A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

They left Norman Island the next day. They left Nick there, smiling and waving and uncommunicative and unconcerned; Captain Dave they dropped off on Tortolla, promising to give him a call when they were back in the area. He'd only shrugged laconically and lumbered down the lane with his rolling gait, scratching his backside. Then they turned the White Lady and the Semi-Impermeable and headed north.

After about a week, they transferred as much of the goods they could use aboard the Semi-Impermeable to the White Lady, and Arwen and Gimli scuttled her. They sailed a good bit away while the old boat groaned and heaved, letting the sucking current burgeon and swirl far from their own hull; Michael was surprised to find his eyes pricking with tears as the battered old sloop rolled to her side, wallowing helplessly and sinking beneath the blue-gray waves of the Atlantic. Doris stood beside him, blinking furiously and swallowing, and Michael grasped her hand and held it tight. They stood together at the White Lady's rails and watched as the sluggish whirlpool sucked the Semi-Impermeable down; her mast snapped with an audible bang, and the last thing they saw was the old tattered mainsail as it was pulled under.

They stood for a while at the rail, eyes fixed on the gurgling, heaving maelstrom, until at last even the sea surface calmed and there was nothing left to look at. Doris gave a heavy sigh and turned to Michael, her eyes bright with tears, and gave him a shaky smile.

"She was an awful old boat," she said, her voice tremulous. "I should be glad we sank her. It just seemed like such an awful way for her to go."

"Maybe we shouldn't have watched," said Michael. But Doris shook her head.

"No," she said sadly. "I think she's glad we were with her."

Michael wondered at their reactions. It was a BOAT, for pete's sake; an old, nasty, smelly, leaky, inconveniently appointed BOAT; why on earth were they being so sentimental about it? He supposed it was because it was the boat they'd learned to sail on, the boat they'd loved to bitch about, the boat that had carried them so faithfully on her last voyage into the Caribbean. Michael knew Gimli had stolen her from the Dade County Impound, and wondered for what nefarious purpose she had been used – drug running? Smuggling? – but at least they had redeemed her somewhat, by using her for a good reason, in pursuit of a good goal. That in itself had justified her pitiful existence, at least, and to consign her to the Depths was not perhaps so cruel – that was where a boat belonged at last, sleeping upon the sands of the Deep; it was a more fitting resting place than a scrapyard. There was no shameful stigma in going down to Ulmo. Sometimes that was where you belonged.

Michael's imminent doom was known and accepted aboard the White Lady. No one spoke much about it, mentioning it only in casual conversation, as an aside almost, not truly worthy of note; the general feeling Michael got was that they weren't happy about it, and would do everything they could to prevent it, but as there was no changing it, it didn't bear discussion. Doris was the only exception; finding he was Doomed had horrified her, and she had cried for three straight days when she'd found out. At times Michael saw either Gandalf or Arwen watching him closely, and he wondered if they were sorry for him, or if they envied him; there seemed to be a bit of both pity and jealousy mingled in their eyes.

He was not allowed to be topside without accompaniment. Aragorn had been terribly upset by Michael's determined attempt to throw himself overboard, and in a rather vain effort to uphold the Hippocratic oath wanted to avoid a repetition if at all possible. Legolas had half-heartedly tried to convince Aragorn and Éomer that if Ossë wanted Michael, no one was going to stop him, but those two men were adamant (and were being backed up by both Doris and Gimli to boot), and arranged a schedule whereby Michael was never alone any more. Frances, Legolas, and Éowyn had watched the frantic and earnest preparation with rather sardonic smiles on their faces – and Michael knew they had resigned themselves to Ossë's influence. Michael's own capitulation had sealed his fate.

He found he wasn't afraid to die, so much as he sort of vaguely resented it. He at least wanted to see what happened to Dr. Ahn. It would be like chasing down Heinrich Himmler, only to be interrupted a hundred yards from the end of the road, and never knowing whether he were captured or not. "I'd like a little Closure," he thought, a trifle petulantly; to his consternation he could hear the echo of laughter in his head, and a voice said: "How keenly the Hunter chases after his prey!" He didn't know who it was – it wasn't Manwë, that was for certain, and he was fairly certain it wasn't Ossë, either. He couldn't picture either of them laughing like that, so bluff and hearty; it almost reminded him of Éomer's voice, but that, of course, was ridiculous.

Three weeks later they sailed into Kennebunkport. It was almost anti-climactic when they hove to and secured the lines; here all this time Michael had been waiting – bracing himself – for Ossë to strike, and now – nothing. He and Frances would stand together, looking down into the surging dark water from the stern, fingers interlaced, expecting at any moment to see that dark weedy head breach, the long clawed fingers reach for him. But even in his dreams, Ossë was strangely absent. Michael would awake in the mornings, and think back onto what had gone on in his head during the night; usually it was Standard Fare for the Inner Theater, comprising muddled thoughts of daily actions, memories of past occurrences, flying or falling or looking for something. But though on occasion he could hear Legolas' voice in his head, speaking to someone else, he never really went anywhere; only once his dream had taken him down a dark hallway to a bright sun-drenched courtyard, and he had seen Legolas and Gandalf standing together, arguing in a language he did not understand. But before he could make himself known a dark beautiful man in a wispy gray robe had pulled him aside into the cool shadows, and smiling at him had laid a long thin finger against his lips, silencing him. "Listen!" he'd whispered, and placing his hands on Michael's ears turned him aside from the courtyard, to a dim dark corner, where a sleeping woman in a pale gray dress lay curled on a pile of cushions. "Estë comforts you." But then his dream had wandered away, up into the stars somewhere, and when he awoke Michael wondered if it had been a Vision, or just some mixed-up memory of his trip to Oiolossë.

Michael went ashore with Doris, Lottie, Arwen and Éowyn. They were on a Mission, Lottie had said, her eyes twinkling mischievously; a Mission she just KNEW they all would LOVE. Michael had been looking at Éowyn and Arwen when she'd said this; they had exchanged long-suffering glances and smiled. Then Lottie triumphantly led them into dress shops and clothing shops and drug stores, and they proceeded to make horrendous inroads into their credit limits, buying up shirts, trousers, underwear, dresses, skirts, blouses, stockings, shoes, razors, cosmetics, scarves, jewelry, and – Michael thought this was strange – coats, gloves, long johns, and wool socks. He helped Doris pick out a nice parka, pale lavender with a white plushy hood and sparkly buttons, and Lottie in turn made him try on a heavy waterproof coat with a zip-out wool lining, that made him feel strangely Outdoorsy. "Can’t I get one at least in my color?" he'd complained, looking down at the olive-green coat that made him look sallow and unhealthy, and Éowyn had laughed.

"Trust me," she'd said, helping him out of it. "You'll thank me later."

When at last they headed back to the docks, loaded down with bags and packages, they came across Legolas, sitting in a picturesque spot on the boardwalk, a small easel erected before him, sketching the scenery with watercolors. He'd already produced quite a few landscapes, displayed on a rack behind him, and sat on his stool, hair pulled back, face smudged with charcoal and paint, biting his lower lip and putting a graceful sweep of blue onto the thick grainy paper. There was a small crowd around him, watching, though Michael noticed that about half of it was comprised of young ladies who seemed to be more interested in the artist than the art. Gesturing them back, Éowyn approached him casually, wandering up to glance over Legolas' shoulder at the current work; Legolas didn't even look at her. Michael saw her say something, and he seemed to utter a one-word reply; with an absent nod she turned and came back to them.

"Well?" asked Lottie.

"Three," said Éowyn shortly. Lottie shook her head, a worried expression on her face.

"That's a lot," she said. Éowyn shrugged.

"Nine left," she said.

Michael made the brief calculation and thought he knew what they were talking about – Dr. Ahn's "operatives." He wondered what had happened to the three Legolas had mentioned, then decided, outside of an ultimate destination, he really did not care to know any details. Sure enough, when they returned to the White Lady, Éomer was there in the cockpit, cleaning a handgun. He looked up at his sister when she entered, and gave a tight grin, his white teeth flashing from behind his beard.

"Have fun?" she asked dryly. He just gave a loud shout of laughter, and shaking her head in mock-disgust Éowyn had left.

Outside the cockpit Gimli was standing, leafing through a big stack of mail – letters, circulars, newspapers and magazines. "Here," he said gruffly, handing Michael a couple of letters and the latest copy of Interior Design. "These are for you. And these – " He grunted a little and pulled a larger wad out from the middle of the stack; Michael recognized EWeek and Discover. "This is Faramir's."

Michael stuffed the mail in one of his bags; his hands were full. "Thanks," he said, and headed down the stairs to the stateroom.

As he passed the head he heard water running; he glanced in and saw Frances bending over the sink, rubbing at his shirt, which was draped over the countertop. He was bare-chested, clad only in a pair of linen shorts and deck shoes, and his dark hair looked a little mussed. "Hello, Beautiful," Michael said, leaning on the doorjamb and admiring his lover's dark torso. Then, just as Frances glanced up at him, he looked into the sink. It was full of bloody, soapy water.

Michael gasped. Had Frances cut himself? No – surely Gimli or Éomer would have said something – and Frances had gone out with Éomer; he remembered seeing Frances wave to him as he and Éomer walked down the other side of the dock; he had been wearing that lemon-colored shirt, now horribly stained, and had his hand in his pocket.

That was it, then. The blood was not Frances'.

Michael wasn't sure how he felt about that. Sure, Legolas and Éowyn could be assassins; it seemed to suit them – Éomer, too, had that bluff violence about him, and even Aragorn could be deadly, in that cool and controlled way. But … Frances???

He stared at the bloodied shirt, and Frances watched him carefully, rubbing the cloth together almost absently to work out the stains. Well, isn't that what they were going to do – go kill someone? When would it be over? When the last man died. Michael had a sudden sinking conviction that a lot more people were going to have to die, before Dr. Ahn let them anywhere near him. Three down, nine to go.

Well. Better than twenty million, at least.

Frances turned off the tap and straightened up, his wet, soapy hands resting on the edges of the sink. He looked cautiously at Michael, his rather over-long hair hanging down over his forehead into his eyes. His shoulders and back glistened faintly in the muted sunlight coming in through the porthole, and Michael could see the muscles beneath the russet skin, flexing and shifting. If that pretty lemon-colored linen shirt were ruined …

Did it matter? Lottie had bought so MANY clothes.

"Hello, Darling," said Frances; his voice was flat, betraying nothing. But Michael looked into his pale gray eyes and saw fear there, fear of Michael's disapproval, fear of Michael's horror, fear of Michael's own fear; it bled out of those beautiful eyes like tears, and it hurt him. Frances shouldn't have to be afraid, just because Michael was squeamish. Michael forced a smile and held up one of the shopping bags.

"Don't mind that," he said, surprised to hear his voice – bright, careless, affectionate. Frances blinked; obviously he hadn't been expecting that, either. "Come back to our room – I have some clothes for you to try on." It sounded so pedantic, so domestic, as though they were at home, and Michael just had walked in on Frances sewing on a button or something, not rinsing a bodyguard's blood out of his clothing. But he kept the cheerful look on his face and went back to the stateroom, glancing back coyly as he approached the door; Frances stood holding his dripping shirt, staring at him with an expression on his face that was at once puzzled and hopeful. Michael gave him a quick smile and went into the stateroom, dumping the bags on the bed with a relieved sigh, and rubbing his sore arms. "This stuff is HEAVY," he said lightly when he heard Frances come in behind him and shut the door. "I thought Lottie would buy EVERYTHING we SAW. Honestly, that girl can REALLY shop." He turned and smiled at Frances, who was regarding him with ill-disguised agitation; giving a little inward grimace Michael picked up one of the bags and upended it on the comforter. A pile of jumbled-up clothing tumbled out, sweatshirts, socks, a scarf, two knit hats, two packages of cotton shirts. "Here we go," he said merrily, sorting through the mess. "We got you teal – it is SO your color."

He picked out one of the packaged shirts and started worrying at the seam, trying to pry it open. Frances dropped his bloody shirt onto the floor and stood, watching Michael struggle with it a moment; finally he said, his voice hesitant and a little husky: "Darling – you don't mind – "

Michael looked up; Frances' face was a welter of emotions, from fear to disbelief to impatience to alarm. Michael dropped the shirt with a little squeak of annoyance and went up to him, putting his arms around Frances' neck and kissing him soundly.

"Frances," he said, looking solemnly into his lover's eyes. "Faramir. I'm on YOUR side."

Frances hesitantly put his hands on Michael's hips, looking down at him with diffident admiration. "No matter what I do?" he asked, then seemed to clench within himself, bracing himself for Michael's response.

That took no thought at all; Michael had already had this out with himself in the long dark sleepless nights of their trip, thinking of the many moral ins and outs of what they were doing, and how deep their influence lay. "No matter what you do," he said with a promptness that seemed to relieve Frances; he kissed Michael in earnest this time, but released him and picked up one of the shirts, studying it thoughtfully.

"I can't decide if you're stubborn, loyal, or just naïve," he said slowly. He looked up at Michael, a hesitantly reassured light in his eyes; Michael smiled at him and ripped open one of the packages.

"All three, I think," he admitted, and shook the shirt out, tutting at the wrinkles. "We have an iron on board, don't we?"

"Hm," said Frances absently, glancing down at the letters and magazines. "Ah," he said, his face brightening. "Gimli went to the Post Office." He picked up a copy of Eweek and flipped it open.

"Not NOW," chided Michael, taking it out of his hands and putting it back on the bed. "Here. Clothes. Now." He put the shirt in Frances' hands and went back to the bags, turning them over and scattering their new clothes all over the bed, sorting through them and putting them into little piles – Try On Now and Take Off Tags and Iron. He hesitated over starting a new pile – Hang Up Immediately – and decided not to take the chance; he turned to the closet to get a couple of clothes hangers, only to find Frances looking at him with an amused expression on his face, eyebrows raised, the teal shirt still crinkled and unbuttoned in his hands. "What?" asked Michael, bewildered.

Frances smiled. "For an interior designer, you've gotten awfully pushy," he said, with a passable imitation of Aragorn's voice. It took Michael a moment to identify the quote (three weeks WAS a long time) but when he did the little anxious knot that had started to grow in his chest vanished instantly. He laughed, and Frances grinned, and the last vestiges of discomfort vanished. Michael puttered around, folding and hanging and cutting off tags, while Frances tried on the clothes Lottie had purchased. He finished up with a heavy yellow slicker, lined with fleece; while he was snapping it up Michael sat back down on the bed and watched him.

"Why do we need all this stuff?" he asked. Frances glanced down at him, and Michael had a fleeting cold thump of remembrance – was this a Not-Discussed? – but apparently those days were In The Past; Frances only smiled and said,

"Where we're going, it's going to get pretty cold."

Michael pulled his knees up to his chest and watched Frances take the coat off. He wondered if anyone would be looking for them in the next half hour or so; after all, he already had him half-undressed, and it seemed a shame to waste it … "Aragorn's picking up his boat."

"Yes," said Frances, hanging up the coat. He was now clad in just his underwear – black jockeys, very flattering; Michael could see his long stippled spine, and the swell of his buttocks. He shifted uncomfortably.

"And we're leaving tomorrow."

"As far as I know."

Frances bent down to pick up his shorts, only to stop in mild surprise when Michael put his hand on them, holding them onto the bed. Their eyes met, gray questioning eyes to lowered blue ones, fluttering suddenly, then looking up through their pale lashes at him.

"Anyone need us in the next few minutes?" he asked, his voice soft and sultry.

Frances' eyebrows went up. "Aren't you going to read your mail?" he asked dryly, flicking a glance at the letters on the bed. Michael sighed and released the shorts, and rolled over to pick up his letters. He heard Frances chuckle above him, and also heard the soft susurration of cloth being pulled up what he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt were long, muscular brown legs. Frances must REALLY want to read that latest issue of EWeek. He picked up one envelope, expecting to see a request for donations to a charity, or an announcement concerning some auction or show, but felt a jolt of surprised pleasure when he recognized the writing on the envelope. "It's from Pauline," he said, his disappointed arousal bleeding away in the sudden excited rush. He looked at the address – a Post Office Box in Kennebunkport. "How did she know to write me here?"

"Frodo told her," said Frances. He stretched out on the bed beside Frances and picked up his magazine. "Go ahead, read it. You've been gone a while."

Michael opened the envelope with trembling fingers, and pulled out the three sheets of handwritten legal paper, his heart thumping. Pauline! Family! And so Far Away! Was she Angry? Did she Understand? What had Frodo told her? He felt eyes on him, and looked over to see Frances studying him thoughtfully, his eyes sympathetic. "I don't know whether I feel scared or happy or upset," he said.

"All three, I think," said Frances, smiling. Michael remembered what he'd said before, and his heart seemed to surge with an odd feeling – happiness and warmth and humor and security all at once; it was not a Usual Feeling for him but he decided he liked it quite a lot. Giving a contented sigh he settled into the bed beside Frances, snuggling down in the cozy fold of the mattress beside him, basking in the welcoming vital feeling of their bodies compressed together. He flipped open the letter and read.

Within ten seconds he had gone from Apprehensive to Relieved; Pauline's letter was light, not quite Unconcerned but definitely not Worried; she expressed trepidation at his sudden loss of job, satisfaction that his "sailing trip" was going so well, curiosity at Frances' "disposable income" (Michael had to snort at that one), and hoped his "friends" and he were having a good time. Upon opening the second envelope he discovered not only a shorter letter from Pauline, but an enclosure from his mother, which was not nearly so satisfying; in her note Pauline wrote, "Sorry about this – I tried to tell Mom everything was okay, but you know how she worries, and she thinks Frances is a sexual predator." This elicited another snort from Michael, and when Frances glanced at him questioningly, he handed the note over, and with a resigned sigh read his mother's letter.

It was little more than a long uninterrupted complaint, separated into paragraphs and punctuated with many underlined words and exclamation points, regarding the complete Lack Of Communication Between Mother and Son, and the Perfidy of the Boyfriend Of The Minute, and the dearth of Sympathy from That Boorish Man Your Father, returning briefly to the Perfidy bit, and seeing the Lack of Communication on the side. There was a brief, disjointed, and (Michael was sure) wildly inaccurate description of his nephew Joshua's science fair project, a gushing account of his niece Tara's latest foray into the world of Equestrian Events, a peevish rehash of the Communication paragraph and she was very lovingly his, Mom. Michael gave a little groan and dropped the letter on the bed. Frances had read the note and was watching him, a look of sympathy mingled with irritation on his face.

"Consider yourself lucky," he said, patting Michael's hand. "You have a family to worry about you."

A sudden flash of memory, a man with bloodied lips asking for his brother. Boromir. Now Michael knew who he was. He felt an excruciating stab of compassion, followed by the guilty realization he had never asked Frances about his family – it had been a Not-Discussed, but really, he ought to have asked, oughtn't he? He got the feeling even if he asked now Frances wouldn't want to talk about it. "I'll ask Éowyn," he thought. "She'll know, and it won't hurt her like it would hurt Frances." Sensing Frances' need for Physical Contact (The Gift That Keeps On Giving, after all) Michael nestled closer, tucking his head beneath Frances' chin, and turning his hand beneath Frances', stroking his palm. "I suppose I need to write them back," he said reluctantly, then after thinking about that a moment, he said, "CAN I write them back?" At Frances' surprised look he said, "I mean, am I ALLOWED?"

"Sure you're allowed," said Frances with a crooked grin. "Just don't use a return address, and don't tell them what we're doing. Well," he amended, cocking his head, "you can tell them the surface bits – we're sailing, obviously – you can talk about the boat, and the scenery, and the food, and the shopping."

"But no guns or Army guys or viruses or treason or killing," said Michael. "Got it." He folded up the two letters and pursed his lips. "I wish I had some pictures to send them."

"Gimli bought Doris a new digital camera," said Frances absently, returning to his magazine. "Ask them."

Michael watched him flip pages and skim articles, feeling impatient all of a sudden. Here they were, in a nice quiet cabin, all alone, Frances had his shirt off … and he was reading about – what – Open Source software, whatever that was – cute picture of a penguin, at least – but Michael was POSITIVE he could think of something more interesting than THAT. Snuggling down closer to Frances he rubbed his chin along the ball of muscle at his boyfriend's shoulder, making sure his curls tickled Frances' cheek, and surreptitiously wriggled his fingers into the crook of Frances' elbow. When that failed he opened his mouth around the warm salty skin of Frances' arm and bit down – very lightly.

This got a reaction; Frances glanced down at him, eyebrow raised. "Yes?" he said, his eyes darkening a little.

"I was just thinking," said Michael innocently, around his mouthful of skin. "We don't have to be anywhere in particular in the next twenty minutes, do we?"

"No," admitted Frances, watching him as he bit down again, his lips twitching when he felt the flick of Michael's tongue. When Michael looked with Puppy-Dog devotion up at him, a smile cracked through Frances' stoic bravado. "Don't you want to answer your mother's letter?" he asked teasingly.

Michael contrived to look hurt. "Well, my life is going to be so short, you know. I thought you might want to make my brief stay on this planet a little more enjoyable."

Frances closed his eyes and sighed, though he still gave a crooked little smile. He rolled over onto his side, taking Michael into his arms. "Are you going to use that handle against me from now on, whenever you want to get your way?" he asked. Michael was pleased to feel his hands creep up underneath his shirt, and gave an enthusiastic wriggle against his lover's hip.

"I can't think of any other way to benefit from it," he admitted, tipping his head back to let Frances nip at his throat. "You have to admit the positive aspects are a little lacking."

"Mm," murmured Frances against Michael's skin; the vibration hummed agreeably and caused a bloom of goosebumps to shoot down his back. "Not many compensations for me, either."

"All the more reason to take advantage of the time we have," sighed Michael. He shivered as Frances unbuttoned his shirt while nibbling his way down Michael's throat – it was nice to have a boyfriend who could multitask – his eyes, already starting to unfocus, landed on the door, and he frowned.

"Frances!" he said, then stifled a moan when Frances got to a rather tender spot.

"Mm," said Frances, a little incoherently; after all his mouth was working on something else.

"Did you remember to lock the door?" whispered Michael.

Frances' answering chuckle was encouragement enough. So long as Ossë continued to ignore him, thought Michael, as Frances rolled him over, Michael would continue to enjoy himself. After all, no one lived forever.