To put it simply, Thranduil was miserable with himself. He had taken his chance at mending his companionship with a childhood friend, and squandered it. Just as he had done when he was still in the academy. She had tried to drag him out of his own self-pity, and he had taken it all for granted.

He stared, hollow-eyed, at the ceiling. It had done him well, in reality. Instead of collapsing with lethargy upon arrival, he sat down at his desk for the first time in what had seemed like eternity, and worked on a council proposal for the exchange of surplus harvest and Noldorin armor.

It wasn't ready to be presented just yet, but he had informed the council in the afternoon that he was in the formulation of a plan. Agarwen and Caun had sighed and rolled their eyes somewhat discretely. They didn't even bother to hide their disdain anymore. But what bothered him the most was Thorontur. His most trusted general had stayed behind after the rest of the councilmen left.

"Thranduil," he had said with a tremulous voice as Thranduil attempted to leave.

"Thorontur." Was the curt reply.

"My sister." Thorontur said, as Thranduil's stomach sank. "She grieves for you." Thorontur looked slightly menacingly at his king. "She already has enough on her shoulders without the weight of your cold dismissals. I suggest you tread carefully."

In all his years, Thranduil had never been so terrified by Thorontur.

Still staring at the ceiling, Thranduil made a decision. At least he could say he tried so he couldn't blame himself in the very likely scenario that it wouldn't work. But it would be a decision to right the wrongs. And maybe, just maybe, he could learn to live again.

Returning to the library was nothing short of torture. Every shadowy corner brought back memories and thoughts to Thranduil's mind, ones that he had fought to keep locked forever in a drawer with a missing key. More than once, Thranduil nearly turned back and fled. But he stood his ground, reminding himself over and over again that a king would never leave any misdeed unaddressed. A king would never flee from memories, no matter how agonizing they were. A king like his father would be strong.

He sat at a table with his boots propped up on the dark wood, a book in his lap and the council proposal outline on the table. Time galloped by, swallowing the hours, and Thranduil began to wonder if Irien really would forgive him.

It was nearly dusk, and Thranduil almost collected his belongings and left, resigned to his condemnation. But he then heard the sound of boots clicking on the white marble floors. Irien.

She was dressed as Lieutenant Serindir this day, the standard green cloak billowing out behind her. Irien was armed to the teeth, double daggers at her back, a sword at her side. Thranduil would bet the stars that she had knives in her boots too. He reminded himself to be careful. If anything went ill, it could get dangerous fast.

"I was beginning to wonder…" he trailed off.

"Whether I would come?" Irien asked.

Thranduil nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

A silence filled the room.

"I'm glad to see that you are still among the living," Irien said a bit stiffly.

"Me too," Thranduil admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. This was more awkward than he thought. "Your brother was quite intimidating yesterday."

Irien laughed shortly. "He does have the ability to be frightening."

Another pause.

"Erm…. I drew up an outline for the proposal. Harvest surplus in exchange for armor. Would you… could you, perhaps, look over it?" Thranduil asked.

Irien considered it for a while. "For merely academic purposes, yes."

Thranduil smiled, dragging a chair to the table, and offering Irien a seat as if it were a sophisticated dinner ball.

The two looked through the smallest details of the proposal, from wording to sentence structure. The sun had already dipped far below the horizon, and candles had been lit to keep the light. Finally, Thranduil dropped his quill on the desk and declared he was finished, rubbing his eyes.

"Why had Finrod sacrificed himself for Beren?" Irien mumbled.

"Does this pertain to the coming harvest?" Thranduil asked, slightly perplexed.

Irien laughed. "No. I was merely thinking. I've been reading. And a young soldier mentioned it today during training. He must have had an impressively thorough history teacher," she said, waving it away.

Thranduil arched his brow. "Oh, stop it!" Irien exclaimed.

Thranduil considered the amount of weaponry there was in the near vicinity and decided to examine the question carefully, lest something more... violent occur. "I always believed it was because of the oath of friendship he swore to Barahir."

"Yet Beren had released him from his oath before. Finrod wasn't obliged to save him from the wolf. He could have argued his part was merely to contest Sauron. I thought he sacrificed himself for Beren because he was a great king, looking beyond his survival into the future of Arda," Irien replied.

"Or for Amarië," Thranduil added. "She was in Valinor. Finrod thought he may return to her by death."

"Then he loved her very much," Irien said softly, more a comment to herself than to Thranduil.

Their gazes met, then flittered away.