Disclaimer: I only own those characters that I conjured up.

– Odium–
Prologue

The day was like any other.

Or rather, as normal as it could be when the world was at war.

But the village, the tribe that lived within it, was spared the wars. They lived further away from most clans, and life was as peaceful as it could get, for they were so detached from the world that all the fighting and the bloodshed never reached them. They only came in the form of news passed by word of mouth, though by the time they reached the village, it was difficult to separate the truth from the exaggerations.

The men were out in the fields, checking on the crops, and doing whatever they could to ensure that the coming harvest was better than the year before, and would indeed tide them through the winter, and until the next harvest. The women were doing their usual household chores –washing the clothes in the gurgling stream nearby or making breakfast for the soon to be hungry men –resigned to the fact that in this society, the men were the top of the hierarchy. And they, of the female variety, had to see to their needs. The children however, seemed oblivious to any of the above. All they knew in their young minds was the fact that it was a sunny day, with the clouds in the sky promising no rain. It was a fine day for fun and play, and to enjoy their childhood as best as they could.

It seemed abnormal to be still in this peaceful state when men were fighting not but leagues from them, but the villagers were hardly touched by the warfare, including their recent defeat at the Pelennor. The shiny Haradrim armour that had been passed down generations from the fathers to sons were now dusty with long keeping, their golden sheen gone; for the men were hardly, if ever, called for war. It seemed that whenever there was a muster of the Haradrim in Near Harad, they were always passed over, which gave the women some measure of joy, since their husbands were not die in battle, and would be there to support them.

A scrawny little girl –not more than eight years of age– expertly scrambled up a nearby fruit tree, a hand woven basket swinging on the crook of her elbow. She hummed a little tune as she went along, picking the fruits and putting them into her basket, crawling upon the sturdy branches of the tree like a cat. Occasionally she would eat them at random; her eyes closed in ecstasy as she savoured the sweetness of the fruit. When the basket was full, and the tree had been picked of all the good fruits, she would quickly shimmy down, and bring it to her mother, before continuing on the next tree.

She was on her third tree when it happened.

The hoofbeats appeared from nowhere, loud and threatening, almost deafening as they came nearer. Scared, she hid in the leaves of the tree, peeking out cautiously through the spaces between them.

A score of men soon came into clearer view, and all were on horseback. For a moment, she thought that the Harad captains had finally arrived to claim the men for war. But it was not. Instead, the men were wearing unfamiliar armour, emblazoned across the chest with the motif of a White Tree in full bloom.

The girl's brow furrowed in deep thinking as she tried to place the crest of the men. She remembered her grandfather teaching her about the various realms of Middle Earth, and about the Shadow in Mordor. She tried to dig up the memories of those events. They only happened but a year ago, before he died, but it seemed so long! There was a rhyme he taught her, on how to distinguish the various races, the long list.

White Tree… fair skinned men…the White Tree…

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off when she heard hoofbeats stop just under the tree where she was hidden. The men dismounted, and a voice was heard,

"Do what you did at the last village, and make it quick!"

She stifled a gasp as she wondered about what they were about to do. They did not exactly seemed to be allies, and if they attacked the other villages, a messenger would come. Unless…

They were slaughtered.

The basket was forgotten, and left hanging precariously on the short branch above her as she peeped out to see what the 'bad men' were up to. Her friends had all ran back to their parents, and those that were too late were run though by the sharp steel blades, and they were dead before they hit the ground, lying in their own blood.

She felt sickened as she watched from her hiding place, trying not to make a sound lest they found her. All she wanted to do was to be in her father's comforting arms, having him stroke her hair and whispering to her in that soothing voice of his that everything was all right.

But deep in her heart, she knew she would never see them alive again.

The men had since been alerted, and had returned from their work. They stood in front of their houses, their military ceremonial blades in hand, ready to defend their family to their dying breath. But the fair-skinned men just sneered at them and laughed, jeering at them, and taunting them to challenge them if they were not cowards.

She watched, horrified, as the village chief was first to take up the challenge… and paid dearly with his life. His knife-hand was severed at the elbow as he ran towards them, and he knelt on his knees, trying his best to prevent the spurt of deep red arterial blood. But his ordeal was not over yet, as a fair-skinned man strode slowly up to him, and decapitated him in a single, clean blow; the head landing a few feet away. The headless ruined body toppled over, with its left arm still tightly holding onto the severed right.

Frowning, the man wiped his sword onto the chief's clothes, the stain making a thin red streak across his chest, and spat on his corpse, but turning back to the other men.

His actions seemed to have roused them, and they charged, unwillingly getting caught in the trap like flies in a spider's web. The fighting that came afterwards was more of a killing spree among innocents than that of duels, for with every fair-skinned men had was felled, seven Harads were mercilessly killed, with numerous stab wounds and disappearing limbs, their blood soaking into the thirsty soil. Their blunt blades, rusty from years of disuse and from well keeping, were of no match against the soldiers' well-sharpened swords that were so finely balanced, and that were wielded with skill.

The little girl fervently hoped that they would be gone as soon as they slaughtered the men, but she was wrong.

The men were not enough to satisfy their thirst for blood. They had to go for the innocents instead. They tried knocking on the doors, just to amuse themselves as they watching through the windows, sardonic smiles arrayed on their faces as they watch the occupants squirm away from the door in fright. A few well-aimed hits shattered the doors, no matter how many locks there were securing it, and they entered.

The girl did not know what happened next, but she could very well guess. The screams from the women, all almost mothers to her, rose up into the air and melded together to become a sickening melody of torture and pain, all so high and piercing and shrill that she felt shivers down her spine, and she stuffed her skirts into her ears to shut out the sounds.

All too soon the chorus ended, and all was silent, save the ringing of steel blades being back in their sheaths, and the cries of her friends, and of the newborn babes, cherubic and innocent in their plight.

She watched as one child ran out of the home, screaming for help. But there would not be for many leagues.

She watched as he was killed with a dagger thrown into his head, its point reappearing in the front of his face, and tried not to scream.

She watched as a man walked out of the wooden hut, and kicked his dead corpse, taking out his sword and cutting it up into almost bite-sized pieces, before going back into the hut.

And she decided to close her eyes, and thus saw no more. For a while.

She opened them again, upon hearing footsteps under her tree, the men were all mounting their horses, and getting ready to leave. She heard as they affirmed among themselves that everyone had been killed, and no one was spared. As they bragged about the number of conquests –though she did not know what they meant –they had. She heard as one of them uttered "Harad scum" in a voice filled with disdain, and, as if it was a signal agreed upon, all spat on the ground in direction of her village.

And then they were off, the hooves of their horses kicking up dust in their wake.

And waited till they were barely a speck in the distance, and until she could see no being around, save the vultures that had already descended to feast upon the dead, before climbing down the tree, hugging the basket to her chest.

Shooing the hungry birds away, she slowly walked through the huts, carefully stepping over the various corpses of the men that died in their first battle, unequal as it was. She knelt next to the body of her father, as he looked up to the heavens with blank eyes, a huge hole in his chest where his heart once pumped life.

Sobbing softly, she knelt on the ground beside him, and kissing him on his cheek that was still warm, she clasped his strong, calloused hand in hers.

"I'm here, Papa, I'm here…I'm sorry I came too late to stop them, so sorry…"

But was no answer, even as she hoped for one, perhaps just a slight movement of his lips would comfort her, and break the ice that started to form around her heart.

With tears marring her vision, she made her way to her hut, where she had grew up in all her life. Where the rest of her family were.

It was only when she reached the doorstep that she saw the cut-up mutilated body of the child.

It was her brother.

What had once been a healthy loving boy that was full of life was but an empty shell which was in many pieces, with various parts of his body all over the ground. His eyes were open in an expression of shock and pain, his mouth open in a silent scream for help that would never come.

The girl could not prevent it any longer, and, turning away, she bent over and vomited till nothing came out save liquid. And still she tried to rid her mind of the horrible sight.

Running into the hut in a desperate attempt to seek solace, she saw her mother slumped in a corner, her blood streaking down in a straight line on the wall behind her. Her unseeing eyes gazing straight in front of her accusingly, perhaps at her killer. Her baby sister was on the other side of the hut. A dark red patch high on the wall showing that she had been flung without care. A long knife had been run through her bottom up, its point glittering in the cheery sunlight that filtered through the window.

Grimacing, the girl walked towards her sister, the basket on the floor as she gingerly pulled the sword out, blood dripping slowly off its metallic length.

She went out into the Sun, sincerely hating its fiery depths. Somewhere in the North the clouds had gathered, and it was dark. But it had already been a dark day for her and her clan since the horsemen arrived.

Then it hit her.

Gondor… the men are from Gondor…

She finally recalled her grandfather telling her that the Gondorian men were strong, valiant and loyal. They were willing to fight to their last, and die in battle. And they were already merciful towards the unarmed, and untrained. Though they had killed his comrades in battle, he had a deep respect for them.

But what she had seen that day had neither those attributes. These men had called them scum, and barbarians, but they were no better.

Staring out at the carnage around her, and with the Gondorian sword tightly gripped in her left hand, a fire was swiftly kindled in her eyes, and her lips were set in a hard line.

The men were going to rue the day they came here. Gondor was going to pay for all the lives of her family and friends.

She was going to avenge their innocent deaths with those of their killers.

They will suffer for it.

What the little girl never noticed was the solitary fruit in her other hand, that had been involuntarily crushed, its red juice flowing into the grass, and mingling with the blood of those slewn…

Tbc…
Note:

The Gondorians were those 'deserters' from the army that Aragorn led to the Black Gate. In the book, he saw that many were frightened, and therefore ordered them to go and free Cair Andros and 'hold it in defence of Gondor'. I'm assuming that some men did not follow his orders but instead when to Harad to have their 'fun'. Although most of the men who left were on foot, the men were on horseback as they stole the horses from the other Harad villages that they entered. Although Harad is rather far from Mordor to some extent, the march from Minas Tirith took some days to reach the Morannon.

I'm basing my story on a Harad as most stories are against them, so we hardly know what they actually feel towards the people of Gondor and Rohan etc.

And my apologies if you lose your appetite to eat, though I highly doubt it.

Please Read and Review! And do tell me whether I should continue on this story. Or not.