15 Gwirith (April), Third Age 2524
In the lingering twilight beneath northern Mirkwood’s tangled canopy, I stood at the threshold of ancient history—the lost halls of Thranduil, abandoned centuries before in the fading splendor of Greenwood the Great. Moss-covered stones, half-hidden by vines and undergrowth, whispered of a bygone age when Elven laughter echoed freely through these halls, long before shadows crept beneath the trees.
I stepped carefully through the crumbling archway, feeling the weight of ages press around me. Each fallen stone, every cracked and faded carving, spoke to me of stories forgotten by all but the most dedicated scholars. According to my studies, these halls once flourished around the early Third Age, shortly after Oropher’s son, Thranduil, established his realm following the Battle of Dagorlad. Yet as the shadow from Dol Guldur crept ever northward, Thranduil had moved his people deeper underground, leaving this place to silence and memory.
My lantern cast gentle light upon walls etched with intricate patterns and scenes of celebration—festivals beneath stars, hunts under silver moons, quiet moments captured in delicate artistry. I traced one carving reverently, a depiction of the Elvenking himself, regal and stern, gazing resolutely towards the horizon. The detail, even weathered by centuries, revealed a grace and pride that seemed to permeate the very stones.
Deeper into the halls, a library awaited me, preserved by some ancient enchantment or simply shielded by chance from the forest’s dampness. Scrolls lay neatly stacked upon stone shelves, their parchment brittle but readable. My breath quickened as I gently unfurled one, revealing accounts of Greenwood’s golden days, before corruption darkened its woods, transforming it into Mirkwood. Here was lore thought lost—names, songs, the deeds of elves whose memory had faded into myth.
Hours passed unnoticed as I absorbed every precious word, carefully recording all I could. Eventually, I paused, reflecting solemnly on the fragility of kingdoms, even those seemingly eternal. Thranduil’s halls had been vibrant once, yet they now lay hidden, reclaimed by nature and obscurity.
Stepping back into the fresh, night air, I gazed up through breaks in the canopy to the stars, constant and unchanged through millennia. My heart swelled with melancholy yet gratitude, understanding that while kingdoms rise and fall, their memories survive, carried forward by those who seek to remember.