You asked for Gorendil, you got him! (Well, sort of.) ;-) Thanks for all the reviews, everyone -- I'm really glad you're enjoying this!
Four: Slipping
It's amazing how quickly an unnatural situation can come to seem natural. Of course I couldn't quite resign myself to my new living arrangements, but I found that if I kept it set in my mind that this was simply temporary, that things would change as soon as I came up with a way to dislodge Sauron from Mike's body, I could somehow find the strength to get through another day.
Too bad I'd been having absolutely no luck in figuring out just how to go about banishing Sauron from this plane of existence. Oh, I'd pored over the various volumes of the History of Middle Earth until it felt as if my eyeballs were about to start bleeding, but the little information I'd gleaned from the sections discussing him didn't seem to be terribly relevant. So he'd been Morgoth's servant first, and only branched out on his own after that first, even more terrible Dark Lord had been defeated. That Sauron had been fair to look upon in the beginning I already knew -- I'd seen that inhumanly beautiful guise for myself when I'd been in Middle Earth. And yes, he forged the Rings of Power (except for the three made by the Elves), but I couldn't find much beyond that save that he poured a great deal of his own power into the forging of the One Ring, which was why it possessed the ability to dominate the others. But exactly how Sauron had gone about making the Rings, or whether he had any vulnerabilities beyond destroying the One (which I'd already accomplished, for all the good it had done), I couldn't seem to discover at all.
So the days and then weeks slipped by, filled with enough distractions that some days I could almost forget I hadn't chosen this life for myself. Smike allowed me to take over the unused apartment above the two-car garage for my office/design studio, and I carted over my dress forms and sewing machines and turned the place into the usual fabric-store-caught-in-a-cyclone disaster that invariably occurs whenever I'm in the middle of a big sewing project. The rest of my friends at first had reactions similar to Lisa's, but everyone seemed to get used to the idea of my engagement after a bit. No doubt the four-carat platinum-set VVS rock that soon gleamed from the ring finger of my left hand convinced even the most skeptical that Mike and I were serious. A huge engagement party was planned for mid-October and coordinated by the indefatigable Marcia, who must have been a European field marshal in a previous life. And through it all I had the feeling of being swept along by forces I couldn't control, the sensation of plummeting down a mountain road in a car with no brakes. Maybe I should have had the guts to jump out and take my chances.
But I didn't.
The night before my engagement party I dreamed of Gorendil.
Oh, I'd had dreams about him before -- usually nightmares where I saw Sauron stab him once again, or ones where I thought I saw my former lover in a crowd and ran after him but somehow could never quite catch up. The worst, though, were the dreams where I thought Gorendil was making love to me, and I opened my eyes, only to realize it was Sauron who held me, who touched me.
Probably those were the worst because too often they weren't dreams at all, but my reality. Sauron never forced me; he didn't have to. He knew I was a thrall to the hideous threat he made the first day he arrived in San Marino. I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter, that it was only my body he used, and that my mind and soul were still free.
Some days I almost believed it.
But this dream was different. I walked through a gray fog, the sort of thick, heavy stuff that usually blankets the coasts but every once in a while makes it all the way to the inland valley where I live. The air even smelled damp, although I had no sensation of cold. And then I emerged into a sort of clearing in the mist, where a large flat rock sat, a granite slab almost the same color as the fog. The rock seemed familiar -- maybe something from a book I had once read -- but I couldn't recall exactly what, and I supposed it really didn't matter all that much. Sitting on the rock was Gorendil.
He looked subtly different. The shoulder-length dark hair had been cut short, and the gray streaks at his temples seemed more obvious than they had when his hair had brushed his shoulders. The scar across his right cheek had disappeared. Instead of the usual black robes, he wore contemporary clothing -- black as always, but this time just a plain button-up shirt and dress slacks. But he was still my Gorendil nonetheless.
I stopped a few feet away from the rock where he sat, as he lifted his head and stared at me. His eyes were an echo of the fog that swirled around us.
"I was wondering when you were going to get here," he said.
"Have you been waiting long?" I asked.
An enigmatic smile touched his mouth. "A lifetime."
Not sure how to answer that, I said, "If I'd known you were waiting, I would have hurried."
"Fair enough." Gorendil patted the empty space on the rock next to him, and I sat, feeling somehow overwhelmed by his closeness. So often I'd tortured myself with memories of him, the way his arms had felt around me, how the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened when he smiled, the sound of his voice. All I wanted to do then was lean against him and never wake up, to stay in the dream forever.
"I didn't think I would ever see you again," I whispered. My throat suddenly felt tight and thick with all the tears I'd wanted to shed and couldn't. "I know this isn't real, but -- "
"What is real?" he asked. "You more than most people should know how thin the fabric of reality can be."
Well, that was true. I'd had firsthand experience with discovering how strange a place the universe actually was. "So if I wish hard enough, can I make this dream the reality and my life the dream?" I inquired, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
In answer he reached out to touch my cheek. It certainly felt like Gorendil's hand: cool, strong, the fingertips callused from uncounted years of carrying a sword. "You have had to find a strength that perhaps you never knew you possessed," he said. "But far more than your own unhappiness is at stake here."
"Don't you think I know that?" I retorted. I thought of the way Sauron had threatened my father, and of the life the Dark Lord had stolen from Mike Westerfield.
"It goes beyond what you know." Gorendil's face was somber, his mouth set in a hard line. "There is a balance in all things, Sarah, a balance that Sauron has upset by coming to your world. Equilibrium is not easily regained once it is lost."
Feeling completely out of my depth, I demanded, "What are you trying to tell me? How could I have done anything differently?"
Again that unreadable smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Do I dare disturb the universe?"
Something about what he said sounded vaguely familiar, but things in dreams often do. At any rate, I didn't have time to puzzle out where I had heard those words before. "Do you have any idea what I've been going through for the past few weeks? To have him in my life at every turn, and to have to pretend to everyone that I'm happy and everything's fine? To let him touch me and -- " At that point I broke off.
His arms went around me then, and he pulled me to his chest and held me, the way I thought he'd never hold me again. Oddly, though, I could feel his heart beating beneath my cheek, and I sensed the rise and fall of his chest. When we were in Middle Earth I'd never seen any such signs of life in him, undead wraith that he'd been, but when had dreams ever been logical?
"Don't you think I bleed every time he touches you?" Gorendil asked, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't you know how I die a little more every time you sit in your car and weep, because it's the only place where you can be alone?" He pulled away from me then and cupped my face in his hands, forcing me to look up at him. The gray eyes that caught and held my own were filled with immeasurable pain. "But I stand it, because you do. Your hatred and sense for revenge fuel you, but you must look beyond that if you are to succeed in banishing him forever."
"What's stronger than hate?" I asked, but I thought I already knew the answer.
Gorendil smiled then. "Love, of course. The love you and I shared. The love you have for your parents and your desire to keep them from harm. Love for this innocent boy whose body Sauron has stolen. Oh, I know you did not love him the way you loved me," he added quickly, as I opened my mouth to utter some protest, "but you still loved him, and you have refrained from attacking Sauron outright because you don't want any harm to come to your friend. And beyond that there is your love for this world of yours, flawed though it might be. The shadows it has known will be as nothing compared to what will happen should Sauron ever achieve that which he seeks even now."
"What is he seeking?" I asked. Come to think of it, Smike had been acting even more furtive than usual lately. I'd never been able to hack the password on his computer, but he'd spent inordinate amounts of time working away at something, and the texts that had begun to pile up in his office were truly frightening. I think he left them out because he knew I couldn't make head or tail of them -- I'd opened one, caught a glimpse of a sea of fiendishly complex equations, and shut the book so quickly you'd have thought there was a scorpion crouched on the page. "Not another ring?"
"Nothing so simple," Gorendil replied, and the note of worry in his voice sounded stronger than ever. "I believe Sauron has realized the time for rings is past. He is able to avail himself of much more fearsome technology now."
I wondered what could be more frightening than that, then thought about nuclear bombs and biological weapons and chemical-warfare devices, all of which of course seemed vastly more destructive to me than the Rings of Power. "But what am I supposed to do?" I cried out. "Even if it were just Mike I'm up against, the guy has an IQ of 170 or something. There's no way I can outsmart him. And then when you have Sauron in there using all of Mike's knowledge -- "
"I cannot give you that answer now," Gorendil said. "I only know that you must have two things: courage, and faith. Without them you are doomed to fail."
"Courage I can manage." I made no effort to keep the acid out of my tone. "If I didn't have courage I couldn't make myself go home to that -- that thing every night. But I'm afraid I'm pretty short on faith right now."
Instead of getting angry, he just gave me a sad, knowing look. "Then let me only say that I have faith in you, Sarah. You defeated him once. You destroyed the Ring. Because of you Middle Earth is free. Let that be your rock, and perhaps you will come to faith in your own way." Again he reached out to touch my cheek, and I closed my eyes at the brush of his fingers against my skin. "Be vigilant, and watch for signs. Help may come when you least expect it." Then he leaned forward and kissed me, his lips firm against mine. Somehow I could feel the longing that seemed to radiate out from him, flowing over me, reassuring me of his love. He pulled away from me, then said, "Courage, dearest one."
And once the words had been uttered, it seemed as a gulf opened up between us. The mist flooded in around me, and I was blind, falling sightlessly through the darkness, until I sat up, gasping, in the bed I shared with Smike.
Thank God he didn't wake up. I'd noticed that he tended to sleep heavily, but I had no idea whether that was because Mike had always been a naturally heavy sleeper, or whether the strain of having two intelligences barely contained within it had taken a toll on Mike's mortal body.
The dream had seemed so real, I could still sense the imprint of Gorendil's lips on mine. I lifted my hand to my mouth, but of course I felt nothing but the residue of the lip balm I had applied before coming to bed. If the dream had somehow been no dream at all, wouldn't Gorendil's kiss have worn away the balm?
I knew I could drive myself mad with speculation. Of course it had been just a dream...although a very vivid and detailed one. So Gorendil wanted me to have faith, did he? Well, I would do my best. I had to believe that somehow I could prevail over Sauron, or I might as well swallow a bottle of sleeping pills and have done with it.
With that cheery thought to sustain me, I rolled over on my side and stared moodily out into the darkness. The last thing that swam up into my mind before I sank into sleep once more was a sudden realization as to why that one question Gorendil asked had sounded so familiar. My AP English days might have been far behind me, but I'd retained at least bits and pieces of the works we'd studied. Besides, my mother had always been a nut for T.S. Eliot.
Now, why would I would dream of Gorendil quoting from "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock"?
The afternoon of the engagement party I spent at a local salon, getting buffed and polished to perfection. At that point I couldn't have cared less what I looked like, but appearances had to be kept up, and the future Mrs. Westerfield couldn't possibly be seen at her own engagement party looking anything less than sublime. The girls at the salon chattered away about how excited I must be, oohed and aahed over my engagement ring -- which, I have to admit, is pretty spectacular -- and gushed over the general fabulousness of the whole event. A few months earlier I probably would have joined in whole-heartedly, but after my experiences in Middle Earth I thought I'd gained a bit of perspective, if nothing else.
Still, their efforts must have paid off, because after I emerged into the living room, trailing clouds of glory, Smike looked up from his laptop and stared at me for a moment. Then he said, in a half-surprised tone very different from the usual mocking accents he employed whenever we were alone together, "You really are beautiful."
For a second I was so shocked all I could do was stop dead in the center of the room, one hand frozen on the strap of my beaded Sue Wong gown, which had threatened to slip down off my shoulder. Was it possible? Had Sauron just paid me a compliment?
"Um...thanks," I replied after I regained the power of speech. "You're not looking half-bad yourself."
Which he wasn't. Apparently Mr. Westerfield had bullied Smike into getting a decent haircut at last, and between that and the expertly tailored dark-gray suit that now adorned his lanky form, my fiancé was barely recognizable as the rumpled grad student I had seen just that morning.
A burst of machine-gun typing, and then Smike closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table. "You're surprised."
"A little," I admitted. "You just never struck me as the compliment type."
"Perhaps some of Mike is rubbing off on me." He stood, then withdrew a set of car keys from his pants pocket.
"Well, that would explain it," I remarked. "Since Mike's manners were much better than yours."
Instead of provoking him, the comment merely elicited a quick grin. "Perhaps. But we should be going. I don't dare invoke the wrath of the fearsome Mr. Westerfield by being late."
"Just remember to call him 'Dad' when you see him," I said. "Even he might think 'Mr. Westerfield' is a little formal."
"Of course." He offered me his arm. "Shall we?"
I hesitated for the briefest moment, then took it. For whatever reason, Smike seemed to be in a rare good humor, and I didn't want to provoke him. I could only hope that he'd stay equally cheerful for the entire evening. It would make things so much less awkward.
Even so, I wondered what it was that had encouraged his current upbeat mood and worried that it could be nothing good...
Gorendil's voice echoed in my mind: Courage, dearest one.
I lifted my chin, took a breath, and let Smike lead me out to the car.
We pulled up into the long, curving driveway of Mr. Westerfield's palatial estate and waited as a valet hurried over to assist us. I know "palatial estate" is a hackneyed phrase at best, but that's exactly what the place was. Built about the same time, and of a size to rival the gorgeous mansion that currently contains the art galleries of the Huntington Museum, the Westerfield home sat on about five acres and was a sprawling Italianate villa that looked as if it should have been used as the set for the compound of a South American drug kingpin or something. Not that Nathaniel Westerfield would ever do anything so plebeian as rent out his property for a movie shoot -- he certainly didn't need the money.
When I first met Mike, it took almost two years before he invited me over to his house. At the time I'd just assumed that he was embarrassed by the place and didn't want me to see it. Although there certainly aren't any slums in San Marino, there are areas with more modest housing and apartment buildings, and I'd thought Mike must have been living in one of those and was comparing his home to the pretty four-bedroom Cape Cod my parents had recently purchased.
Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course. Or, to be precise, Mike was embarrassed -- by the size of his family home and the wealth it represented. He went in mortal fear of being liked simply because he was rich and had always done pretty much everything he could to present as down-to-earth an image to the rest of the world as possible. When his father had given him the shiny 7-Series as a present for earning his B.A. in three years, Mike had tried to think of ways to turn it down. Before that he'd driven an Acura Integra that had served him just fine, and he thought it wasteful to replace that car when it was barely four years old and still mechanically sound. But Mike also knew better than anyone else how difficult it is to say no to Nathaniel Westerfield, so he'd accepted the car with as much grace as he could muster.
On the other hand, it felt good to be helped out of such a gorgeous piece of German machinery when attending a bash like this. We were only about fifteen minutes late, but I could see that quite a few people had gotten there before us, judging by the number of cars stacked in front of the huge five-car garage at the far end of the curving driveway, not to mention the vehicles parked on the street itself.
I waited by the front door as Smike handed off the BMW to the valet. Then he came and took my arm again, leading me inside.
Even though I'd been to the house a score of times throughout high school and college, up until the point where Mike inherited his current residence from his grandfather, the place still amazed me. It was the sort of home where you kept thinking to yourself, This can't be real. I have to be on a movie set or something. And now, of course, the tastefully arranged antiques and eclectic but somehow harmonious collection of fine art were just enhanced by the exquisite floral arrangements that had been brought in for the party. Waiters in white evening jackets moved throughout the crowd, carrying trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
Smike snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to me. I accepted it gratefully, but at the same time I couldn't help wondering why he was being so nice. I knew how to react to him when he was being smug and snarky; this new well-behaved Smike troubled me and threw me a little off-balance.
I didn't have time to do much more than murmur, "Thank you," and take a sip of champagne before Mr. Westerfield materialized out of the enormous living room and appeared at Smike's elbow. He gave a significant look at his watch, and I felt compelled to say, "Sorry, Mr. Westerfield. It's my fault -- they kept me at the salon for hours."
He had the grace to smile and reply, "Well, you are definitely worth the wait, Sarah. But there are some people I'd like you to meet -- "
And he somehow managed to herd Smike and me out of the foyer, through the living room, and on to an enormous terrace where white fairy lights formed a canopy overhead and a band off to one side played soft jazz. Although it was mid-October, the night remained fairly warm; we'd had a run of Santa Ana winds, and the weather had been hot, although luckily the dry, dusty breezes had died down after a week of playing havoc with my sinuses and my hair.
Because the air felt so pleasant, the terrace outside was almost as crowded as the house itself. We moved through the throngs of people, and although I saw quite a few individuals I recognized, I knew better than to stop and say hello until after Mr. Westerfield had accomplished his mission.
His goal apparently was a tall dark-haired woman who, judging by her resemblance to Mike's father, must be an aunt or other close relation. My suspicion was confirmed when Mr. Westerfield said, "Sarah, this is Michael's Aunt Jocelyn, my sister."
I extended my hand. "It's so nice to meet you," I said politely, even as I racked my brains trying to remember what, if anything, Mike had told me about his aunt. He tended not to talk about his family much.
Jocelyn reached out and brushed my fingers with an expertly manicured hand. I guessed she probably was Mr. Westerfield's younger sister, although it was hard for me to tell for sure; her fine pale skin had obviously been Botoxed into submission. "Michael's told us so much about you," she said, although I detected a distinct lack of enthusiasm or warmth in her tone. Her dark eyes flickered as she looked me up and down; I got the impression that she would have opened my mouth and inspected my teeth if she'd dared.
"Nothing good, I hope," I said, attempting a smile.
The joke fell flatter than a crepe. Jocelyn raised an eyebrow, and Mr. Westerfield frowned slightly.
To my surprise, Smike jumped in to my rescue. "Oh, you know I rave about you all the time, Sarah. They're probably sick of listening to me by now."
"He is very -- enthusiastic," admitted Mr. Westerfield. "To be sure, we all are."
That was going a bit too far, but I certainly knew better than to contradict him. Instead, I managed a smile that felt almost natural and said, "Well, the feeling is mutual."
In response, Smike leaned down and kissed me on the cheek, while Mr. Westerfield gave his sister a glance that all but said, I know my son is making a mistake, but I can afford to indulge him. No doubt the two had already hashed over my shortcomings -- family of no great importance, not even a real college degree (for I knew that Mr. Westerfield considered my fashion studies frivolous at best), passably pretty but nothing to write home about.
To be sure, I did feel a little out of my element here -- Mike's aunt was dressed head to toe in Chanel, and there had to be probably a hundred thousand dollars' worth of Tahitian pearls draped around her neck. I didn't even want to guess the market value of Mr. Westerfield's house, not to mention how much money must be stacked up in his various accounts. He certainly hadn't blinked at the six-figure price tag for my engagement ring.
But I also knew I couldn't let them see that they'd intimidated me. Let Mike's aunt go home and pick me apart with the other Ladies Who Lunch -- I hoped when I got to be that age I'd have to courage to accept it and not fight it with injections that made me look like an extra from House of Wax. At least I knew that Mike (the real Mike) had loved me for me.
And it was Smike who saved me again, because after that he made his excuses and got me away from his father and aunt, saying that it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the guests if we didn't do some more mingling.
Once we were safely out of hearing range I paused and shot him a suspicious look. "All right, where is Sauron, and what have you done with him?"
Big brown eyes looked at me guilelessly over the rim of a champagne flute. "What do you mean?"
I took a sip of my own champagne before replying. "You're being way too nice to me."
He put a hand to his heart in mocking, wounded gesture. "I'm shocked -- shocked! -- that you'd say such a thing to me when you know how much I wu-u-u-v you."
I couldn't help it. He sounded so silly that I burst out laughing, and, to my surprise, he began to laugh as well. Again I felt that flash of the real Mike peeking out from inside -- maybe he couldn't control things or force Sauron out of his mind, but maybe Mike's personality wasn't as completely submerged as I had feared. All around us people looked over and smiled to see the two of us apparently enjoying ourselves so much. If only they'd known the truth.
The rest of the evening went by in a blur. I had my own fairly large extended family in attendance, all of whom had been dying to meet Mike, and I lost track of how many business associates and other acquaintances of Mr. Westerfield's I shook hands with. The champagne flowed freely. I have to confess that I got fairly plowed, although so many other people were also fuzzy around the edges that I'm not sure anyone really noticed. At least I managed to get through the night without knocking over anything or spilling anything on myself.
At some point around two o'clock in the morning Smike rolled me out of the house into the BMW, where I collapsed in a giggling heap in the front seat. Good thing I'm a happy drunk.
Smike himself had stopped drinking a few hours earlier; I couldn't recall whether that was because he was trying to be cautious or his father had quietly put the kibosh on any champagne refills since he knew Mike had to drive me home. After making sure my seatbelt was fastened -- I couldn't seem to manage it on my own -- he started up the car and pulled out of the driveway.
"You're very Mike-ly," I said, then laughed.
He shot me a sideways glance. "What?"
"More Mike, less Sauron," I replied, and hiccupped. "Oops."
"Do you usually drink this much?" he asked, looking a little alarmed.
"Worried that you're marrying a lush?" I eased my feet out of their Manolo Blahniks and wiggled my toes ecstatically. "Don't worry, Shmikey -- it's just the champagne. Keep that stuff out of the house, and I promise I'll be a model of sho -- sho -- sobriety." It took an effort to get out the three-syllable word, but I thought I managed it all right.
His only response was a shake of the head. He kept his eyes on the road, and drove carefully, I noticed. Probably just trying to avoid attention. Cops usually had the attitude that if you were out on the roads at that hour you had to have been drinking. San Marino police tended to be bored, as they often were in upscale communities, and therefore would pull you over for the slightest infraction.
The silence in the car seemed a little off-putting after the hubbub of the party, so I leaned over and switched on the radio. ZZ Top blared out of the speakers; apparently Smike had his car stereo tuned to the same eclectic station I often listened to (or he'd never changed Mike's presets), where The Cure could butt up against Tom Petty, Abba with Oingo Boingo, and no one blinked an eye.
I rolled down the window and let the cool night air stream in. It made me think of the times the dog my family had when I was younger would stick his head out of the open car window, and I did the same, giggling and bellowing, "Give me all your lovin', all your hugs and kisses t-o-o-o -- "
"Sarah!" Smike grabbed me by the arm and hauled me inside, then jabbed a button to close the window and engage the childproof mechanism. "Are you nuts?"
"Nope, just drunk," I replied, then collapsed like a wet noodle in my seat. "Are we there yet?"
He didn't answer; he didn't need to, since at that point we had turned down our street and glided into the driveway. After pulling into the garage, Smike commanded, "Don't move -- I'll help you out."
"'Kay," I said.
Then I waited as he disengaged his own seatbelt and came around to my side of the car. Again he worked the seatbelt, slid an arm behind me, and maneuvered me out of the BMW, then continued to guide me up the front walk into the house. Luckily we'd left a light on in the living room, or no doubt I would have walked right into the sofa.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked.
I waved an airy hand. "Oh, sure...I just need to take some of Lisa's patented hangover cure."
"What's that?"
"Glass of water, B-complex, and a couple of Tylenol. Take it before you go to bed, and poof!" I giggled. "No hangover."
"Fascinating," Smike commented, sounding so much like Mr. Spock from Star Trek that I began laughing even harder. That elicited a shake of the head, and he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, no doubt to fetch my miracle cure.
Sure enough, he returned carrying a glass of water and several pills. He handed them to me, and I swallowed the two Tylenol capsules, and then the big B-complex horse pill.
"You know what the problem is with B-complex vitamins?" I asked.
He shook his head.
I leaned forward and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, "They make you pee bright yellow."
"I couldn't have lived without knowing that."
I giggled again, and Smike apparently took that as a sign that any further coherent conversation was doubtful.
"Come on," he said, and half-led, half-carried me into the bedroom. Once we were there he helped me to sit down on the bed, and then he proceeded to carefully remove his suit and drape it over the chair that occupied the far corner of the room.
I had the vague idea that I should remove my dress, but since I happened to be sitting on it my efforts to pull it off were fruitless at best. After a moment Smike came over and, without comment, eased the gown up past my hips and then over my head. It was the sort of spaghetti-strapped slipdress that you couldn't wear anything much beyond a thong underneath, and once it was off he looked down at me again, eyes narrowed.
Neither of us said anything. Then he lifted me up and buried my mouth under his. I felt his hands moving up and down my naked body, but for the first time I almost welcomed his touch. Of course in my state I wasn't thinking clearly -- part of me responded because I somehow got it in my head that it was Mike touching me, not Sauron. And was that so bad? Maybe if things had been allowed to run their normal course I would have fallen for Mike anyway. I know that's what he wanted.
All I did know was that, as the night seemed to swirl around me and we fell down onto the bed together, for once I responded to him and felt pleasure for the first time since Gorendil had last made love to me.
But I was glad I retained enough of my sanity to cry out Mike's name at the end, and not Sauron's...
