The wind whispered through the ancient trees, carrying with it memories of ages past, echoes of a time when Doriath still existed and its light shone over the world of Men and Elves. Melian walked silently, her feet gently touching the ground covered with leaves and moss that seemed to glow at her touch. Each step was deliberate, each gesture imbued with the immortal grace that distinguished her, but also with the weight of a solitude that had spanned millennia.
She had already seen empires rise and fall, kings and queens ascend and disappear, heroes and traitors moving like pieces on a board she herself had helped shape. Yet nothing—no power, no wisdom—could prepare her for what was yet to come, for the man who would emerge in the Forest of Shadows, carrying pride, determination, and a vision that rivaled the greatest Elven realms of old.
The young king walked among trees as ancient as the world itself, his posture erect, piercing eyes, and golden hair reflecting the soft light filtering through the branches. Thranduil, still new in his role as sovereign, bore the burden of the throne inherited from his father, Oropher, who had fallen in the last battle of the Last Alliance. Every decision weighed heavily, every glance, every step carefully measured. The forest, dark and full of dangers, demanded of its king more than courage; it required vision, patience, and above all, strength.
Melian watched him from a distance. She did not reveal herself, did not intervene yet; she merely studied him. It was fascinating to see him move among the Elves of his court, firm and resolute, yet with the lightness and care that only a true king could demonstrate. She could feel, in every fiber of her being, that Thranduil carried the same flame she had once seen in Thingol—but without the shadow of possessiveness that the former king of Doriath had imposed. This young Elf was not only worthy of attention; he was a promise of something greater, something that transcended time and the very history of Middle-earth.
The forest seemed to respond to his presence. Small flowers discreetly appeared, ancient shoots gained strength, and iridescent birds bowed in his direction. She smiled faintly, remembering Doriath, the light that had once reigned there, and how all of that was now lost. But there was something in this wild land, in this Forest of Shadows, that made her feel the time for solitary contemplation was coming to an end. Thranduil would not merely survive; he would thrive. And somehow, she wanted to be near him when the world witnessed his rise.
Yet immortality came with caution. Melian knew that revealing her identity too soon could alter destinies—not only Thranduil's, but of all Middle-earth. She would remain in the shadows, a silent guide, invisible to those who could not perceive the essence of the Maiar. But her gaze remained fixed on the young king, studying every decision, every gesture, every interaction with his people. She recognized in him the spark of what the oldest Elves called greatness—and she knew she could not allow anything to divert him from his path.
For days, Melian followed Thranduil, always unnoticed, traversing secret trails and crystalline streams, observing how he spoke with his guards and advisors. He listened more than he spoke, but when he decided to act, his movements were swift, precise, and majestic. There was something in him that reminded Melian of the power and wisdom carried by the Maiar, and even without direct contact, she felt a silent affinity growing—something that needed no words to exist.
But not everything was tranquil observation. As the days passed, Melian felt a pang of unease. Thranduil, as cautious and shrewd as he was, did not know all the dangers lurking in the Forest of Shadows. Scattered Orcs, spies of Sauron, creatures that fed on darkness—all awaited the right moment to test the young king. And Melian, as much as she wished to remain merely a shadow, felt a growing desire to intervene, to protect, to ensure that Thranduil did not succumb before reaching the greatness she sensed.
In the forest's dimness, she finally drew closer to the king, still not revealing her true self. They walked side by side among trees that seemed to bow before them. Thranduil sensed something strange—a feeling of ancient presence, of contained power, but could not identify who or what it was. Melian remained silent, merely a shadow at his side, her immortal essence camouflaged within the life of the forest.
She did not speak, yet her gaze said more than any words could. For a moment, he felt a strange warmth, a presence that seemed to understand every thought he had. Something in the air changed; even the animals noticed. Thranduil furrowed his brow slightly, curious but not uneasy. He was accustomed to the forest's magic, but had never felt anything so deeply connected to him.
And in that instant, Melian knew with absolute certainty: he would be the king to transform the Forest of Shadows into something that rivaled Lothlórien, someone worthy of challenges that would span centuries. But she also knew that, by drawing even closer, she would need to balance her fascination with prudence—any misstep could change not only Thranduil's destiny but that of all Middle-earth.
As they walked, a gentle wind passed, carrying the scent of moss and damp leaves, reminding Melian of the past and of what was yet to come. She smiled with both sadness and determination: the time for observation was ending; the time for action was about to begin. And Thranduil, unaware, was already walking alongside a Maia whose eyes reflected centuries of wisdom, power, and a silent interest that would change everything.