A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael lay quietly in bed beside Frances. He could hear his lover's breath, deep, even, slightly glottal; could hear the clink of the sheets and the slosh-bump of the water on the hull. He echoed Frances' last sentence to him in his head – "It's been a hell of a day" – and Frances was right; it HAD been, even though Michael as a rule didn't use Language like that. The morning hit at Silver Bush, the horrible photograph, Michael's breakdown in the mess – he still felt a little embarrassed about that, though Frances had assured him it was perfectly Normal ("I fell apart after I killed my first man, too," he'd said quietly while they held hands on deck; "and all my father did was laugh at me"); then lunch, steamed quahogs with thyme-butter and beer-batter-fried fish, then Aragorn and Arwen, breathless, angry, with a message from Gandalf saying Dr. Ahn had Gotten Away. "He made it to Nova Scotia," Aragorn had said, his pale eyes blazing. "Hopped a plane to Toronto. Gandalf's following him."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Doris had asked, her round face apprehensive. "Dr. Ahn's been monitoring the airports, he'll know Gandalf is on his tail."

"Better him than us," Legolas had said, and that had started the argument between Gimli and Frances about who would get to trace the flights. Legolas mediated the dispute by telling them to shut the fuck up and get on it before he broke their bollocks, and Frances and Gimli had promptly disappeared below decks to pirate a wireless Internet connection and track the two absentees. Several hours passed, with various shouted bulletins floating up the stairway, culminating with the news that both Gandalf and Dr. Ahn were on their way to London. Legolas had shaken his head at this point and muttered, "Bugger. All right, mates, going to talk to me lord."

He too had vanished below, and everyone else had wandered around the top deck restlessly. Michael had felt a few times that tickling, crackling feel beneath his bare feet that was not the heat of the sun on the teak flooring but the vituperation flying betwixt the Listener and Manwë. After an agitated half hour Legolas had resurfaced, running shaky hands through his long pale hair. He was still visibly upset, but seemed more confident than he had been before.

"London for us," he'd said with a sigh, sitting beside Éowyn, who embraced him with tender concern, gold wound round ivory. "We set out in the morning."

Éomer, Aragorn, and Gimli had scattered to resupply, but Michael could hear what they were saying as they descended the gangplank. Not a good time to sail the Arctic Circle. Weather was Iffy this time of year. Hoped Legolas knew what he was doing. Michael shivered in the blue-gray dark. He hoped Legolas knew what he was doing, too. Dinner had been an awkward affair, everyone unwilling to question Legolas' decision, no one happy with what they were about to do. After the washing-up Legolas had gathered everyone's attention and looked down at the circle of people, his face gentle and understanding, but no less obdurate for that.

"I know what yer all thinking," he'd said, looking from one to the other, and no one, not even Aragorn, could hold his gaze for long. "Yer thinking we've bished it but good this time. But Manwë's given me the green light, mates. It's off to London for the lot of us. Trust me."

There hadn't been much to say about THAT. "Trust me," he'd said, and Michael remembered what Frances had said on their hike to the Metal Building, that Legolas was always right. "A hell of a day," indeed. Had Michael not been Raised Properly he would have used a MUCH stronger invective than that. As he and Frances had undressed for bed Michael had asked worriedly, "Wouldn't it be safer to fly?" And Frances had turned to him, eyes glittering weirdly in the darkness, oddly like Legolas himself. "Don't you remember 9/11?" he'd asked softly, his voice sending chills down Michael's spine. "At least Gandalf's on the same flight as Ahn. That means they'll both make it to London. The good doctor may risk six hundred strangers' lives, but he sure as hell won't risk his own." That had been a chilling thought, and Michael had welcomed Frances' advances at that point, wanting only to block out the horrors of the day.

Now it was dark and quiet. He could hear very little apart from the normal sounds of the boat at night, and it was comforting to lie there, hearing Frances breathe so deeply. The slightest hitch of breath made Michael turn over. Frances' eyelids were flickering, and his eyebrows were drawn down over his eyes. Was he dreaming? He looked as though he were dreaming. Michael smiled and touched Frances lightly on the forehead. "I wonder what he's dreaming about?" he thought, and laid his head back on his pillow.

His head seemed to sink rapidly through pillow, mattress, floor. Everything went dark. He was surrounded by mist, cold and damp, and the smell of dirt and refuse and decay. Before him, glowing sickly and pale, was a long thin boat, narrow and short, more like a large rowboat with a high carved prow. It was phosphorescent, greenish, seeming to reflect back some nonexistent corpse-light into the murky dark. Standing beside the boat, up to his hips in the oily black water, was Frances. His hair was long and unkempt, and his clothing was – odd; primitive, almost medieval, gothic with his long dark cloak and deeply cowled hood. The wan greenish light illuminated him from below, and though the shadows distorted his features Michael could tell he was staring into the boat, and he was crying.

"Frances!" he exclaimed, and moved to step into the water too, to walk up to him, see what Frances was looking at. But Frances didn't appear to have heard him; he didn't even look up, but instead stepped up to the boat and took hold of the side, steadying it and reaching in with one hand to touch whatever was in there.

"He can't hear you," said a voice behind Michael. Michael turned, startled; there stood a man, with the pale lovely features of a Vala, clad in a shimmering gray robe, with a white circlet around his dark head. He was smiling tenderly at Michael, and Michael didn't feel as though this particular Vala were quite as – as – intense, dangerous, indifferent – as Manwë; he didn’t have the same "feel." There was no weight on his back, no terrifying compulsion to kneel, to hide his face. In fact Michael got the vague impression that this particular Vala actually liked him.

"Who are you?" asked Michael wonderingly.

"I am Irmo," he said.

That meant very little to Michael; he remembered hearing the name but couldn't for the life of him remember what this particular Vala was in charge of; he nodded politely to cover his confusion. "I'm Michael," he said shyly; it was hard to know how to introduce oneself to an angel.

Irmo shook his head. "You are the Dreamer," he said, and laughed; his laugh had the clear artless quality of a child's. He stepped forward and took Michael by the hand. His touch was very cold, but firm nonetheless. He led Michael to Frances' side, and they both looked into the boat. It was narrow-beamed and high-prowed, and made of some pale hard wood, cut into narrow planks and curved; there was the slightest bit of bilge-water in the bottom of the boat, though Michael felt certain it was due more to User Error than to some defect in the boat itself. There were two men lying in the bottom of the boat. One of them was the man Michael had seen in a previous vision, pierced by arrows and crumpled dead in the thick leafy loam. The other was Michael himself.

He stared down at his own inert body in a sort of horrified fascination. He was undoubtedly dead, as was Frances' brother; he was wearing some sort of coat – it looked like the coat Éowyn had bought him in Kennebunkport – and his face was still and white and cold. His hands, like Boromir's, were crossed upon his chest. It was very strange to see himself like this, white and blue-lipped and motionless. He looked at Frances, who was lightly touching his brother's hands; he was crying, and shaking his head; the look of pain in his face was so vivid and intense it almost hurt Michael physically to see it.

"All I love dies," said Frances into the thick humid dark.

"One might rather say that all die, loved and unloved," said a woman's voice. Appearing beside Frances out of the fog was a tall lovely woman, wrapped in mist; upon her face was an expression of abiding sorrow. Frances turned to her, the pitiful confusion in his eyes wrenching at Michael's heart.

"But we don't all stay dead," he said, his voice breaking. The woman gave a small smile and climbed into the boat, sitting up on the stern and looking down at the two dead men. She leant on her elbows, folding her long graceful hands beneath her pointed chin. Her pale hair fell about her breasts.

"Very few of the Eldar choose their doom," she said absently.

"It doesn't appear as though you've given any of us a choice, Elda or Edan," said Frances bitterly.

"These two both chose," said the woman, gesturing to the bodies at her feet. "Your brother chose death to protect those placed under his care. It is for that noble act he dwells now in peace in the high halls of Mandos, where otherwise he would not have been permitted to go. And your lover chose death out of his unwavering faith in the foresight and wisdom of the Valar, and has thus been amply given his reward as well. Mourn for them, O Steward, but stay this self-pity. Accept your given lot, as they did; learn from their separate triumphs."

"What can I learn from death?" asked Frances; his voice was weary. "Boromir was shot to death because he was outnumbered, and Michael drowned. Those were such stupid, wasteful ways to die. It seems more to me as though the Valar are just toying with me, offering me happiness and taking it away."

"You were meant to go with the Fellowship," said the woman gently. "It was you Irmo called, knowing you to be the better man. But your brother in his arrogance and pride went in your place, and put the quest and the Ringbearer in danger."

"So you punished him."

"No. We saved him. Had he remained in Minas Tirith, he would have disdained Aragorn's kingship and there would have been war on top of war unending. Men would have been divided, and the Dark Lord would have won and all Arda plunged into darkness. But when the Ring called him and he answered, the Ringbearer fled, and Boromir's mind cleared; his death opened the way for the Halflings to go to Fangorn, and for the Three Hunters to go to Rohan."

Frances seemed to consider this. It obviously made a lot of sense to him, though it seemed to Michael to only be so many disconnected phrases and confusing words. "So … if I had left Boromir at home – "

"He and your father would have fought over the throne, and rejected the king," said the woman patiently, folding her white robes over her knees. "Boromir's death would have been plunged in hatred and bitterness and civil war. But his sacrifice redeemed him, and he sleeps in peace."

Frances appeared to accept her explanation, though he didn't seem overly happy about it. Michael didn't blame him; it sounded an awful lot like Predestination and not Fate, which was unnerving. Michael would rather have believed in Fate. At least you had half a chance that way. He turned to Irmo, who was listening calmly, a look of unworried acceptance on his face. "Is this true?" he asked.

"Yes," said Irmo. "Nienna does not lie, for it is the truth that heals the souls of the peoples of Arda. Listen!"

Michael listened, but it didn't appear either Nienna or Frances would speak for a few moments. They both seemed wrapped up in their separate thoughts; Nienna mourned, Michael was sure, though her mourning was that of stoic acquiescence; Frances seemed steeped in doubt, his gray eyes troubled, his hands touching his brother's and his lover's faces tenderly, regretfully. He did not seem to possess the yielding acceptance of the pale Vala at the stern of the boat.

"What about Michael?" Frances asked at last, looking up at Nienna, his eyes clouded with tears. "Why did you have to take him from me?" His voice was tremulous and pitched about a half-octave higher than normal. Michael could tell he was two steps from bursting into tears, and it so wrung his heart he reached out to touch Frances, but of course, Frances couldn't feel him.

"It is not cruelty or even indifference, but pity that spurs Ossë," said Nienna firmly. "Look you unto his pale fair face, and think upon the many ways a man can die. Would you not spare him pain if you could? Or are you so selfish, O Steward, that you would keep him by your side so that he might die in agony?"

Michael peeked down at his face again, very aware of the unknowing form of his lover hovering by his side. Pale, yes, but fair? Well, maybe compared to that rough, broken-nosed, scruffy man beside him … but certainly not compared to the likes of Irmo or Nienna, or even Legolas. But Frances reached down, caressing the dead Michael's cold cheek, tears running down his face into his half-grown beard; he laced his dirty fingers into the ashen flossy curls, traced the outline of his eyebrows, his nose, his chin. Michael had to suppress a shudder. Frances touched him all the time, but never like that – never with that look of broken regret, helpless adoration, with such aching and doting touch, as though he were worshipping Michael and not just giving him the dutiful caress intended to inspire lovemaking. It was unsettling to see his Alpha like that, stripped of that cool and controlled veneer, lost and vulnerable and fragile. He wanted to hug Frances, to tell him he loved him, to beg him to not miss him so much when he went away – but of course Frances couldn't see him, couldn't hear him, and certainly couldn't feel him. Michael turned away, feeling he shouldn't watch Frances reduced to such a state; it seemed an awful invasion of privacy. Irmo regarded him sympathetically, taking him by the hand and leading him back away from the river side. They watched the four figures, Boromir and Michael, Nienna and Frances, all still, glowing slightly at the water's edge, embraced in cold thick mist. Nienna was studying Frances carefully, as though she were waiting for something, and Irmo and Michael watched her watch Frances. Michael wanted to speak, wanted to break the heavy silence, but not only did he feel it wasn't his place, he wasn't sure what he'd say anyway. This was not, after all, HIS dream.

"I relinquish them," said Frances at last. He straightened up. Nienna stirred, her eyes kindling, and some of the sickly light faded. The boat began to move, slipping away from the shoal, rocking with its weight; the prow turned to the middle of the river and started to float away.

"Your choice behooves you at last, O Beloved Steward," said Nienna, raising her hand to him in farewell. "When your Dreamer is taken from you, your Dreams will return to you. Go in peace."

Michael watched the boat slide away into the murky water, the soft slurp and slap of the waves on the pebbly shore mingling with the creaking of the oars that Nienna wielded, urging the boat into the river's current. Frances stepped into the water waist deep, watching her go, the tears running down his face freely; in his eyes was a living, dynamic sorrow, burning away the numb deadly decadence that had been stamped there for as long as Michael had known him. He could almost feel Frances' heart breaking from there, but it was not a despairing fracture; instead the corpse-light vanished and all that was left was the cool sentient dark embracing him. Just as Irmo drew him away he heard Frances speak, his voice the faintest whisper over the rustle of the river.

"Don't leave me," Frances murmured as he faded from sight, but Michael couldn't tell whether he were speaking to Boromir, to Nienna, or to him.