A hundred and seventy-five years since the Shadow first invaded, Faenmîr began to forget what Greenwood used to be. In her dreams, she remembered life and warmth. When she awoke, there was only blackness and stillness. She wondered if the Wood-elves breathed the poison for too long. What once made her shiver and recoil she now felt indifferent. Normalcy.

* * *

The start of the attack gave Queen Faenmîr the incentive to write a letter to Lord Elrond. King Thranduil sent a party of his best riders on swift horses, but their message of plight was lost when they were ambushed by Orcs.

Fifty years after the first notice of the Shadow were the Wise finally reached. With haste, they investigated Dol Guldor.

Faenmîr hurried to the castle gates. Soldiers and guards stepped out of her path as she flew by, puzzled expressions exchanged between them. She refused to slow her pace for even a quick explanation.

Her husband was already there, speaking urgently with their long awaited guest in a low tone. In war time, the king could often be found in his shining armor. Today, his towering figure was donned in a silver robe with a crown of autumn adorning his head. Ever since the war began, the Silvan queen rarely donned her royal dresses of finery. Warrior blood thrummed through her veins underneath the standard tunic of the Elven Guard's uniform.

  "Mithrandir. Thank Elbereth you've come!" Faenmîr exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

Their guest turned to her, his grey eyes mournful. His robes were dirty and torn and his pointed hat was missing. His face was streaked with soot and ragged like he had aged a million years since she last saw him; an age and weariness she herself shared since the threat on their peace.

  Gandalf the Grey bowed and kissed her hand. "I apologize it has taken me so long, Your Majesty."

  "It does not matter. You are here now."

A part of her was not so forgiving. If the Wise had acted sooner, perhaps this crisis would have ended years ago and so many lives would not have been lost. However, Mithrandir was too dear a friend for her to carry a grudge against him.

  "Come join me in my study," Thranduil offered with a welcoming sweep of his arm. "We can discuss what you have found privately there."

As they followed the Elvenking, Gandalf wasted no time updating them on their situation.

  "The Wise investigated Dol Guldor. We agree with your belief that the source of this dark magic has taken refuge there."

  "Who is capable of such power, Mithrandir?" Faenmîr asked, trying to control the worry in her voice. She channeled her nervous energy into her hands, twisting her long fingers together and occasionally gripping the handle of her sword.

The Wizard withheld his answer as Thranduil stopped and pushed open two oak doors. Entering last, Faenmîr closed them behind her. A lively fire crackled in the fireplace. Thranduil's study was much smaller than the library, but it housed its own collection of books and large desk of dark red wood, uncluttered and orderly. A window welcomed the mid-day Sun as the main source of light.

  "We were unable to confirm the identity of this Necromancer. He avoided us and alluded our spells. Saruman suggests that it may be one of Nazgûl."

  "A Nazgûl?" Thranduil scoffed. "I do not believe they possess this kind of power. The Lord of the Nazgûl perhaps if he had the aid of his kin, but not alone."

  Mithrandir nodded. "I agree, but it is the only theory we have."

  "Why would one of the Nazgûl attack Greenwood?" Faenmîr pondered aloud. "They are Sauron's servants and Ring-wraiths. We possess none of the Rings, let alone the One. What purpose does Greenwood serve?"

  "Perhaps as a staging ground to attack the other Free Peoples," suggested Gandalf. "Your kingdom is the only Elven land not protected by a Ring of Power."

  The Elvenking stiffened. "That is by choice. It is not our way, and my father had no ties to the Noldorin smith Celebrimbor."

  "It was not a statement of judgement, Your Majesty. Merely a theory I cannot confirm to be true."

  "Please, Mithrandir," Faenmîr pleaded in a soft tone. "What can we do? We have exhausted our troops and resources."

As she spoke, Thranduil sent his wife a sharp stare. Unlike her husband, the queen was willing to express their despair. Prosperity in Greenwood was diminishing slowly. They were losing traders. Those who were still willing to trade, found it nearly impossible as the Shadow forced transaction costs to rise. Even lacking fertility threatened the existence of the dwindling Wood-Elves.

   Gandalf looked old and haggard. He leaned heavily on his staff. "Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel are willing to send what help they can, but their numbers are shrinking due to more and more Elves sailing to Valinor. They express their apologies in not helping more, but it is difficult to fight what will not show itself."

  "We may not need it," Thranduil responded, surprising his wife. "We have been holding the Orcs back. They take refuge in the mountains."

  "Meleth nín, if this is about what happened last time there was an alliance..."

  "I swear to you, Faenmîr, this is not about my adar's death or even the kin-slaying of the Second Age–though it is true I do not trust our kin of distant lands. If this truly is a Nazgûl or something of similar nature, none of the Rings of Power should come near."

At this, the rulers of Greenwood turned their gaze to the bearer of Narya.

  "I do not bring Narya with me everywhere as our combined power is too great," the Grey Wizard assured them. "When it is not with me, the Ring of Fire is protected and hidden by strong magic."

  "Good. Warn Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel of the threat to their Rings and their lands. Thank them for their offers, but they must stay and protect their people."

  "I shall. And what will you do?"

  "What we have been doing. We will hold back the Enemy till our dying breath. That is  our people's way. Only promise us you will continue your investigation on the identity of the Necromancer."

  "I will see to it personally."

Gandalf bowed to the two monarchs and turned to exit the study. At the door, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. His face had grown more somber.

  "I must inform you that a new name for your kingdom is spreading throughout Middle-earth and has become popular in usage. Greenwood the Great as become Mirkwood, the Forest of Great Fear."

The kingdom adopted the name Mirkwood almost overnight, appropriately matching the despair that enveloped the Wood-Elves like the Shadow.

* * *

After a hundred and seventy-five years of war, Faenmîr began to forget what their world was and should be... until her son was born.

He was the last child to be born in Mirkwood. It had been a difficult birth, which was a mystery to her midwives and seized the heart of the father-to-be. Yet Faenmîr was strong and determined. After many hours of labor, she welcomed her son into the world. With the birth of their prince, the Elves of Mirkwood found a glimmer of hope. Faenmîr found her hope.

Holding her son in her arms, the queen pulled back the green blanket to see his face more clearly. His eyes were blue, the same azure shade as hers. The fuzz on his head and behind his pointed ears was golden, similar to that of his Sindar father. The kingdom adored their half-Sindar and half-Silvan prince, uniting the two peoples more than ever before.

  "Ion nín," she whispered as she stroked his soft, white cheek with her knuckle, "I grieve the trials of your future, yet my heart is bursting with joy and hope for what you will do. You will grow up to love our people as much as your father and I do. You will lead them to victory."She kissed the top of his head. "I love you, Legolas. More than anyone. More than life."

Translations:
Sindarin:
Meleth nín – My Love
Adar – Father
Ion nín - My son