Work-in-progress meme
Jan. 14th, 2012 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
altarielFrom ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lady_branwyn:
When you see this, post a snippet from your works-in-progress.
So this is from my WiP "Clean-Up On Level Seven", which is set in Minas Tirith about a year after the War. I think I have managed to find a snippet that gives away precisely nothing, but there'll be conciliar shenanigans, and an incriminating letter, and psalm-singing, and it is, of course, all about the pyre. I wrote a ton in September, but I'm not likely to get a chance to work on it again until the summer.
Aragorn remained in his chair, his head back, his hands folded upon his chest. He pictured the Steward heading off at full pace – up the steps to the Tower (two at a time); striding down the wide white corridor that ran alongside the Hall (people jumping out of his way or pretending to be busy); up the twenty-four steps to the first floor (again, two at a time), and then back along the corridor to the sanctuary of his office.
The main door to the adjacent room slammed thunderously shut. Aragorn counted to twelve, and then eased himself out of his chair and went through.
Faramir was spread out along a low couch by the window. One arm was slung across his face, the other hung slackly at his side. Aragorn closed the door behind him and Faramir, hearing the click of the latch, shifted his arm upwards so that his hand came to rest upon the top of his head. Steward and King studied each other for a few long moments. Then, with a swift and economical movement, Faramir swung round into a sitting position.
“Better?” asked the King.
“Better,” the Steward replied.
Aragorn looked round for somewhere to sit. There was an armchair nearby, piled high with books, papers, and other assorted documents, with a large black stone of uncertain origin resting on top as a paperweight. He gathered this all up in his arms and dumped it on the floor. Faramir watched as he settled down in the chair.
“Mind if I smoke?”
Faramir opened his palm to grant permission. “It’s not as if the door makes any difference.”
lady_branwyn:When you see this, post a snippet from your works-in-progress.
So this is from my WiP "Clean-Up On Level Seven", which is set in Minas Tirith about a year after the War. I think I have managed to find a snippet that gives away precisely nothing, but there'll be conciliar shenanigans, and an incriminating letter, and psalm-singing, and it is, of course, all about the pyre. I wrote a ton in September, but I'm not likely to get a chance to work on it again until the summer.
Aragorn remained in his chair, his head back, his hands folded upon his chest. He pictured the Steward heading off at full pace – up the steps to the Tower (two at a time); striding down the wide white corridor that ran alongside the Hall (people jumping out of his way or pretending to be busy); up the twenty-four steps to the first floor (again, two at a time), and then back along the corridor to the sanctuary of his office.
The main door to the adjacent room slammed thunderously shut. Aragorn counted to twelve, and then eased himself out of his chair and went through.
Faramir was spread out along a low couch by the window. One arm was slung across his face, the other hung slackly at his side. Aragorn closed the door behind him and Faramir, hearing the click of the latch, shifted his arm upwards so that his hand came to rest upon the top of his head. Steward and King studied each other for a few long moments. Then, with a swift and economical movement, Faramir swung round into a sitting position.
“Better?” asked the King.
“Better,” the Steward replied.
Aragorn looked round for somewhere to sit. There was an armchair nearby, piled high with books, papers, and other assorted documents, with a large black stone of uncertain origin resting on top as a paperweight. He gathered this all up in his arms and dumped it on the floor. Faramir watched as he settled down in the chair.
“Mind if I smoke?”
Faramir opened his palm to grant permission. “It’s not as if the door makes any difference.”
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Date: 2012-01-16 07:38 pm (UTC)Aragorn has been keeping me entertained in this story. Hiding behind statues and springing out on minor Lords, that kind of thing.
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Date: 2012-01-17 04:58 pm (UTC)I love the deep sense of mutual respect and familiarity, particularly Faramir's side of the interaction. "Swift and economical movement" and the description of his progress to his office all fits your Faramir to a T. The final line is priceless. Poor Aragorn - does noone appreciate pipeweed in Gondor?