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The king was grieving, and when that was the case, the whole kingdom knew.
It had been nothing special. There had not been a public announcement, nor a grieving period; no ceremonies nor speeches.
When the queen had died, the whole kingdom had known, for the funeral rites where many and solemn.
Everyone had shared that unbearable pain, everyone from the forest's borders to the river, and the mournful melodies that rose from the dark paths underneath the withering threes had kept many at Laketown.
Everything in the forest stopped for a whole week as the elves, creatures blessed with long, seemingly unending lives, tried yet again to grasp the concept of loss and death.
That had been a great, teary, shared pain.
Now, though, the king was mourning alone.
Although the new loss could be considered of lesser value, he had holed himself up in his quarters, leaving everything behind for three days.
One thing the ever so stern and glacial king could not handle well was loss, and yet, it seemed to be a haunting presence in his life.
The elk had passed. Suddenly, unpredictably.
Golden Trail, the elk he had so carefully raised, had died over the course of three days. A sudden collapse in his health, cause unknown.
Completely fine one evening, unable to stand the next morning.
Golden Trail couldn't walk, the legs trembled and he wobbled, and he staggered.
He couldn't eat, just numbingly look at the food, tongue drooping out of the mouth, eyes absent.
He couldn't drink, just rest his head on the edge of the water crate they had brought in when it had become clear that moving to the stream was no longer possible.
He couldn't rise his head to look at the caretakers, looking anxiously at the dying animal.
He couldn't greet his beloved master when he reached out for him, trying to elicit a reaction, a sound, anything from his withering form.
That morning the king had ran far away from that place, fists clenched and staying completely silent.
Thranduil had ran away from his retainers, away from the usual paths.
Deep into the forest, he had stopped, fallen to the ground, and let out a soul-wrenching scream, sobbing like a child.
Then, after some time, he had wiped away his tears, straightened his posture, turned back, and walzed back into the palace with that steady step and unreadable expression of his.
Nothing had seemed to work, and Golden Trail's health had deteriorated in the span of 48 hours. No medicin nor skilled physician could heal the miserable beast.
And so he passed.
For the following three days the prince had ordered the court around from the throne room, never once climbing up the stairs to the throne itself.
This time, the king was going to grieve alone, hidden in the shadows of his room, for that pain was not one anyone else would've been able to share.
The elk couldn't talk, nor make public appearances, nor greet the people. That animal didn't have a life outside of what he was for his master, and only he himself could mourn the loss in the right way.
Consoling words where meant to fall on deaf ears.
Thranduil could only sit there, on the edge of his bed, which was undone and messy.
He sat there with his face in his hands, listening to his own uneven breath as his hair got stuck to his wet cheeks and hot skin.
Sometimes a sob snuck between two shaking breaths; sometimes he clenched his teeth and sunk his fingers in his head, stifling a loud, painful sound.
A short part of his life spent his his beloved companion had been the entirety of the latter's existence. He had been Golden Trail's whole world.
A happy life and a meaningful existence: that he hoped to have given to him. And although it made the pain not even a little less heart-wrenching, it told him that he had done him right.
Now, he could only stay still; far, far away from what he would've gone back to be the next day, with his crown and his throne.
He could only stay there and keep his eyes closed, trying so hard not to look at the window, for everything reminded him of what he had lost.
That bird flying away, that one leaf falling on the water and flowing away with the stream, that cloud disappearing behind the oak three.
And then he had to close his teary eyes, thinking that he had loved and been loved, held dearest by a soul that live with and for him, free from whichever kind of prejudice or ulterior motives.
He had given all he could, up to the last, thin breath that dying creature had taken.
He would've had to take consolation in that, and make it be enough to last for a lifetime.