12.06.2004
Out of the Shadow
Here's another scene I wrote recently...it takes place the night after Naethiel finds out whose child she is, after which she promptly tries to kill herself and Elurín stops her rather forcefully. He makes her promise that she won't do it, and then things just get worse because there's an Orc attack that's probably Naethiel's fault, and no doubt a lot of people die. (They're in Brethil, I believe.) I've actually written most of that scene, too, but it's not finished. This is after the battle for sure, sometime during the night--they may have left Brethil by now. Not sure. I...don't really like this scene...but so I don't corrupt your first impressions too much, I'll say why at the end.
I pressed my spine against the tree, drowning in the darkness behind my eyes. It was finished. Either way, it was finished, and I still despised the thought of breaking my promise to Elurín.
Would you shackle me to Morgoth and his curse? I thought, half wishing Elurín could hear me. Why would he not understand?
A new thought struck me, and I stiffened, recoiling from it, but I had to admit my own twisted logic. If I…killed Elurín now…I could no longer cause him any pain, and I would be free to do away with myself without interference—
And what other end could I possibly choose that would be more fitting to the cursed child of Túrin Turamarth and Nienor Níniel?
Sudden self-loathing choked me, so deep and poisonous that I nearly wept. No matter what I did, my one escape would destroy the one personal in all of Arda who cared whether I lived or died.
The knowledge that I had tried to deny all day flooded my mind with a terrible certainty, and I understood: for me, there would be no escape.
Morgoth would have me, if he wished.
I bowed my head, struggling to breathe. I was drowning, drowning… Without thinking I drew my knife and dragged it across the back of my arm. My deadened senses felt no more than a flicker of pain.
No escape and no relief.
Finished.
Tears scalded my skin, and I had no strength left to prevent their falling. Aching, I gripped the dagger’s blade. The knife cut deeply into my palms, and warm blood slid down over my wrists.
No escape. Only the dark forever.
Another hand touched my shoulder. I flinched away. “Naethiel,” Elurín whispered, and again I felt his anguish and grief like a faint echo of my own. His hands eased mine apart, letting the dagger drop to the ground, and for once I did not care.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked softly. I could not respond. His fingers curled around my hand, his palm enveloping mine.
There was blood on him now, I realized numbly. My blood…on Elurín, who was yet innocent. “No,” I muttered, trying weakly to push him away, “not your hands…”
But he did not let go.
See, there are lots of problems with this scene, chief among them being the fact that I didn't write it when I should have and so the finished product came out "faded as a handful of withered leaves". I personally think Naethiel sounds way too melodramatic here, almost petulant, and I don't know what to do with that. About the only decent part is the last sentence, which is the one thing I actually remembered. The content is the same, sure--and with that I'm reasonably pleased--but the writing is really pretty poor.
I pressed my spine against the tree, drowning in the darkness behind my eyes. It was finished. Either way, it was finished, and I still despised the thought of breaking my promise to Elurín.
Would you shackle me to Morgoth and his curse? I thought, half wishing Elurín could hear me. Why would he not understand?
A new thought struck me, and I stiffened, recoiling from it, but I had to admit my own twisted logic. If I…killed Elurín now…I could no longer cause him any pain, and I would be free to do away with myself without interference—
And what other end could I possibly choose that would be more fitting to the cursed child of Túrin Turamarth and Nienor Níniel?
Sudden self-loathing choked me, so deep and poisonous that I nearly wept. No matter what I did, my one escape would destroy the one personal in all of Arda who cared whether I lived or died.
The knowledge that I had tried to deny all day flooded my mind with a terrible certainty, and I understood: for me, there would be no escape.
Morgoth would have me, if he wished.
I bowed my head, struggling to breathe. I was drowning, drowning… Without thinking I drew my knife and dragged it across the back of my arm. My deadened senses felt no more than a flicker of pain.
No escape and no relief.
Finished.
Tears scalded my skin, and I had no strength left to prevent their falling. Aching, I gripped the dagger’s blade. The knife cut deeply into my palms, and warm blood slid down over my wrists.
No escape. Only the dark forever.
Another hand touched my shoulder. I flinched away. “Naethiel,” Elurín whispered, and again I felt his anguish and grief like a faint echo of my own. His hands eased mine apart, letting the dagger drop to the ground, and for once I did not care.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked softly. I could not respond. His fingers curled around my hand, his palm enveloping mine.
There was blood on him now, I realized numbly. My blood…on Elurín, who was yet innocent. “No,” I muttered, trying weakly to push him away, “not your hands…”
But he did not let go.
See, there are lots of problems with this scene, chief among them being the fact that I didn't write it when I should have and so the finished product came out "faded as a handful of withered leaves". I personally think Naethiel sounds way too melodramatic here, almost petulant, and I don't know what to do with that. About the only decent part is the last sentence, which is the one thing I actually remembered. The content is the same, sure--and with that I'm reasonably pleased--but the writing is really pretty poor.
8:27 PM|| 
