4.21.2005
Okay, well...I wrote this a while ago. Mostly last year, I think. Not sure why I haven't posted it until now. It's when Naethiel finds out that she's Túrin and Nienor's daughter; Glirhuin is this seer dude who lived in Brethil at a covenient time. I really know nothing about him, but he's in the Sil. index and like I said, he's convenient. So yeah.
Glirhuin’s hand lifted my chin, and when he spoke his voice held a note of sadness that might have frightened me if his words had not taken me so much by surprise.
“Your father’s blood runs strong in you,” he said.
I flinched, and his hand fell away. “My father died before I was born. I know not who he was.”
“No,” Glirhuin said quietly, and my heart began to pound with a nameless fear I did not understand. “But I saw the black blade that slew him, and I have seen the place where he lies. Only a few nights past I received a vision of your mother’s death ten and seven years ago.”
A sword…a black sword…a broken sword…
I had heard the stories—
I forced myself to listen, for Glirhuin had not finished.
“That she was found in the Sirion was no accident. She gave herself to the Teiglin in search of her own death, but it did not find her until you were born. I saw…everything.”
No. Not this.
“Daughter of grief…” His voice was so soft now that I wondered if anyone but Elurín and I could hear it. “Well did she name you, for it was through her mourning and her tears that you found life…” I wanted to flee, to hear no more, but my body would not obey me. “Your father was laid to rest under the Stone of the Hapless.”
For an eternal instant I stood frozen. If I breathed, if my blood continued to flow in my veins, I did not know. Then every story of the children of Húrin flooded my mind, and full realization crashed down on me like a wave.
No. No!
I whirled and fled, not knowing where I ran and not caring. Only one thought pulsed in my head: I will not be Rhangeneth!
Branches tore at my arms and clothes, scratched my face. I stumbled into a fallen log, sprawled headlong, and leaped upright into my sprint before I realized I had fallen. Dimly—dimly—I heard shouting behind me, Elurín calling my name—
I crashed into a tree and fell back, gasping. Roaring water reached my ears, and I realized I had nearly reached the Cabed Naeramarth in my flight. The irony of it was not lost on me.
I rolled up onto my knees and jerked my dagger from its sheath. “Slay me swiftly,” I whispered, and plunged the blade toward my heart.
Footsteps pounded, someone crashed through the bushes, and rough hands wrenched the knife from my grasp. A cry of rage and pain burst from my lips as I lunged for the dagger, and Elurín—for it could be no one else—seized my shoulders to hold me back. I heard the knife strike the ground, and I flung myself away, scrambling for it, and he was there again, shoving me down. My fingers hit metal—I made a desperate grab and caught up the knife—and Elurín tore the blade from me. Air hissed over the dagger as he threw it.
I lunged after the knife again and he was there, blocking me—I struck out wildly, hands gripped my wrists, forced me down. I let out a furious snarl that sounded inhuman even to my ears and twisted one hand free—found exposed skin, tore my nails through it. Then he had both wrists again, slammed them to the ground on either side of my head, pinning me, and Elurín was shouting: “Stop it! For Elbereth’s sake, Naethiel, stop fighting me!”
“Let me go!” I shouted back, struggling to break free.
“I will not let you kill yourself!”
With an effort I ceased my struggles, my fists clenched and my entire body held taut. “Fine, then. Just release me—”
His hands pressed harder on my arms. “And the next time I fall asleep on your watch, or I leave you alone even for a few moments, then you will use that blade? If that is your plan I swear by Eru I will do anything in my power to stop you!”
Renewed fury set my blood on fire. “Morgoth take you, Elurín, let me go!” I screamed at him, fighting like a panicked animal.
“You think I will stand back and watch you die by your own hand—”
“What would you have me do?” I cried. Tears of frustration and anguish pricked my eyes, and I drove them back behind the dark. “You know the stories as well as I—you know what became of Húrin and his family! If my only purpose is to cause pain to myself and to everyone around me and then to die in defeat, I would end it now on my own terms and not the Enemy’s!”
“And you believe your death would not hurt me? Naethiel—” His voice choked off, and when he spoke again there was no anger in it, only quiet intensity. “If you died this way, I would never forgive myself.”
Fresh shock momentarily drowned my other emotions. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, “I would never stop wondering what I could have done and didn’t that might have saved you.”
A thousand angry retorts flooded my mind. Was I a burden, a load he felt obliged to bear, a problem he could release as soon as he felt it solved? Was I so helpless that I could not deal with my own trials? But no—I had spent a lifetime reading voices; I could not deceive myself now. I recognized only genuine concern in his tone, concern and caring and perhaps even—but I did not allow my thoughts to take that path. Without that impossible idea, it was still enough.
All the fight left me, and the tension bled out of my body. Another heartbeat later and Elurín released my wrists, rolling aside. For another moment I remained where I lay.
“Naethiel.”
I pushed myself upright, feeling weary beyond words and wondering suddenly if I’d managed to hurt him. Already it comes to pass… “Yes.”
“Will you give me your word that you won’t…harm yourself?”
I turned away, feeling for the blade. “I believe what you said. Is that good enough?” I ran my hand through a layer of dead and decaying leaves. “Can you help me find the dagger?”
“I want your word, Naethiel.” His voice, quiet and resolved, refused to back down.
I let out a deep breath, crushing the urge to fling myself down and weep. I was the last heir of Húrin’s curse—I could not escape my forebear’s fate. Escaping into the silence would be my single act of defiance, and Elurín wished to deny me even that.
But I did not want to hurt him.
“You have it,” I said, knowing even this vow would bind me. I pressed myself up to my knees, patting the ground and trying to work my way out further. He was silent now, likely watching me and wondering if he could trust me. “I need that knife, Elurín.”
A sigh, and then the leaves rustled as he moved closer. “I didn’t notice where I threw it.”
I sat back on my heels, searching my memory, and struck out in a new direction. A twig snapped nearby. Elurín’s voice again: “Here it is.”
I struggled to my feet, fighting back a wave of dizziness, and held out one hand.
“Where did you find this?”
“I told you. Adham had it. I had to kill him the night I took it.”
A long pause. I heard him flicking one finger against the blade’s edge, testing its sharpness, distrusting me. With good reason.
“Elurín…”
He sighed, and then the knife’s familiar weight filled my palm. I curled my hand around the hilt and slid it back into my sheath.
As usual, I don't much like this scene either...it's all right, but I didn't write it down as soon or as quickly as I should have, and I think I lost a lot of my original (better) wording. I know Naethiel and Elurin's little fight was better, for instance, but all I could do was try to recreate what was originally in my head, and I didn't quite get most of it. The main problem is that I know their fight was supposed to be longer, and I'm not sure if I'm getting everything across the way I want to. This is sort of an emotional peak point for Naethiel, for obvious reasons, and as such it absolutely has to be a strong scene, but I'm not sure if it works the way I want it to. She needs to go from reasonably calm to almost hysterical to calm again, which she does, and the transitions are all right, but I don't think the "almost hysterical" part is developed enough.
Oh yeah, and if anyone's curious: when I actually finish this and post it on TORc, "...and plunged the blade toward my heart" will end the chapter. The next one will open with Elurin tearing the knife away. How's that for a cliffie? :p
Glirhuin’s hand lifted my chin, and when he spoke his voice held a note of sadness that might have frightened me if his words had not taken me so much by surprise.
“Your father’s blood runs strong in you,” he said.
I flinched, and his hand fell away. “My father died before I was born. I know not who he was.”
“No,” Glirhuin said quietly, and my heart began to pound with a nameless fear I did not understand. “But I saw the black blade that slew him, and I have seen the place where he lies. Only a few nights past I received a vision of your mother’s death ten and seven years ago.”
A sword…a black sword…a broken sword…
I had heard the stories—
I forced myself to listen, for Glirhuin had not finished.
“That she was found in the Sirion was no accident. She gave herself to the Teiglin in search of her own death, but it did not find her until you were born. I saw…everything.”
No. Not this.
“Daughter of grief…” His voice was so soft now that I wondered if anyone but Elurín and I could hear it. “Well did she name you, for it was through her mourning and her tears that you found life…” I wanted to flee, to hear no more, but my body would not obey me. “Your father was laid to rest under the Stone of the Hapless.”
For an eternal instant I stood frozen. If I breathed, if my blood continued to flow in my veins, I did not know. Then every story of the children of Húrin flooded my mind, and full realization crashed down on me like a wave.
No. No!
I whirled and fled, not knowing where I ran and not caring. Only one thought pulsed in my head: I will not be Rhangeneth!
Branches tore at my arms and clothes, scratched my face. I stumbled into a fallen log, sprawled headlong, and leaped upright into my sprint before I realized I had fallen. Dimly—dimly—I heard shouting behind me, Elurín calling my name—
I crashed into a tree and fell back, gasping. Roaring water reached my ears, and I realized I had nearly reached the Cabed Naeramarth in my flight. The irony of it was not lost on me.
I rolled up onto my knees and jerked my dagger from its sheath. “Slay me swiftly,” I whispered, and plunged the blade toward my heart.
Footsteps pounded, someone crashed through the bushes, and rough hands wrenched the knife from my grasp. A cry of rage and pain burst from my lips as I lunged for the dagger, and Elurín—for it could be no one else—seized my shoulders to hold me back. I heard the knife strike the ground, and I flung myself away, scrambling for it, and he was there again, shoving me down. My fingers hit metal—I made a desperate grab and caught up the knife—and Elurín tore the blade from me. Air hissed over the dagger as he threw it.
I lunged after the knife again and he was there, blocking me—I struck out wildly, hands gripped my wrists, forced me down. I let out a furious snarl that sounded inhuman even to my ears and twisted one hand free—found exposed skin, tore my nails through it. Then he had both wrists again, slammed them to the ground on either side of my head, pinning me, and Elurín was shouting: “Stop it! For Elbereth’s sake, Naethiel, stop fighting me!”
“Let me go!” I shouted back, struggling to break free.
“I will not let you kill yourself!”
With an effort I ceased my struggles, my fists clenched and my entire body held taut. “Fine, then. Just release me—”
His hands pressed harder on my arms. “And the next time I fall asleep on your watch, or I leave you alone even for a few moments, then you will use that blade? If that is your plan I swear by Eru I will do anything in my power to stop you!”
Renewed fury set my blood on fire. “Morgoth take you, Elurín, let me go!” I screamed at him, fighting like a panicked animal.
“You think I will stand back and watch you die by your own hand—”
“What would you have me do?” I cried. Tears of frustration and anguish pricked my eyes, and I drove them back behind the dark. “You know the stories as well as I—you know what became of Húrin and his family! If my only purpose is to cause pain to myself and to everyone around me and then to die in defeat, I would end it now on my own terms and not the Enemy’s!”
“And you believe your death would not hurt me? Naethiel—” His voice choked off, and when he spoke again there was no anger in it, only quiet intensity. “If you died this way, I would never forgive myself.”
Fresh shock momentarily drowned my other emotions. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, “I would never stop wondering what I could have done and didn’t that might have saved you.”
A thousand angry retorts flooded my mind. Was I a burden, a load he felt obliged to bear, a problem he could release as soon as he felt it solved? Was I so helpless that I could not deal with my own trials? But no—I had spent a lifetime reading voices; I could not deceive myself now. I recognized only genuine concern in his tone, concern and caring and perhaps even—but I did not allow my thoughts to take that path. Without that impossible idea, it was still enough.
All the fight left me, and the tension bled out of my body. Another heartbeat later and Elurín released my wrists, rolling aside. For another moment I remained where I lay.
“Naethiel.”
I pushed myself upright, feeling weary beyond words and wondering suddenly if I’d managed to hurt him. Already it comes to pass… “Yes.”
“Will you give me your word that you won’t…harm yourself?”
I turned away, feeling for the blade. “I believe what you said. Is that good enough?” I ran my hand through a layer of dead and decaying leaves. “Can you help me find the dagger?”
“I want your word, Naethiel.” His voice, quiet and resolved, refused to back down.
I let out a deep breath, crushing the urge to fling myself down and weep. I was the last heir of Húrin’s curse—I could not escape my forebear’s fate. Escaping into the silence would be my single act of defiance, and Elurín wished to deny me even that.
But I did not want to hurt him.
“You have it,” I said, knowing even this vow would bind me. I pressed myself up to my knees, patting the ground and trying to work my way out further. He was silent now, likely watching me and wondering if he could trust me. “I need that knife, Elurín.”
A sigh, and then the leaves rustled as he moved closer. “I didn’t notice where I threw it.”
I sat back on my heels, searching my memory, and struck out in a new direction. A twig snapped nearby. Elurín’s voice again: “Here it is.”
I struggled to my feet, fighting back a wave of dizziness, and held out one hand.
“Where did you find this?”
“I told you. Adham had it. I had to kill him the night I took it.”
A long pause. I heard him flicking one finger against the blade’s edge, testing its sharpness, distrusting me. With good reason.
“Elurín…”
He sighed, and then the knife’s familiar weight filled my palm. I curled my hand around the hilt and slid it back into my sheath.
As usual, I don't much like this scene either...it's all right, but I didn't write it down as soon or as quickly as I should have, and I think I lost a lot of my original (better) wording. I know Naethiel and Elurin's little fight was better, for instance, but all I could do was try to recreate what was originally in my head, and I didn't quite get most of it. The main problem is that I know their fight was supposed to be longer, and I'm not sure if I'm getting everything across the way I want to. This is sort of an emotional peak point for Naethiel, for obvious reasons, and as such it absolutely has to be a strong scene, but I'm not sure if it works the way I want it to. She needs to go from reasonably calm to almost hysterical to calm again, which she does, and the transitions are all right, but I don't think the "almost hysterical" part is developed enough.
Oh yeah, and if anyone's curious: when I actually finish this and post it on TORc, "...and plunged the blade toward my heart" will end the chapter. The next one will open with Elurin tearing the knife away. How's that for a cliffie? :p
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