They had returned to the Woodland Realm soon after. Thranduil could not bear to see the bier of his father being carried back to his kingdom. He was lying so still, so quietly, Thranduil could no longer bear it. So he had ridden in the back, attempting to make conversation with the rest of the soldiers. Needless to say, it was fruitless.

On return, Thranduil ordered soldiers return to their families. Nearly two thirds of the Woodland Army had been decimated by those monstrous, deformed yrch. It would be soon time to recruit more soldiers from the academy. Some soldiers would have to be promoted, the dead and live sorted out, letters sent out to mourning families. It made Thranduil's head hurt just thinking of it.

Soon enough, he reached the gates of Mirkwood palace. There were Elves by the main road, watching as their army rode past. Word had reached their ears already of the news of their King's death. They craned their necks, hoping to catch a glimpse of their former Prince, now King. So Thranduil had held his head high and proud, knowing he owed it to his father to be strong, at least for a few minutes.

As soon as they reached the last set of gates, Thranduil dismounted his magnifice elk, his stable boy leading it into the stables. He breathed the crisp air, clearing his mind. It was always where he had most felt at home, among the trees and forests of Mirkwood. He had spent hours in these trees, jumping from branch to branch. The corners of Thranduil's mouth curled up, smiling at the memories of many broken arms and limbs as a result of his childhood tomfoolery in the forest.

His father had always been there to help him up and carry him to the healer's wing, where Mireth would patch up his leg while he whimpered. This time, there was no Oropher to turn to, no father to help him up when he fell. The grief had become a familiar ache in his chest, one he knew all too well. Thranduil's face turned stony, and he turned towards the narrow bridge that led to the castle doors.

As he walked through the halls, Thranduil was shocked by the torrent of memories that doused him as a sudden rain on a cold winter's night. This is where he had spent countless hours racing through the halls, laughing as a child, or wrestling with his friends. His father had doubtlessly yelled at him to sheathe his sword while running in the crowded halls, lest he unwittingly decapitate a lieutenant.

Fighting to keep a straight, kingly posture, he had returned to his quarters, preparing for a council meeting the next day. In truth, Thranduil had no wish to think of his kingly duties; things his father had done for thousands of years. He was not ready to clean out his father's rooms, not to mention moving in to them. At any rate, he had been comfortable in his own quarters.

But even his own rooms offered no solace. From the cloaks in the wardrobe to the books in the shelf, Oropher was in every one of them. He had chosen the royal colors, most of which dominated Thranduil's attire. Oropher had picked out the ridiculously difficult Quenya texts for his son to read. But worst of all was the small painting of Oropher on Thranduil's oak desk. It depicted a proud, noble king with long golden tresses, exactly the shade of his son's. He held his sword high, his brilliant blue eyes fixated upon Thranduil.

He was so lifelike, so real. Thranduil reached out with shaky fingers to touch the cold, canvas surface of the painting, half expecting to touch living flesh. "What am I to do now?" he whispered. "I know not." He wanted his father to answer, to open his mouth and give him advice, tell him what to do. Thranduil didn't want to make his own decisions, and dictate the fate of his kingdom. There were thousands of Elves whose lives he was responsible for.

Of course, the painting didn't respond. So Thranduil set it down gently, grabbed a random stack of parchment and a quill from his desk, and swept out of the room to the council chamber.

The new Elvenking sat in his father's seat in front of a dark, mahogany table with generals, captains and advisors arrayed around. They all wore the signs of battle, injuries all around: a broken arm here, a bandage there. Thorontur, the General of the Third Corps, sat on his right. Another thing Oropher had left behind was the First Corps. He was their general, they were his troops.

They were all looking at him expectantly. Thranduil didn't know what to say, especially after getting distracted. He gathered his thoughts, took a deep breath, and began.

"Generals and captains, we have work to do," he said. He might as well be blunt about it. No sense buttering over the truth. "After my father's death," he paused. "Mayhem ensued. We need to recruit new members, train them and get them ready for war."

The members of the group exchanged almost irritated glances, not bothering to mask them. One captain leaned forward.

"With all due respect, my lord," he said. "The war is over."

Thranduil looked over at the insolent. "With all due respect, Captain Caun," he glared, "At any moment, any other kingdom can turn around and attack us. We are weak; two thirds of our army gone. Enemies with brains will turn around, their eyes fixated on our kingdom."

Caun nearly sighed. "Where are these enemies?" he asked.

Thranduil surveyed the allegiances of the other commanding captains. About half were glaring at him, the other half was looking at him somewhat sympathetically. He cursed inwardly. This was no way to start his reign. He did the logical thing: switch gears. But before he could open his mouth, General Thorontur opened his mouth to speak.

"My lord, what of Oropher's funeral?" he asked quietly, yet firmly.

Thranduil looked at his general. His legs were crossed, arms folded, but he displayed a sense of command. His voice demanded respect. Thranduil sighed. Thorontur would be much better than he was at this job.

"My father will have a funeral with the highest honors at the Anduin," Thranduil replied. Several of his counsellors were nodding, a good sign. At least they had loyalty to my father, so if I could constantly turn it back to father, I might earn their respect too. But he dismissed the thought as easily as it came. He couldn't incessantly refer to his father.

The meeting was already tiring him. Thranduil snapped his attention back to the discussion, on what sort of foreign dignitaries would be invited, and the like. He pulled out his parchment and quill, and began the exhausting task of planning a funeral without thinking of whom it was for.