This was intended to be short, angsty, and to go away politely and let the
plot get on with things. But when I get attacked by the Muses of Darkness,
they bite hard. This is exactly what I meant to do; I was just planning to
do it in about five hundred words less.
This is chapter six of Anaheit. As opposed to the ramblings of someone in a mental ward, where I am not although I admit the possibility that I may be admitted to one someday.
Warning: This chapter is PG-13 for sick violence, loud and bloody insanity, and general darkness. I was thinking about R.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The mighty wizard paces the dark room. Arcane objects decorate the walls, and piles of scrolls fill the shelves. After knocking it against the glowing ball of light that is dimly illuminating the room for the umpteenth time, he sighs and removes his wizard's hat. His long white beard glows as he paces to a large medieval window. Drawing the deep red velvet curtains aside, he looks out at the snow-covered hills. The moon is just rising from behind the mountains, and it shines on his face, highlighting the deep shadows formed by his sternly set features.
"It was said, 'He is a dreamer; let us leave him; pass,' when the gray crow brought bide of Mordor; but to be proved right is less joy than it has ever been for any mortal man..."
The moonlight haloed his hair, and he sipped at a steaming earthen pot of tea poured from a large glazed kettle, a present from a hobbit, long ago. "He [Sauron] doth bestride the narrow world/ like a Colossus, with we [but] peep about/ To find ourselves dishonorable graves." He sits heavily on a wooden chair that, in the pale glow of the night, looks far unfit to hold his weight. "What mortality, what fragile things are human souls, that they are so soon lost to evil. Boromir was a great man, a good man, and only chance gave him death, betrayal, dishonor, rather than condemning his brother. Sauron grows stronger in our hearts. Even here in Retraet my keep, he strangles my thoughts. ...What evil may he do to Anaheit?"
Gandalf was truly in the spell of the Mary-Sue now. He had spent long hours (*Oh, no, short ones! Fgor your beauty is like the sun...*) in her company tonight while tired and thoughtful, and that effect could not be easily reversed. The time before she had been with him was vague and unimportant in his memory, and his thoughts rested on her. He was finally forced to look in on her simply to make sure that she had not been attacked by "some potent power withoute his' purviewe," as often happened to those of her persuasion. She was fine; her hair soft on the pillow, her perfume attractive in the air, and she didn't even snore. Gandalf shook himself out of it hurriedly and left, to go get some sleep before he did something unfortunate.
*It is all very fine for them to go after Legolas or somesuch,* he thought, *But _I_ should be immune. I must get her to Aragorn before she begins to concentrate, instead of just being this way naturally.*
~*~
In her room, Anaheit's eyes snapped open. A mad glow was in them. "I am _not_ a Mary-Sue." She rose, thrusting the blankets back with a grace that only disgusted her. Her hair caught on a splinter of wood from a bookshelf and pulled painfully. "That's more like it." A small cat that had been sleeping in the corner widened its eyes and backed up until the wall stopped it, it's gray fur puffed and it's still-blue eyes wide.
She slipped out the cracked-open door. She looked around for a moment, then headed for the little room they had talked in that night. He had gone into a connecting room and brought out food for them when they had arrived. *A kitchen. A kitchen has knives. I need a knife.*
In the room behind her, the kitten cowered until her footsteps had faded. It's normally thin tail still a bottlebrush the size of a table leg, it scampered down the hall in the opposite direction. Slipping through a small pet-sized doorway in the middle of a wall, it landed on the wizard's dresser table, knocking a small crystal globe and a scroll crashing to the floor. From there, the kit rebounded to land on a dresser. It yowled as if someone had taken it's milk and jumped on the bed to cower in the lap of it's master, who was sitting up in confusion. His beard puffed like an elderly goat's and his blue eyes were a mysterious match for those of the cat.
"What is it?" He stood and donned a dark blue velvet robe. "Llead me." The scared kitten ran out the door, his master striding behind, a worried look on his face.
~*~
Maria stabbed herself in the throat again. The kitchen knife made a long gash in her flesh. For a moment her breath wheezed out through her torn windpipe. Blood sprayed all over the kitchen, adding a third coat of gore to the surroundings. The rent healed as soon as she took the knife from it. Cursing, she applied it to her wrists. Blood flowed, black in the flickering firelight. It healed. "You monkey's ass!" She threw the knife into the flames, and a smell of battlefield fires began to pervade the room.
She took a fork from the drawer and held it, nerving herself to plunge it into her eye. A word of power stopped her hand. Screaming incoherent blue murder, she wrenched at it, frozen in midair at the wrist. Spitting insane curses and writhing like a possessed snake in the throes of arsenic, her wrist broke with a sick snap. A bone protruded from her skin at an angle that was just wrong.
Gandalf, having seen battlefields filled with the dead and dying of every species in Middle-Earth, felt a sick disgust that at least temporarily repealed the Sue- caused fog enveloping his facilities. With a word, he rendered her unconscious. She hung from her broken wrist, the skin tearing a little more, like wet parchment under a quill.
He hurriedly lifted her and released the minor spell binding the wrist to that exact location in space. It dropped to the table with a stomach- roiling thud, and a small pool of blood began to form. From the kitchen doorway where it had been standing, the kitten jumped onto the table with the awkward grace that felines of that age have, and began licking around the wound.
Gandalf stared at the cat, aghast. *By Merlin's beard, I never knew felines were affected by them!* He reached into the silverware drawer and withdrew two spoons and a knife. He lay the spoons on her wrist and the knife at her throat. Slowly, the offending bone sank back into the skin. The tendons slipped back into place. At her throat, the scars formed by too-hurried healing began to fade. Gandalf picked her up and carried his new protege into his bedroom. He lay her on his bed and covered her with a cloak. Then he went and locked himself into his workroom until morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am absolutely sure that you want to yell at me for this. Do so!
Oh, and hi, Chelsea! What do you think so far?
This is chapter six of Anaheit. As opposed to the ramblings of someone in a mental ward, where I am not although I admit the possibility that I may be admitted to one someday.
Warning: This chapter is PG-13 for sick violence, loud and bloody insanity, and general darkness. I was thinking about R.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The mighty wizard paces the dark room. Arcane objects decorate the walls, and piles of scrolls fill the shelves. After knocking it against the glowing ball of light that is dimly illuminating the room for the umpteenth time, he sighs and removes his wizard's hat. His long white beard glows as he paces to a large medieval window. Drawing the deep red velvet curtains aside, he looks out at the snow-covered hills. The moon is just rising from behind the mountains, and it shines on his face, highlighting the deep shadows formed by his sternly set features.
"It was said, 'He is a dreamer; let us leave him; pass,' when the gray crow brought bide of Mordor; but to be proved right is less joy than it has ever been for any mortal man..."
The moonlight haloed his hair, and he sipped at a steaming earthen pot of tea poured from a large glazed kettle, a present from a hobbit, long ago. "He [Sauron] doth bestride the narrow world/ like a Colossus, with we [but] peep about/ To find ourselves dishonorable graves." He sits heavily on a wooden chair that, in the pale glow of the night, looks far unfit to hold his weight. "What mortality, what fragile things are human souls, that they are so soon lost to evil. Boromir was a great man, a good man, and only chance gave him death, betrayal, dishonor, rather than condemning his brother. Sauron grows stronger in our hearts. Even here in Retraet my keep, he strangles my thoughts. ...What evil may he do to Anaheit?"
Gandalf was truly in the spell of the Mary-Sue now. He had spent long hours (*Oh, no, short ones! Fgor your beauty is like the sun...*) in her company tonight while tired and thoughtful, and that effect could not be easily reversed. The time before she had been with him was vague and unimportant in his memory, and his thoughts rested on her. He was finally forced to look in on her simply to make sure that she had not been attacked by "some potent power withoute his' purviewe," as often happened to those of her persuasion. She was fine; her hair soft on the pillow, her perfume attractive in the air, and she didn't even snore. Gandalf shook himself out of it hurriedly and left, to go get some sleep before he did something unfortunate.
*It is all very fine for them to go after Legolas or somesuch,* he thought, *But _I_ should be immune. I must get her to Aragorn before she begins to concentrate, instead of just being this way naturally.*
~*~
In her room, Anaheit's eyes snapped open. A mad glow was in them. "I am _not_ a Mary-Sue." She rose, thrusting the blankets back with a grace that only disgusted her. Her hair caught on a splinter of wood from a bookshelf and pulled painfully. "That's more like it." A small cat that had been sleeping in the corner widened its eyes and backed up until the wall stopped it, it's gray fur puffed and it's still-blue eyes wide.
She slipped out the cracked-open door. She looked around for a moment, then headed for the little room they had talked in that night. He had gone into a connecting room and brought out food for them when they had arrived. *A kitchen. A kitchen has knives. I need a knife.*
In the room behind her, the kitten cowered until her footsteps had faded. It's normally thin tail still a bottlebrush the size of a table leg, it scampered down the hall in the opposite direction. Slipping through a small pet-sized doorway in the middle of a wall, it landed on the wizard's dresser table, knocking a small crystal globe and a scroll crashing to the floor. From there, the kit rebounded to land on a dresser. It yowled as if someone had taken it's milk and jumped on the bed to cower in the lap of it's master, who was sitting up in confusion. His beard puffed like an elderly goat's and his blue eyes were a mysterious match for those of the cat.
"What is it?" He stood and donned a dark blue velvet robe. "Llead me." The scared kitten ran out the door, his master striding behind, a worried look on his face.
~*~
Maria stabbed herself in the throat again. The kitchen knife made a long gash in her flesh. For a moment her breath wheezed out through her torn windpipe. Blood sprayed all over the kitchen, adding a third coat of gore to the surroundings. The rent healed as soon as she took the knife from it. Cursing, she applied it to her wrists. Blood flowed, black in the flickering firelight. It healed. "You monkey's ass!" She threw the knife into the flames, and a smell of battlefield fires began to pervade the room.
She took a fork from the drawer and held it, nerving herself to plunge it into her eye. A word of power stopped her hand. Screaming incoherent blue murder, she wrenched at it, frozen in midair at the wrist. Spitting insane curses and writhing like a possessed snake in the throes of arsenic, her wrist broke with a sick snap. A bone protruded from her skin at an angle that was just wrong.
Gandalf, having seen battlefields filled with the dead and dying of every species in Middle-Earth, felt a sick disgust that at least temporarily repealed the Sue- caused fog enveloping his facilities. With a word, he rendered her unconscious. She hung from her broken wrist, the skin tearing a little more, like wet parchment under a quill.
He hurriedly lifted her and released the minor spell binding the wrist to that exact location in space. It dropped to the table with a stomach- roiling thud, and a small pool of blood began to form. From the kitchen doorway where it had been standing, the kitten jumped onto the table with the awkward grace that felines of that age have, and began licking around the wound.
Gandalf stared at the cat, aghast. *By Merlin's beard, I never knew felines were affected by them!* He reached into the silverware drawer and withdrew two spoons and a knife. He lay the spoons on her wrist and the knife at her throat. Slowly, the offending bone sank back into the skin. The tendons slipped back into place. At her throat, the scars formed by too-hurried healing began to fade. Gandalf picked her up and carried his new protege into his bedroom. He lay her on his bed and covered her with a cloak. Then he went and locked himself into his workroom until morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am absolutely sure that you want to yell at me for this. Do so!
Oh, and hi, Chelsea! What do you think so far?