A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

To Michael's surprise, Frances didn't seem overly concerned that he was learning how to use a handgun. When he had returned in the dinghy with Éomer, Lottie, Gimli and Doris, and Éowyn had announced she and Michael would be going to the Island to work on ballistics instruction, Frances had merely raised one eyebrow and nodded slowly. "Yes," he'd said, his voice reflective; "I can see where that might help." And when, on shore a half hour later, Michael had tremblingly approached Legolas and said with forced bravado that he wanted to tell Frances about his dreams, Legolas had only shrugged and said casually, "Ah, no worries, mate, already told 'im. Me acushla changed me mind – bloody persuasive little bit, isn't she?" Then Michael realized why Frances had been so agreeable about the gun. Compared with Inner Visions about Impending Death, learning the ins and outs of a Glock .45 was very small shakes indeed.

When the sun was setting in blue-black clouds tinged with vermilion, and the dark waves broke in shimmering foam on the sand, Gandalf herded Éowyn, Legolas, and Michael into the remaining dinghy and brought them back to the White Lady, where everyone had congregated for dinner. Michael felt rather comfortable with the handguns by then, both the Glock and the smaller .22 with which Éowyn had started him. With Legolas and Gandalf's help they had set up a small shooting range by the larger chikki hut, and Michael found, to his shock and gratification, that whatever chunk of his brain controlled his unerring ability to find his way when others were lost, also governed his capability to aim a bullet at whatever target he chose, so that by the end of the day he'd developed an astonishing knack for hitting the bulls-eye at nearly every turn. He also learned about gun safety, the parts of the gun, how to check to see if it were loaded, how to load and unload it safely, and how to use the safety catch. But most of all he learned to not be so afraid of the noise of the gun – he still had secret tremors, remembering the sound of the gunfire in the Metal Building – but the continuous pop, pop, pop of the .22, and the boom, boom, boom of the Glock eventually numbed him to it, and he basked in Éowyn's compliments, and Legolas' appreciative exclamations, and Gandalf's pleased chuckles. But far and away the best part of the whole process was the look on Frances' face – admiring, proud, almost gloating – when Éowyn had told him, in front of everyone, how well Michael had done, saying he was "a born marksman" and that she'd never taught anyone who'd picked it up as quickly as he had. Michael had blushed furiously, staring at his feet, but drank in Frances' approval nonetheless – it was something, after all, to have a little bit of ability in you, to balance out the cavernous inequity Michael felt between himself and the rest of this group – competent, capable people, a little cold-hearted – the memory of the jump of the gun in his hands as he squeezed the trigger, the realization he'd hit the bulls-eye AGAIN, Éowyn's pleased compliments – Michael might never be Manly, but it helped to have at least a few Manly bits about him, interior designer that he was. He was feeling so Manly by dinner that the hamburgers were a double thrill – Red Meat! – and having missed lunch ate two of them, with jalapenos, just to draw out his satisfaction.

Surprise was in the air that evening; Frances took him to bed without a comment concerning his Dreams and Visions, and made love to him with such tender attention Michael wondered where his Alpha had gone. Later in the dark, watching his lover sleep in the watery blue-black of the cabin, Michael speculated if Frances were looking ahead to the day when Michael would no longer be with him, and treating him with extra care in the same way one handles a terminal cancer patient in his final days. He wanted to wake Frances, to tell him not to treat him any differently despite the fact Ossë wanted him dead, to beg him to let him live out the rest of his life as normally as possible – but – there were dark sad circles under Frances' eyes that had not been there before, and Michael, not knowing whether they were engendered by weariness or sorrow, did not like to disturb his slumber. So he lay beside Frances instead, drinking in the sight his lover made in the gloom, the planes of his face vaguely illuminated by the running light outside their portholes, softly stroking the silky black hair beneath his fingers, and thinking about Death. Of course, Michael didn't have a very long attention span, so his thoughts went only from regret to anger to resignation before he gave up, lay down, and went to sleep.

He was not surprised when his dream took him someplace he didn't want to go. But it was strange, nonetheless, to stand in his parents' house with Frances at his side, introducing him to his grandfather, who had been dead for seven years. "This is my boyfriend, Frances," he was saying, and Frances bent down, smiling politely, his dark hair smoothed back, his tailored suit immaculate. "Nice lookin' fella," said Grampa, winking at Michael. "How'd you like Hawaii? Always wanted to take your Grandma there but we could never afford it." Then the old wrinkled face rotted away, leaving nothing but a dried skull. Frances was still shaking the skeleton's hand, clad in its tattered grave clothes. "We'll have to bring you with us next time," Frances was saying amicably. "There's a charming inn at Bree, I'm sure you'd love it." Then they were standing together in the woods, and Frances' suit had become jeans and a flannel shirt, and he was wearing a backpack. "If we don't dilly-dally we'll make it to Henneth Annun by nightfall," said Frances, and turned away. He hiked resolutely up the hill. Michael wanted to follow, but his feet wouldn't budge; when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye he turned. A man stood there, dressed in strange dirty clothes, and he had sticks poking out of his torso at odd angles. Blood was seeping round the ends of the sticks where they jutted into his body. Michael looked closely at him; he seemed very familiar – the dark sleek hair, noble nose, square jaw, pale eyes. The man smiled at him, and he smiled back. "Have you seen my brother?" the man asked, frothy blood spilling from his lips. "I'm looking for my brother." Then his face changed, twisted in pain; he clutched at his stomach and toppled over. Michael knelt to help him, but froze when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"It's no use, Dreamer," said Aragorn sadly, gazing down at the dead man with tears in his eyes. "At least he redeemed himself before the end." And he picked up what looked like a cow's horn decorated with silver, but it fell into two pieces in his gauntleted hands.

Michael turned to find Frances, but when he looked up the slope of the hill all he saw was a grey stone wall, high, high above the earth, looking down into a deep shadowy valley with a meandering river running through it. Across the valley was a tall barrier of dark mountains that seemed to breathe evil from their very slopes. He turned around to ask Aragorn what made the mountains so evil, but only saw Legolas standing with Arwen. They were both dressed in black, and Arwen had been crying; she had a thin black veil obscuring her beautiful hair and ears, but Legolas was bare-headed, his golden hair shining in the roiling dim. "What will you do?" Arwen asked. Her voice was tremulous, broken; her glorious eyes were rimmed with red. But when Legolas answered her, his voice was tight and angry.

"First Éowyn, then Faramir, now Aragorn," he said, his long white hands balling into fists. "Gimli and I shall go into the West. And should Ulmo take our lives, I care not. I am done with weeping." There was a rumble of thunder and Michael looked back at the mountains. But they had gone, and in their place was the mountainside. Lying in the leaf-strewn loam was the dead man, his face white and fixed, dried blood on his lips. "I don't know where your brother is," said Michael desperately, shaking him as though he were sleeping. "I can't find him!"

"If his brother were half the man Boromir had been, Boromir wouldn't have died," said a harsh voice behind him. Michael spun around. His grandfather was standing there, but in place of his normally kindly expression the face was grim and cruel. "If Boromir has to die, then so does Faramir."

"No!" cried Michael. He tried to throw himself at the old man, to beat him, but he was too slow; no matter how hard he tried to urge his sluggish limbs to life he couldn't catch up with the retreating form. "It's not his fault! Don't kill him!" Then Gandalf struck the old man on the head with a long white stick. Blood spurted from his wound. "Poor old man," sighed Gandalf, looking down at the prone form beneath him. "I hate killing patriots." Then he turned and looked at Michael, black eyes twinkling. He was wearing a dirty leather jacket and blue jeans. "Well," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I'm off to kill Faramir now. Wish me luck." But instead of Frances it was Legolas Gandalf killed, striking him down with a bang and a flash of light.

Michael wanted to scream, wanted to wake up. But the woman standing at his shoulder wouldn't let him. "What has passed has occurred for a purpose," she said, and when Michael turned to look at her he fell to his knees. This was no ordinary woman; she was immense, lovely, terrible, beautiful. He could feel the overwhelming sense of her presence beating down upon his head and she terrified him. "Sorrow begets compassion, and compassion a forestalling of sorrow." She gestured with her long white arms to Ossë, who stood seething and hissing behind the bars she had erected. "Shall we loose him?" she asked, smiling down at him, and Michael, to his surprise, said, "Yes." Then Ossë rushed at him, and Michael woke with a gasp.

Head spinning, he looked wildly around the stateroom, desperately trying to ground himself, to bring himself back to reality, away from the horrible dream-world that had sucked him down. His visions swirled around in his head – the dead man, spitting blood. Arwen weeping, Legolas leaving. Gandalf killing and Ossë loosed. Michael got restlessly up, careful not to wake Frances, and looked out the far port hole.

The sun was just pinking the lower edge of the purple sky, casting a rosy glow over the long low clouds that hovered breathlessly above the horizon. He could see the far edge of Norman Island, a black curve against the lightening dome, spiked with palm fronds; a white pelican glided past, wrinkled eyes indifferent, soaring on its snowy pinions. It was so calm, so quiet … Michael still felt a little muzzy with sleep, and thick-headed and confused from the dream; he needed some fresh air. Carefully he located his swimming trunks and a light sweatshirt, then noiselessly let himself out of the stateroom and padded up the stairs.

It was still chilly in the moist predawn, and the briny, fishy breeze ruffled his curls and spun goose bumps on his legs. He stretched, trying to push out the images crowding his brain, and looked around the deck, wondering if he were the first one up. An orange glow and the wispy scent of sweet pipe smoke drew him like a magnet to the stern; Aragorn looked over his shoulder as Michael approached him, and smiled around the stem of his pipe.

"Good morning," they both said together, and then they laughed a little. Michael padded up to him, chafing his arms to try to warm them; this was the coldest morning he'd had yet on the Caribbean. He stood beside Aragorn, looking out over the glassy surging surface of the water, that picked up the faintest echoes of pink and pale green from the lightening sky. A few stars glinted faintly in the lavender dome, and there was a violently white streak of cloud striping the edge of the horizon. A handful of gulls flew past it, black and squawking, and below them where the hull met the water there was the splash of a fish breaching.

"Cold this morning," said Michael, tucking his hands up in the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"Mm," said Aragorn around the stem of his pipe. It popped and he puffed out a cloud of fragrant smoke. "Summer's nearly over. We need to get a move on."

"Yes," said Michael, a little absently. He still felt a little groggy and disoriented from his dream; it was hard to concentrate on what Aragorn was saying. He stared down into the water. It was like molten lead, like mercury released from a thermometer, heavy and torpid and dark, heaving and swelling beneath them. Somewhere, thought Michael absently, somewhere down in those depths Ossë dwelt, dark brooding murmuring Ossë, who so softly whispered words of cold comfort to him. Michael could almost see him, could see the rows of shark's teeth, the long writhing hair like seaweed, a medusa head surrounding a beautiful, merciless face in which bright red eyes glowed. "Sleep," he seemed to purr in Michael's head, his voice low and soothing. Michael could not hear Aragorn over that soft sound. "Cool dark dreamless sleep, beneath the coverlet of my dominion." And Michael could see it, could see the murky green place, rolling sand-hills and deep black gorges filled with eyeless monstrosities, belching sea-vents spewing toxic chemicals up into towers that teemed with writhing crawling creatures, pale and bloated and spindly, huge mountains stippled with endless coral reefs, darting fish, brightly colored as rainbows, flashing and schooling, and overall the relentless heavy throb, the weight of millions of tons of water upon his head, crushing him, forcing him down. He would sink into the gravelly bed, his limbs weightless, his bones stiff and cold, until his skin was eaten away and his empty skeleton became a haven for small creatures to live. He would be but a memory, a brief flash of experience to them, whose lives spanned unnumbered ages, and Ossë would not rest with his demise, but seek out others to join him in his eternal slumber.

The shouting seemed so far away, and the hands that held him back were weak and inconsequential things; all Michael could see was that thick green gloom, swaying and rushing about him. But then there was a spark before him, a bright flash of light, hurrying up into his vision; he tried to look away but the light would not let him. Then he saw the face, angry, frightening, blinding him with its brightness, surrounded by a surging halo of flossy gold that rivaled the swaying kelp reefs themselves.

A sharp noise, a shocking sting; Michael started back, gasping. Legolas had slapped him.

He blinked and struggled back, realizing with horror he had climbed up onto the boat's railing and was trying to jump overboard. Two pairs of strong hands were holding him, pulling him back; he could feel hard men's chests against his shoulders and hip. Legolas was standing crouched on the rails in front of him, blocking his escape, his hands balled into fists. Michael remembered his dream, remembered Legolas' angry face, his decision to test Ossë. "First Éowyn, then Faramir, now Aragorn," he had said. How Legolas hated Death! And yet he cheated it, again and again; Ossë had challenged him, and Legolas had won. But Michael could not win. Whatever Legolas was, Michael was not; Michael could not come back from the dead. He went limp, falling back against whoever was holding him; they staggered but caught him, and lowered him to the deck. Legolas stared down at him, his blue eyes blazing, then leapt lightly off the railing to land crouching at Michael's feet, resting his fingertips on the smooth teak flooring. His pale hair fluttered down in a curtain about his shoulders, obscuring his pointed ears; he looked wound tight as a watch-spring, ready to leap at the slightest provocation from his prey. But Michael did not move; he was too frightened. Even in the Metal Building with his face half blown off Legolas had never looked more eerily Alien than he did at that moment.

Someone was yelling at him, someone who was lying behind and beneath him, still holding him in that restricting pinching grip. He could feel a beard against his cheek. But Legolas held up one long narrow hand, looking sharply at the man, and the voice faded.

"It wasn't him," he said. "It was Ossë." Still he stared hard at Michael, his eyes glowing neon-blue. The sweet pink cupids-bow lips curled up in a snarl. "Fuckin' Ossë," he whispered. He thrust his head forward, like a snake approaching a terrified bird; his tongue flicked out, and Michael thought he could taste his fear on the air. "Listen to him," Legolas hissed, creeping forward on all fours like a spider, his hair swinging round his face. "Listen to him whisper, cajole, entreat. Hear his voice purring and singing and murmuring." Michael pressed back against the men who held him, whimpering with fear. Legolas came closer, until his face was only inches from Michael's; he could smell the rich piney scent of the Alien's hair. "Liar," breathed Legolas; his eyes were nearly occluded by light now, and his voice was very soft. "All lies. Those who recline in his bed know only the sleep of Death."

"I know," stammered Michael; he wanted to close his eyes, to shut out the vision of Legolas' intruding face that burned away all the cool soothing images of deep green sleep. "I know."

"You do not belong there," whispered Legolas. One narrow hand reached up, long white fingers flexing; Michael jerked back, not wanting him to touch him. But Legolas laid his fingertips on Michael's cheek; they were searing, burning his cold skin with the heat of his touch. "You belong here, Dreamer; your Dreams are Dreams of Waking and Living, not of Sleep and Death."

The heat from Legolas' hand spread through his cheek; it pushed away the cold torpor, and the darkness receded. Then Michael sat up with a gasp. He was sitting on the deck of the White Lady, and Aragorn and Éomer were holding him tight, one on each arm. Legolas squatted before him, the light in his blue eyes fading, but Michael could still feel the imprint of Legolas' palm on his cheek, and it stung and burned. Legolas touched him again, but this time, though Michael flinched, the touch was cool, soothing, stroking away the residual hurt; the wild angry eyes softened, and the sweet columbine mouth curved down in a sad frown.

"Oh, poor Dreamer," he murmured, caressing Michael's stinging cheek. In his face was the deep and heartbreaking compassion of one who knew the pull of hopeless despair. "Poor Michael."

Michael let out a harsh sob, and then Legolas had him in his arms, pressing him close against his chest; Michael could smell rosemary, and clean linen, and warm skin. Michael was shaking so hard he thought he would rattle Legolas' teeth out, but those strong warm arms held him so tight he had the trembling squeezed right out of him. When he'd managed to catch his breath Legolas released him, and then it was Frances who held him, gathering him in his long dark arms, his lips against Michael's temple, tears wetting Michael's hair. Over the shuddering sound of Frances' breath and the thudding of his heart Michael could hear Legolas speak.

"No, putting him on dry land will only make the visions worse. Once we're out in the open ocean, Ossë won't need dreams. But we'll be ready for him. Not like we can bloody well hide from him, after all."

"But what can we do?" Éomer's voice, tight and frightened; not a sound Michael associated with that big strong man. He was still kneeling behind Michael, still shielding him with that broad muscular body, ready to guard and protect him. Legolas looked thoughtfully at him.

" 'Do'?" he asked, and his mouth quirked into a wry smile. " 'Do'? Can't fuckin' 'do' anything, mate. Ossë's got his reasons, the bleeder. Just hope me lord manages to hold him back, like." He got to his feet, straightening his rather rumpled clothes. "If it was me or Whitey or even Éowyn, I'd be right with it," he said, his face changing; he seemed regretful. "Used to it, we are … why bloody Ossë's pickin' on our Dreamer's fuckin' anyone's guess."

Faramir took a deep breath; Michael could hear it shrilling in the back of his throat. "Why Michael?" he asked, his voice shaking. "Why my Michael? Why not one of Us?" Michael could hear the capital in the word too, and knew what it meant: Why not one of the Chosen? Why an Outsider? But Legolas' sharp look to Frances made him feel better.

"Get it through yer head, fuckwit," he said, turning to go. "Michael IS one of Us." He walked off to the biminy then, leaving the four men crumpled on the deck; Aragorn and Éomer stared incredulously after Legolas, then glanced back at Faramir and Michael, contemplative, cautious. Michael looked back at them over the curve of Frances' arm, knowing he was staring like a dying fish but unable to stop himself; he felt very weak and shaky after his ordeal. Éomer licked his lips nervously and said,

"Does that mean – that Michael won't – " He gave Aragorn a sidelong glance, and Aragorn gave a quick shake of his head that said, Not Here. Biting his lip, Éomer stood, still looking down at Michael, his eyebrows puckered with thought. Aragorn got up too, and looked keenly from Michael to Frances.

"Bring Michael back to your stateroom and I'll give him a once-over," he said, his voice cautious and flat. "We can talk later." Giving Éomer one last cautioning glance he headed down the stairs, Éomer trailing him, leaving Michael folded in Frances' strong embrace. And just then, at that moment, Michael remembered what Frances had said – "My Michael " – and thought perhaps Frances really did love him, and that possibility so warmed him even Ossë's looming visions of imminent death could not frighten him.