Diamond Delight

Tue, 26 Sep 2006 15:41:30 GMT

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: kiarae
Chapter: Chapter 4
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: All over NC-17, this part rather safe.
Warnings: Smut, angst, romance, slash, and all that jazz. Also, AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not fair.
Summary:In the end 1800’s, in a small village of Crowcry, a young poet catches the eye of a powerful man.
A/N: My first fic, be merciful.
Feedback: Yes please, the more the better.

The room at Mr. Monaghans rental apartment had always been poor, but sufficient. It met all the requirements a person could have. There was a bed (not a very comfortable one but a furniture that allowed you to sleep at best), there was a table (be it as it may it was rather unstable and uneven, and writing on it was an impossible mission most of the time), there was a chair (that would without a doubt crash underneath your weight if you were foolish enough to actually sit on it) and a window. The room was not luxurious, but it contained the basic goods the occupier needed.

To Orlando, this room had been more than sufficient; it had been a home. Granted, he hadn’t actually occupied to for too long but it definitely was the first place he felt safe and comfortable after moving to Crowcry from Liverpool. In Liverpool he had lived with his family, a rather poor but a happy group of relatives who got their livelihood from craftsmanship. Orlando had never had the gift to create objects or sell them, but he had been talented in the more spiritual sense. He wrote his heart out and his father, bless him, carried to small pieces of paper to the Liverpool Daily. Orlando hardly made a dime on them, but he felt as if he contributed to the family’s expenses. The home was too small for such big numbers as his family was in, but they never cared. Even still, Orlando remembered feeling rather relived when he moved out from the house, and away from Liverpool. He was out from the way.

Obviously, his mother had disagreed, as mothers do.

“You should not leave.” She had said. “There is no reason for you to go because of a stupid mistake made by someone else.”

”But it’s not just a mistake made by another, mother. My heart made a mistake, too.” He had replied, being the good son and never lying to his mother.

”And what of it? Mistakes are made constantly, and God loves us nonetheless!” Mothers held a wisdom Orlando had always admired, but he was too scared, too stubborn to accept what she said.

”How could God love a sin He Himself calls abomination?”

“God loves a sinner even if hates the sin.

"I love you, mother.”

And with that, he left Liverpool.

Most of the time he had been living in Mr. Monaghans rental property, in the one poor room he had for spare. Sometimes the room was occupied by someone else, and Orlando had to seek for another form of accommodation. Sometimes that had meant the street, or Billys room above the Kneeling Widow. In any case, the small, quite poor, but very much adequate room had been the only home Orlando had known.

Now, he was standing in a hall of a mansion that beat even the cathedral of Chester in its glory. The dark brown, circulating stairs with golden decorations alongside the curves, the black wooded floor, the ancient paintings on the walls, a huge, painted window up the stairs and silvered carvings everywhere. It reeked of luxury and glory, of many generations. Orlando had never seen anything like it.

Master Mortensen stood at the bottom of the stairs. He looked very different with his wheat colored hair free from the large, dark hat and his posture seemed a lot younger when his shoulders weren’t pushed down by heavy cloak. Orlando didn’t even try to hide his surprise when the older man approached him with a smile that could have warmed a whole room.

“Mr. Bloom. I am so very pleased to see you here. I trust all is to your satisfaction?”

Orlando took the offered hand and shook it, allowing a small smile to form on his lips.

“Yes, yes indeed, Master Mortensen. I have never seen anything quite like it, to be honest.”

“Please, call me Viggo. I am sure you will find this environment inspiring, as I am sure I will find your company.” Viggo turned to the young man standing at the door, pointing at the one, sad pack bag Orlando had brought with him. “Elijah, would you please carry Mr. Blooms belongings to his room?”

Orlando frowned. Viggos voice was cold, emotionless, and cruel. The young, beautiful man standing at the door picked up the pack bag and headed towards the stairs, his face as emotionless as a rock, and the look in his eyes as hard. Orlando gave a quick glance at his new host, not really sure what to think about this all.

Viggo on the other hand seemed fairly pleased that Orlando had come, and rushed him up the stairs, proposing to have a toast in the honor of the young poet arriving.

“I have the perfect wine for the occasion!”

Orlando couldn’t help but to feel there was a lot of work to be done in the house, and it wasn’t all just on his poetry.

Viggo pushed the silvered double doors open and wandered slowly in to the room. The floor was covered with a red, velvet carpet, as were the windows. A huge, dark oak table centered the room, and was surrounded by matching chairs. The walls were unseen due to a huge amount of bookshelves that circled the room. Viggo picked up a glass from the table and poured rich, red wine into it.

“I believe this event calls for celebration.”

Orlando smiled gently, and took the offered glass. The wine smelled of fruit and delight, and it warmed his insides gently with the first sip.

“You have hardly said a word since entering the house!” Viggo noted, sat on a chair and allowed his gaze set upon the young poet. “Is everything to your liking?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Definitely Mast… Viggo. It’s more than to my liking. Your house is… it’s beautiful.”

“One would expect a poet to be more verbal.”

“I’m sorry. This all is very kind, very kind indeed. I am merely lacking on words to describe how grateful I am for this opportunity, or how glorious your home is.” Orlando stammered. Viggos eyes were fixed upon him, and in those eyes there was a look Orlando had difficulties to place.

“It’s just very cold, isn’t it?”

“Cold?”

“Yes. Cold.” Viggo said, sipped his drink and tore his eyes from the younger man.

“With all due respect, Viggo, some of the coldness might come out of the staff.” Orlando felt he was threading on thin ice. He didn’t want to point out Viggos attitude towards his servants, but he didn’t want him to think that the coldness was created by a force he didn’t master.

“It’s hard to get good staff nowadays.” Viggo nodded as if they had made an agreement on the matter.
“I was more referring to their master, to be honest.” Orlando said silently, placing his hand on Viggos shoulder gently.

Viggo trembled underneath his touch, looked up and met his eyes. There was a moment between them, which Orlando could not describe by any other means than an overwhelming urge to be embraced. He felt the need to put his arms around the older man, who in that very moment seemed to be fragile, empty, lonely and sad, and it was rather obvious that Viggo felt the need to be embraced with all that warmth and sincerity Orlando had to offer.

Needless to say, that moment passed very quickly.

“I think you should go and rest.”

The silence in the darkness reminds me of you.
It demands to be noticed
It demands attention.
If ignored, it will become
Heavy, as your breath when you breathe me in
Forceful, as your hands on me.
And yet
In this silence I am at ease.

Wed, 20 Sep 2006 13:54:35 GMT

I know I have been a drag and not updated in ages and haven't updated the story in ages either! I have been so busy at work I am absolutely exhausted when I get home, and haven't had the time to do anything apart from sleep and work! Where is my life, I ask!?
I promise I will update the story within a week and also update this blog more often.

A short update on the life issue, though. My holiday is in two weeks, can't wait for it. Amsterdam is a lovely city, so I've heard, and I am absolutely thrilled about the time off as well. Does anyone have any idea about what kind of weather I'm looking at going in in October? I mean, namely, do I need to get my winter coat with me :)

On other news, my hubby has been organizing the trip by getting the euros and finding out about transportation and such. He has been a doll. I envy his work where he simply goes to work and comes home and doesn't have to take his work with him. So unfair. On the other hand, thus is life :D

Also, we got some extra accessories into the house, some lamps and such. It starts to look like my house now, so I am extremely happy. The bed was replaced as well, so we have a functional bed now. I am very pleased about all that, but still, it has stressed me a great deal, mostly because the companies have been horrible about replacement units! Luckily it's all sorted out now.

That's about it. :)

Mon, 11 Sep 2006 15:58:54 GMT

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: kiarae
Chapter: Chapter 3
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: All over NC-17, this part R-ish
Warnings: Smut, angst, romance, slash, and all that jazz. Also, AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not fair.
Summary:In the 1800’s, in a small village of Crowcry, a young poet catches the eye of a powerful man.
A/N: My first fic, be merciful.
Feedback: Yes please, the more the better.

“No way.”

Billy stood behind the counter, his hands folded across his chest. His face held an expression that didn’t hide the disgust he obviously was feeling. Billy shook his head firmly and repeated his words slowly, to emphasis the point.

“No. Way.”

“Are you worried I might become as weird as Master Mortensen?” Orlando smiled. Billy shook his head even harder, let out an exaggerated sigh and put his hands on the counter, leaning closer to Orlando. He mouthed the words once more, without voice, and leaned back.

The pub was empty, mostly because it was closed. After Master Mortensen had left Orlandos room, he had grabbed his jacket and set out to see Billy, the only person who he could count on with good advice.

Orlando wasn’t stupid. He did realise that an opportunity such as this would not come across him again, and that the resources Master Mortensen had, would be highly beneficial for a poor, struggling poet. But on the other hand, Master Mortensen wasn’t a person Orlando wanted to share a house with. He was arrogant, insensitive, rude, selfish, amongst a lot of other, non-flattering attributes. Why the rich man wanted to invest in Orlando was beyond him, he was still unsure.

Billy, on the other hand, seemed to have an idea.

“He is a weird man, Orlando. I’m not afraid that he’ll make you weird as well; I’m worried of hat he will do to you out of his own weirdness. I’m telling you, there is something enormously not right with him and his family.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Billy.” Orlando nodded.

“I sense there is a ‘but’, though.” Billy murmured, his eyes widening with anticipation.

“There is. I am concerned what will my options be if I do decline his offer. He is a very influential man, Billy, he could really help me. Not to mention the fact that after a few weeks I might not have a roof over my head.”

“I can always ask Landlord Wenham to hire you, Orlando. You don’t need to sell yourself to the Mortensen family.”

“As much as I appreciate your offer, Billy, I am not a barman. Not even if I wanted to be. Besides, I wouldn’t have any time to work on my… poetry, if you may. Master Mortensen has offered me a great opportunity…”

“A great opportunity to become greatly weird.” Billy interrupted, mumbling the words out as if he didn’t even want Orlando to hear them.

“…A great opportunity to concentrate on my work and develop as a poet. He has connections to the art world I would never be able to achieve on my own.” When Billy gave him a dirty look, Orlando sighed but continued persistently. “Apart from being ‘weird’, Billy, the Mortensen family has always been well connected to the artists of this country, and have been well renowned as artists themselves.”

“They paint, Orlando. They don’t have the talent you have.” Billy grunted.

“But they have the connections.”

“But they are weird.”

“But they can help to become what I’ve always wanted to become.”

“But they’ll make you weird, too.”

“Can we not get over this weird issue?”

“No. That would be…”

“Weird?”

“Yes.”

Orlando shook his head, sighed, and took his coat. “It was a silly idea really, wasn’t it?”

Billy leaned over the counter, grabbed his sleeve before he actually got too far.

“Look, Orlando, you are a mighty talented poet. You will become a great poet no matter what you do.” Billy smiled, run his hand through his hair as if he was embarrassed about what he was going to say. “I’m a barman. I’ve always been a barman. That’s what I do. I will never aspire to greatness, but I have never had that sort of ambitions. You, on the other hand, you are great already. In time, you will become even greater. You don’t need the Mortensen family to get you where you want to be. To be honest, you don’t need anyone. I’m just worried about you wasting your talent to a greedy, weird man.”

Orlando smiled, clapped Billys shoulder with his free hand and pressed his forehead against the other mans.

“You are the greatest friend anyone could ever have.” He said, gave Billy a quick hug over the counter before turning, waving goodbye and stepping outside.

The breeze quickly caught up with him, made him tuck his hands deep into his pockets. Orlando quickened his steps up the road to make it to Mr. Monaghans rental house as fast as he could. The cold wind blew against his face, making his cheeks tingle. The same kind of feeling was stinging his heart, the emptiness and lost ability to create what he wanted to. It was almost if his fingers were too cold for writing, as his heart was too hollow to create.

The creek of a pair of wheels alerted him.

The dark coloured carriage slowly pulled up next to him. Orlando looked up as it stooped, partly standing in his way. The doors were decorated with the familiar symbols. The door opened, and a dark figure with the familiar voice spoke from the lightless cabin.

“May I speak with you?”

Orlandos brow shot up, he had not expected Master Mortensen to actually ask for anything.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“In private, please. Not in the middle of the road.”

Orlando gazed around, then shrugged. He had already decided not to take the man on his offer, what was the harm in telling this to him face to face. He leaped over the offered steps and sat down to the comfortable cabin. The seats were made with the finest velvet and the curtains were perfumed. Orlando slid his hand gently over the fabric, marvelling the majestic feel of it.

“I believe you have made a decision on my offer.”

“I have. Unfortunately…”

“I am a lonely man, Orlando.” Master Mortensen interrupted. Orlando stared at him, but decided to stay quiet. At least his surprise was hid by the darkness in the cabin. “I am a lonely man who very seldom gets to even speak to people who are not his servants. I do come across as a very… unpleasant person. I am not claiming that I am not. But I believe that where as I could give you the connections you require to become as great as you aspire to become, you could be my… should I say, contact to the world that is a mystery to me.”

“The common world?” Orlando asked, still frowning. This was a side of Master Mortensen that he would have never believed to exist.

“For the lack of a better word.” Master Mortensen nodded. He turned his gaze out of the cabin window, and Orlando could see his eyes glimmering with strange, but strong emotions. “So, what say you, Orlando? Will you help me and let me help you?”

Orlando had a sinking feeling in his stomach that seemed to be too persistent to leave him be.

Thu, 07 Sep 2006 15:16:22 GMT

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: kiarae
Chapter: Chapter 3
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: All over NC-17, this part safe
Warnings: Smut, angst, romance, slash, and all that jazz. Also, AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not fair.
Summary:In the 1800’s, in a small village of Crowcry, a young poet catches the eye of a powerful man.
A/N: My first fic, be patient.
Feedback: Yes please, the more the better.

Orlando crossed his arms over his chest and his brow slowly rose to express his surprise. He man dressed in dark stood there, as if he was expecting Orlando to say yes to what ever he had to offer, without questioning. This, however, did not suit Orlando. He was not the kind to throw himself to the feet of the rich and powerful just so he could get a few pennies. Not that he could afford not to, but he was a proud man. Too proud for his own good. He recognised his place in this society, which wasn’t too high, but that didn’t stop him being proud of who he was and what he did.

That had, many a time, been his downfall.

“I should like to hear the suggestion before declaring it a non-refusable one.” He said, his voice steady and clear, even if his heart was not with his voice. This odd man made him feel uneasy, perhaps because the grey eyes stared at him like the mind behind them was planning to jump him, and the expression on the face of the stranger was all but pleasant.

The man frowned, obviously not used to being talk to in the manner Orlando just had. He took a deep breath, his fingers fumbling his hat.

“I’m sure you know who I am. But just in case you don’t, my name is Viggo. I am the heir of the House Mortensen and the master of the mansion on the Weeping Hill. I have come to your less than poor accommodation to make you an offer I am sure you will find very acceptable.” His voice was majestic, but it held arrogance that Orlando had used to hear from people who had enough money to buy them anything they wanted. “I am, should I say, a great admirer of your poetry. I have been very keen to read your work in The Cry, but I have noticed that you have failed to write for a couple of weeks. This has greatly displeased me”

Orlando tightened the cross his arms had formed. The man, Viggo, spoke to him like he was a small child or somewhat mentally challenged. From the corner of his eye he could see Mr. Monaghan staring at the floor, his hands folded behind his back. The expression on the mans face was, if anything, pained. To have a man bearing the status like the Mortensen Family did, enter a room that was barely fit to live in, was obviously embarrassing to the poor man. Orlando felt sorry for his landlord, as Mr. Monaghan had always shown him kindness and allowed him to stay in his premises whenever it was possible. How ever poor they might be, it was a lot better than staying on the street, and Orlando was not one to long for luxury.

Obviously, Master Mortensen was the kind of person who did.

His grey eyes gazed through the humble accommodation while he spoke, and the look of disgust on his face was clear. Orlando felt very uncomfortable around this man, and was, more than before, wondering what would he want with him.

“I have come to offer you my residence to stay in while you seek your inspiration. You may live in my mansion, take advantage of all the luxuries I can offer for no charge, apart from you regaining your inspiration.” Master Mortensen did not sound like he was making this offer out of the goodness of his heart; his voice was arrogant, as if he expected Orlando to drop on his knees and praise him for this act of charity.

“I don’t mean to sound rude, Sir, but why would you do that?”

“I see great potential in you, young man. I wish to aid you on your way to greatness.” The man smiled. “I am here to offer you a chance to become what you aspire to become. Surely you agree that this house does not suit a great poet?”

“I am not a great poet, Sir.”

“True, but you could be. And you will be. With my aid.”

Orlando stared at the man, his emotions running wild within him. His hands clenched to his arms still folded on his chest, as if they were protecting him.

“But… why would you do that? Not to sound rude, Sir, by no means, but I… I am a bit confused.”

“I have given my help to many young artists of the time, I wish to offer my help to you as well. Others did not question my choice.” Master Mortensen frowned angrily.

“With all due respect, I am not like the others.” Orlando said, his eyes fixed on the floor. He could not bear to face those predatorial eyes, they seemed to see right through him, examine him, feast on his soul.

“I know.”

The answer was whispered, Master Mortensens arrogance failing him for a second, his eyes loosing the greedy glimmer the seemed to be possessed with. For a fraction of time, master Mortensen seemed almost vulnerable.

That moment passed quickly. Master Mortensen stuck his chin out like a child that had been upset, and spoke in a tone that was reserved for those lower than him.

“I understand that you need time to consider my offer. I shall send for you tomorrow evening at sunset. Whether you wish to stay here," He gave one last, disgusted glance at the room they stood in. "Or seize your opportunity for greatness is up to you.”

With that, he left the room.

Orlando felt his knees giving in.

A/N I have been admiring those lovely banners you people have, unfortunately I am absolutely useless in trying to use photoshop or any other program of the sort. Could someone make me one, or am I just being cheeky?
A?N 2 : thanks S, I still haven't got your lj-name, but thans, I love the banner you've made!

Wed, 06 Sep 2006 14:06:49 GMT

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: kiarae
Chapter: Chapter 2
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: All over NC-17, this part R-ish
Warnings: Smut, angst, romance, slash, and all that jazz. Also, AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not fair.
Summary:In the 1800, a small village of Crowcry, a young poet catches the eye of a powerful man.
A/N: My first fic, be patient.
Feedback: Yes please, the more the better.

Silence between passions.
You, my love,
Light me like a candle;
Fragile, frail.
I wither when you
Kill my flame.

Orlando was not happy with the few lines he was able to write down. He blamed it on the weather, but also at his surroundings. Where as free, the accommodation provided by Mr. Monaghan was all but inspirational. The walls had been painted dark brown, and the two windows facing the street were small. At a dark time as autumn was, the room was dark and depressing. A few oil lamps here and there did not give the lighting the room required, and Orlando sometimes found it very hard to write in his room simply because he couldn’t see. His bed was small, creeky and the covers seemed to be older than Orlandos grandfather.

Nevertheless, it was a free. Orlando could not describe how grateful he had been when Mr. Monaghan had promised him that he could stay in the spare room for free until it was due to be rented again, as his landlord of late was a huge admirer of the young mans poetry. Orlando was flattered, if anything, and happy that he could stay out from the cold. There had been times that he had slept outside and lived on the street when inspiration failed him, and he did not miss those times at all. Not being from a good family has it’s toll, but Orlando was determined to one day become a great poet, to make it on his own.

All he needed was a decent place to stay, a place that would provide inspiration.

Orlandos inspiration bloomed from romance, from love, from these eternal and powerful feelings that entwined two people together. The only thing was, at the moment, his experience merely allowed him to describe the lack of those things. No matter how extraordinary it might have sounded, Orlando had never been in love.

It really was extraordinary, given the odds. The young man was beautiful. With full, pink lips, high cheekbones, soft, curly hair, big, lively brown eyes, he was tall and slender. There was not a woman in the village who would have been offended even the slightest to have received any attention from him. But Orlando had not met anyone to make his heart thump, to make him want to lavish his poetry on to them, to make him dream of forever or anything of the sort. He was by far the bachelor most sought after in town, but he held no interest in anyone who tried to flap their eyelashes to him, or dropped their hankies in front of him. Orlando just didn’t find them attractive or loveable enough to encage a relationship with them, let alone marry them!

He told himself it was because he was after the most amazing, world shaking, mind-blowing love, and he had not found the person to share that love with yet.

He was, of course, lying to himself.

There had been someone.

But he did not allow himself to think about that. Think about why he had left Liverpool in the first place and moved to Crowcry. Think about what had happened in Liverpool and how it had affected him. How his life had changed in a few seconds and how he still, even though he kept the memory of it so deep inside he hardly realised it was there, was pounded by a remorse stroke to him by a religion he didn’t understand.

Sean.

Orlando moved to the small window and gazed outside, only to see the wind slowly blowing the dead leaves up and about the road.

He refused to remember Sean.

But he couldn’t help but to remember the feeling of sickness and fear he had in him when it happened. The sin. The darkness. But how could something that had felt so good be so wrong?

In a second he had realised why his quest for eternal love would always be a futile one. When those hard lips had landed on his and those strong hands had held him still, he understood. The farmer meant no harm, he merely mistook the beauty of the young mans to be that of a lady, and after realising what he had done he did beat the living daylights out of the poor boy. But in that slip second before passing out from the strong and well-aimed punches Orlando had felt something he had never felt before. And would never feel again.

He had to leave it all behind and move on. Five years ago he moved to Crowcry, and even as it was a good move, career wise, he still sometimes remembered the night from which he got his inspiration to the poems of endless, passionate, desperate need for true love. He had tried to court a couple of young ladies since then, but to no avail. He refused to believe that that one night had ruined his life, one sin could destroy his soul and heart so completely that he would never feel that burning passion, need for a touch, love, all those things, again.

But that was all behind him. He had made a new start, he had made amends, he had purified his soul by solitude and work, and prayer. He wasn’t too religious, to be honest, he didn’t really understand religion, but he was not about to take the chance of one miss-step of ruining his talent and his craving for love forever.

Orlando shuddered, as if a cold breeze had gone through his spine.

He focused his eyes on the street, deciding that there was no need for thoughts of this sort. He wasn’t sure whether thinking about sinning was sinning as well, but he was not about to let these thoughts go any further. Besides, there was something rather captivating on the street, right below him, in fact.

A carriage that bore the symbol of the House Mortensen.

Orlando frowned. Why would the most powerful family of the North-West England even stop to gaze at a house owned by a man who rented rooms for a living. Shabby rooms, to the honest. Perhaps the man had just stopped for no good reason. He was known to ride around the town, hiding in his carriage. No one even knew what the newest master of the mansion even looked like, and that only added an edge to the stories and gossip.

A knock on the door interrupted the course of though Orlando had.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Bloom, but there is someone here to see you.” Mr. Monaghans voice echoed in the empty corridor behind his door.

“I…” Orlando started as he turned around but as he did so the door was pushed open, and a man in a black cloak and a black hat entered the room, uninvited.

“Enough.” He said with a majestic voice. “I have not come here for pleasantries.”

Orlando stared at the man who took his hat of, his grey eyes staring at him like ones of a predator. His hair was the colour of golden wheat, save for a few grey ones in the mix. His face was as a rock, emotionless and hard. But he had pleasant features, that could not be denied. It was more of how he came across that made Orlando feel unease.

“Why have you come here, then?”

“I have come here to make you an offer I am sure you cannot refuse.”

</j-cut>

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 16:17:42 GMT

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: kiarae
Chapter: Chapter 1
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: All over NC-17, this part safe
Warnings: Smut, angst, romance, slash, and all that jazz. Also, AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not fair.
Summary:In the 1800, a small village of Crowcry, a young poet catches the eye of a powerful man.
A/N: My first fic, be patient.
Feedback: Yes please, the more the better.

The Kneeling Widow was almost empty when Orlando popped his head into the warmth of the pub. Billy stood behind the counter, cleaning the glasses with a dirty rug in his hand, humming a song Orlando did not recognize. The tables and benches, made of dark wood, were shining as if they were brand new and the candles in old wine bottles lit the place with a gently romantic atmosphere. Orlando blew some warm air to his hands between his lips and walked to the counter, his glance gliding around the pub to make sure no one of too much importance was in. Billy could get him a pint on the house if his boss, the Landlord Wenham was not in, and Orlando wanted nothing less than to cause trouble to his friend.

“All right, Billy?” He asked as he leaned towards the counter, smiling the irresistible smile that was the cause of his popularity amongst the women of Crowcry. He felt a tickle against his cheek and only now noticed to wipe the dead leaves from his shoulder.

“Orlando, you gave me a right scare you did!” Billy laughed warmly and knocked the counter in front of his friend. “How are you?”

“Have been better, my friend, have been better.” Orlando said, rubbing his hands together so they’d feel warmer. “I did manage to get a place, though, for awhile. Mr. Monaghan has promised to let me stay in one of his rooms for a few weeks. Hopefully I’ll get around getting a new place after that.”

“Haven’t you sold any poems to the paper lately?” Billy asked, pouring him a pint without the other man even asking for one. This was definitely one of the reasons why Orlando loved Billy so much. He was the most considerate spirits Orlando had ever encountered, and he was more than happy to have befriended the red haired man.

“Not too many, I’m afraid. I’m blaming it on the season, though.” He said, smirking. Billy sighed, murmured something about artists and took another glass for shining. “I am trying, Billy.”

“I know you are, mate. Look, if you do end up needing a place to stay, I could always ask Landlord Wenham if he needs an extra hand, you could live in the attic with me and work, you might not get paid but at least you’d get a roof over your head.”

“I doubt I’d be what he has in mind, employee wise.” Orlando took a deep sip of his ale and sighed. “But it would certainly be an option, if I can’t write anything for the paper this autumn either.”

“I’m sure you’ll come around, you always do.” Billy smiled and tried looking through the glass, with poor results. No matter how hard he rubbed them, they never seemed to get any cleaner. For a while he considered of changing his rug, but decided against it. No one really cared about the state of the glasses, as long as they were whole enough to drink from.

“I’m hoping I will.” Orlando sighed, then directed the conversation to somewhat brighter subjects. “I saw one of the Mortensen carriages outside just a few minutes ago.”

“I’m surprised they care to venture amongst us mere mortals.” Billy smirked. “I bet they were hiding in their wagon and in shadow, staring us like we were dirt.”

“Well, I didn’t see the person in the carriage, but I could feel them staring.” Orlando shrugged. “I don’t mind them.”

“You would be the only one. The rumour has it that the current man of the house, Master Viggo, or what ever his name is, is the weirdest one of all of the previous Mortenses. There have been many, you know. But this one, he is absolutely bonkers, I’m telling you.” Billy took another glass, glazing through it, tilting his head and thinking.

“Why would you say that?” Orlando asked, took the final sip of his ale.

“Well, just by what the folks say. Apparently, he has hired an all men service crew, won’t let women even close to his mansion and can’t stop bad mouthing them.” Billy finally gave up trying to keep his attention otherwise occupied, his eyes faring up with the joy of gossip.

“Perhaps he has had his heart broken too many times?” Orlando asked.

“Ever the romantic. Perhaps he is just weird?”

“Ever the gossip.” Orlando smiled and got up. “Thanks for the pint, Billy. I must get back to the house so I can see if I’m able to get a few lines down to The Cry today.”

“Best of luck with that, my friend. Will you be popping by tomorrow?” Billy leaned over the counter.

“I just might, Billy. See you around.”

Orlando pushed through the ever-breezing autumn wind and headed towards the rental property of Mr. Monaghan’s, thankful for actually having a place to go when the night started to fall. He hummed a silent tune while walking down the street, not feeling a pair of greedy, grey eyes on his back while he speeded his steps.

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 12:35:54 GMT

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: kiarae
Chapter: Prologue
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: All over NC-17, this part safe
Warnings: Smut, angst, romance, slash, and all that jazz. Also, AU.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true, not fair.
Summary:In the 1800, a small village of Crowcry, a young poet catches the eye of a powerful man.
A/N: My first fic, be patient.
Feedback: Yes please, the more the better.

Somehow, autumn had always felt like a little death to Orlando.

He wrapped the blue and brown scarf tighter around his neck to prevent the wind from caressing his skin and causing him to have a cold. He was a horrible patient, and would not have wanted to lay in bed for days; depressed and staring at the world through a window. In a way, he hoped that he could close the curtains and open them again, just to see the world in full bloom again, the flowers blossoming and the birds returning from their journey to afar.

There was a certain kind of sadness in autumn, the essence of loosing and giving up, like the green gave in to the cold and became brown, like the sun lost to the darkness and the day made way to the night. It was as if something died, and was waiting to be woken up again by spring. This year it was worse, Orlando decided, worse than the year before, unless it merely got worse year by year.

His hands were cold, and he tried to protect them by shoving them deeper to his pockets. A few leaves fell from a tree and landed on his shoulder. They smelled of death and old age. Orlando would have wiped them off, had he not had his hands deep in his pockets.

He stood, shaking his shoulder, his dark hair escaping under his beanie, soft curls landing on his high cheekbones, his brown eyes covered by a frown. A thought of investing to a thicker pair of gloves accured to him.

A horse carriage slowly bypassed him, two eyes locked onto him like a predators. Eyes that were grey and emotionless, judging. Displeased to say the least. Orlando looked up, and averted his eyes quickly, pretended to be interested in the stones on the road. The likes of him never made contact with the wealthy and powerful. Especially with those who bore the seal of the house Mortensen.

The carriage slowly moved uphill, its destination the very heights of the Weeping Hill, where the mansion of the richest family of the village dwelled.

Orlando turned to return up the street. The breezy air did nothing to his inspiration; he was not one to write of sadness and desperation, but of love and adoration. Perhaps Billy at the Kneeling Widow would offer him a pint to ease his mind. Orlando shoved his hand deeper to his pockets and strode up the street, towards the warmth and merriness of the best pub in the village.