A shadow lies on Thranduil and his forest, and only a power stronger than the darkness of old can save them.
Grief and loss have turned him into a king with a heart of ice, and if he is ever to find redemption, the chains of guilt and remorse holdin...
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I would hold you now, if only I knew how. (Sleeping At Last: Resolve.)
With great reluctance Thranduil had left Anna behind, the haunting amalgam of love and hate in her eyes sending him into a painful spiral of despair and desire. But he would need to silence his heart's tender whispers in favour of the admonitory call of duty, which translated into attending the matters of his kingdom, something he had always prided himself in doing with utmost diligence and selfless devotion. Despite the recent victory against the orcish forces in Dale he could not afford to be negligent. The battle might have been won, but the war against the eternal foe was far from over. He could feel it, the lingering shadow that darkened both his heart and his forest. For a mere instant the malignant clouds had been lifted, allowing the rays of hope to shine through, but the evil storm was still brewing, always on the move, searching for a hold in his lands, sneaking and slithering like a venomous snake, ready to strike when least expected, and he needed to be one step ahead. Thranduil was an ever vigilant and prescient monarch and if he wished for his lands and its people to remain safe, any seemingly insignificant detail would have to be taken into account and observed carefully. And of course any messenger needed to be treated with the same attentiveness, be it someone from Dale or an emissary from the elven realms of Lorien or Imladris. The only thing he hoped for was that he would not have to concern himself with any of this confounded dwarvish nonsense.
So he sat upon his antlered throne, his head held high, a crown of holly resting on his silken hair, the cascades of his silvery white cloak flowing around his body and spilling onto the throne like a frozen waterfall. It glittered iridescently in the speckled light of the magnificent hall's vaulted dome as if it had been woven out of ice crystals. Underneath the cloak's abundant fabric a velvet robe in burgundy with black piping and a high open collar came into view, the spider brooch resting just beneath his neck, his whole appearance a picture of wintry splendour. The lofty height of his throne provided him with a welcome distance from the world around him and the subjects inhabiting it. Not that anyone would have seen a trace of his emotional upheaval on his face, after all he had several millennia of practice in keeping up a facade that was both flawless and stoic, but today he felt that the polished veneer might crumble at any given moment if anyone got too close to him. But Thranduil had all reason to be pleased with the outcome of this meeting, for the messenger had brought glad tidings. Not only had his son and his commander cooperated in an unexpectedly harmonious way in settling the affairs concerning the Woodland Realm in the aftermath of the battle, but they and with them the majority of the Elven army were now finally heading back to Mirkwood. Only those who would help in the rebuilding of Esgaroth would stay behind for as long as they were needed. Still, there was another detail of which he was not entirely sure if it was to his liking or not, and that was the fact that apparently Mithrandir and Master Baggins had joined the Elves on their return path. The meddlesome wizard and the nosy hobbit were not really the kind of visitors he was looking forward to receive right now, as he feared that they might inevitably poke their noses in affairs that most certainly did not concern them in the least.
