It’s a similar ilk to Thranduil’s, there’s no denying that, but it means something more to be given it by her own hand. Solas is not fool enough to mistake the gesture; he’s warmed by it, fingers curling around the single strand. There’s a distinct urge to kiss it, as thin as it is, but he resists. Instead, he smiles.

“I am no archer,” he admits. “But I will remember it, should it be necessary. Thank you, Galadriel.” He steals another kiss, soft, gentle. “What shall I fashion it into? How best would you like me to wear your affection?”