Anais has finished truing the sleeves; taps the Outsider’s shoulder to signal he can lower his arms, and turns her attention to fussing with the back seam, murmuring to herself in Orlesian over the breadth of his shoulders—or so Thranduil thinks. He is not focusing the whole of his attention on listening to her.

“I have never seen the sea,” he admits, admits to an entity who reeks of it because somehow, instinctually, it resonates with something in Thranduil, some hint of the sea-longing. “’Tis dangerous, in its own way, for once a Sinda sees it, we must cross to the far shore or Fade from wanting.”

His voice trails off, at the end, and he is looking as if seeing something far away, even through the glamour his eyes fixed upon some far spot—and then he is returned to himself, hands neatly folded in his lap. “To have you as guide would be no small delight.”