Disclaimer: I own nothing that is recognizable to the Lord of the Rings franchise. The languages used in this story are Quenya, Primitive Elvish, and Sindarin. These are all owned by J.R.R. Tolkien.

What ARE mine are the original characters and the Darkmen tongue

Sands of the Desert

The sands of the desert were cool at night, soft and silver in the moon beams; they muffled the sounds of the horse's gait. There was a slight breeze that fanned the rider's head covering and robes. The rider lifted a tired head once more to the east, and whispered:

"Ela meldenya: ma'ar. Laita i Valar: ma'ar."

They had come to a canyon, so vast its chasm spanned twelve leagues across and sixty leagues deep. The sides of the canyon were sharp and near vertical, impossible to scale by one's self, let alone with a horse, unless one knew the path. The rider leaned closer to the horse's head, and whispered softly to him in a tongue beautiful and savage.

"Rato, Hravan, rato cenuvalmë nossemma ata. Inga i yáwë tienna talamsa. Rato, meldenya, rato."

The horse seemed to listen intently to the rider's low voice, roughened by exhaustion and exposure to the harsh sands. Giving over to Hravan's knowledge, the rider slumped forward in the saddle, clinging to the long, braided mane of the dark horse.

The path was trying during daylight hours, and grueling with the moon's guiding rays. Sharp rocks and massive outcroppings littered the path, spiraling downward at near vertical angles almost the entire journey. More than once the horse stumbled from the familiar trail, snorting away the rising sand particles, and continuing downward.

The night was quiet; despite their descent into the canyon, there was no sign of life stirring. No sounds of insects, no scent of predators, no signs of reason as to why this traveler would choose to enter such a place.

After seeming hours, the pair reached the base of the canyon, and began yet another long dark journey through its walls.

The hot sun beat down, merciless and pitiless of those caught unawares. None could travel through the desert without suffering the Sun's wrath.

A harsh wind had picked up earlier in the day, causing others to hide in their keeps for shelter, while she was determined to bring news of the threat back to her people. Áravelca would know what to do, who would fight the Abhorrent One once more.

She rode for days and nights, stopping only for rest. She rode an Elvish horse, covered leagues each day, yet still time was slipping; her people's chance was slipping. Men in caravans passed her on her way to her keep. The foolish ones were they who tried to follow her.

/Stupid humans./ she thought, /Have they not heard the stories of those who would hunt one such as I?/

Over dunes and hills of sand she and her horse rode. Whenever she glanced back, there they were. /Men./ she thought furiously in her mind /I will teach them a lesson they will forever regret./ Topping ridge, she reigned in her horse just beneath the outcropping. She slipped from the saddle, her blades at the ready, and waited for the Men to catch up.

Hot sand spilled from above as the humans and their horses flew over above her. The leader pulled up when he saw their quarry was no longer in sight, speaking in a harsh tongue to his comrades. All three of them swung from their saddles to the ground, and began arguing.

With a grim smile, she cast one last look to her horse, which nodded his head, and strode out from beneath the ledge.

They jumped when they saw her standing there, so cold and grim, not at all like the easy capture their leader had convinced them they would have. Instead of a meek Elvish maiden for the taking, this demon had swords. The demon called out:

"Gea khon'vak, Moratan?"

Their leader answered with a fake smile:

"Sh'shishida vá khaiva opiri hanuj. Centisilm klo wenwir."

If possible, the demon's eyes began to glow silver fire as she answered in a voice cold as winter ice:

"Khonvila centipar gogor rhothi hassen."

Raising her blades to the sun, she charged at the three Men. Crying aloud, she sliced an arc in the air as she aimed at the nearest head. Ignoring the sickening thud that accompanied her success, she flew at the next nearest human. This one was more prepared than his friend, and was at first successful in parrying her blows, but her skill soon outmatched his.

Executing a spin, she crouched to the ground and kicked out a leg, causing him to fall hard on the sand. Quickly, she cried aloud again and thrust her right sword into his heart. Pulling out her blade, she turned around to face the leader.

Sweat dripped from her brow as she fought with him under the hot sun. Blood from both warriors dripped onto the blistering sands as each wounded the other. She was quick and light around her enemy, dodging his attacks and lashing out with her own.

Finally, she slammed her left blade against his so violently they became locked together in a vicious battle of strength. He desperately tried to stop its descent, as its target was his neck. Screaming aloud, she buried her right blade into his belly, the force behind it so intense it broke through his armor.

He made a grunt, and with his grip on his sword loosening, she sliced through his neck with a powerful thrust, severing his head. Panting from both exertion and loss of blood, she stumbled back to her mount, searching for her pack. Ripping a set of clothes from the haversack, she tore strips from the shirt and tied her injuries tightly to staunch the flow of blood. Walking a bit unsteadily back out into the sun, she coldly padded through the men's clothing, searching for identification from their cities, or even lords.

Disgusted, she ripped their respective symbols from their clothes, and remounted her horse. Spitting on the ground where the bodies of the Men lay, she turned her mount to the east, and rode off.

A.N.:

Note: The language used in this chapter is a mixture of Quenya and Primitive Elvish I found online, courtesy of Ardalambion. The reasons for this language mix will become apparent later. Appears in bold

Translations:

Ela meldenya: mar. Laita i Valar: mar Look my friend: home. Praise the gods; home

Rato, Hravan, rato cenuvalmë nossemma ata. Inga i yáwë tienna talamsa. Rato, meldenya, rato Soon, Hravan, soon we will greet our families once more. First the canyon trail to its base. Soon, my friend, soon

Hravan Wild

Note: The tongue of the Men is my own made-up language. Here are the translations for the Easterling speech (don't have ITS name yet, either):

Gea khon'vak, Moratan? What do you want, Darkman?

Sh'shishida vá khaiva opiri hanuj. Centisilm klo wenwir. There is a bounty on all Elves. One hundred silvers for every catch.

Khonvila centipar gogor rhothi hassen. It appears your lives aren't worth more.