[Hmmm. Mammal fur's trickier to deal with than an elf's plumes, and Illarion's never had much practice trimming it. But that unkempt state will not do...

He makes a note to himself, and gives a huffing laugh at Nehan's jibe.] Perish the thought! If you are my wife and not hunting with me, you are heavy with my child.

[He eyes Nehan up and down in a mock-critical appraisal.] And you are worryingly too thin for me to put a child in, impossibilities aside.

No--if we are being primitives, you are a wounded member of my flock. I hunt for you until you are well; it is what is done.