A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael and Faramir sailed around the world, as Michael had hoped they would – now and again on The White Lady; sometimes on a cruise liner, on occasion working their passage for the fun of it on a freighter. Round the capricious Mediterranean on a boat from Bonifacio they toured Greece and Italy; skimming the coast of France and Spain they passed into the Atlantic and hugged the African coastline past the Equator. Around the Horn and up into the Mozambique Channel, then on to the hook of Somalia and to Sri Lanka by steamer. They wound their way round the Sunda Islands and beat their way about Australia and New Zealand, hopping from cluster to cluster of islands through the Pacific until they reached Ecuador, sweltering in the heat of high summer. There they debated sailing south and covering the coast of the lower America, but Michael had begun to get homesick, and at last they both decided to ease their way northward back to California.

They had, of course, kept in contact with both Michael's family and the rest of the Chosen during that time. They had run into the White Lady not only in the Mediterranean but the Pacific as well, though Legolas announced they would be heading north past Asia to take the Arctic passage to the New World; the emails and SMS messages they got from them reported Nha Trang had been "subdued" by the four of them and no further traces of Ahn could be found. When Michael and Faramir made landfall in Acapulco there was a packet of discs waiting for them at their hotel; as Faramir examined them on his laptop they discovered pictures – Hong Kong, Taiwan, the Philippines, Borneo, Korea and Japan from the Sea of Japan, Russia from the Sea of Okhostk. A note from Éowyn said they would be returning to their ranch in Montana, and that they were invited to Gimli and Doris' wedding, but they'd have to be in New York before Hanukkah. Michael had, of course, been given the full summary of Gimli's acceptance into the Jewish faith and consequently her family; Doris told him the fact that her fiancé owned half of one of Microsoft's subsidiaries had softened her mother up considerably.

By the time they got back to L.A. in early autumn Michael was fit, tan, confident, and felt about ten thousand times removed from his Original Self. Where had the Old Michael gone? Where was the pale, pretty-boy swisher who thought only of his clothes and his hair and his next manicure? When had he evolved into this sweetly sarcastic sailor with grimy, calloused hands and a reputation for a cutthroat knack for darts and snooker? How had he managed to change so drastically? He was a Different Person now … he wasn't really Michael Morris anymore. But when he commented on this to Faramir as they walked with their rollicking sea-legs up the docks Faramir laughed and disagreed, his strong brown hands running through his overlong black hair.

"You're more your original self than you think you are," he said, his gray eyes sparkling. "You're more Michael now than you were when we met." And again Michael seemed to hear what both Tulkas and Legolas had told him – had it really been only six months before, that night he'd killed Ahn? -- You are stronger than you think you are. The strength, the courage, the ability had always been there … it had just taken a good bit of digging through his squashed psyche to find it.

They settled in San Diego, took possession of Faramir's condo and Lexus (at Michael's insistence Faramir really did trade it in on a Land Rover), and tried as hard as they could to Blend Back In. It was not easy – all of their old friends, from their old life, all their old coworkers and acquaintances, greeted them with astonishment and disbelief; no one seemed to know what to do with them now. Frances Steward, smiling, friendly, and volunteering at the local community college, teaching computer networking; Michael, involved in the San Diego chapter of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and taking second place at the local NRA Marksmanship Trials. Michael found to his dismay that all his cronies from college and high school and work and nightclubs had diminished in his eyes, petty, small-minded, shallow; they had become inconsequential – or rather, he reflected, he might have outgrown them, which was worse. Faramir didn't even bother taking his old job back – "Too risky," he'd said with a grimace, shaking his head – and instead contracted out as a Systems Security Expert. That, at least, was an irony Michael could live with. As for Michael's Modus Operandi, Faramir purchased him his own design studio, hiring a competent (and ruthlessly aggressive) business manager to run things; Michael knew Faramir was only doing this to let Michael amuse himself and keep him out of trouble, but still, it WAS a lot of fun, telling people what to do with their Horrible Homes, and giving Faramir a welcome tax-break.

There were other Adventures, of course, with the rest of the Chosen; some with the entire crew, some with just a hand-picked few; but Michael knew, when Legolas would breeze into their condo, rolling a lollipop around in his sweet sticky mouth and both titillating and offending every friend, acquaintance, and coworker within a hundred-yard radius with his foul language and big dirty boots, that their quiet comfortable lives had to take a brief hiatus, and the desperate noisy conundrum would continue. It was a constant undercurrent, this battle against darkness; at one point, he had asked Legolas why an Alien would be so concerned – why an Alien would pit his strength and energy and abilities against the Forces of Evil. Legolas had laughed then, taking the lollipop out of his mouth and giving Michael a curious look.

" 'Forces of Evil,' mate?" he'd asked, cerulean eyes sparkling. "Aren't any fuckin' forces – just people. That's bloody evil enough, innit?" Michael wasn't sure he liked that answer. But then again, after all that time, he reflected that if anyone would know about the Total Depravity of Mankind, Legolas would, wouldn't he?

His family accepted Faramir – or Frances, as he asked to be called – as a Temporary Embarrassment; it was very Inconvenient of Faramir to hang on as long as he did; it brought up Questions his parents weren't particularly keen to answer. Pauline didn't mind – she liked Faramir, satisfied at last with one of Michael's choices – and despite her husband's reservations would allow Joshua and Tara to visit "Uncle Mike and Uncle Frances." Michael's niece and nephew thought this great fun, because Uncle Mike and Uncle Frances would take them hiking and camping around Palomar and the Pacific Crest, or boating in their little sloop Two Ticks No Dog from Chula Vista, or better yet let them tag along when they went to visit their friends on their big belching motorcycles, because then – Uncle Mike wouldn't tell – maybe Longshanks or Grim would take them for a ride. And of course there were the obligatory summer visits to White Rock, where Tara fell in love with Mr. Greenleaf and Joshua wrote reams of poetry to "The White Lady;" the only good thing Pauline's husband would say about it was at least he could be assured both HIS children had their sexuality properly figured out. Aunt Edna proved to be no trouble at all – after a surprise visit from "Michael's awful friend Legs," who had blown in, half-drunk, with a cigarette gummed to his lower lip, tromping all over Michael's mother's house in his dusty cracked leather pants, swearing and laughing and making a general nuisance of himself. Michael knew Legolas had done that on purpose – showing up unannounced just when Aunt Edna had come to visit – and he was grateful not only that Legolas had not minded playing the fool just for him, but also for Aunt Edna's loud assertions after he left that "at least that Frances boy is a gentleman." All in all, Michael and Faramir were quite happy; they had the approval of Michael's family, they had a comfortable place to live, they had their boat and their cars and their enjoyable jobs, they had the rest of the Chosen, and of course they had each other.

The years rolled by, picking up speed with each turn of the seasons. Before Michael knew it he had turned thirty-five, and upon examining his face in the bathroom mirror was chagrined to discover he had four gray hairs. Granted, they didn't show up that much in his blond curls, and at least he wasn't going BALD – Pauline's husband had started to lose his hair in his twenties and still kept up that awful comb-over – and what were those – were those WRINKLES? He grimaced and shook his head; that's what happened, he supposed, after spending so much time on the deck of a boat – Sun Damage. He called up a friend of his that sold Mary Kay and made an appointment.

Two years later Faramir took that horrible call from Legolas, telling them Doris was dead. Such a stupid, senseless, preventable thing, too – crossing the street in Albuquerque, struck by someone running a red light. Heart wrung with grief and pity and a bewildered emptiness, Michael and Faramir fled to New York, where Doris' body, stouter and grayer than she had been when they'd met, was interred in the family plot. Michael couldn't believe it – not Doris – not his Doris. Not funny, practical, deprecating, delightful, brave Doris. What would he do without her, without her dropping in on them, holding Gimli's hand and laughing; without her calling him in the middle of the night to tell him she was in Rio and drunk as a lord; without her cuddling up between him and Lottie on the couch in White Rock to watch a Chick Flick? Who would he drink margaritas with? Who would he go antiquing with? Who could he call when he needed a dose of someone Normal? It was Unfair – Unfair of the Valar to take her so soon. Michael suddenly hated the lot of them, and when a Dream came to him the night before the funeral, he angrily pinched himself awake and tried not to listen.

Gimli was neither at the wake nor the funeral. When Michael tearfully asked Legolas, who stood pale and subdued by Gandalf's side, where Doris' husband was and why he had not attended, Legolas had turned his unnatural blue eyes upon him soberly.

"Couldn't take it," he said. His voice was clipped, emotionless; Michael couldn't tell whether Legolas approved of Gimli's reaction or not. "Buggered off. Doin' a dig in Tunisia."

Michael stood with Éowyn when the coffin was lowered into the ground. Her face was grim and white, and her silvery eyes rimmed with red. He could barely see for his own tears; everything was mottled and washed over. The first clunk of dirt on the top of the coffin broke his heart, and burying his face in Faramir's dark-suited shoulder he cried like a baby.

He begged Gimli's address from Legolas, who gave it to him without comment, and when he and Faramir returned home Michael wrote Gimli a long, sympathetic letter telling him how sorry he was, that he understood why Gimli couldn't be there, that Gimli was welcome to visit any time, that he would miss Doris too because he had loved her. Gimli's only response was a postcard from Zaghouan with a picture of the camel on the front, and a few scrawled words on the back: "Thanks. But no good. Staying here. Grim."

Michael never saw him again.

Michael grew older. Soon his four gray hairs increased to six, then twelve, then Michael could no longer count them. Mary Kay did wonders for his complexion, but the damage had been done, and nothing – not the most expensive unguents – could prevent the signs of aging. To make it worse, Faramir did not change one iota. Michael knew by now that Faramir was Old, Older than even his grandfather would have counted Old, and that he would not – could not – age. His cool gray eyes were as unwrinkled and his hair as dark as a raven's wing; his hands were supple and pliant and his body as perfect as it had always been. Michael excused his lover's immutability to Good Genes when his family commented on it – "Why, he doesn't look a day over thirty!" – and anxiously wondered what they would do when the differences in their apparent age became inexplicable. Faramir had kissed him and smiled a little sadly.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, darling," he'd said, and held Michael tight.

They never had to cross that particular bridge. When the stomach pains Michael suffered one night after a particularly heavy dinner of mussels in curry-cream sauce did not abate by morning, he went in to his doctor to determine the cause, thinking perhaps it was his appendix. But the doctor called him later that afternoon with the scan and blood results, and with a cold lurch in his stomach Michael found out that he had Stage Four pancreatic cancer and the doctor had scheduled an emergency biopsy.

Faramir was not so much shocked as infuriated. Specialists were called in; hospitals and doctors' offices and laboratories rung up and pestered for results; within twenty-four hours the Walkers were at the front door with suitcases and medical bags in hand. Aragorn took over the entire process, seeming to find it personally insulting that cancer of ANY kind should find its way into Michael's body. He bullied the oncologists and surgeons and anesthesiologists and charge nurses; he studied charts and drew blood and poured over X-rays and CT scans and ultrasounds and ERCPs and discussed surgery and radiation and chemotherapy. When further tests showed the cancer had metastasized into the liver, Aragorn actually went pale, and at that point Michael realized he was frightened.

That night as Faramir slept beside him Michael Dreamt. Legolas was standing by his bedside, white-robed, bejeweled; his head was bowed, and he was weeping – large glistening tears rolling down the alabaster cheeks, columbine mouth turned dolorously down, long white hands fisted and trembling. Michael reached up and touched his beaded sleeve.

"Am I going to die?" he asked. He did not feel like he could ask that question of Aragorn or Arwen, or even of the other doctors. But he knew he could ask Legolas and Legolas would be honest.

Legolas looked at him then, his eyes glowing behind their sheen of tears; on his unblemished face was a look of grief and regret. "I am very sorry, Beloved Dreamer," he said, and his clear warm voice broke. "It was for this Ossë would have taken you to sleep beneath his depths. I have done you great injury."

"It's not your fault," Michael said, though his mind was spinning at the thought. It explained a great deal actually – it explained why he had never actually feared either Ossë or his kingdom; it explained Ossë's apology when Legolas had succeeded in bringing him to the surface. But then he remembered the Light, and the power of the One who had pulled them both out of the grip of the ocean's weight. "You're not the only one who rescued me. It worked out the way it was supposed to." But Legolas didn't seem to be listening; he had sunk to his knees by Michael's bedside and rested his head on his arms, weeping bitterly.

The surgery did not go well, according to all the doctors, and Aragorn looked graver than ever; all the Chosen, though, to Michael's gratification, had outdone themselves, showering him with love, and with gifts and words of encouragement. Michael had been especially delighted when Lottie candy-striped herself into his post-op room with a Tupperware container of margaritas hidden in her cart. Éomer smuggled in a box of cold buffalo wings ("The charge nurse wouldn't let me by," he'd complained; "They were hot when I brought them in!"), Arwen brought his CD player, and Frodo a copy of Designing Today. Gandalf sent an enormous potted aspidistra and Pippin and Diamond several boxes of fine chocolate, with which Michael bribed the nurses. The White Rock contingent sent the best gift of all – themselves, at his disposal, running errands, taking care of his Home Design business, cleaning his apartment, cooking his meals. But despite the joy attendant with the presence of his friends Michael could not deny he was frightened, for Aragorn grimly confirmed what the surgeons had said: The cancer was spreading.

Michael didn't want to lose his hair – even if it was going gray – but the radiologist was adamant they at least try to slow the disease's progression, and Faramir, who had started to realize how grave Michael's situation was, eagerly assented. His pale eyes were haunted now, and when he looked at Michael there was in his beautiful face a terrible breaking, a fracturing of spirit that was awful to watch. He would try to smile, but behind the forced stretching of his mouth Michael knew he was struggling to keep his lips from trembling.

He wasn't sure which was worse, radiation or chemotherapy; by the time two months had gone by he had lost thirty pounds, the elasticity in his skin, and all of his hair, including his eyelashes. His family was supportive but completely taken-aback; none of them seemed to know what to say or to do. The Chosen were both more tender and bluntly realistic; when Joshua would speak, stilted and uncomfortable, about football, Éomer would gently draw the conversation back to Michael's IV machine and explain its inner workings; when Tara brought in her new baby and it screamed, impeding conversation, Arwen wordlessly whisked the tot away so Michael could talk to his niece. And when Michael's father broke down, sobbing awkwardly and pulling away from his wife's ineffectual patting on his shoulder, Legolas walked silently in, put his arms around both mother and father and held them while they wept.

Michael began to feel very tired. He could not eat; food tasted odd, and even had he felt like eating odd-tasting food he was queasy and uncomfortable. He could not seem to catch his breath, or complete a sentence; he was suffused with lethargy and a nagging nausea, and when friends came to call he was incapable of whipping up enough enthusiasm to pretend to be happy to see them. He hated the nurses now; he was so tired of being poked and prodded, of having them dig around under his skin for veins that had not collapsed, of having to have his catheter reset, of all the mortifying and painful things associated with this illness and protracted hospital stays. He even hated the smell of the hospital, the chemical tinny scent of impending mortality. Faramir was everything he could have wanted – encouraging, gentle, supportive, informed, tireless – but nothing seemed to help, and Michael only felt worse as the days progressed.

At last the oncologists put their collective foot down and told Faramir they were fighting a losing battle – the chemo wasn't helping Michael at all; the cancer was still growing, and Michael's health was deteriorating more rapidly under the treatment than would have been the case had they done nothing. Aragorn had a long talk with Faramir after that; Faramir yelled and waved his arms, but Aragorn was adamant; at last Faramir broke down, and Aragorn held him, and he wept too.

Michael didn't care. Within a week of stopping treatment he began to feel better. His hair started to grow back (although it was almost all white at this point) and he regained his appetite. Rosie surprised him at home with a hearty Beef Wellington, and he ate more than Faramir, so enchanted at his refound ability to taste food again that he took three helpings, much to Rosie's gratification. After four weeks had passed he had regained fifteen pounds and most of his strength, and to celebrate he and Faramir took one last sailing trip together, up the coast of California to San Francisco and back. It seemed to Michael that the world had decided to give him a rousing send-off – the sun shone on them nearly every day; each wind they caught sent them where they wanted to go; the sea was pleasant, the food perfect; it was idyllic. Faramir appeared to have accepted his fate, quietly and without argument, and spent his days thinking of ways to bring Michael pleasure – visceral, visual, physical, gastronomic – they sat in their little mess speaking fondly of happy memories, of people they knew, of things they had done together. Each day wound them closer together, and it was both delightful and painful, because they rejoiced in their intimacy yet were braced for separation.

Shortly thereafter the stomach pain returned, redoubled, and Aragorn started giving Michael morphine. At first Pauline had objected – "You're going to get him addicted to that stuff!" – not an invalid concern, Michael noted; the blissful indifference, the waves of euphoria that washed over him and erased every discomfort became not simply a necessity but a yearning, and he could see how someone could very easily become addicted to it. But Aragorn's response to Pauline had chilled him. "Yes, he'll be addicted to it," he'd said, his face set and harsh. "But he won't be addicted long."

Michael had looked over at him then from where he lay in his bed, the rush of ecstasy swelling in him and pushing out his concern. "How long?" he asked; his voice was slurred.

Aragorn looked down at him, and Michael could see the tears in his eyes. "A month," he said, and choked a little. "Maybe … maybe less." Pauline turned away and started to cry, but Michael was too far gone in his haze to care.

The days began to sift, to blend together, pieces of them moving like chess pawns from one square to another. He could no longer remember recent acquaintances' names and soon they stopped coming to see him. His Dreams became incoherent, faces swelling and receding, voices at once blaring at him then fading to whispers. Sometimes he would think he heard Tulkas, at other times, Ossë; once he was sure he heard Nienna telling him: "Not long now, O Dreamer." Whenever he was awake Faramir was there, sometimes a bit blue about the chin, or with eyes sunk in dark baggy holes, but always there – washing him, cleaning his teeth, feeding him, stroking his hair. His voice was low and quiet and very soothing, and although most of the time Michael couldn't understand him, it was nice to simply lie back and listen to him speak.

"Michael," said Legolas. He walked toward Michael, smiling; he was wearing his white robe and jeweled collar, and looked very beautiful. His hair was bright and luminous, and swung round his high cheekbones like liquid gold.

"What is it?" asked Michael lazily. He was riding the crest of a morphine wave and didn't feel particularly concerned. Legolas seemed to sense his indifference, and laughed.

"My grandfather sent me with a message for you," said Legolas. "He said to tell you to forsake the Edain and stay with him."

"All right," said Michael. "I don't care."

"What did you say, Michael?" asked Faramir. Michael blinked; the blue light was gone, and Faramir leaned over him in a darkened room.

"I was talking to Legolas," said Michael. His voice sounded very far away, and his hands were like lead.

Faramir smiled down at him; his eyes were haunted. "Legolas and Éowyn are back in Montana, remember?" he said gently, touching Michael's cheek.

"I know," said Michael, and the world faded again.

Things got very confusing after that. Michael made a passing attempt to figure out who was there and what they were saying, but he got so tired of trying to sort out the winding threads of conversation and faces that popped in and out of his vision, and eventually gave up. The only person he could focus on was Faramir. If he awoke and Faramir were not there, he became very agitated, and would whimper and shift around until he came back. On occasion he would recognize Aragorn, but as he had nothing of importance to say he never responded when Aragorn would speak to him or ask him questions: "How do you feel? Do you know what day it is? Michael? Do you know who I am?" Of course I do, Michael would think, and close his eyes, letting the yammering voice slide over him.

He got so accustomed to this soporific state that when he awoke suddenly and unequivocally to the feeling of someone shaking him it was a great shock. He looked up to see Legolas, grinning down at him, with a lollipop stuck out the side of his mouth. "Legolas!" he exclaimed. The lethargic haze melted away and he sat up.

"Oi, Mike," said Legolas; he was in a very good humor, and his dimples were much in evidence. "Got someone I want you ter meet, mate."

Michael looked around the room; it was empty, except for Faramir sleeping in a chair in the corner. It occurred to Michael how drained and exhausted his lover looked; he had dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were sunken. He slept with his head propped up on one hand, and he was unshaven. He looked Awful. "I don't know if I should leave him like this," said Michael uncertainly; he felt it would be Unfair to simply walk out with no explanation.

"He'll be all right," said Legolas confidently, holding out his hand. Michael hesitated, then took the Alien's hand; it felt warm and smooth beneath his fingers. He looked up at Legolas' lovely face, at the pink rosebud lips and brilliant eyes. Legolas smiled down at him. "Come on, then."

They walked out of the room into the hallway. It was still dark, and Michael couldn't see where he was going. "Is it far?" he asked, letting Legolas pull him along.

"Not much further," said Legolas with a smile.

They walked for a ways in the darkness, and then Michael could see someone standing in front of him – someone large and dark, whose eyes glittered a little. He felt the pressing feeling on his soul and realized he was approaching a Vala. He did not recognize this Vala; he was Dark – very Dark – with a sort of brooding patience, a sense of waiting, of time, of the passage of eons. Beautiful – they were all beautiful – but this one was so, so dark. Michael hesitated; he would much rather have run into Tulkas, or even Ossë. "Legolas," he whispered; this Vala's regard on him was heavy, crushing his lungs. "Are you sure I'm supposed to meet him?"

"Positive," said Legolas. He marched Michael up to the Vala and Michael stood, trembling, squeezing Legolas' hand so hard he was surprised Legolas didn't pull back. But he didn’t; he bowed, still holding Michael's hand, and said, "My Lord, the Dreamer."

"Ah," said the Vala. Michael looked up into his face; it was tender, peaceful, compassionate. He suddenly felt, as he had with Thranduil, that this Vala loved and accepted him as a son unquestioning, unhesitating. His heart surged and he felt a peculiar longing to fall into this Vala's arms, to let him embrace and love him. "You have suffered much, Beloved Dreamer. Do you wish to end this affliction?"

"Yes, my lord," said Michael, his voice shaking. "But … what about Faramir?"

"The Steward shall regain his status as Dreamer and be succored by the Chosen," said the Vala. "Now. Come with me, Little One." He held out his hand, huge, dark, glowing luminescent green in the darkness, and Michael shrank back.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"Námo," said the Vala gently. "It is time, Little One."

Legolas let go Michael's hand, and slowly Michael put his hand in Námo's. He felt at once a rush deeper and more joyful than the morphine, for it not only uplifted but clarified; he could feel his pain fall off him like a dried husk. It was exhilarating, consoling, uplifting; he gazed up at Námo's smiling face with an expression of wonder.

"Good-bye, Michael," said Legolas. Michael turned. Legolas was walking back down the dark hallway, suffused in his eerie Alien glow. Suddenly Michael realized what was happening.

"You will take care of Faramir for me, won't you?" he begged Legolas' back. Legolas paused, looked at Michael over his shoulder. He was grinning again, though silvery tears flashed through his dimples and the long supple fingers running through that silky fall of glorious hair were trembling.

"I'll take good care of him, Michael," said Legolas with a brassy laugh. "I promise."

"All right," said Michael, mollified, and turned away.

Námo took his hand and led him from that place. Soon it began to grow lighter, and the light increased and filled all the air around them. With each step Michael took he felt the pain and the darkness flee; he felt his tears dry, his fear dissolve, his doubts wash away, until he was filled with an overwhelming joy that buoyed and filled him, and then the darkness completely vanished, and everything became Light.


fin