Pretty Hate Machine
folder
-Multi-Age › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
4,311
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
4,311
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Crow's Rest
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, this is all based on J.R.R. Tolkien's work.
Warning: Implied incest.
Pretty Hate Machine:
CROW'S REST
I might tell you how it feels, says the pale maiden. I might tell you every detail. Would you love me then? Would you take me away from my mountaintop prison?
I might tell you my reasons, says the marked villain. I might talk of those I love and hate, who would rather I had never existed. Would you view me differently?
I might tell you things you would never believe, says the bright-haired prince. I might even find some way to explain to myself why I do not loath myself. What would you think?
Talk to me.
I do not feel at rest when I sit in my bower and embroider. I do not feel so when I groom and serve my king, my uncle - when I watch his once-strong arm tremble to hold up a pitcher. There is no rest for me in the hallways of Meduseld, where I wander the day. All the colours on hangings of old glory have faded and the battles reduced to nothing but catalogues of loss - meaningless and devoid of passion.
I do not feel at rest when Wormtongue watches me - he may be concealed in shadows, but his gaze is a familiar whisper on the back of my neck, and I look up, and even through the dark I see his eyes. I do not feel at rest when he talks to me, and oh, he does, so much - words of truth - truths that are terrible, but they call to me so, promising certainty which I cannot bring myself to reach for. I want this so badly, and yet something in me fights it. I cannot listen to him. Oh, but I long to.
The only time my mind is cool and sure and unfazed is when my blade cuts the air, and when it hits, and I feel it slice true and strong through my mark. When I duck and parry, strike - and either win or lose - I know who and what I am. I am a shieldmaiden, a warrior, and there is nothing before me beyond the next enemy.
And then I put down my sword and shield and leave the training field, and walk back into the cool dark hallways.
I feel at times as if nothing lives in these halls, and even I am only a pale ghost remembering days before her death, not even aware of when her life stumbled to an end. I feel as if only mind travels in these halls, imagining flesh, imagining breath.
And that is worse than unrest.
Things will change soon, I tell myself. Yet it amazes me when I see this actually happening, to see matters sliding towards my intentions. I am not so sure how the dice will fall when my plan reaches it's denouement, but all of this is better than I ever expected. I have wanted this for so long. I have dreamt of the end, of the fire, of the golden hall in rubble.
I wasn't bought by Saruman in the sense you might think. Oh no. I am not surprised you'd tack my motives simply to greed, dense as that assumption is. But why would I want treasure when I have every luxury of Edoras in my reach?
Éowyn?
Éowynnnn...
Saruman could not give her to me any more than any other man could make a gift or a possession out of her. Only she can give herself to me in the way that I want her.
Little changes are taking place. I can see it. I can taste it. And oh, it won't be long now, until her tears turn into laughter and her sighs will be full of joy. And she will know how warm it is, here in the dark, and she will be free.
The day is cloudy, and the shaft of light from the high window is pale as the moon. It lights half her face, and she stands tall and fair between shadow and light. Her mouth is a thin line and her head held up proudly, but I know my sister and I know the anger that has moved her to such stillness. She might topple, or break, like steel that is too fine - so pure it is brittle.
"What of it, Brother?" she says. "Speak. What is it that you wish to say to me?"
My hands fall to my sides, and my tongue is still. She hits my face, hard, and I stumble a step back.
"Éomer! Speak!" she commands. "It is enough you spy on my comings and goings! Will I not even have your opinion, if you've gone to the trouble of forming one? Come now! Tell me who I should pledge myself to, where I should sleep or how I should spend my nights? Come, tell me how to wear my dress - shall I wear it upside down for your pleasure now? Or shall I service you? What is your pleasure tonight, my lord?"
Who are you, sister? Who am I? How did we come to this?
The crow's talons scraped against the golden plating as it settled on the roof of the highest building of the town. The wind whipped at its feathers, and it crowed three times before taking flight again. In a little while, it would start raining.
Warning: Implied incest.
Pretty Hate Machine:
CROW'S REST
I might tell you how it feels, says the pale maiden. I might tell you every detail. Would you love me then? Would you take me away from my mountaintop prison?
I might tell you my reasons, says the marked villain. I might talk of those I love and hate, who would rather I had never existed. Would you view me differently?
I might tell you things you would never believe, says the bright-haired prince. I might even find some way to explain to myself why I do not loath myself. What would you think?
Talk to me.
I do not feel at rest when I sit in my bower and embroider. I do not feel so when I groom and serve my king, my uncle - when I watch his once-strong arm tremble to hold up a pitcher. There is no rest for me in the hallways of Meduseld, where I wander the day. All the colours on hangings of old glory have faded and the battles reduced to nothing but catalogues of loss - meaningless and devoid of passion.
I do not feel at rest when Wormtongue watches me - he may be concealed in shadows, but his gaze is a familiar whisper on the back of my neck, and I look up, and even through the dark I see his eyes. I do not feel at rest when he talks to me, and oh, he does, so much - words of truth - truths that are terrible, but they call to me so, promising certainty which I cannot bring myself to reach for. I want this so badly, and yet something in me fights it. I cannot listen to him. Oh, but I long to.
The only time my mind is cool and sure and unfazed is when my blade cuts the air, and when it hits, and I feel it slice true and strong through my mark. When I duck and parry, strike - and either win or lose - I know who and what I am. I am a shieldmaiden, a warrior, and there is nothing before me beyond the next enemy.
And then I put down my sword and shield and leave the training field, and walk back into the cool dark hallways.
I feel at times as if nothing lives in these halls, and even I am only a pale ghost remembering days before her death, not even aware of when her life stumbled to an end. I feel as if only mind travels in these halls, imagining flesh, imagining breath.
And that is worse than unrest.
Things will change soon, I tell myself. Yet it amazes me when I see this actually happening, to see matters sliding towards my intentions. I am not so sure how the dice will fall when my plan reaches it's denouement, but all of this is better than I ever expected. I have wanted this for so long. I have dreamt of the end, of the fire, of the golden hall in rubble.
I wasn't bought by Saruman in the sense you might think. Oh no. I am not surprised you'd tack my motives simply to greed, dense as that assumption is. But why would I want treasure when I have every luxury of Edoras in my reach?
Éowyn?
Éowynnnn...
Saruman could not give her to me any more than any other man could make a gift or a possession out of her. Only she can give herself to me in the way that I want her.
Little changes are taking place. I can see it. I can taste it. And oh, it won't be long now, until her tears turn into laughter and her sighs will be full of joy. And she will know how warm it is, here in the dark, and she will be free.
The day is cloudy, and the shaft of light from the high window is pale as the moon. It lights half her face, and she stands tall and fair between shadow and light. Her mouth is a thin line and her head held up proudly, but I know my sister and I know the anger that has moved her to such stillness. She might topple, or break, like steel that is too fine - so pure it is brittle.
"What of it, Brother?" she says. "Speak. What is it that you wish to say to me?"
My hands fall to my sides, and my tongue is still. She hits my face, hard, and I stumble a step back.
"Éomer! Speak!" she commands. "It is enough you spy on my comings and goings! Will I not even have your opinion, if you've gone to the trouble of forming one? Come now! Tell me who I should pledge myself to, where I should sleep or how I should spend my nights? Come, tell me how to wear my dress - shall I wear it upside down for your pleasure now? Or shall I service you? What is your pleasure tonight, my lord?"
Who are you, sister? Who am I? How did we come to this?
The crow's talons scraped against the golden plating as it settled on the roof of the highest building of the town. The wind whipped at its feathers, and it crowed three times before taking flight again. In a little while, it would start raining.