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Turukáno wakes, and all is well.
The cold has passed, or at least they have passed out of the cold. Itarillë sleeps under his wing, little golden tucked against his chest. He turns to press his lips to her forehead. She stirs slightly, her eyes moving in her sleep, mumbles something indistinct. They have made their tent on spring ground; a single bluebell has bloomed through their blankets and furs and tangles prettily with her hair.
But Elenwë has turned from them. She sleeps turned towards the tent entrance, sharp skinny shoulders poking out of waves of honey-blond hair. It is strange, how the twilight makes it seem the wrong hue.
She does not touch them, sleeping so by the tent flap, though Itarillë holds on to her faded green robes. Turukáno wants her closer, needs her closer. Needs to touch, to feel them both safe and with him.
“Dove?” he whispers.
“Mm?” Her voice is not how he remembers it, thick with sleep.
He tugs on one blond lock. “Come to me.”
She stretches. Turns.
Findaráto’s emerald green eyes greet him, Findaráto’s pale face and long blond eyelashes.
“What troubles you?” Findaráto asks.
Turukáno cannot draw breath to answer.