A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

(A/N: Sorry it's taking me so long to update -- this would be easier if I were allowed to bring my laptop to the doctor's offices! --Le Rouret)


Michael had never been so cold in his life.

Their stateroom was warm. The mess was warm. The head – thank goodness – was warm. Michael's clothes were warm – long johns, turtlenecks, wool sweaters, fleece mittens and socks and boots. But he didn't have enough adjectives in his vocabulary to even begin describing how bone-chillingly, limb-achingly, nose-pinchingly, lip-crackingly, stomach-shiveringly cold it was. For poor Michael, who had grown up in southern California and only went "north" to his grandfather's farm in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold more than anyone else on board either the White Lady or the Evenstar. Éomer and Lottie didn't mind it, laughing carelessly and telling people it wasn't NEARLY as bad as Murmansk in February. Legolas and Arwen didn't seem to feel the cold at all, and Frances and Aragorn simply accepted its inconvenience with a stoic inattentiveness that irritated Michael. Éowyn treated the elements with the contempt they deserved, which Michael thought very Brave of her considering her Astral connections. Gimli blithely admitted he had plenty of "natural insulation" (though Michael was unsure whether he meant his extra cellulitic padding, or body hair, and didn't care to ask for clarification) and Doris said she was pretending she was in Chicago in mid-winter, minus the air pollution and the presence of her former mother-in-law, making this a much more pleasant experience for her.

She and Michael spoke frequently over the radio, mostly because Michael was warm in the bridge and didn't want to venture out into the cruel elements; the added benefit was having a constant line open to her, so that he could get updates on the Gimli-becomes-a-Jew saga. Apparently there was a lot of studying involved, and learning Hebrew, to which he had applied himself with great enthusiasm. This, naturally, only fanned the flame of Doris' devotion to him, which was certainly encouraging, but became rather cloying after a while. It was hard to listen to a friend gush so enthusiastically about her lover's ardor when one's own was so reserved. It wasn't just him, either; Michael had overheard Aragorn complain peevishly to Éomer over the radio that they were so attached to each other, they couldn't perform the simplest of duties separately – he was sure they even went to the head in tandem. Despite his deep affection for Doris and his interest in her happiness, Michael had to smile at that; even patient Dr. Walker had his limits.

Had Frances possessed a more openly demonstrative nature, and had Michael not spent most of his adolescent and adult years living in constant fear of societal censure, Michael speculated it was entirely possible that he and Frances would have been acting the same way. Michael had never admitted to Frances that he had "eavesdropped" on his dream of Nienna, but Frances' obvious deep emotional attachment to his lover had been rather painfully obvious, and Michael's heart had softened toward Frances – though he frankly admitted to himself if he got any "softer" he'd dissolve entirely – so that it seemed to him every word and look and touch was a declaration of – not "love" – Michael privately called it "the L-word," unwilling to take that fatal, final step. Though the cool façade was kept firmly in place while Frances was awake, protecting him from ridicule and disapproval and hurt, it slipped now and then, either in the protective darkness of their cabin, or the shimmering murmurs while he dreamt, reassuring Michael of Frances' regard for him. Never openly acknowledged, still it hovered beneath the surface of their dealings with each other; a crack now and then in the impassive face, responding to one of Michael's smiles or jokes; a deeper tenderness behind a sultry look; a sudden impulsive hug born of some secret stimulus, never spoken of, never divulged. It was strange that the Not-Discussed category should have evolved to this state; at times it frustrated Michael, who longed desperately to hear the Fateful Words from Frances' own lips; but he sadly conceded to himself the protective shell Frances had always worn would not permit such blatant self-immolation, and quite frankly he couldn't blame his lover one bit. You could only expose yourself so many times to the jabs and barbs of your fellow man before withdrawing entirely, and just this little concession on Frances' part was going to have to be enough.

He struggled across the deck; it was slick, and the White Lady was heeled over to about a forty-five degree angle, beating past the coast of Iceland in floe-choked waters. A stiff wind whipped at him, lashing him with ice particles flung from the crackling coated sheets, and the glazed deck bloomed with strange icy white flowers beneath his feet. He tried to tug his scarf further up his face to protect his aching nose, but the thick fleece gloves hampered his movement. Head down, he grasped at the rails as he went, trying to keep his footing, looking down into the swelling green-black water. On nicer days he would have his binoculars out, in the hunt for whales, and on those occasions they passed close enough to the cliffs he might even see puffins. They were passing by Heimaey, and Michael could see its towering volcano, Eldfell, peeping coyly through the gray sleet. "Halfway there," Legolas had said with satisfaction that morning. "Nearly to England. This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, and all that bloody shite."

"Behave yourself," Frances had said dryly, and Éomer had laughed. Michael knew he recognized the quote, but couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it. Wasn't it Shakespeare or someone like that? He'd ask, but his lips were too cold. And anyway with this crowd it was simpler to just lay low and keep quiet. They all seemed to know so much, remember so much, about history and literature and art, that they made Michael feel rather dense and poorly educated. Doris had complained about that too; she'd said on more than one occasion, "I know I'm not stupid, but boy, they sure can make me feel that way." What; had they all taken Ph.D.s in every Liberal Arts subject? The way they talked about people like Titus Andronicus, or places like Sutton Hoo, or buildings like the Pont du Gard, or events like the slaughter of the Mayans, it was almost as though they had been there … which was, of course, absurd. It didn't bear thinking of. So Michael, being Michael, simply didn't think of it. "They're just smart," he'd firmly told himself, when he overheard Legolas and Aragorn arguing one night about Pope Innocent VI and the schism in the Holy Catholic Church. "They've just read so much about this that they're extrapolating all this other stuff, like who said what, and what they were feeling, and what happened next. They can't possibly know this is how it happened." That, at least, was a more comfortable explanation than the alternative, which, despite everything he'd already experienced, still frightened him. Bad enough he'd been kidnapped by Aliens; the implications of Immortal Aliens Living Among Us was so terrifying Michael just wanted to hide under the bed until it was absolutely and irreversibly Over.

He staggered into the cockpit, slipping on the icy mat and steadying himself on the door. A blast of heat welcomed him, searing just the surface of his skin, though his interior topography still felt frozen; he pushed his scarf down over his chin, and his nose – of course – instantly began to run. He struggled with the door; gravity and a brisk wind held it open, but with a great effort (and not a little grunting) he slammed it closed, shutting out the shrieking of the wind and the hollow booming of the sails. With a relieved sigh he pulled off his soaked gloves and leaned against it.

Legolas was sitting at the navcomp, a green knit cap covering the smooth fall of platinum hair; to Michael's amusement the tips of his pointed ears flanked the bottom hem of the cap, like the wings of a Viking's helm; it seemed oddly apropos considering their location. He giggled privately to himself, wondering why Elmer Fudd singing, "Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit!" should flash into his head. The windows of the bridge were heavily tinted, making the leaden sky seem even more ominous; there was a scum of ice crusting the edges of the windows. But the heater was pumping out hot air, the walls retarded the cutting wind, and there – right beside Legolas – was a thick, deep chair, right next to the heat vent, just begging for Michael's bottom. He shucked his coat and scarf and dropped into it heavily. Legolas glanced at him and smiled. He had a small earpiece nestled in the creamy folds of one ear, and the wire wandered down his slim wool-clad torso like a long thin snake; one of his hands was splayed on the control panel, the other held a steaming mug.

"Cocoa?" asked Legolas, gesturing with the mug.

"Please," said Michael earnestly. With a chuckle Legolas handed him a fat round thermos and a porcelain mug; while Michael filled it with the thick brown liquid, admiring the whirls and curls of steam and happily anticipating its warmth spreading through his stomach, Legolas dug out a bag of marshmallows and plopped two fat dusty ones into the mug. It splashed over the edge a little but Michael was past caring.

"Bit nippy," said Legolas, making some minor adjustment to the controls in front of him.

"A tad," said Michael dryly. Legolas chuckled.

"Be glad we're not makin' this run in February," he said, settling back on his chair and throwing one lanky leg over the arm. "Gets right parky. Chilly now, but cold as a witch's tit in winter."

"Thanks," said Michael, taking a careful sip of his hot chocolate. "I feel much warmer knowing that."

"Figured you might, mate."

Michael watched Legolas absently, glad he was comfortable enough in his presence to tease him, and admiring the sheer sensual effect Legolas had on his immediate environment. He was still surprised after all this time that the blond provoked in him such a pressing physical reaction. The graceful, thoughtless movements, whipcord-strong body, silky flaxen hair and thick rich skin, dented just THERE with a sweet dimple beside those cupids-bow lips, and Michael felt his insides quicken. It was unfair to Frances, really, and Michael knew it; why should he expect such unthinking and focused devotion from his lover when he happily blindsided himself admiring the corporal attributes of another man? Feeling a tad guilty he tore his eyes from Legolas' face and stared at the computer screen instead. There was a radar displayed, radius circling green and little blips popping up, activating that irritating bleeping sound; beside that was a map showing the coast and bottom floor of the ocean. Michael had learned enough by then to be able to tell it was incredibly deep just beneath them. He knew that ought to make him feel better – the White Lady was very deep in the draft, and no one wanted to shoal, not in these waters – but for some reason the thought of those miles of unending water beneath his feet gave him the chills. Legolas leant over the board, twiddled a few knobs, and gave a satisfied-sounding grunt.

"Clear so far," he said.

"We're not going to pull a Titanic, are we?" asked Michael carelessly, taking another sip of his hot chocolate. It warmed him all the way down his throat and into his stomach, and he wriggled happily into the co-captain's chair.

"Fuck, no," laughed Legolas. "Don't really fancy drowning, mate. 'Sides, we've got an arseload to do; don't have time to die."

Michael snorted into his mug; that sounded very funny to him, but he rather saw Legolas' point. If it had taken Legolas five minutes to come back to life after being shot, how long would it take him to recover after drowning? And then what would he do when he did come back – swim the long miles to the nearest coast, alone, with no mode of transportation? "So what now?" he asked. He moved his legs closer to the vent, hoping the heat would defrost his toes enough so that he could feel them.

"Now we strike south-east to the Faroe Islands, where we'll pick up fresh water, then head to Castle Bay on Barra in Scotland. We resupply, check to see where Whitey's got his arse off to, and if Ahn's still in England, we're docking at Whitehaven and taking the train to London."

"Whitehaven?"

"Coast town, western England. We'll leave the boats there, I know a bloke what owes me a favor."

"Oh," said Michael, and applied himself instead to the dwindling liquid in his mug, and not staring at the curve of Legolas' leg, draped over the arm of his chair. He sighed. At least they weren't still in the Caribbean, with everyone running round half-naked; that had been REALLY distracting. How long had he been at sea, anyway? Sailing took so LONG! "I wish we could fly," he said, a little plaintively. "It'd be faster. Wouldn't it?" He looked up anxiously at Legolas, who was regarding him seriously. "I mean, really. Couldn't we just fly? Or even just you, you'd be safe. Wouldn't that make more sense?"

"I won't risk it," said Legolas, shaking his head firmly. "Me, on a fuckin' plane with six hundred other blighters, inviting Ahn's goons to blow us out of the bloody sky? Naw, mate, I might come back to life eventually – once me lord collected me bits and pieces, anyway – but for the average bloke, dead is dead, and I won't have that on me conscience."

Michael sighed. He was finding the study of Situational Ethics to be very confusing. "Well, okay," he conceded reluctantly. He stared into his mug, watching the brownish-gray milky liquid shifting sluggishly on the bottom. There was a leftover chunk of marshmallow sticking to the side of the mug; he worried it off with his finger and put it in his mouth. It was spongy and very sweet. He felt a hand grip his arm, and looked at Legolas, still with his finger in his mouth. Legolas was smiling sympathetically, his blue eyes soft.

"I know, feels like it's taking fucking forever. But easy does it, mate. Ahn thinks we're flying and his bloody goons are watching the airports. So long's the twat thinks we haven't got there yet, he'll lie low, and we come on up where he won't see us." Legolas gave a rather unpleasant smile, his neon eyes glittering a little. "Then we top 'im."

Michael shivered. He knew what THAT meant. He swallowed the softened chunk of marshmallow, pulled his finger out of his mouth, and whispered, "Who gets to do it?"

That question seemed to surprise Legolas. Michael didn't blame him; he was rather surprised he'd asked it too. He knew that, compared to the rest of the people on these ships (Doris excluded, of course), he wasn't Brave or Manly or Assertive; he knew he didn't have what it took to be an assassin – or even a spy. He knew he hadn't been dragged along to perform Heroic Deeds or Feats of Valor, despite his brief foray into Lottie's private murder. He knew why he was there. He was there because of Frances. If Frances had just done what Legolas had wanted in the first place –

Well, then what? What if Frances HAD gone along with it, worked with Gimli and everyone else, pirated that program? What would've happened to Michael when it had come time to steal that plane so Legolas could parachute down to the Metal Building? Would he have been left behind in San Diego? If so, what might have happened to him then? He'd been traced to The Lido; what if Ahn's operatives had simply tracked him to work and shot him there? Or blown up Frances' condo, with him inside? Was that why Legolas had brought him along – not necessarily to facilitate Frances' cooperation, but to protect him? Either option was depressing. It implied weakness and possession on both counts.

"Does it matter to yer, mate?" asked Legolas gently. He put his mug of cocoa down and lightly touched Michael's cheek. His fingers were soft and light, like feathers brushing his skin. Michael closed his eyes. There was something so soothing about Legolas, despite his foul mouth and erratic ways; his touch was calming, comforting; not titillating, like Frances' touch often was, but still something to be craved and anticipated. Was it sexual? Michael didn't think so – Legolas was so aggressively straight – but the touch was welcome nonetheless, especially when he was feeling so horribly out of place.

"A little, yes," he said, raising one hand to press Legolas' fingers up to his cheek, wanting to protract the sensation; when the tips of those long fingers twitched, he opened his eyes. Legolas was studying him thoughtfully. Michael could tell he knew why he'd done that, why he'd prolonged the caress; there was no censure in that cerulean gaze, but lingering about the tightened corners of those curved pink lips was a hint of concern. Michael released Legolas' fingers, and Legolas slowly withdrew them, his eyes contemplative. Michael swallowed. Had he screwed everything up? Surely Legolas already knew Michael thought the world of him; this couldn't possibly be a shock; and anyway it wasn't as though Michael hoped anything would come of it – even without Legolas' wife and heterosexual bent, there was Frances to consider.

"I'll tell you this much, mate," said Legolas slowly, still watching Michael like a cat sated on cream might contemplate a fat, stupid mouse. "Éomer and Faramir are buckin' for the right ter off Ahn. Haven't decided yet, though."

Michael blinked at him. Wasn't he going to comment on what had just happened, on that uncomfortable jolt beneath Michael's chest, on his audaciousness in desiring a man who didn't belong to him? Then what Legolas had just said sank in, and Michael sat up with a startled gasp.

"FRANCES wants to do it?" he demanded, putting the mug down on the console with a clatter.

"I take it he hasn't told yer," said Legolas dryly, picking up the carafe and refilling both his and Michael's mugs. Michael gulped.

"No," he said, irritated to hear how high his voice had gotten. "He didn't – doesn't – tell me much of anything."

"No?" Legolas handed him the mug. One arched eyebrow climbed up his forehead. "Not even now?"

"No, not even now," said Michael. He realized that was rather unfair to Frances, and took a sip, wincing at how hot the cocoa was. "Not that I ask."

"Got out of the habit, eh?" Legolas' sympathetic look said enough; Michael shrugged.

"Yes," he admitted. "It's not that I'm not curious, I just – " He stalled, wondering how to explain it.

"Yer don't want to rock the boat," Legolas finished for him. At Michael's sigh he shook his head, his pale hair swinging from side to side around his shoulders. "Six fuckin' months of him tellin' yer to keep yer gob shut and yer nose out of his business, then gettin' drug round the globe and watchin' folks die … don't bloody blame yer, mate."

"It's not Frances," said Michael stubbornly, wanting to defend him; he owed it to Frances, after this big slip-up. "It's me, it's my fault. I know he doesn't really want to talk about it, so I don't ask him or anyone else, so he doesn't have to."

"Which explains why yer thought I was his old bender, eh?"

Mortified Michael looked over at him, dreading Legolas' reaction; instead of being offended, or even amused, Legolas simply appeared meditative, studying Michael carefully. Michael gulped and put his mug down. His hands were shaking. Abruptly Legolas reached over, and with one long white hand took both of Michael's in his own. His palm was very warm and soft.

"Don't go gettin' the abdabs, now," he said gently, giving Michael's hands a squeeze. "Not miffed at yer." He chuckled. "Knowin' Faramir's aesthetic standards, it's a compliment, mate."

Michael tried to speak; his lips were quivering and his throat was tight. "I wanted you, but I was so jealous of you," he said, a little plaintively; then Legolas did laugh, threw his head back and gave Michael's hands a little shake, as though to wake him up.

"Ah, Dreamer me boy," he said with a grin, "Yer a fuckin' treasure – don't blame Faramir for lovin' you; can hardly help it, the poor nit."

Loving? Michael blinked. There it was – THE L-WORD. Or, at least, a variation of the L-word. It was like a rat in the wall; you suspected it was there, but could never see it; could hear it on occasion, but never catch it; it lurked, prowled, tiptoed stealthily about, leaving behind only the stinking suggestions of its presence. Frances didn't love him; Michael knew it. Frances thought a lot of him, certainly – the dream had proved that – had tender thoughts toward him – desired him physically – perhaps even had protective and kindhearted feelings toward him – but Frances didn't LOVE him. It was a perpetual underlying ache in Michael's breast, this knowledge, but still, loving Frances was good enough. He didn't really need Love with a Capital L in return, not now. Besides, so much had improved – no more Disapproving Glances, no more sly and secretive acts, no more coldly shutting him down when Michael threatened to become Emotional; how much could you ask of the man, anyway? Michael's heart gave a heavy thump and he felt suddenly cold. Legolas was watching him, abruptly alert, eyes bright and present; Michael could've sworn his ears twitched – the cat again, but this time with more titillating prey.

"Hasn't he told yer?" asked Legolas sharply. Dumbly Michael shook his head. He didn't want to risk Breaking Down Completely here in the bridge – not when he was just getting warm again. It would not only be mortifying, but then he'd have to run back to his stateroom to Tidy Up, and it was so cold out there. So he watched Legolas instead, watched the wild blue eyes flicker, the brows crouch down in a V as he thought, as he studied the smaller man before him. Then the sweet pink lips twitched and curved upward.

"Bet yer haven't told him either." Michael bit his lip, irrationally aggravated – how did he KNOW??? – and Legolas grinned, flashing his dimples and all his white teeth at him. "You daft buggers," he chuckled, eyes twinkling affectionately. "Yer waiting fer him ter say it, eh? And I'll have a flutter he's waiting fer you. Fuckin' A, Mike, what the hell're you faffin' off for?"

Michael blinked at him. It wasn't that easy. He couldn't possibly think it was that easy, because it wasn't. Not for him, at least. Maybe for Legolas. He was sure Legolas hadn't had any trouble at all telling Éowyn he loved her. Because it was very obvious Éowyn loved him back. There would've been no risk. Besides, who could possibly NOT love Legolas? But there was a risk for Michael – he was pretty sure Frances didn't love him, and what would happen if Michael said those Fateful Words to Frances, and Frances couldn't respond in kind? It would be Awful – and Awkward – it would place them on such different footing; it would upset the careful balance they had achieved, because then Frances would know, he would have an advantage, he would truly achieve Alpha state and have complete control over Michael, and though Michael craved that release there was still a part of him that fought against losing what small bit of entitlement he still possessed. Legolas saw the fear in Michael's eyes and without hesitation took him in a warm embrace.

"Don't be thick," Michael heard him purr in his ear; the warm gust of breath tickled the hairs on his neck. "Cowards, the both of yer. Go tell him."

Michael took a deep shuddering breath and tucked his face in the warm soft curve of Legolas' throat. The rich, piney smell surrounded him, reminded him of that moonlight hike up the mountain to Arizona. Like the pages of a book blown open by an errant breeze the memories leafed past him – the touch of Frances' hand, the willingness to risk his life, the hinted assertions of his regard. Frances had talked around it in so many ways, and Michael had just sat back and lapped it up. "Coward" indeed! Legolas was right – again – Frances wasn't kidding; that was very irritating. But he didn't want to be brave. He didn't want to screw up his courage to such a point, march across the cold deck to where he knew Frances was at the forecastle, blurt out those three ridiculous-sounding words, that would catapult him out of his comfortable compromise and into the indefinite caprices of Frances' psyche.

"Have courage, Little Dreamer," whispered a voice in his head; Legolas appeared to have heard it too, because he stirred and pulled away, a wry expression on his face.

"Him, too?" he murmured, his eyes alight.

Well, that settled it. If the Valar were sticking their oars into it, Michael might as well settle himself to getting it over with, or he'd never get any peace. He took a deep breath, trying to will the recalcitrant courage into him. "I won't be a coward," he told himself firmly. "I'm going to be BRAVE." Perhaps if he said it over and over again he'd start to believe it.

"There you are then," said Legolas, patting his cheek and kissing him on the forehead. "Go on, now." He pulled Michael to his feet and helped him into his coat. He buttoned it up while Michael shakily pulled on his wet gloves, and then took the scarf down, wrapped it round Michael's neck, turned him toward the door and gave him a little shove. "Full speed ahead. Don't look back."

Oddly enough that last phrase made Michael want to turn around and look at him, but he knew what he'd see in any case – Legolas, beautiful Legolas, smiling, eyes twinkling and glowing alternately, stubborn and stiff-necked. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, but then at the back of his mind was that tickling pressure, as though Legolas had pushed him mentally. Yes, Frances had been right – do what Legolas says. With an inward grimace Michael wrenched the door open and stepped out.

The wind had picked up; the sails were luffing and booming, and bits of ice sprayed and stung him. Éowyn was working the mainsheet, and Éomer across from her at the boomvang; their golden hair was torn and tossed in the gale. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, hurrying by them; the boom groaned, and the boat heeled again. Michael staggered, steadied himself, and worked his way forward. He ducked under the shrouds and squinted into the spray. He could see Frances at the jib tack, lashing down one of the lines, looking out over the heaving ocean to the Evenstar, which from this distance looked very small and lost in the white-capped swells, tipping at an alarming angle, though Michael was sure their position looked just as precipitous to any outside observers. He spared a brief thought to what Doris was doing just then (followed by a rather hectic wish she were by his side to cheer him on) and, when Frances turned in his direction, waved.

Frances saw him, and instantly the scowl of concentration smoothed away; the eyebrows raised, eyes brightened, and mouth inverted to an inviting grin. Feeling a little better Michael grinned shakily back, then, taking firm hold of the jib tack worked his way up to him. He stepped carefully, not wanting to slip and bang his knee – should all go well he'd probably need his knees to be as bruise-free as possible that evening – just that thought was enough to inspire some courage in him, and smiling at Frances as he approached wondered how he was going to say it. It was too noisy to shout it out now – though he was only twenty feet away, the racket and clatter of the sails, and the clamor of the wind and sea, drowned everything out. He would have to get close, right up to Frances' ear. That wouldn't be so bad; that would already imply an intimacy. He could just say it – no preliminaries, just blurt it out. Would that sound childish? Michael paused worriedly. He didn't want it to sound childish. It was such an important thing to say. He went over the scenario in his head, contemplating the possible outcomes. No, under the circumstances it wouldn't sound childish, he concluded; Frances would recognize that beneath this cacophony brevity was necessary, and anyway to just say it would preclude any awkward hemming and hawing, which he knew Frances detested. Satisfied he started up again, looking to Frances.

Frances met his eye and smiled engagingly, then something above Michael's head seemed to catch his attention and he looked up and past him. The pleasant smile vanished as suddenly as it had come, to be replaced by a look of concern, melting into horror. Michael saw him mouth his name – Michael – then something caught him between his shoulder blades, knocking the breath out of him, and he seemed to fall, though it was taking a long time for him to hit the deck.

His stomach dropped suddenly, and he realized with a horrible lurch that he was airborne. He saw the boat swing crazily beneath him, lines and sheets and sails all jumbled up; he tried to move his arms but they were pinned to his sides; something was wrapped around him. He twisted and felt rough canvas against his cheek; he was wrapped in a sail, and a loose sheet whipped around him. He was staring at the sky, at the roiling, boiling slate-gray mess, then his stomach reeled again and he fell.

He tried to move to break his fall, but his arms were immobilized; he could see the glassy surface of the water rushing toward him and struggled to brace himself. It struck his head like a mallet and the cold was all around him. It was sickening to sink like that, bound in a cocoon, sucked down; the icy hand of the water knocked the breath out of his lungs like a sledgehammer. He knew he shouldn't try to inhale but his body screamed for oxygen. Salt water filled his mouth and eyes and there was a horrible booming noise pounding against his ears; he thought it was a heartbeat, but it was far too fast, too loud.

He was buffeted, knocked about; the sail began to unwind and he tried to shake out of it. His lungs were bursting; he needed air. Kicking with his suddenly heavy boots he tried to get to the surface. He could see it, could see it heaving and writhing silver-green above him, but he was at least ten feet down, and still sinking. He was too heavy. His boots and his coat were weighing him down. He tried to unfasten the coat snaps but his gloved hands were stiff with cold; his fingers wouldn't work.

A flash of white and surging foam; he saw a face, Legolas' face, blazing with anger, eyes blue-white and furious; long wool-clad arms stroked quickly, legs pumping, swimming down to him. Michael raised his hands – save me, save me – above Legolas, resting on the mirrored pitching surface, a round white lifesaver – save me, save me – his lungs were swelling, he needed air – Legolas reached down, their fingers touched

The surge was overwhelming, like a huge arm slashing past him, knocking him down further. Legolas snapped back, head whipped up, hair in a pale aureole, neon eyes glassy; his limbs relaxed and he began to float. Behind his sudden panic Michael saw the bloody red cloud bloom around the slit in the Alien's throat.

Then arms took him, warm and comforting arms. He turned, wanting to say, let me up, I need air

"Breathe, Dreamer. Breathe."

Such a soft voice, such a kind voice. Wouldn't the water kill him?

"No. Breathe. Listen to the drums. Come to the quiet. We yearn for you. Come rest with us. Come."

He sucked it in, his lungs constricting horribly. The arms round his chest seemed to tighten. He was embraced, cherished, held, loved. He could feel the love, could feel the waves of concern, of pity; could feel gentle fingers stroking his hair. "Yes. It's all right, Dreamer. Let go. It is over."

Michael wasn't cold any more. He actually felt very warm, very relaxed. This wasn't so bad. It was quiet, except for the rhythmic booming; the water wasn't menacing, it was like a thick down comforter over him. He looked up toward the surface, fast receding; he could see other figures there, the lifesaver, the cloud of red. It was growing dark, and he could feel pressure on him, pushing him from all sides and angles, against his eyes, his ears, his stomach, his feet. And he sank, slowly, entwined in the warm green embrace, the voice in his ear.

"Sleep, Dreamer. Your pain is ended. All is well."

It was true; Michael felt no pain, no cold, no fear. He was relaxed, calm. Was this Death? If so, it was nothing like he'd feared. Why had he been so afraid of Death, anyway? He was spiraling gracefully down, letting it close over him; with the last injunction, "Sleep," he closed his eyes, and let the weight of the water crush the last fluttering heartbeat from him.