“They will be my people in truth,” mildly. “—once we are wed.”

He smiles, crooked, and raises a brow, begging for a challenge—if they were not mounted, he would take the chance to steal a kiss, to reendear himself to her in the wake of a misstep. How easily he yields—he learned not to make himself a wall for her to dash herself against.

Ahead of them, in the woods beyond, there is a resounding noise, deep and loud, nearly a scream. Thranduil sits up in his saddle, brightens—how easily a smile fits on this Mannish face, highlights the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his mouth. “Ah,” he says. “We are close.”