4.26.2005
Dissonance
Okay, I'm addicted to this title Sue me. I couldn't think of anything better. But this is my rapidly-written-in-the-past-two-or-three-days longish short story. Comments are welcome. I used a lot of the same wording as Thomas Owens himself, because he put it in such a good way. I added a couple of paragraphs, some sentences here and there, but fairly often you can find stuff strait out of his journal. Some things are vague because he did not give me enough information. Oh well... Enough apologizing. Here 'tis.
Dissonance
Or the Tale of Thomas Owens
A Short story by Alyssa H.
I stepped cautiously over the watery ground. Had it been only earlier today that I was matching down the road, singing along happily with my companions? I can barely bring myself to look at my feet now. The bodies of buried men, covered only with a light layer of dirt, were beginning to be revealed once more, what with the rain and the people walking over them. I did not want to think about it.
We had arrived to relieve a detachment of the Liverpool Scottish, and we occupied a section of the trenches almost square-shaped in form. Three sides were facing a miniature salient of German troops, who had surrounded us more or less in the form of a horseshoe. Our post was evidently a key position in the line.
What an honor, I thought dryly.
It was dark. The sun had set, and the moon was not yet risen. My feet dragged in the mucky floor of the trench, making sickening sucking sounds whenever I moved them. Arms of the dead hung limply out of the walls as I passed. I tried my best not to touch them as I filed in.
The Scotties trailed past me, looking more dead than alive. Their white faces were startlingly bright, considering we had no light to speak of down here. They whispered greetings to us, thanks and encouragement. I patted one old fellow on the back when he said his prayers were with us. I put up a front of being more confident than I felt.
Then we settled down to the eternal vigil. The silence was that of the dead. Not a gun fired, not even a Verey light flared. The bloated trench rats squeaked now and again, but that only intensified the silence. It seemed as if the entire world were quiet, as if all the people were dead.
I shivered and went to see what I could help with. Such depressing thoughts would not help me withstand this trial. And I did not want to ponder them more. I did not want to think about what the Scots had been through down here…
James Thomas, a friend of mine, had a pack of cards set out on his knees. When I came in sight of him, he waved me over. Muttering a greeting, I sat with him. The silence was so complete, we barely dared to breathe.
Hours passed. I slept some, but not as much as I would have liked. Some time during the night the word was passed along that the patrols into No Man’s Land met against nothing, heard nothing, saw no one. One such man walked to me.
“Where’s the rum?” he whispered. His face was ghostly, and he was shaking a little.
“I don’t know,” was my reply. “Ask someone else.”
I rolled over, and heard his retreating, guppy footsteps.
I taught myself to not remain still, so that I could not brood. I used up my small journal writing letters to home, or to Lucy. I doubted they would ever be sent—I was terribly self-conscious about these sorts of things, and would rather my family know little of my torture—but it helped eat up time.
I had been drafted out here. Not that I minded it much. What with the parades, the speeches and such I thought this would be a grand and wonderful experience. I would come home a hero.
How little I knew. I would give anything now just to be home. Away from this mess.
For two days the silence continued, unnatural and nerve-racking. Soldiers who had been in the war years longer than I talked with bated breath of the horrors that were surely coming. I could not stand or sit still for long, and was often found pacing or shuffling cards. Anything to keep my mind off of this tension.
On the evening of the third day, as we shook our limbs and set guard and patrols moving, a whispered word went round that at “Stand to” this evening the Germans might attack in force.
We lined up along the trench. The rum was passed around, and I gulped down my ration. Everything in me literally ached for something to happen. Anything. Just not this silence. Not this unending, death-like silence…
But the sun went down and gloom came on. Not a sound had broken the solitude. I felt as if I should burst if I heard the wind rustling empty through No Man’s Land one more time.
As I walked back into the muddy depth of my prison, the soldiers around me whispered that surely it would be the next morning when the attack came. A whole twelve hours to wait. How could I manage that long?
The night was endless, almost as hard to bear as the silence. I could not sleep, not for the life of me. Apparently the others were having a hard time of it, too, for many were gathered about in huddled groups, playing cards or talking. I wanted to be with them, to hear voices familiar to me and forget our pledges, but I feared getting up. What should happen if I lost all hope of sleep by standing? Much as I hated laying here, cold and wet, I hated more the thought of staying up all night. At least here I could pretend there was hope of escaping.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, I gave up on sleep and rose to join the men. Their whispers, though slightly comforting, were neigh torture to my ears. How I longed to hear confident, loud voices instead of these dry ones which scraped against my ears.
God help me, I couldn’t stand another minute!
But somehow I did. I must have slept at some point, for I recall opening my eyes to see the pale streaks of dawn reaching over the sky. A friend of mine, Barker was what we called him around here, was sleeping near me, and I shook him gently.
He had been watching the sky, and turned his head toward me wearily. His exhausted, dull eyes made my throat tighten.
“Barker, it’s almost time for Stand to.”
Nodding a little, he clambered up. I helped him as I could, getting up myself.
We lined up, and the rum was passed around again. “Watch out, they’ll be coming now,” the man who handed me mine whispered. I felt a chill run down my back.
A watery sun peered through the mist surrounding us, and still no enemy appeared. No lark rose to greet the dawn. Not a gun hurled its load of venom. The silence was complete.
I sat down with my section of eight men. It seemed like all of them were younger than me now, though I knew a few were more than ten years my senior. But the way they looked at me, as I sat, made my heart ache. They were terrified. I was, too. However, I tried my best to cheer them, smiling and commenting on the cool morning.
Then I looked at our rations. Bread, bacon, and cheese. It was small enough, and God knew if we should ever get another. I felt nearly all my courage drain out. If I didn’t have to be so brave, I would have cried.
But my men were here, and they were watching me. Putting on a bold front, I asked, “Shall we cook the whole issue?”
A nodding chorus signified assent.
We lit the “Tommy” cooker, and made a good job of the cooking. The food was filling. Somehow, with a full stomach the world was not such a harsh place.
Suddenly a gun barked and a heavy explosion shook the trenches. I dropped my food in surprise, followed by fear. The frantic rats squeaked, scuttling past us. Shuddering, I grabbed my gun and sprang to attention, my men following suite.
The barrage had started. I sighed happily, close to glad the suspense was finally over. At least now I would be able to do something with my pent up energy.
The enemy was stationed about forty yards short of our line of trench. It could be assumed that they would creep to us after first smashing the barbwire scattered about that area.
Eager for action, I placed five men on the fire-step to shoot. One man was given a large gun, and I set two men to fill its containers as needed. Then I turned toward the enemy, waiting with a sort of calm assurance that whatever was coming, it would be no worse than the silence. At least now we were all in the open.
They inched closer. Now thirty yards off, now twenty. Bullets were whizzing everywhere. It was a hell of din and slaughter. The trench was crumbling slowly to pieces.
One of my men—whom I had eaten with not half an hour before—sank slowly to his knees. Blood was seeping through his uniform, near his abdomen. He did not cry out, just sat down quietly. It was the silence again, and it terrified me. Even though there were screams and shouts and hailing bullets around us—well over enough to dull out any sound he would make—his silence struck me to the bone.
For a moment, his green eyes glanced at mine, then he slid a hand over the wound, bent his head, and waited for the death that was crawling for him.
I was trembling. My rifle was shaking violently. I could not see beyond that hopeless look in his eyes.
Swallowing hard to rid myself of my fear—a vain attempt—I gripped my gun and stood like a statue on the crumbling fire-step. Don’t panic. Men who panic die. Just don’t panic…
The raining of gun-shot lifted again, and my enemies moved closer. The man with the wound moaned, hardly more than a breath. I took a brief second to glance at him, glad to see he had fixed his field bandage. The blood still oozed through it, staining his hand pressed as if to hold the life inside him. His groans, coming during the briefest lulls in the shelling, were as unnerving to me as my other men.
We were terrified of the pain. We were terrified of the death.
But we were helpless. Like ants whose hill was being smashed apart by a child. We could do nothing to stop it.
Miserable and shivering, I crouched with my men at the bottom of the trench. Someone pressed the rum bottle in my hands. I was more than glad to take a long swing of it before handing it on. I was grateful to feel it numbing me, making the horrors seem more bearable. A trickle of courage filled me, giving me a lurching contempt for danger. Rum did that to you. It made you die more or less decently; neither whining nor squealing, which is as it should be.
A moment later the machine gun to my right went up in the air. Its team of men went with it. I felt another rush of gratitude for the rum rush through me. It had been a direct hit. The shells were dropping practically on the very brink of my trench.
The worst had come.
I got face down in the slime, my men doing likewise. Boot and finger and knee were clutching and scraping for the smallest inch of cover. I hid my eyes, as I once did from childish terrors. The rum was no help now. Nothing could escape this.
My will had turned to water. I found myself whimpering and cursing at intervals, my men companions in my misery. It was so tense. The shooting, the guns, the death. If I moved I would be shot. I was going to die.
I am going to die.
I could almost literally see Death grinning at me. Prayers I had not spoken in years were suddenly tumbling forth from my lips. Men everywhere were being killed. Yet not a shell hit within a dozen yards of the entrenchment I crouched in. Still leaping forward, the barrage blundered over and beyond us.
I was too stunned to move. Vaguely I realized the dying man had breathed his last in the midst of the terror. His groans no longer coaxed my terror into its flame. Half dazed, I sent up a prayer of thanks.
I glanced at my watch a moment. At nine o’clock in the morning the attack started. It ceased as suddenly as it had begun, at exactly eleven-thirty. It felt more like a year.
Summoning my strength, I got to my feet as the deadly stillness came on again. The silence. It was hard to concentrate with it pounding in my ears. But I knew there was another attack coming. The man would follow the machine.
I ran among the men, kicking them to their senses and trying to encourage them. There was only so much time. We had to hurry.
Looking over the top of the crumbled trench as I woke the others, I saw the long grey lines sweeping along four hundred yards away. I called to the men to prepare, crouching down myself at the fire-step. The lines marched slowly, shoulder to shoulder, heavily weighted with picks, ammunition, and rations.
We began to shoot at them. It was madness. I shot as quickly as I could, as if I could fill the silence that still echoed it me with machine bullets. My men were doing the same. It should have been a horrid slaughter at the distance: the Germans seemed to huddle together like sheep as they lurched over No Man’s Land.
But there were thousands of them, and fear made our aim hurried and bad. We were firing in abandonment rather than by design. Terror made us continue to waste our ammunition.
Still the grey hordes advanced.
I was going to die. They had missed me the first time, but there was no escaping the second. I hardly realized I was shaking so hard I could barely load my gun.
A booming voice yelled at us—it was Sergeant Winnford. He was almost drowned out by the shooting, and God knew how his message got through my thick and terrified scull. “Retreat—back to support line—” His eye caught mine for a brief moment. “You, corporal! See them all out!”
He made for a gap in the trench. I struggled up, urging the men to follow while I myself made sure they were all getting out. A quick glance at Winnford revealed him to be almost to the opening—when suddenly something hit his head, creating a hole through which I could see the inside seeping out. He fell without a sound.
Stupefied, the others crept through and got clear, racing across the open land. The enemy was in full cry behind them.
I looked around to make certain all the survivors were out, and saw Barker. He was crawling out, struggling to stand. I howled at him to hurry, all ready moving away from the advancing enemies myself.
He was dead beat. I could see it when he looked at me.
“You, corporal, see them all out.” Those were Sergeant Winnford’s last words.
I could not leave him.
Racing to his side, I shouted, “Slip off you pack!” I was all ready slipping off mine. He obeyed, but he was ashen and panting. My gut told me he wasn’t going to make it.
Something stung my arm, just above the elbow. Startled, I looked down. Red liquid tricked from the tips of my fingers onto the ground.
Panic started to grapple for what little sense I had left. I was running. “Barker, Barker!” I screamed. “Hurry up, chum, for God’s sake!”
I might have saved my breath.
As I turned my head to him, he made a supreme effort to hasten. For a half second I was grateful—then I saw the bullet hit the back of his tin helmet and spurt out the front. He curled over in a heap. He was past aid.
I ran a dozen steps further, trying to erase my memories. Just run. Just run. Don’t panic. Something hit my other elbow, searing hot and smashing through it. My feet gave way. I spun to the ground, and found myself once more lying in slime. I thought my arm had gone.
Dully I thought that if this was death, I was numb, careless and content. This was a good way to die. I did not feel anything. Just hot…
The blackness came then, and I felt myself relaxing as the feet of my enemies ran past me. Terror was gone, and in its place was death.
***
Blurry light. It swam around me in circles, teasing me, taunting me. It danced behind my eyelids and dared me to open them. At last I could stand it no more, and obeyed.
My arm was still there, attached and lying beside me in a pool of blood. The world spun a moment when I saw it. My own blood.
A chill ran through me. Why hadn’t I died? Why wasn’t I still asleep? They had all died. Barker, Winnfold…
You have to stop the bleeding. You have to do something.
Laboriously, I pulled out my field dressing with my less injured arm. I could not bring myself to look at the blood strait on, so had to apply the bandage without looking. It was a messy business, and I was exhausted before the end.
I took a moment to rest, then pulled myself to my knees, and from there to my feet in a half-blind endeavor to get somewhere, to someone… I did not know why, or whom, or where. Some inner sense just told me I had to move.
I staggered up and saw with a sinking heart the second wave of the advancing Germans. Would they shoot me again as they passed? I was not far from them, not more than ten feet from the first line.
An officer, with revolver in hand, waved me through the ranks. They parted to make a road for me. I moved forward, certain that if I did not they would shoot me. On the second step my leg again gave way, and I fell into the barbwire. It pierced my hands and face.
Struggling up, I tried again. And again. It was no use. I could not hold onto my little strength long enough to get more than two steps before falling again. Vaguely I realized I was weeping. I was helpless. I could not stop falling, I could not stop this torture. The blood on my face ran and mixed with my salty tears.
The pain was horrible. Every fall was worse. Each time I was more and more tempted to just stay there and let them shoot me. But that inner sense pushed me on. I hated it. I hated everything. I just wanted the pain to stop.
I cannot say how far I walked. It was a nightmare. I passed a first-aid post in an old trench, but they waved me off despairingly. They had too many to see to. Stretcher bearers passed me. Between them they carried a pole, with a blanket slung to it. Inside was an agonized bundle of broken humans, blood dripping from the pendulous blanket. I might have been sick, but that I was too far gone myself to feel anything now, even the pain.
Eventually I could go no further. Too exhausted to even think about what I was doing, I simply collapsed into another portion of trench. The mud scraped against my back, but I did not care. Leaning on the wall I closed my eyes and wished this was over.
“Armes kind,” a gentle, pitying whisper came close to my ear.
I looked up and found a sad-eyed, black-bearded man watching me. His dark brown eyes were like looking into a history of sorrows. He was old enough to have grandchildren. Gradually my mind translated what he had said into English: little child. I felt as if my heart would melt. Someone pitied me. Someone cared.
I wanted to sob.
The man moved closer to me, and with practiced hands stripped off my tunic, leather jerkin and cardigan. He took his own field dressing, using it to patch up the mess of my arm. His compassion stirred me, and I tried not to wince or cry when the pain shot through my dullness.
Here I was, a prisoner, receiving treatment from a man whose countrymen I had blazed at in hate but a while ago, and from whom I had suffered the shot in my elbow. Yet he was treating me like a son. He was as gentle to me as if I had been a dearly loved pet.
Truly the quality of mercy is not strained. I knew little of his tongue, and he none of mine, but he gave me a drink of warm coffee from a flask and cared for me.
If ever I had felt hate for the Germans, I was cured of it now. I had had my job to do, and he his. The responsibility was not ours and our fate was none of our choosing. I may die today, perhaps he tomorrow. But for a moment, just a moment, there was peace between us. And I was grateful for it.
But I could not stay here.
The English barrage had now started, tearing and rip-snorting along all the roads and communications. It was intended to hold up the reinforcements for the German attack, I suppose. For me there was the sickening necessity of walking through the menace of our own barrage; to risk death from my own men’s shells to get to some place of refuge.
Three others joined me. They also had staggered from the shambles of No Man’s Land. We supported each other with words and actions, bleeding together from our various woods along that pitiless road to the rear.
How we escaped the shelling, I know not. As we walked, a German transport wagon lumbered past us, the driver whipping the horses to a mad gallop. I watched him disappear into the distance, and for a moment wished I were with him. At least then I would not be walking.
Soon the road became greasy with blood, both that of animal and man. I passed several dead or dying horses along the road, among the splintered ruins of shafts and wheels. My heart aches for them in memory, but at the time I felt nothing.
Yet even as the horses fell, they were dragged to the side of the road. The Germans would whip out their knives and cut long strips of flesh from the steaming flanks. Heaps of intestines lay in the ditches. The smell was horrible.
At last a German unter-officer dashed out from behind a ruined house and took charge of our little, wandering band. He took us further down the road till we came to a large church, with the Red Cross flag flying from the tower. While my heart leapt with hope that soon I would be out of pain, it also sank. What should I do if they found it necessary to take my arm all together?
The German placed us at the back of a long line of injured men that stretched out of the church. He then left us. It seemed like a long wait, with the sounds of battle not far off. The pain was still there, throbbing gently as if asking to be thought about. I tried my best not to worry about it.
Gradually I got inside the church. May I never again see such a sight!
All along the nave improvised stretchers lay side by side and reached to the step leading to the choir and chancel. Up there a dozen surgeons in ghastly stained white overalls preformed operation after operation, amputation after amputation. The smell of chloroform and ether pervaded everything. The horrible rasping sound of the red-stained silver saws grated on my ears.
Attendants carried limbs away in tall baskets. Men died beside me before aid could get to them. Each had inexorably to wait his turn with the surgeons. Their white and drawn faces sweated as they toiled silently. No time for consultations. It was a doctor’s nightmare.
I wanted to scream. It was chaos. Slow, quiet, torturous chaos.
***
I stumbled out of the church and went to the nearby prisoners’ cage. I still had my arm. I was still whole. But I could not forget what I had seen.
A German sat me down to examine my papers, and letters, questioning me all the while. I could not think, much less answer in ways that made sense. However, he seemed satisfied by the end. He took my things and sent me away.
My dazed mind registered that it was night when I was taken out. That meant it had been twenty-four hours since I had “stood to” on the fire-step and awaited the coming attack. Now it was all over. But I could not find energy to react to these thoughts. I was so exhausted.
Swaying, I made my way among the ranks of draft prisoners. We were told to march in columns of four to the station where we would be taken away. The man next to me had a hurt leg, and I offered him my shoulder. We supported each other as we marched through a dream. I remember being placed in a truck.
It was pitch black. The truck bounced on even the slightest bump, and soon I could not tell up from down. Hail and rain poured on the roof, seeping in at times to wet us all. I was alternately freezing and sweating. The world was always swaying. I heard the man next to me, the one with the leg injury, muttering. He was speaking nonsense, or at least that was what I heard. It was hard to focus.
Sometime during the night he stopped muttering. I didn’t hear him again.
I tossed and turned. I could not stay still. I could not escape nightmares. I could not stay awake.
So it was that I came to Germany. I later leaned that the Army Lists posted me as “missing”.
Lance-Corporal Thomas A. Owen. Attested November 1916; called up February 1917. Service in France and Belgium, chiefly on sections of the Ypres Salient, 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, 1st Division. Wounded and taken prisoner near Festubert, April 18th, 1918. Thence to Schleswig. In hospital for 6 months, then discharged for labour at Munster Prisoner of War Camp, till Armistice. Repatriated December 2nd, 1918.
Dissonance
Or the Tale of Thomas Owens
A Short story by Alyssa H.
I stepped cautiously over the watery ground. Had it been only earlier today that I was matching down the road, singing along happily with my companions? I can barely bring myself to look at my feet now. The bodies of buried men, covered only with a light layer of dirt, were beginning to be revealed once more, what with the rain and the people walking over them. I did not want to think about it.
We had arrived to relieve a detachment of the Liverpool Scottish, and we occupied a section of the trenches almost square-shaped in form. Three sides were facing a miniature salient of German troops, who had surrounded us more or less in the form of a horseshoe. Our post was evidently a key position in the line.
What an honor, I thought dryly.
It was dark. The sun had set, and the moon was not yet risen. My feet dragged in the mucky floor of the trench, making sickening sucking sounds whenever I moved them. Arms of the dead hung limply out of the walls as I passed. I tried my best not to touch them as I filed in.
The Scotties trailed past me, looking more dead than alive. Their white faces were startlingly bright, considering we had no light to speak of down here. They whispered greetings to us, thanks and encouragement. I patted one old fellow on the back when he said his prayers were with us. I put up a front of being more confident than I felt.
Then we settled down to the eternal vigil. The silence was that of the dead. Not a gun fired, not even a Verey light flared. The bloated trench rats squeaked now and again, but that only intensified the silence. It seemed as if the entire world were quiet, as if all the people were dead.
I shivered and went to see what I could help with. Such depressing thoughts would not help me withstand this trial. And I did not want to ponder them more. I did not want to think about what the Scots had been through down here…
James Thomas, a friend of mine, had a pack of cards set out on his knees. When I came in sight of him, he waved me over. Muttering a greeting, I sat with him. The silence was so complete, we barely dared to breathe.
Hours passed. I slept some, but not as much as I would have liked. Some time during the night the word was passed along that the patrols into No Man’s Land met against nothing, heard nothing, saw no one. One such man walked to me.
“Where’s the rum?” he whispered. His face was ghostly, and he was shaking a little.
“I don’t know,” was my reply. “Ask someone else.”
I rolled over, and heard his retreating, guppy footsteps.
I taught myself to not remain still, so that I could not brood. I used up my small journal writing letters to home, or to Lucy. I doubted they would ever be sent—I was terribly self-conscious about these sorts of things, and would rather my family know little of my torture—but it helped eat up time.
I had been drafted out here. Not that I minded it much. What with the parades, the speeches and such I thought this would be a grand and wonderful experience. I would come home a hero.
How little I knew. I would give anything now just to be home. Away from this mess.
For two days the silence continued, unnatural and nerve-racking. Soldiers who had been in the war years longer than I talked with bated breath of the horrors that were surely coming. I could not stand or sit still for long, and was often found pacing or shuffling cards. Anything to keep my mind off of this tension.
On the evening of the third day, as we shook our limbs and set guard and patrols moving, a whispered word went round that at “Stand to” this evening the Germans might attack in force.
We lined up along the trench. The rum was passed around, and I gulped down my ration. Everything in me literally ached for something to happen. Anything. Just not this silence. Not this unending, death-like silence…
But the sun went down and gloom came on. Not a sound had broken the solitude. I felt as if I should burst if I heard the wind rustling empty through No Man’s Land one more time.
As I walked back into the muddy depth of my prison, the soldiers around me whispered that surely it would be the next morning when the attack came. A whole twelve hours to wait. How could I manage that long?
The night was endless, almost as hard to bear as the silence. I could not sleep, not for the life of me. Apparently the others were having a hard time of it, too, for many were gathered about in huddled groups, playing cards or talking. I wanted to be with them, to hear voices familiar to me and forget our pledges, but I feared getting up. What should happen if I lost all hope of sleep by standing? Much as I hated laying here, cold and wet, I hated more the thought of staying up all night. At least here I could pretend there was hope of escaping.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, I gave up on sleep and rose to join the men. Their whispers, though slightly comforting, were neigh torture to my ears. How I longed to hear confident, loud voices instead of these dry ones which scraped against my ears.
God help me, I couldn’t stand another minute!
But somehow I did. I must have slept at some point, for I recall opening my eyes to see the pale streaks of dawn reaching over the sky. A friend of mine, Barker was what we called him around here, was sleeping near me, and I shook him gently.
He had been watching the sky, and turned his head toward me wearily. His exhausted, dull eyes made my throat tighten.
“Barker, it’s almost time for Stand to.”
Nodding a little, he clambered up. I helped him as I could, getting up myself.
We lined up, and the rum was passed around again. “Watch out, they’ll be coming now,” the man who handed me mine whispered. I felt a chill run down my back.
A watery sun peered through the mist surrounding us, and still no enemy appeared. No lark rose to greet the dawn. Not a gun hurled its load of venom. The silence was complete.
I sat down with my section of eight men. It seemed like all of them were younger than me now, though I knew a few were more than ten years my senior. But the way they looked at me, as I sat, made my heart ache. They were terrified. I was, too. However, I tried my best to cheer them, smiling and commenting on the cool morning.
Then I looked at our rations. Bread, bacon, and cheese. It was small enough, and God knew if we should ever get another. I felt nearly all my courage drain out. If I didn’t have to be so brave, I would have cried.
But my men were here, and they were watching me. Putting on a bold front, I asked, “Shall we cook the whole issue?”
A nodding chorus signified assent.
We lit the “Tommy” cooker, and made a good job of the cooking. The food was filling. Somehow, with a full stomach the world was not such a harsh place.
Suddenly a gun barked and a heavy explosion shook the trenches. I dropped my food in surprise, followed by fear. The frantic rats squeaked, scuttling past us. Shuddering, I grabbed my gun and sprang to attention, my men following suite.
The barrage had started. I sighed happily, close to glad the suspense was finally over. At least now I would be able to do something with my pent up energy.
The enemy was stationed about forty yards short of our line of trench. It could be assumed that they would creep to us after first smashing the barbwire scattered about that area.
Eager for action, I placed five men on the fire-step to shoot. One man was given a large gun, and I set two men to fill its containers as needed. Then I turned toward the enemy, waiting with a sort of calm assurance that whatever was coming, it would be no worse than the silence. At least now we were all in the open.
They inched closer. Now thirty yards off, now twenty. Bullets were whizzing everywhere. It was a hell of din and slaughter. The trench was crumbling slowly to pieces.
One of my men—whom I had eaten with not half an hour before—sank slowly to his knees. Blood was seeping through his uniform, near his abdomen. He did not cry out, just sat down quietly. It was the silence again, and it terrified me. Even though there were screams and shouts and hailing bullets around us—well over enough to dull out any sound he would make—his silence struck me to the bone.
For a moment, his green eyes glanced at mine, then he slid a hand over the wound, bent his head, and waited for the death that was crawling for him.
I was trembling. My rifle was shaking violently. I could not see beyond that hopeless look in his eyes.
Swallowing hard to rid myself of my fear—a vain attempt—I gripped my gun and stood like a statue on the crumbling fire-step. Don’t panic. Men who panic die. Just don’t panic…
The raining of gun-shot lifted again, and my enemies moved closer. The man with the wound moaned, hardly more than a breath. I took a brief second to glance at him, glad to see he had fixed his field bandage. The blood still oozed through it, staining his hand pressed as if to hold the life inside him. His groans, coming during the briefest lulls in the shelling, were as unnerving to me as my other men.
We were terrified of the pain. We were terrified of the death.
But we were helpless. Like ants whose hill was being smashed apart by a child. We could do nothing to stop it.
Miserable and shivering, I crouched with my men at the bottom of the trench. Someone pressed the rum bottle in my hands. I was more than glad to take a long swing of it before handing it on. I was grateful to feel it numbing me, making the horrors seem more bearable. A trickle of courage filled me, giving me a lurching contempt for danger. Rum did that to you. It made you die more or less decently; neither whining nor squealing, which is as it should be.
A moment later the machine gun to my right went up in the air. Its team of men went with it. I felt another rush of gratitude for the rum rush through me. It had been a direct hit. The shells were dropping practically on the very brink of my trench.
The worst had come.
I got face down in the slime, my men doing likewise. Boot and finger and knee were clutching and scraping for the smallest inch of cover. I hid my eyes, as I once did from childish terrors. The rum was no help now. Nothing could escape this.
My will had turned to water. I found myself whimpering and cursing at intervals, my men companions in my misery. It was so tense. The shooting, the guns, the death. If I moved I would be shot. I was going to die.
I am going to die.
I could almost literally see Death grinning at me. Prayers I had not spoken in years were suddenly tumbling forth from my lips. Men everywhere were being killed. Yet not a shell hit within a dozen yards of the entrenchment I crouched in. Still leaping forward, the barrage blundered over and beyond us.
I was too stunned to move. Vaguely I realized the dying man had breathed his last in the midst of the terror. His groans no longer coaxed my terror into its flame. Half dazed, I sent up a prayer of thanks.
I glanced at my watch a moment. At nine o’clock in the morning the attack started. It ceased as suddenly as it had begun, at exactly eleven-thirty. It felt more like a year.
Summoning my strength, I got to my feet as the deadly stillness came on again. The silence. It was hard to concentrate with it pounding in my ears. But I knew there was another attack coming. The man would follow the machine.
I ran among the men, kicking them to their senses and trying to encourage them. There was only so much time. We had to hurry.
Looking over the top of the crumbled trench as I woke the others, I saw the long grey lines sweeping along four hundred yards away. I called to the men to prepare, crouching down myself at the fire-step. The lines marched slowly, shoulder to shoulder, heavily weighted with picks, ammunition, and rations.
We began to shoot at them. It was madness. I shot as quickly as I could, as if I could fill the silence that still echoed it me with machine bullets. My men were doing the same. It should have been a horrid slaughter at the distance: the Germans seemed to huddle together like sheep as they lurched over No Man’s Land.
But there were thousands of them, and fear made our aim hurried and bad. We were firing in abandonment rather than by design. Terror made us continue to waste our ammunition.
Still the grey hordes advanced.
I was going to die. They had missed me the first time, but there was no escaping the second. I hardly realized I was shaking so hard I could barely load my gun.
A booming voice yelled at us—it was Sergeant Winnford. He was almost drowned out by the shooting, and God knew how his message got through my thick and terrified scull. “Retreat—back to support line—” His eye caught mine for a brief moment. “You, corporal! See them all out!”
He made for a gap in the trench. I struggled up, urging the men to follow while I myself made sure they were all getting out. A quick glance at Winnford revealed him to be almost to the opening—when suddenly something hit his head, creating a hole through which I could see the inside seeping out. He fell without a sound.
Stupefied, the others crept through and got clear, racing across the open land. The enemy was in full cry behind them.
I looked around to make certain all the survivors were out, and saw Barker. He was crawling out, struggling to stand. I howled at him to hurry, all ready moving away from the advancing enemies myself.
He was dead beat. I could see it when he looked at me.
“You, corporal, see them all out.” Those were Sergeant Winnford’s last words.
I could not leave him.
Racing to his side, I shouted, “Slip off you pack!” I was all ready slipping off mine. He obeyed, but he was ashen and panting. My gut told me he wasn’t going to make it.
Something stung my arm, just above the elbow. Startled, I looked down. Red liquid tricked from the tips of my fingers onto the ground.
Panic started to grapple for what little sense I had left. I was running. “Barker, Barker!” I screamed. “Hurry up, chum, for God’s sake!”
I might have saved my breath.
As I turned my head to him, he made a supreme effort to hasten. For a half second I was grateful—then I saw the bullet hit the back of his tin helmet and spurt out the front. He curled over in a heap. He was past aid.
I ran a dozen steps further, trying to erase my memories. Just run. Just run. Don’t panic. Something hit my other elbow, searing hot and smashing through it. My feet gave way. I spun to the ground, and found myself once more lying in slime. I thought my arm had gone.
Dully I thought that if this was death, I was numb, careless and content. This was a good way to die. I did not feel anything. Just hot…
The blackness came then, and I felt myself relaxing as the feet of my enemies ran past me. Terror was gone, and in its place was death.
***
Blurry light. It swam around me in circles, teasing me, taunting me. It danced behind my eyelids and dared me to open them. At last I could stand it no more, and obeyed.
My arm was still there, attached and lying beside me in a pool of blood. The world spun a moment when I saw it. My own blood.
A chill ran through me. Why hadn’t I died? Why wasn’t I still asleep? They had all died. Barker, Winnfold…
You have to stop the bleeding. You have to do something.
Laboriously, I pulled out my field dressing with my less injured arm. I could not bring myself to look at the blood strait on, so had to apply the bandage without looking. It was a messy business, and I was exhausted before the end.
I took a moment to rest, then pulled myself to my knees, and from there to my feet in a half-blind endeavor to get somewhere, to someone… I did not know why, or whom, or where. Some inner sense just told me I had to move.
I staggered up and saw with a sinking heart the second wave of the advancing Germans. Would they shoot me again as they passed? I was not far from them, not more than ten feet from the first line.
An officer, with revolver in hand, waved me through the ranks. They parted to make a road for me. I moved forward, certain that if I did not they would shoot me. On the second step my leg again gave way, and I fell into the barbwire. It pierced my hands and face.
Struggling up, I tried again. And again. It was no use. I could not hold onto my little strength long enough to get more than two steps before falling again. Vaguely I realized I was weeping. I was helpless. I could not stop falling, I could not stop this torture. The blood on my face ran and mixed with my salty tears.
The pain was horrible. Every fall was worse. Each time I was more and more tempted to just stay there and let them shoot me. But that inner sense pushed me on. I hated it. I hated everything. I just wanted the pain to stop.
I cannot say how far I walked. It was a nightmare. I passed a first-aid post in an old trench, but they waved me off despairingly. They had too many to see to. Stretcher bearers passed me. Between them they carried a pole, with a blanket slung to it. Inside was an agonized bundle of broken humans, blood dripping from the pendulous blanket. I might have been sick, but that I was too far gone myself to feel anything now, even the pain.
Eventually I could go no further. Too exhausted to even think about what I was doing, I simply collapsed into another portion of trench. The mud scraped against my back, but I did not care. Leaning on the wall I closed my eyes and wished this was over.
“Armes kind,” a gentle, pitying whisper came close to my ear.
I looked up and found a sad-eyed, black-bearded man watching me. His dark brown eyes were like looking into a history of sorrows. He was old enough to have grandchildren. Gradually my mind translated what he had said into English: little child. I felt as if my heart would melt. Someone pitied me. Someone cared.
I wanted to sob.
The man moved closer to me, and with practiced hands stripped off my tunic, leather jerkin and cardigan. He took his own field dressing, using it to patch up the mess of my arm. His compassion stirred me, and I tried not to wince or cry when the pain shot through my dullness.
Here I was, a prisoner, receiving treatment from a man whose countrymen I had blazed at in hate but a while ago, and from whom I had suffered the shot in my elbow. Yet he was treating me like a son. He was as gentle to me as if I had been a dearly loved pet.
Truly the quality of mercy is not strained. I knew little of his tongue, and he none of mine, but he gave me a drink of warm coffee from a flask and cared for me.
If ever I had felt hate for the Germans, I was cured of it now. I had had my job to do, and he his. The responsibility was not ours and our fate was none of our choosing. I may die today, perhaps he tomorrow. But for a moment, just a moment, there was peace between us. And I was grateful for it.
But I could not stay here.
The English barrage had now started, tearing and rip-snorting along all the roads and communications. It was intended to hold up the reinforcements for the German attack, I suppose. For me there was the sickening necessity of walking through the menace of our own barrage; to risk death from my own men’s shells to get to some place of refuge.
Three others joined me. They also had staggered from the shambles of No Man’s Land. We supported each other with words and actions, bleeding together from our various woods along that pitiless road to the rear.
How we escaped the shelling, I know not. As we walked, a German transport wagon lumbered past us, the driver whipping the horses to a mad gallop. I watched him disappear into the distance, and for a moment wished I were with him. At least then I would not be walking.
Soon the road became greasy with blood, both that of animal and man. I passed several dead or dying horses along the road, among the splintered ruins of shafts and wheels. My heart aches for them in memory, but at the time I felt nothing.
Yet even as the horses fell, they were dragged to the side of the road. The Germans would whip out their knives and cut long strips of flesh from the steaming flanks. Heaps of intestines lay in the ditches. The smell was horrible.
At last a German unter-officer dashed out from behind a ruined house and took charge of our little, wandering band. He took us further down the road till we came to a large church, with the Red Cross flag flying from the tower. While my heart leapt with hope that soon I would be out of pain, it also sank. What should I do if they found it necessary to take my arm all together?
The German placed us at the back of a long line of injured men that stretched out of the church. He then left us. It seemed like a long wait, with the sounds of battle not far off. The pain was still there, throbbing gently as if asking to be thought about. I tried my best not to worry about it.
Gradually I got inside the church. May I never again see such a sight!
All along the nave improvised stretchers lay side by side and reached to the step leading to the choir and chancel. Up there a dozen surgeons in ghastly stained white overalls preformed operation after operation, amputation after amputation. The smell of chloroform and ether pervaded everything. The horrible rasping sound of the red-stained silver saws grated on my ears.
Attendants carried limbs away in tall baskets. Men died beside me before aid could get to them. Each had inexorably to wait his turn with the surgeons. Their white and drawn faces sweated as they toiled silently. No time for consultations. It was a doctor’s nightmare.
I wanted to scream. It was chaos. Slow, quiet, torturous chaos.
***
I stumbled out of the church and went to the nearby prisoners’ cage. I still had my arm. I was still whole. But I could not forget what I had seen.
A German sat me down to examine my papers, and letters, questioning me all the while. I could not think, much less answer in ways that made sense. However, he seemed satisfied by the end. He took my things and sent me away.
My dazed mind registered that it was night when I was taken out. That meant it had been twenty-four hours since I had “stood to” on the fire-step and awaited the coming attack. Now it was all over. But I could not find energy to react to these thoughts. I was so exhausted.
Swaying, I made my way among the ranks of draft prisoners. We were told to march in columns of four to the station where we would be taken away. The man next to me had a hurt leg, and I offered him my shoulder. We supported each other as we marched through a dream. I remember being placed in a truck.
It was pitch black. The truck bounced on even the slightest bump, and soon I could not tell up from down. Hail and rain poured on the roof, seeping in at times to wet us all. I was alternately freezing and sweating. The world was always swaying. I heard the man next to me, the one with the leg injury, muttering. He was speaking nonsense, or at least that was what I heard. It was hard to focus.
Sometime during the night he stopped muttering. I didn’t hear him again.
I tossed and turned. I could not stay still. I could not escape nightmares. I could not stay awake.
So it was that I came to Germany. I later leaned that the Army Lists posted me as “missing”.
Lance-Corporal Thomas A. Owen. Attested November 1916; called up February 1917. Service in France and Belgium, chiefly on sections of the Ypres Salient, 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, 1st Division. Wounded and taken prisoner near Festubert, April 18th, 1918. Thence to Schleswig. In hospital for 6 months, then discharged for labour at Munster Prisoner of War Camp, till Armistice. Repatriated December 2nd, 1918.
1:12 PM|| 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
4.11.2005
Something I wrote recently...
My English teacher came up with a new assignment for our literature stuff: pick a character we don't like from Tale of Two Cities, and write five journal entries from that character's point of view, really trying to get into the character's head. My problem: I rather like the typical disliked characters (Carton, for instance, is wonderfully angsty, and I rather admire Madame Defarge's cold, calculating intelligence), but I really didn't want to pick, say, Jerry Cruncher or Stryver, because they're really annoying. I ended up going with Lucie Manette instead, qualifying my choice this way: "too perfect. Almost a canon Sue, if such a thing really existed: beautiful and good." (Just the fact that her hair is described repeatedly qualifies her for Suedom.)" Basically that just means I projected angst onto her.
Here's how my actual journal entries turned out. (No, I don't have any dates for them.)
Here's how my actual journal entries turned out. (No, I don't have any dates for them.)
Entry 1
I cannot stop thinking of Paris.
Perhaps it is dear Mr. Lorry’s visit there that brings it to my mind, but though I fear for his safety, I cannot believe that he will be harmed. The Revolution wants the blood of aristocrats, not that of businessmen.
Blood. Why am I thinking of blood? We are all of us safe here. My child and my husband are safe.
What am I afraid of?
Entry 2
Paris, Paris, and Paris. I see the streets of the old city whenever I step outside; in the market I hear not the harsh sounds of English but my own native tongue, and when someone speaks to me I must pull my mind back across miles of French countryside, across the channel to London, before I can grasp after some measure of understanding and form a coherent answer.
And I cannot speak of it to Charles. I am not sure that he would understand that I mourn the city that rejected me. I am not sure that I understand it myself.
But more than that…whenever I mention Paris—as I did, only last night, asking him if he had any more news—there is a change in him. It is almost imperceptible, almost not there at all, and I did not realize until this moment that I had seen anything, but something happens in my husband’s eyes that I cannot quite describe. A restlessness, almost a longing…
I do not understand either of us. The world is mad.
Entry 3
Mr. Lorry left last night for Paris. I still believe I do not fear for him—and yet, and yet… Ah, I cannot keep still. I must take my mind away from Paris—and from Charles, who believes I do not notice that something preys on his mind.
Curse this Revolution—it has touched all of us. But there is nothing wrong here, my family is safe…
Entry 4
Charles is not coming back, he is gone—I found his letter to me and he is gone to Paris, and I cannot think—we must find him—I cannot…I must go—
Entry 5
I do not believe I will sleep tonight. Perhaps I will not sleep again ever. Father and I have traveled through France unharmed—his old curse has become a cruel blessing—and we are here in Paris, and my husband is a prisoner at La Force. A prisoner—I cannot believe the word as I write it—and for what? Has the Revolution so changed my country that kindness and compassion have become treasonous offenses?
And I am so afraid. I can think of nothing else but fear, and I cannot even give my fear a name—it is simply wild fear and it has become me.
I wish I could simply trust my father and Mr. Lorry again. I could tell myself that this man of Tellson’s—we are staying there now, we could think of nothing else—and my father can conquer anything and make it all right and save Charles. And they would like me to think so—but my fear will not allow me such precious ignorance or naïveté.
Mr. Lorry tells me only to trust him, and to hide in this back room while he tells my father whatever truth he thinks me not strong enough to bear—and I do trust him, and I believe I cannot bear it because I know my mind is in fragments.
But he thinks I do not understand, either. He thinks I do not know why he forbade me to look out the window. He thinks I do not know the black heart of this Revolution.
I close my eyes tonight and I see blood. I cannot hide from it.
My God, what can I do…
1.26.2005
*doesn't have a title*
Everyone remember me talking about Maera and Kavin, and their respective stories? No? Well, then, go here and read about them. The basic plots haven't changed much since then, mostly because I haven't thought about them a lot, but anyway...quite some time ago I had a scene for Kavin in my mind, and I was idly going over it recently and decided I should write it down. Here's how it came out. And let's see, what kind of important information can I ramble about here...well, this takes place when Kavin's about 16, at least three years after he first learned he was a telepath and he started learning from Andris. To his knowledge there aren't any others out there who can do what he can, so he's basically lived for three years believing that he can do anything he wants to (not that he'll choose to do so, mind you; I'll deal with that some other time, probably earlier in the chronology, so he doesn't have to spend the entire story struggling with the desire to conquer the universe or something).
Kavin let his inner eye flit through the crowd, an action that now required almost no concentration. He kept his shields high to keep others’ privacy intact, sensing only presences and no emotions, as Andris had taught him ages ago. He could practice his skills even in public this way—
His stride faltered, and he had the odd momentary sensation of his mind’s eye going blurry. What in the worlds…?
Deliberately he withdrew and then made shallow bridges into each mind nearby. Something here was different—wrong—
He hit a barrier and pulled up short. Leaning against the wall and trying to look casual, Kavin narrowed in on the man he’d sensed: medium height, dark hair, an uneven beard accentuating hawkish features. Kavin bridged the gap and set a hook into the man’s mind, and then carefully breached the man’s outer defenses.
Void.
Startled, he withdrew. The man walking toward him looked ordinary in every way—except his eyes, there was something about his eyes…
Again Kavin bridged, and again his inner sense tumbled into nothingness. Darkness flooded his mind as he pressed deeper, searching.
Nothing. Emptiness of vacuum, emptiness of deep space—no air, no breath—
Alarmed now, Kavin yanked his awareness out of the other’s mind and forced his eyes open, and the effort drained him, as if he’d tried to bridge with someone miles away. He straightened, thrusting one hand against the wall for balance.
The stranger was staring at him. No, not staring—glowering, and Kavin could see in his eyes the anger and suspicion he could not feel.
He couldn’t have sensed me bridging him. That’s impossible.
Again he heard Andris’ voice: There’s still so much we don’t know…
“Chaos,” he muttered.
“What are you doing?” the stranger demanded, striding closer.
Kavin pushed away from the wall. “I…what do you mean?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a terrible liar, boy. Once more—what are you doing?”
Kavin spread his hands. “Taking a walk. Does that…offend you?” He slowed his pounding heart and kept his hands from trembling, determined not to show his fear.
“I see.” The stranger spun on his heel and began to stalk away.
Just once more…
Kavin probed for the breach he’d left behind and slid his point of perception through. What in chaos are you? he wondered—
The man wheeled. Metal glinted in his hand, light flashed, and a white-hot pain erupted in Kavin’s chest. He staggered back, pressing one hand to his ribs, drawing a deep breath that brought more agony.
He shot me. He shot me…
Kavin crumpled to his hands and knees. Stars burst in his vision as he struggled to breathe. Something hot and wet trickled over his hand, and he looked down in disbelief as blood welled between his fingers and began to pool on the walkway.
Dimly he realized that no one in the crowd had reacted to the shot—no one had screamed, or run away, or even tripped over him. That was strange, though he couldn’t understand why—
He’s shielding me. My [God], he’s shielding…
Drawing every last particle of energy into his inner senses, he flung out a wild, uncontrolled probe—felt the shield splinter—heard shouts from the crowd—
He collapsed under the onrush of darkness.
Okay, well, the first thing you need to know is that I wrote this while I was sick and probably shouldn't have been in school, so that might explain why I read over it now and think it's really awkward. The other big problem is this other...dude here. First off, the description is bad, especially since it's almost straight plagiarism--and what the heck do hawkish features look like anyway?--but I just couldn't figure out how else to describe him. *shrug* Yeah, and I'm bad with dialogue anyway, but threatening dialogue is really not my forte. So...um...yeah. That's about it.
Oh, and Kavin doesn't die here, if you're curious. That would sort of ruin the whole story. :p This is...close to the beginning, or at least close to the beginning of things actually happening.
Kavin let his inner eye flit through the crowd, an action that now required almost no concentration. He kept his shields high to keep others’ privacy intact, sensing only presences and no emotions, as Andris had taught him ages ago. He could practice his skills even in public this way—
His stride faltered, and he had the odd momentary sensation of his mind’s eye going blurry. What in the worlds…?
Deliberately he withdrew and then made shallow bridges into each mind nearby. Something here was different—wrong—
He hit a barrier and pulled up short. Leaning against the wall and trying to look casual, Kavin narrowed in on the man he’d sensed: medium height, dark hair, an uneven beard accentuating hawkish features. Kavin bridged the gap and set a hook into the man’s mind, and then carefully breached the man’s outer defenses.
Void.
Startled, he withdrew. The man walking toward him looked ordinary in every way—except his eyes, there was something about his eyes…
Again Kavin bridged, and again his inner sense tumbled into nothingness. Darkness flooded his mind as he pressed deeper, searching.
Nothing. Emptiness of vacuum, emptiness of deep space—no air, no breath—
Alarmed now, Kavin yanked his awareness out of the other’s mind and forced his eyes open, and the effort drained him, as if he’d tried to bridge with someone miles away. He straightened, thrusting one hand against the wall for balance.
The stranger was staring at him. No, not staring—glowering, and Kavin could see in his eyes the anger and suspicion he could not feel.
He couldn’t have sensed me bridging him. That’s impossible.
Again he heard Andris’ voice: There’s still so much we don’t know…
“Chaos,” he muttered.
“What are you doing?” the stranger demanded, striding closer.
Kavin pushed away from the wall. “I…what do you mean?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a terrible liar, boy. Once more—what are you doing?”
Kavin spread his hands. “Taking a walk. Does that…offend you?” He slowed his pounding heart and kept his hands from trembling, determined not to show his fear.
“I see.” The stranger spun on his heel and began to stalk away.
Just once more…
Kavin probed for the breach he’d left behind and slid his point of perception through. What in chaos are you? he wondered—
The man wheeled. Metal glinted in his hand, light flashed, and a white-hot pain erupted in Kavin’s chest. He staggered back, pressing one hand to his ribs, drawing a deep breath that brought more agony.
He shot me. He shot me…
Kavin crumpled to his hands and knees. Stars burst in his vision as he struggled to breathe. Something hot and wet trickled over his hand, and he looked down in disbelief as blood welled between his fingers and began to pool on the walkway.
Dimly he realized that no one in the crowd had reacted to the shot—no one had screamed, or run away, or even tripped over him. That was strange, though he couldn’t understand why—
He’s shielding me. My [God], he’s shielding…
Drawing every last particle of energy into his inner senses, he flung out a wild, uncontrolled probe—felt the shield splinter—heard shouts from the crowd—
He collapsed under the onrush of darkness.
Okay, well, the first thing you need to know is that I wrote this while I was sick and probably shouldn't have been in school, so that might explain why I read over it now and think it's really awkward. The other big problem is this other...dude here. First off, the description is bad, especially since it's almost straight plagiarism--and what the heck do hawkish features look like anyway?--but I just couldn't figure out how else to describe him. *shrug* Yeah, and I'm bad with dialogue anyway, but threatening dialogue is really not my forte. So...um...yeah. That's about it.
Oh, and Kavin doesn't die here, if you're curious. That would sort of ruin the whole story. :p This is...close to the beginning, or at least close to the beginning of things actually happening.
1.24.2005
Feathered Arrow
I've wanted to post this for a while now. It is a short story I might look at to expand on when I am done with Mair. It started with a friend and me writting a sentence for each other and exchanging them to make something out of them. The first sentence in this scene is what I had to work with. Comments would be nice. If I do not end up making this into a book/fuller story, I am looking at entering it in some short story contests. I will probably change the character's names sometime. Suggestions would be nice. ;)
The water swirled dizzyingly below her feet, carrying dirt and sticks and debris. But Irina could not turn away. They were calling out to her, threatening. If she did not answer, or he did not break, they would drop her. Wrist and feet burning from the cords that tied her, she looked up again as the men shouted. Ashred was very pale, watching her and flinching every time the wind swung her from one side to the other. It hurt them both to see the other suffering. Now it would not matter. She would surely die.
Perhaps that was what she deserved, after running from home only because of her petty wishes to have adventure. When her older brother followed, she had run even from him, making a sort of hide and seek game out of it. Over time she got bolder, and had carried it too far, into enemy territory.
Of course, she was captured shortly. Her brother also. Neither was trained in arms or in tracking, whereas this enemy was. However, her brother knew something, something he had not trusted her with. She knew the enemy’s question toward him was, “Where are they?” But he would never answer.
She could remember the torture he had gone through. At first, she was hurt also, but soon they had discovered her blissful innocence and stopped. Her brother had gotten it much, much worse. Once when he was thrown into their small cell, he had been missing two of his left fingers. Another time part of his ear was cut off. He always had deep scars on his back and chest, welts from the whip. He would carry the marks of his imprisonment to his death, whether it was soon or late.
It had taken far too short for the enemy to discover his love and protectiveness for her. Then her torture had started again, in front of him. When they began she had cried to him for help, but in a long, quiet talk after, he had explained that to do that to him hurt him much worse than any whip or poison they could ever used. He begged her not to ask again, not unless she truly, truly meant it, and she had agreed. Ever since she had held her tongue through it all.
A burst of wind rocked Irina, and the cords dug deeper. She closed her eyes tight on the pain and the shouts and his face. They yelled again, then suddenly the ropes went slack. She heard a cry, and that was all. The water hit her hard, knocking the air out of her lungs. She helplessly flailed, but felt herself sinking. With tied hands and feet she could do nothing.
There was another splash, and her brother was swimming to her. She cried out to Ashred for help, and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her up. Beautiful air rushed into her lungs again. She gulped at it greedily. He whispered to her not to worry, that they would be fine. Slowly he began dragging her towards the lowest bank. She tried to help him, kicking at the water with her legs.
Without warning his arm went limp, his whole body did. Before the water blocked him from her site, she could see the red tipped arrow in his back. Then she was below the murky liquid.
The water swirled dizzyingly below her feet, carrying dirt and sticks and debris. But Irina could not turn away. They were calling out to her, threatening. If she did not answer, or he did not break, they would drop her. Wrist and feet burning from the cords that tied her, she looked up again as the men shouted. Ashred was very pale, watching her and flinching every time the wind swung her from one side to the other. It hurt them both to see the other suffering. Now it would not matter. She would surely die.
Perhaps that was what she deserved, after running from home only because of her petty wishes to have adventure. When her older brother followed, she had run even from him, making a sort of hide and seek game out of it. Over time she got bolder, and had carried it too far, into enemy territory.
Of course, she was captured shortly. Her brother also. Neither was trained in arms or in tracking, whereas this enemy was. However, her brother knew something, something he had not trusted her with. She knew the enemy’s question toward him was, “Where are they?” But he would never answer.
She could remember the torture he had gone through. At first, she was hurt also, but soon they had discovered her blissful innocence and stopped. Her brother had gotten it much, much worse. Once when he was thrown into their small cell, he had been missing two of his left fingers. Another time part of his ear was cut off. He always had deep scars on his back and chest, welts from the whip. He would carry the marks of his imprisonment to his death, whether it was soon or late.
It had taken far too short for the enemy to discover his love and protectiveness for her. Then her torture had started again, in front of him. When they began she had cried to him for help, but in a long, quiet talk after, he had explained that to do that to him hurt him much worse than any whip or poison they could ever used. He begged her not to ask again, not unless she truly, truly meant it, and she had agreed. Ever since she had held her tongue through it all.
A burst of wind rocked Irina, and the cords dug deeper. She closed her eyes tight on the pain and the shouts and his face. They yelled again, then suddenly the ropes went slack. She heard a cry, and that was all. The water hit her hard, knocking the air out of her lungs. She helplessly flailed, but felt herself sinking. With tied hands and feet she could do nothing.
There was another splash, and her brother was swimming to her. She cried out to Ashred for help, and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her up. Beautiful air rushed into her lungs again. She gulped at it greedily. He whispered to her not to worry, that they would be fine. Slowly he began dragging her towards the lowest bank. She tried to help him, kicking at the water with her legs.
Without warning his arm went limp, his whole body did. Before the water blocked him from her site, she could see the red tipped arrow in his back. Then she was below the murky liquid.
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.
11.21.2004
Something along the lines of E.T.O.L.T...
This exact writing won't actually be in the book, but I wrote it and wanted comments. This is from a little girl's perspective as she is probed by an enemy. Her memories are stolen, and false ones put in their place. Please comment on the purple forum, I can't see the comments here. Maybe we should all open our own little "Comment here on my stuff" thread there...?
Okay, here:
My Memories Fade
My memories fade. I do not know what is happening, but I cannot stop it. The eyes—the feeling invades me. I am helpless. It will not leave. My mother and father disappear. My brother’s death, the grief of it still fresh, evaporates. God, loyalties, playmates, king; all leave my sight. I struggle to hold onto the images of my home, of my happiness, but they, too, abandon me. I am unclothed and alone in a suddenly dark and cruel word.
Then new images come. They show people with snake badges. They say they are the Waenx. They are kind to me. They love me. I see my mother, placing a sword in my hand and instructing me to use it. She is hard to me, but that will make me strong. I love her. I am trained as a soldier, but my enemy country, Isrian, overthrows mine while I am still young. My mother is captured by them. She will be killed. I am honored by meeting General Cora Derkson, who gives her blessing and sends me to find my mother. I will find her, or I will die. It shall be my pleasure to parish serving my country, my people, instead of giving into the enemies. Weakness cannot be found in me. It will not take me. I am Rican Border, son of Likeya Border, and I will fight.
Okay, here:
My Memories Fade
My memories fade. I do not know what is happening, but I cannot stop it. The eyes—the feeling invades me. I am helpless. It will not leave. My mother and father disappear. My brother’s death, the grief of it still fresh, evaporates. God, loyalties, playmates, king; all leave my sight. I struggle to hold onto the images of my home, of my happiness, but they, too, abandon me. I am unclothed and alone in a suddenly dark and cruel word.
Then new images come. They show people with snake badges. They say they are the Waenx. They are kind to me. They love me. I see my mother, placing a sword in my hand and instructing me to use it. She is hard to me, but that will make me strong. I love her. I am trained as a soldier, but my enemy country, Isrian, overthrows mine while I am still young. My mother is captured by them. She will be killed. I am honored by meeting General Cora Derkson, who gives her blessing and sends me to find my mother. I will find her, or I will die. It shall be my pleasure to parish serving my country, my people, instead of giving into the enemies. Weakness cannot be found in me. It will not take me. I am Rican Border, son of Likeya Border, and I will fight.
11.08.2004
"Fragments"
Yes, that is the name of my story. And yes, it's very short, because we had three double-spaced pages as our limit--single-spaced, it's something like a page and a half, which is probably the shortest (decent) story I've ever written. I ended up writing it all last night, like I said, and I only realized today (when it was too late, naturally) that I had structured the first six sentences basically the same way, so it starts out sounding really bad. You might have guessed that's where my writer's block was bugging me the most. And...oh...I suppose it would help for y'all to see the picture I used to inspire it, but I don't actually have it with me right now. I'll scan it when I get the story back. Basically it was a cute little girl playing around in a park.
A chill wind wormed its way through the cracks in the windowpane, brushing delicately against Aidan’s face and drifting outward into the room. He barely noticed, staring through the smudged glass at the street below. A few tenacious leaves clung to the tree outside, still resisting the inevitable.
Aidan turned his gaze to the picture in his hand, his fingers tightening on the frame. A dark-eyed little girl beamed back at him, captured in a moment of carefree delight. He leaned against the wall, unable to look away. He remembered taking that picture, remembered it well—Ari had pestered him to drive her to the park until he finally gave in and decided to abandon his homework for a few hours. He remembered…
How could an entire year—no, more than a year—have passed so quickly?
One year…he checked the date on the picture, but he knew he didn’t need it; he had looked at the numbers so often he’d memorized them. One year, two months, and twelve days since that day in the park, and one year since…
He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his free hand into a fist, but the memory came tumbling back into his mind anyway.
…The road stretched ahead of him, dim and silent; beyond the trees, the sun curved down toward the horizon. He glanced at Ari, curled up on the passenger seat beside him, and smiled. “Wake up, little sister, or you’ll end up sleeping right through your birthday.”
She stirred, blinking at him. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
Aidan shook his head, still smiling. “Sure you weren’t.”
“I wasn’t,” she insisted. “Mom said she’d have my cake ready, right?”
“Only if you behave on the way home. Next year I’m going to make sure you have your party at our house so I don’t have to brave the elements trying to rescue you from all those crazy little friends of yours.”
She looked up at him innocently. “We were having fun.”
“Oh, sure…” He slowed the car around a curve. “But next time you all decide to ambush me, you at least ought to give me fair warning so I can arm myself with a squirt gun of my own.”
Ari giggled. “Then it wouldn’t be fun.”
“Hey, check the clock—have you turned eight yet?”
The glowing green numerals read 6:28. She shook her head, staring out the window. “Are we almost home yet?”
“A few more miles.” He squinted, trying to stay focused on the road. Next time he tried to drive in the evening, he’d have to make sure he’d slept well the night before.
Headlights flashed out of the darkness, blinding him. His hands froze to the steering wheel. Lights coming fast, way too fast, fixed on a collision course—
Aidan jerked the wheel hard right, swerving for the shoulder—overshot and plunged off the road, crashing through the ditch, the world spinning out of control—
The car lurched to a halt, resting precariously on its side. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear a thing— “Ari?” He swore, struggling with his seatbelt. “Ari!”…
Aidan pressed his forehead against the window. Outside all was still, trapped between seasons—too cold for autumn rain and too early for winter’s first snowfall, the ground still as dry as Aidan’s eyes. Even at the funeral he had not managed to weep…
Killed my own sister and I don’t even know how to mourn!
He pushed back from the window and looked at his watch. The seconds blinked forward, and then the minute changed. 6:28. One year…exactly one year.
Aidan turned and flung the picture at the far wall. The glass in the frame shattered on contact, spraying shards across the floor. He stood shaking, breathing hard; and then a heartbeat later he was on hands and knees, scrambling to gather the pieces. A fragment of glass sliced into his palm, smearing blood across the face of the photograph. Aidan stared down at his hands and then lunged to his feet, desperate to escape his apartment.
He hurried down the steps without knowing his destination; a leaf spiraled down from the tree as he passed. Only several minutes later, when he reached the gate of the public cemetery, did he understand where his impulse had taken him. Now the same impulse stayed true and led him to the grave he remembered, though he had never once revisited it to refresh that memory.
Over the mound and around the gravestone grass had grown since the funeral, but time had withered it already, and the greenness was gone. Aidan stood silent, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair.
Hesitation held him in thrall for a few long moments, and then he moved forward to kneel at the grave marker, brushing his fingers over the inscription. He pressed his hand against the cold stone and pulled away, leaving behind a thin streak of blood. A bird crowed somewhere nearby; another called back in answer. From the clouds far overhead, the first few snowflakes began to fall.
And there, finally, the tears came.
A chill wind wormed its way through the cracks in the windowpane, brushing delicately against Aidan’s face and drifting outward into the room. He barely noticed, staring through the smudged glass at the street below. A few tenacious leaves clung to the tree outside, still resisting the inevitable.
Aidan turned his gaze to the picture in his hand, his fingers tightening on the frame. A dark-eyed little girl beamed back at him, captured in a moment of carefree delight. He leaned against the wall, unable to look away. He remembered taking that picture, remembered it well—Ari had pestered him to drive her to the park until he finally gave in and decided to abandon his homework for a few hours. He remembered…
How could an entire year—no, more than a year—have passed so quickly?
One year…he checked the date on the picture, but he knew he didn’t need it; he had looked at the numbers so often he’d memorized them. One year, two months, and twelve days since that day in the park, and one year since…
He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his free hand into a fist, but the memory came tumbling back into his mind anyway.
…The road stretched ahead of him, dim and silent; beyond the trees, the sun curved down toward the horizon. He glanced at Ari, curled up on the passenger seat beside him, and smiled. “Wake up, little sister, or you’ll end up sleeping right through your birthday.”
She stirred, blinking at him. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
Aidan shook his head, still smiling. “Sure you weren’t.”
“I wasn’t,” she insisted. “Mom said she’d have my cake ready, right?”
“Only if you behave on the way home. Next year I’m going to make sure you have your party at our house so I don’t have to brave the elements trying to rescue you from all those crazy little friends of yours.”
She looked up at him innocently. “We were having fun.”
“Oh, sure…” He slowed the car around a curve. “But next time you all decide to ambush me, you at least ought to give me fair warning so I can arm myself with a squirt gun of my own.”
Ari giggled. “Then it wouldn’t be fun.”
“Hey, check the clock—have you turned eight yet?”
The glowing green numerals read 6:28. She shook her head, staring out the window. “Are we almost home yet?”
“A few more miles.” He squinted, trying to stay focused on the road. Next time he tried to drive in the evening, he’d have to make sure he’d slept well the night before.
Headlights flashed out of the darkness, blinding him. His hands froze to the steering wheel. Lights coming fast, way too fast, fixed on a collision course—
Aidan jerked the wheel hard right, swerving for the shoulder—overshot and plunged off the road, crashing through the ditch, the world spinning out of control—
The car lurched to a halt, resting precariously on its side. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear a thing— “Ari?” He swore, struggling with his seatbelt. “Ari!”…
Aidan pressed his forehead against the window. Outside all was still, trapped between seasons—too cold for autumn rain and too early for winter’s first snowfall, the ground still as dry as Aidan’s eyes. Even at the funeral he had not managed to weep…
Killed my own sister and I don’t even know how to mourn!
He pushed back from the window and looked at his watch. The seconds blinked forward, and then the minute changed. 6:28. One year…exactly one year.
Aidan turned and flung the picture at the far wall. The glass in the frame shattered on contact, spraying shards across the floor. He stood shaking, breathing hard; and then a heartbeat later he was on hands and knees, scrambling to gather the pieces. A fragment of glass sliced into his palm, smearing blood across the face of the photograph. Aidan stared down at his hands and then lunged to his feet, desperate to escape his apartment.
He hurried down the steps without knowing his destination; a leaf spiraled down from the tree as he passed. Only several minutes later, when he reached the gate of the public cemetery, did he understand where his impulse had taken him. Now the same impulse stayed true and led him to the grave he remembered, though he had never once revisited it to refresh that memory.
Over the mound and around the gravestone grass had grown since the funeral, but time had withered it already, and the greenness was gone. Aidan stood silent, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair.
Hesitation held him in thrall for a few long moments, and then he moved forward to kneel at the grave marker, brushing his fingers over the inscription. He pressed his hand against the cold stone and pulled away, leaving behind a thin streak of blood. A bird crowed somewhere nearby; another called back in answer. From the clouds far overhead, the first few snowflakes began to fall.
And there, finally, the tears came.
10.22.2004
Idea for a new challenge...
Yes, I know, I keep suggesting things and then failing to participate (I think I've done that twice, at least), but I had an idea recently that I wanted to share. Basically: write a story (or at least work out an idea) for a Legolas-finds-a-girl story...but the challenge is to make it good, not bad. Bad stories are fun to write, but making a good story out of a cliché is a lot more of--well, a challenge.
If we want to make it harder, we should probably include at least one of the following standard clichés in our ideas:
If we want to make it harder, we should probably include at least one of the following standard clichés in our ideas:
- Girl is stunningly beautiful (extra points if someone compares her to Lúthien/Arwen)
- Girl comes from modern times
- Girl comes from some kingdom nobody's ever heard of before
- An arranged marriage is somehow involved
- There's at least one radical departure from canon
- Girl saves someone's life shortly after arriving
- Girl is proficient with weapons
- The Fellowship gets a tenth member
- Girl's name is a Barrowdowns-style mishmash of Quenya and Sindarin, or not Elvish at all
Can't think of any more at the moment, though I'm sure there are others. And remember, it's supposed to be good, not bad. A parody might work, but probably the point is to do a totally serious Legolas romance that manages not to come off as cliché. And most likely I'll never think of anything, myself, but maybe everyone else can have fun with it.
7.26.2004
Look, Kyra's actually posting!
This is one of the first scenes I wrote for Out of the Shadow. And...let's see...how much rambling explanation does this require...this happens when Naethiel's 17, after she's been living with Easterlings for about seven years. She and Eluréd had tried to escape a few days before this scene, but they were caught, and he ended up getting killed; the Easterlings just had Naethiel whipped (because she's a girl, I guess). Adham is a random Arabic name I picked for Naethiel's master, and I really don't know who he is otherwise. (The name apparently means "black," if anyone cares--I had been using Brodda as a stand-in and really needed something else.) I guess Naethiel's cleaning his weapons when the scene starts out; I just needed an excuse for her to be alone in a fairly small room. *roll* I haven't edited this particular scene much (or any of them, really), so any comments are welcome.
I paused in my work and listened. The house was quiet—as it ought to be, at this hour of the night. My back burned, and I wondered how much longer this would take. I dared not risk Adham’s wrath tonight, but I could feel pain and exhaustion dragging me down.
I sheathed the sword and reached for another. Instead I found a small hunting knife in a leather forearm sheath. From the feel of it I guessed Adham had never used it. I slid the dagger out and ran my fingers down its length. Slim, deadly, engraved with some kind of marking—
Runes of Doriath, I realized with a chill. This was an Elvish blade—stolen, I guessed, from the body of one of the marchwardens in the attack so long ago. Adham had kept it all these years and never made a use for it.
Nor would he ever. Without giving myself more time for thought, I slid the knife back into its sheath and buckled it onto my right arm. He would not miss a single small knife among all his blades, and if I still meant to escape, I would need a way to protect myself.
Especially if I did not have Eluréd’s eyes.
I straightened, gripping the rag in my fist, and groped for Adham’s axe. Soft footsteps sounded behind me, the barest whisper in my ears. I froze.
“Finished yet, Rhangeneth?”
Adham’s voice. I dropped the rag and stood, out of wariness more than respect. “Almost. I was about to begin on your axe.”
The door clicked shut, and his footsteps moved around the room, as if he were inspecting my work. “You’ve hurried, haven’t you?”
Had I missed something? “I was hoping to find time to sleep a little before dawn.”
The footsteps paused, then grew closer. “That could be arranged.”
“Alone,” I said, hearing in his voice what I had dreaded for so long.
“Of course. Away from prying eyes…like right here—”
“No.”
“You would be unwise to refuse me, Rhangeneth. I could make things very painful for you.”
Hardly more than they were already. I backed toward the door. When Adham didn’t stop me, I tried the handle and was not surprised to find it locked. “Let me out, Adham.”
“Not yet,” he said. His voice was closer now.
“I will kill you if you touch me,” I hissed, loosening the knife in its sheath. Valar only knew how I’d had the luck to find it tonight of all nights.
He laughed. “I would greatly enjoy watching you try, girl. Do you know what I could do to you?”
I could feel his breath on my neck, and I had nowhere else to go. “Touch me and I’ll kill you!”
“I could have it done cleanly, of course, with a sword,” he continued, as if I had not spoken. “Or I could have you flayed alive and turned out into the forest for the animals to have.”
Not if I finish the job.
His cold hand brushed my arm. I stepped back again, and my spine pressed against the wall. I did not want this, not yet, not this way, and I did not want to take the first irrevocable step onto this path. If I took that step—or if he did—I would have to carry it to the end.
Paralyzed by indecision, I froze where I stood. Adham’s fingers found the line of my jaw, slid down my neck and across my collarbone. His touch sent a shiver of revulsion through me that freed me from my hesitation. He had made the first move; now I would make mine.
I twisted away, and he seized my wrist, pulling me to him. I let him do it until I knew I was directly in front of him; then I wrenched my hand from his and caught him between the legs with my knee. He stumbled back with an oath, and I groped for the door again, planning to pick the lock with my knife if I could. A hand grabbed my hair from behind, yanked me back, a fist connected with my jaw. I slumped to the floor, dazed, and he was on me, his hands around my throat, trying to choke me into submission.
Struggling for breath, I managed to free one hand, found his face—just inches away from my own—and raked my nails across it. His grip tightened. I fought down a wave of panic, flung my other arm free, jerked my knife out, stabbed upward. Adham released me with a grunt of surprise and pain. I flailed with my right hand, found thick hair, yanked it, slashed for his throat with the knife. Skin and muscle ripped. He went limp and collapsed across me.
I struggled away and crouched for a moment, panting. My own breathing and heartbeat slowed, and I could hear the quiet once more. I could not hear Adham’s breathing.
I rocked forward onto my knees and reached for his body. My fingers touched a still-warm shoulder, and I felt for his neck. Blood still flowed from the jagged wound under his chin, but the beat of his heart had ceased.
“Count this the first of your revenge, Eluréd,” I said over the Easterling’s body. I wiped my knife clean on Adham’s tunic, sheathed the dagger, and stood. I had not planned to escape quite this soon, but Adham had forced me. Now, I realized, I must flee with nothing but my small blade.
Better to die free than to live for nothing as a slave. It is still true.
I paused in my work and listened. The house was quiet—as it ought to be, at this hour of the night. My back burned, and I wondered how much longer this would take. I dared not risk Adham’s wrath tonight, but I could feel pain and exhaustion dragging me down.
I sheathed the sword and reached for another. Instead I found a small hunting knife in a leather forearm sheath. From the feel of it I guessed Adham had never used it. I slid the dagger out and ran my fingers down its length. Slim, deadly, engraved with some kind of marking—
Runes of Doriath, I realized with a chill. This was an Elvish blade—stolen, I guessed, from the body of one of the marchwardens in the attack so long ago. Adham had kept it all these years and never made a use for it.
Nor would he ever. Without giving myself more time for thought, I slid the knife back into its sheath and buckled it onto my right arm. He would not miss a single small knife among all his blades, and if I still meant to escape, I would need a way to protect myself.
Especially if I did not have Eluréd’s eyes.
I straightened, gripping the rag in my fist, and groped for Adham’s axe. Soft footsteps sounded behind me, the barest whisper in my ears. I froze.
“Finished yet, Rhangeneth?”
Adham’s voice. I dropped the rag and stood, out of wariness more than respect. “Almost. I was about to begin on your axe.”
The door clicked shut, and his footsteps moved around the room, as if he were inspecting my work. “You’ve hurried, haven’t you?”
Had I missed something? “I was hoping to find time to sleep a little before dawn.”
The footsteps paused, then grew closer. “That could be arranged.”
“Alone,” I said, hearing in his voice what I had dreaded for so long.
“Of course. Away from prying eyes…like right here—”
“No.”
“You would be unwise to refuse me, Rhangeneth. I could make things very painful for you.”
Hardly more than they were already. I backed toward the door. When Adham didn’t stop me, I tried the handle and was not surprised to find it locked. “Let me out, Adham.”
“Not yet,” he said. His voice was closer now.
“I will kill you if you touch me,” I hissed, loosening the knife in its sheath. Valar only knew how I’d had the luck to find it tonight of all nights.
He laughed. “I would greatly enjoy watching you try, girl. Do you know what I could do to you?”
I could feel his breath on my neck, and I had nowhere else to go. “Touch me and I’ll kill you!”
“I could have it done cleanly, of course, with a sword,” he continued, as if I had not spoken. “Or I could have you flayed alive and turned out into the forest for the animals to have.”
Not if I finish the job.
His cold hand brushed my arm. I stepped back again, and my spine pressed against the wall. I did not want this, not yet, not this way, and I did not want to take the first irrevocable step onto this path. If I took that step—or if he did—I would have to carry it to the end.
Paralyzed by indecision, I froze where I stood. Adham’s fingers found the line of my jaw, slid down my neck and across my collarbone. His touch sent a shiver of revulsion through me that freed me from my hesitation. He had made the first move; now I would make mine.
I twisted away, and he seized my wrist, pulling me to him. I let him do it until I knew I was directly in front of him; then I wrenched my hand from his and caught him between the legs with my knee. He stumbled back with an oath, and I groped for the door again, planning to pick the lock with my knife if I could. A hand grabbed my hair from behind, yanked me back, a fist connected with my jaw. I slumped to the floor, dazed, and he was on me, his hands around my throat, trying to choke me into submission.
Struggling for breath, I managed to free one hand, found his face—just inches away from my own—and raked my nails across it. His grip tightened. I fought down a wave of panic, flung my other arm free, jerked my knife out, stabbed upward. Adham released me with a grunt of surprise and pain. I flailed with my right hand, found thick hair, yanked it, slashed for his throat with the knife. Skin and muscle ripped. He went limp and collapsed across me.
I struggled away and crouched for a moment, panting. My own breathing and heartbeat slowed, and I could hear the quiet once more. I could not hear Adham’s breathing.
I rocked forward onto my knees and reached for his body. My fingers touched a still-warm shoulder, and I felt for his neck. Blood still flowed from the jagged wound under his chin, but the beat of his heart had ceased.
“Count this the first of your revenge, Eluréd,” I said over the Easterling’s body. I wiped my knife clean on Adham’s tunic, sheathed the dagger, and stood. I had not planned to escape quite this soon, but Adham had forced me. Now, I realized, I must flee with nothing but my small blade.
Better to die free than to live for nothing as a slave. It is still true.
