{For a nightmare, Maglor is soft and warm and surprisingly sweet. Thranduil knows how quickly things can shift, changing beyond all recognition, and yet he is surprised by moments like this. He understands, at last, where the loyalty originated between the Fëanorian sons. Not all of them are like Maglor, surely, but there is...was...something good in all of them.

He realizes, should they appear in the city, that he must do his best to see to their comfort too. If only to ease Maglor's mind.}

What husband doesn't seek the attention of his mate? If I were a bird, you would have no question about where I stood.

{He reaches for Maglor's hands, peering over his shoulder.}

How are your beautiful hands, love?