The rider galloped into town, racing against the harsh wind, hard-pressed to maintain his pace.
A villager spotted the dark figure on the horizon - the first approach the town had seen for months - and immediately forgot his own business. He turned and ran to the town square.
"Sound the alarm!" he cried out to the villagers. "A messenger is coming!"
"A messenger is coming!" The cry echoed through the town.
Soon every villager was assembled in the square, utterly abandoning all other activity. The excitement hadn't been higher since their men had marched away to the war.
The last news that had been received was encouraging - the enemy was badly out numbered, their allies were abandoning them, and their fall was imminent.
However, that had been months ago, and some repercussions of momentous events had reached even this small town - every villager had felt the disruption in the earth and the shaking of the mountains. The silence had added to their trepidation, and now they were overly anxious to hear any new tidings.
The rider made it into the town on a horse pushed to the limit, exhausted and spent. He galloped into the square, in no better condition than his steed, and faced the villagers with his news.
Even before he opened his mouth, they knew the news was bad. His grim face and drawn brows did not bode well.
"Lord Sauron is defeated; he fell by his own craft," he gasped out.
The villagers were shocked; they had feared ill news, but they were not prepared to hear that their lord and leader had fallen. They exchanged worried looks, but the rider was not finished yet.
"The armies of Gondor have already marched on Umbar. None has the strength to resist them since Mordor fell."
Already marched on Umbar - this was terrifying. The armies of Gondor had never been a real threat to this village, for their size and the threats to their homeland made conquering anything an impossibility. But if Umber - a region which had always resisted Gondor - was fallen, it would be only a matter of time before they reached this village.
But the real shock was yet to come -
"Gondor has crowned a king!"
A collective gasp of incredulity and disbelief came from the villagers. A king? There had not been a king for hundreds of years - Gondor had not been strong for hundreds of years - the "inferior bloodlines" of men had not been under its sway for hundreds of years. To the villagers listening to this news, the tales of the old days of tyranny and enslavement by the high kings and noble descendants of the Numenoreans were far off childrens' tales, little more than myth.
"Gondor is preparing to march on these lands. They will be here in weeks." The messenger collapsed, his tale brought, and his strength spent.
A few villagers were sensible enough to tend to him and his horse; the rest stood in the square, the level of panic gradually rising.
"Lord Sauron defeated? How?"
"A king? But the kings are all dead, and the stewards weak."
"In days of old we weren't free. Our ancestors were bound to work for those of high blood."
"Our village will be ravaged and our children enslaved!"
The leader of the town stepped out and attempted to restore order. "Calm yourselves! Panicking will achieve nothing."
"But what can we do?" a woman cried. "Our men are all gone, dead in the war."
"We can do nothing!" another cried. "They will come and enslave us as of old!"
The leader raised her voice. "We mustn't despair. Our ancestors survived, as can we."
A young girl of the village, Mithreye, turned away to her duties with a heavy heart. Her father had been out there, fighting for Lord Sauron, and so surely must be dead. She grieved for him with all her heart. She had been closer to no one in this world.
Another part of her could not yet imagine her settled life disrupted by the men of Gondor enslaving her and her kinsmen. She gazed out to the north, her heart wondering what could have happened to defeat Lord Sauron. The mountains of Mordor could be clearly seen - Mordor, the land that had promised to defeat their enemies, and promised to free them, the lower races of men scarred and estranged by those of noble blood. Mordor, where all the villagers hopes had lain.
Mithreye had never been out of her village. She sometimes dreamed of the lands outside, but always dismissed her fantasies lightly. Now, facing the prospect of an enemy people enslaving her village, she seriously considered the possibility of leaving.
But where to go? And how? No, she decided, it was not really possible. Besides, how could she desert her mother and friends to do so?
She lowered her eyes, wondering how bad life would be under the rule of Gondor, too grieved to gaze upon Mordor any longer.
But turning south, she lifted her eyes upon her homeland. Her village was on the very border of Near Harad, a vulnerable position. The rider had spoken truly that it was only a matter of weeks.
A/N: The inspiration for this fic came from the scene from the extended version of the movie The Two Towers, where Faramir views a fallen enemy soldier and wonders what his name was and what drove him so far from home. It was originally a longer fic, in which Mithreye leaves her village, travels to Gondor, discovers they are not evil, falls in love, etc. Then I realized it was terrible, and took it down. This was all forever ago. Now I'm reposting it as a one-shot because I still like the idea of exploring the humanity of those humans working for Sauron through their own eyes.