A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

A/N: Again, I apologize ... my health is bad again, and I was physically incapable of writing. It's so frustrating; the story is there in my head; I want to get it all down! I am committed to finishing this ... please don't give up on me! I'm trying to get better, but it's hard fighting it, and sometimes I get so tired. Hopefully things will start looking up. My medication has changed -- again -- and considering I feel better now than I have in months, I ought to be able to get some serious writing done!

Thanks for your patience ... enjoy!!! --Le Rouret

They weren't walking, they were floating; there was no floor beneath their feet. In fact there didn't seem to be ANYTHING down there – Michael looked, and saw a yawning, bottomless chasm beneath them, out of which came a cold erratic wind. It blew his curls about his face, and set his companion's golden hair winding about his head like so many charmed snakes. All around them were darkness and flashes of light that didn't so much illuminate as further obscure their surroundings. Michael clung to Thranduil's arm, desperately afraid of that heart-stopping plunge into nothingness, should the invisible force supporting them give way.

"Be not so fearful, Little One," said Thranduil comfortingly, smiling down at him. "What, after all, shall you fear? Should you indeed descend the depths to Námo's lower halls, do you think you shall die once more at the bottom?"

Michael thought about that. Could you die, if you weren't technically alive? "No, not really," he admitted, though he still held on to Thranduil's arm pretty tightly. "I know I can't die all over again, since I'm already dead. But I don't like falling, and I'm not sure I want to know what's at the bottom, way down there."

To his surprise Thranduil laughed; it was the same brash bark that Michael had heard both Oropher and Legolas use. "I'll set your mind at ease then," he said, still chuckling. "We cannot fall, for it is Námo himself who sustains us; and we will not go to those nether-regions, for the rest of the Valar would not allow it. Patience! We shall pass through this hall soon."

Michael wondered how he could tell; it didn't appear to him as though they were moving at all. He looked behind them. The gate through which they had been so precipitously whisked was gone. This didn't surprise him as much as it probably would have in life; his brief stay in Mandos had shown him that most of what his eyes saw was illusory. The gate, he mused, was most likely nothing but a ghostly symbol of the egress from Death to Life. "Am I really going to be alive again?" he asked. It was exciting to think of it, of seeing everyone again – Doris and Frances and Lottie and Legolas – though, to be perfectly honest with himself, he admitted he wasn't looking forward to the biting cold of the Arctic Circle that much. Mandos may not have been balmy, but at least he hadn't frozen his ass off. He looked over at Thranduil. The Alien was biting his lip, that sweet curve of pink flesh, so like his son's, so like his father's; it was astonishing that Michael hadn't recognized those features immediately, having had spent – rather shamefully – many hours admiring those rosebud lips set in Legolas' smooth white face. Thranduil looked thoughtful, and a little worried. He turned to Michael, his gray eyes serious.

"I will tell you this much, O Beloved Dreamer," he said soberly. "Though Námo has relented, Ulmo and Ossë have not. Manwë is at odds with his brother, and though I bring to bear all the strength and magic and power I have, within me and borrowed from my lord, it may not be sufficient to send you back."

Michael's heart sank at his words, but he could tell Thranduil wasn't one to accept defeat graciously, so he said, "Well, that wouldn't be so bad either. I mean, I could always go back to your father and Gil-Galad. I never actually got to SAY anything to them, and it was a shame to leave them alone like that. So don't feel bad," he said, smiling up at Thranduil. "If we don't make it, don't worry about me." He paused and frowned. "What about you?" he asked anxiously. "Will you be okay?" He hoped Ulmo wouldn't punish Thranduil somehow for his role in this; the thought of Legolas' beautiful, strong, noble father stripped of his brilliance, his strength and life, was appalling. But Thranduil laughed, though his laughter was tinged with regret.

"No, dear Michael, I am protected by Námo, and my lord and lady," he assured him, squeezing his arm comfortingly. "Great contention has there been in Valinor on your account, Little One! Never has one lone Edan set brother against brother in such a fashion, and I am sure, even should we succeed, there will be strife between them for many ages."

Michael stared at him, aghast. All this fuss and upheaval on account of HIM? Why on EARTH was he so important, anyway? What was the fuss over whether he died or not? Why would these Aliens, and the angelic beings who guided them, care one way or another? What about him could possibly inspire such controversy? But before he could voice these thoughts Thranduil turned ahead and said with satisfaction, "Ah. Here we are." He looked at Michael and smiled. "Halfway there."

Halfway there – they had been halfway to England when Michael had been Taken; he had accepted his fate at the hands of Ossë and Ulmo, and it seemed almost insulting to those Valar that he would be going against their wishes and trying to join the living again. He looked forward. There was another gate, but light, made of twining bars of what appeared to be gold, and only latched and not locked. It was heavily decorated with scrollwork and piercing, and glittered in the shadows; behind it Michael saw that it was light. Suddenly the darkness seemed very heavy, and he longed to leave it behind, to go to that light; he could also hear faint music – "The Song of the Ainur," Legolas had called it, and he knew he was near Oiolossë again. His heart leaped. That beautiful place! It needed no sun; the brightness was everywhere; the air had been clean and pure and the grass thick and green. He wanted very badly to see it again, even to see Manwë and Varda, to kneel at their feet and stare at the carven legs of their thrones and hear them speak to him.

There was a woman standing behind the gate, looking through the bars at them. She was beautiful, even lovelier than Éowyn and Arwen, and Michael wondered briefly if she were one of the handmaidens of Varda, like the other one – what had been her name, the one who had spoken to them on the steps of Oiolossë; Ilmarë? But there was something familiar about her too – that sheet of white-gold hair; the ivory pallor of the flawless skin, the narrow throat and long slim hands. She stood, regarding them both calmly; in her brilliant blue eyes was a look curiously mingled, of yearning and affection.

"You made it," she said; her voice was warm and throaty, and joltingly familiar. Now Michael was fairly sure he knew who she was. And when Thranduil approached the gate and she opened it to them, smiling up at the Alien with an expression of tender fondness, he was certain. Now he knew whence Legolas had acquired that luminosity, that gleaming marble-whiteness; not from his golden-haired father, but from this woman, a beam of moonlight flickering upon a slim column.

"Yes, heart's lady," said Thranduil; he brought one of her white hands to his lips and brushed his lips across the pale skin. "I have brought the Dreamer with me."

"Good." She turned to him; the neon-blue eyes glittered a little. It was Unnerving to see anyone but Legolas with eyes like that – his, Michael had almost gotten used to, but that was mostly because he'd gotten used to Legolas; there was an eerie potency behind this woman's gaze that made Michael very nervous. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering when he'd managed to stand on solid ground again; he hadn't even noticed, he'd been so wrapped up trying to figure out who the woman was. She watched him intensely for a few moments, and Michael could almost feel her gaze on him, piercing him, pulling out his thoughts and hopes and desires and examining them. Then she spoke:

"Is he happy?"

Michael blinked. What did she mean? Was she talking to him, or about him? She smiled and said, "My son. Legolas. Is he happy, with his golden Edan?"

That made sense, thought Michael; every mother wanted to see her son happily married. He didn't even have to consider his answer; it blurted out of him, evidence of the confidence he placed in his perception: "Oh, yes, very! He and Éowyn are just PERFECT for each other." Remembering that, to the Noldor mind, the Edain were somewhat inferior, and then recalling Gil-Galad's response to Oropher – "Your daughter-in-law's a Noldo" – he added earnestly, "She's beautiful and strong and smart and affectionate and she loves Legolas very, very much – she'd do ANYTHING for him."

Her pale mouth twisted into an amused smile, and the cerulean eyes softened. "Ah," she said, her face gentle. "Then come to me, O Dreamer, and I shall lay my blessing upon you."

Thranduil guided Michael up close to his wife. She, too, felt hot to the touch; the life that coursed through them almost burned him. But he submitted when he felt her hand on the crown of his head, felt the heat sear the skin. "The strength and grace of the Eldar be with you," she said, her voice sounding very sad. "May you live in peace and happiness the rest of your days, and die in honor, surrounded by love."

There was a cracking sound, like the tearing of lightning through the fabric of the air; Thranduil and his wife raised their eyes and backed away from Michael. "It is time," said Thranduil; his voice was tight and anxious. Michael looked up – a great split had torn through the heavens, and someone was rocketing down to them – someone brilliantly white, long pale hair streaming behind him – he swooped down, arms outstretched, eyes aflame. "Legolas!" exclaimed Michael, then his breath was knocked out of him, and he was airborne.

At that point, things seemed to blur before his eyes; instead of seeing Legolas, white-clad, cascading hair spinning about their heads, he saw a knight in bright armour, charging beside him; his lance was tipped with gold, and the flash of light on the gleaming coronel burned his eyes. Then the lance turned, pointed skyward; it was not a lance after all, but a tower, hung with iron-clad balconies and crowned with a brilliant dome that pierced the canopy of trees about it; flowering vines broke like green waves upon its foundations, and from every canopied window were folk watching, crying aloud to them, cheering them on. Michael looked up. The crack in the sky was there still, from where Legolas had plunged down to him – there was darkness behind it, but Michael was certain the only way back to Frances was through that hole.

The air bludgeoned them, tearing at their hair and clothes and skin; Legolas' piney hair whipped Michael's face, stinging him. The long strong arms were wrapped around Michael's torso, cradling the smaller man against his chest as they sped upward towards the crack in the sky. They had left the shining tower and its enthusiastic citizens far behind, and the ground seemed very far away. Michael grabbed hold of Legolas' body as tight as he could; he could feel his weight returning to him, could feel the flutter of a heartbeat shivering in his chest. The fissure was growing closer; they were knocked about by a gust of wind coming from it, pushing them back, but still Legolas pressed forward. "Hang on," he shouted to Michael, and Michael could feel the muscles of Legolas' arms tense and tighten; he braced himself, and watched as they approached the fissure. Something – it might have been the wind – was struggling against them; it was as though someone was trying to close the gap, and push them away from it, all at once, but Legolas had strength, power, anger, momentum on his side. He gave a great twist, and they were through it.

The cold heavy darkness swallowed Michael. Everything around him was icy, crushing, cutting and hitting them. The only warmth Michael could feel was the body pressed up against his own, protective, the arms wound about his back, his face against Legolas' chest. He could feel the Alien's heartbeat hammering away, could even see it fluttering against his collarbone. Legolas was straining against the heaviness, struggling through it, pushing upward, but Michael was too heavy – he was dragging Legolas backward. Michael looked down through his feet, then wished he hadn't. He recognized that face down there.

Ossë.

The great clawed hands reached up, grasping Michael by the ankle. Then water rushed into his nose, mouth, eyes; his lungs were oppressed, squeezed; he felt rather than heard Legolas curse as they were being pulled down together. He wanted Legolas to let go, wanted Legolas to give up and go back to his beloved Éowyn, it was too much, they were both going to die –

They were sliding, slipping backwards into the crushing icy dark.

Legolas locked his hands at the small of Michael's back and gave a tremendous heave. Michael could see the tendons in his throat, stretched and bulging from his effort, could feel the lean sinewy muscles straining and bunching against him. But it was no good – Legolas couldn't do it; he simply couldn't contend with Ossë. Michael felt the pulling again, and they slipped further back; Legolas kicked and cursed and writhed, trying to pull Michael free. But it was getting darker, colder, heavier; Michael's lungs could not stay closed so long. The rushing, roaring sound was back, and it beat at his ears, his eyes; the chill was seeping into his bones, making him numb. It was too late – they couldn't do it.

The sudden glare of light struck them like a blow, so painfully brilliant Michael could feel his pupils constrict; it hurt, it flayed him open. Everything around them went from dark gray-green to searing white, every pore, every strand of hair, every fiber of cloth illuminated. Legolas' face shadowed it somewhat; Michael could see him, looking up past Michael's head, eyes huge and staring, mouth open. He looked stunned – horror-struck – terrified. That in turn frightened Michael. What could possibly scare Legolas so much that he froze like that, staring with wordless terror, limbs turned to water, trembling uncontrollably? With mute horror Michael watched the look in Legolas' eyes – the realization dawning, the panic, then behind those sky-blue eyes a fracturing, a wounding, a tearing away of part of that immortal soul. Then he, too, felt it – he had thought Manwë's regard, and even the mass of the ocean upon him, to be a weight, but this pressing heaviness eclipsed both – it was a burden he couldn't bear; it would crush him, grind him to dust, squash his insignificant little self into nothingness. He moved his head, trying to get away, but then he heard Legolas' voice, very small and desperately scared:

don't look

The weight moved over them, moved past them. There was no pulling now; only that crushing regard, the presence that threatened to eliminate them both out of its sheer existence, a manifestation of power so transcendent Michael knew he was nothing, a speck of dust, less than nothing. Everything within him withered and twisted, like green flax in hot flame. Ossë turned, eyes lowered; on his face was an expression of deep regret. I am so sorry, Beloved Dreamer,he said, and disappeared. The light intensified, and Michael squeezed his eyes shut; it hurt too much to look, and anyway, he knew that if he DID look, like Legolas looked, every corner of his brain would be burned away by that light.

Something huge touched him then, pressed him up to Legolas, and they were lifted. Michael sobbed against Legolas' chest; he could feel the strong heart there, hammering desperately, could feel the Alien's terror and dismay, clinging to his skin like some horrible wet cloak. They were rushing; they were screaming; the hot terrible cocoon in which they were encompassed shook them once, then with a horrible stomach-churning jolt they were dropped, wet, cold, limp upon a hard surface, their feet somehow beneath them. The light was gone; the watery sunshine and the pale gray sky seemed very dim by comparison. The floor rocked beneath Michael's feet, and he smelled fish. Standing around them, staring in amazement, were Frances, Gimli, and Aragorn; beyond the railing of the boat Michael saw docks, buildings, the masts of other ships, crates and trucks and people. He heard seagulls, the clang and ring of the sheets, a surprised cry from Gimli. Legolas collapsed beside him into a ball, his hands over his head, and Gimli ran to him; Michael turned to Frances, who stood looking like a man waking from a terrible nightmare; he deserved some explanation, Michael thought. So he stammered, "B – buh – big vuh –Vala," before the deck rushed up to his head and everything went dark.