Hi everyone!

Just some general musings on what it might be like to live in the War of the Ring and yet not really be involved much at all. Not my best piece of work and the first LOTR fanfic I've put up because I'm a little terrified of living up to such amazingness as the great man himself.

BUT all that aside I hope you enjoy it!

Rumours were what they thrived on. The day to day life in the little village settled snugly in the foothills of the Ettenmoors was reassuringly repetitive but the rumours seasoned their lives as the ever elusive herb that brings a satisfactory meal into the realms of heaven. The moors themselves rose to the north, a dark shadow on the horizon, and only a short travel away the River Hoarwell sang its merry mountain stream song as it rattled its way to join the Bruinen and then make the journey to the Sea, its voice harmonising with the rush of the great river.

Life moved with the seasons; the villagers were well versed in the land. They understood it well: when it was the best time to plant, till and harvest and what was best for their animals. For most they would spend their entire life here, not straying far beyond the known. But for those who did, they brought back tales of wonder and excitement. Of passing through other settlements like theirs and of towns where the houses were close together and the streets were paved. And sometimes they told tales of beings other than men. They told tales of Elves and time and time again the fair valley of Rivendell appeared in these stories. They were compounded by the Rangers, who often made mention of it.

The Rangers, it was agreed by all, were the best source of rumours. Their appearance simply added the mystery surrounding them. The long grey cloaks hid them as the travelled, often appearing in the shadows of twilight only to disappear into the swirling morning mist that covered the moors in the morning. The grey cloak seemed to meld with the landscape and the mystic quality of its material, light and warm, waterproof and soft, lent the wearer a strange quality. To many they were terrifying but the assurance that they were their protectors ensured that they always had food and a soft place to lay their heads. There was still a small amount of trepidation that the swords they wore inspired but the villagers knew what manner of creature sometimes lurked on the moors and in the caves of the mountains and were grateful for what protection the Rangers offered.

Then things changed. It was subtle at first; they barely noticed it. The Darkness had been spreading from the South, slowly, imperceptibly at first, until you began to notice things .They were always subtle changes, a leaching of goodness, and in its place the Darkness moved. The birds were the first thing most people noticed, or at least the lack of them. It wasn't unusual for there to be fewer birds as the winter months drew in but this was stranger than that. They didn't sing and the forests of Middle Earth grew strangely silent.

The elves had sensed something long before, as soon as the Darkness had begun to grow in the eves of the Greenwood. Unease came with it, a shiver down your spine and the constant feeling that something was watching you. And so men began to call the great forest Mirkwood, and the Darkness of Sauron settled there, exuding malice, and spreading its black tendrils into the hearts and minds of those foolish enough to dwell there. And so the Darkness deepened as He grew in power but He was discovered and fled south to His fortress in Mordor – the Dark Land.

Though the source of the Darkness had shifted, Mirkwood remained in shadow. And the shadow did not lessen. Dark creatures dwelt there and their numbers grew. And there were whispers in the North.

Dark whispers of evil creatures that preyed on unsuspecting travellers, which would burn a farmstead for the simple amusement of watching the suffering eyes of the family, which would murder every living thing that they found. Cow, dog, mother or child it would make no difference. But there were stronger whispers: whispers of hope and the Dawn.

But as the winter nights became darker and longer the whispers began to lose their fervour. They became unspoken, only now there in the comfort of home, of a quick smile, of a squeeze of a hand in the night. Only now there in the sowing of crops for next year, in the saving of an outgrown dress for the next little one, in the building of a new barn was there the whisper of hope. Only now in the rising of the sun every morning.

But the Darkness crept on. And one morning the sun rose but was hidden.

The tide had not yet turned but it had reached its peak. Events had been unfolding in the south, orchestrated by the great powers of the world, but the lynchpin was in the hands of two hobbits. Talk of hobbits was rare outside the Shire and its surrounding area and to the villagers all that mattered to them was the safety of their children. If the fate of their world was held by a hobbit or the greatest warrior they cared not so long as they were safe.

And they did not feel safe. The Rangers had disappeared suddenly with the quenching of the sun and in their hearts the villagers cursed them for leaving them in their greatest hour of need. Little were they to know that this was the very reason they had to leave. The days grew darker.

But then came the dawn. The sun rose dark but there was a shivering in the ground. There was a break in the cloud and the light broke through, patchy a first. And in each heart there was a lifting of the spirit and gladness and the feeling that a great burden had been lifted from each and everyone's shoulders.

And then the rumours came. Excited whispers of the broken back of evil and of a new King spread. The King was returned and the kingdoms reunited and the Rangers, his kin, were on their way back as heroes.

Thanks for reading all the way to the end and I hope you liked it. Please leave a review if you so wish - they are appreciated!

Annapurna