“This is a terrible idea, Arwen.”
The lady turned ‘King’ glanced at her husband, bedecked as he was in a gown of green velvet, coronet balanced upon his dark hair, and giggled. “It’s a splendid costume meleth-nin. Don’t be so serious. This party is suppose to be fun.”
“Easy for you to say.” He sighed, grumbling. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“That’s silly. Tomorrow no one will even remember.”
As if to lend weight to Aragorn’s words, Faramir stood, eyes twinkling behind a falcon mask, and raised his goblet high.
“M’lords, m’ladies…a toast. To the Queen’s mustache!”