The very air of the Woodland Realm seemed to still, the ancient trees themselves holding their breath. A ripple of something both wondrous and terrifying had spread from the forest's edge, carried on the swift, silent feet of the border guards. They had not sounded an alarm of danger, but one of awe so profound it bordered on panic. Thranduil, seated upon his carven throne of living wood, felt the shift in his domain before the breathless elves even reached the great hall.

When they did, their words were a trembling, reverent torrent. They spoke of a circle of life in the heart of the blight, of grass greener than any seen in an Age, of flowers blooming with a light that was not of the sun or moon. And at its center, a figure. Sleeping.

Her.

The stories, the prayers, the very foundation of their existence—it was all true. The Creator was not a distant, formless power, but a being who could walk, or in this case, sleep, within their world. Thranduil, the implacable Elvenking who had faced dragons and legions of darkness, felt a tremor of pure, unadulterated awe course through him. He moved with a speed that belied his usual regal languor, his long robes flowing behind him as he followed the guards back to the site.

There, the sight stole the very breath from his lungs. The reports had not done it justice. It was a sanctuary of pure creation, a bubble of absolute vitality in the decaying forest. And there She lay, in a repose so peaceful it made the very concept of worry seem vulgar. His commands, when he found his voice, were hushed, whispered things, imbued with a urgency that brooked no hesitation. "Bring the finest linens from my own chambers. The most skilled healers shall stand watch. She is to be moved as if she were starlight given form, lest a single mote of dust dare to disturb her."

He himself led the procession back to his halls, his people moving with a hushed, sacred care. They placed Her in the chambers adjacent to his own, the most secure and beautiful rooms in the stronghold, used only for the most honored of guests. Now, they held their greatest honor.

Thranduil stood in the doorway, unable to cross the threshold, his usual aura of icy majesty utterly dissolved. The King of the Woodland Realm was gone, replaced by a supplicant. He watched the slow, steady rise and fall of Her breath, each one a benediction upon his entire kingdom. The weight of his centuries, the burden of his crown, the slow, creeping shadow of Mirkwood—all of it fell away in the face of this miracle. He was but a steward, a humble guardian granted the inconceivable privilege of standing watch over the source of all things. He sank to one knee, his head bowed, his long silver hair pooling on the stone floor. His voice, when it finally came, was a whisper of the most profound devotion, a sound meant for no other ears but Hers, even in Her dreaming.

"All that I am, and all that I have, is Yours to command, my lady"