Submitter: Pecos Date: 2005/12/29 Views: 3241 Rate: 7.00/10

“We don’t know a millionth of one percent about anything.” -- Thomas Alva Edison (1847 – 1931)


Saruman: Anglo-Saxon Lands

He hit the peaty ground heavily and managed to avoid most of the rocks as he rolled down the steep slope. With a loud crack and the smell of ozone a sword flashed into being and hurtled itself at the ground with such force that it embedded its tip and a full third of the blade into a large stone. The sword rang like a bell, vibrations shimmering along its length, blade slowly fading from blue back to normal.

Huddled where he’d ended up, the Wizard managed to assure himself that he wouldn’t die immediately from the freely bleeding injury on his chest which the Ranger had inflicted. The knife wounds in his shoulders were closing already, but they probably would hurt him for years, being at the joint. Saruman gathered himself and found that he had air for his lungs at last, and he started cursing Elves and Men and everything they’d ever touched. He looked up the slope at the sword struck firmly in the grip of the stone, and he shouted in the Black tongue, “You missed me, foul Man of Gondor! You cannot so easily kill a Wizard!”

“Merh-Lyhn?” questioned a stunned voice, repeating the Black Speech word for Wizard.

Saruman spun to find a filthy being staring at him in utter awe. A shepherd, or perhaps some religious pilgrim bent on a life of denial, the hunched peasant wore simple rough-spun clothes and smelled like a pigpen on a hot day. Saruman’s nose curled in disgust. Orcs smelled better, and had better teeth, from the look of it.

“Where the Bloody Fucking Hell am I?” Saruman demanded.

The peasant was pointing at the glimmering sword, saying “Ooooo!” and other unintelligible expressions of surprise and wonder.

Saruman managed to rise and stagger a few feet, looking around himself for any point of reference. Away down the slope there was a small settlement in the valley. No road came to meet the crude buildings, and livestock wandered freely. Smoke drifted from a few crooked chimneys. There was no car in the yard, no power lines on poles, and no glimmer of metal to be seen. The Wizard suddenly realized that he could hear no sounds of industry. No planes crossed the sky. No cars or trucks hummed along paved roads.

“By Elbereth...where am I?” Saruman whispered. He suddenly gasped, realizing the error of his assumption. “Or rather...when am I?”

The peasant had come closer, reaching out to touch Saruman’s pants reverently, grubby fingers pressing to the once-neat crease. “Merh-Lyhn?” he repeated.

Colin Farrell: Ireland

“Mum! I’m going to miss the bleedin’ train, aren’t I?”

“Oh, shut it, you!” his mother laughed from the other room, where she was trapped in the eternal hat dilemma. “You’re a famous movie star now, you are!”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll hold the train fer me, fer Chrissakes!”

“Don’t you curse in this house,” she lectured, knowing full well it was a losing battle. She’d somehow raised the most heathen bunch of Irish Catholic kids one could ever imagine. “We’re not going to miss the train!”

“I could’ve called for a car,” Colin mumbled, checking himself in the mirror over the mantle. You could hardly tell that he’d been out all night drinking with his friends and toasting his latest success in that distant Fairy Realm called Hollywood. He made a ghastly face at his own reflection and then wiggled his expansive brows. “You’ll do, I guess,” he said.

Stepping back to check the his shirt wasn’t on inside out or backwards, his gaze passed over one of the many old photographs his mother had lovingly displayed in this place of familial honor. Good old Great-Uncle Colin, his namesake, dressed in the stiff uniform of a London Policeman, ornate frame gilded with a generous coating of dust. Dark eyes stared into his from across time and space.

“I’ll bet you saw a thing or two in your time, didn’t you, old man,?” Colin quipped.

“What?” his mother demanded from the other room. “I AM hurrying! I just need to put a few tissues in my bag.”

His Mum always cried when he boarded the plane. “You’d think she was never going to see me again,” Colin laughed. His eyes fell to the photo again. “I’ll bet you knew a thing or two about leaving someone you love, eh, Uncle?”

“All right, then,” his mother huffed, coming into the room at long last. She was wearing the exact same hat she’d had on before she’d decided that it needed to be changed. Colin grinned as he caught the slender middle-aged woman and pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Oh, leave off, you!” she lectured insincerely.

“I’m just a sentimental fool!” he crooned badly. “Now come on, I’ve got to save the world. Well, a little part of, anyhow.”

Orlando Bloom: London

Not very many people were even aware that London’s venerated Harrods had special deposit vaults. And yet, therein were kept some of the rarest treasures in the country. Deep beneath the august institution were nooks and rooms and lockers where plunder from several wars lay hidden from prying eyes. Family jewels and curious inheritances, junk as well as treasure. Ill-gotten gains and medals of valor, and some items that would rock the foundation of the government should they ever come to light.

There were simple things concealed as well, some of which had been forgotten in the passage of time. It didn’t matter to the management – a pact made with Harrods was one that had never been broken, and never would as long as there was an England above ground. This institution was considered safer than any bank, and they’d never been robbed.

Imagine the surprise on a young actor’s face as he stood outside the famous wood-paneled security door, his documents being examined in detail by the groomed staff. He’d taken receipt of the letter only three days ago, when he’d returned to London during a break in the New Zealand filming for what was going to be the biggest acting role of his young life, The Lord of the Rings. Some of the first movie had already been finished, and Orlando Bloom really felt that this and the other two would be popular beyond even his wildest dreams. He even had other acting projects lined up already, and a very full filming schedule on his personal calendar, but the simple request in the letter had forced him to make time for a trip to Knightsbridge.

He’d suspected that the whole thing was a joke until the moment that the guards had nodded to him and led him down into the Vault Reception. Now his curiosity was about to get the better of him. The letter had come from Christopher Tolkien, and had said in essence:

“...there are items in the box that my father passed on to me for safe-keeping. I have never felt the attachment that he did, but as I age I am starting to regret that I did not take more advantage of the unique prospects. I only wish to allow someone who will be more sympathetic to my father’s wishes than I have been to share his secret. Do not remove anything, but you have my permission to examine all of it.”

“Sir, if you’ll follow me please,” said the attendant, attired in impeccable uniform and white kid gloves. Orlando felt clumsy and awkward as he moved past innumerable doors, most of which were rumored to be fake so as to confound anyone who didn’t have appropriate business inside the vaults. He was taken to a small conference room, paneled in dark and somber woods, and asked to make himself comfortable at a big oak desk with a lovely Tiffany lamp shedding gentle light. Alone for a moment, Orlando touched the shade of the lamp, feeling the warm glass and the softness of the lead, and realized suddenly that it was authentic Tiffany, and probably worth more than he was being paid for filming the movies.

The door opened again on well-oiled hinges and a different attendant entered, carrying a metal box about the size of a notebook computer, but quite a bit deeper. This was set gently on the surface of the table almost under his nose, and the attendant immediately turned to leave. “Ring the bell when you are done, sir,” the gentleman requested, indicating a discreet button on the wall before passing through the door and closing it behind himself.

Orlando took a deep breath and then lifted the lid on the box. His first thought was disappointment. There were only a few items inside, mostly papers, and the first thing that came to his fingers was an old photograph. He could recognize the late Professor Tolkien standing in a luxuriant garden with several other persons, holding the stem of his infamous pipe. The picture was brittle and faded with age, and Orli squinted at the other faces. His breath caught as he saw the tall, slender person standing to one side, proud and straight, and yet seeming to belong to the garden rather than in it. Long, pale hair was pulled back over one shoulder, and the humble clothes did nothing to hide the regal bearing of this exquisitely handsome individual. Keen eyes peered out of the grainy black and white photo with a depth of feeling and clarity that made the actor gasp aloud.

He turned the photo over and was surprised to see names scrawled in rather shaky pencil. One popped out as if it had been burned onto his retinas. ‘Prince Legolas’, was inscribed by Tolkien’s own hand. Trembling fingers laid the picture down and quickly dug into the box for the next photo. This was apparently taken at a birthday party, where people were posed somewhat more casually around the young celebrant, who was identified on the back as Christopher, age Five. Once again, the Professor had identified the tall individual squatting down to be on a level with the seated Mrs. Tolkien, this time as simply Legolas. Orlando was now trembling.

He next came across a blue ribbon from the Oxford Ladies Harvest Festival which announced that the Most Outstanding Apple was awarded to Mrs. J. Tolkien and L. Golas. More of the same for Squash, Pumpkins, and Fruit Preserves. It must have been a good year for the Tolkien garden. Beneath that was a sheet of thick paper on which was written the most elegant writing Orlando had ever seen: row after row of beautiful, flowing characters. He stared at it for a moment before realizing that it must be Elvish. real Elvish...not something made up by a film studio artist. The next sheet was in the same hand, but a different language, and this was even more attractive than the last sample. He would have given anything he had just to know what the pages said.

Questing fingers located an object in the corner of the box, and he very cautiously withdrew a small wooden figurine. It was a little bird, carved with such detail that every feather had been lovingly rendered. The grain of the wood had been used to best effect, and the bird looked so real that Orlando honestly thought for a moment that surely it had been alive at some time. Tiny, bright eyes peered at him sharply, and the beak seemed about to open in song. The bird was posed in a crouch, as if the day had been cold and he was keeping his little feet warm in the fluff of his belly feathers. Orlando gently turned it over to look at the bottom and there were tiny letters inscribed in the smooth wood: To My Teacher and Friend, from Legolas.

Then he found two small packets of waxed paper, folded into miniature envelopes. He gently lifted the flap on the first and found a thin lock of hair which had been knotted into a flat figure like a sunburst. The knots were more intricate than a sailor’s and it was impossible to tell where the individual strands began or ended. The color of the hair was almost that of primroses, a pale white gold that shone as if it was glowing. The second envelope had writing on it, in flowing script, the words ‘for Colin’. Within were seven dark seeds – apple, if Orlando was any judge.

“How?” the actor whispered, his voice echoing in the nearly empty room. “How?”

Viggo Mortensen: Los Angeles

Smiling shyly despite himself, Viggo sipped a bit too quickly at the wine in his glass and nodded at the comments and compliments strangers bestowed upon the fruits of his hands and his heart. Pilar was grinning at him occasionally from across the room as she fielded technical questions about prints and prices, frames and lighting and deliveries. The gallery was packed. Most people there were probably fans – that was just something to be expected after the world-wide phenomenon of the Rings movies – but there were a few people amongst the throng who were genuine lovers of art, and of this particular artist.

It didn’t really matter to Viggo what brought people to his exhibits, he was just glad that they came. And even the most die-hard fan might glimpse something in a painting or photograph that would imprint itself on their consciousness and affect them in some new and unexpected way. At least, that’s what he hoped.

“Oi!” cried a familiar voice from the hors d’oeuvres table, carrying to his ears over the dull roar of the crowd. “Oi! Filthy Ranger! Yer outta cheese balls over here!”

He spun to catch Dominic Monaghan’s cheeky grin through the throng. The British actor wiggled painted fingertips at his friend.

“And the little mushroom things too, King Aragorn!” added Elijah Wood, dressed to kill in the latest fashion for wildly successful young movie stars.

Viggo laughed, knowing that the special bottle of wine chilling in the gallery office would have good company to go with it after the doors had been locked for the night. A gentle touch on his sleeve caused the artist to turn again, though it took him a moment to realize that the person beckoning for his attention was the very little old lady sitting in a wheelchair pulled up to his right foot. Bright eyes peered up at him keenly, and a frail hand sought his. He quickly dropped to one knee so he could lean closer, smiling warmly at this stranger.

“Thank you for attending the exhibit, Ma’am. Have you seen anything that you like?”

“Just you,” she said, her voice tinged with just a bit of self-conscious naughtiness. She patted his hand like it was a small dog, gazing at his face intently. “You’re not really much like him, you know. But the eyes...the eyes are similar.”

“Ma’am?” Viggo questioned. “My name is Viggo. These paintings and photos are mine.”

“I know who you are,” she told him. “You played Aragorn in those movies.”

“Yes, I did. I guess you saw the movies. Did you like them?”

“Not much. Too much violence...not enough kissing.” She used her grip on his hand to draw him closer. “My name is Rebecca Jefferson. It was Costanello before I got married. That was in 1961, 43 years ago.”

“Congratulations,” Viggo told her, smiling despite himself. From the corner of his eye he saw Pilar urgently trying to get his attention.

“My husband passed in 1982, God Bless him. He was a good man, a flyer in the Great War. He knew Aaron before I did.”

“Aaron?”

“Aaron,” she repeated, like she suspected he was a bit thick. “Aaron Ghorn. The man you played in the movies. But he was the real thing. The real Aragorn. Now there was a Man! Ah, how he loved that Elf of his!”

Viggo rocked back on his heels, trying not to laugh. Granny had a thing for fan fiction, it seemed.

“Veeeego!” pleaded Elijah Wood, arriving with an empty glass and pleading expression in those impossible blue eyes of his. “Veeg, you sold that painting I told you I wanted! How could you, man?”

“Excuse me please, Mrs. Jefferson,” Viggo begged, rising to deal with Elijah’s crisis. The painting in question was still in the workshop back at his Venice Beach house. Elijah was just drunk enough to start recognizing every painting in the room as having been promised to him – probably including the Fire Exit sign over the door. By the time he’d sorted his young friend out and gotten Dominic to come take Elijah away to the kitchen Viggo turned to find that the old lady was gone.

He smiled and snorted at the memory of her, then turned to sign some autographs.

‘A thing for the Elf.’ He’d have to tell that one to Orlando, next time he saw him.

Aragorn and Legolas: Gondor

The Elf cupped his hands around the tiny seedling in its clot of dirt, lowering it into the lovingly prepared patch of garden and smoothing the soil.

“You could have Samwise help you with that,” called the voice of the King from where he reclined majestically in the shade of a white tree.

“I do not need any help,” Legolas told him peevishly, reaching into the silver basin for another seedling.

“You could piss on them,” mocked the Royal presence, waving an apple core in emphasis.

“And you could just piss off,” the Elf muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.

King Elessar’s laughter brightened the air. “I still can’t believe that you had a beet in your pocket, melethron. Of all the things to bring back to Middle-earth....”

“It was a sugar beet, your highness, and I intend to introduce this species to all amenable corners of the land, and to the Grey Havens in its time.” He gently seated the new seedling and reached for the water pitcher. He was thwarted in his intentions as a large body tackled him from behind, rolling the Elf into the loamy soil and narrowly avoiding crushing the fledgling plants.

“You were always sweet enough to my tongue,” cooed the King of Gondor, plundering Legolas’ mouth. The kiss was returned with enthusiasm, even while the Elf tried vainly to keep from having dirt ground into the intricate plaits of his pale golden hair.

“You will have a different opinion next summer when the first batch of strawberry jam comes from the Royal kitchens.”

Aragorn laughed heartily, and laid his head on the Legolas’ chest. “I wonder, at times, just how your Professor finished the story of our lives. Did he manage to capture even half the glory, or a fraction of the horror? The sacrifices and bravery of Men, Elves, and Hobbits? Did he make heroes out of villains, and forget what was at stake? Could he have even imagined how things would turn in the end?”

The Elf sighed, feeling the warm sun on his face and Aragorn’s fingers burrowing beneath his tunic. “I imagine that he did us justice. He was a very clever Man. Just so long as he didn’t imply that I spent the rest of my days with the Dwarf.”

Aragorn laughed long and hard.

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