"Where. Is. My son!?" Thranduil screamed. "Find him!"
The guards he had summoned scattered like cockroaches to find the missing prince. The twentieth search and last.
Thranduil sighed. His son had a fiery spirit, and he hoped against hope it was not as fiery as Feanor's, which had cremated his body as it left it. It would be better if he was alive. "My son…"
As if on cue, there was a rustling of the tent flap. It was only a guard. Yet… the disheveled appearance, the look of – Of death. "Milord, I – I am sorry for your loss," he stammered. "Cirel determined his neck was broken. He and the dwarf are bringing the body."
Thranduil sank to his knees. "Daer Valar… maw ion – nin?" he wept.
The guard edged away, embarrassed to see his king's tears.
Suddenly, Thranduil looked up intensely. "What is today?"
"The… forty-ninth of Echuir…"
Thranduil leapt on his pack and fished out the journal he always kept with him, the one he recorded the year his wife died. He flipped to Echuir Forty-nine and was dismayed by what he read.
Legolas woke up because of nightmares. When I got him, he refused to go back to sleep until he had seen his nana. He didn't want to leave, so he's sleeping in our bad tonight.
That's not what concerns me. He felt he had to ask if I loved him. When I (of course) told him yes, he asked if I would love him tomorrow, the day after, the day after that, and by the end of next week. I answered yes every time. But why did he need to ask me? Am I shirking in that area? Daer Valar, help me if I am!
Several shorter entries followed, accounting for the next eight days. Each one was a variant of the first: I hope Legolas doesn't see how distraught I am. He's too young to be told that his nana has been poisoned and that if she goes to sleep, she'll never wake up again.
By the end of the next week, though, it was written: I'm sure my son had something to do with my wife's death! How else could he be so happy while she perished? I'm glad his grandparents took him away! He has NO right to be in my home!
Thranduil closed the journal and succumbed to body-wracking sobs.
Daer Valar, maw ion – nin? = Great Valar, why my son?