here it is my, beauties!
Apr. 30th, 2005 01:15 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
selene-vidae.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliI know it's late.. Forgive me?
Title: Destiny's Answer
Author: Sel![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
selene_vidae
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: The moments in our lives that have been arranged by the Fates themselves - Viggo's P.O.V.
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Viggo and Orlando are not mine, because you can't own people. But if you could...
Feedback: Help a fellow author out and pretty please comment on this fic...
Warnings: It's a bit AU because I don't think Viggo ever met Orlando prior to LotR.
A/N: The companion piece to Kismet. I really have to stop the entire "companion-piece" thing and get to creating new plotlines. But did it work here?
Dedication: To those who wanted more.
You can't sleep. You've been tossing and turning for the past hour and nothing seems to be working.
You've never been a light sleeper – normally, you're out like a light – but the hectic schedule for the night shoots has slowly been taking their toll. This is the first weekend you've had in nearly two months wherein you can actually sleep when the rest of the world is sleeping. However, your entire bloody clock is in reverse and therein lies the problem.
You settle for pulling closer the slumbering figure beside you – his hair in disarray, one arm splayed and him snoring the night away – and let your thoughts just drift away.
***
The first time you met him was in a music store on a miserably cold and wet September day. Your art show had just finished and you had ducked in there to escape the rain that caught you completely by surprise. Your agent had advised you to take an umbrella wherever you went but you thought her suggestion perfectly ridiculous. You now know to never disregard her opinions again – except for her advice on changing your fashion sense. You like your pullover sweaters, patched jeans and muddy work boots. You don't care if it makes you look disreputable.
As you clumped around in your rough-and-tumble way, you catch sight of a CD your son has recommended you to buy - Seal's Greatest Hits. It's modern enough to be hip, but ancient enough for you to recognize the music – were perhaps his exact words if you try to recall them hard enough.
You begin to listen to the CD when you spy a young man across the store from you.
You have an artist's eye but if you're being honest, it is more than the physical and the fact that he's beautiful that draws you to him. It's his spirit and the light that shines within him that draws your eye – and your soul and your spirit. And when his eyes lift to meet yours, you wonder if disbelieving love at first sight was such a good idea.
Your connection to him is instantaneous, impossible and undeniable. When he leaves the store after trading smiles with you, you pray for a miracle. You look at the shopping bag in your hand, only to see that you've got the wrong one, the girl at cashier mistakenly switching bags. You can't help the smile that bursts onto your face as you find the miracle you were praying for.
The conversation over coffee afterwards is something that lingers on in the forefront of your memories till today.
As you sit there, watching him talk and laugh and smile, you realize that beauty doesn't even come close to what you're seeing now.
He bites his lips when he thinks hard and his nose scrunches up when he's trying to remember something. His fingers are always a blur of motion – they drum on the table, trace the rim of his mug, tug at his curls, wave in the air when he talks about something he's passionate about.
He laughs loudly now and then, and claps his hands hurriedly over his mouth when he thinks he's being too loud. His smile is warm, with dimples that make him seem all the more exquisitely rendered.
You've realized with your work as an artist that perfection is made up of the tiniest imperfections within us all. So when he spills a little bit of his tea, nearly trips when he stands to go to the bathroom, and bites his nails every now and then, you know you've found perfection as it's meant to be.
You sketch him without his knowing, the charcoal in your hand flying as your eyes take in everything that makes him – him.
The bump in his nose, the stubbornness of his chin, the arch of his cheekbones, the elegance of his fingers, the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat.
When you think about it afterwards, you know it has been your best work – a charcoal sketch made on ordinary sketch pad paper – because what makes it wonderful is the subject and the spirit shining through him and within him.
When it's time to say goodbye, you place a finger on his lips to stop him from talking. You don't speak because you've spent the last several hours doing just that and you no longer need the words.
You hand him your sketch of him – vibrant, alive, carefree – and kiss him – slowly, deeply, completely.
As you walk away from him after one last smile, one last mental photograph taken inside your mind, one last look at this golden beauty, you've decided to become a believer again.
You now believe in Destiny, in love at first sight, in soul mates, in finding the One where you least expect it. You believe in whatever, or whomever, decided to put you in that music store on a pouring September day.
***
The years pass but you think of that day often. You've tried painting him from memory but each piece you start remains half-finished. You remember him vividly but only within your dreams, for that it is only within the veil of your dreams, silhouetted against silver moonlight and ebony-hued shadow, that you can touch him again.
So when you wake, you end up painting half-remembered memories that do not match the face dancing within the space of your closed eyelids or the lithe body that lies close to you only in the fading twilight of the dusk within your dreams.
When your agent calls you about a project in New Zealand, you balk at the idea of being away for eighteen months but your son is adamant and here you are now, lugging suitcase after suitcase into the back of a taxi cab. Your son runs into the house and comes back out, handing you the latest of your unfinished works. He tells you not to return home without finishing it and as you place it in the backseat, you kid him that you might never come home then. He gets the most mysterious of smiles on his face as he says that he doesn't think so. You laugh at his answer and say that he is going to be wrong.
But as you stand here now with your arms around a memory that is more than just your fanciful imaginings while your clueless cast mates, crew, writer and director stare dumbstruck, you find that you've never been gladder to be proven wrong.
***
Your trip down memory lane is interrupted when an arm is thrown around you and the figure beside you snuggles even closer.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he sleepily mumbles. “You're keeping me awake.”
You smile and kiss the top of his head, his riotous curls tickling your nose. He falls back to sleep and you are content to hold him in your arms.
Destiny has been good to you. The world has been good to you. Life has been good to you.
And you don't need to remind yourself of that daily because every time he smiles at you, or holds your hands, or whispers your name softly, or kisses you till you can't breathe and don't particularly care at the moment – you live it.
And as the sun's first rays creep into the room and across the bed where you are holding the rest of your life in your embrace, it also falls on the scattered pieces of artwork around the both of you – paintings, sculptures, sketches, photographs – all finished and with the same theme featured in each one.
And as you close your eyes, feel him sleep beside you, hear his heart beat next to yours and his breath fill in the spaces of yours – you know that if anyone ever asks what it is, that is all the answer they will ever need.
Title: Destiny's Answer
Author: Sel
selene_vidaePairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: The moments in our lives that have been arranged by the Fates themselves - Viggo's P.O.V.
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Viggo and Orlando are not mine, because you can't own people. But if you could...
Feedback: Help a fellow author out and pretty please comment on this fic...
Warnings: It's a bit AU because I don't think Viggo ever met Orlando prior to LotR.
A/N: The companion piece to Kismet. I really have to stop the entire "companion-piece" thing and get to creating new plotlines. But did it work here?
Dedication: To those who wanted more.
You can't sleep. You've been tossing and turning for the past hour and nothing seems to be working.
You've never been a light sleeper – normally, you're out like a light – but the hectic schedule for the night shoots has slowly been taking their toll. This is the first weekend you've had in nearly two months wherein you can actually sleep when the rest of the world is sleeping. However, your entire bloody clock is in reverse and therein lies the problem.
You settle for pulling closer the slumbering figure beside you – his hair in disarray, one arm splayed and him snoring the night away – and let your thoughts just drift away.
***
The first time you met him was in a music store on a miserably cold and wet September day. Your art show had just finished and you had ducked in there to escape the rain that caught you completely by surprise. Your agent had advised you to take an umbrella wherever you went but you thought her suggestion perfectly ridiculous. You now know to never disregard her opinions again – except for her advice on changing your fashion sense. You like your pullover sweaters, patched jeans and muddy work boots. You don't care if it makes you look disreputable.
As you clumped around in your rough-and-tumble way, you catch sight of a CD your son has recommended you to buy - Seal's Greatest Hits. It's modern enough to be hip, but ancient enough for you to recognize the music – were perhaps his exact words if you try to recall them hard enough.
You begin to listen to the CD when you spy a young man across the store from you.
You have an artist's eye but if you're being honest, it is more than the physical and the fact that he's beautiful that draws you to him. It's his spirit and the light that shines within him that draws your eye – and your soul and your spirit. And when his eyes lift to meet yours, you wonder if disbelieving love at first sight was such a good idea.
Your connection to him is instantaneous, impossible and undeniable. When he leaves the store after trading smiles with you, you pray for a miracle. You look at the shopping bag in your hand, only to see that you've got the wrong one, the girl at cashier mistakenly switching bags. You can't help the smile that bursts onto your face as you find the miracle you were praying for.
The conversation over coffee afterwards is something that lingers on in the forefront of your memories till today.
As you sit there, watching him talk and laugh and smile, you realize that beauty doesn't even come close to what you're seeing now.
He bites his lips when he thinks hard and his nose scrunches up when he's trying to remember something. His fingers are always a blur of motion – they drum on the table, trace the rim of his mug, tug at his curls, wave in the air when he talks about something he's passionate about.
He laughs loudly now and then, and claps his hands hurriedly over his mouth when he thinks he's being too loud. His smile is warm, with dimples that make him seem all the more exquisitely rendered.
You've realized with your work as an artist that perfection is made up of the tiniest imperfections within us all. So when he spills a little bit of his tea, nearly trips when he stands to go to the bathroom, and bites his nails every now and then, you know you've found perfection as it's meant to be.
You sketch him without his knowing, the charcoal in your hand flying as your eyes take in everything that makes him – him.
The bump in his nose, the stubbornness of his chin, the arch of his cheekbones, the elegance of his fingers, the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat.
When you think about it afterwards, you know it has been your best work – a charcoal sketch made on ordinary sketch pad paper – because what makes it wonderful is the subject and the spirit shining through him and within him.
When it's time to say goodbye, you place a finger on his lips to stop him from talking. You don't speak because you've spent the last several hours doing just that and you no longer need the words.
You hand him your sketch of him – vibrant, alive, carefree – and kiss him – slowly, deeply, completely.
As you walk away from him after one last smile, one last mental photograph taken inside your mind, one last look at this golden beauty, you've decided to become a believer again.
You now believe in Destiny, in love at first sight, in soul mates, in finding the One where you least expect it. You believe in whatever, or whomever, decided to put you in that music store on a pouring September day.
***
The years pass but you think of that day often. You've tried painting him from memory but each piece you start remains half-finished. You remember him vividly but only within your dreams, for that it is only within the veil of your dreams, silhouetted against silver moonlight and ebony-hued shadow, that you can touch him again.
So when you wake, you end up painting half-remembered memories that do not match the face dancing within the space of your closed eyelids or the lithe body that lies close to you only in the fading twilight of the dusk within your dreams.
When your agent calls you about a project in New Zealand, you balk at the idea of being away for eighteen months but your son is adamant and here you are now, lugging suitcase after suitcase into the back of a taxi cab. Your son runs into the house and comes back out, handing you the latest of your unfinished works. He tells you not to return home without finishing it and as you place it in the backseat, you kid him that you might never come home then. He gets the most mysterious of smiles on his face as he says that he doesn't think so. You laugh at his answer and say that he is going to be wrong.
But as you stand here now with your arms around a memory that is more than just your fanciful imaginings while your clueless cast mates, crew, writer and director stare dumbstruck, you find that you've never been gladder to be proven wrong.
***
Your trip down memory lane is interrupted when an arm is thrown around you and the figure beside you snuggles even closer.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he sleepily mumbles. “You're keeping me awake.”
You smile and kiss the top of his head, his riotous curls tickling your nose. He falls back to sleep and you are content to hold him in your arms.
Destiny has been good to you. The world has been good to you. Life has been good to you.
And you don't need to remind yourself of that daily because every time he smiles at you, or holds your hands, or whispers your name softly, or kisses you till you can't breathe and don't particularly care at the moment – you live it.
And as the sun's first rays creep into the room and across the bed where you are holding the rest of your life in your embrace, it also falls on the scattered pieces of artwork around the both of you – paintings, sculptures, sketches, photographs – all finished and with the same theme featured in each one.
And as you close your eyes, feel him sleep beside you, hear his heart beat next to yours and his breath fill in the spaces of yours – you know that if anyone ever asks what it is, that is all the answer they will ever need.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-04-29 05:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-29 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-29 06:01 pm (UTC)Oh damn.. this is beautiful. Just perfect.
*believes very much in love at first sight*
*wanders off to call own love at first sight sweetie*
no subject
Date: 2005-04-30 01:29 pm (UTC)*believes in all the sappy stuff because she is a hopeless romantic, too*
no subject
Date: 2005-04-29 08:48 pm (UTC)I loved both of these stories so much. Just gorgeous. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-04-30 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-29 10:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-30 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-29 10:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-30 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 05:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 12:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-17 06:10 pm (UTC){snuggles you mightily}
-me
no subject
Date: 2005-08-18 04:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-19 01:01 pm (UTC)*Happy, happy sigh*
These two fics are so, so beautiful ♥