A/N: Hello, folks. First off, this is a fic with an Original Female Character, so if you dislike that breed, you can leave now and no harm done. However, I'm taking great pains to keep her from being a Mary Sue. So, if you want to give her a chance, then I'd be so grateful if you'd read on. I'm taking my time to get her established rather than plunking her down in the middle of things and have ponderous exposition to cover all the gaps. You will find that she possesses no special powers or stunning beauty. She is quite normal, really. This will hopefully be very long if my imagination continues and the feedback is even halfway positive. CC welcome, and it will be a combination of book and movie-verse. So, without further ado, my first dramatic fic.

Disclaimer: Anything Tolkien created doesn't belong to me. If there is an unfamiliar name, however, it's mine.

Chapter 1 : An Ill Feeling

[Lebennin province, northern region, T.A. 3009]

The region of Lebennin at the headwaters of the River Gilrain was beginning to show the first flush of spring's green as the warm coastal air swept inland. Remnants of chill winter continued to tumble down the mountains but the tide of battle had already begun to turn and spring would be declared victor once more. Though the balmy salt-laden scent from the coast never traveled this far north, those inhabitants who were most relieved at winter's end declared that the fragrance was indeed upon the air.

"The grasslands are recovering quickly from this long winter," Gorhend, son of Osmor, said in pleased tones. Standing in his stirrups, he surveyed his sizeable herd of horses, bred for the armies of Gondor, and nodded in satisfaction. "They have weathered it well."

"Already we have a dozen foals," Cirien, his most experienced herder, told him. "We could get another one out of each of those mares. Gondor is in sore need of mounts. It is as though they are cut out from under their riders before they have taken a single step."

Gorhend sighed. "Horses…men…weapons. Gondor has need of them all." He looked down at his gnarled hands and shifted in the saddle. "Sixty-six winters have I endured, all in the service of Gondor." He turned to Cirien. "You would not think me a mighty warrior, bent as I am, but I was." He grinned. "I have split many orc heads beneath my sword, back in the days of my youth. Would that I was assured of never having to do such again."

Cirien pointed to the mountains looming before them. He noticed that his own hands were weathered, the long and dexterous fingers beginning to twist in the manner of an old man. Gorhend's observation about his own age had reminded him once more that he was not a young man himself. Better not to dwell on such things, he thought. If fear of old age sets in, maladies will certainly follow.

"There, sir," Cirien continued, gesturing to the mountains. "I have long wondered if we are in an unfortunate position, being as we are between these mountains."

Gorhend looked to his left and right at the spurs from the Ered Nimrais that jutted into the province like two long fingers on either side of the Gilrain. Knobby fingers, not unlike his own, he noted in grim amusement. "Unfortunate or not, we are here," he said simply. "I have spent too many years on this land and should danger come, I will not leave." He turned to Cirien, the wind from the mountains stirring his unkempt steel-grey locks. "There is no place in Middle Earth safe from harm and evil, Cirien," he said, unable to prevent a weary note entering his tone. "We could retreat westward, but that would only move the line of resistance further inland. They will come regardless." He shook his head. "No, the peace that previous generations fooled themselves into thinking was possible is just a dream. Danger has always been looming on the horizon and reports from Minas Tirith are indicating that it is increasing evermore. Orcs and the foul vermin from the South, those barbarian Haradrim, will come. They will come."

A chill swept over Cirien and he knew that it was not from the mountains. This chill was settling deeper than anything a mere breeze over snow could achieve. He looked at the mountain spurs warily, almost sure he could detect movement among the rocks. Almost ashamed, he shook his head. The Valar preserve him, he was as scared as a child at bedtime! He straightened in his saddle, hoping that Gorhend had not seen this moment of weakness. If his master could not rely on the fortitude of his hired men, then danger would surely come and move swiftly.

Gorhend grinned again. "Ah, I see you mirror my thoughts. You are seeing a swarm of orcs pouring down over the mountainside and setting upon on us mercilessly."

"No, sir!" Cirien began to protest.

"You lie poorly!" Gorhend laughed, shaking his head. "You have every right to worry about what might happen in the future. As I said, it will happen. Perhaps not this month, or this year, but in the next or the next after that, it would be wise to be on your guard every waking moment." He gently squeezed the reins and turned his mount southward, towards home. "We will come back for the night watch," he said, "but now we must eat. Laenilas, as you know, is easy to anger if she cooks a meal for naught."

Cirien chuckled at the thought of Gorhend's wife throwing her heavy wooden ladle, as she was wont to do when her husband strayed from her table. "If it is well with you, I will stay with the men and watch the herd. I will not deny that your words have had an effect on me. My hunger has disappeared. The more eyes we have, the better."

Gorhend clapped his second-in-command on the shoulder. "It does my heart good and eases my mind to know that you are vigilant," he smiled in true affection. Though Cirien's winters numbered over forty-five, Gorhend felt unto him as he would to a son. Cirien was not unaware of these feelings and they had increased over the past several years, ever since Gorhend's own son met his death.

The sun was setting rapidly and Cirien watched the horizon acquire such colors as dazzled the eyes. Only to the east was the splendor dimmed, for a dark pall constantly hung in the sky, obliterating any brilliance that might meet it. He had heard that sunrises were once a wonder to behold, but he could never remember seeing such a thing with his own eyes. Perhaps in his youth when he took no notice of such things, there had been a radiant summer sunrise. Now that he was aged and welcomed visions of beauty, they were not to be his. He saw the beautiful yet sad death of the day, but he would never see its glorious and hopeful birth each morning.

He watched Gorhend disappear into the fading daylight as he journeyed across the narrow plain. At the bend of the river three leagues to the south lay a small house, a haven from the troubles that lay outside. Perhaps not a true haven, but an illusion would serve at the end of a long day.

To be continued…