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[Sorrel arrives, not over-late, but past when any business of the day might reasonably be assumed to have concluded. He knocks, of course, because however far Sorrel has come, he still hasn't fallen so far as to join the animals. Still, it's a hesitant noise, and when he's bid enter, he's a man somewhat changed, since their first meeting.

Has he lost weight? It's hard to tell at a glance. Certainly he hasn't been sleeping well, anyone can see that. No smiles here, except those wane, polite fictions that seem more a memory of happiness than an expression of what Sorrel is currently feeling.]

Good evening.

[ thranduil bids him enter without looking up, and only stands and leaves his desk once sorrel is inside and the door shut behind him. then, he comes to meet the younger elf. he offers no embrace, no salute, just looks him over, gathering what he needs from the hand of his clothes, the paper-thin skin under his eyes. ]

Sit by the fire, [ he instructs. ] Tea? Perhaps something from the kitchens? There was stout pies for lunch; I did not finish mine and cannot bear the waste.

[He wants to decline, and is trying to hide that impulse, but the mention of waste and the good Dalish manners his mother put into him put the words into his mouth whether Sorrel wills it or no; one does not waste food, and one does not refuse gifts.]

Thank you, I- [And in his warm seat by the fire, he'll drink his tea and eat the entire remainder of Thranduil's pie, come void or high water, or the pure shame of his ancestors is likely to escape the fade and smite him down.] ...I did miss lunch.

[And breakfast. But who's counting?]

I apologize for coming so late. I didn't want to interrupt your work, if I could.

[ he nods, and turns to return to his desk, where a tray the kitchen sent up for him rests. there is one whole pie, and stains that suggest there was another. it's about the side of thranduil's fist, and warm-ish, but hearty enough fare. he sets it down on sorrel's lap, and goes to fetch the kettle, the herbal tea already in the pot he'll use to brew it. ]

Eat, [ he says, ] and drink, and we will speak.

[ he keeps moving, putting things in order, being there without forcing eye contact, formality. ]

You are hardly interrupting when invited.

[Sorrel doesn't know what to say to that; his first impulse is another apology, but he can tell that that isn't the right answer. So he just hums a wordless, directionless sound of agreement. He does as he's told, and with unexpected enthusiasm. The pie itself seems as if nothing could be less desirable, until Sorrel breaks the crust and the smell rises up to strike him like a physical blow. The first bite is dignified enough, but the second is larger, and soon the tray is empty and even the tea is missing an inch or two.

The body knows what the heart sometimes forgets; death is for the dead, and no amount of love for those left behind can stop life from continuing on.]

Thank you.

[He says it softly, when he's down to the last of his tea, almost sheepish. Finally, he looks up from the cup in his hands, still warm, as if to say Now what?]

[ thranduil lets him eat without interruption, doubtless using the time to think of all he would like settled before he retires for the evening. he has a good handle on the work he does, the papers are all in order, casimir a cornerstone of the system he's developed. in other words, he's steady and confident and this is not in the least a bad time for him.

sorrel speaks his thanks, and he nods once, easy in his own space, ready to approach the matter without fear or reluctance. ]

Her name is Calenmirel. I met her when we were young, although we did not wed until later. I struggled with it at first, the loving her, for I wanted nothing more than to best her, to prove my sword-arm stronger, my arrows more steady. It is often that way for Sindar, for Silvans, that love should start as a competition, counting enemies felled in battle or who has brought home the bigger hind for the table.

[He speaks, and Sorrel says nothing, growing only more confused until understanding finally comes to him. The story started in the middle, and the beginning, but he can see the end-- though not clearly. Her name is Calenmirel? Is, not was.]

You must miss her, stuck here.

She is no further from me than she was before. I have acclimated myself, though it took years.

[ he smiles into his cup, gaze somewhere past the liquid. ]

Time will help.

[He stares for a moment, then winces, realizing-- she died. Thranduil's wife... she died. And wherever she is, wherever Falon'din's path takes the beautiful people of Thranduil's faith, she's walked that road and gone away, just like Sina had. That was what all this was about.]

I... [He stops, stricken, shaken out of his protective apathy] ...When Sina... [Her name bring shim to a halt again. He swallows, inhales deeply, and continues.] I don't even know that we counted as bonded, by your people's standards.

[It's a miserable admission. He doesn't make it in hope of any redemption, merely expressing the truth like pus; drain the guilty wound, and be disgusted by the truth of what lives inside you.]

She told me to be happy. To love whoever I loved. I loved her, though. It wasn't enough.

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I never got the ping for this but here I am

and im so glad to see you

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