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The daily rains are massing outside the window as usual. Oh, joy. I've already cowered through one thunderstorm today, and although I love my bed and its warm comforters and soft pillows, I don't want to lay down roots in the box spring. At least I had enough time for a bowl of soup, a soda, and some chips. I'm hoping that the storms end by nine o'clock or so, so that I can lay down my ficcing groove. I've still got ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hexennacht's George Weasley/Draco Malfoy/Sorting Hat/Room of Requirement "drabble to finish, as well as SLS 53, House of Bad Faith, and Scotch and Gin, And How They Mingle on the Tongue.
I was rooting through my hard drive last night out of boredom and found several fic snippets I'd written when I first discovered fanfiction in 2001. Back then, my fandoms were LOTR and The Mummy, but there was HPfic, too. The LOTR fic was a dreadful, hideous, unabashed Mary Sue, and the canon mangling I perpetrated upon Tolkien's masterwork was an egregious breach of decency, but at the time, I was having fun. It never occurred to me that what I was doing was "bad" or "wrong". I was just a child with a bucket full of Play-Doh, having the time of my life. I was so oblivious that when people rolled their eyes and pointed out the Suedom of my character, I thought it was oblique praise. Ah, the innocence of babes.
So, in honor of my ficcing roots, I thought I'd post snippets from the fics in which I was just beginning to find my voice. I warn you now that they are atrocious Sues. Keep a tissue handy, lest the pathos melt your eyeballs.
This first offering comes from an unpublished chapter of my epic LOTR Suefic, Fate of Empires. The remainder of it is on view at Fanfiction.net. Not the OOC Boromir and the angsty melodrama:
Nothing, man or animal, should have been able to make the sounds coming out of Saryn, but there she sat, head thrown back, eyes rolled up to the sky, screaming, shrieking at the passing clouds. Boromir resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears. It was so loud. Gods, she going to tear herself apart, he thought, watching her shake and rock as the inhuman sobs continued to rend the air around them. Tear herself apart. Someone stop her. He willed himself to move, but found he could not. He was transfixed by the enormity of her grief. It was huge. It swallowed her up.
She's going to die, she's going to scream herself to death, he thought hysterically.
"Someone please help her," he said, speaking to everyone, but mostly to Telvryn who squatted a few feet away from her, staring at her hunched, quivering form in mute horror.
Telvryn wanted to do what Boromir asked, even thought he should after all he and Saryn had been through together. But he was terrified. A wall of bare, undiluted emotion surrounded her, a dark and turbulent aura. He was afraid that if he drew too close, he would be turned to ash by the intensity of her rage and loss.
Tis like watching an evenstar implode, he thought. Her grief was a private thing made public. He could not bring himself to intrude upon it. He remained where he was.
Boromir found himself moving at last, picking his way through the corpses of his slain enemies. This had to stop. As he drew closer, he saw her reach out a blood-sheathed hand and gently trail her fingers over the familiar contours of her beloved's face. It was such a simple gesture of aching love and longing, but it wrenched his heart in a way her sobbing had not, and he had to clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle a mournful whine. He thought of all the times he had belittled their love and questioned her honor, and was ashamed. Until now, he had not been aware of the depth of the love between them. He silently prayed for forgiveness for his cruelties.
"Lady Saryn, come away," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "It is over."
"No," she wailed, "I will not leave him."
Boromir bent down and pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. She tried to resist, but her mourning had made her weak, and he was able to pull her into the comforting yet restraining circle of his arms. She continued to sob, but the sound had lost much of its shrillness. She trembled like a frightened bird in his arms. The heat radiating from her body made his upper lip sweat.
"
It will be alright, my lady," he murmured, realizing his mistake too late.
She stiffened in his arms. "NOTHING IS ALRIGHT!" she bellowed, and began flailing at him with her fists. His armor protected him from the blows, and he stood in silent acceptance of her fury.
"I'm sorry. You're right. Nothing is alright." He thought again of his crude remarks in the breakfast hall and tightened his grip around her. He would do everything he could to atone for what he had done.
Gradually, her flurry of fists tapered off and she sank to her knees, her head resting on his abdomen. "Why, Boromir, why?" She wept silently, her tears dampening his tunic.
It was the most fundamental question of all, and he had no answer to give her. He sank to his knees and enfolded her again, cradling her head on his shoulder. She wept, mouth open in a soundless scream of anguish.
"
I have avenged us, Your Majesty," came a soft voice from behind them.
Cerek Blackbark lay crumpled against the base of a sickly spruce, an arrow lodged in his stomach. Any fool could clearly see that the wound was mortal, yet there was a triumphant, self-satisfied smile pasted on his lips. Blood ringed his mouth in a red smear. He was regarding Elrond with a look of smug vindication. "Your besmirched honor and mine have been cleansed, m'lord."
Try not to succumb to the stultifying reek of hormonal overkill and movie-of-the-week histrionics.
And watch as Saryn lays the smack down on Gimli:
"Eater of worms!! Burrower of dirt! Defiler of the earth! By your carelessness was the artifice of my husband's death crafted. You left your weapon within reach of those foul creatures, and for that I damn you."
I know. It sounded great at the time.
The Mummy and Ardeth Bey were not spared my Sueing ways. This excerpt of fiery passion and deft prose was culled from a fic entitled, Eye of Osiris. The fic is long gone, deleted in a moment of lucidity, but the evidence remains:
"Do you have mercy?" he asked.
She stared at him. What does that have to do with anything? she thought. "For those who deserve it."
"And who are you to decide who is deserving?" he challenged.
"And who are you to decide men should die because they enter your land?" she snapped.
"Men decide their own fate by their actions. I force them to do nothing."
He smiled. Before she could say more, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers. She felt his hands plunge into her hair. Overcoming her shock, she surrendered to the gentle pressure of his lips. Her own hands found his hair and pulled him close. She had never felt anything like this.
"Would you repeat that please?" she asked when they parted at last.
"With pleasure," he whispered, kissing her with more passion than before, his tongue exploring the sweetness of her lips. Her hands found their way to his face, where her curious fingers traced speculative lines around the tattoos on his skin. They reluctantly parted.
"It appears I have chosen well," he said.
She looked at him quizzically, an uncertain smile dancing on her lips.
"You passed the test I set for you. You were not afraid to question me when I challenged you. You answered wisely and without hesitation. From the moment I first saw you, I thought you were the one whom I have been seeking for all these years; now I am certain. You have told me you have no home. Make your home with me, among my people. Become my wife and bear my children. In return, I will love you until the end of my days. If you will have me, show it with a kiss."
She smiled, happiness radiating from her face. She, too, had known he was the one the instant she'd seen him. She'd been drawn to him as if by a magnet, a small voice in her head murmuring, This is where you destiny lay. He is your chosen path. That's why she'd followed the Tawarek that day, because she'd known they would lead her to him, known it with a surety beyond reproach. She took his hand and pressed her lips to his.
"I will become your wife and bear your children, and I will love you for all of my days. From this day forward, I will love and serve no other." She bowed her head, trying to suppress her joy.
"Then it is decided," he said, beaming. "When we return to the my land, we will pledge our love before all, and everyone shall know you are my chosen. According to the laws of my ancestors, we are wed in the eyes of Allah. Come, my beautiful wife, come into my tent." He helped her to her feet, opening the tent flap and closing it behind him. Once inside, he claimed her for his wife beyond all doubt. It was bliss.
Oh, the wit! The riposte. The eros. Smooth, Ardeth. ~insert "Smooth Operator" here~
This last comes from a Snape one-shot I never finished. I don't think it's bad per se, but I'm not sure if it's worth finishing, either. It was tentatively called, "The Forever Second". Lame, but it was all I could think at the time:
Some would have called him a bastard for hoping that her disability would keep her from leaving, or at the least, buy him a few precious minutes before she swallowed her stubborn pride and called for Winky to do what she could not, but he was a Slytherin, and he could not be sorry. Besides, he had proven himself a bastard a thousand times over-ten minutes ago, in fact, and one more sin made no difference. If he was to be alone, then he would have one more chance to look upon her face, one more moment to gather the stuff of dreams.
She raised her wand and pointed it at her wheelchair with a wavering hand. "Accio wheelchair!" she rasped.
The chair zoomed forward and halted at her side. Then she turned the wand on herself, and for one mad second, he was sure she was going to say, "Avada Kedavra!," but she only murmured, "Automous Wingardium leviosa!"
She rose from the floor and floated into her chair. "Finite incantatem!"
This was his last chance, his last opportunity to head off disaster, to save his heart from a return to the stony numbness it had known for so long. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to speak, to blurt out the first thing that came to mind. Even if it was absolutely ludicrous, it might earn him a startled moment or two in which to offer a better explanation. The iron vise of his jaw was unrelenting, and all he could manage was a frustrated hiss.
She gave him a sharp, searching look, and hope surged in his veins, but then she scowled. "Winky," she barked.
The house elf materialized in an instant, and in her arms she held a change of robes. She spared him a simmering glare and darted to her side. "Is you all right, miss?" she asked.
"I'm fine. We're going now."
He found his voice at last. "Where are you going?" he managed, the words clumsy and wooden inside his mouth.
She didn't answer. She simply spun away from him and moved to the door, crossing the distance at a brisk, angry clip, Winky darting ahead to open the door. His hand reached for her then, but she was too far ahead of him. He rose and started after her, but she was already gone. She did not close the door behind her. He watched as she grew small and indistinct, the sunlight of her hair swallowed up in eternal eclipse.
"I'm sorry," he whispered at last, but it was too little too late.
He paced the floor, the heavy tread of his footfalls ticking off the seconds and the minutes and the hours as efficiently as the hourglass in his study. Hours passed, and shadows grew, and still she did not return. Dusk to twilight. Twilight to evening. Evening to midnight black, and there came no petulant growl of grinding gears, no stealthy click of engaging magnets. He would have prayed had he known how. Or maybe he wouldn't. He was Slytherin, even after all of this, and the last time he'd offered obeisance, it had cost him twenty years of penance.
hexennacht's George Weasley/Draco Malfoy/Sorting Hat/Room of Requirement "drabble to finish, as well as SLS 53, House of Bad Faith, and Scotch and Gin, And How They Mingle on the Tongue.I was rooting through my hard drive last night out of boredom and found several fic snippets I'd written when I first discovered fanfiction in 2001. Back then, my fandoms were LOTR and The Mummy, but there was HPfic, too. The LOTR fic was a dreadful, hideous, unabashed Mary Sue, and the canon mangling I perpetrated upon Tolkien's masterwork was an egregious breach of decency, but at the time, I was having fun. It never occurred to me that what I was doing was "bad" or "wrong". I was just a child with a bucket full of Play-Doh, having the time of my life. I was so oblivious that when people rolled their eyes and pointed out the Suedom of my character, I thought it was oblique praise. Ah, the innocence of babes.
So, in honor of my ficcing roots, I thought I'd post snippets from the fics in which I was just beginning to find my voice. I warn you now that they are atrocious Sues. Keep a tissue handy, lest the pathos melt your eyeballs.
This first offering comes from an unpublished chapter of my epic LOTR Suefic, Fate of Empires. The remainder of it is on view at Fanfiction.net. Not the OOC Boromir and the angsty melodrama:
Nothing, man or animal, should have been able to make the sounds coming out of Saryn, but there she sat, head thrown back, eyes rolled up to the sky, screaming, shrieking at the passing clouds. Boromir resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears. It was so loud. Gods, she going to tear herself apart, he thought, watching her shake and rock as the inhuman sobs continued to rend the air around them. Tear herself apart. Someone stop her. He willed himself to move, but found he could not. He was transfixed by the enormity of her grief. It was huge. It swallowed her up.
She's going to die, she's going to scream herself to death, he thought hysterically.
"Someone please help her," he said, speaking to everyone, but mostly to Telvryn who squatted a few feet away from her, staring at her hunched, quivering form in mute horror.
Telvryn wanted to do what Boromir asked, even thought he should after all he and Saryn had been through together. But he was terrified. A wall of bare, undiluted emotion surrounded her, a dark and turbulent aura. He was afraid that if he drew too close, he would be turned to ash by the intensity of her rage and loss.
Tis like watching an evenstar implode, he thought. Her grief was a private thing made public. He could not bring himself to intrude upon it. He remained where he was.
Boromir found himself moving at last, picking his way through the corpses of his slain enemies. This had to stop. As he drew closer, he saw her reach out a blood-sheathed hand and gently trail her fingers over the familiar contours of her beloved's face. It was such a simple gesture of aching love and longing, but it wrenched his heart in a way her sobbing had not, and he had to clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle a mournful whine. He thought of all the times he had belittled their love and questioned her honor, and was ashamed. Until now, he had not been aware of the depth of the love between them. He silently prayed for forgiveness for his cruelties.
"Lady Saryn, come away," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "It is over."
"No," she wailed, "I will not leave him."
Boromir bent down and pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. She tried to resist, but her mourning had made her weak, and he was able to pull her into the comforting yet restraining circle of his arms. She continued to sob, but the sound had lost much of its shrillness. She trembled like a frightened bird in his arms. The heat radiating from her body made his upper lip sweat.
"
It will be alright, my lady," he murmured, realizing his mistake too late.
She stiffened in his arms. "NOTHING IS ALRIGHT!" she bellowed, and began flailing at him with her fists. His armor protected him from the blows, and he stood in silent acceptance of her fury.
"I'm sorry. You're right. Nothing is alright." He thought again of his crude remarks in the breakfast hall and tightened his grip around her. He would do everything he could to atone for what he had done.
Gradually, her flurry of fists tapered off and she sank to her knees, her head resting on his abdomen. "Why, Boromir, why?" She wept silently, her tears dampening his tunic.
It was the most fundamental question of all, and he had no answer to give her. He sank to his knees and enfolded her again, cradling her head on his shoulder. She wept, mouth open in a soundless scream of anguish.
"
I have avenged us, Your Majesty," came a soft voice from behind them.
Cerek Blackbark lay crumpled against the base of a sickly spruce, an arrow lodged in his stomach. Any fool could clearly see that the wound was mortal, yet there was a triumphant, self-satisfied smile pasted on his lips. Blood ringed his mouth in a red smear. He was regarding Elrond with a look of smug vindication. "Your besmirched honor and mine have been cleansed, m'lord."
Try not to succumb to the stultifying reek of hormonal overkill and movie-of-the-week histrionics.
And watch as Saryn lays the smack down on Gimli:
"Eater of worms!! Burrower of dirt! Defiler of the earth! By your carelessness was the artifice of my husband's death crafted. You left your weapon within reach of those foul creatures, and for that I damn you."
I know. It sounded great at the time.
The Mummy and Ardeth Bey were not spared my Sueing ways. This excerpt of fiery passion and deft prose was culled from a fic entitled, Eye of Osiris. The fic is long gone, deleted in a moment of lucidity, but the evidence remains:
"Do you have mercy?" he asked.
She stared at him. What does that have to do with anything? she thought. "For those who deserve it."
"And who are you to decide who is deserving?" he challenged.
"And who are you to decide men should die because they enter your land?" she snapped.
"Men decide their own fate by their actions. I force them to do nothing."
He smiled. Before she could say more, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers. She felt his hands plunge into her hair. Overcoming her shock, she surrendered to the gentle pressure of his lips. Her own hands found his hair and pulled him close. She had never felt anything like this.
"Would you repeat that please?" she asked when they parted at last.
"With pleasure," he whispered, kissing her with more passion than before, his tongue exploring the sweetness of her lips. Her hands found their way to his face, where her curious fingers traced speculative lines around the tattoos on his skin. They reluctantly parted.
"It appears I have chosen well," he said.
She looked at him quizzically, an uncertain smile dancing on her lips.
"You passed the test I set for you. You were not afraid to question me when I challenged you. You answered wisely and without hesitation. From the moment I first saw you, I thought you were the one whom I have been seeking for all these years; now I am certain. You have told me you have no home. Make your home with me, among my people. Become my wife and bear my children. In return, I will love you until the end of my days. If you will have me, show it with a kiss."
She smiled, happiness radiating from her face. She, too, had known he was the one the instant she'd seen him. She'd been drawn to him as if by a magnet, a small voice in her head murmuring, This is where you destiny lay. He is your chosen path. That's why she'd followed the Tawarek that day, because she'd known they would lead her to him, known it with a surety beyond reproach. She took his hand and pressed her lips to his.
"I will become your wife and bear your children, and I will love you for all of my days. From this day forward, I will love and serve no other." She bowed her head, trying to suppress her joy.
"Then it is decided," he said, beaming. "When we return to the my land, we will pledge our love before all, and everyone shall know you are my chosen. According to the laws of my ancestors, we are wed in the eyes of Allah. Come, my beautiful wife, come into my tent." He helped her to her feet, opening the tent flap and closing it behind him. Once inside, he claimed her for his wife beyond all doubt. It was bliss.
Oh, the wit! The riposte. The eros. Smooth, Ardeth. ~insert "Smooth Operator" here~
This last comes from a Snape one-shot I never finished. I don't think it's bad per se, but I'm not sure if it's worth finishing, either. It was tentatively called, "The Forever Second". Lame, but it was all I could think at the time:
Some would have called him a bastard for hoping that her disability would keep her from leaving, or at the least, buy him a few precious minutes before she swallowed her stubborn pride and called for Winky to do what she could not, but he was a Slytherin, and he could not be sorry. Besides, he had proven himself a bastard a thousand times over-ten minutes ago, in fact, and one more sin made no difference. If he was to be alone, then he would have one more chance to look upon her face, one more moment to gather the stuff of dreams.
She raised her wand and pointed it at her wheelchair with a wavering hand. "Accio wheelchair!" she rasped.
The chair zoomed forward and halted at her side. Then she turned the wand on herself, and for one mad second, he was sure she was going to say, "Avada Kedavra!," but she only murmured, "Automous Wingardium leviosa!"
She rose from the floor and floated into her chair. "Finite incantatem!"
This was his last chance, his last opportunity to head off disaster, to save his heart from a return to the stony numbness it had known for so long. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to speak, to blurt out the first thing that came to mind. Even if it was absolutely ludicrous, it might earn him a startled moment or two in which to offer a better explanation. The iron vise of his jaw was unrelenting, and all he could manage was a frustrated hiss.
She gave him a sharp, searching look, and hope surged in his veins, but then she scowled. "Winky," she barked.
The house elf materialized in an instant, and in her arms she held a change of robes. She spared him a simmering glare and darted to her side. "Is you all right, miss?" she asked.
"I'm fine. We're going now."
He found his voice at last. "Where are you going?" he managed, the words clumsy and wooden inside his mouth.
She didn't answer. She simply spun away from him and moved to the door, crossing the distance at a brisk, angry clip, Winky darting ahead to open the door. His hand reached for her then, but she was too far ahead of him. He rose and started after her, but she was already gone. She did not close the door behind her. He watched as she grew small and indistinct, the sunlight of her hair swallowed up in eternal eclipse.
"I'm sorry," he whispered at last, but it was too little too late.
He paced the floor, the heavy tread of his footfalls ticking off the seconds and the minutes and the hours as efficiently as the hourglass in his study. Hours passed, and shadows grew, and still she did not return. Dusk to twilight. Twilight to evening. Evening to midnight black, and there came no petulant growl of grinding gears, no stealthy click of engaging magnets. He would have prayed had he known how. Or maybe he wouldn't. He was Slytherin, even after all of this, and the last time he'd offered obeisance, it had cost him twenty years of penance.
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