They had taken the most difficult path to follow, relying on all the best heightened senses among their party, following the acrid aftertaste of deep fear in the air. Their path led them through the darkest part of the ship, where even lights they had brought with them seemed dim, choked out, and the shadows seemed to coil thickly in the wake they left.

In great part, it had been like walking into the maw of despair. There was sometimes blood, smeared on the walls- but it was black, mixed with ichor, sometimes with little drips. It was Galadriel who at last discovered that it was as if a brow or cheek had been leaned against the wall, and the smears were almost always taller than Thranduil had stood...

Scent and these telltale signs lead them on until Eric, forging always a little ahead, spies a gleam of gold on the floor. A lock, a few strands of Thranduil's hair clumped together in the hallway, scattered somewhat as if by feet. Cut jaggedly short.

There's a closed door, nearby; and more hair, just a small, frayed golden fringe of it peeking out from where the door meets the floor.