Anorien, région of Gondor, north of the White Mountains

~

Sûlmae cowered next to the window, as if trying to become one with the blue window drapes. Or possibly melt through the window itself.

But as she peered through the filmy pane, past her young reflection, she saw the multitude of orcs in the late afternoon light. Greying skin, horrific piercings, terrible speech on their tongues. Fire danced on their torches, leaping to her home's fields, ablaze. She whimpered and clutched her cloth doll closer.

"This one's got a leak in it," a particularly anxious orc said. It's hand couldn't seem to stay away from that cruel looking weapon on its back.

Sûlmae had seen orcs before—but only in the tales her brother, Sîron, wove. But here, in the real world, they were now in front of her. And she cowered.

Sîron would be sullen if he found out I wasn't like the heroes in his stories, she thought with a pang. So, clutching her doll tighter, she raised her chin. Met the monster's eyes.

It bore its teeth at little Sûlmae. "I'd like to plug it's squealing hole."

She cringed back, hero's façade broken.

"I'll make a hole in you," Sîron growled.

He made to lunge, with nothing but his bare hands as weapons, but their mother yanked him by the shirt.

"No you will not." Her eyes shone like fire, yet Sûlmae could still see the fear. The worry for them and their father somewhere out in those burning crop fields.

Sûlmae banished the images of her father burning and instead reached for Sîron's hand, glancing warily at the orc and then back to her brother as he met her gaze.

He was older, old enough to have kissed a girl. The nice one who grew strawberries and made strawberry pie. Sûlmae always thought she was wondrous, with that hero's braid she wore in her hair.

"It's okay, Sîron. I'll be quiet. I promise."

His face softened. "Of course you will."

His eyes got that look, the one that meant a story was about to be told.

"You have the spirit of one of the Silent Ones, little Sûl. They say not a peep comes from their stoney mouths, even when confronted with an enemy—"

"Quiet!" An orc yelled. It took a step forward.

"And they have the bravery of Tulkas and the resilience of the Prophecy Written. That spirit is said to reside in those who need the quiet of stone."
His eyes returned to their normal brown. "It's the same spirit that resides in you now. All you need to do is call upon it."

She nodded, gripping his hand tighter. Sûlmae stole a glance at the two orcs who stood in the sitting room, who had forced them into the corner. They didn't draw their blades but she heard orcs in the kitchen breaking things, saw them exit the small house and place all her family's food stores in a pile. Another orc had entered their cellar outside, occasionally reappearing with a barrel of grain or jars of cured meat. That one did the same—the monster placed it in the pile.

Then, further out across the field, she saw orcs—as tiny as Hero figurines—pull a family out of their house. They were silhouetted by the dying light of day, the silence upon the air outlining their struggle even more. A girl, with blonde hair and fingers stained red from picking strawberries, was thrown roughly to the ground. A trickle of flames crept out the front window of the house beside them, slowly crawling ever upwards to consume the abode of wood.
Sûlmae tugged on Sîron's hand, remembered that Stone spirit inside her, and pointed out the milky window.

Sîron nodded grimly, but his eyes were on the small mountain of food just outside their house.

She shook her head and pointed again, getting closer to the pane.
He inhaled sharply. His hand tightened around hers, not painfully, but as if his hand had become stone. Maybe he was invoking one of the Stone Spirits?

She glanced nervously at the orcs, who were poking at the knitnaks upon the mantle.

Slowly, Sîron released Sûlmae's hand. Upon the loss of his strength, she pressed herself to her mother's side, welcoming the arm that came around her and the hug of her mother's skirts.

Her brother stepped forward, eyes upon the letter opener her mother had left by the plush chair, a half opened letter next to it. The seal was plain, nondescript, which told Sulmae that it was from the Western Hope. One day, she wished to go there, to meet all the heroes who protected her and her family.

Mother reached out for Sîron, but he evaded her grip. Not a second later, the sharp letter opened was in his hand.

The orcs continued laughing at the small family portrait above the fireplace.

Sîron stepped closer to their little huddle, meeting his mother's glare with his own silent stare. Finally, she motioned for him to hide the little weapon behind his back. He did as told.

Not a moment too soon, another orc stepped into the sitting room. Black speech poured from its mouth, grating against Sulmae's ears.
The orcs left the room. For a brief moment the room felt empty, the presence of the orcs had been so suffocating that once they were gone, Sulmae felt as if she were floating.

But why had the orcs suddenly left? Sulmae peered out the window—

Sîron strode after the orcs, letter opener in hand.

"Sîron—!" Their mother called.

"I want to know what they're doing, Mother."

Sûlmae untangled herself from her mother's skirts, running after Sîron in the flurry of her own dress. "I'm going too!"

Sîron glanced at her and paused. Knelt down. "You stay behind me, okay Sûl? Sometimes heroes have to stand back."

Again, he paused. "Even if something terrible happens, you must not interfere."

Sûlmae clutched her doll tighter, but nodded. "I'll be like Melehta i Úra! I'll wait just like him."

Sîron nodded briskly and touched her hand. Then he rose.

From the corner of her eye, Sûlmae saw her mother approaching and quickly followed Sîron out the front door—

She nearly ran into Sîron's back. Carefully, she peeked out from behind her brother, holding her hair in place against the Anorien wind.

All their food, every jar of meat, every barrel of grain, and every box of spices, even the strawberry pie Gelbrûne had made for Sîron's birthday yesterday, sat in a pile. An orc took a jar of animal fat and poured it on the food stores.

Another threw a torch.

The food went up in flames, so hot Sûlmae had to shield her face in the cloth of Sîron's shirt. The sweet scent of fat, wood, and sugar mingled upon the chill breeze. As did the burnt scent of the crop fields.

Silence was upon the air. The kind that was full, eerie. The crackle of flames danced, the breeze sang past Sûlmae's ears, the gutteral grate of black speech echoed. Far off, Sûlmae heard weeping.

Strange, Sulmae thought. I don't hear Melír.

Melír, their dog, loved to bark into the wind, to the children playing, to anyone with a snack in hand. And yet, his playful barks weren't there.

The light touch of a hand grazed her head. Her mother stood silently behind them.

"The cattle are gone," Siron stated silently, interrupting the full silence. "The cows are silent. The goats too."

"They're dead," their mother said quietly, slowly, realization yawning before her like a terror. "All the animals have been slaughtered."

"And... and the crops burned."

Mother nodded, hand stilling on Sulmae's hair. "They aren't going to slaughter us—they're going to starve us."

When Siron spoke, it was as if all the warmth, all the life had been drained from him.

"And the Western Hope with us."

::::::::::

D E V E R

::::::::::

"What were you delivering?" I snarled, voice snapping like a whip. The orc jostled in my death-hold, but froze when my cold dagger nipped at the skin of its neck.

I had been following this small group of orcs for a fortnight, trailing them for almost a week. They were unusually well armored, suspiciously fast paced, and... they had stopped at a manor in Ethring. The city could still be seen off in the distance, a small little toy town, tinted golden orange by the sun. It was a city where humans had let orcs roam freely, having sided with Alagosson.

These creatures had met with the city's lord.

"There's only so many times I'm willing to repeat myself, orc." I said it slowly, letting the threat wrap around its rotting little brain.

Black Speech poured from its tongue, slowly at first, then as violently as a torrent. The creature's hand dipped into the lining of its crude armor—

"Slowly, or I cut your throat."

The orc froze and seemed to reconsider. It's arm fell to the side. But then it spoke resolutely, exposing its throat in surrender.

In one smooth motion I sheathed the dagger and had the orc belly-down in the pebbly earth. I placed a firm foot between its shoulder blades and took hold of its arm.

And pulled.

A sickening pop sounded as the orc's arm dislocated from the joint. The orc's scream travelled the barren field.

"Tell me or I'll do the same to your other arm. And if that doesn't persuade you, I'll move to your legs."

It screamed something horrid, its hand desperately trying to get to the inside of its tunic. I let up on its back.
Its hand slithered out of view, coming back with a yellowed envelope bearing a decorated red seal.
Carefully, I popped off the seal, preserving the image pressed into it. The scholars at the Western Hope will no doubt spend countless hours bickering over what House the stamp belonged to.

A cool dread pooled in my stomach as my eyes flitted over the letters.

The orc beneath my foot squirmed and, grimly, I packed away the letter. It would never see it's intended receiver, but the damage was already done.

Anorien, the agricultural city in which most of the Western Hope's food was grown, had been ransacked. The fields had been set ablaze, the cattle slain, foodstores destroyed. Wells poisoned.

One of the pillars that kept the Western Hope stable—had fallen.

:::

Ahhh sorryyy!!!
Next semester is supposed to be easier so maybe I'll have more time to write!!

Anyways, I know this chapter was short but I promise it's not a filler. It's for y'all to get a sense of what's happening elsewhere in Middle Earth.

Sorry again!

Many blessings,
Phoenix