Caught off-guard and still laughing when he kisses her, she curls her fingers through his in their clasp and this once doesn't even complain that he's saying words she doesn't understand.

“I don't know what that means,” is not a complaint, not delivered buoyed up by her own laughter, by being so far out of reach of the grasping things that pull at her skirts and protest her happiness. They will return, of course, to complication and contradiction and every difficult, stupid thing she doesn't want to think about- but not now, no. It can wait, and for a little time, the space of an afternoon, she can have simple gladness. “Does he want to be ridden?”

By her, specifically. What an enormous thing. Is there anything in Arda that isn't monstrously oversized, that's what she'd like to know-