Before I start the third chapter, I need to let yall know that I wont be
updating on for a while. I haven't read the Hobbit, or The
Silmarillion. I read FOTR but a long time ago and need to re read it. I
think I need to read the Silmarillion before I continue on this. Thanks for
all your reviews. Even the constructive criticism.
I know I go the dates wrong, I got them from a bad source. Also, for that reviewer who didn't like my elf name, it is Mary Sueish and Im trying to think of something better. I loved the name Adel but it wont do good for elvish.
Since my book is based a lot on events in the Silmarillion, just looking at websites isn't enough. This is my last update, if you critics still want to give me advice (Id really appreciate it!) then email me at especially those whom have read the Silmarillion. Just make sure that in the subject you type "fanfic" so I know its not spam from a stranger.
3.
I struggle.
My heart races against my chest; frantic- pumping in a distressed rhythm. My eyes are wide open, peeled back, fear and angst driving back weariness, and sleep. I felt as if I had not slept for years, yet here I lay just awakening. My throat is thick- my lungs deflated. I can take in only a meager wisp of air, which my body absorbs like a starving dog, and then begs for more. It is torture- to take a breath and have a taste of life only to be sucked away and devoured, still craving just as much again and again. My body cannot keep up with itself. The harder I push myself, and the harder I fight, the more my illness fights back. My body shudders.
I am scared. A fear that I have never tasted eats away at me hungrily now. What is happening to me? I cannot control it, I cannot help myself. I am scared-
I feel my body convulse violently briefly. Brilliant light- blinding, piercing. I can hear its devilish ring, like shards of glass volleying into my ears. I feel its heat- like my body is an oven and the heat is trapped beneath my skin, as if I am in the very fires of Mount Doom itself. I feel tortured- and at the moment where I feel if I don't scream I will not be helped, the light and the violence fades reluctantly. The illness, like an army recollecting themselves, still stirs in me. My body still shudders, still aches, still screams.
I am broken.
Such shame I have now. My memory lies in a cloud, but one thing stands out more than anything else. I remember being on the Dagorlad plain, I remember the fear I had. I remember the wretched cry of one of Sauron's forces, some deformed sword swinging wildly over its ugly head. I remember his eyes- dark, bloody, shallow. They knew no mercy, so skill, no grace. I feared that; afraid that I could not match his recklessness. His sword drew back in an arc aimed for me, and without even using my sword to cut the arc short, I just stepped aside. I remember hearing a quick thud and a sickening crack, and the sound froze me.
I can still see- so vividly- the elf sinking to the ground. His knees buckle and the rest of his body floated gracefully, still so elf like, to the bloody battlefield, like a leaf falling from a tree. There is some comfort in knowing his back was turned to me and did not know that a friend had let him down. And there is also pain in knowing that he did not know what hit him that he died blindly without a fight.
Oh Valar- such shame. This is your cruelest punishment. I deserve no less.
So glorious is it to die bravely, defending those you love- sacrificing your life so that they may live a moment longer, and to be remembered in honor. Such is not my fate. I am no honor. I am a disgrace. Yet why do I live on? Such an ugly thing like me should not be given the beauty of life.
My body convulses again, my stomach flattened and twisted. I am pathetic.
So much shame.
I should not be in here. I should be paying my terrible debt- one I can never fully repay. I should be killing my enemy instead of letting them kill. I do not deserve to be in this bed, resting. I should be dead. An elf should be alive.
I close my eyes, the darkness clouds over me. Darkness, my good friend. Come take me, swallow me.
I feel pathetic thinking about this, pitying myself. Who in Hell would pity me? I have no morale anymore, nothing to justify myself with. I could murder the next healer who comes in here and feel no worse.
That's sick.
The pain doesn't agitate me anymore. It's satisfying.
My eyes are still closed, waiting for sleep. I know in the morning, once my body has started taking control of itself, that I cannot linger. I will wake up with the sun and leave before any healer sees me. Illness or health, my fingers will grasp my sword once more, and they will spill more enemy blood to fill the deepest circle of Hell.
I will not linger.
I know I go the dates wrong, I got them from a bad source. Also, for that reviewer who didn't like my elf name, it is Mary Sueish and Im trying to think of something better. I loved the name Adel but it wont do good for elvish.
Since my book is based a lot on events in the Silmarillion, just looking at websites isn't enough. This is my last update, if you critics still want to give me advice (Id really appreciate it!) then email me at especially those whom have read the Silmarillion. Just make sure that in the subject you type "fanfic" so I know its not spam from a stranger.
3.
I struggle.
My heart races against my chest; frantic- pumping in a distressed rhythm. My eyes are wide open, peeled back, fear and angst driving back weariness, and sleep. I felt as if I had not slept for years, yet here I lay just awakening. My throat is thick- my lungs deflated. I can take in only a meager wisp of air, which my body absorbs like a starving dog, and then begs for more. It is torture- to take a breath and have a taste of life only to be sucked away and devoured, still craving just as much again and again. My body cannot keep up with itself. The harder I push myself, and the harder I fight, the more my illness fights back. My body shudders.
I am scared. A fear that I have never tasted eats away at me hungrily now. What is happening to me? I cannot control it, I cannot help myself. I am scared-
I feel my body convulse violently briefly. Brilliant light- blinding, piercing. I can hear its devilish ring, like shards of glass volleying into my ears. I feel its heat- like my body is an oven and the heat is trapped beneath my skin, as if I am in the very fires of Mount Doom itself. I feel tortured- and at the moment where I feel if I don't scream I will not be helped, the light and the violence fades reluctantly. The illness, like an army recollecting themselves, still stirs in me. My body still shudders, still aches, still screams.
I am broken.
Such shame I have now. My memory lies in a cloud, but one thing stands out more than anything else. I remember being on the Dagorlad plain, I remember the fear I had. I remember the wretched cry of one of Sauron's forces, some deformed sword swinging wildly over its ugly head. I remember his eyes- dark, bloody, shallow. They knew no mercy, so skill, no grace. I feared that; afraid that I could not match his recklessness. His sword drew back in an arc aimed for me, and without even using my sword to cut the arc short, I just stepped aside. I remember hearing a quick thud and a sickening crack, and the sound froze me.
I can still see- so vividly- the elf sinking to the ground. His knees buckle and the rest of his body floated gracefully, still so elf like, to the bloody battlefield, like a leaf falling from a tree. There is some comfort in knowing his back was turned to me and did not know that a friend had let him down. And there is also pain in knowing that he did not know what hit him that he died blindly without a fight.
Oh Valar- such shame. This is your cruelest punishment. I deserve no less.
So glorious is it to die bravely, defending those you love- sacrificing your life so that they may live a moment longer, and to be remembered in honor. Such is not my fate. I am no honor. I am a disgrace. Yet why do I live on? Such an ugly thing like me should not be given the beauty of life.
My body convulses again, my stomach flattened and twisted. I am pathetic.
So much shame.
I should not be in here. I should be paying my terrible debt- one I can never fully repay. I should be killing my enemy instead of letting them kill. I do not deserve to be in this bed, resting. I should be dead. An elf should be alive.
I close my eyes, the darkness clouds over me. Darkness, my good friend. Come take me, swallow me.
I feel pathetic thinking about this, pitying myself. Who in Hell would pity me? I have no morale anymore, nothing to justify myself with. I could murder the next healer who comes in here and feel no worse.
That's sick.
The pain doesn't agitate me anymore. It's satisfying.
My eyes are still closed, waiting for sleep. I know in the morning, once my body has started taking control of itself, that I cannot linger. I will wake up with the sun and leave before any healer sees me. Illness or health, my fingers will grasp my sword once more, and they will spill more enemy blood to fill the deepest circle of Hell.
I will not linger.