"I can't slow down, I can't hold back
Though you know, I wish I could
Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked
Until we close our eyes for good."-Cage the Elephant, No Rest for the Wicked
VvVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
KILL THE TROLLHUNTER. THE POWER OF THE RING COMPELS YOU. KILL THE POWER OF THE RING COMPELS YOU. KILL THE-
Angor woke with a gasp, clutching at his chest, the Pale Lady's words still echoing in his head. His chest seared with cold so fierce and deep that it burned like acid or fire. Two months, maybe more, had passed since the Faustian bargain, but when the dreams came upon, the pain of having his soul forcibly torn from his body returned. Every time he tried to rest, it was the same; nightmares of Baba Yaga calling out to him in that earth-shattering voice, and then pain so awful it caused him to wake, tearing at his very living stone.
He slipped from his bed and broke the skin of ice capping the water basin. The cold water numbed his face, but it woke him from the remnants of the dreams. He straightened in the chill air and glanced to the windows. A bitter wind rustled the tattered curtains, but he heard nothing else creeping beyond his hut. He retrieved his weathered, trusty dagger and tucked it into his belt, and crossed to the table, where an open book rested. He glanced down at it, murmuring the words inked carefully onto the crackling pages once more, though the incantation had already burnt itself into his brain long ago. If he could only get the spell to work…
His magic had not resurfaced since the deal, and though he'd been studying every spell-book he could get his hands on, the thread of arcane power still remained elusive. Frustration flared, burning as sharply as poison in a wound, and for a fraction of a moment he considered dashing the book from the table. He let out a slow breath and turned to the coals smoldering on the hearth. At first, he hadn't been sure, being the soul-less, half-dead abomination he now was, that he could get cold, but fleeing north to escape the Gumm-Gumm hordes had proven, without a doubt, that he was still susceptible to the flaws of mortal stone.
What was the point in leaving my mortality intact if she wanted someone to kill the Trollhunters, he thought, sourly tossing kindling onto the dull red embers. He blew on the coals gently, making them flare orange. They're called Trollhunters for a reason. A small tongue of flame lapped at the fuel, then flickered out again. I may be skilled at fighting, but I'm no Gumm-Gumm. What chance do I have against the Trollhunters if this…magic…does not work? He blew on the fire again, which tentatively, then with more vigor, crackled to life. He shuddered as the wind bit his fingers, then located his fur cloak and swung it around his shoulders. The pelt was from a huge, hairy mammal much larger than he, with fur as white as snow and claws long and sharp enough to tear living stone asunder. He'd managed to kill the beast, but not without acquiring some injuries of his own; the creature had taken a sizeable chunk out of his shoulder. The injury would likely take years to heal and scar terribly.
He located the packet of fish he'd smoked several nights ago and ate, sitting in front of the gently flickering fire, whose heat did little to dispel his black mood. What do I do now? After his initial flight from the sorceress's dreaded cave, he'd fled north, not returning to his village. He'd run in terror of Argante at first, then from the Gumm-Gumm hordes as they spread across the land, killing indiscriminately. At this point, he would likely be thought of by "his people" as either dead or a traitor. There was no point going back.
Well, then what, he asked himself, spreading his frozen hands in front of the flames. Staying here was not an option; food here was scarce, and the cold only worsened as the days shortened. This harsh land could not sustain the Gumm-Gumm hordes, which made it momentarily safe, but neither could it sustain him for long. He gazed into the flames blankly. Where do I go? What should I do? The fire snapped and crackled and spat. He straightened suddenly. Maybe he was losing his mind, but the noises almost strung together…coherently.
He leaned closer, ignoring the scorching heat. "Lady Pale?" He half-whispered into the flames.
You shirk your duties, hunter, the fire seemed to snap at him. You are of old stone, yet you hide like new-stone, afraid of the shadows.
He looked down at the floor, his hands curling into fists, his ire rising like the lunar tide, slow but unstoppable. It wasn't enough, apparently, that he was stewing in his own guilt; even his hallucinations had to drive home his cowardice. "This magic does not obey me. It has failed to protect my people, and now it is failing me. The pact I made with you is worthless to me," he spat.
He half-expected to get no response at all, but one came anyway.
Your magic is not useless, the flames crackled. It is dormant. You are not fulfilling your end of the pact, so it will remain dormant until you do.
He scoffed. "Hunt the Trollhunters? That is madness. I am no warrior."
No, the fire-voice argued, you are much more than that.
He laughed bitterly. "How? Why didn't you choose another?"
The fire's light softened, its crackle lessening to soft hisses and pops. These…Gumm-Gumms… are but brutes with little skill. They smash their way through obstacles with reckless abandon; they do not plan or calculate their actions. They do not study a foe as you, my hunter, do. The fire flared golden. You fought a beast many times your size and succeeded in killing it. You have the skill and cunning necessary to track and analyze the Trollhunters, a skill the brutes do not possess. Apply the same skills in studying your enemies, and you will succeed. A wave of warmth washed out from the fire, chasing away the chill. You have the knowledge necessary to tap your sorcery. Use it; it will become your greatest weapon.
He shook his head. "This is folly. Every troll knows that Merlin's amulet does not simply choose any troll, and it does not make mistakes."
The fire flared blazing hot; he yelled and scrambled back. Do not forget your duty to me, hunter. Either you will hunt the Trollhunters, or you will die here and I will find another.
With that, the fire went out, as though he'd thrown a bucket of water onto the flames. He looked at his hands; they'd been blackened in the sudden heat wave, but already the pain was fading, the deadly chill creeping in to numb the burns. He reached forward, wondering if he could still get the fire going, but the stones lining the ash pile felt totally cold to the touch, the ash itself as dead-white as his skin.
He clenched his fists and got to his feet. Accursed sorcery. More and more he was wishing he had never heard about the legends of The Lady Pale. But he was bound to her now, for however long it took him to satisfy her enough to release him. And he had little doubt now that the dreams would just keep coming until he heeded them or died out here.
He shouldered his cloak, wrapping it tightly around himself, and began to pack the essentials in the semi-dark of the hut. His fingers lingered on the aged book, the only thing besides the dagger that had survived his trek across the countryside to this once-abandoned hut. He turned a few pages. The text was nearly impossible to translate; he'd had to run each individual line through four different dialects of progressively older Trollish in order to get it halfway coherent, and the meaning still frequently eluded him. He'd found it in the wreckage of a sorcerer's house, and something about it had made him pick it up. No, he realized, not something. Magic again. Baba Yaga was clearly still watching and appraising him, nudging his actions with arcane suggestion.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" He snarled at the windows. "I can barely read it, let alone use it!"
The wind simply moaned outside, giving no coherent answer. He resignedly tucked the book into his pack and slung the small load across his back. He picked up his forked walking stick, set his shoulders and his teeth, and stepped into the shifting wild of the bitter, uncertain tundra.
A/N: Originally thought this out to be a one-shot, but it may turn into something more if you like it.
Continue? Y/N