Hunting by feanorusrex

Hunting

Written for Terrifying Tolkien Week 2016. 

Read Hunting

The man who saved Hildis told her to leave. More than that, he rebuked her for straying so far from her home.

But Larnach's daughter cannot, will not, do that. Not after what those two men did to her. How dare they, how dare they try to disgrace her, her. Hildis feels her blood boiling inside her veins, the anger scorching her vision red. One of them is already dead, and the man she spoke to would not kill the other one. But it is well; she will.

She follow the outlaws through the forest, silently. These woods are known so well to her; she is a hunter, and she can walk quietly, stalking prey. Hildis has lost her bow, when the men chased her she dropped it, foolishly loosing her wits to terror, but she still has the knife she uses to skin the animals she catches.

It is better, that she should kill him with a knife. She wants to see in his eyes, the terror, the panic, the pain she is causing him, before his spirt leaves his body forever.

She cannot do it in sight on the other men, who knows if they would interfere. She must get his alone.

This chance comes sooner then she thought. Night is half fallen, not quite dark or light, and everything has a purplish gray cast. The men make camp for the night. Her attacker is sent to gather wood; the new leader may not have killed him but he will most likely be set to doing the tasks of the group for a while.

No, he won't. He'll be dead. 

The man walks away from his band, farther and farther. Anticipation floods her body, Now! Now! Her mind cries, as she follows him. Not yet, says reason. If he cries out, it cannot be heard. Of course they will find the body eventually but she will be away in time. And they will never suspect her, the damsel in distress.

Hildis follows the man, creeping closer and closer, she will have surprise on her side, and she wants to startle him. She's right behind him, and the steel is cold in her hand, soon to be warm with shed life. She breathes pure adrenaline.

He finally senses something and turns.

Hildis stabs him, so fast he cannot react, cannot scream. It is different, she reflects, then shooting an animal. The knife does not enter as smoothly into the body as she thought. She feels it pass through muscle and fat, she feels it graze a rib, feels the shock reverberate in her arm, feels the hot shower of crimson life pouring over her clothes, the ground and her right arm. She feels the heart too, its vibrations, squirming under the knife and then slowing. And stopping.

Her own heart beats, once again, peacefully. Relief floods her body like cool water. It is done. She can breathe again.

The knife is buried completely up to the hilt and has to be wrenched out, again scraping a rib as it slides free. Hildis cleans it on the grass. And walks back in the direction she came, to find her lost bow.

"Did you get anything on your hunting trip, Hildis?" Her father asks of her, a day later at their evening meal.

She examines her right hand holding a fork, not a knife, now. There are traces or vermillion under her nails that she cannot get out and the faint tang of his blood still on her skin. "No father," she replies. "Nothing worth keeping." Only vermin.