He was not an evil king. He was not a bad king. He was stern and strict, as just and upright as a king should be. He was an unmovable symbol of his country of Eryn Lasgalen. He was their courage and their leader, determined to save them or death take him. His dark eyes were filled with the sorrow and age of his many years, and with greater loss than anyone should know. His heart ached every time he stepped out of his study into the halls, past the gardens, into his chambers. Every single thing in Greenwood reminded him of his wife. It cut him too deeply to even think about her, but he quietly sustained his wounds and bled in the cold of the night that reigned over him with such a hold.
Thranduil knew his son grieved as well, and knew Legolas was not so different from himself, but it was too different. He had lost a wife, the only elleth he had ever opened his heart up to love. He would never love again. The walls around his heart had been erected once more and he was driven. He was only driven. He couldn't afford emotion because emotion was what caused him all this pain in the first place. His only sin was he did not know where the line between being an elf, being a king and being a father was. His son suffered because of it, cutting Thranduil once again.
The vicious cycle continued. The Undying Lands were the only healing balm left for his soul. He prayed to the Valar that it would indeed heal him or he would fade.