"Feet First" by violetisblue

[roxann-ireland.livejournal.com]

Title: Feet First
Pairing: None, Elijah Wood's POV
Rating: PG for some profanity
Disclaimer: This is doubly not mine.  Not only do I not own the people, I don't even own this story--violetisblue does.
Summary: The Council of Elrond shoot is running overtime and no one is happy about it..
Notes: Thanks to violetisblue for letting me post this.  I pestered her and pestered her.  She's kinda shy.




FEET FIRST


"Never heard anything like it in my whole--"

"--bear the power of the Ring, not these prancing poncy Elvish gits--"

"Rhubarb, pork chops and julienne potatoes--"

"--went to sea in a sieve, they did, in a sieve they went to sea--"

"--think there's lice in that bloody beard of his--"

"Aaah, AAAH!  Arrgh shit motherfuck errgh AARRGH!"

The minute trickle of sweat that had started behind his ear, right at the juncture of wig and scalp, rolled with slow precision down the nape of his neck--just missing the hobbit-coat's high brown collar--trailed beneath his shirt, rounded the sharp curve of a shoulder blade and disappeared into the dead center of his back.  His scalp was twitchily alive beneath the skullcap of the wig and begging to be scratched, the smooth, thick patina of pancake against his face was a cracking papier-mache mask and he could feel his feet slowly dissolving inside the painstakingly sculpted prosthetics now soldered to his ankles.

Fortunately, the Council of Elrond's core meltdown happened to require of him that Frodo's very posture bespeak an overwhelmingly profound discomfort.  Method acting at its finest.  His mother, bless her grasping avaricious "artistically" inclined heart, would be so very proud.  (Thank Christ, thank the Force, thank Chanticleer the Chicken God that she'd decided she couldn't take a year of communing with the sheep and, after he'd wasted weeks of sleepless nights rehearsing tactful bugger-offs, announced she was staying in California after all.)  So he sat there, and sweated, and twitched, and watched the Council spring to their feet and wave their arms around and shout the first nonsensical epithets that came into their heads; as Peter planned to studio-dub all the actual Sounds of Strife, only the visual mattered.

Still, he could have quite happily gone his whole life without hearing Hugo Weaving gleefully shouting at John Rhys-Davies, "Fuck me NOW, Gimli, you magnificent axe-swinging brick-shithouse bastard!"

"ARRGGH!" John bellowed in response.  "Bugger bollocks ballsucking ARRGGGH!"

Elijah twitched some more, and sweated anew, and futilely tried to ignore the merciless New Zealand sun as he waited for his cue.  From the corner of his eye he saw Ian ("Sir Ian," Sean Astin after lo these many weeks still insisted upon addressing him, with a solemnity that never failed to make Orlando snicker uncontrollably into his jerkin)--looking equally heatstroked in prosthetic nose and nine-yard wig and ten-yard beard and about eighteen layers of flowing robes--turn and exchange an infinitely weary off-camera glance with Sean, who crouched motionless and shiny-faced in the bushes a few yards away.  

The latter shrugged philosophically, then jumped a little and, shooting an irritated look to his right, pointedly moved a few feet further away from his fellow hidden hobbits.  Dom and Billy, their always-short attention spans severely challenged by today's delay-plagued Rivendell shoot, had decided to pass the time until their own cues by poking at Sean with sharp sticks.  Two hours Peter had had blocked out on the shooting schedule for today's bit of Rivendell, and between blown lines and a wonky camera lens and Hugo managing to trip over his own and (Sir) Ian's robes and Viggo nearly being brained by a fallen piece of Elrond's house-roof, they had already been there for five.  Going on six.  Elijah found himself wishing for a sharp stick of his own.  His chest was so tight and constricted it was killing him.  His cue was coming, coming, at any blessed min--

"PRISON BITCH!" shouted Viggo, the grime artfully applied to his face going grimier by the second.

Hammer time, Frodo.  "I will take it!  I will take it!"

Shouts became murmurs.  Blessed silence.  One beat, two beats--"I will take the Ring to Mordor.  Though I do not know the way."

Ian turned in a swirl of sweat-soaked robes, looking infinitely grateful for his wizard's-staff.  "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear."

Viggo marched forward.  "If by my life or death, I can protect you, I--"

"Fuck!"

Every head turned toward the bushes, where Sean--finally driven past his considerable limit by Dom and Billy's bear-baiting--had shoved the latter with all his might into a convenient patch of burdocks.  Billy rolled out of the bushes, swearing, needle-sharp burrs clinging to every inch of sleeve.

"Cut," Peter said wearily.  "Sean--"

"Sorry," Sean replied, courteously plucking a few stray burrs from Billy's shirtsleeves.  "I tripped."

Dom shoved him unceremoniously aside, tending to his fallen comrade with the devoted attention of a bonobo ape grooming his mate.  Sean Bean put his hands to his forehead, clenching two fistfuls of lank blond hair. "Leave it, for Christ's sake!" he shouted.  "You're supposed to have been down in the bushes anyway, little ones--"

"Places," Peter called out, looking tired but wholly unruffled.  Amused, even, as only one wearing shorts and not a carapace of embroidered wool could have been under such harsh sunshine and harsher set lights.  "You, Sean , back in the bushes, you two go stand behind the arch, and please murder each other after wrap--Eli, again from 'I will take the Ring.' Action!"

Three more trickles of sweat made their wet, itchy way down his back like a set of clammy trailing fingertips. His armpits were a swamp.  He clenched his teeth to keep from shivering with discomfort.  "I will take the Ring to Mordor.  Though I do not know the way."

"I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, so long as it is yours to bear."

"If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will.  You have my sword."

Silence.  Viggo glanced around him, apparently waiting for something.

"You have my sword!" he repeated, slightly louder.

"Cut," said Peter.  "Orlando?"

Orlando, apparently preoccupied with straightening his fawn-colored tights, looked up in some confusion.  "What?" he demanded.

Ian leaned more heavily upon his staff, seeming slightly pained.  "I believe," he offered drily, "that Mr. Mortensen and our director meant to indicate that this is your line."

"No, it isn't," Orlando said, turning to Peter Jackson in some indignation as Viggo glared at him.  "John's next.  'You have my axe--' "

" 'And my axe,' " John corrected him.

Orlando frowned.  "My axe and my axe?"

John let out a gust of air through gritted teeth.  " 'And you have my bow, and my--' "

"Axe," Orlando said.  His face beneath the pancake--smoothly pale on screen, almost ghostly-white in the flesh--reddened slightly.  "Bow, then axe.  Right.  I remember.  Sorry, heat made me daft for a--"

"Viggo," Peter interrupted smoothly, albeit with some impatience, "from your line.  Action!"

"If by my life or death, I can protect you, I will.  You have my sword."

Orlando strode forward.  "And you have my axe--wait, shit.  Sorry."

"Cut!"

"Take three," said Peter.  "From your line, Viggo.  Action!"

"You have my sword."

"And you have my swor--oh, fuck."

"Cut!"

"Jesus Christ," Viggo muttered.

"I said I was sorry," Orlando snapped back.  "You think I want to prolong this any--"

"Orlando?" Hugo offered, gesturing toward Orlando's shoulder, "see that big curving thing you've got slung across your back?  It's a bow.  Not an axe.  Or a sword.  They're actually quite different, when you really look at them.  Does that help?"

"See those things you've got at the ends of your ankles, Hugo?" Orlando retorted.  "They're feet.  You pick them up to move forward.  Will that help keep you from falling on your arse any more than you already have?"

"Take four," Peter cut in, as Hugo scowled ferociously at his fellow elf.  "Rolling...action!"

"You, have, my, sword."

"My bow!  Er, I mean--"

Eli groaned out loud, accompanied by John and both Seans.  Ian raised his shaggy mock brows at Orlando, remaining silent.  Viggo threw a hand in the air and started walking away.

"Viggo," Peter called, not moving from his director's perch, "we're not breaking for anything until this scene is over."

Viggo threw his sword to the set floor with a clatter of metal.  "It'd have been over about forty minutes ago," he almost shouted, "if--"

"I can hold up cue cards," Sean offered from the bushes, "if that would get us out of here faster."

"I know what you can hold up," Orlando shot back.

"Shit!" Billy hissed, as Dom yanked another dozen burdock burrs off his hindquarters.

"Take five," Peter announced, squinting through the camera lens, "whether you like it or not.  Action!"

"You have my sword."

Silence.

"AND YOU HAVE MY BOW!" shouted, as one, the entire sweltering Council.