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Title: Conquering Hero Comes
Author: Élizabeth de l'Epée et du Mot de l'Eau

watersword
Fandom: RPF
Pairing, Characters: Orlando Bloom
Series: None.
Rating: G.
Archive: Only if you ask, please.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: None.
Timeframe: Present-day.
Summary: On coming home and getting lost.
Disclaimer: This work is complete and total fiction. The author does not know Orlando Bloom and is making no claims about his life. No money is being made and no disrespect, copyright, or trademark infringement is intended.
Crossposted to:

watersword (friendsfiltered post) and

fellow_shippers.
Notes: I don’t use betas; any errors are solely and completely my fault. I've never been to Canterbury, but I lived in Salisbury, another Gothic cathedral city, for almost a year; the geography of this fic is based on that town. For

freedomfry, on the occasion of her birthday in 2005.

He goes back for the first time in eighteen months and gets lost. He can't bloody believe it. He's home, he's finally home, and he gets bloody lost. He sits in his car, finally back on the right (left) side of the road, and laughs, because it's either that or cry. He doesn't want to call his mum or Colin for directions, because, come on, mate, he grew up here, lived here most of his life, he should be able to figure out where the hell he is.

(where the hell is he?)

He tries Finchley Street, and there's a new playground there, with a basketball hoop. The house at the end of the block he gives up on has a green door. Down Salt Lane, there are three pubs: the Crown & Anchor, the Swallow's Wing, and the Boar & Swan. The Crown & Anchor advertises Thai food, the Swallow's Wing has local ales, and the Boar & Swan's menu, written in green chalk outside the door, is all vegetarian. He almost turns the wrong way down a one-way street before he notices, and swerves back.

(which way is he going?)

Then he drives past Waitrose, turns left, and there's the cathedral. The world snaps back into place, and he parks under an elm tree. The cathedral, with its manicured lawn—God doesn't care about that, but churchgoers do—is all warm-cold stone in the pale sunshine, and the windows are dark. He knows that inside, they are like, like eyes glowing in the night. He hunches his shoulders inside his jacket and heads for the east vestry doors. His back is singing-stinging, but he ignores it.

(what hurts inside?)

The cathedral is deserted, but down the nave lies a bright scarlet carpet; he doesn't remember that being there ever before, and when he gets closer, he sees that the nap's never been crushed. P'raps the Queen is to visit. He wanders down an aisle, past all the tombs and the signs posted for tourists. He remembers when most of those went up, when he was eleven, and how he felt his home was being invaded by Americans. Now he spends most of his time in America. He's caught himself using American slang, and it sits wrong under his tongue.

(what is he saying?)

He knows how to get home, or at any rate back to his mum's house, from the cathedral, but he lingers. They won't be troubled if he's a few minutes late. And the space stretching above his head, the stone curved and glowing, is like surfing through memory, like coming home and drowning. Or coming back to life.

(this is where he is)

* * *