He keeps the photographs as memories, as reminders. This happened, I was here, these people were here. This was real. That beach, with white sand and water so blue it hurt the eyes, that mountain, with rugged stones and hidden crevasses full of flowers with delicate blooms. That pub where they'd all gathered after shooting for a few pints and some darts and conversations, always talking and listening and sharing. Their own secret language, forged by time and knowledge and love. Mostly, though, Viggo lingers over one in particular, taken on a blustery kind of day that seemed straight out of A.A. Milne. It's not the greatest picture – shot's too grainy, lens opened a shade too long and the sun had been just this side of too bright. Had washed out the colors just enough to give it that old quality, like maybe it had been taken a long time ago and was just now being discovered. And that's how Viggo feels when he looks at it. Like someone discovering something for the first time. The two men in the photo weren't doing anything special. Just a shot of both of them in their armor -- one Gondorian, one Rohirrim, both banged and scuffed -- arms around each other's shoulders. One has dark hair, the other blond, both men of a similar height and build, one being slightly taller, the other being slightly broader through the chest and legs. Both have the same dark, piercing eyes and wide, ready grins for the camera when Viggo'd snapped the shot. Just two men, two friends, during a day of filming, a single moment captured. Nothing special at all, until you notice how closely they're standing next to each other, how they'd flowed together in surety and love. Neither especially beautiful apart, although they're both good-looking men. But something more, something whole and right and real together. Viggo'd thought about sending the photo to them, but is sure they wouldn't see what he saw. Or rather, they might, but it wouldn't be the same knowledge. He merely saw what they were together; they simply were.
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