Wandering Star (R)
Title: Wandering Star
Author: Mirabile Dictu
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: multiple hobbits
Rating: R
Summary: Please could you stay awhile to share my grief.
Disclaimer: Such terrible lies I tell.
A/N: Not exactly a sequel, but set in the same universe as "Dominic's Gifts." Most of the story takes place forty-eight years in the future, in 2052, just a few days after the death of Dominic Monaghan.
Title and summary from the Portishead song.
Beta by my dear friend the brilliant and wonderful empress_wu.
Warnings: Many original characters. Shifting timelines. Uncertain memories. Some dialog written in dialect. This story would probably make more sense if Dominic's Gifts were read first.
Wandering Star
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
~ ~ ~
Elijah shifted in his seat to peer out the tiny window. Nothing but ocean and clouds as far as he could see. Not that he could see very far, even with his specs, but far enough to know that, if something happened to his Air New Zealand jet, he would be lost in a depthless sea the color of his myopic eyes.
He smiled at that thought and returned his attention to his book, a collection of Viggo's poetry. He recognized in some of the poems times they'd shared, people they'd known; those poems he was compelled to read repeatedly, stroking his fingers over the words as if he could recapture the moments so lost to time.
He flipped to the frontispiece of the book. A reproduction of an oil painting by Dom, done many years ago. Viggo had encouraged Dom's painting; Elijah wished he had done so as well. The vibrant colors glowed up at him in the sterile fluorescent light, and he remembered the smells of linseed oil and turpentine.
Dom was dead. Only the good die young, they say, and Dom had died very young, just seventy five, and very suddenly. Elijah wondered why Dom hadn't called him, why he'd had to learn of Dom's illness after his death. Not a word had leaked to the press; apparently, only Dom's family and Billy had known.
When Sean and Blessing had called to tell him the news, Elijah had had to sit down right on the floor. The world seemed to spin and tilt around him, as if the coriolus effect had suddenly kicked into high gear and the very air around him were whirling and boiling.
That dizziness continued to plague him sporadically ever since their call. In a few short years, years he knew would vanish in a heartbeat, he would be older than Dom ever would be. Somehow that knowledge hurt Elijah as much as the knowledge that he would never again see Dom, would never embrace him, touch his face, take his hand again.
He looked at his own hand splayed over the frontispiece. Dom had painted Elijah's hands many times but had never been satisfied with the results. He wondered if any copies remained and, if one did, whether Dom's children would let him have one. He already owned several of Dom's paintings, mostly landscapes, and one portrait of Billy as Iago, his green eyes icy with malevolence.
He missed all of them so much. Leaving the States, leaving them, had been one of the most difficult decisions he'd ever made. Even now, nearly a decade later, he occasionally wondered if he'd done the right thing. But Elijah had long ago given up trying to second guess himself. As an actor, he had to trust his instincts; that carried over into his personal life as well. And so he had gone, kissing a tearful Sean farewell and refusing to look back as he left his old life behind.
But things change, people die, the world moves on, and now he must, too. So he reversed directions and was returning to a world he left. Left forever, he had once thought, but no. Just for a little while. Just long enough to lose one of his dearest friends, a man he had loved for over fifty years.
Where does that love go? he wondered, lightly stroking the picture Dom had painted decades ago. Does it evaporate when the loved one dies? Is it somehow lost, the way Dom is now lost to me? He shook his head and sighed heavily.
Mercy, Elijah thought, staring out over the ocean. If we are saved, it will be by mercy.
Sean had had a stroke since the last time Elijah had seen him. Lizzie had called with the news, tearful and distressed, and then again to let Elijah know that Sean had recovered. He'd spoken to Sean by phone a few times over the years, though not often enough for Sean, he knew.
Nearly forty years ago, when Sean had turned up in New York , trembling with excitement and fear and desire, Elijah had silently let him in, and they had remained together. They often saw Dom and Billy in those days, and the four of them would instantly fall into their old habits. Taking the piss, as Dom taught them to call it in their early years. Some wonderful times, and some terrible times. Sean had been subject to depression, and Elijah learned to count on lengthy silent sessions of weeping despair from him once or twice a year. Sean had moved to New York to be with Elijah, but went back to LA regularly; Elijah less so. Sean's return to New York was always difficult, but oddly, his black periods came not then but when he'd been away too long from LA.
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
The glass fell around him like rain, tapping his cap and then sheeting to the sidewalk where it spattered like blood onto his shoe. He stared at the jagged pieces shining in the sunlight.
When he slowly raised his head, more glass clattered from his cap, sliding inside the collar of his shirt where it lodged, biting into his flesh. Around him, brilliant light glittered, cutting into his eyes like shards of glass.
The thrumming in his ears slowly dimmed, and he realized people were screaming as some of them began to rise, shaking off debris and glass. Others did not rise; they lay awkwardly, the dust settling on them, onto their open eyes and into their open mouths.
He staggered forward, suddenly off balance and unsure, and grasped at a telephone pole, leaning against it. His hearing was returning, and he realized he was panting harshly, breathing in the filthy air. He coughed, and spat, and coughed again.
Someone tugged at him, nearly toppling him; he jerked away, pulling back, pushing out, trying to fend off his assailant, but they hung on, calling his name, "Sean! Sean, honey, wake up! Please, Sean," and he opened his eyes to find Chris leaning over him.
"Wake up, honey," she said again. "You're having another nightmare."
"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his face and struggling to sit up. "Sorry."
"Sean, this can't go on. You have to see a doctor."
"I don't need a doctor, Chris. I need some sleep." She pulled away, hurt clouding her face. "I'm sorry, sweetie. Please." He caught her hand and tugged her back into his arms.
"I'm just worried about you," she said, but wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.
"I know. I know." He kissed her hand. "I'm sorry that I snapped at you."
"What are you dreaming about?" He shrugged. "Well, have a sip of water and let's try to go back to sleep. Get a few hours of rest at least."
He obediently drank, finishing the glass, and turned out the light. Chris lay down with him, snuggling into his arms; he kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Thank you for being so patient with me."
"I don't know how patient I've been."
He smiled and kissed her again. "Patient enough."
"Go to sleep. And no dreams."
"Yes, ma'am."
He shut his eyes, enjoying the feel of her soft hair against his cheek, her sweet scent rising from their bed. I love you, he thought, and frowned. I love you. I do.
Then why, he wondered, was he dreaming of the end of the world, of losing everyone he loved, of wanting to see only one other person before he died? And that one person was not his wife.
Work was difficult, beyond difficult. He felt as though he were stepping through thick mud. The marshes of Emyn Muil had been no more difficult that getting through a single day of these last few weeks. He stared into his makeup mirror, watching the transformation into Sam. And poor Sam had it so difficult, so painfully difficult, that acting was no longer the escape it had once been but yet another burden.
That morning, he'd stared into another mirror, in his bathroom, listening to Chris and Ali preparing for their day, while around him the walls contracted and the oxygen was sucked from the room.
Then Chris knocked on the door; his car was here, he had to go, ready or not, the world was waiting for him. He straightened his back and fled, from one reflective surface to another, hard, cold, and shiny, but exchanging the bathroom mirror for the Makeup mirror was no better, and escaping that was nearly as bad because Sam and Frodo were stuck in those miserable rocks again. He looked at Elijah and sighed; Elijah clapped his shoulder, then wrapped his arm around Sean, hugging him tightly.
As in his dream, the world shattered around Sean, tiny bits raining around him. He turned his head and tucked it into Elijah's neck, breathing in the scent of wool and shaving gel and glue, hiding from it all.
Yet there was no hiding here, not really, as Elijah turned into Sean and pulled him into a tight embrace, whispering, "It's okay, it'll be okay, I'll make it okay for you, I promise," his breath warm on Sean's cheek.
Sean swallowed and raised his head. Elijah used his cloak to dab at Sean's face. "Don't want Makeup cross with you now," he murmured.
"No, we can't have that," Sean agreed; he couldn't return to those mirrors. He stared into Elijah's eyes. How many hours had he gazed into those eyes? He knew every shade of blue, the exact pattern in his irises, the thickness of his lashes, the tiny incipient lines that would one day mar his great beauty. Or add character, Sean decided, for nothing to Sean's eyes would ever mar Elijah.
They might have stood there forever, looking into each other's eyes, or so it felt to Sean, but Caro began shouting, and they hurried to take their places, Andy sprang toward them, full of rock-climbing energy and annoying the shit out of Sean. "Good morning, good morning," he greeted them, rubbing his hands together in a manner Sean found distinctly Gollum-like.
"Whatever," Elijah murmured into Sean's ear, making him laugh, and he was able to relax a bit, and smile at Andy.
"Morning," he said, and they turned to Peter.
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
Sean tells himself the first time was an accident, even though he knows it isn't true. Each time is an accident, except not. He knows he shouldn't; he believes he will not. And yet he does, an accident, always an accident, but no. Sean doesn't lie well, not even to himself.
He grips the sides of the sink and stares into the mirror and tries to breathe. His heart races and his throat feels swollen. He skin is flushed and hot, prickly. "Come on, hobbit," he murmurs, and licks his dry lips. He exhales noisily and then bends down and splashes water on his face. If he doesn't throw up, he'll be all right.
"Honey?" Chris calls. "The car is here."
"Right there," he calls back. When he comes out of the bathroom, she looks adorable in her fuzzy pink robe, sleepily smiling at him. "You don't need to get up with me," he tells her as he's told her every day.
"But I want to," she protests as she has every day. He kisses her gently, and leaves.
It was an accident, he tells himself.
Elijah is already there when Sean arrives, sipping coffee and flipping through his CD collection. "Nothing too horrific this morning," Sean pleads, but Elijah just winks at him.
"Coldplay," Dom requests, and Sean relaxes. He's learned to like Coldplay quite a bit.
Later, when they're on set and in places, Sean finds it frighteningly easy to slip into Sam's tender solicitude for Frodo, watching him closely. It was a relief to gaze at Elijah; he was being paid to do this. How many men in his situation could stare to their heart's content, as he could? And Elijah stared back, directly into Sean's eyes. From the dailies, Sean knew Peter was using their eyes as an effective tool, as effective as the swords Viggo and Bernard wielded or the staff in Ian's hands.
And even later, when Frodo slings his arm around Sam's shoulders and Sean leans into Elijah's warmth, he tells himself it was an accident and he straightens up. But Elijah catches Sean's arm and they stare into each other's eyes; Sean wonders again how many hours he's spent studying Elijah's eyes, how many hours they've stood so close together that he could feel Elijah's breath, watch the pulse in his throat and thin wrists. More hours than he should have, yes, but it was all an accident.
Sean tells himself that right up until the moment he pushes Elijah into the men's room at a pub and kisses him, holding Elijah's head firmly, angling it to kiss him exactly the way he's imagined it. And when Elijah kisses him back, twisting his hands into Sean's tee shirt and pressing his hips into Sean's sturdy thigh, Sean realizes it was an accident the way gravity is an accident: inevitable, inexorable, inescapable.
"I've been waiting for this," Elijah murmured to him between kisses, and Sean knew Elijah was more honest than he was. "Why did you make me wait so long?"
Because I'm a moron. Because I'm married. Because I'm a man. Sean had no answers at all; he just kissed Elijah harder and ground against him, the heated friction of his khakis almost painful against his engorged dick, but oh, fuck, he wanted this. He slid one hand down Elijah's side and behind him, cupping his ass, pulling Elijah to him. Elijah groaned and tried to crawl up Sean. They were both pumping, gasping, sweating, moaning, kissing and licking and biting each other's faces and throats and ears, and when Sean came, he held Elijah so tightly to him as if binding him to him. "Christ, I love you," he whispered.
Elijah shuddered, and came, mouth open, eyes shut, trembling in Sean's arms. He rested his head on Sean's shoulder and said clearly, "I know, dumb ass."
It was an accident, Sean told himself, surreptitiously washing his trousers.
If an accident, then he was accident prone, he told himself months later.
And much, much later, when Chris confronted him, he cried. "It just happened," he tried to explain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but --"
"Give it up," she told him wearily, wiping carefully at her eyes so as not to smudge her makeup. "I've known about it for years. You pride yourself on being an honest man, but I don't hear you telling me the truth. Do you even tell yourself the truth?"
No, he admitted silently, staring at her. "You've known for years?"
"For Christ's sake, Sean. Do you think I'm a dumb ass?"
"No, no, honey, of course not."
"Good, because I'm not." She peered into the beveled mirror over the dresser in their bedroom, picked up a small glass pot of something, opened it, and dabbed under her eyes with the contents. "Where is he now?" she asked, looking at him in the mirror.
"New York."
"Then go. We'll sort this out later. Much later. I don't want to be with you anymore. I'm sorry, Sean," she spoke over his gasp, "but I don't. And if you would be honest with yourself, you'd admit that you don't want to be with me."
"That's not true!"
"Okay, I'm sorry. You're right; that isn't true." She put down the little pot and turned to face him. "It's not that you don't want to be with me. But I think you want to be with him just as much, maybe more, than you want to be with me."
Sean stared up at her from where he perched on their bed. She was leaning against the dresser, a grown up, a woman, a mother. Her arms were crossed and her brow furrowed as she stared back at him. Although her eyes were red and swollen, she looked calm and confident. Not as deeply unhappy as he thought she should be, as he had so long feared she would be if this moment ever came.
"Do you have anything to say?" He shook his head. She'd said more than enough. More than he would ever have had the courage to say. "Then go. Call me -- no. Don't call me."
He began to cry, enormous sobs. Christine had miscarried once, in between Ali and Lizzie, and he felt at that moment the same way that he had then -- the sense of impossible loss, the loss of possibility, the ending of futures. The ending of a marriage was a miscarriage, too, and the pain wracking him would continue, he knew, for a very long time.
She handed him a box of kleenex.
"I'll go," he said at last, blowing his nose. "I'll miss you, honey."
She came to him, touching his face softly, twining her fingers through his hair. "I've missed you for years," she whispered.
It had all been an accident. Something that had just happened.
~ ~ ~
Being with Sean had never been as easy as being with Dominic had been. Elijah understood that, at some level, Sean blamed him for the break-up of his marriage, and on the darkest nights, he'd find Sean crouched in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, breathing stertorously, or worse, not at all, just silent and staring. "Sean," Elijah would press. "Come on. Come with me." Eventually, Sean would permit Elijah to lead him from the bathroom into their bedroom, and they would lie together, Sean's head on Elijah's chest, and Elijah would stroke his hair, comforting him as best he could.
"Sorry, sorry," Sean would whisper.
Elijah would kiss him tenderly and say, "Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. Just stay with me. Don't go where I can't follow." If he was lucky, Sean would gasp out a chuckle, and the moment would lighten, and Elijah would knew that tomorrow would be all right.
If he was unlucky, Sean would lie stiffly in his arms, one fist clutching Elijah's shirt, the other tightly gripping Elijah's hand. And Elijah knew there would be no words that night, nor the next day, just the painful silence of Sean's grieving for his old life. "I love you," Elijah would murmur desperately.
Elijah had feared that Ali's death would result in him losing Sean as well, but in some ways it seemed to strengthen him. They remained in LA for months; Billy and Dom flew in from Glasgow and London and stayed with them, caring for Sean and Elijah, grieving with them.
Elijah stayed with Sean another five years.
He shifted again, uncomfortable sitting for so long. At least the flight was shorter nowadays. When he'd first flown from LA to New Zealand, it had taken nearly twelve hours; all these years later it took only nine. But that was still a long time to sit.
"Would you like something to drink?" the flight attendant asked him. He shook his head, never taking his eyes off the water.
Such a long way to go. Living away from the States for so long, Elijah was no longer sure where his home was. In New Zealand? Cedar Rapids? LA, or New York? Or even London, where he'd lived with Dom for a brief while? No place, really. He sighed, and brought his gaze back from the ocean to the book in his lap and the painting by Dom. He stroked it again. So he was gone, the first of the hobbits to go.
How much he had loved Dom.
He shut his eyes and tried to breathe normally, but his chest was seizing up and he had trouble swallowing. He remembered saying goodbye to Dom years ago, at Heathrow, holding his hand and staring into his eyes, the last time he had done so or ever would again. They hadn't spoken, because what was there to say? After talking nonstop for so many years, they'd finally run out of words. All Elijah could do was stare into Dom's glistening eyes. Regardless of the people surrounding them, Elijah kissed Dom, embracing him fiercely, and then walked away. He refused to look back.
He'd flown straight to Sean. "Please don't go," Sean had pleaded with him, clutching at him the way Gollum had clutched at Frodo. "Please. I need you so much."
Elijah had kissed him, too. "My dear Sean," he whispered tenderly. "I love you and need you, too."
Sean didn't answer, but Elijah knew he understood. When they slept together, Sean had clasped him tightly all through the night, as if even in sleep he dreaded losing Elijah. And Elijah had relaxed in Sean's arms, nourished by his attentive passion. "I have to go," he told Sean one afternoon, standing facing the brilliant LA sunset.
"I'll never understand why," Sean told him sadly, taking his hand. "But I respect your decision, even though I can't agree. Will never agree. You're breaking my heart," he added quietly. "Sailing into the West."
Elijah nodded, staring into the setting sun. He couldn't possibly answer; his throat was thick with tears. His heart had already been broken.
That was years and years ago, but nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. Their course had been set over fifty years ago, when Peter Jackson had assembled them on a sound stage and set their lives in motion. The intervening years, the marriages, children, divorces -- all the events had accrued like bricks in a great wall surrounding them. For love, Elijah knew, built on love and its mortar was time and not even death could crumble it, for its tensile strength was that which held together the universe, and it was made of your lover's laughter.
Dom, he thought, squeezing his eyes even tighter. I have missed you. Your breath on my face, your heartbeat in my ear, your arm across my shoulders, your hands on my body.
Gone, all gone.
All three of them were Catholic; Elijah wondered if Sean would arrange a mass to be said for Dom. He'd like it. He'd love it, in fact, all that pomp and circumstance and sprinkling of holy water. Elijah smiled despite his tears. Yeah, a mass. And then a fucking huge party with pretty girls and prettier boys and a shitload of booze. An Irish wake for Mr. Monaghan.
He dropped his head back against the headrest and sighed again, wiping ineffectually at his tears. Dom, dear Dom. Man of his dreams.
He slept, and dreamt of surfing across the Pacific, from Auckland to LA.
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
Henry sat on a dirty plastic chair and watched Sean sleep. It was hot, but it was always hot in LA he'd learned. He wore brand-new clothing purchased to suit this climate: khaki shorts, a tee shirt made of some cloth that repelled ultraviolet rays and promoted cooling, and lightweight trainers with black and yellow stripes like a bumblebee, and special soles to support his arches. They were like walking on marshmallows. He loved them.
Sean shifted in his chair, sighing, his eyelids fluttering, one hand clenched tightly to his chest. He'd had another small stroke a few days ago, just after learning that Elijah was coming home. Not bad, but each one took him further from the baseline of health and youth and, Henry knew, from life. His Uncle Dom was dead; his Uncle Sean was dying. Billy and Elijah were in mid-air at this very moment, flying in from east and west, north and south, like angels returning to la Ciudad de los Angeles, like arrows to his heart.
"Henry?"
He looked up to find Blessing smiling at him, one hand shading her eyes. He smiled back, a rush of pleasure at the sight of her. He stood, meaning to offer her his seat, but she smelt of nutmeg so he hugged her tightly instead. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. "I missed you," he whispered.
He was, Henry thought ruefully as he stared into Blessing's brown eyes, ridiculously in love. He abruptly longed for his father, a sudden pang so sharp it was an actual physical pain and he clutched at Blessing even tighter, as if he would lose her, too.
"It's all right," she whispered, rubbing his back. "You miss your dad, I know."
He nodded, and wiped his eyes. "I want him to meet you," he said, and cleared his throat. "He'd be wild about you."
She beamed at him. "Mom says you've inherited his charm."
"Oh not at all," he assured her. "Dad could charm the trousers off anyone in thirty seconds, man or woman."
"How long does it take you?"
They smiled at each other, and Henry felt ridiculous again, but, reflected back in Blessing's gaze, he also felt witty and charming and handsome. "I'm not sure how to answer that," he finally said. "Flirtatiously? Or seriously?"
They hadn't slept together yet, but Henry knew they would soon. He stroked her firm shoulders, running his hand down her left arm and linking his fingers through hers. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, he thought, and she blushed under his attention.
"Lizzie?" Sean mumbled, and they turned to him.
"Grandpa," Blessing said, kneeling and taking his hand. "It's Blessing, Lizzie's daughter. Remember?"
"Of course I remember. Lizzie's daughter."
"And do you remember Henry? Dom's son?"
"Dom." Sean murmured, smiling fondly. "I love him so much. He's such a sweet man."
Henry knelt next to Blessing and placed his hand over Blessing's on Sean's. "He was," he told Sean, though privately "sweet" was not the first word to come to him about his dad. But Dad had been sweet to Sean, Henry knew, and he was deeply grateful to his father for the kindness he had shown this man.
"Elijah will be here tomorrow," Blessing said. "Remember? For the memorial service?"
"Elijah," Sean said, and appeared to doze off.
Blessing smiled at Henry. "I'm so glad Elijah's coming home. I think Grandpa can die then, once he's seen Elijah one more time."
"Oh, Blessing."
"I know. I shouldn't say that, and I would never tell my mother. But Grandpa's missed Elijah so badly. You knew they were together for a long time, didn't you?"
Henry shook his head. "I didn't know anything. Dad kept so much to himself. It's funny," although Henry didn't find it amusing in the least. "Dad always was so out there and outrageous; he used to embarrass me a little. But now I find it was all an act, and that he had secrets on top of secrets."
"Well, that's true of all of us, don't you think? Don't you have a secret or two?"
Only how much I love you, he thought, but blushed in the warm afternoon. He looked at Sean, head awkwardly tilted as he dozed, and thought of his father, and knew he needed to tell Blessing how he felt soon. Life was too tenuous, too fragile, for him to wait; anything could and usually did happen, and he wanted Blessing to know, just in case. And he'd tell Sean, too, because he thought it would make him happy, to know that Dom's son loved Sean's granddaughter.
He leaned forward and lightly kissed Sean on the cheek, his skin soft and crinkly as parchment, blotched as if with ink. "I'm sorry I waited so long to come back," he told Sean. Blessing squeezed his hand.
"Let's get the attendant," she said. "Help him inside." They rose smoothly, still holding hands. Sean sighed and shifted in his seat, lost in the dreams only the very old know.
Lizzie had arranged everything with lightning speed and impressive attention to detail. At her father's request, there would be a mass for Dom, and then a party at one of Sean's brother's homes in Malibu, right on the water. Dom had loved the water and surfed right into his sixties. Billy was bringing some of his ashes to be scattered into the Pacific. There would be food and drink and music, live and recorded; the biggest party ever for Dom.
Henry wasn't exactly looking forward to it, but he did want to see Elijah again. New York had been confusing and chaotic to him at seventeen, so his memories weren't very clear. Lizzie remembered Elijah with enormous affection, and Blessing teased her about her crush on him. "Just watch his movies," Lizzie had scolded her. "You'd have a crush on him, too."
Henry and Blessing had retreated to the back garden, sitting in the shade of an enormous fig tree, drinking gin and tonics with limes that Henry had picked from one of Lizzie's trees. They'd been talking, with some embarrassment, about the incestuous nature of their families. Blessing finally asked him, "Do you think they were all lovers?"
He blushed, but nodded. "My godfather, Henry Mortensen, thinks so. And not just the hobbits, but most of the Fellowship."
"Good god." She sipped her drink thoughtfully. "I loved those books and movies."
"Your grandfather says they're why you became a linguist."
She smiled and nodded. "Maybe. I remember him reading them to me, and making him say the Elvish again and again. When I was old enough I made a CD of just the Elvish portions of the movies and would leave it on repeat."
"It's a movie about love, don't you think? And what one does for love?"
She looked up at him, a bit surprised, and Henry felt himself blushing yet again. "I never thought of that. But yes, you're right. Everything everyone does is for love."
"Dad didn't talk much about it; I think all those years of promoting it wore him out. But Uncle Henry did. He was there in New Zealand, you know; his father used to bring him over quite a bit, and later he traveled on the promotional tours.
"He said they were all lovers, and that it was a funny way to grow up because he assumed there was no difference between friends and lovers. It worried him because he wasn't much attracted to his male friends."
Blessing laughed. "What a Hollywood kind of confusion. Poor kid."
"Oh no. Henry's wonderful. He'll be out, too, so you'll get to meet him."
"You love him very much."
"Nearly as much as my dad. In some ways, Henry is my father, because Dad was so often on tour or location. And no step-dad because Mum never remarried; she said one husband was quite enough."
"That's what Grandma said. In fact, they never even got divorced; did you know that? All the time that Grandpa was with Elijah, he was still married." She shook her head. "So odd."
"Yes. Yes, it is." He hesitated, and then added, "But Mum and Dad's relationship helped me decide what I wanted in mine. In my, er, my marriage."
Blessing stared into her drink, gently swirling the ice cubes around. For a while, Henry thought she wouldn't speak, but finally she said softly, "And what is that, Henry? What do you want in a marriage?"
"Stability. Peace. Respite."
"Are there such things in the world? Aren't they synonyms for death?"
He shook his head. "No, I mean, yes, perhaps, but I've seen marriages like that. Uncle Henry's, most significantly. He didn't marry until rather late, and they're such a team. The way that Dad described Peter and Fran back in New Zealand."
"The way Grandma and Grandpa wanted to be."
"Yes, I rather think so. I can see Uncle Sean being powerfully affected by that idea. Certainly I am."
"And yet none of them achieved it. Only Henry."
"Only Henry."
They sat quietly for a while. Tonight was their last night alone. Mustering all his courage, Henry said, "Blessing. I'm so glad to have met you. I would like -- I would like." He stopped, unsure how to phrase his hopes. Then he said slowly, "I would like to be with you. Would that be possible?"
She smiled sweetly at him and took his hand. Just as slowly and carefully, she said, "I'd like that. I think we can make it possible. Mom says that all things are possible in love. Just look at Grandpa and your dad, and your dad and Elijah, and Billy."
"Uncle Sean is amazing. What a life he's had."
"What a life they've all had. There'll never be anyone like them again."
"No. And Mum would say that's a good thing, but now that I know a bit more, I'm not so sure. It's a bit confusing, but I respect their courage."
"What --" Blessing stopped abruptly, smiling to herself. Henry thought she had never looked more beautiful.
"What what?" he encouraged softly.
"This is a little premature, maybe."
He leaned closer to her, helplessly smiling in response to her smile. "Tell me. Ask me. Whatever."
She raised her head, and Henry's eyes dropped to her mouth. "What would our life be like?"
He looked into her warm brown eyes, smiling even harder now. What a lovely idea, he thought, that we should have a life together. "I think I should visit you in Chicago," he said, noticing that they both were blushing. "I've never been. And perhaps you would visit me in London."
"In the summer. I could study there, maybe even get a post-doc."
"I'm not quite sure what a post-doc is, but if it meant you could live in London, then I want one very badly for you."
She took his hand. "Come to Chicago with me, Henry. I'd love to show you around. We could see the Art Institute, and take the river tour, and go to the top of the Sears Tower. So many things. Would you like that, Henry? To come back with me?"
"I would," he said earnestly. "Very much."
And he would. He leaned forward a tiny bit more and repeated, "Very much." She lifted her head a tiny bit, tilted slightly, and Henry felt his eyes flutter shut as he kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm, and he was gentle, nuzzling her face, resting a hand on her shoulder. She murmured into the kiss and slid her arms around his neck.
Kissing Blessing was unlike anything Henry had ever experienced. He was a good looking man, he knew; he'd inherited his father's eyes and hands and his mother's chin and nose. He'd never had trouble finding women to date, but he was by nature a serious man, and most dating seemed frivolous to him. His dad had blamed Henry's godfather, Henry Mortensen, for that, but Henry was grateful. He felt that his Uncle Henry had in some ways prepared him for a woman like Blessing. For she was serious, too. A real scholar, a mind he could barely appreciate, and though he thought she was beautiful, intellectually he recognized that she did not meet Hollywood standards of beauty. She was too tall, too sturdy, too self-contained and aware.
When they leaned back to smile into each other's faces, she said, "I've been wanting to do that since I first met you."
"Let's do it some more," he suggested, and she obliged. They stopped only when Lizzie came home, calling their names. Henry knew he was red and a bit sweaty, but Blessing looked absolutely voluptuous to him. "Your mother will know," he whispered.
Blessing shrugged, turning even pinker. "She'll be happy."
And she was. Although Lizzie said nothing to them, her smile brightened and she kissed them both when they came inside to greet her. "Tomorrow the hordes descend," she said. "The car is full of food and booze; help me bring it in."
"I thought you were having this catered," Blessing said.
"I am. But still, I'll need to fix breakfast and snacks. People will be coming and going at all hours; I know that. Who is coming? Billy, Elijah, Hannah, Henry, Viggo, Sian, hmm, Billy Jackson called, Fon is working in LA, gosh." She patted her jeans pockets. "I can't find my list, but I know there's more."
"It's all right, Mom. We'll have more than enough to feed them for a week."
"Did you see your grandpa?"
"Yes. He slept the entire time. Henry?"
"He slept all the time I was there, too."
"Well, he'll wake up once Elijah's here. Daddy never could take his eyes off Elijah."
"Did he really call him 'Elwood'?"
"Called him everything: Doodle, Monkey, Bug, honey, sweetie, babes." She shook her head. "I've known Elijah my entire life; he's as much a part of my life as Daddy. It'll be wonderful to see him again, and to see him with Daddy, after all these years."
"Why did he stay away so long?" Blessing asked. She had found a bag of apples and took a big crunchy bite of one before offering it to Henry. He hesitated, then put his hand around hers and brought the apple to his mouth. It was tart, and sweet, and juicy; he had to quickly mop his chin.
"I don't know, honey. You'll have to ask him that. I know it nearly broke Daddy's heart when he left, though."
"Maybe he'll stay now," Henry said, still holding Blessing's apple.
"Maybe. Odd, to think that there are only three left." Lizzie stared out the kitchen window for a moment, looking tired and thoughtful. "I never imagined this day would come. I never imagined your dad would go, Henry."
"Neither did I," he said honestly. "Only toward the end, when he was in pain. Then I did. But Billy kept Dad from hurting too much. Billy took the best care of him."
No one answered, and really, Henry thought, what could they say? Of course Billy would do his best. Billy would have given Dom his own liver if it would have saved him. He turned away from the women for a minute to wipe his eyes, embarrassed. Too much was happening for him. He was a novelist, used to working and living alone, and suddenly he was surrounded by a family he'd never met before, and the rain of memories was like a rain of glass shards cutting at him as they fell.
"That's enough," Lizzie said firmly. "Henry, pour us a glass of wine. I'll fix some dinner, and Blessing can show off her talent for baking. Make us a cake, Bless. Something homey and comforting."
"Like pineapple upside-down cake?"
"Pardon me?" Henry asked, pausing in the midst of drawing out the cork in a bottle of pinot grigio.
"Very American," Lizzie told him. "And delicious; you're in for a treat. Great idea, Blessing."
Henry passed the evening in a chatter-filled haze; after years of living with his Mum's and Sian's silences and sulks, and then alone while he wrote, he found it pleasantly odd to be surrounded by Blessing and Lizzie's non-stop conversation and laughter. They knew each other; he couldn't imagine them running out of things to say. When he visited his mum, he slipped lists of topics for conversation into his pockets to avoid the awkward silences.
He glanced at his watch; Sian was in the air right now, flying over with Uncle Billy. He couldn't wait to see Billy again; it would almost be like seeing his dad, whom he missed bitterly. He so wanted his dad to meet Blessing, and to love her. Well, Billy would have to do.
And Elijah. Elijah-and-Sean, the way Blessing and Lizzie said it. He thought again how odd that these four men had found each other, in a continuous cycle of coming together, falling apart, and coming together again. They could never go very long without talking by phone or webcam, and Henry knew his dad had emailed the others regularly.
In bed, alone, wishing for Blessing's warm body to comfort him, Henry thought again how intertwined his life had been with hers, long before either of them were born. How Dom and Sean had been together, though not the same way that Billy and Dom were, or Elijah or Dom had been.
Dad, Dad, he thought, and sighed. You should be here now; I need you. He cried a little before he fell asleep, and dreamt of his father lying in Sean's bed, the one in his apartment that Henry had visited, someplace Dom had surely never been. Dad! Dream-Henry had said, scandalized to find his father there, but Dom had just smiled and held Sean's hand.
"Wake up, wake up," Billy said, and Henry opened his eyes to brilliant sunshine and Billy standing at the side of his bed. "What have you been and done now?" Billy asked him, sitting down to give him a hug.
Henry wrapped his arms around him tightly. "My God, but I've missed you," he whispered. Billy hugged him back, and Henry felt safe in his arms.
"Me, too, mah boy. Me, too." Billy kissed the top of Henry's head. "Now, get on wi' yah. Up, up. Places to go, things to do." He smacked Henry's backside on the way to the bathroom. "Haven't yah heard? There's a party today."
Henry stuck his head out of the bathroom to look at Billy. "I'm glad you're here, Uncle Billy," he said, enunciating carefully; Billy was a bit deaf these days. "I love you."
"Daft git," Billy said, but he was smiling.
~ ~ ~
The edge of the world, Elijah thought when he saw LAX wheeling beneath him. Terrifying how much on the edge of the world LA was. The ring of fire, he'd heard it called, and it was fiery and dangerous. The smog was worse than when he'd left, despite much publicized claims of improvement, and the freeways, despite their automated vehicles, even more clogged with traffic. He went straight to Sean's place, a beautiful retirement community for actors, augmented with assisted living for residents like Sean.
It was a long drive, and Elijah had time to reconsider why he was in LA. At Sean's behest, of course, and there wasn't much that Elijah wouldn't do for Sean. His dearest friend, despite the thousands of miles between them. No matter how much time they'd spent together, it had never been enough. Leaving had nearly killed Elijah, but staying had been hurting him and Sean, and so he'd gone, alone and lonely. He missed Sean, and he missed Dom. The ache in his heart sent him reeling into the walls at times, ever since he'd learned that Dom was gone.
Dom was a good man, he thought. Idiosyncratic, eccentric, frequently downright odd; always affected; always flamboyant; always high energy. But now where was all that energy? Was the sum total of energy in the universe diminished by a Dom-sized amount? Or was Dom right; had he been reincarnated into someone or something else?
He put his hand over his eyes as he remembered the last time he'd seen Dom. In New York, and both of them had been miserable. How he'd clung to Dom in desperation, thinking all the while of how hurt Sean would be if he knew. But he had found out, Elijah reminded himself, sniffing miserably at the memory. Why had he ever imagined that Sean wouldn't find out? Of course he knew; he knew the minute Elijah had walked through the door.
And what had Sean done? Gone back to sleeping with Dom. Not in retaliation; that wasn't Sean's style. But for comfort. How ironic was that, that Dom had comforted Sean for Elijah having sex with Dom. Rubbish, as Dom would have said. The entire scenario was rubbish. The three of them had never shared a bed, preferring a serial monogamy that irritated all of them.
And how to factor Billy into this mix? Elijah didn't dare try. He was confident that Billy would ream him a new one for staying away so long and for making Dom miserable. Beyond that, Elijah wouldn't guess.
He was deposited at the Frances Goldwyn Lodge and, carrying his luggage, began winding his way through the rose-lined paths, hoping to find someone who might know something. Eventually, he met a young woman pushing a large cart full of dirty towels. "Perdoname," he said hesitantly, his Spanish rusty after so many years away. "Donde esta Senor Sean Astin?"
"Alla," she responded, pointing. "A la izquierda."
"Gracias."
She nodded and began pushing the squeaking cart away. He turned to the left and began walking. Within ten minutes, he found Sean.
He was heavier than Elijah remembered; heavier than he'd been as Sam. He was soundly asleep in a wheelchair parked in the sun, a bottle of water on a small table by his side.
Elijah studied him for a long time. He stood, hands in his pockets, and watched his old friend sleep. He had loved Sean for more years than anyone else in his life except his family. Sean was family, really. Not blood kin, but true family, the kind you had to find for yourself. When Elijah had found Sean, he'd decided never to let go. Yet he had. Now he needed to find a way to return.
He took another step forward, and then knelt in front of him. Sean was breathing heavily, and his eyelids fluttered. He must be in REM, Elijah decided. Dreaming about their days in New Zealand, no doubt. That was one of Elijah's favorite dreams.
He reached out and stroked Sean's hair. Unlike the rest of the hobbits, Sean had kept most of his hair, though it was now a striking silver. His brow was wrinkled in thought, so Elijah rested his hand on Sean's forehead, smoothing away the furrows. Sean sighed heavily.
"Hey," Elijah whispered. " I missed you. So much. Come on, babes. Wake up for me." He leaned up and forward and kissed Sean on the lips. "Seanie?"
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
~ ~ ~
This story concludes in Guttering Gold.
Author: Mirabile Dictu
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: multiple hobbits
Rating: R
Summary: Please could you stay awhile to share my grief.
Disclaimer: Such terrible lies I tell.
A/N: Not exactly a sequel, but set in the same universe as "Dominic's Gifts." Most of the story takes place forty-eight years in the future, in 2052, just a few days after the death of Dominic Monaghan.
Title and summary from the Portishead song.
Beta by my dear friend the brilliant and wonderful empress_wu.
Warnings: Many original characters. Shifting timelines. Uncertain memories. Some dialog written in dialect. This story would probably make more sense if Dominic's Gifts were read first.
Wandering Star
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
~ ~ ~
Elijah shifted in his seat to peer out the tiny window. Nothing but ocean and clouds as far as he could see. Not that he could see very far, even with his specs, but far enough to know that, if something happened to his Air New Zealand jet, he would be lost in a depthless sea the color of his myopic eyes.
He smiled at that thought and returned his attention to his book, a collection of Viggo's poetry. He recognized in some of the poems times they'd shared, people they'd known; those poems he was compelled to read repeatedly, stroking his fingers over the words as if he could recapture the moments so lost to time.
He flipped to the frontispiece of the book. A reproduction of an oil painting by Dom, done many years ago. Viggo had encouraged Dom's painting; Elijah wished he had done so as well. The vibrant colors glowed up at him in the sterile fluorescent light, and he remembered the smells of linseed oil and turpentine.
Dom was dead. Only the good die young, they say, and Dom had died very young, just seventy five, and very suddenly. Elijah wondered why Dom hadn't called him, why he'd had to learn of Dom's illness after his death. Not a word had leaked to the press; apparently, only Dom's family and Billy had known.
When Sean and Blessing had called to tell him the news, Elijah had had to sit down right on the floor. The world seemed to spin and tilt around him, as if the coriolus effect had suddenly kicked into high gear and the very air around him were whirling and boiling.
That dizziness continued to plague him sporadically ever since their call. In a few short years, years he knew would vanish in a heartbeat, he would be older than Dom ever would be. Somehow that knowledge hurt Elijah as much as the knowledge that he would never again see Dom, would never embrace him, touch his face, take his hand again.
He looked at his own hand splayed over the frontispiece. Dom had painted Elijah's hands many times but had never been satisfied with the results. He wondered if any copies remained and, if one did, whether Dom's children would let him have one. He already owned several of Dom's paintings, mostly landscapes, and one portrait of Billy as Iago, his green eyes icy with malevolence.
He missed all of them so much. Leaving the States, leaving them, had been one of the most difficult decisions he'd ever made. Even now, nearly a decade later, he occasionally wondered if he'd done the right thing. But Elijah had long ago given up trying to second guess himself. As an actor, he had to trust his instincts; that carried over into his personal life as well. And so he had gone, kissing a tearful Sean farewell and refusing to look back as he left his old life behind.
But things change, people die, the world moves on, and now he must, too. So he reversed directions and was returning to a world he left. Left forever, he had once thought, but no. Just for a little while. Just long enough to lose one of his dearest friends, a man he had loved for over fifty years.
Where does that love go? he wondered, lightly stroking the picture Dom had painted decades ago. Does it evaporate when the loved one dies? Is it somehow lost, the way Dom is now lost to me? He shook his head and sighed heavily.
Mercy, Elijah thought, staring out over the ocean. If we are saved, it will be by mercy.
Sean had had a stroke since the last time Elijah had seen him. Lizzie had called with the news, tearful and distressed, and then again to let Elijah know that Sean had recovered. He'd spoken to Sean by phone a few times over the years, though not often enough for Sean, he knew.
Nearly forty years ago, when Sean had turned up in New York , trembling with excitement and fear and desire, Elijah had silently let him in, and they had remained together. They often saw Dom and Billy in those days, and the four of them would instantly fall into their old habits. Taking the piss, as Dom taught them to call it in their early years. Some wonderful times, and some terrible times. Sean had been subject to depression, and Elijah learned to count on lengthy silent sessions of weeping despair from him once or twice a year. Sean had moved to New York to be with Elijah, but went back to LA regularly; Elijah less so. Sean's return to New York was always difficult, but oddly, his black periods came not then but when he'd been away too long from LA.
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
The glass fell around him like rain, tapping his cap and then sheeting to the sidewalk where it spattered like blood onto his shoe. He stared at the jagged pieces shining in the sunlight.
When he slowly raised his head, more glass clattered from his cap, sliding inside the collar of his shirt where it lodged, biting into his flesh. Around him, brilliant light glittered, cutting into his eyes like shards of glass.
The thrumming in his ears slowly dimmed, and he realized people were screaming as some of them began to rise, shaking off debris and glass. Others did not rise; they lay awkwardly, the dust settling on them, onto their open eyes and into their open mouths.
He staggered forward, suddenly off balance and unsure, and grasped at a telephone pole, leaning against it. His hearing was returning, and he realized he was panting harshly, breathing in the filthy air. He coughed, and spat, and coughed again.
Someone tugged at him, nearly toppling him; he jerked away, pulling back, pushing out, trying to fend off his assailant, but they hung on, calling his name, "Sean! Sean, honey, wake up! Please, Sean," and he opened his eyes to find Chris leaning over him.
"Wake up, honey," she said again. "You're having another nightmare."
"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his face and struggling to sit up. "Sorry."
"Sean, this can't go on. You have to see a doctor."
"I don't need a doctor, Chris. I need some sleep." She pulled away, hurt clouding her face. "I'm sorry, sweetie. Please." He caught her hand and tugged her back into his arms.
"I'm just worried about you," she said, but wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.
"I know. I know." He kissed her hand. "I'm sorry that I snapped at you."
"What are you dreaming about?" He shrugged. "Well, have a sip of water and let's try to go back to sleep. Get a few hours of rest at least."
He obediently drank, finishing the glass, and turned out the light. Chris lay down with him, snuggling into his arms; he kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Thank you for being so patient with me."
"I don't know how patient I've been."
He smiled and kissed her again. "Patient enough."
"Go to sleep. And no dreams."
"Yes, ma'am."
He shut his eyes, enjoying the feel of her soft hair against his cheek, her sweet scent rising from their bed. I love you, he thought, and frowned. I love you. I do.
Then why, he wondered, was he dreaming of the end of the world, of losing everyone he loved, of wanting to see only one other person before he died? And that one person was not his wife.
Work was difficult, beyond difficult. He felt as though he were stepping through thick mud. The marshes of Emyn Muil had been no more difficult that getting through a single day of these last few weeks. He stared into his makeup mirror, watching the transformation into Sam. And poor Sam had it so difficult, so painfully difficult, that acting was no longer the escape it had once been but yet another burden.
That morning, he'd stared into another mirror, in his bathroom, listening to Chris and Ali preparing for their day, while around him the walls contracted and the oxygen was sucked from the room.
Then Chris knocked on the door; his car was here, he had to go, ready or not, the world was waiting for him. He straightened his back and fled, from one reflective surface to another, hard, cold, and shiny, but exchanging the bathroom mirror for the Makeup mirror was no better, and escaping that was nearly as bad because Sam and Frodo were stuck in those miserable rocks again. He looked at Elijah and sighed; Elijah clapped his shoulder, then wrapped his arm around Sean, hugging him tightly.
As in his dream, the world shattered around Sean, tiny bits raining around him. He turned his head and tucked it into Elijah's neck, breathing in the scent of wool and shaving gel and glue, hiding from it all.
Yet there was no hiding here, not really, as Elijah turned into Sean and pulled him into a tight embrace, whispering, "It's okay, it'll be okay, I'll make it okay for you, I promise," his breath warm on Sean's cheek.
Sean swallowed and raised his head. Elijah used his cloak to dab at Sean's face. "Don't want Makeup cross with you now," he murmured.
"No, we can't have that," Sean agreed; he couldn't return to those mirrors. He stared into Elijah's eyes. How many hours had he gazed into those eyes? He knew every shade of blue, the exact pattern in his irises, the thickness of his lashes, the tiny incipient lines that would one day mar his great beauty. Or add character, Sean decided, for nothing to Sean's eyes would ever mar Elijah.
They might have stood there forever, looking into each other's eyes, or so it felt to Sean, but Caro began shouting, and they hurried to take their places, Andy sprang toward them, full of rock-climbing energy and annoying the shit out of Sean. "Good morning, good morning," he greeted them, rubbing his hands together in a manner Sean found distinctly Gollum-like.
"Whatever," Elijah murmured into Sean's ear, making him laugh, and he was able to relax a bit, and smile at Andy.
"Morning," he said, and they turned to Peter.
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
Sean tells himself the first time was an accident, even though he knows it isn't true. Each time is an accident, except not. He knows he shouldn't; he believes he will not. And yet he does, an accident, always an accident, but no. Sean doesn't lie well, not even to himself.
He grips the sides of the sink and stares into the mirror and tries to breathe. His heart races and his throat feels swollen. He skin is flushed and hot, prickly. "Come on, hobbit," he murmurs, and licks his dry lips. He exhales noisily and then bends down and splashes water on his face. If he doesn't throw up, he'll be all right.
"Honey?" Chris calls. "The car is here."
"Right there," he calls back. When he comes out of the bathroom, she looks adorable in her fuzzy pink robe, sleepily smiling at him. "You don't need to get up with me," he tells her as he's told her every day.
"But I want to," she protests as she has every day. He kisses her gently, and leaves.
It was an accident, he tells himself.
Elijah is already there when Sean arrives, sipping coffee and flipping through his CD collection. "Nothing too horrific this morning," Sean pleads, but Elijah just winks at him.
"Coldplay," Dom requests, and Sean relaxes. He's learned to like Coldplay quite a bit.
Later, when they're on set and in places, Sean finds it frighteningly easy to slip into Sam's tender solicitude for Frodo, watching him closely. It was a relief to gaze at Elijah; he was being paid to do this. How many men in his situation could stare to their heart's content, as he could? And Elijah stared back, directly into Sean's eyes. From the dailies, Sean knew Peter was using their eyes as an effective tool, as effective as the swords Viggo and Bernard wielded or the staff in Ian's hands.
And even later, when Frodo slings his arm around Sam's shoulders and Sean leans into Elijah's warmth, he tells himself it was an accident and he straightens up. But Elijah catches Sean's arm and they stare into each other's eyes; Sean wonders again how many hours he's spent studying Elijah's eyes, how many hours they've stood so close together that he could feel Elijah's breath, watch the pulse in his throat and thin wrists. More hours than he should have, yes, but it was all an accident.
Sean tells himself that right up until the moment he pushes Elijah into the men's room at a pub and kisses him, holding Elijah's head firmly, angling it to kiss him exactly the way he's imagined it. And when Elijah kisses him back, twisting his hands into Sean's tee shirt and pressing his hips into Sean's sturdy thigh, Sean realizes it was an accident the way gravity is an accident: inevitable, inexorable, inescapable.
"I've been waiting for this," Elijah murmured to him between kisses, and Sean knew Elijah was more honest than he was. "Why did you make me wait so long?"
Because I'm a moron. Because I'm married. Because I'm a man. Sean had no answers at all; he just kissed Elijah harder and ground against him, the heated friction of his khakis almost painful against his engorged dick, but oh, fuck, he wanted this. He slid one hand down Elijah's side and behind him, cupping his ass, pulling Elijah to him. Elijah groaned and tried to crawl up Sean. They were both pumping, gasping, sweating, moaning, kissing and licking and biting each other's faces and throats and ears, and when Sean came, he held Elijah so tightly to him as if binding him to him. "Christ, I love you," he whispered.
Elijah shuddered, and came, mouth open, eyes shut, trembling in Sean's arms. He rested his head on Sean's shoulder and said clearly, "I know, dumb ass."
It was an accident, Sean told himself, surreptitiously washing his trousers.
If an accident, then he was accident prone, he told himself months later.
And much, much later, when Chris confronted him, he cried. "It just happened," he tried to explain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but --"
"Give it up," she told him wearily, wiping carefully at her eyes so as not to smudge her makeup. "I've known about it for years. You pride yourself on being an honest man, but I don't hear you telling me the truth. Do you even tell yourself the truth?"
No, he admitted silently, staring at her. "You've known for years?"
"For Christ's sake, Sean. Do you think I'm a dumb ass?"
"No, no, honey, of course not."
"Good, because I'm not." She peered into the beveled mirror over the dresser in their bedroom, picked up a small glass pot of something, opened it, and dabbed under her eyes with the contents. "Where is he now?" she asked, looking at him in the mirror.
"New York."
"Then go. We'll sort this out later. Much later. I don't want to be with you anymore. I'm sorry, Sean," she spoke over his gasp, "but I don't. And if you would be honest with yourself, you'd admit that you don't want to be with me."
"That's not true!"
"Okay, I'm sorry. You're right; that isn't true." She put down the little pot and turned to face him. "It's not that you don't want to be with me. But I think you want to be with him just as much, maybe more, than you want to be with me."
Sean stared up at her from where he perched on their bed. She was leaning against the dresser, a grown up, a woman, a mother. Her arms were crossed and her brow furrowed as she stared back at him. Although her eyes were red and swollen, she looked calm and confident. Not as deeply unhappy as he thought she should be, as he had so long feared she would be if this moment ever came.
"Do you have anything to say?" He shook his head. She'd said more than enough. More than he would ever have had the courage to say. "Then go. Call me -- no. Don't call me."
He began to cry, enormous sobs. Christine had miscarried once, in between Ali and Lizzie, and he felt at that moment the same way that he had then -- the sense of impossible loss, the loss of possibility, the ending of futures. The ending of a marriage was a miscarriage, too, and the pain wracking him would continue, he knew, for a very long time.
She handed him a box of kleenex.
"I'll go," he said at last, blowing his nose. "I'll miss you, honey."
She came to him, touching his face softly, twining her fingers through his hair. "I've missed you for years," she whispered.
It had all been an accident. Something that had just happened.
~ ~ ~
Being with Sean had never been as easy as being with Dominic had been. Elijah understood that, at some level, Sean blamed him for the break-up of his marriage, and on the darkest nights, he'd find Sean crouched in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, breathing stertorously, or worse, not at all, just silent and staring. "Sean," Elijah would press. "Come on. Come with me." Eventually, Sean would permit Elijah to lead him from the bathroom into their bedroom, and they would lie together, Sean's head on Elijah's chest, and Elijah would stroke his hair, comforting him as best he could.
"Sorry, sorry," Sean would whisper.
Elijah would kiss him tenderly and say, "Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. Just stay with me. Don't go where I can't follow." If he was lucky, Sean would gasp out a chuckle, and the moment would lighten, and Elijah would knew that tomorrow would be all right.
If he was unlucky, Sean would lie stiffly in his arms, one fist clutching Elijah's shirt, the other tightly gripping Elijah's hand. And Elijah knew there would be no words that night, nor the next day, just the painful silence of Sean's grieving for his old life. "I love you," Elijah would murmur desperately.
Elijah had feared that Ali's death would result in him losing Sean as well, but in some ways it seemed to strengthen him. They remained in LA for months; Billy and Dom flew in from Glasgow and London and stayed with them, caring for Sean and Elijah, grieving with them.
Elijah stayed with Sean another five years.
He shifted again, uncomfortable sitting for so long. At least the flight was shorter nowadays. When he'd first flown from LA to New Zealand, it had taken nearly twelve hours; all these years later it took only nine. But that was still a long time to sit.
"Would you like something to drink?" the flight attendant asked him. He shook his head, never taking his eyes off the water.
Such a long way to go. Living away from the States for so long, Elijah was no longer sure where his home was. In New Zealand? Cedar Rapids? LA, or New York? Or even London, where he'd lived with Dom for a brief while? No place, really. He sighed, and brought his gaze back from the ocean to the book in his lap and the painting by Dom. He stroked it again. So he was gone, the first of the hobbits to go.
How much he had loved Dom.
He shut his eyes and tried to breathe normally, but his chest was seizing up and he had trouble swallowing. He remembered saying goodbye to Dom years ago, at Heathrow, holding his hand and staring into his eyes, the last time he had done so or ever would again. They hadn't spoken, because what was there to say? After talking nonstop for so many years, they'd finally run out of words. All Elijah could do was stare into Dom's glistening eyes. Regardless of the people surrounding them, Elijah kissed Dom, embracing him fiercely, and then walked away. He refused to look back.
He'd flown straight to Sean. "Please don't go," Sean had pleaded with him, clutching at him the way Gollum had clutched at Frodo. "Please. I need you so much."
Elijah had kissed him, too. "My dear Sean," he whispered tenderly. "I love you and need you, too."
Sean didn't answer, but Elijah knew he understood. When they slept together, Sean had clasped him tightly all through the night, as if even in sleep he dreaded losing Elijah. And Elijah had relaxed in Sean's arms, nourished by his attentive passion. "I have to go," he told Sean one afternoon, standing facing the brilliant LA sunset.
"I'll never understand why," Sean told him sadly, taking his hand. "But I respect your decision, even though I can't agree. Will never agree. You're breaking my heart," he added quietly. "Sailing into the West."
Elijah nodded, staring into the setting sun. He couldn't possibly answer; his throat was thick with tears. His heart had already been broken.
That was years and years ago, but nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. Their course had been set over fifty years ago, when Peter Jackson had assembled them on a sound stage and set their lives in motion. The intervening years, the marriages, children, divorces -- all the events had accrued like bricks in a great wall surrounding them. For love, Elijah knew, built on love and its mortar was time and not even death could crumble it, for its tensile strength was that which held together the universe, and it was made of your lover's laughter.
Dom, he thought, squeezing his eyes even tighter. I have missed you. Your breath on my face, your heartbeat in my ear, your arm across my shoulders, your hands on my body.
Gone, all gone.
All three of them were Catholic; Elijah wondered if Sean would arrange a mass to be said for Dom. He'd like it. He'd love it, in fact, all that pomp and circumstance and sprinkling of holy water. Elijah smiled despite his tears. Yeah, a mass. And then a fucking huge party with pretty girls and prettier boys and a shitload of booze. An Irish wake for Mr. Monaghan.
He dropped his head back against the headrest and sighed again, wiping ineffectually at his tears. Dom, dear Dom. Man of his dreams.
He slept, and dreamt of surfing across the Pacific, from Auckland to LA.
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
Henry sat on a dirty plastic chair and watched Sean sleep. It was hot, but it was always hot in LA he'd learned. He wore brand-new clothing purchased to suit this climate: khaki shorts, a tee shirt made of some cloth that repelled ultraviolet rays and promoted cooling, and lightweight trainers with black and yellow stripes like a bumblebee, and special soles to support his arches. They were like walking on marshmallows. He loved them.
Sean shifted in his chair, sighing, his eyelids fluttering, one hand clenched tightly to his chest. He'd had another small stroke a few days ago, just after learning that Elijah was coming home. Not bad, but each one took him further from the baseline of health and youth and, Henry knew, from life. His Uncle Dom was dead; his Uncle Sean was dying. Billy and Elijah were in mid-air at this very moment, flying in from east and west, north and south, like angels returning to la Ciudad de los Angeles, like arrows to his heart.
"Henry?"
He looked up to find Blessing smiling at him, one hand shading her eyes. He smiled back, a rush of pleasure at the sight of her. He stood, meaning to offer her his seat, but she smelt of nutmeg so he hugged her tightly instead. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him. "I missed you," he whispered.
He was, Henry thought ruefully as he stared into Blessing's brown eyes, ridiculously in love. He abruptly longed for his father, a sudden pang so sharp it was an actual physical pain and he clutched at Blessing even tighter, as if he would lose her, too.
"It's all right," she whispered, rubbing his back. "You miss your dad, I know."
He nodded, and wiped his eyes. "I want him to meet you," he said, and cleared his throat. "He'd be wild about you."
She beamed at him. "Mom says you've inherited his charm."
"Oh not at all," he assured her. "Dad could charm the trousers off anyone in thirty seconds, man or woman."
"How long does it take you?"
They smiled at each other, and Henry felt ridiculous again, but, reflected back in Blessing's gaze, he also felt witty and charming and handsome. "I'm not sure how to answer that," he finally said. "Flirtatiously? Or seriously?"
They hadn't slept together yet, but Henry knew they would soon. He stroked her firm shoulders, running his hand down her left arm and linking his fingers through hers. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, he thought, and she blushed under his attention.
"Lizzie?" Sean mumbled, and they turned to him.
"Grandpa," Blessing said, kneeling and taking his hand. "It's Blessing, Lizzie's daughter. Remember?"
"Of course I remember. Lizzie's daughter."
"And do you remember Henry? Dom's son?"
"Dom." Sean murmured, smiling fondly. "I love him so much. He's such a sweet man."
Henry knelt next to Blessing and placed his hand over Blessing's on Sean's. "He was," he told Sean, though privately "sweet" was not the first word to come to him about his dad. But Dad had been sweet to Sean, Henry knew, and he was deeply grateful to his father for the kindness he had shown this man.
"Elijah will be here tomorrow," Blessing said. "Remember? For the memorial service?"
"Elijah," Sean said, and appeared to doze off.
Blessing smiled at Henry. "I'm so glad Elijah's coming home. I think Grandpa can die then, once he's seen Elijah one more time."
"Oh, Blessing."
"I know. I shouldn't say that, and I would never tell my mother. But Grandpa's missed Elijah so badly. You knew they were together for a long time, didn't you?"
Henry shook his head. "I didn't know anything. Dad kept so much to himself. It's funny," although Henry didn't find it amusing in the least. "Dad always was so out there and outrageous; he used to embarrass me a little. But now I find it was all an act, and that he had secrets on top of secrets."
"Well, that's true of all of us, don't you think? Don't you have a secret or two?"
Only how much I love you, he thought, but blushed in the warm afternoon. He looked at Sean, head awkwardly tilted as he dozed, and thought of his father, and knew he needed to tell Blessing how he felt soon. Life was too tenuous, too fragile, for him to wait; anything could and usually did happen, and he wanted Blessing to know, just in case. And he'd tell Sean, too, because he thought it would make him happy, to know that Dom's son loved Sean's granddaughter.
He leaned forward and lightly kissed Sean on the cheek, his skin soft and crinkly as parchment, blotched as if with ink. "I'm sorry I waited so long to come back," he told Sean. Blessing squeezed his hand.
"Let's get the attendant," she said. "Help him inside." They rose smoothly, still holding hands. Sean sighed and shifted in his seat, lost in the dreams only the very old know.
Lizzie had arranged everything with lightning speed and impressive attention to detail. At her father's request, there would be a mass for Dom, and then a party at one of Sean's brother's homes in Malibu, right on the water. Dom had loved the water and surfed right into his sixties. Billy was bringing some of his ashes to be scattered into the Pacific. There would be food and drink and music, live and recorded; the biggest party ever for Dom.
Henry wasn't exactly looking forward to it, but he did want to see Elijah again. New York had been confusing and chaotic to him at seventeen, so his memories weren't very clear. Lizzie remembered Elijah with enormous affection, and Blessing teased her about her crush on him. "Just watch his movies," Lizzie had scolded her. "You'd have a crush on him, too."
Henry and Blessing had retreated to the back garden, sitting in the shade of an enormous fig tree, drinking gin and tonics with limes that Henry had picked from one of Lizzie's trees. They'd been talking, with some embarrassment, about the incestuous nature of their families. Blessing finally asked him, "Do you think they were all lovers?"
He blushed, but nodded. "My godfather, Henry Mortensen, thinks so. And not just the hobbits, but most of the Fellowship."
"Good god." She sipped her drink thoughtfully. "I loved those books and movies."
"Your grandfather says they're why you became a linguist."
She smiled and nodded. "Maybe. I remember him reading them to me, and making him say the Elvish again and again. When I was old enough I made a CD of just the Elvish portions of the movies and would leave it on repeat."
"It's a movie about love, don't you think? And what one does for love?"
She looked up at him, a bit surprised, and Henry felt himself blushing yet again. "I never thought of that. But yes, you're right. Everything everyone does is for love."
"Dad didn't talk much about it; I think all those years of promoting it wore him out. But Uncle Henry did. He was there in New Zealand, you know; his father used to bring him over quite a bit, and later he traveled on the promotional tours.
"He said they were all lovers, and that it was a funny way to grow up because he assumed there was no difference between friends and lovers. It worried him because he wasn't much attracted to his male friends."
Blessing laughed. "What a Hollywood kind of confusion. Poor kid."
"Oh no. Henry's wonderful. He'll be out, too, so you'll get to meet him."
"You love him very much."
"Nearly as much as my dad. In some ways, Henry is my father, because Dad was so often on tour or location. And no step-dad because Mum never remarried; she said one husband was quite enough."
"That's what Grandma said. In fact, they never even got divorced; did you know that? All the time that Grandpa was with Elijah, he was still married." She shook her head. "So odd."
"Yes. Yes, it is." He hesitated, and then added, "But Mum and Dad's relationship helped me decide what I wanted in mine. In my, er, my marriage."
Blessing stared into her drink, gently swirling the ice cubes around. For a while, Henry thought she wouldn't speak, but finally she said softly, "And what is that, Henry? What do you want in a marriage?"
"Stability. Peace. Respite."
"Are there such things in the world? Aren't they synonyms for death?"
He shook his head. "No, I mean, yes, perhaps, but I've seen marriages like that. Uncle Henry's, most significantly. He didn't marry until rather late, and they're such a team. The way that Dad described Peter and Fran back in New Zealand."
"The way Grandma and Grandpa wanted to be."
"Yes, I rather think so. I can see Uncle Sean being powerfully affected by that idea. Certainly I am."
"And yet none of them achieved it. Only Henry."
"Only Henry."
They sat quietly for a while. Tonight was their last night alone. Mustering all his courage, Henry said, "Blessing. I'm so glad to have met you. I would like -- I would like." He stopped, unsure how to phrase his hopes. Then he said slowly, "I would like to be with you. Would that be possible?"
She smiled sweetly at him and took his hand. Just as slowly and carefully, she said, "I'd like that. I think we can make it possible. Mom says that all things are possible in love. Just look at Grandpa and your dad, and your dad and Elijah, and Billy."
"Uncle Sean is amazing. What a life he's had."
"What a life they've all had. There'll never be anyone like them again."
"No. And Mum would say that's a good thing, but now that I know a bit more, I'm not so sure. It's a bit confusing, but I respect their courage."
"What --" Blessing stopped abruptly, smiling to herself. Henry thought she had never looked more beautiful.
"What what?" he encouraged softly.
"This is a little premature, maybe."
He leaned closer to her, helplessly smiling in response to her smile. "Tell me. Ask me. Whatever."
She raised her head, and Henry's eyes dropped to her mouth. "What would our life be like?"
He looked into her warm brown eyes, smiling even harder now. What a lovely idea, he thought, that we should have a life together. "I think I should visit you in Chicago," he said, noticing that they both were blushing. "I've never been. And perhaps you would visit me in London."
"In the summer. I could study there, maybe even get a post-doc."
"I'm not quite sure what a post-doc is, but if it meant you could live in London, then I want one very badly for you."
She took his hand. "Come to Chicago with me, Henry. I'd love to show you around. We could see the Art Institute, and take the river tour, and go to the top of the Sears Tower. So many things. Would you like that, Henry? To come back with me?"
"I would," he said earnestly. "Very much."
And he would. He leaned forward a tiny bit more and repeated, "Very much." She lifted her head a tiny bit, tilted slightly, and Henry felt his eyes flutter shut as he kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm, and he was gentle, nuzzling her face, resting a hand on her shoulder. She murmured into the kiss and slid her arms around his neck.
Kissing Blessing was unlike anything Henry had ever experienced. He was a good looking man, he knew; he'd inherited his father's eyes and hands and his mother's chin and nose. He'd never had trouble finding women to date, but he was by nature a serious man, and most dating seemed frivolous to him. His dad had blamed Henry's godfather, Henry Mortensen, for that, but Henry was grateful. He felt that his Uncle Henry had in some ways prepared him for a woman like Blessing. For she was serious, too. A real scholar, a mind he could barely appreciate, and though he thought she was beautiful, intellectually he recognized that she did not meet Hollywood standards of beauty. She was too tall, too sturdy, too self-contained and aware.
When they leaned back to smile into each other's faces, she said, "I've been wanting to do that since I first met you."
"Let's do it some more," he suggested, and she obliged. They stopped only when Lizzie came home, calling their names. Henry knew he was red and a bit sweaty, but Blessing looked absolutely voluptuous to him. "Your mother will know," he whispered.
Blessing shrugged, turning even pinker. "She'll be happy."
And she was. Although Lizzie said nothing to them, her smile brightened and she kissed them both when they came inside to greet her. "Tomorrow the hordes descend," she said. "The car is full of food and booze; help me bring it in."
"I thought you were having this catered," Blessing said.
"I am. But still, I'll need to fix breakfast and snacks. People will be coming and going at all hours; I know that. Who is coming? Billy, Elijah, Hannah, Henry, Viggo, Sian, hmm, Billy Jackson called, Fon is working in LA, gosh." She patted her jeans pockets. "I can't find my list, but I know there's more."
"It's all right, Mom. We'll have more than enough to feed them for a week."
"Did you see your grandpa?"
"Yes. He slept the entire time. Henry?"
"He slept all the time I was there, too."
"Well, he'll wake up once Elijah's here. Daddy never could take his eyes off Elijah."
"Did he really call him 'Elwood'?"
"Called him everything: Doodle, Monkey, Bug, honey, sweetie, babes." She shook her head. "I've known Elijah my entire life; he's as much a part of my life as Daddy. It'll be wonderful to see him again, and to see him with Daddy, after all these years."
"Why did he stay away so long?" Blessing asked. She had found a bag of apples and took a big crunchy bite of one before offering it to Henry. He hesitated, then put his hand around hers and brought the apple to his mouth. It was tart, and sweet, and juicy; he had to quickly mop his chin.
"I don't know, honey. You'll have to ask him that. I know it nearly broke Daddy's heart when he left, though."
"Maybe he'll stay now," Henry said, still holding Blessing's apple.
"Maybe. Odd, to think that there are only three left." Lizzie stared out the kitchen window for a moment, looking tired and thoughtful. "I never imagined this day would come. I never imagined your dad would go, Henry."
"Neither did I," he said honestly. "Only toward the end, when he was in pain. Then I did. But Billy kept Dad from hurting too much. Billy took the best care of him."
No one answered, and really, Henry thought, what could they say? Of course Billy would do his best. Billy would have given Dom his own liver if it would have saved him. He turned away from the women for a minute to wipe his eyes, embarrassed. Too much was happening for him. He was a novelist, used to working and living alone, and suddenly he was surrounded by a family he'd never met before, and the rain of memories was like a rain of glass shards cutting at him as they fell.
"That's enough," Lizzie said firmly. "Henry, pour us a glass of wine. I'll fix some dinner, and Blessing can show off her talent for baking. Make us a cake, Bless. Something homey and comforting."
"Like pineapple upside-down cake?"
"Pardon me?" Henry asked, pausing in the midst of drawing out the cork in a bottle of pinot grigio.
"Very American," Lizzie told him. "And delicious; you're in for a treat. Great idea, Blessing."
Henry passed the evening in a chatter-filled haze; after years of living with his Mum's and Sian's silences and sulks, and then alone while he wrote, he found it pleasantly odd to be surrounded by Blessing and Lizzie's non-stop conversation and laughter. They knew each other; he couldn't imagine them running out of things to say. When he visited his mum, he slipped lists of topics for conversation into his pockets to avoid the awkward silences.
He glanced at his watch; Sian was in the air right now, flying over with Uncle Billy. He couldn't wait to see Billy again; it would almost be like seeing his dad, whom he missed bitterly. He so wanted his dad to meet Blessing, and to love her. Well, Billy would have to do.
And Elijah. Elijah-and-Sean, the way Blessing and Lizzie said it. He thought again how odd that these four men had found each other, in a continuous cycle of coming together, falling apart, and coming together again. They could never go very long without talking by phone or webcam, and Henry knew his dad had emailed the others regularly.
In bed, alone, wishing for Blessing's warm body to comfort him, Henry thought again how intertwined his life had been with hers, long before either of them were born. How Dom and Sean had been together, though not the same way that Billy and Dom were, or Elijah or Dom had been.
Dad, Dad, he thought, and sighed. You should be here now; I need you. He cried a little before he fell asleep, and dreamt of his father lying in Sean's bed, the one in his apartment that Henry had visited, someplace Dom had surely never been. Dad! Dream-Henry had said, scandalized to find his father there, but Dom had just smiled and held Sean's hand.
"Wake up, wake up," Billy said, and Henry opened his eyes to brilliant sunshine and Billy standing at the side of his bed. "What have you been and done now?" Billy asked him, sitting down to give him a hug.
Henry wrapped his arms around him tightly. "My God, but I've missed you," he whispered. Billy hugged him back, and Henry felt safe in his arms.
"Me, too, mah boy. Me, too." Billy kissed the top of Henry's head. "Now, get on wi' yah. Up, up. Places to go, things to do." He smacked Henry's backside on the way to the bathroom. "Haven't yah heard? There's a party today."
Henry stuck his head out of the bathroom to look at Billy. "I'm glad you're here, Uncle Billy," he said, enunciating carefully; Billy was a bit deaf these days. "I love you."
"Daft git," Billy said, but he was smiling.
~ ~ ~
The edge of the world, Elijah thought when he saw LAX wheeling beneath him. Terrifying how much on the edge of the world LA was. The ring of fire, he'd heard it called, and it was fiery and dangerous. The smog was worse than when he'd left, despite much publicized claims of improvement, and the freeways, despite their automated vehicles, even more clogged with traffic. He went straight to Sean's place, a beautiful retirement community for actors, augmented with assisted living for residents like Sean.
It was a long drive, and Elijah had time to reconsider why he was in LA. At Sean's behest, of course, and there wasn't much that Elijah wouldn't do for Sean. His dearest friend, despite the thousands of miles between them. No matter how much time they'd spent together, it had never been enough. Leaving had nearly killed Elijah, but staying had been hurting him and Sean, and so he'd gone, alone and lonely. He missed Sean, and he missed Dom. The ache in his heart sent him reeling into the walls at times, ever since he'd learned that Dom was gone.
Dom was a good man, he thought. Idiosyncratic, eccentric, frequently downright odd; always affected; always flamboyant; always high energy. But now where was all that energy? Was the sum total of energy in the universe diminished by a Dom-sized amount? Or was Dom right; had he been reincarnated into someone or something else?
He put his hand over his eyes as he remembered the last time he'd seen Dom. In New York, and both of them had been miserable. How he'd clung to Dom in desperation, thinking all the while of how hurt Sean would be if he knew. But he had found out, Elijah reminded himself, sniffing miserably at the memory. Why had he ever imagined that Sean wouldn't find out? Of course he knew; he knew the minute Elijah had walked through the door.
And what had Sean done? Gone back to sleeping with Dom. Not in retaliation; that wasn't Sean's style. But for comfort. How ironic was that, that Dom had comforted Sean for Elijah having sex with Dom. Rubbish, as Dom would have said. The entire scenario was rubbish. The three of them had never shared a bed, preferring a serial monogamy that irritated all of them.
And how to factor Billy into this mix? Elijah didn't dare try. He was confident that Billy would ream him a new one for staying away so long and for making Dom miserable. Beyond that, Elijah wouldn't guess.
He was deposited at the Frances Goldwyn Lodge and, carrying his luggage, began winding his way through the rose-lined paths, hoping to find someone who might know something. Eventually, he met a young woman pushing a large cart full of dirty towels. "Perdoname," he said hesitantly, his Spanish rusty after so many years away. "Donde esta Senor Sean Astin?"
"Alla," she responded, pointing. "A la izquierda."
"Gracias."
She nodded and began pushing the squeaking cart away. He turned to the left and began walking. Within ten minutes, he found Sean.
He was heavier than Elijah remembered; heavier than he'd been as Sam. He was soundly asleep in a wheelchair parked in the sun, a bottle of water on a small table by his side.
Elijah studied him for a long time. He stood, hands in his pockets, and watched his old friend sleep. He had loved Sean for more years than anyone else in his life except his family. Sean was family, really. Not blood kin, but true family, the kind you had to find for yourself. When Elijah had found Sean, he'd decided never to let go. Yet he had. Now he needed to find a way to return.
He took another step forward, and then knelt in front of him. Sean was breathing heavily, and his eyelids fluttered. He must be in REM, Elijah decided. Dreaming about their days in New Zealand, no doubt. That was one of Elijah's favorite dreams.
He reached out and stroked Sean's hair. Unlike the rest of the hobbits, Sean had kept most of his hair, though it was now a striking silver. His brow was wrinkled in thought, so Elijah rested his hand on Sean's forehead, smoothing away the furrows. Sean sighed heavily.
"Hey," Elijah whispered. " I missed you. So much. Come on, babes. Wake up for me." He leaned up and forward and kissed Sean on the lips. "Seanie?"
~ ~ ~
Sean slept in his chair in the sun, and dreamed.
~ ~ ~
This story concludes in Guttering Gold.