Precedent: A Pebble in Still Water
Year 27: Michael watched Nadine eat rapaciously. He idly wondered if she was nourished well enough for her condition. Their two girls had long lost interest in this stranger who was their mother and left for their playroom. Nadine finally looked up from the table at Michael. “Sorry, I'm a complete pig, I know.”
“You don't have to apologize for being hungry. If there's anything you want to discuss, feel free.”
“I dunno. How ya been?”
“I have been doing well,” Michael stated plainly. “But I think you could guess that.” Michael gestured to indicate the building around them.
“Yeah, why are we in a museum?”
“It's not a museum. This is where I live. It's called Castle Wallace.”
Nadine seemed mildly intimidated. “Castle Wallace... how do you find your bedroom every night?”
Michael laughed lightly. “I grew up here. I'm used to it.”
“I'm surprised you remembered me.”
“I cohabited with you for a over a year. We have two children. It would be hard to forget you.”
“I hope I didn't turn you off of havin' kids.”
“The better question is did I turn you off one night stands?”
“Nope, never.”
“So, neither of us has learned? I actually adopted a son.”
“Oh, so you're married?”
Michael stood and went to a side buffet and uncapped a decanter. He shook his head noisily as he poured himself a glass of dark liquid. The room's only light was a large twelve stick candelabra. He took a sip before returning to his seat and continuing. “I haven't married yet. I have been betrothed to someone, but I haven't met her.”
Nadine sniffed. “All those years ago, I was gonna to roll you before you left, but you... impressed me.”
“If you wanted cash, I would have given you some. Two or three hundred is what I spend on dinner.”
“I often slipped a guy a little tongue, then picked his pocket and left. I still do sometimes. I'da been an awful mother. Wait, this was worth a couple hundred?”
Michael refocused the conversation. “You don't have to live like that anymore. I'm willing to offer you palimony.”
“Is that like alimony?”
“Yes, only for ex-partners rather than ex-spouses. I'm willing to let you live in the castle village. I'm sure my brother wouldn't have a problem with that.”
“I wanted to take my children and go somewhere with them.”
“Go somewhere? Why not stay here and spend time with them?”
“You've had them for how long now? I'd like them to know me.”
“Then, let them. But, considering your past and their potential and your admittance that you'd make an awful mother, I think they would do better here.”
Nadine snorted. “How much potential could my kids have?”
Michael firmly put his hand on Nadine's shoulder. “Nicole is brilliant and dynamic. She is going to be a leader and a scholar. She is going to whatever university she wants and will probably be greater someday than I am now. Krystie is frailer and needs more attention than you were wont to give. I think you drank too much when you were pregnant.”
“I don't remember them bein' that way.”
“They weren't even six when you disappeared suddenly. And I don't think you're going to win a custody dispute with me.”
January 31, 2009
January 30, 2009
Sweet Interlude
The rose petal-scented sheets and a Karen's soft, full breasts were a pleasant place to nap. Michael rarely seemed so peaceful, even in his sleep. Life was always hectic and he loved it that way. He worked without a guaranteed income. He impregnated four women in the span of a month. He negotiated trade agreements at an international level. He accompanied his brother on offworld missions. He fought in gladiatorial arenas. Hewas no flaneur.
Karen watched him softly breathing. It was rare to catch him so quiet and still. He worked hard, played hard and lived hard. Even in his sleep, he usually seemed a moment away from springing into action. Sex seemed the only way Karen knew to slow down his frenetic pace for any period of time. She kissed his forehead. He fidgeted and rolled over, his brow furrowing as if thinking. Cautiously, she cuddled up against his warm back. His eyelids fluttered. She held as still as she could manage. Michael's hand subconsciously reached for his inner jacket pocket. He awoke when his hand hit bare skin. He murmured something and his eyes opened. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, rubbing his face.
“Only fifteen minutes,” she whispered, trying to soothe him back into blissful sleep.
“Then, I should be going.” He spoke plainly. No urgency or callous tones to the remark.
In the space of time it took her to voice her objections, he was halfway dressed. He smiled at her warmly as he pulled on his slacks. When she held onto his tie, he kissed her forehead and left without it.
Karen watched him softly breathing. It was rare to catch him so quiet and still. He worked hard, played hard and lived hard. Even in his sleep, he usually seemed a moment away from springing into action. Sex seemed the only way Karen knew to slow down his frenetic pace for any period of time. She kissed his forehead. He fidgeted and rolled over, his brow furrowing as if thinking. Cautiously, she cuddled up against his warm back. His eyelids fluttered. She held as still as she could manage. Michael's hand subconsciously reached for his inner jacket pocket. He awoke when his hand hit bare skin. He murmured something and his eyes opened. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, rubbing his face.
“Only fifteen minutes,” she whispered, trying to soothe him back into blissful sleep.
“Then, I should be going.” He spoke plainly. No urgency or callous tones to the remark.
In the space of time it took her to voice her objections, he was halfway dressed. He smiled at her warmly as he pulled on his slacks. When she held onto his tie, he kissed her forehead and left without it.
January 29, 2009
Average Day for an Adventurer
A thundrous crash echoed through the marketplace from the direction of the wizard's school. Michael turned from the goldsmith and saw a large beast ripping through the panicked crowd. It looked like a modified T. Rex. Chimaeric studies must have gotten out of hand. As the crowd scattered away, Michael ran towards the monster. The thing had snapped up a couple unwary pedestrians. It shook them about, then snapped back its head and swallowed them. Michael incanted and the ground sank below it. Michael shaped the pit in a steep cone. The beast struggled to get out of it, but its own weight pinned it in the uncomfortable wedge.
Michael then did a singsong chant that soothed its mind. It slowly stopped struggling and seem to fade to sleep. A gaggle of brightly robed students came running up to the lip of the depression. Upon seeing their prize beast easily defeated, they started squabbling about what was wrong with the design. Michael quickly whistled for their attention. “If you're responsible for this creature, let it be known that it devoured two denizens of this city.”
The wizards looked up as Michael started chanting. This was something they'd never witnessed and couldn't learn. They were watching a powerful summoning. The dragon that answered was a scintillating ethereal white. Michael's lips formed sounds that were unnatural to human lips. The dragon gingerly picked up the wizard's project and departed into the nether realm with it.
Michael reset the ground and walked over to the group of magic users. “Just what the flerg were you doing?!”
“That was our final project” was pretty much what they gibbered out.
“Was there any other projects like this?” Michael asked, aware the answer would most likely be an unpleasant yes. They gave conflicting answers. He went to walk past them when the reality of a dragon being summoned finally sank into one of their brains. “You're the Principal!”
He made a dismissive wave and continued towards the school. The older mage that stood at the gates became submissively apologetic as soon as she made eye contact. Michael restated himself in Magiir. The mage simply shook her head when questioned about other monsters. Michael considered summoning another dragon, but decided that he could contain any damage that a rampaging monster could do and if it was only school property, no loss. Of course, now his cover might be completely blown.
Michael then did a singsong chant that soothed its mind. It slowly stopped struggling and seem to fade to sleep. A gaggle of brightly robed students came running up to the lip of the depression. Upon seeing their prize beast easily defeated, they started squabbling about what was wrong with the design. Michael quickly whistled for their attention. “If you're responsible for this creature, let it be known that it devoured two denizens of this city.”
The wizards looked up as Michael started chanting. This was something they'd never witnessed and couldn't learn. They were watching a powerful summoning. The dragon that answered was a scintillating ethereal white. Michael's lips formed sounds that were unnatural to human lips. The dragon gingerly picked up the wizard's project and departed into the nether realm with it.
Michael reset the ground and walked over to the group of magic users. “Just what the flerg were you doing?!”
“That was our final project” was pretty much what they gibbered out.
“Was there any other projects like this?” Michael asked, aware the answer would most likely be an unpleasant yes. They gave conflicting answers. He went to walk past them when the reality of a dragon being summoned finally sank into one of their brains. “You're the Principal!”
He made a dismissive wave and continued towards the school. The older mage that stood at the gates became submissively apologetic as soon as she made eye contact. Michael restated himself in Magiir. The mage simply shook her head when questioned about other monsters. Michael considered summoning another dragon, but decided that he could contain any damage that a rampaging monster could do and if it was only school property, no loss. Of course, now his cover might be completely blown.
January 28, 2009
Is Fantasizing About Reality Ridiculous?
Year 35: Morgan ran his fingers over a large page of raised dots. Young Charles sat next to him and watched, wide-eyed. He was quiet and patient. Morgan sensed a tacit eagerness. “The book I have open today is Bullfinch's Mythology. Do you understand what a myth is?”
“A story!” the lad answered quite cheerfully.
Morgan smiled. “Yes, myths are a type of story, but they also try to explain why things are the way they are. For instance, some claim how the world came into existance.”
“Read a true one, please,” Charles hugged against Morgan's side.
“A true one? Myths are understood to be just tales mankind created to explain what they did not understand. Most aren't really credible.”
“I like true stories,” the child stated pleasantly.
Morgan placed the book aside:
“Ten thousand years ago, there existed a kingdom filled with vast wonders and powerful magicians. They had many wonders and very advanced level of magic. They looked down callously on other races and believed themselves superior in every way. They captured other races and all sorts of great beasts to show off their superiority. They believed the only reason the others hated them was jealosy.
“They created magnificient structures to celebrate themselves and one day the ruling council decided to create a tremendous tower to house a new city. It would be larger than any city known and taller than the mountains. They wanted its top to brush the sky.
“They started building it, beautifully sculpting and shaping it with magical grandeur that is unmatched to this day. When it neared completion, they boasted that the gods themselves could not do better. This angered their gods and the gods sent forth their emissaries to wreak havoc among the vain people and destroy their lands. As the people of the kingdom cried out in misery, the gods enacted one final stroke of retribution. They opened the heavens and let the rain pour down. The skies poured for an entire cycle and the rain still did not cease. The survivors of the earlier catastrophes all ran to the magnificent tower of Hysper for protection from the rising waters. To this day, the world sees mostly rain and the only known survivors of the great cataclysm live in the tower built of their hubris and vanity.”
Charles thought intently. The vocabulary might well have been over the young boy's head. “That story is true?”
“Well, it may not be completely accurate, stories tend to change over time, but there is some truth to it. I have been to Hysper and the tower is a mile deep in water. And the Magiir were punished for their vanity long ago by the gods.”
Charles crawled up into Morgan's lap and hugged him.
“A story!” the lad answered quite cheerfully.
Morgan smiled. “Yes, myths are a type of story, but they also try to explain why things are the way they are. For instance, some claim how the world came into existance.”
“Read a true one, please,” Charles hugged against Morgan's side.
“A true one? Myths are understood to be just tales mankind created to explain what they did not understand. Most aren't really credible.”
“I like true stories,” the child stated pleasantly.
Morgan placed the book aside:
“Ten thousand years ago, there existed a kingdom filled with vast wonders and powerful magicians. They had many wonders and very advanced level of magic. They looked down callously on other races and believed themselves superior in every way. They captured other races and all sorts of great beasts to show off their superiority. They believed the only reason the others hated them was jealosy.
“They created magnificient structures to celebrate themselves and one day the ruling council decided to create a tremendous tower to house a new city. It would be larger than any city known and taller than the mountains. They wanted its top to brush the sky.
“They started building it, beautifully sculpting and shaping it with magical grandeur that is unmatched to this day. When it neared completion, they boasted that the gods themselves could not do better. This angered their gods and the gods sent forth their emissaries to wreak havoc among the vain people and destroy their lands. As the people of the kingdom cried out in misery, the gods enacted one final stroke of retribution. They opened the heavens and let the rain pour down. The skies poured for an entire cycle and the rain still did not cease. The survivors of the earlier catastrophes all ran to the magnificent tower of Hysper for protection from the rising waters. To this day, the world sees mostly rain and the only known survivors of the great cataclysm live in the tower built of their hubris and vanity.”
Charles thought intently. The vocabulary might well have been over the young boy's head. “That story is true?”
“Well, it may not be completely accurate, stories tend to change over time, but there is some truth to it. I have been to Hysper and the tower is a mile deep in water. And the Magiir were punished for their vanity long ago by the gods.”
Charles crawled up into Morgan's lap and hugged him.
January 27, 2009
Is Fantasizing About Fantasy Recursive?
Nicole scribbled notes from a book and offhandedly asked, “Where do elves come from?”
Michael paused his bookreading and thought a moment. “Scafira,” he answered. He went back to reading.
“And dwarves?”
Michael paused again. “The gemen lands, I imagine.”
“How did J.R.R. Tolkien know about them?”
“He didn't. He made up stories.”
“But he mentions elves, dwarves, and gnomes.”
“Gnomes are not hobbits. And elves and dwarves aren't really like that. Georg is closer to a dwarf.”
“And Gandalf, are you like that?”
Gandalf was interesting as a character, but not much like Michael. And Tolkien's wondrous imagination fell far from reality. “Nicole, it's a made-up story written by a human who has never met the species who populate his fantasy world. It is pure fiction. Accept it as such.”
“Shouldn't somebody correct him?”
“... No! No one need correct an author's fantasy construct. Besides, he's no longer in an adviseable state.”
“What?”
“He's not of this earth any longer.”
“He went planeswalking?”
“He's dead.”
“Can't that be fixed?”
Michael snapped the book in hand shut in shock.
“If you ever, ever consider that, you'd better have a bloody good reason. Editing someone else's narrative isn't a good reason. Announcing the word of god... maybe... but I'd still be reticent about it.”
Michael paused his bookreading and thought a moment. “Scafira,” he answered. He went back to reading.
“And dwarves?”
Michael paused again. “The gemen lands, I imagine.”
“How did J.R.R. Tolkien know about them?”
“He didn't. He made up stories.”
“But he mentions elves, dwarves, and gnomes.”
“Gnomes are not hobbits. And elves and dwarves aren't really like that. Georg is closer to a dwarf.”
“And Gandalf, are you like that?”
Gandalf was interesting as a character, but not much like Michael. And Tolkien's wondrous imagination fell far from reality. “Nicole, it's a made-up story written by a human who has never met the species who populate his fantasy world. It is pure fiction. Accept it as such.”
“Shouldn't somebody correct him?”
“... No! No one need correct an author's fantasy construct. Besides, he's no longer in an adviseable state.”
“What?”
“He's not of this earth any longer.”
“He went planeswalking?”
“He's dead.”
“Can't that be fixed?”
Michael snapped the book in hand shut in shock.
“If you ever, ever consider that, you'd better have a bloody good reason. Editing someone else's narrative isn't a good reason. Announcing the word of god... maybe... but I'd still be reticent about it.”
January 26, 2009
Might or Right?
“You!”
Morgan carefully sheathed a decorative dagger and tossed it on his pallet. The voice belonged to the prince consort of the court of mages. “Yes, your excellency?”
“You should address me as-.”
“I will address you by the title you earned. Get to the point.”
“I outrank you.”
Morgan turned towards Eldin. “I am the twin elder brother of the Principal of the Scafir. By birth, I outrank you.”
“I'm a prince.”
“You are a prince consort.”
“Damn you!”
“Get to the point.”
“Your brother is a freaking idiot.”
Morgan reflexively smacked Eldin. His hand came to rest on the opposite hip. “My brother outranks me. You will address him with respect, too.”
Eldin looked about ready to haul off his prodigioius strength and fire spells on Morgan but controlled himself. A small trickle of blood fell from his nostril.
“Get to the point.”
“Why did we catch him fornicating with my wife?”
“Because of the compulsion charm that Stephen placed on her. You need not worry about the charm anymore. I removed it.”
“Are you stupid?”
Morgan was still utterly calm. “No.”
Fire danced across Eldin's knuckles. “So, your brother is a weak-minded, freaking idiot.”
Morgan brought his hand back around, knuckles leading. Eldin's other nostril started leaking blood. Under one eye, a patch started silvering. Morgan took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the fluid off his hand. “Do you have anything else to say, your excellency?”
“My wife is a whore...”
Morgan grasped him around the throat and started squeezing. “What was that?”
“Morgan, stop.” Valerie's voice was soft, but firm. She placed a hand on his elbow.
“Your Majesty. My apologies for strangling your dear husband.” It was unusual to hear him drip sarcasm. Morgan let go and Eldin sank to his knees, gasping. “Do you have anything else to say, Prince Eldin?”
Still clutching his throat, he spat, “May you rot in stasis.”
“Your wife is a brilliant, intelligent, beautiful woman and you will apologize to her.”
The string of invectives would have been impressive if they had shown any variety. He finished up with “My wife is a whore like you.”
Valerie let loose an electrical arc. Eldin twitched on the ground and sputtered “I'm sorry” before Morgan saved him from cardiac arrest.
Morgan carefully sheathed a decorative dagger and tossed it on his pallet. The voice belonged to the prince consort of the court of mages. “Yes, your excellency?”
“You should address me as-.”
“I will address you by the title you earned. Get to the point.”
“I outrank you.”
Morgan turned towards Eldin. “I am the twin elder brother of the Principal of the Scafir. By birth, I outrank you.”
“I'm a prince.”
“You are a prince consort.”
“Damn you!”
“Get to the point.”
“Your brother is a freaking idiot.”
Morgan reflexively smacked Eldin. His hand came to rest on the opposite hip. “My brother outranks me. You will address him with respect, too.”
Eldin looked about ready to haul off his prodigioius strength and fire spells on Morgan but controlled himself. A small trickle of blood fell from his nostril.
“Get to the point.”
“Why did we catch him fornicating with my wife?”
“Because of the compulsion charm that Stephen placed on her. You need not worry about the charm anymore. I removed it.”
“Are you stupid?”
Morgan was still utterly calm. “No.”
Fire danced across Eldin's knuckles. “So, your brother is a weak-minded, freaking idiot.”
Morgan brought his hand back around, knuckles leading. Eldin's other nostril started leaking blood. Under one eye, a patch started silvering. Morgan took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the fluid off his hand. “Do you have anything else to say, your excellency?”
“My wife is a whore...”
Morgan grasped him around the throat and started squeezing. “What was that?”
“Morgan, stop.” Valerie's voice was soft, but firm. She placed a hand on his elbow.
“Your Majesty. My apologies for strangling your dear husband.” It was unusual to hear him drip sarcasm. Morgan let go and Eldin sank to his knees, gasping. “Do you have anything else to say, Prince Eldin?”
Still clutching his throat, he spat, “May you rot in stasis.”
“Your wife is a brilliant, intelligent, beautiful woman and you will apologize to her.”
The string of invectives would have been impressive if they had shown any variety. He finished up with “My wife is a whore like you.”
Valerie let loose an electrical arc. Eldin twitched on the ground and sputtered “I'm sorry” before Morgan saved him from cardiac arrest.
January 25, 2009
Growing Up Scafir
“Margaret, please calm down.”
She was panicking, understandably. Morgan tossed a detached body part off into the grass. He felt his head. The heavy bleeding was, best he could tell, not serious. It was a regular gash, no skull fracture. This did not change the detached senesation of his head bobbing in water. He waited out her panic, then heard a new scream. It sounded like Karen, from the higher, less controlled register. Nicole's squeal joined in. This was now getting out of hand.
“The screaming is all properly dramatic but could someone get medical help before I pass out?”
Nicole stopped screaming. A non-English expletive rang out. Well, Michael must have arrived. With a well-placed kick, Michael swept Morgan onto his back and quickly explained that his 'innards' were visible. That would explain the horrified reactions.
“It looks worse than it hurts,” he explained. He had forgotten the sword swipe to his abdomen. Compared to the head blow, it was minor. Correction, it felt minor.
“W-what happened?”
Morgan's eyes rolled dazedly. “Someone,” he said calmly, “brought a sword to a fist fight.”
“Swords, who uses swords?”
“I do,” Michael answered reflexively. It took half a second before he realized he shouldn't have said it out loud.
“Since when?”
“I'm a sabre fencer... was a sabre fencer.” He tried to cant as softly as possible, but couldn't speak clearly enough at whisper level. He sighed and started over again speaking clearly and audibly. Questions came at him, but he ignored them and let the cantation flow. The wound stopped seeping and closed somewhat. “So...” Michael perfunctorily asked, “did your mission go south?”
“No, I did not anticipate a mob afterwards.”
Nicole sought out her uncle as he was lying in the infirmiry. She came in and quietly stared at him. His head tilted in her direction. “Yes, child?”
“It's Nicole, Uncle Morgan.”
The corners of Morgan's lips crept upward. “Good day, Nicole.”
“May I ask you something?”
Morgan smiled more. “You may always ask. I may, however, decline to answer.”
“Why do you get beat up so much?”
Morgan thought for a moment. “Are we alone?”
Nicole looked around. “Yes.”
“Come sit next to me.”
“I'm too big for that.”
Kindly, he said, “Nonsense. Sit.”
She was a young woman now and took up more space than he expected. He didn't mind. “Nicole, I am an assassin, a professional killer. I spend a lot of time offworld doing mercenary activities. Very often, the people I go after have trained protectors or fight well themselves. Sometimes, I am contracted to fight in wars as a champion. I get hurt a lot as a matter of course.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I had no choice in the matter. The path was chosen for me as a young child and I have followed it since.”
“But why? Dad doesn't do this, does he?”
Morgan laughed, then winced. “No, he does not. He does like to brawl, but that is far different. He is a valuable person, and very powerful. He has been protected and guided all his life to be a forthright, and upright, individual.”
“How does that work? You're blind. You can't fire a sniper rifle.”
“You mean, I can't aim a sniper rifle. Mainly, I do not shoot my targets. Out there, unlike here, assassinations are very personal. Whoever orders the killing very often wants their target to know who is responsible for their death. Sometimes, they want the execution done in a public place, so others know to fear them, as well. I have to get close to my targets and many fight back.”
“Don't you worry about dying?”
“No, that is one worry I do not have.”
“I guess Dad knows you do this?”
“Yes, your father has known a long time and I think you are now old enough to know, too.”
“You seem like such a nice person.”
“I am a nice person to you and to those who are close to me, but I am not a good person, and you are old enough to know that, too.”
“Is there anything else I'm old enough to know?”
“I am your father's sworn protector. It runs deep in my blood, part of our fey heritage as twins. It is also enhanced by a sworn oath. By extension, I will protect all those who are dear to him. Anyone who hurts him mentally or physically, will know my wrath. From beyond the grave, if necessary.”
Morgan's eyelids slowly closed. His sleep made him seem harmless.
She was panicking, understandably. Morgan tossed a detached body part off into the grass. He felt his head. The heavy bleeding was, best he could tell, not serious. It was a regular gash, no skull fracture. This did not change the detached senesation of his head bobbing in water. He waited out her panic, then heard a new scream. It sounded like Karen, from the higher, less controlled register. Nicole's squeal joined in. This was now getting out of hand.
“The screaming is all properly dramatic but could someone get medical help before I pass out?”
Nicole stopped screaming. A non-English expletive rang out. Well, Michael must have arrived. With a well-placed kick, Michael swept Morgan onto his back and quickly explained that his 'innards' were visible. That would explain the horrified reactions.
“It looks worse than it hurts,” he explained. He had forgotten the sword swipe to his abdomen. Compared to the head blow, it was minor. Correction, it felt minor.
“W-what happened?”
Morgan's eyes rolled dazedly. “Someone,” he said calmly, “brought a sword to a fist fight.”
“Swords, who uses swords?”
“I do,” Michael answered reflexively. It took half a second before he realized he shouldn't have said it out loud.
“Since when?”
“I'm a sabre fencer... was a sabre fencer.” He tried to cant as softly as possible, but couldn't speak clearly enough at whisper level. He sighed and started over again speaking clearly and audibly. Questions came at him, but he ignored them and let the cantation flow. The wound stopped seeping and closed somewhat. “So...” Michael perfunctorily asked, “did your mission go south?”
“No, I did not anticipate a mob afterwards.”
Nicole sought out her uncle as he was lying in the infirmiry. She came in and quietly stared at him. His head tilted in her direction. “Yes, child?”
“It's Nicole, Uncle Morgan.”
The corners of Morgan's lips crept upward. “Good day, Nicole.”
“May I ask you something?”
Morgan smiled more. “You may always ask. I may, however, decline to answer.”
“Why do you get beat up so much?”
Morgan thought for a moment. “Are we alone?”
Nicole looked around. “Yes.”
“Come sit next to me.”
“I'm too big for that.”
Kindly, he said, “Nonsense. Sit.”
She was a young woman now and took up more space than he expected. He didn't mind. “Nicole, I am an assassin, a professional killer. I spend a lot of time offworld doing mercenary activities. Very often, the people I go after have trained protectors or fight well themselves. Sometimes, I am contracted to fight in wars as a champion. I get hurt a lot as a matter of course.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I had no choice in the matter. The path was chosen for me as a young child and I have followed it since.”
“But why? Dad doesn't do this, does he?”
Morgan laughed, then winced. “No, he does not. He does like to brawl, but that is far different. He is a valuable person, and very powerful. He has been protected and guided all his life to be a forthright, and upright, individual.”
“How does that work? You're blind. You can't fire a sniper rifle.”
“You mean, I can't aim a sniper rifle. Mainly, I do not shoot my targets. Out there, unlike here, assassinations are very personal. Whoever orders the killing very often wants their target to know who is responsible for their death. Sometimes, they want the execution done in a public place, so others know to fear them, as well. I have to get close to my targets and many fight back.”
“Don't you worry about dying?”
“No, that is one worry I do not have.”
“I guess Dad knows you do this?”
“Yes, your father has known a long time and I think you are now old enough to know, too.”
“You seem like such a nice person.”
“I am a nice person to you and to those who are close to me, but I am not a good person, and you are old enough to know that, too.”
“Is there anything else I'm old enough to know?”
“I am your father's sworn protector. It runs deep in my blood, part of our fey heritage as twins. It is also enhanced by a sworn oath. By extension, I will protect all those who are dear to him. Anyone who hurts him mentally or physically, will know my wrath. From beyond the grave, if necessary.”
Morgan's eyelids slowly closed. His sleep made him seem harmless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
