Can't Go Back

Year 39: Michael seemed agitated. “Just how much have I forgotton? I really can't remember much about you.”

Morgan sat at his desk and stated plainly, “It is normal to come back with all traumatic memories lost. I was one fairly long traumatic memory.”

“I didn't think you would just walk away without contesting some right to stay.”

“I have none.”

Margaret interrupted, “You are the baron?”

Morgan flatly said, “Yes, I was. That is all to which I have right. It is a title. All the baronial power rests in your husband.”

Michael merely shook his head, “That makes no sense.”

Morgan turned to a safe and his fingers delicately turned the lock. When it opened, he pulled out a large docket folder. His fingers danced over braille tabs. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and pushed them towards Michael. Michael's eyes picked up the line “I, Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, of unsound mind...” and he carefully picked up the document and scanned through it, flipping the pages in silent wonderment.

Michael placed it back down. His voice was quiet, introspective. “You signed over all powers of attorney to me the day we reached majority.”

“Yes,” Morgan said. “All powers. Financial, marital, baronial, you even have power over my reproductive rights. Which, if misused, basically means you can claim everything I own, everything I earn, any children I bring forth, as your own.”

“What would make you sign this?”

“I was, and still am, insane. It never got cleared off my medical records that I wasn't, so, by medical and state decree, I am incompetent.”

Margaret interjected, “But you're not insane anymore! Just get them to clear it!”

Morgan paced. “Do you know when my last fit was?”

She shrugged and looked at Michael. “Your funeral!” she said, pointing at Michael. “It was the last full seizure he had. You had minor ones while in jail, if I remember correctly, but no grand ones.”

Michael looked at Morgan. “You were in jail?”

Morgan smirked. “Yes, I was. They executed me for sedition. I got life sentences for everything else, including your death.”

“My death?!”

“Yes, and I finally got them to agree to charge me with practicing medicine without a license in that regard. I could not get murder to stick. Eight witnesses to your death kept saying I was innocent. I was a dead man anyway. I refused legal counsel, pled guilty to twenty different offenses, and I still got acquitted on about six charges. I actually had to lie to get myself executed. It is of no consequence now.”

Michael stood up and walked over to Morgan and asked, “Why don't you want to be declared sane?”

“For the same reason I do not recognize you as my brother anymore. I became sane when Michael died. If I am still sane, Michael is still dead. And since you don't remember me, perhaps we are both still dead.”

No Reasonable Offer

The killer looked at Morgan, then looked around, expecting Michael to be somewhere in the background pastiche. Morgan just watched him. This would take some time to sink in. “On your fourth attempt, do you expect to do any better?” Morgan asked flatly.

“I don't see your pacifist flunky about.”

“I do not have a flunky. I have a traveling companion, but hardly a pacifist.”

“Does this 'companion' know how many lives you've taken? Wha' kinda scum you are?”

“Yes.”

The swagger meant nothing to Morgan. He knew it for the drunkenness it was, even without seeing it.

“Whatever traveling companion I have or have had are all far better than you.”

“Oh, why's that?”

“Would you take a bullet for me?”

“Pffft! No!”

“My companions are chosen for their loyalty. Not their mockery of courage. Not their alcohol-stoked violence. Not their bloodthirsty tendencies. They are competent, helpful, resourceful, and creative.”

“I don't supposhe they acktually protect you?”

When the cavalier stranger pulled a flintlock, a half-eaten apple flew across the market plaza and hit him squarely in the head. He flipped around and Morgan applied a fist to one temple. “No,” he said to the flopped body, “they just facilitate me protecting myself.”

Once Upon a Time

Michael's day has been hectic. Morgan's day has been quiet and contemplative. Despite vast differences in how they passed the time, often they had a means to blow of steam or liven things up without ever wasting precious time on Earth. They never spoke about it or discussed it outside of Morgan's apartment. None of the household outside of Holmes knew of their 'disappearances.' But, when one hundred and seventy-five rooms in a mansion became confining or the rat race too frustrating, they would sympathetically 'know' and leave together for other places, dimensions, planes, or times. Often, for Morgan, it was work and, for Michael, a sidekick position, but they could disappear for weeks at a time and return only minutes after they had left by the clock.

Children, marriage, financial upheavals, and Morgan's frequent deaths did not stop them from going out again. Indeed, the bonding between them was so intense from these that it would take Michael's death to stop the partner sojourns. Morgan would continue working solo until his brother's unfortunate resurrection.

Road Sage

Year 26: Dodging bullets was easy enough for Morgan. Karen was having a lot of trouble running in heels. He picked her up, threw her over his other shoulder, and proceeded to run at a faster speed. Getting to Michael's car, Karen fumbled with the keys and managed to open door as the gang was coming into earshot. Morgan quickly dumped Michael's body in the back and shouted, “Start the car!”

Karen got behind the wheel and said, “I can't!”

Manifesting a curved wall behind them, Morgan shouted back. “Why not?”

“This is a Ferrari. It has a stick.”

The sound of a bullet hitting the shield made Morgan thicken the wall. “I'm sure you can figure it out!”

“I don't know how!” she yelled back, she sounded frantic, verging on terrified.

Morgan took about a tenth of a second to think it over. “Get in the passenger seat!”

“What?”

“Don't freeze up now! I'm going to need you functional. Get in the passenger seat!”

Karen climbed frenetically over the center console. Morgan dropped hastily into the seat. He felt for the keys and turned the ignition.

“You're crazy!”

“If you can't get us out if here, I'm going to do so,” said Morgan evenly. “Now, warn me if anything is in our way.”

Morgan put his feet on the brake and clutch, switched to first, then put his right foot down on the gas while lifting the left off the clutch. The car ineleganlty lurched forward. When the tires hit asphalt, he pressed on the clutch, switched to second and tried to align the car straight with the road. Karen found herself yelling “Left!” and “Right!” spasmodically. The road itself wasn't very obliging as it snaked about in irregular S-curves, dips, and sudden right angles. The light dotting of trees weren't helping either. After about the seventh near miss and about several thousand dollars worth of body damage, Morgan asked, “Are they still following us?”

Karen risked a look behind. “I don't see them.”

“Okay, I'm going to stop and if I guide you, do you think you can drive this?”

“Okay, I'll try,” she said, still somewhat panicked.

Positions switched, Morgan explained the three pedals, and told her to clutch, brake, shift into first. After several more minutes of abuse, Michael finally revived. His first statement was, “What are you doing to the transmission?”

Karen turned around to look at him. “Oh, thank go-”

The car performed a slow motion French kiss with a guardrail. Michael sat up and said, “Okay, let me drive.”

Karen shook her head. “I don't think this car going anywhere.”

“It probably won't want to, but give me a shot.”

After another driver switch, Michael commented, “It looks like Morgan was driving this.”

“I was.”

“That would explain why we're going the wrong way.” Michael pulled a bootlegger reverse and shot the car back the way they came. Karen flew out of the back into Morgan's lap.

As she and Morgan extricated her from the odd position. “This is probably the wrong time to ask, but how do you know how to drive a car?”

Michael smiled and said, “Oh, I taught him. Lots of open space and the minds of teenagers.”

“But he's blind.”

“Should I bring up why you weren't driving from the start?” Morgan asked.

“I think I can guess,” Michael said. “You need to learn to handle the unexpected better, sexy.”

Karen's scream snapped both men's eyes back on the road. The gang was heading for them. Morgan slid open the sunroof. “I'm going to trust your driving now. Karen, stay down.”

Morgan could sense the incoming hostility while standing halfway out of the sunroof. His mind focused on the distance closing between the pack and the car. It needs to stop them, he thought, without damaging us. His mind flipped through possibilities as a short straightaway presented itself between the lead vehicles and their car. The sharp-pointed, flat-topped road spikes emerged almost too late. Michael pulled hard left too late. The opposition failed to respond at all. It takes some skill and experience to drive a car on two wheels. It takes luck to do so under pressure with oncoming traffic while under suppression fire from handguns. Michael apparently managed to meet the intersection of luck, experience, and skill while Morgan almost got his head clipped off. He sat down while hearing a sizeable multi-car pileup behind them. The car leveled out roughly.

“Okay, I'll aim for the back gate, do you have the key, Morgan?”

“I thought I gave you a copy.”

“Yes, that happens to be in my Mercedes... ah, hell.”

“Did we just blow a tire?”

“No, I think we just lost the hubcap.”

“Damn it!” He didn't slow the car as the road got bumpier and smaller. When they arrived, he yelled “t'abral!” and the gate flew open on its own. He stopped inside just an inch shy of a tree. Turning around he commanded, “t'clausan-el!” and the gate closed and locked itself, including the padlock that had flown free.

Once everyone's heart rate returned to normal, Michael turned to Karen and said, “I suppose there's some things we should explain to you...”

The Final Strawman

Year 72: Her death came suddenly, unexpectedly. He was standing next to her when she was shot. She saw the bullet flying at her and accepted its path, accepted her fate. She interrupted his intuitive thought to cover her before his body could enact it. A moment later, she was seeping blood and brains on the steps of the plaza. The shock was superseded by his immediate vengeance and mere heartbeats later he found out it was their own daughter who'd pulled the trigger. Public sentiment towards him wavered between pity for a widower and malice for his action. None of that seemed to affect him. He walked the streets of the capitol speaking to no one. The voice of his mother laughing as comprehension dawned was all he could hear. “Son, you do not deserve love. Look at what your love has done to any who received it.”

Author Note 1

I just re-read The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allen Poe and realized how unoriginal my writing is. That is all.

Intimidation is Relative

Year 38: “Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, you're confessing to murder, terrorism, property destruction, sedition, espionage, mayhem, battery, assault, assault with battery, extortion, illicit trade, incest, and torture?”

“Yes.”

“Furthermore, you are being investigated for fraud, tax evasion, slavery, and your brother's death?”

“I am being investigated, yes.”

“You're also extremely wealthy, powerful, ennobled, clinically insane, and blind?”

“I presume so, yes.”

“Do you know what I would like to do to you?”

“Entice me to commit child molestation, rape and murder, so that a mob of convicted felons and an outraged public will sodomize me, break me on the wheel, defenestrate me, crush me with stones, rip my heart out, avulse my genitals off with a rusty hacksaw, tear me to pieces and feed me to pitfighting dogs while I remain cognizant of it all?”

“..... I was going to say I hoped you burn in hell.”

“Oh, you actually want to go easy on me.” Morgan's laugh disconcerted the courtroom.

Future Perfect

His siblings called him 'the oracle.' As a Holy Champion imbued with clairsentience, it was appropriate. His desire to serve Mor'ganth was so pure, he chose not a name for himself, believing himself to be a living embodiment of Mor'ganth's will. His duty as the divine seer was so absolute he tore out his own eyes because they impeded his inner sight. (“It is hard to see truth, when my eyes only see reality.”) To prevent them from healing, he enslaved two demons and implanted one in each eyesocket, so the wounds would remain fresh. He took a square of black fabric, enchanted it, and placed it over his eyesockets to prevent the demons from escaping should his mind not be able to contain them. Now, he faced his ritual of manhood. Most Priorese vampires around ninety to one hundred turns old go on a journey of discovery and must slay ten vampires before returning as adults. Holy Champions are held to higher standards.

At thirty turns, Mor'ganth personally tasked to him to go to a remote stronghold, on a frozen patch of world, and defend its citizenry from an onrushing barbarian horde. “The horde numbers two thousand. Not a single citizen may be lost, nor a single invader may breach their walls, or you will fail. Do you understand?”

“Yes, morganth'shu.”

“Here are your weapons.”

He put out his hands and was handed two perfectly weighted, exquisitely latticed mithril war fans.

World Mechanics 3

Codex Draconis:

1. I will not drink the blood of sentients.

2. I will not force others into sexual acts.

3. I will not fight without just provocation.

4. I will not forsake those who need protection.

5. I will not take what is not mine.

6. I will not suffer transgressions silently.

7. I will not act simply to act.

8. I will not act without explicit intention.

Those who would defy the Codex shall be destroyed in the eyes of Morganth. I will show mercy to transgressors. Mercy is a quick death.

"Accept redemption or be destroyed."

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.