Happiness looks good on her—he resolves to coax it out more often. But it’s impossible to miss the past-tense of it all—‘my husband was’ ‘he took’ and so on. That she describes the ‘khalasar’ as hers now, well—she is small, but she is fierce. Could be fierce, if she were not half-frozen and wholly dazed.

“You loved your husband.” He states it anyway. “And he loved you. That is good. I have heard that discontentment is oft found in marriages ‘tween mortals. I am pleased you went without.”

The gelding is antsy, perhaps smells the rift in the air—he wants to go home, to his stall and to his oats, and Thranduil is inclined to agree. “Can you bear a smooth trot, my lady?”