Thranduil sighed as he sat on his throne, dying to twirl his crown of woodland flowers about his long fingers, spring was come again and so did the unnumbered problems of his people. There was much on his mind that day of significant importance, and it was no interest of his as to exactly why the flower gardens should be replanted now and not in the summer as proposed. The Shell of the King nodded its head in consent. The gardener slithered away, clutching his precious plans that the Shell had not bothered to look at. One more arduous duty of state removed, another one sliding into place. Behind the seemingly attentive eyes, however, Thranduil was in a world of his own, letting the Shell work its own cogs and wheels.

Why did he bother?

Thranduil knew that at a wave of his hand, he could be removed from this torturous practice, place Legolas there in his place and let him listen to the nonsense his state advisors threw at him. Then again he would not. He knew better. Legolas was never the political one in the family, and Thranduil could not blame him. Mirkwood, as it was now known, was in shackles, and as the King, he knew it well. Giant spiders wove their webs hither and thither without regard or boundary, reckless in their hate of the Elves. Dol Guldur festered in the south, a stinking wreak of orcs and evil, having troubled Thranduil for over a century.

The Shell nodded again to the village leader in front of it.

So there he was, a King of his people, yet his own Realm was overrun with disease and decay, seemingly so dull in comparison to brilliant Laurelindorenan in the South-east. It was such a burden, such a difficult situation. The only large Elven realm without a Ring of Power to aid his rule, and with a infested forest of massive proportions at his command, Thranduil was at a loss.

The Shell signed yet another form to settle another affair.

Why could it not be of the time of Oropher, his father, when all was known as Greenwood the Great? Yet now he, Thranduil, was known and praised as the greatest of the Kings. How ironic, he thought. With a realm that is falling apart, and a people who were not as wise as they should. It was like playing some complex game of hide and seek, running from his problems and his fears. This was not as a king should be. He was not as a king should be.

The Shell dismissed the court for the day.

Thranduil let himself fade back into reality as people filtered out of his court. The Shell and the Mindset merged together, and the Real, Whole Thranduil melted tiredly into his throne. How he wished he could change things, develop a proper alliance with Celeborn and Galadriel, chase the darkness away from his land and make all well again.

The logical side of his mind tittered accusingly. The borders were unkempt, the roads too dangerous and hard, unable to be properly guarded against the evils of the Deceiver. His people came closer each day to the palace as Dol Guldur grew stronger. His own realm was too treacherous to be penetrated, even by the people that had inhabited it for thousands of years.

Beneath reams upon reams of endless paperwork, hours of mindless talk and an eternity of duty, Thranduil knew why he took it all upon himself. To hide, to hide like a coward away from the troubles of his land, his people, his realm. He knew why he let himself slip away and why he left his Shell behind, a whisper of his true self when people came running to him. Just to fade away, into memory, to hide and to consider alone and shielded. Everyday, each day.

Just another day in the life of a King.