A Nightmare Deferred

Somewhere in the dark, Michael crawled on his hands and knees. It pressed around him, threatening to break him. A dark secret grew within him and was held in by the tape on his mouth. His wrists and feet were bound and no amount of love could free them. So, he half-dragged, half-wriggled his way forward on the stone floor. Skin and fabric abraded off on the rough surface. He wavered between panic and calm. He could taste blood and bile in his throat. Don't panic or you'll choke, he told himself. During the swell of panic, it was hard to keep his heart from bursting out of his chest. He continued edging forward. He tried not to drag his abdomen close to the floor. Trying does not always equal success. The front of his shirt was torn, as well. The passage seemed to be getting tighter and the light seemed to be winking out ahead. His secret weighed him down heavily, made it hard to move, to think, to breathe. As he felt exhaustion overtake him, his slowed to nothing. His belly throbbed and reminded him of what he was trying to hide. Drool threatened to choke him as the gag firmly kept all saliva and bile in. He shook from exertion. Can't stop now. He managed a few more inches forward. The pain inside got worse. He stopped when it got bad. Then continued to struggle on. I don't think I'm going to make it. The pain was getting more penetrating. I have to make it. A few more inches forward. Oh, sweet goddess, it's getting worse. The urge to scream turns into nothing more than helpless choking. Some of the excess fluid runs out his nose. A sour taste is added to the blood, saliva, and bile. He blows the excess out his nose and prays he doesn't drown. The slickness on the floor aids slightly in his attempts to move. A trickle of fluid down his leg and the hard pain in his abdomen stop him again. The pain is debilitating now. He can't move. He can't scream. He can't breathe. His hands press the curve of his belly as it hardens from strain. The shaft is now too tight for him to turn. Help me! Somebody help meeeee! His mind screams as his body feels as if it's being ripped in two.

Michael snaps bolt upright in bed, sheened in sweat. He can feel his heart pounding. His wife stirs next to him. “Is something wrong, honey?”

He catches his breath and his heart finally slows. He wipes his sweat-drenched face. “I... I must have had a nightmare.”

He turned and lovingly rubbed his wife's pregnant belly. “I didn't mean to disturb you, Margaret. Whatever it was, doesn't seem to be important enough for me to remember it.”

And the Abyss Stared Back...

Year 35: By the time Michael got home, his head throbbed. The stitched wound itched and his nerves felt raw. When he got home, he ignored the greetings and gasps from everyone in the household and walked drearily up the three flights to Morgan's bedroom. When got there, he found it empty. Groaning to himself, he walked into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. Morgan walked in behind him. “How are you doing?”

Michael didn't look up. He answered, “I don't think the day can get much worse. How's that?”

Morgan said, “I tend to agree with that. You walked right by my office without noticing I was in it. That was surprising, but I think everyone is in shock right now.”

Michael's nausea refused to subside and it felt like the vertigo was returning. “What do you mean 'everyone?'”

“Did you not hear the news today? I was on the 97th floor of Tower Two when it happened.”

Michael looked up. Morgan was in a regular work suit. It was ripped and bloodied and discolored by dust and debris. His right arm was in a sling and half of his hand was missing. He was walking with a brace cane.

“Tower Two?” Michael asked hesitantly. “The World Trade Center?”

“Yes,” Morgan answered, “both towers fell. Terrorist attack. I survived by using a force bubble but I don't think there are many other survivors. I dug my way out and pulled two others up with me. It was horrifying.”

Michael picked his head up in surprise, antagonizing his condition. He turned and a mouthful of chunky spit landed in the tub, relieving both his vertigo and nausea.

“I slipped away in the confusion. They kept saying I was a hero. All I did was save myself. The other two happened to be there on the way up. I don't want to think about all those who are dead from true heroic deeds.”

Michael turned to Morgan, the world still spinning slightly. “What were you doing there? And is there any clue who did it?”

Morgan stood there, his jaw moving, no words coming out. Michael just stared. Then, he shook his head. “N-no, please tell me you didn't.”

“I... I thought I was delivering a death threat. Maybe, I actually was. I was supposed to drop a briefcase at a specific point, a specific desk. I used our company's pass to get in. I never made it to my actual destination. I was going up the staircase to avoid detection. Then, I heard a tremendous boom. I slowed, exited at that floor, and listened to others. A jet had crashed into the neighboring tower. I questioned everything I've ever done in those moments. And, I wondered about every last person who made me do them. I put the briefcase down and tried to open it. I had just managed to jimmy it when the building I was in was hit. At that point, I thought of phasing out, which I couldn't do. I went cloakless. So, I impassively sat there and waited for it to fall, and listened to people crying, panicking, screaming, praying and realized that I was just as much doing this as the very people who were driving those planes. My whole existence played out right there in my mind. This was my life and this is what I do. No matter how much I was forced into it, I am still a weapon of destruction and death and even if I died today, I'd fucking survive. There are five thousand others who graced by god or not, won't. I did not fly those planes, Michael. But I probably have done hundreds of smaller things together that were just as heinous, just as destructive. I got to watch my entire life's work in the course of a day. Even if I wished I were a real boy, I never could be, because a real boy would have been scared. He would have feared death. He would want his mommy. No, I felt none of that. I just knew I would survive, like a cockroach, and find my way out of the debris and pain and tragedy and continue existing. I stopped thinking of any god as benevolent because if they were, they would have died today too.”

Michael just shook his head in disbelief. “Why didn't you make the force bubble larger?”

“I did. It snapped from the building compressing. So, in the end, it wasn't very useful.”

“But you survived.”

Morgan nodded. “May your death be quick and purposeful, brother. Mine will be long and nonexistent and like unto god.”

Well Misspent Youth

Year 30: She wasn't hard to find. They stopped at the nearest seedy bar and there she was.

Michael grinned slyly as he approached her. “I used to go to little roadside bars and get into fights.”

Claire looked at him and said, “Weren't you afraid of getting hurt? Not that I have aaaaany problem with you and bars or fighting.”

Michael sat down next to her at the bar. The bartender looked like he'd gut his cat for purring too loud. He looked at Michael like he was that cat. Michael made a hand waggle. “What's the most expensive thing you have?” he asked, snarkily.

The guy slammed down a Crown Royal bottle. It wasn't small and Claire made a gleeful noise. Michael looked back towards the door where Morgan was standing against the wall. He eyed the crowd which was making appropriately unfriendly glares. A gleam came to his eye. He pulled a hundred out and laid it on the counter. Then, he pulled out another. “Pour it,” he commanded.

The bartender spit in his glass before pouring. Michael remembered this bar housed a gang of white supremecists once. Perhaps, they hadn't forgotten him. The glass was filled with ice and water. It was going to be good night, indeed. Michael removed his Movado watch and put it in his pant pocket. He then removed an ice cube and chucked it at Morgan's head. It missed a shy left. Morgan moved a bit closer.

Michael then proceeded to upturn the glass on the floor, using his hands to catch the ice. He grabbed the bottle and poured a full glass on the rocks and tossed it back like a shot. Claire was watching everything he did up until then with mild confusion. “Impressive. I think they're going to kill you.”

“Either, I'm going to be in a fight, or the bottle is going to be emptied.” Michael silently counted out two minutes, then made a motion for another glass. Leaving it to the bartender resulted in another watered down scotch. Michael quaffed the entire glass in one go, as well. After two more, he looked back, deliberately wobbled and tried to put his watch back on. Only Claire could see the smile on his face.

One of the patrons walked up and tried to take Michael's watch. “Mind if I take this, pretty boy?”

Michael looked up with a dazed, somewhat unfocused look on his face. “Me? Pretty?”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing Michael's chin and yanking it toward his face. “If you were any prettier, I would screw you.”

“I would you? Kiss me, sweetheart.” Michael definitely didn't look steady.

The tough went to throw a punch and Michael, who wasn't too far from sober, stepped neatly away. His palm, with the watch band around it, smacked into the back of the guy's head. The next nearest gang member came at him with a beer bottle. Michael came around with a kick to the ribs and followed with an uppercut to the jaw. Michael's wedding ring left a angry red mark. The ensuing crashing sound prompted Morgan to stand up straight. The minute he did, the bar cleared. Michael flexed his left hand and commented, “Dammit, they still remember us. They didn't even land a blow this time. And I was afraid I was out of practice.”

Michael tossed a couple more hundreds on the bar and left. Claire ran out after him, Morgan following. Michael took a tiny derringer out and shot it in the air to clear the gang members that were conspiring revenge on his car.

As they all got in his car, Claire leaned on the front seat and asked, “Okay, how did you do that?”

“Do what?” Michael asked, feigning innocence.

“I saw you blast four scotches and then ...”

Michael laughed uproarously. “I barely had two. The first one was on the rocks. I normally can down five in a row neat before I start having any coordination problems. The rest were scotch-colored water. They, on the other hand, were fairly beer-buzzed and while strong, aren't coordinated to begin with. I usually get into a drinking contest first, but they went straight for the expensive watch routine.”

“And if you got into a drinking contest, how would you have won?”

“I'd pretend I was a sloppy drunk. My other trick is to spray it out my nose with my hand cupped over my mouth while dabbing my face with a handkerchief. They're usually too drunk to really notice.”

Morgan said softly, “I was hoping you'd outgrown your street fighting tendencies. I get tired of blood on my hands.”

It's Not the Size that Counts

“Hey, so you know magic, right?”

Morgan paused from sewing his arm up. “Yes.”

“Cool, can you do fireballs?”

“No.”

“Magic missile?”

“No.”

“How about frostbolt?”

Morgan continued pushing the needle through his flesh. “No.”

“Can you enchant weapons and armor?”

“No.”

Jonah frowned. “So, your magic is mostly useless?”

Morgan stashed the needle between his teeth, paced five feet away, and flipped around. A bald spot appeared right behind Jonah's left temple as the hair fell away as if clipped with a very sharp blade. A thin sliver of flesh from his ear fell to the ground with his hair. Morgan dropped the needle back into his hand and said, “No.”

The Strength of a Shortcoming

Year 5: Eight-year-old Katasha was the best for her age. Spry and nimble and silent, she crept down corridors of the labyrinth and even with grit on the walls and pebble-covered floors, the initiates hadn't found her. She carefully snuck up on one student after the other, leaving a knife prick in their backs. The dim area was excellent for her ability to see in near darkness. She had already tagged five others and that left two of the younger boys. The exercise was to find her first and stick her lightly with a knife before she tagged you. She had always excelled at this game, and would finish incredibly fast, even against the older students. The crowd had thinned fast, she noticed. Someone else must be very good. She risked jumping up on the dividing walls. The little blind boy was still in the maze and had just tapped the second to last. He made no attempt really at stealth, from what she could see. He would often just wander about and hope not to blunder into anyone. She watched him hit a wall and upset the hanging ash bowl that radiated a small amont of glowing light. Its contents extinguished as he noisily knocked it to the floor. She suppressed a snicker. How had that bungling, sightless little fool lasted this long? He retraced his way back to the other end of the maze. She heard anther bowl upset. Gently, she moved her way in the darkened area until she heard another one crash. What? He's awfully clumsy for a trained monk. And careless for one entering the dark profession. She realigned herself to the last heard crash. And continued to ease her way forward. Then, another muffled crash. Katasha suddenly realized this end of the maze was now entirely enveloped in darkness. It wasn't hard to see; it was impossible. Her heart suddenly started beating more rapidly. It's okay, same as before. Just be quiet and don't tip him off by sound. She moved forward again cautiously. She found herself reaching ahead blindly for the walls so she wouldn't bump into them. She tried to listen for him, but her increased heartbeat muffled her hearing. How did he find his away around here? She thought she heard something behind and uselessly turned to look. As she did, she blindly bumped against an outside wall. She made a small squeak as her head hit it. A dagger point bit her shoulder.

It Makes Sense in Context

“Michael, your wife is looking for you downstairs.”

“I have no words.”

“My wife is upstairs.”

“I have no energy.”

“Karen called.”

“If I kick you in the head, would it kill me?”

“The Queen sent for you.”

“Nirvana take me, for I am nothing.”

“Was tonight your daughter's recital?”

“Broccoli, with feet.”

Morgan paused at that one. “I have ammo for the .38.”

Michael nodded numbly. “Make it a double. Aim low.”

Do Not Want!!

Year 39: Morgan reached out as he heard Valerie approach. She wore her sword, a long knife, a traveling pack and a folded cloak. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, have you heard of a golem named Vachev?”

Morgan furrowed his brow. “Yes, I have. There have been quite a few who have tried to destroy it. Many were found outside his hold in pieces. Others were found horrifically mutilated. And some were never seen again.”

“I'm going to try.”

Morgan gripped her. “I would not, if I were you. What do you know of it?”

“That it's some kind of wakened golem, started out as iron, melded with flesh and offered to a pain or pleasure demon-god. It now is sentient sex golem and makes the Marquis de Sade look like a kitten. Man or women, they fall before it, get mutilated by rape, and if they're unlucky, survive.”

“And you would take this on yourself?” Morgan asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Valerie answered without hesitation. “It feeds off fear, takes what it wants, and is powered by the soul of its creator. One of those three should be exploitable.”

Morgan firmly pulled her closer. “How do you know this much? My order has lost seasoned assassins to this monster.”

Valerie's mouth curved downward. “Sir Gregory went after it, and survived.”

“Survived well enough to talk about it?”

“Yes... well, he's... gibbering, right now. But he's alive.”

“And his physical state?”

Valerie shuddered visibly. “I would say, observe yourself, but I don't think Gregory could handle it. Vachev broke every bone in one leg, every single one. His foot was crushed. His metatarsals are powder. His other three limbs were snapped in thirds. His tongue was cut out. Vachev bore through his navel and yanked out intestines through a quarter-inch hole. His nipples were ripped off. No, that's not accurate. A fine toothed metal comb was embedded in the flesh of his breasts and it sliced through his mammaries, leaving... sliced, ribboned, nipples. And, a similar, jointed device was used on his scrotum. It then weaved his testicle... strands into a lattice knot. Then, it had sex with him.”

Morgan's mind gave a hint of perturbance. “It... did it mutilate him there, too.”

Valerie nodded spasmodically. “It started fellating, then chewing, then swallowing, all while straddling him. I'm guessing it has a mechanism to work in reverse that ribbon-strips a woman.”

“And could you do anything for him?”

“His physical wounds, yes. There are some things a curing incant just doesn't reach. I can't ignore something that's going around and making a meal out of people's... private parts.”

Morgan sighed quietly and merely said, “I will go with you. I have a plan.”

How Not to Impress a Young Woman

Year 20: Valerie found herself inundated with information. They would teach her one moment about court etiquette and the next moment they were trying to tell her about her wardrobe. It was terribly disorganized and she finally asked for paper and pen and simply starting noting everything, to everyone's dismay. She finally asked for the names of her retinue and at that moment they realized they'd overlooked a simple, but important detail.

They started with her ladies-in-waiting, Alexandra and Kay, both Magir. She had a chaperone, William, and a secretary, Edward. William was human and a charming young man. He introduced himself with the expected grace, but then made an off-color joke in English that no one else understood. Valerie laughed. “Good, it's nice to meet someone here who isn't uptight about their station. Call me Bill.”

Valerie took a liking to him immediately. He kept his eye averted. His job was to make sure others' eyes stayed that way too. He explained plainly about the charm placed on her. It would make any man attracted to her if they stare into her eyes. And if she was interested, the charm would ramp up in strength. He explained he was chosen for the position because of his honorable nature and his reliance on glasses to see anything. Blurry vision made it harder for the charm to work its influence.

As he explained her two bodyguards would arrive soon, she then asked who the broad-chested man who kept following them around was. Bill looked over her shoulder, he shook his head. “It's your intended husband trying to be discreet.”

“Discreet? Everyone bows to him as he passes. He hides behind things smaller than he is and he seems to be breathing heavily.”

“That's as close as the magir get to stealthy. Honestly. I wouldn't worry about any magir spies.”

“Indeed,” said a thin male voice from a dark corner, “worry about the elven ones.” Everyone startled as Morgan stepped out.

Valerie was quickly steered away. “How long have you been standing there?” Bill asked, sternly.

“Not long,” Morgan answered. “I was following Eldin who has, indeed, failed to be stealthy at all.”

“I suppose you could do better?”

Morgan produced a wide ribbon with a jeweled adornment on it. It had been around Eldin's neck. “I did.”

Bill turned to hide a smirk and surreptitously whispered, “That will be your royal assassin.”

Valerie nodded with a coquettish look in her eye. “I like him.”

World Mechanics 2

In my Lords of Prior D&D/White Star campaign, the players were charged to assist a Holy Champion of Morganth named Wirklich. Wirklich is severly injured by a) a mithril arrow that breaks up in his heart and b)by a thaumaturgy experiment which drops a 15 foot cube of ice which crashes through the hotel ceiling on which he was roosting. He tells the party to continue without him. Along the way, the party is accosted by another Holy Champion known only by a colloquial title of 'the oracle.' After he shoots a party member with an arrow of slaying and is confronted by another party member, he tells them that he has killed Wirklich because Morganth does not suffer failure from his chosen. What he doesn't tell the team is that Morganth does not allow the Holy Champions be replaced and, before Wirklich is executed, he was expected to impregnate the oracle with the next vessel for his soul's rebirth.

The Second Worst Thing for a Parent to Discover

Year 29: Michael was facing his thirtieth birthday soon. The foremost thoughts on his mind concerned the four children he'd managed to sire in seemingly record time. All four mothers were eager for his attention and his brother was on the verge of another mental breakdown. Luckily, Morgan had steadied, so it just might subside with some care. Nationally, the financial boon of late seem ready to collapse under its own excessiveness and the family's business was in jeopardy of the aftershocks of a stock bust. The commodities end of their business was jumpy and he'd been banking excess money in preparation for a crash. Time alone was getting to be a precious.

The swimming pool was good place to relax. He listened to music while exercising alone. Nobody followed him down there. Granted, the women didn't know there was a pool down here and Morgan avoided it since he nearly drowned in it after slipping and hitting his head. As time wore on, it becaming a quiet oasis for his mind.

This evening found him like so many recently floating on his back after doing laps. He let his mind absorb the soothing ley energy of the softly lapping water. His head rested on an entry step, anchoring the rest of him. He thought he heard the soft padding of a foot. A part of him selfishly wanted it to go away. He wasn't fully relaxed yet. He sat up and turned to see who was there. His twelve-year-old daughter looked at him with the eyes of a frightened doe.

“Krystie? Do you need something, love?”

“Daddy? Why did you not want us to learn arcana?” The question was spoken more quietly and mouselike than usual.

“Arcana?” Michael asked, suddenly worried. “Where did you learn that word?”

“A lady taught me. She said she was our grandmum.”

“Taught you? Taught you what?” Michael quickly got out and knelt next to her.

“She said she could teach us what you wouldn't. Nicole said no, so she made her shut up and then asked me.”

Michael put a hand over his mouth, trying not to convey the utter horror that was creeping in his veins. “And you said?”

“I wanted to learn. I wanted to make my own decisions.”

He gripped her arm, shaking her inadvertently. “And? What did she teach you.”

“She made me work with a bowl of water. Said I'd be a natural. I'm sorry, Dad. You were right, it's awful and I can't stop seeing it now.”

Michael couldn't find words to express the sick feeling he felt inside. She tasted magic and it was corrupting on her very first go. 'No,' he rationalized, 'It doesn't work that way. She was just spooked. It was the same my first time.'

He hugged her. “I forgive you, dear, but don't learn any more. The Arcanum Principia is not for the fey-touched and a beginner shouldn't be learning it at all.”

“I saw you, but it wasn't you. I saw you pouring death and destruction and suffering from a scrying bowl. There was blood raining, and Uncle Morgan was chasing lambs down and hacking them to pieces on a burning horse. There was a lady dancing in flames and a man sewing pox in the river. So much blood was flowing that...” her voice cracked, so strained she could neither talk nor cry.

“That's absurd,” Michael reassured her. “Uncle Morgan would never do that, and neither would I. Consider it like a bad nightmare, shocking and revolting, but not real.”

It took a little longer before her crying subsided, but Michael was left indignant that his mother would undermine him. Did she have nothing better to do than scry on him constantly? Michael sympathetically walked his daughter upstairs and assured her that she hadn't done anything bad. In his mind, he was already planning another visit to Scafir'ii with dragons. And, he thought shuddering, he should also check with a prophet.

World Mechanics 1

Morgan Wallace is an arms shooter but the guns he uses aren't real in the normal sense. They are projected from his mind into reality for short spans of time. With more effort, he can also make them permanent until he decides to unmake them. His assassin work usually brings into play a rifle, but since the guns work entirely on the force of will of his mind, they don't have pull triggers and make almost no sound. Someone who wrests a gun away from him will either grab air, or a plastic-like gun shape that doesn't fire. This same ability can also manifest other shapes, but it does take practice for him to fine tune them into anything precise. For instance, on his first try, he might be able to make a wall, but not a wall with a specific height or thickness. It also helps if he has a specific idea of what he wants before he makes it. The more specific it is, the more time it will take to manifest.

His spellcasting is also 'on the fly.' Unlike most fey-touched casters, he does not invoke incants (words of power) or move his hands in a specific way. However, he does have to acquire most of these by experimentation and he can't do the typical heavy damage style casting commonly associated with fighting mages.

Unstirring Battle Cry

Year 38: Sitting over coffee, the other three watched Morgan mechanically reach for the cognac. He loosened the cap and stops midway to pouring. He placed it on the table. “I do not need it.”

Michael's morose expression stirred with some life. “You're passing on a drink?”

“I very much want it. More than I expected, but I no longer need it. I thought it liberation; it was just another leash.” Morgan sipped his coffee black.

The deposed queen of the mages and the Prime of the gemen sat with them. Valerie and Georg sat watching impassively. Michael lapsed back into his melancholia. “Why didn't I say that to you so much earlier?”

“Because you believed in his spirit, believed in him,” Valerie answered gently. “We didn't see the wheel turning, or that we were all just cogs. Morgan had to be neutral or he would have been driven totally gone by his own existence or been unfathomably evil. But we're all minions here, anyway.”

Georg asked again, “So, they said you were Horseman Famine?”

“I think they were mocking my generosity.”

“You think?” Morgan answered, almost managing sarcasm. “They were not mocking; they were brutalizing your humanity. I have faced that council myself.”

“So, we're fated to be the Horseman? It's not the end...” Georg bit his tongue.

“How are we to do this?,” Morgan asked.

“You're awfully steady,” Georg noted.

“I kill a hundred one by one, or thousands in one stroke. I do not see much of a difference. Death is death. If I'm going to execute people though, I would like it to be the proper people.”

“I don't know.” Michael's voice was strained. “They did not say much more than I told you.”

“Are we agreed then that no matter how crapsack the humans see this world, that humanity itself is not worthy of the wrath of end times?”

Michael made a keening noise. “I can't fault humanity for the messed up state of its forebears. They've done a lot better than we have.”

Georg nodded. “Hysper is underwater. The Underworld is blasted by wind. The Scafir'ii was cracked apart. And the Th'epf world was razed by lava. Some of us have rebuilt our numbers better than others but the humans will probably do well, even after ninety percent or more are decimated by fire.”

“Ninety percent or more is not decimated.”

“Morgan that point is not important,” Valerie interjected. “We'll do what they want.”

The other three looked at her in surprise. She elaborated, “But not what they intended. The four of us shall be what the humans fear, but the humans primarily will need not fear us. We will cut down all who wield magic in abusive forms. We will eliminate those who would use power, money, influence as means of tyranny over others. We will destroy this world in the name of humanity and what is left will be inherited by the meek, because the strong and the able will no longer exist.”

Valerie lifted hear hand above her and the Horseman bent to her will and rode.

Visions of a Blind Man

Year 25: Barbituates and alcohol are a dangerous combination. The chances of lapsing into a coma or dying from abuse are high. Barbituates and electroconvulsive shock therapy are also common therapies used for catatonics. Morgan found secondary benefits from his therapies that enhanced his mental ones. Prescription access to barbitols and a high tolerance to alcohol led to the discovery that he could have prophetic impressions. They became more intense and lucid while vomiting. Normally, he had no use for higher clairsentience. His motivation this time was personal.

He was supposed to be taking small dosages of antiepileptics to prevent a recurrence of catalepsy. Morgan would hide the pill under his tongue then spit it out and save it for moments like this. He'd brought a full bottle of whiskey and an envelope full of sticky pills to a rarely used bathroom. Sitting on the floor, one lowball of scotch and a week's worth of pills was his start. His mind lulled for a while, then a pinpoint in the horizon grew brighter. The cacophony of sounds and voices that normally inhabited his head muted, then stretched. The information he sought was there, he could feel it, could almost see it. Morgan's sole understanding of the sense of vision came from these moments. When the vision began to break and fade, he drank more. Vertigo started to happen, but his 'third eye' steadied. As if taunting him, the sounds were just fuzzy enough not to be made out as words. He recognized one voice, but not the other. He unsteadily took another sip. If anyone were there, they'd see a sour look on his face, but he didn't feel very sick. A portion of his mind wondered if an empty stomach would have been better for this exercise. It took another five pills and another full glass before he felt bile building up in his stomach. He leaned over the toilet, drooling foul tasting spit. The world would have been going dark if he could see but what he sought sat at the center of his view. Michael Winmere, chanting a song of domination on his half-sister, she was trying to fight him off. She shouted defensive spells to no avail, his more experienced casting broke her mind. He took her.

Morgan's stomach forcibly rejected its contents as he relived her violation firsthand. His body started shaking. When the vision receded, his conciousness did not return fully. He hazily continued vomiting until he passed out. The last thought that slipped his mind was he should have brought the amulet.

Innocence Lost

Michael decided Morgan must like freezing. It was bitingly cold, but Morgan was wearing only a thin black silk shirt under his black jacket. “Why didn't you warn me it was this cold?”

“Because I did not know we would end up here. I was told to find an unusual wolf and bring back its ear.”

“I asked what do you do when you disappear. When you said you jaunt, I didn't know you meant through planes of existence and, well, time and space.”

Morgan threw his arm around Michael, so that his voluminous black cloak fell around Michael's shoulders too. The comfort difference was remarkable. “How does this cloak work?”

“The inside provides a shadow for its own shadow jump, so the inside surface is really a jaunt plane.”

Morgan pulled a pair of silver-rimmed glasses and placed them carefully on his face. Michael stared at him, confounded. “What are those for?” He tapped the rim.

“They allow me to see,” Morgan answered bluntly.

“Really?”

Michael noticed Morgan's eyes actually flitting about as a sighted person's would. His steel grey eyes still appeared the way they always did, with no black in the center where an pupil would be. “I do not see the way a person naturally would. They are attuned to my inner sight. I can see anger, fear, danger, and insubstantives like that.”

“Insubstantive is a word?”

“Michael, do not be offended, but please be quiet.”

Michael spelled T-H-I-S-O-K into Morgan's palm. Morgan half-turned his head to him and made a short assenting noise. Morgan gently walked forward so the snow made little noise under his feet. A wolf trotted across the taiga. It was an odd blue color. Michael was unsure if the wolf noticed them, or Morgan sensed it first but it suddenly broke into a run and Morgan gave chase. Michael decided to run with him rather than freeze. “Fe'spodad,” he intoned.

Michael's speed greatly increased. Morgan had already hit an inhumanly fast pace. The wolf was only staying ahead by a hair. Michael's wondered how Morgan managed to invoke magic without incants or chanting. And why the hell was he coming to ridiculously cold places like this one if he was only interested in hunting? The wolf attempted to swerve past a rock and didn't succeed. It caromed off and skidded. Morgan planted his feet as a dark rifle or shotgun suddenly appeared in his hands and it fired soundlessly. Blood sprayed on the snow as the wolf's hip was blown apart. The firearm in Morgan's grip disappeared. Morgan who was hardly breathing heavily spoke in Magir. “By the order of the Court of Mages, you are executed.”

The wolf frantically tried to get away. Morgan grabbed its neck and a gun coalesced into his hand. He placed it against the wolf's temple and fired. Coins flew everywhere along with the gore. The wolf's form unraveled into a humanoid one. Morgan broke two fingers off the corpse's hand. The whole of the experience was under three minutes. Michael caught up, panting heavily, “Good lord, Morgan! You just shot an elf!”

“Did I? I was only told I was eliminating a subversive.” Morgan wrapped the fingers in a cloth and put them in a satchel.

“You knew you were killing somebody?”

Morgan nodded. He shook the blood from his hands. “I am trained assassin, Michael. This is what I do when I disappear.”

Michael looked at Morgan in astonishment. He made a short squeak to indicate surprise. “Morgan, why?”

“Mother had me trained, of course.” Morgan sounded like he was going to cry or have a fit. He started to walk away.

“Do you want the gold that scattered when you killed him?” Belatedly, Michael wondered what it was doing with a large pouch of gold.

Morgan made queer sound, somewhere between a sob and a stifled laugh. “Those coins are his blood money for someone else that he killed. He must have seen me coming and did a quick shapeshift. I personally knew him. He was a guild assassin, too. This is the life I am going to lead. Take them if you want. I do not need them.”

Well, that explained that vexing detail. The last thing some skindancers hold are absorbed in form near the head. He must have noticed them first and changed hurriedly and incompletely. Michael couldn't believe his brother was counting coup at the age of thirteen years. He went and hugged him. Morgan returned the embrace and they reappeared in a worn room. It smelled of mildew and explosions. Michael didn't release his hug. “How long have you been doing this?” he asked quietly.

Morgan used his bland, detached voice. “Since we were six.”

Michael couldn't comprehend that. The detail was too jarring. At six, they were playing on jungle gyms and Morgan was learning braille. As his stood there in shock, Morgan walked away.

Exeunt Eternal

He was aware he was. There was nothing else besides his awareness. It was free of any corporeal concern. No heartbeat. No breathing. No rubbing or tickling from fabrics or air. All sense of space and time were absent. It wasn't nearly as horrifying as he imagined, but neither was it very stimulating.

"Does time exist here?" he thought.

"Yes," came an answer from nowhere. That was unexpected. It seemed a single voice and a harmonious chorus in the same breath.

A sense of light, then form, and, finally, corporeality followed. He seemed to be standing on a disk suspended in midair, surrounded by indiscernible beings. "Do you know who you are?" the voice asked.

"Yes, I am Michael Anthony Wallace."

"Is your true name not Thusias?"

Michael had forgotten about that. "That was my scafir name. I never used it."

"Why did you not? You are Scafir?"

"I was the Principal of the scafir, yes. I would not think of myself as Thusias. I have always been Michael."

"Then, we shall call you Michael."

"Thank you."

"Are you are aware of your current status?"

Michael considered the question. "I am unsure what you mean."

"You are no longer alive in vivi."

A flood of sensations rolled over Michael after that announcement. He remembered pain, distress, love. Then, he remembered looking into Morgan's eyes and seeing them crying silent tears. He died so others could live. "Re'libras."

“Yes,” Michael responded to himself, “I did.”

“Your station as the spiritual apex of your people gives you the right to choose the disposition of your soul.”

Michael hardly considered himself a 'spiritual apex' but he knew to what they were referring.

“I choose reincarnation.”

“Your choice is acknowledged.”

“Do you wish to return as a full-blooded member of your race and would you like full cognizance of your previous life?”

“Yes, and no.”

“You will be reborn a Scafir.”

“No.”

“You did state...”

“I am two races. I choose human.”

“Michael, the human's time is ending.”

“No, it's returned to the nadir of the wheel. All the races, and I imagine the Ascended, too, have been there, and we survived hitting that bottom stroke. I believe once it is over, the humans will still be there, better than the previous turns. They are tough, resourceful, creative, and hardy. They can survive an absence of ley energy far better than the 'advanced' races.”

“They are to us like ants to them. An interesting specie to watch, nothing more.”

“I was taught each turn of the wheel was a refinement. Their lack of magic is not a weakness; it's a strength. It forced them to be intelligent and inventive.”

“As a human, you were wealthy, powerful, privileged. Your personal drive as a member of their society was to alleviate them of their problems.”

Michael sighed. “It's called generosity. I gave of my money, time, and influence as best I could to help others, yes. Is it such a strange concept?”

“We have been benevolent.”

Michael shook his head. “You know the word. You probably know it in every human language and dialect. And yet, I get the feeling its meaning eludes you.”

“Thusias, do not support the human's existence.”

“Why? Did you high and mighty make a mistake in creating them? Do not appeal to my power. The fey blood in me never brought me happiness. I think it twisted and distorted everything I loved. Everything.”

“The harbinger will ride soon. You shall ride with the harbinger. You will be Horseman Famine. You shall be returned to your mortal shell for the purpose. Your brother will ride with you, as will one of your mates and a dear friend. You have advocated so passionately that you will be a hand in their destruction. Enjoy your rebirth.”

Michael went from a sense of nothingness to being forcefully shunted back into his own body. Unfortunately, his newly alive state was accompanied by the realization he was laying in a casket. He felt an odd seepage of liquid leaving his body. The liquid formed a small pool along the bottom of the box soaking into the casket cushion. It was formaldehyde. His revisceration introduced blood back into his veins and pushed out the embalming fluid.

'Wonderful,' he thought, 'they left me in a position that the only way out is through the use of magic.' He started chanting only to find he could feel no power behind the words. The smell and the closeness should have brought panic, but he was too weak to manage an excited state. He found himself too weak to even move his arms. His blood was still refilling. He passively lay there wondering how long it would be before he passed out from the fumes or ran out of oxygen. When it felt like he was about to be overtaken by asphyxiation, the coffin lid rattled. He had just enough blood pressure to manage a small amount of surprise. The lid lifted and he beheld the face of the one being he did not ever want to see again, his mother.