XVII

"Father! Father! Do come in! You'll catch the death of a cold!" the young lady's voice resonated through the trees. The heavens had opened, and the old man rushed out to hastily collect the skins that he had hung out to dry earlier in the day.

The maiden sighed and ran out from the shelter of the wooden house. A cloak pulled over her for shelter, in her arms she carried a similar one, and draped it over her father as she reached him.

The rain did not relent in its fury, and instead seemed to beat down with greater bursts of energy. The daughter quickly helped her father gather up the skins.

"Alas! My skins!" the woodsman lamented as they entered the relative safety of their dwelling, "They are of no use now!"

"Do not worry, Father. I am sure they can be rescued," her voice soft and comforting, she worked deftly, taking off his cape, hanging it out to dry in front of the fireplace. Her own cloak was next, and the skins followed suit. A dry cloth whipped out, and a process of trying to dry the drenched old man started. He pulled off his boots wearily, and sunk down into the rickety armchair.

The old Hunter sighed heavily. He had not yet reached three score, but his hair had already turned snowy-white. Deep wrinkles entrenched on his face ran canals across his forehead. His face was leathery, as one who was accustomed to the elements, and formerly proud eyes were downcast. His movements were slow and strained, as age caught up with him, hands callused with labour and toil, joints stiff with wear and tear. Nearing his twilight years, he still had to work as hard as he was twenty, to support his nucleated family.

The room was furnished simply. A roaring wooden fire was blazing in the fireplace, and a large pot with simmering contents hung over the dancing flames. Enticing fumes of pot roast wafted up from the food being cooked. A small dining table was set for two, ready for dinner. Coarse plates and cutlery were used, the terra cotta chipped at the rims, the colour long since faded. The state of the crockery reflected itself throughout the room.

The curtains were threadbare and frail, the skilful hand of the maiden unable to make a difference when it had no raw materials to begin with. Purchasing new cloth was out of the question.

The furniture was old and weathered. Made by the woodsman in his prime, they were sturdy and did not fall with the passing of time. The armchair was the only exception. Bought at a market of fleas, it had been lugged through the forest by an ancient mule on the back of a broken cart. The journey had taken the better part of two days. It was their most prized possession. Even though the leather had long since lost its shine, the cushioning was still soft and comfortable.

A sack was hung as a makeshift partition, a feeble attempt to give the maiden some privacy as she slept in her small cot.

In spite of the dilapidated condition of the house, it was spotlessly clean. The attentions of the girl had left the occupants of the room dust-free, and not a single cobweb was in sight.

The lady walked over to the pot with its contents hanging over the ambers and scooped ladles of pot roast. More aromatic smells drifted up and stimulated the olfactory senses of the old man. Gastric juices within his stomach turned it into a knot, and he got up and seated himself at the table in spite of his aches and stiff joints.

"Father, do be careful! It is hot, you might scald yourself!" the young lady chided as she watched the old man wolf down the food.

"Yuvinel, don't worry! Some hot stew is not going to get the better of me!" the old man chuckled.

A sudden banging was heard on the door, interrupting the meal.

The maiden frowned at her father. They never had visitors. Perhaps it was a traveller who needed a respite from the elements. She got up and headed towards the door.

"Open up! Open up in the name of the Lord Marnor!" a shout was heard from outside the door.

Both father and daughter paled. They had been dreading this visit for a while. Yuvinel turned and stared at her father, uncertainty in her eyes, fear. The old man got up quickly and walked to the door. He did not want his daughter to face the armed men waiting outside.

The door was opened by the quavering woodsman. The sight that greeted him chilled him to the bone. Repeated flashes of lightning illuminated a group of soldiers numbering about two dozen, all armed to the teeth. They were all stony-faced and grim, expressionless. He recognised it as the look of men from a disciplined force carrying out others of their superiors. Their long spears were cold and glinting, their shields pale and cold.

"Gamlor, son of Gronle! You are under arrest for refusal to obey orders of the Lord!" the leader of the man dictated, his face an expressionless mask.

Gamlor trembled furiously upon hearing the words. A pair of metal chains were held out in front of his face. His whole soul went cold. The old woodsman collapsed to the floor. It was too much for him to take.

"We are under orders, to take your daughter, the maiden Yuvinel, back with us!" the leader continued, before stepping forward to clasp cold metal against flesh.

A sudden blow struck and hit his stomach causing him to double over, winded. Gamlor had launched himself at the leader. The man gave out a loud cry, and his followers responded, leaping forward, trying to contain the man who seemed as if he had gone mad.

"Yuvinel! Flee! Flee!" the woodsman cried to his daughter as he was repeatedly struck by the blows that rained upon his frail body.

The maiden stood still, rooted in horror, even though a few soldiers were making their way into the house towards her.

"Run! Remember me, and avenge me!" the old man screamed, frenetic and in pain.

Yuvinel responded, stung by the urgency of his tone. Picking up the pot hanging over the fire, she threw it at those who had entered the house. Its hot contents were flung all over them, and they slowed in their pace to wipe its boiling contents out of their eyes, screaming in anger and pain.

Making use of the diversion, the maiden fled through the back. Once outside, the full force of the rain hit her. Raindrops flung themselves upon her with unrelenting fury as she ran through the woods she knew so well. Her mind was numb with confusion and the cold. The shouts of her pursuers faded slowly as they rapidly lost her trail in the labyrinth of trees. It would not be possible for them to find her except by pure chance.

On she ran, mindlessly. Thoughts ceased to come to her, and all she heard in her mind were the calls of her father. To run away. To avenge him. Avenge him.

The thunder crashed and set her eardrums ringing. The lightning flashed and lit up the trees. What had previously been so inviting and invigorating to her suddenly seemed so hostile. Every root was out to trip her. Every branch to fall and crush her.

The manic strength that drove her gradually gave way to the strain and fear. Muscles seized up and spasms worked their way through her body. The weariness enveloped her entire being suddenly, and she felt her legs give way. She fell onto the muddy floor. Rain continued to pour from the heavens. Her eyes flickered, and she passed into darkness.

A/N:

Being the silly person I am with computers, I *think* I might have scuffed up a little bit with my fic. Somehow the chapters have gone all wonky, and I managed to delete a bit of my content (and reviews!!!) Anyway, I'm trying very hard to repair this, and hopefully it'll be up and working by tomorrow, because I'm very confused at the moment by what is going on.

Gwyn - Thanks for your review, another short chapter on the way though! I have to point out that this story takes place about 2000 years before the fellowship, so it's not about to lead on to FOTR! On the other hand, you might see that Legolas is about to take on an epic journey of his own, but I'll stop here before I give it all away!!