I believe the term is speedwriting.

Inspired by Laerthel's A Matter of Will (she knows about it, too). Double drabble.


The sensation of space, the awareness of height, of the sheer drop merely inches away from him.

It was exhilarating.

Makalaurë felt his skin prickle and tilted his head back, resting it against the wall.

It felt playful, and he smiled, ever so slightly, when he imagined – recalled – Russandol's expression of exasperation and ill-concealed fright. He had always loved it, this openness, this expanse, this freedom, and he had always known, the way youths did (the twins did, too) and their elders dared not be certain, that he would not fall.

Now, he was not so sure.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and there was naught but darkness and cool winter air around him; and it was elating.

It would be easy, falling. So easy.

So light, he thought, looking up to absorb the blackness of the firmament, the brightness of Elbereth's stars. So liberating.

He shook off the thought, quickly, guiltily, almost bashfully.

How selfish, how conceited to contemplate liberation, to dwell on the spine-tingling perspective of free fall when so many threads, so many chains bound him to the walls and chambers of this fortress.

So many.

He heard a soft gasp, and turned around, alerted.

Such as them.