Building on the world of "Labyrinth" and subverting Lord of the Rings for the sheer hell of it.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Trophies
The
goblin is dying. One of Legolas's elegant arrows has pierced its gut,
and the wound tore further in its vain effort to save its...sister?
Friend? Lover? Either way its bony grey fingers clutch helplessly at
the wound's lips, as if, should the scraps of ragged flesh align, it
might be whole again.
It? He, she, they...when did the rest of the Fellowship get to him, in this brief harried November, to make him think this poor soul it?
It...they, he, it's hard to tell on so gaunt and wiry an armoured figure, the dying goblin...his lips move, soundlessly, as he lies face-up on the stone and his tribesman's corpse. The dead goblin's body is cloven near in half. He remembers that cut. She'd been trying to get to Merry with the wicked little knife now glittering beside her hand.
Stones scrape under his boots as he kneel beside them. He doesn't mind; no sense in startling the dying, he thinks, taking up the knife. Firelight bleeds from its edges. It's very sharp.
It? He, she, they...when did the rest of the Fellowship get to him, in this brief harried November, to make him think this poor soul it?
It...they, he, it's hard to tell on so gaunt and wiry an armoured figure, the dying goblin...his lips move, soundlessly, as he lies face-up on the stone and his tribesman's corpse. The dead goblin's body is cloven near in half. He remembers that cut. She'd been trying to get to Merry with the wicked little knife now glittering beside her hand.
Stones scrape under his boots as he kneel beside them. He doesn't mind; no sense in startling the dying, he thinks, taking up the knife. Firelight bleeds from its edges. It's very sharp.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Heartbeats
"I never checked."
Arwen stirs a little, in the cool spring air warmed with their lovemaking. Dusk drapes its shadows over their long forms entangled in silk sheets the colour of mist; Elessar, the king, Strider, her Aragorn, her husband, had bought them for her, as a tactile memory of her home, and she hadn't the heart to tell him that to elfin eyes they bore no semblance. For all he had learned since the great Council fifteen years past, he still would not understand that each thread of those sheets held, in the love and care of their choosing, something far more precious.
Arwen stirs a little, in the cool spring air warmed with their lovemaking. Dusk drapes its shadows over their long forms entangled in silk sheets the colour of mist; Elessar, the king, Strider, her Aragorn, her husband, had bought them for her, as a tactile memory of her home, and she hadn't the heart to tell him that to elfin eyes they bore no semblance. For all he had learned since the great Council fifteen years past, he still would not understand that each thread of those sheets held, in the love and care of their choosing, something far more precious.
Monday, May 7, 2012
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