Dark Hunger

 Shadows of the Anduin: A Tale of Mirkwood 

The air around Dol Guldur tasted of ash and old fear, even though the Necromancer had fled. Tauriel and her fellow sentinel, Aerin, moved with the ghost-like silence only Mirkwood Elves possessed, their emerald cloaks blending into the twilight canopy that hung heavy over the Anduin's western shore. Their mission was simple: patrol the edge of the shadow, report any gathering darkness, and ensure the taint did not creep back into the Wood. 

On their second night out, they settled near a small stream, the fire a tiny, defiant ember against the vast cold. As they shared a ration of waybread and dried fruit, a soft snapping of twigs announced a guest. They drew their bows, but a smooth, cultured voice halted them. 

“Peace, guardians of the great Wood. I mean no harm to those who still fight the good fight.” 

A man stepped into the firelight. He was tall, cloaked in deep, faded velvet, and moved with an almost liquid grace that was unsettling. His face was sharp, pale, and framed by black hair, and his eyes, though friendly, held an ancient, watchful depth.  

“We travel alone,” Tauriel said, her arrow still notched. “The paths here are ill-suited for Men.”  

“Ah, but I am not of Men, not truly,” the stranger replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am merely a traveler, drawn by curiosity to these troubled borders. May I share your warmth? I confess, the thought of sleeping under the cold stars alone is… tiring.” 

Aerin, ever the more pragmatic, lowered her bow slightly. “Then keep to the edge of the light, traveler. We are on duty.” 

He introduced himself only as Rhûn. He spoke beautifully of lands Tauriel had only dreamed of, of starry nights above the White Mountains, and of the forgotten histories of the Elves of the West. He spoke to Tauriel with a particular intensity, praising her fierce spirit and the sorrow she carried in her eyes, drawing a blush from the usually guarded captain. He made them both laugh, dispelling the gloom of the Wood for a precious hour. As the moon reached its zenith, he rose. 

“Thank you for the company. May your vigil be swift,” Rhûn murmured, and then vanished into the deep shadows as silently as he had arrived. 

Two days later, the tension of the forest had frayed Aerin’s nerves. They were tracking a band of Orcs that had strayed too far north. Aerin darted ahead to check a ridge line, and when Tauriel followed moments later, the wood was empty. Only the faint, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine—a scent unnatural to Mirkwood—lingered on the wind. 

“Aerin!” Tauriel hissed, confusion turning to alarm. 

“She is quite well, Captain,” a voice purred behind her. 

Tauriel spun around, sword drawn, but Rhûn was already there, too close. He smiled, and this time, there was nothing friendly in his eyes—only hunger. 

“I confess, your company was the purpose of my journey. The firelight does not do justice to the fierce light in your spirit,” he whispered, his words like thick, warm honey coating her mind. Tauriel found her fear strangely muted, her limbs slow to move against the hypnotic spell of his voice. She was captivated, unable to pull away as he stepped into her space. 

“You are a prize, Tauriel of Mirkwood. Too wild, too beautiful to waste on this decaying world.” 

He reached out, his hand grasping the back of her head, pulling her close. His smile widened, transforming in an instant. Her horror finally broke through the charm as two needle-sharp fangs descended past his lip. There was a lightning flash of pain in her neck, and then a dizzying, terrible emptying. The world spun into shades of red and black as the life force was drawn from her. 

Just when the darkness threatened to claim her, the pressure vanished. Rhûn pulled away, his eyes glowing with satisfaction. He then lifted his wrist, revealing a silver cut where blood welled in a dark bloom. 

“A gift,” he commanded, his voice now steel, overriding her will. “Drink, little warrior. Awaken.”

He pressed the wound to her lips. Tauriel, weak, confused, and utterly subject to his monstrous will, swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of his life. It was poison and medicine, burning away the fading light of her Elven essence and replacing it with a cold, sharp power. Then, he was gone. When Aerin finally found her, half an hour later, Tauriel was crumpled beneath a mossy oak, conscious but shivering, clutching the fresh, crimson wound on her neck. Aerin, terrified, helped her stumble back to the camp, treating the wound with haste and keeping a fearful watch. Over the next two days, Aerin did her best to nurse her friend. But Tauriel grew paler, the light fading from her skin. The healing draughts and Elven waybread offered no sustenance, tasting like dry dirt in her mouth. Her veins began to trace faint, blue-black maps beneath the delicate skin near the puncture marks, and bruised shadows ringed her eyes. Her senses were dull, trapped in a cold, lingering fever. 

On the third night, shortly after midnight, the fever broke. 

Tauriel bolted upright, not from distress, but from a silence that was deafeningly loud. Her old senses were gone, replaced by a hyper-aware vision that pierced the night. She saw every tiny grain of ash in the dying embers, every thread of Aerin’s blanket, and the fine dust of pollen clinging to the underside of a fern twenty paces away. Across the low, silver glow of the fire’s embers, Aerin slept peacefully. And then Tauriel heard it. Not with her ears, but with every cell of her body: the frantic, powerful pounding of Aerin’s heart, a desperate, rhythmic drum. The scent of her life was an overwhelming, thick presence that made the inside of Tauriel’s throat burn. The emptiness in her stomach was not hunger for food, but a primal, consuming thirst. 

Feed. 

She stumbled to her feet, hands moving purely by instinct. She drew one of her white-bladed swords and held it vertically, gazing into its mirror-smooth surface. The shock of the reflection froze her: her face was impossibly pale, her eyes alien, and jutting down from her upper gum, two glistening, perfect fangs extended. The cold horror finally broke the spell of the thirst. A raw, piercing scream tore from her throat, cutting the deep Mirkwood night to shreds. 

Aerin shot awake, scrambling for her own weapon, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. “Tauriel, what is it? What happened?” 

She started forward, reaching out to touch Tauriel’s arm. The sudden, close proximity, the beating heart now overwhelming her senses, shattered Tauriel’s control. The newly birthed hunger was absolute, consuming all Elven dignity and memory. Tauriel moved with a speed Aerin’s mortal body could not comprehend, slamming her down onto the soft earth. There was a startled cry, a flash of red, and then nothing but the sweet, dark, flooding warmth that finally, blessedly, quieted the searing pain of the emptiness. When the frenzy passed, the dreadful, final realization of what she had done crashed down. Tauriel rose, trembling, looking at the hollowed, still-warm shell of the Aerin who had been her sister, her protector, her friend. She collapsed to her knees next to the body and wept, the tears mixing with her sisters blood upon her pale skin. 

The dark silence returned, broken only by the cold wind and the awful, irreversible knowledge of her terrible, new solitude. She was no longer a sentinel of Mirkwood; she was the shadow that would consume it.