A/N: still a short chapter, but I fixed it up with a little bit of
the company's mood and Allanora's thoughts. Expect more from Aranarth in
revised chapter 3. Hope you enjoy, review and tell me if the revisions are
working!
Within the confinement of their tiny cave, the company fretted with the vexation of unemployed soldiers. The burning irritation of being confined with nothing to occupy themselves frayed their nerves, almost a visible rash as people paced, bullied each other, or tried holding conversations. The very air was fraught with agitation, and the almost palpable atmosphere of restlessness seemed to block rational thoughts and bring an unbearable itching to do something, anything! Some reconciled themselves to the lack of activity, but others, like Allanora, needed the busyness to take their minds off the loss of home and country. Add that to the buildup of suspense from wondering if - or when - the fell king of Angmar would discover their hideout, and none could help but notice the tension strung in every muscle. Besides, there were more practical issues: they had not had time to prepare for a journey, so their meager provision supplies now stared emptily at them.
Yet still, they were loath to leave, for where they would go and how they would get there appeared to be unanswerable questions. So, despite the difficulties, many preferred the temporary safety of these caves to the great unknown mountains. Allanora was not among their number, however, and she soon gave voice to the pressure they all felt.
"Five days we have been here now, and our provisions wane quickly!" she exclaimed to the company. "I insist, we must now seek help; for we can no longer fend for ourselves!" Excited and half-feverish from hunger, she adamantly defended her position.
"Daughter, from whom might we receive aid? The whole of Arnor is under the thumb of the witch-king," Arvedui countered with mournful urgency.
Abelard, one of his sons, wondered, "I have heard of a strange northern people who live in snow-houses on the Bay of Forochel, known to some as the Lossarnach. Could we not seek their assistance?"
"'Tis but an old wives' tale," a battle-worn scout scoffed, "And even if it were true, how would we find such a people?"
"Have patience," said Anador softly, "Many a time, such 'old wives' tales' contain hidden truths. With careful searching, we may have a chance of finding some such race." Arvedui nodded, "What other choice do we have?" the king demanded. No one spoke.
Abelard sighed and said, "Well, I shall be glad to leave this dank old mine, at least!" Making an effort to be cheerful, a soldier passed around the last of the beer.
In the hubbub of packing, Allanora slipped out of the mine to a rock ledge overlooking the first trickle of the Lune. Her rosy, youthful face, set with green-gold eyes, portrayed girlhood's vigor soured by the oppressive burdens placed on shoulders too lively to act the pack-horse. The embitterment of losing her home and going into exile chafed her proud mind, and seeing her father so troubled grated upon her soul.
She was always decisive in times of distress, and this made her a good warrior; so good, indeed, that she was given the rare gift of fighting with the men. Yet her great valor had repaid her with this terrible waiting. There was nothing so painful to her as inability to act, and, so confined, her latent hotheaded nature flared up in all its fervor.
However, Allanora was better suited to domestic life than she thought. Her warrior's clothing hid a heart that was warm and loving, just as well suited to peace as to war. But now, it was wartime, and she was not content to be a sitting target for the witch-king.
She breathed in the sharp, crisp air and forced herself to face the fact that her beloved home was being ravaged by the fell king and his men. The surrounding lands were barren and bleak, already paying homage to the king with their wintry garb.
Suddenly, Anador appeared by her side. He offered her the last loaf of bread, and whispered in her ear, "We may yet find solace, though it be not in the lands of our youth."
She did not respond, and they stood for a long moment surveying the once- green fields. Their hands met, and they took comfort in each other's presence. The wind mingled Allanora's dark red hair with the light brown curls of Anador, a vibrant mixture in such a painful landscape. A silent tear coursed down her cheek, and the bitter wind stung them as they looked their last on their homeland.
Within the confinement of their tiny cave, the company fretted with the vexation of unemployed soldiers. The burning irritation of being confined with nothing to occupy themselves frayed their nerves, almost a visible rash as people paced, bullied each other, or tried holding conversations. The very air was fraught with agitation, and the almost palpable atmosphere of restlessness seemed to block rational thoughts and bring an unbearable itching to do something, anything! Some reconciled themselves to the lack of activity, but others, like Allanora, needed the busyness to take their minds off the loss of home and country. Add that to the buildup of suspense from wondering if - or when - the fell king of Angmar would discover their hideout, and none could help but notice the tension strung in every muscle. Besides, there were more practical issues: they had not had time to prepare for a journey, so their meager provision supplies now stared emptily at them.
Yet still, they were loath to leave, for where they would go and how they would get there appeared to be unanswerable questions. So, despite the difficulties, many preferred the temporary safety of these caves to the great unknown mountains. Allanora was not among their number, however, and she soon gave voice to the pressure they all felt.
"Five days we have been here now, and our provisions wane quickly!" she exclaimed to the company. "I insist, we must now seek help; for we can no longer fend for ourselves!" Excited and half-feverish from hunger, she adamantly defended her position.
"Daughter, from whom might we receive aid? The whole of Arnor is under the thumb of the witch-king," Arvedui countered with mournful urgency.
Abelard, one of his sons, wondered, "I have heard of a strange northern people who live in snow-houses on the Bay of Forochel, known to some as the Lossarnach. Could we not seek their assistance?"
"'Tis but an old wives' tale," a battle-worn scout scoffed, "And even if it were true, how would we find such a people?"
"Have patience," said Anador softly, "Many a time, such 'old wives' tales' contain hidden truths. With careful searching, we may have a chance of finding some such race." Arvedui nodded, "What other choice do we have?" the king demanded. No one spoke.
Abelard sighed and said, "Well, I shall be glad to leave this dank old mine, at least!" Making an effort to be cheerful, a soldier passed around the last of the beer.
In the hubbub of packing, Allanora slipped out of the mine to a rock ledge overlooking the first trickle of the Lune. Her rosy, youthful face, set with green-gold eyes, portrayed girlhood's vigor soured by the oppressive burdens placed on shoulders too lively to act the pack-horse. The embitterment of losing her home and going into exile chafed her proud mind, and seeing her father so troubled grated upon her soul.
She was always decisive in times of distress, and this made her a good warrior; so good, indeed, that she was given the rare gift of fighting with the men. Yet her great valor had repaid her with this terrible waiting. There was nothing so painful to her as inability to act, and, so confined, her latent hotheaded nature flared up in all its fervor.
However, Allanora was better suited to domestic life than she thought. Her warrior's clothing hid a heart that was warm and loving, just as well suited to peace as to war. But now, it was wartime, and she was not content to be a sitting target for the witch-king.
She breathed in the sharp, crisp air and forced herself to face the fact that her beloved home was being ravaged by the fell king and his men. The surrounding lands were barren and bleak, already paying homage to the king with their wintry garb.
Suddenly, Anador appeared by her side. He offered her the last loaf of bread, and whispered in her ear, "We may yet find solace, though it be not in the lands of our youth."
She did not respond, and they stood for a long moment surveying the once- green fields. Their hands met, and they took comfort in each other's presence. The wind mingled Allanora's dark red hair with the light brown curls of Anador, a vibrant mixture in such a painful landscape. A silent tear coursed down her cheek, and the bitter wind stung them as they looked their last on their homeland.