February 13, 2009
Jumping Off the Ladder
Valerie left the throne room as her now ex-husband bled in the center arcana circle. He would survive, whether she helped him or not. She sheathed her sword and padded away barefoot. As she left the magic-dead zone, a wash of arcane energy prickled about her. She heard whispers of others who'd fallen in the council chambers. They spoke to her of bitterness and bravery, anger and remorse. It echoed the way she felt. Right now, she thought being a con artist in NYC was a far more palatable vocation than being queen of these powermongering misfits. As she walked away, she thought about the ratty old tenements and the clogged sewer grates and yowling cats in heat. A moment later, she looked and found herself there. She stood among the towers of lower Manhattan. No wallet, no ID, no money. Things were looking up.
February 12, 2009
Job Related Stress
“Target acquired, requesting permission to proceed...(if the premises is clear, you may proceed) ... acknowledged.. (wait, if you proceed and there are witnesses, use stealth (and caution) that goes without saying (just making sure, wise one)) ...(hey, can you describe the world you are on for our archives)... I am preoccupied right now ... (just a synopsis of what it looks like) ... I am blind ... (oh, tarnation..) (Are you really going through with this?) (Of course he is, whether he succeeeds is an entirely different question. He won't..) (Who are you?) (None of your concern. I'm his mother.) I need to concentrate. (Oops, I'll be quieter.) (Don't give in to his weaknesses, if he can't do his work while listening to a few voices, he should just slit his throat.) ( slit your throat) ... (Keep on your mission.) (slit your throat) (slit...) (dance with your blood) (Are you listening?) ... eh.. (blood... slit... dance...) (Are you listening!) (death awaits... dance... slit ... death. ... blood) ....”
The words wrapped around his brain. His brain started shutting down his consciousness. Blood started to seep from his nose. His body pitched around helplessly, seizing. The words kept reverberating. The talking would not cease, until it filled up his head and it exploded.
Reality seeps back to him slowly. A pool of bile-and-blood-flavoured liquid rests in his cheek. He tries to spit it out, but his coordination is slow and unresponsive. His eyelids seem caked shut. His mind mulls over whether it might be mucus or blood sealing them, but they can be dealt with later. The voices have shut up. If he acts awake and aware, they will start up again. He remains quiet, still, unmoving, unthinking, so they don't sense him.
Hands grab at him. They rip open his eyelid and yell questions at him. His mind shuts them out too. They pull at his clothes and pick through his pockets. Sirens blare. He lets the world continue. He does not let himself move, think, or hear. He barely breathes.
~~~~~
“Sir, your butler is on the line.”
Michael looked up at his executive assistant.
“My butler?”
Yolanda nodded quickly. Michael hit the speaker button. “Yes, Gilbert?”
“It's Holmes, sir.”
“Yes, Holmes.”
“Your brother is in hospital in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? Wasn't he in bed this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael rubbed his forehead. “Yolanda, I need my jet ready to head to California.”
The words wrapped around his brain. His brain started shutting down his consciousness. Blood started to seep from his nose. His body pitched around helplessly, seizing. The words kept reverberating. The talking would not cease, until it filled up his head and it exploded.
Reality seeps back to him slowly. A pool of bile-and-blood-flavoured liquid rests in his cheek. He tries to spit it out, but his coordination is slow and unresponsive. His eyelids seem caked shut. His mind mulls over whether it might be mucus or blood sealing them, but they can be dealt with later. The voices have shut up. If he acts awake and aware, they will start up again. He remains quiet, still, unmoving, unthinking, so they don't sense him.
Hands grab at him. They rip open his eyelid and yell questions at him. His mind shuts them out too. They pull at his clothes and pick through his pockets. Sirens blare. He lets the world continue. He does not let himself move, think, or hear. He barely breathes.
~~~~~
“Sir, your butler is on the line.”
Michael looked up at his executive assistant.
“My butler?”
Yolanda nodded quickly. Michael hit the speaker button. “Yes, Gilbert?”
“It's Holmes, sir.”
“Yes, Holmes.”
“Your brother is in hospital in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco? Wasn't he in bed this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael rubbed his forehead. “Yolanda, I need my jet ready to head to California.”
February 11, 2009
Rictus Mortis
The sun sparkled off the water in a beautiful dappling pattern. It was a lovely sight Michael wished he could share. The scars on Morgan's skin were already fading to fine white lines and the sun-dappled water seem to envelop him like a golden robe. Michael watched him from the bank while lazily listening to the the birds call to each other. As Morgan's back breached the surface, rivulets of water sparkled and a faint shimmering could be seen on his skin's surface. This happened a couple more times and Michael thought he could pick out sigils in the shimmering. Michael whistled sharply. Morgan came ashore. Michael squinted at Morgan's back. He could almost see something.
“There's an illusion of marks or tattoos on your skin. If I try to look too hard, they disappear, but they're faintly visible in the sunlight and water.”
“There are sigils there, geas binds, skin enchants, different marks of war. They can be seen arcanely.”
“Arcanely?” Michael echoed with an intrigued voice. He fetched up Morgan's spectacles and put them on. Quietly, an incant left his lips. Morgan's back prickled with energy and displayed a diverse amount of runes and symbols. Several more appeared on his throat, chest and face. Some Michael recognized as enhancements to strength and endurance. One of them looked like it might be a soul preservation thing, but most he didn't know. They all looked gemeni or elvish. “Do you know what all of these do?”
Morgan had an expression of embarrassed guilt. “I know what several of them do, but not all.”
Michael traced one that was over Morgan's heart. “That one I had put there because I started suffering chest pains and arrythmia during missions. It will defibrillate my heart if it stops. I have the element plasma, which gives me control over electricity. Oh, do quit worrying. This one prevents me from dying from systemic shock. I can be cut in half and not die immediately. Yes, when I do die, the stasis period is severely painful.”
“Morgan, you are, without a doubt, an intriguing read.”
As Michael's finger traced a rune on his face, it lit and tingled to the touch.
“That one is a geas,” Morgan stated.
There were three of them woven closely together, but this one was the largest. Michael did not need to ask with whom it was bound. It crossed directly over Morgan's left temple and arched across his third eye. Michael did outwardly wonder if breaking the geas would have any noticeable effects. Morgan answered the unspoken question, “A temporary geas, which most are, are often broken. The ramifications are social or personal, but not physical. Few have tested breaking a bind that has been held so long. If I tried to break it, I would probably end up somewhat akin to a lobotomy patient.”
Michael dropped his hand to his side. He removed the spectacles and walked back to the cabin and placed them in their spot. Morgan came in behind him and closed the door. Michael sensed the wards come up as the threshhold was closed. “Why can't life be simple, brother? Would it have been so bad to let you grow up a normal person?”
“You are not normal, either. You are extraordinary, magical, superlative.”
“I'm also rational and functional and sane.”
“I am functional most of the time. I am rational most of the time. I am also sane most of the time. Just... usually... not at the same time.”
“There's an illusion of marks or tattoos on your skin. If I try to look too hard, they disappear, but they're faintly visible in the sunlight and water.”
“There are sigils there, geas binds, skin enchants, different marks of war. They can be seen arcanely.”
“Arcanely?” Michael echoed with an intrigued voice. He fetched up Morgan's spectacles and put them on. Quietly, an incant left his lips. Morgan's back prickled with energy and displayed a diverse amount of runes and symbols. Several more appeared on his throat, chest and face. Some Michael recognized as enhancements to strength and endurance. One of them looked like it might be a soul preservation thing, but most he didn't know. They all looked gemeni or elvish. “Do you know what all of these do?”
Morgan had an expression of embarrassed guilt. “I know what several of them do, but not all.”
Michael traced one that was over Morgan's heart. “That one I had put there because I started suffering chest pains and arrythmia during missions. It will defibrillate my heart if it stops. I have the element plasma, which gives me control over electricity. Oh, do quit worrying. This one prevents me from dying from systemic shock. I can be cut in half and not die immediately. Yes, when I do die, the stasis period is severely painful.”
“Morgan, you are, without a doubt, an intriguing read.”
As Michael's finger traced a rune on his face, it lit and tingled to the touch.
“That one is a geas,” Morgan stated.
There were three of them woven closely together, but this one was the largest. Michael did not need to ask with whom it was bound. It crossed directly over Morgan's left temple and arched across his third eye. Michael did outwardly wonder if breaking the geas would have any noticeable effects. Morgan answered the unspoken question, “A temporary geas, which most are, are often broken. The ramifications are social or personal, but not physical. Few have tested breaking a bind that has been held so long. If I tried to break it, I would probably end up somewhat akin to a lobotomy patient.”
Michael dropped his hand to his side. He removed the spectacles and walked back to the cabin and placed them in their spot. Morgan came in behind him and closed the door. Michael sensed the wards come up as the threshhold was closed. “Why can't life be simple, brother? Would it have been so bad to let you grow up a normal person?”
“You are not normal, either. You are extraordinary, magical, superlative.”
“I'm also rational and functional and sane.”
“I am functional most of the time. I am rational most of the time. I am also sane most of the time. Just... usually... not at the same time.”
February 10, 2009
Designated Hit
Year 33: The family had gathered for dinner, but Morgan, for the third straight evening, did not join them. Nearly a week unassigned to duty had let the medications build up in his blood until he half-lay in his sitting room in a drugged stupor, barely cognizant of the warm porridge being spooned into his mouth by Holmes. Holmes dutifully wiped the excess from his charge's chin and chased the porridge with warm water for digestion, adjusted the pillows and blankets and then left him alone. As he lay there drooling, Michael and Nicole came in and spoke to him. His eyes fluttered in response. Michael asked a few questions, but the responses were all incoherent. Michael gently forced another dose of meds down his throat, then they left him in peace. Morgan returned to Morpheus's embrace.
As he dreamt of fording a river while holding a child, the dream seemed to dissonate. Morgan tried to remain asleep but reality intercepted and a strong mental jab awakened him. Morgan sat up and tried to respond but his numb mind couldn't keep his end of the connection working. He stumbled for a washbasin on nearby table and forcibly emptied his stomach into it. His mind still dazed, he proceeded to dislocate a finger to pull himself closer to the surface of full consciousness. He fingered a faceless clock and realized he had precious minutes with which to work. It was still early and someone would come to check on him. He walked to his bedroom as quietly and carefully as he could manage. He sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, pressing his injured finger against a bedpost to sharpen his mind a bit more.
The pain afforded him a little more focus and he shut the door. He opened an armoire and pulled out a dark, folded cloth. He retreated into a secret passage, his mind still fading in and out. He took a circular stone stairway down to an old hallway. The rank smell of mildew gave his mind another piece of reality to grasp and he desperately fought to stay upright. His hands touching the slick stone walls lead him down to a wooden doorway. He grasped the door and swung it open in a very deliberate stance to prevent it from making any noise. Once inside, he allowed himself to breathe as normally as he could manage in the cramped, dusty, cold cell. He felt in the dark for a box and flipped open its hinged lid. He pulled out a syringe, uncapped it and shoved it roughly into his neck. Within seconds, the magical stimulant hit his brain and started working elsewhere. He pulled out another and sank the needle into his arm this time. Finally, a third one he sank straight into his heart.
He shrugs on his cloak and emerges from shadow on a mountain precipice. The cold air bites into his face, aiding the stimulants and medicinal counteragents. Now able to concentrate and center himself, he picks up the connection. His Order has contracted a hit. As an outside contract, he can choose to refuse it at any time. He was requested specifically for this. He acknowledges and commits the details to memory.
The target's land is a rocky, dry and reminiscent of Arizona. The air is dry and oppressive, but Morgan does not sense any direct sunlight. Something about the place reverberates in his head. Perhaps the chemicals ingested and injected into his blood are affecting him, making his brain scintillate. He takes a coin from his pocket and chants, infusing the object with a locator spell. He places it in his mouth and performs a tactile incant to enhance it.
A tribal leader was the closest English translation to what he was told eliminate. Morgan gets to his knees and smells the air and ground. He can sense small animals, but nothing suggesting larger prey. This hunt could take days. Something akin to eagerness rushes through him. He spends the better part of the day walking slowly, using a dead branch as a sweeping cane. He eventually comes upon a large stone. He sits, resting against it. As he plants his had down to lower himself, he feels dried bones. The bones are stripped bare and unnaturally narrowed, as if by knifeblade. He sniffs them. They still have a faint scent, so the meat was recently removed.
His hands roam over the area and he discovers the leavings of a campsite. As he considers some shaped stones, a noise catches his attention. He faintly senses other minds, but they are not near enough for him to recognize any thought patterns. He pulls back against the rock. He pulls his spectacles from his front pocket, flicks them open, and slides them on. His brain suddenly feels like its buzzing disorientingly. He clamps his teeth down on his tongue and forces his brain to focus. The buzzing dampens as he reasserts his will over his own mind. As he regains his equilibrium, he manifests a sphere around himself. Several thuds tell him his instinct was correct. As he looks about, he sees no thought patterns or emotions. They can shield their minds, he thinks. He considers that they might be able to read his.
He can hear them poking, tapping and hitting the edge of his barrier. He can feel them doing similar probing to his head. He thinks of math equations and matrices and graphing vectors. They suddenly register confusion. With set targets now available, he blasts the sphere outwards as targeted shrapnel. Surprised yowls follow, his rifle appears and he starts rapidly firing at them. He sacrifices precision for a wider spread of damage, but they fall away, giving him more room and time to fire again. As he relaxes his stance, and goes to manifest again, something three feet across strikes him directly in the chest. Morgan doesn't have time to wonder how someone manage to sunder his mindcrafted rifle. He quickly fuses the two halves together again while sliding to the ground. The sharp pain from breathing suggests a cracked rib. He places a small shield in front of him and a sleeve around his torso. He expends a large amount of energy and makes the rifle permanent. A sensation seizes him like his brain being squeezed like a sponge. Blood spurts from his nose. Panic grips him. Reeling, he crawls on his belly. Finally, he presses his own throat until he goes woozy.
Reality rushes back into his head like a shot in his ear. Dried blood is caked on his mouth. His hands are bound underneath him and his ankles are tied to a frame. Water trickles onto his face. Some words are spoken to him. He does not understand them. He says as much, in English, then Scafir. The voice responds in Scafiir, “You are not weak.”
Morgan spits out a blood clot that formed on his tongue. “No, I am not,” he whispers in Magiir.
“So, you speak with many tongues. Who are you?” (And what are you?)
He licks his lips and spits out more old blood. “Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, 9th Baron Wallace of East New Jersey, son of John Hunter Fitzgerald Wallace, a human noble, and Scariel, former principal of the Scafir. I am brother and guardian of the dragon summoner.”
He feels the being stop pacing. “I asked who you were and you answer with a magelong title.”
“You wanted to know what I was, moreso than who I am.”
“I did not say that.”
“But you thought it very loudly.”
Morgan can sense a sneer on the stranger's face. The stranger kneels by his head, twists it to one side. “Well, then, hello... my son.”
As he dreamt of fording a river while holding a child, the dream seemed to dissonate. Morgan tried to remain asleep but reality intercepted and a strong mental jab awakened him. Morgan sat up and tried to respond but his numb mind couldn't keep his end of the connection working. He stumbled for a washbasin on nearby table and forcibly emptied his stomach into it. His mind still dazed, he proceeded to dislocate a finger to pull himself closer to the surface of full consciousness. He fingered a faceless clock and realized he had precious minutes with which to work. It was still early and someone would come to check on him. He walked to his bedroom as quietly and carefully as he could manage. He sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, pressing his injured finger against a bedpost to sharpen his mind a bit more.
The pain afforded him a little more focus and he shut the door. He opened an armoire and pulled out a dark, folded cloth. He retreated into a secret passage, his mind still fading in and out. He took a circular stone stairway down to an old hallway. The rank smell of mildew gave his mind another piece of reality to grasp and he desperately fought to stay upright. His hands touching the slick stone walls lead him down to a wooden doorway. He grasped the door and swung it open in a very deliberate stance to prevent it from making any noise. Once inside, he allowed himself to breathe as normally as he could manage in the cramped, dusty, cold cell. He felt in the dark for a box and flipped open its hinged lid. He pulled out a syringe, uncapped it and shoved it roughly into his neck. Within seconds, the magical stimulant hit his brain and started working elsewhere. He pulled out another and sank the needle into his arm this time. Finally, a third one he sank straight into his heart.
He shrugs on his cloak and emerges from shadow on a mountain precipice. The cold air bites into his face, aiding the stimulants and medicinal counteragents. Now able to concentrate and center himself, he picks up the connection. His Order has contracted a hit. As an outside contract, he can choose to refuse it at any time. He was requested specifically for this. He acknowledges and commits the details to memory.
The target's land is a rocky, dry and reminiscent of Arizona. The air is dry and oppressive, but Morgan does not sense any direct sunlight. Something about the place reverberates in his head. Perhaps the chemicals ingested and injected into his blood are affecting him, making his brain scintillate. He takes a coin from his pocket and chants, infusing the object with a locator spell. He places it in his mouth and performs a tactile incant to enhance it.
A tribal leader was the closest English translation to what he was told eliminate. Morgan gets to his knees and smells the air and ground. He can sense small animals, but nothing suggesting larger prey. This hunt could take days. Something akin to eagerness rushes through him. He spends the better part of the day walking slowly, using a dead branch as a sweeping cane. He eventually comes upon a large stone. He sits, resting against it. As he plants his had down to lower himself, he feels dried bones. The bones are stripped bare and unnaturally narrowed, as if by knifeblade. He sniffs them. They still have a faint scent, so the meat was recently removed.
His hands roam over the area and he discovers the leavings of a campsite. As he considers some shaped stones, a noise catches his attention. He faintly senses other minds, but they are not near enough for him to recognize any thought patterns. He pulls back against the rock. He pulls his spectacles from his front pocket, flicks them open, and slides them on. His brain suddenly feels like its buzzing disorientingly. He clamps his teeth down on his tongue and forces his brain to focus. The buzzing dampens as he reasserts his will over his own mind. As he regains his equilibrium, he manifests a sphere around himself. Several thuds tell him his instinct was correct. As he looks about, he sees no thought patterns or emotions. They can shield their minds, he thinks. He considers that they might be able to read his.
He can hear them poking, tapping and hitting the edge of his barrier. He can feel them doing similar probing to his head. He thinks of math equations and matrices and graphing vectors. They suddenly register confusion. With set targets now available, he blasts the sphere outwards as targeted shrapnel. Surprised yowls follow, his rifle appears and he starts rapidly firing at them. He sacrifices precision for a wider spread of damage, but they fall away, giving him more room and time to fire again. As he relaxes his stance, and goes to manifest again, something three feet across strikes him directly in the chest. Morgan doesn't have time to wonder how someone manage to sunder his mindcrafted rifle. He quickly fuses the two halves together again while sliding to the ground. The sharp pain from breathing suggests a cracked rib. He places a small shield in front of him and a sleeve around his torso. He expends a large amount of energy and makes the rifle permanent. A sensation seizes him like his brain being squeezed like a sponge. Blood spurts from his nose. Panic grips him. Reeling, he crawls on his belly. Finally, he presses his own throat until he goes woozy.
Reality rushes back into his head like a shot in his ear. Dried blood is caked on his mouth. His hands are bound underneath him and his ankles are tied to a frame. Water trickles onto his face. Some words are spoken to him. He does not understand them. He says as much, in English, then Scafir. The voice responds in Scafiir, “You are not weak.”
Morgan spits out a blood clot that formed on his tongue. “No, I am not,” he whispers in Magiir.
“So, you speak with many tongues. Who are you?” (And what are you?)
He licks his lips and spits out more old blood. “Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, 9th Baron Wallace of East New Jersey, son of John Hunter Fitzgerald Wallace, a human noble, and Scariel, former principal of the Scafir. I am brother and guardian of the dragon summoner.”
He feels the being stop pacing. “I asked who you were and you answer with a magelong title.”
“You wanted to know what I was, moreso than who I am.”
“I did not say that.”
“But you thought it very loudly.”
Morgan can sense a sneer on the stranger's face. The stranger kneels by his head, twists it to one side. “Well, then, hello... my son.”
February 09, 2009
Present Blank
Can't Go Back
Year 39:They chatted amiably for awhile. Life goes on or so it's said. Morgan still seemed a tad uncomfortable, but was remarkably unguarded. He still did freelance espionage, but no more hits. When Michael finally asked about the four young girls, Morgan released a sigh as if he'd been holding his breath waiting for that specific question. “Margaret, could you give us a few minutes alone?”
“Of course,” she said politely and solidly closed the door behind her.
Morgan ran his hand over the item on his desk, then carefully filed it back. He pulled out another declaration and placed it on his desk. Michael picked it up and skimmed it. It was a letter of abdication, a decade old.
“Charles is the current baron. I was allowed regency until I was executed. I received word recently this is being kept in place, even though you are now alive. However, do expect to hear from Parliament.”
“But, I did not ask about this. I don't remember this, but I don't see the relevance.”
Morgan placed the document away and put the folder back in the safe. “I wanted to see just how much of you was left in that head of yours. Those four girls are all your daughters.”
Shock registered in Michael's brain for a moment, then it returned to its sedate state. “How?” he asked, curious.
“Two of them are by Valerie. The other two... are fey twins, heirs to the principate.”
“Principate... “
“More correctly, Mariel is the Principal to the Scafir.”
Michael's brow furrowed. “I thought I was.”
“You were, until Mariel and Muriel were born. I am sure you are still the apexa.”
“Mariel and Murial?”
“I am sorry, but you were not around to name them. I tried to choose names that fit in both societies.”
“Morgan, I have to ask...”
“You were a powerful spellcaster once. Can you still cast?”
Michael, shook his head. Silently.
Morgan picked up the thought even though he could not hear the gesture. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Michael, I love you. I have loved you from the day we were conceived. And I will love you until the day my existence ends. But our paths have diverged. You have been granted your wish and I have been denied mine. You are now human and I am anything but human.”
Michael's countenance registered disbelief. Morgan softly ran his other hand's fingertips along Michael's jawline. “You have been the world to me. You are the world to me. You have been a brother, a caregiver, a healer. You have been a companion, an associate, and a second. You have been a friend and a lover and a confidant.”
A sense of bittersweet foreboding filled Michael's body. Morgan pressed his right cheek against Michael's. His voice lowered to a whisper. “But now, I am just someone you know. I understand why. I do not know how to convey what has been lost between us. And I can never hurt you.”
A tear fell from Morgan's eye down Michael's cheek. “I will say goodbye to you now. I do not want you to feel obligated to hold up your end of a deep relationship that you do not remember. You do not have to see me again, talk to me again, think of me again, unless you are ready.”
“Surely,” Michael said in the barest of whispers, “if it is as great as you say, I will be back for you.”
“You may be back tomorrow, or I may never see you again. I expect the latter. I will miss you.” Morgan collected him into a hug.
Michael stiffened. Morgan loosened his hold, a pained expression on his face. Morgan sat back on his desk almost physically folding in on himself. Half of Michael wanted to believe Morgan's words and alleviate the pain he was showing; half of him felt vaguely insulted bordering on violated.
“Morgan, surely you would be able to help me remember something.”
“Just go, Michael. I would not cause you pain.”
“What pain?”
“I can read your thoughts. Not deeply, but I can tell well enough you are not comfortable.”
Michael's eyes widened. He thought he heard the words 'with me' ending the statement, but Morgan's lips stopped moving at 'comfortable.' Morgan got up and walked out of the room, leaving Michael with a strange emptiness in his head that echoed like a long, bare hallway.
Year 39:They chatted amiably for awhile. Life goes on or so it's said. Morgan still seemed a tad uncomfortable, but was remarkably unguarded. He still did freelance espionage, but no more hits. When Michael finally asked about the four young girls, Morgan released a sigh as if he'd been holding his breath waiting for that specific question. “Margaret, could you give us a few minutes alone?”
“Of course,” she said politely and solidly closed the door behind her.
Morgan ran his hand over the item on his desk, then carefully filed it back. He pulled out another declaration and placed it on his desk. Michael picked it up and skimmed it. It was a letter of abdication, a decade old.
“Charles is the current baron. I was allowed regency until I was executed. I received word recently this is being kept in place, even though you are now alive. However, do expect to hear from Parliament.”
“But, I did not ask about this. I don't remember this, but I don't see the relevance.”
Morgan placed the document away and put the folder back in the safe. “I wanted to see just how much of you was left in that head of yours. Those four girls are all your daughters.”
Shock registered in Michael's brain for a moment, then it returned to its sedate state. “How?” he asked, curious.
“Two of them are by Valerie. The other two... are fey twins, heirs to the principate.”
“Principate... “
“More correctly, Mariel is the Principal to the Scafir.”
Michael's brow furrowed. “I thought I was.”
“You were, until Mariel and Muriel were born. I am sure you are still the apexa.”
“Mariel and Murial?”
“I am sorry, but you were not around to name them. I tried to choose names that fit in both societies.”
“Morgan, I have to ask...”
“You were a powerful spellcaster once. Can you still cast?”
Michael, shook his head. Silently.
Morgan picked up the thought even though he could not hear the gesture. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Michael, I love you. I have loved you from the day we were conceived. And I will love you until the day my existence ends. But our paths have diverged. You have been granted your wish and I have been denied mine. You are now human and I am anything but human.”
Michael's countenance registered disbelief. Morgan softly ran his other hand's fingertips along Michael's jawline. “You have been the world to me. You are the world to me. You have been a brother, a caregiver, a healer. You have been a companion, an associate, and a second. You have been a friend and a lover and a confidant.”
A sense of bittersweet foreboding filled Michael's body. Morgan pressed his right cheek against Michael's. His voice lowered to a whisper. “But now, I am just someone you know. I understand why. I do not know how to convey what has been lost between us. And I can never hurt you.”
A tear fell from Morgan's eye down Michael's cheek. “I will say goodbye to you now. I do not want you to feel obligated to hold up your end of a deep relationship that you do not remember. You do not have to see me again, talk to me again, think of me again, unless you are ready.”
“Surely,” Michael said in the barest of whispers, “if it is as great as you say, I will be back for you.”
“You may be back tomorrow, or I may never see you again. I expect the latter. I will miss you.” Morgan collected him into a hug.
Michael stiffened. Morgan loosened his hold, a pained expression on his face. Morgan sat back on his desk almost physically folding in on himself. Half of Michael wanted to believe Morgan's words and alleviate the pain he was showing; half of him felt vaguely insulted bordering on violated.
“Morgan, surely you would be able to help me remember something.”
“Just go, Michael. I would not cause you pain.”
“What pain?”
“I can read your thoughts. Not deeply, but I can tell well enough you are not comfortable.”
Michael's eyes widened. He thought he heard the words 'with me' ending the statement, but Morgan's lips stopped moving at 'comfortable.' Morgan got up and walked out of the room, leaving Michael with a strange emptiness in his head that echoed like a long, bare hallway.
February 08, 2009
All the Time...
Year 40: Margaret spent a rare moment alone with her husband. “This patch of garden seems a bit out of place.”
Michael pointed to where, amid the oddly discordant flowers and trees, Morgan sat on a bench, fingering petals and occasionally plucking and breathing deeply the fragrance before popping some in his mouth. Michael then placed an arm around his wife's shoulder and steered her away from the area, explaining it was a place of solitude for Morgan.
Morgan simply sat, marvelling at the here and now. The concept of relaxation was a relatively new one for him. Previously, down time meant he was too injured or dazed to move. He had been trained how to work through the pain of broken bones, sprain, strains, concussions, and severe bleeding. He had been trained to focus and tune out the myriad voices, real and imaginary, that had haunted his brain. Now, he worked when he felt like it and there were occasional murmurs, but no demanding, punitive voices in his head. He was 'home' enough for medication to work.
Gone also was the bone-grindingly tiring triple-schedule. He worked for three different sources as an assassin and all three individually expected a heavier than normal workload from him. Multiplied times three meant he slept a lot on terra firma and had to use time warping to manage the physical demands. The adjustment to being relaxed was difficult, almost disaffecting. The drugs helped.
So now he had the time to do what he hadn't done since childhood. He sat and enjoyed the sensory garden that John Wallace had installed specifically for him. “You were a wonderful father,” he whispered to the empty air. He knew him as his father and was loved by him despite quite obviously not being related. Early on, Morgan understood he didn't 'look' anything like a Wallace. Listening to birds chitter, he realized he'd forgotten how he used to count them at this time of day as a boy.
His thoughts then turned to his father's spirit ushering him to heaven. He was happy, genuinely happy, at that moment. He was with someone who loved him unconditionally. He saw Michael there, too. They could all be together and happy, eternally. Then, it went dark. They told him he was still needed as a minion. He resigned to the fact they would not leave him in peace. Why did they have to take Michael from there?
He could remember Michael being always with him, always in him, no matter how far apart they were. Now, it was like having a memory of him walk about in his place. It faithfully acted like him, smelled like him, even recalled what he did in life, but an essential truth was missing. It didn't recall the link or comprehend what was missing. But it felt and smelled and acted and talked enough like Michael that he dearly wanted to believe it was him. If his hand or arm had been an inch forward, his death would likely not have happened..
No, Morgan couldn't let his mind go down that path again. He had worn a rut in his brain wondering if he could prevented it. Mother did it to him. Why the hell would she aim for a hand when trying to kill someone with a syringe? He felt a straining flutter in his chest. He decided his mind should not go their either...
Michael pointed to where, amid the oddly discordant flowers and trees, Morgan sat on a bench, fingering petals and occasionally plucking and breathing deeply the fragrance before popping some in his mouth. Michael then placed an arm around his wife's shoulder and steered her away from the area, explaining it was a place of solitude for Morgan.
Morgan simply sat, marvelling at the here and now. The concept of relaxation was a relatively new one for him. Previously, down time meant he was too injured or dazed to move. He had been trained how to work through the pain of broken bones, sprain, strains, concussions, and severe bleeding. He had been trained to focus and tune out the myriad voices, real and imaginary, that had haunted his brain. Now, he worked when he felt like it and there were occasional murmurs, but no demanding, punitive voices in his head. He was 'home' enough for medication to work.
Gone also was the bone-grindingly tiring triple-schedule. He worked for three different sources as an assassin and all three individually expected a heavier than normal workload from him. Multiplied times three meant he slept a lot on terra firma and had to use time warping to manage the physical demands. The adjustment to being relaxed was difficult, almost disaffecting. The drugs helped.
So now he had the time to do what he hadn't done since childhood. He sat and enjoyed the sensory garden that John Wallace had installed specifically for him. “You were a wonderful father,” he whispered to the empty air. He knew him as his father and was loved by him despite quite obviously not being related. Early on, Morgan understood he didn't 'look' anything like a Wallace. Listening to birds chitter, he realized he'd forgotten how he used to count them at this time of day as a boy.
His thoughts then turned to his father's spirit ushering him to heaven. He was happy, genuinely happy, at that moment. He was with someone who loved him unconditionally. He saw Michael there, too. They could all be together and happy, eternally. Then, it went dark. They told him he was still needed as a minion. He resigned to the fact they would not leave him in peace. Why did they have to take Michael from there?
He could remember Michael being always with him, always in him, no matter how far apart they were. Now, it was like having a memory of him walk about in his place. It faithfully acted like him, smelled like him, even recalled what he did in life, but an essential truth was missing. It didn't recall the link or comprehend what was missing. But it felt and smelled and acted and talked enough like Michael that he dearly wanted to believe it was him. If his hand or arm had been an inch forward, his death would likely not have happened..
No, Morgan couldn't let his mind go down that path again. He had worn a rut in his brain wondering if he could prevented it. Mother did it to him. Why the hell would she aim for a hand when trying to kill someone with a syringe? He felt a straining flutter in his chest. He decided his mind should not go their either...
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