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.”

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....”

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.

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.”

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.”

Lesson Unlearned

Krystie decided not to let her earlier trauma keep her from practicing some form of magic. As she explored the strange, tingly sensation within her, she learned it was stronger at certain places and that certain things would react to it. Searching through her uncle's private library, she found several tomes on magic. They described the lingua franca of mages and described types of magical energy. It was all very interesting but didn't offer much on practical application.

As she studied the books she had taken, a squirrel bounded by riffling through the leaves looking for maple seeds. “Se'freogas,” she said to it, unsure. The squirrel took notice and wandered up to her. She repeated the phrase and the squirrel swished its tail then hopped onto her knee. As she delighted in her newfound ability, she felt a rush of energy through her. A whole new world had opened to her.

“Re'gas!” The squirrel fled in terror. Krystie jumped and turned around guiltily. Uncle Morgan stood there with a clear orb in his hand. “I believe your father did not want you learning those secrets, but if you're going to learn, you shouldn't do so unsupervised, or without his consent.”

Noblesse Oblige

Year 202: It is with great regret that I see the human race nearing extiction at the hands of these monstrosities. If they are to have any chance, it will have to come from subverting the very beings that hold them in the thrall of terror. As such, I task you, whom I name Litheva, to bear my issue. From them and through them, I will redeem you and cast your soul alight. They will follow my edicts and will bear young themselves. They will protect the weak and convert the ignoble. Any who defy them, defy me. I am Mor'ganth, sword of vengeance, death of the unrighteous.

Author Note 2

Valerie Anne Winmere; half-magir; magus divinus; hustler; Queen of the Court of Mages (deposed);caring, protective, just; wife to Eldin Sands & Morgantides; mothered eighteen, one stillbirth; shot by her Scafir-controlled daughter, ascended; alternate name: Valane, Horseman War

Through a Watery Mirror

“Have you been to the other side yet?”

George looked up from his coffee and considered Morgan's question. “No, can't say I have, but I don't plane jump much at all. I don't know why you're so attracted to it still.”

Morgan frowned. “Once a mind has expanded, trying to stuff it in a jar does not always work. I cannot forget what is out there. I cannot forget what is down here. My family barely knows me and I have no ties out there.”

“You sound very lonely.”

“I have always been lonely to some degree. It was far, far less when Michael was with me.”

“And Valerie?”

“She is,” Morgan gave a rare smile, “wonderful company. She has tried to talk me into staying here, too. I wish I could, but rules...”

George knew the rules. He answered, “Will you ever come to stay?”

“I would if I could. At least now, when I do come, I have moments like this, rather than elongated moments of pain. I see people I know. People I love. I see dead people. It is preferable to awaiting return in the agony of death.”

“Has there ever been a good death for you?”

Morgan nodded. “I was executed at Leavenworth at midnight, February 16, 2005 by lethal injection. As I lay on the table, my father came and stood next to me.”

“Your father?”

“John Hunter Fitzgerald Wallace. We talked about why I was there. I told him that I chose to die and that I wanted to see him and Michael again. And grandfather too. I told him I was sorry that I was not the son he wanted me to be. I told him I was sorry that I was never his son. He said it did not matter. That, in his heart, I would always be his child, even if he did not sire me. He would always love me, no matter what I did. He said everything would be alright as long as I let him carry me when I needed it. And, then, he picked me up like he would when I was little and carried me here.”

George smiled. “Is heaven what you expected?”

“It's not where I expected to be after being executed.”

“The reason you are here is because you are capable of love, even after everything you've been through. You are still capable of humanity. And because there are those here that love you back.”

“I think Hitler could get in on that defense.”

“Morgan, with the conditioning you have, you shouldn't love anyone or anything. You haven't even given up yet. You still rescue damsels and refugees.”

“If I risk nothing by dying, is it really noble?”

“If you don't do it, you risk your soul or your humanity.”

Morgan felt a tug inside. Sighing, he blinked and was assailed by the cold of a hostile world. He got up from the muddy, wet ground and looked sightlessly at the blank, cloudy sky. Ascension had its privileges.