No one, and you know that very well. My knowledge is incomplete, things are not exactly as I have read them, and if I told anyone the truth, they would think me mad. Pity me at best,"

She sat forward slightly, her arms folded across her knees. "You have confiscated my things—things that might have planted a seed of doubt in others if I had chosen to speak. And what am I left with?"

She exhaled a humorless laugh.

"The only thing I have from my world is my panties. And I don’t think I can prove anything with them."

I blinked. That was certainly not the argument I had been expecting—nor this level of bluntness. She didn’t give me the chance to interject.

"You are giving me this speech because you want me to feel responsible," she continued, voice calmer now but no less sharp. "You want me to feel good that you are granting me your trust, that I am somehow capable of earning the confidence of a king—of the one responsible for keeping his people safe."

Her gaze bore into me. "You want me to try to deserve it, to want your better judgment."

She flicked her fingers in a small, dismissive gesture before adding, "I don’t care about your opinion of me."

A lie. A good one. But a lie nonetheless. Or so I hoped.

"You are doing your job. I understand that," she went on. "You probably think my mere presence will bring some great evil—or, I don’t know, doom your entire fancy kingdom. That’s a possibility. I don’t deny it."

She leaned back against the cushions. "But let’s be clear—I know I will be even more doomed if I do anything you disapprove of, and I won’t. Luckily for you, I hate trouble, and I hate being the cause of it."

Her tone turned dry and pragmatic.

"Besides, I don’t want to end up in one of your dungeons. So don’t play the nice guy with me."

Silence stretched between us and a slow smile curled at the edge of my lips. There were few things in this world that amused me and Celin, was proving to be one of them. I let the quiet settle, let the words she had thrown at me linger in the air. Then, finally, I spoke.

"Are you finished?"

She exhaled sharply, as if debating whether to argue further or bite her tongue.

She settled on another hum.

Hum.

I should not be irritated by such a small sound. And yet, somehow, I was.I exhaled slowly, keeping my voice measured, patient—far more patient than I felt.

"Lady, you are not wrong in your chain of thought, but you are not right in your perception of us. Trust is something that should be earned. And yet, I am taking a risk—because it is the right thing to do now."

She shrugged. "Whatever."

Whatever.

Whatever.

I, High King of Lindon, Lord of the Eldar, bearer of countless responsibilities, do not explain myself to others. And yet, when I do, this mortal shrugs. I inhaled through my nose, keeping my expression composed, my pride intact.

She had been through much. More than any human should endure. I would survive a few shrugs from a mortal. Still, it was best to leave before my pride suffered another wound. I rose from the chair, smoothing out the folds of my tunic with deliberate care.

"Then things are settled. I leave you to your rest."

She nodded. Just nodded. And that was it. The most undignified dismissal I had ever received.

No one dismisses me. But apparently, this mortal does, and she does so in my own halls. In the very chamber I had given her.

And the worst part? I could do nothing about it. Not without falling into cruelty. And I am not that.

I closed the door behind me, inhaled deeply, then exhaled just as slowly. I sent a quiet prayer to Manwë and resolved to get some sleep.