Dark Hunger (part 7)

Shadows of the Anduin: A Tale of Mirkwood (Part 7)

Tauriel rose slowly to her feet, the metallic scent of spilled blood still heavy in the cold air, a sickening counterpoint to the deep, resonant satisfaction that now settled in her bones. The Thirst was gone, replaced by a cold, dreadful energy.

She had to move. Quickly.

She retrieved her dropped bow and quiver, then forced herself to deal with the evidence of her crime. With her supernatural strength, she dragged the traveller's body into a dense thicket of thorns and covered it with dead brush and stones. The task was swift, brutal, and utterly sickening; every physical effort was a fresh wave of remorse and self-loathing. He was a man seeking rest, a voice that still sounded like her old conscience whispered, and you stole his life for a few days of peace. The memory of Aerin's innocent face was a knife twisting in her guilt-stricken soul.

Her final obstacle was the horse. The sturdy mount continued to tear at its tether, eyes wide and rolling, sensing that the creature who had approached was fundamentally wrong. Its terror was palpable, registering as a frantic, erratic drumbeat in her sensitive ears.

Tauriel approached, moving with deliberate slowness. She reached out, not with her hand, but with a cold, focused intent. Desperate to escape, a new, subtle power surged from her core, radiating outward. It was not fire or speed, but an icy wave of compulsion—a hypnotic suggestion. Her red eyes locked onto the horse's terrified gaze, and she poured the chilling essence of her new state into its mind, demanding quiet, demanding stillness.

The horse’s thrashing abruptly ceased. Its eyes remained wide, but the panic in them dimmed, replaced by a blank, obedient calm. Tauriel had charmed it, reducing the living creature to a compliant vehicle. It was an appalling display of power, a stark contrast to the gentle way Elves treated their mounts, and she felt a fresh wave of despair at this corruption of her nature.

She severed the tether, mounted the horse, and without a backward glance at the cursed camp, rode north toward the Elven river road.

Tauriel rode with the speed of desperation and the silence of the grave. The horse moved swiftly and tirelessly, guided by the constant, subtle mental pressure of her charm. In her thoughts, the arguments raged: This journey is foolish. You cannot approach your kin; they will either slay you or exile you to a darkness far worse than this. But the counter-argument was stronger: I must know if there is a way back. I must seek out the Wise.

The forest around her was alive with noise under the cover of the deeper night, yet her enhanced senses allowed her to filter the sounds. The rush of the horse’s blood, the scuttling of insects, the distant movements of large predators—all were clear.

Suddenly, a new sound cut through the forest symphony: a subtle, heavy snapping of dry undergrowth from the trees ahead, followed by a low, guttural chittering.

Orc Scouts.

Three of them emerged from the shadows, ragged remnants of the ruin that was Dol Guldur, now hunting aimlessly. They spotted the horse and rider—a perfect, juicy prize. They raised their crude, rusted blades and let out a hungry, triumphant snarl.

Tauriel did not hesitate. The memory of the innocent traveller was still raw, but these creatures—the spawn of shadow she had fought all her life—stirred the old Elven wrath, perfectly fused with her new, cold power.

She dug her heels into the horse, sending it charging forward while maintaining the mental calm to prevent it from bolting. Drawing her two blades, she felt a profound surge of energy that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with her new existence. She met the Orcs head-on. She was a flash of crimson-eyed fury, faster than any Elf, stronger than any Man. The fight was less a skirmish and more a slaughter, ending in the thick spray of dark blood and the sight of three collapsed, broken bodies.

She reined the horse to a halt. The whole encounter had lasted less than ten seconds. Her blades were stained black, but the victory brought no joy, only the unsettling realization of her own monstrous efficacy. She had killed them without effort, without fear, and without taking a single drop of their foul blood.

This is what I am now, she thought, wiping the blades on the rough leather of a fallen Orc’s tunic. A creature of devastating power, exiled to the night.  She rode on, leaving the corpses behind, the journey north now seeming less like a desperate escape and more like a terrifying march toward an inevitable reckoning.