The north was a fearful sight, full of dark horrors and whispered tales. In the depths of the mountains lay unspeakable shadows, the perilous peaks wrought with danger.
There were few that would risk the mountains. It is not wise, they would say, tapping their temples knowingly. Nothing but darkness can be found up north.
Yet among the biting cold, lingered a flaming tendril of hope.
They were the defenders of men, known to the common tongue as the Dunedain. They were myths told to children, rumors spread in the corners of taverns.
The legendary Rangers of the north, they said. Men who shielded the innocent from the harsh bite of the winter storm.
Yet men were not the only warriors that walked the bitter winds.
"You promised a tale," a young man leaned closer to the fire, his silver eyes reflecting the flickering warmth. "Come on, mellon-nin."
Thaldir rolled his eyes, yanking his hood further down around his face. Pulling his pipe away, he sighed smoke, arching a single brow. "Strider, you know all my tales."
Beside the boy, an older man with stringy grey hair chuckled, lifting his own lit pipe to his lips. "Oh come on, elf, give the lad a tale. We could all use the mood boost."
Thaldir's frown deepened and he brought his pipe back to his mouth. In the firelight, his green eyes glowed like that of emeralds, but it was the pale scar across his left eye that fully drew onlookers attention.
Before, his companions had feared him. Avoided him at all costs and never said so much as a word.
Thaldir couldn't quite tell if he missed the days of being left alone.
Sighing through his nose, he looked back at Strider, whose face was both smiling and pleading. Taking a look at the lad, most would have claimed he was in his mid-twenties... Thaldir would have agreed if he wasn't the wiser.
Eyeing the young man, he rolled his eyes again. "Very well. Which do you wish to hear?"
Instantly Strider's face brightened and a lopsided grin claimed his lips. "Your tale, my friend! You have never told us of your tale!"
Thaldir's own heart paused a beat. He glanced sideways at the old man, but the other Ranger only watched silently. Thaldir looked back at Strider, "that story is not an uplifting one."
"Saes, mellon," Strider leaned closer to the fire. "Just this one time."
A moment thundered past and Thaldir wrestled with his heart. He regretted dearly the day he had opened his mouth... his past was not something he liked to reminisce on.
Then he looked away, glaring harshly into the fire.
"They have been called wildfolk and wanders," he began in a low voice. "The Avari and the unwilling. Dark elves, those who have never beheld the light of the Valinor."
Closing his eyes, Thaldir fought against the memories. But his thoughts didn't play by the rules and overcame his mind quickly became.
He was raised beyond the reaches of the Woodland Palace. In a small village of Silvan elves; hunters and gathers. Peaceful folk in a peaceful surrounding.
But peace was not something Thaldir cherished.
His soul was a wild place. There was no amount of adventure or games that could quell his heart, not when he was forced to return every sunset. He was unlike his siblings in that way... he was never satisfied.
In the thralls of peace he grew up, the games turning into work and his soul turning darker, trapped in its cage.
Woven, he was. Woven into an ever state of longing for the world beyond the forest. Where the mountains snowed and the plains stretched without pause.
For he yearned to travel as feet-footed as the feral winds of the north themselves.
"When an elf soul wishes for this world no more, it longs for Elvenhome," Thaldir's voice had turned gravelly in memory. He barely felt the eyes of his audience anymore. "But... one can not long for what it had never seen."
"Yet you longed for the mountains without ever seeing them," Strider's eager voice broke through his thoughts and Thaldir blinked. Then a rare smile warmed his face.
"Longing? No, twas not longing, Strider. Belonging. My heart belonged to the mountains and it was only a matter of returning home."
They called him the dark elf.
Not dark in rage, or dark in jealousy, or hate. None of those. But in soul. For he had never looked upon the light-- but never quite wished to.
And with the mockery of their words, his darkness only grew.
For called what is one dark in their spirit? Thaldir was a darkness without the evil, and what did that make him?
Perhaps that was what drove him over the edge.
It was the days when the dwarves dared enter the Mirkwood forest. Thaldir had seen them wandering aimlessly among the shadows of the wood, lost of their senses and arguing in bitterness among themselves.
He knew the history between elves and dwarves. Yet rather than malice toward the beings, he felt only intrigued.
It was little he knew of the monstrosities that they mindlessly called. Of the spiders they summoned with their trampling, the creatures racing through the forests where they had previously been held off.
"You speak of spiders," Strider shifted where he sat, snow crunching beneath his boots. "Did you never fear them?"
Thaldir looked up, his green eyes flashing in the light of the moon. "The spiders are a force to be feared, only a fool would claim otherwise. But..." His brows furrowed, "I was a fool."
He wasn't quite sure what force of nature turned him from watching the thirteen dwarves.
Perhaps it was the setting sun, the dimming golden glow a warning of the fading goodness of Mirkwood. Or perhaps it was the weight of the young buck across his shoulders, convincing him of the need to return back to his home.
Yet Thaldir had wandered off the path. Every action comes with a price... and his curiosity was his downfall.
It was the shrill screams that he heard first. Not like the cries of the north wind that he so often dreamed of, not the howling of wolves or even the playful yelling of elflings chasing each other around the outskirts of the village.
It was the screams those dying.
Abandoning his catch, he raced through the thick wood, drawing his long knives from his sides. Thaldir was a hunter, not a fighter. But adrenaline pulsed through his veins like never before.
The spiders.
Thaldir feared few things. He feared he would never escape the forest, he feared he would never feel snow on his face.
But he had never feared the spiders. Not until that day.
"Your village," this time is was the grey-haired Ranger who breathed the words. "What became of the inhabitants?"
When Thaldir glanced up, the pools of his eyes drowned in guilt. Not just pain... the guilt was a step beyond the threshold of the agony that his gaze bore.
"They were slaughtered."
A peaceful folk in a peaceful surrounding. They were no warriors, they bore no flame of fighting or vengeance.
In the end, it was the peace that Thaldir had always disliked that claimed the lives of his kin.
Something broke that day. The longing to travel was no longer the only thought that drove his actions. No, the heartbreak that he felt was so much worse.
Perhaps that day, his soul joined the others in Mandos. He felt as if he had seen the light just then, whether he liked or not. For the fleeting souls of all those he called blood was bright enough to rival the light of Two Trees of Valinor themselves.
Thaldir's voice trailed off and he gazed numbly into the flames. Neither of the other two Rangers spoke, although Thaldir could feel Strider's gaze burning into his face.
After a moment, they both seemed to realize the tale was over.
Just like that.
"I-- I shall take first watch," the old Ranger stood, brushing snow off his trousers. "Get some rest." He wandered off, mumbling something under his breath.
Thaldir faintly caught the words, so much for an uplifting story.
"I am sorry, mellon."
Looking up, Thaldir finally met Strider's pained silver eyes. And it struck him then... this young man knew loss.
He could see it in the mortal's gaze.
"Perhaps that is why my heart belongs to the north winds," Thaldir said softly, whether it was to himself or the Ranger, he knew naught. "For there is no peace in these cliffs."
"This is not peace?" Strider beckoned around them. "Not the flickering flames, not the welcoming warmth?"
For the second time that night, a small smile formed across the elf's face. But this time, it contained no humor. "Perhaps to you, perhaps to the other. But one can not feel peace when their heart is at a constant battle with their soul."
And Strider could not answer at that, stunned into a silence for the first time that night.
"Peace is treacherous," Thaldir murmured. He fiddled with his pipe, to which the flame had dwindled. Then blinking, he lifted it to his lips.
"And... of the wood elves, what became of the rest of Mirkwood?"
Thaldir shrugged. "They live in peace still, for all I know. Never once did I look over my shoulder, and never do I plan to return."
Strider nodded slowly, staring at his hands. Then he rubbed his eyes. "I hope to meet the wood elves one day."
Despite himself, Thaldir chuckled. "Perhaps you shall. But if you ever do..." His eyes glassed over. "Avoid the south of the woods."
Once more, silence claimed the camp. Strider shifted, then slipped off of the rock where he sat, slumping to the ground. He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. "Yet it all brought you here. To the north."
Thaldir's eyes raised and his lips parted from his pipe. "Indeed," he mused. "I suppose you could say it did."
The north wind blew and the soul of the dark elf heeded its call. So perhaps it was all fate... in which case, fate was a strange thing.
Nay, fate was a wicked thing.
"Treacherous or not," Strider rolled over, using his bag as a pillow and burying his face under his arms. His voice came out muffled, "I hope you find your peace, Thaldir."
Thaldir scoffed, but his heart warmed slightly at the young man's words. Perhaps one day he would... just maybe.
Perhaps the day the north itself came crumbling down.
A/N: So this one-shot was written to the prompt of the the second challenge in the Battle Beneath the Trees, involving a story incorporating the idea of the north.
I struggled with an inspiration for this one at first... but I've always wanted to write a story about an elf besides our dear Legolas with the Dunedain rangers. So here we are!
Like always, I would love to hear your thoughts! Stars_Alight's descriptions in the prompt were so beautiful that I incorporated a few of the phrases into the story itself, to link back to the idea of the north and because they were just so enchanting.
Thank you for your time! And good luck to the other contestants!