Author's note: Okay, here is a little experiment on trying fan-fiction. I know how the year of the Third Age, it's the great invasion of the Easterlings to Gondor, but I did wanted a tense atmosphere. I know this OC of mine is really young, but how could I even create this based on a dream? Yes, this was inspired in a dream where I saw a girl encountering Scatha, around the late Second Age of Arda, or more possibly the beginning of the Third Age. I will make this clear: I do not possess all of Tolkien's material in real paper for this, but since this is a specific time in Middle-Earth's history where basically you have some chronological moments but not that as much as in other ages, I saw it was the perfect time for me to write without the writing being read as a noob'ish thing. Many thanks to for the information and of course for the Sindarin-English dictionary.
Prologue - "the Ancient-Script One"
Third Age Year 493
Should she? That was an innocuous question that the young refugee would never be able to answer. No matter, for her feet all but carried her away from the steep White Mountains - or Ered Nimrais as the Elves of old pronounced it - as north as her feet could. The little girl was huffing, no matter how much Lady Lóthinael had given her those silvery white shoes, the first knew she would get nowhere near the Fangorn woods. She was carrying the travelling clothes most noble-women of the south wore, a dark-greenish cape adorning the frail shoulders. Panting, her small black eyes had odd speckles of light brown in the corner of the irises. Those eyes were much unlike the eyes of any Gondorian. Many people would say she was to pass her twelfth year. However, Yilmór was reaching her fourteenth winter. She was neither short, nor too tall for a Child of Man. A thread of dark brown locks of hair fell to her humble tunic. Her tanned olive coloured hands were carefully hidden beneath the glove the noble Gondorian had gave to her. The gloves were sewn out of the bear's leather of the most northern passes of the Ered Mithrin, or Grey Mountains. A small silvery star with a few waves of wind had been sewn into the palms. It would last until the next five years of Yilmór's life. Patting affectionately the gloves, the young sat on top of a snowy ledge.
Her eyes could still catch the sight of a foreboding, dark smoke coming from Minas Anor. She had no idea how she could, but she did manage to understand how this whispered ill news of Gondor.
Before Yilmór's departure, Lady Lóthinael embraced the young girl, a few tears streaming from her face. A small pendant the size of a nut adorned her ivory neck. It had the shape of an intricate and brilliant silvery tree. Two brown eyes glanced firmly at the young woman. Those eyes glistened with an endless worry, and yet, at times they were kind. The youth recalled how the main Lady of the Library would sing to her the songs of the Elves. Her tunic was decorated with themes that could be reminiscent of the Men of Númenor. Her brass and golden hair fell in lovely cascades. To Yilmór , it reminded her of the flowers of south intertwined. Yilmór recalled in her careless little girl's time: faintly caressing those strands of hair tenderly, almost as a little daughter does with her mother.
« You cannot live here any longer. » It did not sound as a death sentence. Yet, the thirteen year old saw the stern, contemplative glance the lady stared at the majestic library windows. The windows made the curtains seem almost like a prolongation of the hue that formed around Yilmór's arms, the dreary black ink inscriptions painted in her body as though by a curse. Lóthinael frowned.
« Child...Believe me: we are not abandoning you. The House of Anárion shall not forsake you to the darkness. » Although the first part of the sentence was barely heard by the young half Easterling, Lóthinael underlined the words in Sindarin. For you see, Yilmór's father had never been discovered, one could only assume she was of the Orient by the colour of her skin. Her mother had died in the Houses of Healing. Lóthinael was astonished to see the strange script surrounding the arms of the little baby. However, Yilmór had been such a bright smile as an infant...
« These scripts are unlike the Tengwar Elvish script. Why they even may be more ancient than...Dear child, you must be far away from here! » Yilmór had never witnessed her surrogate mother with such a dark expression: it seemed as though the ever beautiful healer had aged centuries, but the wisps of dark brown hair had remained soft and yet toughened, like the small mail-chain of black steel.
No matter how much the young woman hated that, people in Minas Tirith would always call her by the name her father had whispered in the dark: "Yilmór", Wind of Darkness. The junction of the Elvish and the Easterling element made her shudder in her tunic.
After watching a small deer running to catch what was left in the northern slopes of the White Mountain, Yilmór decided it was time to hunt. Taking her own bow and a small knife, she crouched herself on the uneven and dangerous path.
To hunt is unbecoming of a maiden. A few wet-nurses whispered behind Yilmór's back whenever she took a small horse to travel across with Lóthinael, the Elven healer. A soft, eerie and dangerous song echoed in the half Easterling's blood whenever she shooted at the wild animals. The young Child of Man craved for meat, as her father would have done. Stealthily she dragged around the rocks of the lower paths of the mountain until she heard the noises of other animals. Following the small herd of deers a few more yards to the northwest, keeping the Mouths of the Entwash as her only reference, she groaned. Her self-control would not last any longer would the deers drag themselves farther from the Anduin tributaries. Fortunately, the deers began to walk more to the river. Reading her bow, she squashed her arrow with a flammable liquid. A small flask her father had given to her even before she was born. She was unaware how the healers did not dare to confiscate that. The flammable liquid spread across the arrow tip as it began a small flame.
Flinching at the sight of the colourful and strange arrow, the deers released a shrill call. Surrounding the terrified animals with her flammable arrows, Yilmór managed to catch two of them with sound and dry arrows of her second quiver.
Hastily drying the burnt places where the arrows had touched, Yilmór sighed. Taking a book and five loaves of bread and one liter of water would be insufficient if she meant to travel all the way to Lothlórien. She had no choice but to murder the poor animals.
« I do hope my first encounter with an intelligent being won't be with an Orc. » She said to herself as she kept the small loaves of meat, sprinkling them with something the Men of the Sea told her it would conserve better, Yilmór climbed down the lowest mountains for a couple of hours. Then, when she found a small cave, she decided to stay for the night. It would be unwise to travel during the late hours, when the stars could hardly be seen through the mountain picks.
That night in the dry cave, the Child of Man dreamt with encountering the Elves her Nana had always described to her in colourful tales. Yilmór was shorter than the Gondorians, and for that she always felt inferior. However, in these dreams where she walked on a field of evening beauties, she felt at peace. The child felt no longer afraid, her eyes were no longer sore with tears.
Another P.O.V
A pair of red eyes loomed in the darkest valleys, slithering their way towards the direction a keen sense of smell told him to. He had slaughtered the twelve remaining deers merely out of sport, holding the large buck within his dragon-spell for a while. No sooner the buck stood still, his lungs nearly paralysed at the power of the powerful worm, the creature grinned with his long and sharp teeth. Blowing a long flammable and accurate jet of fire, he watched the creature die with a sick pleasure glinting his dagger-pupil eyes. Silently he caught three deers in his jaws, instantly killing them with the hotness of his breath. With the blood spilling from his teeth, he lashed his long and dark tail. Not even a sound was heard from the four as he squeezed them in his long coils. After burning the remaining herd in his scorching stomach until they were warm, the dragon almost rumbled in satisfaction.
He was certain that there was a faint scent above the one those pathetic animals emitted. It was a familiar one: a female mammal, one that had merely reached the seventh of her bleeding moon. In a flick of a second, he folded his wings as he took the mountain air. Perhaps it was the hunger speaking to him. He was uncertain whether this was a Child of Man or not. But it was very close, and probably unaware that such a powerful being of the North had travelled all those paths merely for a different hunt.
Sindarin wordings:
Nana - colloquial for "mother"
Ered Mithrin - Grey Mountains
Ered Nimra - White Mountains
-mor - of darkness, dark
Of names of characters: Both Lóthinael and Yilmór have names that are mixes of two languages. If I have made a small mistake about them, please make sure to name it.