Thranduil

The heavy autumn crown of sharp twigs and crimson leaves sat askew upon a platinum-blonde head, a stark, thorny weight over a soul completely undone. King Thranduil sat hunched in the dim torchlight of the study, an intricate bronze cloak draping heavily across a slumping, majestic frame. Icy blue eyes remained downcast, thoroughly blinded by silent, burning tears that tracked down his lightly tanned skin, naturally sun-kissed skin. His trembling Right hand clutched a tall goblet of deep red Dorwinion wine, the elaborate Wedding, jewel-set ring on his long index finger clinking hollowly against the glass. The King is entirely grief-stricken, physically collapsed into the shadows of the desk, utterly unable to face the realm or the crushing silence of a severed soul-bond. Feren had been strictly ordered to watch over the infant prince, keeping newborn Legolas far from this suffocating, volatile vault of sorrow. A quiet presence shifted near the threshold. The rustle of papers on the desk whispered through the gloom as the companion approached, brave enough to cross into the broken king’s isolation. Thranduil did not raise a lowered head, nor look up to see who had entered. The hyper-acute senses merely registered a gentle, familiar warmth cutting through the freezing void of the study. "She is gone," Thranduil choked out, a poetic baritone voice cracking into a raw, hollow whisper that barely carried across the stone. "The bond is empty. She is gone."