A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael sat up straight, legs crossed Indian-style beneath him, hands folded in his lap. Aragorn pressed the cold disc of the stethoscope against his skin, his nimble, competent doctor's hands under Michael's sweatshirt. "Breathe in, deep breath," he said, his eyes abstracted, listening. Michael took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Again," said Aragorn, moving the disc; Michael breathed again. Then Aragorn climbed around the back of the bed and put the disc on Michael's back. And again, Michael breathed – deep breath in, deep breath out – and Aragorn pulled back, and took the earpieces out so that the stethoscope lay limp against his chest.

He had already looked in Michael's eyes with an ophtalmoscope and an otoscope (Michael was a little surprised he had medical equipment on board, but wasn't complaining) and with Frances' help had taken his blood pressure – grimacing as he did so, muttering, "One forty over ninety, too high … " Then, disdaining his instruments, he had poked and prodded and made incomprehensible little grunts under his breath, his brows drawn down into a V over his eyes. Frances sat beside Michael on the bed, forehead furrowed, a concerned look on his face, but at last reached out and held Michael's hand firmly, imparting at least a little equanimity into the situation. At last Aragorn sat back, and with a sigh began chucking his instrumentation back into the white First Aid box. "Well?" asked Frances, his voice tighter than normal; Michael could tell he was anxious. Aragorn didn't speak for a moment, busying himself with his equipment, then when he stood up he took a deep breath, and looked not at Frances, but at Michael.

"You look fine," he said. "Your blood pressure and your pulse are a little elevated, but that's to be expected. Your color's good and your pupils are responsive. I don't think it's had any permanent physical effect." Michael raised his eyebrows; he had heard Aragorn's slight emphasis on the word "physical," and that made him wonder what he was implying. "If you start – " he hesitated, casting about for an appropriate word " – dreaming – again, let me know – I'd like to monitor your physiological responses."

"I can't tell you," said Michael, a little irritably. "Most of the time I'm not even sure whether I'm dreaming or not, and usually I'm asleep."

" 'Usually'?" said Frances, tugging a little on his hand; Michael turned to him. For some reason Frances looked very vulnerable, and Michael wasn't sure he liked it. Frances was the Alpha; he was supposed to be In Charge. But apparently none of them was In Charge anymore. "Is this not the first time you've – dreamed – when you were awake?"

Michael bit his lip, thinking hard. "Well," he said slowly, "I did – see something – when we were up in the ducts in the Metal Building – but I thought I'd fallen asleep. Maybe I didn't," he said, frowning thoughtfully. "Maybe I just saw it when I was awake and didn't realize it."

"You couldn’t have slept up in those ducts," protested Frances, sitting back a little and running a hand through his hair. A disarranged section of it stood waving on the top of his head, but he didn't seem to notice – very indicative of his concern, Michael smiled to himself, as he was usually rather fanatical about his appearance. "We were always moving. Legolas and I would have seen if you'd fallen asleep."

"Legolas did see," said Michael. "He was there, in my head. He was talking to Manwë and I was listening."

Aragorn and Frances stared at him a moment, then, when the only response they got out of him was a blank look back at them, they went ahead and stared at each other. "This is really weird," said Frances slowly. Aragorn studied him, his eyes flickering, then he turned back to Michael.

"Mike," he said. "Do you remember – dreaming – like this before – before you and Faramir met Professor White at the Bower House?"

Michael considered this. HAD he? He couldn't really recall ever having such vivid, disturbing dreams before, barring the usual wearing-nothing-but-underwear-at-school dreams, or the more hair-raising falling-off-a-cliff variety. "No, I don't think so," he said. "The first dream I had like this was after we had that dinner at Café Deo Volente – before Legolas took me to The Lido."

Frances looked at him in surprise. "Really?" he said. "What was it?"

Michael remembered all too clearly what that dream had entailed; he could feel his heart rate increase again, and had to clench his jaw to keep his lip from trembling. "It was – a rape dream." At Frances' appalled expression, and Aragorn's sudden alert look, he stammered, "It was warning me – telling me what those men were going to try to do to me, the Army men in Arizona."

Aragorn and Frances looked at each other again – really, that was starting to get Very Annoying; didn't they realize Michael was sitting right there? – and in the silence they could hear voices in the hall through the closed door, and one of them – Legolas' – was raised above the others, angry and insistent.

" – Don't care if he is, he's a fuckin' Istar, at least I had a mum and dad."

"If you'd just try to talk to Aulë – "

"What, and have him smack me back again? That josser hates me and you know it. Now, don't start, Gimli – you're fuckin' mind-blind and you don't even hear him. Naw, it's me lord and lady, and Yavanna and maybe Irmo, if I can find him; between those four we should be in business all right."

Gandalf spoke, his voice a little petulant. "If you would only go to Ulmo – "

"I'm workin' on it, mate. Ever since that last trip I took to Valinor, Ossë and Uinen have had it in for me. Think I haven't tried that already? If I can get me lord to talk to Ulmo we should be good, but remember, he lets Ossë do whatever he wants nowadays. Brassed as hell he is at mankind, and can't bloody well blame him, can yer?"

The stateroom door banged open, and Legolas strode in, looking extremely put out. There was a crowd of people behind him, all looking in anxiously; Doris in particular had pushed herself forward, and was watching Michael with a worried expression on her face. He gave her a little smile, and she smiled back hesitantly, and wiggled her fingers at him.

"All right, Longshanks," said Legolas firmly, marching up to the bed. His eyes were bright and present, and his clenched jaw had flattened out any residual sign of his dimples. "Out. Mike and I need to do some talkin'."

Aragorn rolled his eyes, but gathered up his things in preparation for leaving. "For a Sindar prince you've gotten awfully pushy," he complained good-naturedly, snapping the First Aid box shut and picking it up.

"Eh, fuck off. No, not you, Faramir – " Frances froze; he had been rising to go as well, but Legolas' order stopped him just as he had gotten up on his hands and knees to climb off the bed. "You stay here. Acushla – "

"Right here." Éowyn walked in, passing Aragorn; she was wearing shorts and a baggy tee shirt, and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She clambered onto the bed beside Michael and Frances, and without the slightest hint of self-consciousness wrapped her long golden arms around Michael's shoulders, pulling him back onto her chest. "It'll be all right," she said, squeezing him comfortingly. "It feels a little strange at first, but you get used to it."

Michael settled back against her with a little sigh. She smelled like oranges and lemons, and her arms were very warm; he could feel her breath on his ear. "Can't I make it go away?" he asked plaintively, snuggling down into her embrace.

She gave a breathy laugh. "Unfortunately, no," she said. "Once you start hearing, you can't shut them up."

"The bloody worst part," said Legolas, shutting the door in everyone's faces and approaching the bed, "is that when you DO want to have a little chin-wag, they're nowhere to be found – fuckin' craps me off." He too climbed onto the bed, curled his legs beneath him, and rested his long-fingered hands on his knees, watching Michael carefully, his head cocked to one side. The sheet of white-gold hair slid down around his shoulder and swung tantalizingly around his cheek and neck. "All right," he said, his blue eyes glimmering a little. "Here we go."

The bed seemed to undulate beneath Michael, and the edges of his vision blacked out. He shook his head hard, blinking, and struggled to keep the sudden languor away, pinching his leg and hoping the sudden sharp pain would keep him awake. It felt as though long warm fingers were wrapping themselves around his brain, blocking out everything that was going on around him; he tried to push them away.

Suddenly everything receded, and he was looking at Legolas. The Alien's eyes were glowing blue now, and his hair seemed to shimmer; he was grinning, flashing his dimples impudently at Michael.

"Fighting it?" he said.

"Trying to," said Michael shakily. He felt Frances' hand squeeze his spasmodically; obviously Frances was not liking this one bit.

"Don't," said Legolas. "Come with me."

Michael really didn't want to, but he could feel a little tugging, a pressing compulsion in him, and remembered how persuasive Legolas could be when he wanted. Resignedly he closed his eyes, and relaxed a little; he felt Éowyn's arms tighten around his shoulders.

This time the pulling warmth enveloped him immediately, and the darkness behind his eyelids washed away into a blooming rainbow of light. He was rushing along now, following some bright shining being through a tunnel of swirling colors, heading toward a brilliant pinpoint before them. He could hear singing, and wondered what it was.

"The Song of the Ainur," said the figure before him, turning his head, and Michael saw it was Legolas. He looked even more beautiful in this strange other-worldly place than he did on Earth; his skin was powdery-soft and white, and his eyes a blue deeper than any sapphire or topaz Michael had ever seen. The hair around his head was little more than twining tendrils of light, golden-white and glowing. When he smiled Michael felt his heart turn over. "Come," he said. "My lord and lady are waiting."

With a lurch they were standing in a marble courtyard. It was surrounded by walls opening into tall graceful arches, and a fountain bubbled and splashed in the center. All around them were tall green trees and the faint sound of music. The sky was very blue and bright, but there was no sun. "Where are we?" asked Michael nervously, looking around.

"Oiolossë," said Legolas. He took Michael by the hand and led him forward. Somehow he had been clothed in some long flowing white robe, speckled all over with white gems, and he was wearing a twisty light crown made of silver and decorated with opals and diamonds. Around his long white throat he wore an elaborately decorated collar of gold, made in swirls and ropes and whorls of marvelous make, and studded with colored gems. He looked very powerful, very authoritative, and very barbaric. Michael looked down at the marble pavers, and saw they were both barefoot. He let Legolas lead him through one of the arches, and there were winding stairways up a green hill leading to a sort of gazebo at the crown of the hill; it was white, and from within it seemed to be glowing.

"What's up there?" asked Michael, pointing.

"My lord and lady," said Legolas. He started up the steps to the gazebo, pulling Michael along behind him. Michael began to be afraid. He remembered what it had felt like, to kneel before the throne in Manwë's presence; he remembered the heavy weight of his regard, the booming voice that seemed to disrupt his every heartbeat. He tried to hang back, but Legolas would not let go; they climbed up and up, into the cold clear bright air, and small birds whirled and sang around them.

Soon a figure emerged from the gazebo; it was a woman, garbed in white, with long pale hair; she held what looked like a short cudgel in her hand, but as she approached Michael realized with surprise it was a weaver's shuttle. She was quite obviously of a higher order than Legolas, for he stopped and bowed low before her, but she did not seem to inspire the same quivering fear that Manwë had, and as Michael bowed he wondered who she was.

"Welcome, Listener," she said, touching Legolas on the head; Legolas raised himself and stood on the step below her, looking calmly up at her. "My lady awaits you."

"My thanks, Ilmarë," said Legolas politely. As she passed them on the stairs, she paused and looked thoughtfully down at Michael. He swallowed heavily and dropped his eyes, uncomfortable beneath the weight of her regard.

"You dare much, to bring a Mortal Edan into the presence of the Valar," she said. There was a subtle rebuke in her voice, but an edge of humor too.

Legolas turned and looked back at her, smiling faintly. "When have I never dared some strange thing?" he asked dryly. "You know I am not called Beika-Verya by my lord for naught."

"Indeed?" smiled Ilmarë, her eyes shining. "I have rather heard him call you A'maelhathron."

Legolas inclined his head in acknowledgement, and they turned and climbed the stairs. When Michael looked back, the woman had reached the bottom of the stairs, and was passing beneath one of the archways into the courtyard they had just left. "What do those names mean?" he asked in a whisper, he did not feel this was the sort of place he should speak aloud – it was too lofty, too clear; he did not belong here.

"Too Bold," said Legolas. "But Ilmarë said my lord calls me Beloved Listener instead."

They had reached the entrance of the gazebo. When Michael peeked inside his courage nearly failed him; he could see two thrones, and two beings sitting on them. The room was filled with light, and he could feel the pressure of their interest in him, like a heavy stone placed upon his back. His knees began to tremble and he felt very weak and very small.

"Let me go back," he whispered. Legolas turned to him and smiled.

"They are your only hope," he said, and grasping him firmly by the hand he pulled him inside.

Falling to his knees and hiding his face seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. He knew instinctively he should not look upon them, that he was not worthy; besides that, he wasn't sure he WANTED to see what they really looked like; he had seen the face of Ossë, and that was enough. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the light, but he couldn't stop up his ears to keep from hearing their voices.

"Beloved Listener," said Manwë.

"My lord and lady," came Legolas' voice from above him. Michael trembled and pressed his shoulder against Legolas' leg; he could feel the beaded hem of his robe brush his arm.

"I have spoken with my brother," Manwë continued. "He says the fate of one lone Edan does not concern him."

"Has he not spoken to Irmo?" asked Legolas; he sounded worried. "It is he that has awakened the Dreamer's mind."

"He says it is of no concern that Irmo takes an interest in him," said Manwë gently. "Peace, beloved Listener; Ulmo has decided."

"What of Námo then?" demanded Legolas, beginning to sound angry. "What good shall another Edan do him in Mandos?"

"Námo has done much to release the Chosen into Arda once more," said Manwë. "He says it is enough."

Legolas was silent; Michael could tell he was thinking. At last he said, "I wish to speak with Aulë."

"Aulë will only speak with your Heartbeat."

"She is here." Legolas turned. Michael opened his eyes and peeked through his fingers; he looked to the doorway and saw Éowyn walk in. She too was clad in a long robe, but it was blue, and her eyes were bound by a strip of black cloth. Michael watched as Legolas stepped up to her, took her by the hand, and led her before the throne. She curtseyed and stood still, her hands limp by her side.

"Little Edan," said Manwë, "you have often spoken with your lady Yavanna concerning your duties in Arda. For what reason do you come before our presence?"

"I seek out Aulë, who has hidden his mind from me," said Éowyn evenly.

"You have spoken with Oromë."

"Yes, my lord."

"What said he?"

"He said he will go to the Dreamer and succor him."

"And what said his spouse?"

"As she is my lady's sister she is in accord with this. Also Tulkas and Nessa agree that since the Dreamer is under Irmo's care, he should be protected from Ossë."

"You have spoken with Tulkas?" Manwë sounded amused by this. "Is there naught you will not attempt, O Shieldmaiden, in your campaign to uphold the fortunes of the Steward?"

"I would go to Ulmo myself, had he not withdrawn from us."

"Shieldmaiden." This was the lady speaking, and her voice froze Michael's heart; Manwë's voice was frightening in his cool disinterest, but Varda seemed to Michael to be taking a tad too much interest in him. He could almost feel her regard, lying thick and heavy on him; with a frightened whimper he covered his head and pressed his face to the ground. "Ossë has his reasons for drawing the Dreamer down. It is not cruelty that spurs him. Dreamer." Now Michael knew she was addressing him, and he wasn't sure he could answer; his mouth was very dry, and his tongue felt like concrete. "You see Ossë in your visions. Do you truly think he hates you?"

"He must," stammered Michael to the floor. "He wants me to die."

"Death is not an End," she said gently. "It is merely an interruption."

"Are you saying you WANT Michael to die?" asked Legolas incredulously. He dropped to his knees beside Michael, beads clattering on the marble tile, and put his arms around his shoulders. "You cannot mean that, my lady! Think you upon what this would do to the Steward, who is the servant of Oromë. By my efforts and great pains have I brought him back into the Fold. To take the Dreamer from him would be to drive him forth again. Would you ask that of me once more, to leave your presence, and forsake my Heartbeat, in my attempts to draw him back into your favor?"

"Death is not an End," said Varda again; she sounded very patient. "You do not see the depth of the visions that Irmo has given to the Dreamer. It is not Námo but Nienna who calls him."

Legolas and Éowyn were silent, and Michael huddled, immobile, too frightened to move. After a moment Michael peeked out through his fingers again; Legolas was still there, but Éowyn had gone. He wondered if she were going to try to talk to Aulë, and what would happen then. He could still see the feet of the thrones before him, and the light that shone all around him. And he could still feel Manwë and Varda there, considering him, weighing the worth of his small life in their hands.

He knew it was no good. Why on earth would they do anything? He didn't even belong here; they were not HIS lord and lady, but Legolas', and Legolas wasn't even human. But still Legolas would argue, and press them, and expend his energy and attention trying to save his life, when Michael knew it was worthless. All it was doing was preventing Legolas from doing what he REALLY needed to do, which was to chase down Dr. Ahn and stop him. This whole discussion had really gone on long enough; even through his fear he began to feel a little impatient with it. He took hold of Legolas' arm and spoke, his voice sounding small and flat in the big clear stillness.

"Let me die," he said. "You need to stop Dr. Ahn. That's the important part. If Ossë has some reason he wants me Down There, I want to find out what it is, and as long as I'm running away from him I'll never find out."

Legolas did not answer, but from the thrones Michael could hear someone laughing; it was Manwë. Suddenly he felt himself lifted; he opened his eyes, but he was flying backwards through a long dark tunnel, and Legolas was by his side, limply acquiescent. The voice of Manwë followed them though, and Michael could hear the humor there. "Well chosen, Little One!" he said as Michael and Legolas receded. "I shall commend you to my brother." Then with a snap and a pop they were sitting on the bed again. Frances was looking from one to the other, his eyes anxious; Éowyn still had her arms around Michael's shoulders, but the face pressed into the back of his neck was cold. Legolas was staring at him, his blue eyes still flickering with the fire of his journey. When Éowyn raised her head both Frances and Legolas looked at her with concern; Michael turned in her arms, and saw her silver-gray eyes clouded but still very bright; when she blinked and returned to them the expression in her face was set and very determined.

"Well?" said Legolas.

"Yavanna's pissed," she said shortly. Legolas sighed, and looked at Michael again; the expression on his face was one of aggravated affection.

"Well, fuck," he said.