Gwenaëlle watches Emeric's back—he does as his brother has always done, walks with straight shoulders and does not look back once he's set to it—until the shifting crowds take him and make him part of their chaos and then, finally, she looks back to Thranduil. She lacks her father's grace, in this moment; does not wish to be graceful, wants to find something or someone to tear to shreds until she feels something else, knows it's a hollow want. That it wouldn't help.

It's still difficult not to snap at him again, simply because he's in front of her. She could explain, but it seems as if he's heard enough, and doesn't need her to—

If she can't fight with him then she'd go to him, and she can't do that either, and for a lack of any alternatives her expression twists, ugly and unhappy, and she turns on her heel to go inside the tent. He will be behind her, no doubt; will find the anxious energy in her fingers set to gathering up some of Iorveth's belongings, like he'd said.

She clenches her fist around the fabric of a shirt and makes herself smooth it out again.