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fellowshippers2010-03-19 02:44 pm
sema427.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2010-03-19 02:44 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Savage Heart 3/? RPS AU
Author: Sema
Pairing: Eventually, Monaboyd (though it's taking longer than I anticipated--next chapter though, for sure!) with appearances from many other members of the LotR cast.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Note: I'm playing fast and loose with some timelines and relationships here, but that's why they call it an alternative reality, right? A very short chapter here, and then on to New Zealand.
Disclaimers: this story uses the names and images of real people. I do not know these people, neither to I claim to have any actual knowledge of their lives. No insult is intended.
The story so far: while in France filming Monsignor Renard, Dom and his co-star Juliette encounter a terrifying creature in the countryside of Picardy. Trying to defend his friend, Dom is badly scratched by the creature, which, after her initial shock, Juliette insists was nothing more than a wild dog. Dom has other ideas. Once he's home in Manchester, staying with his parents on the night before his departure for New Zealand, Dom finds things are getting increasingly strange, both with himself and the world around him. In this chapter: Dom has the worst flight EVER.
Previous chapters: Part 1; Part 2
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
philosiraptors, who loves werewolf stories.
Savage Heart
Part Three: In the Air
The flight from London to Frankfurt is too short to really establish his territory, the way Dom likes to on a longer flight. He doesn't bother with his CD player or magazines, and though he holds his paperback on his lap, he doesn't crack open the cover once. He's too restless anyway, his thoughts all over everywhere.
Instead, he gazes out the window, mind wandering, watching first the Channel, then the foggy landscape of Europe unfurl beneath the plane. France looks so small and distant, it's almost hard to believe in it as a real place, a place he lived and worked in just a few days before.
He knows he ought to miss Juliette, and maybe Roger too, but he doesn't. Not at the moment, anyway. Certainly not the way he misses his mum and dad.
He wishes he'd bothered to stretch before his run, and had time for a cool-down and a good stretch after, because his muscles have stiffened, sending the ache even deeper into his bones. Dom wonders if his mum might be right after all, and if he's coming down with something--which, as timing goes, is just too bloody wonderful, and cuts into what should be a sense of giddy anticipation quite brutally. There's a throb starting up behind his eyes, a steady counterpoint to the stings from his scratches. They don't feel like mere bee-stings anymore, it's more like being attacked by hornets, or wasps, sudden jolts of hot agony that keep catching him by surprise.
By the time he touches down in Frankfurt, Dom's pretty sure he's feverish, his head feeling like a distant, helium-filled balloon, his bones like they're made out some substance even heavier than lead. Funny little shivers keep coming over him when he least expects them, and he's glad he's thought to pack a jumper in his carry on bag. He pulls it on now, though he can tell, in a far-off sort of way that it's sultry in Germany, the air warm and humid.
There's a two-hour wait for his Qantas connection to Sydney and he spends his time in the waiting area squirming in the uncomfortable vinyl seats, sipping water and trying to convince himself he doesn't feel so bad after all, that it's just lack of sleep and an overdose of nerves that make his head thump and his stomach feel uneasy. The Paracetemol he finally gives in and swallows don't do a thing to alleviate the headache, or the feverish feeling.
It's good to hear the German voices around him, though. He closes his eyes and listens, wondering how he could have forgotten so much in just ten short years. Where have the words gone to? As a boy he spoke German, if not exactly like a native, at least enough to be getting on with. Now he's lucky if he catches five words out of ten.
Listening, trying to make out what he can't make out is almost like being inside a dream, and it's in that state that he slips into something between sleep and consciousness, finally jolting awake when he hears his own name called over the PA system. He scrambles to his feet, clutching for his carry on, and almost overbalances, having to cling to the back of his uncomfortable seat until the world steadies again, the words, "Fuck. Bugger. Fuck," rattling around in his head.
Where he's touched it, the seat's vinyl back is torn, four shallow gashes now bleeding white fluff.
The Qantas rep gives him a bit of a stern look as he dashes for the gate, still swaying a little as he hands over his boarding pass. She probably thinks he's drunk, and he's half afraid she won't let him on the plane, so he gives his best smile, a bit of a shrug. "Cold tablets," he explains--lies, more like it--along with what Juliette always called the Puppy Eyes. "So sorry. Drifted off for a moment there. I'm glad you called my name!"
Luckily, the woman's old enough to be his mum; he always does well with women old enough to be his mum. "Are you going to be all right, then?" Her German accent is so slight as to be almost nonexistent, and he's glad he hasn't had to come up with his sorry excuses in her native tongue--he honestly doesn't think he has it in him. She appears genuinely concerned. Perhaps he looks worse than he imagines.
"Oh, yes!" Dom tells her fervently.
She looks doubtful for a moment, but she does let him pass--for which she has Dom's gratitude. He honestly doesn't think he has much more than a moment on his feet left to him. Of all the bloody times to catch flu, it would have to be now, wouldn't it?
As long as he's all right by the time he reaches Wellington, that's all he asks.
Please, let everything be all right by then.
He's never flown business class before and, as flying experiences go, it might be a bit of a treat if he wasn't feeling so absolutely wretched. In fact, he can't even remember a time when he's felt worse. It's as if there's something working on his bones, twisting and reshaping them inside him, whilst his muscles feel as if they're being shredded. Still, there's nothing he has to do but sit in his comfortable seat for the next few hours, sleep if he can, and let this pass through him. He falls into his place, kicks his bag under the seat in front of him, and is gone.
When he wakes, he's wrapped up in not one, but two of the small airline blankets, and still cold as all fuck. It's the smells that have woken him, Dom realizes--they're serving a meal, some sort of chicken perhaps, and it pongs like something rotten. His stomach flips over and he's out of his seat in a heartbeat, eeling past the serving carts on his way to the loo, where he sits with his head on his knees, breathing in the sharp, piney smell of other people's urine--and one would think they could be a bit more careful, or at least clean up after themselves--a pinkish, ersatz-floral soap-scent, and the sharp bite of whatever disinfectant has been used to swab down the cubicle. It's unpleasant, but it's better than out there, with the horrible chicken.
The thought of it is enough to make him sick, though there's nothing in him but water, retching until his nose runs and his eyes tear. Christ, but this isn't what he imagined his journey would be. His fantasies involved champagne, and a pretty girl to sit beside him, or a nice-looking bloke. Someone to pass the time with, anyway. He'd imagined arriving in Wellington a bit stiff, but relaxed, ready to meet his new mates and turn on the charm.
Instead, the thought of champagne makes him throw up again, and it's not until nearly a half hour has passed and the flight attendant's rapped on the door to ask if he's okay that he's ready to return to his seat again.
The man in the next seat gives him a bit of a hard look, obviously not charmed by the thought of being forced to fly all the way to Australia with someone ill beside him, probably wondering what disease he's being given that's going to disrupt his holiday, or business, whatever he's planned for his time down under. He has a vaguely unpleasant smell, sharpish, off-putting. Untrustworthy, that's what it is. There's something about him that smells dodgy, despite his expensive tie and well-cut suit, his manicured fingernails and perfectly-cut hair.
But Dom really can't be arsed, at the moment, if the bloke's dodgy or not. At the moment he wouldn't care if he was Jack the bloody Ripper. He wraps up in his flimsy blankets and turns away, burying his nose in the folds of man-made fabric, trying to filter out some of the stench in the cabin. It's at least tolerable, that way, if he breathes shallowly as he can.
Trying to avoid the smells, he falls asleep again.
When Dom wakes, it's because of the noise. The reek in the cabin has, at least died down. It's there, and awful, but it no longer violates his consciousness the way it had done. The sounds, on the other hand, have become incredibly loud, oppressively loud, echoing and zooming around him, making his head feel as if it's going to split wide open. It's all he can do not to press his hands over his ears and yell for them all to shut it, just shut it.
This, he thinks, must be the fucking strangest flu in the history of the world.
It's a relief to touch down in Sydney, if only because that means he can come off the plane, out of the recycled air into air that at least has some dimension, some space to it--though if anything, the noise is even worse in that big, hollow space. He's hurting so much now he's forced to shuffle to the next gate, the one his flight to Wellington departs from, like an old man, his bag clutched to his chest. He feels weepy and disoriented and wishes he was back with his mum after all, and that she would do something, anything, to make him feel better.
By the time he boards for New Zealand, his skin has started itching like crazy too, and the cuts in his face aren't just zinging anymore, they're like individual lines drawn in acid, burning their way down into his bones, as if they're scarring him scarring him for life. His seat's by the window this time and he huddles against the side of the plane with his face pressed to the cool plastic, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes blood in his mouth, just to keep from moaning aloud.
Please please please, he's pleading, to anything in the universe that will hear him, Just let me be able to do this. Just let me get through this.
He can't sleep, all he can do is endure, and the hours seem to stretch out one after another after another, until it feels like they'll never end. His nails, which are short and tidy, the way he always keeps them, are digging into his palms, and they shouldn't hurt him, except that they do, they're stinging as if they've driven straight into his palms--and then, when he looks at his hands, he sees that they have done, that his palms are bleeding as if he has stigmata. And how could that have happened? How could it, if his nails are the way they are?
In his heart, though he doesn't have an explanation, Dom knows there is one. That he doesn't have flu. That this is something to do with the scratches, and the terrifying encounter in Picardy, and the beast that so fucking wasn't a crazed Alsatian after all, but something else entirely.
In his heart, he knows what the creature was, exactly what it was, only he doesn't want to give it a name, because the world has come to within spitting distance of the twenty-first century, and the name that's in the back of his head, the one he won't speak, doesn't belong there with him in the daytime world of bright lights and computers and consumer electronics.
So he won't say the word, he won't.
But if he lives through this, this misery, this change, he wonders if a silver bullet will be able to kill him after all--and how much, and how soon, he'll want it to.
Pairing: Eventually, Monaboyd (though it's taking longer than I anticipated--next chapter though, for sure!) with appearances from many other members of the LotR cast.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Note: I'm playing fast and loose with some timelines and relationships here, but that's why they call it an alternative reality, right? A very short chapter here, and then on to New Zealand.
Disclaimers: this story uses the names and images of real people. I do not know these people, neither to I claim to have any actual knowledge of their lives. No insult is intended.
The story so far: while in France filming Monsignor Renard, Dom and his co-star Juliette encounter a terrifying creature in the countryside of Picardy. Trying to defend his friend, Dom is badly scratched by the creature, which, after her initial shock, Juliette insists was nothing more than a wild dog. Dom has other ideas. Once he's home in Manchester, staying with his parents on the night before his departure for New Zealand, Dom finds things are getting increasingly strange, both with himself and the world around him. In this chapter: Dom has the worst flight EVER.
Previous chapters: Part 1; Part 2
For
philosiraptors, who loves werewolf stories.Savage Heart
Part Three: In the Air
The flight from London to Frankfurt is too short to really establish his territory, the way Dom likes to on a longer flight. He doesn't bother with his CD player or magazines, and though he holds his paperback on his lap, he doesn't crack open the cover once. He's too restless anyway, his thoughts all over everywhere.
Instead, he gazes out the window, mind wandering, watching first the Channel, then the foggy landscape of Europe unfurl beneath the plane. France looks so small and distant, it's almost hard to believe in it as a real place, a place he lived and worked in just a few days before.
He knows he ought to miss Juliette, and maybe Roger too, but he doesn't. Not at the moment, anyway. Certainly not the way he misses his mum and dad.
He wishes he'd bothered to stretch before his run, and had time for a cool-down and a good stretch after, because his muscles have stiffened, sending the ache even deeper into his bones. Dom wonders if his mum might be right after all, and if he's coming down with something--which, as timing goes, is just too bloody wonderful, and cuts into what should be a sense of giddy anticipation quite brutally. There's a throb starting up behind his eyes, a steady counterpoint to the stings from his scratches. They don't feel like mere bee-stings anymore, it's more like being attacked by hornets, or wasps, sudden jolts of hot agony that keep catching him by surprise.
By the time he touches down in Frankfurt, Dom's pretty sure he's feverish, his head feeling like a distant, helium-filled balloon, his bones like they're made out some substance even heavier than lead. Funny little shivers keep coming over him when he least expects them, and he's glad he's thought to pack a jumper in his carry on bag. He pulls it on now, though he can tell, in a far-off sort of way that it's sultry in Germany, the air warm and humid.
There's a two-hour wait for his Qantas connection to Sydney and he spends his time in the waiting area squirming in the uncomfortable vinyl seats, sipping water and trying to convince himself he doesn't feel so bad after all, that it's just lack of sleep and an overdose of nerves that make his head thump and his stomach feel uneasy. The Paracetemol he finally gives in and swallows don't do a thing to alleviate the headache, or the feverish feeling.
It's good to hear the German voices around him, though. He closes his eyes and listens, wondering how he could have forgotten so much in just ten short years. Where have the words gone to? As a boy he spoke German, if not exactly like a native, at least enough to be getting on with. Now he's lucky if he catches five words out of ten.
Listening, trying to make out what he can't make out is almost like being inside a dream, and it's in that state that he slips into something between sleep and consciousness, finally jolting awake when he hears his own name called over the PA system. He scrambles to his feet, clutching for his carry on, and almost overbalances, having to cling to the back of his uncomfortable seat until the world steadies again, the words, "Fuck. Bugger. Fuck," rattling around in his head.
Where he's touched it, the seat's vinyl back is torn, four shallow gashes now bleeding white fluff.
The Qantas rep gives him a bit of a stern look as he dashes for the gate, still swaying a little as he hands over his boarding pass. She probably thinks he's drunk, and he's half afraid she won't let him on the plane, so he gives his best smile, a bit of a shrug. "Cold tablets," he explains--lies, more like it--along with what Juliette always called the Puppy Eyes. "So sorry. Drifted off for a moment there. I'm glad you called my name!"
Luckily, the woman's old enough to be his mum; he always does well with women old enough to be his mum. "Are you going to be all right, then?" Her German accent is so slight as to be almost nonexistent, and he's glad he hasn't had to come up with his sorry excuses in her native tongue--he honestly doesn't think he has it in him. She appears genuinely concerned. Perhaps he looks worse than he imagines.
"Oh, yes!" Dom tells her fervently.
She looks doubtful for a moment, but she does let him pass--for which she has Dom's gratitude. He honestly doesn't think he has much more than a moment on his feet left to him. Of all the bloody times to catch flu, it would have to be now, wouldn't it?
As long as he's all right by the time he reaches Wellington, that's all he asks.
Please, let everything be all right by then.
He's never flown business class before and, as flying experiences go, it might be a bit of a treat if he wasn't feeling so absolutely wretched. In fact, he can't even remember a time when he's felt worse. It's as if there's something working on his bones, twisting and reshaping them inside him, whilst his muscles feel as if they're being shredded. Still, there's nothing he has to do but sit in his comfortable seat for the next few hours, sleep if he can, and let this pass through him. He falls into his place, kicks his bag under the seat in front of him, and is gone.
When he wakes, he's wrapped up in not one, but two of the small airline blankets, and still cold as all fuck. It's the smells that have woken him, Dom realizes--they're serving a meal, some sort of chicken perhaps, and it pongs like something rotten. His stomach flips over and he's out of his seat in a heartbeat, eeling past the serving carts on his way to the loo, where he sits with his head on his knees, breathing in the sharp, piney smell of other people's urine--and one would think they could be a bit more careful, or at least clean up after themselves--a pinkish, ersatz-floral soap-scent, and the sharp bite of whatever disinfectant has been used to swab down the cubicle. It's unpleasant, but it's better than out there, with the horrible chicken.
The thought of it is enough to make him sick, though there's nothing in him but water, retching until his nose runs and his eyes tear. Christ, but this isn't what he imagined his journey would be. His fantasies involved champagne, and a pretty girl to sit beside him, or a nice-looking bloke. Someone to pass the time with, anyway. He'd imagined arriving in Wellington a bit stiff, but relaxed, ready to meet his new mates and turn on the charm.
Instead, the thought of champagne makes him throw up again, and it's not until nearly a half hour has passed and the flight attendant's rapped on the door to ask if he's okay that he's ready to return to his seat again.
The man in the next seat gives him a bit of a hard look, obviously not charmed by the thought of being forced to fly all the way to Australia with someone ill beside him, probably wondering what disease he's being given that's going to disrupt his holiday, or business, whatever he's planned for his time down under. He has a vaguely unpleasant smell, sharpish, off-putting. Untrustworthy, that's what it is. There's something about him that smells dodgy, despite his expensive tie and well-cut suit, his manicured fingernails and perfectly-cut hair.
But Dom really can't be arsed, at the moment, if the bloke's dodgy or not. At the moment he wouldn't care if he was Jack the bloody Ripper. He wraps up in his flimsy blankets and turns away, burying his nose in the folds of man-made fabric, trying to filter out some of the stench in the cabin. It's at least tolerable, that way, if he breathes shallowly as he can.
Trying to avoid the smells, he falls asleep again.
When Dom wakes, it's because of the noise. The reek in the cabin has, at least died down. It's there, and awful, but it no longer violates his consciousness the way it had done. The sounds, on the other hand, have become incredibly loud, oppressively loud, echoing and zooming around him, making his head feel as if it's going to split wide open. It's all he can do not to press his hands over his ears and yell for them all to shut it, just shut it.
This, he thinks, must be the fucking strangest flu in the history of the world.
It's a relief to touch down in Sydney, if only because that means he can come off the plane, out of the recycled air into air that at least has some dimension, some space to it--though if anything, the noise is even worse in that big, hollow space. He's hurting so much now he's forced to shuffle to the next gate, the one his flight to Wellington departs from, like an old man, his bag clutched to his chest. He feels weepy and disoriented and wishes he was back with his mum after all, and that she would do something, anything, to make him feel better.
By the time he boards for New Zealand, his skin has started itching like crazy too, and the cuts in his face aren't just zinging anymore, they're like individual lines drawn in acid, burning their way down into his bones, as if they're scarring him scarring him for life. His seat's by the window this time and he huddles against the side of the plane with his face pressed to the cool plastic, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes blood in his mouth, just to keep from moaning aloud.
Please please please, he's pleading, to anything in the universe that will hear him, Just let me be able to do this. Just let me get through this.
He can't sleep, all he can do is endure, and the hours seem to stretch out one after another after another, until it feels like they'll never end. His nails, which are short and tidy, the way he always keeps them, are digging into his palms, and they shouldn't hurt him, except that they do, they're stinging as if they've driven straight into his palms--and then, when he looks at his hands, he sees that they have done, that his palms are bleeding as if he has stigmata. And how could that have happened? How could it, if his nails are the way they are?
In his heart, though he doesn't have an explanation, Dom knows there is one. That he doesn't have flu. That this is something to do with the scratches, and the terrifying encounter in Picardy, and the beast that so fucking wasn't a crazed Alsatian after all, but something else entirely.
In his heart, he knows what the creature was, exactly what it was, only he doesn't want to give it a name, because the world has come to within spitting distance of the twenty-first century, and the name that's in the back of his head, the one he won't speak, doesn't belong there with him in the daytime world of bright lights and computers and consumer electronics.
So he won't say the word, he won't.
But if he lives through this, this misery, this change, he wonders if a silver bullet will be able to kill him after all--and how much, and how soon, he'll want it to.
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