She stared hard at the words on the screen in front of her.
There once was an elf
That was a horrible way to start. The cursor blinked several times, clicking away the unthinking seconds. She tried again.
Many ages ago, before Man had diminished - before darkness had overshadowed the land -
She stared at the words, frowning. She squinted. She let her head fall back with a thump so that it rested on the back of her chair. She stared at the ceiling as if it held answers. She rubbed her face in exasperation and noted that her contacts were drying out and her eyes were irritated. She glared at the computer screen. She got up and exchanged her contacts for glasses.
She returned, sat with a frustrated plop into her seat and winced as the screws protested. The chair was too old for her to abuse it just because she couldn't think of anything to write. She would try again.
Mirkwood, the Third Age
Legolas stood under the eaves of the forest, gazing in the direction of Lonely Mountain and the men of Dale
She growled and erased the words for the umpteenth time. It was all so cliché. She hated being a follower, one in a million, part of the crowd. She tried to stomach the idea that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't going to come up with anything very original, despite her efforts.
"No story is a new story," she whispered. She'd never felt how true that was until now. She had wanted to be fresh and new when she first sat down. She felt that she had all the correct capabilities: a wildly overactive imagination in terrible need of an outlet, check; intermediate to advanced grammar and decent writing techniques, mostly check.. sometimes; inspiration...
She took in a deep breath, holding it in her lungs till they protested, then slowly breathed out through pursed lips. The Lord of the Rings had inspired her for years. She even felt a slight kinship with Tolkien, although she knew she had nothing on his genius, scope of learning, or breadth of life experience. She loved languages - that's what had truly drawn her to read the books over and over. She'd bought as many of the peripheral books as she could lay her hands on. Some were even works by scholar-types who had studied Tolkien's writings. She read them all avidly.
It had taken years, but eventually she realized that what she really wanted was to be a linguist, maybe even a philologist. During that process, she had even run across an internet site detailing the basic concepts of phonology and phonetics and how to use them in creating a realistic fantasy language. It sounded like the perfect project. At the time,she thought she would even write a book and use that language in it. Eight or ten years later, she had an extremely well thought out set of sounds, an alphabet and no words. Not one. No book either. The wish was still there, but the effort wasn't.
This was how she functioned - all passionate flare ups and no stamina, no discipline, and no way to continuously vent her creativity. She wondered if she was experiencing the emotional equivalent of a snake's need to shed its skin. Her brain itched.
She knew that other authors had special relationships with their characters. Many claimed that, once written, they became people in their own right, leapt off the page and took control of the story's direction. Some called them muses. She had read plenty of literary encounters between authors and their chosen subjects. Some of them were far more intimate than she was comfortable thinking about, especially now that she was happily married.
"A muse would be... nice. I need someone to focus on, but I don't know who to pick," she muttered to herself, gnawing on the right half of her bottom lip. What sort of characteristics should a muse have? He or she should be someone knowledgeable enough to correct her false assumptions and patient enough to put up with ignorant and impertinent questions. She needed someone who liked to teach and would value and respect the precious bond she had with her husband.
"No single males need apply!" she quipped to herself, chuckling.
"Why ever not?" The unexpected, unfamiliar male voice caused her to heart lunge painfully in her chest as panic gripped her. As fast as she could, she spun her computer chair around, painfully catching her knee on the corner of the desk, and bolted for the bedroom. Her husband kept a pistol in the nightstand for situations like this.
Before she had gotten the three steps it should have taken to reach the door, strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her off her feet. Her eyes closed instinctually as she screamed in terror and thrashed violently, kicking and biting anything she could reach.
"Woman!" He was angry now. Her foot caught his shin and he hissed, but did not let go. "Calm yourself!" She flung her head back as hard as she could and cried out in unison with her assailant as their skulls connected with an ugly crack.
"ENOUGH!" he bellowed. Her arms were jerked behind her and bent towards the top of her spine, causing her to whimper and bend over to avoid the pain such a position caused. She was shoved unceremoniously through the office door and tossed down on the livingroom couch. She landed awkwardly, the breath was knocked from her body, and then his hands seized her shoulders and flipped her over. She gathered breath to scream again, fearing the worst, as she felt his weight settle on her hips. He clamped a hand over her mouth and seized the back of her head in hands that were surprisingly gentle. He easily turned her face towards his own.
"Look at me!" His voice was calm and commanding. Her eyes jerked open. She blinked. She blinked again. Straddling her with an intent and wary expression was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He showed the slight signs of a long life upon his face. She took in the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, the hint of wrinkles on his brow that indicated a man often lost in deep thought, and at his temples she could see the silvery-white touch of stress to his otherwise black hair. Even so, there was an ageless quality about him, a boyish charm that temporarily awed her. He nodded slowly as her breathing even out.
"May I take my hand away now, without fear of reprisal?" His face was serious, but his eyes danced. She nodded. He released her, then stood and offered her a hand up. She took it with some trepidation, then made sure her clothes were all smoothed out and in the proper place. He was patient as she composed herself, then looked him over closely. The rational part of her mind pointed out that her instinctual and rapid loss of fear classified as a strange and potentially dangerous reaction to him. She ought to be running for the gun, but couldn't bring herself to give it more than a passing thought. She felt as though a mantle of peace had settled gently over her shoulders.
He was very tall, perhaps 6' 6" to her 5' 4" and had the lithe but powerful build of a man who got daily use out of his body in hard physical exertion because he had to, not because he wanted to look pretty. She inhaled sharply as she realized how easily he could have harmed her. Intuitive sea-grey eyes watched her every move, gauging her reactions. She noted that he stood on the balls of his feet, keeping them shoulder-width apart and one farther forward than the other. He could and would move faster than she, if she tried something. He was dressed simply enough, in blue jeans, a dark blue and grey polo, and a black leather jacket. The only thing, besides his otherworldly quality, which stood out about him was a large ring on his right index finger. She assumed it was white gold, possibly platinum. He followed her gaze to it as she tried to make out the engraving.
She watched the tension go out of his body as he chuckled quietly, pulled it off his finger, and held it out to her. "Here. I think you'll understand when you see it." She frowned at him slightly, but took the ring anyway, handling it gingerly because it seemed important to him. Her eyes widened and her heart sped up; her fingers began to shake. There, plain as day, was a royal crest - a ship and swan above a shield whose emblems she didn't recognize. Other symbols of power were worked into the design - a crown and flags and crossed swords. The skill involved in the crafting of the ring baffled the mind, given how small the work space was. She felt frozen in place, her mind reduced to mush by the implications. She said the first thought that formed.
"I didn't realize Valinor had a Muse delivery service." He snorted faintly, and she jerked her gaze up to him, realizing she might have insulted him. "I.. uh.. Hi. Can we start over? You scared me. You aren't supposed to be here. You should at least knock. I thought you were supposed to be the soul of gentility? Oh God above, I think I'm babbling." She stiffened up, clutching the ring to her as the familiar nausea began to writhe in her stomach. If he was royalty, she might be waiting for the proverbial ton of bricks to bury her. She could feel reactionary tears begin to form behind her eyes. ~I will NOT cry in front of him. Not for all the mithril in Moria. Please don't be arrogant. Please, please, please.~
He muttered something unintelligible to himself, then cleared his throat softly and stood straighter. She could practically see him gather his royal manners about him like a cloak.
"My lady, you are absolutely correct. It was unthinkable of me to intrude in your home without your leave. It was even more inexcusable that I should cause you such great alarm. A woman should feel safe within her own four walls." He extended his hand, and gave her his best, dazzling smile. "Permit me to beg your pardon and introduce myself properly?"
She inhaled in a dazed fashion, no longer worried about a reprimand, and timidly laid her fingers in his. ~I bet he gets what he wants every time he shows those pearly whites. What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a very dangerous man.~ "Thank you.. I mean, you're wel- ." She stopped still as her cheeks turned a fiery red, trying muster her tattered dignity before continuing. "I forgive you." She noted that he had the grace not to laugh at her as he bent to kiss the air above her knuckles.
"You are most kind, my lady. I am Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, high commander of the legendary Swan Knights, serving as ambassador to your ..realm" He grinned this time, as if sharing an old joke with good friends. "What may I call you, my Lady?"
"Here," she gestured around them slightly as he released her hand, "I am called Eirien. That will do just fine." She smiled back, liking him more by the minute.
"Well then, Lady Eirien, shall we talk? You have questions for me, I'm sure."
She gestured to a large, overstuffed armchair and, when he had seated himself, she curled up on the side of the couch closest to him, leaning on its arm. "There's so much I need to know! Start with your city. Tell me about your people!" She smiled giddily as he closed his eyes in quiet reflection before beginning the first of many tales.
"Dol Amroth lies near the sea, and is most wonderous fair. Her people are tall and fair to behold..."