That he was never given the opportunity to protect his people with Celebrimbor’s gifts irritates him—impotently, nothing to be done about it, a thorn in his side in the way he collects them, the little slights that he holds in reserve, remembers, against himself, his father, his people. He scoffs softly at her refuse of the bandages, goes back to his trunk, pulls out a plain cotton tunic and sets his teeth to it, tearing it into a single winding strip.

Thranduil steps around her—no concept of modesty in a race so old—a fistful of newly-made bandage, and gestures for her to remove her hand so that he might replace them with something cleaner. They’ve never been prey to festering wounds, but this is an easy comfort to offer, and the sight of elven blood is disquieting.

“So we will look. Surely Celebrimbor was crafty enough to plan for eventualities, even if he did not have full foresight. I have become accustomed to limitations here—forgive me my sloth, if it seems such,” he says, leaning over her to better bind her wounds.

He helps her with the tunic, unpins the Elessar and attaches it to her new garments, and kneels without thought or reflection on the floor to help her with the pants as well.