A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Frances' response to Gimli and Doris' engagement was, in Michael's point of view, far from satisfactory; in fact, it bordered on Unbelievably Apathetic. When Michael had scurried back to Gandalf's chaise lounge, upon which Frances was dozing, and excitedly relayed the news that Gimli was getting married, Frances had merely opened one eye, said in a bored voice: "Again?" and promptly went back to sleep. Frustrated, and bursting to share his glee, Michael raced around the outbuildings looking for someone upon whom to impart his good news, finally running into Nick, whose reaction was slightly more reasonable; he grinned, nodded, and went back to what he was doing. Feeling slightly deflated Michael shuffled back to the clearing. "I wonder if he's deaf?" he thought, and with a sigh sat back down in the dilapidated beach chair next to the now-snoring Frances. Michael looked half-heartedly around for something to drink, spied a pitcher and a bowl of ice on the crate beside Frances' elbow, and after finding a tumbler went to fill it. There was no nutmeg, but he drank it anyway, hoping someone else – anyone else – would show up soon, so he could impart his gossip upon a more willing receptacle. "Arwen would be nice," he thought, wondering where she'd got to, and wishing he had an available Girlfriend. Doris, obviously, would be rather preoccupied for a while.

He dug his feet into the sand and leaned his head back against the pitted headrest of the chair. The breeze was fresh and warm, and big, puffy white clouds roiled and reeled against the powder-blue of the sky, just visible through the rattling stiff palm boughs. He could hear seagulls, and the soft hiss and thump of waves, the sound of the air moving through the foliage, and Nick knocking around in one of the buildings, getting their lunch together. Nick was very strange, but at least his strangeness fit in well with the rest of them; he took them all at face value, was perfectly cheerful, completely incurious, and eerily silent. But as he kept their clothes and bathrooms clean and fixed all their meals, Michael felt he couldn't complain much.

Something tickled at the edge of his hearing and he concentrated, trying to sharpen the sound in his mind; at last he realized it was someone singing, though he couldn't tell from where the voice came; deciding it was too light to be Gimli, and too clear to be Aragorn, and too masculine to be either Arwen or Doris, he concluded it must be Legolas. He looked over at Frances. His lover was stretched out, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing heavily, giving Michael every indication of Deep Slumber; deciding it couldn't hurt to seek out more stimulating company Michael quietly got up and left.

After casting about for a minute he determined Legolas was on the western side of the island and started off in that direction. Norman Island was tiny, and it only took him five minutes to get to the beach down there, shuffling through the sandy undergrowth and cursing slightly when he came upon a sharp shell or pointy stick beneath his bare feet. At last he gained the beach, and through the leaning palms he could see Legolas, standing waist-deep in the swelling, heaving blue, bare shoulders cut in two by his streaming white-blond hair, gazing out to the horizon, his hands upraised. Michael paused, wondering if this were some sort of Alien Religious Ritual and not wanting to disturb him; after a moment, though, Legolas stopped singing and turned to look at him in the shadows, smiling equably.

Michael swallowed. Even after three weeks, Legolas' smile was enough to make his heart turn over. His smooth high cheekbones coalesced when those sweet pink lips stretched upward, dimpling, and his aquamarine eyes sparkled with secret merriment. It didn't help, of course, that Michael could see the lean muscular curvature of his chest and abdomen, and his long sculpted arms glittering with pale soft hair; when the waves dipped down low enough he could even see the golden glint of curls beneath the twist of his navel. Legolas didn't speak, but gestured Michael forward with a jerk of his head; obediently Michael set his tumbler down into the sand and waded out to him. The water felt thick and unyielding around his legs, slowing him, but he slogged forward, feeling once again that tugging, pulling compulsion to be with this strange man.

When he approached Legolas held out his hand, smiling encouragingly; Michael smiled back and touched his fingers to Legolas' palm; the skin was wet and warm. Legolas pulled him in deeper and they swam for a while, not speaking; it was strange how speech seemed unnecessary sometimes, especially since Legolas was such a strange person himself. After five minutes of nearly no words whatsoever (except for the occasional, "Look, there are some dolphins," or, "Hey, I found a starfish!") Legolas paddled back to the bar, where he stood and stretched, distending his sinewy body above the flexing, pulsing waves, and brushing his wet hair back from his face, exposing the long alien curve of his ears.

Michael stood beside him, shaking the water out of his curls, and studied him. There were as yet still some long striated wrinkles radiating out from his eye, showing where his wound had been, but that served only to emphasize the molded perfection of his features; Michael wondered how many times Legolas had died, and if it hurt him worse each time. Legolas didn't seem to notice his staring, but looked himself out to the horizon, seeming preoccupied; after a moment he looked down at Michael and smiled again.

"We're both fuckin' bustin' with news, aren’t we, Mike?" he said, grinning, showing all his strong white teeth. "Tell yer what; you first, then me."

"Okay," said Michael, brightening. The knowledge that Legolas could Read Him didn't bother him any more; sharing dreams and visions kind of broke down that awkward barrier. Besides that, his Good News had simmered a while in his belly and gotten all the sweeter, and he was anxious to relay it. "I just talked with Gimli and Doris and they're getting married!"

If he had been expecting a repeat of Frances' indifferent rejoinder he was pleasantly disappointed; Legolas' face lit up, suffused with joy, but there was a hint of relief behind it as well. "Well, fuckin' finally!" he exclaimed, laughing breathily. "Five fuckin' years I've been tellin' Grim to tie the knot, but the poor bugger's been burned so bloody many times he was right gun-shy."

"But Doris will treat him right," said Michael confidently.

"Oh, she will," agreed Legolas, looking out at the horizon again, folding his arms over his chest. The breeze had picked up and on both of them their wet skin had puckered into goose bumps in the sudden chill. "Not like his other wives, those manky gold-diggin' back-stabbin' skanky kerb-crawlin' bitchy slags." At Michael's startled look he added apologetically, "Sorry, mate – couldn't stand 'em – especially those last three, nearly went spare each fuckin' time he got hitched – kept tellin' him, 'Grim, don't do it, mate, she's only after yer lollie,' but he married 'em anyway, the stupid gobshite."

Well, that explained Frances' response; if Grim had been married more than three times already it was no wonder Frances' only reaction had been one of bored acquiescence. "He'll treat her right, won't he?" asked Michael anxiously, suddenly aware of Gimli's past mistakes and wondering if it would come back to Haunt Them.

"He'd better," said Legolas grimly. "He fucks her over, I'll have his knacks, swear to Elbereth I will."

Michael felt a little better, knowing Legolas would watch out for Doris' welfare as assiduously as his own; deciding he couldn't do much about it anyway (barring patience and a willing ear during any late-night phone calls complaining about Gimli's perfidy) he figured he might as well continue to be happy for them, which was more comfortable than worrying, anyway. "So what's your news?" he asked cheerfully, following Legolas' gaze onto the horizon. There was something there against the smooth curve of the earth, a little blot, like a jutting knife.

"Éowyn," whispered Legolas; when Michael turned to him he saw his companion's face was tense, expectant, anticipatory joy simmering beneath his calm surface, staring with such focused determination at the speck on the horizon it seemed almost as though he were trying to lure it into harbor himself. Michael felt a sympathetic thrill. His beloved wife! At last! Even having never met the woman himself, Michael recalled the lovely golden being hovering, reaching to her husband, and his heart turned over. To love and be loved to such an extent, so deeply, firmly, adamantly, mystically; he knew he could never engender such emotions, either for or from anyone – no, not even Frances – but to experience them vicariously was breathtaking, mortifying, humbling. Without realizing it he gripped Legolas' arm in buoyant zeal, flooded with the sudden assurance that the coming of Legolas' "acushla" (what DID that mean?) was propitious, and soon everything would be All Right. "And then we can go to Kennebunkport and get the Evenstar and take care of Dr. Ahn and things will calm down," he thought excitedly. Reading about exciting escapades was all very well, but Michael was methodical and loved routine and consistency, and these past weeks had rattled him more than he liked to admit; he wanted a bed and a shower and his loofa and moisturizers and regular trips to the manicurist and dry cleaners; he was not made for Grand Adventures, and didn't care who knew it.

They stood together, stomachs swallowed in the rising tide, as the blot coalesced into a triangle, and the triangle into a set of sails, and the set of sails into an approaching sailboat, white, broad in the beam, with a high gilded prow and a green pennant fluttering from the masthead. It was big, much bigger than the Semi-Impermeable; Michael, ignorant as he was, could see that in an instant: This was no cheap, old, decrepit, good-enough-for-government-work boat; this was a Work of Art – from this distance he could catch the glint of the metalwork, the shining brass accents, the pristine white finish, and – was that warm yellow-brown TEAK? Its high mast sported blinding white sails, not the patched, tattered, greyed sheets propelling their own stolen boat, and it was huge – easily four times the length of their sloop – quartering in to the shallows, wallowing like a whale on its broad spotless keel. It bespoke wealth, luxury, speed, True Impermeability – Michael would feel Safe on a boat like that – no disreputable, dilapidated wreck this; every curve, every line, every detail promised comfort and opulence and security. Not surprising, really, thought Michael, considering Legolas' rooms at the Lido; anyone who could commandeer a suite of that magnificence couldn't be hurting financially, and as Legolas seemed to gather about himself a sort of high aesthetic miasma the fact that his sailboat would be a notch above anything else Michael had ever seen did not seem out of character. In fact, it would have been more IN character for Legolas to flaunt whatever especial charms his boat possessed, that no one else's would – Michael wondered if he'd had a professional see to the interior décor, and if not, if he would be interested in hiring a contractor.

"What is it?" he whispered, gripping Legolas' bicep tighter.

"Perini Navi," said Legolas; his eyes were alight with the Aesthete's fervor. "Custom job – came off the line in Viareggio year afore last. Ed Dubois team – paid an arseload for it – worth it, though. Helps I speak Italian."

This didn't help Michael much, but the reverent tones in Legolas' voice as he spoke conferred to Michael the worth and value of the ship. They watched in silence as the anchor was weighed, and, caught in a cross-current, the boat drifted slightly, so that its stern presented itself partway; Michael read, in elegant gilt script across the back wall, THE WHITE LADY out of VERSILIA. Then the anchor caught, and the boat shifted back, its proud prow rising like a scimitar out of the water. He could see people, small and dark, moving against the rails, then with a splash a dinghy was lowered, and the sound of an outboard motor broke the morning stillness. It approached, holding two people; as they grew closer Michael saw it was a short, swarthy man, bearded and very fat, with a red-veined nose and squinting eyes beneath his battered baseball cap; beside him was a tall, glowing woman, slim, with long dark brown hair, clad in nothing but a miniscule pink bikini and a pair of – were those Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses? They were, and pink as well – who sat in the prow, beaming happily at them and waving; Legolas laughed and waved back.

"That's not your wife," said Michael accusingly, not sure whether he should wave or not.

" 'S not," said Legolas. "That's me sister-in-law – good little woman, that."

The dinghy slowed and coasted up to them, and the woman stood, handed her sunglasses to the man at the back, and jumped into the water, splashing them both. She surfaced with a delighted laugh, like a crow on nitrous oxide, tossing her wet hair back, and launched herself at Legolas with a squeal.

"We MADE it!" she exclaimed, kicking up a great foam about them in her excitement. "Look! We MADE it!" Michael watched, aghast, as it appeared she was attempting to drown her brother-in-law, but Legolas proved the stronger – and the better-balanced – and managed to hold her up as she embraced him with more enthusiasm than common sense. The man in the dinghy cut the engine and waited, leaning back on the side of the boat indolently; he caught Michael's eye and gave an indifferent nod of greeting. "And LOOK!" the woman continued, releasing Legolas and propelling herself with frightening accuracy and zest toward Michael, who cringed. "It's Michael – ISN'T it Michael, Legolas? It HAS to be!" Before Michael knew what was happening, the woman had nearly strangled him in her embrace, her slim wet limbs wrapped around his neck and slick dark hair slapped in his face. He braced himself on the bar, grateful his thighs were up to the strain, and tentatively put his hands around her slender waist; she felt smooth and warm beneath his palms. "I KNEW you were Michael the minute I saw you, and I was like, 'Honey, it's him, I have to meet him,' and Éomer was like, 'Okay, Sweetie,' and Dave let me go with him in the dinghy – didn't you, Dave? – and the whole way over I'm like, 'I can't believe it's him,' and here you are, and isn't it WONDERFUL!"

"Fuckin' marvelous," said Legolas, and although he sounded sarcastic Michael caught the affectionate undertone. "Wotcher, Dave."

"Legs," said the man in the boat.

"Good sail?"

"Not bad, picked up a good wind at Bermuda. Need to resupply."

"Nick'll take care of it."

"Gotcha."

During this interchange, the woman withdrew from Michael a little, her nearly-naked body was still pushed and pulsed against him by the surging water; it felt uncomfortably intimate, though she certainly didn't seem to notice. She took Michael's face in her hands and looked into his eyes earnestly. "Is Frances taking good care of you?" she asked anxiously, her brown eyes deep pools of reckless sincerity. "And was it too horrible? I hope it wasn't too horrible because that would be just AWFUL."

"You must be Lottie," said Michael a little breathlessly, remembering what Gandalf had said about her acumen. Legolas gave a shout of laughter – he must have remembered, too.

The woman's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Yes!" she squealed, and hugged him again, nearly strangling him with her arms. "How wonderful! You've HEARD of me!"

"Only good things, I promise!" squawked Michael, trying to draw in his breath and not swallow sea water at the same time.

She let go of him as abruptly as she'd embraced him. "I want to see Arwen," she announced, pushing away from them and starting to shore. "Go to the boat, Éowyn wants you, Legolas."

"Wants to see me, or just wants me?" asked Legolas, eyes twinkling.

"Both, silly!" Lottie turned, treading water, and looked at him critically. "What did you do to your EYE?"

"Got shot."

"AGAIN?" Shaking her head in disgust, she began to butterfly to the shore. Legolas sighed, still grinning after her; then he turned to Dave and said, "Take us to the Lady, Dave; been a long time and I'm gaggin' for me darlin'."

"No prob," said Dave, and Michael, with Legolas' help, clambered into the dinghy while the fat man trimmed; barely rocking it Legolas launched himself in, and Dave started up the engine with a jerk, turned the dinghy, and they headed back to the ship.

Close up, the White Lady was even more impressive. Michael had grown used to the Semi-Impermeable's disreputable exterior, the pitted rails, barnacle-speckled hull, faded accoutrements; this white monster displayed her charms insolently, proclaiming to all viewers her quality and superiority to anything else in the Caribbean. Even the ladder up which they clambered was ornately decorated, each bar striated to not only prevent slippage, but to resemble tree branches, and the bolts were topped with what looked like stylized acorns. Michael climbed up after Legolas, having to remind himself not too look at the blonde's assets too closely – "Married to a woman, remember, married to a woman," he repeated to himself, biting his lip – and took Legolas' proffered hand onto the deck, looking about with frank curiosity.

There was a man standing there, huge, imposing, intimidating, but grinning from ear to ear, his white teeth gleaming through his thick blond beard. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, rope-soled shoes, and a white linen shirt, unbuttoned, showing the fuzzy triangle of blond hair on his broad muscular chest. "All Man," thought Michael, his heart skipping; it was his fate, he supposed, to be surrounded by Alphas – not a bad thing, really; at least they were attractive ones, though this one was so obviously straight it nearly hurt. "Legolas!" the man boomed, extending one big hand; grinning back Legolas took it, and they embraced, slapping each others' shoulders in a very Manly and Heterosexual way. "Good to see ya!"

"Ta, mate," said Legolas, then turned and gestured to Michael, who approached cautiously, still stinging from the bigoted and vulgar reaction he'd gotten from their previous island-guests. This big man, with his six-pack abs and aggressively masculine bearing, was not likely to be very tolerant of an undersized homosexual interior designer, and Michael braced himself for the cautious and slightly paranoid greeting, Standard Fare from one of this type. "This is Michael Morris," said Legolas, tugging Michael forward; Michael extended his hand, which looked very small and weak compared to the big brown mitt that immediately covered it. "Mike, me brother-in-law, Éomer."

"Michael, of course," said Éomer, shaking his hand firmly and peering down intently into Michael's eyes. Michael flinched, waiting for the sarcastic comment or cutting remark, but when Éomer released his hand he barked: "Faramir treating you well? Not pushing you around, is he? 'Cause if he is – " His jaw tightened, and his eyes got a little hard; Michael suddenly realized Éomer was going to be as protective of him as Legolas, and felt surprised, but immeasurably relieved.

"Frances – Faramir – treats me very well," he said earnestly, gazing up into the handsome, defiant face. "Really, he does, I have no complaints."

"No?" The Unibrow climbed up into his thick curly hair. "Well, if he starts getting pushy, let me know, and I'll straighten him out." He cracked his knuckles, and Michael gulped. He hated to see what this big belligerent man would do to Frances if pushed too far.

"Now, now," chided a woman's voice from behind them, low and sweet, like a cat's purr; "be nice, Éomer; I'm sure Frances is being the perfect gentleman." The three men turned, and for the first time Michael saw a woman who, while being perfectly female, was more Man than he could ever hope to be.

She exited the blue shadow of the biminy on legs so long they seemed to lift her smoothly swinging hips far too high; her arms were slender but trim and strong, and her long lean waist, sporting a thin gold chain, beneath its flawless golden skin held muscle, bunching and stretching as she walked up to them, wide red mouth smiling, eyes half-closed. She was dressed in a miniscule poison-green bikini, a shimmering pareo only partly obscuring her hips and one leg. Huge gold hoops danced from her earlobes, and her tawny hair was pinned up, exposing a long slender throat. She flicked her gaze over her brother, then Michael, but it was obvious when her eyes met Legolas' that all coherent thought faded, and they might as well have been alone. For himself Legolas, when he turned to her, became very still, all the kinetic twitchy energy leaving him; his spine straightened and he regarded her with an intensely focused look, his blue eyes seeming almost to darken, the pupils swollen black. The air practically crackled with the sudden tension as the two regarded one another, immobile, alert, unmindful of anything save each other. Michael found he was holding his breath, and when the fat man, Dave, finally heaved his vast bulk over the side and thumped down next to him he stifled a squeak of surprise.

Éowyn flickered her eye to Dave, then moved, lifting one long-fingered hand to touch her husband's cheek. "What happened?" she asked softly.

"Got shot," said Legolas absently, reaching up and pressing her hand to his face, his eyes lost in her gaze.

Michael braced himself for the, "Again?" response Legolas always seemed to get to this comment, but instead, the silvery eyes unfocused, drifted over her husband's face, lingering on the cupid's bow-lips. "Poor baby," she breathed, leaning forward, her lips curving into a slow smile; Legolas' eyes shifted to her mouth, parted his lips, and Michael let out a long, slow breath as they kissed, slowly, languidly, glittering eyes shuttered, long fingers entwined; after a breathless moment, during which he realized to his consternation his heartbeat had accelerated, they broke off, glanced at the three men watching them, and smiled.

"You'll excuse us, won't you?" Éowyn asked sweetly, and taking her husband by the hand led him below. His feral grin and wink to Michael only confirmed that it would probably take them a while to resurface. He looked over at Éomer, wondering what her brother thought of all of this, only to see him rubbing his hands together satisfactorily, smiling after them, a look of tender affection on his broad coarse features.

"Well, that takes care of them for a while," he said briskly, grinning at Michael. "Thought she'd spontaneously combust before we got here. Bet Legolas was just as bad."

Dave gave a laugh that was little more than a snort, and went back to the rail. "Gonna see Nick," he said, and swung himself over and down the ladder again. The other two men stood at the rail and watched him get in the dinghy, fire up the motor, and head back to the island; after a moment, as though they had come to some silent agreement, they both moved away from the rail and stood facing each other. Michael shifted on his feet, feeling very uncomfortable and awkward, as he and Éomer stood and watched each other cautiously. There was a short, inelegant silence, then Éomer cleared his throat.

"Ever do any fishing?" he asked hopefully. "Lots of marlin out there."

"Um," said Michael, unsure; he looked up into Éomer's face and read his own unease, though he could tell it wasn't born of any sort of prejudice toward his sexual preference – it was merely the restlessness engendered by trying to find a subject of conversation with a stranger. Taking heart from this he gave the man a warm smile.

"I've never fished before," he said; "tell me all about it." That, he thought, ought to get them through the next hour or so, until Legolas and his beloved Acushla rejoined them; chattering happily, Éomer went over all the finer points of sport fishing, and Michael was relieved to feel them both relax. "We'll be friends," he thought, and while smiling and nodding at Éomer let the warm rush of fraternity flood him.