Gwenaëlle's laugh is thready and a little strained, but not false- progress enough that the thought of going downstairs again doesn't make her blanch the way it might have a few minutes ago. Quiet and conversation and that elf's absence give her space enough to ease, and Thranduil's return a reassurance, so she says, “Men like feeling big no matter the species,” very wisely, and pushes herself to her feet, tucking what she carries beneath her arm and offering her hands to Galadriel in aid.

She is half her size, but all the same.

“Come on. No bleeding to death, or I'll hear no end of it from the big men.”