Something Old/Something New meme from cairistiona7
Gakked this from Cairi and Suzll. I'm using all LotR fics, since that's the muse I'm currently trying to bring back to life.
1) Something Old--a blurb from one of the first fics you've written
From "Splintered Reflection," my first LotR piece.
"The tavern is noisy, crowded, and dim, but even so they can sense his approach. For his part, the traveler takes no note of the rowdy patrons as he heads for his usual seat in the most shadowed corner. Their eyes follow him, though. They take in the worn green cloak, the stained clothes, the sword hilt gleaming dully. The hobbits among them notice his mud-caked boots and the knife they conceal. He’s picked up a limp since the last time he darkened these doors.
Most of the patrons return immediately to their tankards. A few of the bolder ones watch as he lifts a pipe and lights it. The glow of the embers throws shadows across a visage that seems as weathered as the face of a mountain and just as hard. Beneath the mask of grime, his face tightens slightly as if in pain.
It is then that one of the patrons, his tongue loosened by ale, dares to speak.
“So, you back again, Longshanks?”
The Ranger’s eyes dart across the room and the unfortunate speaker is trapped for a moment in their steely gaze. The patron swallows hard. He doesn’t understand what he sees in those eyes-just that they seem very terrible and make him feel very small. The other man does nothing, though. After a moment he responds “For a time,” in a soft voice that somehow carries easily. Then he looks away and the patron is free.
Bending his head gratefully to his tankard, the man takes a fortifying draught before muttering “Strange fellow, that Strider.”"
2) Something New--A snippet from something you're currently working on or the last thing you posted
From my Aragorn-in-Harad epic (which is now a year in the making with no end in sight. *sigh*). It loosely follows the plot of "Strangers."
"He set out in the late afternoon, not long after the hottest part of the day had passed. The caravan had likely been on the move all day, but, burdened as it was with small children and chained adults, it moved slowly. He could overtake it in half the time. Luck was with him. No rain had fallen to disturb the trail, though the caravan was large enough that he probably could have tracked it even if a tempest had blown through. The sky was cloudless, and once the sun set, the moon rose clear and cold and nearly full.
Aragorn needed all the help he could get, for his day in the desert had done him no favors. Except for some grubs and a few edible roots, he’d found nothing to eat, which was just as well since he’d had little to drink since dawn. By the time he’d ventured out of his shelter, the afternoon heat had long since dried out the small trickle of the stream bed. The night air was blessedly cool, but still dry. Aragorn’s head was one solid ache and his mouth might as well have been made out of sand. As the night wore on, he was able to collect a bit of dew here and there using his headdress as a rag, but he had no canteen in which to carry it. He passed dozens of the fleshy, spine-tipped plants, but without a knife, he couldn’t hope to collect the pulp. It was frustrating to be so woefully underequipped.
But, he was free in a wild place and he had a trail to follow. For the first time in years, he felt like Strider again, and the feeling was liberating."
This will be written someday. I have about 80 pages already, but I've only told about a third of the story I want to tell. But it will all be written! Someday. :)
3) Something Borrowed--A scene or section of dialogue from another writer’s story. Maybe something that inspired you or resonated with you. (Credit the writer and link to it if possible, please.)
Gah, so many great authors to choose from! I ended up going with a piece from a writer who's a bit newer to Tolkien fic and has a real talent for imagery and characterization. This is one of the first fics I read from her, and I was hooked instantly.
From "The Sealed Letter" by rhymer23.
"Ned thought he was dead at first. The lantern swung in his hand, its light flickering across the man's face. Then he saw that the man's eyes were open and watching him. They gleamed brightly in the light of the quivering lantern.
"Leave him now, Lass," Ned said gruffly. "It's time to go."
Ned took a step back. The lantern swung around, showing him the man's legs, with Lass ensconced so firmly at his side. Then further still, showing him the stone above the hearth where he and Celandine had carved their initials, in a springtime long ago.
"Even a ruin like this still belongs to somebody," Ned said. "You have no business to be here. Be off with you."
Lass whined. Ned stepped forward again, thrusting the lantern at the man's face. He was very pale, he saw, and his brow was damp with the unmistakable signs of fever. A pouch of herbs was laid out beside him, and he had clearly been crushing leaves between two flat stones, before losing the strength for it. His right hand was curled loosely on the ground beside him, stained with both old and fresh blood.
"Come on, Lass," Ned said. "We can't be staying here."
The man was looking in his direction, but Ned suddenly doubted that the man was really seeing him. But when Ned unthinkingly lowered his hand to the cudgel at his side, the man's eyes seemed keen enough. His right hand moved towards the long knife that lay beside him, and was no longer slack.
"You have to understand how things work round here," Ned told him. It occurred to him suddenly that this was the first person he had seen for weeks. His voice turned harsher. "Few decent folk travel the Greenway any more, and we're half a mile even from there. You're no lord or elf or warrior, that's for sure. You're a bandit or a wild man, and I want nothing to do with you. Come on, Lass."
Lass remained where she was. Ned turned to leave, scrambling round the edge of the pile of rubble. The willow-herb had gone to seed, its tall stems covered with hairy wisps of white. Outside, the rain was heavier and the clouds were black in the south. "And even if you were just a simple traveller," he muttered, "you're nothing to do with me."
He stopped in the middle of the farm yard, and turned his face up to the rain. He remembered his first kiss with Celandine in this very place. Then a memory from years later: Odo running home with a tale of an injured fox. They had nursed it better for days, he and Odo and Celandine, then released it back into the wild.
Ned let out a harsh breath. And still that accursed dog refused to appear! He pushed back through the willow-herb, dislodging sodden wisps of seeds. Lass raised her head happily. "How bad is it?" Ned demanded. "What's wrong with you, anyway?""
4) Something Blue--C’mon, you know you’ve written a really gut-wrenching bit of angst at some point. Let’s hear the saddest or angstiest thing you’ve got. Alternatively? Tell us about the last time you described the color blue.
This was a tough one because, as Cairi pointed out, angst is all about context. I have a lot of stories that are heavy on the tragedy (While Hope Lasts, The Sound of Laughter, The Cruelest Kindness, To Save or to Salvage, ect ad nauseum) but I decided to go with this one from A Scion of Earendil's House. Objectively, it's not even that sad, but it's the kind of understated angst that I enjoy reading and would like to be better at writing. Here's a snippet of Elrond worrying, set a few hours after an argument with Elladan and Elrohir. The twins had tried to convince him that teenage Estel was old enough to go on a combat patrol.
"“He is too young,” Elrond murmured-speaking to himself, speaking to the stars, “Surely they ought to see that. I must give him a few years before I laden him with all the burdens of Manhood.”
The stars were silent. Elrond sighed as he stared at the brightest of them. “What else can I do, Father?”
But, though he could barely remember the sound of his father’s voice, somehow he knew what he would say. Eärendil had been a man of bold action. It was from him that Elladan and Elrohir got their fire-much like Elros before them and all of Elros’s descendants since.
Meanwhile, Elrond was left, like his mother, standing on the shorelines waiting for the ones he loved to come home.
He tore his gaze away from the stars. He would find no answer there-at least none that brought comfort. A moment later, he almost regretted this, though, as his eyes alit, instead, on Estel’s arrow where it hung, still embedded in the cliff.
The problem, to his thinking, was that the twins seemed to view Estel almost like that arrow. He was handled with care, shaped, hardened, and sharpened to fly true and far. Now, the twins were merely waiting for leave to release him upon the world, that he might do what he’d been made to do. Doubtless, he would be a great asset to them in their vendetta.
But, were Elrond’s motives any purer? He’d told them that Aragorn’s life was not theirs to gamble-not Estel, his son’s, but Aragorn’s. What could Elrond hope for, but to temper Aragorn-the hidden Chieftain, the last Heir-for a few more years before he set him against all the darkness that now littered his desk?
He remembered hearing that the arrow that killed Smaug had to be left to rot with the beast. Bard had long treasured it, but no power in creation could have retrieved it from the carcass of the monster it was lost in.
For once, the stillness of the night held no peace for him. But, he knew what he must do."
1) Something Old--a blurb from one of the first fics you've written
From "Splintered Reflection," my first LotR piece.
"The tavern is noisy, crowded, and dim, but even so they can sense his approach. For his part, the traveler takes no note of the rowdy patrons as he heads for his usual seat in the most shadowed corner. Their eyes follow him, though. They take in the worn green cloak, the stained clothes, the sword hilt gleaming dully. The hobbits among them notice his mud-caked boots and the knife they conceal. He’s picked up a limp since the last time he darkened these doors.
Most of the patrons return immediately to their tankards. A few of the bolder ones watch as he lifts a pipe and lights it. The glow of the embers throws shadows across a visage that seems as weathered as the face of a mountain and just as hard. Beneath the mask of grime, his face tightens slightly as if in pain.
It is then that one of the patrons, his tongue loosened by ale, dares to speak.
“So, you back again, Longshanks?”
The Ranger’s eyes dart across the room and the unfortunate speaker is trapped for a moment in their steely gaze. The patron swallows hard. He doesn’t understand what he sees in those eyes-just that they seem very terrible and make him feel very small. The other man does nothing, though. After a moment he responds “For a time,” in a soft voice that somehow carries easily. Then he looks away and the patron is free.
Bending his head gratefully to his tankard, the man takes a fortifying draught before muttering “Strange fellow, that Strider.”"
2) Something New--A snippet from something you're currently working on or the last thing you posted
From my Aragorn-in-Harad epic (which is now a year in the making with no end in sight. *sigh*). It loosely follows the plot of "Strangers."
"He set out in the late afternoon, not long after the hottest part of the day had passed. The caravan had likely been on the move all day, but, burdened as it was with small children and chained adults, it moved slowly. He could overtake it in half the time. Luck was with him. No rain had fallen to disturb the trail, though the caravan was large enough that he probably could have tracked it even if a tempest had blown through. The sky was cloudless, and once the sun set, the moon rose clear and cold and nearly full.
Aragorn needed all the help he could get, for his day in the desert had done him no favors. Except for some grubs and a few edible roots, he’d found nothing to eat, which was just as well since he’d had little to drink since dawn. By the time he’d ventured out of his shelter, the afternoon heat had long since dried out the small trickle of the stream bed. The night air was blessedly cool, but still dry. Aragorn’s head was one solid ache and his mouth might as well have been made out of sand. As the night wore on, he was able to collect a bit of dew here and there using his headdress as a rag, but he had no canteen in which to carry it. He passed dozens of the fleshy, spine-tipped plants, but without a knife, he couldn’t hope to collect the pulp. It was frustrating to be so woefully underequipped.
But, he was free in a wild place and he had a trail to follow. For the first time in years, he felt like Strider again, and the feeling was liberating."
This will be written someday. I have about 80 pages already, but I've only told about a third of the story I want to tell. But it will all be written! Someday. :)
3) Something Borrowed--A scene or section of dialogue from another writer’s story. Maybe something that inspired you or resonated with you. (Credit the writer and link to it if possible, please.)
Gah, so many great authors to choose from! I ended up going with a piece from a writer who's a bit newer to Tolkien fic and has a real talent for imagery and characterization. This is one of the first fics I read from her, and I was hooked instantly.
From "The Sealed Letter" by rhymer23.
"Ned thought he was dead at first. The lantern swung in his hand, its light flickering across the man's face. Then he saw that the man's eyes were open and watching him. They gleamed brightly in the light of the quivering lantern.
"Leave him now, Lass," Ned said gruffly. "It's time to go."
Ned took a step back. The lantern swung around, showing him the man's legs, with Lass ensconced so firmly at his side. Then further still, showing him the stone above the hearth where he and Celandine had carved their initials, in a springtime long ago.
"Even a ruin like this still belongs to somebody," Ned said. "You have no business to be here. Be off with you."
Lass whined. Ned stepped forward again, thrusting the lantern at the man's face. He was very pale, he saw, and his brow was damp with the unmistakable signs of fever. A pouch of herbs was laid out beside him, and he had clearly been crushing leaves between two flat stones, before losing the strength for it. His right hand was curled loosely on the ground beside him, stained with both old and fresh blood.
"Come on, Lass," Ned said. "We can't be staying here."
The man was looking in his direction, but Ned suddenly doubted that the man was really seeing him. But when Ned unthinkingly lowered his hand to the cudgel at his side, the man's eyes seemed keen enough. His right hand moved towards the long knife that lay beside him, and was no longer slack.
"You have to understand how things work round here," Ned told him. It occurred to him suddenly that this was the first person he had seen for weeks. His voice turned harsher. "Few decent folk travel the Greenway any more, and we're half a mile even from there. You're no lord or elf or warrior, that's for sure. You're a bandit or a wild man, and I want nothing to do with you. Come on, Lass."
Lass remained where she was. Ned turned to leave, scrambling round the edge of the pile of rubble. The willow-herb had gone to seed, its tall stems covered with hairy wisps of white. Outside, the rain was heavier and the clouds were black in the south. "And even if you were just a simple traveller," he muttered, "you're nothing to do with me."
He stopped in the middle of the farm yard, and turned his face up to the rain. He remembered his first kiss with Celandine in this very place. Then a memory from years later: Odo running home with a tale of an injured fox. They had nursed it better for days, he and Odo and Celandine, then released it back into the wild.
Ned let out a harsh breath. And still that accursed dog refused to appear! He pushed back through the willow-herb, dislodging sodden wisps of seeds. Lass raised her head happily. "How bad is it?" Ned demanded. "What's wrong with you, anyway?""
4) Something Blue--C’mon, you know you’ve written a really gut-wrenching bit of angst at some point. Let’s hear the saddest or angstiest thing you’ve got. Alternatively? Tell us about the last time you described the color blue.
This was a tough one because, as Cairi pointed out, angst is all about context. I have a lot of stories that are heavy on the tragedy (While Hope Lasts, The Sound of Laughter, The Cruelest Kindness, To Save or to Salvage, ect ad nauseum) but I decided to go with this one from A Scion of Earendil's House. Objectively, it's not even that sad, but it's the kind of understated angst that I enjoy reading and would like to be better at writing. Here's a snippet of Elrond worrying, set a few hours after an argument with Elladan and Elrohir. The twins had tried to convince him that teenage Estel was old enough to go on a combat patrol.
"“He is too young,” Elrond murmured-speaking to himself, speaking to the stars, “Surely they ought to see that. I must give him a few years before I laden him with all the burdens of Manhood.”
The stars were silent. Elrond sighed as he stared at the brightest of them. “What else can I do, Father?”
But, though he could barely remember the sound of his father’s voice, somehow he knew what he would say. Eärendil had been a man of bold action. It was from him that Elladan and Elrohir got their fire-much like Elros before them and all of Elros’s descendants since.
Meanwhile, Elrond was left, like his mother, standing on the shorelines waiting for the ones he loved to come home.
He tore his gaze away from the stars. He would find no answer there-at least none that brought comfort. A moment later, he almost regretted this, though, as his eyes alit, instead, on Estel’s arrow where it hung, still embedded in the cliff.
The problem, to his thinking, was that the twins seemed to view Estel almost like that arrow. He was handled with care, shaped, hardened, and sharpened to fly true and far. Now, the twins were merely waiting for leave to release him upon the world, that he might do what he’d been made to do. Doubtless, he would be a great asset to them in their vendetta.
But, were Elrond’s motives any purer? He’d told them that Aragorn’s life was not theirs to gamble-not Estel, his son’s, but Aragorn’s. What could Elrond hope for, but to temper Aragorn-the hidden Chieftain, the last Heir-for a few more years before he set him against all the darkness that now littered his desk?
He remembered hearing that the arrow that killed Smaug had to be left to rot with the beast. Bard had long treasured it, but no power in creation could have retrieved it from the carcass of the monster it was lost in.
For once, the stillness of the night held no peace for him. But, he knew what he must do."