Two Sides of a Coin
author's note: regretfully, I couldn't find a quote to match the odd events of this chapter.
Chapter 9: A Haunted House
"What do you mean, you're not supposed to
tell me?"
A morning's journey on the hot road led the two men
into a quiet forest. Ladril had decided to inquire Shastan as to why
he adorned trinkets from men he defeated in battle, but the Swerting
refused to properly answer the question.
"I am not allowed to reveal the
purposes behind my people's actions," He explained.
"So
your entire culture believes in taking things from dead men?"
Ladril asked.
"From warriors we've defeated, yes."
"...And
you can't explain why they do that?"
"It is a Higher
Order that forbids me."
"Oh...you mean it's
sacred."
"Yes."
"My people would call it
grave robbing."
"Only if you look at the taken trinkets
at face value."
"I do not understand."
Shastan turned to the ranger. "Surely
there was some trinket or jewelry in your life that you felt deeply
attached to?"
Ladril paused a moment and thought back, from
his childhood in Minas Tirith to his enrollment in the Ithilien
Guard. "...There was a medallion that I was rather fond of,"
He said at last. "I couldn't take my eyes off it for the longest
time."
"You still have it then?"
"It wasn't
mine. It belonged to Belegorn."
"Ah..." Shastan
said thoughtfully. "So this Belegorn is a relative, I
assume."
"...My brother," Ladril admitted. "The
medallion was a gift to him when he became the lieutenant of a
regiment. I rather envied how fine he looked when he put it on."
Shastan paused. "...Belegorn was
stationed in Ithilien?"
Ladril nodded and for a moment forgot
the pain of reminiscing. "It was a rather novel idea among the
troops: a popular lieutenant and his little brother both put in the
Ithilien Guard...I only wish we were in the same regiment."
"So
where is he now?"
Ladril's smile vanished as quickly as it
came. He should not have brought Belegorn up. He did not want to even
think about what happened that night...
Shastan meanwhile was
waiting for an answer. "...Laaderil? I said where is-"
"I
heard you."
"Then will you not tell me?"
He took
a deep breath, then said resignedly "...He is dead."
...It seemed the woods and all the
creatures in it went still as silence rang between the two men.
"...I am sorry to hear it," Shastan finally said. "How
did he die?"
Please don't ask me that... The ranger
moaned in his head. But fortunately for him the conversation went no
further, for Shastan suddenly halted, tensed, and held up a hand for
silence.
"Did you hear something again?"
Ladril whispered in exasperation. "Or is it something you smell
this time?"
The Swerting arched a brow. "Er...Laaderil?
Look."
Ladril looked ahead and found a large
abandoned cabin just off the road, glaring right at them between the
trees.
"Well done, Shastan," He muttered in
embarrassment. "Let's keep moving."
But Shastan was not
listening. He swiftly cut through the brush and made for the
cabin.
"What are you doing?" Ladril cried.
"Going
in," Was the reply.
The ranger's eyes shifted to the house's
black, rotting wood and the utter darkness behind the cracked window
panes.
"...You want to go in that?"
"Yes.
Are you coming?"
Ladril sighed wearily. After all their
ventures, he learned that it was pointless to argue whenever Shastan
had an impulse. So he simply trudged after him as he entered the
eerie, abandoned settlement.
Both men stood in the doorway and looked
apprehensively into the gaping darkness. "After you,"
Ladril said.
"What is this house even doing here?"
Shastan wondered.
"There were once farming settlements
throughout Ithilien, but as the war worsened the people had to
abandon them. This house must have been abandoned recently, since it
has yet to be burned down by orcs."
"...After you,"
Shastan replied.
"It was your idea to come here."
"Are
you saying you're scared?"
"Are you?"
"I
was thinking we'd both go in."
"You first, then."
"At
the same time."
"Ah. Ready?"
"On the
count of three."
"Right."
"One...two...three."
No
one moved.
"For Basra's sake," Shastan
muttered and charged into the house with ceremonial spear ready.
Ladril unsheathed his sword and quickly followed.
As their eyes
adjusted to the darkness, the shape of a sitting room could be
discerned. The shelves and mantle were bare, aside from a thin layer
of dust. Ahead was a narrow staircase and to the left a cramped hall.
"No ghosts," Shastan stated with a trace of
disappointment.
"We don't want ghosts, we want supplies. Try
upstairs while I search the hall."
Shastan consented and trudged up the staircase. The ranger warily took the hallway, sword pointed ahead. In the dark he suddenly stumbled upon an open space; the afternoon light spilling from the windows showed it was a kitchen. Again the shelves were bare, so Ladril rooted through the cupboards and drawers. As he went through the first row of drawers he noticed a small farmhouse a few yards from the window. With any luck, a few of the farm animals could still be around.
Ladril went back to searching the last row of drawers. The final drawer contained a great bundle of knives, gleaming in the half light. Satisfied that his search finally produced something, Ladril dumped all the knives into his pack.
He was taking one last look around the kitchen when he suddenly heard a piercing cry.
Sword brandished, Ladril barreled down the
hall and flew up the narrow staircase. His heart pounding, he rounded
the corner and found Shastan sprawled in a hallway, his spear pointed
fearfully at side room.
"What happened?" Ladril cried
and raced forward.
"In there," The Swerting
hissed.
The ranger stopped and eyed the ink-black room in front of
them. Shastan got to his feet and kept his spear pointed at the
doorway, but he clearly would not go back in. The two men stared at
the room for a long moment.
"...I'll go in," Ladril whispered.
"Come after me if I call you."
Shastan gave him a firm
nod.
Ladril hesitantly neared the door frame and, after calming
his nerves and tightening the grip on his sword, he took a cautious
step into the darkness.
There was utter silence, except for the sound
of the ranger's feet shifting across the floorboards. He could not
see a foot in front of him, but he sensed someone was there.
"Yield
to me now," He ventured in the darkness. "Yield yourself
and I promise I will not hurt you."
There was no
reply.
"Talking will not do any good," Shastan whispered
from the door. "It's some kind of creature."
Ladril
cautiously moved forward. With him advancing and Shastan at the door
there was no way anything could escape the room. But with each step
in the dark Ladril found his confidence dwindling.
He was nearing
the back of the room when he heard scuttling right before him. A
shaft of light from a half-drawn shutter helped the ranger adjust his
vision in the darkness. He took one final step...then suddenly found
himself staring into the black, charcoal eyes of...
A chicken.
Ladril blinked, stared at it, and blinked
again. The chicken held Ladril in the same puzzled regard.
"...Did
you find it?" Shastan broke the silence.
"Shastan?"
The ranger started. "...It's a chicken."
Shastan
hesitated. "...What's a chicken?"
"You spent all
those years in Belfalas and you don't know what a chicken is?"
Ladril asked incredulously.
"I spent all those years isolated
in a mill in Belfalas and no, I do not know what a chicken is."
There was a pause, then the Swerting heard
an outbreak of laughter in the darkness. "You sent me in here to
hunt down a chicken!"
"It caught me off guard,
all right?"
"You got scared of a chicken!"
"It
was dark in there, and it suddenly jumped out-"
But
Shastan's protestations were not helping. The fact that the Swerting
could not stand up to a chicken sent the ranger into a fit of
laughter that rang throughout the entire cabin.
Shastan did not find it funny.
Ladril finally came out of the room with the
chicken under a firm grip. Shastan slightly jumped as the bird wildly
beat its white wings and clawed at the air with its stubby
feet.
"This," Ladril stated with a smirk, "Is
a chicken. It scratches, pecks, makes the most incessant noises in
the morning and tastes good when lightly roasted over a fire. With
that said, understand that if the next foe we meet is another farm
animal, you're on your own."
Instead of quipping something
back, Shastan studied the chicken with peaking interest. "...You
can actually eat this thing?"
Ladril sighed and put
the bird into Shastan's arms. "Come on, we're leaving."
The
Swerting followed Ladril down the stairs, gingerly holding the
strange creature. "We haven't finished searching the house,"
He said.
"It doesn't matter, we're quite done here. And from
now on, no more wild detours off the road, because you are either
throwing rocks at orcs, pestering crazy blind men, or making me hunt
down chickens. Valar knows what will happen next."
Shastan couldn't argue there, so he simply
followed in silence as they left the cabin. When they made it to the
pebbled road, Ladril studied the setting sun with dissatisfaction.
"The day is spent. We wasted valuable traveling time poking
around that cabin and what did we get in return?"
Shastan
looked down at the mess of feathers in his arms. "...We have a
chicken," He offered.
Ladril paused a moment, then smiled at
this. "Yes, we have a chicken. And a fine feast we'll make of it
too!"
He walked over to a large stone and
unsheathed his sword. He then motioned the Swerting to hand over the
bird. Shastan was a bit disappointed; he had become rather fascinated
with the new creature he discovered. But food was food he supposed,
and it would be impossible to travel with a live chicken.
He
accordingly delivered the chicken to Ladril and the bird simply
blinked in ignorance as its neck was laid across the stone. The
ranger held it firmly in place and with the other hand he raised his
sword. He brought the blade halfway down and suddenly stopped.
He realized Shastan was watching
innocently.
"...Shastan? You might want to look away."
"What?
You think I'll find it disturbing?" He asked
incredulously.
"More or less."
"I do not know of
anything that could possibly disturb me."
"You also do
not know what a chicken does after its head is cut off."
Shastan
waved a hand dismissively, quite set on watching the beheading. At
length Ladril shrugged and raised his sword again. Then he brought it
down with a swift stroke.
It was late in the night. A soft wind blew
through the trees, a fire glowed in the small camp, the remains of a
chicken still clung to the spit, Ladril happily sat back with his
stomach filled, and Shastan was still very disturbed.
"Are
you going to be all right?" Ladril finally asked the
Swerting.
"It kept...running in circles...and the head was
gone..." Shastan gave a disgusted shudder.
Ladril could only
give a sympathetic smile. "That's the trouble with chickens, I'm
afraid. They don't have enough sense to know when they're dead."
"I
have never seen an animal do that before."
"It's in the
breed, I suppose."
There was thoughtful silence as the ranger
idly poked at the fire with a stick. Then Shastan looked up.
"I
think...I would want to die like a chicken."
Ladril stared at him blankly. "Dare I ask
why?"
"You know, up on my feet: fighting till the last
moment, refusing to take death for an answer. That's how I'd like to
go."
Ladril gave a smirk. "Curious you'd want to die
like a chicken, considering you were just defeated by one
today."
"You are most amusing," Shastan said dryly.
"I suppose you will never let me forget that incident."
Ladril's
smirk grew wider. "...Never."
Shastan took the last piece of chicken and
chewed it with great hesitation.
"What about you, Laaderil?
What kind of death would you want?"
"Not a chicken's
death, I assure you."
"Your problem is that you do not
appreciate metaphors. But come, if you could choose, how would you
want to go?"
Avenged, Ladril wanted to say. Instead he
simply shrugged. "I've never given it much thought."
There was another pause, then Shastan spoke
exactly what was on Ladril's mind.
"You never finished
telling me about your brother's medallion. Is it of high quality that
you should value it so much?"
It stung to recall the details
of Belegorn's prized possession, but Ladril did so to satisfy
Shastan.
"It was encrusted with seven jeweled stars," He
said. "A white tree was at its center."
Shastan shrugged
at length. "Sounds like a common piece of jewelry to me. Is not
the emblem of Gondor a white tree?"
"My father forged
it himself in his smithery," Ladril said, slightly affronted.
"Such craft had never been seen before in Minas Tirith. And the
day he gave it to Belegorn...I never saw my brother so happy."
The
Swerting straightened with an air of wisdom. "When a man dearly
loves a possession, a part of him lives in it after he passes to the
next world."
"But I do not have Belegorn's medallion.
How does that help me?"
"It is an answer to your
question this morning. Possessions carry a bit of a man's memory and
spirit. That's why Swertings take them from men they defeated in
battle. Understand?"
"...I understand," Ladril replied, but that was not true. He didn't understand how one man could take another man's treasure without remorse; he didn't understand why the world would give men possessions and loved ones only to take them away; he didn't understand why his brother had to die...
The fire was slowly dying and the night was growing old. Ladril knew it was now time to face a listless sleep: one of many in a long count of nights. Ladril found no comfort in Shastan's words. Not that it mattered of course; Ladril needed no comfort or sympathy. But ever since they agreed to travel to the Crossings of Poros together, he hoped he would find resolution in Shastan's company.
...All he found was that the longer he was with a Southron, the worse his nightmares got.
