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dragonlady7Settling down for the night, trying to think of something distracting and not tiring.
Am hoping to drive 300 miles tomorrow a.m., you see.
So far, an early start is looking unlikely.
And so, to be utterly fluffy and cathartic, I turned to my fanfic folder.
What my Eomer/Lothiriel boils down to is that I don't really want to write it, I just want to read it but nobody's cooperating. Bah.
When I go to that folder I just want to open what I've written and read it, and I reach the end and am disappointed that there's not more, but I have no real urge to add to it. I just want to read the rest.
Feh.
Anyhow. I opened this snippet, tentatively dated F.A. 6 or so. I edited it, polishing it slightly, and that was enough for the evening. I think I'm ready to go to bed now.
It's short. And painless. 400ish words. Not sappy.
titled "sleep dislocations" in the notation at the top
Lothiriel with mention of Faramir
probably won't make sense if you don't know who the first person mentioned above is, otherwise no spoilers or special arcane knowledge involved.
not about dreams
ever woken and not been sure where you were?
Opening line's not particularly compelling, but I'm pretty sleepy and it's compelling enough to me because I'd like to be there. Mmm.
She was drifting between sleep and waking. The sensation was pleasant and she was in no hurry to get out of her bed. She'd awoken early to the sound of a thunderstorm, and had rolled over and gone back to sleep, drifting off on thoughts of rain and water. She was thinking of Minas Tirith, of a rainy day there years and years ago she had spent with her cousin Faramir, him sitting at his desk going through books and papers, candles lit on the dim day, and herself sitting on the windowsill looking out over the rainy city, watching the water spout from the gargoyles to the flagstones so far below.
They had spoken of war, and of soldiers, and of fighting, and of service. She had asked why only men had to serve, and he had told her that women served in different ways, not in the army but supporting the army. She drifted, thinking dreamily of what she knew of war, thinking of the terrible wounds she had seen and wondering how a man could do such things to another man.
She thought of Faramir's sad grey eyes, candlelight reflecting in them as he regarded her over his papers, across the desk. A gull cried, once, and she sighed, stretching and turning her head. The gull cried again, and she opened her eyes, turning her head toward the window that looked out over the sea.
The window wasn't there. Of course. She sat up. There was no window overlooking the sea, but a smaller one on the west wall, looking out over a green and misty valley. The floor was not of flagstones, but of wood, and the rugs upon it were not of jute but of wool or rushes. She was not in her little sleeping chamber in the keep of the castle at Dol Amroth, but was of course in her apartment at Meduseld.
She stood and walked to the unglazed window and looked out. The valley was a jewelled fold of intense green, and last night's rain had left a mist in the air. The light was indirect and diffuse, glimmering rather than sparkling, and the ever-present wind was barely a soft breeze heavily earth-scented, with no hint of salt.
The gull cried again and she leaned on the windowsill, rubbing her face. A seagull, here? She had been so sure she was in her father's house again, to hear such a thing.
The cry of the gull filled her with a strange feeling that she couldn't name. It was almost... disappointment?
Am hoping to drive 300 miles tomorrow a.m., you see.
So far, an early start is looking unlikely.
And so, to be utterly fluffy and cathartic, I turned to my fanfic folder.
What my Eomer/Lothiriel boils down to is that I don't really want to write it, I just want to read it but nobody's cooperating. Bah.
When I go to that folder I just want to open what I've written and read it, and I reach the end and am disappointed that there's not more, but I have no real urge to add to it. I just want to read the rest.
Feh.
Anyhow. I opened this snippet, tentatively dated F.A. 6 or so. I edited it, polishing it slightly, and that was enough for the evening. I think I'm ready to go to bed now.
It's short. And painless. 400ish words. Not sappy.
titled "sleep dislocations" in the notation at the top
Lothiriel with mention of Faramir
probably won't make sense if you don't know who the first person mentioned above is, otherwise no spoilers or special arcane knowledge involved.
not about dreams
ever woken and not been sure where you were?
Opening line's not particularly compelling, but I'm pretty sleepy and it's compelling enough to me because I'd like to be there. Mmm.
She was drifting between sleep and waking. The sensation was pleasant and she was in no hurry to get out of her bed. She'd awoken early to the sound of a thunderstorm, and had rolled over and gone back to sleep, drifting off on thoughts of rain and water. She was thinking of Minas Tirith, of a rainy day there years and years ago she had spent with her cousin Faramir, him sitting at his desk going through books and papers, candles lit on the dim day, and herself sitting on the windowsill looking out over the rainy city, watching the water spout from the gargoyles to the flagstones so far below.
They had spoken of war, and of soldiers, and of fighting, and of service. She had asked why only men had to serve, and he had told her that women served in different ways, not in the army but supporting the army. She drifted, thinking dreamily of what she knew of war, thinking of the terrible wounds she had seen and wondering how a man could do such things to another man.
She thought of Faramir's sad grey eyes, candlelight reflecting in them as he regarded her over his papers, across the desk. A gull cried, once, and she sighed, stretching and turning her head. The gull cried again, and she opened her eyes, turning her head toward the window that looked out over the sea.
The window wasn't there. Of course. She sat up. There was no window overlooking the sea, but a smaller one on the west wall, looking out over a green and misty valley. The floor was not of flagstones, but of wood, and the rugs upon it were not of jute but of wool or rushes. She was not in her little sleeping chamber in the keep of the castle at Dol Amroth, but was of course in her apartment at Meduseld.
She stood and walked to the unglazed window and looked out. The valley was a jewelled fold of intense green, and last night's rain had left a mist in the air. The light was indirect and diffuse, glimmering rather than sparkling, and the ever-present wind was barely a soft breeze heavily earth-scented, with no hint of salt.
The gull cried again and she leaned on the windowsill, rubbing her face. A seagull, here? She had been so sure she was in her father's house again, to hear such a thing.
The cry of the gull filled her with a strange feeling that she couldn't name. It was almost... disappointment?
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-19 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-19 02:33 pm (UTC)It's part of a huge unending saga that I may never get control of. :) I have a whole cycle of stories dealing with Éomer, from his parents' courtship and death through his son's adolescence. Obviously I have far too much material, and given the sporadic nature at best of my work on fanfic, it's gotten the better of me repeatedly, and thus the whole thing is horrifyingly disorganized.
Perhaps someday. Suffice to say his relationship to Lothíriel is more... interesting... than the average fairy tale. (And yet, my progress is hindered by the fact that most of the E/L stories I've read lately have cast their marriage as a troubled one, often, er, not very skillfully, which has sort of put me off from working on something that falls rather near to the same category.)