𝒜𝓇𝒹𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈✨ Legolas Love Story Illustrated Fanfiction Elf Fae Romance

Chapter 8 ~ The Unnatural Son

Two malevolent flames glared through the darkness of the Forest, as an ethereal figure glided north through the twisted shadows of southwestern Mirkwood. Ash swirled around his barely corporeal form, trailing behind like a black cloak torn by the wind. A single thought burned through the void of his existence: ambition.

Tysaun the Unnatural had been dispatched on a mission to collect a prize—something that, if it held the power they suspected, would please his maker and reward him by completing his fractured form with the stolen energy.

Forged thirty years ago from twisted, stolen power, Tysaun was never meant to be more than a tool. Yet, over the last decade, something had begun to stir in him. A hunger. A restless yearning for something beyond servitude. His thoughts were no longer bound by his maker’s cruel commands. He had grown tired of Dol Guldur’s damp, suffocating halls, bored of the rituals, the monotony of pain and servitude. The fleeting existence he had known was not enough.

Tysaun prowled the hills around the dark citadel, his unnatural self feeding on the agony of the weak, tormenting any being unlucky enough to cross his path. Only the souls of elves or other magical creatures could sustain his essence, and their rarity made them prized quarry. When shadows and ash were insufficient to slake his hunger, he turned to minions—his orcish thralls. But he needed something greater now.

He had heard whispers of a creature, a prize powerful enough to restore him—for much longer than the fleeting tastes of soul energy he normally consumed. They said it would be more potent than ten thousand elves. And Tysaun was eager to find out if it was true.

He neared the meeting place—a hollow surrounded by monolithic stones, their cracked surfaces ashen and lifeless, marking the center of a withered and decayed land. The air tasted bitter with death, and the ground beneath him seemed to wither with each step.

A feast of magical power lay ahead. His senses, heightened with greed, sharpened in anticipation.

But as he entered the circle of stones, his triumph faltered. No orcs stood waiting. No prize lay bound in the center.

Rage surged through Tysaun’s fractured form. His eyes—flames in the smoke—burned with fury. His limbs, like shadow and flame, twisted into sharp, angry shapes. Where are they?

He had ordered his orcs to trap the creature at this very spot. Why had they failed? His teeth—sharp, cruel—gritted in silence as he scanned the hollow. There was nothing but the eerie stillness of death.

Then his eyes fell upon the bodies of his orcish minions, strewn about like ragdolls, their heads cleaved from their bodies, their torsos pierced with precise strikes.

Elven blades.

A scream of fury rent the air, harsh and discordant, echoing through the hollow as Tysaun’s form writhed with rage. “Elves,” he hissed, spitting the word like poison.

His instincts told him they had to be close. He needed to know why they had not returned with the prize.

Turning sharply, Tysaun swept through the trees, his form leaving behind a trail of black ash. His feet pressed into the earth as though the very soil recoiled from his touch. This failure will be paid for. The thought spun in his mind like a black whirlpool, a sickening hunger for vengeance creeping through him.

As Tysaun reached the edge of the glen, a familiar magical signature brushed against his awareness. An elf.

The taste of magic flooded his senses. The elf’s essence would restore him—sustenance that would last for months. His hunger, sharp as ever, gnawed at him, urging him to act swiftly.

With a burst of shadow, Tysaun materialized in the path of the elven soldier, blocking his way.

The elf’s eyes widened in surprise, and his hand reached for his weapon, drawing a gleaming bow.

“Who goes there?!” the soldier demanded, his voice steady despite the mounting tension.

“Your doom,” Tysaun hissed, his voice a rasp like the grinding of bones.

The elf’s stance hardened. “I am Melorion, captain of King Thranduil. Stand down, shadow!” He nocked an arrow and drew his bow with deadly precision.

Tysaun’s laughter, harsh and jagged, shattered the air. “Fool,” he snarled, his smoke-form surging forward with inhuman speed. The soldier loosed an arrow, but it passed straight through Tysaun’s smoky form, dissipating without effect.

A cruel smile curled on Tysaun’s lips. His power coiled around the elf’s mind, seizing it with unrelenting force. Melorion gasped, his eyes wide with terror, as Tysaun rifled through his memories, savoring every moment of the elf's fear.

Tysaun saw through Melorion’s memories: the haughty elegance of his life at the royal court, his frequent dealings with King Thranduil, the arrogant yet loyal service he offered to the realm. The captain’s mind was dull but steady—a perfect vessel for what Tysaun sought.

Yes… Tysaun’s thoughts curled with anticipation. You will do nicely.

Before the elf could even react, Tysaun’s shadowy form surged through him, draining his essence with brutal efficiency. Melorion’s body crumpled, his wide eyes frozen in disbelief, before Tysaun incinerated him with a burst of fiery energy.

The elf’s ashes scattered, fading into the air like dust on the wind.

Tysaun drew himself upright, coalescing into solid form. He ran a hand over his newly-formed elven lips, the smile on his face thin and sharp. Excellent. Now I will send a message to Father that this... is my victory.

He glanced down at the burning ground where the elf had fallen, his smirk widening. A new disguise. This will be interesting.

With his stolen form and his dark triumph, Tysaun turned and strode toward the Halls of Thranduil. A spy within their walls—he would finally have what he wanted. His maker would be pleased.