Author's note: And, as promised, an early update! Thank you all.

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 found himself facing the portrait of his father again. "Mae govannen, Adar," he began. "What are the stars like, above Belegaer? Are they any different? Is Eärendil brighter, Adar?" he asked. He glanced at the parchment on his desk. Someone slipped it there daily, his schedule for the day etched out in that unforgiving black ink.

He was slated for several meetings: one with Fion, the other with Mindon, and one for the entire council. It was the first one after Oropher's funeral. Thranduil hoped against hope that they would have some mercy with him; not feed him to the wolves. He sighed.

"I do not wish to attend the meetings," he admitted aloud, glancing back at his father's painting. He sighed again. It was becoming a more and more familiar sound nowadays. "But go I must." Strengthening his resolve, he swept out of the door and down to the council hall of nightmares.

Thranduil wanted to bury his head in his arms, curl up and leave. His counsellors had been arguing about whether or not to offer aid to the rest of the kingdoms after the battle.

"Yet they suffered heavy losses also!" Agarwen was arguing.

Thranduil almost rolled his eyes, irritated to the highest degree. "And so did we," he asserted. "They are the Noldorin. They can fend for themselves."

"We can help them too," Erfaron said quietly.

Thorontur leaned forward. "We have our own troubles to look for, in our own borders." Thranduil mentally frowned. Thorontur had been backing him in almost every single debate the council had since the fall of Oropher.

"We lost two thirds of our force," Thranduil said. "We do not have the capacity to help the Noldor and sustain our own defenses."

"Against what?" Caun demanded. "What do we have to fear? Sauron is decimated."

"There are more evils than Sauron in the world, Caun," Istor said dryly.

There was a pause in the discussion, the Elven lords realizing they may never reach an agreement on the topic. In fact, there had been nothing they had agreed upon. The inadequacy of Thranduil's entire reign seemed to weigh down on him, a pressing burden that crushed him every day.

The notion was recognized by more than half of the counsellors.

"My lord Thranduil," Agarwen said, "You are still young for the kingship, a small green leaf on a massive tree. Your father did not know of what was to transpire. I urge you to appoint a steward, so you may grieve in peace."

So they thought he was a weakling, an incompetent young elf. They thought he was not capable, not knowledgeable enough to be the king. His blood boiled at the thought, a deep anger rising up inside him. Oh, the suggestion sounded tempting. So tempting. But Thranduil knew, in some sane recess of his insane mind, that his father would want him to stand up and be strong. Yet he could appoint Thorontur as a steward….. Thranduil forced himself to stop. It would injure his pride forever. He would never be able to recover. No, he had to overcome in his own way, not by backing down and shriveling at the first wind.

"Lord Agarwen, I appreciate your concern," he said calmly. "But I shall rule the kingdom in the way I see fit. Worry not, I shall not fall into insanity any time soon."

Thorontur chuckled, the only one to appreciate the jest.

"My lord," he said. "My father, Serindir of the House Dair, emissary of Mirkwood is presently stationed in Imladris. You could call him back to Eryn Galen to give a thorough report on the condition of the Noldor."

Thranduil mused on the thought. "Yes," he finally agreed.

The counsellors glowered. Thranduil sighed inwardly yet another time. How would he ever gain the approval of all? If the first days were bad, how would it ever get better? His head ached, begging for fresh air and a cleared mind.

"Avorsel," he ordered his messenger.

"Yes, my lord," she bowed.

"Send word to Lord Serindir in Imladris. Tell him he is to report in Eryn Galen."

"Yes, my lord," she repeated, backing out of the door to saddle her horse and to fulfill her lord's wishes.

"Now you all," Thranduil drawled, turning his attention to his discontent counsellors. "Be gone. We shall make a final decision when Lord Serindir arrives."

Muttering, the council members stood and left the room in pairs. Soon, there was only Thorontur and Thranduil left in the massive chamber. All at once, he felt so insignificant and small, only one among millions of insignificants in this world, pulled together into something that is mildly significant in the grand scheme of the universe.

Thorontur stood, steel in his eyes. He bowed. "My lord," he murmured, and left.

Thranduil had never felt so alone.

"Father!" he almost yelled at the painting. Oropher continued to glare at him. "You!" He shook a trembling finger at his father. "You left me alone, alone to the wolves, alone to fend for myself!" He slammed the painting down, a loud clatter of the metal frame on wood. "You never cared! They all hate me now, they think I'm incapable, small!"

Thranduil kicked the wall, pain lancing through his foot. He yelled something incoherent, one part of him afraid, afraid of what he had become. But that burning anger was much stronger, lashing out at everything and everyone. He slid down the wood-paneled walls, punishing himself for all the wrongs of the world. It hurt, but Thranduil welcomed the pain, pain through violence. He felt like he had somehow earned it.

Finally, exhausted and shattered, Thranduil finally sat huddled in that shadowy corner, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Absolutely nothing passed in his mind during this time: he merely sat and stared. The sun set, the stars had come out. Still, he continued his steadfast watch on a dark knot of wood in the panel. For there was nothing, nothing left for him in the world. Nothing.

The days had passed like a whirlwind, filled with council meetings and trainings. The army corps mandatory training was somewhat better; only, the patterns and rotations Oropher once called to his army now were barked out by Thranduil. And the meetings! They were practically living hell. Every single time, those generals beat him to the ground. By now, it was as if he were a puppet king, the real power from the advisors.

It seemed like he and his counsellors and captains disagreed on everything. On some most debates, there were more than two sides. Thranduil's only constant supporter was Thorontur, yet he was cool and distant when Thranduil approached him. In this world, he was truly alone. He never realized how much his father meant to him until he was gone. And now there was no way of going back.