ext_46181 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2006-04-13 12:18 am
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-04-13 12:18 am
Un Cadeau du Roi (5/8)
Title: Un Cadeau du Roi (5/8)
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Pairings: anything's possible among VM, BB, DM, HS, DW, OB, EW (this part pretty much HS/VM)
Rating: series PG-13
Disclaimer: AU and very not true.
Feedback: Please do! It's very much appreciated.
A/N: Just some more development of Harry's story and the Vig/Harry relationship in this part. I should mention that this chapter was heavily inspired by my own studies on and travels in Southern France, particularly the Languedoc, a region near and dear to my heart. The amazing house described in this chapter is a real place, though it is owned not by Harry but by an older couple who happen to be friends of my advisor and allowed a small group of us to dine with them last year. I was absolutely taken by the history in the home, owned by a very modest country family, and I hope I was able to convey that feeling here. Also, if anyone's wondering, the photo in the banner is from the Pont du Gar, the aqueduct where Vig and Harry have lunch. It's a lovely place and you should definitely consider a picnic there next time you're in the neighbourhood of Avignon.
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four
The next morning, Viggo rose early. The guest room Harry had allowed him was luxurious, the mattress new and comfortable but the bed frame much older, clothed in heavy wine-coloured velvet drapes. There was a fireplace opposite the foot of the bed, and a wooden writing desk against one wall. Viggo found himself wondering how much of the mansion existed as it was in the sixteenth century, and how much had been changed by intermediate owners when the Sinclair family had left over two hundred years before.
History, after all, was what he was after, Viggo reasoned. His own involvement aside, Harry’s was a fascinating story, and that was what he had been promised. The best way to avoid getting wrapped up in the prophecy itself was to focus on his writing, on the historical elements that Harry described so compellingly. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that the story of Billy and Dominic, and even his chase for Orlando, personally significant though it was, were simply peripheral to the majesty and mystery that made up Harry’s tale. If he really wanted to write a book that would sell, this was what he needed to focus on.
Although, if he really thought about it, it was more than a little odd. Sure, Harry had personal motivation to keep Viggo in the palace. Now that he had heard the whole story, he knew what the motivation was. He wasn’t sure if he thought Harry mad, or how much he believed—it was after all a little spooky to think that this man might actually have had a vision of Viggo seven years before, but then there was Elijah, and after that encounter he found himself a little more open to the paranormal. Either way, he could see that Harry didn’t want to let him get away, but why divulge so much? He said that the prophecy was a secret, and yet he was telling Viggo the story… maybe it didn’t matter much, now that his line had reached an end, maybe secrecy was no longer paramount, but surely he would object to having his story written about in such detail? Unless… well unless he trusted Viggo, and that was an unlikely thought. Why would he trust someone he knew so little about? Though he seemed to know more than he let on…
“Breakfast?”
Viggo jumped, then took in a deep breath when he saw Harry standing behind him in the kitchen, looking amused. Viggo ran a hand through his hair and managed a weak smile. “You’re up early.”
“Usually am. What can I interest you in? Toast, bacon? I make a mean eggs Benedict.”
“Tea and toast is fine,” Viggo mumbled.
“A simple man, then. I suppose it shan’t fall to me to woo you with fineries after all,” Harry commented with a small, knowing smile, as if he had just recited the punch line to a private joke.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, just something between Orlando and I. Never you mind,” Harry said dismissively, putting the kettle on and sliding slices of white bread in the toaster.
“I… if you know so much about Orlando, why can’t you lead me to him?” Viggo asked, sceptically. “If you’re destined to fall in love with me, as you say, then it shouldn’t be a problem to just introduce us. Unless, of course, you’re jealous…?” Viggo allowed himself a small smile, thinking he had caught the man in a vulnerable position, but Harry just laughed and leaned back against the counter.
“Hardly. First of all, I haven’t the slightest idea how to contact the young Orlando right now, unless it were through Elijah, and I doubt Elijah would be exactly helpful at this stage. Secondly, Orlando has every right to be quite annoyed with me right now. And thirdly, if anyone should be jealous… well, Viggo, you might consider Orlando’s and my history. After all, he is the one trying so desperately to keep you away from me, hoping to prove this prophecy wrong. I hardly suspect that he will have much of an eye for you if we three are to come together.”
Viggo just grunted, annoyed by Harry’s smug demeanour, and stewed in silence until his breakfast was ready.
“Seriously though, Viggo,” Harry continued when they were sitting on opposite sides of a low wooden breakfast table. “You have your book to write, do you not? I have promised you my history, and surely you have more questions.” Viggo nodded and took a sip of his tea, blowing first to cool it. “Right then. I have a proposal. This place gets so stuffy, after a while. Why don’t you take your camera and your recording equipment and come with me on a drive? I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
“Where do you want to take me?” Viggo asked, sceptical. After all, if this man was a psycho or a murderer, he didn’t really want to get in a vehicle with him.
“Relax,” Harry replied with a gentle smile. “It isn’t far, only to Sauve, in the Cevennes. It’s a lovely little town, and the mountains are beautiful. The air is fresher up there, and I think it would be a nice change of pace. Just come for the day, we’ll have lunch at a house I keep and then I’ll show you around the town. We’ll talk on the way and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my family. You have my word,” Harry promised, and Viggo found that his eyes, at least, appeared genuine. He nodded, curtly, and finished his toast.
“I’ll go get my things.”
“So what about how you came to France. You weren’t very specific about that last night, nor about what you did in the ten years before you came, in New Zealand. You said you didn’t work…?”
“That’s correct,” Harry replied, steering the Renault along the motorway just north of Montepellier, up out of the wine country and into the mountains. The view was breathtaking, but Viggo concentrated only on his subject and the controls of the recorder he had pointed at the driver’s seat. “I spent ten years deeply engaged, but not working. I did some volunteer work for UNICEF, and I taught English lessons to some local Maori children, but I didn’t work as such. The majority of my time, rather, was spent studying. Don’t misunderstand me, Viggo; I do realize how lucky I am. I recognize the advantages that I have been given, and I do my best not to waste away the time I have. I went to university in Auckland, where I studied history with a specialization in sixteenth century France,” Harry continued with an ironic smile.
“My family’s legacy, of course, was most important to me, but I wanted to develop a context. After the university I continued to learn of France at the time, along with what I could of the Sinclairs in England. I studied both modern French and older forms, as well as the langue d’oc, which was not spoken by my family but is still used by some in this region. My studies ended up branching into other areas as well, and as I have always been taken with art and music, I made it my goal to familiarize myself as much as possible with the arts. I have quite a collection, in fact, which I would be happy to show you if you so desire. Some of it remains with my family in New Zealand, but I have a number of paintings at the house here.” Viggo smiled at Harry’s identification of the mansion he lived in as “the house,” but nodded simply. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was indeed quite curious to see what sort of paintings Harry owned, as he always had an appreciation of the medium himself.
“You may assume that I remained in New Zealand for the entirety of this ten year period, but you would be incorrect. The notes, after all, said nothing of remaining in the foreign land to which I was born. I knew that I was not to return to my home until my thirtieth birthday, but I had no reason not to see Europe. Those were some of the happiest years of my life, in fact… I loved the ballet and the opera, and especially the great symphonies. I spent time in Paris and London, as well as Spain, Italy… I was quite saddened by what I had learned of the Soviet Empire, for much of the majesty of Imperial Russia was hidden away or destroyed, but I obtained a pass to visit St. Petersburg, as well, and still discovered some treasures. The Ballet Russe, of course, was amazing, and it was there I travelled until it came time to make the arrangements for the move to France.
“Establishment in a new home, incidentally, did not diminish my love of exploration, and I continued to travel quite a bit. I admit that a somewhat boyish curiosity stayed with me, and I did pursue several affairs, though none lasting, hoping to find the man for whom it was my destiny to search.” Harry paused, giving Viggo a significant look, but Viggo hoped to move the conversation in a different direction.
“This is how you found Orlando?”
“Ah, yes.” Henry smiled fondly, conjuring a memory. “It was in Italy where I found the young Orlando Bloom, much as you did. At the time, of course, he was younger, retaining even more elements of boyhood than he does today, but still I was moved. He had just moved to the Continent from Canterbury, and at first he rejected my advances, keeping me on the edge of my seat, so to speak, hoping for more than a chance encounter. It is somewhat ironic, however, that I soon became the pursued and he, the pursuer.
“We did in fact start an affair, and were together for several months when my fortieth birthday was upon us. I fell asleep in his arms, fully expecting to see him in my dreams, and awoke, refreshed, invigorated, but thinking only of you. He was confused and upset, as is to be expected, when I confided in him. However, once his anger subsided, and after repeated attempts to convince me to ignore the inevitable, he agreed to help me find you. I should have known, of course, that his motivations were not entirely pure, but I was blinded, by… well, by something which I to this day cannot name.”
“Love?” Viggo suggested.
“No, not love. Or perhaps love, but not in the way you are thinking. A deep friendship, rather, for I do love Orlando as one of my dearest friends, though it pains me to think how he deliberately tried to put a stop to my life’s search. Still, he did so with the best of intentions. Orlando is a free spirit, as you may have guessed, and it is good for us not to be confined together, but I hope to see him again soon.” Harry smiled, and then Viggo realised that they were slowing down, ascending up a narrow gravel drive. They had been driving through a spectacular mountain range for some time, and then turned onto a side road from the motorway, and were now pulling up to a rather large house. Viggo turned off the tape recorder when he realised they had reached their destination, and stepped out of the car to be met with a slight chill.
“Mountain air,” Henry commented with a knowing smile. “I asked Lucille to turn the heat on inside before we left; it should be warm by now in the dining room.”
Viggo just nodded dumbly as Henry led the way to the front door, opening it onto a spacious foyer. The ceiling was quite high, and the walls were painted a brilliant blue, with a fresco painted on the ceiling depicting angels and cupids. Viggo stared over his head, incredulous, as Harry watched, smiling knowingly.
“This place is a gem. It’s been in the family for years, through a line founded by one of the younger brothers of an ancestor of mine in the seventeenth century. It’s so well hidden in the mountains that they didn’t have to leave after the Revolution, and when the line ended ownership somehow was passed on to my grandfather.” Harry led the way into a room at the right, pointing out the various features as Viggo stared openly.
“Each part of the house was built in a different period. The oldest rooms date to the eleventh century, but this would have been built around the eighteenth, before the second floor was added. You see the rooms through there,” he added, pointing to a couple of rooms with a stone floor. “Those are where the servants would have slept, and here on this hearth is where they made cheeses.” Harry pointed out a garden off to the side of the servant’s quarters, and then led the way back into the foyer.
“The upstairs is very spacious, but hardly interesting from a historical point of view, as it was added in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This cabinet here does hold some items worthy of note, however,” he pointed out, showing a wood-and-glass cabinet hidden in a corner of the foyer. “This rifle collection includes some examples from the revolution, and those at the bottom are local silkworms. The region, as you may know, is ideal for silk, along with the better known wine and cheeses.” Harry smiled and opened a door opposite the foyer from the servant’s quarters, and Viggo stepped into a living area.
“This bit at the front is relatively new, but if you’ll follow me you’ll see some of the older rooms.” Harry led the way back to another room with a stone floor, similar to that of the servant’s quarters, also slightly elevated. A long wooden table sat in the centre, with a large stone fireplace on one wall. There was also a large basin with a hose, sitting next to a quite modern refrigerator. “Ah good, I see Lucille’s put the sausages on,” Harry commented, nodding at the fire. “We’ll have a rather rustic country lunch, but I think you’ll enjoy it. First though, the piece de resistance,” he announced with a smile, leading the way to a door at the back of the room. Much lower than any other doorway in the house, it was arched and sunken in, with a wood panelled door and a rusted latch. The door itself was rough and quite old looking, but Viggo had little reason to examine it when he had reached the other side.
The four rooms, joined by a narrow corridor, were unremarkable, but Viggo immediately recognized the import of the discovery, running his hand over the stone walls in awe. “Limestone,” Harry commented, watching as Viggo walked through the empty rooms, arched stone doorways devoid of actual doors. “There are a number of quarries around here, in fact most of the hills of the Languedoc are made principally of limestone.”
“But this must be… hundreds of…”
“This is the eleventh-century portion I told you about. The oldest part of the house, hardly functional now, and it always struck me as odd the way the rest is just built up around it in wood and plaster, but it’s been one of my favourite places to go since I came to France,” Harry admitted. “It’s comforting, you know? To think that despite the incredible weight of this legacy I’m a part of, despite the import of the fact that I am the last of a royal line stretching back five hundred years, that there is still something older than me. People lived in these rooms, cooked their suppers on these floors…” Harry paused, scuffing the blackened centre of floor in the room they stood in with the toe of his boot. “… people had daily lives here long before my family ever existed, and people will continue to live their lives long after I am gone. It makes it a little easier to handle,” Harry admitted, and his soft smile was endearing whether Viggo wanted to admit it or not. Whether he believed Harry was beside the point, for Viggo had a nagging feeling that Harry was right. This wasn’t about him, or Harry, or the two of them. This was about an amazing history, not just Henry’s own legacy but the history of a region that spanned far back in the stretches of time, beyond their own imaginations. Viggo smiled, and clasped one hand around Harry’s strong shoulder, squeezing gently. Words weren’t necessary.
“Well then! Why don’t you choose a wine?” Harry suggested after a minute had passed, and Viggo stepped back quickly, urging himself to snap back into the present. He blamed it entirely on the room, and once he had picked a bottle of red from the wooden rack along one wall, he quickly headed back towards the kitchen.
Throughout the meal, Harry kept the conversation light, and Viggo was glad for that. He told him about the Languedoc, a topic on which Harry proved to be quite an expert—from the shepherds of the Cevennes to the vineyards of the lower plains, it was all quite fascinating, and Viggo took comfort in knowledge as he often had in difficult situations. He always liked to know as much as he could, as information could serve both as a tool and as a barrier to hide behind, in Viggo’s own experience. Here it kept him from questioning the more confusing parts of this journey he found himself in, and he took immense comfort in learning about wine and silk and limestone, rather than considering his own role in a story that was far beyond his immediate comprehension.
Between the two of them, Viggo and Harry made quite a dent in the sausages and rustic local bread that Lucille, the caretaker, had laid out for them. The wine, a very good vintage, led to companionable conversation as well, followed by tiny crystal goblets of kir and kiwis for dessert. Harry told fond stories of the kiwi fruit that had grown in his own backyard in New Zealand, and Viggo confessed that he had always wanted to see the country, but had never been to the South Pacific in his journalistic career. They laughed about how the French scooped out halved kiwis with a spoon, while the Americans cut the fruit into thin slices. Viggo found talking about their dessert to be perhaps the safest topic it was possible to hit upon, and so he indulged Harry as he talked about the kiwi fruit, and then the kiwi bird, and finally New Zealand itself, in great length. By the time they finished, like true Frenchmen, it was two o’ clock, and they had spent nearly two hours on their lunch.
Viggo was sorry to see the charming house go, but was soon treated to a new enjoyment when they reached the village of Sauve. Cobblestone streets and narrow houses that went up, rather than out, marked the charming little town, where a car often could traverse a street with less than a hand’s width leeway on either side. With the exception of a few old women sitting on their rooftop terraces, the village was surprisingly empty, and Harry explained that many this time of year were on holiday in Nice or Marseilles, or at least taking a beach weekend at the closer Palavas.
They passed the Protestant and Catholic churches with their two separate squares, and Harry explained with a chuckle how the older men would congregate here on Saturday mornings, each group completely ignorant of the other. Religious divisions still ran deep in this area, one of the strongholds of the Huguenots and last to surrender, even earlier, to the reign of Catholic France when the Languedoc had remained independent in medieval times. Harry explained how the death of his own ancestor, Henry III, had been one effect of a bloody rift between Catholics and Protestants. Henry of Navarre, his successor, was a Protestant, while Henry III had been responsible for revoking the Edict of Nantes, a law that granted some religious freedoms to Protestants. Though the notes Harry possessed suggested Henry’s own personal involvement had been scant, rather led by the advice of the Catholic Duke of Guise to revoke the Edict, the populous was not amused and religion had been the cause of Henry’s death nonetheless.
As Harry told the story, the two men wound up through narrow alleys, their path rising progressively as Harry pointed out certain elements—the walls of the old city, the old horse paths, a fenced-in field backed by rock outcroppings where the precious hickory trees grew, native to the region and used to make pitchforks for farmers throughout the world. Viggo rolled his eyes a bit at something as insignificant as pitchfork production being considered an important historical detail, but then remembered the description of the twin boxes bearing the notes and the prophecy. Both, he recalled, were made of hickory.
By the time half an hour had passed, they were well out of the confines of the town, rising on a dirt path up into the hills, ducking overhanging branches and occasionally hopping over narrow gullies. Harry held out his hand to help Viggo at one point, and Viggo accepted the leg-up as he was hoisted onto a stone shelf, overlooking the whole of the town from the hill’s summit.
From this vantage point, Harry methodically pointed out the layout of the town, including the two churches and their opposing squares, but they did not dally long. Their destination, in fact, was much more out of the way and could only be found by a trained eye, but Harry knew what he was looking for.
Partially obscured by overgrowth, the entrance to the stone cave was really nothing but a hole in the ground. Viggo stooped in front of the hole, imagining a full-grown man trying to squeeze through, but reasoned that people were obvious smaller in those days. Harry helpfully held a lighter to the entrance, and Viggo could just make out a tunnel, opening into a wider stone room.
“This is where the Protestants hid,” Harry explained. “In those times, after the Edict was revoked, devout Catholics and men with less pure motives were eager to scour the countryside, looking for heretics. Some succeeded, and many were put to death, but a few managed to survive up here, in hiding in the hills. I think, remembering this history, this is why the Protestant men now are still so reluctant to make peace with the Catholics. The stories were passed down, generation to generation, of how whole families were forced either to flee to the Netherlands or make their homes in these dank holes, barely subsisting, just to avoid capture. It’s a pretty bleak story, you can imagine.” Viggo nodded, taking one last look at the hole, and remained relatively silent on the hike back down to the car.
“So that was the Mer de Roches,” Harry commented when they were back in the car, driving up over the mountains again back towards Montpellier. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Yeah,” Viggo agreed absentmindedly, looking out the open window as they climbed higher and higher. He looked out over the landscapes, at the scrubby grape vines and the chalky limestone outcroppings, the roadside almost as dusty as the southwestern desert back at home, and his mind was far away. He remembered the trip to the Painted Desert, and on to Mesa Verde, Dave’s cowboy hat ridiculous atop his perfectly gelled red-blonde locks. He was back in that old Ford truck, rumbling down a dusty highway with his lover in the passenger seat, laughing as the other man warbled old country and western tunes in an off-key tenor tinged with an Australian accent, reaching out with his own dirt-stained hand to cut him off. He was lying under the stars, underneath a canvas tent, coyotes and the scrubby brush that surrounded their makeshift campsite the only witness to his fervent cry, his lover moving over him in perfect counterpoint to his own thrusts as drops of sweat fell and were caught between his lips. When Harry gently asked if he had more questions, he shook his head. All the answers, he feared, had been lost long ago.
On his third day in France, Harry decided to take Viggo on another drive, this time out of the Languedoc. Their first stop was in a town called Uzes, where Viggo took some photos of the Roman Aqueduct that cuts through Provence on its way to Montpellier. The town’s market was bustling that morning, and Viggo took advantage of the busy booths to purchase a jar of locally made lavender honey and some candied fruit while Harry obtained bread and cheese for their lunch.
After Uzes, they proceeded eastward to their final destination, the Pont du Gar. Predictably, there was a good-sized swarm of tourists on the walkway underneath the aqueduct, but Harry led the way down a lesser-known trail that twisted down to the river’s edge, giving them a view of the aqueduct from its bank and a perfect spot to sit and enjoy their lunch.
The day was sunny but not hot, and Viggo quite enjoyed their somewhat rustic meal of country bread, local cheese, and a hearty red wine. Tearing off a hunk of bread with his teeth as Harry watched, laughing, Viggo smiled and thought back to earlier days.
“I used to love to go camping,” he admitted, seemingly out of the blue, as Harry passed him the bottle of wine to sip from. “When I was a boy, my dad would take me… and then Dave and I loved to go when we were on holiday.”
“Dave was your boyfriend?” Harry asked.
“Yeah. We worked at the same paper… he was a phenomenal journalist, joined us from Sydney just a couple of years after I started and it was pretty much instant attraction. Well…almost instant.” Viggo chuckled at the memory of Dave’s first day, when he was in such a rush to get to a location that he didn’t even see the Australian rounding the corner and smacked into him, head-on. It was a week before Dave had officially forgiven him for that one, and a month before he finally let him live the klutzy moment down. Oh, but what Viggo would give for a thousand more klutzy moments… “Well anyway, we dated for quite a few years,” Viggo finished, his smile fading.
“What happened to him?” Harry asked in a gentle tone.
“He died.” Viggo’s voice was matter-of-fact; belying the pain he still felt when he said the words aloud. “On assignment in Kosovo, it… went bad.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Harry replied, and he seemed genuine enough, but Viggo couldn’t help but wonder. Why would Harry be sorry, after all? It was hard to fall in love with a man who was already in love with someone else, and he wouldn’t get his goddamned prophecy and the supposed prize if Dave were still here. Viggo turned away; not wanting to see Harry’s sympathetic eyes, and took a long swallow of wine.
“What’s past is past,” he mumbled, not meaning it. Harry, to his credit, respected Viggo’s imposed silence and didn’t pry; wrapping up the remains of their lunch and leading the way back to the car when they had finished.
“Where to now, then?” Viggo asked when they were back on the motorway heading north. “Any more romantic getaway destinations in your plan to force yourself to fall in love with me?” he continued in a bitter tone. Harry looked a bit taken aback, but gave himself a moment to comment, choosing his words carefully with his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Viggo, I’m not trying to force you to do anything,” Harry insisted, his tone soft. “I’ve waited years, and I can wait longer…”
“Until what, Harry?” Viggo yelled, his tone unusually harsh. “You’re not giving me any choice in the matter, whatsoever! You say you have to fall in love with me, and presumably for this to occur you’ll need to spend time with me, and I don’t know how much time, but I don’t want to be a pawn in your stupid little historical game! I can’t just traipse all over France with you, trying to make myself attractive so that you’ll fall for me and your destiny will be fulfilled. I have my own life, you know.”
Harry sighed, his focus still on the road, unwilling to meet the hurt expression in Viggo’s eyes. “It isn’t like that,” he whispered, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “It isn’t like that at all, Viggo. You know, you act like I’ve never loved before. You act as if I don’t know what it’s like to love, and lose. Well you’re fucking wrong, mate. Just because I knew I was destined for you, does not mean I haven’t given away my heart, hoping against hope that I might have found the right person… I mean Jesus, Viggo. I’m just like any other man, any man searching for the one he’s destined to be with. It just happens that with me, well, I found out the identity of that man before I ever met him. But don’t think I wasn’t looking, long before that. Don’t think I wasn’t pretty fucking sure that Orlando was that man, and don’t think that he wasn’t ready… isn’t still ready, even, to give his heart to me. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know what it’s like to look into those beautiful brown eyes and say ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not the one?’
Harry took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, or willing unshed tears not to fall. “You don’t know the half of it, Viggo. What’s so great about you, you know? I’m supposed to fall in love with you, but damn it, I have no idea why you’re so much better than Orlando, or any of the other men I’ve been with and enjoyed and hoped… Viggo, you have no idea. I’m not asking you to ‘make’ yourself attractive to me, I’m just asking you the courtesy of being yourself, trying to enjoy yourself with me, and remaining open to the possibility. Tell me something, honestly. Let’s say there was no Orlando, no book, no prophecy… let’s say you just met me on the street, or through a friend, or at a party. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t be interested at all, not the teeniest bit?”
Harry held his breath, and Viggo sighed, rubbing his temples. He almost could feel sorry for the man, if he didn’t feel so… used. Primarily, Viggo was confused, and he didn’t want to do this, not here, in a car on some French motorway with a sudden summer rainstorm pouring down on the windscreen. He took a deep breath, and braced himself. “No, I can’t say that,” he answered, quietly, and Harry would have smiled if the situation hadn’t been as it was. “But it’s not like that, Harry… I feel for you, really I do, but I can’t help but feel like a caged animal here.”
Harry nodded. “I can see how you would feel like that, but you have every right to go, if you want to. I told you before that I would take you to the train in the morning and I wasn’t lying. You want to go back right now, get your stuff, and head to Montpellier? We can.”
Viggo sighed again, ran a hand through his hair. “You know I can’t do that. I’m too… involved, now. I can’t help but want to know how it’s all going to turn out.”
Harry smiled slightly and nodded to himself. “Right then. We’ll head back, have a nice hot cup of tea, and take it from there. Sound good?”
Viggo nodded, and allowed himself a small smile. “Sounds excellent.”
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Pairings: anything's possible among VM, BB, DM, HS, DW, OB, EW (this part pretty much HS/VM)
Rating: series PG-13
Disclaimer: AU and very not true.
Feedback: Please do! It's very much appreciated.
A/N: Just some more development of Harry's story and the Vig/Harry relationship in this part. I should mention that this chapter was heavily inspired by my own studies on and travels in Southern France, particularly the Languedoc, a region near and dear to my heart. The amazing house described in this chapter is a real place, though it is owned not by Harry but by an older couple who happen to be friends of my advisor and allowed a small group of us to dine with them last year. I was absolutely taken by the history in the home, owned by a very modest country family, and I hope I was able to convey that feeling here. Also, if anyone's wondering, the photo in the banner is from the Pont du Gar, the aqueduct where Vig and Harry have lunch. It's a lovely place and you should definitely consider a picnic there next time you're in the neighbourhood of Avignon.
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four
The next morning, Viggo rose early. The guest room Harry had allowed him was luxurious, the mattress new and comfortable but the bed frame much older, clothed in heavy wine-coloured velvet drapes. There was a fireplace opposite the foot of the bed, and a wooden writing desk against one wall. Viggo found himself wondering how much of the mansion existed as it was in the sixteenth century, and how much had been changed by intermediate owners when the Sinclair family had left over two hundred years before.
History, after all, was what he was after, Viggo reasoned. His own involvement aside, Harry’s was a fascinating story, and that was what he had been promised. The best way to avoid getting wrapped up in the prophecy itself was to focus on his writing, on the historical elements that Harry described so compellingly. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that the story of Billy and Dominic, and even his chase for Orlando, personally significant though it was, were simply peripheral to the majesty and mystery that made up Harry’s tale. If he really wanted to write a book that would sell, this was what he needed to focus on.
Although, if he really thought about it, it was more than a little odd. Sure, Harry had personal motivation to keep Viggo in the palace. Now that he had heard the whole story, he knew what the motivation was. He wasn’t sure if he thought Harry mad, or how much he believed—it was after all a little spooky to think that this man might actually have had a vision of Viggo seven years before, but then there was Elijah, and after that encounter he found himself a little more open to the paranormal. Either way, he could see that Harry didn’t want to let him get away, but why divulge so much? He said that the prophecy was a secret, and yet he was telling Viggo the story… maybe it didn’t matter much, now that his line had reached an end, maybe secrecy was no longer paramount, but surely he would object to having his story written about in such detail? Unless… well unless he trusted Viggo, and that was an unlikely thought. Why would he trust someone he knew so little about? Though he seemed to know more than he let on…
“Breakfast?”
Viggo jumped, then took in a deep breath when he saw Harry standing behind him in the kitchen, looking amused. Viggo ran a hand through his hair and managed a weak smile. “You’re up early.”
“Usually am. What can I interest you in? Toast, bacon? I make a mean eggs Benedict.”
“Tea and toast is fine,” Viggo mumbled.
“A simple man, then. I suppose it shan’t fall to me to woo you with fineries after all,” Harry commented with a small, knowing smile, as if he had just recited the punch line to a private joke.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, just something between Orlando and I. Never you mind,” Harry said dismissively, putting the kettle on and sliding slices of white bread in the toaster.
“I… if you know so much about Orlando, why can’t you lead me to him?” Viggo asked, sceptically. “If you’re destined to fall in love with me, as you say, then it shouldn’t be a problem to just introduce us. Unless, of course, you’re jealous…?” Viggo allowed himself a small smile, thinking he had caught the man in a vulnerable position, but Harry just laughed and leaned back against the counter.
“Hardly. First of all, I haven’t the slightest idea how to contact the young Orlando right now, unless it were through Elijah, and I doubt Elijah would be exactly helpful at this stage. Secondly, Orlando has every right to be quite annoyed with me right now. And thirdly, if anyone should be jealous… well, Viggo, you might consider Orlando’s and my history. After all, he is the one trying so desperately to keep you away from me, hoping to prove this prophecy wrong. I hardly suspect that he will have much of an eye for you if we three are to come together.”
Viggo just grunted, annoyed by Harry’s smug demeanour, and stewed in silence until his breakfast was ready.
“Seriously though, Viggo,” Harry continued when they were sitting on opposite sides of a low wooden breakfast table. “You have your book to write, do you not? I have promised you my history, and surely you have more questions.” Viggo nodded and took a sip of his tea, blowing first to cool it. “Right then. I have a proposal. This place gets so stuffy, after a while. Why don’t you take your camera and your recording equipment and come with me on a drive? I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
“Where do you want to take me?” Viggo asked, sceptical. After all, if this man was a psycho or a murderer, he didn’t really want to get in a vehicle with him.
“Relax,” Harry replied with a gentle smile. “It isn’t far, only to Sauve, in the Cevennes. It’s a lovely little town, and the mountains are beautiful. The air is fresher up there, and I think it would be a nice change of pace. Just come for the day, we’ll have lunch at a house I keep and then I’ll show you around the town. We’ll talk on the way and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my family. You have my word,” Harry promised, and Viggo found that his eyes, at least, appeared genuine. He nodded, curtly, and finished his toast.
“I’ll go get my things.”
“So what about how you came to France. You weren’t very specific about that last night, nor about what you did in the ten years before you came, in New Zealand. You said you didn’t work…?”
“That’s correct,” Harry replied, steering the Renault along the motorway just north of Montepellier, up out of the wine country and into the mountains. The view was breathtaking, but Viggo concentrated only on his subject and the controls of the recorder he had pointed at the driver’s seat. “I spent ten years deeply engaged, but not working. I did some volunteer work for UNICEF, and I taught English lessons to some local Maori children, but I didn’t work as such. The majority of my time, rather, was spent studying. Don’t misunderstand me, Viggo; I do realize how lucky I am. I recognize the advantages that I have been given, and I do my best not to waste away the time I have. I went to university in Auckland, where I studied history with a specialization in sixteenth century France,” Harry continued with an ironic smile.
“My family’s legacy, of course, was most important to me, but I wanted to develop a context. After the university I continued to learn of France at the time, along with what I could of the Sinclairs in England. I studied both modern French and older forms, as well as the langue d’oc, which was not spoken by my family but is still used by some in this region. My studies ended up branching into other areas as well, and as I have always been taken with art and music, I made it my goal to familiarize myself as much as possible with the arts. I have quite a collection, in fact, which I would be happy to show you if you so desire. Some of it remains with my family in New Zealand, but I have a number of paintings at the house here.” Viggo smiled at Harry’s identification of the mansion he lived in as “the house,” but nodded simply. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was indeed quite curious to see what sort of paintings Harry owned, as he always had an appreciation of the medium himself.
“You may assume that I remained in New Zealand for the entirety of this ten year period, but you would be incorrect. The notes, after all, said nothing of remaining in the foreign land to which I was born. I knew that I was not to return to my home until my thirtieth birthday, but I had no reason not to see Europe. Those were some of the happiest years of my life, in fact… I loved the ballet and the opera, and especially the great symphonies. I spent time in Paris and London, as well as Spain, Italy… I was quite saddened by what I had learned of the Soviet Empire, for much of the majesty of Imperial Russia was hidden away or destroyed, but I obtained a pass to visit St. Petersburg, as well, and still discovered some treasures. The Ballet Russe, of course, was amazing, and it was there I travelled until it came time to make the arrangements for the move to France.
“Establishment in a new home, incidentally, did not diminish my love of exploration, and I continued to travel quite a bit. I admit that a somewhat boyish curiosity stayed with me, and I did pursue several affairs, though none lasting, hoping to find the man for whom it was my destiny to search.” Harry paused, giving Viggo a significant look, but Viggo hoped to move the conversation in a different direction.
“This is how you found Orlando?”
“Ah, yes.” Henry smiled fondly, conjuring a memory. “It was in Italy where I found the young Orlando Bloom, much as you did. At the time, of course, he was younger, retaining even more elements of boyhood than he does today, but still I was moved. He had just moved to the Continent from Canterbury, and at first he rejected my advances, keeping me on the edge of my seat, so to speak, hoping for more than a chance encounter. It is somewhat ironic, however, that I soon became the pursued and he, the pursuer.
“We did in fact start an affair, and were together for several months when my fortieth birthday was upon us. I fell asleep in his arms, fully expecting to see him in my dreams, and awoke, refreshed, invigorated, but thinking only of you. He was confused and upset, as is to be expected, when I confided in him. However, once his anger subsided, and after repeated attempts to convince me to ignore the inevitable, he agreed to help me find you. I should have known, of course, that his motivations were not entirely pure, but I was blinded, by… well, by something which I to this day cannot name.”
“Love?” Viggo suggested.
“No, not love. Or perhaps love, but not in the way you are thinking. A deep friendship, rather, for I do love Orlando as one of my dearest friends, though it pains me to think how he deliberately tried to put a stop to my life’s search. Still, he did so with the best of intentions. Orlando is a free spirit, as you may have guessed, and it is good for us not to be confined together, but I hope to see him again soon.” Harry smiled, and then Viggo realised that they were slowing down, ascending up a narrow gravel drive. They had been driving through a spectacular mountain range for some time, and then turned onto a side road from the motorway, and were now pulling up to a rather large house. Viggo turned off the tape recorder when he realised they had reached their destination, and stepped out of the car to be met with a slight chill.
“Mountain air,” Henry commented with a knowing smile. “I asked Lucille to turn the heat on inside before we left; it should be warm by now in the dining room.”
Viggo just nodded dumbly as Henry led the way to the front door, opening it onto a spacious foyer. The ceiling was quite high, and the walls were painted a brilliant blue, with a fresco painted on the ceiling depicting angels and cupids. Viggo stared over his head, incredulous, as Harry watched, smiling knowingly.
“This place is a gem. It’s been in the family for years, through a line founded by one of the younger brothers of an ancestor of mine in the seventeenth century. It’s so well hidden in the mountains that they didn’t have to leave after the Revolution, and when the line ended ownership somehow was passed on to my grandfather.” Harry led the way into a room at the right, pointing out the various features as Viggo stared openly.
“Each part of the house was built in a different period. The oldest rooms date to the eleventh century, but this would have been built around the eighteenth, before the second floor was added. You see the rooms through there,” he added, pointing to a couple of rooms with a stone floor. “Those are where the servants would have slept, and here on this hearth is where they made cheeses.” Harry pointed out a garden off to the side of the servant’s quarters, and then led the way back into the foyer.
“The upstairs is very spacious, but hardly interesting from a historical point of view, as it was added in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This cabinet here does hold some items worthy of note, however,” he pointed out, showing a wood-and-glass cabinet hidden in a corner of the foyer. “This rifle collection includes some examples from the revolution, and those at the bottom are local silkworms. The region, as you may know, is ideal for silk, along with the better known wine and cheeses.” Harry smiled and opened a door opposite the foyer from the servant’s quarters, and Viggo stepped into a living area.
“This bit at the front is relatively new, but if you’ll follow me you’ll see some of the older rooms.” Harry led the way back to another room with a stone floor, similar to that of the servant’s quarters, also slightly elevated. A long wooden table sat in the centre, with a large stone fireplace on one wall. There was also a large basin with a hose, sitting next to a quite modern refrigerator. “Ah good, I see Lucille’s put the sausages on,” Harry commented, nodding at the fire. “We’ll have a rather rustic country lunch, but I think you’ll enjoy it. First though, the piece de resistance,” he announced with a smile, leading the way to a door at the back of the room. Much lower than any other doorway in the house, it was arched and sunken in, with a wood panelled door and a rusted latch. The door itself was rough and quite old looking, but Viggo had little reason to examine it when he had reached the other side.
The four rooms, joined by a narrow corridor, were unremarkable, but Viggo immediately recognized the import of the discovery, running his hand over the stone walls in awe. “Limestone,” Harry commented, watching as Viggo walked through the empty rooms, arched stone doorways devoid of actual doors. “There are a number of quarries around here, in fact most of the hills of the Languedoc are made principally of limestone.”
“But this must be… hundreds of…”
“This is the eleventh-century portion I told you about. The oldest part of the house, hardly functional now, and it always struck me as odd the way the rest is just built up around it in wood and plaster, but it’s been one of my favourite places to go since I came to France,” Harry admitted. “It’s comforting, you know? To think that despite the incredible weight of this legacy I’m a part of, despite the import of the fact that I am the last of a royal line stretching back five hundred years, that there is still something older than me. People lived in these rooms, cooked their suppers on these floors…” Harry paused, scuffing the blackened centre of floor in the room they stood in with the toe of his boot. “… people had daily lives here long before my family ever existed, and people will continue to live their lives long after I am gone. It makes it a little easier to handle,” Harry admitted, and his soft smile was endearing whether Viggo wanted to admit it or not. Whether he believed Harry was beside the point, for Viggo had a nagging feeling that Harry was right. This wasn’t about him, or Harry, or the two of them. This was about an amazing history, not just Henry’s own legacy but the history of a region that spanned far back in the stretches of time, beyond their own imaginations. Viggo smiled, and clasped one hand around Harry’s strong shoulder, squeezing gently. Words weren’t necessary.
“Well then! Why don’t you choose a wine?” Harry suggested after a minute had passed, and Viggo stepped back quickly, urging himself to snap back into the present. He blamed it entirely on the room, and once he had picked a bottle of red from the wooden rack along one wall, he quickly headed back towards the kitchen.
Throughout the meal, Harry kept the conversation light, and Viggo was glad for that. He told him about the Languedoc, a topic on which Harry proved to be quite an expert—from the shepherds of the Cevennes to the vineyards of the lower plains, it was all quite fascinating, and Viggo took comfort in knowledge as he often had in difficult situations. He always liked to know as much as he could, as information could serve both as a tool and as a barrier to hide behind, in Viggo’s own experience. Here it kept him from questioning the more confusing parts of this journey he found himself in, and he took immense comfort in learning about wine and silk and limestone, rather than considering his own role in a story that was far beyond his immediate comprehension.
Between the two of them, Viggo and Harry made quite a dent in the sausages and rustic local bread that Lucille, the caretaker, had laid out for them. The wine, a very good vintage, led to companionable conversation as well, followed by tiny crystal goblets of kir and kiwis for dessert. Harry told fond stories of the kiwi fruit that had grown in his own backyard in New Zealand, and Viggo confessed that he had always wanted to see the country, but had never been to the South Pacific in his journalistic career. They laughed about how the French scooped out halved kiwis with a spoon, while the Americans cut the fruit into thin slices. Viggo found talking about their dessert to be perhaps the safest topic it was possible to hit upon, and so he indulged Harry as he talked about the kiwi fruit, and then the kiwi bird, and finally New Zealand itself, in great length. By the time they finished, like true Frenchmen, it was two o’ clock, and they had spent nearly two hours on their lunch.
Viggo was sorry to see the charming house go, but was soon treated to a new enjoyment when they reached the village of Sauve. Cobblestone streets and narrow houses that went up, rather than out, marked the charming little town, where a car often could traverse a street with less than a hand’s width leeway on either side. With the exception of a few old women sitting on their rooftop terraces, the village was surprisingly empty, and Harry explained that many this time of year were on holiday in Nice or Marseilles, or at least taking a beach weekend at the closer Palavas.
They passed the Protestant and Catholic churches with their two separate squares, and Harry explained with a chuckle how the older men would congregate here on Saturday mornings, each group completely ignorant of the other. Religious divisions still ran deep in this area, one of the strongholds of the Huguenots and last to surrender, even earlier, to the reign of Catholic France when the Languedoc had remained independent in medieval times. Harry explained how the death of his own ancestor, Henry III, had been one effect of a bloody rift between Catholics and Protestants. Henry of Navarre, his successor, was a Protestant, while Henry III had been responsible for revoking the Edict of Nantes, a law that granted some religious freedoms to Protestants. Though the notes Harry possessed suggested Henry’s own personal involvement had been scant, rather led by the advice of the Catholic Duke of Guise to revoke the Edict, the populous was not amused and religion had been the cause of Henry’s death nonetheless.
As Harry told the story, the two men wound up through narrow alleys, their path rising progressively as Harry pointed out certain elements—the walls of the old city, the old horse paths, a fenced-in field backed by rock outcroppings where the precious hickory trees grew, native to the region and used to make pitchforks for farmers throughout the world. Viggo rolled his eyes a bit at something as insignificant as pitchfork production being considered an important historical detail, but then remembered the description of the twin boxes bearing the notes and the prophecy. Both, he recalled, were made of hickory.
By the time half an hour had passed, they were well out of the confines of the town, rising on a dirt path up into the hills, ducking overhanging branches and occasionally hopping over narrow gullies. Harry held out his hand to help Viggo at one point, and Viggo accepted the leg-up as he was hoisted onto a stone shelf, overlooking the whole of the town from the hill’s summit.
From this vantage point, Harry methodically pointed out the layout of the town, including the two churches and their opposing squares, but they did not dally long. Their destination, in fact, was much more out of the way and could only be found by a trained eye, but Harry knew what he was looking for.
Partially obscured by overgrowth, the entrance to the stone cave was really nothing but a hole in the ground. Viggo stooped in front of the hole, imagining a full-grown man trying to squeeze through, but reasoned that people were obvious smaller in those days. Harry helpfully held a lighter to the entrance, and Viggo could just make out a tunnel, opening into a wider stone room.
“This is where the Protestants hid,” Harry explained. “In those times, after the Edict was revoked, devout Catholics and men with less pure motives were eager to scour the countryside, looking for heretics. Some succeeded, and many were put to death, but a few managed to survive up here, in hiding in the hills. I think, remembering this history, this is why the Protestant men now are still so reluctant to make peace with the Catholics. The stories were passed down, generation to generation, of how whole families were forced either to flee to the Netherlands or make their homes in these dank holes, barely subsisting, just to avoid capture. It’s a pretty bleak story, you can imagine.” Viggo nodded, taking one last look at the hole, and remained relatively silent on the hike back down to the car.
“So that was the Mer de Roches,” Harry commented when they were back in the car, driving up over the mountains again back towards Montpellier. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
“Yeah,” Viggo agreed absentmindedly, looking out the open window as they climbed higher and higher. He looked out over the landscapes, at the scrubby grape vines and the chalky limestone outcroppings, the roadside almost as dusty as the southwestern desert back at home, and his mind was far away. He remembered the trip to the Painted Desert, and on to Mesa Verde, Dave’s cowboy hat ridiculous atop his perfectly gelled red-blonde locks. He was back in that old Ford truck, rumbling down a dusty highway with his lover in the passenger seat, laughing as the other man warbled old country and western tunes in an off-key tenor tinged with an Australian accent, reaching out with his own dirt-stained hand to cut him off. He was lying under the stars, underneath a canvas tent, coyotes and the scrubby brush that surrounded their makeshift campsite the only witness to his fervent cry, his lover moving over him in perfect counterpoint to his own thrusts as drops of sweat fell and were caught between his lips. When Harry gently asked if he had more questions, he shook his head. All the answers, he feared, had been lost long ago.
On his third day in France, Harry decided to take Viggo on another drive, this time out of the Languedoc. Their first stop was in a town called Uzes, where Viggo took some photos of the Roman Aqueduct that cuts through Provence on its way to Montpellier. The town’s market was bustling that morning, and Viggo took advantage of the busy booths to purchase a jar of locally made lavender honey and some candied fruit while Harry obtained bread and cheese for their lunch.
After Uzes, they proceeded eastward to their final destination, the Pont du Gar. Predictably, there was a good-sized swarm of tourists on the walkway underneath the aqueduct, but Harry led the way down a lesser-known trail that twisted down to the river’s edge, giving them a view of the aqueduct from its bank and a perfect spot to sit and enjoy their lunch.
The day was sunny but not hot, and Viggo quite enjoyed their somewhat rustic meal of country bread, local cheese, and a hearty red wine. Tearing off a hunk of bread with his teeth as Harry watched, laughing, Viggo smiled and thought back to earlier days.
“I used to love to go camping,” he admitted, seemingly out of the blue, as Harry passed him the bottle of wine to sip from. “When I was a boy, my dad would take me… and then Dave and I loved to go when we were on holiday.”
“Dave was your boyfriend?” Harry asked.
“Yeah. We worked at the same paper… he was a phenomenal journalist, joined us from Sydney just a couple of years after I started and it was pretty much instant attraction. Well…almost instant.” Viggo chuckled at the memory of Dave’s first day, when he was in such a rush to get to a location that he didn’t even see the Australian rounding the corner and smacked into him, head-on. It was a week before Dave had officially forgiven him for that one, and a month before he finally let him live the klutzy moment down. Oh, but what Viggo would give for a thousand more klutzy moments… “Well anyway, we dated for quite a few years,” Viggo finished, his smile fading.
“What happened to him?” Harry asked in a gentle tone.
“He died.” Viggo’s voice was matter-of-fact; belying the pain he still felt when he said the words aloud. “On assignment in Kosovo, it… went bad.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Harry replied, and he seemed genuine enough, but Viggo couldn’t help but wonder. Why would Harry be sorry, after all? It was hard to fall in love with a man who was already in love with someone else, and he wouldn’t get his goddamned prophecy and the supposed prize if Dave were still here. Viggo turned away; not wanting to see Harry’s sympathetic eyes, and took a long swallow of wine.
“What’s past is past,” he mumbled, not meaning it. Harry, to his credit, respected Viggo’s imposed silence and didn’t pry; wrapping up the remains of their lunch and leading the way back to the car when they had finished.
“Where to now, then?” Viggo asked when they were back on the motorway heading north. “Any more romantic getaway destinations in your plan to force yourself to fall in love with me?” he continued in a bitter tone. Harry looked a bit taken aback, but gave himself a moment to comment, choosing his words carefully with his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Viggo, I’m not trying to force you to do anything,” Harry insisted, his tone soft. “I’ve waited years, and I can wait longer…”
“Until what, Harry?” Viggo yelled, his tone unusually harsh. “You’re not giving me any choice in the matter, whatsoever! You say you have to fall in love with me, and presumably for this to occur you’ll need to spend time with me, and I don’t know how much time, but I don’t want to be a pawn in your stupid little historical game! I can’t just traipse all over France with you, trying to make myself attractive so that you’ll fall for me and your destiny will be fulfilled. I have my own life, you know.”
Harry sighed, his focus still on the road, unwilling to meet the hurt expression in Viggo’s eyes. “It isn’t like that,” he whispered, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “It isn’t like that at all, Viggo. You know, you act like I’ve never loved before. You act as if I don’t know what it’s like to love, and lose. Well you’re fucking wrong, mate. Just because I knew I was destined for you, does not mean I haven’t given away my heart, hoping against hope that I might have found the right person… I mean Jesus, Viggo. I’m just like any other man, any man searching for the one he’s destined to be with. It just happens that with me, well, I found out the identity of that man before I ever met him. But don’t think I wasn’t looking, long before that. Don’t think I wasn’t pretty fucking sure that Orlando was that man, and don’t think that he wasn’t ready… isn’t still ready, even, to give his heart to me. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know what it’s like to look into those beautiful brown eyes and say ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not the one?’
Harry took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, or willing unshed tears not to fall. “You don’t know the half of it, Viggo. What’s so great about you, you know? I’m supposed to fall in love with you, but damn it, I have no idea why you’re so much better than Orlando, or any of the other men I’ve been with and enjoyed and hoped… Viggo, you have no idea. I’m not asking you to ‘make’ yourself attractive to me, I’m just asking you the courtesy of being yourself, trying to enjoy yourself with me, and remaining open to the possibility. Tell me something, honestly. Let’s say there was no Orlando, no book, no prophecy… let’s say you just met me on the street, or through a friend, or at a party. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t be interested at all, not the teeniest bit?”
Harry held his breath, and Viggo sighed, rubbing his temples. He almost could feel sorry for the man, if he didn’t feel so… used. Primarily, Viggo was confused, and he didn’t want to do this, not here, in a car on some French motorway with a sudden summer rainstorm pouring down on the windscreen. He took a deep breath, and braced himself. “No, I can’t say that,” he answered, quietly, and Harry would have smiled if the situation hadn’t been as it was. “But it’s not like that, Harry… I feel for you, really I do, but I can’t help but feel like a caged animal here.”
Harry nodded. “I can see how you would feel like that, but you have every right to go, if you want to. I told you before that I would take you to the train in the morning and I wasn’t lying. You want to go back right now, get your stuff, and head to Montpellier? We can.”
Viggo sighed again, ran a hand through his hair. “You know I can’t do that. I’m too… involved, now. I can’t help but want to know how it’s all going to turn out.”
Harry smiled slightly and nodded to himself. “Right then. We’ll head back, have a nice hot cup of tea, and take it from there. Sound good?”
Viggo nodded, and allowed himself a small smile. “Sounds excellent.”
no subject
this isn't as easy for him as i thought it was. i'm not sure that i'm willing to trust him or anything, but you've made me empathize with him, and that's a start.
kerry =)
no subject
no subject
This area sounds beautiful. We talked about Provance when I was in Latin, but it sounds way more gorgeous when I don't have to bother about translating dull passages about Druids!
It's hard to not get sucked in to Harry's story. I have to be skeptical! I know there are twists left!
no subject