The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah Voice Over Script
August 1939
France
Vianne Mauriac left the cool, stucco-walled kitchen //and stepped out into her front yard.// On this
beautiful summer morning in the Loire Valley, everything was in bloom.// White sheets flapped in the
breeze //and roses tumbled like laughter //along the ancient stone wall that hid her property from the road. //
A pair of industrious bees buzzed among the blooms; //from far away, she heard the chugging purr of a
train// and then the sweet sound of a little girl’s laughter.
Sophie. //
Vianne smiled. //Her eight-year-old daughter was probably running through the house, making her
father dance attendance on her //as they readied for their Saturday picnic.
“Your daughter is a tyre,” Antoine said, appearing in the doorway. //
He walked toward her, //his pomaded hair glinting black in the sunlight. //He’d been working on his
furniture this morning — sanding a chair that was already as soft as satin //— and a fine layer of wood dust
peppered his face and shoulders. //He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, with a rough face and a
dark stubble that took constant effort to keep from becoming a beard. //
He slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. “I love you, V.” //
“I love you, too.” //
It was the truest fact of her world. //She loved everything about this man, //his smile, //the way he
mumbled in his sleep //and laughed after a sneeze// and sang opera// in the shower. //
She’d fallen in love with him fifteen years ago, //on the school play yard,// before she’d even known
what love was. //He was her first everything //— first kiss, first love, first lover. //Before him, she’d been a
skinny, awkward, anxious girl given to stuttering when she got scared, which was often. //
A motherless girl. //
You will be the adult now, her father had said to Vianne as they walked up to this very house for the
first time. //She’d been fourteen years old, //her eyes swollen from crying, //her grief unbearable.// In an
instant, this house had gone from being the family’s summer house to a prison of sorts.// Maman had
been dead less than two weeks when Papa gave up on being a father.
//Upon their arrival here, he’d not
held her hand or rested a hand on her shoulder or even offered her a handkerchief to dry her tears. //
B-but I’m just a girl, she’d said. //
Not anymore. //
She’d looked down at her younger sister, Isabelle, //who still s****d her thumb at four //and had no
idea what was going on. Isabelle kept asking when Maman was coming home. //
When the door opened, a tall, thin woman with a nose like a water spigot and eyes as small and dark
as raisins appeared. //
These are the girls? the woman had said. //
Papa nodded. //
They will be no trouble. //
It had happened so fast.// Vianne hadn’t really understood.// Papa dropped off his daughters like soiled
laundry// and left them with a stranger. //The girls were so far apart in age// it was as if they were from
different families. //Vianne had wanted to comfort Isabelle //— meant to //— but Vianne had been in so much
pain it was impossible to think of anyone else, //especially a child as willful and impatient and loud as
Isabelle. //Vianne still remembered those first days here: //Isabelle shrieking //and Madame spanking her. //
Vianne had pleaded with her sister, //saying, again and again, //Mon Dieu, Isabelle, quit screeching.// Just do
as she bids, //but even at four, Isabelle had been unmanageable. //
Vianne had been undone by all of it //— the grief for her dead mother, //the pain of her father’s
abandonment, //the sudden change in their circumstances, //and Isabelle’s cloying, needy loneliness. //
It was Antoine who’d saved Vianne.// That first summer after Maman’s death, //the two of them had
become inseparable. //With him, Vianne had found an escape.// By the time she was sixteen,// she was
pregnant; at seventeen, //she was married //and the mistress of Le Jardin.// Two months later, //she had a
miscarriage //and she lost herself for a while.// There was no other way to put it.// She’d crawled into her
grief// and cocooned it around her,// unable to care about anyone or anything //— certainly not a needy,
wailing four-year-old sister. //
TOP-10 Scripts from Edge Studio's Voice Over Script Library
[Skyrim opens with an Imperial wagon driving four prisoners down a snowy mountain pass. All are seated and bound; the one dressed in finery is gagged.]
Ralof: Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
Lokir: D**n you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me — we should be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.
Ralof: We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.
Imperial Soldier: Shut up back there!
[Lokir looks at the gagged man.]
Lokir: And what’s wrong with him?
Ralof: Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.
Lokir: Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?
Ralof: I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.
Lokir: No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.
Ralof: Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?
Lokir: Why do you care?
Ralof: A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.
Lokir: Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.
[They approach the village of Helgen. A soldier calls out to the lead wagon.]
Imperial Soldier: General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!
General Tullius: Good. Let’s get this over with.
Lokir: Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.
Ralof: Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. D**n elves. I bet they had something to do with this. This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny…when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.
[A man and son watch the prisoners pull into town.]
Haming: Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?
Torolf: You need to go inside, little cub.
Haming: Why? I want to watch the soldiers.
Torolf: Inside the house. Now.
Galadriel: (speaking partly in Elvish)
(I amar prestar aen.)
The world is changed.
(Han matho ne nen.)
I feel it in the water.
(Han mathon ned cae.)
I feel it in the earth.
(A han noston ned gwilith.)
I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
It began with the forging of the Great Rings. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-Lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls. And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. But they were all of them deceived, for another ring was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the Fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged a master ring, and into this ring he poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life.
One ring to rule them all.
One by one, the free lands of Middle-Earth fell to the power of the Ring, but there were some who resisted. A last alliance of men and elves marched against the armies of Mordor, and on the very slopes of Mount Doom, they fought for the freedom of Middle-Earth. Victory was near, but the power of the ring could not be undone. It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur, son of the king, took up his father’s sword.
Sauron, enemy of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, was defeated. The Ring passed to Isildur, who had this one chance to destroy evil forever, but the hearts of men are easily corrupted. And the ring of power has a will of its own. It betrayed Isildur, to his death.
And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend. Legend became myth. And for two and a half thousand years, the ring passed out of all knowledge. Until, when chance came, it ensnared another bearer.
It came to the creature Gollum, who took it deep into the tunnels of the Misty Mountains. And there it consumed him. The ring gave to Gollum unnatural long life. For five hundred years it poisoned his mind, and in the gloom of Gollum’s cave, it waited. Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumor grew of a shadow in the East, whispers of a nameless fear, and the Ring of Power perceived its time had come. It abandoned Gollum, but then something happened that the Ring did not intend. It was picked up by the most unlikely creature imaginable: a hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.
For the time will soon come when hobbits will shape the fortunes of all.
To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark, dock,
In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock,
Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp, shock,
From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block!
Do I really look like a guy with a plan, Harvey?
I don’t have a plan …
The mob has plans. The cops have plans.
You know what I am, Harvey? I am a dog chasing cars… I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it.
I just do things. I am just the wrench in the gears. I hate plans.
Yours, theirs, everyone’s. Maroni has plans. Gordon has plans.
Schemers trying to control their worlds.
I am not a schemer. I show the schemer how pathetic their attempts to control things really are.
So when I say that you and your girlfriend was nothing personal, you know I am telling the truth.
I just did what I do best. I took your plan and turned it on itself.
Look what I have done to this city with a few drums of gas and a couple of bullets.
Nobody panics when the expected people gets killed. Nobody panics when things go according to plan, even if the plan is horrifying.
If I tell the press that tomorrow a gangbanger will get shot or a truckload of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics. – because it’s all part of the plan.
But when I say that one little old mayor will die, everybody lose their minds.
Introduce a little anarchy, you upset the established order and everything becomes chaos.
I am agent of chaos.
And you know the thing about chaos Harvey?
“IT is FAIR.”
Hello, ladies, look at your man, now back to me, now back at your man, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using ladies scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the man your man could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an oyster with two tickets to that thing you love. Look again, the tickets are now diamonds. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady. I’m on a horse.
Share your script!
Proud of your writing?
Have a script that’s fun, unusual, challenging, or just very good?
By uploading it to the library, you help your fellow VO artists, enhance the library, and encourage others to do the same!
