Prisoner of Númenor Planning/Discussion Thread

[littlemanpoet]

All I can do is suggest.

First, you've introduced new characters that we don't know from Hurin. Scrap them and bring in someone whose name and history we recognize. The hands of the king are healing hands: the line of Elendil is royal, and should have been the line through which the crown of Numenor passed, except for a usurpation; so, Elendil could be the attempted healer. We know who he is. If his healing attempt fails, that's greater drama.

Kat needs to speak, needs to have a last moment with her parents, a time to bid farewell and speak of the hope to be reunited beyond the walls of the Arda.

Slow it down. Let it breathe. Give it more space. It feels rushed. Narrated. Told rather than shown. Describe what's happening rather than say it. Use the reader's senses.

What are the emotions behind the tears? You have to try to bring Inzillomi into this, and Mabalar as well. Go ahead and write for Mabalar too. I think you have a good enough idea what he would think and feel and do. Give it a shot. I think you can imagine it and turn into something real. And yes, it may make a change in you to write it, too.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Originally Posted by littlemanpoet

Scrap them and bring in someone whose name and history we recognize.

Easy enough to do. They were only really meant to show what was up with her on the road. It's tough to post for someone unconscious.

so, Elendil could be the attempted healer. We know who he is. If his healing attempt fails, that's greater drama.

Very true, though he's not there. Keep her alive until he arrives?

Kat needs to speak, needs to have a last moment with her parents, a time to bid farewell and speak of the hope to be reunited beyond the walls of the Arda.

I agree.

Describe what's happening rather than say it. Use the reader's senses.

I needed that.

I've got a few things to think on and then I'll give it a fresh shot.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

I've got a post that will need to be put in before Menel's. LMP, I'd appreciate your input on it, so I'll PM it to you later today (sometime either mid-afternoon or late tonight), if that's okay?

[littlemanpoet]

PM is fine, Fea.

It doesn't have to be Elendil. The alternative is to make the healer someone the reader can emotionally identify with. That's a challenge, but I think you're up to it. Say that maybe they're related, so this healer, as a first cousin, or something, has a vested interest in keeping Kat alive. Or something like that, say.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Pio, can you place this before Menel's post? LMP will be posting again also in reference to this, and so will I.

POST PLACED ~*~ PIO

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Feanor of the Peredhil's post


Kâthaanî Karibzir was remembering, or was she dreaming? It hurt to breathe and she could not tell. She knew that one candle burned beside her: the dim flickering softly illuminated her eyelids, and she heard the music of hoof beats to accompany the rhythm of the flickering pink before her closed eyes.

It had been a diversion. She and Marsillion had ridden away with faithful Tiru to travel to Armenelos... to be the visible group of rescuers. Kâthaanîhad never dreamt that she or her companions would need rescuing.

Like moths drawn to a soft lantern in the deepest hours of the night, they had been so easily caught by the King's Men. She tried to groan at the thought, but no sound emerged. She could sense that she was not alone, though whoever sat by her made no sound. She could not open her eyes... not yet.

A cell. The cold walls glimmered with dampness in the sparse torchlight. She was chained to the wall, alone but for the rats that moved toward her stealthily as she slept. In her mind she shuddered. They had put Marsillion in another part of the dungeon. Tiru had been taken away with him. Kâthaanî had nothing save the tortured screams of those on the Dark Lord's dreaded altar to sing her sweetly into dream at night.

She was cold. Was it dream or waking? Voices made their way softly to her ears. They soothed her, though she could not understand the words. The cold stone wall chafed her skin as she leaned closer, straining for sound. The voice was unknown to her. Did she only imagine the comforting tone that found its way to her ears? The essence of the message... do not despair... it sang a soft counterpart to the groans of the slowly dying. A dream? she could not tell. Hours had run into days that were interchangeable with seconds. The monotony of darkness was broken only by blinding torchlight that guided doomed men to their fate. She wept at the cruel injustice. She wept for her father, a brave man, a good man, more helpless even then her to stem this slaughter, if only because he had had the longer understanding of it. She wept for the malice in the eyes of the guards that brought her meals, denying her even the smallest word of hope or sunlight. She prayed to the Valar for their redemption, though she never spoke.

It hurt. A sharp pain in her chest, just below her ribs. She was wounded. Inexplicable warmth flooded the area with pain as memories sought to repress reality. A hand took hers none too gently. Her chains unfastened from the wall, she was pulled from her cell and ordered to stand. She tried and fell, her muscles screaming in protest. Kâthaanî was dragged through the halls of the dungeons as she tried in vain to block the vicious light from her eyes.

She was thrown to the steps of the altar and she lay there until pulled and held to standing. Only then did Kâthaanî take in the sight: Marsillion stood bound, his eyes red and swollen, Tiru beside him. Abârpânarú stood, his shoulders stooped, his expression bereft of hope. Kâthaanî's heart stirred. She had failed her father. Her own impetuosity had betrayed her. Now, not only would her father die, but he would be forced to watch his beloved daughter tortured to death before it. Tears stained Kâthaanî's cheeks as she silently whispered "I am sorry" to ears that could not hear.

While on the journey, Kâthaanî had acted rashly... as a child. She had forced herself upon this mission with little right, and what had she to show for it? She had not saved her father... simply caused him more heartache. He would willingly die to save her... she had never so fully understood the implications of this until now... now, when death loomed near. Would they die fast? She could only hope that Abârpânarú would die first, though it pained her to think it, to be spared the tragedy of the ending of his daughter's life.

Was it ending now? She could not move. As a child, Kâthaanî had fallen from a horse, bruising her head. The feeling had been the same then, twining as a cat through now and then. It had only taken the voice of her father to tie her to reality. She wished he was here. She had seen him fall. Her mother had come. These moments melted together until she wondered how she had come to be riding double with Inzillomì. A strong arm had pulled her from the saddle and she rolled to her feet, knife in hand. As her mother looked on in horror, Kâthaanî had tried and failed to prevail once more. She fell to the ground with a scream as unforgiving metal pierced her flesh. It hurt like nothing that she had ever felt, unpityingly reminiscent of the harsh, bone-chilling ache that had once descended upon her after falling through ice... only worse... much worse. She could feel the chill radiating from the wound; it spread through her without boundary and with immediate effect: she lay frozen in fear. The candle flickered, going out. Voices sounded. Kâthaanî lay bleeding and her last thoughts were of her mother: her father had been saved from his daughter's death only for the witnessing to be given to Inzillomi. The world faded from memory.

"Kâthaanî." spoke a voice. "Kâthaanî, hold on." It was her father. He had helped her to safety when Izri came.

"Kâthaanî, speak to me." His voice was charged with worry. Why did the ground shake like this? Why did her dreams lie? Abârpânarú had not ordered her to speak in Armenelos.

"My Cerveth, my love, I am here." A hand took hers. Kâthaanî clasped Izri's reins.

Inzillomì looked at her husband in fear as she held her daughter’s icy hand within her warm ones. On their arrival to Romenna, the guard in charge of Kâthaanî had reported that her condition was worsening. Her breathing had slowed, her face was white. Her wound no longer bled, but the healers, not Elendil in the least, believed the offending sword to have been tipped with poison. She lay now unaware of the world... or so it seemed to her parents.

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Many thanks, littlemanpoet.

[littlemanpoet]

Pio, could you please place this post in post # 109, in between Feanor's and Meneltarmacil's? Thanks!

POST PLACED ~*~ Pio

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Mabalar knelt by Lothlômé, watching Cerveth intently as their daughter's life slipped away. They were safe in the hold of Elendil's ship, already moving ahead of a strong wind, which was gaining strength with each minute that passed. The roar of the wind and surf grew louder outside, but did not drown out the sound of Cerveth's shallow breathing, nor the sound of Mabalar's own beating pulse in his ears.

"Cerveth!" Lotha called. Mabalar took up the call, holding his wife's warm hand in his left, and his daughter's cold, cold hand in his right, completing the circle the three of them made.

If sheer will were enough to bring her back, she would be whole and laughing with them this moment. But there was nothing he could do.

Elendil had seen to the binding of her wound, and had spoken gravely of poison. He had tried to prepare them for the worst.

Mabalar was not prepared. "Cerveth! My dear! Stay with us!"

Tears stained Lotha's face. His eyes were painfully hot and dry. He refused to let his daughter die.

"Cerveth!"

She was so pale. Her breaths came shallow and ragged, and too few. Mabalar's heart beat heavy doom in his breast; but he refused to accept what his heart told him.

"No!" He dropped his wife's and daughter's hands, rising. "This was not meant to be!" He stood rigid, his hands fisted, the muscles in his legs knotted, his stance wide against the movement of the ship. He looked westward. "Mandos!" he yelled. "Take me instead!" Anything to save his precious Cerveth. "Let me have the sword thrust and the poison! Spare her!"

But Mandos gave him no sudden wound, no exchange of place or pain, no vision; not even a sound.

Mabalar fell to his knees again, and looked again at Lotha's anguished face.

His throat clenched on his words as he murmured, "I do not want to lose her," and he wept. For long moments, husband and wife hung upon each other, their shared grief their only comfort.

"Mama! Papa!" The voice came to their ears barely above a whisper, using their names from her childhood.

"Cerveth!" They knelt again by her side, hoping against hope that she was reviving.

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Well, Feanor, definitely not easy to write, but worth it to at least try, no?

[Meneltarmacil]

I'll be out of town and won't be posting here until Sunday afternoon at least due to Thanksgiving. Just thought you should know.