Rhûnnaro had come down to the front of the Hall, taking a seat in the shadows, to read what thoughts played on the faces of the Hunted. He knew already what lay in the minds of the Hunters – the screams of their victims as they begged for death and the feel of their warm blood spilling onto the Hunter’s hands.
Ekatran called his name. In that instant his path was set. He did not stand and come forward. Again, Ekatran called him, and seeing now where he sat he thought to shame him as a coward.
‘I will not hunt the slaves again this year,’ he said. Though spoken low, his words carried in the silent hall. He unclenched his fists, knowing anger would do him no good here. Like a tightly gathered storm, Ekatran’s eyes snapped with sharp menace.
‘What?’ he asked, giving Rhûnnaro the chance to recoup his stand.
A slave’s eyes caught his own, and the torches in the hall flickered wildly for just a moment. The wind horses, even here in this place of darkness, they bring hope . . . and an answer to those who know how to ride them, he thought. The hint of a cold smile lay behind his eyes.
Face set in an unreadable mask, the anger now gone from him, he stepped forward, nodding slightly at Ekatran.
‘My Lord, I come.’ he answered firmly. His thoughts echoing his resolve. Yes, I will hunt this one last time . . .
[ April 11, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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