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fellowshippers2003-10-25 12:46 pm
mirabile-dictu.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-10-25 12:46 pm
I Shall Please the Lord in the Land of the Living (NC-17, 1/2)
Title: I Shall Please the Lord in the Land of the Living
Author: Mirabile Dictu
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: Orlando and everybody in the whole wide world
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is a good dream.
Disclaimer: Neither probable nor possible.
A/N: The title is a translation of the first antiphon of vespers for the dead, Placebo Domino in regione vivorum. Written, as always, for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
empress_wu. Beta by her as well, which seems unfair, to make her beta her gifts, but there you go.
Posted in two parts.
England
Falling from a third-floor window, sailing through the thick London air, Orlando realised he must be asleep, in bed, and dreaming. He often dreamt of flying and occasionally of falling; this was a falling dream, and so he fell. He wondered if he'd bounce; that had happened once in a dream when he was a little boy, and he'd woken up laughing. So he stretched out his arms and legs and waited to see what would happen.
When he landed, half on an iron railing and half on a rusted-out washing machine, he thought: Now I'll wake up. But he hadn't. Instead, pain surprised him, like a knife in an alley might another man, and he stared up at the faces of his shocked and frightened friends peering down at him. "Help," he whispered, barely able to breathe.
He was very sorry that he'd killed himself so young. He watched, quietly, patiently, as people began shouting and doors and windows slammed open and shut, as emergency vehicles arrived, and strangers began to talk to him, asking incomprehensible questions.
Orlando was meant for magic, he knew. His mother had told him so, all the time he was growing up. She'd given him his magic name and his beauty. He had soared above others, he knew, and treasured that knowledge. He was who he was; he couldn't help but be pleased.
But being special meant being different, and being different meant being alone. More than a year after his first fall, he would stand on a sound stage on the other side of the world, and watch as a beautiful woman kindly said, "To be a Ringbearer is to be alone." Orlando knew that, in his own way, he too was a Ringbearer; he bore the Ring of Beauty, and, like all Rings of Power, it carried responsibilities and obligations.
He had literally soared for a few seconds, before crashing down, breaking four vertebrae and three ribs and bruising his spine so badly that he'd been told he'd never walk again. He hadn't cried at the news because he hadn't believed it. That would never happen to Orlando. He was meant for magic.
When he rose from his sickbed, thin and trembling, his sister's and mother's faces wet with tears of relief and happiness, he knew his mother had been right. He was indeed meant for magic. He would survive anything. He also understood that one of his obligations was to experience everything; another was to share his knowledge of magic with others; a third was to never be afraid again.
New Zealand
At first, Orlando thought they had paired up the same way their characters had: Frodo with Sam and Merry with Pippin. They spent so much time together that it was, he thought, a reasonable assumption.
Of course, they spent much of their time as a quartet as well, and that lent an interesting twist to his imaginings. Since initially he was often included, he watched carefully, hunting for any clues. He found all too many, so many that he wondered if he were being played, or if they really were as friendly with each other as his eyes led him to believe.
He watched the others as well, of course: Sir Ian, who was gracious but a bit distant; John, sweet, gregarious John; Sean Bean, who seemed a bit shy at first; and Viggo. Viggo was an enigma, Orlando decided, and mentally put him away to be considered later, once he'd gathered more information.
After a while, Orlando began to wonder if Elijah and Dominic were an item, that Sean was in fact faithful to his wife, and that perhaps, just perhaps, Billy was straight. And always he wondered if he would find someone, if he would ever pair up the way hobbits seemed to have.
One time, he got Dominic alone to himself for an entire day. They went bungee jumping, and Orlando thought it was brilliant. He remembered falling from that London window when he first leapt from the Nevis Highwire, sailing into the too, too solid air, and he rejoiced, for he was young and alive and magic. That was his second time falling, and he loved it. He owned it. Falling or flying: he'd mastered it. When he'd been hauled back up, Dominic flung his arms around Orlando and hugged him tightly. "You absolute idiot," he whispered into Orlando's windburned ears.
Orlando was very pleased by the hug and by Dom's concern, but was unsure how to add it into the complex equation he was trying to write about his new friends. Did Dom like him as much as he liked the other hobbits? In what ways did he like the other hobbits?
In the book, Legolas had teamed up with Gimli. For life, and beyond life; they'd sailed over the Sea together, presumably to find Frodo and Sam living in connubial bliss. When Dom returned to the other hobbits, Orlando began spending time with John, who was kind in a paternal way, offering advice and unstinting praise and occasional criticism.
Brett was cool. Orlando spent most of his time working with Brett, with John just off-camera, but as funny as Brett was, he had his own life and concerns. He was working a lot more than he'd ever been intended to, because of John's allergies to the prosthetics, and had thrown himself into the script. Gimli would be a true collaboration of both Brett and John.
But John was so miserable; it hurt Orlando to see him in pain. More than that, John was embarrassed, humiliated even, by his body's refusal of the prosthetics, and the resultant marring of his skin. He avoided his cast-mates, and rarely attended any of the weekend parties.
Orlando began to seek him out, ostensibly to ask his advice or request an anecdote. He loved John's big beautiful voice, and he was a raconteur of the first water; listening to him was a pleasure, never a chore. But as John's dermatitis worsened, he was less willing to meet with Orlando, even in his own home. "I'm really not feeling up to it," he finally confessed. "Dear boy, you are too kind to a man old enough to be your grandfather. Find the hobbits and be naughty."
"But I don't want to," Orlando protested. "I want to be with you. Please, John. I'll bring take-away from whatever restaurant you like, and champagne. I'll be the perfect guest: attentive and charming."
John sighed heavily, and Orlando knew he would agree. "But just for a little while. I have to eat, and you know too well how much I enjoy it. So I will share my meal with you. But then off you must go. Do you promise me, Orlando?"
"Yes, of course, John," Orlando agreed, but he knew in his heart that once he was there, John wouldn't want him to leave.
Nor did he. The food was excellent, and the champagne brilliantly bubbly. Orlando had even brought beautiful crystal flutes, wrapped in silvery-white ribbon. "A wedding present?" John had teased, but Orlando had only popped the first cork.
John's face was painful to look at. Orlando remembered the agony of lying in that hospital bed, unable to move even a finger without experiencing excruciating pain; he knew that pain wore down the spirit as much as the body. When dinner was over and he'd tidied up the dining room, he brought out a tiny square bottle of a clear viscous substance and held it before John's face.
"Some elvish spirits? Miruvor, perhaps?"
"From my aunt in South Africa." He opened the bottle carefully, placed his forefinger over the opening, and tipped it sideways. He set the bottle down and knelt before John. "She's a wonderful woman, very knowledgeable in herbs and folk remedies. The oil is from a flower that grows only in the Drakensberg mountains. It has healing powers for many ailments, but is specially good for the skin."
"Oh, no, dear boy. My physician has prescribed many ointments and pills and whatnot. I hardly think --"
"But I do think, John." Orlando placed one hand on John's knee, and reached toward his face with the other. "Close your eyes," he said softly.
John stared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Helping." Orlando stared back at him, calm and confident. "Let me help you, John," he whispered. "Close your eyes." He rubbed John's knee.
"You shouldn't do this. I shouldn't do this."
"Yes, we should. Now close your eyes for me." John's eyes were nearly closed anyway, from the swelling around them. He sighed, and shut them. Orlando braced himself against John's knee and, very gently, delicately, spread the oil around John's eyes, on the distended tissue, red and peeling. John sighed again at the touch of Orlando's oily fingers, this time with pleasure, and Orlando felt the tension leave his body.
"Thank you, Orlando," he murmured, but Orlando merely said, "Shhhh," and kept spreading the oil over the damaged skin. When he was finished, he said, "You need to spread that on once in the morning and again each night."
"It feels wonderful," John breathed. "Thank you."
"Keep your eyes closed," Orlando said, and leaned forward to press a kiss to John's lips, as gently as he had touched John's poor eyes.
"No, Orlando," John protested, pulling back, but he kept his eyes closed, and Orlando smiled.
"Yes, Orlando," he said, and leaned forward again. This time John did not pull away or protest, but let Orlando kiss him: his lips, his cheeks, even his poor swollen eyes, but always returning to his lips. At last John kissed him back, bending his neck to meet Orlando. He pushed apart John's knees and leaned into John's ample body, a body Orlando could read like a history book. It spoke to him of a long and vigorous life now slowing down, of women and wild nights, of sleeping children, and now grandchildren. "Let me, let me," he said, touching John intimately.
"Orlando," he whispered, and took Orlando's head in his hands to kiss him more thoroughly. "This isn't happening."
"This is whatever you want it to mean," Orlando promised him. "Nothing more, but nothing less, either."
"Why? Why?"
"Because I can."
John smiled sadly. "You can do anything, Orlando." And he let him.
The next day, in the mines of Moria, John's face looked less red and swollen. Peter and Brett studied him carefully. "The treatment must be working," Pete finally said. "But we'll keep the prosthetics to once every three days till it's cleared up. No use taking chances."
"It's better," Brett told him. "Pretty soon I'll be out a job, I will."
John looked at Orlando. "Anything can happen," he said.
~ ~ ~
Sean Bean hated flying. Loathed it. Feared it. Orlando couldn't understand it; he loved to fly. He still dreamt of flying, even after everything that had happened to him. Sean called him a daft git, a poncy bastard, but Orlando still liked him, and worried about him.
So when the cast had to go to Alexandra, and Sean refused to fly, Orlando drove with him. "Why not?" was his answer to Sean. "Sounds fun, rushing off like that. Let's leave right away, get out there a few days early. Scout it out, find the pubs."
"Daft git," Sean said, but he was smiling. "I'm driving, elf boy."
Orlando was happy to let him. The scenery on South Island was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and as a passenger, he could play the stereo, eat, and watch the mountains rise before them as they headed inland.
The rain was bad, though. A few times the car hydroplaned, sending Orlando's crisps flying, to his chagrin and Sean's growls. "Pick 'em up," he said firmly, stealing one from Orlando's lap.
"Drive slower; I want to see this." Orlando stared avidly out the window; the rain was sheeting down. He'd never seen it fall so heavily, the drops moving as if in slow motion. The hills around them were shiny with mud, the grasses bent and trampled by the onslaught. "Looks like orcs ran through them," he pointed out, but Sean was too busy driving to look.
They passed through a small town, a wide spot in the road and the first sign of civilization they'd seen all that day. Although it was only three in the afternoon, it was as dark as night, and Sean had the headlights on high-beam. It was cold, too, for summer -- though Orlando still had trouble believing it could be summer in November -- and the heater was chugging away as they tried to defrost the windows. Orlando used a tissue to wipe the condensation off the windscreen, trying not to obscure Sean's view.
"This is fuckin' impossible," Sean muttered. The water was spilling onto the roadway now, rising from the ditch running alongside the road. Orlando began to notice piles of pebbles and sheets of mud on the road. Sean drove even slower.
"Stop!" Orlando shouted, and Sean slammed on the breaks. The car fishtailed wildly, but they slid to a stop. Ahead of them, completely covering the road, was a mountain of mud.
"Fuckin' god, it's a landslide," Sean said, staring in disbelief. "We have to go back. Back to Queenstown, if we can."
"That's hours and hours from here," Orlando pointed out, but he didn't have a better suggestion.
Sean carefully reversed the car, Orlando peering over his shoulder as well; they didn't want to risk backing off the road and into the ditch or they'd never get out. At last, they were heading west again, and Orlando heard Sean sigh with relief.
"It'll be all right," Orlando told Sean after another hour or so had passed. Sean nodded, but didn't speak; all his attention was focused on driving on the increasingly slick road.
They came out of a turn at the head of a valley. Sean slowed to a stop. The road ahead was submerged; worse, there had been more landslides. The mud was still moving, Orlando realised, oozing down the side of the mountain and across the road.
"We are so fucked," Sean finally said. "How much food do we have in here."
Orlando twisted around, finding a half-empty bag of crisps, a packet of choc-ice biscuits, and several bottles of water. "And some gum," he added, feeling ridiculous.
"Gum," Sean said, and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. "Fuck me."
"There was that little town," Orlando suggested hesitantly.
"Did ya see a bloody inn there, Orlando? A pub, even? T'wasn't nothin' there."
"Well, there might a telephone we could use," he said with dignity.
Sean raised his head and gave Orlando a long, level look. Then he smiled. "Good point, elf boy." He started up the car and once again carefully backed-and-forthed across the roadway and soon they were heading east yet again.
There was a tiny shop in the cluster of houses; no pub or inn, Orlando noted glumly. Sean was right about that. The rain pounded on the roof of their car. Neither man wanted to get out in it and they sat there for a few minutes. "Let's just get it fuckin' over with, all right?" Sean said at last, and they sprang out and ran up the steps, slamming the screen door behind them and shaking water like dogs.
"Are you boys all right?" someone asked them.
"What on earth are you doing out in this weather?" someone else said.
Orlando looked around him. The store was dark; the power had gone, obviously. But there were lanterns glowing, and a stove burning. He walked over to it and put out his hands to warm. "We're fine, thank you," he answered.
"Is there a phone we can use?" Sean asked.
"Oh, dear. It's out right now. But there's a radio up at the Jensen's; I'm sure you could use it."
"How far is that?"
"Oh, a fair piece, up t' road from here. I'll take you."
"Thank you," Orlando said, studying their benefactor. He was an elderly man, almost as small as Ian Holm, with a ruddy weathered face. Behind him a nearly identical man stood, arms crossed. "Are you the storekeepers?"
"He is," the first one said, jerking a thumb at the man behind him. "I'm Will, and this is Terrence."
"Hullo. I'm Orlando, and this is my friend Sean."
"Orlando is it. Huh." The two men stared at Orlando, barely giving Sean a glance. "What are you boys doing?"
"Well, actually, we're actors on our way to a job."
Terrence smiled. "Actors, are ya? I've never yet met an actor. What do you act? Shakespeare now?"
Sean smiled. "We have, although that's not the job. Have you heard of Lord of the Rings?"
"Is it famous?"
"Pretty famous." Terrence shook his head, obviously disappointed. "Don't worry," Sean said. "You will."
Orlando said, "Look, Sean. They have wine. And snacky things."
"Get some, would you, Orlando? So you carry wine, Terrence. Is it New Zealand?"
"Of course, it is! Do you know wine, then?"
"Only a bit."
"Well, then, let me show you." Orlando watched as they bent their heads over the shelves, Sean towering over the small shopkeeper. He gathered up an armload of different kinds of crisps and biscuits, and small cans of sardines in tomato sauce, and a box of crackers, and some Vegemite. He dumped it all on the counter and waited for Sean, aware of Will's eyes on him.
"Hello," he finally said to the old man. He really did have beautiful hair, Orlando thought, and hoped his would be as fluffy and white when he got old.
The old man nodded. "Is yer name really Orlando, or is that a stage name?"
"No, it's my real name. My mum named me. I've always liked it."
Will nodded thoughtfully, still staring at Orlando. "You're a bit fey, I'm guessing."
"That's what my mum always told me," he laughed. "Why do you say so?"
"Just," he waved his hand in Orlando's direction. "So tall, and thin. Elegant, if you don't mind. Different."
"I don't mind. Different is good, don't you think?"
Will studied him, and then smiled, one gold tooth glinting in the lantern light. "I never thought so before, but mebbe so. Mebbe so."
"Ready, Orlando?" Sean asked him, and he stepped aside so Sean could reach the till. They argued over who would pay, finally splitting the cost, and then turned to Will.
"You said you take us?" Orlando said, a polite question in his tone.
"I did. Doubt your auto'll make it. We'll take my lorry. Have to squeeze in a bit."
"Our suitcases?"
"Leave them, Orlando," Sean said. "We'll just have to manage for one night."
"Drive carefully, Will," Terrence called as they left, going through the back of the store, very dark and a bit spooky, Orlando thought. But the back door opened onto a loading dock, and next to the dock was a lorry as old as Sean, or maybe older, painted a chipped and fading green.
"Climb in from the driver's side," Will told them; "it's all mud out there, so just slide in from the dock. You first," he told Sean, who grimaced and then dashed out into the rain, opening the driver's door and inserting himself into the cab, hanging on to one of the grocery sacks.
"Now you," he told Orlando, who practically jumped into the truck, clinking wine bottles as he landed.
Finally the old man climbed in, slammed the door shut, and started the engine. It had a complicated starting mechanism that involved pushing a button whilst pulling a lever; Orlando watched fascinated. But the engine turned over at once, a glorious roar, and he was confident the truck could drive them over any landslide.
"Up t' hill to Jensen's," Will said, and they chugged away. The road was so narrow that branches scraped the sides of the truck; Sean actually ducked once when one slapped the passenger window, leaving slimy smears of pinesap and needles behind.
The Jensen's turned out to be Mary Jensen, a widow as old as Will and Terrence, and she did let them use her radio. After much effort, Sean was finally able to speak to Fran Walsh, explaining they were stranded, cut off by landslides in both directions.
"Where will you stay?" Fran shouted through the static.
"Dunno," Sean shouted back. "In the car, I suppose."
"Ah, no," Mrs. Jensen protested. "I've a room with a big bed in't. Ye'll stay with me, eh?"
"Thank you," Orlando told her, taking her hand. She smiled up at him; were all the inhabitants of this hamlet tiny?
"Here," Sean yelled. "We'll be here. I'll talk to ye t'marra." Orlando noticed that his Sheffy accent was becoming stronger, and wondered if it was from stress or from hearing these Kiwis' tight accents.
"Thank you," Sean said to Mrs. Jensen when he'd signed off. "It's very kind of you. Let us fix dinner for you."
"Oh, Mary, when was the last time a chentleman asked you that?"
"Hush, Will. Noo, no guest o' mine will be cooking."
"Yes, we will," Orlando said firmly. "I make an excellent spaghetti sauce, and even Sean here can boil up spaghetti noodles."
"As it happens, I make a fine sauce m'self," Sean said.
"Yeh're overruled, Mary. And I'm off; Terrence'll be wonderin' what we're up to. I'll come up t'marra for elevenses."
Mrs. Jensen relented and showed them the kitchen, hovering nervously until Sean sat her down at her own kitchen table with a glass of wine. "Mr. Jensen, God rest his soul, never cooked a thing in his life," she told them. "T'is a fine thing, seein' young men so capable in t' kitchen."
Orlando gave his most brilliant smile to her. "Mum taught me this," he reassured her, eyes a bit damp from chopping onions. Sean grinned at him, and poured him a glass of wine, too. Outside the rain continued to drive down, ringing the metal roof like a bell above them.
Dinner was delicious; even Mrs. Jensen said so. Flushed with wine, the warmth of the kitchen, and the company, all three enjoyed themselves. Orlando insisted on cleaning up, too, whilst Mrs. Jensen baked apples for dessert, the scent filling the entire house.
She showed them their room, smallish, nearly filled with bed, and brought them towels for the bath, which was down the hall and tiny. Still, Orlando enjoyed his soak in the tub after such a strange day, and flopped into bed, happy despite the circumstances.
Sean came in later, drying his hair. "I have to get up a bit in the night," he said gruffly, "so I should sleep nearest the door." Orlando obligingly scooted over, and rolled onto his side to watch Sean.
He was a big man, robust, and very good looking. Orlando enjoyed his company, even though in some ways he found Sean old before his time. This thing about not flying, for example; how could anyone not love to fly?
"Peter must be shittin' a brick," Sean said, emerging red-faced from the towel. "This rain is delaying filming. And here we are, the middle of fuckin' nowhere."
Orland shrugged. "They'll send a helicopter down."
"Oh, Christ, he will, won't he. Fuckin' 'ell."
Orlando laughed and rolled onto his back, folding his hands under his head. "I can't wait to see what the countryside looks like after all this rain."
Sean snapped the damp towel at him before hanging it over the doorknob and crawling into bed. "God, this feels good. My neck and shoulders are in knots from that drive."
"Here, roll over. I'll rub them."
"Naw, Orlando, you don't --"
"I know I don't. Roll over, ya northern bastard."
Sean sighed dramatically, but rolled onto his stomach. Orlando sat up and rubbed his hands together, warming them, before gently stroking down Sean's back a few times, and then working on his shoulder muscles. "You're a mess," he said, and Sean was; his muscles were lumpy with tension. He massaged for a long time, feeling the tissue smooth out beneath his hands, Sean's skin tender and yielding. "God, that's good," Sean murmured, and sighed heavily.
When Sean's muscles had yielded to Orlando, giving up the stress they'd been holding, Orlando leaned over and kissed the back of Sean's neck. When Sean didn't move or object, he kissed him again, and rubbed his face against the skin, then kissing his way down Sean's spine, one kiss for each vertebrae. His own back, Orlando knew, was irrevocably marred by the long incision made to repair the damage from his fall, but Sean's was perfect.
Sean's hips lifted, and he adjusted himself. "Ah, Orlando," he whispered as Orlando's kisses neared the small of his back, sounding hesitant and uncertain. "I'm not -- I'm not really sure about this." Orlando just kissed him again, and then nuzzled his buttocks, licking as well as kissing now. Sean spread his legs and groaned. "Jesus," he gasped. "Jesus."
"What do you want, Sean? What can I do for you?"
"God, Orlando. Don't ask me that. What do you want?"
"I want to make you feel good. Tell me how. Show me what you want, Sean."
Sean groaned again, long and deep, and then rolled onto his back, pulling the sheet with him. He put his hand over his erection and squeezed. Orlando smiled. "Let me do that," he whispered, and put his head down, pushing at Sean's hand with his chin.
"Ohhh, yes," Sean moaned, and slid his hand into Orlando's hair, stroking him like a kitten. "Thank you, Orlando, please, yes, god."
Orlando smiled at the noises Sean was making, and began massaging him again, this time his thighs and belly and balls, whilst he sucked on Sean's prick. When he came, hot and thick, he clutched Orlando's shoulder with one hand and the bedsheet with the other. As content as a cat, Orlando licked his lips, smiling at Sean's dazed look.
"You daft git," Sean murmured. "C'mere." Orlando fit himself on top of Sean, wrapping himself around him, and they kissed, slow and luxurious. "You do give the best massages," Sean said later. "I don't, uh, I don't have any way to, um, you know, repay you."
"It's okay Sean. I liked it. You liked it. You flew for a little bit, didn't you?"
Sean laughed, and stroked Orlando's hair again, shaking his head at the question. "Yeah. A little." He kissed Orlando again, then lay back down. "Thank you, Orlando. That was -- I dunno. Magic."
"'course it was," Orlando said, a bit affronted. What else could it be? He lay down next to Sean and pulled the sheet over them. The small room was warm and muggy now, after all their exertion, and he was tired. "Good night, Sean."
Sean took Orlando's hand, squeezed it, then tucked his hands under his head, closing his eyes. "Night," he whispered.
The next day, Peter did indeed send a helicopter out to them. On the flight home, Sean gripped Orlando's hand fiercely, bruising the knuckles; Orlando held on with both of his hands. Sean had sighed gustily when they'd finally landed in Queenstown; his legs were so rubbery as they climbed out that Orlando hung onto him, hoping he wasn't embarrassing his friend.
Sean hugged him right there on the airstrip. "Thank you," he'd whispered to Orlando, and to Orlando's surprise, kissed his bruised hand.
~ ~ ~
After Sean, Orlando understood more clearly what his role with these people was to be. They were cut off from their family and friends, from their lives and homes. New Zealand was almost literally another world, and some days it was difficult to bridge the old with the new. Orlando could help them with that. He had secrets, and secret powers, and he loved them so much. Their pain called to him, and he reached out to heal and bridge and bring together. He could do this; he was born to do this.
~ ~ ~
Orlando had heard that, when Billy and Dom had been separated because Pippin had gone to Minas Tirith, Dom had cried, and that they'd called each other every night.
No one had cried when Orlando had left the hobbits, he didn't think. Certainly no one except his mother and sister called him during the entire four months of the Helms' Deep shoot. Even with Viggo, John, and Brett there, he'd never felt more alone. But working in the dark and wet, doing the same scenes a hundred times until he actually dreamt of elvish battle cries and fighting orcs, couldn't depress Orlando. He was an elf, for one thing, and in some ways, the elf. It was his responsibility to exhibit the elvish qualities that Tolkien had so loved. For another, he reveled in the exhaustion and filth, rising above the effort because that's what he did. He soared, alone, but sailing high.
"What happened at Helm's Deep?" Billy asked Orlando one weekend most of the cast had gathered to party. Dom and Elijah were DJing, which meant the music was loud and constant.
"Love, blood, and rhetoric," Orlando said, and Billy smiled in recognition.
"All that and more, I reckon," Billy said, and his mouth was so pretty, his eyes so green, the music and crowd and alcohol so exciting that Orlando couldn't help himself; he leaned over and kissed him. Billy jerked away, but Orlando followed him, and then Billy kissed him back. "Ohhhh," Billy moaned under the throbbing bass line, and Orlando kissed him harder. Billy was so sweet; he even tasted sweet. Such a sad life, and yet he had grown into such a loving and lovable man. Orlando pulled back a moment to study his face, stroking his cheeks, then leaning forward to kiss him again. When he couldn't stand it a moment more, he took Billy's hand and led him out of the main room, down a crowded corridor, and out into the crisp night air, pressing Billy against the brick wall to kiss him more firmly.
"Do you want this?" he asked. "It's not just the drink?"
"Oh, shut up, Orli," Billy whispered. "Who cares if it's the whiskey, eh? Ya taste sa guid," and he pulled Orlando's head down. Orlando smiled into the kiss, and slid his hands down Billy's firm body, between his legs, and traced his fingers along the inseam of his jeans. Billy trembled; his thighs loosened, his pelvis tilted, and he pressed himself against Orlando's thigh. "Where? Where?" he murmured between kisses.
Orlando opened Billy's jeans and slid gracefully to his knees. "Why not here?" he asked, smiling up at Billy's astonished face, and then bent to his task.
"Someone will see," he thought he heard Billy whisper, but Orlando didn't care. Why shouldn't they see? Billy was beautiful, and never more so now, excited and shivering, and Orlando was always beautiful, and these moments came so rarely. Let them look, let them rejoice that the universe could contain such things, the sweetness of Billy, the beauty of Orlando.
When he rose, still embracing Billy, he kissed him hard, shivering himself with excitement and desire. "You are beautiful, beautiful," Billy whispered to him, and touched him awkwardly but kindly and Orlando came all over Billy's hands and a bit on his blue jeans. They stood draped over each other, damp with sweat and semen, kissing each other's throats and faces. "Love, blood, and rhetoric, indaid," Billy said hoarsely, and Orlando smiled and kissed him.
Later, after he and Billy had returned to the club, he thought he saw Dom studying him from across the room. Billy was standing next to him, dancing by himself, lost in the music; Orlando could only smile at him. Dom's eyes shifted to Billy, and then he smiled, too.
~ ~ ~
One afternoon Sean Astin approached him, looking shy and awkward in Sam's weight and cumbersome pack. "Orlando," he said, looking at his hairy feet.
"Sean!" Orlando resisted the temptation to embrace him, but he gave him what he hoped was a dazzling smile.
Sean smiled back, a bit pink in the face. "Would you like to have dinner sometime? Christine's back in the States for a while, and I thought, you know, if you weren't busy . . ."
"I'd love it," Orlando told him honestly. "I haven't spent any real time with you since before Helm's Deep. Name the night and I'll be there."
"Tomorrow? I'll pick you up. Thanks. Thanks, Orlando." Sean was called back just then; he smiled over his shoulder as he hurried back to Elijah, who slipped his arm over Sean's shoulder. They walked like that, thighs brushing, as intimate as lovers in a public place.
Orlando watched them, and wondered.
He didn't wonder why Sean had asked him. Both men were alone, and Sean looked sad a lot these days. Missing Christine, Orlando supposed, but he wondered about Elijah and Dom's relationship, if there was one. Maybe Sean was feeling left out, too.
Sean took him to a nice restaurant, one he'd never been to before. "John recommended it," Sean told him, blushing a little, and ordered a bottle of red wine. "Viggo recommended this," he admitted when the sommelier left.
Orlando raised his glass to Sean. "Thank you," he said, and smiled.
Sean stared at him hungrily, then drank. "You, you're," he said, and then stopped when their waiter approached to take their orders. "Um, John says the fish," and Orlando ordered for them both, confidently.
"I'm what?" he asked, when the waiter had left, leaning forward to look into Sean's eyes.
"Beautiful," Sean blurted out, turning scarlet. He had nice eyes, Orlando thought, and such thick curly hair. He reached out and touched Sean's hair, then slid the back of his fingers down Sean's face.
"So are you," he said, and he meant it. No, Sean wasn't as beautiful as Orlando was; Sean was too short and carrying so much weight for Sam. But he had nice eyes, and pleasant regular features, and he wore his heart on his sleeve.
"Inside, you mean," Sean told him. "I've heard that before."
"Well, that, too," Orlando said, still smiling. "But outside, too."
"How can you say that?" Sean asked, sounding a little like Sam in his more suspicious moments.
Orlando frowned a bit, thinking. At last he said, "You know my story, right? Fell out of a window, never walk again, et cetera, et cetera?" Sean nodded, looking puzzled. "You appreciate things in a different way after that. In one sense, everything and everyone is beautiful. And precious. And worthy of attention and love."
Sean was still blushing, but Orlando could tell he was listening avidly. He smiled and lightly stroked Sean's fingers where they held the wine glass. "Let me think you're beautiful, Sean, even if you don't. Let me love you."
Sean dropped his eyes and stared at the gleaming silverware of the table for a moment. Then he lifted his head. "Thank you, Orlando. You're -- not what I thought."
"No one is."
"No. No, I expect not."
"Not even you."
"I hope not," Sean said, but he smiled this time and raised his glass to Orlando's, lightly chiming the two glass bowls together. "To survival," he said.
"To love," Orlando corrected him. After dinner, he had Sean drive him home, and then drew him inside, shut the door, bent his head, and kissed Sean, whose lips were soft and warm, and tasted of the spices they'd eaten with dinner. When they released each other's mouths, Orlando briefly touched his nose to Sean's and said, "Come to bed with me." As Orlando had hoped he would, Sean smiled and kissed him, and they walked arm in arm to Orlando's bedroom. The windows were open, and the sounds of the sea rolled in, and they rolled to the same rhythm. "You are magic," Sean gasped. Orlando had merely smiled.
The next morning, Sean looked a bit shamefaced, but Orlando kissed him repeatedly and said, "Call me anytime you want to. I want you to." Sean shook his head, and they held hands on the drive in to work.
~ ~ ~
"What did you do to Sean last night?" Elijah asked him over coffee in the mess tent that afternoon.
"Why?"
"He's . . . happy."
"He's lonely, Elijah," Orlando explained. He put down his paper cup and took Elijah's small battered hand. "Can I tell you a secret?" Elijah nodded. "The best gift you can give someone is to listen to them."
Elijah stared at Orlando, and then slowly nodded again. "It's my fault," he whispered.
"No, no. Or ask Sean; he'll tell you."
"Maybe I will."
"Maybe you will."
"Poncy elf."
"Tiny little hobbit."
"Fuck off, Orlando. Except -- thanks. Really."
Orlando watched Sean and Elijah as closely as his schedule permitted him, which wasn't close enough. Sean did look happier, and teased Elijah a bit more, pulling Elijah's hand out of his mouth when he bit his fingernails, loosening the neck of his cloak so the Lorien leaf clasp didn't poke him, and protecting him when Dom and Billy tried to steal the One Ring from him.
Elijah was the oddest of them all, Orlando thought. Impossible to understand. That face -- fairer than most, indeed. Foul mouth, ribald sense of humor, astonishing knowledge and equally astonishing gaps in his education, and a work ethic that made Orlando examine his own. As Frodo, he led the cast in a way that not even Viggo nor Ian had to, and the weight must at times have seemed as great as that of the Ring he bore. Orlando admired him, learned from him, and envied him.
Was he fucking Sean? Dominic? All the hobbits? Orlando wasn't sure. They were a loving group of friends, and they exaggerated it for the cameras always on them. Never a moment for a private scratch, always on; it was exhausting.
But then one day, Orlando came upon Elijah sitting slumped on the ground, looking weary and far older than his years. Orlando squatted next to him, and gently removed his hand from his mouth. "Sean doesn't like it when you bite your nails," he teased.
"Fuck Sean."
Orlando studied him. "Do you?"
"Orlando, please."
"Elijah." When Elijah continued to stare at the stony ground, Orlando said again, "Elijah."
Elijah raised his head and Orlando could see he'd been crying. Without another word, Orlando sat next to him and put his arms around him. Elijah leaned into his chest, sighing, and Orlando kissed the top of his curly wig. "It gets old, doesn't it," he whispered into the pointed ear, and Elijah nodded, sniffing. "Don't wipe your nose on my shirt or Wardrobe will kill me." To his pleasure, Elijah giggled, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
"Come home with me tonight, little hobbit," Orlando whispered. Elijah leaned back to look at him, eyes wide in a pale face drawn in puzzlement. Orlando brushed the hair from his face and gently kissed him. "Take one night off."
"Orlando --"
"I insist. I want this, Elijah. Come home with me."
"You don't even know what's wrong."
"It doesn't matter. I can't fix it, can I?" Elijah shook his head. "Just let it go for one night."
Elijah rested his head against Orlando's chest again. "Maybe," he sighed. Orlando kissed him again, nuzzling the wig firmly so Elijah could feel it.
In Orlando's big bed that night they lay entwined. The windows were open and the moon full, its light spreading across them, so Elijah looked as if he really did glow, the way Sam thought Frodo glowed when the Ring had worn him down. He was rubbing small circles on Orlando's chest.
"This is really nice," he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
"Thank you," Orlando said. He nudged his knee between Elijah's legs, and felt him begin to swell again. "Kids today," he whispered, and they began to kiss again, pushing against each other in sweaty excitement.
"Good thing you're one, too, oh," Elijah gasped, his hips thrusting up eagerly. "Oh, fuck, Orli, oh."
"Yeah, yeah," Orlando murmured, between kisses, "I think we have to."
The next morning, Orlando found Elijah sitting on a chair next to the bed, smoking. He blinked and stretched, looking at the clock. It was still very early, but his alarm would ring in twenty minutes, so not too early. "Hey," he said, and cleared his throat.
"Hey." Elijah took a deep drag and then crushed the cigarette in a saucer set on the floor next to him. "Are you going to fuck everybody in the cast?"
"What?" Orlando sat up a bit, leaning back on his hands. "What do you mean?"
"Just that. Sean told me." He ducked his head. "That actually was really nice for Sean. I'm not angry about that."
"But you are angry."
Elijah lifted his head again and stared out the window, into the bay. His eyes were the exact color of the water out there in early dawn; Orlando had watched sunrise over his bay often enough to recognise that. "I guess. A little. Just -- are you cutting notches?"
"No, Elijah. It's just you looked so sad yesterday. I couldn't bear it. And I don't have anything else to offer to make you happy."
"Orli," he started, but then bit his lip. At last he looked into Orlando's eyes. "You are so wonderful. Beautiful, really. And I'm grateful; you did make me feel better. Better about myself."
"Were you mad at Sean?"
"No, not Sean. I don't think I could get mad at him."
"I won't ask you who or what, Elijah. It's none of my business. But I don't like to see you so unhappy."
"Move over," Elijah said, and crawled back into bed with Orlando. His skin was chilly, and Orlando wrapped his arms around him. "Mmmm, you're so soft and warm. Just like your bed."
"My bed is your bed. If you want."
"Thank you, Orlando." Elijah kissed him, tasting of toothpaste and smoke, then rested his head against Orlando's chest. "Fifteen minutes till the alarm."
"I know."
"Not really time to do anything."
"Is that a challenge?"
Elijah giggled, and reached for Orlando. "We're young," he murmured; "Hair trigger, Sean says."
Orlando thought about Sean's name in his bed with Elijah, decided he liked it, and smiled as his kissed his way down Elijah's body.
On the drive in, Elijah said, "You said you couldn't fix the problem. What was bothering me yesterday."
"That's true. I can't."
"Well. You did. Maybe."
"Good. And Elijah. I'm not cutting notches, okay?"
"I know, Orlando. That was mean. I'm sorry."
"No. I know what it looks like. But I'm not. I promise. The thing is, you're all so special. The most special people I've ever known."
Elijah smiled. "You're pretty special yourself."
He kissed Elijah. "Not special," he corrected gently. "Magic.".
Author: Mirabile Dictu
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: Orlando and everybody in the whole wide world
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is a good dream.
Disclaimer: Neither probable nor possible.
A/N: The title is a translation of the first antiphon of vespers for the dead, Placebo Domino in regione vivorum. Written, as always, for the
empress_wu. Beta by her as well, which seems unfair, to make her beta her gifts, but there you go.Posted in two parts.
England
Falling from a third-floor window, sailing through the thick London air, Orlando realised he must be asleep, in bed, and dreaming. He often dreamt of flying and occasionally of falling; this was a falling dream, and so he fell. He wondered if he'd bounce; that had happened once in a dream when he was a little boy, and he'd woken up laughing. So he stretched out his arms and legs and waited to see what would happen.
When he landed, half on an iron railing and half on a rusted-out washing machine, he thought: Now I'll wake up. But he hadn't. Instead, pain surprised him, like a knife in an alley might another man, and he stared up at the faces of his shocked and frightened friends peering down at him. "Help," he whispered, barely able to breathe.
He was very sorry that he'd killed himself so young. He watched, quietly, patiently, as people began shouting and doors and windows slammed open and shut, as emergency vehicles arrived, and strangers began to talk to him, asking incomprehensible questions.
Orlando was meant for magic, he knew. His mother had told him so, all the time he was growing up. She'd given him his magic name and his beauty. He had soared above others, he knew, and treasured that knowledge. He was who he was; he couldn't help but be pleased.
But being special meant being different, and being different meant being alone. More than a year after his first fall, he would stand on a sound stage on the other side of the world, and watch as a beautiful woman kindly said, "To be a Ringbearer is to be alone." Orlando knew that, in his own way, he too was a Ringbearer; he bore the Ring of Beauty, and, like all Rings of Power, it carried responsibilities and obligations.
He had literally soared for a few seconds, before crashing down, breaking four vertebrae and three ribs and bruising his spine so badly that he'd been told he'd never walk again. He hadn't cried at the news because he hadn't believed it. That would never happen to Orlando. He was meant for magic.
When he rose from his sickbed, thin and trembling, his sister's and mother's faces wet with tears of relief and happiness, he knew his mother had been right. He was indeed meant for magic. He would survive anything. He also understood that one of his obligations was to experience everything; another was to share his knowledge of magic with others; a third was to never be afraid again.
New Zealand
At first, Orlando thought they had paired up the same way their characters had: Frodo with Sam and Merry with Pippin. They spent so much time together that it was, he thought, a reasonable assumption.
Of course, they spent much of their time as a quartet as well, and that lent an interesting twist to his imaginings. Since initially he was often included, he watched carefully, hunting for any clues. He found all too many, so many that he wondered if he were being played, or if they really were as friendly with each other as his eyes led him to believe.
He watched the others as well, of course: Sir Ian, who was gracious but a bit distant; John, sweet, gregarious John; Sean Bean, who seemed a bit shy at first; and Viggo. Viggo was an enigma, Orlando decided, and mentally put him away to be considered later, once he'd gathered more information.
After a while, Orlando began to wonder if Elijah and Dominic were an item, that Sean was in fact faithful to his wife, and that perhaps, just perhaps, Billy was straight. And always he wondered if he would find someone, if he would ever pair up the way hobbits seemed to have.
One time, he got Dominic alone to himself for an entire day. They went bungee jumping, and Orlando thought it was brilliant. He remembered falling from that London window when he first leapt from the Nevis Highwire, sailing into the too, too solid air, and he rejoiced, for he was young and alive and magic. That was his second time falling, and he loved it. He owned it. Falling or flying: he'd mastered it. When he'd been hauled back up, Dominic flung his arms around Orlando and hugged him tightly. "You absolute idiot," he whispered into Orlando's windburned ears.
Orlando was very pleased by the hug and by Dom's concern, but was unsure how to add it into the complex equation he was trying to write about his new friends. Did Dom like him as much as he liked the other hobbits? In what ways did he like the other hobbits?
In the book, Legolas had teamed up with Gimli. For life, and beyond life; they'd sailed over the Sea together, presumably to find Frodo and Sam living in connubial bliss. When Dom returned to the other hobbits, Orlando began spending time with John, who was kind in a paternal way, offering advice and unstinting praise and occasional criticism.
Brett was cool. Orlando spent most of his time working with Brett, with John just off-camera, but as funny as Brett was, he had his own life and concerns. He was working a lot more than he'd ever been intended to, because of John's allergies to the prosthetics, and had thrown himself into the script. Gimli would be a true collaboration of both Brett and John.
But John was so miserable; it hurt Orlando to see him in pain. More than that, John was embarrassed, humiliated even, by his body's refusal of the prosthetics, and the resultant marring of his skin. He avoided his cast-mates, and rarely attended any of the weekend parties.
Orlando began to seek him out, ostensibly to ask his advice or request an anecdote. He loved John's big beautiful voice, and he was a raconteur of the first water; listening to him was a pleasure, never a chore. But as John's dermatitis worsened, he was less willing to meet with Orlando, even in his own home. "I'm really not feeling up to it," he finally confessed. "Dear boy, you are too kind to a man old enough to be your grandfather. Find the hobbits and be naughty."
"But I don't want to," Orlando protested. "I want to be with you. Please, John. I'll bring take-away from whatever restaurant you like, and champagne. I'll be the perfect guest: attentive and charming."
John sighed heavily, and Orlando knew he would agree. "But just for a little while. I have to eat, and you know too well how much I enjoy it. So I will share my meal with you. But then off you must go. Do you promise me, Orlando?"
"Yes, of course, John," Orlando agreed, but he knew in his heart that once he was there, John wouldn't want him to leave.
Nor did he. The food was excellent, and the champagne brilliantly bubbly. Orlando had even brought beautiful crystal flutes, wrapped in silvery-white ribbon. "A wedding present?" John had teased, but Orlando had only popped the first cork.
John's face was painful to look at. Orlando remembered the agony of lying in that hospital bed, unable to move even a finger without experiencing excruciating pain; he knew that pain wore down the spirit as much as the body. When dinner was over and he'd tidied up the dining room, he brought out a tiny square bottle of a clear viscous substance and held it before John's face.
"Some elvish spirits? Miruvor, perhaps?"
"From my aunt in South Africa." He opened the bottle carefully, placed his forefinger over the opening, and tipped it sideways. He set the bottle down and knelt before John. "She's a wonderful woman, very knowledgeable in herbs and folk remedies. The oil is from a flower that grows only in the Drakensberg mountains. It has healing powers for many ailments, but is specially good for the skin."
"Oh, no, dear boy. My physician has prescribed many ointments and pills and whatnot. I hardly think --"
"But I do think, John." Orlando placed one hand on John's knee, and reached toward his face with the other. "Close your eyes," he said softly.
John stared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Helping." Orlando stared back at him, calm and confident. "Let me help you, John," he whispered. "Close your eyes." He rubbed John's knee.
"You shouldn't do this. I shouldn't do this."
"Yes, we should. Now close your eyes for me." John's eyes were nearly closed anyway, from the swelling around them. He sighed, and shut them. Orlando braced himself against John's knee and, very gently, delicately, spread the oil around John's eyes, on the distended tissue, red and peeling. John sighed again at the touch of Orlando's oily fingers, this time with pleasure, and Orlando felt the tension leave his body.
"Thank you, Orlando," he murmured, but Orlando merely said, "Shhhh," and kept spreading the oil over the damaged skin. When he was finished, he said, "You need to spread that on once in the morning and again each night."
"It feels wonderful," John breathed. "Thank you."
"Keep your eyes closed," Orlando said, and leaned forward to press a kiss to John's lips, as gently as he had touched John's poor eyes.
"No, Orlando," John protested, pulling back, but he kept his eyes closed, and Orlando smiled.
"Yes, Orlando," he said, and leaned forward again. This time John did not pull away or protest, but let Orlando kiss him: his lips, his cheeks, even his poor swollen eyes, but always returning to his lips. At last John kissed him back, bending his neck to meet Orlando. He pushed apart John's knees and leaned into John's ample body, a body Orlando could read like a history book. It spoke to him of a long and vigorous life now slowing down, of women and wild nights, of sleeping children, and now grandchildren. "Let me, let me," he said, touching John intimately.
"Orlando," he whispered, and took Orlando's head in his hands to kiss him more thoroughly. "This isn't happening."
"This is whatever you want it to mean," Orlando promised him. "Nothing more, but nothing less, either."
"Why? Why?"
"Because I can."
John smiled sadly. "You can do anything, Orlando." And he let him.
The next day, in the mines of Moria, John's face looked less red and swollen. Peter and Brett studied him carefully. "The treatment must be working," Pete finally said. "But we'll keep the prosthetics to once every three days till it's cleared up. No use taking chances."
"It's better," Brett told him. "Pretty soon I'll be out a job, I will."
John looked at Orlando. "Anything can happen," he said.
~ ~ ~
Sean Bean hated flying. Loathed it. Feared it. Orlando couldn't understand it; he loved to fly. He still dreamt of flying, even after everything that had happened to him. Sean called him a daft git, a poncy bastard, but Orlando still liked him, and worried about him.
So when the cast had to go to Alexandra, and Sean refused to fly, Orlando drove with him. "Why not?" was his answer to Sean. "Sounds fun, rushing off like that. Let's leave right away, get out there a few days early. Scout it out, find the pubs."
"Daft git," Sean said, but he was smiling. "I'm driving, elf boy."
Orlando was happy to let him. The scenery on South Island was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and as a passenger, he could play the stereo, eat, and watch the mountains rise before them as they headed inland.
The rain was bad, though. A few times the car hydroplaned, sending Orlando's crisps flying, to his chagrin and Sean's growls. "Pick 'em up," he said firmly, stealing one from Orlando's lap.
"Drive slower; I want to see this." Orlando stared avidly out the window; the rain was sheeting down. He'd never seen it fall so heavily, the drops moving as if in slow motion. The hills around them were shiny with mud, the grasses bent and trampled by the onslaught. "Looks like orcs ran through them," he pointed out, but Sean was too busy driving to look.
They passed through a small town, a wide spot in the road and the first sign of civilization they'd seen all that day. Although it was only three in the afternoon, it was as dark as night, and Sean had the headlights on high-beam. It was cold, too, for summer -- though Orlando still had trouble believing it could be summer in November -- and the heater was chugging away as they tried to defrost the windows. Orlando used a tissue to wipe the condensation off the windscreen, trying not to obscure Sean's view.
"This is fuckin' impossible," Sean muttered. The water was spilling onto the roadway now, rising from the ditch running alongside the road. Orlando began to notice piles of pebbles and sheets of mud on the road. Sean drove even slower.
"Stop!" Orlando shouted, and Sean slammed on the breaks. The car fishtailed wildly, but they slid to a stop. Ahead of them, completely covering the road, was a mountain of mud.
"Fuckin' god, it's a landslide," Sean said, staring in disbelief. "We have to go back. Back to Queenstown, if we can."
"That's hours and hours from here," Orlando pointed out, but he didn't have a better suggestion.
Sean carefully reversed the car, Orlando peering over his shoulder as well; they didn't want to risk backing off the road and into the ditch or they'd never get out. At last, they were heading west again, and Orlando heard Sean sigh with relief.
"It'll be all right," Orlando told Sean after another hour or so had passed. Sean nodded, but didn't speak; all his attention was focused on driving on the increasingly slick road.
They came out of a turn at the head of a valley. Sean slowed to a stop. The road ahead was submerged; worse, there had been more landslides. The mud was still moving, Orlando realised, oozing down the side of the mountain and across the road.
"We are so fucked," Sean finally said. "How much food do we have in here."
Orlando twisted around, finding a half-empty bag of crisps, a packet of choc-ice biscuits, and several bottles of water. "And some gum," he added, feeling ridiculous.
"Gum," Sean said, and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. "Fuck me."
"There was that little town," Orlando suggested hesitantly.
"Did ya see a bloody inn there, Orlando? A pub, even? T'wasn't nothin' there."
"Well, there might a telephone we could use," he said with dignity.
Sean raised his head and gave Orlando a long, level look. Then he smiled. "Good point, elf boy." He started up the car and once again carefully backed-and-forthed across the roadway and soon they were heading east yet again.
There was a tiny shop in the cluster of houses; no pub or inn, Orlando noted glumly. Sean was right about that. The rain pounded on the roof of their car. Neither man wanted to get out in it and they sat there for a few minutes. "Let's just get it fuckin' over with, all right?" Sean said at last, and they sprang out and ran up the steps, slamming the screen door behind them and shaking water like dogs.
"Are you boys all right?" someone asked them.
"What on earth are you doing out in this weather?" someone else said.
Orlando looked around him. The store was dark; the power had gone, obviously. But there were lanterns glowing, and a stove burning. He walked over to it and put out his hands to warm. "We're fine, thank you," he answered.
"Is there a phone we can use?" Sean asked.
"Oh, dear. It's out right now. But there's a radio up at the Jensen's; I'm sure you could use it."
"How far is that?"
"Oh, a fair piece, up t' road from here. I'll take you."
"Thank you," Orlando said, studying their benefactor. He was an elderly man, almost as small as Ian Holm, with a ruddy weathered face. Behind him a nearly identical man stood, arms crossed. "Are you the storekeepers?"
"He is," the first one said, jerking a thumb at the man behind him. "I'm Will, and this is Terrence."
"Hullo. I'm Orlando, and this is my friend Sean."
"Orlando is it. Huh." The two men stared at Orlando, barely giving Sean a glance. "What are you boys doing?"
"Well, actually, we're actors on our way to a job."
Terrence smiled. "Actors, are ya? I've never yet met an actor. What do you act? Shakespeare now?"
Sean smiled. "We have, although that's not the job. Have you heard of Lord of the Rings?"
"Is it famous?"
"Pretty famous." Terrence shook his head, obviously disappointed. "Don't worry," Sean said. "You will."
Orlando said, "Look, Sean. They have wine. And snacky things."
"Get some, would you, Orlando? So you carry wine, Terrence. Is it New Zealand?"
"Of course, it is! Do you know wine, then?"
"Only a bit."
"Well, then, let me show you." Orlando watched as they bent their heads over the shelves, Sean towering over the small shopkeeper. He gathered up an armload of different kinds of crisps and biscuits, and small cans of sardines in tomato sauce, and a box of crackers, and some Vegemite. He dumped it all on the counter and waited for Sean, aware of Will's eyes on him.
"Hello," he finally said to the old man. He really did have beautiful hair, Orlando thought, and hoped his would be as fluffy and white when he got old.
The old man nodded. "Is yer name really Orlando, or is that a stage name?"
"No, it's my real name. My mum named me. I've always liked it."
Will nodded thoughtfully, still staring at Orlando. "You're a bit fey, I'm guessing."
"That's what my mum always told me," he laughed. "Why do you say so?"
"Just," he waved his hand in Orlando's direction. "So tall, and thin. Elegant, if you don't mind. Different."
"I don't mind. Different is good, don't you think?"
Will studied him, and then smiled, one gold tooth glinting in the lantern light. "I never thought so before, but mebbe so. Mebbe so."
"Ready, Orlando?" Sean asked him, and he stepped aside so Sean could reach the till. They argued over who would pay, finally splitting the cost, and then turned to Will.
"You said you take us?" Orlando said, a polite question in his tone.
"I did. Doubt your auto'll make it. We'll take my lorry. Have to squeeze in a bit."
"Our suitcases?"
"Leave them, Orlando," Sean said. "We'll just have to manage for one night."
"Drive carefully, Will," Terrence called as they left, going through the back of the store, very dark and a bit spooky, Orlando thought. But the back door opened onto a loading dock, and next to the dock was a lorry as old as Sean, or maybe older, painted a chipped and fading green.
"Climb in from the driver's side," Will told them; "it's all mud out there, so just slide in from the dock. You first," he told Sean, who grimaced and then dashed out into the rain, opening the driver's door and inserting himself into the cab, hanging on to one of the grocery sacks.
"Now you," he told Orlando, who practically jumped into the truck, clinking wine bottles as he landed.
Finally the old man climbed in, slammed the door shut, and started the engine. It had a complicated starting mechanism that involved pushing a button whilst pulling a lever; Orlando watched fascinated. But the engine turned over at once, a glorious roar, and he was confident the truck could drive them over any landslide.
"Up t' hill to Jensen's," Will said, and they chugged away. The road was so narrow that branches scraped the sides of the truck; Sean actually ducked once when one slapped the passenger window, leaving slimy smears of pinesap and needles behind.
The Jensen's turned out to be Mary Jensen, a widow as old as Will and Terrence, and she did let them use her radio. After much effort, Sean was finally able to speak to Fran Walsh, explaining they were stranded, cut off by landslides in both directions.
"Where will you stay?" Fran shouted through the static.
"Dunno," Sean shouted back. "In the car, I suppose."
"Ah, no," Mrs. Jensen protested. "I've a room with a big bed in't. Ye'll stay with me, eh?"
"Thank you," Orlando told her, taking her hand. She smiled up at him; were all the inhabitants of this hamlet tiny?
"Here," Sean yelled. "We'll be here. I'll talk to ye t'marra." Orlando noticed that his Sheffy accent was becoming stronger, and wondered if it was from stress or from hearing these Kiwis' tight accents.
"Thank you," Sean said to Mrs. Jensen when he'd signed off. "It's very kind of you. Let us fix dinner for you."
"Oh, Mary, when was the last time a chentleman asked you that?"
"Hush, Will. Noo, no guest o' mine will be cooking."
"Yes, we will," Orlando said firmly. "I make an excellent spaghetti sauce, and even Sean here can boil up spaghetti noodles."
"As it happens, I make a fine sauce m'self," Sean said.
"Yeh're overruled, Mary. And I'm off; Terrence'll be wonderin' what we're up to. I'll come up t'marra for elevenses."
Mrs. Jensen relented and showed them the kitchen, hovering nervously until Sean sat her down at her own kitchen table with a glass of wine. "Mr. Jensen, God rest his soul, never cooked a thing in his life," she told them. "T'is a fine thing, seein' young men so capable in t' kitchen."
Orlando gave his most brilliant smile to her. "Mum taught me this," he reassured her, eyes a bit damp from chopping onions. Sean grinned at him, and poured him a glass of wine, too. Outside the rain continued to drive down, ringing the metal roof like a bell above them.
Dinner was delicious; even Mrs. Jensen said so. Flushed with wine, the warmth of the kitchen, and the company, all three enjoyed themselves. Orlando insisted on cleaning up, too, whilst Mrs. Jensen baked apples for dessert, the scent filling the entire house.
She showed them their room, smallish, nearly filled with bed, and brought them towels for the bath, which was down the hall and tiny. Still, Orlando enjoyed his soak in the tub after such a strange day, and flopped into bed, happy despite the circumstances.
Sean came in later, drying his hair. "I have to get up a bit in the night," he said gruffly, "so I should sleep nearest the door." Orlando obligingly scooted over, and rolled onto his side to watch Sean.
He was a big man, robust, and very good looking. Orlando enjoyed his company, even though in some ways he found Sean old before his time. This thing about not flying, for example; how could anyone not love to fly?
"Peter must be shittin' a brick," Sean said, emerging red-faced from the towel. "This rain is delaying filming. And here we are, the middle of fuckin' nowhere."
Orland shrugged. "They'll send a helicopter down."
"Oh, Christ, he will, won't he. Fuckin' 'ell."
Orlando laughed and rolled onto his back, folding his hands under his head. "I can't wait to see what the countryside looks like after all this rain."
Sean snapped the damp towel at him before hanging it over the doorknob and crawling into bed. "God, this feels good. My neck and shoulders are in knots from that drive."
"Here, roll over. I'll rub them."
"Naw, Orlando, you don't --"
"I know I don't. Roll over, ya northern bastard."
Sean sighed dramatically, but rolled onto his stomach. Orlando sat up and rubbed his hands together, warming them, before gently stroking down Sean's back a few times, and then working on his shoulder muscles. "You're a mess," he said, and Sean was; his muscles were lumpy with tension. He massaged for a long time, feeling the tissue smooth out beneath his hands, Sean's skin tender and yielding. "God, that's good," Sean murmured, and sighed heavily.
When Sean's muscles had yielded to Orlando, giving up the stress they'd been holding, Orlando leaned over and kissed the back of Sean's neck. When Sean didn't move or object, he kissed him again, and rubbed his face against the skin, then kissing his way down Sean's spine, one kiss for each vertebrae. His own back, Orlando knew, was irrevocably marred by the long incision made to repair the damage from his fall, but Sean's was perfect.
Sean's hips lifted, and he adjusted himself. "Ah, Orlando," he whispered as Orlando's kisses neared the small of his back, sounding hesitant and uncertain. "I'm not -- I'm not really sure about this." Orlando just kissed him again, and then nuzzled his buttocks, licking as well as kissing now. Sean spread his legs and groaned. "Jesus," he gasped. "Jesus."
"What do you want, Sean? What can I do for you?"
"God, Orlando. Don't ask me that. What do you want?"
"I want to make you feel good. Tell me how. Show me what you want, Sean."
Sean groaned again, long and deep, and then rolled onto his back, pulling the sheet with him. He put his hand over his erection and squeezed. Orlando smiled. "Let me do that," he whispered, and put his head down, pushing at Sean's hand with his chin.
"Ohhh, yes," Sean moaned, and slid his hand into Orlando's hair, stroking him like a kitten. "Thank you, Orlando, please, yes, god."
Orlando smiled at the noises Sean was making, and began massaging him again, this time his thighs and belly and balls, whilst he sucked on Sean's prick. When he came, hot and thick, he clutched Orlando's shoulder with one hand and the bedsheet with the other. As content as a cat, Orlando licked his lips, smiling at Sean's dazed look.
"You daft git," Sean murmured. "C'mere." Orlando fit himself on top of Sean, wrapping himself around him, and they kissed, slow and luxurious. "You do give the best massages," Sean said later. "I don't, uh, I don't have any way to, um, you know, repay you."
"It's okay Sean. I liked it. You liked it. You flew for a little bit, didn't you?"
Sean laughed, and stroked Orlando's hair again, shaking his head at the question. "Yeah. A little." He kissed Orlando again, then lay back down. "Thank you, Orlando. That was -- I dunno. Magic."
"'course it was," Orlando said, a bit affronted. What else could it be? He lay down next to Sean and pulled the sheet over them. The small room was warm and muggy now, after all their exertion, and he was tired. "Good night, Sean."
Sean took Orlando's hand, squeezed it, then tucked his hands under his head, closing his eyes. "Night," he whispered.
The next day, Peter did indeed send a helicopter out to them. On the flight home, Sean gripped Orlando's hand fiercely, bruising the knuckles; Orlando held on with both of his hands. Sean had sighed gustily when they'd finally landed in Queenstown; his legs were so rubbery as they climbed out that Orlando hung onto him, hoping he wasn't embarrassing his friend.
Sean hugged him right there on the airstrip. "Thank you," he'd whispered to Orlando, and to Orlando's surprise, kissed his bruised hand.
~ ~ ~
After Sean, Orlando understood more clearly what his role with these people was to be. They were cut off from their family and friends, from their lives and homes. New Zealand was almost literally another world, and some days it was difficult to bridge the old with the new. Orlando could help them with that. He had secrets, and secret powers, and he loved them so much. Their pain called to him, and he reached out to heal and bridge and bring together. He could do this; he was born to do this.
~ ~ ~
Orlando had heard that, when Billy and Dom had been separated because Pippin had gone to Minas Tirith, Dom had cried, and that they'd called each other every night.
No one had cried when Orlando had left the hobbits, he didn't think. Certainly no one except his mother and sister called him during the entire four months of the Helms' Deep shoot. Even with Viggo, John, and Brett there, he'd never felt more alone. But working in the dark and wet, doing the same scenes a hundred times until he actually dreamt of elvish battle cries and fighting orcs, couldn't depress Orlando. He was an elf, for one thing, and in some ways, the elf. It was his responsibility to exhibit the elvish qualities that Tolkien had so loved. For another, he reveled in the exhaustion and filth, rising above the effort because that's what he did. He soared, alone, but sailing high.
"What happened at Helm's Deep?" Billy asked Orlando one weekend most of the cast had gathered to party. Dom and Elijah were DJing, which meant the music was loud and constant.
"Love, blood, and rhetoric," Orlando said, and Billy smiled in recognition.
"All that and more, I reckon," Billy said, and his mouth was so pretty, his eyes so green, the music and crowd and alcohol so exciting that Orlando couldn't help himself; he leaned over and kissed him. Billy jerked away, but Orlando followed him, and then Billy kissed him back. "Ohhhh," Billy moaned under the throbbing bass line, and Orlando kissed him harder. Billy was so sweet; he even tasted sweet. Such a sad life, and yet he had grown into such a loving and lovable man. Orlando pulled back a moment to study his face, stroking his cheeks, then leaning forward to kiss him again. When he couldn't stand it a moment more, he took Billy's hand and led him out of the main room, down a crowded corridor, and out into the crisp night air, pressing Billy against the brick wall to kiss him more firmly.
"Do you want this?" he asked. "It's not just the drink?"
"Oh, shut up, Orli," Billy whispered. "Who cares if it's the whiskey, eh? Ya taste sa guid," and he pulled Orlando's head down. Orlando smiled into the kiss, and slid his hands down Billy's firm body, between his legs, and traced his fingers along the inseam of his jeans. Billy trembled; his thighs loosened, his pelvis tilted, and he pressed himself against Orlando's thigh. "Where? Where?" he murmured between kisses.
Orlando opened Billy's jeans and slid gracefully to his knees. "Why not here?" he asked, smiling up at Billy's astonished face, and then bent to his task.
"Someone will see," he thought he heard Billy whisper, but Orlando didn't care. Why shouldn't they see? Billy was beautiful, and never more so now, excited and shivering, and Orlando was always beautiful, and these moments came so rarely. Let them look, let them rejoice that the universe could contain such things, the sweetness of Billy, the beauty of Orlando.
When he rose, still embracing Billy, he kissed him hard, shivering himself with excitement and desire. "You are beautiful, beautiful," Billy whispered to him, and touched him awkwardly but kindly and Orlando came all over Billy's hands and a bit on his blue jeans. They stood draped over each other, damp with sweat and semen, kissing each other's throats and faces. "Love, blood, and rhetoric, indaid," Billy said hoarsely, and Orlando smiled and kissed him.
Later, after he and Billy had returned to the club, he thought he saw Dom studying him from across the room. Billy was standing next to him, dancing by himself, lost in the music; Orlando could only smile at him. Dom's eyes shifted to Billy, and then he smiled, too.
~ ~ ~
One afternoon Sean Astin approached him, looking shy and awkward in Sam's weight and cumbersome pack. "Orlando," he said, looking at his hairy feet.
"Sean!" Orlando resisted the temptation to embrace him, but he gave him what he hoped was a dazzling smile.
Sean smiled back, a bit pink in the face. "Would you like to have dinner sometime? Christine's back in the States for a while, and I thought, you know, if you weren't busy . . ."
"I'd love it," Orlando told him honestly. "I haven't spent any real time with you since before Helm's Deep. Name the night and I'll be there."
"Tomorrow? I'll pick you up. Thanks. Thanks, Orlando." Sean was called back just then; he smiled over his shoulder as he hurried back to Elijah, who slipped his arm over Sean's shoulder. They walked like that, thighs brushing, as intimate as lovers in a public place.
Orlando watched them, and wondered.
He didn't wonder why Sean had asked him. Both men were alone, and Sean looked sad a lot these days. Missing Christine, Orlando supposed, but he wondered about Elijah and Dom's relationship, if there was one. Maybe Sean was feeling left out, too.
Sean took him to a nice restaurant, one he'd never been to before. "John recommended it," Sean told him, blushing a little, and ordered a bottle of red wine. "Viggo recommended this," he admitted when the sommelier left.
Orlando raised his glass to Sean. "Thank you," he said, and smiled.
Sean stared at him hungrily, then drank. "You, you're," he said, and then stopped when their waiter approached to take their orders. "Um, John says the fish," and Orlando ordered for them both, confidently.
"I'm what?" he asked, when the waiter had left, leaning forward to look into Sean's eyes.
"Beautiful," Sean blurted out, turning scarlet. He had nice eyes, Orlando thought, and such thick curly hair. He reached out and touched Sean's hair, then slid the back of his fingers down Sean's face.
"So are you," he said, and he meant it. No, Sean wasn't as beautiful as Orlando was; Sean was too short and carrying so much weight for Sam. But he had nice eyes, and pleasant regular features, and he wore his heart on his sleeve.
"Inside, you mean," Sean told him. "I've heard that before."
"Well, that, too," Orlando said, still smiling. "But outside, too."
"How can you say that?" Sean asked, sounding a little like Sam in his more suspicious moments.
Orlando frowned a bit, thinking. At last he said, "You know my story, right? Fell out of a window, never walk again, et cetera, et cetera?" Sean nodded, looking puzzled. "You appreciate things in a different way after that. In one sense, everything and everyone is beautiful. And precious. And worthy of attention and love."
Sean was still blushing, but Orlando could tell he was listening avidly. He smiled and lightly stroked Sean's fingers where they held the wine glass. "Let me think you're beautiful, Sean, even if you don't. Let me love you."
Sean dropped his eyes and stared at the gleaming silverware of the table for a moment. Then he lifted his head. "Thank you, Orlando. You're -- not what I thought."
"No one is."
"No. No, I expect not."
"Not even you."
"I hope not," Sean said, but he smiled this time and raised his glass to Orlando's, lightly chiming the two glass bowls together. "To survival," he said.
"To love," Orlando corrected him. After dinner, he had Sean drive him home, and then drew him inside, shut the door, bent his head, and kissed Sean, whose lips were soft and warm, and tasted of the spices they'd eaten with dinner. When they released each other's mouths, Orlando briefly touched his nose to Sean's and said, "Come to bed with me." As Orlando had hoped he would, Sean smiled and kissed him, and they walked arm in arm to Orlando's bedroom. The windows were open, and the sounds of the sea rolled in, and they rolled to the same rhythm. "You are magic," Sean gasped. Orlando had merely smiled.
The next morning, Sean looked a bit shamefaced, but Orlando kissed him repeatedly and said, "Call me anytime you want to. I want you to." Sean shook his head, and they held hands on the drive in to work.
~ ~ ~
"What did you do to Sean last night?" Elijah asked him over coffee in the mess tent that afternoon.
"Why?"
"He's . . . happy."
"He's lonely, Elijah," Orlando explained. He put down his paper cup and took Elijah's small battered hand. "Can I tell you a secret?" Elijah nodded. "The best gift you can give someone is to listen to them."
Elijah stared at Orlando, and then slowly nodded again. "It's my fault," he whispered.
"No, no. Or ask Sean; he'll tell you."
"Maybe I will."
"Maybe you will."
"Poncy elf."
"Tiny little hobbit."
"Fuck off, Orlando. Except -- thanks. Really."
Orlando watched Sean and Elijah as closely as his schedule permitted him, which wasn't close enough. Sean did look happier, and teased Elijah a bit more, pulling Elijah's hand out of his mouth when he bit his fingernails, loosening the neck of his cloak so the Lorien leaf clasp didn't poke him, and protecting him when Dom and Billy tried to steal the One Ring from him.
Elijah was the oddest of them all, Orlando thought. Impossible to understand. That face -- fairer than most, indeed. Foul mouth, ribald sense of humor, astonishing knowledge and equally astonishing gaps in his education, and a work ethic that made Orlando examine his own. As Frodo, he led the cast in a way that not even Viggo nor Ian had to, and the weight must at times have seemed as great as that of the Ring he bore. Orlando admired him, learned from him, and envied him.
Was he fucking Sean? Dominic? All the hobbits? Orlando wasn't sure. They were a loving group of friends, and they exaggerated it for the cameras always on them. Never a moment for a private scratch, always on; it was exhausting.
But then one day, Orlando came upon Elijah sitting slumped on the ground, looking weary and far older than his years. Orlando squatted next to him, and gently removed his hand from his mouth. "Sean doesn't like it when you bite your nails," he teased.
"Fuck Sean."
Orlando studied him. "Do you?"
"Orlando, please."
"Elijah." When Elijah continued to stare at the stony ground, Orlando said again, "Elijah."
Elijah raised his head and Orlando could see he'd been crying. Without another word, Orlando sat next to him and put his arms around him. Elijah leaned into his chest, sighing, and Orlando kissed the top of his curly wig. "It gets old, doesn't it," he whispered into the pointed ear, and Elijah nodded, sniffing. "Don't wipe your nose on my shirt or Wardrobe will kill me." To his pleasure, Elijah giggled, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
"Come home with me tonight, little hobbit," Orlando whispered. Elijah leaned back to look at him, eyes wide in a pale face drawn in puzzlement. Orlando brushed the hair from his face and gently kissed him. "Take one night off."
"Orlando --"
"I insist. I want this, Elijah. Come home with me."
"You don't even know what's wrong."
"It doesn't matter. I can't fix it, can I?" Elijah shook his head. "Just let it go for one night."
Elijah rested his head against Orlando's chest again. "Maybe," he sighed. Orlando kissed him again, nuzzling the wig firmly so Elijah could feel it.
In Orlando's big bed that night they lay entwined. The windows were open and the moon full, its light spreading across them, so Elijah looked as if he really did glow, the way Sam thought Frodo glowed when the Ring had worn him down. He was rubbing small circles on Orlando's chest.
"This is really nice," he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
"Thank you," Orlando said. He nudged his knee between Elijah's legs, and felt him begin to swell again. "Kids today," he whispered, and they began to kiss again, pushing against each other in sweaty excitement.
"Good thing you're one, too, oh," Elijah gasped, his hips thrusting up eagerly. "Oh, fuck, Orli, oh."
"Yeah, yeah," Orlando murmured, between kisses, "I think we have to."
The next morning, Orlando found Elijah sitting on a chair next to the bed, smoking. He blinked and stretched, looking at the clock. It was still very early, but his alarm would ring in twenty minutes, so not too early. "Hey," he said, and cleared his throat.
"Hey." Elijah took a deep drag and then crushed the cigarette in a saucer set on the floor next to him. "Are you going to fuck everybody in the cast?"
"What?" Orlando sat up a bit, leaning back on his hands. "What do you mean?"
"Just that. Sean told me." He ducked his head. "That actually was really nice for Sean. I'm not angry about that."
"But you are angry."
Elijah lifted his head again and stared out the window, into the bay. His eyes were the exact color of the water out there in early dawn; Orlando had watched sunrise over his bay often enough to recognise that. "I guess. A little. Just -- are you cutting notches?"
"No, Elijah. It's just you looked so sad yesterday. I couldn't bear it. And I don't have anything else to offer to make you happy."
"Orli," he started, but then bit his lip. At last he looked into Orlando's eyes. "You are so wonderful. Beautiful, really. And I'm grateful; you did make me feel better. Better about myself."
"Were you mad at Sean?"
"No, not Sean. I don't think I could get mad at him."
"I won't ask you who or what, Elijah. It's none of my business. But I don't like to see you so unhappy."
"Move over," Elijah said, and crawled back into bed with Orlando. His skin was chilly, and Orlando wrapped his arms around him. "Mmmm, you're so soft and warm. Just like your bed."
"My bed is your bed. If you want."
"Thank you, Orlando." Elijah kissed him, tasting of toothpaste and smoke, then rested his head against Orlando's chest. "Fifteen minutes till the alarm."
"I know."
"Not really time to do anything."
"Is that a challenge?"
Elijah giggled, and reached for Orlando. "We're young," he murmured; "Hair trigger, Sean says."
Orlando thought about Sean's name in his bed with Elijah, decided he liked it, and smiled as his kissed his way down Elijah's body.
On the drive in, Elijah said, "You said you couldn't fix the problem. What was bothering me yesterday."
"That's true. I can't."
"Well. You did. Maybe."
"Good. And Elijah. I'm not cutting notches, okay?"
"I know, Orlando. That was mean. I'm sorry."
"No. I know what it looks like. But I'm not. I promise. The thing is, you're all so special. The most special people I've ever known."
Elijah smiled. "You're pretty special yourself."
He kissed Elijah. "Not special," he corrected gently. "Magic.".
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I'm glad it's not slutty, even though it is, and that makes lots of sense in the context of the story. Because he isn't, really. Just open-hearted and well-meaning and magic. I think.
Thank you!
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pk
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Thank you very much!