One thing about writing book-canon events/characters; it requires way more research than I had thought! In this chapter we meet our title lady, and I do hope you like her. I have loosely based Thranduil's future queen off of the Facebook role-play page personification created by 'Anthelísse Eldalótë -Queen of Mirkwood'.

Consciousness came slowly, teasing at Thranduil like a reticent lover as it remained just beyond reach. Awareness of his body remained elusive even as his mind gradually came back into focus. For a fleeting moment he thought he beheld the sun, come to visit him in a fair form even as he lay there. He couldn't be sure if he actually saw with his own eyes or in his mind though, and eventually Thranduil was lost again to dreams.

"Will he live, hiril-nin*?"

Frowning, Anthelísse turned away from the bedside of the stricken prince. It had been two days since the battle before the Morannon, and still her charge did not awaken. Brushing back a long strand of golden hair that had escaped its bindings, she shook her head.

"I cannot say. He is lucky to be alive now; had the spear tip gone even a finger's width further and likely he would have drowned in his own blood."

The Sindarin elf before her looked crestfallen, his gaze still fixed intently on Thranduil where he lay. The prince of the Greenwood had been under her care since the Lord Elrond had brought him to the healers after the battle. In the time since Anthelísse had been using all her considerable skill at medicine to restore Thranduil to his people. If it had been the blood loss, he surely would have awoken by now. Thus far there had been no signs of festering in the wounds, and so she just could not say when or if he would recover. Anthelísse suspected it was more than likely the sheer shock of battle that Thranduil's mind rather than body was attempting to recover from.

Such a vague answer would hardly satisfy the Captain of the Woodland Guard. A tall and sharp featured elf, Gurithon had scarcely left his prince's side in the past forty-eight hours.

The armies of the Last Alliance still remained encamped on the plains outside Mordor, and there they would remain until such time as the most grievously wounded could be moved. There was also the grim task of burying the dead to attend to before such time as they could return to their homelands. The count of the fallen was steep indeed for all involved, but especially so for the armies of the Greenwood and Lórien. Of the original thirty thousand troops whom Oropher had led in that ill-fated first charge, only a scant third remained. These survivors sat in groups around empty fires or wandered their camp hollow-eyed, as if still in shock that they should remain when so many comrades and kin had been killed. Most had moved their tents closer to the central encampment of Gil-Galad's army though, as if by proximity they could better await any scrap of news regarding Thranduil's death or survival.

With a sigh, Gurithon leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. Anthelísse pitied the poor Sindarin captain; much had been left to him in the absence of other leadership. It was just as bad in the camp of the elves of Lórien, now bereft of their king. Only just that morning Amdír, the Lord of the Golden Wood had been laid to rest with full honors alongside his fallen warriors.

Lifting the bowl of bloodied water and soiled cloths she had been using to cleanse Thranduil's wound, Anthelísse left Gurithon at the prince's side. There were many, many others to attend to in the tent of the healers. Everywhere there was a deep aura of sadness. All were grieving, be they Noldorin, Sindarin, Silvan or mortal alike. High King Gil-Galad had fallen to the hand of Sauron himself in battle, as had the human king Elendil. The thought of Gil-Galad brought a lump to Anthelísse's throat and a stinging to her clear blue eyes. Hastily rubbing her cheek with the back of a hand, the elf lady made her way from bed to bed tending her patients. There would be time enough to mourn later...for now the wounded needed her care.

"Lady Anthelísse!" A call rose urgently from the front of the tent. Hastening back to where Gurithon was now standing at Thranduil's bedside, Anthelísse was met by a low moan.

Gurithon was tense with anticipation. "He stirs, see there?!" Sure enough, the Sindarin prince was beginning to move, his brow knitting together in a pained expression.

"I see. Here..." Laying a hand across Thranduil's brow, she nodded in approval. "I feel no fever." Now focused on the fair young face before her, Anthelísse called out soft and low.

"Thranduil...Oropherion...Can you hear us?"

"Come back to us my lord." Gurithon spoke earnestly, snatching up Thranduil's hand from where it lay pale on the bed-sheet. "Your people need you now."

Vaguely, as though through a dense fog, Thranduil became aware of his name being called. The sun seemed to shine right through his eyelids, and he knew there was no longer any refuge to be found in sleep. There was a sense of warmth in his fingers; perhaps someone was holding his hand? Not without great effort, Thranduil slowly peeled open his eyes.

The first thing he saw was that the sun was not actually the sun, but an elf lady. Her golden hair was untidily escaping from its bindings, but still shone like beaten gold all the same. The beautiful elf straightened, and Thranduil became aware of the presence of Gurithon, his father's Captain of the Guard.

"He awakens!" Thranduil thought he had never in all his life heard the usually unflappable Gurithon sound so excited or relieved. "Thranduil, hir-nin, can you speak?"

"Wh..." His mouth felt as dry as sawdust, and the words would not come freely. "Wha..."

"The battle is won, my lord." Gurithon's smile looked somehow thin. "The forces of Sauron are spent and the villain himself has fallen, to the son of Elendil no less!"

The elf woman came round the bed, and Thranduil felt her slip a surprisingly firm arm beneath his shoulders. Another pillow was propped beneath his head, and he found himself able to look Gurithon in the eye without straining.

"Do not speak if it causes you pain, Lord Thranduil." She said, stepping back and looking him over. "Your wounds may hamper moving overmuch, even for so small a thing as to talk."

There was one thing that Thranduil knew he must ask though, even if it cost him all the pain in the world. Looking back to Gurithon, he had to swallow several times before he could speak and be understood.

"M...My father...?"

The Captain of the Guard paled, and cast his eyes downward. The blue cloth of the tent walls cast an unnatural pallor over the elf's cheek.

"Aran-nin..."**

For a moment Thranduil waited, thinking that Gurithon was speaking of Oropher. Then an icy chill traveled down his spine when he realized that Gurithon was addressing him directly.

"No. No! It's...it's not possible." His voice came out in a strangled sounding choke.

Gurithon spoke in a low voice, looking up with eyes swimming with tears. "Your father was one of the finest warriors I've ever had the privilege to meet or to serve, my lord Thranduil. He was not invincible though."

Listening to the weeping of the young king made Anthelísse's heart ache even as she turned away to give the two Greenwood elves privacy. She had many tears of her own yet unshed, and too many things to do yet before she would have the time to shed them.

Almost unwillingly Anthelísse felt her gaze travel beyond the entrance of the tent to the plains beyond. Tonight there would be another royal burial; that of King Oropher himself. As for the late King Elendil, his son Isildur had declared his intent to bear his father's body back to Amon Anwar, the great mountain in the heart of Gondor.

For the High King Gil-Galad though there could be no burial site, no final resting place to lay his body. The great lord of the Noldor had perished by the fiery hand of Sauron, and of him no trace had remained. Instead a marker would be erected on the plains where Gil-Galad and so many others had perished, commemorating this last brave alliance of men and elves.

"Namárië, toron.***." Anthelísse whispered, letting the air carry her words away. Since the death of their sister Finduilas following the sack of Nargothrond it had just been the two of them, the children of Orodreth. Now only she, the youngest remained. Many of their people had already returned to the Blessed Realm of Valinor after being pardoned by the Valar. With this final battle, so few of the Noldor now dwelt in Middle-Earth that without a doubt any still left would soon depart from the Havens. The days of the High Kingship of the Noldor were over in Arda.

I suppose I shall depart with them. Anthelísse could not think of any reason why she would remain on these shores now. The war was over, Middle-Earth could now perhaps for a time be left in peace. With her parents and now both her elder brother and sister having passed beyond this land, Anthelísse was the last of the royal line of the Noldor to remain. She supposed that meant the leadership of their people now fell to her, for however long a time lay between now and the day when they would take ship from the harbours.

For now though, there was still work to be done. With a sigh Gil-Galad's sister returned to the bedsides of the wounded. The Blessed Realm was not going anywhere, and for the time being neither was she.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

*Hiril-nin = My lady (Sindarin)

**Aran-nin = My king (Sindarin)

*** Namárië, toron. = Farwell, brother. (Quenyan)