Bets and Regrets...
An updated list of letters to date is available here.
To: Harry Sinclair < isildur@gondor.co.nz >
From: Bernard Hill < bhill@iceberg.co.uk >
Subject: Re: Your Message
Harold,
I'm sorry you feel that way. A man needs his friends, Harry, and while I am reluctant to point it out, I believe you are running rather low in that particular currency. You can use all the help you can get.
Again, my apologies for touching what appears to be a rather raw nerve. Before I "back the fuck off," I'll simply extend the offer of an ear to bend, should you desire it.
Yours,
Bernard
To: Miranda Otto < shieldmaiden@rohan.co.nz >
From: Cate Blanchett < galadriel@goldenwood.co.nz >
Subject: Re: Our Wager
Miranda,
miranda otto wrote:
> And before you ask, no, I still don't
> believe he has been flirting with me
> this whole bloody time.
That's all right, love. I can wait until you come around to the truth.
> Ah, but he has those eyes. Those deft
> fingers. That great ass. And his
> mouth.... Fucking Christ, Cate, his
> mouth.
:) I thought as much. Don't tell me I've been the only one studying our Mr. Wenham when he's not looking. We both know that's not true.
> So I may still win the bet! Though
> the prospect pleases me a bit less
> today than it did yesterday.
Aha.
> PS When are you going to be back in
> town?
I'm due to come back soon, I believe. Peter seems to want to do some pickups and cutaways around Gimli's Lorien gift, and he's pressing hard to get it done as soon as I return. Has the schedule tightened again and nobody remembered to tell me?
> I'm going to shoot, stab, strangle,
> drown, electrocute, eviscerate, and
> dismember Harry-fucking-Sinclair.
> Then I will set the remains ablaze
> and dump the ashes in a sewer.
That's very vivid. But love, isn't that a general state of affairs between you two? Shall I ask, or would you prefer to tell me over dinner when I get back?
~ Cate
Gardener's Chronicle: A Ten Year Journal of Your Garden's Growth
Plant inventory:
Botanical name: Cupressus macrocarpa Goldcrest
Common name: Goldcrest (Cypress)
Features: Narrow, columnar shape. Feathery foliage, brilliant yellow while young.
Average height: 150-175cm*
Exposure: Part Shade/Part Sun. Thrives in mild climates. Prefers moist, well-drained soil. Water well until established.
Quantity: 4
Price per unit: ???
Supplier: Local art fair, Wellington.
Location: North bed, near fence.
Notes:
*Topiary. Not representative of actual height. Spiral shape, ball on top. Need trimming as they grow. Caution -- cypresses do not tolerate too much pruning.
Planted in north beds near fence in order to keep out of drying winds. Planted in middle of night. By me. Reminder -- check to make sure they have been planted straight. Too dark to make sure they weren't leaning when placed in bed. Purchased by Viggo and Miranda at local art fair while I was on break. Viggo's suggestion. Not a surprise. Guess he was thinking of me.
...I was thinking of him. Before, and when I planted them. It's easier to think with your fingers in the dirt than it is with a pen in hand.
And I think I'm beginning to be able to absorb some things. I still don't know what to do about Harry and Viggo, but that will come in time, I hope. I've gone through this before. It's not like I can't manage again.
Miranda left me a note. Shoved it unceremoniously under the door. I guess I'm lucky to have escaped a verbal barrage. I'll have to thank Dave later. When I bent down to pick it up, though, I found another piece of paper under it.
I believe I just might be a bastard of the highest order.
Brawling like a common thug, hiding like a whipped dog, and now putting Viggo through whatever this is all of this.
I've pushed things to this point, no matter what his part in it has been. I have. I could have stopped myself from swinging at Harry if I'd just taken a second to breathe. I could have, but I didn't.
So I did what I could. I took Miranda's advice and went to our Viggo's room. He was asleep. He looked... smaller, somehow. Even when I was young and a real brawler, I'd never stuck around to see the after-effects of a smart punch to the face. It's not pretty. One side of his jaw is mottling in a hideous mixture of purple and red. I did that to him. Jesus.
Just like Miranda said, he was wrapped in my jacket. I don't know why whomever put him to bed didn't take it away and cover him over with something sensible. I untangled it from him, though -- gently, so he wouldn't wake up, then folded and hung it over the back of the chair. Covered him with the quilt instead.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, watching him sleep. Brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes. Considered getting some ice for the bruises, but I was paralysed by the thought that he might wake up and order me out when the cold touched his face.
I thought that was all I was going to do. Sit with him for a bit, then go back to the other room, but he started to shudder. Just little tremors, mind you, but enough to have me worried. So I did the instinctive thing -- I pulled aside the quilt, lay down and curled myself around him. It was all too familiar. Almost as if none of this had ever happened. As if Harry hadn't stepped foot into Viggo's life.
Viggo quieted, after a time, and I spent the next while listening to his breathing, hoping to stave any new tremors off with my presence alone. I could feel my own inhalations and exhalations fall into step with his, and I considered just letting myself drift off to sleep beside him.
I left before I gave in to that whim.
When I came back out of the bedroom, I found Miranda sitting up on the couch, Dave's head in her lap, watching as the darkness outside the window turned to grey. She turned her head and smiled at me. Wiggled out from under Dave, who continued sleeping, and came over to stand next to me. I had no idea she was so tall. I've never had a reason to take note before.
She didn't say anything either. Just smiled, patted my arm and looked at me. I managed a weak smile back. I think that satisfied her on some level, because she leaned over, brushed her lips lightly over my cheek, and went back to sit near Dave.
What a mess.
To: Harry Sinclair < isildur@gondor.co.nz >
From: Bernard Hill < bhill@iceberg.co.uk >
Subject: Re: Your Message
Harold,
I'm sorry you feel that way. A man needs his friends, Harry, and while I am reluctant to point it out, I believe you are running rather low in that particular currency. You can use all the help you can get.
Again, my apologies for touching what appears to be a rather raw nerve. Before I "back the fuck off," I'll simply extend the offer of an ear to bend, should you desire it.
Yours,
Bernard
To: Miranda Otto < shieldmaiden@rohan.co.nz >
From: Cate Blanchett < galadriel@goldenwood.co.nz >
Subject: Re: Our Wager
Miranda,
miranda otto wrote:
> And before you ask, no, I still don't
> believe he has been flirting with me
> this whole bloody time.
That's all right, love. I can wait until you come around to the truth.
> Ah, but he has those eyes. Those deft
> fingers. That great ass. And his
> mouth.... Fucking Christ, Cate, his
> mouth.
:) I thought as much. Don't tell me I've been the only one studying our Mr. Wenham when he's not looking. We both know that's not true.
> So I may still win the bet! Though
> the prospect pleases me a bit less
> today than it did yesterday.
Aha.
> PS When are you going to be back in
> town?
I'm due to come back soon, I believe. Peter seems to want to do some pickups and cutaways around Gimli's Lorien gift, and he's pressing hard to get it done as soon as I return. Has the schedule tightened again and nobody remembered to tell me?
> I'm going to shoot, stab, strangle,
> drown, electrocute, eviscerate, and
> dismember Harry-fucking-Sinclair.
> Then I will set the remains ablaze
> and dump the ashes in a sewer.
That's very vivid. But love, isn't that a general state of affairs between you two? Shall I ask, or would you prefer to tell me over dinner when I get back?
~ Cate
Gardener's Chronicle: A Ten Year Journal of Your Garden's Growth
Plant inventory:
Botanical name: Cupressus macrocarpa Goldcrest
Common name: Goldcrest (Cypress)
Features: Narrow, columnar shape. Feathery foliage, brilliant yellow while young.
Average height: 150-175cm*
Exposure: Part Shade/Part Sun. Thrives in mild climates. Prefers moist, well-drained soil. Water well until established.
Quantity: 4
Price per unit: ???
Supplier: Local art fair, Wellington.
Location: North bed, near fence.
Notes:
*Topiary. Not representative of actual height. Spiral shape, ball on top. Need trimming as they grow. Caution -- cypresses do not tolerate too much pruning.
Planted in north beds near fence in order to keep out of drying winds. Planted in middle of night. By me. Reminder -- check to make sure they have been planted straight. Too dark to make sure they weren't leaning when placed in bed. Purchased by Viggo and Miranda at local art fair while I was on break. Viggo's suggestion. Not a surprise. Guess he was thinking of me.
...I was thinking of him. Before, and when I planted them. It's easier to think with your fingers in the dirt than it is with a pen in hand.
And I think I'm beginning to be able to absorb some things. I still don't know what to do about Harry and Viggo, but that will come in time, I hope. I've gone through this before. It's not like I can't manage again.
Miranda left me a note. Shoved it unceremoniously under the door. I guess I'm lucky to have escaped a verbal barrage. I'll have to thank Dave later. When I bent down to pick it up, though, I found another piece of paper under it.
I believe I just might be a bastard of the highest order.
Brawling like a common thug, hiding like a whipped dog, and now putting Viggo through whatever this is all of this.
I've pushed things to this point, no matter what his part in it has been. I have. I could have stopped myself from swinging at Harry if I'd just taken a second to breathe. I could have, but I didn't.
So I did what I could. I took Miranda's advice and went to our Viggo's room. He was asleep. He looked... smaller, somehow. Even when I was young and a real brawler, I'd never stuck around to see the after-effects of a smart punch to the face. It's not pretty. One side of his jaw is mottling in a hideous mixture of purple and red. I did that to him. Jesus.
Just like Miranda said, he was wrapped in my jacket. I don't know why whomever put him to bed didn't take it away and cover him over with something sensible. I untangled it from him, though -- gently, so he wouldn't wake up, then folded and hung it over the back of the chair. Covered him with the quilt instead.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, watching him sleep. Brushed a bit of hair out of his eyes. Considered getting some ice for the bruises, but I was paralysed by the thought that he might wake up and order me out when the cold touched his face.
I thought that was all I was going to do. Sit with him for a bit, then go back to the other room, but he started to shudder. Just little tremors, mind you, but enough to have me worried. So I did the instinctive thing -- I pulled aside the quilt, lay down and curled myself around him. It was all too familiar. Almost as if none of this had ever happened. As if Harry hadn't stepped foot into Viggo's life.
Viggo quieted, after a time, and I spent the next while listening to his breathing, hoping to stave any new tremors off with my presence alone. I could feel my own inhalations and exhalations fall into step with his, and I considered just letting myself drift off to sleep beside him.
I left before I gave in to that whim.
When I came back out of the bedroom, I found Miranda sitting up on the couch, Dave's head in her lap, watching as the darkness outside the window turned to grey. She turned her head and smiled at me. Wiggled out from under Dave, who continued sleeping, and came over to stand next to me. I had no idea she was so tall. I've never had a reason to take note before.
She didn't say anything either. Just smiled, patted my arm and looked at me. I managed a weak smile back. I think that satisfied her on some level, because she leaned over, brushed her lips lightly over my cheek, and went back to sit near Dave.
What a mess.