“How dare you defile my daughter!”
Morganth stared back, impassive in the face of impending doom. Gods are hard to intimidate. Dracula was not all that impressed. He desired deific rank himself and Morganth might be an easy step towards achieving it. Easy being relative, of course. Morganth achieved his own divinity by eating the essence of two lesser deities while being manipulated by Panic and Chaos. Dracula had reached his status as a vampire patriarch by a similar route, minus the defeat of two deities. Maleficience patroned the vampiric champion.
Dracula's 'child,' which Morganth first thought to be a homuncula, was supposed to be his first worshipper. She had become Morganth's first believer and acolyte. The potential they saw in her, however, diverged widely.
“I did not defile her,” Morganth proposed. “I have made her a progenitor of an empire. One that will see the end of the likes of you and your ilk. If the next incarnation of man is to be monsters, then let them be protectors of humanity, not engines of destruction and entropy, feeding upon all life until it is snuffed out. My children shall be like you, but not of you. Not mindless minions that serve without purpose, but chosen guardians that will follow a code of honor...”
“Or be destroyed? Is that so different from my way?”
“If you see any correlation to my ends and your means, you are myopic.”
Rarely does one see a several-centuries-old being give a look of utter confusion. “Myopic?”
“Shortsighted...” Morganth knew his Romanian was anachronistic; he didn't care.
“Do you think your progeny through her will not hunger for blood? The mother is a vampire. The father is a soul drinker. I think their desire to drink life will be insatiable.”
“Then, they will learn to deal with it.”
Morganth turned and started to walk away. Dracula charged his back. Two heartbeats later, a sword curved from Morganth's hand through Dracula's sternum. Twisting the blade and yanking it back out made a crunching sound that would have indicated excruciating pain had the target been alive. Morganth then took two steps back toward the undead lord and touched a fingertip to his forehead granting him the gift of active nerve endings once more. “Because I can,” he simply stated, and walked away again.
December 31, 2008
December 30, 2008
A Pebble in Still Water
Year 15: The morning sun invades the motel room and enhances the tawdry thin carpet and grey bedsheets. The young man, barely more than a boy, puts his hand over his eyes. The glare is bad; the room smells worse. The smell of a thousand cheap cigarettes and of unwashed, sweaty bodies doing things best left unmentioned cling to the fabric surfaces. Turning away from the piercing rays of the sun, he is confronted with a sleeping bed partner. She is young, more young than beautiful, but attractive nonetheless. He himself still has the gangly, disproportionate physique of a teenager that hasn't quite grown into his new height. He runs his hand along her bare breast and gives it a soft squeeze. Still half out of it, she takes a fisted swing at him. Startled, he backs away from it as it swooshes by. As she awakens fully, she apologizes, explaining that she thought he was her pervert of a brother. A look of confusion crosses his face. She dismisses what she just said and asks why he stayed. He admits to dozing off after sex. She laughs. She tells him his polite, British accent is damn sexy. He suggests that that is probably a good indicator that he use his New Jersey accent so he can actually get through the next five years of college. She laughs again, grabbing a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it.
In the shoebox of a bathroom, he finds standing while urinating not a good idea. She stands and watches and smirks at his errant aim. He blushes uncomfortably. She asks what he means about college since he's obviously still in high school, does he go to Prep? No, he answers. He's accelerated and has been accepted into Yale as an accounting major with a business minor. He's smart? He nods. He offhandedly remarks about it only being book smarts and grandfathering that got him in. He offers to take her to breakfast. She turns him down because she has to go to work. He nods and starts to get dressed. As she's about to leave, he asks her name.
~~~~~
Two years have passed and he had no reason to come back to this greasy spoon. Having his own car is liberating and would take him to better venues, but for some reason, he just decides to walk the few blocks. He flips through the book list for the current year. He looks up as the waitress stops with a coffee pot in hand. His face registers surprise, then delight. She's filled out in all the right places. He, as well, looks broad-shouldered and more adult. His face has filled out. And he's tall. He's past the six-foot mark. Her look of exasperation turns to an infatuated stare. They both try to talk, but their words fall all over and entangle each other. After several false starts, she refers to him as Prince Charming. He calls her by name. The next morning, he awakes in the motel room alone.
~~~~~
Another three years, and the bright, sunny weather of late May greeted the young man as he stepped out to the sidewalk. The look of disdain on his face was hardly what one would expect of a graduate. He barely looked up when he heard a car door shut. His affect changed radically when he saw who it was. “Dad?”
He gave his father an exuberant hug. “You made it! I honestly thought you were going to stay in Europe.”
“Son, I wouldn't miss your graduation day if the Queen requested my presence. So, where's your brother?”
He ran his hand through his hair nervously. “He's still upstairs, Dad. He's ... they're not giving him the degree. Therefore, he's not going to the ceremonies. Personally, I may not either.”
“Did he finish he requisites?”
“Yes, Dad. It's not the usual reasons. He finished his thesis. He was grilled by the board. He passed every test and extra hurdle they threw at him. They waited until yesterday to tell him they're not awarding him the degree. But they want to give him an honorary Ph.D. In lieu of the Masters he earned for his 'fortitude of character.' Pfft. Suddenly, my cum laude doesn't taste so great. Does that make him the first man in this family not to graduate college in five hundred years?”
“Son, he graduated. He has the Bachelor's, correct?”
“He elected to get them simultaneously. He truly believed he would get them.”
“You should attend and accept your Masters.”
“I'll consider it, Dad. Mine was a foregone conclusion. I didn't spend a third of the time he did studying. I didn't have a handicap perception to overcome, either. Right now, I just want to take a walk.”
As he walked away, he noticed a woman frantically waving to him. He walked over to her. She had a toddler in one arm and a little girl at her side, and she looked very familiar...
~~~~~
“Nicole, why are you answering the phone?”
“I was standing next to it. Do we know a call check?”
“Call check?”
“I think that's what she said...”
Michael quickly tore the phone from his daughter's hand. “Wallace residence. Yes, I'll accept the charges. Nadine? ... Okay, where are you? ... I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Nicole, go get me three or four towels.”
“Who was that?”
“You'll find out soon enough. Get the towels, love.”
Nicole returned with an armful of fluff.
“Thank you, now find your sister and meet me downstairs. We're going out.”
Michael was waiting downstairs wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a sturdy umbrella. He quickly situated the girls in the back seat of his car and they drove off into a gloomy, rainy night. He said, “Nicole, please tell me you haven't forgotten who Nadine Kowalchuk is.”
“I don't know her.”
Michael sighed, but he wasn't surprised. Five years can be a long time to a child. He spent the twenty minute drive unusually quiet. He didn't talk to himself, hum or recite poetry, nor strike up conversation. He pulled into a train station that showed signs of disrepair. Grabbing the umbrella and a towel, he opened the car door and called into the dark, howling rain. She came running to him from under a leaky section of roofing. He quickly went around and helped her into the passenger seat. Once she dried her hair and face off, she didn't look too dissimilar to the waitress from years ago. She was wearing clothes that had seen better days and a wedding ring. Her distended belly jiggled of its own accord. “You can't blame me this time,” he blurted out.
She could still swing a fist. Michael deftly deflected her punch and looked in the back seat. “Nicole, Krystie, say hello to your mother.”
In the shoebox of a bathroom, he finds standing while urinating not a good idea. She stands and watches and smirks at his errant aim. He blushes uncomfortably. She asks what he means about college since he's obviously still in high school, does he go to Prep? No, he answers. He's accelerated and has been accepted into Yale as an accounting major with a business minor. He's smart? He nods. He offhandedly remarks about it only being book smarts and grandfathering that got him in. He offers to take her to breakfast. She turns him down because she has to go to work. He nods and starts to get dressed. As she's about to leave, he asks her name.
~~~~~
Two years have passed and he had no reason to come back to this greasy spoon. Having his own car is liberating and would take him to better venues, but for some reason, he just decides to walk the few blocks. He flips through the book list for the current year. He looks up as the waitress stops with a coffee pot in hand. His face registers surprise, then delight. She's filled out in all the right places. He, as well, looks broad-shouldered and more adult. His face has filled out. And he's tall. He's past the six-foot mark. Her look of exasperation turns to an infatuated stare. They both try to talk, but their words fall all over and entangle each other. After several false starts, she refers to him as Prince Charming. He calls her by name. The next morning, he awakes in the motel room alone.
~~~~~
Another three years, and the bright, sunny weather of late May greeted the young man as he stepped out to the sidewalk. The look of disdain on his face was hardly what one would expect of a graduate. He barely looked up when he heard a car door shut. His affect changed radically when he saw who it was. “Dad?”
He gave his father an exuberant hug. “You made it! I honestly thought you were going to stay in Europe.”
“Son, I wouldn't miss your graduation day if the Queen requested my presence. So, where's your brother?”
He ran his hand through his hair nervously. “He's still upstairs, Dad. He's ... they're not giving him the degree. Therefore, he's not going to the ceremonies. Personally, I may not either.”
“Did he finish he requisites?”
“Yes, Dad. It's not the usual reasons. He finished his thesis. He was grilled by the board. He passed every test and extra hurdle they threw at him. They waited until yesterday to tell him they're not awarding him the degree. But they want to give him an honorary Ph.D. In lieu of the Masters he earned for his 'fortitude of character.' Pfft. Suddenly, my cum laude doesn't taste so great. Does that make him the first man in this family not to graduate college in five hundred years?”
“Son, he graduated. He has the Bachelor's, correct?”
“He elected to get them simultaneously. He truly believed he would get them.”
“You should attend and accept your Masters.”
“I'll consider it, Dad. Mine was a foregone conclusion. I didn't spend a third of the time he did studying. I didn't have a handicap perception to overcome, either. Right now, I just want to take a walk.”
As he walked away, he noticed a woman frantically waving to him. He walked over to her. She had a toddler in one arm and a little girl at her side, and she looked very familiar...
~~~~~
“Nicole, why are you answering the phone?”
“I was standing next to it. Do we know a call check?”
“Call check?”
“I think that's what she said...”
Michael quickly tore the phone from his daughter's hand. “Wallace residence. Yes, I'll accept the charges. Nadine? ... Okay, where are you? ... I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Nicole, go get me three or four towels.”
“Who was that?”
“You'll find out soon enough. Get the towels, love.”
Nicole returned with an armful of fluff.
“Thank you, now find your sister and meet me downstairs. We're going out.”
Michael was waiting downstairs wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a sturdy umbrella. He quickly situated the girls in the back seat of his car and they drove off into a gloomy, rainy night. He said, “Nicole, please tell me you haven't forgotten who Nadine Kowalchuk is.”
“I don't know her.”
Michael sighed, but he wasn't surprised. Five years can be a long time to a child. He spent the twenty minute drive unusually quiet. He didn't talk to himself, hum or recite poetry, nor strike up conversation. He pulled into a train station that showed signs of disrepair. Grabbing the umbrella and a towel, he opened the car door and called into the dark, howling rain. She came running to him from under a leaky section of roofing. He quickly went around and helped her into the passenger seat. Once she dried her hair and face off, she didn't look too dissimilar to the waitress from years ago. She was wearing clothes that had seen better days and a wedding ring. Her distended belly jiggled of its own accord. “You can't blame me this time,” he blurted out.
She could still swing a fist. Michael deftly deflected her punch and looked in the back seat. “Nicole, Krystie, say hello to your mother.”
December 29, 2008
Reduced to the Absurd
Michael sat watching a movie when Morgan came in and sat across from him. Michael muted the television and looked across at Morgan, who'd obviously cleaned himself up, but had been in some sort of altercation. “What happened to you?”
“I was away on a contract.” Morgan said flatly. Sometimes getting Morgan to elaborate was like waiting for a pig to sing. Michael inventoried his visible injuries.
“You've an eyepatch, two facial scars and a bandage on one wrist.”
“Someone hit me with a car. It didn't end well for the vehicle or its driver.”
Perspective can make big things much smaller. “You survived an hit and run and could walk home?”
“I could walk on a multiple fracture,” Morgan reminded.
“So, how badly hurt are you?”
“I bruised two ribs and am very stiff right now, but the force wall took the brunt of the momentum.”
“Force wall?!”
“I'm getting better at mental projection.”
“Why didn't you ask me to go with you?”
“Because I'd planned on standing in front of a moving vehicle.”
“But you put up a shield.”
Morgan hemmed. “I thought of that at the last second.”
“You were just going to let a vehicle slam into you full force?”
“And while it passed over, snap its brake line. Mentally, if necessary.”
“Morgan... I don't know how to tell you how stupid that sounds.”
“I think you just did. And I did amend the idea at the last moment.”
“And the driver?”
“Got thrown fifty feet clear of the vehicle. This ought to make an interesting police report. Translocation was a challenge on this one. Timing myself in and out and then finding someone to repair me was difficult.”
Michael stared at Morgan in exasperation. Morgan closed his eyes and leaned back. Michael turned back towards the television, then clicked the sound back on to hear about a unusal crash during rush hour in Oregan. Eyewitnesses metioned a 'ghost' appearing before the car. Michael reflexively asked, “Did Mother put you up to this?”
Looking back, Morgan was shaking uncontrollably, giving Michael his answer. Then, Michael thought he heard a ghostly “Good Boy.”
Michael cursed her to the ninth circle of hell while running to the staircase and yelling down, “Get the cocktail. Morgan's having a fit.”
Morgan gripped his head, his entire body quivering. Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket, clamped his arms around him, and held him still. Morgan made an ghastly wail. His mouth foamed. Then, he said, in a strained voice, “Rum...”
Michael almost released his tense grip in surprise. “Rum,” Morgan repeated, “I neethe...”
“No,” Michael said sternly, “you can't have it with medicine.”
“No...” A gargle and bloody ooze issued from his lips. “No med...”
Michael worked his hand around to hold the cloth to Morgan's mouth. “Rum won't help, either.”
“Pleathe....”
“Morgan, no...”
“Voithes, no... voithes...”
“Alcohol gets rid of the voices?”
“Yeth.”
“We'll give you an antipsych.”
“No worcth. Her voithe....”
“Her voice? You mean mother's? Alcohol gets rid of mother's voice in your head?”
Morgan cried, “Yeth... yeth.. ack...”
Michael shifted their position and a mouthful of green bile came up. “So, that's why you drink so much. You can always hear her... when you're sober.”
Morgan was no longer coherent, but Michael was no longer in the dark about his brother's constant evasion of medication in favor of the liquor cabinet.
“I was away on a contract.” Morgan said flatly. Sometimes getting Morgan to elaborate was like waiting for a pig to sing. Michael inventoried his visible injuries.
“You've an eyepatch, two facial scars and a bandage on one wrist.”
“Someone hit me with a car. It didn't end well for the vehicle or its driver.”
Perspective can make big things much smaller. “You survived an hit and run and could walk home?”
“I could walk on a multiple fracture,” Morgan reminded.
“So, how badly hurt are you?”
“I bruised two ribs and am very stiff right now, but the force wall took the brunt of the momentum.”
“Force wall?!”
“I'm getting better at mental projection.”
“Why didn't you ask me to go with you?”
“Because I'd planned on standing in front of a moving vehicle.”
“But you put up a shield.”
Morgan hemmed. “I thought of that at the last second.”
“You were just going to let a vehicle slam into you full force?”
“And while it passed over, snap its brake line. Mentally, if necessary.”
“Morgan... I don't know how to tell you how stupid that sounds.”
“I think you just did. And I did amend the idea at the last moment.”
“And the driver?”
“Got thrown fifty feet clear of the vehicle. This ought to make an interesting police report. Translocation was a challenge on this one. Timing myself in and out and then finding someone to repair me was difficult.”
Michael stared at Morgan in exasperation. Morgan closed his eyes and leaned back. Michael turned back towards the television, then clicked the sound back on to hear about a unusal crash during rush hour in Oregan. Eyewitnesses metioned a 'ghost' appearing before the car. Michael reflexively asked, “Did Mother put you up to this?”
Looking back, Morgan was shaking uncontrollably, giving Michael his answer. Then, Michael thought he heard a ghostly “Good Boy.”
Michael cursed her to the ninth circle of hell while running to the staircase and yelling down, “Get the cocktail. Morgan's having a fit.”
Morgan gripped his head, his entire body quivering. Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket, clamped his arms around him, and held him still. Morgan made an ghastly wail. His mouth foamed. Then, he said, in a strained voice, “Rum...”
Michael almost released his tense grip in surprise. “Rum,” Morgan repeated, “I neethe...”
“No,” Michael said sternly, “you can't have it with medicine.”
“No...” A gargle and bloody ooze issued from his lips. “No med...”
Michael worked his hand around to hold the cloth to Morgan's mouth. “Rum won't help, either.”
“Pleathe....”
“Morgan, no...”
“Voithes, no... voithes...”
“Alcohol gets rid of the voices?”
“Yeth.”
“We'll give you an antipsych.”
“No worcth. Her voithe....”
“Her voice? You mean mother's? Alcohol gets rid of mother's voice in your head?”
Morgan cried, “Yeth... yeth.. ack...”
Michael shifted their position and a mouthful of green bile came up. “So, that's why you drink so much. You can always hear her... when you're sober.”
Morgan was no longer coherent, but Michael was no longer in the dark about his brother's constant evasion of medication in favor of the liquor cabinet.
December 28, 2008
Declension
The police arrived within four minutes of several calls to 9-1-1 regarding a loud fight and reported gunfire. There was no answer at the apartment in question, so they broke it down. Inside, the walls were painted with splattered gore. The signs of a violent fight were all over the main room – bullet holes, broken furniture, fingernail and knife scratches, a mix of bodily fluids, strenuously broken drywall. In a tight kitchenette, two bodies were found, one was still moving. The dead one had a broken skull and a gun in his hand. The live one was curled in a corner, rocking. He didn't respond to questions or demands. They searched him and found his wallet and a metal tag marked 'schizophrenia.' His ID states he's legally blind.
The current tenant came home and freaked at the sight of the place. She said she lived there with her son and current boyfriend. She identifies the boyfriend as the dead body. She doesn't recognize the other man. He submissively stands and is led out so the coroner has some room to work. He seemed incapable of speech and gesticulated in response to questions. He would occasionally nod and shake his head, too, but when he tried to speak, only inarticulate noises came from his mouth. EMTs presumed he was disoriented. His forehead was puffy and a silvery haze, presaging a humongous bruise, covered half his face...
Morgan awoke with a cottony feeling in his mouth. He identified the soft beeping of a pulse-ox monitor and recognized the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. Hazily, he tried to reconstruct what had happened to him. His head swam. Pain medication, perhaps? He went to lift his left hand and found it cuffed to the bedrail. He vacantly wondered how long it would take Michael to find him, only to feel grey despair creep in him as he remembered that Michael would never again come looking for him. He was on his own.
Someone was speaking to him. The words didn't all make sense. The person was talking too quickly, too harshly, too flatly. So, he heard words, but no meaning. He tried to tell the person to slow down. The sounds from his own mouth slurred out like limp noodles. The speaker kept talking. Death? Fight? Attack? He started smacking his head with his hand. He just wanted the words to stop, to give him a chance to think first.
The next time he awoke, the world felt more distinct. He was drugged for pain and seizures. The restraints he wore this time were more traditional. He fought the inclination to worm around like he normally did when restrained. “Hello?” he said. It was fairly clear, but it actually hurt his face to talk. There was another string of questions but asked more slowly and softly.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No,” he answered.
“Do you remember what happened to you?”
“No.”
“Do you remember your name?”
He blinked as if it took effort to remember. “Wallace,” he answered slowly. “Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace. You may call me Mr. Wallace.”
“Okay, Mr. Wallace. Your sister-in-law would like to see you. Is that okay?”
“I have a sister-in-law?”
“Yes, you do.”
“What happened to me?”
“You suffered a concussion and a fractured skull. You were hit on the head with a baseball bat.”
“I am tied down.”
“You have been thrashing violently in your sleep.”
All of this seemed familiar and yet incongruous. “It makes no sense.”
“What doesn't make sense, Mr. Wallace?”
“I do not remember.”
Whoever was speaking to him walked away. “He's suffering from amnesia. He may need therapy before he remembers anything.”
He heard someone softly approach with the smell of violets and fresh linen. A cool hand touched his uninjured cheek. “Hello, Morgan. It's Margaret. Do you remember me?”
Morgan's weakly said, “No. I don't remember, Margaret, but I remember that Michael had children.”
“That's good. It would have been very bad if you'd forgotten him. They said you were in a fight, that you might have killed someone.”
“Where am I?”
A voice from somewhere farther away authoritatively stated, “You're in the mental ward at Bellevue in New York City.”
Morgan broke out in a cold sweat.
Margaret's voice tried to reassure him. “You were having terrible fits. I don't know how Michael held you down by himself during cataleptic seizures because it took three large men to keep you from hurting yourself.”
A police detective introduced himself. Morgan's brain didn't hold on to his name. In fact, most of what the detective said just rolled over him and he barely noticed most of the details. He was talking about where they'd found him. Something was mentioned about his condition. Suddenly, the word Greystone was mentioned. The restraints didn't work well enough. He snapped his wrist clean apart.
December 27, 2008
Be Careful What You Search For
Michael walked south in the Barrens, roughly parallelling a stream stained the color of tea. Pine needles attached to his tweed jacket like nettles. From time to time, he would brush them off, but he paid them little mind overall. As the day shifted to afternoon, the sun glistened upon a body of water ahead. He quietly cast a full cantation while his fingers stroked the surface of the startlingly blue water. An image tingled in his mind and he continued walking. As he reached another body of water, this one the typical tannic brown, he started another cantation, his hands turned with the palms towards his face, arms outstretched. As his mouth recited a thick, ancient language the water started rippling in large deep troughs from the center outward. As his cantation turned into a song, reality slipped and a dun-colored wyrm flew from the water. It turned upon itself in a writhing Gordian knot before hovering inches from Michael's face.
“Find the Leed's Devil. I wish to speak to it.” He spoke in Draconic.
The air serpent blinked at him a couple of times before flying away to search. Michael sat by the pool to wait. He became aware of a small group of young children looking at him. They looked to be Pineys and were certainly not coming forward to talk to him. He looked away and paid them no mind. Just another story to be added to the folklore. The state was a fertile ground for such tales.
Several off-world 'wormholes' ended in Jersey's remote areas. Coincidence, maybe, or groups of explorers may have followed others to the same approximate point, leaving stable portals behind. Their existence created flares of paranormal activity and anywhere from seven to ten thousand nonhuman humanoids lived between Delaware, Philly, and NYC, often interbreeding with the local population. If he really stopped to think about it, he might've tried to cover his actions today, but after centuries of oddities, summoning dragonborn in the Pine Barrens seemed no more unusual that the occasional monster that wandered here on its own. There were other 'hellmouth' nexi on Earth, in remote areas, but in few places was the veil as thin for interdimensional planeswalking as here.
Michael patiently waited until the sky grew dark. This much, he had expected. His target was nocturnal. Unfortunately, his scrying arcana worked best in bright day light or highly controlled conditions. An inhuman screech filled the air, as if a bird the size of jetliner was heading his way.
The wyrm drove to the ground what could best be described as a furry, three-foot-tall chicken with the head of a horse. Its duty met, the large serpent plunged into the pond and disappeared back to its native plane. Michael stared puzzledly at the 'devil.' It was an odd beast, but hardly seemed devilish. It regarded him in a manner befitting an ostrich. He took a step toward it and it scrambled away, still considering him. He tried singing to see if it attuned to any of it, but no intelligent response came. Michael had to conclude it was merely a very odd animal. If it had any vicious forebears, none of it had passed down to this individual. That left some other gigantic beast to feed some of the legends. His curiousity sated for the time being, Michael started a cantation to go home.
Without warning, the creature suddenly took on mythical proportions. Michael fought to keep his voice steady. The creature went to bite him and his spell shattered like glass as he ducked away. It quickly became one of those times Michael philosophically questioned his aversion to boredom.
“Find the Leed's Devil. I wish to speak to it.” He spoke in Draconic.
The air serpent blinked at him a couple of times before flying away to search. Michael sat by the pool to wait. He became aware of a small group of young children looking at him. They looked to be Pineys and were certainly not coming forward to talk to him. He looked away and paid them no mind. Just another story to be added to the folklore. The state was a fertile ground for such tales.
Several off-world 'wormholes' ended in Jersey's remote areas. Coincidence, maybe, or groups of explorers may have followed others to the same approximate point, leaving stable portals behind. Their existence created flares of paranormal activity and anywhere from seven to ten thousand nonhuman humanoids lived between Delaware, Philly, and NYC, often interbreeding with the local population. If he really stopped to think about it, he might've tried to cover his actions today, but after centuries of oddities, summoning dragonborn in the Pine Barrens seemed no more unusual that the occasional monster that wandered here on its own. There were other 'hellmouth' nexi on Earth, in remote areas, but in few places was the veil as thin for interdimensional planeswalking as here.
Michael patiently waited until the sky grew dark. This much, he had expected. His target was nocturnal. Unfortunately, his scrying arcana worked best in bright day light or highly controlled conditions. An inhuman screech filled the air, as if a bird the size of jetliner was heading his way.
The wyrm drove to the ground what could best be described as a furry, three-foot-tall chicken with the head of a horse. Its duty met, the large serpent plunged into the pond and disappeared back to its native plane. Michael stared puzzledly at the 'devil.' It was an odd beast, but hardly seemed devilish. It regarded him in a manner befitting an ostrich. He took a step toward it and it scrambled away, still considering him. He tried singing to see if it attuned to any of it, but no intelligent response came. Michael had to conclude it was merely a very odd animal. If it had any vicious forebears, none of it had passed down to this individual. That left some other gigantic beast to feed some of the legends. His curiousity sated for the time being, Michael started a cantation to go home.
Without warning, the creature suddenly took on mythical proportions. Michael fought to keep his voice steady. The creature went to bite him and his spell shattered like glass as he ducked away. It quickly became one of those times Michael philosophically questioned his aversion to boredom.
December 26, 2008
Speaking on His Better Half
It is a normal practice among humans that, even among the more heinous acts, to have codes of conduct. Even when broken or ignored, these codes are still present in their minds. Even if a criminal does not know the exact law being broken, they know that one exists to directly oppose what they are doing. The humans have secular laws that forbid acts and religious laws that forbid intentions. The first is to govern society; the second governs morality. Often, one incurs on the other in primacy. The struggles for primacy between them are not unlike the Magir Council. And humans are thorough creatures, their laws are extensive and exhuastive. If a law or writ does not exist to deal with a situation, they will try to create one, or, occasionally, pretend one exists. Rare is the time they just let a conflict lie unaswered in any form.
Strangely, despite conflict being an everyday occurance, and war a major part of their cultures and history, the humans do have an unusual notion of 'world peace.' They have a naïve and juvenile hope that the whole world might someday drop all their conflicts and get along. While they have many theories on how to go about making the world work together, even the most cynical knows what peace is. The humans are social creatures and it takes a severe amount of trauma and isolation to drive the 'humanity' out of any individual.
Left to their own devices, I think they will find more efficient ways to kill each other and more efficient ways to understand each other. They will explore the stars and they will find more ways to cook an egg than we'll ever know. They will believe in a benevolent creator or a benevolent society or nothing overarching at all, and they will still prosper. They will occasionally be accosted by sweeping pandemics that will thin their numbers and then continue with a stronger, smarter stock. They will live with food shortages and destructive industries. They will continue to have relatively short lives and, yet, they will be meaningful and intense, for even the most mundane among them has more intelligent and coherent faculties than the average mage. For what they lack in magecraft, they have, far greater, in resourcefulness and creativity. - Michael's address to the Divine Council to include humans among the advanced races
December 24, 2008
Michael's Wish, Fin
After a good meal, Michael and Morgan situated themselves together in the rarely used main library. Morgan was showing signs of fatigue, but sat arrow straight at a writing desk and placed a dented, muddy, blood-caked microcassette recorder on the desk. He opened the device and shook out the cassette. “Michael, this is to answer the question you unfailingly ask after any of my absences.”
He carefully placed the tape on desk surface. “Any other questions should wait until I have had a chance to rest.”
Michael vocally nodded and pocketed it. Morgan stretched out on the library's old leather couch. As he closed his eyes, he mentioned, “I am running out of hiding places in my home.”
Michael dragged out an old steno-recorder. He looked at his brother as he put on the headset. The tape was scratchy and sounded overused:
Outside of Denville, found a car accident, used driver's cell phone to dial 911 then left.
Trenton, found a rape in progress, stopped assailant, left victim at ER, sustained knife wound
Philadelphia, rescued bystanders from shootout, two gunshot wounds
Leesburg, rescued family from housefire, first and second degree burns
Ardmore, prevented [.....]
Michael grimaced. He pulled the tape out. It had split. He tried splicing it. The small size made it difficult. After several attempts, he finally got it in useable condition:
Mogadishu, ushered refugees to Red Cross encampment, abrasians, cuts, ordnance blast taken in chest and abdomen
*loud squeal*, liberated diamond workers, broke third finger
swept mines near Pakistani border, right earlobe avulsed
rerouted lava flows in Spice Islands, no injury... possible heat stroke
attempted to smuggle family out of North Korea, tank or mortar fire to the lower ribs
Michael snapped the machine off and sat in stunned silence. This was how Morgan spent Christmas. While Michael sat here in a palace and enjoyed family, friends, food, presents, pageantry and love, Morgan bled.
Michael knelt down next to Morgan and looked at his sleeping visage. His hand reached out and stroked his brother's hair. Morgan roused as teardrops hit his face. “Michael, is something wrong?”
“No, Morgan. There is nothing wrong, nothing wrong with you at all. If this is how you want to spend your holidays, I will never complain about you being away again.”
“I did not succeed in Korea,” Morgan stated sadly.
“It doesn't matter, Morgan. The road to heaven is paved with your blood.”
“It's not heroic. I'm not risking anything.”
“Yes, it is. You may not be risking, but you are sacrificing. You're not immune to pain, loneliness, suffering, hunger, blood loss, heartache. But every year, you go, don't you?”
“Yes, but do not make it out as more than what it is. I am only balancing my karma and I am still seriously in the red.”
“The whole omniverse is in the red, Morgan. It's not just you. What does any iteration of humanity hone but worlds of warcraft? The only advances most races make are based on hating and hurting others.”
“As Guardian of the Dragon Summoner, I should at least be able to keep my own brother from crying.” Morgan placed a hand on Michael's face. “Please, smile. I made this choice to salve my own soul. Someday it may be like yours.”
Michael felt his lips rise at the corners. He shook his head disbelievingly. “I remember when we were little and you thought Jesus was a human reference to me. Is that what you mean?”
Morgan sat up. He was smiling himself. “Mother was insulted that I referred to you as a human demi-god. She would not let me celebrate his Mass as a result. I found my own way to celebrate both him and you, though.”
Morgan could feel Michael's surprised expression. “Is that why?”
Morgan smiled wider:
“Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuer-trunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.”
Michael relented:
“Mortals, join the mighty chorus
which the morning stars began;
love divine is reigning o'er us,
binding all within its span.
Ever singing, march we onward,
victors in the midst of strife;
joyful music leads us sunward,
in the triumph song of life.”
(Merry Christmas and thanks to TVTropes.org, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Edgar Allen Poe, and Beethoven for the inspiration.)
He carefully placed the tape on desk surface. “Any other questions should wait until I have had a chance to rest.”
Michael vocally nodded and pocketed it. Morgan stretched out on the library's old leather couch. As he closed his eyes, he mentioned, “I am running out of hiding places in my home.”
Michael dragged out an old steno-recorder. He looked at his brother as he put on the headset. The tape was scratchy and sounded overused:
Outside of Denville, found a car accident, used driver's cell phone to dial 911 then left.
Trenton, found a rape in progress, stopped assailant, left victim at ER, sustained knife wound
Philadelphia, rescued bystanders from shootout, two gunshot wounds
Leesburg, rescued family from housefire, first and second degree burns
Ardmore, prevented [.....]
Michael grimaced. He pulled the tape out. It had split. He tried splicing it. The small size made it difficult. After several attempts, he finally got it in useable condition:
Mogadishu, ushered refugees to Red Cross encampment, abrasians, cuts, ordnance blast taken in chest and abdomen
*loud squeal*, liberated diamond workers, broke third finger
swept mines near Pakistani border, right earlobe avulsed
rerouted lava flows in Spice Islands, no injury... possible heat stroke
attempted to smuggle family out of North Korea, tank or mortar fire to the lower ribs
Michael snapped the machine off and sat in stunned silence. This was how Morgan spent Christmas. While Michael sat here in a palace and enjoyed family, friends, food, presents, pageantry and love, Morgan bled.
Michael knelt down next to Morgan and looked at his sleeping visage. His hand reached out and stroked his brother's hair. Morgan roused as teardrops hit his face. “Michael, is something wrong?”
“No, Morgan. There is nothing wrong, nothing wrong with you at all. If this is how you want to spend your holidays, I will never complain about you being away again.”
“I did not succeed in Korea,” Morgan stated sadly.
“It doesn't matter, Morgan. The road to heaven is paved with your blood.”
“It's not heroic. I'm not risking anything.”
“Yes, it is. You may not be risking, but you are sacrificing. You're not immune to pain, loneliness, suffering, hunger, blood loss, heartache. But every year, you go, don't you?”
“Yes, but do not make it out as more than what it is. I am only balancing my karma and I am still seriously in the red.”
“The whole omniverse is in the red, Morgan. It's not just you. What does any iteration of humanity hone but worlds of warcraft? The only advances most races make are based on hating and hurting others.”
“As Guardian of the Dragon Summoner, I should at least be able to keep my own brother from crying.” Morgan placed a hand on Michael's face. “Please, smile. I made this choice to salve my own soul. Someday it may be like yours.”
Michael felt his lips rise at the corners. He shook his head disbelievingly. “I remember when we were little and you thought Jesus was a human reference to me. Is that what you mean?”
Morgan sat up. He was smiling himself. “Mother was insulted that I referred to you as a human demi-god. She would not let me celebrate his Mass as a result. I found my own way to celebrate both him and you, though.”
Morgan could feel Michael's surprised expression. “Is that why?”
Morgan smiled wider:
“Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuer-trunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.”
Michael relented:
“Mortals, join the mighty chorus
which the morning stars began;
love divine is reigning o'er us,
binding all within its span.
Ever singing, march we onward,
victors in the midst of strife;
joyful music leads us sunward,
in the triumph song of life.”
(Merry Christmas and thanks to TVTropes.org, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Edgar Allen Poe, and Beethoven for the inspiration.)
Michael's Wish, part 12
The family awoke at a leisurely pace. There was no rush to get up and see what was under the tree. Michael disabused the children of any notion that Santa would stop at their mansion. He taught them that Santa only gave to children who needed the joy and hope of a surprise gift. He also taught them that as people of privilege, they had a responsibility to be generous and helpful to Santa's recipients. The tradition was one of many passed to him from his father.
Snowstorms are rare in December in New Jersey. A beautiful blanket of snow greeted Michael that morning. It looked to be three or four inches deep. He let the curtain fall back over the window as Margaret stirred. He smiled and slid back into bed as her eyes opened. He kissed her deeply as his hands unworked the lacefront of her gown. They were well on their way to conceiving another child when a trio of servents came in with a light breakfast. Both parties ignored each other and continued on in their respective activities.
After hearing his wife's exultant cry of joy, Michael eased himself back down onto the pillows by her side. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered. She laughed and pulled him into another embrace. He softly kissed her cheek as his line of sight rolled upward toward the door... and he noticed a crowd watching them.
Michael quickly pulled the bedclothes up to their waists. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Um, two or three orgasms ago?” “Two minutes before you made that odd grunting noise..” “Five minutes before her fanny got exposed.” “Is that a kind of gymnastics?” “Nah, I'll bet it's wrestling.” “May I try that?”
Margaret turned a deep purple and buried her face in Michael's chest. Michael's face acquired an odd tic seemingly caused by equal parts indignation and amusement. Amusement won out in his facial expression while he ordered, “Floor shows over. Everyone out while we try to salvage our dignity.”
“But we were having breakfast in here!”
Alexandra was firmly marched out the door with the rest of the giggling rubberneckers. Margaret said into his chest, “I don't think I'm getting my dignity back after that.”
“You will always have your dignity, Margaret. And at least you now have corroborating witnesses to your lovely ass.”
She smacked him with a pillow. Then, a suspicious look crept into her eyes. “Wait a minute. Why would the breakfast be brought in here, anyway? It would normally be in your sitting room.”
Michael smiled guiltily. “The children cornered me the other day and asked me where babies came from because they wanted more brothers and sisters. I tried to explain to them as best I could then said I would try to do it for them on Christmas morning. Then, they asked if they could watch...”
She hit him again; this time with her open hand. He continued, “I'd rather they see it as a healthy activity between a married couple than learn from pornography.”
The look of incredulity on her face was priceless. “Did your father teach you this way?”
“Yes, actually. Well, he copulated with his mistress, but it was to show me what normal sex looked like. Life has never been boring for me.”
He willingly submitted to another slap on the cheek before she stormed out.
Michael had Karen cover the bruise on his cheek with foundation. “Do you think she'll forgive you?”
“Maybe, eventually, but I know if I'd asked, I would've ended up with a slap and no sex at all.”
Michael gave the youngsters a perfunctory explanation of what Margaret and he had been doing. The rest of the day proceeded almost normally. Margaret wouldn't speak to or look at Michael but he did not press her, either.
As the hall clock chimed three, the family was gathering for the holiday meal. Michael suddenly felt a familiar tingling in his brain. He left the formal dining room at breakneck pace. He ran to a set of french doors facing the back courtyard and threw them open. He swallowed hard and stepped out towards a black-cloaked figure kneeling head down. Breathlessly, he exclaimed, “Morgan?”
Morgan raised his head at the sound. He smiled and stood, using a mind-crafted rifle for support. A scarlet puddle was collecting near his feet. A sucking wound could be heard. “Happy Christmas, Michael.”
Michael raced forward and hugged his brother. Tears fell as he kissed Morgan's cheek. “You made it.”
Morgan crumpled returning Michael's embrace. Too weak to stand, he sank until Michael's arms held him in a cradle over one knee. Morgan coughed up blood from his lung. “Yes, I made it. Forgive me if I'm not around for the entire remainder of the day.”
Michael slid his other arm under Morgan's legs and lifted him up. The rifle dissolved into nothingness as Morgan swooned from pain. Michael laid him down on the floor just inside the doors. There were others about, but Michael paid them no mind, except to bark, “Get me something sharp!”
Michael slid back Morgan's shirt and peeked under some makeshift bandages and saw an exposed rib. Someone passed him a kitchen knife. Michael slashed open his hand and recited a long cantation. He pressed his incision against Morgan's large wound. He then pointed the knife tip at his own ribcage, still reciting. After about ten minutes of rhythmically stabbing himself and continuously chanting, he stopped and almost fainted. Morgan shakily sat upright and coughed up blood clots, but death no longer looked imminent. The two embraced tightly again. Michael finally looked up at everyone else and flipped, “I think we all need to eat. Some of us, more than others.”
Morgan, sensing the feelings of those around them, responded, “I think a good portion of truth is warrented, too.”
Snowstorms are rare in December in New Jersey. A beautiful blanket of snow greeted Michael that morning. It looked to be three or four inches deep. He let the curtain fall back over the window as Margaret stirred. He smiled and slid back into bed as her eyes opened. He kissed her deeply as his hands unworked the lacefront of her gown. They were well on their way to conceiving another child when a trio of servents came in with a light breakfast. Both parties ignored each other and continued on in their respective activities.
After hearing his wife's exultant cry of joy, Michael eased himself back down onto the pillows by her side. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered. She laughed and pulled him into another embrace. He softly kissed her cheek as his line of sight rolled upward toward the door... and he noticed a crowd watching them.
Michael quickly pulled the bedclothes up to their waists. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Um, two or three orgasms ago?” “Two minutes before you made that odd grunting noise..” “Five minutes before her fanny got exposed.” “Is that a kind of gymnastics?” “Nah, I'll bet it's wrestling.” “May I try that?”
Margaret turned a deep purple and buried her face in Michael's chest. Michael's face acquired an odd tic seemingly caused by equal parts indignation and amusement. Amusement won out in his facial expression while he ordered, “Floor shows over. Everyone out while we try to salvage our dignity.”
“But we were having breakfast in here!”
Alexandra was firmly marched out the door with the rest of the giggling rubberneckers. Margaret said into his chest, “I don't think I'm getting my dignity back after that.”
“You will always have your dignity, Margaret. And at least you now have corroborating witnesses to your lovely ass.”
She smacked him with a pillow. Then, a suspicious look crept into her eyes. “Wait a minute. Why would the breakfast be brought in here, anyway? It would normally be in your sitting room.”
Michael smiled guiltily. “The children cornered me the other day and asked me where babies came from because they wanted more brothers and sisters. I tried to explain to them as best I could then said I would try to do it for them on Christmas morning. Then, they asked if they could watch...”
She hit him again; this time with her open hand. He continued, “I'd rather they see it as a healthy activity between a married couple than learn from pornography.”
The look of incredulity on her face was priceless. “Did your father teach you this way?”
“Yes, actually. Well, he copulated with his mistress, but it was to show me what normal sex looked like. Life has never been boring for me.”
He willingly submitted to another slap on the cheek before she stormed out.
Michael had Karen cover the bruise on his cheek with foundation. “Do you think she'll forgive you?”
“Maybe, eventually, but I know if I'd asked, I would've ended up with a slap and no sex at all.”
Michael gave the youngsters a perfunctory explanation of what Margaret and he had been doing. The rest of the day proceeded almost normally. Margaret wouldn't speak to or look at Michael but he did not press her, either.
As the hall clock chimed three, the family was gathering for the holiday meal. Michael suddenly felt a familiar tingling in his brain. He left the formal dining room at breakneck pace. He ran to a set of french doors facing the back courtyard and threw them open. He swallowed hard and stepped out towards a black-cloaked figure kneeling head down. Breathlessly, he exclaimed, “Morgan?”
Morgan raised his head at the sound. He smiled and stood, using a mind-crafted rifle for support. A scarlet puddle was collecting near his feet. A sucking wound could be heard. “Happy Christmas, Michael.”
Michael raced forward and hugged his brother. Tears fell as he kissed Morgan's cheek. “You made it.”
Morgan crumpled returning Michael's embrace. Too weak to stand, he sank until Michael's arms held him in a cradle over one knee. Morgan coughed up blood from his lung. “Yes, I made it. Forgive me if I'm not around for the entire remainder of the day.”
Michael slid his other arm under Morgan's legs and lifted him up. The rifle dissolved into nothingness as Morgan swooned from pain. Michael laid him down on the floor just inside the doors. There were others about, but Michael paid them no mind, except to bark, “Get me something sharp!”
Michael slid back Morgan's shirt and peeked under some makeshift bandages and saw an exposed rib. Someone passed him a kitchen knife. Michael slashed open his hand and recited a long cantation. He pressed his incision against Morgan's large wound. He then pointed the knife tip at his own ribcage, still reciting. After about ten minutes of rhythmically stabbing himself and continuously chanting, he stopped and almost fainted. Morgan shakily sat upright and coughed up blood clots, but death no longer looked imminent. The two embraced tightly again. Michael finally looked up at everyone else and flipped, “I think we all need to eat. Some of us, more than others.”
Morgan, sensing the feelings of those around them, responded, “I think a good portion of truth is warrented, too.”
December 23, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 11
“He wants to end the marriage?” Michael asked the question almost philosophically.
The young children had been put to bed. Michael held court around a roaring fireplace. He was seated on a Queen Anne sofa with his wife to his right and his mistress to his left. His two elder daughters sat together on a matching loveseat. His brother's wife sat across the room on a solitary chaise longue. His mind flipped through all the secrets open and covert, half-truths, chicanery and verbal innuendoes in which he'd engaged on his twin half-brother's behalf.
Claire was his sister-in-law by arrangement. His own marriage had been arranged but the tempermental and age differences between his wife and him were far less pronounced. Claire yanked individual strands of tinsel off the tree and flicked them into the air. “Yes, he said that and then vanished.”
“I can't see a reason to disagree with him. Your marriage is empty. You barely like him. You've been insufferably acrid towards him of late. Is there any reason you want to remain married?”
“Is there a reason he just left like that?” she evaded.
“Probably, even if I don't know what it is.”
“About the only reason to stay is that you're a great ...” Claire looked at Krystie and Nicole “... bed warmer. And since I bore your only son, I'm guessing I'm not getting any more ... bed warmth.”
Michael would rather not have remembered what it took to get himself going on the few nights he spent in bed with Claire. Morgan had agreed to the marriage out of filial duty. She had to have crossed the line badly for him to find her intolerable.
“This is the earliest he's ever disappeared and he did it right under our noses. I wonder if he used a mental incant.” Michael's mind, normally emotionally linked to his brother's, traditionally felt nothing from his twin during his holiday absence. The happiest day of the year for Michael seemed the loneliest for Morgan as the one unfailing support cuts off for the period.
“He's done this for so long, Dad,” Nicole said, exhibiting her father's decisiveness, “we'll just celebrate as we always do and have faith he'll return.”
Michael smiled warmly. “And hope that next year he doesn't need to find his way home.” He pressed his forehead in astonishment. “My god... it's a tradition.”
Karen looked at him. “All of this?”
“Yes, I suppose all of this, but the line was first said by Dad when I was six. It's been repeated every year since for the exact same reason.”
Krystie quietly asked, “He's left you alone for Christmas for twenty-nine years?”
Michael put his arms around the two women beside him. “Me? I've never been lonely this time of year. A house full of lifelong servents, Dad, two little wonderful surprises, an entire village, a mistress, an adopted son, a wife, a sister-in-law, three more children. When did I have a chance to be lonely or unloved?”
Claire noted, “If he started disappearing at six, he couldn't have meant it maliciously really.”
Michael shook his head. “No, he.. was kidnapped by mother the first fifteen times or so and then I guess it was habit by the time she stopped. She was robbing him of his bond with Dad. Dad tried very hard to give him happiness and joy in his life and she kept taking it from him.”
Margaret leaned against his shoulder. “He really isn't that hard to understand, then?”
A solitary tear ran down Michael's cheek as he pressed his lips to his wife's forehead. “He is, and he isn't. But you can't force someone to feel joy, especially when the season reminds you that you have so little of it.”
The young children had been put to bed. Michael held court around a roaring fireplace. He was seated on a Queen Anne sofa with his wife to his right and his mistress to his left. His two elder daughters sat together on a matching loveseat. His brother's wife sat across the room on a solitary chaise longue. His mind flipped through all the secrets open and covert, half-truths, chicanery and verbal innuendoes in which he'd engaged on his twin half-brother's behalf.
Claire was his sister-in-law by arrangement. His own marriage had been arranged but the tempermental and age differences between his wife and him were far less pronounced. Claire yanked individual strands of tinsel off the tree and flicked them into the air. “Yes, he said that and then vanished.”
“I can't see a reason to disagree with him. Your marriage is empty. You barely like him. You've been insufferably acrid towards him of late. Is there any reason you want to remain married?”
“Is there a reason he just left like that?” she evaded.
“Probably, even if I don't know what it is.”
“About the only reason to stay is that you're a great ...” Claire looked at Krystie and Nicole “... bed warmer. And since I bore your only son, I'm guessing I'm not getting any more ... bed warmth.”
Michael would rather not have remembered what it took to get himself going on the few nights he spent in bed with Claire. Morgan had agreed to the marriage out of filial duty. She had to have crossed the line badly for him to find her intolerable.
“This is the earliest he's ever disappeared and he did it right under our noses. I wonder if he used a mental incant.” Michael's mind, normally emotionally linked to his brother's, traditionally felt nothing from his twin during his holiday absence. The happiest day of the year for Michael seemed the loneliest for Morgan as the one unfailing support cuts off for the period.
“He's done this for so long, Dad,” Nicole said, exhibiting her father's decisiveness, “we'll just celebrate as we always do and have faith he'll return.”
Michael smiled warmly. “And hope that next year he doesn't need to find his way home.” He pressed his forehead in astonishment. “My god... it's a tradition.”
Karen looked at him. “All of this?”
“Yes, I suppose all of this, but the line was first said by Dad when I was six. It's been repeated every year since for the exact same reason.”
Krystie quietly asked, “He's left you alone for Christmas for twenty-nine years?”
Michael put his arms around the two women beside him. “Me? I've never been lonely this time of year. A house full of lifelong servents, Dad, two little wonderful surprises, an entire village, a mistress, an adopted son, a wife, a sister-in-law, three more children. When did I have a chance to be lonely or unloved?”
Claire noted, “If he started disappearing at six, he couldn't have meant it maliciously really.”
Michael shook his head. “No, he.. was kidnapped by mother the first fifteen times or so and then I guess it was habit by the time she stopped. She was robbing him of his bond with Dad. Dad tried very hard to give him happiness and joy in his life and she kept taking it from him.”
Margaret leaned against his shoulder. “He really isn't that hard to understand, then?”
A solitary tear ran down Michael's cheek as he pressed his lips to his wife's forehead. “He is, and he isn't. But you can't force someone to feel joy, especially when the season reminds you that you have so little of it.”
December 22, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 10
Michael stood in front of the barony's congregation and cleared his throat. It wasn't that Michael couldn't sing; it was the open secret that was now laid bare at his feet. “Unfortunately, Lord Wallace is indisposed at this time and will be unable to perform tonight. I was unprepared for this moment and, ahem, am not sure what to perform.”
“Well,” said the deacon, “just perform a simple song about Christ's birth.”
Michael mind was still on his brother and the image of him coming home a physical, pulpy wreck. “I'm sorry, my mind is a million miles away. Any suggestions?”
“If you're not up to the task, don't force yourself.”
Michael realized he wasn't up to the task of performing for the audience a capella, but he also knew he needed to expiate his inner woe somehow. Music is the closest humans come, emotionally, to magic, and he knew the right song would help.
He put down the Book of Common Prayers and picked up a children's song sheet. “One song,” he murmured, “I can get through at least one song.”
Without much forethought, he started on the song right beneath his thumb:
“O... holy night, the stars, their gleams prolonging,
Watch oe'r the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error, longing
For His appearance, then the Spirit felt its worth.
A thrill of hope; the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! O, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was Born;
Oh night, O holy night, O night divine!
Suddenly the song was less being sung by Michael than channeling the hope within him:
- Minuit, chrétiens, c'est l'heure solennelle,
- Où l'Homme-Dieu descendit jusqu'à nous
- Pour effacer la tache originelle
- Et de Son Père arrêter le courroux.
- Le monde entier tressaille d'espérance
- En cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
- Peuple à genoux, attends ta délivrance.
- Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur,
- Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur!
- De notre foi que la lumière ardente
- Nous guide tous au berceau de l'Enfant,
- Comme autrefois une étoile brillante
- Y conduisit les chefs de l'Orient.
- Le Roi des rois naît dans une humble crèche:
- Puissants du jour, fiers de votre grandeur,
- A votre orgueil, c'est de là que Dieu prêche.
- Courbez vos fronts devant le Rédempteur.
- Courbez vos fronts devant le Rédempteur.
- Le Rédempteur a brisé toute entrave:
- La terre est libre, et le ciel est ouvert.
- Il voit un frère où n'était qu'un esclave, (a tear fell down his cheek at this line)
- L'amour unit ceux qu'enchaînait le fer.
- Qui Lui dira notre reconnaissance,
- C'est pour nous tous qu'Il naît, qu'Il souffre et meurt.
- Peuple debout! Chante ta délivrance,
- Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur,
- Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur!
The rapture from the song ensconced him a golden glow. He sat down by the lecturn and fainted, still smiling.
(The poem Cantique de Noël is by Placide Cappeau and was set to music by Adolphe Adam in 1847)
December 21, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 9
Veníte adoremus,
Veníte adoremus
Veníte adoremus Dóminum...”
Veníte adoremus
Veníte adoremus Dóminum...”
As Morgan's voice carried the last tremulous note, the parish sat in rapt wonder before clapping appreciatively. Morgan stepped down and bowed, then turned and headed away from the congregation. Michael tensed in the pew but kept his visage relaxed. His young daughter Alexandra looked up at him from his lap. She was distractedly pulling the ribbon from her hair. He kissed her forehead while gently taking her fingers from her hair. Claire leaned from his left and asked, “Where's he going?”
Michael whispered back, “He goes where he needs to go.”
Claire quickly got up and headed to the side aisle and went looking for him. She found him standing outside, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette, a dark cloth draped over his arm. He inhaled deeply and held the smoke in his lungs for a minute before slowly letting it seep out. Without turning around, he asked, “You felt the need to check up on me?”
Claire crossed her arms and defiantly asked, “Since when do you smoke?”
Morgan took another slow drag and answered, “I smoke when I need to. It calms the schizoid thought patterns the way the alcohol quiets the voices.”
“Does that mean you're already drunk?”
Morgan ignored her question. He took off his jacket and inhaled reflexively as the biting cold seeped through his shirt. He dropped it on the ground. He unclipped his cufflinks and dropped them on his jacket. “You do not have to ever grow up, Claire. Your youthful, brooding, semi-angry nature is part of your charm, actually.”
Claire made a dismissive noise.
Morgan continued unabated, “However, I cannot be married to a woman that pretends to be a viscious girl. And I know you are not happy with me. Would you agree to an annulment?”
She had almost lashed out again, but was completely blindsided by his question. “What about our son?”
Morgan worked his tie off and he unattached his collar. “Michael's son,” he corrected. “I am not a fit father and you have not shown much interest in being a mother. Our son is a piece of paper assuring an heir apparent. I might as well have left him the second heir presumptive considering how well we have done as parents.”
He removed his pristine white shirt and tossed it to the December wind. She went to catch it. When she turned back, he was gone.
(The chorus is from Adeste Fidelis by John Francis Wade, circa 1743)
December 20, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 8
“Fifteen foot tree in the reception hall. Fir garlands bordering the banisters, trim, and wainscot. Wreaths in the grand halls and rooms. Winter formal decorations in the main ballroom. Annual payments for Boxing Day. Servents gifts wrapped and placed. Company holiday party...”
Michael paused to sip on his glass of wine then continued down the list. Satisfied, he looked over at Morgan who was spending the pre-holiday mostly reading. “Are you reading anything in particular?”
“I am reading the news.”
“And what's on the iPod?”
“Newscasts.”
Michael furrowed a brow. “Do you want my laptop for newsfeeds, too?”
“I also have the local charity cases and hospitals to visit.”
Margaret clucked at both of them. “You two are being rude reading at the dinner table. And Morgan what are you planning on doing for fun this season?”
“I plan on singing.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Is that all? I guess when all you are is an in-”
Morgan stood up. “Excuse me, I am finished.”
After he'd left, Michael made a keening sound. “Guilting him won't work. Pestering him won't work. So now you've resorted to making insoucient remarks so that he has a tangible reason not to be here?”
Margaret put down her fork. “I merely thought talking about it wouldn't upset him.”
Claire snarked, “I knew it would.”
Michael nervously ran his hand through his hair. “It takes a lot of patience to learn how to wend your way through to getting him to open up. Few have determinedly stayed the course. If you're not willing to put in the long effort, don't sabotage mine.”
Claire snorted lightly. “Sitting on a cold dungeon floor while singing drunk is hardly putting in an effort.”
Michael stood himself. “It's not from me he's hiding. And he was happily singing drunk. He was smiling singing drunk. So, yes, I think my effort was worth it. And mind your language around the children. Emotional blackmail is not something I want them to learn.”
Michael paused to sip on his glass of wine then continued down the list. Satisfied, he looked over at Morgan who was spending the pre-holiday mostly reading. “Are you reading anything in particular?”
“I am reading the news.”
“And what's on the iPod?”
“Newscasts.”
Michael furrowed a brow. “Do you want my laptop for newsfeeds, too?”
“I also have the local charity cases and hospitals to visit.”
Margaret clucked at both of them. “You two are being rude reading at the dinner table. And Morgan what are you planning on doing for fun this season?”
“I plan on singing.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Is that all? I guess when all you are is an in-”
Morgan stood up. “Excuse me, I am finished.”
After he'd left, Michael made a keening sound. “Guilting him won't work. Pestering him won't work. So now you've resorted to making insoucient remarks so that he has a tangible reason not to be here?”
Margaret put down her fork. “I merely thought talking about it wouldn't upset him.”
Claire snarked, “I knew it would.”
Michael nervously ran his hand through his hair. “It takes a lot of patience to learn how to wend your way through to getting him to open up. Few have determinedly stayed the course. If you're not willing to put in the long effort, don't sabotage mine.”
Claire snorted lightly. “Sitting on a cold dungeon floor while singing drunk is hardly putting in an effort.”
Michael stood himself. “It's not from me he's hiding. And he was happily singing drunk. He was smiling singing drunk. So, yes, I think my effort was worth it. And mind your language around the children. Emotional blackmail is not something I want them to learn.”
December 19, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 7
Margaret came in the door with her arms filled with bows, ribbon and fancy paper. She announced to Henry that she needed several servents to bring in parcels. Michael marvelled at his wife's endurance for holiday shopping. “I thought we already had everything we needed this year.”
“Well, I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure? I think you just spent my quarterly income in one month.” Michael smiled gamely as he went to put his briefcase away.
As he set it down in the house's administrative office, Holmes appeared in the office door. “Mr. Wallace?” the valet intoned.
Michael snapped upright. “Yes?”
“Lord Wallace had a short fit today, but he has returned. I believe he has gone down to the pool.”
“Thank you, Holmes.”
Michael's even demeanor broke the minute Morgan's valet left. He got up and raced across the back rooms of the house until he reached a specific staircase. He only slowed enough to prevent himself from falling down the steps. As he worked his way down to the sub-basement, he was about to turn into the next staircase when he noticed a gaggle of people desperately trying to keep up with him. He looked down the stairs, then looked back. He shook his head at his followers and dashed down the steps. He felt his way for the lights. He only flipped on the set for the near end and left the stairway and far end dark. He approached the edge of the pool. A couple articles of clothing floated in the water, but he didn't see a body. He ran into the dark as he heard the others approaching.
He felt for a false wall panel in the dark. It wasn't quiet anymore when it slid open, but it wasn't visible in the dark either. He let it slide shut. It had been a long time since he'd been past the pool, even longer since he'd been to the 'dungeon' levels. Save for his daughters, no one else in the family knew the pool was down here. He could hear them on the other side trying to find him. He felt in the dark for the hewn stone steps downwards.
As he found himself in an unwired part of the original castle, Michael incanted and a cold flame appeared in his hand. He found Morgan sitting in a cell, huddled in a corner with a several bottles of various spirits. Morgan stirred at the sound of footsteps. “Care to join me? If you don't mind the cold, it's a good place to hide.”
“I'm sorry. I was followed. They obviously haven't found the last false door, but it's a matter of time.”
Morgan only smirked. “I will just go deeper.”
Michael sat down next to his brother and put an arm around him. “Christmas is only a few days away.”
“Yes, I was just building up my courage.”
“Grey Goose, Jack Daniels, Dewar's, Baileys... This isn't courage.”
“No, they just shut out the voices so I can build up my courage. Just a smile on Christmas Day, eh?”
“Morgan, since it is just the two of us, where do you go?”
“It's complicated. I do not go any specific place.”
Michael opened a bottle and drank a couple swallows from it. As he leaned against Morgan, he sang: “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light...”
“If you continue with that song, it won't help my depression any.”
“Fine, I'll stop singing in English, that should help. Isn't there a Swedish version?”
By the time the others found them, he and Morgan were singing Beethoven's Ode to Joy in badly mangled Latin.
“Well, I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure? I think you just spent my quarterly income in one month.” Michael smiled gamely as he went to put his briefcase away.
As he set it down in the house's administrative office, Holmes appeared in the office door. “Mr. Wallace?” the valet intoned.
Michael snapped upright. “Yes?”
“Lord Wallace had a short fit today, but he has returned. I believe he has gone down to the pool.”
“Thank you, Holmes.”
Michael's even demeanor broke the minute Morgan's valet left. He got up and raced across the back rooms of the house until he reached a specific staircase. He only slowed enough to prevent himself from falling down the steps. As he worked his way down to the sub-basement, he was about to turn into the next staircase when he noticed a gaggle of people desperately trying to keep up with him. He looked down the stairs, then looked back. He shook his head at his followers and dashed down the steps. He felt his way for the lights. He only flipped on the set for the near end and left the stairway and far end dark. He approached the edge of the pool. A couple articles of clothing floated in the water, but he didn't see a body. He ran into the dark as he heard the others approaching.
He felt for a false wall panel in the dark. It wasn't quiet anymore when it slid open, but it wasn't visible in the dark either. He let it slide shut. It had been a long time since he'd been past the pool, even longer since he'd been to the 'dungeon' levels. Save for his daughters, no one else in the family knew the pool was down here. He could hear them on the other side trying to find him. He felt in the dark for the hewn stone steps downwards.
As he found himself in an unwired part of the original castle, Michael incanted and a cold flame appeared in his hand. He found Morgan sitting in a cell, huddled in a corner with a several bottles of various spirits. Morgan stirred at the sound of footsteps. “Care to join me? If you don't mind the cold, it's a good place to hide.”
“I'm sorry. I was followed. They obviously haven't found the last false door, but it's a matter of time.”
Morgan only smirked. “I will just go deeper.”
Michael sat down next to his brother and put an arm around him. “Christmas is only a few days away.”
“Yes, I was just building up my courage.”
“Grey Goose, Jack Daniels, Dewar's, Baileys... This isn't courage.”
“No, they just shut out the voices so I can build up my courage. Just a smile on Christmas Day, eh?”
“Morgan, since it is just the two of us, where do you go?”
“It's complicated. I do not go any specific place.”
Michael opened a bottle and drank a couple swallows from it. As he leaned against Morgan, he sang: “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light...”
“If you continue with that song, it won't help my depression any.”
“Fine, I'll stop singing in English, that should help. Isn't there a Swedish version?”
By the time the others found them, he and Morgan were singing Beethoven's Ode to Joy in badly mangled Latin.
December 18, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 6
Despite everyone's desire to do so, Michael counselled against pressing Morgan more than once each on the issue of his attendance. His suggestion was considered with about the same weight as his suggestion they not eat the strung popcorn off the tree. Morgan heard about everyone's opinion of his disappearances almost nonstop for a week. After Claire decided to give him an earful in bed, he threw her out and refused to leave his apartment. Michael, waist-deep in work and home projects, merely shook his head and said, “I would rather not have to deal with a cataleptic fit. Leave him alone.”
Claire, in her usual sarcastic manner, retorted. “Oh, he's alone. He won't see anyone.”
“Claire, does it occur to you with all the problems he has, that perhaps he might have some reason not to want to join in?”
Claire sighed. “Nobody wants to be stuck home for the holidays with the same people year in and out, but I think once a decade is...”
“He was allowed once in his lifetime. Once in his life he was allowed this simple, child's joy. Once. Whatever he connects with it, after all these years, probably isn't pleasant.”
“Well, choosing to be a hired killer...”
Michael dropped the pen he was holding and dragged her up to Morgan's suite. He shoved her into a side room and closed the door. “Don't ever bring that fact up outside of Morgan's rooms again. It's an ugly fact to hide as it is. Making it a topic of conversation will not make it any easier to mentally partition.”
“Ignoring the fact...”
“The fact he kills for a living is impossible to ignore. Being discreet about it is almost as hard so you had better work at it.”
“Or else he'll silence me?”
“Or else I will. And I have my non-evil ways of doing so.”
Morgan's voice suddenly rang out, “I did not know you were the kind to make ultimatums.”
Claire and Michael both jumped and looked farther into the room. Michael clicked on another light. Morgan sat at the far side with several sheets of stock in his hands that apparently he'd been reading. “Claire, get out of here.”
Claire opened her mouth to protest but Michael deftly opened the door and pushed her out before three syllables left her mouth. He closed the door soundly. “I apologize. I didn't realize you were in here.”
Morgan smacked the sheets on a table. “I don't blame you. She is horribly indelicate. I could have managed the rest of the pressure the family was placing on me but she was the worst.”
Michael made a vocal shrug.
“I threw her out of bed.”
Michael merely shrugged, “She has her own. What was so bad?”
“Well, I can live with being considered inconsiderate and unloving. I can also manage being called cowardly and impotent. And she may call me a lush all she likes. But she had to bring up our son. And then she called me mama's boy.”
“It's an American insult,” Michael elucidated, “It merely means unmanly.”
“I am well aware and if she had called me effeminate, unmanly, girlish, it would have had no effect.”
Michael could only nod agreement.
Claire, in her usual sarcastic manner, retorted. “Oh, he's alone. He won't see anyone.”
“Claire, does it occur to you with all the problems he has, that perhaps he might have some reason not to want to join in?”
Claire sighed. “Nobody wants to be stuck home for the holidays with the same people year in and out, but I think once a decade is...”
“He was allowed once in his lifetime. Once in his life he was allowed this simple, child's joy. Once. Whatever he connects with it, after all these years, probably isn't pleasant.”
“Well, choosing to be a hired killer...”
Michael dropped the pen he was holding and dragged her up to Morgan's suite. He shoved her into a side room and closed the door. “Don't ever bring that fact up outside of Morgan's rooms again. It's an ugly fact to hide as it is. Making it a topic of conversation will not make it any easier to mentally partition.”
“Ignoring the fact...”
“The fact he kills for a living is impossible to ignore. Being discreet about it is almost as hard so you had better work at it.”
“Or else he'll silence me?”
“Or else I will. And I have my non-evil ways of doing so.”
Morgan's voice suddenly rang out, “I did not know you were the kind to make ultimatums.”
Claire and Michael both jumped and looked farther into the room. Michael clicked on another light. Morgan sat at the far side with several sheets of stock in his hands that apparently he'd been reading. “Claire, get out of here.”
Claire opened her mouth to protest but Michael deftly opened the door and pushed her out before three syllables left her mouth. He closed the door soundly. “I apologize. I didn't realize you were in here.”
Morgan smacked the sheets on a table. “I don't blame you. She is horribly indelicate. I could have managed the rest of the pressure the family was placing on me but she was the worst.”
Michael made a vocal shrug.
“I threw her out of bed.”
Michael merely shrugged, “She has her own. What was so bad?”
“Well, I can live with being considered inconsiderate and unloving. I can also manage being called cowardly and impotent. And she may call me a lush all she likes. But she had to bring up our son. And then she called me mama's boy.”
“It's an American insult,” Michael elucidated, “It merely means unmanly.”
“I am well aware and if she had called me effeminate, unmanly, girlish, it would have had no effect.”
Michael could only nod agreement.
December 16, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 5
“Your wife thinks you're being inconsiderate by not joining us,” Michael said without preamble.
“My wife says many things I would give little weight,” Morgan responded.
“Well, unfortunately, my wife, mistress, and all my children agree with her, as do I,” Michael added.
“So has the situation downgraded from a smile on Christmas Day?”
Michael almost laughed. “Yes, they want you to be here for at least four hours and the children... the children have to see you.”
Morgan gave no obvious reaction. Michael did see the corner of his mouth vacillate downwards. “And are you merely relaying or demanding?”
“I am not demanding anything Morgan. You may have some byzantine reason for never being here that even I may not comprehend. If you truly don't want to be here, don't be.”
Michael reached for his brother's hand and clasped it in both of his. “Father can't be here for you any more, Morgan, but I am. I love you and will welcome you home every time you go away, just like Dad did. And those children upstairs love you, too. Maybe not the same way, but they care about you. I'm not sure Nicole and Krystie are convinced yet that you're not Santa.”
Morgan's face betrayed incomprehension. Michael laughed lightly. “They were convinced when they were little that was the reason you were gone every Christmas. That you were bringing happiness to children around the world.”
Morgan laughed uncomfortably and hugged Michael close, then planted a kiss on his cheek. “They remind me of their father,” he said.
“My wife says many things I would give little weight,” Morgan responded.
“Well, unfortunately, my wife, mistress, and all my children agree with her, as do I,” Michael added.
“So has the situation downgraded from a smile on Christmas Day?”
Michael almost laughed. “Yes, they want you to be here for at least four hours and the children... the children have to see you.”
Morgan gave no obvious reaction. Michael did see the corner of his mouth vacillate downwards. “And are you merely relaying or demanding?”
“I am not demanding anything Morgan. You may have some byzantine reason for never being here that even I may not comprehend. If you truly don't want to be here, don't be.”
Michael reached for his brother's hand and clasped it in both of his. “Father can't be here for you any more, Morgan, but I am. I love you and will welcome you home every time you go away, just like Dad did. And those children upstairs love you, too. Maybe not the same way, but they care about you. I'm not sure Nicole and Krystie are convinced yet that you're not Santa.”
Morgan's face betrayed incomprehension. Michael laughed lightly. “They were convinced when they were little that was the reason you were gone every Christmas. That you were bringing happiness to children around the world.”
Morgan laughed uncomfortably and hugged Michael close, then planted a kiss on his cheek. “They remind me of their father,” he said.
December 15, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 4
Morgan was near the main reception hall when several women came calling from the parish. He greeted them personally.
“Merry Christmas,” they said gaily. “We'll only take a moment of your time.”
“Greetings, and welcome to my home, ladies. Please, take my time, I have it to give.”
By his insistence, their coats were taken and he sat them in the receiving parlor and offered them refreshments and sweets. He let the newer members of the Ladies Committee marvel at the grandeur of his residence while he deflected any credit on its appearance to the house servents. As he sat down with a lowball in his hand, he asked, “What may I do for the church this year?”
They thanked him for his wonderful generosity that year. He modestly said that it is hardly generosity when one has the money to burn. He then pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on a setting table. “For the usual charities,” he stated.
“Are you going to sing this year?” a young voice asked.
Morgan turned toward the direction of the asker. “I had planned on it.”
“Would you be willing to sing for midnight mass, too? We would love to have you.”
“My answer is the same as every year, for the same reason. I always sing here. Do you have any family cases for me this year?”
He settled back into his chair and took a sip from his drink. A folder was handed to him and he opened it and carefully flipped the pages. They were the stiff stock necessary for braille. He ran his fingers over them lengthwise and nodded. The next half-hour was spent in wonderfully trite conversation. He then excused himself but importuned them to stay as long as they wished. His hospitality was open even if he had other things that needed his attention. At that moment, he heard Michael coming down the grand staircase.
“Merry Christmas,” they said gaily. “We'll only take a moment of your time.”
“Greetings, and welcome to my home, ladies. Please, take my time, I have it to give.”
By his insistence, their coats were taken and he sat them in the receiving parlor and offered them refreshments and sweets. He let the newer members of the Ladies Committee marvel at the grandeur of his residence while he deflected any credit on its appearance to the house servents. As he sat down with a lowball in his hand, he asked, “What may I do for the church this year?”
They thanked him for his wonderful generosity that year. He modestly said that it is hardly generosity when one has the money to burn. He then pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on a setting table. “For the usual charities,” he stated.
“Are you going to sing this year?” a young voice asked.
Morgan turned toward the direction of the asker. “I had planned on it.”
“Would you be willing to sing for midnight mass, too? We would love to have you.”
“My answer is the same as every year, for the same reason. I always sing here. Do you have any family cases for me this year?”
He settled back into his chair and took a sip from his drink. A folder was handed to him and he opened it and carefully flipped the pages. They were the stiff stock necessary for braille. He ran his fingers over them lengthwise and nodded. The next half-hour was spent in wonderfully trite conversation. He then excused himself but importuned them to stay as long as they wished. His hospitality was open even if he had other things that needed his attention. At that moment, he heard Michael coming down the grand staircase.
December 14, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 3
Michael went back downstairs to where the three ladies of the house, five servents, and his five children were in the midst of decorating a tree in the nursery. Claire was trying to attach bows to the wall. The cheer of the children heralded their father's entrance and interrupted what Claire was trying to say to him. After Michael wiggled free of the three younger children, he approached Claire who openly asked, “So, is my husband going to join us for the holiday this year?”
Michael just shook his head. Out of habit, he made the keening noise he used around Morgan to verbalize it. “I don't think he will. I asked, but I -”
“You know, he could make the effert to be around just once.”
“Claire, I don't think it's that simple. He has been robbed of this wonderful celebration for as long as I can remember. The damage has been done and we can't really give him what he wants out of it.”
Michael became aware of the whole room now staring at them. Asynchronously, he got a chorus of “What does he want?”
Michael tapped an framed photo on the wall. Two young boys sat nattily dressed on a man's lap. All three were widely smiling. “This is the only Christmas I know Morgan was home. I can barely remember it, it was so long ago, but Morgan used to smile like that a lot. Then, mother broke him.”
Michael just shook his head. Out of habit, he made the keening noise he used around Morgan to verbalize it. “I don't think he will. I asked, but I -”
“You know, he could make the effert to be around just once.”
“Claire, I don't think it's that simple. He has been robbed of this wonderful celebration for as long as I can remember. The damage has been done and we can't really give him what he wants out of it.”
Michael became aware of the whole room now staring at them. Asynchronously, he got a chorus of “What does he want?”
Michael tapped an framed photo on the wall. Two young boys sat nattily dressed on a man's lap. All three were widely smiling. “This is the only Christmas I know Morgan was home. I can barely remember it, it was so long ago, but Morgan used to smile like that a lot. Then, mother broke him.”
December 13, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 2
Michael found Morgan in his study. Morgan's fingers flew over the pages of a book. Michael cleared his throat to announce himself. Morgan slid a pagemarker near his finger and closed the book. He placed it on a small table and indicated the seat next to him. Michael sat down and breathed loudly to indicate he was thinking about something. Morgan spoke first. “You are going to entreat me to be home this year.”
Michael nodded noisily. He looked at the several shelves worth of braille books and wondered idly if Morgan had bought any since their mother had tried burn his collection. “The only gift I want this year is to see you smile on Christmas Day.”
“A simple request,” Morgan responded. “Yet, it is one that I am profoundly at odds to give.”
Michael made a keening noise while shaking his head. “I think after thirty years, she can let us have this one special day together again. I can bind her tongue myself, if necessary.”
“It will not be necessary,” Morgan said plainly. “She has not forced me away since Father passed on. It was from him she was keeping me.”
“Then, where have you been all these years?”
“I have been trying not to force myself into the excessive cheeriness of the season. It does not ring true for me. And I would not rob you of your happiness and love of it by sitting about melancholic and ineffective. All this time of year does... is make me wish I could have spent it with Dad.”
As Micheal reached out to embrace him, Morgan stood and walked out of the room with a haunted expression on his face. Michael did not sense an incipient attack, so he let him go, wondering.
Michael nodded noisily. He looked at the several shelves worth of braille books and wondered idly if Morgan had bought any since their mother had tried burn his collection. “The only gift I want this year is to see you smile on Christmas Day.”
“A simple request,” Morgan responded. “Yet, it is one that I am profoundly at odds to give.”
Michael made a keening noise while shaking his head. “I think after thirty years, she can let us have this one special day together again. I can bind her tongue myself, if necessary.”
“It will not be necessary,” Morgan said plainly. “She has not forced me away since Father passed on. It was from him she was keeping me.”
“Then, where have you been all these years?”
“I have been trying not to force myself into the excessive cheeriness of the season. It does not ring true for me. And I would not rob you of your happiness and love of it by sitting about melancholic and ineffective. All this time of year does... is make me wish I could have spent it with Dad.”
As Micheal reached out to embrace him, Morgan stood and walked out of the room with a haunted expression on his face. Michael did not sense an incipient attack, so he let him go, wondering.
December 12, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 1
Year 35: Michael picked tinsel off his clothes as he went to find Morgan. The festive December spirit that overtook the household every year grew as the children did. Michael loved it. However, there was always one shadow that fell over it, and Michael found himself every year wishing that Morgan could spend Christmas Day home with him and their family. There was a very old photo of them when they were four or five sitting with their father in the large drawing room. Morgan was actually smiling in it. Michael could not remember another December twenty-fifth when Morgan was present. He presumed that their mother would drag him away just to deny him the innocent joy of the season.
As they grew older, Morgan would show up on December twenty-sixth beaten and bloody. The wounds grew progressively worse over time. The effect on Morgan's spirit was noticeable. He stopped partaking in the festivities leading up to the holiday. He'd become morose at the end of November. Any attempts to engage him in activities would lead to a stilted, almost mechanical, participation.
There was one small, but salient, exception. As practicing Anglicans, they often were willing to aid their congregation. Their parish was never short funds. So, on Christmas Eve, Morgan traditionally sang for the evening mass. They would then go back to the small church at the barony and he would repeat his performance in a common mass. Then, at some point between compline and midnight, he would disappear.
As they grew older, Morgan would show up on December twenty-sixth beaten and bloody. The wounds grew progressively worse over time. The effect on Morgan's spirit was noticeable. He stopped partaking in the festivities leading up to the holiday. He'd become morose at the end of November. Any attempts to engage him in activities would lead to a stilted, almost mechanical, participation.
There was one small, but salient, exception. As practicing Anglicans, they often were willing to aid their congregation. Their parish was never short funds. So, on Christmas Eve, Morgan traditionally sang for the evening mass. They would then go back to the small church at the barony and he would repeat his performance in a common mass. Then, at some point between compline and midnight, he would disappear.
December 11, 2008
He's Got the Whole World
The elven community kept on with its daily routine despite Michael's presence. They spared him a glance, maybe even a short stare, but no more than a brief stop. He continued walking through until someone recognized his aura as Scafir. When they started gathering around, he was unsure of exactly what they wanted. He listened closely and they seemed to be whispering about whether he was friendly or maleficient. He distractedly pressed forward. A child tried to tug on his leg. He stopped and asked in Elven, “What do you need?”
The child made a hand gesture. Michael had no idea what he was gesturing. He wrote the question on the ground. The child gave a quizzical look. The child drew a small four-legged animal. He made more hand gestures. Michael clearly mouthed out the word for 'lost.' The child nodded. Michael return the nod with a quiet 'aaah...'
Michael walked with the child a short while away. He made a bowl shape with his hands. The rest of the community looked at him in wonder. Michael kindly requested a bowl and some water. When they hesitated, he sighed and went to a well. He pulled up water and motioned the young boy over. Michael positioned the child's hand so his fingertips gently touched to water. Michael put his own hands underneath the child's and started chanting. The crowd watched in wondrous awe. A vision appeared to both of them. The child gratefully reached up and hugged him and ran off.
Michael stood up and the village elder said, “You are unlike any Scafir we've seen. Who are you?”
Michael smiled at the old woman and said, “Just a humble man who can talk to dragons.”
She bowed. The crowd followed suit. “Then, you deserve your birth more than any I've seen.”
The child made a hand gesture. Michael had no idea what he was gesturing. He wrote the question on the ground. The child gave a quizzical look. The child drew a small four-legged animal. He made more hand gestures. Michael clearly mouthed out the word for 'lost.' The child nodded. Michael return the nod with a quiet 'aaah...'
Michael walked with the child a short while away. He made a bowl shape with his hands. The rest of the community looked at him in wonder. Michael kindly requested a bowl and some water. When they hesitated, he sighed and went to a well. He pulled up water and motioned the young boy over. Michael positioned the child's hand so his fingertips gently touched to water. Michael put his own hands underneath the child's and started chanting. The crowd watched in wondrous awe. A vision appeared to both of them. The child gratefully reached up and hugged him and ran off.
Michael stood up and the village elder said, “You are unlike any Scafir we've seen. Who are you?”
Michael smiled at the old woman and said, “Just a humble man who can talk to dragons.”
She bowed. The crowd followed suit. “Then, you deserve your birth more than any I've seen.”
December 10, 2008
World Mechanics 4
Bloodline major:
The'pf: draconic, mental, compulsive
Scafir: ley, elemental, enhancing
Gemen: latent, creative, imputive
Magir: djinni, inherent, evocative
Human: none, technological
Bloodline minor:
dracon = the'pf/scafir
ogre = the'pf/gemen
orc = the'pf/magir
dwarves = scafir/gemen
elves = scafir/magir
gnomes = gemen/magir
Arcana:
divination, essence, illusion, manifestation, nullification, portation, projection, restoration
The'pf: draconic, mental, compulsive
Scafir: ley, elemental, enhancing
Gemen: latent, creative, imputive
Magir: djinni, inherent, evocative
Human: none, technological
Bloodline minor:
dracon = the'pf/scafir
ogre = the'pf/gemen
orc = the'pf/magir
dwarves = scafir/gemen
elves = scafir/magir
gnomes = gemen/magir
Arcana:
divination, essence, illusion, manifestation, nullification, portation, projection, restoration
December 09, 2008
The Teachers' Pet
Year 37: Valerie stood within the circle of the court. Everyone had varying degrees of self-interest on their face. She had been anticipating this meeting for awhile. Poker faces and subterfuge are not the mages' best areas. As Valerie waited, an arcanum formed in her mind...
(Valerie: “What is arcana?”
Morgan: “Most spellcasters use magic that is natural and intuitive to themselves. It's called bloodline magic. It requires a little instruction early in life and then one can discover abilities on their own. Arcana is magic that has to be learned. One may have a gift for numbers, but one cannot just naturally know calculus. It is that way with arcana. Many avoid it because it is difficult. And at your age, even bloodline magic will take work to learn.”
Valerie: “Then, teach me both.”)
“You have failed to impress us as a leader,” they started. They were using a shared mind technique that few mages liked using. She must be seen as a bigger threat than each other individually was seen. She kept her incant silent and hid her hands in her skirts. “As such we do not think an inexperienced and weak caster should lead us.”
(Michael: “Fighting as a caster requires being able to cast quickly and you need good grip on evocative casting. However, fighting a caster physically is a better option, as it can buy you time for slower spellcasting. And pain is a great way to keep a less physically fit person from casting at all. So, first I will teach you to fight. Then, we'll work on incorporating spells with swordplay and martial manoeuvres.”)
“Are you sure?” she asked passively. “Experience I may lack but are you absolutely sure I am weak?” The arcana pattern stood brightly in her mind as her hands steadily worked.
(Morgan: “Silent spellcasting requires intimate knowledge of your spells and your technique. And it requires lots and lots of practice.”
Valerie: “I have the time.”
Morgan: “Then, let us have at it.”)
In unison, they all pointed at her and declared, “You are deposed.” As they did so, a brilliant set of sigils flared in the air and flashed about the room. Valerie's hands completed the movements necessary and the brilliance faded. She removed her crown and let it fall hollowly to the ground. “Bite me,” she snapped.
(Michael: “Ideally, you should never engage in a fight that you don't have at least an even chance of winning. If conditions aren't ideal, force them to be.”)
All the illusions they carefully maintained, all their personal protections, and all the enchantments and wards about the room failed as her last spell suppressed all magic in the council chamber. She bared her sword, kicked off her shoes, and said, “Now, who wants to fight me for the crown?”
(Valerie: “What is arcana?”
Morgan: “Most spellcasters use magic that is natural and intuitive to themselves. It's called bloodline magic. It requires a little instruction early in life and then one can discover abilities on their own. Arcana is magic that has to be learned. One may have a gift for numbers, but one cannot just naturally know calculus. It is that way with arcana. Many avoid it because it is difficult. And at your age, even bloodline magic will take work to learn.”
Valerie: “Then, teach me both.”)
“You have failed to impress us as a leader,” they started. They were using a shared mind technique that few mages liked using. She must be seen as a bigger threat than each other individually was seen. She kept her incant silent and hid her hands in her skirts. “As such we do not think an inexperienced and weak caster should lead us.”
(Michael: “Fighting as a caster requires being able to cast quickly and you need good grip on evocative casting. However, fighting a caster physically is a better option, as it can buy you time for slower spellcasting. And pain is a great way to keep a less physically fit person from casting at all. So, first I will teach you to fight. Then, we'll work on incorporating spells with swordplay and martial manoeuvres.”)
“Are you sure?” she asked passively. “Experience I may lack but are you absolutely sure I am weak?” The arcana pattern stood brightly in her mind as her hands steadily worked.
(Morgan: “Silent spellcasting requires intimate knowledge of your spells and your technique. And it requires lots and lots of practice.”
Valerie: “I have the time.”
Morgan: “Then, let us have at it.”)
In unison, they all pointed at her and declared, “You are deposed.” As they did so, a brilliant set of sigils flared in the air and flashed about the room. Valerie's hands completed the movements necessary and the brilliance faded. She removed her crown and let it fall hollowly to the ground. “Bite me,” she snapped.
(Michael: “Ideally, you should never engage in a fight that you don't have at least an even chance of winning. If conditions aren't ideal, force them to be.”)
All the illusions they carefully maintained, all their personal protections, and all the enchantments and wards about the room failed as her last spell suppressed all magic in the council chamber. She bared her sword, kicked off her shoes, and said, “Now, who wants to fight me for the crown?”
December 08, 2008
Based on an Actual Conversation:
Morgan: Do you know about Berlioz?
Michael: I know he's a composer, otherwise je ne c'est qua.
Karen: What does that mean?
Michael: Berlioz?
Karen: Jen nay say qua?
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: I don't know either. What does that mean?
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: The French you just said.
Michael: Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes, that.
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: But you just used the phrase.
Michael: Yes, I don't know what.
Karen: The French phrase.
Morgan (getting amused): Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes.
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: Neither of you knows what it means?
Michael: Yes, we both do.
Karen: And?
Michael: I. Don't. Know. What. Ne comprenez-vous pas?
Karen: What did he just say?
Morgan: Don't you understand?
Karen: No, I don't.
Morgan: That's what he asked.
Karen: What?
Michael: No, don't you understand?
Karen: Of course I don't understand! I don't know what ...
Michael: Je ne c'est qua.
Karen: Argh! I don't know what! Don't you understand?
Both: Elle l'a fait! (She got it!)
Michael: I know he's a composer, otherwise je ne c'est qua.
Karen: What does that mean?
Michael: Berlioz?
Karen: Jen nay say qua?
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: I don't know either. What does that mean?
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: The French you just said.
Michael: Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes, that.
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: But you just used the phrase.
Michael: Yes, I don't know what.
Karen: The French phrase.
Morgan (getting amused): Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes.
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: Neither of you knows what it means?
Michael: Yes, we both do.
Karen: And?
Michael: I. Don't. Know. What. Ne comprenez-vous pas?
Karen: What did he just say?
Morgan: Don't you understand?
Karen: No, I don't.
Morgan: That's what he asked.
Karen: What?
Michael: No, don't you understand?
Karen: Of course I don't understand! I don't know what ...
Michael: Je ne c'est qua.
Karen: Argh! I don't know what! Don't you understand?
Both: Elle l'a fait! (She got it!)
December 07, 2008
And With This Sword...
Valerie appeared in a princess gown. The clicking on the floor suggested she was wearing heels. Michael stared in consternation. “Does this mean you're skipping your lessons today?”
“No,” she said with relish and unsheathed her sword.
Michael quickly jumped back as she lunged. She moved well, even with the natural impediments. Michael had to dodge her sword tip several times before he managed to free his saber. He put his hand up for her to stop. “Wait. Think about this. If you're seriously going to fight in that dress, do it more intelligently. You will tire out far faster than I will with all that added bulk and, from what I can tell, you can't breathe very heavily in it.”
She was already making straining breaths and only nodded in response. He retracted his hand and exhaled, “En garde!”
He let her control the the flow for a minute and was pleased to find she was steering him towards obstacles and a wall, restricting his reactions. He counted strokes, then pressed, breaking her rhythm. The same restricted space that she had been using to control his actions, became a problem with his longer reach. He stroked low at her legs. The dress took a lot of rents. She wasn't giving much ground, but was having problems moving in. Finally, she kicked out, reaching Michael's ribs. She enhanced the kick. He could feel the magical touch. Impressed, he was flattened to the wall, unable to say so. He incanted himself to get out of the position.
He swept up at her beltline and she shot electricity at his face. He let a reflexive incant and his sword take it. The residual shock made him drop his sword. She lowered her blade to a neutral position. Rubbing his numb arm, he said proudly, “I don't think I have anything else to teach you. Now you just need a lot of practice.”
He wiped his brow with a pocket cloth. “And different sparring partners. Not everyone is going to fight the way I do, or as clumsily.”
“And they told me girls can't fight.” She sheated her blade, straining for deep breaths against the dress stays.
“I certainly never said that,” Michael smiled. “You've earned your name.”
December 06, 2008
No News Is...
Year 20: “Morgan, disappearing days after you've been released from Greystone is not the most reassuring way of telling me I've done the right thi-... What is that?”
Morgan held a heavily swathed body to him. He walked with it down the hall and went down a side stair to the guest rooms on the story below. He carefully unfolded the tarp and a young waif of a female with peroxide blond hair with brown highlights and a semi-Asian face was revealed. Morgan carefully checked her pulse and her breathing before removing her shoes and tucking her into the bed. Then, he removed his cloak and folded it.
Michael just stared. “There is an explanation for this, right?”
Morgan walked away. “Contract for the Court of Mages. They wanted me to collect her.”
Michael tried to keep pace with him. “So, what are you doing with her here?”
“I am awaiting further instructions.”
“Where did you find her?”
“She was walking the streets. She apparently worked as a street con.”
“That still doesn't answer why you stashed her here.”
They had reached Morgan's office. He reached into his desk, cajoled open the false bottom of a drawer and pulled out a folio. He walked silently back to the girl.
He passed the packet to Michael and whispered something as his fingertips touched her cheek. She awoke with a start. “Do not be frightened,” Morgan said gently. “I have no intention of harming you.”
Morgan put his hand over her mouth as she attempted to scream. “You are in my home, screaming is not a good idea. I assure you, you will not be harmed here.”
She bit him. He did not release his grip, even as blood started to seep from the wound. “Michael, hand her that packet you are holding.”
Michael wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he stepped forward and let the folio fall onto her stomach.
“I know you are frightened, but I am not going to harm you. If I wanted to kill or harm you, I would have done it already. Now, relax and take a look at that packet. I was told it was for you alone.”
She looked down at it, and slowly released her teeth. Morgan drew back his hand just as slowly. When she didn't scream, he cradled the wound in his other hand. He got up and went off to cleanse his hand. She picked opened the folio. Loose papers and a couple charms fell out. She picked some up and looked at them. “These are written in gibberish,” she said.
Michael cleared his throat. “Mind if I look at those? I know several languages, I might be able to help.”
She threw him a dirty look. Then pushed the pile away. “Yeah, whatever.”
Michael picked up one of the loose charms. It contained a sigil for Grand Duke Stephen III, ruler of the Court of Mages. He picked up the other one. It was a Magir symbol. He looked at the document that was sitting at the top. He translated out loud. “These papers are meant and held as proof that the owner of these sigla are Crown Prince Valerie Anne Winmere, heir designate to Grand Duke Stephen III, who will ascend to the throne upon majority of years and marriage to an appropriate male of ability and station...”
Morgan said from behind him. “All hail the future Queen of the Mages.”
“Are you sure, Morgan?”
“Quite.” He flipped another sigil in his hand that glowed brighter the closer he walked to the girl. As he did, a faint hum also became noticeable. “I did not know who she was, only they were looking for the one that resonates to this.”
Valerie looked at them. “All right, who put you up to this? This is a great joke, but really...”
“I did not grab you off the streets for the sake of a joke. I am a mercenary that was paid to find you and hold you until further instruction. I was also told to make sure you were comfortable and to give you those papers. I did not have any idea I was going after His Grace's heir.”
Morgan held a heavily swathed body to him. He walked with it down the hall and went down a side stair to the guest rooms on the story below. He carefully unfolded the tarp and a young waif of a female with peroxide blond hair with brown highlights and a semi-Asian face was revealed. Morgan carefully checked her pulse and her breathing before removing her shoes and tucking her into the bed. Then, he removed his cloak and folded it.
Michael just stared. “There is an explanation for this, right?”
Morgan walked away. “Contract for the Court of Mages. They wanted me to collect her.”
Michael tried to keep pace with him. “So, what are you doing with her here?”
“I am awaiting further instructions.”
“Where did you find her?”
“She was walking the streets. She apparently worked as a street con.”
“That still doesn't answer why you stashed her here.”
They had reached Morgan's office. He reached into his desk, cajoled open the false bottom of a drawer and pulled out a folio. He walked silently back to the girl.
He passed the packet to Michael and whispered something as his fingertips touched her cheek. She awoke with a start. “Do not be frightened,” Morgan said gently. “I have no intention of harming you.”
Morgan put his hand over her mouth as she attempted to scream. “You are in my home, screaming is not a good idea. I assure you, you will not be harmed here.”
She bit him. He did not release his grip, even as blood started to seep from the wound. “Michael, hand her that packet you are holding.”
Michael wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he stepped forward and let the folio fall onto her stomach.
“I know you are frightened, but I am not going to harm you. If I wanted to kill or harm you, I would have done it already. Now, relax and take a look at that packet. I was told it was for you alone.”
She looked down at it, and slowly released her teeth. Morgan drew back his hand just as slowly. When she didn't scream, he cradled the wound in his other hand. He got up and went off to cleanse his hand. She picked opened the folio. Loose papers and a couple charms fell out. She picked some up and looked at them. “These are written in gibberish,” she said.
Michael cleared his throat. “Mind if I look at those? I know several languages, I might be able to help.”
She threw him a dirty look. Then pushed the pile away. “Yeah, whatever.”
Michael picked up one of the loose charms. It contained a sigil for Grand Duke Stephen III, ruler of the Court of Mages. He picked up the other one. It was a Magir symbol. He looked at the document that was sitting at the top. He translated out loud. “These papers are meant and held as proof that the owner of these sigla are Crown Prince Valerie Anne Winmere, heir designate to Grand Duke Stephen III, who will ascend to the throne upon majority of years and marriage to an appropriate male of ability and station...”
Morgan said from behind him. “All hail the future Queen of the Mages.”
“Are you sure, Morgan?”
“Quite.” He flipped another sigil in his hand that glowed brighter the closer he walked to the girl. As he did, a faint hum also became noticeable. “I did not know who she was, only they were looking for the one that resonates to this.”
Valerie looked at them. “All right, who put you up to this? This is a great joke, but really...”
“I did not grab you off the streets for the sake of a joke. I am a mercenary that was paid to find you and hold you until further instruction. I was also told to make sure you were comfortable and to give you those papers. I did not have any idea I was going after His Grace's heir.”
December 05, 2008
Cats Don't Make Good Brakes
Year 32: “Micheal Winmere, I am charged by Queen Valerie of the Court of Mages to collect you to stand trial for rape.”
Morgan inwardly winced at the jumbled mess of a declaration. It wasn't one he was used to making.
“I don't suppose,” Michael Wallace whispered to him, “that you knew he could change into a cougar?”
Morgan didn't waste his breath answering. Winmere intended to flee. His first shot missed. Morgan broke into a run.
Winmere ran into the center of town. An ocean of people split as he ran through, but the edges reclosed after he passed from people staring after him. Morgan ground to a near halt. Michael grabbed his brother's arm and ran up and across using the sides of the buildings as a running surface. Morgan flatly commented, “It would be a lot easier if I wasn't specifically told to bring him back alive.”
It was Michael's turn to be too busy to reply. He avoided signs, windows, flagpoles, and was occupied maintaining his speed and accuracy. Winmere's cat form turned ninety degrees away from them. Michael cursed in elven and German, then sprang away from the buildings and shot towards that alleyway.
The next three seconds were a jumble of one manifestation, deceleration trauma, failed dexterity checks, successful fort saves, several broken bones, two concussions, and a spell backlash. All three came out of it alive, more or less.
Michael regained consciousness lying in Morgan's cabin. He forced open his eyes and turned over to see Morgan lying next him. Morgan was wearing his pants and had a bandaged hand, an eyepatch, a brilliant purple bruise on his forehead, and stitches in his cheek. He checked himself and realized that he, too, had stitches and a sizeable bruise on his face. His legs and arms hurt as if they were all sprained. When he sat up, pain exploded in his head. His groan of agony awoke Morgan.
Morgan quietly said, “I apologize for my reflexive reaction, but it was that or someone was going to die.”
Michael eased himself back down to prone and asked, “What happened?”
“When you shot off the building at around thirty-five miles per hour, M. Winmere was waiting to pounce us. At our speed, his fangs and claws would have been several inches into one or both of us. So, I put a shield in front of us. It formed around my arm. I yanked back on you as best I could, but did not realize that would cause us to carom off a wall and into another. Winmere's head met my shield at thirty miles per hour, breaking my wrist and cracking his face . Our meeting with the walls caused both our faces to bounce off causing contusions, abrasions, and a bruised eyeball. Our speed also swept him into a wall at the end of the alley, giving him a concussion on top of the fracture. Neither of you were conscious afterwards. Valerie expended a lot of healing to put your legs and arms back together. She has decided not to fix her brother's burst eyeball, as an object lesson. She wondered if my life has ever suffered from boredom.”
Michael rolled over singing, “You may have been a headache, but you've never been a bore....”
Morgan inwardly winced at the jumbled mess of a declaration. It wasn't one he was used to making.
“I don't suppose,” Michael Wallace whispered to him, “that you knew he could change into a cougar?”
Morgan didn't waste his breath answering. Winmere intended to flee. His first shot missed. Morgan broke into a run.
Winmere ran into the center of town. An ocean of people split as he ran through, but the edges reclosed after he passed from people staring after him. Morgan ground to a near halt. Michael grabbed his brother's arm and ran up and across using the sides of the buildings as a running surface. Morgan flatly commented, “It would be a lot easier if I wasn't specifically told to bring him back alive.”
It was Michael's turn to be too busy to reply. He avoided signs, windows, flagpoles, and was occupied maintaining his speed and accuracy. Winmere's cat form turned ninety degrees away from them. Michael cursed in elven and German, then sprang away from the buildings and shot towards that alleyway.
The next three seconds were a jumble of one manifestation, deceleration trauma, failed dexterity checks, successful fort saves, several broken bones, two concussions, and a spell backlash. All three came out of it alive, more or less.
Michael regained consciousness lying in Morgan's cabin. He forced open his eyes and turned over to see Morgan lying next him. Morgan was wearing his pants and had a bandaged hand, an eyepatch, a brilliant purple bruise on his forehead, and stitches in his cheek. He checked himself and realized that he, too, had stitches and a sizeable bruise on his face. His legs and arms hurt as if they were all sprained. When he sat up, pain exploded in his head. His groan of agony awoke Morgan.
Morgan quietly said, “I apologize for my reflexive reaction, but it was that or someone was going to die.”
Michael eased himself back down to prone and asked, “What happened?”
“When you shot off the building at around thirty-five miles per hour, M. Winmere was waiting to pounce us. At our speed, his fangs and claws would have been several inches into one or both of us. So, I put a shield in front of us. It formed around my arm. I yanked back on you as best I could, but did not realize that would cause us to carom off a wall and into another. Winmere's head met my shield at thirty miles per hour, breaking my wrist and cracking his face . Our meeting with the walls caused both our faces to bounce off causing contusions, abrasions, and a bruised eyeball. Our speed also swept him into a wall at the end of the alley, giving him a concussion on top of the fracture. Neither of you were conscious afterwards. Valerie expended a lot of healing to put your legs and arms back together. She has decided not to fix her brother's burst eyeball, as an object lesson. She wondered if my life has ever suffered from boredom.”
Michael rolled over singing, “You may have been a headache, but you've never been a bore....”
December 04, 2008
Author Note 3
I have told some of my private universe's stories over the course of twenty plus years. The stories have mutated and changed and their focus has become sharper as I became older. My original protagonist was Valerie and she was very much a Mary Sue (at 14, my writing was still very self-centered). But over time, after meeting other, far more interesting people, I added to my stable of regulars in the symphony. Michael and Morgan are the amalgam of, and homages to, some of the interesting men I've met. Their very existence is based on two 'men' I met while traveling in my dreams, although they are far less 'nice' than the fictional versions of themselves. The originals are a mated pair and I can never remember their names after I've awoken, so I attached names of people I knew in real life to them. As their race only has one gender, calling them homosexual, while technically correct, would also be a bit misinforming.
The fictional Morgan is named for Morgan Pellowski, a charismatic friend of a friend who unfortunately had his young life snuffed out in an auto accident. He was studying to be an actor and playwright and I liked watching how he could transform himself onstage into a very different persona.
Michael is a little more confusing. The surname Wallace is a faux-Anglicization of Mike Wallach, a classmate from high school. Wallach was from a different neighborhood and far different upbringing than I was. He was often seen as buffoonish by the students from Branchburg (which is from whence I came). I changed Wallach to Wallace to sound more English. It actually isn't, but I liked the more Norman sound of the name (which technically made it less English). Michael Wallace was originally going to be a more diffident, less relaxed character, but for the influence of another Michael – Michael Pipher.
Mr. Pipher was another 'march to the beat of a different drummer' person. He would show up each day to public school in a business suit. The rumors had it that his father was wealthy and this was his way of showing it off. Their were other whispers about his mental faculties. I didn't know much about him, but for a year I saw him every day, first period, strolling by in a suit. He always seemed to have the fictional Michael's dashing smile and devil-may-care attitude towards what everyone else thought of him. I personally think he cut a handsome profile and admired him for being different. And I think he knew the truth about himself (that he liked the way he looked and was confident in himself) despite all the whispers.
And, lastly, I was myself in a cross-dressing phase and sometimes wore a men's dress shirt and tie to school, with even nastier whispers attached. My parents and peers disapproved of my outright display of faux masculinity with the usual result of their disapproval validating my choice. Where am I in that mishmosh of the fictional brothers' heads? Well, Morgan's catatonic schizophrenia is based off my time in a mental institution. I am also the source of his ridiculously high pain threshold. And, Michael? Strangely enough, I come out in his sexuality. His archaic but modern approach to women was partially cultivated by my posing online as a man and having cybersex with women. As Michael would put it: “Only go an inch beyond what she will obtusely let you.” He will also never be the one to suggest sex. If she brings it up, he will say yes, but only then. Michael masturbates a lot, too, but he'd rather relieve his sexual frustration alone than be thought of as anything less than a gentleman. His reputation as a ladykiller is just that: a reputation.
December 03, 2008
Believer's Leap
Michael walked to the rocky precipice. More than once, he'd seen Morgan fling himself off into the void below, often in an achingly beautiful diving arc. The roar of the waterfall echoed up from below. When he actually approached the edge, he lowered to his hands and knees and edged forward. Looking down, he realized that even Morgan wouldn't survive such a fall, but he usually did it when he felt 'life overflowing' in him.
“Go ahead, try it,” Valerie said.
Michael looked at her. “You're crazy.”
“I wondered myself, until I tried it.”
“You have the advantage of being able to fly if it doesn't work.”
“But I didn't need to.”
“I'm adept to the earth. I don't think I'm jumping.”
“Do it. If you fail, I can save you. Besides, Morgan can't fly, either.”
Michael stood unsteadily. Before he could say no, Valerie backed up and, shoulder forward, rammed him over the promontory. A moment of panic was followed by the incredible discovery of a strong updraft that pushed him into the incredible arc he'd witnessed. Valerie did a running jump and followed afterward, then carved around, grabbed Michael's wrist in a sharp dive and surfed the current in a gentle downward spiral that ended in a deep lake at the bottom. Coughing up water while he surfaced, the exhilaration was still with him as they scrambled up a steep muddy bank. Valerie slicked her hair back, laughing gloriously.
She gasped, “I'll bet the first time Morgan jumped, he was despondent. But every time after, he did it for the sheer life-affirming joy.”
“Go ahead, try it,” Valerie said.
Michael looked at her. “You're crazy.”
“I wondered myself, until I tried it.”
“You have the advantage of being able to fly if it doesn't work.”
“But I didn't need to.”
“I'm adept to the earth. I don't think I'm jumping.”
“Do it. If you fail, I can save you. Besides, Morgan can't fly, either.”
Michael stood unsteadily. Before he could say no, Valerie backed up and, shoulder forward, rammed him over the promontory. A moment of panic was followed by the incredible discovery of a strong updraft that pushed him into the incredible arc he'd witnessed. Valerie did a running jump and followed afterward, then carved around, grabbed Michael's wrist in a sharp dive and surfed the current in a gentle downward spiral that ended in a deep lake at the bottom. Coughing up water while he surfaced, the exhilaration was still with him as they scrambled up a steep muddy bank. Valerie slicked her hair back, laughing gloriously.
She gasped, “I'll bet the first time Morgan jumped, he was despondent. But every time after, he did it for the sheer life-affirming joy.”
December 02, 2008
Exeunt Eternal, pt. 2
As the moment of terror passed, Michael stared blankly up. As the formaldehyde left him, so did all sense of deep emotion. His mind felt... blank? No, white, maybe. As if nothing were there. Another woman came into view. He knew her, but didn't. It was a flat, useless memory, devoid of emotion or relevance. His lips went to speak. “Wife?” was the only word that came to mind.
“Yes, Michael. It is I, Margaret. You remember?”
His eyes looked at her blankly, “No, I don't.”
He levered himself up on one elbow. The casket had been removed from the ground and dirt had been thrown about. The double-wide headstone read 'Michael ~ Morgan.' The word Morgan brought a clearly defined image to mind, but little else. He looked at his clothes. His suit was custom-made. His shirt had a monogram on the sleeve and cufflinks. A square of silk was tucked into his sleeve with a crest and a five pointed crown embroidered on a corner. That, too, brought a construct to mind, but no detail.
There were more people around, mostly female. All familiar in a distant, factoidal sort of way. They lifted him to his feet. He couldn't remember who he was, although he did remember what his name was. “I am Michael,” he said stiffly.
“His mind is gone!”
“Give it time. He just came back to life.”
“Daddy?”
The word daddy rolled around in his head. It should be significant, but it just seemed like another word. Why was it important?
He turned back to the headstone. He ran his fingers over the name Morgan. He remembered a man standing at the top of a flight of stairs, smiling. But that was all.
He looked at the assorted familiar strangers and asked, “Who is this?”
The woman he recognized as his mother said, “No one important.”
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