fellowshippers | I Shall Please the Lord in the Land of the Living (NC-17, 2/2)

For headers, please see Part One.

In Minas Tirith, where Merry was supposed to be recuperating, Dom approached Orlando. His body language was tense, perhaps angry, so Orlando silently led the way through a back street to a small alcove. "What's the matter?"

"What did you do to Bill?" he asked, arms tightly crossed over his Rohan armor.

"Nothing! Why? Is Billy not all right?"

"Course he's all right; you see him yourself every day."

Orlando stared at him. "Then what's wrong? Why are you angry with me?"

"I'm not." Orlando straightened up; he tried not to tower over his shorter cast-mates, but sometimes height was an effective tool. Dom had to raise his head to continue to meet Orlando's eyes, and he dropped his arms. "I'm not, Orlando, really. But Bill."

Dom's grey eyes were cloudy with concern, his brow wrinkled in thought. Very cautiously, Orlando asked, "What did Billy say that's got you in this state?"

"I'm not in a state," he nearly shouted, then looked around quickly. "He didn't say anything. He doesn't have to. I know him. He's me mate."

"I know." Orlando bit his lip, and then said, "He loves you, Dom. You know that."

"I know." Dom thumped his head against the false stone wall behind him. "I think that's the problem. Stupid Calvinist git."

"Calvinist?"

"Never mind. I'm sorry, Orlando. I shouldn't have jumped down your throat. It's just. I dunno. I see you and Bill sometimes, and you look --" He shook his head. "Never mind."

"No, Dom. We look what?"

"Together. Ish. Sort of."

It was chilly in the shade of the alcove; Minas Tirith was really the same quarry where Orlando had suffered through the Helm's Deep shoot, and he knew how the rock held the chill of the earth's bones. Unlike Legolas, Orlando didn't want to know more about the Glittering Caves at Helm's Deep. He was cold standing here, and Dominic looked warm, and upset, and in need of comfort. "Billy loves you," Orlando said again, and slid his arms around Dominic, bending his head to whisper into his ear. He felt Dom relax a bit, and then his arms came around Orlando. "I'm not with Billy, although I love him, too. These are magic times, Dominic. Magic things are happening."

"You daft git," Dominic laughed, and the air puffed against Orlando's throat, making him shiver.

"I am, aren't I," he murmured, and kissed the soft skin under Dom's ear.

Dom shuddered, and turned his head toward Orlando. "Do that again," he whispered, and Orlando did, kissing Dom's mouth. Dom sighed heavily. "Do me, Orlando. You've done everyone else. Do me."

"Oh, Dom." He kissed Dom's face. "Come home with me tonight."

"Sean said you can hear the ocean from your bedroom."

"It's magic," he agreed, and they kissed again, in promise.

"You didn't hurt Bill," Dom said before they parted, back in the chill sunlight, and although it was a statement, Orlando heard the question in Dom's voice.

"Never intentionally, Dom. But ask Billy yourself."

Dom studied him thoughtfully, and Orlando realised yet again that Dom was smarter than he looked, that Dom in fact relied on people assuming he wasn't very bright. At last he said, "Maybe I will."

"Will I see you tonight?"

Dom smiled. "You will. I want to hear the sea from your bed."

They fell into Orlando's bed, still clothed, kicking their shoes off. Dom, Orlando discovered, actually growled when frustrated, but as charming as he found the noise, he didn't want to frustrate Dom but to comfort him, and so he did, repeatedly. "Every little thing is amazing," he whispered to Dom when they lay exhausted. "Every little thing. We're all miracles."

"Is it because you were so hurt?" Dom asked, lifting himself on one elbow to gaze down at Orlando.

"Why do you pretend?" Orlando asked in return, and Dom smiled at him.

"You really can hear the sea from your bedroom."

"Are you mad at me anymore?"

"No." Dom stroked Orlando's face. "I wasn't ever mad at you. Jealous, a little. I love Bill so much. The way he looks at you -- I want that, Orlando. I don't know what to do."

"Oh, Dom." Orlando pulled him down, so Dom fitted over him, all hard muscles meeting muscles, and bone jutting against bone. They began to move together, but before he lost himself in their thalassic rhythm, Orlando whispered, "Tell Billy you love him, Dom, tell him, you must."

"Shut up, shut up, oh, do shut up," Dom whispered back, and bit Orlando's shoulder, and Orlando shut up.

~ ~ ~

Orlando sat by the window in his bedroom, watching the sea rise and fall, breathing for the world, the whole world. The air smelt salty and sweet, and felt as soft as a cloud against his body. Elijah had perched in this chair, smoking; the saucer he'd used as an ashtray still sat on the floor next to it. Dom had tossed his shirt over the back of this chair, and Sean had knocked it over in his hurry to get Orlando into bed. On the windowsill steamed a cup of coffee, made with coffee sent him by John, from someplace in Hawaii.

Some days, days like today, days that were almost painfully beautiful, were reminders of what the world should be like but so rarely was. From his dreams, Orlando knew other worlds in which the sky was always blue, the air fresh, the sea pure and full of life; worlds in which people came together in love and forgiveness. On days like today, when in this world he could see traces of those others, he moved a little more slowly, more cautiously, hoping the thin membrane between these worlds might be more permeable, and that the magic might seep through and touch everyone, but especially the people he loved.

Orlando could conjure, he knew; he could draw people to him, give them a few hours respite in which they could see, dimly and imperfectly, these other, better worlds. That was his gift. Perhaps it was why Peter had selected him to be Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood Forest and kin to the High Elves, whose sad magic was leaving Middle-Earth.

He smiled to himself and sipped the coffee. Or perhaps not. Maybe Peter had chosen him because he was tall and skinny and looked good in pointed ears.

But Orlando thought not. Orlando thought his mum was right, and that somehow he was special. He'd been told so all his life, and told that with being special came responsibilities. He lived, he knew, a largely thoughtless life, rushing from pleasure to pleasure, but he tried to share those pleasures and thus share his gift.

His aunt, who had sent him the oil for John, had taught him many things when he'd visited her in South Africa. She was Harry Bloom's sister, and so his aunt in name only, but he loved her more than anyone except his mum and sister. She had worked hard to free Harry when he'd been imprisoned, and had been ostracized because of his activism. Orlando was very proud of her, and respected her greatly.

She had taught him secret incantations, had draped him with necklaces and bracelets and earrings, ornaments of great virtue, and she had seen to his education in love. She was, he smiled to himself, precious to him. She was old now and tired, but they still corresponded.

He had written her about his experiences making this movie, and about the people he was working with. She'd written back that such a diverse collection of people needed to be brought together, and reminded him of a certain charm. That morning he had pulled it from the small box he carried with him always, carved wood inlaid with a strange stone that felt blood warm. After his aunt's letter, he started to carry the charm with him always, the way Aragorn carried Arwen's Evenstar; he'd had Wardrobe sew a tiny pocket into Legolas' vest so it would be safe with him even while in costume.

He held it in his hand now. Never something to be stared at for long, he kept his fingers closed around it. He was thinking of Ian.

Sir Ian was tired these days. His face was drawn and sad. Orlando knew he was lonely, too, in addition to exhausted from the never-ending shoot. He admired Ian more than he could say, and studied him compulsively, trying to learn from him. Unlike John, who was happy to tutor him, Ian was more reserved. Orlando thought he had been hurt many times in his life, professionally and personally.

He finished his coffee and set the cup back on the sill. The sun sparked off the water, flashing secret messages in an unknown code; the wind had picked up a little, and outside his window, un-British flowers tossed their exuberant blossoms, scattering them prodigiously, the petals' pinks and reds and mauves carpeting the tender lawn.

Orlando cautiously opened his hand. The charm was old and dirty looking, smudged by many generations of hands, worn smooth. It weighed more than such a small thing should, and sometimes became too hot or too spiky to touch. But today it seemed amenable to Orlando handling it; he hoped that bode well for his plans.

He brought his palm to his mouth and breathed lightly on the charm, and began to whisper to it, the secret words his aunt had taught him. Never to be written down, never to be spoken aloud, only the charm should hear them. He grew more confident, and let his lips brush against the surface of the charm, and when it didn't hurt him, licked it, and finally put it into his mouth, so he could say the words directly to it, where not even the wind could hear them. When it jabbed his tongue, he spit it out. It would permit no further handling, so he carefully returned it to his pocket, and sighed.

Clouds were blowing in, he saw. Whatever magic the morning had held had dissipated. He yawned and stretched, and decided to take a nap.

He woke a few hours later a bit disoriented, and realised the phone had woken him. He snagged it from under his bed, pressed "talk," and sighed heavily into the receiver.

"Orlando?" Sir Ian's voice questioned, and he nearly levitated off the bed.

"Yes, Ian, hello."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, sorry. I just woke up. Are you all right? Can I do anything?"

"Well. Perhaps. It's just. We have so few days off, and we haven't. That is to say, do you have any plans for this evening? I thought we might have dinner together. If you aren't going out with the hobbits."

"No, no plans. I'd love that. Thank you, very much."

"No, thank you." Ian did sound pleased. "Dress just a little, will you? Jeans are fine, but not those disreputable ones with the holes in back."

"Of course. Anything." Orlando smiled; Ian had noticed the holes in the ass of his favorite blue jeans. "What time?"

"I'll pick you up at seven. It's a bit of a drive."

"Sounds lovely. Thank you. Really, Ian. Thank you for thinking of me."

"My pleasure. Tonight then."

"Yes. Yes, tonight."

They said goodbye, and Orlando stared at the phone in his hand. Then he leapt up and began to prepare for the evening.

Ian took him to a very nice restaurant; really, jeans were a little underdressed for it, but fortunately Orlando had worn a white dress shirt and navy wool blazer, so he didn't look too out of place. Orlando felt a little awkward; he was never quite sure what to say to Ian, and envied the easiness that Elijah and John had with him. Ian was quiet, too, but the evening was still pleasant, if a bit subdued for Orlando's tastes.

As they were leaving, they ran into Mark, one of the producers of the movie, also leaving, who invited them to a party. "You must come," he told them earnestly. "My wife's back in the States, and I need someone to talk to. It isn't far; you can follow me."

Ian looked at Orlando, who shrugged. "For a little while?" he suggested. Ian leaned over and stage-whispered, "Then he'll owe us."

Mark looked genuinely relieved. "Honestly, it's not far. And yeah, I will owe you. Big time. I'll leave when you do."

They followed Mark's car farther away from Wellington, up a narrow winding road, to what Orlando first thought was an apartment complex but then realised was someone's home. "Shit," he said, and glanced at Ian nervously.

"Shit, yes," Ian said, and they smiled at each other. "No wonder Mark was a bit nervous. I didn't realise this level of ostentation occurred in New Zealand."

The three men walked in together, and Orlando was glad he'd come if only for the stories he'd tell tomorrow on the set. Ostentation didn't begin to describe the furnishings; some items he didn't even know the name for. The atmosphere was oppressive; this was a bad place, he decided, and looked anxiously at Ian. "Let's not stay long," he said, and Ian nodded.

"Awful, isn't it," someone behind them said, and they turned. A tall, rather pale man only a bit older than Orlando stood there, arms folded defensively. "Plus my date ditched me."

"What is this place?" Orlando asked, and the young man shrugged.

"One of the circles of hell, I believe," Ian said, and they smiled. "Hello. My name is Ian, and this is my friend Orlando."

"Nick," the man said, and shook their hands. As soon as his hand touched Nick's, Orlando felt a tiny prick on his hip; he glanced down and realised it was the charm. It wasn't happy. He stepped back from Nick and watched as he and Ian spoke, carefully sliding his hand into the pocket. The further he moved away from them, the softer the charm grew, until it felt warm and comforting. Ian laughed suddenly, and the oppressive atmosphere lightened. A gust of wind pushed open the front door, the long draperies and tablecloths fluttered wildly, and candles gutted out. The air smelt of ocean instead of women's perfume and men's cologne.

Nick and Ian turned to look at the door as it swung on its hinges. Ian took a deep breath. "Tempting, isn't it?" he asked Nick. Nick stared at him for a few seconds and then smiled.

"Should we give in to temptation, Ian?"

In answer, Ian took Nick's hand and they walked outside. Orlando watched, smiling, then began to look for Mark. He'd need a ride home tonight, he was pretty sure.

The next day, in the makeup trailer, Ian quietly apologized to Orlando. "I did look for you," he said earnestly, but Orlando shook his head.

"Mark took me home. I was tired, and you seemed to be enjoying yourself out on the lawn."

"Oh, yes," Ian said, and he smiled. "I had a lovely evening, Orlando. Thank you."

Orlando slid a finger into the secret pocket in his vest; the charm was warm again, and pulsing slightly, almost a heartbeat. "Thank you, Ian."

~ ~ ~

Is that it? Orlando wondered a few weeks later. Principal photography was nearly at an end; had he done all he could? He'd written his aunt about everything that had happened, but hadn't heard back from her.

John's face was definitely better, although the prosthetics still pained him. Twice more, Orlando had spread the gentle oil on his swollen face, and twice more he had made gentle love to John, who had been so isolated for such a gregarious man. Their scenes together as Gimli and Legolas had benefited from the secret times together, Orlando knew, and he could hear the change in John's voice when, as Gimli, he spoke to Legolas. Warmer, affectionate, teasing -- everything that the Dwarf became to the Elf. More than friends; movie goers would believe that they spent the rest of Gimli's life together, and then sailed West.

Orlando had cried a little when Sean Bean left, secretly, of course; wouldn't do to let anyone think he cared at all for the bastard, but he did. He and Sean had met for breakfast the morning he left. Sean was nervous about flying, had even tried some tranquilizer the set doctor had prescribed for him, but it seemed to barely smooth the jagged edges of his phobia. Orlando had driven him to the airport and organized his luggage with a skycap, then turned and held him for a long time, until Sean's jitters seemed less sharp. "I'll miss you, you git," Sean had whispered to him, and Orlando kissed him.

"You'll be okay," Orlando promised him. Sean stared at him for a minute, nodded abruptly, and left. Orlando watched him disappear into the crowd, and then waited until his plane took off, leaning against his car, waiting patiently for the vapor trail to dissipate. "You'll be okay," he said again to the icy vector leading back to England.

He never made love to Sean Astin again, something Orlando regretted but understood. Sean's life revolved around his family, which now seemed to include Elijah. So difficult, Orlando thought, to understand something from the outside, but it was none of his business. Still, he thought they were happy, and the reports of their final scenes together comforted him. There was acting, and then there was acting that built on real life and real relationships, transforming into something more. Something magic, he thought, watching the dailies, trying not to cry too noisily. They had that magic.

He and Billy did come together occasionally, because who didn't love Billy? He was the most lovable man Orlando had ever met, and he rejoiced in Billy's presence in his life. Billy didn't need him, the way the others did. Billy had his own magic, a deep and quiet power that cast a glamour over him. "Always mates," Orlando had told Billy at a noisy club one night, shouting in his ear over the thump of the drum. Billy's smile was worth anything, and Orlando deeply envied Dom, the most frequent recipient of it.

And Dom. He glanced at Dom, who was watching them, his grey eyes thoughtful. I know how smart you are, you little fucker, Orlando thought, and wrapped his hand around the charm in his pocket. Can't fool me. He leaned over and kissed Billy, never taking his eyes off Dom, who sat down his ale with a splash and stalked across the dance floor, gracefully predatory. "Wanna dance?" Dom shouted at Billy, who nearly fell into his arms.

Orlando caught Dom's shoulder, leaned down, and kissed him, too. Dom lifted his chin, mouth set in a crooked line of amusement and hauteur, and turned away.

It was strange watching Elijah over the months, because he so visibly grew up. Orlando wondered if that's what it was like for parents, seeing their children shift form. Even the bones of his face seemed to alter, and his large eyes learned to see everything. He would be a much wiser man than Orlando ever could be, Orlando decided. Who was it that said Elijah had an old soul? Orlando thought they must be right.

They were standing in Minas Tirith; Elijah looked tired and his makeup was horrific, his neck gouged from the weight of the Ring and his lips cut and dried. Despite his appearance, he radiated serenity, and Orlando thought again of Frodo's inner light.

"'m gonna miss you," Elijah said in his husky voice, lighting another cigarette. "You've done a lot of good here. Is this what you're always like, or did New Zealand or this shoot do it to you?"

"My job, I think," Orlando said, not needing to be told what Elijah meant. "Might be yours, too."

Elijah shrugged and stared into space, his eyes a pale blue, reflecting the White City around them. "I don't know," he finally said. "I do think we all have callings, though."

"Like Sean, the safety hobbit?"

But Elijah didn't smile; he just nodded his head. "That's part of it. Sean's a lot more than that, though."

"I know. Just."

Elijah finally looked at him. "What about you, Orli? What do you get?"

Orlando's jaw dropped. "Me? Fuck, Elijah. More than I ever dreamt of. More than I ever hoped for."

Elijah dropped the cigarette and carefully rolled a small rock over it, then stepped down. Orlando smiled; he'd seen Elijah melt his hobbit foot before, and wondered how long until he was able to crush a cigarette out with a shoe again. "Maybe," he said. Then Viggo shouted for Orlando. Elijah said, "Your king calls."

"I wish he were my king."

"Oooh. Somebody has a crush."

"Quiet, little hobbit."

Orlando left, passing Sean Astin on the way out. "He's over there," Orlando pointed toward Elijah, and squeezed Sean's shoulder before jogging on.

"Viggo," he said, puffing a bit from trying to catch up. "What's your hurry."

Viggo stopped so suddenly that Orlando skidded to a halt. "No hurry," he said.

Orlando laughed, happy to see Viggo's eyes crinkle in response. "Elijah's right," he said. "You're certifiable."

Viggo studied him, and Orlando let himself be studied. Viggo had taken some amazing pictures of him as Legolas, capturing the magic that Orlando knew shimmered around him but had never seen in a photograph before. He felt secure in Viggo's gaze; unlike most others, Viggo had the eyes to see what he was.

"I suppose I am," he said at last, and continued more slowly down the hill. "Philippa has a new scene for us," he explained. "You get to look mysterious and knowledgeable."

"Good," Orlando said happily. "Elves should."

Viggo smiled.

Orlando was very pleased with the new scene, so pleased that he kissed Philippa and made her blush and stammer. He and Viggo blocked it out for her; others came to watch, and he knew it was good. He studied Philippa's face. She seemed very like Sean Astin to Orlando, and he wondered if he should invite her out. Then Viggo touched his shoulder, and when he turned, he heard the click of the camera again. "For me," Viggo murmured, and Orlando pulled the hood of his Lorien cloak up again, tucking the long wig down the back, and stared out toward Mordor.

"For the king," he murmured, and saw, on Viggo's face behind the camera, his mouth curl into a satisfied smile.

Viggo -- well, first, he was Viggo. Sometimes he was a big puppy, bowling everyone over, laughing wildly, speaking in some weird language that seemed to combine English and Spanish and Danish and poetry and for all Orlando knew birdsong. But most of the time he was Aragorn. Pure Aragorn, all Ranger of the North, serious and sombre and a little sad.

Early in the shooting there'd been Boromir's death scene, and when Viggo had broken down, weeping, and kissed Sean, Orlando had watched in awe and envy, knowing he would never enter so utterly into a character. Sean had pulled Viggo down into a hug, careful not to dislodge the arrows in his chest, and the cast and crew present had fallen silent until Viggo had composed himself. That had been the most magic moment that Orlando had ever been privy to, and he treasured the memory.

Slowly Viggo had revealed himself as an artist. It was never anything he pushed onto others, but when he'd show up in the morning with splotches of paint on his hands or even face, well, even Orlando figured out he'd been painting. The camera, though. That he took everywhere with him. Cast and crew grew accustomed to him catching them at odd moments, and then their picture would appear on his makeup mirror, or be handed quietly to them. His photos, Orlando thought, even the out-of-focus ones, or the ones streaked with strange flashes of light, seemed to say: Look. Look. Pay attention, because here is everything.

Orlando liked it. He knew that Viggo knew what he did: that there were worlds within worlds, and worlds without worlds, and worlds intersecting almost exactly with this one, or barely at all, but that by paying close attention, the other worlds, the ones more perfect, more beautiful, could be seen. He could see those intersections in the photos, the smears and smudges and blurs.

He thought Dom knew it a little, too, and he was sure that if Elijah didn't already know, he would soon. But Viggo seemed actually to inhabit many of those other worlds, and to step between them with ease. They are permeable, he thought, and tapped the charm in its secret pocket.

After his conversation with Elijah in Minas Tirith, and the new scene Philippa had written for him and Viggo, Orlando wondered if there wasn't something more he needed to do. He had told Elijah the truth; he wasn't notching any bedposts, but he pondered the significance of having been with all the Fellowship except Viggo. He liked Viggo well enough, but the strange need that had shimmered between Orlando and the others at various times had never appeared between him and Viggo.

Nor did Viggo seek him out, the way Ian and Sean had. So perhaps there was nothing left to do. And Orlando was content with that. Viggo followed his muse; Orlando followed his intuition. Perhaps it came to the same thing.

Then one day, near the very end of the shoot, he stupidly jabbed an arrow into the palm of his hand. "Fuck," he said in dismay, staring at the blood swelling up and over the pad of his thumb. He'd really done it; this was going to be bad, maybe as bad as when Sean had stepped on that glass. "Oh, just fuck."

Viggo seized his hand and wrapped something around it, something from Aragorn's costume, Orlando thought, but he was getting light-headed and sweaty. Viggo helped him sit on the ground, and he leaned forward, trying to get some blood into his head. Except he was watching it drop onto the ground.

The set doctor reached him, and then he was half-carried into the med tent, Viggo remaining at his side, holding his hand up and pressing the bandage firmly. "I think I'm going to pass out," he mumbled, "or maybe throw up." They turned him onto his side, and covered him in blankets.

The wound wasn't nearly as bad as he feared; he wouldn't even need stitches, although they did give him a tetanus shot. He was bandaged, and Viggo volunteered to take him home.

Once inside, they stood awkwardly. "Would you like anything?" Viggo asked him. "I don't think you should alcohol with the pain meds, but anything else? Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea, please," Orlando said, and sat heavily on the couch in his front room. "In the cupboard to the right of the sink. Tea pot's in the strainer."

Viggo nodded. "I'll be right back. Here," he knelt before Orlando and wrestled his shoes off. "Lie back." He brushed the hair back from Orlando's face, then disappeared.

When he came back, Orlando was drifting, awash on the pain medication. He'd been staring at the empty wall above the fireplace, thinking how much it needed a painting or a picture there. Why hadn't he bought one?

"Here you go," Viggo said, and Orlando managed to focus on the tray he set down on the crowded coffee table, elbowing things off it to make room. "Earl Grey. With lots of sugar; I think that's what you're supposed to do when you're injured."

The tea was astoundingly sweet, but its warmth comforted Orlando. Viggo helped him sit up again, wedged into the corner of the couch, and he drank it gratefully. Viggo sat near him and watched.

At last, Viggo said, "There's something I want to do, Orlando. It might be a little odd, but I just think -- you were injured with an elf arrowhead. That's dangerous. Do you mind if I do, well, a ritual for you? To protect you?"

Orlando smiled. He felt a little loopy, but happy to be with Viggo, and the thought of Viggo doing a ritual for him, to protect him, was as intimate a gesture as he could imagine. "Please," he said, his voice slow and liquid to his ears. "Please, Viggo. I want that."

Viggo touched his face. "You're a bit worse for wear, aren't you."

"No," Orlando whispered, and turned his face into Viggo's hand, sighing.

"All right. Let me get the stuff. Here, have another cup of tea. This won't take long."

"Perhaps not quite so much sugar?" Orlando asked, and Viggo smiled at him as he prepared the tea.

He was back in only a few minutes, carrying another tray, this time with a shallow bowl of steaming water with stuff floating in it. "This is feverfew and red nettle," Viggo explained.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Brought it with me." Viggo pulled a creased envelope from his pocket. "I had it in my trailer, just in case." He dampened a white cloth and lay it over the bandage on Orlando's hand. "We'll have to change the bandage afterwards, but that should be okay. Let's get this soaked first."

Orlando liked Viggo holding his hand; he relaxed further, nearly dropping the half-empty tea cup. Viggo took it and set it on the floor next to the couch, and then returned to his task. Orlando watched his face. He was intent, utterly focused on Orlando's hand, gently stroking over the wound with the damp cloth. At last he held the cloth over the bandage, and looked up at Orlando. He said:

"If there be here-in any piece of iron
The work of a witch, it must melt.
If you were shot in the skin or were shot in the flesh
Or were shot in the blood
Or were shot in a limb, may your life never be injured;
If it were shot by gods or it were shot by elves
Or it were shot by a witch, now I will help you.

This is a remedy to you against the shot of gods; this is a remedy to you against the shot of elves,
This is a remedy to you against the shot of a witch. I will help you.
Fly there to the mountain-head.
Be healthy! The Lord help you!"

To Orlando's surprise, Viggo pulled from his pocket an arrowhead. The one that had cut him? He dropped it into the bowl of water.

Nothing happened. The water didn't boil over; the metal didn't melt; his hand didn't feel much better. "Be healthy," Viggo said again.

"This is a remedy against the shot of elves," Orlando murmured. "You are the remedy, Viggo." He could see Viggo more clearly now; he looked like one of his photographs, flashing with light. Worlds spun around them.

Viggo leaned forward and kissed him. "I've wanted to fuck you for months," he admitted to Orlando as they sat in the twilight.

Orlando smiled. "I'd like that," he said. "I've wanted that a long time." It was true, too, Orlando thought; he just hadn't realised how much he'd wanted it. He'd been working so hard for the others, seeking them out, searching out their pain and trying to soothe it, that he'd forgotten himself. Now he felt drained and hollow, ready to be filled. Viggo moved onto the couch, and Orlando leaned into him. Viggo kissed him again, and he relaxed even further. "Will you paint me a picture?" he murmured between kisses.

"I want to smell the ocean from your bed," Viggo told him softly, stroking his face. "I'll paint the ocean on your bedroom wall, if you like. The ocean and the sun and the moon. I'll paint the whole world around you, and you flying over it."

The air smelt suddenly of ocean, salty and sweet. A breeze stirred the curtains and touched Orlando's face and hair. He rested his cheek against Viggo's, felt Viggo's eyelashes flutter against his face, his breath against his cheek. "I will help you," Viggo had said, and Orlando believed him. Viggo would help restore him. Viggo soared, too, Orlando understood; he had fallen and he had flown, and they were soaring now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I really, really enjoyed that! The way you have Orli moving through the cast is almost dreamlike - in fact, there's that feeling through the fic - as if he's outside himself and we're with him, watching another Orlando work his magic.

Great stuff.

Thank you! That's exactly what I was hoping for, but feared I'd never achieve. I'm so glad you think it worked.

Generally, I don't read Orlando fic, not because I don't like him, I do, I just don't care for him as I do the others. cuz I am a dombilleh girl But this was beautiful.

I loved the idea of Orlando doing little magics and being comforting. The bit about his bed and the ocean was lovely. How wonderful that would be!

And yes, I think Billy has his own sort of magic. Who couldn't love Billy? You got that just right.

Very tender and sweet fic. Thank you.

I, too, am pretty much a dombilleh girl, but I love all the Fellowship, and I just had to try my hand at Orlando. I'm so glad you decided to read the story, and that you liked it.

And yeah, Billy. He is magic.

Thank you!

I... I... I loved this.

so beautiful! I've always thought Orlando was magic, and this just helped me believe. so lovely.

Oh, thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked it! Great icon, btw. Brood, indeed.

hee heee, thankyouuu

The image of Orlando as a vessel for magic, slowly emptying himself for his friends and then being refilled ... just lovely.

Beautifully done.

Oh, you summed it up so beautifully! Thank you. I'm really pleased you liked the story.

This was beautiful. Your take on Orlando (and on the others, too) really felt like magic, and friendship, and love. Simply beautiful.

Thank you! I was afraid it was too heavy-handed, so I'm relieved and happy to know you enjoyed it, and that it did feel like magic.

Oh, this is just wonderful. You've taken such time and care with each of them, so nothing feels rushed or crammed in just so it would be included. And Orlando takes such good care of them all, and Viggo takes care of him. And oh, Billy. Magical, magical Billy.

I love this so much. I want to hug it. :)

Thank you! I like to think of Orlando as a sweet and generous man. And Billy, yeah. Hapy sigh.

Thank you again, so much!

i really enjoyed this. it was really sweet, and everything progressed very smoothly. the ending was well connected to the beginning, and it just all fit nicely. [shameless orli lurve] and yes, okay, i admit it, i'm a helpless squeeing orli fangirl. and this fic had an orli i especially ~~wanted to snog madly~~ liked. *g* [/shameless orli lurve]

I'm so pleased that a helpless squeeing orli fangirl liked this! Thank you very much indeed!

I Shall Please the Lord in the Land of the Living (NC-17, 2/2)

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