Summary: (AU) Viggo is somewhere else, where everyone and no one is the same.

Rated: NC-17

Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo

Warnings: AU, Violence

Challenges:

Series: Arena

Chapters: 22 Completed: Yes

Word count: 35785 Read: 23557

Published: 08 Aug 2009 Updated: 08 Aug 2009

Suddenly the air was dusty and dry and hot. The stench was foul. Indescribable, within Viggo's experience. With a dreamlike feeling of unreality he realized he was holding a sword, much like Narsil, but heavier, and the grip wasn't quite the same. And the blade was bloody. Covered with blood. And darker matter. In a sort of confused haze he knelt forward and retched, only to find himself in a puddle of whatever various fluids had come out of the gutted body on the ground in front of him.

"Nightmare," he thought. The most horrific and realistic nightmare of his life. He leapt to his feet and spun away, trying to deny the dream image. All around him were the dead and dying. He looked again at his bloody sword, and wondered if he had killed them.

But there really wasn't any time to think about that now. Months of hard training brought his arm up to block the sword that was crashing down toward his head. He was holding a shield, as well, but Aragorn didn't fight with a shield and Viggo didn't have a clue what to do with one, so he threw it aside, took his strange blade in both hands, and fought.

It seemed to go on and on. Time stretching out and collapsing nonsensically, as it will in dreams. But then eternity came to an end. There was hardly anyone left to fight. He was afraid to lower his arms - afraid if he did, he would never lift them again. But as he looked over the battlefield and the bodies of the dead, horns blew and he knew that it was over.

Three other men still stood, widely spread around the huge enclosed space. With the battle ended, his dream reality was opening out and he realized that the deafening noise that he had hardly noticed before wasn't coming from the men still standing. It wasn't coming from the dead on the ground. It was coming from the people above them. Chanting. Stamping. Cheering.

It was all too much. The exhaustion. The reek. The noise. Viggo found that he was sobbing on his knees, fingers locked around the hilt of his weapon. He bowed his head to his hands and tried to wake up.

Then there were hands on his shoulders and a familiar warm voice in his ear. Encouraging him and shaking him. Urging him to get up, stop crying. Viggo opened his eyes and it was Sean. Beautiful and golden. And strangely young.

And covered in blood. Face and hair streaked with it. Bare chest and arms covered with it. Viggo finally let go his sword to reach out and bemusedly touch a bit of grey matter on Sean's face. It was strangely warm and firm. Viggo brushed it away, still feeling the dissociation of nightmare, yet feeling more and more forced to acknowledge that it wasn't a dream. That somehow it was real.

"I think you have brain on your face," Viggo said. Sean looked at him closely, then spoke to him softly. The voice was the same. Even the pattern and flow of the words. But they didn't make any sense at all. Viggo's lack of understanding must have shown in his face. Or perhaps Sean had asked him a question and Viggo hadn't answered. In any case, Sean sighed deeply, then with an encouraging smile, said something else that in tone sounded distinctly like "Let's get you on your feet" and wrapped a strong arm around Viggo's waist and hauled him up. To Viggo's surprise, the crowd roared even louder, and he realized he must have created some sort of drama with his collapse.

Barely managing to carry his sword, rather than drag it behind him, he allowed Sean to lead him forward. In the center of the arena, on a platform smeared with the remains of the dead, an elderly man in clean white robes decorated them with wreaths and flowers. The other survivors bowed low, and Viggo followed their example. Then armed guards came to escort them away.