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“Do you have a favourite?” Boromir asked, passing a flask of spirits to his neighbour.
“Favourite what?”
Sean Bean extended his jeans-clad legs towards the fire and took a grateful sip before passing the flask on. He snuggled deeper into the cape the Gondorian had lent him - it was surprisingly comfortable and warm, like the boots one of the two newcomers had lent him.
“Um - one of those people you - well - impersonate, when you do this story-with-images-thing? One you preferred to - how do you call it - do?”
Richard Sharpe spluttered at that, wiping the brandy off his chin with the amused grin Bean had started to associate with him.
“We’re calling it ‘playing a character’”, Bean said. “Why do you ask?”
“Wants to hear he’s the one, of course,” the other newcomer, who wore jeans like himself, said. “Thinks he’s the best of us.”
His grin looked much less friendly than that of Sharpe, Bean thought. Figures.
“I do no such thing!” Boromir sat up, face indignant, but the faint blush just visible in the low light betrayed him.
“I believe he just made fun of you,” the newcomer with the neat beard remarked, tossing the flask back to Boromir.
“Well, do you have one?” Alec Trevelyan asked, squinting at Bean.
Grateful that the flask had just reached him again, Bean took another deep sip. He looked over the motley crew around the fire. Boromir, son of Denethor, Richard Sharpe, Ned Stark and Alec Trevelyan. Fascinating, interesting, complex characters all of them - and all so very different.
“I really can’t say.” Bean looked around, in all the faces that were so different yet so familiar.
“But I confess I am grateful when my character doesn’t get killed.”
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