Fic: "Specks Of Dust" - (TIME: Minutes)
Title: “Specks Of Dust”
Author:
illuins_lair
Fandom: Lotrips/rpf
Character: Orlando
Rating: PG
Summary: During a 5 minutes-break Orlando takes a little trip in his chair. The quirky one.
Disclaimer: This is not real. It can´t be because I have no real access to Orlando´s brain. (Really) Even if we played Monopoly I couldn´t possibly earn any money from it. I don´t intend to harm anybody. Everything mentioned herein is made up by fangirlish dust-particles aka *plotbunnies and has no connection to real life; such as places, people, furniture, or specks of dust. All lies and wicked fantasies. If you believe in them, you should probably look for some counselling.
(*no plotbunnies were hurt in the process)
Beta: L´Eminence doylebaby Teh Almighty Prompt-Princess who dragged me into this and made me write weird little things again! *adores and sends the Orli/Sean/Hugh-boychoir*
(When this was beta´d and pretty much done though, I was bunny-attacked and the little Orli-muse just wouldn´t shut up on me. Thus some!more was added so the final outcome is to blame on me. And then I´ll pass the blame onto the muses and so on. Savvy? i.e. If the grammar-police feel obliged to arrest me, please do so. I like uniforms. And editing.)
A/N: Written for Prompt Table#4: TIME#02. Minutes at 12_stories
A/N 2: This can be read as a stand-alone. Though, it is possible *snerk* that it will take part in a series. I´ll just say “maybe” mostly to myself, to not completely succumb under the will of muses and attacking plotbunnies. It is just a short glimpse of what circles inside Orli´s head. Oh my! I didn´t expect the twists and turns or the depth of it. I have no idea what it all means and he seemed as confused as me about the whole thing. But after sweating over this piece for the last days I told him to give me some peace goddamnit; with a promise of future writing-sessions until he has shared everything he wants to share and hopefully explained himself. Such is the deal between me and the muses. They don´t charge by the hour obviously, so I´m going to need some kind of rehab-treatment after this, yes.
A/N 3!: Because I looove when I can have a possibility to actually explain what I intended with this: You know those moments just when you are between reality and dreamworld, half-awake and half-asleep, or however; in a blurred relaxed state, as in meditation. There everything seems very logic and the thoughts roam freely, here and there and it´s still logic somehow. As you get more and more conscious, the whole logic alters again and there you lose the sense of it, right? It becomes pretty much unexplainable in words. Well, as you see; pretty unexplainable anyway. But I tried... =)
Specks Of Dust
- “Check the gate...”
The wind blows. Everyone is tired and the day has only begun. And they wait, breathlessly. Legolas has sand in his elvish boots.
- “Gate´s good.”
There´s a collective sigh.
Wow, that was fast. Only the 23rd take...or 56th? And it´s still bright and early!
- “Ok everybody, take five!”
Dear Peter, I secretly love you. Hate you from time to time, say; a few seconds ago. Not really, you know...just...almost.
- “5 minutes, people!!”
We heard that. Love the five minutes. Don´t mess up my wig! No cracked skulls, here! And there´s no need to be cranky, Bloom.
He just pushes through the crowd in the canteen-tent, grabbing a bottle of water as he walks; heading for a corner, and a chair. And five minutes peace.
He places the bottle on a table, puts the chair behind it and sinks down with a relieved sigh. He doesn’t care how uncomfortable it is. It´s his chair. Really not, but he tries to visualize it “Orlando´s Chair” or perhaps only Orlando. In quirky letters. He likes quirky letters. He thinks he should learn calligraphy at some point. He himself feels a bit quirky. And cranky. A cranky quirk. Rather a lucky cranky quirk, yeah?
Actually with Orlando´s Chair, comes “Orlando´s Corner” where he can sit for 5 fucking minutes not being gracefully elvish with sand in his boots. And maybe hold a neon-sign that says: “I´m thinking - Please do not disturb my inner elf”?
He snorts.
The plastic is numb and slippery against his costume. His eyes are closed; not because he’s tired, but to reduce the clatter and chatter of people doing their best to grab something to chew on or caffeine themselves with. To extract the essence from five whole minutes of well-deserved non-filming; - letting go of characters, slipping into personalities; a bit confusing, a bit normal.
Five minutes of wind-sheltered normal-life-encouragement.
Of course that chair would have to be at least made of solid material. Concrete. Mount Doom. Solid. Keeping him up. Oak, perhaps. Good, solid oak that doesn´t make you flail for balance. Oak isn´t really solid, is it? Is anything solid? Is anything really solid?
The whole place smells of steaming coffee. He can hear the voices, the laughter, the relief. Can feel the collective weariness of tired muscles; his own, theirs. He can see the numbers of hands clutching; at reality, even a plastic one.
Solid.
Suddenly, hidden under his eyelids; is a shape shift, a morph. It’s like a ‘down-the-rabbit-hole’ kind of tornado; an intense flickering feeling of being hurled inside-out and launched like a snap shot. Then; swirling through space in an endless soundless void, a dive into an ocean of contradictory sensations; like weird time travels without time and to non-existent places.
Just a flicker, a glimpse and then gone; leaving him breathless, frozen in time and emotionally tingling; metaphorically bordering to radioactive. And then in a way; crunching, teeth-gratingly restless over the surreal feeling of it all. It has some sort of non-logic to it, almost tangible, almost.. He´s trying to pull at all those strings; one by one, to see, to know.. but they are all loose ends, falling apart, falling away, falling. He´s pulling..
Until someone nudges his shoulder and he’s snapped back to reality with just some wicked sense memory or a feeling that he’s here; slumped in a plastic chair, and not at all, at the same time.
- “Hey...?”
He’s dizzy and dazed and surprised and confused and he’s here-not here for a moment, forever? Those shattered pieces of him…where…what flying…
He’s mentally clinging to the human touch on his shoulder, something solid to focus on while everything clears out, dissolves, alters and re-connects; forging reality into one piece again, like a Rubik’s Cube - and only then the feeling lets go.
It remains as a quiet buzz of something diffuse and foggy that slowly blurs out the ragged edges. He loses the words around it before he can form them in his mind; trying to grasp them but they slip away; becoming something he can’t really remember anymore, fades into just a memory of a memory, or a dream of a dream.
Or just a speck of dust in the wind.
- “Orli?”
- “Uh-m...”
He can smell coffee. He opens his eyes. Half surprised, half not. Life takes focus again; reshapes. He blinks a few times. There’s a room around him; - enveloping him; embraces, centring the universe. Four corners including the one he’s in; he’s counting them fast. He’s sitting in the chair, quite comfortably too, considering it’s one of those foldable plastic ones placed all over the set.
And there’s the same bottle of water as before, on the same table. He has sand in his boots.
- “Time’s up… break’s over, man…”
Whatever. This is real - this, isn’t it..?
A speck of dust in the wind.
Like that would explain everything!
- “Uh... right... Thanks, mate.”
He smiles and chuckles a bit to himself, not knowing why:
- “I dozed off for a bit, did I?”
...although it’s not really true and he knows it; yet he isn’t sure why or what it is he knows. Because he doesn´t make any bloody sense at all, even to himself.
- “Are you okay, there?
He nods, mostly to himself. His self.
- “Yup, I´m all good.”
He smiles a bit confused. Then he thinks that maybe it doesn´t look like he is; so he adds the patented Orli-grin that says “Fucking perfect, actually. Never been better. Everything´s under control and I´m back to my own Elf-Self right the fuck now.”
It works.
- “..alright, alright! See you on set.”
He sighs. Just barely audible in the still crowded room.
For a moment he wonders where the five minutes went.
Then he shrugs and collects himself. The tunic has creases in the fabric. He smoothes them out a bit. Damn plastic chairs.
He stumbles a little when he heads out, stops a moment to consider it; looking for a question to an answer in his head. He doesn’t remember what it was, so he shrugs again; looking around a bit embarrassed and walks out; wind in his face - and it’s just a regular Monday.
There’s a whole afternoon to absorb and be absorbed by. And he needs to be present, he needs to be there. All of him.
...dust in the wind?
Right.
- “.... and Cut! Check the gate, please.”
Focus.
Find your inner-fucking-elvish grace.
- END- Definitely, Maybe