A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

They were at sea eleven days. Michael and Doris had wanted to stop at East Caicos, ostensibly for bread and peanut butter but in reality to get off the swaying, rocking boat, but Legolas was adamant: "Taken too fuckin' long already, me poppets," he'd said, leaning his long muscled body into the spray, arms stretched, his hands gripping the jibsheet as they keeled over into the green-blue foam. "Norman Island's close enough to spit on, and I'm gaggin' to get the leg over. Haven't seen me acushla in yonks."

So Michael staggered back to the biminy, clutching at various ropes and handles as he went; he was discovering that although his sea sickness had evaporated after his second day at sea, even "sea legs" didn't respond properly to a forty-five degree angle; he felt marginally better to see Aragorn slipping and sliding across the deck as well as he worked the boom. Doris landed gracelessly in one of the tattered blue chairs beneath the biminy and sighed, pushing her short curly hair back out of her eyes. She looked as tired as Michael felt; neither of them was sleeping well on the boat. The seas had been rough, with twenty-foot swells – "Workable," Frances had said with satisfaction; "Good high winds, but too choppy for pleasure-jaunts. We'll have the sea to ourselves." And it was true; though they hugged the island coasts they saw no one but the occasional freighter or cruise ship, far out on the horizon; sometimes Michael and Doris would share the binoculars, attempting to read the freighters' ports of call, passing the glasses back and forth, and trying to wipe the sticky salty spray from the lenses.

The further south they sailed, the calmer the waters became. Once they passed the Dominican Republic the waves died down and the sky cleared; the leaden mottled clouds blew away in a freshening wind, and the very color of the water seemed to change; it was blue-green, brilliant as a jewel; they could see on the horizon the brushy green coast of Hispaniola easing by, oddly like a crown of broccoli sitting juxtaposed upon a glassy turquoise surface. Frances, Aragorn, and Gimli seemed to find this a good sign, but Legolas and Arwen would often sniff at the air suspiciously, or gaze at the horizon anxiously knotting their brows.

Michael overheard them speaking together, as Hispaniola slipped away behind them into the glistening blue; they were standing side by side, looking down into the foaming blue water, their glossy hair lifting and twining together, black with gold, in the stiff breeze.

"Any sign of him?" Arwen asked, leaning over the rail and looking uneasily down into the water.

"Naw, nothin'," Legolas had responded petulantly. He was bare-chested, his pale flawless skin warmed to a soft buttery gold by the sun, and his hair seemed even more brilliant than usual against the broad expanse of his shoulders, tapering down to his slim waist. Michael found himself wondering what Legolas looked like in a Speedo and hoped he'd find out in the not-too-distant-future. "Not a fuckin' word from Manwë, either. Gettin' right crapped, I am."

"Maybe he won't – " she turned, saw Michael standing near them, and forced a smile over her worried expression. "Oh, there you are," she said, her voice bright and brittle, and Michael knew they had been Keeping Secrets. "It doesn't matter, though," he told himself as he joined them at the rusted, pitted rail and leant over it, looking down into the brilliant water. "There are so many Secrets floating around These People I could probably ask questions 'til the day I die and never get all the answers I wanted. Always assuming, of course," he added to himself with a wry inward smile, "they even answered them." He had the feeling any hints would be subtly ignored, and direct queries bluntly refused. "Want to learn how to work the jibsheet?" Arwen continued, giving a sharp warning glance at Legolas, who was biting his lip. "You might as well; we'll be at sea for months."

So while they sailed round Puerto Rico Michael learned the ins and outs of sailing a sloop. Legolas and Gimli found great pleasure in instructing him in the arts of tacking, finding bearings, checking chainplates, wrestling with the halyard, working the helm, pinching the wind and trimming the mainsail. He was a little apprehensive at first of Arwen's comment that they would be at sea for months; however, the more comfortable he felt on the sloop the less this bothered him. After a while he was even forced to admit to himself that certain aspects of sailing – the views, the starry night sky, the slurp and wobble of the surf against the side of the boat as he lay in his bunk – were rather enjoyable. He could, however, have done with a little less salt about his person, and a little more sex. But sharing the tiny room with Doris and Gimli had put a definite crimp on his and Frances' intimate moments, and they never had the opportunity to do any more than steal a few kisses here and there.

Best still, Michael was beginning to feel as though he might – eventually – become a working member of this weird little group. By taking on the responsibility of the mainsail or the rudder he no longer felt himself an impediment, a superfluous (and slightly sticky) ornament being dragged along behind this galloping energetic band; it was gratifying to be able to work side by side with the likes of Dr. Walker – or Grim – understanding at last what they were talking about, having both the knowledge and the capacity to urge the decrepit boat along. At times he almost felt as though he were a part of them, that they and he were related somehow, that their lives were irrevocably intertwined and he would know them forever. But then one would glance at him cautiously and speak in a foreign language so he couldn't understand, and he would know he would forever be an outsider.

Even Doris took a hand, manning the winch at a moment's notice, and developing an uncanny ability to tune the sails as though she'd micrometered them. She, like Michael, was not truly one of Them – Michael could sense her ordinariness and reveled in it, immeasurably relieved he was not the only Normal person aboard. They loved to sail together, those two, with only minimal help from the others; Doris was comfortable, Doris liked him, Doris was as confused as he was. It was very comforting. By the time they'd passed Isla de Vieques Legolas and Aragorn let Michael and Doris sail the boat unassisted to Jost Van Dyke, and with Frances and Gimli's help negotiated the inlet between St. John and Tortolla. They were quite proud of themselves (despite the little confusion about being in irons for about twenty minutes, from which Legolas calmly disentangled them) and by the time the weighed anchor off St. John the sun was setting to their right, and before them with the binoculars they could just see, with an enormous sense of gratification, Norman Island peeping up over the horizon.

"We'll shoal if we try it in the dark," Faramir had argued when Legolas, with more enthusiasm than caution, announced that he wanted to negotiate the passage immediately; Aragorn, Gimli, and Arwen had looked incredulously at him, but it was Frances who spoke up, unwilling to take the risk. "You want to keel us and send us down to the bottom? We can wait one more day. There's no guarantee they're here before us, anyway." Legolas had taken this with very bad grace, and when Aragorn and Gimli backed Frances up he'd muttered a string of filthy oaths and stalked to the bow, perching on the pulpit with his knees drawn up to his chest, his bare back to them. Arwen, Aragorn, Gimli and Frances had just exchanged glances and shrugged; the expressions on their faces seemed to say that Legolas might well have been pissed but he'd get over it soon enough. Doris looked as though she wanted to go after him, but Grim had taken her by the elbow and shaken his head at her; reluctantly she let him lead her below. Aragorn and Arwen wandered to the stern, where they sat hand in hand watching the sunset, and Frances watched Michael watch Legolas.

Michael knew Frances was watching him, and knew it was Very Impolite to stare at another man when your boyfriend was watching, but for some reason he couldn't help it. There it was again – that compulsion, a tickling, pulling sensation in his belly, that seemed to draw him to Legolas, despite his undoubted affection and sexual attraction for Frances. There was an eerie allure to Legolas, especially now as the light faded, and the pale hair reflected the glow of the running lights; he sat perfectly still, balanced on the pulpit, watching the sea roll and swell beneath them. The sky was turning from pale blue to a sort of unripe tangerine, with oranges and greens and sweeping vermillion clouds; then as Michael watched the small speck of a star peeped out, and behind them Arwen began to sing.

It was a lovely song, in some sibilant foreign tongue, that seemed to embody regret and joy altogether; her voice was clear and pure and unfathomably lovely. Michael watched her as she sat, her white hands uplifted, her face to the heavens, eyes as bright as the stars that were starting to appear. Aragorn sat beside her, watching her, his eyes tender and reverent. Michael looked at Frances. He watched too, solemn, restrained, his gray eyes unreadable. Michael felt another little tug in his innermost parts, and crossed the deck to where Legolas sat.

He was curled up, his torso bound by his limbs, balanced upon the prow like a figurehead; his hair twisted and twined about his head in glimmering tendrils of white, and his face, still covered with striated lines, was immobile. Michael could just see his profile, his perfect, classic profile, against the darkling purple sky; far from the petulant pout he had been expecting to surprise upon that beautiful face he seemed quite impassive. "Are you mad, Legolas?" asked Michael tentatively over the swish and clack of the heaving water against the hull.

Legolas turned his head and looked at Michael, and Michael nearly jumped back in surprise. His eyes were glowing.

"It's the Voice," thought Michael, panicking. "It's Manwë. He's going to Speak." Holding his breath, he waited.

A seagull mewled above them, circling on its white wings, red feet tucked into its sleek belly. The boat rocked beneath them, but Michael, in full possession of his Sea Legs, merely rested his hand on the rough pitted rail and waited. The sky went from green to purple to rich velvety blue, and the stars in all their glory spread across the dome. Arwen's song came to a close, and except for the rush and swish of the water, and the clang and ding of the boat, all was hushed. Legolas' tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and Michael's stomach lurched.

"To bed, Little One," he said in the Voice which was not his own. "Do you want Ossë to get you?"

"Do you want the boogey man to get you?" he seemed to be saying; shaking his head and lowering his eyes Michael turned away. Frances was still standing there, waiting for him. How long had they stood like that, listening to Arwen sing, Frances watching them? Ten minutes, thirty? Michael made his way back to his lover, drinking in the sight he made; jeans rolled up to his knees, shirt open and exposing his chest; tanned, bronzed, well-muscled, lightly coated with sweat and salt water and soap. His dark hair was tousled and sticky with salt, his eyes against his darkened skin were pale, silver-gray, rimmed with black. He reached out his hand to Michael and Michael took it, pressed the fingers in his own; with a sideways smile Frances brought Michael's hand to his lips and kissed his fingers. Michael's heart swelled, and he allowed Frances to lead him below, hoping Grim and Doris were sleeping deeply that night.


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

But unfortunately for Michael, Gimli seemed to be in a talkative mood that evening, and he and Frances chatted together in their dim stateroom, stretched out on their bunks and propping their bare torsos up on their elbows. Michael and Doris lay on their own bunks above them, watching; Michael could see Gimli most clearly, his thick hairy chest and fuzzy red beard, and quite obviously Doris was watching Frances. Her face was thoughtful, cautiously approving, though there was a flicker of something – not mistrust; that was too strong a word for it – doubt? – behind her eyes.

"You're sure Legolas is all right?" she'd asked early on in the conversation.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Gimli had said, waving his hand airily. "He's always getting pissed about something. It never really amounts to much. Let it ride."

Michael thought about Legolas' anger in his room in The Lido, when Frances had refused to go on this Mission. There had been nothing trivial about that.

Michael desperately wanted to ask some questions – perhaps Gimli would answer the Not-Discussed, even though Frances would not – but even Doris' tentative forays into the whys and wherefores of their jaunt into the world of international politics went disregarded. After a few attempts she gave Michael a resigned look, rolled over, and went to sleep.

Michael listened to the two men talk below him for a few minutes. He wished Gimli would go to sleep too, so he could climb down from his bunk and join Frances for a quick cuddle – weeks; it had been weeks; he felt more sympathy for Legolas than for anyone else on this boat – but he had found that being out in the sun, out at sea, was more fatiguing than a full day's work; he was exhausted, but had not slept well since – well, since they'd left The Lido – and when he did sleep, it seemed more to be broken and choppy, waking him uneasily to the surging unfamiliar darkness. Letting the murmured conversation wash over him he rested his head on his flat musty pillow and closed his eyes.

The rock and sway of the boat was a cradle that lulled him to sleep; the sussuration of the sails and the ring and clack of the shrouds were the lullaby that lured him deeper. Clean water, green, speckled with light, streaked with beams of sunlight, swelled and rolled over him, and the voice called him, called him down. It was compelling, this voice, like the other one; it pleaded, cajoled, purred and enticed. There was a soft melody there too, not like Arwen's; this was deeper, slower, more untamed somehow; it made Michael think of drums, big kettle drums, pounding irregularly somewhere below him.

It grew darker and colder. The voice still drew him, soft, tender, gentle, but beneath it Michael felt uneasy; this was not the Voice to whom Legolas spoke, who sat upon his throne and watched with benign disinterest; this voice was arcane, sonorous, drawing him into the cavernous shadows, beckoning, inducing, coercing, assuring. "No pain," the voice whispered. "Warm silence, far from the horrors of the dry land. Comforting dark, rich pressure, the soothing drums of the deep. Sleep … sleep … "

Michael sank, eager to escape the sharp light, the irksome noises of the air. No whipping, rushing wind searing his face and throwing him about; no roar of engines, or chatter of voices, or bang of guns. No violent men, no sneering strangers, no push and shove and strain of humanity upon him, against whom he contended for air and light and water, struggling to make ends meet. No constant compulsion to do well, to be perfect, to be happy, to make others happy. Just throbbing silence, and warm shadows, and peace, peace, peace.

The darkness grew; it expanded and surrounded him. He was floating, weightless, careless, apathetic; he turned –

The black figure stood before him, hair like seaweed swirling about his head; his eyes were red like fire, and upon his mouth was a cruel smile. A huge hand reached to him, clawed, reptilian. The gaping mouth opened, showing row upon row of teeth like a shark's. "Welcome, Little One," he said, and pressure like the weight of the earth expelled every last breath from his lungs. He struggled but couldn't inhale; there was nothing to breathe; there was no air – "Help me!" he wanted to say, but though his mouth moved nothing came out –

Light behind him; he looked – another figure – Legolas, floating, pasty-white, blank-eyed, dead, emitting some sickly glow. The eddies turned his body, limp limbs drifting, mouth open, hair hanging in pale tendrils in the dark green murk. If Michael could just speak his name, Legolas would wake up and get him out of there, would take him away from this horrible being that had dragged him down. But Michael couldn't speak – he couldn't breathe, couldn't draw in breath – he reached out to Legolas, straining to touch him, but the water pulled them apart. Desperately Michael tried to kick, to swim to Legolas – the pressure on his chest was too great; he had to inhale, but there was nothing to breathe in –

A stray surge flipped Legolas' body, turning his face back to Michael's, inverted, still. Michael's mouth was moving but no words were coming out. The silky hair washed over the face, obscuring it; Michael waved his arms frantically, trying to reach him, stirring up the water around Legolas' face. The hair stirred, lifted, parted –

Legolas winked.

He shot forward, his hands round Michael's shoulders, and kicked upward. The dark figure roared with anger – "Damned Elda!" – Michael could feel his rage; could feel the hands reach out to catch them, could feel fingers grasp his ankle, slowing them in their hasty ascent. The hand tightened, pulling them back; Legolas was kicking, panting, swearing, calling out – "Ada! Ada!" Another light, warm, golden, a strong hand reaching down to them, and a face, strangely familiar, crowned with rich yellow hair; behind him the cries of people spurring them on. The hands met, grasped, locked; Ada pulled, Ossë roared –

Michael jerked upright so fast his head spun. He was sucking in air, sweet wholesome air, filling his lungs so deeply they hurt; he convulsively groped down to his foot, still feeling the steely grip upon his ankle. But there was nothing down there except a sheet, tangled around him; he was damp, sweaty, panting from his virtual exertion. It was dark; Frances and Gimli had talked themselves out; Gimli was snoring, and when Michael looked underneath him he could see Frances sleeping deeply, one arm flung over his face. Trying to still the hurrying trip of his heart Michael scrambled down to the floor and bolted for the stairs.

Legolas was still sitting on the pulpit, his hair and skin bleached white in the darkness. The starlight reflected off his form, a soft white glow echoing the light of the heavens, like a beacon against the thick velvety black of the night. He turned around when Michael pattered up to him, his white arms outstretched, his face sober. Michael flew to his arms, trembling, frantically seeking comfort there; warm limbs surrounded him, silky hair caressed his face, and he inhaled the scent of rosemary. He could feel Legolas' hands, stroking his unruly curls, rubbing soothing circles on his back; could hear a soft voice murmuring reassurances into his ear. After a few moments Michael's breathing slowed, and pressing his face against the warm satiny skin he whispered:

"How am I doing that?"

"Dunno, mate," Legolas whispered back, holding Michael close, so that he could hear the steady heartbeat. "I call you, and you come. Or in this case, you called me, and I came." He paused thoughtfully. "Only other people who've done that've been me wife and Whitey. And Arwen on occasion, the brill little kife." He loosened his grip and tipped Michael's face up to his own with his fingers. Michael stared up at him, still frightened; he saw the furrowed lines radiating out from Legolas' left eye where his skin was still healing, and remembered seeing the horrible ruin of that lovely face, shifting and bunching as the dead man spoke. "And you heard 'im, the fuckin' bastard – you heard Ossë call you."

"Why does he want me dead?" asked Michael. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, could feel his chest tighten with fear. Legolas brushed the tears away and kissed his forehead. His lips were warm and very soft.

"Who the hell knows why that bloody Vala does what he does?" he said, his expression wry. "Even Melkor couldn't suss him out, and that's fuckin' sayin' somethin', mate." He pulled Michael into his embrace again, and with a resigned sigh Michael settled against his chest, wrapping his arms around the slim strong torso. He felt Legolas rest his chin on the top of his head, and nestled comfortably into his arms. "Ossë does what he bleedin' wants to do, the tosser. Why he's picked you is anyone's guess."

Two questions answered – not satisfactorily, but at least Legolas hadn't just brushed him off. Feeling encouraged, Michael decided for a third. "Who is Ada?" he asked of Legolas' right nipple. He both heard and felt him chuckle, even felt the gust of warm air over his scalp.

"Ah, now that would be tellin', mate," he said. Still holding Michael close, he sank down to the deck, tucking his feet beneath him and drawing the smaller man onto his lap, holding him and rocking him like a baby. Michael curled in, thinking he really ought to feel affronted by Legolas' assumption, but too comfortable to care; then he heard a soft warm voice singing a lullaby – a real lullaby, one that spoke of air and light and earth – and drifted back into a thick and dreamless slumber.