by P. R. Zed

He waits.

Legs crossed on the sleeping bag, shoulders hunched in the confines of the tent, ranger's costume pulling slightly across his chest.

The world outside is dark, lit only by stars and the new moon. He can hear the rustling of the sleeping camp, the other actors, the crew, Barrie, all here because of his whim about filming the remnants of the Fellowship at sunrise. Even Miranda and Bernard here, when they don't have to be, here because they thought it would be fun.

All here save one. All here save Sean.

Boromir has been taken from the Fellowship, and Sean has been taken from him. But not by orcs, not by their cruel arrows, their brutal swords. Taken instead by film schedules and contracts and commitments. Taken by his own life back in England, new jobs, old friends. Old lovers?

He wishes they'd had time. More time. Any time. Wishes they'd acted on their attraction instead of simply acting for each other. Pretending it was all a lark, when he can still feel Sean's bearded cheek against his palm where Sean had leaned into a casual touch. Can still remember the heat in Sean's eyes as they'd shared a beer in that pub he liked and talked about nothing. Talked about everything but the one thing they should have spoken of.

But couldn't. Or wouldn't. He doesn't know. Knows only that there's an ache deep within him. Know only that he'll have one more chance. Reshoots. Months away. Eons away. A brief hope on the horizon.

So, he steels himself, his courage, his resolve. Vows he'll talk. Vows he'll act. Vows he'll waste no more time.

And until then, he waits.


Got any comments? Send 'em to przed@rogers.com