A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

A/N: This will have to hold you guys for a while; I'm well enough to travel, so I'm buggering off for a vacation. Don’t worry; I'm coming back! -- Le Rouret


"All right," said Éomer. "Now what?"

He gazed around at them expectantly, his blue eyes hopeful and a little vapid. He looked from Aragorn, frowning and glaring at Legolas, to Arwen, frustrated and glaring at the table, to Éowyn, cold and defensive and glaring at them both, to Gimli, resigned and sad, to Faramir, casually cleaning under his nails with an orange stick. They were sitting at the long deal table in the sitting room of the hotel, and had been arguing for well over an hour about their next move; so far it didn't seem like they were making much progress. Michael shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. It was a tad more difficult to sit nowadays; Faramir's libido had arisen with a vengeance and it was the rare hour that passed without some overt expression of ardor. He stole a covert glance at Legolas. The lovely creature sat at the table with them, flawless face serene, sightless eyes fixed upon some random spot on the ceiling. The Light emanating from his skin had faded, but that had not brought back the luminous brilliance of his eyes; they were a pale blue, unfocused, rimmed with thick dark lashes and lacking none of the effervescent beauty of his race, but blind, dim, unknowing. The columbine lips were stilled, settled in their rosebud form, silent; the quick kinetic hands rested quietly on his lap. But still the long shimmering hair shifted around his shoulders, throwing back the lamplight, gleaming like molten gold, drawing Michael's eyes like the teasing, shifting images on a television screen.

"Sweetie," said Lottie impatiently, "you can't expect everyone to have made up their minds in the last five MINUTES. I mean, REALLY." She flipped her hair back, tipping her chair; her pink sequined top glittered. "It's not as though Mithrandir's called or anything. We're in the same place we were this morning."

That was true enough, thought Michael while Éomer and Lottie argued. A lovely hotel; beautiful rooms; the plumbing was a little – archaic – how Faramir had laughed, watching him cast around helplessly for the method to flush the toilet! How could he have known it was a CHAIN? – they each had their own suite, WITH bathroom and toilet, the concierge had been quick to point out – Michael had not realized that having one's own toilet was a sort of cachet in Europe. And the view from his and Faramir's rooms was spectacular – Piccadilly Circus, with the Mercury lifting his faggoty foot behind him. No wonder it was called "going Greek." A flicker of memory assailed him – Faramir and him in the big claw-footed enamel bath tub, the complimentary bottle of lavender-scented bath oil put to good use – was it his imagination, or could he still catch a whiff of eau de lavande about his person? He smothered a sly smile and shot a glance at Faramir. His lover sat beside him, leaning his long slim black-clad form in his chair, legs outstretched, taking unusual care of his fingernails. He seemed to feel Michael's gaze on him, because he glanced over, met Michael's eyes, and the supple mouth curved up in a tantalizing smile, one gray eye winking. Michael's heart lurched in his chest, and he could feel his face grow hot, but Faramir had looked away as though nothing had happened, picking at his nails again with the long thin stick.

"What it comes down to is this," said Aragorn, his normally impassive voice angry. "Legs can't see anything, and Manwë's not talking to him, so that way of finding things out is useless now." Éowyn turned to him, frowning a little, but Aragorn ignored her and plunged on. Michael was rather impressed; HE wouldn't have wanted to test Éowyn's temper like that. "Arwen and I can't find Gandalf – he's gone, who knows where, so we can't rely on him, either." Gimli fetched another sigh then, and Doris grabbed his hand, her brown eyes sympathetic and worried. Michael didn't blame her. He was worried, too. No sign of Ahn or his operatives; no word from the Valar; no sign of Gandalf. They were floundering, reaching out in the dark. Anything could be happening; Ahn could be anywhere, doing anything by now, and they wouldn't know. "There's no movement online, no emails or IMs or any other kind of communication. Right?" Aragorn turned to Gimli and Faramir, his grey eyes demanding; Gimli only shook his head, but Faramir looked up and said languidly:

"Where would you have us look? He's certainly not going to use his regular venues – he knows he's being followed. We've searched everywhere we can safely think of. Do you want to risk giving away our position?"

"At this point," said Éomer heavily, "I don't see we have much of a choice. We have to do SOMETHING."

Again all eyes turned to Legolas, expecting him to speak, to order them around, to tell them what to do. But he simply sat there, aloof, inscrutable, lovely. Aragorn made an impatient noise.

"It's bad enough your Inner Eye's stopped up," he said acidly to Legolas. Michael gave a squeak of protest; it wasn't as though it was Legolas' FAULT. "Why do you just fucking sit there, like a statue? Can't you SAY something?"

Legolas tipped his face over towards Aragorn, opening his sweet pink lips to speak, but Michael, filled with indignation, burst out: "What do you mean? What do you WANT him to say? If he can't see he can't see, and if Manwë's not talking he's not talking and what I say is, YOU weren't there and YOU didn't see the Light, the – the – " He stammered to a halt, not sure how to describe it; Legolas broke in impassively, dropping the first word he'd spoken in hours like a heavy stone into still water:

"Eru."

"Yes, Him, whoever He is. You didn't see Him and I didn't see Him and quite frankly I'm glad I didn't see Him – " Faramir touched Michael's arm warningly but Michael jerked away angrily. "It was bad enough being TOUCHED by Him and LIFTED by Him and even NOTICED by Him. And Faramir, DON'T try to shut me up because you DON'T know what it was that blinded him and we DON'T know why Manwë's not talking but if he's NOT then it has NOTHING to do with Legolas or any fault of his and EVERYTHING to do with me and with my coming back from Mandos so DON'T – " He shook a threatening finger at Aragorn, who looked nonplussed at Michael's outburst – and well he might; this was Quite New for him – "BLAME LEGOLAS FOR THIS." He shook the finger again, hoping he looked Menacing, or at the very least Authoritative, but uncomfortably certain he more resembled a miffed white rabbit. He tried to glare around the table. It wasn't a very good Glare, as he had no real experience with Glaring, but at least it was a Relatively Convincing Glare, and if Doris bit her lip in secret amusement Michael was certainly not going to begrudge her the joke. Heaven knows they could use a laugh at this point.

Éomer, however, seemed to remember something, which made his normally foolish face take on a canny, speculative look. "Hey," he said slowly, lowering his thick eyebrows at Michael. "You're the Dreamer. Right? The Valar tell you stuff in your Dreams, right? Stuff that's supposed to happen in the future? So what have your Dreams told you? Anything about what we’re supposed to do next?"

"No," snapped Michael, offended. "My Dreams haven't told me ANYTHING useful. It's just dreams, you know – plain, ordinary dreams, like trying to pack a suitcase and not being able to find my Tommy Bahama polo shirts, or needing to catch a bus and forgetting the schedule."

"Helpless dreams," said Legolas vaguely, groping in his pocket for a sweet. Michael nodded, even though Legolas couldn't see him.

"Yes," he said eagerly. "Helpless, like I need to do something and I can't. I HATE those kinds of dreams. I used to have them in college – like I was going to take a final, and didn't know where the class was or what book I was supposed to have studied."

Éomer frowned at the table. Lottie looked expectantly at Michael, as though she was anticipating another Grand Idea on the scale of what he'd pulled out of his hat at Silver Bush, but Michael was not forthcoming – he didn't HAVE any Grand Ideas, and really, why should any of them expect him to? It's not as though he were a Strategist or Warrior or anything. He was an Interior Decorator, and just the Dreamer – with pretty useless dreams indeed.

"Éowyn," said Aragorn. "What about Yavanna? Hasn't she spoken to you?"

"No," said Éowyn shortly. "And no, I can't command her to speak to me. She's a fucking Vala, Aragorn. What the hell do you want me to do, throw my weight around?" She shook her head disgustedly. Michael understood; Aragorn couldn't know, couldn’t know what the Valar were like – couldn't know the sheer weight of personality they possessed. "She'd crush me," she said, her voice hollow, her silver eyes fixed on the table. "She loves me, but she'd crush me. They're like that, the Valar. You can't tell them what to do." She glanced at her husband, who was rummaging around helplessly in a cellophane bag, hunting for a candy; with an impatient grunt she snatched the bag from him and pried a recalcitrant caramel from one twisted corner. "Here," she said shortly, unwrapping it and putting it in his palm.

"Responsibility dreams," said Legolas.

Éowyn blinked. "What?"

Legolas put the caramel in his mouth. "You know. You have responsibility for something but you can't fulfill your obligation. Guilt. Responsibility."

"We know, old friend," said Gimli kindly. "We've all had dreams like that. Why, I used to dream that I was – "

"No," interrupted Legolas thoughtfully. "Michael's the Dreamer. If he's having a responsibility dream it bloody well means something. We fucking need to pay attention to it." Everyone went silent, watching him chew, his blind eyes fixed sightlessly on the far wall. "This caramel is stale," he said.

"Fuck the caramel," said Aragorn angrily. "You mean, Michael's got something for us, but we don't know what it is?"

"No," said Legolas. He worked the half-masticated caramel out of his mouth and stuck it gracelessly to the surface of the table, wiping his fingers on his jeans. "I mean, Michael's the Dreamer, and whatever Vala's got him is still speaking to him, even though my theater's empty." He tapped his forehead then with a wry smile, then turned to face Michael, though his eyes stared sightlessly past Faramir instead. "Who's talking to you, mate? Do you know?"

"No," said Michael, mystified. "Only that he sort of sounds like Éomer." Éomer made a strangled noise then, like a little aborted yelp, probably because Lottie had just given him a hard, definitive pinch. "And he likes me. Like your father liked me, Legolas."

"Ah." Legolas smiled. "Yeah, Dad's a right softie, inn't he? Bloody good bloke, though I do say so myself." He seemed to cast around then, turning his head back and forth. "You know, me mates, I'm awfully peckish. Is it time for tea yet?"

"No," said Aragorn shortly, and Lottie bit her lip to hide a smile.

"So what you're saying," said Faramir slowly, sliding one long-fingered hand onto Michael's thigh, "is that Michael is still Dreaming True, but we're not reading the riddle?"

"Mm," said Legolas, frowning a little. "Well, no. A Vala that sounds like Éomer … " He shook his head, his pale hair floating over his shoulders. "Sure it was Éomer, mate? Not Gimli? Aulë I could suss out, but Éomer – "

"No, he didn't sound the least bit like Gimli," protested Michael resentfully. "If he'd SOUNDED like Gimli I would have SAID he sounded like Gimli."

"You're quite right, mate; beg pardon," said Legolas politely. "Well, I'm buggered if I know. If he sounds like Éomer he won't be giving us fucking riddles, me pets. Probably just preparing Michael for something he has to do."

"But what?" asked Aragorn edgily.

"How the fuck should I know?" asked Legolas with casual impudence, leaning back in his chair. "What the fuck do I look like, a fuckin' oracle or summat?" Aragorn started to protest, but Legolas interrupted irritably, "Oh, bloody hell, Longshanks, shut yer gob. Haven't got all the bloody answers, do I? Fifteen fucking thousand fucking years I've been tellin' yer, 'Go here,' or 'Do this,' and you've done fuckin' nothing but give me the argy-bargy 'bout my ordering your bloody white arse around. Made it too easy for you, I have. Do yer good to get yer hands dirty for once. If yer wanted to help me out you'd get me a bleedin' chocolate. Fuckin' A, the bloody King of Gondor for yer, lookit that." Legolas shook his head in mock disgust, and Éowyn gave a snort of laughter. Aragorn looked deeply affronted, and a little foolish.

"Well," he said sullenly, "if you can't be any more helpful than that – "

"Put a sock in it; he's done enough," said Gimli crossly. "Good grief, he brought Michael back from the dead. What the hell else do you want out of him? Let him enjoy his little Valar-induced vacation. Aulë knows he deserves it."

"You sure it's a vacation and not a punishment?" asked Arwen abruptly, fixing Legolas with a sympathetic eye. Legolas lifted one languid shoulder.

"So what if it is, ducks?" he said. "Blind and deaf, still Manwë's servant. Can't do a fucking thing about it." He sighed. "Can we have a curry tonight? Blimey, I'm hungry."

"We had curry last night," said Aragorn shortly. "Look, this is getting us nowhere. Michael's dreams are telling us jack shit, and all Legolas wants to do is insult me. I'm finished." He got up from the table, scraping his chair back.

"Well, what about Chinese? Can we have Chinese?"

"No!"

"Pub food, then? I've got a yen for a Guinness."

"Are we through here?" asked Faramir dryly, glancing over at Éowyn, who was regarding her husband with a look of exasperated affection.

"So it would appear," she said with a grimace, running her long fingers through her golden hair. "We can either sit here for another hour chewing old shoes, or we can try to find Ahn. I vote you and Grim up your efforts."

"Well, if you insist," said Faramir with a smile, glancing over at Gimli, whose face wore a look of deep apprehension. "What the hell? Maybe we can be like the beaters in India, chasing out the tigers and getting bitten for our trouble."

"Speak for yourself," grunted Gimli, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet, extending one meaty hand to help Doris up. "You beat, I'll stand there with the elephant gun."

"Fair enough."

"What about steak? There's a decent steak restaurant in Soho. And if we end up with Mad Cow we can sue their bollocks off."

"Shove it, would you, Legs?"

Michael got up and turned to find Éomer standing behind him, his pale eyes anxious. "Look," he said. "If you dream anything – anything at all – then you need to tell us, all right? We're lost here, and we need to do SOMETHING."

"Well," said Michael acidly, "what if I dream about designing women's shoes; would you like that?"

"I would," said Lottie brightly, and grinned when Éomer gave her a dirty look.

"Come on, mates, I'm fucking starving to death here. Anyone got a lollie or something?"

"Can't you shut him up?" demanded Aragorn of Éowyn angrily.

She stared at him. "You're kidding, right?"

Michael looked at Éomer, who was glowering at Aragorn. Things were falling apart; he might as well undertake to do what he could. "I'll tell you everything I dream," he promised. Éomer's face cleared.

"Well, it's better than nothing." He turned back to the table, where Legolas, grinning impudently, was driving Aragorn into a state of frustrated apoplexy normally reserved for people of more fragile temperaments. Michael sighed. Legolas was beautiful, but he certainly did know how to get under people's skin. "Come on," said Éomer, flashing his strong white teeth at Michael and Faramir. "Let's offer to take Legs out to the pub before Aragorn tries to kill him again."

"All right," said Michael, cheered greatly at the prospect of having steak and kidney pie again. There was something so comforting about pub food – either the carbohydrates, or the fat; whatever it was, Michael quite liked it, despite the fact he was eating something Extremely Unhealthy. And he was discovering that, like marksmanship, he was what Legolas called "a bloody dab hand" at darts, which served to dissolve the usual homophobic suspicion he engendered in the average pub. "I wouldn't mind a Guinness myself."

"Don’t drink too much, though," cautioned Éomer, raising his eyebrows. "You get drunk, you might dream wrong."

"If he Dreams, Éomer," said Faramir, coming up behind Michael and sliding his arms around his waist, "it won't be an accident. Trust me; when the Valar want to speak to him, they will."

"Well, you'd know better than I would," grumbled Éomer, stomping out. Michael leaned back in Faramir's arms, felt his lover rest his chin on the top of his head. It was a comforting, protective gesture, but Michael still felt frustrated; why couldn't the Valar just TELL them what to do? Why did they have to wait? Was it something Legolas had done, in bringing him back? Or was this part of the argument the Valar were having concerning Michael's fate? Why had Ossë apologized to Michael when he'd failed to take him back to Mandos? Nienna had told Faramir in his dream that Ossë had taken him out of pity, not cruelty. That was an uncomfortable thought. What was Ossë trying to save him from? What Strange and Horrible Things might be around the corner? It was a frightening prospect, and he fetched a deep breath, and felt Faramir's grip tighten. He turned in his lover's arms and rested his head on Faramir's collarbone.

"Everything will be all right," said Faramir confidently, squeezing him close.

Michael wanted to agree with him, but somehow he couldn't. He knew something was Horribly Wrong, and had the feeling they were heading down some terrible path, stumbling in the dark, but before he could voice this concern to Faramir Legolas and Aragorn's argument degenerated into name-calling, and the party broke up.