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.

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

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.)

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.”

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.”

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)

Michael's Wish, part 9

Veníte adoremus,
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)