It was summer in the old lands of once proud Arnor.
Chetwood lay quiet. The wind, undaunted these very days, brought the old elms and birches to sway in a slow dance. Creaking and cracking were their barks, their crowns of leaves rustled and hence gave the otherwordly roundelay the congenial melody. The rays of the sun found so some gap to break through the thick foliage, alike to thousand golden spears. They illuminated the ground and the brushwork, the roots of the trees and no shadows were abided.
The glade was empty. Beasts, the denizens of the forest had made their way to the small ponds, as they always did at a summer's mid-day, when the sun stood high in zenith. Only a single deer stood by a birch. Its small antlers were of beautiful symmetry, its legs strong and the neck filigree, almost fragile.
Within the grass that grew here and there between the brushwork of Chetwood, the animal had its head sunken and it appeared to browse without noticing the danger that was making its way between the trees.
For Chetwood was a hunting ground. Not only to bears or to wolves, whom the deer did not fear, for it could outrun them, but a more cunning hunter that dwelled in halls and houses made of rock and wood. It was such a day, in the summer of Arda that two men of the north were on the hunt. They came from a land called Dale and hence their stature was great, tall grown as they were strong. Albeit they were stalking in the cover of the trees, their stride was confident.
Torgrun was called the one and Friðbjørn the other.
It would not pass much time ere the hunters came upon the same glade as the deer dwelt in. As Torgrun saw it moving yonder, he had chosen his prize and he whispered to his companion: »Behold! There is our just reward for a day away from the hearth. Three days we will feast from this boon that Vetharr granted us.«
But Vetharr, who goes by the men of the Mark as Béma and by the Elves as Oromë was either idle this day or he had no interest in the hunt of these two northmen. For as Torgrun hurled his spear to slay the deer, the sound of the iron-tip cutting the air warned the beast and it sought to dart away. Alas, not fast enough had it been, for the vicious weapon grazed its hind-leg and dealt a menacing cut. In pain, the deer fled.
Not to be underestimated were the proficiencies of hunt and war that the northmen held. They followed the trail of blood through the Chetwood, past the elms and birches.
At this time, the signs were going beyond their understanding and their perception. They could not see how indicting the rustling of leaves was, how the branches of the trees turned to point at them.
The small pools of blood led Torgrun and Friðbjørn to a few high grown shrubs and as they closed in, there was the crying of a young woman to be heard. Heart-tearing it was and penetrating, alike to some arrow, fired by an otherwordly being. The northmen stopped and dared not to come closer to the bush.
»Who is there?«, Torgrun called out. »Come out, woman and leave your wailing to another place, for we hunt here.«
No one came after his biding. Only the wailing and crying continued. But now the northmen also realized how deathly quiet Chetwood itself had become. The wind had died and the trees stood lifeless about, unreal, as if they were hewn of rock.
»Let us go, Torgrun. It may be some sorcery or worse!«, Friðbjørn said and sought to usher his companion to move.
»Nay! Bethink yourself! There is no such thing in these woods.« The northman walked straight ahead and up to the shrub and he demanded anew that whoever sat in there would show himself. But his words were once again only answered through quiet weeping.
At last, Friðbjørn came to the side of his kinsmen and with the blunt side of his spear, he parted the bush, dragged small twigs and leaves away - and recoiled with Torgrun in shock at what they beheld! Midst the shrub sat a young woman, small of growth to these men. Lovely red hair fell down on her shoulders in the gentlest of waves. Her skin was fair, white and unstained and she bore a beige tunic that was plain but of magnificent weaving to the eyes of the northmen. Upon her head set two hart-antlers, that appeared to sprout from below the flaming red mane. Her filigree hands however, pressed down on her thigh, where a vicious cut had been inflicted. Grey, ice-hued eyes stared up at Torgrun and Friðbjørn.
Fear drove the two back in an instant, for albeit that they were men of great strength, they also were subject to their own superstition.
»Ha! Ha! Spirit!«, Torgrun called out, while Friðbjørn turned his spear with almost paralyzing fear against the being. But the creature made no move to threaten them. Tear after tear rolled over her cheeks and she trembled, may it be through fear of the northmen or through pain.
»Do not succumb to her trickery, friend«, Friðbjørn said and Torgrun drew his hunting knife to end whatever creature sat there before them. But the sight of her broke his heart and he halted, unable to do what he had done so often in his life. Instead of killing the being, he sought to gather his wits and ask: »Who are you?«
»Avalhinn«, came the reply from her and her voice shook from the weeping.
The northmen looked down on the trail of blood and he was certain that his prize had fled into these shrubs where also the girl sat in. »Where did my deer go?«, she asked therefor.
»It was I«, did she say.
»Do not try to fool us. Where is the ...-« And there the northman halted, beholding her antlers and the wound that was alike to the one he had dealt with his spear to the beast. With a reluctant shudder in his voice, Torgrun first looked at the still Friðbjørn and then he asked the mystic: »What are you?«
Alike to some indictment and revelation were her words meeting the hearing of the two men. While her bright blood stained her white porcelain skin, ran down in slim, ramose rivers of red, she spoke of her being as guardian to many woodlands and plains. A care-taker of the artless and the naturally unfolded and the two men believed that a maiden of Vetharr sat before them.
In great shame their heads hung now and their expression was one of regret. Not Torgrun and not Friðbjørn were able to meet the gaze of Avalhinn.
»Do not curse us!«, they pleaded.
She raised her red-stained palms to them and spoke: »I intend not to curse ye. But know: Would ye slay me, the blood upon the hands that ye bear will not be washed away by any water of any river or sea. It will dry on ye, mark ye and no joy will ever fill such a wistful life again.«
»What can we do?«, they asked.
»Take me up. Carry me to the homestead where ye dwell. Mend me and return me to the forest and all wrong-doing will be forgotten.«
But albeit these words, Friðbjørn's heart was filled with doubt. He was a man who rarely trusted another and he acted often out of spite and his life was that of someone impulsive. So did he warn Torgrun that Avalhinn may not be what she said she was, but an evil trickster spirit who sought to curse the hall Jarnsalr, where the men dwelt. And he spoke that she desired to undo the will of Tyrgrim, the Hofding, who ruled in the hall and if they would take her up and bring her there, she would taint his throne.
As now Friðbjørn now grasped Torgrun to usher him away from this place and the Elf, there Torgrun was startled and the two descended into a fight of who led the other.
At the display of such violence, the trees creaked and cracked loudly. Breaking the silence it was like a sudden thunder to the men. The two froze at the angered roar of the forest and both of them dropped their weapons in fright. The weeping of Avalhinn, as she pressed her bloodied hands against the sides of her head stroke through marrow and bone of the men. Pale of terror they fled. Such act stirred the ire of the Elf. Usually of peaceful nature, she could be drawn to resentfulness.
Her spell let the forest rumble. The trees themselves appeared to shift and wander, were unearthed and barred the way for the men. Where once was a narrow passage, was now impenetrable thickets, adorned with vicious thorns. Like in an unrelenting whirl, paths opened and were instantly undone again.
Torgrun and Friðbjørn dove into the weaving of the spell. They flailed with their arms, tried to avail themselves from the grasping branches of the still roaring trees. Roots made them stumble and fall, the sharp brushwork tore their clothes and cut their skin. The hunters ran as quickly as they could, for yonder, at the edge of the forest seemed to be a spark that promised rescue. A cold grasp was set about their hearts as the forest and all its trees, even the heavens were falling down on them, entombing them beneath their arcane weight.
As soon as they reached the last line of the trees, the spell subsided. It was a strange phenomena. As if the world would have folded itself together and flew off. The illusion was gone from one moment unto the other.
Night reigned on a clear, star-lit sky. How long had they been lost in the forest, the hunters wondered. Both dared to cast a last daunted look back to the edge of forest. Chetwood lay quiet.
What of Avalhinn however? It is told in many tales, that the Firstborn could withstand harm to which a mortal man would have succumbed. Her wound healed in the passing of the next days and it is said, that Torgrun and Friðbjørn never hunted in Chetwood again, for each time they drew close to it, there was a strange music of flutes and instruments yet unheard to the ears of Man.
