A/N: Welcome to Part III, and apologies for the delay! Midterms caught up with me (along with an unexpected Halloween party that I was rushing to prepare for!). We are back with Hallas, and the mysterious voice…
Part III - Hallas
Dusk has fallen, heavy and thick, over the forests of Ithilien. The rain has begun to fall here. Hallas moves closer to the cave, beneath the shadowing trees, puling his hood up over his head. Wisdom guiding him or not, he cannot go now. His eyes strain slightly in the half-light, to look at the cleft in the rock. The figure is even more cloaked in shadow now; only the toes of his boots peek out to where there is any light.
Hallas sits cross-legged on the ground. He turns his head to the side. "So you were a commander?"
"Yes," the voice whispers, and he can almost hear the smirk in its tone. "I commanded vast armies to march across the Morannon in the final battle. I led sieges against the great fortresses of the enemy."
Hallas raises an eyebrow. "You commanded vast armies?"
"People came from across Middle Earth to fight in my name."
Hallas looks at the simple, beaten brown boots and comes to two conclusions. Either this elf is telling the truth, and he is right to feel humbled; or the fellow is an old, deluded warrior, creating stories from his age and his grief.
There is a little stone of disquiet, sitting silent and nervous in his gut. But somehow, whether by that strange kinship he feels between them at their shared, bitter thoughts, or whether by something else that is nameless, Hallas is inclined to believe the warrior's words.
His sincerity tugs at Hallas, drawing him closer toward the mouth of the cave.
"No further," the voice hisses sharply.
"Are you wounded?" he asks. He can't believe he hadn't thought to check before. "Is that why you hide yourself?"
"In a way," it mumbles, the dripping sorrow in its voice stirring pity in Hallas' heart. "Mine are wounds you cannot see nor understand."
So perhaps the latter assessment was more correct, after all - an old, grieving warrior, defeated by time and memory. His deeds forgotten, by the selfsame generation that Hallas was a part of. Guilt mixes with the other emotions clouding his thought.
"We owe you a great deal," he mumbles, not knowing what exactly to say.
There is a sound like false, muffled laughter from the cleft in the rock. "For what, exactly? I've heard of the dereliction of your city. The coldness of it."
"It's not derelict," he says, defensively, at the same time doubting his words.
"Then where is the marble in the streets?" it presses. "Why do the upper levels shine brighter in the sunlight, glow greener in the spring? Why was your gate remade in mithril in a time of peace - who paid for such a useless thing?"
"It was supposed to be beautiful," he says, quietly, not believing a word. "A monument of strength after the war."
"Perhaps you listen to more stories, indeed, than you think," it scoffs. "Why do you need a Dwarven gate and elven trees to prove that the most powerful Man in the West was strong?"
And try as he might to quell it, that little beast inside him that stands in solidarity with such words is clawing its way up and into his mind. Its claws are truths, clutching at his thoughts and doubts and prodding them with the unwanted reality - he's right, you know; he's right. What were these glory days, and what did they leave for the future besides stories? If such great triumph was had, why did it not exist in every square inch of the city? Truly, its greatness was nothing more than that which the songs had given it.
The rain falls heavy on him now, measured and certain, like the understanding taking place within him. No matter how it phrased its thoughts, or its unsettling secretiveness, the voice was speaking truth. And Hallas has to make things right for it some how.
"Why don't you come with me," he says, slowly, "Back to Minas Tirith? The new King, he could tell everyone who you are. They will help you, and then they will listen to you, and we could change things -"
"No," it says, fierce and quick. "I will not leave my place here."
As if sensing, the tension that has jumped into Hallas' shoulders, and the confusion written on his face, the tone of the voice softens. "Go back to you city," it says softly "Tell your friends about me. They can come and visit, if they like. I will tell you the stories of what I did. I will show you that old greatness; what it really is, what it truly means. I will not leave my place here, but they can come here freely and listen."
He hesitates. "I would like to tell them."
"You should."
"But I won't leave you alone, if you're hurt."
"Please, boy. I have lived for many a year with my wounds and am not the worse for it. If I only I could tell my stories to the youth of your city, perhaps I would find peace. I could be the root of a history more real for them - something worth being remembered."
"Then…I suppose I can bring them," he stalls, doubtful. The figure is sitting awfully still; whatever old injury it was must be quite crippling.
"There's nothing to fear," Hallas insists.
"I will not come." Impatience spikes in its words.
"Please," he tries, one last time, rising. "Let me help you!"
He steps forward, stretching his hand into the darkness. He makes contact with a cold shoulder plate. Then the figure lurches suddenly forward from the shadows, falling like a heavy stone, knocking him down.
Dazed, he grabs the elf's shoulders - and looks straight into maggot-filled eye sockets.
Hallas screams, scrambling backward. The corpse flops to the ground before him, paler than death, the rot and more already beginning to eat away at the clothes and the flesh. The rain splashes heavy onto a white face, running over a throat that is blackened with something that is not ash or decay.
From behind it, a twisting, roiling mass of shadow approaches. It is small, and moves slowly, as if crawling laboriously upon the ground, but it sucks away what little light is left filtering into the clearing. It is menace, rage, pain and futility, staring directly into his soul. It reeks of death and defeat, like the ashes and smoke of a fire built on foul, rotten wood.
There is no more sound coming from his mouth, though the muscles of his throat are still straining. He feels something warm trickle down between his legs onto the barren soil beneath him.
The entity growls, its full, horrid voice unmasked and unfettered.
"Foolish boy," it growls. "Had you listened and done as you should, you might have had a better chance of living. Unlike this idiotic creature."
Hallas whimpers, staring at the decaying corpse of the young elf, its face turned blankly to the sky.
"He had just barely come of age," the shadow says, in false lamentation. "A mere child whose life was given to him directly after the war, by parents who thought he could receive it without harm. Pity. Yesterday was his first on the watch."
The shadowy manifestation swarms around him. He can feel both weakness and anger pulsing out from it, the latter so much more potent.
"I learned much from that war that I had forgotten in millennia past," it hisses, clinging to the edges, beginning to circle him. "Why break upon the fortresses of your enemy like water on rock, when you can simply flood their home and drown them from inside? A fool I was, but not again. It takes great loss to remember how to gain."
Hallas finally finds his voice. "I don't understand," he chokes out.
"It would have been best that way."
Hallas' hand jumps to his wooden necklace, clutching it, calling forth the image of his parents, searching for strength. He'd left them in impatience and frustration, left them in their sadness and despairing nostalgia - and this thing seemed intent on giving them something else to mourn.
He splutters, searching for words, for a delay, for a chance. "The King destroyed things like you!"
"And now, the King is dead," it spits. "Long may he rot. Soon may he be forgotten. Such is the way of man. Your existence is a tower painted gold, balanced on a knife-edge. You idolise old heroes whose strength is beyond your reach, and forget the words they once told you that made you come alive. But you, you will not forget me, will you?"
A tendril of darkness reaches toward him, and he scrabbles back on his hands, the tears streaming freely down his face, his vocal chords stuck. It's fingers are long, travelling across the ground like shadows cast from bare branches - nine thin, shivering shadows.
"We never forget what we hold closest to our darkest hearts," it growls, its voice rising, becoming stronger, filling with malice. "We never forget the pain and the hurt, the things that no-one can ever take away. You will forget your king and you will forget his deeds, but you will never forget those stories your grandfather whispered to you in the night, with the shadows dancing across his scars and the rain tapping, ever tapping, at his window. You will never forget me. You will never forget what it is to fear. I am always with your world - and with you."
The formless mass of shadow leers at him. He can feel it scanning his face, the wet trickle between his legs, stopping at his hand, clutching the wooden necklace.
"That charm," it breathes. "It is so very precious to you, is it not? So very precious."
It creeps forward, and a black tendril of shadow jets around his neck. Hallas' scream is caught in his throat. He presses his clammy hands to the ground and pushes, fights the grip that restrains him without touching, until he careens out of it. He doesn't register the snap of his necklace chain as he falls free to the ground. He feels the heavy press of darkness behind him, textured and thick like wet fabric, pulling at his legs. He thinks of the dead elf. That cannot be him. The shadow cannot seize his throat, his voice, his breath.
He pushes himself to his feet without a second's hesitation, stumbling and scrabbling until his feet find their balance. He flees from the shadow, running swifter than the cold, stormy wind and harder than the driving rain.
A/N: This was so fun to write. I loved this chapter. Our lovely Voice does so try to be manipulative, but I think it's lost its touch. I think you'll know the identity now, though I will name it next chapter!
I'm also really enjoying fixing up the fourth chapter, which was the least edited of the lot. I hope to have it up before October 30th (slightly longer delay because of midterms! Gotta love the uni life…).
Thank you for reading!
