Lost Soul



The little girl walked down the echoing empty corridors. She was small, with bare, skinny legs under a black velvet dress. She wore a red serge coat that was too long in the sleeves, and dark, snarled curls hung over her shoulders.

The image of a child was shattered by her purposeful stride and the look of ancient coldness in her blue eyes.

Once upon a time, she'd been Patricia Isobel Law, affectionately known as Trish to her mother and her friends. A little girl who'd liked art class and playing baseball in the park. She had wanted to be a ballerina, a famous painter, and win an Olympic gold medal someday.

Once upon a time...

The corridor ended in set of tall double doors. They swung open of their own accord when she reached them.

The room beyond was enormous past all description. The ceilings were arched like a Gothic cathedral, so high overhead that anyone standing below were dwarfed in comparison. Shafts of strong morning sunlight flowed through the massive windows, but by the time they reached the distant stone floor, the light was a weak. But a small threat to the pervading darkness of the place.

It was deep, dark, and oppressive. If the Witch Queen could feel fear, her heart would be hammering. If she could feel despair, she'd be falling to her knees.

Somewhere, deep within that twisted, shattered soul, a little girl was screaming.

The Witch Queen walked through the echoing, empty room. There was no sound to heard but the undead beat of her heart and the near-imperceptible tap of her feet on the stone floor.

She stopped, feet planted, eyes staring directly ahead.

With a sudden, violent swish, a heavy curtain was thrown aside. Blinding sunlight streamed through a window, from ground level to twenty feet overhead. The Witch Queen stood unblinking, even as tears streamed from her eyes and her pupils shrank to pinpricks amid the blue.

A silhouette stood dark as death, a blot in the dazzling sunlight. Human-sized, human-shaped, it was impossible to judge.

Then it spoke. "You failed."

A voice that was neither male nor female, and so flatly impersonal and cold that it could not be human. No human could be so devoid of passion, of feeling.

The Witch Queen didn't flinch, dared not even look away from the light. A misstep would result in her destruction. "Yes. The ambush failed. The Nine Walkers were not united, their spirits were not present, but they were stronger than we anticipated. Their Istari is unaccounted for, but they had a witch."

"Will it happen again?"

"No. We underestimated them. The Elf-" she paused, "-the Sindar half-breed sacrificed himself to incapacitate me. He will not have another opportunity."

A thread of emotion, perhaps of amusement, crept into the shadow's voice. "I doubt that. The Firstborn are notoriously difficult to destroy. What of the Ringbearer and his other companions?"

"Weakened. The Gondor King is injured. The witch and the dwarf are wounded in their souls. The Sindar prince is near death. Pain inflicted on one spreads throughout them all." Her voice dropped in contempt. "In this they are weak."

The silhouette walked back and forth, pacing the length of the window. The light was dazzling, but this shadow seemed to draw all darkness towards it, a deep blot in the brilliance.

"Yes," it said, stepping forward. "But this also makes them strong."

Deep within, the little girl gave one final, terrified shriek. Then, the last scrap of Trisha Law yanked her soul free of the darkness and flew away into the light.