Galadriel muses on what her husband loves best. (Warning: Sexually suggestive.)
He loves best those nights when Nenya lays hidden; when cold metal does not burn his skin.
His hands first claimed me in Doriath that was. A squeeze, a trailed finger, and I longed to feel him closer. Daeron's fingers coaxed no sweeter music from lute than Celeborn's from me.
Matters of state pull us apart tonight, but a hand on my shoulder, a thumb venturing below his rich velvet collar, remind us of what may come later. 'Tis all we now require.
Tonight I shall lay aside Nenya. I too love best when his warm hands engulf my own.