*takes your hand and raises it to his lips without breaking eye contact, wondering what compassion or grief or laughter lies somewhere in those depths*
Thank you, my lady. I am Ecthelion. *gesturing to his colleagues (and lover, oh, lover) in turn* Lords Glorfindel— *(the briefest meeting of eyes there, a look of concern, of comfort, of we have light, my dear one)* —Tuor, Rôg, Duilien, and Egalmoth. Lord Galdor was badly injured and sends his apologies or so I told him he would. Lord Penlodh was too drunk to come and Lord Salgant too craven. Some of your own marchwardens have unearthed records of— *manages not to choke on the honorific* —Lady Vána's pursuits, including a more accurate count of the perpetrators. Our best people are neutralizing the last of their number as I speak.