“You do that,” they both say, in much the same tone, and Gwenaëlle is brought up short by it; irritation tightens her expression, has her slapping Emeric's hands away as she steps back and out of their reach. She says, flatly, “We were done,” and if they hadn't been before then they are now because there's not a child's chance in the Fade that Emeric's being permitted within the tent and he absorbs it like a blow, as he hadn't done when she struck him.

What more is there to say. He had known months ago—years ago, murmured into Guenievre's hair in the dark—that she would not bend. He is not surprised when she does not, now.

(He wishes—but he is surrounded by the ash and dust of all his other wishes. It is done.)

The smile Emeric turns on Thranduil is flawless; his eyes uncomfortable to look at. He says, “Do you know,” conversationally, “I rather think that in another life, even Anne might have taken to you in time. Guin wrote me the irony of it all. The veriest lesson in being careful for what we wished.” In all respects but the most pressing, Thranduil is nothing if not exactly what they had tried and failed to groom her for, but ah: those most pressing flaws.

He grips Thranduil's elbow briefly, in what might have been companionable if they were any other men. He says, “You won,” and claps his hand there, once, lets go. “Best of luck.”

And he means it, the bastard. If Thranduil is all his daughter will have, then may the Maker watch over them both.

Quietly, her arms folded: “Will you fuck off.”