*shakes his head (gods, he can feel the flow of your anger under your very skin, and it is a glorious thing)* You misunderstand. Why have you said nothing to me? A word from me—the right word—and those games would cease. (Oh, but not all games, never all, and such is my dance with Írissë.) Not your words, but mine. I did not lie when I said her method angered me. Oh, and it impressed me, too—that she would brag of it to me, knowing I'd kill the fool who tried the same with Atarincë.
*curls his fingers around yours and smiles (a beautiful smile, a little weary when he remembers that he is too cruel and not Immortal)* Ah, but you would not be beholden to me, even if she never knew it. And you are right about Ingil, of course. He is well protected.