The years flowed, one into the other. Eventually, Thranduil learned the identity of Miriel; the daughter of two parents of Noldorin lineage. These had been journeying to the Havens, enroute to the Undying Lands, when they were waylaid. He told Miriel of what he had learned. But as they were the last of her blood kin to depart Ennor, in the end it mattered not.

Ma lived happily, until the end of her time, cared for and loved. Many of the elleth who worked in the Palace came to know her, as she offered her skilled hands and her cheer in the kitchens, the gardens, and among the seamstresses. Many of them learned Westron, and Ma even learned some Sindarin. Braedon also brought honor in his service to the King. The crafts and furniture from the Woodland Realm during his residence brought a premium price, and he took pride and joy in every day of his work, never seeking for himself a wife and a family. When they each passed, it was sorrow for Miriel, who already struggled to hide the darkening of her heart. Often she stole into the woods, and often it taxed Sidhion's ability to guard her. In time his skills came to match her own. With the warning of the King concerning her increasing proclivity for solitude, Sidhion learned to keep just as much of an eye on the window of their rooms as elsewhere.

Thranduil knew she sometimes sought to elude Sidhion, in daytime forays. Her truest happiness now seemed to come from her hours in the forest, and Thranduil tried to strike a balance between this need of her heart and her own safety. As decades passed into centuries, the woods darkened, as the shadow of evil seeped in and sickened the once vibrant forest. Miriel's heart fell under the same pall. She made great efforts to hide her melancholy from him, giving her all to attend to him and relieve the burdens of his duties. Too many times, though, did he come upon her when she was unaware of him, and he beheld her face. She could not hide her heart from him. He knew that much of the light had gone out of her, and he did not know how to restore it. Morden had perished long ago, in his cell. In Thranduil's eyes, his attack on her had been that from which her spirit never recovered. There had never been any intention of releasing him. He would linger and die, in payment for his crime. And so it was.

Miriel keenly felt the sting of her own failure. She knew that she could not hide her deterioration from her husband as she wished she could. Her own heart turned on her in recrimination, for her inability to give him what she believed he deserved from her. It was a perpetuating cycle, of doubt and despair, that Thranduil's own reassurances could not penetrate. Any hope Thranduil once had, that she might in time come to share his rule over the Realm, faded long ago. If such strength had ever been in her, it was lost. It was merely another facet by which her own perceived inadequacy mirrored back at her.

A midsummer's day came, in which she looked on Thranduil from the shadows in his Hall. A wedded couple brought their newborn elfling to the throne of the King, seeking his blessing. The look of joy on her husband's face was unmistakable. Miriel had never felt the desire for a child, but now the thought would not leave her mind that it was the one thing she could yet give him, that could bring him the happiness he deserved.

From that day forward, she sought his body with a ferocity that surprised and pleased him both. Long months passed, until the moment came. They had loved each other, and the following morning he had departed for his duties. Standing and looking out the window, she fell to the floor in weakness, as though half the strength had been torn from her spirit. As she lay on the rug, enervated, she reached her hand to rest over her womb, and knew that she was now with child. It took hours, just to crawl to the couch, where she slept away the day. Thranduil no longer came for each meal; that had faded away centuries ago. When he finally returned, she told him, and saw joy spread over his face. This alone, to her, was worth the terrible price of her own enfeeblement. It was a triumph. Her child would be strong, she knew, because it had taken a great portion of her to itself.

Thranduil cared for Miriel with fervor, during the year of her pregnancy. There were times when it almost seemed like the wound in her spirit had closed, as she made every effort to see joy restored to her husband, even as she could not restore it to herself. She labored long and hard, to bring the child forth from her body. So difficult was the birth, the King feared he would lose her. He could keep her healed and relieve her pain, but he could not infuse the needed strength into her. When their son finally came into the world, she was spent, unable to even hold him. Thranduil had to keep the infant at his mother's breast, because Miriel was too weak to even lift her arms to touch him. It was Ethuil, the springtime of the year. The King kept their window wide open, knowing that the sight of the trees would help her.

"Miriel, what will you call our son?" he asked, tenderly, as he covered her hand in thankful kisses. As her sunken eyes gazed out to the woods beyond, she saw the birch trees crowning with leaves. "He is my little greenleaf," she said. "I will call him Legolas." Miriel had now been wed to Thranduil for a thousand years, with nearly all of that time spent under a shadow that would not leave her. This day provided her the one shining moment in which she truly believed she had given her husband something of genuine worth.

Miriel loved Legolas in a way she would not have believed possible. She did not tire of whispering to him of the forest, and the trees, and the hunt. And yet for most other things, she would step back and let Thranduil, or even Sidhion, direct the upbringing of her son. From the time Legolas could run or climb, Miriel would slip away with him into the forest, teaching him all her art. She determined that he would be greater than her and the King combined, in his woodcraft. She was not the warrior that her husband was...but then again, Thranduil could not truly match her raw skill at hunting. That she left with the child, unguarded, was maddening to Thranduil. He increasingly fretted and agonized over the evil that entered his Realm, passing through his nets at every turn. A great sickness emanated from Amon Lanc, which was once his home of old. Now it was named Dol Guldur, and had become a place beyond his borders where even he dared not go. There were whispers of a Necromancer, and many foul things came thence.

Their strife over her forays into the woods with young Legolas increased, until finally Thranduil, undone with fear for the safety of his wife and son, spoke heated words and forced her to come with him and many patrols to the nests of the Great Spiders. When she beheld them with her own eyes, she ceased her outings, and withdrew into silence. Soon enough in the life of the Eldar, the Prince came of age. Legolas never comprehended the distance he perceived between his father and mother. Not understanding, he imagined that the blame must lie with his stern father. Miriel always responded to her son kindly, and was fully present for him. Because of her great efforts on his behalf, Legolas did not see that to all others, she was but a walking shadow. He could not perceive that his father hardened himself in order to survive the crumbling of his wife's spirit, or that the King daily watched his beloved, who once blazed with happiness and vigor, succumbing to frailty and despair.

Winters were hardest for her, but each year the promise of spring gave her waning heart the conviction to continue. To his credit, Thranduil never wavered in his devotion to her. In moments of brutal honesty, he admitted to himself that while he was yet convinced their love was true, she may not have been the wisest choice for the wife of a King. She had loved him to her fullest and given him her all; he believed this without question. But that he should have seen she was not as strong as she would need to be, to walk fully alongside him...this he did not take the time to discover. Would he have chosen differently, or broken away from her before they wed, had he understood? He honestly could not say, though, he doubted it. Only Miriel had ever stirred the longing of his heart, for a wife. It was not him she turned from; it was the world in which she needed to live. There were times he almost believed he should suggest to her that she sail, but he could not speak the words. He did not wish to be parted from her, and it was his deepest fear that she would hear it as his final judgement against what she knew were her shortcomings. At other times, he remembered his words of long ago...that he had taken her, and required her to share his cage. And that cage had all but destroyed her. Or had it? These were the mental torments that would not leave him, in addition to all the many heavy responsibilities that fell on him with the same endlessness as the flow of the Forest River.

A year came in which the winter did not end. In later times, it would come to be known as the Long Winter. The snows came early, and deep, and they did not let up. Legolas by now was greatly occupied with the art of warfare, having risen as the greatest fighter in the Realm, second only to his father. He was comely and regarded highly by all. Though Miriel now saw little of her son, her pride in him did not diminish. Yet as the endless weeks wore on, without sight of the blue sky or sun, she knew her battle with herself was nearly lost.

Under the dark of winter night, as Thranduil slept, she silently rose from their bed, removing her woolen clothing and her bow to the outer rooms. Opening the box containing the jewels he had given her on their wedding day, she carefully placed them in her pouch. She readied herself with a heart senseless from weariness and grief, and whispered to the room that so very long ago had seen the blossoming of their love. "I cannot go on, Thranduil. Forgive me."

Leaping out the window into the tree, she did not descend to the ground. Rather, she climbed higher, and higher. With a mighty leap of desperation, she found the next tree top. And the next, and the next. She kept to the trees for a very long time, silently moving away from the Palace. When she at last dropped down lightly on top of the snows, she ran to the east, her light footfalls skipping over the surface of the drifts. One last time, she desired to look on the place where they had spoken their vows to each other. It required only a little over an hour, at this swift pace, for her to find the clearing. Over the years, she had visited it at times, knowing Sidhion trailed her...but he did not know the meaning of the place. She was certain, this time, that she was not followed.

A great rock was near the edge of the overlook. In the far distance, the clouds were fewer, and she saw the light of the moon shining on the Lonely Mountain, on Erebor. Miriel wept at the memory of their wedding day, and the joy she had once felt. Moving her clothing aside, she fastened the heavy necklace, and felt the weight of his gift on her skin. She prayed aloud to the Valar.

"I do not wish to perish, I do not wish to fade. I do not wish to leave my husband. And yet like Míriel of old, I am spent. My spirit knows only grief, and weariness, and despair. The evils in this world have consumed the forest even as they have consumed me, and my joy is lost. Long have I sought to reclaim it somehow, and long has it eluded me. I have no desire for Aman without my husband, and I can no longer endure Ennor, with the evil that has befallen it. There is no place for me, in all the circles of the world. I beg you for relief, I beg you for respite. I seek rest now, and I will not wake until I find it." In great sorrow, she laid herself down upon the rock. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she closed her eyes, and willed herself into darkness that contained neither thought nor feeling.

When Thranduil woke the following morning, and saw her things gone, his heart lurched. He retrieved his mirror immediately. "Show me Miriel." The light flared up from within it but then dimmed, only to flare again. And dim again. He had never seen anything like this. The mirror behaved as if it was...confused. He asked it several times in a row, and each time received the same result. A sickening thought occurred to him. "Show me the fëa of Miriel." The mirror now blazed into light, as he saw a place that he knew was not of this plane. On a bier of stone, nowhere that he could recognize, Miriel's fëa slept in repose. He stopped the vision. "Show me Miriel's hröa." Once again the mirror blazed, and he saw her sleeping, her bow held across her chest. This location he did know, and with a cry of grief, pulled on his clothes. He stormed out of his room, asking Sidhion to follow. They flew to the stables, where Sidhion leaped on a mount as Thranduil whistled for his elk. Elk after elk had he befriended during the long years, as an endless line of sires and offspring gave him their service for as long as their vigor lasted.

They rode on, hard, to the clearing where once a day of great joy had commenced. He hoped against hope that what the mirror showed him was untrue, or misunderstood. He ran to her, scooping her into his arms, but she was limp. Her body was yet warm, and with tender care Sidhion helped pass her up to him, once the King returned to the saddle. Riding like the wind, they returned to the Palace, where Thranduil rushed her to their couch by the fire. He knew something was terribly wrong, because he could not see her fëa. By all appearances she had perished; her heart did not beat nor did her lungs draw breath, and yet warmth still remained in her body. There was nothing for him to heal, because nothing was physically the matter. It was that her spirit had departed, and for that he knew no cure. He did not know what to do.

"Miriel, no," he sobbed, as he knelt alongside her. "Please, come back to me." He covered her exposed skin in kisses, until he saw she wore his necklace. He cried out even harder, knowing in his heart that this was some means by which she was taking a part of him with her. "Miriel," he said, miserably. "Surely I am not as Finwë was? I have made mistakes, Miriel, but I never meant for you to feel driven to this. Is this the ultimate price of my selfishness, in taking you for my own? What could I do, Miriel? I loved you...did I demand more than you could give? Will you not tell me?"

His grief poured out of him in torrents, and no answer came.

The Valar met in solemn assembly. Each Vala had been summoned from the far reaches of Aman, to the great mansion of Manwë on Taniquetil. Mightiest Lord of the fourteen, he dwelt in the clouds of the uppermost peak of the mountains of the Pélori.

Manwë spoke. "Long has it been since any petition like this was uttered. And once again, the name is Miriel."

"And yet it is not the petition of Míriel at all," said Mandos, keeper of the Halls of the Dead. "Míriel spoke her refusals to us, and would not be swayed. Miriel has begged for an end to torment that no child of Eru should ever have felt."

"No child of Eru was ever treated as this one was," wept Nienna, Lady of Sorrows. "When but an elfling she was stolen. Mutilated. Raised among men, where thrice and more she was nearly violated. It is unprecedented, for one of the Eldar, much less one so young, to have endured such assaults against the spirit."

Oromë, Lord of the Hunt, spoke. "She is true-hearted. Her joy was in the hunt, and in reverence for the fair creation of Yavanna. Her love for Thranduil remains pure. Miriel said herself she does not desire to leave him. She would yet cling to him, but for the pain in her spirit."

"I do not want her, though she sleeps now outside the doors to my Halls," said Mandos. "Her hröa did not experience death, nor was she violated. Even now, her hröa lies yet warm, with Thranduil. Yet with no means to tend it, it will wither. She does not wish to fade, she does not wish to perish. While she might indeed find rest in my keeping, this is not my purpose."

Nienna pressed on. "Long has she shown courage. She gave her last for the comfort of her husband. Had her love not driven her to bear Thranduil a son, she might yet have the strength to go on. If Thranduil had asked it of her, I believe she would have borne him another. Ever has she shown her sincere regard for him. Do we hold her guilty, when despair in the face of evil is what she could not endure?"

Vairë, Weaver of Fate, now made a strong assertion: "The tapestry of Ennor will change. Had she but had the will to continue on for a short time, she would have found relief."

"I would care for her in my gardens in Lórien," said Irmo, the Master of Dreams, "but once there she could not return. It is not her desire; she declared she does not choose life in Aman."

Estë now spoke, having waited to hear all the others. To this Lady, it was granted to heal all hurts and weariness. "I would willingly grant the healing for which she pleads. But she would only come undone again, on account of the evil of Sauron. The same evil that we failed to banish from the land of their dwelling. What Miriel needs is safe passage through time."

Manwë considered all these things. "Then this is the judgement I will bring before Eru. I would grant her the mercy she beseeches. Estë I charge with the restoration of her spirt. Irmo must place upon her a dream, from which she cannot wake, until the appointed time comes. Nienna must offer Thranduil some thread of comfort in his grief. And I will beseech our father for a preserving sleep to be laid on her, until the days of her rest are complete."

"I would add yet one thing, a small gift to Thranduil," Aulë, the Smith, said.

Manwë looked at each, one last time. "So let it be done."