A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

A/N: Look! I'm back! And only sort of over-medicated! I truly, humbly thank all of you for your patience, and am deeply gratified for your concern. Hopefully I'm on the upswing! Enjoy ... -- Le Rouret

Michael was lying on his back. He could tell his eyes were closed, and that was fine with him; he was very comfortable, lying there, and didn't feel especially inclined to disrupt the warm restful peace he was currently experiencing with any kind of visual input. What a horrible nightmare – so realistic, too – he'd had Drowning Dreams before but never one that vivid and frightening, never one that gripped at his chest and crushed him. But now he was contented, relaxed and happy; he was in no hurry to get up; he'd just lie there for a while and enjoy his torpor.

"Here he comes, now."

Who was that? He didn't recognize that voice.

"About time."

Nor that one. Was someone in his room?

Perhaps he ought to open his eyes. Pity. He was so comfortable.

He opened his eyes. There was a face hovering over him, an expression of concern on it; at first Michael thought it was Legolas, because of the long pale hair and pointed ears; then he realized it couldn't possibly be Legolas – the face was distinctly different; the jaw squarer, the brows heavier. He looked obstinate and inclined to bad temper, but otherwise rather kind. Michael concluded it was the face of a pig-headed man with a warped sense of humor, who would just as soon greet you with a crushing hug as a quick fist, depending upon his mood. But the oddest thing about the face was that Michael could see through it, could see past the whole head to another person standing behind him. This person also had long flowing hair, but it seemed darker, if it were possible for translucence to be dark – rather it was less light, more shadowy. Michael looked back at the man leaning over him, puzzled. Why could he see through them? And what was that blue-white light that seemed to emanate from them, from the surface upon which Michael lay, from the very air itself? It was like television light, except that it didn't flicker. Where was he? Why were those two men transparent? Were they ghosts? At that thought Michael came fully awake, and he started back, frightened.

The man over him cocked his head, seeing Michael had come to, and his face broke into a sunny smile.

"There we go!" he said encouragingly, and sat back on his heels and laughed. "See, look at that! Round ears, curly hair. I told you it was an Edan."

The darker ghost gave a resentful sniff, tossing his dark hair over his shoulder. "I don’t see why Lord Námo dropped him HERE," he said, in a distinctively recognizable back-of-the-bus tone. He was slimmer than the first ghost, and dimmer somehow, as though the light were baffled by his dark complexion; he looked discontented and a little affronted. "We've never had Edain here before. This is our territory." The fair ghost turned to him, an exasperated expression flashing across his face as suddenly as his smile had come.

"Oh, don't start that up again. Honestly, twenty thousand years and you're still as big a pain in the ass as you were at Cormallen."

"You're one to talk," said the dark ghost dryly, folding transparent arms over his chest and clanking somewhat. "You didn't even WANT to go help Elendil in the first place – "

"Oh, cry me a river, Noldo." The fair ghost reached down to Michael with a translucent hand, giving him an apologetic grin. "Don't mind Gil-Galad; he still hasn't got over being dead. It's the indignity of it, you know."

Michael tentatively grasped the hand with his own; it felt solid enough, though very cold. He looked down at their hands clasped together, and with a shock he realized his own hand was as clear as glass; he could see a faint white outline, but that was all. Before he could comment on this, the fair ghost pulled him up into a sitting position, and Michael looked around, curious to see where he'd ended up. There wasn't much to see, just a white glassy floor, extending out to a horizon veiled in light, and the two ghosts, one squatting beside him, the other standing. They appeared to be wearing the tattered remnants of whatever clothing they had worn when they'd died – Gil-Galad, the darker one, was in rather battered see-through armour, and the fair ghost was wearing a ripped leather jerkin and leggings. Michael looked down at himself; he was clad in his jeans and turtleneck sweater, though they looked a little worse for wear, and like everything else, he could see right through his clothes, right through himself to the shining floor.

"What am I doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

"That's what I'd like to know," said Gil-Galad, regarding him coolly, his dark eyes hooded. "You're not supposed to be here. This is where the Eldar reside."

The fair ghost turned back to him. "Don't keep harping on that," he said irritably, his heavy pale brows furrowing over his bright eyes. "Don't you think if we could choose where we go, that I'd be anywhere but here with you? Ilúvatar above, to spend eternity with an arrogant, stuck up, holier-than-thou, condescending – "

"Oropher – "

" – pompous, supercilious, high-and-mighty – "

"Oropher!"

" – conceited, sanctimonious prig like you – "

"Wait – " said Michael desperately, not wanting them to quarrel on his account. But the dark ghost just shook his head and gave a twisted caustic smile.

"You might as well get used to it," he said sardonically, flicking his dark glance to Michael. He unfolded his arms and examined his fingernails, somehow managing to infuse a supercilious tinge into his echoey voice. "I think 'Sindar' is a sacred word for 'short-tempered.' "

"Oh, fuck off."

"Foul-mouthed, as well. I hope that doesn't offend you?" He turned to Michael politely, as though he were the host at a high-class garden party.

"Uh," said Michael, nonplussed. He had always associated ghosts with Portents of Doom or Warnings of Imminent Danger, not petty bickering. He found it a little anticlimactic, as though he had been offered less than he had bargained for; not surprising, really, for Michael had rarely contemplated denizens of The Great Beyond before this point. He didn't even like ghost stories. The fair ghost sat back on his hands and grinned up at Gil-Galad impudently. There was the hint of a dimple in that luminous skin; it reminded Michael of something that he couldn't quite recall; why should a dimple nag at his memory so?

"And that, friend, is how you silence a Noldo," Oropher said smugly.

"What; drown him out with insults?" snorted Gil-Galad. Oropher glared at him.

"Look," said Michael anxiously. "I, um, I'm not sure what I'm doing here – "

"You're dead," interrupted Oropher with a grin. Gil-Galad rolled his eyes again.

"MUST you be so tactless?"

"Yes," said Oropher pertly. "It's part of my charm." He turned to Michael with a smile. "Like I said, you're dead, like we are. You can't really come here without being dead – I mean, you CAN, but it's not done often – Lord Námo frowns on it." He paused, contemplating Michael casually, his eyes twinkling. "Been a long time since we had any fresh blood down here – and we've never had an Edan before – shame, really I happen to like you guys, despite Mr. Cold and Snorty over there – " Gil-Galad made an indignant noise of protest, but Oropher talked him down. "I don't know why Lord Námo put you here, and I'm not sure what you did to deserve this somewhat spurious honor, but I, for one, am willing to extend the hand of friendship and welcome you to the Halls of Mandos." He held out his hand to Michael again, and Michael heard Gil-Galad murmur sardonically, "Nicely put."

"Um," said Michael, feeling very out of his depth. He wished he knew exactly what he was supposed to do – none of his mother's etiquette lessons seemed to extend to Ghost Disputes. He shook Oropher's hand tentatively. It was strange, grasping something nearly invisible, and sensing no physical warmth in the handshake.

"You might as well shake Gil-Galad's hand too," said Oropher, pulling him effortlessly to his feet. "Otherwise he'll get all shirty. There you are," he said, giving Michael a little push toward the darker ghost, who straightened and gave a restrained smile. "Gil-Galad, this is – um – " He looked back at Michael, cocking his head artlessly. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Michael," said Michael in a small voice, holding out a shaking hand to the tall, remote ghost before him. The ghost gave an aloof smile and took his hand in his own.

"My … shell," said Oropher carefully. He frowned. "No – My … kell. Yes, that's it, My-Kell, right?"

"I think," said Gil-Galad fastidiously, releasing Michael's hand, "he pronounced it My-Kull."

"Was the accent on the My or the Kull?"

"I think it was on the My."

"MY-Kull … is that it?" Both ghosts turned to him, politely inquisitive; Michael swallowed and whispered, "Yes."

"What does it mean?" asked Gil-Galad, raising his eyebrows.

"And what language is it?" added Oropher.

"I – I don't know," stammered Michael, confused. Why were they making such a fuss over his name? Didn't they have anything better to do? Then it hit him – they didn't. Neither did he. "Twenty thousand years," Oropher had said; it was likely they'd run out of conversational topics by this time, and anything new was welcome. Twenty thousand years with these two – it was enough to make him want to find his "proper" place, where Edain like himself stayed. "Although," he thought a little anxiously, "I mightn't find a true place for myself there, either." The two ghosts looked a tad disappointed at his linguistic ignorance, and Oropher shrugged.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," he said, waving one shining hand. "I was only curious. It's a nice name – MY-Kull. Rolls off the tongue. Better than Mithlinálwi, anyway."

"And Hwindiö."

"Yes, those were pretty bad. Oh! Do you remember Liquíseleé? I don't think she ever forgave her parents for that one."

The two ghosts laughed, Oropher throwing his head back and giving a brash shout, Gil-Galad sniggering in a refined manner behind one pale hand.

"Yes," said Gil-Galad with a smile. "That was moderately awful. Come, let's sit down. It's not exactly tiring standing up, since technically we don't have muscles and bones any more, but it simulates ease and might inspire us to further conversation."

"And since conversation's about all we've got left," added Oropher over his shoulder as he turned away, "we might as well get to it." He grinned. "Don't rush us, now. We've got ages to find out all about you."

"Okay," said Michael; he hoped he would be interesting enough to keep them occupied for a while. He followed the two ghosts to what looked like a small house-like structure; it too glowed with the same blue-white light, and set about its front entrance were two chairs. Michael stared at it, puzzled. He was fairly certain it hadn't been there before. Where had it come from? "We need another chair," said Oropher rather loudly, and instantly a third chair appeared, deep and plush, glowing blue, with widely curving arms. Michael gaped at it in amazement, but the two ghosts didn't seem to think it was very odd; they just sat down comfortably, and Oropher patted the seat of the spontaneously generated chair beside him. "Have a seat," he invited, crossing one long leg over the other. "We might be dead, but that doesn't mean we can't be comfortable."

"A glass of wine would be nice," said Gil-Galad a little wistfully, stretching his armor-clad legs out in front of him. Oropher sighed.

"Yes indeed – that sweet white wine from the lower valleys of Hollin – remember?"

"Mm, and the stewed bass we had on the banks of the stream, what was it called – "

"I can't remember. And anyway it might have a different name now, it's been twenty millennia, after all. Michael, do you know the stream that runs through Hollin, by the Dwarf-keep of Moria?" Oropher turned to Michael, obviously fully expecting an answer; Michael stared blankly at him. What on earth were they talking about? He knew geography had never been his best subject, but he was pretty positive he'd never learned those names before.

"I've never heard of it," he confessed.

"No?" Oropher looked surprised, but Gil-Galad snorted.

"Twenty millennia, Oropher," he said dryly. "A lot can change in that many years. River beds, ocean coasts, glaciers – "

"Oh, blow it out your ass." Oropher sighed. "Good bass, though."

The two ghosts fell into a reverie, and Michael watched them, fascinated. So. They were dead. They LOOKED dead, all wispy and see-through and glowy. Even their clothes wisped a little, little tattered edges floating and whirling in the stillness. And their hair and skin – like wax paper with light behind it; milky and translucent. No wonder ghosts scared people. And Michael, himself – he was dead, too, apparently. He looked down at himself. Yes, just as see-through. He touched his jeans, pale and transparent. They still felt rough beneath his fingers, still felt like denim. "I suppose I'll be wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater for All Eternity," he thought resignedly to himself. A shame he looked so ratty … why on earth couldn't he have died in his Giorgio Armani tux? Or even the Versace suit …

It came back to him then – the green sucking dark, the crushing weight of water. Legolas, limp and bleeding; the soothing voice of Ossë. Even though he knew he technically didn't have a heart any more, he could feel it sink like cold lead. He was dead. Dead. And he was no Alien, like these two; wasn't even like Legolas; he wouldn't go back. He was deceased, dead and gone, and would never see Frances or his family again.

Whatever was in his chest twisted, a great gripping wrench. He never got to see Pauline. He would never see his mother again. And he never – never – got to tell Frances he loved him –

His throat tightened, and he felt his eyes sting. How could he cry, being dead? Ridiculous – ghosts didn't cry, did they? But the sob took him by surprise anyway, heaving his shoulders and breaking its way out his chest. He was dead, and he had left Frances unsure of his feelings. Frances would go to his own grave, having never known how much Michael had loved him – still loved him. He would never forgive himself.

He felt a hand on his shoulder; it was Oropher. Long strong fingers gripped him tightly, shaking him a little. Michael squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the icy tears roll down his cheeks. Then someone put strong cool arms around him and held him tight against a hard cold chest. Michael opened his eyes and saw through the haze of tears the lucent shadowy hair. Why on earth would this proud, stilted ghost comfort him? Was all that irritability just an act?

"Whom did you leave behind?" Gil-Galad whispered into his ear. It was odd to hear the voice that close, yet to not feel the warm stir of breath.

"Everyone," sobbed Michael. "My mother and father, my sister, her children – "

Gil-Galad pulled back. He was squatting on the chair before Michael, resting his armored arms on his knees. He clinked a little when he shifted. Michael was surprised to see in his stern face an expression of deep compassion, mingled somewhat with a remote sorrow. "We all left loved ones behind," he said. To his right Michael could feel Oropher, still squeezing his shoulder, trying desperately to communicate support and empathy. "Straight, definitely," Michael thought distractedly to himself. "Gil-Galad, I'm not so sure." It was hard to tell – straight men, in Michael's experience, didn't usually hug other men and found it difficult to empathize, but then again, Legolas was straight … He caught himself wondering what sort of thing he'd done, that the Valar would send him to this place – not Heaven, certainly – but obviously not really Hell – Purgatory? – with those not of his kind, with Aliens. Perhaps Legolas' influence over him had been deeper than he'd thought – or maybe it had something to do with his Dreaming. At any rate, he wasn't unhappy with the arrangement – dead or not, Oropher and Gil-Galad made very pretty ghosts, and visual aesthetics looked to be about the only substance he would be able to appreciate now. That, and conversation, of course. He might be making a fool of himself, but at least he wasn't being Boring.

"It all happened so suddenly," Michael said, gulping back more sobs, trying not to be Irritating. Though it didn't seem to bother the other two ghosts any; even Oropher was regarding him with sober attention. Apparently they had grown beyond the big-boys-don't-cry stage; that was comforting. "I didn't have any warning – I never got to say good-bye to anybody – "

"Well, that's not always so bad," said Gil-Galad with a crooked smile; he looked almost bitter. "Knowing you're going to die precludes all those long and tedious farewells – usually among people with whom you would rather not share intimate moments."

"How cynical of you, Gil-Galad!" chided Oropher gently. He turned to Michael, regarding him sympathetically. "I know," he said, patting Michael's shoulder. "It's pretty bad at first. I had to leave my wife, you know, and my son, and I never even met my grandson – he was born while I was away, trying to pull Elendil's nuts out of the fire. I'd've given anything to say good-bye to them." He gestured to the still-kneeling Gil-Galad with his chin. "Don't mind this misanthropist; he was born with a kink in his soul. Not that he can help it," he added, giving Michael a quick, surreptitious wink. "All the Noldor are like that – gloomy."

Gil-Galad turned to Oropher, a look of indignation on his face. "Why must you constantly deride the Noldor?" he demanded, exasperated. He got to his feet, clanking a little in his ghostly armor. "Your daughter- in-law's a Noldo, you know."

"It's not my fault Thranduil married beneath himself. Up the Sindar! I was born in the crotch of a tree and I'm damn proud of it."

"Galadriel's a Noldo," said Gil-Galad sullenly.

"And she married a Sinda," retorted Oropher. Then, to Michael's amazement, Oropher stuck his tongue out at Gil-Galad. The sight was so comical, such a juxtaposition to what he had expected out of two men who were 1. Aliens, and 2. Over Twenty Millennia Old, he let out a breathy giggle. He glanced at Gil-Galad, who gave Michael a look so full of disgusted long-suffering he felt a little better. Twenty millennia together might have been difficult on these two very dissimilar people, but at least it afforded him a little amusement. It was entirely possible, after all, that Michael would be there another twenty millennia; he might as well be Suitably Entertained. As though Gil-Galad could read his mind, the dark ghost put his hand on Michael's head and gave him a smile that, while not being warm, was far from unfriendly.

"It's a bumpy ride, here with us," he said. "But not a boring one."

Michael tried to sniffle. It was hard, considering he couldn't really breathe. "Well," he said, wiping the cold tears from his cheeks, "I'm kind of used to bumpy rides. I was on a ship when I died, after all."

"Were you, really?" Gil-Galad seemed to brighten at that, a ray of light igniting the cool features. "What kind of ship? How big was it?"

Oropher gave a noisy sigh and muttered something that sounded like, "Show-off," but Michael replied eagerly, wanting to tell them about the White Lady: "Oh, a really, really big ship! Two hundred fifty feet, with high rails and a high white prow with a gilt figurehead of an angel and white sails and teak flooring and everything was new and so nice, much nicer than the Evenstar, though that was a nice ship too, and the cabins were so comfortable, with big beds and lots of room – "

"How many did she carry?" asked Gil-Galad eagerly. "A ship that size – "

"There were six of us," said Michael, warming to the topic. "But she could hold so much more. And she was such an easy ship to sail – big, but responsive, you know – "

"Did you fall off?" asked Oropher caustically, obviously not as interested in the conversation as Gil-Galad. His companion shot him an irritated look, but Michael said indignantly, "NO, I did NOT 'fall off;' I was FLUNG."

" 'Flung'?" Both Gil-Galad and Oropher looked at him in surprise. Oropher gave a disbelieving smile. "Who flung you?" He frowned and pinched his brow. "Flang? What's the past tense of 'to fling,' anyway?"

"Never mind that," said Gil-Galad impatiently. "Let's get to the good part. You were murdered, then?" His eyes lit up in unholy enthusiasm. "I haven't met a murder victim in … oh, ages! Not since Elladan blew through, after he was caught cheating on Haldir."

"He explained that one away pretty well, didn't he?" asked Oropher dryly. "All that 'finding himself' and 'exploring his psyche.' A bunch of crap, I called it. What I say is, if you're going to cheat, you ought to expect a knife in your back, or what good's being faithful?"

"As I understood it," said Gil-Galad meticulously, "there was some psychological reason for his infidelity."

"Yes – what was it he was telling us about, Maslow's theory of self-actualization or hierarchy or something?"

"Maybe. To be honest I wasn't paying that much attention to him."

"Yeah, me neither. He could go on, couldn't he? Like his father, blah blah blah."

"You never did like Elrond – oh, forget it," Gil-Galad exclaimed, waving his hands in frustration. He turned to Michael, who was watching them with great interest, still a little flabbergasted, but DEFINITELY not Bored. "I apologize, Michael, we tend to get off the subject a lot – and why shouldn't we?" he added, raising his eyebrows. "It's not as though we're under a time-constraint to finish our conversations. Please, go on. You were flung from this marvelous boat into the water and drowned. Who – " he turned to Oropher, his dark eyes contemplative. "I believe the word IS 'flung' – who flung you, Michael, and why?"

"I don’t know WHY he flung me," admitted Michael, "but I know he did it, because I saw him. It was Ossë."

His words dropped like a heavy stone into the conversation, silencing both Gil-Galad and Oropher with the flabbergasting announcement. Michael found the shocked and disbelieving stares from the two ancient alien ghosts to be quite gratifying. It had almost been worth dying just to see it. After several awkward moments Gil-Galad cleared his throat; Oropher was still gaping at him. "Excuse me," said Gil-Galad politely. "I don't mean to, er, question you. But you can't – possibly – mean – THE Ossë – can you?"

"I only know one Ossë," said Oropher a little flatly, his eyes stunned. "And if it's the Ossë I'm thinking of – "

The two ghosts stared at each other, comprehension dawning on their faces. "Fuck it all," said Oropher. "We got the Dreamer."