What am I doing here?
Two days ago I was at home in Los Angeles, and now I’m in another country, another fucking hemisphere even, and I don’t know anyone. This is my new life, at least for the next year, and if it doesn’t work out, I’m thinking about disowning Henry for telling me to take this damned role.
I look over the script again, wondering why on earth my character needs four different names, when Pete Jackson comes up to me and smiles. “Ready to meet the rest of the Fellowship?”
“Uh, sure.” Good, Viggo, you sounded really excited there. Would it kill you to throw some enthusiasm in? Can’t claim jet lag much longer.
The outdoor area where the cast is eating breakfast is filled with talking and laughter, which promptly dies when Pete shows me to the table. Nothing like being a conversation killer.
“So guys, this is Viggo Mortensen; you all know he’s been cast to play Aragorn.” Everyone’s smiling at me, albeit a bit guarded. I can’t really blame them; they’re probably getting used to the fact that there’s a cast change after filming started. “Where’s the elf?” Pete asks.
“Late. Again.” That comes from a slight young man with a Scottish accent.
“I’m going to kill that boy,” the director grumbles. “Well, Viggo,
why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast. There’s still about
ten minutes before everyone’s needed in costume.” Great. The
lion’s den awaits.
“There’s a chair right here,” says a blonde man who looks about
my age. “Help yourself to some food.” His smile is a bit more
relaxed this time, and I smile back.
“Thanks. Still getting used to this.”
“I can only imagine,” he sympathizes. “I’m Sean Bean; I play Boromir.”
“My rival, huh?” I ask with a grin.
“Exactly.”
They go around the table, introducing themselves. I already recognize Elijah Wood and Ian McKellen, but the rest are all new faces. After a few minutes, we fall into a comfortable conversation about ourselves, and I start thinking that maybe this isn’t so bad after all.
As we stand to clear our paper plates, a young man races up to our table. “Shit, sorry I’m late,” he says, and my eyes widen. He is, without a doubt, the most breathtaking creature I’ve ever seen. His eyes are pure chocolate, his skin smooth olive, and the sheepish smile he wears would melt glaciers. Somehow, even his mohawk, a haircut I detest with every fiber of my being, is appealing to me. Please don’t tell me this is a costar, I think. I’m not sure I could take a year around temptation like this.
“Hey, make your apologies to Pete,” Elijah says to him. “And to our new Aragorn.” Shit. Put me on the spot, why don’t you?
The young man turns towards me and gives me an incredibly bright smile before enveloping me in a crushing embrace, and I send a silent thank you to whatever higher power might exist that my body doesn’t react. I’m also very proud that I keep myself from protesting when he pulls back, still grinning.
“Orlando Bloom,” he says.
It takes my brain a second to realize that he’s introducing himself, but then I smile back at him. “Viggo Mortensen.”
“I play Legolas.”
Great. From what I’ve read, Aragorn and Legolas spend a shitload of time together, so that means I’ll be spending long hours with this beautiful, unattainable creature month after month. I am definitely disowning Henry.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” he says as we start to walk to costuming. The others have walked ahead, allowing us to get to know each other. “I’m sure you’re nicer than the previous Aragorn. Man, I couldn’t stand that guy. So, can I ask what kind of name Viggo is?”
I blink at the sudden subject change. “Danish. My father’s from Denmark.”
“Cool. Listen, the hug didn’t freak you out, did it? I’m just kind of touchy-feely; if it bothers you –”
“No,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. “No, it was fine. Just wasn’t expecting it, you know?”
“Yeah. So, do you bungee-jump?”
Where the hell did that come from? “Uh, no.”
“I’m going this weekend with some hobbits. You’re welcome to tag along.”
“Let me check my life insurance policy,” I joke. Although having his face be the last thing I see wouldn’t be so bad.
He laughs. “Okay, I know it’s not for everyone, but I thought it was worth a shot. I don’t want you feeling left out or anything; everyone sort of has a head start on you with the socializing, but you should fit in quickly.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
We stop talking as we reach the costume trailer. “Time to become the elf prince,” he says, the enthusiasm obvious in his voice. I just nod.
Orlando puts a hand on my shoulder. “Welcome to Middle Earth, Viggo.”
“Thanks, Orlando.”
“Orli,” he says, his voice a bit softer.
“Orli.”
So that’s the way it is. My stomach is doing Olympic gymnastics
over a bungee-jumping, mohawked kid named Orli. I should have stayed
in Los Angeles.
