Date: March 11, 2003 Pairing: VM/SB Rating: PG Summary: The night before the shooting of Boromir's death scene. Archive: RugbyTackle, Green Opals, Enigma Disclaimer: NOT true. Absobloodylutely fictional. Feedback: Yes, please. Beta: English is not my first language, utmost thanks to my beta goddesses Lannamichaels and Freelove. Note: For all the lovely VigBean goddesses of LJ community Rugbytackle, especially for Karelian and Gloria who have written these wonderful pieces: the After... series and Comfort, which inspired me greatly. * * * * * Time in this dreamland called Middle-Earth was calculated differently, not by hour but subject to the span on-set and off-set. The main cast started their day by first receiving wake-up calls from their assistants, and then follow-up calls to make sure they would be arriving on time. And when they were taking on-set breaks, they were always being tracked down and reminded of the next call-in by these professionals who arranged, if not took charge of, their lives. When they were off-set, no matter where they went dining or drinking, they were never far away from this huge community called "the cast and crew of LOTR". There were always some people somewhere sometime. Maybe the only time one could be on his own was to pass out by getting totally drunk, or to fall asleep due to tremendous exhaustion. But time was still not in their own hands. * It was especially confusing for Viggo, with his irregular hours for shootings and catching up with training, to clearly differentiate when was when. Most of the time he carried his character throughout. Like all the other characters he had played before, he could always find certain aspect of himself in them, and they eventually became part of him. If he did not believe in the character, he would not be able to play it. Or he was just so immersed that he would "live" an alternate life rather than "act" it out. Time hanging out with Sean for meals and drinks with easy conversation might be his temporary moments back to reality -- to feel grounded, solid, sure -- ever so aware of his role being an actor and a mate. Sean was all he could ever expect from a friend, and more -- relaxed, tranquil, lucid, certain, modest. But Sean would be leaving soon on his own, much earlier than most of the rest of them, just like Boromir. Viggo didn't know whether he was going to miss Sean, didn't think he would know until Sean was no longer there, around, with him. He didn't feel what he thought he should be feeling, but didn't understand why. The question was: did he want to know. The night before shooting Boromir's death scene, they didn't get together for dinner but ended up in Peter's place to talk about the action and interaction; the way Boromir was wounded and fading away, the lines he uttered in his last breath; his pride his honor his pain his fear his regret his curtailed hope entrusted to a king, a man he rejected at first and depended at last. Perhaps only Aragorn would know better. Perhaps. Viggo was sinking into the sentiment of the scene already, his thoughts drifting between his character's and his own. He didn't talk much, listening carefully to the arguments and jotting notes from time to time, reducing responses to either nodding or shaking his head followed by the simplest answers. Sean had talked Philippa to rewrite some of the lines before this meeting, and the two of them were trying to convince Peter of the emotional power Boromir's death would have on the movie. As much as he understood the limited role they played in the outcome of a movie, Viggo was deeply moved by Sean's interpretation of and insight into his character. Viggo upheld the perception that Boromir, and the way Sean played Boromir, was the resemblance to a Shakespearean hero - noble but twisted, brave but conflicting, destined to a tragic end not without struggle. And Viggo knew Aragorn would miss him, badly. "Alas! Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard. " In the middle of something Viggo suddenly slipped out what Aragorn had said in the book. "This is a bitter end. It is I that have failed. " "Boromir is dead. I am unscathed, for I was not here with him." # No one was able to respond, and everyone was lost in their own moment of silence. Viggo sometimes touched down too deep for most of the others to handle, Sean perceived. He knew him well enough. If the feelings couldn't be expressed otherwise, he would capture it in photographs or put it down in words or brush it up with colors, or act it out with his soul. "All right, let's get it done tomorrow. We don't have all the time." Peter had to wrap up the discussion, leaving the agony untouched in the air. * When they came out of the house, Viggo was walking a few feet ahead but not towards their cars. "Want me to give you a lift?" Sean didn't want to go home by himself, but didn't feel like asking Viggo for a drink or something. He got the feeling that he would be turned down, no matter what he asked. "How about a walk?" Viggo was already stepping onto the sidewalk. "Vig, wait." Sean caught up from behind and grabbed Viggo's shoulder. Something was slipping away quickly, despite how hard he was holding back. Viggo stopped but didn't turn. Instead, he raised his head and Sean realized he was looking at the sky. Sean did not look up at the endless dome of mid-night blue, glittering with an enormous amount of stars, which he had looked up almost every night only to notice that there were so many of them he could never identify a single constellation, so many of them all blistering endless, timeless hope and despair, life and death, dream and loss. All he wanted to look at was this man right there, right then. Right before him, yet further than anything he had ever thought of reaching, further than the stars that deceived his eyes because he knew too well when the starlight reached down the stars were long gone. "I do not know what strength is left in my blood," This time it was a line from the script. "But I swear to you I will not..." Was he talking to him or Boromir or both, Sean wondered. That was one of the many mysteries better left veiled. He withdrew his hand from Viggo's shoulder, moving back, distractedly scratching at his beard. "Then you did what I could not." It was in Boromir's line that Sean took his refuge. He thought about his own voice, maybe it sounded a little too miserable if not regretful. Viggo turned his neck stiffly and stared at Sean's hand which was lingering on his bearded chin, his gaze flashed down and when he gazed back up he griped Sean's wrist swiftly and firmly. It didn't really matter who closed the short distance between them. It was a forceful hug, and exceptionally intimate. Viggo's stubble rubbed against his cheek, breathing warmth into his hair. Sean froze and melted, leaning in and hanging back. Somewhere in the back of his mind Sean had always wanted this, hoped for this - to get closer, to feel more. But he had never expected it, ever, nor prepared for it, not in the least. Because Viggo was his cast mate and his best friend here whom he respected and loved, worked together and got along with until his very last day on this movie set in this place. Too hard, or maybe too easy, to lose. "I will not forget," Viggo whispered in a strained voice. "Yeah," Sean sighed. Viggo loosened his tight hold around Sean slightly to shift his head, hands placed on both sides of Sean's jaw line, lips pressed ever so gently on his forehead, and let out a breath, "You. It's you." Sean tilted his head to meet Viggo's lips, "I know." They needed this moment. A moment. Because they didn't have all the time. #Quotes from "Lord of the Rings" Book III Chapter 1 "The Departure of Boromir" |
| A Moment delica |
| END Sideline ficlet : A Thread of A Moment |
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