Elfëa
03-15-2003, 04:56 PM
I posted this story on my lj, with comment:
The implied reader is rather interesting thing in fanfiction - I realise to some of fanfic readers, this piece I wrote, sounds fanfiction, but, where exactly lies the line between original and fanfiction? I think I'm already writing most of my fanfiction on that edge - but, some of my works are actually originals, influenced by fanfiction. Not by JKR's works. I'm not using her characters, I'm using mine. Totally different characters, if you ask me.
But then again - Frodo and Harry are totally different, right? *wink*. (And those who have read Books of Magic comics, (the original first one, by Neil Gaiman)...)
So, here's story called Harry. Read it. It's not meant to be fanfiction. It could be. But only to a reader that regularly reads fanfiction. I did not intend this story be fanfiction. It's not H/D story. It's just story. (At least, so I'm trying to convince myself.)
Note, those who really want to stay away from possible gay relationships, stay away from anything I post. Seriously.
Harry
It was a dim evening. Dark clouds veiled the sky; a storm was coming. There was smell of death in the air; the battlefield wasn’t far away. I could almost taste the magic in the air.
I could hardly see the tree next to me, but I heard someone coming. He passed the line I was guarding. Had I known what was to come, I would have turned away and fled. But without knowing, I acted… almost like a hero.
He wakes up and stares at the ceiling. The white panels look as if they are going to fall down on him, and he closes his eyes again. A minute later the alarm, on the nightstand goes off and he opens his eyes again. Giving an angry look to the alarm he turns it off and crashes back to the bed. But he is awake now and the morning light shining through the curtains disturbs his attempts to fall asleep again.
He passed my line. I had to follow him, and so I did - straight to the battlefield and past it.
There were bodies on the ground in field, piled and scattered in groups. I recognised most of them as he must have had - his friends, pupils from the same school, fighting on both sides. Stepping in a puddle of blood, I almost tripped over the body of my former class mate - he was still alive. His huge frame lay on the ground, eyes blind, but I could hear him moaning, his legs twisting with pain. I wished I could do something for him; I had been taught to kill since I was ten, but now I felt I was unable to end his suffering. I wasn’t a killer.
His whole body is sore from sleep when he finally gets up – the alarm clock shows 10.30am. He loves and hates the Sundays with no work. Groggily he steps in the general direction of the bathroom and almost strips over random items of clothing, spread all over the floor as if taken of in hurry.
I had felt sick before, but now the sight of the torture of human body took over. The battlefield smell - blood, burning flesh and slaughter – hung in the air; the sounds of people dying like cattle. I hadn’t been on the battlefield before, and now I knew why.
He died without my help, and I was sick next to his dead body.
My legs didn’t want to carry me on, but I had to follow the boy who crossed the line. I knew where he was heading.
The bathroom floor is warm against his bare feet. He feels like throwing up, but when he leans over the toilet seat nothing comes up. He hopes the wine from last night stays down and turns on the shower.
Fifteen minutes under the running hot water with shampoo and soap he feels almost ready to face another day. When he steps out of the shower he almost trips over – the floor is wet. He curses. The bathrobe is nowhere to be found; he grasps a towel from the wall and heads to the kitchen.
There on the battlefield I understood something that changed the course of my life.
I followed him to the entrance, but I did not enter. For long time I stood there, letting the fresh air flow around my body. I knew what Harry was after and I knew he couldn’t succeed… not without help.
I looked back, over the corpses of those who had died in vain. War wasn’t fought in the battle – it was fought in the minds of its leaders. I was but a mere puppet to play with.
I cried then, for my lost life. For the lives lost in vain. I cried for revenge.
Towel wrapped around his waist he goes to the kitchen and turns on the coffee machine. The morning light that illuminates the space which works as living room and kitchen is bright, and his eyes hurt. He decides he hates ‘mornings after’.
The morning paper is stuck in the mail box; his hands still feel bad about even touching things and it takes another five minutes to fight the paper out. Finally he gets to sit down with the paper and a mug of coffee.
The coffee is strong and he’s finally starting to feel alive again. He considers whether he should ever drink wine again, but he’s afraid that decision would not hold till the next bottle. The paper reads about wars that go ever on and on in distant countries. He knows war – something he doesn’t want to see again - and passes the pages fast.
He finishes his breakfast – two buttered pieces of toast, as nothing else can be found from the cupboards. The kitchen and living room look like a horrid mess, and he starts cleaning up.
Then, without thinking, I ran in the tunnels and cried his name in my mind.
It was an eternal midnight in the tunnel – darkness that was thicker than the air. There were no torches to light the way: the creatures that guarded the passage cannot see and need no light. My breath sounded horridly loud in the silent tunnels, and I wondered if they had got him already. I silently prayed they hadn’t.
The mountainous pile of dishes in the sink has to wait; he gathers all the remaining glasses, cutlery and plates from the tables. Three empty wine bottles stand on different places, and he wonders briefly how two people can create such mess. Three wine bottles? – he cannot remember the third. Too much wine is always bad, and he considers again giving up drinking.
When he gathers the scattered cushions he ponders how they ended up the floor and remembers seducing Harry. Or had it been other way round? Does it change what happened? He almost wishes Harry had stayed for the night.
The scream pierced the heavy air, and I ran. The tunnel opened to a cavern now – in the middle of it I could see a smouldering pile of ash. I feared then that I was too late. But brief, horror-filled seconds later I saw Harry again, tied up to a pillar of stalagmite growing from the stone floor. He didn’t’ see me, but I saw the rage on his face.
The man standing face to face with Harry was my Master. My Lord, who had not trusted me enough to let me fight in the real war. Maybe he had been right in not trusting me, but I did not think about it then.
He continues cleaning up, remembering the drunken lust when he picks, one by one, the clothes from the bedroom floor.
Midday comes and goes; the bright sun disappears into the clouds. He sits on the couch, flipping through the channels, but nothing interests him.
A knock on the door surprises him. It’s midday on Sunday, who could it be? He opens the door anyway, expecting a random door-to-door salesman. The smell of flowers greets him, and behind the bunch of spring flowers he can see Harry’s slim figure.
It was the first time and last time I ever killed. But if I were to live that moment again, I wouldn’t change my decision.
I killed my lord and gained the place of a hero next to Harry. But I care not for the place – people do not know.
First I had planned to kill Harry. I almost did.
He lets Harry, in and they sit in the kitchen, on different sides of the table, suffering from equal hangovers. He decides to open a bottle of wine. Perhaps Harry will stay for the night tonight.
The implied reader is rather interesting thing in fanfiction - I realise to some of fanfic readers, this piece I wrote, sounds fanfiction, but, where exactly lies the line between original and fanfiction? I think I'm already writing most of my fanfiction on that edge - but, some of my works are actually originals, influenced by fanfiction. Not by JKR's works. I'm not using her characters, I'm using mine. Totally different characters, if you ask me.
But then again - Frodo and Harry are totally different, right? *wink*. (And those who have read Books of Magic comics, (the original first one, by Neil Gaiman)...)
So, here's story called Harry. Read it. It's not meant to be fanfiction. It could be. But only to a reader that regularly reads fanfiction. I did not intend this story be fanfiction. It's not H/D story. It's just story. (At least, so I'm trying to convince myself.)
Note, those who really want to stay away from possible gay relationships, stay away from anything I post. Seriously.
Harry
It was a dim evening. Dark clouds veiled the sky; a storm was coming. There was smell of death in the air; the battlefield wasn’t far away. I could almost taste the magic in the air.
I could hardly see the tree next to me, but I heard someone coming. He passed the line I was guarding. Had I known what was to come, I would have turned away and fled. But without knowing, I acted… almost like a hero.
He wakes up and stares at the ceiling. The white panels look as if they are going to fall down on him, and he closes his eyes again. A minute later the alarm, on the nightstand goes off and he opens his eyes again. Giving an angry look to the alarm he turns it off and crashes back to the bed. But he is awake now and the morning light shining through the curtains disturbs his attempts to fall asleep again.
He passed my line. I had to follow him, and so I did - straight to the battlefield and past it.
There were bodies on the ground in field, piled and scattered in groups. I recognised most of them as he must have had - his friends, pupils from the same school, fighting on both sides. Stepping in a puddle of blood, I almost tripped over the body of my former class mate - he was still alive. His huge frame lay on the ground, eyes blind, but I could hear him moaning, his legs twisting with pain. I wished I could do something for him; I had been taught to kill since I was ten, but now I felt I was unable to end his suffering. I wasn’t a killer.
His whole body is sore from sleep when he finally gets up – the alarm clock shows 10.30am. He loves and hates the Sundays with no work. Groggily he steps in the general direction of the bathroom and almost strips over random items of clothing, spread all over the floor as if taken of in hurry.
I had felt sick before, but now the sight of the torture of human body took over. The battlefield smell - blood, burning flesh and slaughter – hung in the air; the sounds of people dying like cattle. I hadn’t been on the battlefield before, and now I knew why.
He died without my help, and I was sick next to his dead body.
My legs didn’t want to carry me on, but I had to follow the boy who crossed the line. I knew where he was heading.
The bathroom floor is warm against his bare feet. He feels like throwing up, but when he leans over the toilet seat nothing comes up. He hopes the wine from last night stays down and turns on the shower.
Fifteen minutes under the running hot water with shampoo and soap he feels almost ready to face another day. When he steps out of the shower he almost trips over – the floor is wet. He curses. The bathrobe is nowhere to be found; he grasps a towel from the wall and heads to the kitchen.
There on the battlefield I understood something that changed the course of my life.
I followed him to the entrance, but I did not enter. For long time I stood there, letting the fresh air flow around my body. I knew what Harry was after and I knew he couldn’t succeed… not without help.
I looked back, over the corpses of those who had died in vain. War wasn’t fought in the battle – it was fought in the minds of its leaders. I was but a mere puppet to play with.
I cried then, for my lost life. For the lives lost in vain. I cried for revenge.
Towel wrapped around his waist he goes to the kitchen and turns on the coffee machine. The morning light that illuminates the space which works as living room and kitchen is bright, and his eyes hurt. He decides he hates ‘mornings after’.
The morning paper is stuck in the mail box; his hands still feel bad about even touching things and it takes another five minutes to fight the paper out. Finally he gets to sit down with the paper and a mug of coffee.
The coffee is strong and he’s finally starting to feel alive again. He considers whether he should ever drink wine again, but he’s afraid that decision would not hold till the next bottle. The paper reads about wars that go ever on and on in distant countries. He knows war – something he doesn’t want to see again - and passes the pages fast.
He finishes his breakfast – two buttered pieces of toast, as nothing else can be found from the cupboards. The kitchen and living room look like a horrid mess, and he starts cleaning up.
Then, without thinking, I ran in the tunnels and cried his name in my mind.
It was an eternal midnight in the tunnel – darkness that was thicker than the air. There were no torches to light the way: the creatures that guarded the passage cannot see and need no light. My breath sounded horridly loud in the silent tunnels, and I wondered if they had got him already. I silently prayed they hadn’t.
The mountainous pile of dishes in the sink has to wait; he gathers all the remaining glasses, cutlery and plates from the tables. Three empty wine bottles stand on different places, and he wonders briefly how two people can create such mess. Three wine bottles? – he cannot remember the third. Too much wine is always bad, and he considers again giving up drinking.
When he gathers the scattered cushions he ponders how they ended up the floor and remembers seducing Harry. Or had it been other way round? Does it change what happened? He almost wishes Harry had stayed for the night.
The scream pierced the heavy air, and I ran. The tunnel opened to a cavern now – in the middle of it I could see a smouldering pile of ash. I feared then that I was too late. But brief, horror-filled seconds later I saw Harry again, tied up to a pillar of stalagmite growing from the stone floor. He didn’t’ see me, but I saw the rage on his face.
The man standing face to face with Harry was my Master. My Lord, who had not trusted me enough to let me fight in the real war. Maybe he had been right in not trusting me, but I did not think about it then.
He continues cleaning up, remembering the drunken lust when he picks, one by one, the clothes from the bedroom floor.
Midday comes and goes; the bright sun disappears into the clouds. He sits on the couch, flipping through the channels, but nothing interests him.
A knock on the door surprises him. It’s midday on Sunday, who could it be? He opens the door anyway, expecting a random door-to-door salesman. The smell of flowers greets him, and behind the bunch of spring flowers he can see Harry’s slim figure.
It was the first time and last time I ever killed. But if I were to live that moment again, I wouldn’t change my decision.
I killed my lord and gained the place of a hero next to Harry. But I care not for the place – people do not know.
First I had planned to kill Harry. I almost did.
He lets Harry, in and they sit in the kitchen, on different sides of the table, suffering from equal hangovers. He decides to open a bottle of wine. Perhaps Harry will stay for the night tonight.