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

Thanks to all who reviewed. Am deeply sorry that I took so long to update. Was busy with holiday homework and whatnot.

Thanks to all who took the time to review.

– Odium–
Chapter One

The sunlight beat heavily down upon the vast plain that stretched as far south as the eye could see, with various huts here and there, marring the gentle flatness of the land. It was only spring, yet the temperatures were hotter than the past years, and the people wondered what would happen during summer. The wells had to be covered up, that was certain, for they did not have much hope for frequent rain. Water, no matter have coveted and wanted, had to be used sparingly to avoid drought too. The women sighed as they went through what had to be done in their minds, making mental notes to remind their husbands about them when they got back from their labour.

A slender young woman stood a furlong away from the nearest hut on the plain. She was fair, and unlike more Haradrim women, who were like cherries burnt from the thoughtless sun. The worries of the oncoming summer bothered her little, and she had long pushed away the small nagging thought of surviving it. There was no use to pay much attention to it anyway. Plans usually went wrong, no matter however meticulously planned, and besides, she doubted that she would be in the village for the summer. Nor the summers after.

The thoughts stayed for barely a second before being swatted away, a frown of irritation on her face. She hated for something, anything to break her concentration even before she started. Maybe it was due to growing up these past years with only one goal in her mind, or perhaps it was just her.

But whatever it was, it did not really matter. Not now.

Her sword was unsheathed from its cover strapped upon her back with not even a sound, and finesse horned from years of practice and pain. She gripped it in her left hand, the familiar worn leather grip molding into her palm. The sword was meant to be double-handed, but she had other purposes in mind for the other hand.

As she readied herself in battle stance, her sword held at ready in front of her, the empty plain disappeared. In her mind's eye, a circle of fair-skinned men that was several men thick, armed and ready, replaced it. Their sneers echoed in her ears as they were wrote her off, believing her to be a weakling.

She imagined the first one coming towards her, and her training had hence begun.

The young woman moved and fought with such liquid grace that it almost seemed that she was in a deadly, yet elaborate dance in which only one person would be the victor. To mistake her for an elf was likely, but she killed with such merciless strokes that it seemed that it was not so fair a being of Arda. Her blade whistled through the air as she whipped it around, her brownish-black hair flying in the sudden wind, imitating her movements. Her steps were balanced, and steady as she pivoted and turned, sometimes switching her sword to her other hand. The rather well defined, yet subtle muscles on her arm showed as her arm moved with every stroke.

She imagined dealing the blow she had perfected over the years, it was painful, no doubt, but her opponent would not die. Not instantly anyway. It would take a while to kill, as he would suffer extreme pain and internal bleeding as well.

She would use it on the Gondorian King.

As the number of 'assailants' rapidly dwindled under her swift strokes, her right hand sought the Gondorian short sword that she had strapped to her calf, crouching in the process to cut off the legs of her next enemy. The short sword soon joined the dance as she whirled and sliced, following a soundless rhythm that only she could hear, imagining the sickened screams of the men who had lost their limbs and lying in their own filthy blood, deep red and gushing unceasingly.

She cut her last man down, his body lying on the ground in six different parts.

Her training was over.

The 'men' vanished, and the empty plain came back into place. She had all but gone two fathoms or so from whence she had started, which bettered yesterday's. Her breaths came in short, yet measured pants, as she slowed down the beating of her heart to normal. Beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead and body from the heat, and not so much from the exertion underwent.

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At the door of the hut an old man stood, arms folded over his chest as he surveyed his pupil with pride. He was not so old as most, though long hours under the sun had gave him a weathered appearance, and made his skin look rather leathery. Otherwise, he had but only seen forty-two summers, and was rather lucky to have had. His comrades had perished in the War of the Ring, murdered by the men of Rohan and Gondor in a bid to save their lives. His father had luckily decided to teach him the skills of a killer, skills that had been passed down in the family since the Haradrim arrived in Middle-Earth.

He had not wanted to marry, and had been estranged from his family as a result of it, and came to this village, where he had been living for more than a score years. He changed his name to Hidaer, and from then on, never had any relation with his family; save for the craft he had been taught. His former name had then faded into nothingness, and not even he had remembered it.

He remembered the day the little girl came to him, her dark hair sticking to her face, wet and matted with sweat and blood. Her eyes shone wild with desperation and perhaps, fury; unshed tears brimming in the turquoise-blue depths of her eyes. She had been calling for help, her voice hoarse from it even as she ran. She had ran into the village, almost three leagues away from her own and approached the first person she had seen: him. Her little hand had gripped the alien sword till her knuckles turned white, and even as he coaxed her to let it go, she refused to, her lips in a grim line as she clinged onto him.

Then she had fainted from weariness.

The sun was almost setting when she awoke, and looked around her, eyes blank as she surveyed the strange faces looking at her. They had asked her what happened, and she told them of the events in halts, pausing occasionally for much-needed water to soothe her throat. The men were amazed that she had managed to survive the slaughter, but even more so, since she spoke without emotion and as it seemed, without care for the dead. All they saw was fire burning in her eyes whenever she touched the Gondorian sword beside her. She had pleaded with them to bury her family in the village, and gone with them to the village.

Many men had barely survived the ordeal of looking at the bodies, and they came away traumatized, and horrified that those men had done such a thing. The men that had done this could not be Gondorians, they thought, much as the young girl insisted that they were, even describing their attire. But most of the men were skeptical at first, believing them to be in disguise, but when news of the other villages poured in, they finally grudgingly conceded.

He had taken her in and adopted her, teaching her what she needed to know about war and killing, and continuing her studies on letters and words in both Haradaic and Common Speech. The girl was intelligent and learnt quickly, grasping many concepts with far more understanding than the children older than she was. She was curious about anything, and more still, in the art of war. Still, even some weeks in the village, she was still rather suspicious of everyone, even him, and refused to tell her name. As a result, they called her Tarla, which loosely meant 'lone' in their tongue. It was only in her fourth month there that she decided to say it.

---Flashback---

"Father," she said as she entered his study, eyes wide and hinting with some uncertainty.

Hidaer put down the trade records and looked at the girl, the various problems temporarily forgotten. It had only been a few months, yet it seemed that she was the daughter he never had, and seeing her always brought a smile to his face. Still, it was too early to pass on the skills that she craved for her revenge.

"What bothers you, child? You should be outdoors. Not staying in your room murmuring to yourself."

Her look reminded him for himself when he was young, and had been caught doing something wrong and forbidden, like disturbing the herd in the middle of the night, or stealing extra food for his dog. A pang hit his heart as he remembered Rufas, who died trying to save its master from a wild wolf.

"But how did you know I was in my room?"

The girl looked at her adoptive father as an amused smile appeared on his face and knew that she was to figure out the answer herself.

"I just do, Tarla. What were you going to tell me?"

"My name."

Hidaer's eyebrow rose in surprise. The girl had long kept her name in secrecy, and now…? It was rather weird, and out of the blue too.

"Why now?"

"Because I'm tired of keeping it to myself."

"Come here," he said, beckoning her closer to him, arms open. She came and sat in his lap, her eyes looking at him, and into him. It seemed to him as though she had the ability to see into the souls of people themselves.

"My name is Kyelia. Papa gave it to me as soon as I could speak. He said the first word I uttered sounded like it. He told me never to tell it to anyone unless I was fully sure of that person's well intentions, and to keep it close to my heart."

The girl's eyes brimmed with unspoken tears.

"I miss them sometimes, Father," she said as the first of her tears rolled down her cheek in a long time.

"Sssh, it will be all right, you'll be all right…Kyelia, you will be just… fine," Hidaer uttered as he held her close, rocking her back and forth as she poured out her sorrow to him.

---End Flashback---

The sound of footsteps snapped him back to the present as he looked up to see Kyelia walking calmly back towards him. It had been almost twelve years since the day she had ran into the village. As much as she brought him joy over the years, there was also the occasional pain. She was headstrong, and would not listen to counsels other than her own, and sometimes his. Her mind was made up the moment she thought of something, and as much as he tried to tell her that the King of Gondor was innocent, she did not care. They were all the same, she had insisted some years back and her tone disallowed further discussion.

He had taught her the skills when she was ten, partly because she had taken it upon herself to irritate him without rest all day and night. As usual, she was quick and swift, usually practicing with the Gondorian sword instead of the wooden one when she thought he was unaware, even trying out new maneuvers. He taught her to craft her own arrows, and of healing, lest she suffer any wounds. She was a natural with the bow, though it took her some time to get used to the sword. Before long, she was going hunting with the men, as much as they loathed her to, and killed a wolf or two, not too bad for a female of but fourteen.

Her coming of age was the next Tuesday, not more than but three days from now. Still, he knew that she itched for the day to come, so as to be able to start her journey via Harad Road.

"How did I do Father?"

The man smiled and nodded, and to the girl, she knew that he was satisfied. Three days would pass before long.

And then, her family would finally be avenged.

Tbc…
Note:

-Tarla: no, there's no such word in Haradaic out there in case you're wondering. I just coined it up.
-The men of the village survived because they were kinda lived further Southwest, and the Gondorians did not go there, perhaps because it was too far.
-She calls her real father 'Papa' and her adoptive one akaHidaer 'Father'.
-Harad Road: mentioned on the map in UT, it starts from Far Harad, and winds slowly into Gondor, passing Ithillen and staying close to the borders of Mordor.
-Furlong 221m
-Fathom around 2m.

Please help me Review! Thank You!!!

Master Akane: Thanks for reviewing! Glad you enjoyed it!

Wen E: yep, I like writing massacres. )

aranel anwe: you assumed right! Thank you!

A girl named bob: I'm gonna update. Thanks for the review!