A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

"Of course, I thought you'd already made it past that junction, or I'd've never taken the door down."

"Not a problem, mate. Worked out, didn't it? Good thing we had Faramir's little Tour Director with us though. Fuck, never lost my way like that before."

"I strongly suspect it had something to do with your leaving half your gray matter next to Fitzpatrick's body."

That voice – it awoke such pleasant memories in him; the first two were still strange, still a little unnerving. Drifting slowly up out of a dim and soothing sleep, Michael struggled to focus a moment – where was he – what had happened – he was lying down on something soft, and it was nice and quiet –

He sat up with an abrupt gasp when it all came back to him. The soldiers, the Major-General, the guns, the blood –

"Hush." Frances was there, quiet, competent, strong. Yes, there was his scent – cold stone, clean dirt – Unfair, really, he never smelled of B.O. no matter how long he went between showers – and oh, yes, there were those long muscular arms wrapping around him, holding him close against a flannelly firm chest, cradling his head, pressing a kiss on his hair, chasing all the residual terrors away, like moths scattering when you shake out an old coat. Michael's arms sprang about him, feeling the pull and play of muscle beneath the soft shirt, tucking his face beneath Frances' chin and clinging to him desperately. It was over – over – oh, please, say it's over –

"Ain't over 'til the fat lady sings," came Legolas' voice, tight with amusement. "Naw, mate, got an arseload to do yet. All serene now, though. Time for a bit of a breather."

Unnerving, how Legolas could read his mind. Michael pulled away a little, peeked over Frances' bicep to where Legolas sat, knees drawn up to his chest, arms slung round his legs, head freshly wrapped in new strappings, smoking a cigarette and grinning at him. A long twisty coil of smoke rose from the side of his face – obviously, that sinus hadn't closed up yet. The blue eye was clear and twinkling, the hair sleek and shining, out of its confining plait and tucked behind the smooth sweep of his ear. "When WILL the fat lady sing?" Michael asked, disgusted by his own voice; it sounded small and petulant.

"When the last man dies," said Legolas, bringing the cigarette to his mouth. Michael watched him, fascinated; he drew in the smoke, his pink lips pursed around the filter; he withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a soft stream, lips in an O. "He's either teasing me or flirting with me," thought Michael, mollified; if Legs were being so relaxed obviously they were out of any Immediate Danger. He settled down into Frances' chest with a sigh, willing himself to slacken; his spine had held itself so tight he was surprised he could even bend it.

The Last Man … who would that be? Michael tried to remember the strained, horrific conversation between Frances and Fitzpatrick – a virus – computer programs – senators – and some doctor, some doctor with an Asian name. The computers and the virus seemed to have been taken care of in the Metal Building, but the senators and the doctor, was one of them the Last Man? And who would kill them? Frances had said something about lots of them, more than fifteen at least – was someone else going to do it?

He remembered his dream then, if it had been a dream – the lovely golden woman, slender and strong and bloody – he looked back at Legolas, who was grinding his spent cigarette into the ground. They were sitting in a circle around a small black box, the Walkers, Legolas, Frances, and him. The motorcycle was propped up behind Legolas, lean and bowed like a crouching predator, and to the right against the pale sky was the spiky bulk of the helicopter. That woman – Éowyn. Legolas' wife. Frances had spoken of her to Dr. Walker, thinking Michael couldn't hear him – fearless, careless, like Legs was himself. "Those two hear clearly," Dr. Walker had said; Michael thought he knew what it was now that Legolas and Éowyn could hear. It was Him – the one on the wooden Throne, the one he couldn't look at. That was who they were listening to.

"Close," said Legolas, his voice dropping like an ice cube into the stillness. Everyone else looked at him, puzzled, but Michael knew what he meant. Michael felt Frances stir, turn to Legolas, still holding Michael tightly.

"I suppose this means I can't bring him home now," said Frances, his voice stiff and a little gravelly.

"Naw." Legs tucked the butt in his pocket and leaned back on his palms, smiling through his lashes at them. "Miami first."

"How long will it take to get to Miami?" asked Michael in a small voice.

"Depends on how reliable the freight trains are hereabouts," said Dr. Walker with a smile.

*******************************

All in all, it took three days to get to south Florida. First they had to wait for Mrs. Walker to blow up the helicopter ("Seems an awful waste of a perfectly good mode of transportation," Michael had complained, before having it explained to him that the Army would be on the lookout for it, and anyway, they hadn't enough fuel), then they made the hike across the northern border of Arizona to the nearest freight depot. Dr. Walker called it "going hobo;" Legs called it "jacking a train;" Frances called it "utilizing the goodwill of the conductors without their consent;" Mrs. Walker just smiled and said nothing. Blowing up the helicopter had put her in a very good humor. It wasn't until two days later that Michael realized Legolas' Harley had been inside it at the time.

They managed to ride undetected the entire journey, tucked back in the empty freight cars, huddled beneath overturned boxes and stacked flats draped with tarps. Only once were they in any danger, when a night-watchman in Texas became a little too interested in their deserted car; they lay still and silent, listening to his feet approach; Michael could see Legolas, outlined against the glimmering blue tarp, face upturned, tense and alert; in his hand he held his switchblade, open and ready. "Oh, please, go away," Michael silently begged the man, as he paced to and fro in the dusty car, flicking his flashlight around in the dusty corners idly. "You have no idea how much danger you're in. Go away, go back to your post, so you can go home to your family in the morning." He closed his eyes as the tapping footsteps drew nearer, not wanting to see Legolas burst forth from their hiding place, knife outstretched, shedding silent innocent blood. His heart already ached for the man's wife and children, no doubt asleep in their beds awaiting his return, only to get that gruff-voiced call heralding their family's shattering. But after a pause the footsteps turned, retreated; they heard him jump out of the car, heard the door slide noisily closed, and they all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Fuck, that was too bloody close," breathed Legolas, closing his knife with a soft snick. "Glad he scarpered."

"I hate killing patriots," Michael remembered Legolas saying, and this man hadn't even been a patriot – just some guy doing his job. Michael was glad Legs hadn't killed him, not only for the man's sake, but for Legolas', as well. More death, more violence, more blood – how much could a guy take, even if he were an Alien?

There was very little to drink, and almost nothing to eat. Once, during a protracted stop in Louisiana, Legs and Mrs. Walker had slipped silently out of the car and slid into the darkness; they had returned an hour later, their pockets full of bottled water, Little Debbie© snack cakes and beef jerky. They ate their strange meal after the train rumbled away again, safe in the noise and swaying darkness; Michael thought of what his grandmother used to say when he and his sister would eat so ravenously on the Farm – "Hunger's the best sauce, children" – wise woman! Michael was so hungry even the jerky tasted good, and as a rule he didn't care for dried meats.

They lay, hour after hour, rocking with the movement of the train, curled up together on a pile of packing blankets, now dozing, now drowsing, deafened by the roar and clatter of the wheels on the tracks, and the occasional heart-stopping blasts of the warning-horn. Dr. and Mrs. Walker would speak quietly to each other in some strange language, gazing into each others' eyes tenderly; Legolas paced, or peered out the cracks by the door at the hurrying landscape, or chewed fretfully on matchsticks he'd found in a box in the corner. "Oral fixation," Dr. Walker had said calmly, gesturing at the blonde's agitated rummaging about for something to put in his mouth. "Had it for ages. That's why he took up smoking." Legs had thrown out the cigarettes before they'd even boarded the train, much to everyone's relief, and spent the rest of the time looking for something – anything – to chew on. "Worse after a bloody big job like this," he'd sighed, ruffling his pale hair around the dirty strappings. "But if I pick up the habit again Éowyn'll never fuckin' forgive me."

To Michael's surprise, Frances seemed quietly affectionate during the trip. Oh, he didn't kiss or fumble furtively in the dark for him – not that Michael would have felt comfortable getting it on with Legolas and the Walkers watching, though his libido boiled and bubbled within him through his deprivation – but when Michael sat down, Frances was beside him; when Michael lay down, Frances lay down too; when Michael would turn to Frances, eyes scared and confused, Frances was there, smiling gently, comforting, soothing. At times Michael caught the suppressed desire in Frances' eyes, kindling a spark of yearning in the dark man's face, instantly concealed, but Michael recognized it, and his heart would leap, wanting nothing more than to roll over on top of his lover and kiss him senseless. Of course he didn't – it wouldn't have been Right. But through his frustration and longing for Frances' touch Michael was reassured all the same – there might still be Not-Discussed topics (more than ever, really) between them, but their physical want for each other had not diminished in the slightest. It wasn't much, but it was Something.

Michael was all the more surprised at Frances' reaction to him because of the way he knew he looked and smelled. He'd never been able to grow a proper beard, and his facial hair was shaggy and unkempt and patchy; his clothes were dirty and spattered with blood (and Worse); he was unwashed and unplucked and unexfoliated and unloofaed and uncologned, and still … still Frances watched him jealously as he spoke to Legolas; still Frances would steal a sly kiss or surreptitious squeeze; still when they sat together on the floor of the rattling, swaying car there would not be enough space to slide a sheet of paper between them. It was odd – perfect, controlled, exacting, orderly, efficient Frances didn't seem to mind his filthy and untidy state – didn't even seem to notice. "All those toiletries for nothing," thought Michael resignedly to himself; here all this time he'd assumed hygienic perfection was Required by his Alpha.

From time to time Dr. Walker would unwrap the bandages to check Legolas' face. The repugnant concavity had filled in, and the skin had grown over the gaping hole where his eye and cheekbone had been; still the curved ear was shattered though, and the eye socket empty, mocking the perfection of their counterparts. The new skin was white and pasty, lacking the abalone quality of the rest of his face, and thin as parchment, jutting over bone and flesh, stretched and striated and wrinkled. "Not bad," Dr. Walker said with satisfaction on the third day, rewrapping Legolas' head. "Not bad at all. By the time we get to Norman Island Éowyn shouldn't have any trouble recognizing you."

"I don't think it's his face she'll be interested in," said Mrs. Walker dryly from where she sat. Her beautiful face was marred by black smudges and her clothes were a wreck, but she hadn't lost any of her composure. She sat, hair just as glossy and smooth as it had ever been, watching the proceedings with thinly disguised boredom. She even rolled her eyes when Legs turned to her, grinning.

"Ah, won't be at that, will it, pet?" he drawled, holding still while Dr. Walker fastened the strappings. "After two fuckin' months she'll be wantin' to get the leg over for a right good shag – not that I can bloody well blame her, mind; feelin' that way myself."

Frances stirred, looking at Legolas curiously. Gone was the look of combined disapproval and apprehension with which he had originally regarded Legolas; Michael wasn't sure when exactly the change had occurred, but they seemed to be on more comfortable footing. "Not to sound rude," he said hesitantly, "but have you always been this horny? Or was it just some latent part of your personality that Éowyn managed somehow to awaken? Because I don't remember your being like this before." At Legolas' raised eyebrow Frances added stiffly, "Don't answer if you'd rather not." He gave a self-mocking smile. "After all I realize I have no right to ask, all things considered."

Michael bit his lip, feeling a little uncomfortable. How could their sexual relationship possibly have been stilted or cold? Frances was such a Tiger in bed, and Legolas so beautiful … then he was struck by a Pleasant Thought. Frances had nothing to complain about with HIM. That must have been Nice for a change. Feeling a little smug, Michael nestled back on the pile of packing blankets they were using as a couch, cuddling against Frances' side and reveling not only in the warmth radiating off him, but in the comfortable assurance Legolas could not HELP but notice.

But Legolas didn't seem to notice Michael's complacent snuggling, though Frances' question did surprise him a bit. "Naw, mate, no worries. Getting' into Éowyn's knickers wasn't the trigger what made me this way. Was Manwë blagged me into it, and Yavanna gave me the hots for her. Not a fucking lot I could do about it, either. Has its compensations, though."

Frances frowned, eyebrows drawn over his eyes, puzzled. "You didn't always desire her?" he asked, surprised. "Not even when we – " he stopped, blushed deeply, and glanced at Michael, who felt his heart sink again. Legolas laughed.

"Want to start another open discussion about fidelity, do yer, Faramir?" he asked, his blue eye twinkling. Frances flushed a darker shade of red, glancing guiltily at Dr. Walker; Mrs. Walker sighed and rose to her feet.

"I'm not sure that would be very appropriate – under the circumstances," she said disapprovingly, running her white hands through the glossy midnight of her hair. "Let's try to have a little consideration for external parties. Besides, I'm pretty sure Michael doesn't want to hear it either. Do you, Michael?"

"Not particularly," admitted Michael, trying not to look at Frances for fear he might be angry with him. "I mean, can't we just enjoy what's happening NOW and not worry about what happened THEN? We can't change it anyway." He felt Frances' body stiffen, then relax. Had he said the Right Thing? He hoped he had. Then he felt a long strong arm slip about his waist, squeeze him close, and he sighed in relief. It had been the Right Thing. He looked up at Mrs. Walker and smiled tentatively, reassured when she smiled warmly back, though he wasn't sure if she was necessarily smiling just at him, or at him and Frances. Either way, it felt nice, knowing Frances approved of what he said, knowing Mrs. Walker liked him, knowing both Dr. Walker and Legolas felt protective of him. He felt a warm wash of wellbeing and contentment flood him from his fluttering heart down to his fingertips, and nestled further into the strong circle of Frances' arm, wishing he were a cat so he could purr.

He watched Mrs. Walker, absently, his aesthetic sense pleased with her general appearance, and wondered when he'd realized she was an Alien like Legolas. It hadn't been the sudden sweeping blow for her that it had been in the Metal Building, when Legolas had shown him his ear; it had been a gradual comprehension, the awareness growing organically out of his observations and falling unerringly into place in his mind. Skin tone, the shape of the eyes, the gloss of the hair, the long, lean, slim strength of them both, the clear shimmering quality of their voices. Seeing the curved point of her ear peeking out between the sheets of her dark hair only confirmed what he'd suspected for days. He supposed he ought to be frightened or apprehensive – Aliens, after all! What if they pulled out their phasers and shot him? – but though they were strange it was hard to be truly frightened of them. "Probably because they're so pretty," he thought, and feeling a little drowsy he settled down onto the musty blankets and drifted languidly into sleep.

The glow made him turn his head; though it was very bright he was surprised to find he didn't need to squint at all. He could see a vague form in the glow, bluish-white, familiar; it was Legolas, hands upraised, speaking. The light came from the Throne, and Michael lowered his eyes – he wasn't supposed to look. But then he heard the Voice, and the compulsion to look up was almost overwhelming, even though he couldn't understand what the Voice was saying. He began to tremble. He shouldn't be here; he shouldn't – then Legolas was there, his hand on Michael's elbow, leading him forward; Michael squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he couldn't look. Light pressure on his shoulder indicated he should kneel, so Michael knelt, eyes fixed on the Throne's legs, shaking violently with fear. But then he felt Legolas' hand on his head, running his long fingers through his curls, and he spoke.

"It is no small thing, my lord, to demand this of him. His heart is great and his love for the Steward is very deep. We well may doubt Faramir's true intent but this Little One's soul is pure and unsullied. I would beg of you to reconsider."

"It is not mine to decide, Beloved Listener," said the Voice, deep, resonant; it contained therein the shivering shimmering music of starlight and moonlight, and seemed to cleave Michael's heart in two with its cold precision. "His soul is under the care of Oromë, though the Little One in his simple ignorance has no concept of his protection. Would you pit my wishes against my brother's? It would be easier to ask your Shieldmaiden to bring this supplication before Lady Yavanna; she is tender-hearted and easily swayed by your arguments."

"My Heartbeat will speak as do I," Legolas said; his voice was polite but firm, as though he would not accept a negative answer. "What ill has this Little One committed, that he should be subjected to this? I say to you again that this burden ought rather to be placed on another's shoulders."

"Yours, by preference." The Voice sounded amused. Legolas shrugged.

"Why not, my lord?" he asked. "It has ever been my joy to submit to the will of the Valar."

"Only when you agree with our intentions," sighed the Voice. "Very well. I shall speak with Námo and Oromë."

Michael stared hard at the legs of the Throne, hoping this would be over soon. But then he felt the Voice looking at him, studying him, could feel the weight of its regard on the back of his neck. He shivered and huddled on the shining floor, wanting nothing more than to melt into an insensible puddle of sweat.

"You see, my lord?" whispered Legolas. He knelt beside Michael, but not in an attitude of deference; he had his arms around Michael's shoulders, holding him up. "He is an innocent; he deserves the Blessings of Ossë, not his curse. Well do I know the caprices of that restless Vala! Have I not contended with him before, when I was but a lone Sindar upon the ocean of the West? And think you upon the Steward, and upon his current state. Would you wrest this from him, just when he stands upon the cusp of his sanctification? Would you, my lord? I had thought you to be a benevolent and merciful Vala, but perhaps in all these millennia I was mistaken." His voice was reproachful, and Michael marveled at his audacity; for himself he wouldn't have dared speak so to the Voice. But the Voice chuckled.

"You are nothing if not persistent, Beloved Listener!" he said, and the weight of his hand pressed upon Michael's back – warm, shielding, blessing. "Would you have me go then unto Ilúvatar Himself and plead for this Little One's life?"

"I would, my lord," said Legolas firmly.

"Then I shall so do. How can I refuse anything of you, O Listener, when you have proved yourself so faithful in the past?" Then Michael got the sense of the Voice looking at something different, something far away. "It is time, Listener," he said. "Bring this Little One back. You have arrived."

"Thank you, my lord," said Legolas. He took Michael by the hand and raised him to his feet. Michael looked up at him. He was smiling, achingly beautiful, glowing blue eyes tender yet adamant. "Come, Little One. We have much to do."

With a wrench the light vanished and Michael was cold, sitting up on the blankets in the dusty musty dark. He stared about him. The others were watching Legolas, who stood, eye abstracted, though the light on him was fading. Then he seemed to come back to himself, and he looked thoughtfully down at Michael. The other three followed his gaze, looking at him as well, and Michael swallowed.

"We're here," said Legolas unnecessarily, flicking a glance at Frances. "Smell that? Sea water. Good thing we're close to the docks."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Walker impatiently. "What did Manwë tell you?"

Legolas looked at Michael. "Well," he said slowly, then stopped. He looked at Mrs. Walker. "None of yer fuckin' business," he said with a cocky smile, and before she could hit him opened the door and jumped out into the darkness.