Hope

Posted: March 2003
Type: RPS
Author: Estella Greenleaf
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Viggo/Orli
Disclaimer: None of this is true. This is a figment of my twisted imagination.
Warning: Alternate Universe.
Author's Note: I was reading Viridian, Vermillion, Alizarin (VM/OB, R) by nova, which was just so beautiful and tragic. I just have to write something ‘happy' or I will feel depressed the entire day. Hence, this drabble. I don't usually do this, but the stress of lab is really getting to me, I think...a bit emotionally unstable, with way too many strange ideas in my head.

*****

Lightning split the night sky as thunder roared in protest of the injustice that was committed on this island long ago. Ghosts of the past haunted these ruins, thickening the air with their tears, a mist that eternally covered these lands. Their pitiful wails and howls for revenge reverberated in the empty darkness, resonating with the wind to compose a chilling requiem for lost dreams. A lone figure stood amidst the ruins, eyes closed, senses attuned to the spirits' mournful song. Unmoving he remained, as the icy gale assaulted him with ferocious force, tearing his garments and drawing blood; this was his penance for what he must do.

Finally, with a small sigh of sorrow, the Slayer held up his hand. A ball of light gathered on his outstretched palm, the glow slicing through the gloomy dark. The music of the night now pulsed with raw primal fear...the bringer of doom had come to call. Chanting a spell in his ancient tongue, the figure slowly opened his eyes. Midnight eyes, timeless and wise, now glittering with sympathy and suffering, began to take on an unnatural gleam. The air tensed as an explosion of pure white light washed over the lands, obliterating all earth-bound spirits in its path. Shrills cries of terror overwhelmed the melancholic weeping of the winds; then, all fell silent as the illumination dimmed and the night returned again to darkness. Now truly alone, the Slayer closed his eyes once more; but not before a single tear escaped, mourning for the part of him that died with those lost souls.

*****

Poetry was all he had left, ever since that day ten years ago when a fire took everything from him. His life, his family and his dignity all went up in flames because he was too stupid to listen. He should never have taken that job; even his agent counseled him against taking that role because the movie set seemed cursed. Rumors spoke of a real ghost haunting the house. Viggo, being pragmatic to the core, dismissed their warnings as superstitious nonsense. But he was wrong; and his family had paid the ultimate price.

His wife and son were on location to visit him when the house went ablaze. Viggo was late, stuck in traffic. He watched in horror as living torches staggered out of the inferno, screaming in agony, begging for assistance. Instead of fleeing in terror, Viggo rushed into the fire, knowing the ones he cherished the most were inside. Despite his efforts, when the flames finally subsided, he was left with nothing but the third degree burns on his battered body. For the next two years, the hospital became Viggo's home as he underwent numerous skin grafts and reconstructive surgeries. When the doctors' had done all they could, the once handsome man was abandoned to deal with the scars on his disfigured form and broken heart alone.

Viggo knew he no longer belonged in the realm of normal people; he had seen how his former friends shuddered in horror at the sight he presented. His face disfigured, his hands ruined, the artist shunned the world. No longer able to seek comfort in painting, he poured his loneliness and pain into his poetry; words recorded in his soft, smoky voice that became his only link to humanity. His ‘publisher' and the public loved his work, always touched by the raw emotions that flowed within the lines. Yet, despite his ‘successful return' as an artist, Viggo was always alone, grieving for the life he lost.

*****

A small box awaited the Slayer on the steps of his forbidding mansion, a present from Karl - his brother-in-arms, the only one who knew today was his birthday. It was something his dearest friend never failed to do, to leave a present for Orlando every 13th of January. The Slayer never understood why Karl bothered, as time had ceased to matter once he took his oath to walk the earth forever and protect all mortals from vengeful earth-bound spirits. But seeing the box there warmed Orlando's heart all the same; the small kind gesture reminded him that someone still remembered and cared about him, that he was not as alone as he thought.

Long, graceful fingers meticulously stripped away the wrapping to reveal a cassette tape - a collection of poems by Viggo Mortensen. Orlando wondered why his friend had sent him this. Karl knew his fellow Slayer had lost his abilities to appreciate the beauty and sentiments in art hundreds of years ago. Curious, he inserted the tape into his sound system before undressing for his bath. He always felt dirty after a ‘battle'. It was not so bad at first, before Orlando grew powerful enough to hear his opponents' pain, before a fight for survival transformed into mindless massacre.

Closing his eyes, the Slayer stretched in his bath, allowing the warm water to soak him, a futile attempt to wash away the stains in his soul. Then it happened - a soft voice called out to him, laced with pain and loneliness that mirrored his own. Yet, there was passion in those words, a fire that no amount of suffering could snuff. Orlando reached out silently, trying to touch the ray of light that cut through the fog of his bleak existence, to hold onto the sliver of hope that could restore meaning to his life. But his effort was met with silence. The voice was gone, leaving Orlando in bereavement of what could have been.

*****

This was it. Within this desolate building was the one who could be his soulmate. It took much investigation and cajoling to find the reclusive poet. Now, Orlando stood alone and hesitant under the flickering light of the street lamp above. The Slayer had faced many battles of life and death with powerful demons without fear; yet now, his courage wavered as shivers ran down his spines. Now the fearless hunter knew the saying ‘everyone has a weakness' was true; Orlando's was the thought of Viggo rejecting him.

Over the past few weeks, the Slayer had all but neglected his duties, spending his time on doing research on the poet who captured his heart with beautifully tragic words. He knew what happened to the man ten years ago; he completely understood the artist's need to hide from the world. That was what drew Orlando to the man. As an immortal, the Slayer existed on the fringe of human society, always conscious that he was not one of them. As one of the oldest Slayers alive, his own kind regarded Orlando with wariness, fearing the day when the years finally drove him insane and made him turn against the world. Deep inside his heart, the Slayer believed the loneliness he and Viggo shared bonded them, making them two halves of a whole.

Despite his fears, he knew it was too late to turn back now. He was here and what was left of his heart was no longer his own. Taking a deep breath, Orlando marched forward to meet his destiny.

*****

Drifting in the never-ending sea of misery, alone in the dark. Cold was his heart, here in a dream where the sun had failed and the moon was dead. In a distance, shadows swirled gracefully in the gray. With a strangled cry, he reached out with icy hands that knew only emptiness as company, desperate to touch something, anything...

Viggo was stunned when his misshapen hand found warmth rather than thin air as it always did. Slender, tapered fingers moved to interlace with his disfigured digits, a symbol of companionship as old as time. He looked up to find an angel sitting beside him, an elusive, ethereal beauty who had inspired artists for centuries, the living work of divine art. Midnight eyes regarded him, brimming with love and longing, holding him captive as he raised their entwined hands to his lips. Smooth, warm and perfect, the feel of the angel's lips upon his scarred skin. He wondered what kind fates had graced him with this fantasy; wondered if his new guardian angel would visit his dreams again to banish his nightmares. When his heavenly visitor smiled and leaned down to offer him a loving kiss on the lips, the answers to his questions ceased to matter. Viggo knew the memories of this dream alone would give him the courage to hope again.

*****

[A beginning, and an end]

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Estella Greenleaf