"It's a place where the strongest and most cunning rule... where the cost of survival is paid for by others... and everyone feels alone." - Gotham

* * *

Leaves rustled in the breeze, changing patterns of the Sun's beams on the ground as they pierced the canopy. Birds twittered happily as they streaked across the blue sky, returning to their nests and young with food. Below, majestic deer grazed on vibrant green shoots. White spotted fawns frolicked after their parents on shaky legs. Red and grey squirrels chased each other into the trees, their cheeks bulging with nuts. The Queen of Greenwood observed it all.

Faenmîr did not expect to be queen. She was a lowly Silvan of the Elven Guard. She did nothing for King Thranduil to notice her except her duty, protecting her home under his command. As he was king, there was no one to tell them no when their love blossomed like the spring. She fell for those eyes as blue and frozen as ice that would melt only for her. She loved and admired his devotion to his people and their prosperity. It's what made him a great leader. A great king.

A beautiful blue butterfly flitted softly onto the windowsill, catching Faenmîr's eye. Thranduil loved her eyes as vibrant blue as that butterfly and her ross-brown hair falling like a waterfall down her back. He declared his love for her willingness to sacrifice and her strong call of duty to protect her people. "The people will love their warrior queen," he told her.

The butterfly soared into the sky and Faenmîr shook her head, bringing her mind from the wide world back to her little writing desk in the palace library. She tapped the dry quill against the blank paper, biting her lip as she pondered on what to write. Although she was a warrior, the duties of a queen also called for politics. This was to be a letter addressed to Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien.

She sensed him approaching with her Elven warrior instincts long before feeling his embrace and his kiss on her cheek. Faenmîr smiled as she melted into his touch.

  "Gin melin," he whispered into her ear.

She reached up and gently turned his jaw so she could kiss him passionately. These were the moments Faenmîr treasured: where she could forget that they were king and queen and acknowledge that they were bound together in love as husband and wife.

All too soon, the moment was interrupted by an urgent banging on the library door. The two Elves parted and Thranduil smiled apologetically before crossing the room to open the door. It was a young ellon named Feren, and by the expression on his face and his hushed words to the Elvenking, Faenmîr gripped the back of her chair a bit harder.

When the message was complete, Thranduil nodded and made to follow Feren before pausing and glancing back at her. For the anxiety on her face, Thranduil sent Faenmîr the warm smile he reserved only for her, then disappeared behind the door.

A beat of loneliness, then a cold wind cut through the air like a knife from the window, sending a shiver down Faenmîr's spine. She grabbed the sword King Thranduil had specially made for her and strapped it around her waist. The snugness of the belt and the weight of the weapon reassured her. Duty called her as she abandoned the empty parchment on the writing desk.

In the palace halls, a frantic Elf glanced around until he spotted the queen and rushed to her. He was breathless, hands braced against his knees as he gasped for air. His face was pale with fear. Faenmîr had not witnessed one of her blessed kin so spent and so afraid since the War of the Last Alliance at the end of Elvenking Oropher's reign.

  "Le Belaith," the guard gasped, "I must escort you to safety."

  "Why? What is happening."

  The ellon shook his head. "We do not know, and that is what we fear. Follow me, Le Belaith. Quickly."

With her hand on her sword hilt, Faenmîr followed the ellon through the palace. She had no intention of hiding, but this guard could provide her with what little information he had.

  "Where is the king?"

  "He has taken a patrol to Amon Lanc."

  "Why would he go to his adar's abandoned capital?"

  "He is investigating the sickness."

  The queen halted. "Sickness?"

  "Naw. A patrol reported decay infecting the trees around Amon Lanc. It is a poison that turns the bark black and dead and makes the trees silent. They did not dare draw closer and returned to report to the king."

The queen and the guard climbed the wood path to the twin thrones located in the center of the palace. Behind the thrones yawned a massive hole in the wood, serving as a window that overlooked their kingdom with the Misty Mountains in the distance.

The queen gazed solemnly at the sight. The once alive forest was now so silent. The Sun was still shining brightly, but she could barely feel Her warmth. There was a new scent in the air, sickeningly sweet like poison. There was barely a difference to her eye and she would have thought it nothing if not for the foreboding in her heart.

  "What is the cause of this?" whispered Faenmîr. Her question hung in the air, but she knew the answer deep within. The air was unusually thick–thick with evil. A threat slowly grew in her mind.

A clear horn echoed from the palace doors. The guard and queen exchanged worried glances, then hurried to the gate.

Feren was awaiting them with a grim expression. At the boarder of the Woodland Realm, a long line of Elves gathered, each loaded with belongings. Many were covered in blood and grievous wounds. Elflings were crying, eyes wide with terror. Black stains speckled their armor and tunics.

  "Let them in," Queen Faenmîr ordered with an authoritative tone she rarely used.

  "But, Le Belaith..."

  "We have enough room, Feren. Late King Oropher built this place to be a fortress for all of Eryn Galen to find refuge."

Silvan Elves–her people–flooded through the doors and collapsed onto the floor, safe at last. Healers rolled up their sleeves and began to treat the injured.

Faenmîr kneeled beside an ellon, whose hand was pressed against his bleeding side. The Silvan queen placed her slender hands over his to help stem the bleed. "What has happened?"

  "Orcs," he gasped. "Orcs have attacked Emyn Duir."

  "Orcs?" Faenmîr repeated. "Orcs have not been seen since the War of the Last Alliance."

  "The Shadow has encouraged them. Something is happening in Greenwood. It has spread to the mountains."

  "Where is the king?" asked a younger Elf, leaning heavily on an unstrung bow.

  "He is investigating Amon Lanc where we believe is the source of this... shadow," she replied. "Once he returns, we will have more information." She turned back to her patient. "Emyn Duir has been overtaken?"

  He nodded and winced. "The Dark Mountains is a name accurate for more than just the dark green fir trees. Horrible things live there now."

  "It must have taken you three days to bring you all here," Faenmîr realized. How long has this threat been growing to our unawares?  "Feren, help me find lodgings for everyone."

King Thranduil did not return till long after the Sun had sunk below the horizon. It was the darkest night anyone in Greenwood had ever seen. No evening breeze made the soothing rustle of leaves. No nocturnal presence brought life to the night. The stars and the Moon were dim. It was still and deafeningly silent as if the forest was holding its breath.

Relief washed over Faenmîr as her husband's brown elk trotted into view with a troop of Elven Guards following.

  "What did you find?"

  Thranduil kissed her quickly as his loyal steed galloped away. "Not here. I am calling a war council."

War. It has been a thousand years since she heard that word spoken with that kind of gravity.

It wasn't long before she was standing around a table with her husband and the leading officers in the army. A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the walls, the map of Greenwood the Great before them, and on the grim faces of the Elves in the room.

Thranduil leaned on his knuckles over the table and paused as if searching for the right words. Raising his head, a seriousness could be felt behind the blue flames in his eyes. The orange fire glinted off of his silver armor.

  "A Shadow is invading our home as we speak. A darkness we have not seen since the days of Sauron." The fire flickered violently at the mention of the dark lord's name. "I took a patrol and followed the sickness poisoning our forest right to its source. We traced it to Amon Lanc." He pointed to the place on the map. "It was not how I remembered it. The trees surrounding the hill were black and screaming in pain. The capital itself was eerie and dark. We didn't dare step onto the premises as we felt repelled by evil."

  "Our kin at Emyn Duir were attacked by Orcs three days ago," Faenmîr informed the council. "It is as if our enemies were awaiting this moment to strike."

  "Who would use Orcs other than a servant of Sauron or the dark lord himself?" an officer pointed out worriedly.

  "We should send a message to the White Council or Mithrandir himself," someone else suggested. "Perhaps they know who it is. At the very least, they should be warned."

  "I believe Mithrandir is already aware. And if he is not now, he will be," Thranduil assured him. "All we know now is that Amon Lanc is a place of evil and is forbidden. From this day forth, it shall be known as Dol Guldur."

Hill of Sorcery. A fitting name. This Shadow was certainly the result of a dark power.

  "What are your orders, Le Belaith?"

  "Double the guard and raise the defenses. We will call the people to the Woodland Realm before they are attacked by Orcs or worse."

It remained unspoken, but the intent hung in the air. War was upon them.

The Shadow spread during the night. The feeling of malice grew and the forest became still. A poison with no cure spread like a disease, dooming the strong and beautiful forest to a fate of frailty and pain. From that day forth, no one wished to enter its borders.

Thus, Greenwood the Great became known as Mirkwood, the Forest of Great Fear, where the Shadows lie.

Translations:
Sindarin:
Ross - Red-haired, copper-coloured
Gin melin – I love you
Eryn Galen - Greenwood
Emyn Duir - Dark Mountains
Amon Lanc - Naked Hill
Ellon - Elf man
Adar – Father
Naw – Yes
Mithrandir - Grey Pilgrim, Gandalf's Elvish name
Dol Guldor - Hill of Sorcery
Le Belaith – Your Majesty (literal 'your mighty')

Quenya:
Sauron - The Cruel