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                A slow turn of his head towards the catalyst of the end was the only response he could conjure. Words could not be found nor formed, his voice was lost as was his mind and ultimately all of his coherence. Yet still, his features betrayed not his title and pride as Mirkwood’s ruler. A cold countenance, icier than the torrential flow of glaciers and endless snowstorms. 

                And then, there was silence. A silence that was deafening in its magnitude - deafening silence, muteness —-

                                                                                   —-      ….an abysmal void.

                Nothing, everything, and nothing came to be as he tried to collect himself, to gather most of what he can of himself, but he was unable to successfully accomplish this, not even one piece of himself could be held firmly to maintain even the slightest semblance of sanity. There was no redemption from the shadows, from the darkness - hope has faded and has no lost the courage to negate the maniacal voice within.

                His blood ran still and he could not breathe. He wondered how everything else inside of him continued to function when his heart has gone and fallen. His world was now plunged in absolute monochrome for the colour of hope, that of which was evergreen, his little leaf of green has wilted away and has been taken from him by the contending forces of evil.

                It was strange, really.

                Strange. He could not feel anything; he felt nothing but the numbness of everything. Awareness has long left him. When had his knees given up on supporting him? When was it that he fell unto the unforgiving floor, devoid of warmth and comfort? When was it… the last time that he felt his eyes stinging and his ears ringing?

                ❝ You lie…❞

                Whether he said it or mouthed it, he knew not - but it has certainly been put out in the open. Surely, surely this was but a nightmare; he has a lot of those, he was haunted by them often and every time he thought them real, he would wake up on his bed, sweating, scared, stunned, but reassured that his nightmares were not real, they were not —- this, this must also be that, a nightmare.

                Soon enough, he will wake from this ill dream. When he does, he will find his son well and alive and safe at home.

                No, Legolas was not on some life-threatening quest. No, his son was safe in his halls. No, Thranduil did not send him to his death when he chose him as his messenger. His son was not… could not be…

                Oh, but he was. Legolas was not anymore in the protective care of Thranduil and his realm. Months ago, he left for Elrond’s council and he has yet to return and he, it would seem, will never return. He has left, has been claimed by the blasted halls that claimed also his father.

                Thranduil covered his face with his hands as control slipped out of his hands, fair features and illusions be cursed (he cared not about who saw him mourn) and he let out a soundless scream, but no sound was heard - none by deaf ears of one broken and utterly spent elf.

                And then once more, there was deafening silence.