You may notice there are two new chapters-the other one is "Feathers", which is now Chapter 5. It's a very short little scene (600 words) that I wrote a while ago, and I added it because I thought it was cute and to add more depth to Thranduil and Sky's early relationship. I may add more such chapters over time.

I'm also hoping to finish updating Chapter 3 before writing the next chapter-we'll see if that happens or not.

"Good morning, Callie." Galion placed a gentle kiss on his wife's cheek. She mumbled something, yawned widely, and went back to sleep, making him smile as he rolled out of bed to get dressed. His dark red robes would be good today, he thought. "Breakfast will be ready when you want it," he whispered—just in case Caliel wasn't totally unconscious—before he left the room.

The next step was the bathroom, to freshen up and brush his hair—a butler had to look professional, after all. "Good morning, Galion," he greeted his reflection. "You look good today. Very tidy." After a few more strokes of his hairbrush, he nodded in approval and went on to the next task.

"Low on eggs," he remarked under his breath as he prepared biscuits with gravy—Caliel's favorite. "Got to get more soon." Of course, he could always ask one of the king's servants to fetch some for him, but there was nothing wrong with buying one's own food.

He made enough biscuits for two elves even though he had something important to do before he ate, and covered them so they wouldn't cool too fast. Then it was time for work.

Galion hummed to himself as he left his quarters and walked the exactly thirteen steps to his principle site of employment. He greeted the two guards at the door by name, and they held the portal open for him.

"King Thranduil?" he called, peeking around the corner into the spacious living room. Not hearing an answer, he ascended the small flight of stairs to the king's slightly elevated bedroom, and knocked twice. "Good morning! It's eight o'clock!"

"As I could have guessed, as that is the exact time you arrive every morning," said a tired voice from inside. "Thank you, Galion, I will be out in a minute."

The butler stood there for a moment, chewing his lip—he could tell already that it wasn't one of Thranduil's better days—but hovering probably wouldn't help, so he hurried down the steps and into the kitchen. What to make, what to make... How about bread with honey and some fruit salad on the side? Yes, that was perfect, and it would be ready quickly so Thranduil wouldn't have time to sit and think about any bad dreams he might have had.

A minute later, Galion set a slab of thick bread with honey in front of the king, along with a bowl of berries, cherries, and apple slices, and a pitcher of fruit juice. "How are you this morning, my lord?"

Thranduil took a moment to answer, but only because he'd immediately started to eat. That was good; he usually felt a bit better once he had some food in him. "I woke early, but I will be able to handle my full duties today, I think."

"That's good." Even that was a big step up from a half-century ago. "Unless there's anything else, I was hoping I could eat with Caliel this morning?"

"Of course." Thranduil managed a smile, even if it didn't reach his eyes. It was often painful for the king to hear references to others' wives. "One more thing—I would appreciate it if you would bring me lunch at noon today, between that meeting and my speech. In a bag, because I will have to eat while I ride."

Galion was familiar with that speech, which the king had read out loud to him several times during the writing process. "Very well, my lord."

. . . . . .

"What do you think you'll do today?" Galion asked his wife over breakfast—she'd barely been up when he returned.

"Oh," she replied, words muffled by a mouthful of food, "maybe pester the boys for a bit, if they're not busy. Ooh, and I should visit Kim. Maybe I'll invite her over this time—it's been a while."

Galion smiled; he hadn't been sure about Kimbrel at first, but Caliel was right—she was a lot like Firith, in weird ways. She and Alagon both, which was odd. "I'll try to be back to make lunch, then."

Caliel stood up to take her dishes to the sink and ran a hand over his hair playfully as she passed. "Pff. I can cook too, y'know."

He shrugged. "I'm not too busy."

"Okay, then."

. . . . . .

Galion went back to the king's quarters after breakfast to dust, sort, and arrange the few things that needed dusting, sorting, and arranging, then made a quick run (actually a medium-length walk) to the marketplace outside the palace to grab some food for both his family and Thranduil. He liked getting the king's food this way because he knew where it came from and could pick it out himself; most of the wood elves were loyal, but there had been a few poisoning attempts against government officials in the past, so he couldn't be too careful. He took his time walking back, and it was late morning by the time he returned. He put the food he'd gotten for Thranduil in its proper place, then hurried back—thirteen steps—to his own quarters.

Caliel and Kimbrel were having a card-house-building contest on the table, and Kimbrel was concentrating fiercely to maintain her lead. Caliel grinned at Galion and pointed at her card tower, which was only a little shorter than Kimbrel's. "Not bad, huh?"

"Not bad at all," he agreed. "How about roast beef sandwiches for lunch?"

"Sounds great!"

"I'll just make two extras to take to the king. How are you, Kimbrel?"

"Oh—hi. I'm fine," Kimbrel replied without looking up.

"How's Alagon?"

She shrugged. "He's fine too, I guess."

Sometimes it was hard to make small talk with Kimbrel; she seemed to focus on only one thing at once. "Lunch will be ready in a few minutes."

Galion put the new food away in the kitchen and set about making five sandwiches with the roast beef from last night's dinner—one each for himself, Caliel, and Kimbrel, and two for the king, who usually ate more than the smaller Silvans (and was likely to get dinner late if an emergency came up). He listened to the girls talking in the other room as he worked.

"I still cannot believe you make your husband cook all your meals."

Caliel found that hilarious. "I don't make him do anything, Kim."

"Kimbrel," she muttered.

"Right, sorry. Galion likes cooking. He wants to take care of people."

Kimbrel thought about that for a little while. "Why did you marry him?"

"Because he's funny and cute and kind."

Galion blushed and forgot what he was doing for a second.

"But... he is not very... manly, is he?"

"Eh, maybe not in the way Alagon is, but in other ways, yes. He's a very good husband."

"I guess he does love you a lot. I wish Alagon would bring me flowers sometimes."

Galion realized she must be looking at the vases and pots of flowers clustered beneath the narrow skylight. Many of those were actually from Tathor and Firith, but some were from him. Those flowers were one of the few things Caliel took care of now that Tathor had gone to live with Firith; she said she liked the color they added to the room.

"Doesn't he ever bring you flowers? Or presents?" Caliel asked.

"No," Kimbrel said in a small voice. "He used to, but I guess now he's too busy. Or something."

Galion felt bad for her; sometimes it seemed like Alagon paid more attention to his work than his wife. Maybe it was to be expected given Alagon's personality, but it still made him sad.

The sandwiches were ready now—except Galion's, which he'd already snarfed to save time—so he put two on plates with some apple slices and put the plates on a tray with two glasses of milk—plus a bit of cake for dessert—and took them out to the two she-elves.

"Thanks so much, you're amazing," Caliel told him, giving him a peck on the cheek. "You're not eating with us?"

Galion ducked back into the kitchen and returned moments later with the other two sandwiches (and an apple, and some water) in a bag. "No, I have to take Thranduil his lunch."

Kimbrel wrinkled her nose at the bag. "Are you really expecting the king to eat sandwiches out of a paper bag?"

It didn't sound right when put that way. "...Maybe I should get him something from the feast hall instead..."

Caliel snorted. "Thranduil's not spoiled... in that way, at least. He wouldn't turn down your roast beef."

"I guess you're right," Galion admitted. How many paper-bag lunches had he made for the king over the years, after all?

. . . . . .

Galion arrived at the council chamber before the meeting was quite finished, so he sat on a bench outside, overlooking the enormous main cavern, and waited patiently.

"Hello, Galion. I was just wondering if the king would have time to get food before his speech, but I see you have it covered as usual."

Galion was pleasantly surprised to see his best friend—at least if he didn't count Caliel or his employer as "friends". "Taen! Yeah, he told me he'd need lunch. How are you?"

Taensirion joined him on the bench. "I am quite well, thank you for asking. I have been at the training grounds most of the morning, supervising the drills since I was not needed at this meeting. You?"

"Oh, I'm doing all right; went to the market this morning. It's a nice day out."

"That it is. Say, I was wondering—have your sons been continuing their fighting practice, now that they are past the mandatory basic training?"

"Sure, they practice with Legolas some mornings."

"Good. Even though they are not fighters, I would hate to see their talent totally wasted." Taensirion sighed. "And, though I hope they will never need those skills, one never knows."

Galion didn't want to think about that. "How's Legolas doing with his training?"

"Making good progress, I hear, though I am not giving him lessons anymore. He prefers knives, which I find interesting."

"Why's that?"

"I expected him to go for a longer reach, since he is not as inclined to jump around during combat as one would think. Then again, he is not overly fond of dueling, unlike your boys." Then Taensirion chuckled. "On the other hand, it might be more accurate to say he prefers his bow for close combat. I heard him arguing with his instructor today over whether he could use it for melee training exercises."

Galion wondered again why Legolas felt a need to disagree with authority figures so often. He was told it was a "young male thing", but that hadn't been his experience. "He hasn't been causing too much trouble, has he?"

"I would not say 'too much', but he is a bit headstrong, I must admit. He reminds me of Oropher sometimes." Taensirion stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Or Feren at that age."

"I do hope he doesn't cause too many problems," Galion worried.

"The instructors have seen far worse, I promise." The double doors opened behind them, and the king was the first elf out, followed by various mid-ranking officials. "Good morning, my lord."

"Afternoon, actually," said Thranduil brusquely. "The meeting ran late again. You brought my meal, Galion?"

Galion offered him the bag he'd brought. "Roast beef sandwiches," he explained proudly.

"Thank you. Come along, Taensirion." Thranduil took the bag and walked away quickly.

Taensirion sent a sympathetic look at the butler—who was too used to the king's mood swings by now for any hurt feelings—and followed.

. . . . . .

Galion was heading down to the storage caverns, planning to see if Firith was there and if he needed help with anything, when he heard a familiar voice. "Ada! ...ADA! Over here!"

Tathor was waving at him from another of the branchlike stone paths crisscrossing the massive cave. Another elf was leaning on him, looking from his posture like he was about to pass out.

Galion mentally calculated his course and jogged to the meeting place of the two bridges, then doubled back to meet up with this son, who, like the other one, was now fully grown and taller than both parents. In fact, Tathor and Firith were nearly identical in general; a stranger might be able to tell them apart only by eye color, with Firith's eyes being wood-brown like Galion's, and Tathor's deep sea-green like Caliel's. Elves who knew them better could usually figure it out from posture, clothing, and voice tone, but it was easy to mix them up if, say, Tathor accidentally put on his brother's clothes in the morning, which happened bizarrely often given that they did have separate rooms in their shared quarters.

The elf Tathor was trying to coax into walking just a little farther was a Silvan in a soldier-in-training's clothing, and his face was a nasty grayish-green color. Galion quickly moved to support the unsteady elf on the other side, laying the soldier's arm over his shoulders. "What happened?!"

"My sparring partner tried to hack my leg off," the soldier mumbled weakly.

Galion looked at the soldier's leg, which had the trousers rolled up and a light bandage wrapped around it at the knee—no visible blood anywhere—and then at Tathor.

Tathor shrugged. "It needed to be sewn up, so I figured I might as well bring him back. I didn't know he'd faint."

"It was bleeding a lot, okay?!" the soldier protested.

"Right," said Tathor with no sign of sarcasm. "Now let's get you to the healing ward so we can fix you up."

"Okay," the soldier agreed, whimpering pitifully as Tathor and Galion led him forward and he had to put weight on his injured leg.

. . . . . .

"Another one, hmm?" Felrion sighed, closing his book and getting to his feet. "Put him on the table."

Galion and Tathor helped the soldier limp to one of the back rooms and sit on the operating table, which was tall enough that a healer could easily reach an elf lying on it without bending down.

"He's not going to cut off my leg, is he?" the soldier worried.

Tathor sat next to him. "Nah, he'll just clean it and sew it up. It might sting a little, but it'll be over soon, don't worry."

"O-okay..."

Felrion entered with a handful of supplies, including a bowl of steaming water. "Lie down and hold still."

The young soldier did so, eyeing the needle Felrion put next to him with trepidation. Tathor hopped off the table to observe, and Galion backed up to get as much out of the way as possible.

"So," said Felrion, "you've never been hurt before, I take it."

"Not this bad..."

"I see. I hate to break it to you, but the military may not be your ideal career."

"He could learn, Felrion," Tathor pointed out optimistically. "Remember how I threw up the first time I saw you perform a surgery? And now I can do them myself without any problems!"

Felrion's mouth twitched as he finished pouring water over the wound and began to smear an ointment on it. "I do remember that, vividly. I suppose you're right—he could get desensitized."

"You said yourself that the more often an elf's gotten hurt in the past, the less likely they are to panic." Tathor grinned at the injured young soldier, who was starting to look more optimistic. "So maybe he just needs to get hurt a few more times!"

The soldier squeaked.

"...Oh." Tathor shrunk down sheepishly. "I spoke before I thought again, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Felrion confirmed, "and in fact, I believe you just threatened our patient."

"Oops..." Tathor smiled apologetically at the soldier. "I meant if you keep being a soldier, you'll eventually get hurt a bunch and... that's not much better, is it?"

"Nope," said Felrion, sending a smirk at Galion, who was a bit mortified at his oblivious child's behavior. "However, you did distract him so well I don't think he even noticed me sewing up his leg, so..."

The soldier gasped and sat up to check that his limb was still in one piece. "How did you do that? I didn't even feel it!"

"I put a mild anesthetic in the ointment."

"Wow." The soldier looked closely at the stitches in his leg, which was apparently unwise because he then turned green again.

"You're worse than Kilvara," Felrion sighed, pushing him down again. "Tathor, rebind this and then he can go. I suppose I should have had you do the whole thing, but I thought he might panic when he saw the needle."

"Alrighty," Tathor agreed, snatching up the bandages. "This should heal pretty fast," he told the soldier. "You could probably go back to training tomorrow, but I'd wait until the day after just to be sure. There might be a scar for a few weeks."

"Really?" the soldier asked in bewilderment. "That's it?"

"Yeah. I guess the cuts seem worse when they happen to you. There you go, all done; do you want some ice to put on it when the numbing stuff wears off?"

The soldier sat up again, regarding his leg in a bemused manner. "No, that's okay. I guess it's not that bad after all."

Tathor winked at Galion.

. . . . . .

"Did you come to help?" Those were the first words out of Firith's mouth when he saw Galion and Tathor—the latter being present because Felrion didn't anticipate needing him soon—coming down the stairs.

"We'd love to," said Galion, looking around at the moderate level of chaos happening in the storage rooms. "What's going on?"

Firith ducked between two elves carrying boxes to reach his father and brother. "We're reorganizing," he declared, showing them a list. "One of the rooms hadn't been cleaned out in years, so we're taking stuff out of there and sorting it, and moving other things in. Oh, and a new shipment from the humans came yesterday."

"We can do that," Galion assured him. "Do you have another copy of that list?"

"Just come work with me; I'm about to start sorting some old dishes we used to use for feasts so we can decide what to do with them."

"Why do we need to sort them for that?" Tathor wondered.

Firith didn't appear to have considered that question before.

"Because it's you," Tathor decided. "Okay, let's sort things."

They went to a relatively uncrowded room and started sorting boxes of dusty dishes and silverware into piles across the floor. Tathor got to be in charge of taking things out of the boxes and handing them to the other two after his sorting attempts left Galion wondering if he couldn't see color properly like some humans. (Or at least, Sky had told him once that some humans were "colorblind", but he wasn't sure she knew what she was talking about; what a weird problem that would be.) Of course, Galion also remembered Felrion spending a very, very long time teaching Tathor to look carefully at herbs before he fed them to elves, so his eyes were probably fine.

"Hey Firith," Tathor piped up suddenly, "I met a she-elf—"

"Another one?" Galion repeated with concern. Unlike Firith, who still hadn't shown interest in females—which was perfectly fine, since he wasn't even a hundred yet—Tathor seemed to have a new crush every month. How he even met that many unmarried she-elves, Galion didn't know.

Tathor shook his head. "This one's not really that interesting to me."

Whew, thought Galion. He didn't want to coach Tathor through any more almost-relationships.

"But I think Firith would like her."

Firith dropped a handful of forks with a clatter. "Oh—uh—I'm okay, thanks!" He stammered hurriedly. "I mean, thank you, Tathor, but you really don't need to—you haven't—TOLD her anything—have you?!"

Tathor blinked. "She's just a girl, Firith, not a Vala or anything."

Galion interfered. "Tathor, I don't think your brother wants to court anyone yet."

"I know, but... why not? She's really nice..."

"Um..." Galion stroked his chin as he tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy the young elf. "Relationships are a big responsibility, so it's usually better not to have any until you're a little older and all settled into the community."

"But Taen and Lanthirel got married when they were my age and they're like... like... soulmates or something!"

Oh dear. "Ah, well, that was a special thing they did in Doriath that probably wasn't a good idea anyway." Thank you, Eru, for not letting that be normal here. "And soulmates aren't real, remember—they just really love each other."

"I guess you and Nana were way older and you love each other almost as much," Tathor admitted reluctantly. "But Nana and Felrion both say it's fine if I start thinking about who I might marry someday."

"Felrion isn't one of your parents, Tathor."

"I knowwwwww..."

"And it's fine if you talk to she-elves sometimes, but you're not allowed to get serious about it until you're..." Galion fished in his head for a number. "Five hundred."

Tathor gave him the begging look that was solely his now that Legolas thought it wasn't dignified enough. "Five hundred?!"

That was still very young for a Silvan marriage, and Galion was hoping it took way, way longer than that. "Yes."

Tathor looked down at the floor glumly. "Okay..."

"Great. Now, please hand me those green plates?"

Tathor handed him the plates, and they went back to sorting (joining Firith, who'd been silently sorting trays by weight and hoping the conversation wouldn't come back to him). Hoping to cheer up his still-gloomy son, Galion asked Tathor what Felrion was teaching him now, which worked like a charm.

When Tathor's chattering reached a natural break, Firith stealthily crept over to his father and whispered, "I can't get married until I'm five hundred either, right?"

I trust him to be rational, Galion thought, but he knew what Firith wanted to hear. "No."

Firith breathed a sigh of relief.

. . . . . .

"Hello, Galion!"

"Legolas! Come in, come in—let me take your cloak—how was training?" Since the king was still busy, they'd invited Legolas over for dinner. (Thranduil would get his dinner from a different source—Lanthirel had offered to bring food for him as well as her husband, since she and Taensirion lived closer to the meadow where the king gave his speeches. They could've eaten at the feast hall, of course, but better for the food to be prepared by someone they knew.)

"Not bad; I got to spar with Silana. Almost beat her."

"I think she let you, 'Las," Tathor told him apologetically as he came over to give his friend a side-hug. He had to stretch a bit to do so; even though Galion's sons were tall for Silvans, they were small compared to the half-Sinda.

"Shush. Have you ever fought her?"

"No, but I've watched..." Tathor shook his head in amazement. Silana perhaps wasn't the fighter Thranduil was, but she was getting close; Taensirion thought she was about to surpass his ability, if she hadn't already.

"Hmph." Legolas stepped past Galion and paused. "Kimbrel?"

The fiery-haired elf gave him a passing glance; she was teaching Caliel some sort of weird balancing exercise, and they were practicing standing on one leg while moving their arms in various patterns. It looked very silly, and Galion assumed it was Kilvara and not Alagon who'd taught her. "Prince," Kimbrel acknowledged Legolas with a curt nod, before pretending he wasn't there.

"Hi," said Caliel.

Firith poked his head out of the kitchen, where he was keeping an eye on the chicken soup. "Hi, Legolas."

"Hey," the prince returned. He considered Caliel and Kimbrel. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing," said Kimbrel, without looking at him.

"Practicing what...?"

"Balance."

"Can I try?"

Kimbrel ignored him, so Legolas hopped up and joined them.

Kimbrel and Caliel switched to doing handstands, which looked quite difficult. Tathor joined in as well.

"Hey Tathor, I can do it with one ha—"

What followed were an alarming few moments which sounded something like "Look out!"-thump-"Oof!"-thump-"Ow!"-thumpthump. When Galion uncovered his eyes, all four elves were sprawled on the floor in a pile.

"Honestly!" Kimbrel spat, kicking free. "Uncultured mongrels!"

Caliel gave no sign of noticing the insult to her child. "They're just kids, Kim."

"Sorry," Tathor said meekly, sitting up and rubbing his bruised legs.

Legolas was less regretful, but he muffled his snickers.

Kimbrel sniffed disdainfully—she did that often—and turned away.

"Dinner's ready—" Firith stopped, taken aback by the signs of the miniature catastrophe, including an overturned chair. "Did I miss something?"

. . . . . .

"So, Kimbrel," Galion asked when dinner was over and he'd finished asking his sons and Legolas about their days (and then bid goodnight to Legolas, who was on his way home), "what do you like to do?"

Kimbrel looked taken aback, as she often did when elves asked her questions about herself. Caliel and the boys, who'd been chatting over the table (thus why Galion had decided to talk to the temporarily abandoned Kimbrel) glanced over expectantly. "Sewing, I guess, and strategy games."

"Strategy games?" repeated Galion. That seemed more Alagon's thing than Kimbrel's.

"Sure." Kimbrel frowned at his disbelief.

"She's pretty good at them," Caliel added.

"Hum. Okay. What else?"

Kimbrel thought about it and shrugged.

Tathor spoke up. "Do you like fighting? Kilvara says you're pretty good at it."

She grimaced and shook her head. "Alagon hits too hard." Galion was about to comment on that, but she continued. "I do like to help him work, though. To sort documents when he brings them home for me."

Galion and Caliel exchanged looks. Another similarity to Firith.

"How about gardening?" Firith inquired.

"Goodness, no. Too dirty." Kimbrel waved her hand dismissively.

"A little dirt is good for you," Caliel told her, in much the same way she'd repeatedly told it to Tathor and especially Firith (and sometimes Galion too).

Kimbrel's disgust was comical.

"You could grow mushrooms," said Tathor.

Everyone looked at him.

He shrugged. "What? Some of them grow on trees, so they wouldn't be dirty. I guess they're not as pretty as flowers, but they're still interesting, aren't they?"

Kimbrel scooted her chair over like he might be contagious.

"Or not, I guess," Tathor mumbled, forlornly tracing the grain of the table with one finger. He perked up a second later, distracted by a click-click sound in the hallway outside, followed by a sharp tap-tap on the door. "I'll get it!"

"There's only one elf in this place who wears hard-heeled boots," Caliel whispered to her husband. Kimbrel had already run to grab her cloak and bag.

Tathor opened the door to reveal Kimbrel's husband. "Good evening, Alagon!"

"Oh," said Alagon. "You."

Tathor's face fell. For some reason he still optimistically hoped to befriend Alagon, to whom he was evidently still in the "elfling" category, and thus undesirable company.

Luckily, Firith stepped in. "C'mon, Tathor, it's getting late."

Tathor sighed sadly, but bid his parents good night and followed his brother outside.

Alagon hovered awkwardly in the doorway; Kimbrel had run off with Caliel to find some trinket the butler's wife wanted to give her. The advisor's eyes flickered around the room, avoiding Galion, and lingered on the cluster of flower pots under the skylight. That reminded Galion of an earlier conversation. The butler hurried over to Alagon, pausing to make sure the sound of excited females was still in the bedroom. "Alagon?"

Alagon took a step back to preserve his personal space. "Yes?"

"The river banks are covered in wildflowers this time of year. You should pick some for Kimbrel."

"...What?"

"Trust me."

"But why—"

"Trust me."

The she-elves returned, and Galion gave Alagon a long, meaningful stare before getting out of the way. Kimbrel smiled at her husband, but he was too busy eyeing Galion to notice.

"Thanks so much for coming over, Kimbrel," Caliel told her friend. "Should we do this again next week?"

"Thank you for having me, and I would love to." Kimbrel spoke formal Sindarin now, like she normally did when Alagon was around.

Alagon took that as a cue that they could leave now. "Goodbye."

"Have a good night," Galion bid them as they left.

Alagon cast him one last suspicious look before closing the door behind them.

. . . . . .

"Ah," Galion sighed as he settled into bed. "It's been a good day. Very productive." He'd checked on the king and done a batch of laundry since dinner.

Caliel yawned widely and snuggled up to him. "Mm-hmm."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why are you spending so much time with Kimbrel?"

"She needed a friend," said Caliel matter-of-factly. "And I like her."

Galion smiled to himself and kissed his wife's forehead. "Good night, Callie. You're amazing and I love you."

"You're awesome too," she mumbled back.

Galion was asleep before the blush faded from his face.

. . . . . .

This is silly, thought Alagon the next morning.

But since waking up an hour ago—long before sunrise—he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that the strange butler with skills far beyond his station might know something Alagon didn't. After all, the butler obviously thought there was some great need to give flowers as gifts (was there a holiday Alagon was forgetting?), and, for some bizarre reason, Kimbrel was obsessed with the butler's relationship with his wife. Every time she spent the day with her friend, especially at the butler's home, all she wanted to talk about was how strange that marriage was and how the butler did all the work around the house and how he was so affectionate with Kimbrel's friend and how it was so very weird that Caliel liked the butler when he was so weird and subservient. Alagon didn't get it, either, but he had better things to spend his brainpower on.

Still, as Alagon placed the makeshift jar-bouquet of wildflowers on the dresser next to his still-sleeping wife, he supposed it couldn't hurt anything to give Kimbrel a gift. He'd given her flowers plenty of times while they were courting, after all (love did strange things to a person), and she always seemed to appreciate them. Perhaps it would make her happy to receive some again? It seemed sentimental to him, but there was no point in changing his mind now, so he left the flowers there and climbed back into bed to see if he could go back to sleep. He would find out in the morning how the gift was received, and could always blame his half-asleep self if they were not appreciated.

And if they were... well... maybe he would get her more sometime.

Just not in the middle of the night.