Thranduil stepped out into the cool air for the first time in days. He almost wanted to go back inside, to the safe confines of his room. But he had promised Irien, and he wasn't going to fail this one last time. Anyway, he would humor her for a while. Then, he would crawl back into his decrepit hole. Whether he liked to admit it or not, wallowing in his own self-pity was much easier than trying to get up and do something for a change.


Irien trudged through the woods, toward the palace entrance where she instructed Thranduil to meet. That night in the library, when she had seen her old friend, reduced to a whimpering mess, was when she decided to forget the past wounds and brush past the old scars. She had not the foresight to see what was ahead, but she knew that she must help her friend, though he had betrayed and forgotten her, so many years ago.


Thranduil spied Irien, her periwinkle blue dress bouncing around her knees as she walked.

"Mae govannen," she greeted as she finally reached him.

He inclined his head. "What... exactly do you have planned?"

She turned around towards the forest, gesturing and laughing. "We, my friend, shall walk."

"Why?"

She turned her gaze on Thranduil. "Because you have been cooped up for too long in that stone palace." Irien started off, and turned around, realizing Thranduil was still standing at the steps.

"Are you coming?" she asked.

So Thranduil could do nothing but follow.

They walked in silence until Irien spotted a bird, taking flight above the dense canopy of trees. "Look!" she cried, pointing. The bird was a dark blur against the blue sky, soaring high above, its wings outstretched. Irien laughed. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asked.

Thranduil didn't answer. "Why do you do this?" he countered.

Irien looked affronted. "Because," she explained as if he were a young child, "you were my friend, and you are my king. Is that not enough?"

Thranduil swallowed, at a loss for words.

"My mother used to tell me about the birds," he finally said, shrugging. "She would tell me stories about Gwaihir the Windlord, or Thorondur the Lord of the Eagles."

Irien laughed. A minute would not go by without her smiling or laughing. Thranduil took note of that, storing it into his mind's neatly labeled set of file drawers.

"I loved the Eagles too. It used to make me feel so powerful, like I could go anywhere, do anything, be free." Irien replied.

"I wanted to fly when I was young," Thranduil admitted. "Then I hit my head on the corner of the desk as I jumped off my father's bed."

Irien managed to keep a straight face, but Thranduil could see the amusement in her eyes. "Probably not such a brilliant idea," she said.

So the two walked along the gravel paths of Greenwood the Great, laughing and talking as if no time had passed between their first meetings, thousands of years ago under those same trees. But the world was changed, marred by Sauron the Deceiver, and nothing was simple anymore. It was no longer a question and an answer- it was a confused, tangled mess of words and tricks and lies.


The two rested at a small creek, running and splashing at their feet. Irien sat on the small bridge connecting the two banks, legs dangling over the edge. Thranduil took a seat at the base of a tree at one embankment, arms wrapped around his legs. He suddenly gave a small laugh as Irien pulled out carefully wrapped lemon tarts from a bag.

"Remember, all those years ago when we were running around in the forest?" Thranduil asked, laughing quietly.

"Well, that did occur quite often," Irien replied.

"You running into a tree did happen quite often, I suppose," Thranduil mused.

Irien's pale face turned slightly pink. "In fact, I do remember a certain Elven princeling stuck in a tree like a sloth because he was too frightened to get down!" she retorted.

"That only happened once!" Thranduil protested.

Irien raised an eyebrow and suddenly tossed a lemon tart at Thranduil.

He, of course, caught it in one hand. "Was that an attack?"

Irien snorted. "Of course, Your Magnanimous Majesty! A lemon tart in your face could have done great damage."

Thranduil considered it for a while, still keeping the lemon tart balanced delicately on his long fingers. "It could have. It would have damaged my pride."

"That, I would pay to see!" Irien exclaimed. "Just imagine! The crumbs of lemon tart on a very angry Elvenking!"

"Other than the threat of death," Thranduil said.

Irien shrugged. "I highly doubt you would order my death because I threw a lemon tart at your face. But you can do as you like."

"If you were slightly less amiable, I would. There would be no one to make fun of otherwise."

"Bah!" Irien replied, throwing another tart at Thranduil.

There was a slight silence as the two ate their fill of Linneth's lemon tarts. Irien shot a glance at Thranduil, who was licking his fingers in a most un-kingly manner.

"How have your council meetings been?" Irien ventured to ask.

"That's not an innocent question," Thranduil said, still staring at his fingers. "Thorontur has attended all of them."

"Your thoughts and my brother's differ," Irien replied.

Thranduil took a great sigh, irritated.

"Ah," Irien replied, crossing her arms. "I've heard that the other Noldorin kingdoms are requesting aid from Mirkwood."

"You overstep your bounds," Thranduil growled. There was a still silence in the air, as if the warm breeze had turned to ice. Thranduil had almost forgotten about reality just seconds ago, but he now retreated into his shell.

Irien nodded in response, ignoring the ominous scowl on Thranduil's countenance. "You could appease your counsellors by bringing the Noldor the surplus harvest, in return for superior armor."

Thranduil's scowl grew even more menacing.

"Oh, you can't admit they have exceptional craftsmanship!" Irien cried, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

"Our own will suffice," Thranduil gritted his teeth.

"Of course! And what of when superior weapons are created? Ones that can pierce our armor like a knife in soft butter? What then?"

Thranduil glared at Irien. "For once, can you cease your incessant chatter?"

Irien opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, expressionless.

Thranduil knew his words had stung, but he couldn't take them back.

"Yes, sir," Irien whispered. She straightened. "Then perhaps we should leave. It will soon be nightfall." In fact, the sun was still high in the sky, barely passing its zenith.

She turned.

Thranduil wanted to ask her to stop walking, stop slowly disappearing into a speck in the distance. Yet he could not bring himself to.

Irien, on the other hand, wanted him to halt. But he didn't know, and she could never go back now.

Something had to happen. Something drastic, something unforeseen, for any of this to unravel and be put behind. There were too many wounds from the past that still ached, deep inside. Thranduil inhaled the sweet, cold air, and swallowed his pride.

"Wait!" he cried, leaping to his feet.

She stopped, her back still to him.

"I'm sorry," he managed to choke out.

Irien inclined her head.

"Perhaps we shall meet tomorrow? The library?" Thranduil was now grasping at straws.

"Perhaps," Irien whispered, as soft as the rustle of wind in the trees. Then she was gone.