Blood

A double-drabble

Warnings: Self-mutilation contained herein. Beware, if that's not your cup of tea.

A/N: I was in a weird mood the other day, and I was sitting on my bed, holding a pair of scissors, and contemplating blood, odd though that may seem. And as I sat, contemplating blood, it hit me that if I wrote down what I was thinking, I could use that as a fic. So I wrote it down, and tailored it a bit to fit the character, and violá! Oh, I almost forgot. This is essentially Éowyn being depressed and contemplating suicide.

Éowyn, daughter of Éomund sat on her bed, staring fixedly at a knife she held in her hands. Just to take that knife, and hold the bitter, ice-silver edge against the white perfection of her skin. One quick motion, and the lance-sharp edge would bite into her flesh, blood welling up like spilt ink. Garnet red, even in the half-light; bright lifeblood.

How strange, she thought, that the layer between the dagger and the veins in her wrist was so very thin. It would take almost no effort to break through that barrier, and then her heart, the very thing that kept her alive, would drive the blood from her body in a wash of crimson tears.

The sense of the power she had over her fragile life was intoxicating, and, on an impulse, she held the blade to the pale curve of her throat. The gentle scrape of steel against her skin was almost arousing, but, as always, her nerves and trembling hands failed her before the final stroke came, before she could put an end to Éowyn and free herself at long last. So instead, she laid the knife to her leg, where no one could see, and wept, tears falling silently to mix with the warm blood trickling down her leg.