Summary: At first he didn't want the part.
Disclaimer: All people mentioned in this fic belong to themselves and there significant others.
Notes: Inspired by lotrpschallenge number 17. Posted to fellow_shippers and my own journal.
At first, he didn't want the part. As stupid as it seems now, he hesitated. He didn't want to fuck this up. He didn't want to be remembered as "that guy who ruined those Lord of the Rings movies." And while it was unlikely that he would there's always that little voice in the back of your head that asks "what if?"
He always trusted his instincts, until now. And for once he was glad he listened to someone else's instincts. Now, here he is. Aragorn. He can feel himself slowly becoming him. Sure, it's a little rough, the sword is heavy, make up is early, the hobbits are loud, and elvish--while beautiful--is not quite as easy as it looks, but it's worth it. At the end of the day he's grateful. How many people have the chance at becoming the King of all men?
"Hey! Wait up!" I slowly raise my head, knocked away from my, well, memoirs sounds pretentious I've always preferred "third-person journal." It's one of the hobbits, Frodo to be specific. What was his name again? E something...Ellis? Elias?
"Holy fuck man am I glad I caught you, I've been looking for you fucking everywhere. I tried makeup but you weren't there and then wardrobe said you just went to eat and then I ran into S'Blomie in the food-tent-thing and he was trying to find Beanie because--" He must sense my impatience as he suddenly stops himself and clears his throat. "Yeah, whatever. Anyway PJ was looking for you and he wanted me to give you this."
He searches through his pockets for a few minutes removing all manner of objects; three lighters, a handful of change, a rubber band, possibly a small book worth of torn and folded paper, napkins, and then--
"Ha! I knew it was here somewhere!" He is entirely too enthusiastic.
"I assume it's for me?" He hands me a piece of lined paper that has been folded within an inch of it's very existence.
"Uh, 'kay. So I guess I'll just like see you tomorrow then."
"Later Stewie." I wish they wouldn't call me that. I finally manage to open the note without tearing it more than necesarry.
One line. One line that would accomplish what thousands of angry Orcs could not. One line to snuff out a shining start. One line was all it took...to kill the king.
"We have to talk." – Pete