A/N: Apologies for the late chapter! While I have made and will make no promises for weekly chapters I do try to keep the upload regular.

Also, a small content warning for some uncomfortable/disgusting descriptions this chapter.

And to msg839 many thanks for the kind review! I'm happy you like the small references to what's happening in other places. It's nice to know that it is working:)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, setting or plots of the Silmarillion or any other related works by Tolkien.

Enjoy!

Chapter Five

377 F.A.

The instance that the first spring birds returned to Dorthonion a messenger was sent out to her father's hold to inform him of Andreth's return.

Despite her decision to go home, during the long dark winter months her resolve had started wavering. However, the mere thought of Adanel's disappointment kept her from telling her aunt that she changed her mind.

A week after the messenger left, Breor returned. The old sword master had been sent to escort her on the way back.

When the giant burly man had first ridden into the courtyard, she had barely been able to recognize him. But one look into the gruff, stern visage had jolted her memory and she recalled the old warrior who had taught her to ride and handle a knife.

Even the memory of how he had been the one to steal her brother's time with fighting lessons couldn't quench her joy.

She had been so excited to recognize a long-forgotten part of her early childhood she had thrown her arms around him in a hug. His surprised grunt could not deter her, his stoic gruff behaviour filled her with the warm familiarity of home.

They had ridden out the following morning accompanied by three warriors of her uncle' household, Balan, Emlir and Amlath.

Despite her many years living in the same place she had barely met these men as they had been constantly on scouting missions or protecting villages in her uncle's name.

Balan was nearly as old as Breor, his dark hair turning grey at his temples. Emlir was only slightly younger, both men were respectful but formal. Amlath, by far the youngest, only five or six years her senior, was the most jovial and talkative.

However, by the second day of travel she did not feel like humouring him and kept to herself.

She rode at Breor's side whose confident silence calmed her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of the afternoon air, enjoying the warm spring sun on her skin.

The winter had lasted longer than expected and had stretched long through the wild highlands of Dorthonion. The soft sway of the warm body underneath her lulled her into a dreamy trance. She lost herself in the feel of the cool breeze blowing over her face and the warm heat of the afternoon sun on her skin.

Suddenly, with a jolt her horse came to a stand. Her eyes sprang open. Breor had gripped her horse's reins. Confused she looked at the burly man.

'What…'

That was when she smelled it. Abruptly she closed her mouth, trying to stifle a gag.

The disgustingly sweet smell of rotten eggs swept towards her through the soft spring breeze. Clapping her hand over her mouth and nose, she tried to flatten her breaths to keep her stomach from heaving.

Dreading what she would see she followed Breor's gaze to the front of their little company.

The bodies laid thrown about the meadow. It was impossible to tell how many at first glance. They did not seem to be entirely… intact. A cold shudder ran down Andreth's spine.

In front of them Balan had swung down from his horse, only hesitating an instant she followed his lead.

'What do you think that you are doing!'

Breor's voice boomed behind her, followed by a loud thud when his heavy boots hit the muddy ground next to his horse.

'I know some herbs. Maybe I can help any survivors?'

Silently she cursed the trembling in her voice.

Breor shot a sceptical look towards the meadow. Anxiously Andreth swallowed, immediately regretting her proposal, she could taste the foul smell of rotten flesh in the air.

'I do not think that any herbs can heal the dead.'

Before she could retort anything Breor continued stoically.

'Stay close behind me and keep your horse near.'

With a quick sign in Amlath's direction he began marching towards the gruelling scene. Andreth hastily gathered her skirts with her left hand, grabbing the reins with her right before hurrying after the big man, with Amlath following them close behind.

When she stepped into the meadow and beheld the butchering, she wished she had stayed behind.

It became undoubtedly clear to Andreth that Breor had been right. None of the men lying strewn about in the melting snow could be saved by even the highest elven healing.

Forcing herself to look close at the horrific scene, she observed the torn apart remains. One of the men, bearly older than herself was nearly torn in two at the hip. Another's face was a mangled mess of flesh and bone. In morbid fascination she observed the flies swirling around the rotting flesh, landing in the open wounds, eating their fill and laying their eggs. She knew if she looked closer, she would be able to see maggot's squirming in the flesh.

Distantly, she noted that there seemed to be a strange lack of blood. Except for the blood-soaked rags that had been their clothing no blood could be seen. From her training in the healing arts she knew that if several people had bled out in this one spot the earth should be drenched red.

Balan and Emlir stood in the middle of the butchering. The older of the two crouched next to one of the corpses turning the body around to look at its face. His words were the first to pierce through the tense silent hanging over the forest.

'They must have been messengers. Either bound to or from Boromir's House.'

'To. During late winter no messengers went missing. They must have come from Hithlum. Set on by agents of the enemy'

At Breor's answer Andreth raised her voice frustrated by the confusion their short exchange created to her.

'How can you be so sure of these things? They could be hunters from a homestead in Dorthonion? There could have been an accident!'

Only now taking note of her presence Balan shot a sceptical look at Breor, whose stoic expression remained unchanged. However, he did not voice his clear scepticism about allowing her near the massacre.

Breor answered her question.

'They passed by during late winter. Only messengers would travel these paths during that season. They were waylaid. Their bodies show that there was a fight. No beast could cause these wounds, only blades.'

'But, if they died in winter should they not be more… more…'

Her voice trailed off, frustration at her own weakness filled her as she forced herself to complete her sentence.

'More… decayed?'

Hesitantly she nodded.

Breor didn't show any sign of noticing her distress.

'The corpses have completely bled out. If the wounds were fresh there would be more blood. The snow has only been starting to melt recently. They must have been covered by it until spring and now they start to rot.'

Before he could further elaborate on his explanation a loud thud interrupted them.

Alarmed Andreth spun around, to see with a gasp of shock that Amlath had kicked one of the corpses lying on the outskirts of the meadow.

'Damn maggot-faced slithering fa-'

'Amlath!', concerned Emlir interrupted the young man's angry tirade.

Andreth stared at him. How could he just kick the dea-d… Her gaze trailed down to the body he had brutally kicked, and terror filled her.

The force of his kicks had turned the corpse around so that she could see his face. He… It was not human!

Its greyish patchy skin was pulled taunt over its grotesque features. Its yellow eyes sitting deep in their socket stared aimlessly into the sky. The shape of its ears was elongated and ended into points, disturbingly reminding her of the elves.

Cold realisation swept over her. This had to be an orc.

Breor was right. There had been a fight. An orc attack!

She had been afraid on multiple occasions in her life but never had she felt such pure exhilarating panic. Her heart beat uncontrollably in her chest.

A vague memory came to her. Adanel at the hearth, little Beren in her lap. Belemir sitting next to them. Bringing news of orc attacks. Of orcs pushing further into their lands.

Despite listening to that conversation all these months ago and being aware of the black foe lurking in the North, she had never considered the true danger of the world… not truly.

She had always thought that the Eldar would keep them all safe.

But, if orcs could be hiding in every corner… her gaze flicked over the corpses, to the shadows underneath the trees. What had seemed sheltering and peaceful only a few moments ago, became a terrifying place in her mind.

'Andreth.'

The sound of her name snapped her out of her panicked state. Her frantic breath caught in her throat as she stared up at Breor. Gently he laid his hand on her arm pulling her closer to her horse. After easily lifting her up into her saddle he swung onto his own. In a stern voice leaving no room for argument he addressed Balan.

'You and Emlir stay here. Gather as much information as you can, then catch up with us!'

Turning to Amlath he snapped:

'You! Get your horse! If you can't keep your temper, then you are of no use here! Follow me!'

Then he spurned his horse on and guided them away from the death and horror filled meadow.

Andreth gripped the saddle horn convulsively. Breor had kept her reins, guiding her stead close behind him. Instead of the annoyance that would usually fill her at such a patronizing act she couldn't help but feel thankful.

At this point Andreth is about 16 y/o.

Hithlum – region under Fingolfin's rule, situated to the left of Dorthonion, during the Long Peace the Edain of the House of Malach predominantly lived there