The Legend of the Hunter

Zidayt had finally shaken off the mantle of depression under which she had hidden herself for the past three months, when her beloved soul mate, Zaherain, had been taken captive by the Hollow People. She knew he was probably dead by now, mercilessly slain by those soulless creatures, but her heart continued to deny the truth.

She had taken to her bed in the first week after Zaherain had been stolen from her, reliving that horrid day, that devastating moment, without surcease. Her only escape was into slumber so deep she would wake after an entire day of sleep, not even feeling the slightest pangs of hunger or pull of thirst. In her waking moments, she would lie in her bed in their modest wooden cabin, lovingly constructed by Zaherain with the help of the rest of the Weavers, and simply stare silently for hours at every feature, nook, and item of furniture. She wanted to end her life, for Zaherain was more than just her life mate; he was her very soul.

During her second week of self-isolation, she had hoped she would die and meet Zaherain in the Land of the Ever Souls, but then a few members of the Weavers had come to check up on her. First, as could be expected, was her nine-year-old grandchild, Zenia. Although her parents had instructed her to leave her grandmother alone, the little girl just couldn’t abandon her beloved Zidoo. So she disobeyed her parents, snuck into Zidayt’s cabin one night, curled up next to the grieving woman and slept at her side all night long. It was the warm lifeline of the living that Zidayt had desperately required.

It allowed the dam of sorrow Zidayt had resolutely held back to finally burst. She sobbed her heart out that night: for herself, for her lost love, for the unfairness of it all. She and Zaherain had been mated for 35 beautiful years, and to have him snatched away so cruelly very nearly broke her spirit. She clung to the small warm body of Zenia and gave free rein to her heartache. The little girl didn’t fully understand why her Zidoo was weeping like a baby, but she instinctively clung to her grandmother, sensing that she needed her like a ship needed an anchor. Zidayt turned a corner that night, and she knew she would carry on with the tedium of living without her partner.

Thereafter, one by one the other Weavers came to commiserate with Zidayt, sometimes bringing offerings of food, but mostly just coming to keep the heartbroken woman company. It worked. Slowly Zidayt, who had always been a stunning beauty who took particular pains to look presentable, mostly for Zaherain, got up out of bed to bathe, dress and brush her lustrously long blonde hair, with the welcome help of Zenia. She even started to cook again; small meals at first, but as the long empty days passed, she lost herself in the act of cooking delicious meals which she would share with Zenia and any other guest who happened to visit. In this manner, three long months passed, but Zidayt’s anguish only deepened. The void Zaherain’s loss had left in her soul was still black, bleak and utterly devastating.

The Weavers always looked after their own, thus Zidayt never had to worry about not having food while she had been drowning in her depression. However, before Zaherain had been caught, he had stocked their larder, as winter had been two months away, and once Zidayt had woven some of the pieces of her torn life back together, she started to venture again into the forest bordering Zanderon, the Weaver village. She gathered wild mushrooms and herbs to supplement her own vegetable garden, and cooking became her second lifeline. It was while she was out on one of these forages that she saw the company of Elves approach the village.

They had emerged from around the edge of Soondar Lake which lay just beyond the Gillipo Marshes when she spotted them. She quietly watched them as they neared her. She was slightly surprised to see two of the tattooed Silent Ones with them. She surmised that the scum must be captives of the Elves, and it pleased her, for the Silent Ones were no friends of the Weavers, as they often used to raid the town for the merchandise for which the Weavers were famous before the Elf League in Ghoshal had put a stop to it.

It had been raining about two days ago and she realised the Elves must have been caught in the weather when she noticed their clothing clinging to them. Zenia was with her – the child wouldn’t let Zidayt out of her sight ever since her depression – and the Weaver woman now hunched down and took the girl by her shoulders.

“Zen-zen,” she addressed her grand-daughter by her nickname, “run quick as you can to Zando and let him know we will have the company of more Elves tonight. Hurry now,” she said and gave the wide-eyed girl a slight push to get her going. Zenia took off for the village, laughing in delight at the prospect of having so many Elves present in the village.

The Elf League had an outpost in neighbouring Ghoshal, and they helped keep the raids from the Silent Ones under control. Consequently, the Weavers had a very good relationship with the Elves. Zando, the Head Weaver, travelled once a month with a small group of Weavers to Ghoshal to offer the Elves gifts of rugs, blankets and clothing items as a token of their appreciation. The Elves were reluctant to accept the precious gifts, but their noble and civil nature would never allow them to offend anyone, thus they had no choice but to take the items.

The approaching Elves and their two prisoners finally reached the Weaver woman, who had a basket of mushrooms and wild onions slung across one arm. Her right hand rested on her hip as she awaited them.

“Good afternoon, madam,” Juathlin greeted as they came to stop in front of her. His comrades were ranged around him, standing at ease and fully comfortable. The morose Silent Ones were staring daggers at the Weaver woman until Qarethlin slapped both hard against the side of their heads.

“Commander, well met,” Zidayt said. She knew the Elves disliked shaking hands, thus she only bowed her head slightly in greeting. She noticed the Elves appreciating her knowledge of their customs, as they also bowed their heads in return. She looked at the prisoners and raised an eyebrow.

“These two will not bother you, and if they do, we will make them break their vow of silence forthwith,” Marethlin said lightly.

“Excuse my young companion,” Juathlin said and gave Marethlin an annoyed look. “We have been travelling with these killers for two days, and you can well imagine how sick we are of them. But we travel not out of choice but out of necessity with them,” the Commander explained.

“There’s no need to explain, sir,” Zidayt quickly said. “We know them well, but we are also grateful to the Elves for keeping us safe against them,” she said. “Come, let me escort you to our village, where you can freshen up and have some warm food. Also, you might be pleased to know that some of your brethren are back in Zanderon,” she concluded, surprising the Elves somewhat.

“Ah, warm food would be most welcome indeed,” Borethlin said, smiling broadly. Gavurothlin though was far more interested in the news about other Elves in the village. He saw that Juathlin was also eager to know more about them.

However, it was Rusthlin who spoke first. “Our brethren, you say?” he asked the woman. “What do you mean, lady?” he asked politely.

“Apologies. I haven’t introduced myself,” Zidayt said and quickly remedied her oversight. “I’m Zidayt, and yes, some of your folk are in our village. They often visit us, as their outpost is but a day from Zanderon. Perhaps they will have news for you, since you’ve been travelling for a while,” she added and started walking in the direction of the village. The Elves automatically followed her.

“We have been on the road for about four days now,” Hojuthlin confirmed, “and we would indeed welcome any news.”

“I think we also owe you an apology, Zidayt,” Juathlin said, “as we have not introduced ourselves at all.” He then quickly named each Elf and explained that they had come from Habelaterna in search of an Elf kin. Juathlin was a naturally cautious man and an intelligent Commander, thus he held back much of the reason for their journey. Zidayt was still mourning the death of Zaherain, and she felt no curiosity about the reason for the Elves’ presence or journey. She simply led them as speedily as possible to the Head Weaver’s house. Along the way, they all made small talk, except for Marethlin who kept up a steady harassment of the Silent Ones. Zidayt instantly liked the young Elf.

“Are you two mutes certain you will not speak? After all, we have been such close companions for a while now, and I am sure you would not be breaking any vows if you spoke to us,” he said to the prisoners. “We are practically blood kin now, would you not agree?” he asked and poked both hard in the ribs. “Oho, that nearly got a sound out of you, did it not?” he teased one of the Silent Ones who had indeed very nearly emitted an involuntary gasp. The Elf was young, but he was quite strong.

“Mareth, leave them be,” his sister lightly chided him. She wasn’t really interested in what her brother was doing; it was simply instinct to scold him thus. Marethlin smiled mischievously at her and winked at one of the Silent Ones. “I bet she could make you talk,” he joked. “She is quite efficient with a knife,” he said, to which Qarethlin added, “As you well know.” The other Elves laughed in their quiet manner at the twins’ banter.

They had reached the main road that led into the village by then, and they were not in the least bit surprised to see that it was lined with what appeared to be nearly the entire population of resident Weavers.