Her face contorted in pain as her friends rushed to her side. She looked up at Faerlon's face, his dark brown eyes, and frowned.

'So … so short-lived, are you Men,' she whispered, her voice hesitant. 'Yet your lives … are filled with so much. You try so hard to live, to see everything before your deaths…' Her breathing was ragged, uneven. Her hair, half out of its braid, lay in the dirt and leaves of the forest floor.

'Do not speak!' Faerlon interrupted, brows furrowing as he crouched at her side. 'We will get you aid.' He looked up to Nashar, who sped away through the trees, dodging the bodies of their allies and enemies to find someone who would heal Mírwen's wounds.

She smiled briefly, shaking her head, but a single tear escaped the corner of one eye. 'No, Faerlon,' she said, speaking his name as the Elves would. 'It is too late for me, now. I will pass, soon.' Again, she smiled, before another wave of pain warped her face.

'I wanted to see the Grey Havens!' she whispered fiercely, tears falling from distant eyes that Faerlon wasn't sure saw him. 'I wanted to … follow my kind … into the West …' Her hands raised, taking hold of Faerlon's arm.

'Shhh, my dear, do not let your heart be troubled …' His eyes for the first time searched her body, seeing the injuries that troubled her so. An arrow stuck out from her side, the tunic around it torn; she had moved a great deal after being dealt that injury. It was not the only one marring her form, but it was what stuck in his mind. Other cuts, a gash in her arm from a sword, and the way her shoulder rested on the ground, were noted, but ignored.

'It is too late for me, Faerlon.' Her voice was quiet, but steady now, though her eyes – blue now, Faerlon noticed, they were blue – still wandered almost sightlessly. Suddenly, her face lit with delight.

'I can hear the sea!'

Her face relaxed suddenly, her hands releasing their almost painfully strong grip on Faerlon's arm. Her eyes cleared, no longer focusing on anything but clear as a morning's sky. They were blue, Faerlon confirmed to himself, now they did not move. Clear blue as her mother's had been, before going into the West.

'Join your family in the Halls of the Valar,' Faerlon whispered to her, in Elvish. 'Namárië…'

Nashar came running. 'Faerlon! They are coming, and should –' He stopped at Faerlon's expression, and looked down at Mírwen's peaceful face.

'No,' he whispered, falling to his knees and reaching out a shaking hand to her face. 'It cannot be.' Nashar ignored Faerlon's words of comfort, tears threatening to form in his eyes. 'Her eyes are blue, Faerlon.' He looked up at his friend's face. 'Blue. She chose the life of her cousins, and now it is denied her!'

'Not denied, Nashar … she rests with her family now.' Faerlon tried to explain, but Nashar would not hear it.

'They did this to her. They took her choice away from her. How could they!' Nashar was pacing now, glaring at every orc body he saw. 'Would that she returned to live, to go into the West as she now wanted, even though I should never lay eyes on her again, I would have her back!' He nearly shouted the last, and Faerlon did not try to console him further. Nashar's words burned in the minds of all gathered at her body; Nashar was just the only one willing to speak them aloud.