hmmmm sleepy... :D
Mar. 18th, 2003 03:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyvaderOk, firstly... sorry wasn't on tonight Sprock but have had horrid day I don't want to go into, so because I was feeling antisocial I tried to find you a fic... couldn't find one that jumped out at me... so I wrote you one... hope its better than the evil one that upset you.. its a bit of an odd one for me... think I had a rabid plot bunny or something!:P Ummm before I start.... I quite like Stuart Townsend and believe him to be NOTHING like I portray him n this lil silly story. :D
To The King.
Fran loved her job. She truly did. Not many people were able to make a living doing what they loved and normally this thought could get her through the day with a spring in her step and a song in her heart. But not today.
Peter Jackson sat down heavily, his hobbit-esque form dripping with fatigue as much as sweat from the humid New Zealand day. “Its not working is it?” He asked rhetorically as his partner in crime sank slowly into her own much-anticipated seat. Fran looked at him with a wry twist of the mouth.
“Which part?” she sighed, wiping perspiration from her own baking brow.
“Stuart.”
“Stuart.” She conceded. They sat in contemplative silence for a while before Fran switched her brain reluctantly into work mode once more. “Fixable?” She queried hopefully.
Peter shook his head regretfully, mouth quirking at the note of optimism in her voice, “No. I thought we could work around the age thing but…” he tailed off looking at his hands and frowning.
“But?”
He sighed deeply. “Its just … him. He just ‘isn’t’ Aragorn. He’s not got the bearing Frannie… have you seen him with the sword?” She lifted a brow in question.
“I thought the swords master was pleased with him?”
“He is its just… he inspires no faith… nothing in the others. When we dress him up to be Aragorn that is ‘precisely’ what we are doing... dressing him up. I need him to be Aragorn and he’s just… not.”
Fran nodded thoughtfully, mulling over what she had observed herself on set. “ I think I know what you mean Pete, there’s no awe… the others view him as a playmate and,” she broke off, grinning at this point “ I think Elijah has a crush on him.”
Peter snorted, “Oh great, that’s just what I need, A ring bearer in love with the King.” He paused again before echoing Fran’s nod. “ But that is exactly what I’m talking about though… it wasn’t our Frodo that tipped me off… have you seen him and Orlando together?”
She grinned at this “ Of course,” she laughed, “Where Orli is you know Stuart is two steps behind. It’s verging on stalking but Orli seems ok with it I…. Oh.” She finished, frowning at Peters dark look.
“The King,” he stated firmly “ does ‘not’ follow the Elf Prince. The Elf Prince follows the King and with great devotion at that, not the mild tolerance Orli places on Stuart or the rabid obsession Stuart lavishes on Orli. The bond is missing, there’s no real allegiance there. That is ‘not’ how Legolas and Aragorn are supposed to be.”
Fran’s heart sank. It really wasn’t fixable, she realised looking at Peters set countenance.
“So what now?” She murmured.
“I’ll deal with Stuart, “ Peter grimaced as he spoke, “And Frannie?”
She slumped slightly, recognising the dogged look in his eyes and nodded. “Find me my King.”
*****************************************************
Orli stomped about the set like a hippo with a toothache. He was ‘sick’ of listening to Lij babbling on and on about how great the new Aragorn was. The ‘new’ Aragorn, he hissed to himself in fury. He missed Stuart or rather Stuart was making his life hell making sure that he missed him.
He had yet to meet this amazing creature, the supposed reincarnation of Aragorn himself and he hated him already, Lij had seen to that. ‘Viggo says this, Viggo says that, Viggo, Viggo, Viggo…’
He missed his friend.
Sure the guy didn’t really no how to take ‘no’ as an answer but the two had been working on their on screen chemistry and surely Aragorn was supposed to attempt to rule Legolas at every moment? It grated but as far as Orli could see it was the way the characters could interact, despite what Peter said. What did he know anyway? He was Hobbit through and through... he didn’t get the odd intermingling between the races that was Legolas and Aragorn’s relationship.
Lij and the others had been filming the first battle with the ‘Wraiths all day but every time Lij broke free he was just brimming over with oooey gooey hero worship for Viggo bloody Mortensen. Orli had learned to counter this with his own brand of babbling.
“ Do you remember that time that Stuart did this…and that time Stuart and I went… wow Stuart used to look so good in his Strider garb huh Lij?”
The latter phrase lost its affect over time as the unsurprisingly fickle hobbit had seemingly transferred his affections to a new cast member already. Orli grinned, he’d pity Dom but he had the notion that nothing would please the young brit more than to break the former child star in. Lij’s incessant banter had begun today with Viggo’s prowess with the sword
“Oh my god Orli its like so fucking cool I‘ve never seen anyone so fucking awesome with the thing he totally looks like he should have always been wielding the fucking thing I mean I for one am glad he’s Aragorn and not like Saruman or someone or an orc because he’s like totally fucking scary with that thing I’m telling you man he is SO good…”
Orli knew he was going to Heaven that day because only a Saint could have kept from striking the young lad down and yet somehow the yank was still walking and talking. Orli grunted as he had, in fact, heard the swords master gushing on his new favourite student. Apparently Viggo really could have been born with a sword in his hand, that or he really was (as the make-up girls all laughingly agreed) the King reborn.
Orli trudged towards his trailer, he was all done training for the day and, having ascertained he really could fight convincingly in costume, he had been disrobed and sent ‘home’ to rest and renew himself. He looked forward to a long cool shower and an even longer cooler beer but somehow he just knew his day would get worse before it improved that greatly. The message Stuart had left on his phone had assured him of that. Stuart had not taken his dismissal well, oh he’d put a brave face on for Peter and the rest of the cast but for Orli…Orli grimaced. It was as if Orli had become his personal messenger to shoot or puppy to kick. Not that he minded… much. He figured that’s what friends were for, right? And he truly was sorry Stuart wasn’t Aragorn any more... He just wished he’d stop showing up in his trailer all hours of the day and night. Orli wanted to comfort his friend, he did… he just wished he’d taken rejection a little better.
Before he’d been ‘let go’ from the film, he’d laughed Orli’s rebuttals off, claiming his heart was broken or that Orli owed him at least a blowjob as his subject, but now… Orli scowled viciously as he neared his trailer and saw the windows were open. He’d left them closed, which meant Stuart must have let himself in. Again. He growled softly.
“Legolas?” Orli spun as a husky but clear voice penetrated his increasingly bad mood. His eyes took in the long unruly dark hair and beard before moving down to the filthy garments and tattered overcoat and boots, finally resting on the heavy sword that hung at the mans waist. He sneered, lifting his gaze to meet shockingly clear eyes in the carefully mud-spattered face.
“Ah,” he swept a low bow, mouth twisting into a parody of a welcoming smile, “The man who would be King, I presume? I am, indeed, a humble subject. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.” He said his name with a newfound smugness as he mentally compared the graceful formfitting attire he had recently quit to the insult to elegance that stood before him.
The other, older man, Orli noted, tilted his head to one side to carefully assess the young man whose eyes spat such unguarded ire towards him. He stepped forward slowly, offering him a large, calloused hand. “Viggo Mortensen.” He stated clearly, unnerved slightly by the Brits use of character names off set, having only hailed him as such because they had not yet been introduced by name. The younger man looked at his hand with contempt before shaking it briefly, spitting a reluctant “Orlando Bloom” at the interloper.
“Orlando?” Viggo queried, it seemed an unusual name for the snarling creature before him. Orli nodded stiffly and Viggo smiled, taking him by surprise that showed plainly on his face.
“It’s nice to meet you, Orlando.” Orli took a few deep breaths, concentrating on not falling to his knees before this man. His smile had somehow transformed his entire being and Orli felt somehow unworthy and nervous in his presence. “Lij never stops talking about you, I was beginning to think the Elf Prince was a myth,” here, another smile and Orli felt a ripple deep within his gut. Viggo looked quizzically at the young man, raising a brow at his apparently flustered state. “Well,” he said softly, tilting his head again, trying to capture the beauty of the young man on canvas in his minds eye for further study. “Having seen for myself that you are in fact a reality, I look forward to working with you Orlando.”
Orli blinked a few times, a nervous flicker blocking the astounding man before him who had now begun to walk away from him. “Orli, “ he croaked, “It’s Orli.”
Viggo turned to look back, smiling again at the younger man in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
Orli cleared his throat and attempted his own smile, genuine this time and was sadly too far away to hear the Dane’s breath catch in his throat at the sight. “It’s Orli,” he said again, shyly, “Orlando’s too long, my friends all call me Orli.” He blushed as Viggo’s tentative smile spread to sparkle in his eyes.
“Ok.” Viggo schooled his lips into what he hoped was slightly less than the enraptured gaze he had been sure he was sporting, “I’ll see you then… Orli.”
Both men grinned at each other, an odd bond quickly and subtly formed before each turned back to walk towards their destination. Orli let himself chuckle deep in his throat. Things appeared to be looking up.
He was wrong.
Upon entering his trailer, the first thing Orli noticed before something hard slammed into the side of his head was that his fridge stood open, his six pack of beer missing, the dead soldiers scattered over the counter. Orli tried to clutch at the counter for support as his mind reeled from impact but found himself borne swiftly downwards by the extra weight now thrown and battering at his head and chest.
“You fucking cheap slut, won’t let me fucking tough you, practically fucking threw yourself at him out there you cheap whore, you bloody cunt!” Stuart, Orli dimly realised through the haze that refused to let his defensive instincts kick in. Stuart had let himself in; drunk his beer apparently got absolutely stinking drunk and was now attempting to beat the shit out of him. Apparently.
“Fucking little slag, little cheap cunt... wasted too fucking much time on you already, practically bent over for him out there didn’t you… you cheap slut... ‘Oh call me Orli! Fucking SLUT!”
Stuart slammed his fist hard into Orli’s face, knocking his head back against the floor, rocking his already fragile brain against the walls of his skull. “Stuart please…” he slurred, whimpering slightly as his always tender back was rudely shoved into the floor, Stuart now alarmingly yanking at his trousers. “Stuart… hurting... me… please. Stuart.” Orli began to tremble, and he shook his head slightly to diffuse the sloshing sound in his ears, spying the unplugged toaster now lying on the ground near him. “Ah,” his brain sighed, happy to have discerned something through the fog “The toaster, my friend Stuart hit me with the toaster.”
“Stuart,” he mumbled through a mouth hot and coppery with blood, “friend… please… hurts.”
Stuart’s face was white with rage above him and dimly Orli wondered if beer was the only thing his friend was running mad on as he noted the rolling whites and enlarged pupils in his attackers face.
“You fucking superior snobbish little fucking cunt,” Stuart ground out, pulling frantically at Orli’s jeans before dragging him up by his shirt so he could spit into his face “I’m not good enough to be the fucking King, I’m not good enough to fuck but one look at the fucking old tier out there and all of a sudden you’re in heat aren’t you ...you sad, pathetic fucking little bitch? Well I’ll tell you now you useless little slag, I’m going to have you now and you’ll fucking beg me for it after and then we’ll see how well your precious excuse for a likes you then won’t we?” He slammed him back into the floor, the corner of the counter catching in the side of Orli’s ribcage, pulling the muscle tightly through his back, wrenching old stiffened muscles and scar tissue from Orli’s broken back eliciting a scream, a veritable howl of agony from the young man. The pain cleared Orli’s head just long enough for him to realise exactly what Stuart’s intentions were and he thrashed wildly, the pain shooting through his body enough to keep him yelling and crying out even as Stuarts fists flew repeatedly into his face.
There came, suddenly, a resounding crash and Orli fervently hoped that the ceiling would cave in and that it might crush him or at least push him over the edge and into merciful unconsciousness. He had one brief glimpse of Stuart’s red, enraged face as the Irishman’s hand tightened about his throat before suddenly there was light and air above him, the pressure removed from his chest and throat. Furious roars brought him back again from the brink of oblivion and he turned to see Stuart oddly suspended in the air. A few blinks and Orli could vaguely understand the scene before him enough to smile wearily through his bleeding lips.
Viggo had Stuart suspended by his shirtfront, slamming him into walls with such fantastic ferocity that Orli quite forgot to be in pain for a few seconds and let his eyes roam the lean length of the Dane. Long arms tapering into warm, hard hands that bunched and repeatedly struck out at the younger man amidst the guttural roars of fury Orli had heard just before and revelled in now as he watched the bloodlust slipping from his former friends face.
“You, you don’t understand… he’s just a little whore... he was begging me for it, he likes it rough... He’ll open his legs for anyone, man and then he’ll beg you to make it hurt real bad…” he tailed off at Viggo’s snarl “Look, he’s just a little cock tease getting what’s coming to him, why don’t you just try it, he’ll tie you in knots man then leave you hanging high and dry for him… he’s just a whore man... just a cheap little cunt...” Where Stuarts ramblings would have taken him after this unbelievable sequence of lies and slurs Orli would never know as Viggo dropped the younger man, backhanding him hard enough to send him sprawling backwards out the still open door.
“Go now,” Viggo spat, voice low and terrible with rage “ and maybe I won’t come after you and finish this….” He let the threat hang in the air before taking a step towards the prone Irishman who leapt up, fleeing towards his car as if the devil himself were after him.
Viggo spun on his heel and leapt back through the doorway to where Orli still lay, hovering on the edge of consciousness, held in place with agony and fear. His head had cleared enough by now for the realisation of what had nearly happened to sink in. “Viggo, “ he whispered, hoarse from his screams that still seemed printed on the air above him, “Stuart… I think he was… I think he was… trying… trying to… " He bit his lip and Viggo hunkered down beside him, shaking still from fury and terror he felt when he’d heard Orli screaming. “ I know Orli... I know what he was trying… Its ok, he’s gone now... I’m going to help you ok?” Orli nodded.
“Where does it hurt Orli?”
“I broke my back a few years back… hurts,” Orli whimpered despite himself and Viggo winced in sympathy, swallowing the bitterness that coated his throat when he noted the angle that Stuart had pressed Orli’s back against the counter. It must hurt so much, he thought, eyes prickling as he remembered the scream that had brought him running to begin with. It must have been then, he surmised with a shudder.
“I’m going to move you just a little so you can lie still till I get some help, ok Orli?”
Orli nodded, turning a little grey as Viggo eased his hands beneath his waist to pull him gently away from the counter so he lay flat against the cool linoleum of the floor. He shivered, oblivion wavering at the corners of his vision once more. “Viggo?” He whispered, voice trembling on a sob. “Stuart’s meant to be my friend….” Tears clouded his eyes and he felt the heat of grief at the back of his throat. “My friend.” He repeated and sobbed, the movement of his chest and shoulders sending him over the brink and into the warm embrace of darkness. Even as he fell, he felt the warm palm smooth the hair from his brow and the soft rumble of Viggo’s voice against his temple. “It’s ok Orli… I’m here… I’ve got you… s’ok now… I’ll take care of you.” Then there was only darkness.
*********************************************************
Orli opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the brightness of his surroundings. It had always struck him as odd that in the place you were most likely to feel sluggish and sore they would try and dazzle you at every turn with bright white light and paint. Hospitals, Orli mused, were at least as awful as the dentists surgery, and often twice as painful. The corners of his mouth lifted briefly as recalled his attempts to make the tooth fairy bring him a BMX instead of money as a child, the smile fading as recollection slowly trickled past the fond memory.
Stuart, his friend Stuart, had beat and tried to rape him. It hurt every time he woke up to realise that but somehow each time he did it got a little easier to not cry and scream in anguish. The second time he awoke, fully conscious, he found the fellowship and director crowded about his bed with gifts. He’d laughed at the odd assortment of presents the hobbits had selected, assured Peter he would be back at work just as soon as the pretty nurses would let him out and tried desperately to catch Viggo’s eye. He never could. Orli sighed and drifted back into sleep, careful to ignore the images that flashed before his eyes, focusing only on the words that drifted to him as he slipped into the darkness.
“It’s ok Orli… I’m here… I’ve got you…”
The day went by in quick snatches of time of consciousness. Orli was quite badly concussed and become used to the fact that he could fall asleep halfway through a sentence or better yet pretend to when he was sick of Lij’s nattering. The others popped in and out all day between shooting. Fran dropped by yet another fruit basket ignoring the fact he had yet to start on the first. Dom, Lij and Billy brought him pornographic playing cards that Dom helpfully took with him when they left and Sean Astin, bless his heart, brought the mini TV they’d all crowded round between shoots. If Orli’s head hadn’t been too sensitive eye-wise to focus on it for more than 5 minutes at a time it would have made his day, although he told Sean it had all the same. His other visitors brought an assortment of books and music, magazines and sweets but no Viggo. Peter dropped by with the new script but no Viggo. Peter stopped by to make sure he’d given him the correct version of the new script but no Viggo. Peter rang to check that Orli was reading the script and Orli pretended to be sleeping and still no Viggo.
At roughly 9pm, the nurse came to dose Orli, a nice mix of odds and ends that Lij referred to as instant coma due to its powerful knockout affect on Orli. Orli, by now more than cranky what with the stir craziness and lack of Viggo, was more than happy to accept said medication although he was warned the dose had been lessened so he’d fall asleep a little more naturally for once.
Orli’s eyes were just beginning to flicker, closing longer than a blink should be when he noticed someone creeping into the room. Half asleep, he whimpered, nightmare images of Stuart leaping from his mind to the shadowy figure by his bed. “No…” he murmured, “Please Stuart… no… Viggo help...”
A large palm stroked over the soft rasp of his Mohawk, cupping his law as the shadow leaned down to soothe and smile into Orli’s face, Viggo’s eyes sparkling at him from the dark.
“Sssh Orli, Its just me, Stuart’s far away from here and he won’t ever, ever hurt you again I promise.”
Orli smiled, a wide strip of happiness in a blackened, bruised face that had broken Viggo’s heart to look on during the day. “Viggo.” He breathed, relief colouring his voice as he slipped slowly back towards the void, “ I knew you’d come.” His eyelashes flickered again then settled, dark smudges in the half-light and Viggo inhaled deeply as Orli sighed and nuzzled deeper into his palm, still cupping his jaw possessively.
Looking at the boy in the sharp light of day only a few days ago, had nearly taken Viggo’s breath away. He had so nearly turned tail and fled when he’d seen him from afar in his Elf garb, chatting animatedly with one of the crew. It had been years since he’d felt such a distinctive pull from someone he barely knew and Viggo had tried to write it off as the dreaded midlife crisis Henry was always teasing him about. And then they’d met. And spoken. And… Viggo, famed for his words, could not for the life of him explain or describe the sensation he’d felt when faced with Orli, shy, cutting, injured and drowsy. He had never been the fanciful type; despite his sons frequent teasing comments about being a namby pamby poet but when he’d stood looking back at Orlando who’d seemed to hate him so much then, it was as if something inside him had slumped in relief, ‘Finally’ it declared and proceeded to imbed every fragment of Orli that it could latch onto into his brain.
He looked down at the sleeping, bruised angel cradled so carefully in his hand and something in him trembled and snapped. Orli seemed to flood through him, the terror of his screams reaching him through the thick summer air, the quiet trust in his eyes as Viggo moved him and the soft tremor of his voice as he’d whimpered his name into the dark, a Guardian, a friend to save him from he dark. Viggo swallowed hard, feeling unworthy of the trust as he leaned down towards the sleeping form.
“Its ok baby…” He whispered again, “I’ll take care of you.” He dropped his head to place a soft kiss upon the smooth curve of the young mans cheek as blurry brown eyes flickered open once more.
Viggo stopped short, his breath caught in his throat, his lips mere millimetres from Orli’s face, eyes locked as the brown depths cleared, focusing on the face above them.
“I know.” Orli whispered and lifted his head, sighing in fulfilment as their lips touched and held.
“I know.”
****************************************************
“He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the throne of Gondor… you owe him your allegiance.”
Champagne glasses clinked, bubbles fizzing madly within as Pete and Fran laughed delightedly as they reviewed the scene in playback. “All hail the King!” Peter declared happily, knocking back his drink in one ecstatic gulp as Fran glanced out of the window, watching fingers twirling about each others, shoulders leaning against shoulders and into chests, matching smiles and kisses in the New Zealand twilight as blue eyes merged into brown in bliss. “Here, here.” She murmured, lifting her glass and watched as the figures walking together became lost in the night and the bubbles. “To Men and Elves.”
Fran loved her job.
END
For any typos I'm sorry but I wrote this about ten minutes ago and can't be ared to reread it... the spellcheck liked it so blame it for my baddies!:D
To The King.
Fran loved her job. She truly did. Not many people were able to make a living doing what they loved and normally this thought could get her through the day with a spring in her step and a song in her heart. But not today.
Peter Jackson sat down heavily, his hobbit-esque form dripping with fatigue as much as sweat from the humid New Zealand day. “Its not working is it?” He asked rhetorically as his partner in crime sank slowly into her own much-anticipated seat. Fran looked at him with a wry twist of the mouth.
“Which part?” she sighed, wiping perspiration from her own baking brow.
“Stuart.”
“Stuart.” She conceded. They sat in contemplative silence for a while before Fran switched her brain reluctantly into work mode once more. “Fixable?” She queried hopefully.
Peter shook his head regretfully, mouth quirking at the note of optimism in her voice, “No. I thought we could work around the age thing but…” he tailed off looking at his hands and frowning.
“But?”
He sighed deeply. “Its just … him. He just ‘isn’t’ Aragorn. He’s not got the bearing Frannie… have you seen him with the sword?” She lifted a brow in question.
“I thought the swords master was pleased with him?”
“He is its just… he inspires no faith… nothing in the others. When we dress him up to be Aragorn that is ‘precisely’ what we are doing... dressing him up. I need him to be Aragorn and he’s just… not.”
Fran nodded thoughtfully, mulling over what she had observed herself on set. “ I think I know what you mean Pete, there’s no awe… the others view him as a playmate and,” she broke off, grinning at this point “ I think Elijah has a crush on him.”
Peter snorted, “Oh great, that’s just what I need, A ring bearer in love with the King.” He paused again before echoing Fran’s nod. “ But that is exactly what I’m talking about though… it wasn’t our Frodo that tipped me off… have you seen him and Orlando together?”
She grinned at this “ Of course,” she laughed, “Where Orli is you know Stuart is two steps behind. It’s verging on stalking but Orli seems ok with it I…. Oh.” She finished, frowning at Peters dark look.
“The King,” he stated firmly “ does ‘not’ follow the Elf Prince. The Elf Prince follows the King and with great devotion at that, not the mild tolerance Orli places on Stuart or the rabid obsession Stuart lavishes on Orli. The bond is missing, there’s no real allegiance there. That is ‘not’ how Legolas and Aragorn are supposed to be.”
Fran’s heart sank. It really wasn’t fixable, she realised looking at Peters set countenance.
“So what now?” She murmured.
“I’ll deal with Stuart, “ Peter grimaced as he spoke, “And Frannie?”
She slumped slightly, recognising the dogged look in his eyes and nodded. “Find me my King.”
*****************************************************
Orli stomped about the set like a hippo with a toothache. He was ‘sick’ of listening to Lij babbling on and on about how great the new Aragorn was. The ‘new’ Aragorn, he hissed to himself in fury. He missed Stuart or rather Stuart was making his life hell making sure that he missed him.
He had yet to meet this amazing creature, the supposed reincarnation of Aragorn himself and he hated him already, Lij had seen to that. ‘Viggo says this, Viggo says that, Viggo, Viggo, Viggo…’
He missed his friend.
Sure the guy didn’t really no how to take ‘no’ as an answer but the two had been working on their on screen chemistry and surely Aragorn was supposed to attempt to rule Legolas at every moment? It grated but as far as Orli could see it was the way the characters could interact, despite what Peter said. What did he know anyway? He was Hobbit through and through... he didn’t get the odd intermingling between the races that was Legolas and Aragorn’s relationship.
Lij and the others had been filming the first battle with the ‘Wraiths all day but every time Lij broke free he was just brimming over with oooey gooey hero worship for Viggo bloody Mortensen. Orli had learned to counter this with his own brand of babbling.
“ Do you remember that time that Stuart did this…and that time Stuart and I went… wow Stuart used to look so good in his Strider garb huh Lij?”
The latter phrase lost its affect over time as the unsurprisingly fickle hobbit had seemingly transferred his affections to a new cast member already. Orli grinned, he’d pity Dom but he had the notion that nothing would please the young brit more than to break the former child star in. Lij’s incessant banter had begun today with Viggo’s prowess with the sword
“Oh my god Orli its like so fucking cool I‘ve never seen anyone so fucking awesome with the thing he totally looks like he should have always been wielding the fucking thing I mean I for one am glad he’s Aragorn and not like Saruman or someone or an orc because he’s like totally fucking scary with that thing I’m telling you man he is SO good…”
Orli knew he was going to Heaven that day because only a Saint could have kept from striking the young lad down and yet somehow the yank was still walking and talking. Orli grunted as he had, in fact, heard the swords master gushing on his new favourite student. Apparently Viggo really could have been born with a sword in his hand, that or he really was (as the make-up girls all laughingly agreed) the King reborn.
Orli trudged towards his trailer, he was all done training for the day and, having ascertained he really could fight convincingly in costume, he had been disrobed and sent ‘home’ to rest and renew himself. He looked forward to a long cool shower and an even longer cooler beer but somehow he just knew his day would get worse before it improved that greatly. The message Stuart had left on his phone had assured him of that. Stuart had not taken his dismissal well, oh he’d put a brave face on for Peter and the rest of the cast but for Orli…Orli grimaced. It was as if Orli had become his personal messenger to shoot or puppy to kick. Not that he minded… much. He figured that’s what friends were for, right? And he truly was sorry Stuart wasn’t Aragorn any more... He just wished he’d stop showing up in his trailer all hours of the day and night. Orli wanted to comfort his friend, he did… he just wished he’d taken rejection a little better.
Before he’d been ‘let go’ from the film, he’d laughed Orli’s rebuttals off, claiming his heart was broken or that Orli owed him at least a blowjob as his subject, but now… Orli scowled viciously as he neared his trailer and saw the windows were open. He’d left them closed, which meant Stuart must have let himself in. Again. He growled softly.
“Legolas?” Orli spun as a husky but clear voice penetrated his increasingly bad mood. His eyes took in the long unruly dark hair and beard before moving down to the filthy garments and tattered overcoat and boots, finally resting on the heavy sword that hung at the mans waist. He sneered, lifting his gaze to meet shockingly clear eyes in the carefully mud-spattered face.
“Ah,” he swept a low bow, mouth twisting into a parody of a welcoming smile, “The man who would be King, I presume? I am, indeed, a humble subject. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.” He said his name with a newfound smugness as he mentally compared the graceful formfitting attire he had recently quit to the insult to elegance that stood before him.
The other, older man, Orli noted, tilted his head to one side to carefully assess the young man whose eyes spat such unguarded ire towards him. He stepped forward slowly, offering him a large, calloused hand. “Viggo Mortensen.” He stated clearly, unnerved slightly by the Brits use of character names off set, having only hailed him as such because they had not yet been introduced by name. The younger man looked at his hand with contempt before shaking it briefly, spitting a reluctant “Orlando Bloom” at the interloper.
“Orlando?” Viggo queried, it seemed an unusual name for the snarling creature before him. Orli nodded stiffly and Viggo smiled, taking him by surprise that showed plainly on his face.
“It’s nice to meet you, Orlando.” Orli took a few deep breaths, concentrating on not falling to his knees before this man. His smile had somehow transformed his entire being and Orli felt somehow unworthy and nervous in his presence. “Lij never stops talking about you, I was beginning to think the Elf Prince was a myth,” here, another smile and Orli felt a ripple deep within his gut. Viggo looked quizzically at the young man, raising a brow at his apparently flustered state. “Well,” he said softly, tilting his head again, trying to capture the beauty of the young man on canvas in his minds eye for further study. “Having seen for myself that you are in fact a reality, I look forward to working with you Orlando.”
Orli blinked a few times, a nervous flicker blocking the astounding man before him who had now begun to walk away from him. “Orli, “ he croaked, “It’s Orli.”
Viggo turned to look back, smiling again at the younger man in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
Orli cleared his throat and attempted his own smile, genuine this time and was sadly too far away to hear the Dane’s breath catch in his throat at the sight. “It’s Orli,” he said again, shyly, “Orlando’s too long, my friends all call me Orli.” He blushed as Viggo’s tentative smile spread to sparkle in his eyes.
“Ok.” Viggo schooled his lips into what he hoped was slightly less than the enraptured gaze he had been sure he was sporting, “I’ll see you then… Orli.”
Both men grinned at each other, an odd bond quickly and subtly formed before each turned back to walk towards their destination. Orli let himself chuckle deep in his throat. Things appeared to be looking up.
He was wrong.
Upon entering his trailer, the first thing Orli noticed before something hard slammed into the side of his head was that his fridge stood open, his six pack of beer missing, the dead soldiers scattered over the counter. Orli tried to clutch at the counter for support as his mind reeled from impact but found himself borne swiftly downwards by the extra weight now thrown and battering at his head and chest.
“You fucking cheap slut, won’t let me fucking tough you, practically fucking threw yourself at him out there you cheap whore, you bloody cunt!” Stuart, Orli dimly realised through the haze that refused to let his defensive instincts kick in. Stuart had let himself in; drunk his beer apparently got absolutely stinking drunk and was now attempting to beat the shit out of him. Apparently.
“Fucking little slag, little cheap cunt... wasted too fucking much time on you already, practically bent over for him out there didn’t you… you cheap slut... ‘Oh call me Orli! Fucking SLUT!”
Stuart slammed his fist hard into Orli’s face, knocking his head back against the floor, rocking his already fragile brain against the walls of his skull. “Stuart please…” he slurred, whimpering slightly as his always tender back was rudely shoved into the floor, Stuart now alarmingly yanking at his trousers. “Stuart… hurting... me… please. Stuart.” Orli began to tremble, and he shook his head slightly to diffuse the sloshing sound in his ears, spying the unplugged toaster now lying on the ground near him. “Ah,” his brain sighed, happy to have discerned something through the fog “The toaster, my friend Stuart hit me with the toaster.”
“Stuart,” he mumbled through a mouth hot and coppery with blood, “friend… please… hurts.”
Stuart’s face was white with rage above him and dimly Orli wondered if beer was the only thing his friend was running mad on as he noted the rolling whites and enlarged pupils in his attackers face.
“You fucking superior snobbish little fucking cunt,” Stuart ground out, pulling frantically at Orli’s jeans before dragging him up by his shirt so he could spit into his face “I’m not good enough to be the fucking King, I’m not good enough to fuck but one look at the fucking old tier out there and all of a sudden you’re in heat aren’t you ...you sad, pathetic fucking little bitch? Well I’ll tell you now you useless little slag, I’m going to have you now and you’ll fucking beg me for it after and then we’ll see how well your precious excuse for a likes you then won’t we?” He slammed him back into the floor, the corner of the counter catching in the side of Orli’s ribcage, pulling the muscle tightly through his back, wrenching old stiffened muscles and scar tissue from Orli’s broken back eliciting a scream, a veritable howl of agony from the young man. The pain cleared Orli’s head just long enough for him to realise exactly what Stuart’s intentions were and he thrashed wildly, the pain shooting through his body enough to keep him yelling and crying out even as Stuarts fists flew repeatedly into his face.
There came, suddenly, a resounding crash and Orli fervently hoped that the ceiling would cave in and that it might crush him or at least push him over the edge and into merciful unconsciousness. He had one brief glimpse of Stuart’s red, enraged face as the Irishman’s hand tightened about his throat before suddenly there was light and air above him, the pressure removed from his chest and throat. Furious roars brought him back again from the brink of oblivion and he turned to see Stuart oddly suspended in the air. A few blinks and Orli could vaguely understand the scene before him enough to smile wearily through his bleeding lips.
Viggo had Stuart suspended by his shirtfront, slamming him into walls with such fantastic ferocity that Orli quite forgot to be in pain for a few seconds and let his eyes roam the lean length of the Dane. Long arms tapering into warm, hard hands that bunched and repeatedly struck out at the younger man amidst the guttural roars of fury Orli had heard just before and revelled in now as he watched the bloodlust slipping from his former friends face.
“You, you don’t understand… he’s just a little whore... he was begging me for it, he likes it rough... He’ll open his legs for anyone, man and then he’ll beg you to make it hurt real bad…” he tailed off at Viggo’s snarl “Look, he’s just a little cock tease getting what’s coming to him, why don’t you just try it, he’ll tie you in knots man then leave you hanging high and dry for him… he’s just a whore man... just a cheap little cunt...” Where Stuarts ramblings would have taken him after this unbelievable sequence of lies and slurs Orli would never know as Viggo dropped the younger man, backhanding him hard enough to send him sprawling backwards out the still open door.
“Go now,” Viggo spat, voice low and terrible with rage “ and maybe I won’t come after you and finish this….” He let the threat hang in the air before taking a step towards the prone Irishman who leapt up, fleeing towards his car as if the devil himself were after him.
Viggo spun on his heel and leapt back through the doorway to where Orli still lay, hovering on the edge of consciousness, held in place with agony and fear. His head had cleared enough by now for the realisation of what had nearly happened to sink in. “Viggo, “ he whispered, hoarse from his screams that still seemed printed on the air above him, “Stuart… I think he was… I think he was… trying… trying to… " He bit his lip and Viggo hunkered down beside him, shaking still from fury and terror he felt when he’d heard Orli screaming. “ I know Orli... I know what he was trying… Its ok, he’s gone now... I’m going to help you ok?” Orli nodded.
“Where does it hurt Orli?”
“I broke my back a few years back… hurts,” Orli whimpered despite himself and Viggo winced in sympathy, swallowing the bitterness that coated his throat when he noted the angle that Stuart had pressed Orli’s back against the counter. It must hurt so much, he thought, eyes prickling as he remembered the scream that had brought him running to begin with. It must have been then, he surmised with a shudder.
“I’m going to move you just a little so you can lie still till I get some help, ok Orli?”
Orli nodded, turning a little grey as Viggo eased his hands beneath his waist to pull him gently away from the counter so he lay flat against the cool linoleum of the floor. He shivered, oblivion wavering at the corners of his vision once more. “Viggo?” He whispered, voice trembling on a sob. “Stuart’s meant to be my friend….” Tears clouded his eyes and he felt the heat of grief at the back of his throat. “My friend.” He repeated and sobbed, the movement of his chest and shoulders sending him over the brink and into the warm embrace of darkness. Even as he fell, he felt the warm palm smooth the hair from his brow and the soft rumble of Viggo’s voice against his temple. “It’s ok Orli… I’m here… I’ve got you… s’ok now… I’ll take care of you.” Then there was only darkness.
*********************************************************
Orli opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the brightness of his surroundings. It had always struck him as odd that in the place you were most likely to feel sluggish and sore they would try and dazzle you at every turn with bright white light and paint. Hospitals, Orli mused, were at least as awful as the dentists surgery, and often twice as painful. The corners of his mouth lifted briefly as recalled his attempts to make the tooth fairy bring him a BMX instead of money as a child, the smile fading as recollection slowly trickled past the fond memory.
Stuart, his friend Stuart, had beat and tried to rape him. It hurt every time he woke up to realise that but somehow each time he did it got a little easier to not cry and scream in anguish. The second time he awoke, fully conscious, he found the fellowship and director crowded about his bed with gifts. He’d laughed at the odd assortment of presents the hobbits had selected, assured Peter he would be back at work just as soon as the pretty nurses would let him out and tried desperately to catch Viggo’s eye. He never could. Orli sighed and drifted back into sleep, careful to ignore the images that flashed before his eyes, focusing only on the words that drifted to him as he slipped into the darkness.
“It’s ok Orli… I’m here… I’ve got you…”
The day went by in quick snatches of time of consciousness. Orli was quite badly concussed and become used to the fact that he could fall asleep halfway through a sentence or better yet pretend to when he was sick of Lij’s nattering. The others popped in and out all day between shooting. Fran dropped by yet another fruit basket ignoring the fact he had yet to start on the first. Dom, Lij and Billy brought him pornographic playing cards that Dom helpfully took with him when they left and Sean Astin, bless his heart, brought the mini TV they’d all crowded round between shoots. If Orli’s head hadn’t been too sensitive eye-wise to focus on it for more than 5 minutes at a time it would have made his day, although he told Sean it had all the same. His other visitors brought an assortment of books and music, magazines and sweets but no Viggo. Peter dropped by with the new script but no Viggo. Peter stopped by to make sure he’d given him the correct version of the new script but no Viggo. Peter rang to check that Orli was reading the script and Orli pretended to be sleeping and still no Viggo.
At roughly 9pm, the nurse came to dose Orli, a nice mix of odds and ends that Lij referred to as instant coma due to its powerful knockout affect on Orli. Orli, by now more than cranky what with the stir craziness and lack of Viggo, was more than happy to accept said medication although he was warned the dose had been lessened so he’d fall asleep a little more naturally for once.
Orli’s eyes were just beginning to flicker, closing longer than a blink should be when he noticed someone creeping into the room. Half asleep, he whimpered, nightmare images of Stuart leaping from his mind to the shadowy figure by his bed. “No…” he murmured, “Please Stuart… no… Viggo help...”
A large palm stroked over the soft rasp of his Mohawk, cupping his law as the shadow leaned down to soothe and smile into Orli’s face, Viggo’s eyes sparkling at him from the dark.
“Sssh Orli, Its just me, Stuart’s far away from here and he won’t ever, ever hurt you again I promise.”
Orli smiled, a wide strip of happiness in a blackened, bruised face that had broken Viggo’s heart to look on during the day. “Viggo.” He breathed, relief colouring his voice as he slipped slowly back towards the void, “ I knew you’d come.” His eyelashes flickered again then settled, dark smudges in the half-light and Viggo inhaled deeply as Orli sighed and nuzzled deeper into his palm, still cupping his jaw possessively.
Looking at the boy in the sharp light of day only a few days ago, had nearly taken Viggo’s breath away. He had so nearly turned tail and fled when he’d seen him from afar in his Elf garb, chatting animatedly with one of the crew. It had been years since he’d felt such a distinctive pull from someone he barely knew and Viggo had tried to write it off as the dreaded midlife crisis Henry was always teasing him about. And then they’d met. And spoken. And… Viggo, famed for his words, could not for the life of him explain or describe the sensation he’d felt when faced with Orli, shy, cutting, injured and drowsy. He had never been the fanciful type; despite his sons frequent teasing comments about being a namby pamby poet but when he’d stood looking back at Orlando who’d seemed to hate him so much then, it was as if something inside him had slumped in relief, ‘Finally’ it declared and proceeded to imbed every fragment of Orli that it could latch onto into his brain.
He looked down at the sleeping, bruised angel cradled so carefully in his hand and something in him trembled and snapped. Orli seemed to flood through him, the terror of his screams reaching him through the thick summer air, the quiet trust in his eyes as Viggo moved him and the soft tremor of his voice as he’d whimpered his name into the dark, a Guardian, a friend to save him from he dark. Viggo swallowed hard, feeling unworthy of the trust as he leaned down towards the sleeping form.
“Its ok baby…” He whispered again, “I’ll take care of you.” He dropped his head to place a soft kiss upon the smooth curve of the young mans cheek as blurry brown eyes flickered open once more.
Viggo stopped short, his breath caught in his throat, his lips mere millimetres from Orli’s face, eyes locked as the brown depths cleared, focusing on the face above them.
“I know.” Orli whispered and lifted his head, sighing in fulfilment as their lips touched and held.
“I know.”
****************************************************
“He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to the throne of Gondor… you owe him your allegiance.”
Champagne glasses clinked, bubbles fizzing madly within as Pete and Fran laughed delightedly as they reviewed the scene in playback. “All hail the King!” Peter declared happily, knocking back his drink in one ecstatic gulp as Fran glanced out of the window, watching fingers twirling about each others, shoulders leaning against shoulders and into chests, matching smiles and kisses in the New Zealand twilight as blue eyes merged into brown in bliss. “Here, here.” She murmured, lifting her glass and watched as the figures walking together became lost in the night and the bubbles. “To Men and Elves.”
Fran loved her job.
END
For any typos I'm sorry but I wrote this about ten minutes ago and can't be ared to reread it... the spellcheck liked it so blame it for my baddies!:D
