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Treacherous Peace

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.