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Summary
“Say something”, pleads Elrond.
Nothing.
“How could you let me do this to you? Why would you let me do this to you? How can you stand still as a statue while somebody rips your body to shreds? The pain must be terrible. You don’t say a word, you don’t flinch, you don’t even change your expression, you just take it…” Elrond’s voice is raising, his heart speeding up. He wants none of it, so he trails off. Besides, this has no point, Thranduil’s face is an unresponsive mask.
“That is why I am The King.” Thranduil’s words come slowly, quietly but are clear, and as silken as ever. His voice is horse, but it does not shake. And Elrond understands that he speaks quietly simply because he feels no need to shout. The King is still on his knees, but he might as well be sitting on his throne.
Thranduil makes him wait before he continues, “As to why? Because I can take it and you apparently need it.”