TITLE: Shelter From the Storm (3/?)
AUTHOR: Elizabeth (sef7881@aol.com)
WEBSITE: https://www.angelfire.com/scary/randominsanity/RandomInsanity.html
PAIRING: Viggo Mortensen/Orlando Bloom
RATING: PG-13 for this part
SUMMARY: Finding hope in the darkest times
FEEDBACK: It's the highlights in my hairdo, the extra arms on Vishnu
WARNINGS: AU, references to war and violence throughout the fic
DISCLAIMERS: This story is solely a product of my twisted imagination
ARCHIVE: Of Elves and Men, my site; all others please ask, but I'll
surely say yes
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I just want to send a quick thank you out to everyone
who has given me kind feedback on this story. I was reluctant to
write it when the idea first came to me because of the sensitive subject
matter, and the kind words of praise I've received makes me feel sure that
I made the right decision in writing this fic. Most of all, thank
you to Losti for her fantastic beta job
"Is there anything else I can get you?" the stranger asked as Orlando spread jam on yet another biscuit. "Maybe something to drink?"
"I'm fine, thanks." Orlando paused. "I really appreciate everything you've done for me tonight . . . I can't thank you enough."
The stranger smiled. "The golden rule is to treat people the way you'd want them to treat you. If I was stranded in a downpour with nowhere to go, I'd certainly hope someone would take me in for the night. So I felt it was the least I could do for you."
"Well, thank you again."
"And again, you're welcome." There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes as the two men ate dinner. "Can I ask you what may be a personal question?"
Orlando automatically tensed up. "Sure."
"What's a young man from England doing wandering the streets of Copenhagen
with no place to stay?"
"I came here from Germany, where I've been living for the past several years," Orlando said, choosing his words carefully. "The situation there with the war is intolerable, and I'm attempting to get back to Britain."
"I can understand that," the man said sympathetically. "The war has already come to Denmark, and I know how difficult things are."
No, Orlando thought grimly, you really don't. But all he said was, "I just hope I can get back to England."
"How are you planning to do that?"
"I've heard that there are boats to Norway. Tomorrow I'm going down to the port to inquire about finding passage on one of them. If I can get to Norway, I'll get on another boat to England. I have enough money for both trips," Orlando said, thinking of the pawn money he would collect by selling his valuables and hoping it would be enough to get back home.
"What about your passport and papers? Do you have those?"
"No," Orlando admitted. Those items had been confiscated by the Nazi authorities because he was Jewish. "Do you have any idea if I'll be able to get on a boat without them?"
"It definitely hurts your chances that you don't have papers," the stranger told Orlando with a sad smile. "The Reich government has put a stranglehold on people attempting to leave the country, and the truth is that even if you *did* have your papers in order, you could still be denied permission to leave on the basis that you're from an enemy country."
"Really?" Orlando's heart plummeted into his stomach.
"Listen, I'm not telling you that you shouldn't try, because you never know . . . there's always the chance that there'll be someone willing to smuggle you out. And I certainly hope that's the case, because nobody should be forced to stay in a country against their will."
"Have you thought about leaving?" As soon as he said the words, Orlando wondered why he had asked this man such a personal question.
"I've thought about it," the stranger said as he stood up to clear the dishes. "I was actually born in America and moved here when I was in my twenties. After the Nazis invaded, I contemplated going back to New York City but I have family members here that I don't want to abandon."
"I see." There was an awkward silence for a few moments.
"You know, I just realized that I still don't know your name."
"Yes, I suppose we haven't been formally introduced. My name is Thomas Foster," Orlando lied.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Foster," the stranger said, and Orlando couldn't tell if he believed the lie or not. "I'm Viggo Mortensen."
"Viggo." Orlando rolled the name around his tongue, intrigued by its unfamiliarity. "That's a nice name."
"Thank you. It's Danish."
Orlando frowned in confusion. "But I thought you were American."
"Well I was born there, but my father is from Denmark," Viggo explained.
"I see." Another awkward silence fell upon the room.
"It's getting late," Viggo commented. "Maybe you should get some sleep."
Orlando nodded. "That sounds like a good idea."
"The spare room is right down the hall. Come with me, I'll show you." Viggo led Orlando to a small bedroom and smiled warmly. Orlando automatically scanned the room for an escape route in case flight became necessary, and he was relieved to see a small window that he could easily squeeze through. "The bed's clean, and there's a small clock on the nightstand. Do you remember where the bathroom is in case you need to use it?"
"Yes."
"I usually get up fairly early in the mornings, around six or so. Is there any specific time you'd like me to wake you?"
"Six is fine for me," Orlando said as he put his sack down on the bed. "I should get down to the port as early as possible."
"Right. Well then, I hope you have a pleasant sleep."
"I'm sure I will. It seems like it's been years since I've slept in a bed . . ." Orlando sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Mortensen."
"You're very welcome. Good night, Mr. Foster."
Orlando managed a small smile. "Good night."
The door closed behind Viggo and Orlando kicked off his shoes before climbing under the covers of the bed, reveling in its warmth and comfort. He reached for the sack and opened it, pulling out a small framed photograph. Tears immediately pricked at his eyes as he looked at the young man in the picture. As gently as possible, he pressed his lips to the photograph and whispered, "Good night."
Placing the photograph back into the sack, Orlando closed his eyes and
said a silent prayer of thanks for the incredible kindness that had been
extended to him by a stranger. Then, lost in a sea of grief and fear,
he cried softly into his pillow as he drifted off to sleep.
