"Given the lack of something better suited for entertaining," he says. "Yes. Please."

He lights the candles, because to do otherwise would be to admit to his own sad state, but does not put out the wine. Solas dislikes tea, Thranduil dislikes ale, but he has drinking chocolate from what might have been a gift, and this he sets about making for a lack of other options and because hospitality binds him in the way that routine binds the ancient, like a wheel in a rut.

"Enter," he calls, when Solas knocks. "Lock the door after you."

The chairs are where they always are, but Thranduil is standing. Not pacing. He is too dignified to pace, but he is brittle, if only because he has not yet decided how to act yet, but is loaded with the potential to do so.

"What was it?"