Obi-Wan has his hope, he ought to hold tight to it—and Thranduil respects him for it. It pains Thranduil to see him aged. He has lost many, will lose more, but even the elves here will not be reembodied; he has so little time with them, and he has unlearned or at least fumbled the important lesson—that all mortals will die, and how painful it is to try and hold on.

He slides to the end of the bench so that Obi-Wan might wheel himself to the other end, and they can sit closer. It is a very clever chair.

“I have indeed. Shall we round it to two years?” He, graciously, will not count the two where he didn’t speak with anyone.