A/N-I actually really dont have a clue where this is going, but when inspiration bites i sometimes feel the need to let it bleed a little before sticking on a plaster.Also, i am aware that the word "her" is included, but,although nothing else is clear i can gurantee that this is not going to be a Mary-sue and that Legolas will not be popping his blondiness into my plot. Hey, I like Leggy, the Tolkein version if Im honest, but it's just not my thing
reveiw if you want-but please be honest- i want to learn and it's real damn hard to get impatial comments on stuff from people you know
thanks a bunch
Her eyes were not open, yet she knew she was awake. Awareness crept back into her bruised and broken limbs just as the light of the day seeps across the forest floor, but she wasn't sure how she knew that. She didn't know, or couldn't remember if she had ever known what the sun was, or indeed a forest. Hers was the harsh reality that she was within now, the rough hewn mosaic of cold granite on the floor, the leather of her hard tongue lying in her mouth screaming for moisture. Pain was her only memory, what had become before was lost to her, her mind had let it loose so as not to cause more suffering with the memories of light and water, of tree, bush and bird, of love and companionship.
Something urged her to open her eyes, but she could not justify it to herself. Why? Why awake to the undefinable, to another few hours staring into the unfathomable darkness trying to see were the roof actually was before slipping back into the oblivion. She had spent months, maybe even years staring above her into the void above her head, seeing or maybe imagining, she did not which, long hard beams criss-crossing over her head. She had thought once that she could maybe have mounted them, that she could have pulled the deadweight of matter that seemed to belong to her over the dead lifeless bark and up, away, out of the fog that filled her thoughts, for this could not be all there was in existence, there had to be an end to this somewhere, as there was an end to everything.
That was a comforting ideal, that there had to be an end to everything, nothing was or is eternal. And so, when after many hours of chasing this thought through the murky recesses of her mind, she came to the conclusion that if that was true, then there must be an end to her as well. She prayed, she did not to whom or what she prayed, but that it would come soon.
And as she once again came to this conclusion behind the seclusion of her eyelids, she began to laugh. A harsh, cold,cruel laugh of madness that came unbidden from within her like a slumbering beast rearing its ugly head. The noise snaked up into the hollowness of the room that surrounded her, it seeped through walls and out into thethe open air, as if it too strived for the freedom that it's creator had been denied.
Many heard that evening and were moved. Not because it was beautiful or melancholy. Because it was not. It was wrong. Unnatural. They were moved because every fibre of their beings strained andtried to pull away from that sound. It made their hairs stand on end and their palms sweat. They, who were created through pain and suffering could not bear to hear that laugh, and tried to shut their ears.
Except him. In a room as dark as her cell sat one who savoured it. One who also sat in all consuming darkness that evening drank in those precious vibrations like a fine wine. And a twisted, broken,mutilated mouth turned up at the corner's inwhat could've been intentedas asmile. She was ready.