The fog, no respecter of boundaries, rolled in off the river, over the bank and over Viggo's feet. After retiring six months ago at 50 years of age, he'd come to this piece of property that he'd inherited near the source of the St. Lawrence. Unseen, Canada slept on the other side, a large and amiable neighbor, hosting the unique war between the Anglophones and the Francophiles. Viggo smiled at the mental image his thoughts conjured of the stampeding trumpet-mouthed Anglophones and the frenzied Francophiles nailing up signs in their sacred language on every available surface. Not all that long ago, he would have been running for a pen, the typewriter, his computer keyboard, anything he could write with to jot down notes on a tale that he was sure would amuse his son. However, Henry was not a little boy anymore and Viggo was out of the bedtime story business.

Toeing the smooth rocks of the New York shoreline, Viggo selected a somewhat flattish one and hurled it sidearm at the invisible water. He couldn't see the stone, but he could hear its skipping progress until it submerged with a final plunk. All noise was magnified within the pale realm of mist and sounds from the opposite side of the river seemed as clear as the call of the migrating Tundra swans that favored his stretch of the waterway. The grunting of the diesel tractor-trailers as they started up the grade, the warning clangor of channel buoy markers, even the shouted commands of the boat captains were as sharp and present as though heard through a cell phone at Viggo's ear. Far from annoying, these aural intrusions connected him in his chosen isolation to the rest of the world.

When he thought about it, which was often, he tried to trace the path that had brought him here, alone and weary to the bone at the half-century mark. After five decades of learning, working, marrying and raising a child, winning the admiration of his peers and the public and accruing enough wealth to make him comfortable for the remainder of his life, he supposed he should be content. However, despite his triumphs and his experiences, he was conscious of an emptiness at his core, a hollow spot that he had never managed to fill, not with food, drink, money, or love. He sometimes imagined that a piece of him had been lost before birth and drifted somewhere in the ether longing for reunion. A vague but definite pain had troubled him since he could remember, pining dully for something he couldn't name, something he blamed for the failure of his marriage among other things. No matter his surroundings or situation, he always grew restless after a time like a nomad dreaming of far away pastures.

Shivering in his flannel shirt and bright orange down vest, he turned to hike back to his cabin, vowing not to be underdressed tomorrow. He treasured his mornings, rising before the sun was up to catch daybreak on the river, not caring if the weather were clear, cloudy, or socked in like today. The time he spent in quiet communion, absorbing the sights, sounds and scents of his new home, grounded him for the rest of the day, giving him a strong base on which to build, reminding him that like the river some things go on whatever might be happening around them. So what if he had lost all enthusiasm for his work, was estranged from his ex-wife and hadn't seen his college-aged son in almost three years? His whole life was an eye blink, of no more significance than the mayflies that swarmed these banks in the summer. If he continued to remind himself of that fact, he'd get through the day.

Of course, then there was the long night to be faced. All his life, he'd jealously guarded his time alone; looking forward to a day when he had all the uninterrupted space he needed to create. Now that he had what he'd desired above all things, he was bereft of inspiration. Nothing sparked to him. Though he was aware of the wonders all around, an infinitesimal yet crucial gap separated intellectual appreciation from emotional response. He could depict what he saw in prose, poetry, or paint, but he could not make the reader feel the chill of the wind off Lake Ontario. He couldn't capture the essence of things as he'd once done with such ease. The hole at his center had grown until Viggo saw himself as shell over a void that deadened all it touched.

"Whoa, hoss," he whispered, his voice sounding eerily like his grandfather's. "Get a grip there." Taking a deep breath of the cool air, he shook off the dark mood that was encroaching. "You're not supposed to show up until after dinner," he joked. "Oh man, I'm talking to myself again."

Once the charming characters of the mythical land of Joiuslea had vied for his attention and made him the most beloved writer/illustrator of children's books in the world. Born of Viggo's despair that he would ever get his son to go to sleep, the fanciful denizens of Tootzitown, the Woobiwoobi Forest and the Notscary Atoll had overflowed the borders of his imagination and found their way into many languages to delight small children everywhere. Though he'd also published several books of poetry under a pseudonym and enjoyed great success with exhibitions of his artwork, he privately considered the fairy tales to be his best work. He had held nothing back while creating them, letting the ideas bubble out of his subconscious with no goal beyond pleasing his young son. And he had no idea how to get back to that place without a guide.

From behind Viggo, came the sound of a clear voice in mid-song. "Alouette je te plumerai, je te plumerai la tête, je te plumerai la tête, et la tête, et la tête." Viggo recognized the popular tune and knew the English translation of the French words. He'd been disconcerted as a youngster to find that the cheerful melody accompanied lyrics that described the plucking of a skylark, starting with its head.

When the unseen singer took a breath, Viggo called out. "Hey, give the poor birdie a break!"

For a moment, there was no sound but the subtle dip of oars in the water and then Viggo was answered. "It helps me keep my rhythm." The sweet voice that had been singing with such joy was muted now that the singer realized he was overheard.

"Sorry, didn't mean to throw you off. Don't know why I yelled at you really."

"You didn't yell and it was funny. I've sung it so much that I don't think about the words anymore. It is a bit bloodthirsty, isn't it?"

"You sound British."

"You've sussed me out; I'm a tourist in a kayak."

Viggo's lips curved in a smile. "You'll love the scenery along the river."

"As soon as this bloody fog lifts."

Viggo chuckled. "Must make you feel right at home."

"I'm not from London, but I've seen fog this thick more than once."

From the small noises in between the conversation, Viggo could tell that the Englishman was holding his craft in the current by paddling constantly. Feeling a bit guilty at holding the guy up, he gave him an opening. "Guess you got some miles to cover."

"I'm trying to make it to the big lake today."

"Good luck to you. Won't be long before you can actually see something."

"Yeah, it burned off quick yesterday and to tell the truth, I like it like this sometimes. It gives me the illusion that time has stopped and I can slow down and think about things."

"I know what you mean. Have a safe journey."

"Thanks, mate. Same to you."

Viggo heard the splash of oars and the silky purl of a sleek prow parting the water. As he walked away up the path he'd beaten, he heard the stranger begin singing again. This time the song was Frere Jacques and for some reason, it put a big grin on Viggo's face that hung around as he went about his self-appointed chores: feeding the flora and the fauna, cleaning up from his breakfast, bringing in more firewood and sweeping the mudroom floor.

It wasn't until he was cleaning the porcupine-shaped boot scraper Henry had given him one Christmas that the sense of futility began to creep in again. As he put fresh straw down in the barn, he wondered why he bothered to do anything, if it all came to dust in the end. The paint pony butted Viggo in the chest. Viggo took the hint and scratched under TJ's forelock. After a moment, he realized he was humming the kayaker's song. A second later, he had a mental image of a cocky little lark in spats and a waistcoat, one bright eye peering through a gold monocle. Strutting and bobbing, the elegantly dressed bird cast nervous glances over his shoulder. For the first time in over eight months, Viggo's fingers itched to hold a pencil and he glanced through the barn door at the ancient shed where his art supplies loitered. Somehow, he'd never got around to bringing them into the house after they were unloaded. Maybe he'd grab at least one box on his way in.

"Excuse me."

Viggo looked up and tried to focus on whatever was blocking his light. "Move aside," he said automatically.

"I didn't know there was a line."

Viggo recognized the voice as the man moved out of the doorway. "Wait," he called out as he got to his feet. He was surprised to see that he was still in the old fieldstone shed. At his feet were several sketches of a very debonair bird, with and without top hat.

The stranger turned as Viggo emerged into the sunlight and they saw one another for the first time. Tall and lithe, with the physical confidence of a born athlete, the young man came forward with his hand extended. "Sorry to just appear on your doorstep. I'm Orlando Bloom."

"Viggo Mortensen." Viggo took the other man's hand as he added. "I'm glad to meet you."

"I just had to stop on my way back down the river. You'll think I'm mad, but I'm used to that. Anyway, after our conversation this morning, I just had to know what you looked like."

"Curious type, huh?"

"Your voice is so appealing, that I had to know if your looks matched."

"And?"

"You look like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day."

"That good, huh?"

"I'm making a real fool of myself, aren't I?"

"Well, you're a foreigner," Viggo said lightly.

Orlando laughed. "If you're offering me an excuse, I'll take it. Among my friends, I'm a well-known loon. They've gotten over being shocked by anything I might do or say."

"Well, there's something to be said for ingenuousness."

"Look, I know this is terribly nervy, but I was wondering if I might camp overnight. I have my own tent and supplies and I wouldn't be any bother to you. Of course, I understand if you don't…"

"No," Viggo was surprised to hear himself say. "I don't mind at all. If you need water or anything, just help yourself."

"Thanks, mate." Orlando's smile was a revelation that stunned Viggo into immobility for several heartbeats. The young man's face was that of a Romantic poet, a Byron or Shelley, with soulful eyes and a mouth shaped for kisses, containing an intrinsic melancholy. However, when he smiled, he was a boy on the first day of summer vacation, brimming with simple delight.

"No problem. You want to have dinner with me?"

"That's the best offer I've had all day. I'll take you up on it, if you'll let me cook."

Viggo squelched his resistance to letting anyone else in his kitchen. "Sure, why not?"

"Brilliant! I'll get things going, shall I? And then I'll pitch me wee tent."

"Okay. Just let me close up here." Viggo picked up the sketches and pulled the plank door into place.

"Hey, those are great," Orlando said, catching a glimpse of the drawings.

"Just cartoons."

"Good cartoons. That bird has a definite personality."

"Thanks." Viggo pushed open the kitchen door and Orlando followed him inside. "Feel free to use whatever you can find. I'm going to walk down to the river one more time before dark."

Already opening cabinet doors, Orlando gave the other man a wave over his shoulder. When Viggo returned about forty minutes later, a wonderful aroma was wafting from the cabin door. He went into the kitchen and placed his burden on the counter. Orlando turned from the stove and saluted him with a wooden spoon. "About ten more minutes," the Brit said.

"Smells great." Viggo twisted the top off one of the bottles he'd fetched from the river. "Beer?"

"Mate, I could murder a beer!" Orlando gladly accepted one of the naturally chilled brews. "You know, I've heard horror stories about American beer, but this is good."

"It's from a Pennsylvania micro-brewery. What smells so damn good?"

"Wild shallots. I found a package of spaghetti, which is going into the boiling water now. I'm frying the onions and some mushrooms in butter and olive oil. All you had was granulated garlic, but it's better than no garlic at all. When the pasta's ready, I'll toss it all together."

"I've got a shaker of Parmesan in the fridge."

"Perfect! It's really good of you to open your home like this."

"I'm enjoying the company," Viggo said and found his words to be true.

"While you were gone, I composed all sorts of speeches to assure you that I wasn't going to chop you into bits and add you to the pot, but it sounded ridiculous even to me."

"You're putting as much trust in me as I am in you."

"I suppose that's true," Orlando said as he turned off the heat under the spaghetti. "Colander?"

Viggo reached the large sieve down from its ceiling hook and set it in the sink. Orlando cocked an eyebrow as he pulled on an oven mitt and took a tea towel in the other hand.

"Don't know why I didn't look there," he said as he emptied the pasta to drain. "Anyway, I was thinking that I felt a connection to you during the time we talked this morning. Just the fact that we were both out enjoying the fog has to mean something."

"We're not quite right in the head?" Viggo guessed.

Orlando laughed as he dumped the spaghetti into the big frying pan and tossed everything together. "I like your sense of humor."

"You're a member of a very small club," Viggo replied as he got two plates out of the cabinet and found enough silverware for both. "Sorry, I've only got paper towels for napkins."

"I was prepared to eat out of a tin." Orlando heaped the plates with savory-smelling pasta and brought them to the table. "Where's that Parmesan? We're ready to eat."

"Great. Since we're having Italian, how about switching from beer to wine?" Orlando grinned and Viggo was shaken by the swift wave of electricity that shot through him. "I'll just… I'll be right back," he stammered as he left the room. He had a bottle of perfectly acceptable red table wine in the rack under the sink, but abruptly, he wanted to offer Orlando a better vintage. After several minutes of frantic dithering in the root cellar, he came back with a pricey bottle of pinot noir. What was he saving it for anyway?

"Bloody hell!" Orlando exclaimed after the first sip. "Now that's proper grape."

"Glad you like it. Now that it's open, we'll have to finish it."

Orlando's impromptu pasta was as good as the wine and as the two men ate, they exchanged snippets of their histories. The young Englishman was on holiday from school, a professional student of thirty-one with three master's degrees from three universities in three different countries. He had no job, no wife, no house, or children. Living frugally on a small inheritance, he managed to travel the globe by signing on for various scientific expeditions. He was his mother's pride and the source of her gray hairs.

"So do you have a girl in every port?" Viggo filled their glasses again and looked surprised to find the bottle empty. "Hang on; there's more where this came from."

"I wouldn't say no." Orlando smiled, sweet dimples bracketing his sculpted lips.

Viggo opened another bottle and carried it to the table. "You want to go sit in the den? It's a lot more comfortable and we can see the lights on the water from there."

"That sounds lovely," Orlando said, as he rose.

The two men settled on an enormous sofa in front of a plate glass window and watched as night fell and the lights came on in tiers across the river.

"Beautiful," Orlando said. "Thanks for sharing this with me."

It was at that moment that Viggo saw clearly what was missing in his life. He needed someone to share it with to deepen the experience. The scene out the window was no longer simply the reflection of headlights, streetlights and billboards on the water. It was not just a scintillating painting of pure light, quicksilver colors running under the cold fire of the moon. It was beauty itself, shimmering before them, and the recognition of it was mutual. Both were moved by the sight and in the same way. In the course of a few hours, Viggo felt closer to this young stranger, than he had to anyone else in his life.

"Well," Orlando said, setting his glass down. "I feel as though I've known you all my life and I hate guessing games, so I'm just going to ask. Is there any chance you're bi?"

Viggo took another drink of his wine. "I've never, um, explored the possibility."

"Would it offend you to talk about it?"

"I like to think I'm a liberal."

"I'm bisexual, if you hadn't guessed. I'm not going to attack you… unless you want me to, but there's something about you that makes me think you're open to new things."

"I used to be," Viggo sighed.

"Then you can be again. Nothing is ever lost, Viggo. Sometimes we forget, but all we need is reminding. What do you think? Want to take a chance with me?"

"This is moving a little too fast. Let's get to know each other a little better, okay?"

"Couldn't I just kiss you? It would save a lot of time."

Viggo snorted a nose-full of the pinot and triggered a coughing fit. Orlando took the glass from his hand and patted him on the back until he recovered. Viggo looked up with streaming eyes and shook his head. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Sorry. I'm a little impetuous. But you have to admit that it's a brilliant idea. All you have to do is put your lips on mine and you'll know for sure."

"Maybe I already know."

"Do you?"

Viggo glanced away. "No, not really," he admitted. "I've wondered from time to time about sex with other men, but I didn't feel any overwhelming urge to find out."

"A pity. I think you're about the handsomest man I've ever seen and I feel drawn to you in a way that's way beyond sexual." Orlando paused. "Am I going too fast again?"

"Considering that we just met, I think I'm taking the conversational turn fairly calmly."

"You seemed like a man more prone to parley than pugilism."

Viggo chuckled. "I like the way you talk."

"Well, there's one thing we have in common. We both like the sound of my voice."

"I have a feeling we have a lot in common," Viggo said. "And maybe if your name was… Nope, I can't come up with a feminine version of Orlando off the top of my head."

"I wasn't meant to be female."

"You are awfully pretty," Viggo teased.

"Oh really?" Orlando stood and whipped off his shirt, exposing the chiseled torso of a man who'd hiked, biked and paddled his way around the world.

"You're obviously not a girl. Now put your shirt back on."

"It's actually quite balmy in here. Mind if I leave it off?"

"If you're not embarrassed to resort to such a juvenile tactic."

"Nothing much embarrasses me." Orlando held out his glass as Viggo picked up the nearly empty second bottle.

"Then you'd better hope that it's true that opposites attract."

Orlando playfully put his palms together in prayer position and nearly spilled his wine. "Whoops! Maybe I've had enough."

"I know I have. I haven't put away this much alcohol at one time since my retirement party."

"You look young to be retired."

"I don't feel young."

Orlando hauled himself to his feet, picking up his shirt on the way. "I'm sure I've outstayed my welcome and I'll probably spout worse foolishness if I don't go now."

"You're not keeping me up."

"Pity," Orlando said again. "But I wouldn't mind talking a bit more with you. I still haven't pitched the bloody tent, so I'm not really in a hurry to leave."

"You can sleep right here on the sofa if you want."

"Are you sure? Because that would make life so much simpler for me right now."

"No problem. There's a blanket hanging over the back and I'll get you a pillow and some sheets."

"No hurry. I'm tired, but it's still early." Orlando yawned and stretched.

"I took a lot of anatomy courses when I was learning to draw," Viggo said, "and I have to say that you're an excellent example of the masculine physique."

"So you appreciate the male form?"

"Aesthetically speaking."

"You've never felt… moved, when you were looking?"

"Not 'til now, not so I noticed anyway."

"Do I move you, Viggo?" Orlando's tone was curious without a hint of crudity.

"I can't deny that I feel something when I look at you, but then again, I felt it before I ever saw you."

"You're not pulling my leg?"

Viggo shook his head. "I don't know what it is, but I felt something when I heard you singing. I like the way you make me feel and I'm just drunk enough to tell you so."

"You don't look drunk to me."

"I assure you that I've had too much to drink."

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Kiss me."

"You've got a one-track mind."

"Can't blame me for trying."

"I guess I can't since I haven't asked you to stop. I keep having the wild notion that I have nothing to lose, but I can't quite bring myself to… Damn! Why is this so hard?"

"Why is what so hard?"

"Why can't I just admit I'm curious and kiss you? I could barely get the words out to ask."

"Because it's a big scary thing to you?"

"Apparently so."

"Why don't you close your eyes and I'll kiss you?"

"I guess that could work." Self-consciously, Viggo sat up straight and stretched his neck. Closing his eyes, he waited nervously.

"You really are a sport," Orlando said, half in surprise, half in admiration.

Viggo felt the couch cushion dip as Orlando moved closer and then he was aware of the young man's scent: the light floral fragrance of shampoo mingled with something citrusy that was probably aftershave and the spicy, earthy musk of a man who'd been working hard. A very pleasant smell, it reminded Viggo of eating oranges in the stable. He started to smile when softness brushed his lips like falling petals. The light caress reminded him how long it had been since he'd felt the tender touch of another and spontaneous tears seeped from under his eyelids.

"It's all right," Orlando said softly.

"I don't know why," Viggo's voice broke and he opened his eyes. "I don't know why I'm crying."

"It's all right. I cry all the time. I tear up at sunsets, anniversary celebrations, farewell parties, almost every time I see my sister with her baby…"

"You can stop anytime," Viggo interrupted. "My pride is sufficiently salved."

"So what did you think of the kiss?"

"Well, it wasn't really much of a kiss, was it?"

"Wanker!" Orlando laughed. "You just let me know when you're ready for more."

Viggo leaned toward the other man, his vivid blue eyes jewel-bright with tears. "My turn," he chided gently, taking Orlando's chin between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes fluttering closed at the last second, Viggo covered Orlando's mouth with his. He'd wondered if the fact that he was kissing a guy would make the experience completely different, or if it would be more or less the same as kissing a woman. Now he had his answer. The nervousness he'd felt was revealed as anticipation. The flush of embarrassment was the heat of desire. Opening his eyes, he met Orlando's gaze and the fact that he was kissing a man sent a bolt of sexual lightning from his brain to the tip of cock. Drawing back a bit, he shifted in his seat. "I'm a little lost," he confessed.

"Why wouldn't you be? You've never done this before."

"Well, not with a guy anyway."

"Would you like to do something with me?"

Viggo fidgeted again. "You would not believe how hard my dick is getting."

"Mate, I've been sporting wood off and on all day. I couldn't get you out of my head and I had some rather raunchy daydreams while I was trying to imagine what you looked like."

"Like what?"

Slowly, Orlando slid from the couch to the rug. Looking up at Viggo, he carefully put his hand on the other man's thigh. Like a bar of sunlight moving across a wall, Orlando's hand crept ever higher as he knelt between Viggo's legs. Maintaining eye contact, the Englishman lifted his head and invited a kiss. Feeling a bit like he was in a play, Viggo closed the gap. As soon as their lips met again, both men strained toward each other, mouths open and working, tongues tangling, eager to taste one another. Viggo was transported back to the first time he'd found himself in a heavy make-out situation, fifteen-years-old in the back seat of his older cousin's car with a junior varsity cheerleader, pulse pounding in his ears, more alive than he'd ever felt before. Orlando leaned in, wrapping his arms around Viggo's waist, pressing against Viggo's crotch. The groan that welled up in Viggo's throat was a primitive sound that sent a delicious shiver skittering down Orlando's spine. Without stopping to think about it, Orlando cupped Viggo's bulge in his hand and squeezed.

"Whoa!" Viggo exclaimed, half-rising before Orlando urged him back down. "I don't mean whoa as in stop," he panted. "Just… whoa, I never felt anything like that before."

"Is it all right if I keep touching you?"

"I feel like a horny teenager."

Orlando squeezed again. "Yes you do."

Viggo chuckled and was able to relax a bit. "A guy's grabbing my package and I'm not freaking out," he mused. "That must mean something."

"Look, I know love at first sight is bollocks, but we didn't actually see each other until…" Orlando ducked his head. "You wouldn't believe all the crazy plans I made after just hearing your voice for a few minutes this morning. I had to meet you and at least satisfy my curiosity, but this… This is nothing less than a dream come true and I'm not letting it slip through my fingers out of politeness. Are you?"

"Maybe not out of politeness, but I am bucking a lifetime of indoctrination."

"It sounds cute when you say it." Orlando pulled the other man's plaid shirt from his waistband. Holding to his established leisurely pace, he ran his hands under the shirt and up Viggo's torso. "Oh my, someone's been keeping in shape."

Viggo shook his head. "Compared to you, I'm flabby."

"Let's have a look then," Orlando said.

"You asked for it." Viggo pulled the shirt and undershirt over his head.

"Now that's what a man's chest should look like," Orlando said as he palmed Viggo's golden-furred pectorals. Sliding his hands up Viggo's rangy shoulders, Orlando straddled the other man's hips, planting his knees one to the outside and one between the lean thighs. He took Viggo's face in his hands and kissed him with all the desire that burned in his heart and loins. Viggo clutched at the hard muscles of Orlando's back, kneading and stroking as the kiss went on. Orlando began to rock against Viggo, hips churning subtly, rubbing and rolling their hard cocks together. Viggo moaned into the young man's mouth, holding him ever tighter as the waves of pleasure mounted. He lifted his buttocks from the cushion, seeking more of the delicious contact, as he licked his way down Orlando's neck. Orlando ground harder against Viggo, shoving him to his back on the sofa and capturing his lips. Viggo came with a deep shudder, digging his fingertips into Orlando's flanks. Keeping the young man in place, Viggo bucked until Orlando climaxed a few seconds later. Moving languidly together like reeds in a stream, they drew out the orgasm until neither could stand it any longer.

"Holy shit," Viggo sighed. "I may regret this in the morning, but right now I feel pretty damned good."

"Same here." Orlando rearranged himself so he wasn't squashing the other man's groin. "I can't believe it was just a dry hump."

"Nothing dry about it."

Orlando snickered, stirring the fine hair near Viggo's ear, tickling his neck. "Any chance I might use your shower?"

"I think I'm going to insist."

"Maybe you should come in there with me and make sure I wash everything properly."

"I think I'd like that, but give me a few minutes to adjust to my new status as a bisexual."

"You're one in a million, mate." Orlando kissed Viggo's stubbled chin.

Viggo hugged the other man fiercely, rocking slightly as a few more tears leaked from his eyes. "I can still hardly believe this is happening," he choked out. "But I'm glad it is."

Orlando settled back down, turning so he lay with his back to Viggo. Viggo held him to his chest, their cheeks resting together, as they lay in contented silence, gazing out at the lights on the water.

The river ran on, past the place where they met, as it did for all the decades of their lives together as lovers, partners and collaborators. Viggo often told the story for their friends, making the point that it's never too late as long as you're breathing and having a second life is as easy as choosing it. These twin messages found their way into his new most popular book to influence an entire generation.

The End