This is probably my best, and longest fanfic, and we're not even finished it yet. as it's rated NC17, for obvious reasons, I'm only posting the first chapter, but also the link ^_^
It's Real Person Slash, with Viggo Mortenson and pretty much the rest of the LOTR cast in an AU setting where Viggo becomes an desert prince and starts collecting his own harem. Anyway, here's the link :
http://www.morningchilde.com/Stories/ArabianNights/ArabianNightsHome.htmArabian Nights
I
For many a foot the sand travelled onwards, the sun beat down. A cloudless sky rolled overhead, he remembered seeing oceans that colour once, that rich blue that could almost blind with its intensity. The sand shone almost white beneath it, making it hard to focus on anything ahead other then his feet. They hurt from walking in constricting boots though it would be madness to remove them, he could feel the heat on the small parts of his flesh that met with the open air. Some days before he had found it strange to see the Nomadic people that lived in these deserts in white robes and now he wished he had followed their example, dark tan riding leathers and heavy black shirt had seemed so practical now drew more heat then necessary to his already dehydrating body.
He should have been across the desert two days ago, but somehow he got incredibly lost. It would have been rather embarrassing if he didn’t fear for his survival. He was the best hunter and tracker in his father’s kingdom, he had believed that navigating a simple desert would have been easy. He had never been more wrong.
His once bright stormy eyes that had looked at his father with such defiance now glazed with fatigued. And yet he kept walking with grim determination not to perish that once made him famous amongst his people. Now it was the only thing that kept him moving, that ensured he didn’t just pass out where he was. He had finished the last of his water yesterday and this morning had sucked as much of the dew from his clothes as he could before it had gotten to hot and they had dried out. His mouth had been dry for hours, or perhaps it was simply moments that seemed like hours. Sand had gotten into places he had never new existed, crusted to his clothing. He didn’t even sweat anymore, there was not even enough water in his body for such a function.
He wondered silently if choosing this path had been a mistake. When presented the option to marry and settle down or leave, leaving had seemed the only option at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure, a warm bed and the soft lines of a woman in his arms sounded of paradise. Perhaps he had been wrong to deny his father his wish.
No! He thought stubbornly, he had not been wrong. His father, King and a wonder as he was, had more sons, and Grandsons then one could poke a proverbial stick at. He wasn’t needed to produce heirs, to carry on his family’s line, and it was almost laughable to think that he had too. His father had no need of him, to marry him off was as convenient as sweeping him beneath a rug. And he would be no dust for anyone, especially his father. When he had walked out he had felt triumphant at the surprise on his father’s face. He had not believed he would actually leave, that he would take his life into his own hands. He would have laughed in his face if that had not meant he would have found himself in a cold, dark cell rather quickly.
It was good to know he could still smile even as he could begin to feel his life ebbing away from him. He did not feel the wind pick up until sand stung the skin on his face. He had been warned of these sandstorms that could strip the flesh from your bones should you be caught in one. They moved quickly through the desert, their fury lasting bare moments, but the man had spoke in fear and awe of such an event. They were not to be reckoned with.
It battered at his body, intent on driving him. In his weakened state he would not have this. He had fought to come so far, against exhaustion and dehydration. He would not give into a work of nature. He continued to move against the wind, to fight against what would push him back. He would not return and be his father’s puppet. Rage boiled up and over and he continued to move, lifted his face to the sky and howled, howled till he could do no more and he finally to gave in to the demons and collapsed, falling to the ground as the storm passed with his rage.
It was here that the Lord Viggo may have found his end, a broken man, unconscious and so close to death that few would have been able to tell the difference. In the darkened place where his consciousness resided he did not hear the hooves of horses come upon him, nor the softly whispered words or gentle hands that checked his condition. He missed the shouted order and being lifted into a saddle. All he knew was darkness and the feel of comforting hands around his waist and softly whispered words in his ear.
“You are safe now.”
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