He leans against the locked door, one leg kicked out and the other folded back against it, the picture of indolence. He watches her as she moves without moving his head. The dress is a revelation. He holds himself to the wall until she has herself in it. He wonders how, but she's always watched far more than she admits. It would compliment the outfit he arrived in perfectly, two halves of a whole, and he is just as profoundly touched as he was by the tapestry.

Two strides eat up the distance between them, and he settles his hands at her hips, gazing down at her. Devotion is too simple a word for it. One hand climbs up her spine, settles at the base of skull, holds her steady as he dips his head to kiss her, deep and thorough.

(The glamour is very good. There is even a hint of scratchy beard.)

He breaks it, draws his head back. "Beautiful," Thranduil insists. He drops his hold on her, catches her hands in his own.

"You are sure, Gwenaëlle? There is no unmaking this for me."