A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

The report was deafening. It seemed a lot louder than the first three shots he'd fired, and the kick was definitely stronger – his shoulder jerked back painfully, and sparks flashed before his eyes. He panicked – had he missed? Would Ahn escape? He blinked, shook his head, looked around wildly through the thin wispy smoke. Where was he? Where was Ahn? Did he lose him? It was starting all over again, wasn't it? Where was Ahn, where was Ahn, where was Ahn …. For months this had been their mantra; for months now they had been wrapped up in this conundrum; even now it wasn't over.

But then the smoke cleared, and Michael saw him. The force of the bullet's entry had thrown him back against the truck door and he lay, arms spread wide and feet turned inward, propped up against the steps. His eyes were still open but they did not seem to see Michael; they stared past him, horrified, afraid. There was a large gaping hole in the dark shirt, and something even darker and very wet was spreading around it. Michael stared at it. It was blood – lots of blood – and the chest was motionless; Ahn wasn't breathing.

Michael looked down at the Glock, puzzled. He had aimed at Ahn's head – right between the eyes. He'd wanted to put the bullet right in the center of that detestable brain and stop it up for good, destroy the Sŏndŏk once and for all. But despite his perfect aim, the bullet had obviously pierced Ahn's heart, killing him instantly. How had he managed to miss so Efficiently?

It was not his brain but his heart that was diseased.

Oh, that was just FINE. Shooting him in the head wasn't GOOD enough; Tulkas just had to make his little point, didn't he? Michael was indignant. Had Ahn not possessed such a fine brain, the Sŏndŏk would never have been conceived, bad heart or not.

Bad hearts and small brains are just as horrible, Beloved Dreamer. The voice was gentle, chiding, seeming to smile and rebuke at the same time, and Michael thought about the operative he and Lottie had killed on Prince Edward Island. A stupid man, but an appalling one nonetheless. And weren't good-hearted but stupid people pretty innocuous? He remembered Aaron Swierzb, a boy who had grown up on the same street as Michael and his sister. Aaron had been borderline-retarded, and very slow on the uptake, but Michael had yet to meet a person with as sweet and gentle a soul as Aaron had possessed. Perhaps brains were over-rated. That made him feel much better, being on the bottom half of the bell curve himself. He had always wished he were smarter, thinking that would make him a Superior Person, but apparently Tulkas thought otherwise.

Well done, Beloved Dreamer. You have excelled at the task given you. We are very pleased with you.

Then there was a chorus of voices in his head, rich voices, strong and joyful and jubilant. The Valar were thanking him. HIM! Him, Michael Morris, Interior Designer and the King of Non-Confrontation! Michael Morris, who had spent his entire life fleeing bullies, fixing his hair and keeping his fingernails clean! Little swishy blond bottom Michael Morris! He had done it! HE had done it! All by himself, with no Legolas jumping in and taking bullets for him, no Lottie smoothly slipping the hypodermic needle inside someone's arm! Michael had done it! He'd done what they'd all been trying to do! He had KILLED AHN! His heart seemed to echo back the exultant celebration ringing through his head, and his mind spun with images of light and music and bright trumpets ringing. He took a deep breath, choked a little on the smoke, and then he remembered Frances.

He had known it would Hit Him, and Hit Him it did. It was as though a sledgehammer struck him full-force in the stomach, toppling him, expelling his breath, shattering every organ he owned. His vision faded; Ahn's dead body melted away in a gathering peripheral darkness, and the lights on the truck wobbled. He felt his knees buckle, and heard the thunk of the Glock hitting the wooden dock at his feet. Cold tendrils snaked their way down his limbs; his arms began to shake, and then he felt himself land heavily on his knees. He thrust numb hands out to steady himself; the floor of the dock was slimy and cold beneath his palms, and there was no strength in him.

The sob tore itself out of his chest with a violent retching noise. His heart was fracturing; he could feel it ripping inside of him, could hear a high-pitched squealing noise in his ears, feel the heavy throb of pain against the backs of his eyes. A tremor cleaved his torso and hot anger and disbelief flooded him, though his arms were still cold and weak, and he felt as though his head had ruptured with the force of his pain.

Breathe. Breathe, beloved Dreamer.

"No," whimpered Michael, trying to push the voices out of his head. They were already nearly drowned by the cacophonic explosions detonating somewhere at the top of his spine. "No, leave me, leave me – "

His lungs were bursting; he felt as he had when Ossë had drowned him. He needed oxygen. His sobs had squeezed his chest empty, and his heart hurt so much he didn't think he COULD inhale.

Breathe, Beloved.

Michael gulped in a shallow breath, only to have it exhaled when he retched and sobbed again.

Breathe.

He couldn't breathe, didn't even want to. He wanted to die, right there, so that his pain would go away. He dropped his forehead to the wet dock, smelled turpentine, dirty water, mold.

Arms enfolded him; warmth engulfed him; lips touched his. Air rushed into his beleaguered lungs, and the shrieking in his head abated. But when Michael opened his eyes no one was there – only the bell-pure quivering sense of Presence residing somewhere inside of him, making him breathe, making him see again. His vision swam, and he seemed to see Nienna, tall and gray-clad and glowing eerily in the darkness, holding out her long slender arms to him, her bright eyes occluded with tears.

Beloved Dreamer, beloved of the Steward, rise and go to him.

Michael's limbs felt a little stronger now that he had enough oxygen in him; he staggered to his feet, trying not to look at Ahn, and stumbled numbly to Frances' side. His feet felt heavy, like lead, and his joints didn't want to bend. He stopped by Frances' body, and dropped back to his knees without even a passing thought to what he was doing to his Tommy Hilfiger jeans. He didn't want to look – and yet – he had to face it eventually, despite the horror, the appalling future he faced. He had to face it -- he knew he had to. So he forced himself to look down at his dead lover.

Frances seemed startled but not afraid. His eyes were wide open and glassy, and his hair was mussed; his mouth was open a little, showing his white even teeth. Fortunately the bullets had not marred his beautiful face; however, his chest was riddled with scorches and holes, and the front of his jacket was thick and sticky with clotting blood. Michael choked out another painful sob and touched Frances' cheek; it was very cold. He stared into those sightless, lifeless gray eyes and sobbed again. Frances could not see him. Frances would never look at him, never wink at him, never give him that sly, sidelong look out of those lovely gray eyes.

"Why?" he moaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, hot tears tracing their way down to his chin. Why did he have to die? Why FRANCES? Couldn't they have stopped it? Why did they take Frances from him NOW? It would have been better, far better if Michael had simply up and drowned and stayed in Mandos with Oropher and Gil-Galad. Then he wouldn't know the twisting anguish of his death.

But then … who would have killed Ahn?

Was that why Legolas had been permitted to bring him back?

Tulkas spoke then; his normally cheery voice sounded somber. Beloved Dreamer, to some have been given the doom of death; to others, the curse of immortality. Do not envy those who die not; nor should you desire death when it is not your time.

Michael put his face in his hands. He didn't want to hear them any more; he wanted no more visions, no more cold comfort. But then Tulkas chuckled.

Weep not for the Steward. Even as it is not your time to die, neither is it his.

Something rasped and rattled on the dock beneath his bowed head; with a galvanic inward leap Michael pulled his hands from his face and looked down at Frances. Frances' chest was heaving, struggling to take oxygen in to those torn and punctured lungs, and his eyes were blinking away the cobwebs, trying to focus on Michael's face. His dark eyebrows dived into a V on his forehead, and his mouth, spitting pink bloody froth, worked furiously a moment; then he said, in a thin reedy voice:

"Michael?"

Michael's brain exploded in light, and he could practically feel his heart fly up through his chest into his head. He gathered up as much of Frances as he could in his shaking arms and pressed him, sticky and bloody but alive, alive, ALIVE against his body, convulsing with relieved sobs. He could barely think; the only two things running through his mind were, "Frances is alive! Frances isn't dead!" and Tulkas' hearty, booming laugh. Even the implications didn't bother him. He didn't care if Frances – Faramir – were human or not. Faramir was ALIVE!

He felt one of Faramir's arms weakly encircle him, felt him move sluggishly beneath him, coughing slightly. "Ahn?" he croaked against Michael's neck; Michael could feel the blood coming out of Faramir's mouth, but he didn't care.

"Dead," Michael gurgled; he could barely speak, his throat was gripped so tightly. "Oh Faramir, I thought you were dead, oh darling I thought you were dead, I was so upset – "

"Turnabout's – fair play," gasped Faramir, the fingers of one hand twitching, trying to hold Michael but still too weak to get a good grip. Michael sobbed even harder, pressing his face into Faramir's bloody, bullet-pocked chest. "Who – how – "

"I shot him," said Michael. He pulled away from Faramir, resting him carefully on the wet dock boards and fumbling for a tissue to wipe some of the pink foam from his lover's mouth. "After he shot you – and – and Gimli – oh no – " He remembered Gimli then, remembered that he had been shot too, and that Doris' poor heart would surely break when she found out. But – wasn't Gimli -- ? If he wasn't human … "Um," he said shakily, taking in a deep shuddering breath and dabbing at Faramir's face, "I suppose if we get him up out of the river he'll come back to life, too?"

Faramir gasped a few times, fresh pink foamy bubbles spilling from his mouth. "Urgh … yes," he admitted, and started to cough again, great tearing coughs, as though his lungs were coming to pieces. "Hell's – bells, how – many times did those – bastards shoot me?"

"I don't know," gulped Michael, scrubbing impatiently at his own tears with the back of his hand. Remembering the sound of gunfire, remembering how long they'd been there, he started to feel afraid. It was all very well to be incarcerated by the police when you were paralyzed with shock and grief, but he didn't have time to be paralyzed now – they needed to get back to the hotel as soon as possible. He scrabbled back on his feet and straightened his bloodied sweater. "Faramir," he said, annoyed to hear how high and tremulous his voice sounded. "Look, I made a lot of noise, we need to get out of here – " He started to pull anxiously at Faramir's arm, trying to get him up. "Can you stand up?"

"I don't – " began Faramir, but then he started, staring at something behind Michael, and he froze, his eyes wide in astonishment. Michael whipped around, expecting to see more operatives, or a policeman, or something Equally Horrible, but instead a short, stout man in dark clothes, sporting a greasy cap over his curls, stood at the corner, staring with horrified amazement at the carnage in front of him. Michael felt like cursing – he'd forgotten all about the CABBIE! It would have been hard enough getting Faramir, bloodied and weak, back into the cab as it was; now the driver was looking at five bodies, a truck, and a crate, and there was no chance in Mandos he'd overlook it just for the sake of a whacking big tip.

Michael swallowed, wondering what, if anything, he should say. He supposed he could shoot the cabbie – that would shut him up – but – could Michael kill an innocent man? Legolas did, but – Michael didn't think he could, didn't think he had it in him. He supposed he ought to be ashamed of this weakness, but despite the tension of the situation he was unable to. The cabbie walked forward slowly, hesitantly, his brown eyes wide; his shoes made a hollow clunking noise on the wet dock boards.

"Bloody hell," he murmured softly, looking from the bodies to the crate to Faramir and Michael. He shook his head and approached, wary, his eyes everywhere, taking off his cap and scratching his head. He replaced the cap and stopped, darting a glance behind him, then looked down to Faramir, who lay limp, soaked in blood. He shot a cautious look at Michael, flicked his eyes to the abandoned Glock, and with a hurried movement picked it up, examined it carefully, then, to Michael's horror, prudently pocketed it. He spared a sharp glance down at Ahn, peered into the back of the truck, then stepped over to where Michael hovered protectively over Faramir, who was still gasping and coughing. He shook his head at them, pursing his lips.

Michael tensed, ready to throw himself between Faramir and the cabbie, ready to remonstrate, threaten, yell. He would NOT let this man ruin everything – even if he had to convince the cabbie to take him and leave Faramir, he would NOT let Faramir go to jail! The cabbie studied him, his brown eyes unreadable, then let his gaze rove over Faramir. Suddenly he grinned.

"You look like hell, mate," he said to Faramir.

"Feel like it," croaked Faramir, a weak smile stretching his bloodied lips.

"Well!" The cabbie glanced around again, then rubbed his hands together briskly. "Best be gettin' goin', hey?"

Michael stared at him. He must REALLY be expecting a big tip. Either that, or he was going to take them directly to the hospital – or the police station – well, at this point, did it really matter? A quick check in the crate would convince any inspector of police that this was a Political Matter and needed to be dealt with at a different level.

"He's hurt," he said reproachfully to the cabbie, who had knelt on the other side of Faramir and was pulling him abruptly into a sitting position. The cabbie gave him a disgusted look.

"Do I look daft?" he said contemptuously, helping Faramir up. "Of course he's hurt, you idiot. Can't take bullets to the chest without a little pain involved."

Michael opened his mouth to give him a sharp reply, but then he paused; he heard footsteps – not just the clunk, clunk, clunk of someone walking down the dock; it was the rapid patter of someone running pell-mell toward them, heedless of care or stealth. The cabbie heard it too, and stiffened, looking nervously behind them and fiddling in his pocket for Michael's Glock.

The running steps grew nearer; then they could discern two sets of footsteps – the cabbie glanced at Michael, who gulped. One man was bad enough – what was he going to do about TWO? Hadn't he killed enough people for one night? What on earth did Tulkas want of him, anyway?

Courage, Little One.

Easy for HIM to say. But Michael lowered Faramir to the boards and rose slowly to his feet, flexing his hands. They wouldn't catch him unprepared, at least.

The sound of hoarse breathing, footsteps clattering nearer. Then he saw two dark, shadowy figures hurtling round the corner of the containers; the first skidded to a stop on the slick surface, breathing hard and holding his side. It was Éomer, face gleaming with sweat, cheeks burnished, chest heaving. Michael felt his heart dissolve – backup – MANLY backup! Surely Aragorn was with him, and now Michael didn't have to worry any more.

"Holy – shit," Éomer gasped, panting, looking quickly around him. "Dammit – too late – shit!"

"What the hell do you mean?" demanded the cabbie angrily. "You're just in time, you stupid pillock. Help us up with him, will you?"

Éomer blinked at the cabbie, his pale eyes confused; behind him, sure enough, Aragorn slowed, also panting and red-faced. He had a handgun out, which he stowed rapidly when he saw the cabbie kneeling besides Faramir. "What happened?" he demanded, and Michael winced. Figures Aragorn would pull the Authority Card on everyone. Suddenly Michael felt a good deal of sympathy for Legolas – do the dirty work, then have an explanation dragged out of you while you're still humming with adrenaline? No wonder Legolas was so short-tempered with Aragorn sometimes.

"Ahn and his operatives are dead," said Michael curtly, glaring at him. "Faramir and Gimli got shot. Gimli's in the river."

"Fuck!" Éomer staggered to the edge of the dock, looking down into the water; then, when no body was visible, looked further out into the stream. "Oh – there he is – I see him floating downriver." He turned back to Aragorn. "Better take the boat out and pick him up. Doris'll never forgive us."

Aragorn ignored him, went straight to the crate. "Is this Ahn's crate?" he asked, giving Michael a sharp glance.

"I suppose so," said Michael doubtfully, and Faramir croaked, "Yes." Aragorn looked down at Faramir, saw he was breathing, and went to the truck, stepping casually over Ahn's body as he did so. Michael could hear him rummaging around in there, then he came out with a crowbar. "Éomer," he said shortly. "Help me with this."

"Fuck that," said Éomer, starting to catch his breath. He ran his fingers through his thick blond hair and trotted up to Aragorn, who was standing beside the crate. Michael felt a sudden flash of admiration for his Physical Fitness, to be able to run so hard, so fast, and still keep moving. "Look, let's put the crate on the boat and get Gimli and get the hell out of here." He gestured toward Michael, Faramir, and the cabbie with his chin. "They've got it covered."

Aragorn glanced over at Michael; the gray eyes seemed to be weighing him somehow. Michael glared back, arms folded across his chest; he was in no mood to be either bullied or condescended to, especially by someone who (a) arrived late, and (b) started spouting orders as soon as he got there. Aragorn's mouth quirked into a smile; he had seen the defiance on Michael's face, and apparently found it funny; that didn't do much for Michael's sense of humor, but as Aragorn immediately turned away to help Éomer lift the crate he supposed it didn't matter much. After all, they couldn't just LEAVE the crate there – SOMEONE had to take charge of it, and better one of Them than an Outsider.

"That it, then?" asked the cabbie, looking from Aragorn and Éomer to Michael. "They take the crate and we skive off?"

"Yes," said Michael firmly, giving Aragorn's back a resentful glare. "Let's go."

He helped the cabbie lift Faramir to his feet, and one on either side of him, they walked slowly past the containers. Michael glanced back before they turned the corner. He could just see Éomer and Aragorn heaving the crate into the little lobster boat; despite his anger he felt relieved that they had showed up. It would have been unwise to leave all that stuff behind, and – Michael felt a little guilty as the next thought hit him – Aragorn was probably miffed that Michael had gotten his job done for him. After all, Aragorn and Éomer HAD won the coin-toss, and hadn't everyone wanted to kill Ahn? Poor fellow, he was probably feeling pretty foolish about now. Michael shook his head and firmly put Aragorn out of his thoughts. He had bigger Fish to Fry.

He and the cabbie helped Faramir, who was still wheezing, up the alley to where the cab sat, lights out, dark and quiet. Not a word was spoken; Faramir could barely breathe and it took everything he had just to limp along; Michael deposited him as carefully as possible in the back of the cab, and let the driver close the door behind them, and get in the front seat and start the taxi.

"Back to London, I'm assuming," said the cabbie, leaning his arm along the back of his seat and backing out of the Queen Elizabeth gate.

"If you don't mind," said Michael, bemused; his adrenaline was starting to peter out, and he felt a little light-headed. He settled back in the seat, holding Faramir's hand firmly.

"Right you are then," said the cabbie. He turned the taxi and pulled out into the early-morning traffic. Michael looked at the sky, amazed; it was turning pink, and little greenish-gray clouds dotted the darkness. It was Dawn, coming, as Legolas had said mischievously once, Early and with Rosy Fingers. Buildings rolled by, dark and dirty and ponderous; streetlights faded into blue-white specks; a few trucks and vans passed them. He turned to Faramir, helping him to sit up a bit in the seat, and on an afterthought took off his jacket and covered the bloody mess of his lover's chest, just in case someone might happen to look in when they were stopped at a traffic light. Faramir was still breathing shallowly, and looked horribly gray and pale, but he gave Michael a grateful smile before resting his head on the window and closing his eyes. Michael took his hand – warm, now; oh, thank you thank you thank you, he prayed, his hand is warm – and sat close beside him, pressing his hip against Faramir's, mind a whirl. He looked up at the cabbie, who was regarding him through the rear view mirror.

"There was no need to put a gun to my head, you know," said the cabbie, grinning back at Michael. "All you had to do was to tell me who you were and what you were up to. I'd have driven you anywhere you wanted. But I didn't know you were the Dreamer."

Michael blinked; he could feel his cheeks drain of blood. He stared into the cabbie's reflected eyes, which were twinkling good-naturedly at him. Beside him, Faramir gave a breathy chuckle.

"You – pulled a gun – on Pippin?" he wheezed, giving Michael's hand a quick, convulsive clutch. "Goodness, darling – " he started to cough, and to laugh all at once, grabbing at his chest and groaning. "Oh god – that hurts – "

"You mean, HE'S one of US?" demanded Michael indignantly, pointing at the now-chuckling cabbie. What had Faramir called him; Pippin? Oh wonderful, another weird name … he noticed his hands were covered in dried blood, and hoped the hotel lobby was empty. He felt very foolish. Tulkas had guided him to that particular taxi; didn't it sort of make sense that Tulkas would have known which taxi driver was the Right One? But Pippin's rude responses had made him angry; he couldn't have known – well, all right; maybe he DIDN'T need to pull a gun to get his way, but – Faramir's laughter had degenerated into a coughing fit, and Pippin was still chuckling. Michael folded his arms over his chest, offended. He had done his BEST. It wasn't HIS fault this Pippin person wouldn't do what he was told. There was no need to LAUGH at him!

"I'm sorry, Dreamer," said Pippin, looking back at him again in the rear view mirror. "I just haven't been menaced by someone with a gun in a long time; it took a little getting used to."

"Couldn't have happened – to a better fellow," said Faramir weakly, still smiling. Pippin's answering snort confirmed Michael's suspicion that the two of them were on good terms; he thought about someone like, say, Doris accidentally pulling a gun on, say, Legolas, and realized it WAS kind of funny. After all, if this Pippin person were like the rest of them, what good would a gun have done? Well, hurt a lot, he supposed – Legolas had told them his head had hurt like hell after he'd been shot in the Metal Building, and Faramir was obviously not regarding his chest wounds as a walk in the park. Reluctantly, he decided being Offended wasn't going to get him anywhere, and he gave a half-hearted smile.

"Well, okay, I'm sorry," he said, still sounding grumpy. "But you didn't have to be so RUDE."

"I'm a London cabbie; I'm supposed to be rude," said Pippin apologetically. He put on his turn signal and got on the highway, but Michael suddenly noticed he was not taking the highway back to London, at least not the way they'd come.

"Where are we going?" he asked curiously.

"Oxford," smiled Pippin. "To see a certain don named Professor White."