They are not speaking of the death of elves. They are speaking of the death of Men, and Men die every day. He waits for a moment when one looks away from the window, and steps to them, boldly-- they cannot see him, they cannot hear him-- and he slits the throat of the first before kneeing him in the back to send him flying forward. The other turns-- and Thranduil is there with the knife, this time through his eye. It takes a matter of seconds, and their swords hit the floor only after he's done.

He steps over the pooling blood to pick up the sword and the belt, tying it around his waist and pursing his lips at the roughness of the crafting. Brows raised, he offers it to Galadriel, knicks and all-- and then rethinks it to offer another knife instead, pilfered from the Man who had. The noise was negligible-- beyond some gurgling and a choked off scream, lost in the greater noise.

"Nine," Thranduil says, pleased, and then. "I am counting kills for Duinenor. He... requested it of me."

Stiffly. Maybe edging on defensive. "I ought to have left one for you."