Author's note: Thank you all for support, reviews and comments. A tip of the hat to all those who read, reviewed and/or followed! A fair note about the following segment: It's a bit shorter than the others. I'll update two times this week to make up for it. :)
Disclaimer: Everything except for the following characters are Professor Tolkien's (The names Thorontur and Fion are TolkienScribe's): Irien, all council members, Serindir, Avorsel, and Linneth.
Thranduil stared at the crown of woodland flowers, the very crown his father wore. Since he had returned to Mirkwood, Thranduil had refused to don the crown. It seemed wrong; wrong that he should take up his father's crown. It would be a final goodbye to his father, a final statement that seemed too inferior. The very action would show Mandos that he accepted his father's death. And the truth was anything but that. Yet someone had laid the crown on his dresser, as a way of telling him to wear it to his Oropher's funeral at the Anduin.
He could not stomach the idea of wearing his father's crown, so instead, he placed a fillet of silver with a single droplet of diamond on his head. Oropher had it made for Thranduil to wear for several occasions, who preferred it rather than the burdened crown of leaves.
Thranduil checked his weapons one last time: sword, sheathed and primed for use at his side, bow and arrows strapped to his back, also ready for action. He slid a dagger in his boot, and swept out of the doors, his silver robes billowing out behind him.
He stared at the figure lying in a beautiful wooden boat. Thranduil tried not to look at his father's face, dead now, yet looking so alive at the same time. He could imagine his father suddenly sitting up, brilliant blue eyes open and awake. He could imagine his father's wide smile, and a laugh as he explained how it was all a farce, a joke. A cruel joke, yes, but a joke nonetheless. Of course, nothing happened to the corpse in the boat. The vessel was made of polished wood, gleaming in the evening sunlight. But the finery didn't matter; Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm, was gone forever into the dark abyss of no return. The same would be true if he were lying in a shack in a deserted meadow leagues away.
"My lord?" came a voice, asking.
Thranduil whirled around. Behind him were Thorontur, and two other captains of the army: Fion and Mindon. It dawned on him that they and he were to be the entourage that supported the last vessel of Oropher to the banks of the Anduin. He vaguely remembered Thorontur informing him of such an occurrence. It was where the latest king of Mirkwood would make his last journey into Belegaer, the Great Sea, and away from the circles of the world. The reasoning? Elves didn't bury their dead. It was a tradition of the Naugrim. The Eldar also didn't burn their dead kings like pigs on a spit. No, to the sea they must go.
"Yes, my friends. Shall we?" he asked quietly, motioning.
So Thranduil Oropherion, General Thorontur and Captains Fion and Mindon marched solemnly into the clearing of trees by a grassy bank of the Anduin River with the body of their former king and general on their shoulders. There were few beings present; the council had agreed on that much. Oropher would not have wanted a massive affair of trumpets and long speeches. So Elrond Peredhil and his children, as well as Galadriel and the rest of the Galadhrim were in attendance.
An ethereal Elvish melody erupted into the silent air, full of dissonant and haunting chords. Thranduil refused to allow himself to display emotion on his face, hoping tears wouldn't come in the presence of such mighty company. He and his comrades lowered the boat onto the reeds by the shore.
The sun was a bloody red, as deep and scarlet of the blood that watered the plains of Dagorlad. The last of its rays were being casted on the waters of the river, reflecting off its rippling surface. It would have been a beautiful day, if it were not for the circumstances.
The melody reached a breaking point, a crash of chords and a melody washing over it, sorrowful and nostalgic. Thorontur, Fion and Mindon had retreated to the depths of the crowd, leaving Thranduil alone at the river. He cast one last look at his father.
He made sure he remembered every single detail. The slight curve of his jaw, the slight silvery tinge in his hair, bathed in sunlight. Thranduil felt tears prick the back of his eyes. "Namarie, Adar," he whispered. Then, slowly bending down, he gently pushed the boat away from the reeds and into the swift current of the Anduin. Thranduil straightened, letting his hands fall limp at his side as he spent long seconds watching the boat disappear into the horizon.
What now? What did do before this? What did he take joy in? Why did he laugh? Was there anything? Thranduil wanted to curl up and hold his head in his hands, leaving the world of responsibility away, far away in the distance. The dark emptiness threatened to close in, so near to his aching heart. Thranduil didn't have the strength left to beat it back. So inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, the bareness of void sunk in and took its hold.