Ireth
Myth Weaver
Yeah, weird question... one of my characters, DÃ ire, gets beheaded in battle and continues to live (as much as a vampire is alive) and act for quite some time before he's put back together by magic. While beheaded, he's paralyzed from the neck down, unable to feel his body, and his head is in excruciating pain. He can't speak, so he communicates by mouthing words, and possibly clacking out Morse code with his jaw.
My problem is, how do I write from the POV of the head, and what movements can I incorporate that won't be redundant or silly? Having him "shake his head" in response to a question (assuming he would be able to do so, with proper suspension of disbelief) seems odd when his head is the only part of him he can move, and his head is far removed from his body for much of the time; some of the tension is derived from other characters searching for his body on the battlefield, wanting to end his suffering quickly, whether by healing him or mercy-killing him. Meanwhile they ask the headless guy what happened to him, where he thinks his body might be, etc.
Here's an excerpt from the story, detailing his beheading:
- - -
Dà ire blinked in surprise as the rainy moors of Scotland vanished, replaced by the cloudy, but dry forests of Faerie. He doubted a gate could have opened up in a less convenient place and time; it was almost six hours since his last meal, and he would have much prefered to hunt in his own world rather than Faerie. Still, at least he could see Lùthais again after so long. He made his way quickly down the path between the trees, eager to find a meal, and then reach Dunehelden.
The wind brought to him a sudden horrid stench, and the sounds of heavy footsteps and guttural voices speaking a tongue he did not understand. DÃ ire stopped in his tracks, then edged carefully forward, keeping downwind so that whoever was there would not smell him — if they even could over their own stink. It was far worse than his own waste: a foul blend of rotten meat, blood and shite. He kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, hiding behind the foliage as whoever was speaking came into sight.
He had no name for the manner of creatures he saw tramping through the trees — they seemed akin to the accursed offspring of goblins and redcaps, yet greater in stature than either. They were all tall and muscular, with skin of every hue from black to putrid green to muddy brown, and more besides; some had long hair in filthy dreadlocks, others were bald. Their crude armor and weapons were all wrought of iron; his skin crawled at the thought of being wounded by them.
One of the creatures stopped short, growling, and looked into the trees where Daire hid.
"What is it?" asked another, in harsh but clear English.
The first creature's eyes narrowed. "I smell Man-flesh."
DÃ ire stood frozen for a moment, torn between his instincts to fight and flee. The latter won, and he ran for what remained of his life. He could find another way to Dunehelden, once he escaped those monsters.
An arrow bit into his back, the iron head burning where it pierced him. He fell forward with a scream of pain, landing flat on the ground and scrambling to rise and run again. The monsters were upon him before he could crawl more than a few inches; one of them grabbed him by the hair and dragged him upright, holding him at eye level with his feet dangling almost a foot above the grass. He unsheathed his sword, but it was knocked from his hand before he could strike.
"Whaddaya think, boys?" said the monster, with a gap-toothed grin of pure malice. "Shall we have ourselves a bite before the siege? Looks a tender morsel, this one."
"Tender?" another retorted. "Looks 'alf-dwarf to me, by 'is size — prob'ly tough as an old 'orse."
DÃ ire's mind whirled. Siege? Surely they meant to attack Dunehelden — but not before whetting their appetites on him. Someone had to warn them at the castle, if only he could escape!
"You don't want to eat me," he insisted. "I'd make you all sick for a week. Look how pale I am, does that look healthy to you?" If he could keep them talking long enough for his thirst to set in again, they'd smell his waste and, hopefully, leave well enough alone. "I probably taste like shite, and I'm tough as leather."
The second monster looked to the first, who leaned forward and sniffed at DÃ ire. He gagged as the odor of its breath washed over him. A shame his stomach was empty, he thought — having a quart or so of blood to vomit onto his enemy would probably be to his benefit.
"Seems good enough to me," said the first monster, looking at the second with a shrug. "Void knows we've et worse."
"Not every rotten apple looks bad on the outside!" DÃ ire continued urgently, stalling for time. "I'm, I'm full of worms — wee white maggots, hundreds of them! Not even a crow would want to eat me!"
The monsters exchanged nonplussed glances, and one leered at him again. DÃ ire drew his leg back and kicked hard at that of the monster who held him, hoping that would be enough to make it drop him. His toes connected hard with the monster's iron greave, and he felt at least two of them break, redoubling his pain.
He aimed a blow at the monster's elbow with his fist, and was rewarded by a dull pop of bone. The monster roared and dropped him onto his back; the arrow broke under him, and the head was forced deeper into his back. He scrambled for his sword as a half-dozen of the monsters closed in around him. Pain lanced through his arm as the muscles in his back bunched and flexed, but he slashed at the nearest monster with all the strength he had.
The monster stomped on his forearm, snapping both bones below the wrist as it pinned him to the forest floor; it hauled him upright by the hair again with its good arm as he gasped in pain. "For a maggot-ridden beardless dwarf, 'e's a fighter, sure 'nuff!"
"Kill him," said another. "He won't fight once he's dead."
The monster who held him bared his teeth — most were yellow, some were black, and many were missing. DÃ ire bared his fangs and growled to hide his fear, but it showed nonetheless in his voice. "You can't kill me! I will feast on your flowing blood!"
The one who held him jumped slightly, then cackled, a sound that was almost a cough. "Oho! Will you, now? Let's see 'ow well you can drink when yer mouth can't reach yer gut! 'Old still, little rat!"
More of the monsters grabbed him, forcing him to be still despite his struggles. Another picked up DÃ ire's own sword from the ground, and swung it straight at his neck. Time seemed to slow; he kept his eyes open, waiting for the end.
When the blade struck his neck and passed through, fiery pain exploded along every muscle, blood vessel, bone and nerve, from his cauterized neck to his aching scalp. His scream of agony was cut short as his vocal cords were shorn. His body thudded to the ground, but the blackness he expected did not come. He could no longer feel anything below the neck, and his head was ablaze with pain enough for his whole body. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth open in a scream he could not voice.
The monster still had him by the hair; its putrid breath still made him want to gag. He did not move, even to close his mouth. Showing them he was still alive, in a manner of speaking, would only make things worse.
"What are you lot doing?" another voice growled from far off. Footsteps tramped toward them. "We don't have time to eat yet! Leave the body, bring the head. Maybe we can use it in the siege."
Grumbling, the monsters rejoined the rest of their ilk and marched off, DÃ ire's head in hand. Slowly he shut his mouth and relaxed his facial muscles as best he could, hoping to ease his pain even the slightest amount while the monsters were distracted. He lost all track of time, knowing only the tramping of the monsters' footfalls, the back-and-forth swinging as they carried him, and the white-hot agony in every cell he could feel.
So much for warning the school... He listened, and swung, and wished to die.
- - -
Note -- the monsters are orcs of Middle-earth, sent to Faerie by a villainess who is manipulating a hole in the barrier between worlds. They aren't actually speaking English; that's just what DÃ ire hears because of magical translation. They're speaking Westron, the Common Tongue. Also, DÃ ire's neck is cauterized by the sword even though it's not heated because vampires of his type are harmed by iron, somewhat akin to the Fae.
My problem is, how do I write from the POV of the head, and what movements can I incorporate that won't be redundant or silly? Having him "shake his head" in response to a question (assuming he would be able to do so, with proper suspension of disbelief) seems odd when his head is the only part of him he can move, and his head is far removed from his body for much of the time; some of the tension is derived from other characters searching for his body on the battlefield, wanting to end his suffering quickly, whether by healing him or mercy-killing him. Meanwhile they ask the headless guy what happened to him, where he thinks his body might be, etc.
Here's an excerpt from the story, detailing his beheading:
- - -
Dà ire blinked in surprise as the rainy moors of Scotland vanished, replaced by the cloudy, but dry forests of Faerie. He doubted a gate could have opened up in a less convenient place and time; it was almost six hours since his last meal, and he would have much prefered to hunt in his own world rather than Faerie. Still, at least he could see Lùthais again after so long. He made his way quickly down the path between the trees, eager to find a meal, and then reach Dunehelden.
The wind brought to him a sudden horrid stench, and the sounds of heavy footsteps and guttural voices speaking a tongue he did not understand. DÃ ire stopped in his tracks, then edged carefully forward, keeping downwind so that whoever was there would not smell him — if they even could over their own stink. It was far worse than his own waste: a foul blend of rotten meat, blood and shite. He kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, hiding behind the foliage as whoever was speaking came into sight.
He had no name for the manner of creatures he saw tramping through the trees — they seemed akin to the accursed offspring of goblins and redcaps, yet greater in stature than either. They were all tall and muscular, with skin of every hue from black to putrid green to muddy brown, and more besides; some had long hair in filthy dreadlocks, others were bald. Their crude armor and weapons were all wrought of iron; his skin crawled at the thought of being wounded by them.
One of the creatures stopped short, growling, and looked into the trees where Daire hid.
"What is it?" asked another, in harsh but clear English.
The first creature's eyes narrowed. "I smell Man-flesh."
DÃ ire stood frozen for a moment, torn between his instincts to fight and flee. The latter won, and he ran for what remained of his life. He could find another way to Dunehelden, once he escaped those monsters.
An arrow bit into his back, the iron head burning where it pierced him. He fell forward with a scream of pain, landing flat on the ground and scrambling to rise and run again. The monsters were upon him before he could crawl more than a few inches; one of them grabbed him by the hair and dragged him upright, holding him at eye level with his feet dangling almost a foot above the grass. He unsheathed his sword, but it was knocked from his hand before he could strike.
"Whaddaya think, boys?" said the monster, with a gap-toothed grin of pure malice. "Shall we have ourselves a bite before the siege? Looks a tender morsel, this one."
"Tender?" another retorted. "Looks 'alf-dwarf to me, by 'is size — prob'ly tough as an old 'orse."
DÃ ire's mind whirled. Siege? Surely they meant to attack Dunehelden — but not before whetting their appetites on him. Someone had to warn them at the castle, if only he could escape!
"You don't want to eat me," he insisted. "I'd make you all sick for a week. Look how pale I am, does that look healthy to you?" If he could keep them talking long enough for his thirst to set in again, they'd smell his waste and, hopefully, leave well enough alone. "I probably taste like shite, and I'm tough as leather."
The second monster looked to the first, who leaned forward and sniffed at DÃ ire. He gagged as the odor of its breath washed over him. A shame his stomach was empty, he thought — having a quart or so of blood to vomit onto his enemy would probably be to his benefit.
"Seems good enough to me," said the first monster, looking at the second with a shrug. "Void knows we've et worse."
"Not every rotten apple looks bad on the outside!" DÃ ire continued urgently, stalling for time. "I'm, I'm full of worms — wee white maggots, hundreds of them! Not even a crow would want to eat me!"
The monsters exchanged nonplussed glances, and one leered at him again. DÃ ire drew his leg back and kicked hard at that of the monster who held him, hoping that would be enough to make it drop him. His toes connected hard with the monster's iron greave, and he felt at least two of them break, redoubling his pain.
He aimed a blow at the monster's elbow with his fist, and was rewarded by a dull pop of bone. The monster roared and dropped him onto his back; the arrow broke under him, and the head was forced deeper into his back. He scrambled for his sword as a half-dozen of the monsters closed in around him. Pain lanced through his arm as the muscles in his back bunched and flexed, but he slashed at the nearest monster with all the strength he had.
The monster stomped on his forearm, snapping both bones below the wrist as it pinned him to the forest floor; it hauled him upright by the hair again with its good arm as he gasped in pain. "For a maggot-ridden beardless dwarf, 'e's a fighter, sure 'nuff!"
"Kill him," said another. "He won't fight once he's dead."
The monster who held him bared his teeth — most were yellow, some were black, and many were missing. DÃ ire bared his fangs and growled to hide his fear, but it showed nonetheless in his voice. "You can't kill me! I will feast on your flowing blood!"
The one who held him jumped slightly, then cackled, a sound that was almost a cough. "Oho! Will you, now? Let's see 'ow well you can drink when yer mouth can't reach yer gut! 'Old still, little rat!"
More of the monsters grabbed him, forcing him to be still despite his struggles. Another picked up DÃ ire's own sword from the ground, and swung it straight at his neck. Time seemed to slow; he kept his eyes open, waiting for the end.
When the blade struck his neck and passed through, fiery pain exploded along every muscle, blood vessel, bone and nerve, from his cauterized neck to his aching scalp. His scream of agony was cut short as his vocal cords were shorn. His body thudded to the ground, but the blackness he expected did not come. He could no longer feel anything below the neck, and his head was ablaze with pain enough for his whole body. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth open in a scream he could not voice.
The monster still had him by the hair; its putrid breath still made him want to gag. He did not move, even to close his mouth. Showing them he was still alive, in a manner of speaking, would only make things worse.
"What are you lot doing?" another voice growled from far off. Footsteps tramped toward them. "We don't have time to eat yet! Leave the body, bring the head. Maybe we can use it in the siege."
Grumbling, the monsters rejoined the rest of their ilk and marched off, DÃ ire's head in hand. Slowly he shut his mouth and relaxed his facial muscles as best he could, hoping to ease his pain even the slightest amount while the monsters were distracted. He lost all track of time, knowing only the tramping of the monsters' footfalls, the back-and-forth swinging as they carried him, and the white-hot agony in every cell he could feel.
So much for warning the school... He listened, and swung, and wished to die.
- - -
Note -- the monsters are orcs of Middle-earth, sent to Faerie by a villainess who is manipulating a hole in the barrier between worlds. They aren't actually speaking English; that's just what DÃ ire hears because of magical translation. They're speaking Westron, the Common Tongue. Also, DÃ ire's neck is cauterized by the sword even though it's not heated because vampires of his type are harmed by iron, somewhat akin to the Fae.
Inkling
Scribe
Auror
