A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

(A.N.: Blah blah blah, sorry it's been so long, blah blah blah. Yes, my life sucks. Yes, my health sucks. But yes, I'm going to finish this story, dammit!
-- Le Rouret)


Michael awoke to a splitting headache, accompanied – and exacerbated – by a lot of extremely Rude and Inconsiderate people speaking far too loudly. He figured any eyelid-movement would only introduce a lot of rather painful light, which would in turn only make the headache worse, so it seemed prudent to lie still with his eyes closed, and hope the people would just shut up and let him suffer in peace.

Something very cold rested on the coagulation of his headache – it felt like a lump over his eyebrow – and a droplet of water trickled down his temple into his ear, tickling him. Whoever was holding the hard cold wet thing was doing a fairly poor job of it; the cold pack was shaking, and Michael could hear a sniffling, half-sobbing sound coming from above him. That was rather confusing; why would someone hold an ice pack on his head, and cry at the same time?

One of the voices, beautiful like bells, but high and excited and brittle, congealed into a sentence: "B – b - bugger that! N – n – not g – g – g – going to, won't d – d – do it – " There was a crash, and a man's voice, loud and authoritative: "All right, Legolas, that's enough of that. If you can't calm down I'm – "

"You'll what?" A woman's voice, hard, concise, angry. "Give him a sedative? Hell, Aragorn, you know that shit won't work on him. If you really wanted to help you'd fucking FIND Gandalf already!"

"Arwen's looking – "

"Oh shit, oh fuck, come on, you stupid bastard." There, he knew THAT voice, that was Grim – half-sobbing, half yelling. "Come on, don't do this, don't do this to me." A horrible noise, like a hysterical laugh interrupted by a tearing sob. Then the beautiful voice again, broken, grinding in the throat like a faulty engine, hiccupping and stammering and wobbling.

"N – nuh – not going to – oh Manwë, oh my lord, his face, oh fuck I saw his face, his face his face his f – f – face – "

"Legolas – " That was Éowyn, anxious, placating. But it was no use; the chiming brassy voice droned on, soaked in horror and self-loathing: "C – can't get it out – it's before me, oh fuck make it go away, it b – burned me oh my lord, tua amin, amin hiraetha, uuma merna ta uuma merna ta, heruamin tua amin mankoi, mankoi lle uma tanya – " *

"Holy shit." Doris' voice, a horrified whisper dropping like a stone into still water. "Look at his face."

"I see it." Éowyn's voice was clipped, tight and short; Michael could almost hear her grinding her teeth. "I'm sure it's nothing. It'll go away."

"But it's so, so bright – "

A ripping noise, then a crash, and shouting. "Shit!" shouted Aragorn. "Hold him down, Gimli. Doris! Go topside and get Éomer – "

All right; this sounded like a Crisis of Magnificent Proportions; Michael supposed he could shunt his headache aside and deal with it, at least for now. He'd work on the headache later. A couple of aspirin, perhaps – or maybe a beer – yes, a beer would be nice. A good beer, at least. Harp, or even a bottle of Bass. He tried to open his eyes, found them recalcitrant, and thrashed around a little, trying to locate a level of consciousness that would allow him to join his friends. It was very odd; he appeared to be lying on a floor; he could feel the cool wood boards beneath his head. What was he doing, lying on a floor? Then he felt hands on him, strong familiar hands, and the ice pack slid away; he was pulled into a rough embrace, and pressed up against a deliciously recognizable torso. He smelled dirty plastic, and wet hair, and salt water, and under it all the scent of cool stone and earth. Faramir.

"Michael." The voice whispering in his ear was trembling and tight. "Michael, Michael."

Then it came back – Ossë, Mandos, Thranduil –

-- the Light --

Michael sat bolt upright, his head spinning; the sudden shock of pain that shot through his left eye almost convinced him to lie back down again immediately, but instead he opened his eyes, squinting at the bright unwelcome light, and discovered he was face to face with his lover. Oh, those beloved features; the aquiline nose, dark tousled hair, pale tear-glassed eyes! With a happy squeak Michael threw himself into Faramir's arms, trying to hug him, but his limbs were still shaky and weak. Faramir held him, his face pressed into Michael's neck; his lips were moving against the skin of Michael's throat, but with all the commotion in the other corner of the room Michael at first couldn't hear what he was saying. But after Faramir had said it about a dozen times it sank in, and then Michael's head reeled AGAIN, but this time for entirely different reasons.

"I love you – I love you – I love you – oh, Michael – "

His heart – it was beating, it was beating! It filled his torso with warmth – it overflowed, swelled, bubbled up; even if Manwë had just sent him back to hear THAT it was worth it – oh, was it worth it. But his euphoric pink haze spun away like a top at the next horrendous CRASH, and Éowyn's and Aragorn's angry voices. Over all, like some high-pitched background music, was Legolas' voice – erratic, fractured, frenetic.

"He was there, he was there, I saw him, saw his face, saw his eyes, it's all, it's all I can see, ai tua amin tua amin tua amin – "

"Hold him down," said Aragorn, and Michael turned his head against Faramir's shoulder to see what was going on.

They were in Legolas and Éowyn's stateroom aboard the White Lady; he recognized the green paneled walls and dark furniture, and the vibrant painting of horses that was bolted next to the mirror. Éowyn, Gimli, and Aragorn were on the bed; Éowyn and Gimli were pinning Legolas down onto the mattress, Gimli on the legs and Éowyn the arms, both looking very anxious and angry, straining against the thrashing limbs. Aragorn was hastily preparing a hypodermic syringe, his face flushed, his hands shaking. Éowyn said breathlessly, "It won't work." She was having a hard time holding her husband down; though she was certainly very strong, Legolas' panic was giving him the advantage, and she was bouncing about quite a bit.

"It will if I give him enough," said Aragorn grimly. The white-clad body on the bed surged and writhed, and Legolas' voice rose in a plaintive wail:

"Ta naa Eru! Kela, nurta! Amin hiraetha, Eru amin – "**

"Fuck," muttered Aragorn as Legolas broke free from Éowyn and Gimli. The Alien sat up, looking wildly about the room, his white-blond hair flailing around his face. He was wearing a jeweled robe, torn down the front; Michael recognized it as the robe he had worn in Oiolossë. Legolas looked terrified, hysterical; his eyes stared unseeing, and the light had gone out of them; the brilliant blue was dimmed. But perhaps that was because they were overshadowed by the skin on his face – glowing white-hot, illuminating the entire cabin. Michael started back, aghast. Was that the light Legolas had seen? Had it blinded him? Had it seared itself into his very skin? He was thrashing around with his arms, twisting his torso as though he were trying to get away from something; Éowyn ducked, but Gimli got a blow to his face, which made him grunt and grope for Legolas' hands.

"Gimli, Gimli! Aiutarme!" Legolas sobbed, twisting away. "Non posso vedere!"+

"So, la fermata me colpendo," growled Gimli, rubbing his jaw and grasping at Legolas' arm, holding it still. " Lei va dolere sua moglie. Fermata!"++

"Stop, stop, beloved," Éowyn groaned, wrapping her arms around Legolas' torso and trying to hold him still. "Legolas, if you love me, stop!"

Her plea was enough to still him, so that Aragorn could pinch up some of the skin on Legolas' forearm and slide the needle in. Legolas gave a convulsive shudder, arching back against his wife's kneeling form; his radiant face turned and lifted, shining its awful light on the ceiling; dark shadows wheeled and whirled crazily on the walls, on the bed, on the figures on the bed. "Stop," Éowyn said again, her face half-buried in his silky hair; Michael watched, aghast, as the slim strong body shuddered, lurching forward out of Éowyn's arms and into Gimli's waiting ones. The big, hairy man held Legolas' quivering body tightly, patting the back with perhaps more force than tenderness, but Michael saw that Gimli's face was wet with tears.

"You stupid bastard," said Gimli, his voice trembling. "You stubborn stupid idiot. Why the hell did you have to go and get nuts on us?"

"Nuh – not nuts – buh – but f – fuh- fucking scared – " Legolas' voice quieted, then he slumped into Gimli's embrace and started to sob, huge racking sobs that convulsed his entire body, tearing their way out his lungs with hoarse convulsive cries. Michael looked at Éowyn. She was kneeling behind her husband, her face stricken and pale, watching him writhe weakly in his best friend's arms; her own hands, empty and bereft of his embrace, lay limply on her lap. Aragorn leaned around her and checked Legolas' pulse. He looked a tad disheveled, but now that the immediate crisis appeared to be over he seemed very calm.

"That seems to have done it," he said, his voice crisp and professional. "There, old friend, doesn't that feel better?" He lay a competent hand on Legolas' flossy head, ruffling the silky hair; only the slightest twitching in one of his eyelids betrayed his concern.

"Non posso vedere," whispered Legolas, his voice hoarse and muffled in Gimli's armpit. Gimli looked up at Aragorn, his brown eyes wide and scared.

"Was it the light did this to him?" he asked, his gravelly voice trembling.

"Maybe it's just temporary then," said Faramir. His voice sounded very close and hollow, echoing through his chest in Michael's ear. "The Valar wouldn't take his sight away. They wouldn't be that cruel to the Listener."

"A Listener only needs ears," said Éowyn tiredly, running her long fingers through her tumbled, golden curls. She too looked frightened, as though she'd never seen her husband act this way before. Perhaps she hadn't – perhaps none of them had. "There's really no good reason, from Manwë's standpoint, for Legolas to have his eyesight."

Then Michael understood what "non posso vedere" meant – the Light had blinded Legolas.

The realization hit him with a sickening lurch, like riding a roller coaster at the midway after having eaten too many candied apples. This was a terrible thing, an awful thing; it would cripple Legolas more than taking both his feet. No sight meant no painting. No sight meant no driving a motorcycle. No sight meant no jumping out of airplanes, no rescuing people, no protecting anyone. No sight meant no sailing, or cooking, or any of those things Legolas loved to do. Oh, sure, blind people learned to do some of those things – but never alone and unsupervised; always with someone around, someone to help when things went wrong. Poor Legolas! He was so independent, so strong and capable – to have to give up that capability, to be dependent on someone else, no matter how well-loved; to have to step aside and let others do the dirty work; to have to sit idly by while someone else did what he knew he had once been more than able to do – well, Light or no Light, Listening or no Listening, that would drive Michael mad, too.

Michael nestled down in Faramir's ready embrace, his heart sinking. He didn't know if he could stand to watch it – watch the slow, inexorable fracturing of this strong white soul, watch the long powerful body grow limp and weak, see the light fade from those luminous eyes. And when Legolas turned in Gimli's arms, groping blindly for his wife, the Light shining off the alabaster skin made Michael squint; it was like a beacon, an echo of that horrible brilliance, a visual rebuke to the rest of them, who had dared allow Legolas to tread those forbidden waters, and bring Michael back. "It's my fault," he thought miserably, feeling his sinuses sting, and his eyes fill with tears. "If I hadn't died, Legolas wouldn't have had to get me, and he wouldn't be blind right now." He watched Gimli lower Legolas back into Éowyn's embrace, gentle, like a father with a newborn son; that long powerful body was limp and weak, the jaw slack, the dull eyes half-closed. The drugs were doing their work, and Legolas was fading. Éowyn gathered her husband in her long golden arms, crooning softly; Legolas didn't even seem to hear her; he had collapsed against her, spiritless, helpless, unguarded. One white-clad arm slipped bonelessly off her lap, the Light on the beadwork sending flashes and sparkles around the room, like some pathetic disco ball. The slim white hand hung limply, fingers still stained with paint, and for some reason that hurt Michael most of all – to see that hand, once so kinetic and skillful and adept, denuded of any impetus or energy. He wanted to hide his face in Faramir's shoulder and cry for hours, but that seemed so useless somehow; he wanted to DO something, like Legolas used to do things, but he didn’t know WHAT to do.

You are his eyes, his hands

The voice was gentle, kind, understanding; it was the same voice that had reminded him of Éomer. "Who are you?" he asked in his head; he didn't dare break the silence around him with such an inane question.

Peace, beloved Dreamer. Go to him, and tell him all shall be well.

Well, that was something he could DO, whether he believed it or not. And somehow, when this strange voice told him something, he felt rather inclined to believe him. There was a jolly quality to it, despite the desperate circumstances; an underlying joy in the journey from hardship to hardship, a sort of perpetual cosmic belly-laugh. He could believe in a voice like that; he could obey it. He pulled out of Faramir's embrace; when his lover protested weakly, Michael gave him a reassuring kiss, and Faramir released him; he got to his feet, bracing himself against the dresser – his head REALLY hurt, and he was a little dizzy – he waited for the spell to pass, his hand pressed against his forehead. He could feel the lump now; it was a doozie all right. "I'll probably have ANOTHER black eye," he thought sourly to himself. It was really Unfair; all he really HAD was his looks; why did he have to keep bashing himself up and giving himself bruises and black eyes? It was not very Attractive. "I'll have to be more careful in the future," he thought to himself, then winced when he realized how foolish that sounded – like he could be more careful, coming back from the dead. "I wonder how long I was gone?" he thought, and rubbed his eyes.

The room stopped spinning, so he took a few tentative steps toward the bed. Gimli was sitting on the edge, his face in his hands; he looked as though he were crying. Aragorn was sitting off to the side, repacking his first-aid kit; he gave Michael a critical look – focusing mostly on the lump, he noticed – then the gray eyes softened, and his mouth quirked into a smile. Éowyn knelt, her arms wrapped around her white-clad husband, gold wrapped around ivory; both were very still, and Legolas' shining face illuminated the whole room.

There were footsteps outside the stateroom; Éomer and Doris came in, all eyes; they both looked at Michael standing by the bed, and Doris gave a little sob, her fingertips pressed to her lips. Michael smiled at her – he would give her a Proper Greeting later – for right now, he had something important to do.

He sat down in front of Éowyn and Legolas. Éowyn looked up at him, her silvery eyes bleary with tears, her full red lips curved dolorously downward. Legolas did not move, but stared with sightless eyes at the ceiling, his sweet pink lips open over strong white teeth, jaw slack, limp, but breathing fast and shallow. Michael tentatively reached forward with the fingers of one hand and placed them on Legolas' head.

Darkness, darkness unreachable; cold silence and immeasurable loneliness; a soundless voice screaming unheard in the void. I can't see I can't see it's all dark where's the Light

"You don't need the light," said Michael. His voice sounded very loud in the silence of the stateroom. "I'll be your eyes, Legolas."

The beautiful face stirred, seeking him out; Michael squinted when that brilliant beacon was focused on him. It was Ironic, all that light, and no sight, like headlights for a car that wouldn't run.

"Michael." Legolas' voice was slurred, unsteady; so unlike the quick bark of laughter, easy repartee, slangy turn of speech. "What do you see?"

Michael thought for a minute. If he was to be Legolas' eyes, as the voice in his head was telling him, and be his hands as well, chances are that didn't mean he was to be Legolas' personal white cane or Braille translator. If it was important enough for the Valar to order him around, it would be for more weighty issues than, "Watch out for that curb," or, "Here, let me cut up your steak for you." "What am I supposed to do?" he thought. "What DO I see?"

Look

He saw Legolas, sitting cross-legged in a green field, eyes closed, face serene. His hands, clasped in his lap, were bound with shackles; shackles also immobilized his feet. Every once in a while a bird flew down and landed on his shoulder; Legolas would open his mouth, and the bird would put something in his mouth – a petit four, a cherry, a piece of cheese. And he sat, and he waited, blind but content, because propped up against one of his knees was a cardboard sign that said, "Wait." It didn't matter that the maelstrom whirled and wheeled around him; he couldn't see the chaos that spun like a tornado around his still form. It simply didn't matter.

"You need to wait," said Michael. He grimaced a little; that had sounded so stupid, so banal and unempathetic. Legolas' eyebrows twitched, and he gave a lopsided frown.

"What about – Ahn?" he asked blearily, and gave a horrendous yawn.

"You don't have to worry about him any more," said Michael. "It's not your job now."

"Hm? Oh, good," said Legolas; his head shifted, and Éowyn caught it before it slid off her lap. The blue eyes closed, the body sank into the mattress. "I was getting – " another yawn " – bloody tired of that git."

Michael and Éowyn watched him slip away, watched the facial muscles slacken, the head tip to one side, the breathing change – deep, slow, slightly sonorous. Even in a drug-induced stupor Legolas was beautiful; the square forehead was clear, with its silky fall of white-blond hair poured out like molten platinum over his wife's lap; the straight nose and high cheekbones, the rosebud lips and columnar neck – even when Faramir came up behind Michael, wrapping possessive arms around his lover's waist, Michael watched Legolas, beautiful Legolas, who had been so flawless up until now – until the sight had been stricken from him, and that awful light laid upon his face.

*"Help me, I'm sorry, don't want it don't want it, my lord help me, why did you do that – "

**"It was Eru! Go away, hide! I'm sorry, my Eru – "

+(Italian)"Help me! I can't see!"

++(Italian)"I know, stop hitting me. You're going to hurt your wife. Stop!"