A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

A/N: I'm back! The doctors have given me a temporary clean bill of health; though other procedures will need to be done in the future, for now I appear to be functioning -- not normally, mind you, but as close to normal as I get. I apologize for the delay in updates! And I thank you all very much for your patience -- particularly deathskiss, Marzbar, DreadLadyFreya, and CJ. Your support has been invaluable -- I'll try to repay you by updating in a more timely fashion. *smooch* -- Le Rouret

The most startling thing, to Michael's mind, about the whole Dreamer Revelation was Gil-Galad's instantaneous capitulation regarding Michael's status. Gone was the haughty attitude, the inference that Michael was in some way inferior to them; instead he regarded Michael with a kind of amused respect, far from the withdrawn tolerance of his prior manner. His comments gentled, and Michael didn't feel quite so apprehensive. Oropher, having been friendly from the outset, became even more effusive, congratulating Michael on his elevated rank with a hearty hand-shake and enthusiastically peppering him with questions about Michael's Dreams and what they entailed. Amidst Michael's perplexity he wondered why they should even think that he was significant in any way. What, after all, were dreams and visions? But to Oropher and Gil-Galad they appeared to have great importance.

"The Dreamer's always an Edan, of course," Oropher excitedly explained, waving his arms in their tattered tunic about. "It stayed the same for a while – some fellow of Númenorean descent, he hung on for a long time – then he quit or something, and it got passed around quite a bit – you remember, Gil-Galad, there was that Cassandra girl – "

"Yes," said Gil-Galad urbanely, hooking his hands about his crossed knees. "And someone named Ezekiel – "

"And that oracle from Delphi – "

"What about Nostradamus?" broke in Michael curiously; one of his guilty pleasures was to surreptitiously read the covers of the tabloids at the grocery store while he waited in line to check out, and that was the only person he could think of that would fit the job description.

"Never heard of him," said Oropher offhandedly. Gil-Galad shrugged and shook his head.

"No, that doesn't sound familiar. Oh, remember Mother Shipton – "

"That woman gave me the creeps. Was I happy to see her out of the way – "

"I quite liked Arthur Conan Doyle," said Gil-Galad thoughtfully, rubbing his smooth pale cheek with one hand. "A bit pompous but he had a lot of foresight."

"At least he wasn't fucking loopy, like that aboriginal fellow."

Gil-Galad smiled. "Hm. Yes, he was a bit odd, wasn't he?"

Oropher snorted. "Odd? I'll say he was odd. Cuddling trees! I'm a Sindar and even I don't go that far."

"You astonish me," said Gil-Galad dryly, and Oropher stuck out his tongue at him again. Gil-Galad gave a crooked smile and turned back to Michael. "So. Now that we've effectively interrupted anything of import you might have to say, tell us how you became the Dreamer."

"Yes," said Oropher eagerly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His pale eyes were very bright. "What was your first dream? What did you see?"

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Gil-Galad's indignant, "Don't rush him!" combined with his whacking Oropher on the leg with the back of one hand. "Let him start at the beginning; it'll make more sense that way."

"The first dream IS the beginning," argued Oropher, hitting Gil-Galad back, but harder than Gil-Galad had hit him. His transparent hand made a muffled clang on Gil-Galad's arm.

"No, it isn't," said Gil-Galad petulantly. Oropher's blow didn't seem to bother him; Michael wondered if ghostly armor were as effective as the real stuff. "There's background – where he's from, any psychic episodes in his immediate family – "

"Only psychotic," said Michael, bemused and a trifle distracted, his mind on his Aunt Edna. He couldn't remember anyone notably mystical or spiritual in his family, though they did seem to have more than their fair share of rude and strong-willed women, especially on his mother's side. Gil-Galad looked shocked, but Oropher only gave a cackle of laughter.

"There's at least one in each family," he reassured Michael, clapping him on the shoulder. "You should've met my father – "

"No, he shouldn't; I think we're quite distressing enough to his psyche. Look at the poor fellow, Oropher; can't you tell we're confusing him?"

"Well – " began Michael, somewhat embarrassed, but Oropher interrupted angrily,

"Don't be so damn condescending, you Noldo twit – if Irmo chose him as Dreamer he's damn well strong enough to put up with the likes of us." He set his jaw and the dimple, already threatened by his temper, disappeared rather definitively.

"But – " said Michael. Gil-Galad waved impatiently at him and turned to Oropher, his shadowy eyes flashing. "I'm not saying he's not strong enough, you back-woods hick, just that we might be too overwhelming – "

"Oh, who's the hick now? I dare you to disparage Doriath – "

"Wait – " said Michael, a little desperately, but the two ghosts were obviously far gone in their dispute. He sat back, his head in his hands. It was very odd to feel cold skin beneath his palms, and his hair tickled the backs of his fingers. He sighed. Would he be stuck with these two malcontents FOREVER? He listened half-heartedly to them wrangle together, their quarrel blotting out his novelty. "At least we're not bored," he thought resignedly, and tried to sigh, though it was difficult, since he didn't have lungs.

" – not my fault your kind disdained Valinor – "

" – can't believe you're bringing that up now, that wasn't even my fault – "

" – less-enlightened but still our brothers – "

" – don't give me that bullshit; you Noldor have been lording it over us for millennia – "

Michael sat back in his chair. It seemed to give beneath him, though he knew he lacked any weight; it was as though the chair knew how it was supposed to feel and mimicked that, disdaining the reality of his nonexistence. "This is very Zen," he thought, looking out over the landscape while the two ghosts on either side of him argued. It was obviously an old feud, never resolved, and as Michael neither knew nor cared about the origins of this ancient hostility he simply blocked them out and tried to figure out where he was.

Mandos – the Halls of Mandos. He had heard that before – something about Death, something about a lord named Námo. So … he was dead. He thought about that. "I must've drowned," he thought, trying to think back. The water, the crushing weight, Legolas bleeding – "Poor Legolas," he thought, feeling very guilty. "Going to all that trouble trying to save me. Though I don't know why he bothered," he added, putting his fingers in his ears to block out the rising volume of the quarrel currently raging on either side of him. "I TOLD Manwë I was okay with dying. Why did Legolas have to keep FIGHTING him?"

He thought about Ossë and Ulmo, thought about what it had felt like, being accepted and embraced by them. He had felt no fear, no distress, no pain, no apprehension in their presence. It was as though he had read their eagerness to take him into their depths, and consented to them joyfully, receiving Death like a precious gift. And now – he was here, wherever "here" was; he wasn't intellectually equipped to handle the mental wrangle concerning alternate universes, and hoped "here" was an actual, physical location. The landscape was, to his weakened eyes, a blank at first, but the longer he stared into the blue-white glow the more he could discern – a shape now and then, some moving, some stationary; a darkness about a corner somewhere, or a brighter bit of light. "There must be hundreds of thousands of people here," he thought bemusedly, thinking about how many generations could be born and die out in twenty millennia. "Where are they all?"

"I'll bet you anything that he's not," Oropher's voice broke in; the ghost had grasped Michael by the arm, startling him into paying attention to what was going on beside him.

"And I'll bet YOU anything he is," Gil-Galad answered, just as heatedly; he stuck his jaw out pugnaciously. He looked to Michael as though he had finally lost his temper.

"What?" said Michael, taking his fingers out of his ears. It hadn't helped all that much, anyway; just muffled the noise somewhat. "I – "

"He can't be – you can see the strength – "

"Oh, like they can't be strong – "

"But there's a yin side of them – "

"There you go again, and you call ME prejudiced – "

"I didn't say it was a bad thing, I just said that – "

"Oh, to hell with this," exclaimed Gil-Galad in frustration, thrusting his thin fingers through the wispy dark hair. "Let's just ASK him."

"Fucking hell!" yelled Oropher; his luminous face was dark with anger. "Like we're just going to fucking ASK him if he's a sodomite – "

If Michael had had a heart, it would've sunk at that moment. Now it would come out – HE would Come Out – he didn't realize it was possible to Come Out after death – these two odd Alien ghosts would find out what he was, find out he was Gay, and they would turn their backs on him – and then where would he go? Out into Mandos, to find more of these Alien Dead, who would reject him too? He wondered if he should lie – he wondered if he were even CAPABLE of lying in this place – he wondered what being Gay had to do with Dreaming – he made a noise, a protesting squeak, and Gil-Galad's bright angry gaze focused on him.

"I'LL ask him then," he said; he sounded very exasperated. "Michael – "

"We had a bet – " Oropher interrupted, banging his fist on the arm of his chair. It made no noise, which Michael thought was odd.

"And I bet that he is."

"Bet he isn't."

"Is."

"Isn't, damn you to hell!"

"Too late; Námo beat you to it. Michael," said Gil-Galad, turning to him, his face alight with a sort of malicious glee, "you only need to answer yes or no – "

"Wait!" Oropher leapt to his feet; his eyes were bright with delight and anticipation. He laughed, an almost manic sound. "We'll ask questions – we'll play Yes-and-No. It'll be a game – "

Gil-Galad also brightened; all the anger faded and his countenance became almost brilliant in its happiness. "A game!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, clapping his hands. "What a tremendous idea! We haven't had a game in – let's see – "

"Well, it was when whats-his-name came through, the one with the funny accent – "

"Rúmil, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's it – we kept asking why he was wearing a big poofy collar and had a hatchet in his backside – "

"A game!" Oropher danced a little, his dimple very much in evidence again. "Michael, Michael, we're going to play a game! Oh, it's been centuries – all right, this is my first question – "

"Wait a moment," said Gil-Galad irritably; "it was my idea, I get to ask the first question – "

"Oh, you always ruin it," said Oropher, his lower lip pouting out. "You ask the most obvious questions and then you get the answer and then I never get to ask anything."

"Stop sulking; it's more efficient this way."

"I – " Michael desperately wanted to stop them, to tell them it wasn't a game to decide his sexual orientation, that it was too serious, but the two other ghosts were back to their argument, completely forgetting about him. He rolled his eyes, and reflected that Eternity certainly seemed to wreak havoc on one's attention span. "Then again," he thought, "if they're making a game out of it, maybe my sexual orientation doesn't matter all that much to them, after all." He wondered if they would mind spending Eternity with a gay ghost, and if he might be able to meet other homosexual spirits out there somewhere. "It's not COMPLETELY out of the realm of speculation," he thought contemplatively, then his attention, already wandering away from the Perpetual Argument occurring around him, was caught by the sight of something not glowy – not pale – not shadowy – drifting towards them – something rather darkish, with a clear sharp outline; something solid, something –

-- alive?

"Hey," he said, trying to get his companions' attention, but they had degenerated to name-calling, shaking their fingers in each others' faces and coming up with what Michael was sure were wildly improbable speculations concerning each others' genetic backgrounds. He looked back at the figure. It appeared to be approaching them. It was long, narrow, upright; it seemed to move with an even rocking gait, which Michael recognized as a walk. Something – was out there – and it was walking towards them. The light seemed to shrink from it, and yet it was not dark; it was merely not-light; it was Other, more Alien than the ghosts with which he sat. Its edges were crisp, not wispy; there was something else – oh yes, color, Michael remembered the word now – no blue-white glow this; there was an effulgence about it, a golden-brightness like a tall slim daffodil, clad in sinuous green and garlanded with a brilliant yellow crown. He watched as the figure came closer, fascinated by the sudden shocking shades engendered; the nearer the figure came the more he could make out – the dazzling golden hair bound back by a thin jeweled circlet; the vivid green clothing, like a tunic over close-cut trousers; the brown leather boots engraved and buffed to a bright shine. And the eyes – a silver-gray deeper even than Arwen's, kindled from within by some secret inner jest, the rosy mouth twisted into a wry smile. The stranger watched Michael as he came closer, met his eyes, pinned him there, while the two distracted ghosts argued back and forth. When the newcomer was about ten yards off, Gil-Galad noticed him, and looked, his vituperation faltering; Oropher, seeing his surprise, stopped and looked too. But instead of the startled stare he laughed, even louder than before, and exclaimed –

"Ah! Thranduil! My beloved son," he said, and extending his arms strode up to the stranger. The Live One smiled warmly, regarding his sire with a deep tenderness, and responded evenly,

"My Lord Father."

He bowed, and Oropher took him by the shoulders, his pale hands shimmering; the two men embraced, and Michael glanced back at Gil-Galad. The dark ghost stood quietly enough, his eyes wary; the wind seemed to have gone out of his sails. He and Michael waited for the two others to complete their greeting; Michael was very interested in watching them and comparing them – it was Interesting to see how sons resembled, or rather, DIDN'T resemble, their fathers – despite the difference in color and the undeniable fact that Thranduil was Alive and Oropher Dead, there was a definite similarity there – the shape of the jaw, perhaps, or the curve of that sweet pink mouth with its pale dimple, like a dent in thick cream –

Then Michael remembered, remembered the dream, the vision, the dimple. "Ada!" he exclaimed in surprise, echoing Legolas' cry. Thranduil turned to him with a smile; Oropher and Gil-Galad looked startled.

"He's not your father," said Gil-Galad, scandalized.

"That is unfortunately true; I am not," admitted Thranduil. He moved away from Oropher and came up to Michael. He was beautiful – resplendent – gold and polished bronze and sparkling citrine. Michael could feel the heat of his livingness, shimmering like waves of fire off his skin; it almost burned him, and made him appreciate how cold he really was. He looked up at the tall slim Alien, and realized what Legolas had meant, realized why the dimple kept nagging at him. This one, Thranduil, was Legolas' father – which meant, of course, that Oropher was his grandfather. It was very odd, thought Michael, that the Valar would play such games with him; then again, going to Purgatory with a "friend-of-a-friend" was better than being thrown in with perfect strangers. But why – why – had Legolas' father, obviously still living, come to him here? That Oropher recognized him and didn't see it as overtly bizarre was a Question in and of itself; was the boundary between Living and Dead so tenuous? Then Thranduil, regarding Michael with tender affection, reached up to cup Michael's face in his hands.

Michael trembled, thinking the hands of this living Alien would burn him, but the touch of the fingers on his face was soothing, a tingling warmth. "Beloved Dreamer," said Thranduil, his face kind; "it is no shameful thing to call me by my paternal appellation. You heard my own son, my only son, whom I love, speak to me in that fashion; and as you love him, it is agreeable for you to call me by that name as well."

Michael stared up at Thranduil, mind awhirl; not only was this Alien fully informed as to Michael's bona fides, not only had he bridged the gap between World and Underworld, not only did he carry so entrancingly within himself a sense of authority like a hidden rod of iron, not only was he radiant, resplendent, like some wayward wandering sun come to grace a pale dawn with its intense brilliance; he had accepted Michael as a cherished child, with no question or any stinting of protective affection. A flood of grateful veneration rushed through him, almost like the living blood finding its place in his body once more, and had he still possessed a heart it would have turned over. He didn't need to ask; he didn't need to question; this man loved him, received him as a sort of surrogate son; it lay on his skin, it reflected from his mirrored eyes.

And it explained Legolas, too – that brash self-assurance, that concrete grounding that kept the Alien poised and secure amid the wild, rocking, helter-skelter madness of his life. It was a purity of purpose and mutual approval, a conjunction of paternal and filial duty that was at once obligation and pleasure, vocation and delight, unity not of thought but of intention, voiceless yet evident, even to one such as he. He thought of his own father, gruff, disapproving, judgmental, and of the vast gulf between them, and wished for the first time that he were an Alien as well as a homosexual.

"He knows my little Legolas?" Oropher interrupted in amazement, looking at Michael with growing pleasure. He shot Gil-Galad a smug look and added, "My grandson, the Listener – the highest elevation of rank given to any of the Chosen – barring Mithrandir, of course," he added reluctantly, as though this were a difficult concession. Gil-Galad didn't seem to want to respond to this beyond a rather extravagant eye-roll, which seemed to convey to Michael he had heard all of this before, ad nauseum, world without end, amen.

Then it struck him – twenty thousand years – three generations – which would make Legolas … how old?

Well. Immortal Aliens Living Among Us, indeed. This was better than the last episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

"Yes, Lord Father," Thranduil said, smiling at Oropher, who was grinning, gloating, at Michael. "He is among them now, and though not counted as one of their number is beloved of the Steward."

"Hah!" said Gil-Galad suddenly, whacking Oropher on the shoulder. "I TOLD you he was homosexual." Oropher just scowled back at him.

"And it is for that reason I have come," continued Thranduil. "I have been sent by my Lord Manwë to fetch him to the gates of Valinor, where he will be taken back within the circle of Arda, so that he might complete the tasks appointed him."

Michael stared at him. What on earth did THAT mean? But the look of dismay on both Oropher's and Gil-Galad's faces was eloquent of their unhappiness with this turn of events. "What; already?" Oropher exclaimed, looking very hurt. "He just got here. You can't take him away from us NOW."

"Have mercy on us, King of Greenwood," added Gil-Galad, a pleading, wheedling tone to his milky voice. "We were only just starting to get to know him, and no one new has come through in ages."

"You don't want us to get BORED, do you?" demanded Oropher a little indignantly. "Some son you are – no, really, Thranduil, don't take him. I like him so much; he's such a good conversationalist."

"How would you know?" broke in Michael, pleased with the accolades but still horribly confused. "You've hardly let me get a word in edgewise."

"You've kept your mouth closed and let me talk," retorted Oropher with a wink. "I call that pretty good conversation."

"Your interpretation of the phrase leaves a lot to be desired," said Gil-Galad tartly.

"Oh, shove it."

"Come, Beloved Dreamer," said Thranduil to Michael, shooting the two contentious ghosts an amused look. "It is time; let us not keep my lord waiting." He slipped his hand round Michael's arm; it was so hot it nearly burned his skin; he turned, and led Michael away from the pale house with its spurious chairs. Michael glanced back at the two ghosts. Gil-Galad and Oropher stood by their house, both looking mournfully after him; he waved and gave them a small smile. Then he and Thranduil began to approach something – Michael was sure it hadn't been there before – it was a gate of some sort, large, imposing, shimmering slightly. Michael looked up at it with a shudder. It seemed very foreboding, this gate; it was dark and solid and very obviously meant to keep someone out – or in. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what was on the other side, even if by some stretch Thranduil could open it. But then someone shouted behind him, and he and his companion turned. It was Oropher, and he was running up to them, looking anxious.

"When you really DO die," he said to Michael, "I want you to be sure to come back here, and not go mixing up with all those Edain. All right?"

Thranduil laughed, and Michael gave the unhappy ghost a comforting smile. "I'll do my best," he promised, and Oropher's answering grin was the last thing he saw before the gates yawned open and swept him away.