Ficlet: A Poet's Quest...
Apr. 14th, 2003 12:10 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: A Poet's Quest For A Distant Paradise
Author: Iana (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iana_niniel)
Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes even poets cannot find the words to say...
Disclaimer: Although I surely wouldn't mind they unfortunately aren't mine. This is fiction and therefore never happened. Sad but true... The title is taken from a song from Vanessa Mae's beautiful album 'Storm'
Feedback: We wantssss it, we needsss it... musssst have the feedback
Archive: rugbytackle, all others please ask
A/N: This is my first ever RPS fic and I blamelannamichaels for this one ('My lovely beautiful poet')
And poet that I am for once there are no words. For all the pages I've filled with nonsense scribbled in a haste on the back of a crumpled script between shots, in the car on my way home when the merciful traffic lights turned red, in the back seat of a chopper with Middle-Earth's plains passing underneath, for all the pages I've filled now the words seem to shy away from me, melt like snowflakes before they've even touched the paper lying before me, white, and terribly empty.
So empty while I feel my heart must burst any second now, overflowing with a thousand unknown emotions. And I feel strangely helpless, lost in the white void of words unwritten.
For there are no words to capture the colour of his eyes, no words to describe the way my name sounds on his lips. There are no words that must not fall short in comparison to what I feel, no words that can be more than a faint reflection of his radiant smile.
I want to make it last, so badly, make it last so that I will never, never forget. Never forget the stolen glances at his face and never forget the feeling, half fearful sensation, to know that he might turn his head any second, that any second his eyes could meet mine. Oh they did, and yet not quite, for their voiceless question I could not answer, I dared not and beneath the random irrelevance of my words I was trembling. I need to make it last and yet I cannot.
And I am afraid of the day I will find the memory has faded, that he is but another shadow in a much too troubled past. It has happened before, too many times and I know I cannot bear it, not him. I need to make it last, I so need to make it last before the slow decay of time makes the memory fall apart like withered parchment beneath my trembling fingers.
When I first met him his handshake was warm and his eyes smiled while all I could think was that he's fucking beautiful. He laughed then.
'So this is the man who will be king...' I still hear him say and I could but nod and smile back at him.
And when I was alone in my room that night I found that I could not forget his eyes and the way his smile had illuminated them shining with a fire to match the sunrise. I found I could not forget the way his name had sounded when he had repeated it, hesitating a little, not sure how to form the sound. 'That's not a common name,' he had said half excusingly and his voice echoed tenfold from the walls of my room, much too small and stuffed with things I kept for no reason, out of a poet's sentimentality perhaps, the only witnesses to a silent torture.
Yes, I thought then, this is the man who will be King, the man who will be your rival, Boromir of Gondor, and the thought made me cringe. And for the first time I felt that on the Ranger's long journeys to nowhere Viggo I knew might have been lost somewhere along the road. The thought frightened me then.
I remember the day when I tried to paint his face from my memory, his face, not Boromir's. And yet the man who stared back at me was neither of them, neither he nor Boromir for the green fire of their eyes no words can describe and no painter can capture.
I need to make it last before the end, the sweet memory of a stolen moment and the bliss I felt just watching him. It would be a lie to say that this was all I desired, watching him from afar and memorizing the lines of his face for a portrait I knew I would never paint. It would be a lie to say there was nothing else, to deny the dreams that haunted me, from which I awoke still warmed by the fire of his touch and yet cold for when I woke he was never there.
I remember all the times I swore to myself that I would tell him, all the times I walked up to him determined to say the words and yet time after time found the words betrayed me, coward that I am.
And when I knelt by his side I thought my heart would break for the love I felt. And that moment Aragorn and Viggo truly were one, the King and the poet, for the words would not come to the King as they would not come to the poet. As Aragorn lost Boromir to the night the loss I felt was impossible to bear and the tears I cried then were not the cold tears of an actor suffering on command but the burning tears of a love that would be forever unrequited. And the King's tears, the grief and the pain having to watch him die, the one man he truly loved, the man he never dared to tell what he felt until it was too late, the King's tears and the poet's tears, they were one.
And when the brilliant green eyes smiled at me from the pale bloodied face I knew that I needed him, needed him more than anything and even then, deathly pale and dirty, I thought he was fucking beautiful.
For all the poems I've written there is one I cannot write. God knows, I would gladly exchange them all for this one memory preserved but still I am betrayed. And as the memory begins to fade, slowly, oh so slowly, all that is left to me is the emptiness, the cold white emptiness of words unwritten.
For the colour of his eyes... for the light of his smile... for the sound of his voice... for the touch of his hand...
And poet that I am for once there are no words.
Author: Iana (
iana_niniel)Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes even poets cannot find the words to say...
Disclaimer: Although I surely wouldn't mind they unfortunately aren't mine. This is fiction and therefore never happened. Sad but true... The title is taken from a song from Vanessa Mae's beautiful album 'Storm'
Feedback: We wantssss it, we needsss it... musssst have the feedback
Archive: rugbytackle, all others please ask
A/N: This is my first ever RPS fic and I blame
lannamichaels for this one ('My lovely beautiful poet').:A Poet's Quest For A Distant Paradise:.
And poet that I am for once there are no words. For all the pages I've filled with nonsense scribbled in a haste on the back of a crumpled script between shots, in the car on my way home when the merciful traffic lights turned red, in the back seat of a chopper with Middle-Earth's plains passing underneath, for all the pages I've filled now the words seem to shy away from me, melt like snowflakes before they've even touched the paper lying before me, white, and terribly empty.
So empty while I feel my heart must burst any second now, overflowing with a thousand unknown emotions. And I feel strangely helpless, lost in the white void of words unwritten.
For there are no words to capture the colour of his eyes, no words to describe the way my name sounds on his lips. There are no words that must not fall short in comparison to what I feel, no words that can be more than a faint reflection of his radiant smile.
I want to make it last, so badly, make it last so that I will never, never forget. Never forget the stolen glances at his face and never forget the feeling, half fearful sensation, to know that he might turn his head any second, that any second his eyes could meet mine. Oh they did, and yet not quite, for their voiceless question I could not answer, I dared not and beneath the random irrelevance of my words I was trembling. I need to make it last and yet I cannot.
And I am afraid of the day I will find the memory has faded, that he is but another shadow in a much too troubled past. It has happened before, too many times and I know I cannot bear it, not him. I need to make it last, I so need to make it last before the slow decay of time makes the memory fall apart like withered parchment beneath my trembling fingers.
When I first met him his handshake was warm and his eyes smiled while all I could think was that he's fucking beautiful. He laughed then.
'So this is the man who will be king...' I still hear him say and I could but nod and smile back at him.
And when I was alone in my room that night I found that I could not forget his eyes and the way his smile had illuminated them shining with a fire to match the sunrise. I found I could not forget the way his name had sounded when he had repeated it, hesitating a little, not sure how to form the sound. 'That's not a common name,' he had said half excusingly and his voice echoed tenfold from the walls of my room, much too small and stuffed with things I kept for no reason, out of a poet's sentimentality perhaps, the only witnesses to a silent torture.
Yes, I thought then, this is the man who will be King, the man who will be your rival, Boromir of Gondor, and the thought made me cringe. And for the first time I felt that on the Ranger's long journeys to nowhere Viggo I knew might have been lost somewhere along the road. The thought frightened me then.
I remember the day when I tried to paint his face from my memory, his face, not Boromir's. And yet the man who stared back at me was neither of them, neither he nor Boromir for the green fire of their eyes no words can describe and no painter can capture.
I need to make it last before the end, the sweet memory of a stolen moment and the bliss I felt just watching him. It would be a lie to say that this was all I desired, watching him from afar and memorizing the lines of his face for a portrait I knew I would never paint. It would be a lie to say there was nothing else, to deny the dreams that haunted me, from which I awoke still warmed by the fire of his touch and yet cold for when I woke he was never there.
I remember all the times I swore to myself that I would tell him, all the times I walked up to him determined to say the words and yet time after time found the words betrayed me, coward that I am.
And when I knelt by his side I thought my heart would break for the love I felt. And that moment Aragorn and Viggo truly were one, the King and the poet, for the words would not come to the King as they would not come to the poet. As Aragorn lost Boromir to the night the loss I felt was impossible to bear and the tears I cried then were not the cold tears of an actor suffering on command but the burning tears of a love that would be forever unrequited. And the King's tears, the grief and the pain having to watch him die, the one man he truly loved, the man he never dared to tell what he felt until it was too late, the King's tears and the poet's tears, they were one.
And when the brilliant green eyes smiled at me from the pale bloodied face I knew that I needed him, needed him more than anything and even then, deathly pale and dirty, I thought he was fucking beautiful.
For all the poems I've written there is one I cannot write. God knows, I would gladly exchange them all for this one memory preserved but still I am betrayed. And as the memory begins to fade, slowly, oh so slowly, all that is left to me is the emptiness, the cold white emptiness of words unwritten.
For the colour of his eyes... for the light of his smile... for the sound of his voice... for the touch of his hand...
And poet that I am for once there are no words.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 05:58 pm (UTC)This is wonderful, simply beautiful. :)
no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 06:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-13 11:12 pm (UTC)But I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
...all that is left to me is the emptiness, the cold white emptiness of words unwritten.
Captures Viggo beautifully, poor thing.
Thank you *S*
no subject
Date: 2003-04-14 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-14 10:34 am (UTC)jennandanica, I don't mind you friending me at all. :) Have added you back.
*lol* Lanna, just keep writing and I'll never run out of inspiration. :) I'm still trying to write that Denethor/Thorongil & Aragorn/Boromir bunny of yours that just won't leave my head... I have written like 6 pages so far but as of yet there's no Ara/Boro in it so it's no use posting it here...
Thanks again to all of you. Your feedback made my day. :)
no subject
Date: 2003-04-22 08:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-22 01:01 pm (UTC)