In the Wake of Hell

Year 23 (canon): The suite of rooms Michael occupied were actually intended for the lady of the manor but, as Morgan hadn't taken a wife, Michael often assumed the role. Michael hadn't bothered changing the feminine décor believing it would be occupied by a woman eventually, even if not in his lifetime. Morgan and Holmes carefully undressed Michael and re-applied the compresses to his injuries. Leaving a servant to look after him, Morgan left for his own apartment.

“Perhaps, Morgan, you should rest in bed,” Holmes suggested mildly. Holmes had been Morgan's personal valet since his charge was four years old and was the only one, besides Michael, in the barony who had the privilege to address him by his first name.

“As sensible as that might be, I think I will sit in my drawing room and play,” Morgan responded.

“Very well. Would you need anything?”

“Yes, a scotch, please. And a cigar.”

Morgan settled into his favorite chair and raised his feet. He reached for his violin case, opened it, and took the rosin cube and ran it over his bow several times. Plucking the strings individually, he adjusted them and then drew the bow across the strings as the tremulous notes eased the world from his mind. Morgan did not play exceedingly well, but he did not play for others to hear. He played because he often could not say or express what he needed to expiate pain from his soul and music allowed him a nonverbal means to do so. Holmes allowed himself a private smile as the melody solemnly caressed their ears. Holmes placed the requested items on a small table next to Morgan and then sat in a seat in a far corner and opened a book.

After playing for several minutes, Morgan returned the violin to its case. He picked up his scotch and took a sip. “Holmes?”

“Sir?”

“Why do you stay? I would imagine working for me is intolerable.”

“You are not an unreasonable employer. And your father was quite clear as to my duties and I believe he was quite correct in wanting someone to do what I was hired to do. You may be strongheaded, but I have developed quite an affection for you, Morgan.”

“And my disappearances, fits, destructive seizures?”

“Unfortunate, but you have lived through unthinkable torture and are still a humane man.”

“I question that often. Mother has overshadowed every decent person who has loved me.” Morgan took another sip, the throbbing in his leg irritating his subconscious.

Recognizing something in Morgan's tone of voice, Holmes walked over to his master. “Morgan?”

He caught the glass from Morgan's loosened grip and placed it back on the table. Morgan's eyes threatened tears but a wall could be seen building behind them. “Now Morgan,” Holmes reassured, “hiding within yourself only distresses us.”

“Does it now?” A voice that is best described as honeyed poison issued from the wall.

“Ignore her, Morgan.” Holmes gripped Morgan's hand.

A short, fawn-haired women appeared. She resembled what many would consider an elf. “Why is Michael in exquisite pain?”

Mechanically, Morgan said, “He isn't. He is asleep and drugged, so he cannot feel much pain.”

“And you?”

“I am fine, Mother.”

Holmes could not see or hear the relevant exchange, only knew that it was happening, unable to intervene. The language they used was unknown to humans.

“You are not fine. You hurt him. You tried to permanently scar him. You cannot even do what you want to do. You have no love for him. You never have. If he dies...”

An almost visible snap occurred in Morgan's mind and nothing else anyone said registered. Holmes gripped his arm. His arm moved when Holmes moved it, but just hung oddly when he let go. Holmes called in other servants and they moved Morgan to bed. Blood stained sweat fell from Morgan's brow while tears ran down his cheeks. His eyes froze in position while his mother's voice inexorably continued its stream of accusations.

-----

“How long has he been like this?” Michael asked.

“Nearly two days now.”

Holmes had been sponge bathing Morgan when Michael limped in on a cane. Michael's face was marred by anger the likes of which he reserved for only one person. It evaporated to concern and deep sorrow as he bent over his brother's head and spoke softly to him. “Morganis,” Michael used the odd language Holmes had heard only three people ever speak. “Re'shu.”

Morgan's eyes had to be kept moist with eyedrops they had been open so long, but an almost imperceptible twitch could be seen in them. “Re'absal. Se'shas.”

Michael stroked Morgan's hair and repeated the words gently. Minor twitches occurred in Morgan's face. “Sirem re'shan, Morganis.”

A sob broke from Morgan's throat and the rigor ebbed. “Daddy?” he croaked.

“He loves you.” Michael reassured. “And I love you. I'm here for you, Morgan.”

“I hurt you,” Morgan's throat was dry and raspy. “Mother said-”

“I forgive you,” Michael reiterated. “Do not listen to mother. She does not speak for me.”

Morgan cried. His cries resembled a little child lost in a cold, dark place.

Michael hugged him, held him silently and let him cry. It was inconceivable that Morgan ever did anything that made him worthy of the abuse he suffered as a child. But their mother never relented. Morgan finally quieted after ten minutes. Michael loosened his grip, counted to fifteen, then tightened it as the paroxysmal wailing started. Even with a broken leg, Morgan thrashed so violently Michael could barely keep him safe. Wenzel arrived and hurriedly worked a needle into him. Finally, he vomited and collapsed. Michael carefully lay him back down.

Michael staggered into Morgan's bathroom. He yanked off his shirt and rinsed it in the sink. He spent two minutes crying out his own demons before emerging shirtless.