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.”
February 10, 2009
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...
February 07, 2009
Balls of Steel
Someday my soul may be free, but I do not see that day ever arriving. The more powerful I become, the more other powerful beings there are with which I have to contend. I fight you not because I want power or minions or hell, but because I wish to earn the right to die and I know you do have not the power to kill me. - Morgan'th, right before facing down Asmodeus
February 06, 2009
Author Note 4
Twins, with a special bond, of a fey race (read: not elves) grow up as sons of a noble.
Orphaned young girl with a special destiny and will of steel finds out she's a not-princess due to inherit a throne.
Wiser, older level-headed not-dwarf/not-gnome shaman dualgendered science expert tries repeatedly and unsuccessfully to produce a child.
Short-tempered, physically powerful fire mage marries orphaned young girl who's a not-princess and finds himself simultaneously attracted and repulsed by her strong will and intelligent bearing.
Twins' mother is evil bitch-incarnate looking out only for her own power and the boys are mostly tools on her climb up the celestial ladder. She also won't admit most of their existence is her fault.
Self-absorbed son of a duke tries to get into not-princesses panties mulitple times. Ignores fact she's married and not interested in him.
Evil bitch tries to mind control not-princess's father to gain more influence over her elder twin. Elder twin breaks mind control. Not-princess not happy.
Younger twin gets a little too busy. Fathers five children in the span of one month. Oops.
Elder twin finds out that his father isn't his father. Younger twin gets pissed at evil bitch mother.
Younger twin uses older twin to fix mistake made by evil bitch mother.
Mage people decide not-princess is too good at what she does and unseat her. She tells them to go to hell.
Evil bitch mother attempts to kill elder twin. Fails. Kills younger twin instead. Double oops.
Elder twin's regency ends when he is executed for an atrocity he witnessed but did not commit.
Younger twin is ressurected by not-princess at behest of evil bitch. Karma chargeback is huge.
Elder twin returns to life when the gods drag him out of heaven. He begrudgingly takes up violence again.
... drat, now I can't remember if I was or wasn't trying to be original ...
Orphaned young girl with a special destiny and will of steel finds out she's a not-princess due to inherit a throne.
Wiser, older level-headed not-dwarf/not-gnome shaman dualgendered science expert tries repeatedly and unsuccessfully to produce a child.
Short-tempered, physically powerful fire mage marries orphaned young girl who's a not-princess and finds himself simultaneously attracted and repulsed by her strong will and intelligent bearing.
Twins' mother is evil bitch-incarnate looking out only for her own power and the boys are mostly tools on her climb up the celestial ladder. She also won't admit most of their existence is her fault.
Self-absorbed son of a duke tries to get into not-princesses panties mulitple times. Ignores fact she's married and not interested in him.
Evil bitch tries to mind control not-princess's father to gain more influence over her elder twin. Elder twin breaks mind control. Not-princess not happy.
Younger twin gets a little too busy. Fathers five children in the span of one month. Oops.
Elder twin finds out that his father isn't his father. Younger twin gets pissed at evil bitch mother.
Younger twin uses older twin to fix mistake made by evil bitch mother.
Mage people decide not-princess is too good at what she does and unseat her. She tells them to go to hell.
Evil bitch mother attempts to kill elder twin. Fails. Kills younger twin instead. Double oops.
Elder twin's regency ends when he is executed for an atrocity he witnessed but did not commit.
Younger twin is ressurected by not-princess at behest of evil bitch. Karma chargeback is huge.
Elder twin returns to life when the gods drag him out of heaven. He begrudgingly takes up violence again.
... drat, now I can't remember if I was or wasn't trying to be original ...
February 05, 2009
Ante Mortis
Year 37: I remember crying a lot the days after Dad died. It came so suddenly and unexpectedly that shock itself seem to take a day to set in. It was almost as if I was reliving his days as a young graduate. A new sheepskin, a new child, a new job, and suddenly my father was gone.
His dying breaths were said in a language I barely knew. Uncle Morgan understood them, but he couldn't talk lucidly afterwards. My uncle did not cry loudly or demonstratively. Tears fell on a blank face as he held my father closely and listened to him die. I can only guess that my uncle felt helpless. The family nurse declared my father dead and Georg had to coax Uncle Morgan to let him go.
Uncle Morgan stumbled into a wall as he tried to feel his way out of the room. We should have been surprised, but everyone was focused on Dad. I think the whole situation was too weird and the death pushed it into the realm of unreal. Humans deal with death by seeking out comfort, but after several days of not seeing my uncle, I went to his rooms, hoping to offer solace and some companionate comfort. I found out while my sister, my stepmother and other siblings had been crying together and commiserating, he'd moved forward with my father's wishes on how to be buried and started executing his will. Georg and Mr. Shay, the family lawyer, said his tears never ceased during the entire seven days before the funeral. I went to his sitting room.
My uncle is a tall man with an imposing presence. It was hard to think of him as disabled when he was calm and sane. He sat in his chair, straight and proper, but his face seemed hollow and pale. Tears were still falling from his eyes. A light meal sat on the table next to him, barely touched. I waited for him to acknowledge my presence like he always had. He said nothing. He sat blindly staring, not moving.
I cleared my throat. He startled at the sound. “Uncle Morgan?” I tried to speak softly.
“Ah, Nicole...” his voice sounded hollow, too. “I am sorry.”
He aimlessly flexed his hand and I noticed the wound had become infected and was oozing. Georg said from behind me, “Leave him be. He's handling this as best he can. Don't expect him to live well after this.”
“He doesn't look like ... healthy.”
“Well, he can be shut up in this suite and forgotten now. His spirit and life are dead.”
“That's rather mean.”
“I don't want to sound mean, but he's a fey twin without his soul mate.”
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't find the words to what I was thinking. I felt I should've known what he was talking about, but didn't. Georg, in his healer's way, continued, “Let me explain. Human twins are close, and bond closely, but fey twins bond at conception. They pair off for life as emotionally linked soul mates. The bond is far stronger than any other relationship I know. Their roles are defined at birth. The firstborn is the guardian. The secondborn is the dominant. Morgan's biological imperative is to protect his brother at all costs. Normally, most likely from the stress of the role, the guardian is usually the first to be taken by death. It is unusual, and some surviving guardians say it feels unnatural, for the guardian to outlive the dominant. Very often, the guardian will die of grief and self-neglect shortly after. Morgan has to deal with an unnatural situation compounded by the lack of any hope of the 'making up' of their souls in the afterlife. He will live out his existence feeling incomplete from here on.”
I thought I was sad and depressed before I heard that...
His dying breaths were said in a language I barely knew. Uncle Morgan understood them, but he couldn't talk lucidly afterwards. My uncle did not cry loudly or demonstratively. Tears fell on a blank face as he held my father closely and listened to him die. I can only guess that my uncle felt helpless. The family nurse declared my father dead and Georg had to coax Uncle Morgan to let him go.
Uncle Morgan stumbled into a wall as he tried to feel his way out of the room. We should have been surprised, but everyone was focused on Dad. I think the whole situation was too weird and the death pushed it into the realm of unreal. Humans deal with death by seeking out comfort, but after several days of not seeing my uncle, I went to his rooms, hoping to offer solace and some companionate comfort. I found out while my sister, my stepmother and other siblings had been crying together and commiserating, he'd moved forward with my father's wishes on how to be buried and started executing his will. Georg and Mr. Shay, the family lawyer, said his tears never ceased during the entire seven days before the funeral. I went to his sitting room.
My uncle is a tall man with an imposing presence. It was hard to think of him as disabled when he was calm and sane. He sat in his chair, straight and proper, but his face seemed hollow and pale. Tears were still falling from his eyes. A light meal sat on the table next to him, barely touched. I waited for him to acknowledge my presence like he always had. He said nothing. He sat blindly staring, not moving.
I cleared my throat. He startled at the sound. “Uncle Morgan?” I tried to speak softly.
“Ah, Nicole...” his voice sounded hollow, too. “I am sorry.”
He aimlessly flexed his hand and I noticed the wound had become infected and was oozing. Georg said from behind me, “Leave him be. He's handling this as best he can. Don't expect him to live well after this.”
“He doesn't look like ... healthy.”
“Well, he can be shut up in this suite and forgotten now. His spirit and life are dead.”
“That's rather mean.”
“I don't want to sound mean, but he's a fey twin without his soul mate.”
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't find the words to what I was thinking. I felt I should've known what he was talking about, but didn't. Georg, in his healer's way, continued, “Let me explain. Human twins are close, and bond closely, but fey twins bond at conception. They pair off for life as emotionally linked soul mates. The bond is far stronger than any other relationship I know. Their roles are defined at birth. The firstborn is the guardian. The secondborn is the dominant. Morgan's biological imperative is to protect his brother at all costs. Normally, most likely from the stress of the role, the guardian is usually the first to be taken by death. It is unusual, and some surviving guardians say it feels unnatural, for the guardian to outlive the dominant. Very often, the guardian will die of grief and self-neglect shortly after. Morgan has to deal with an unnatural situation compounded by the lack of any hope of the 'making up' of their souls in the afterlife. He will live out his existence feeling incomplete from here on.”
I thought I was sad and depressed before I heard that...
February 04, 2009
Status Normal
“It feels like forever since you asked me to join you on a mission.”
“Four weeks is not forever.”
“I'm calcualating in all your away time.”
“Three months is still not forever.”
“So where are we going?”
“A gnomish temple to their god of mechanics.”
“A temple complex? Is your target their high priest?”
“No, their temple has a guardian.”
“... not entirely unexpected...”
“Khael wants the guardian.”
“Is he nuts?!”
“He's a mage. He figures fetch missions would be simpler than just killing people. He pays well enough for me not to correct that assumption.”
As the underground area widened, Michael squinted in the faint luminescence. “I think I see something ahead that could qualify as a temple.”
Morgan placed a hand against his brother's chest and pressed his ear to the tunnel wall. After a several minutes passed, he quietly said, “I sense something large ahead, but it's not registering a will.”
Michael frowned. “A golem, perhaps?”
Morgan groaned. Automatons were tricky. Besides minimal damage, there was little he could do against them. And he needed to bring it back intact. Voices bubbled in his head. Some were real, offering suggestions. Some were hallucinations, attempting distractions. Mother's contribution was a suggestion he give up. Tactical decisions could probably be made quicker if he had any peace and quiet in his mind.
“Morgan?” Michael prompted.
Morgan attempted to focus on Michael's mind. It was present and far more aware of the situation than the wash of voices in his head. He rubbed his forehead. “I'm trying to decide how to deal with this.”
Michael took his brother's elbow and walked towards the temple. “How about we ask them to trade for the guardian?”
“That might work if it's still actively maintained.”
“From its appearance, I'm going to presume it is.”
The two men continued forward silently until Morgan suddenly pitched forward onto his knees and grasped his head. His mouth gurgled. Michael caught him up and pinned his arms. Morgan thrashed uncontrollably while howling. Michael patiently waited out the cataleptic seizure. Afterwards, he carefully let all the vomitus drain before laying him flat and placing Morgan's head in his lap. Morgan exihibited waxy flexibility.
Michael started the ten-minute long cantation to take them someplace safer. Around the four minute mark, he realized a group of gnomes were staring at him. He kept his mind focused and despite their insistence on an explanation of why the were there, they soon were in the glade by the cabin on Scafira.
Hours later, Morgan showed signs of awareness. Michael patiently coaxed him toward normal functioning and, after another two days, he became reactive, then verbal.
“So,” he said, while combing out Morgan's hair, “do you have fits often when on mission?”
“N-no, not often... but sometimes.” Morgan still sounded throaty and dry. His mind also still seemed distracted, as if it took effort to form the words from thoughts.
“That isn't reassuring. You shouldn't be doing this if you risk...”
“Does not... really matter.”
“Does what I feel matter? Morgan, when you die, I feel like I've been ripped apart. Has dying become such a habit that you've gotten blasé about it? I haven't. I don't want you to be hurting and I don't like your catatonic moments, but I never considered that you had them while away and that's magnitude's worse.”
“Life... has to go on... it never ends... never stops... so I go...“
Michael suddenly hugged his brother and tears moistened Morgan's hair. “Just because death is temporary for you does not make it hurt any less for me.”
“Damned... emotive.. link..”
“No. Don't damn the most precious thing we have. Our lives are deep and meaningful and this...” Michael tapped a fingertip on Morgan's third eye. “... means the most of all. Would you prefer to live without me?”
“Never!” Morgan quickly responded with the grace of Frankenstein's monster. Michael heard the sincerity through the monstrous rasp.
“Then value your life as I value it and I will treasure myself as you treasure me.”
“Four weeks is not forever.”
“I'm calcualating in all your away time.”
“Three months is still not forever.”
“So where are we going?”
“A gnomish temple to their god of mechanics.”
“A temple complex? Is your target their high priest?”
“No, their temple has a guardian.”
“... not entirely unexpected...”
“Khael wants the guardian.”
“Is he nuts?!”
“He's a mage. He figures fetch missions would be simpler than just killing people. He pays well enough for me not to correct that assumption.”
As the underground area widened, Michael squinted in the faint luminescence. “I think I see something ahead that could qualify as a temple.”
Morgan placed a hand against his brother's chest and pressed his ear to the tunnel wall. After a several minutes passed, he quietly said, “I sense something large ahead, but it's not registering a will.”
Michael frowned. “A golem, perhaps?”
Morgan groaned. Automatons were tricky. Besides minimal damage, there was little he could do against them. And he needed to bring it back intact. Voices bubbled in his head. Some were real, offering suggestions. Some were hallucinations, attempting distractions. Mother's contribution was a suggestion he give up. Tactical decisions could probably be made quicker if he had any peace and quiet in his mind.
“Morgan?” Michael prompted.
Morgan attempted to focus on Michael's mind. It was present and far more aware of the situation than the wash of voices in his head. He rubbed his forehead. “I'm trying to decide how to deal with this.”
Michael took his brother's elbow and walked towards the temple. “How about we ask them to trade for the guardian?”
“That might work if it's still actively maintained.”
“From its appearance, I'm going to presume it is.”
The two men continued forward silently until Morgan suddenly pitched forward onto his knees and grasped his head. His mouth gurgled. Michael caught him up and pinned his arms. Morgan thrashed uncontrollably while howling. Michael patiently waited out the cataleptic seizure. Afterwards, he carefully let all the vomitus drain before laying him flat and placing Morgan's head in his lap. Morgan exihibited waxy flexibility.
Michael started the ten-minute long cantation to take them someplace safer. Around the four minute mark, he realized a group of gnomes were staring at him. He kept his mind focused and despite their insistence on an explanation of why the were there, they soon were in the glade by the cabin on Scafira.
Hours later, Morgan showed signs of awareness. Michael patiently coaxed him toward normal functioning and, after another two days, he became reactive, then verbal.
“So,” he said, while combing out Morgan's hair, “do you have fits often when on mission?”
“N-no, not often... but sometimes.” Morgan still sounded throaty and dry. His mind also still seemed distracted, as if it took effort to form the words from thoughts.
“That isn't reassuring. You shouldn't be doing this if you risk...”
“Does not... really matter.”
“Does what I feel matter? Morgan, when you die, I feel like I've been ripped apart. Has dying become such a habit that you've gotten blasé about it? I haven't. I don't want you to be hurting and I don't like your catatonic moments, but I never considered that you had them while away and that's magnitude's worse.”
“Life... has to go on... it never ends... never stops... so I go...“
Michael suddenly hugged his brother and tears moistened Morgan's hair. “Just because death is temporary for you does not make it hurt any less for me.”
“Damned... emotive.. link..”
“No. Don't damn the most precious thing we have. Our lives are deep and meaningful and this...” Michael tapped a fingertip on Morgan's third eye. “... means the most of all. Would you prefer to live without me?”
“Never!” Morgan quickly responded with the grace of Frankenstein's monster. Michael heard the sincerity through the monstrous rasp.
“Then value your life as I value it and I will treasure myself as you treasure me.”
February 03, 2009
From the Ashes Arises a Song
It was a humid night and the city street seemed to hum with barely contained violence. Some racial epithets from the locals hit his ears, but he paid them little mind. Race was not a concern to him anymore. He didn't even share the same species with those illiterate poseurs. He tasted the air with his extra sense. She was near.
The whole universe had shifted a degree. Few noticed here. Probably, it was for the best. As the city continued its doldrums, he suddenly started singing. A soul long thought dead and buried, thought of as only a shade that whimpered occasionally, now rose to life and resurged anew, free of its fetters and constrictive promises, free of its repressive duties and confining trammels. When his song ended, he sensed potential in his life for the first time in... in a time so long passed he cannot remember being hopeful before. He suddenly became aware of her mind in the vicinity. She was happy. Possibly happy to see him.
“Valerie,” he softly breathed. She exuberantly hugged him.
“Morgan, you came for me!”
“Yes,” he said softly, smiling broadly. “I did.”
He carefully slipped his arms around her. They held each other for a long moment. She asked, “I wish my accommodations here were better but...”
“If you wish better, my home has five bedrooms and I currently live there with two young girls. It could use the presence of a woman.”
“As long as you don't lock me away in a tower, it sounds wonderful to me.”
“It doesn't have a tower, it is just a big house in Weehauken.”
“Then, onwards, to the horizon.”
As the city hummed on, they disappeared into the night.
The whole universe had shifted a degree. Few noticed here. Probably, it was for the best. As the city continued its doldrums, he suddenly started singing. A soul long thought dead and buried, thought of as only a shade that whimpered occasionally, now rose to life and resurged anew, free of its fetters and constrictive promises, free of its repressive duties and confining trammels. When his song ended, he sensed potential in his life for the first time in... in a time so long passed he cannot remember being hopeful before. He suddenly became aware of her mind in the vicinity. She was happy. Possibly happy to see him.
“Valerie,” he softly breathed. She exuberantly hugged him.
“Morgan, you came for me!”
“Yes,” he said softly, smiling broadly. “I did.”
He carefully slipped his arms around her. They held each other for a long moment. She asked, “I wish my accommodations here were better but...”
“If you wish better, my home has five bedrooms and I currently live there with two young girls. It could use the presence of a woman.”
“As long as you don't lock me away in a tower, it sounds wonderful to me.”
“It doesn't have a tower, it is just a big house in Weehauken.”
“Then, onwards, to the horizon.”
As the city hummed on, they disappeared into the night.
February 02, 2009
Finesse Oblige
AC: “Morgan?”
Morgan stood up and turned around and so his body was facing his brother. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Oh, come off it!” Michael's annoyance was tinged with amusement. He switched back to his business modulation. “I want you to learn how to fight.”
“I hardly see the necessity.”
“Maybe I want to question potential assassins rather then have their brain matter scraped off the audience hall floor.”
“I will aim lower,” Morgan remarked, resuming his previous lounging position.
“Well, that's the main problem, your aim. You really can't see your targets, just their thoughts, so you aim for their head.”
“When the room is crowded, it is the easiest way. The other advantage is my mindcrafted weapons are unconfiscatable.”
“Yes, well, incapacitation might be another option. The room is marble lined. I can block attacks on my own.”
“I suppose the added intimidation factor has occurred to you?”
“Yes, if pressed, I could see where one shot would be impressive, especially since you are legally blind, but I don't want people to be afraid to approach me.”
“And if we are not in your marble-lined audience chamber?”
“Morgan, if you kill every last one of them...”
“My wife can do wonders with corpses and truth.”
“... when did you get so...”
“Pragmatic?”
“...bloodthirsty?”
“I had born a certain unease at my proficiency, and my enthusiasm of same, for many years. Then, I found that I am, by my father, an inherent predator. I desire to hunt and kill on instinct. The Order must have realized it and honed me to use it to my advantage.”
“Your father is...”
“My father was a bluthungri, making me the apexa for the th'epf. I.. dislodged him from his position as alpha male.”
“The apexis council didn't sense you.”
“I am not one of the lesser races. I am at the level of primal ascendents.”
“You ascended?”
“This is immaterial to the matter you brought before me. I will restrain myself better in protecting you. I can make no promises as passion, and not duty, are my reasons for taking this role now.”
“Thank you, Morgan. Good day, then.”
Morgan stood up and turned around and so his body was facing his brother. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Oh, come off it!” Michael's annoyance was tinged with amusement. He switched back to his business modulation. “I want you to learn how to fight.”
“I hardly see the necessity.”
“Maybe I want to question potential assassins rather then have their brain matter scraped off the audience hall floor.”
“I will aim lower,” Morgan remarked, resuming his previous lounging position.
“Well, that's the main problem, your aim. You really can't see your targets, just their thoughts, so you aim for their head.”
“When the room is crowded, it is the easiest way. The other advantage is my mindcrafted weapons are unconfiscatable.”
“Yes, well, incapacitation might be another option. The room is marble lined. I can block attacks on my own.”
“I suppose the added intimidation factor has occurred to you?”
“Yes, if pressed, I could see where one shot would be impressive, especially since you are legally blind, but I don't want people to be afraid to approach me.”
“And if we are not in your marble-lined audience chamber?”
“Morgan, if you kill every last one of them...”
“My wife can do wonders with corpses and truth.”
“... when did you get so...”
“Pragmatic?”
“...bloodthirsty?”
“I had born a certain unease at my proficiency, and my enthusiasm of same, for many years. Then, I found that I am, by my father, an inherent predator. I desire to hunt and kill on instinct. The Order must have realized it and honed me to use it to my advantage.”
“Your father is...”
“My father was a bluthungri, making me the apexa for the th'epf. I.. dislodged him from his position as alpha male.”
“The apexis council didn't sense you.”
“I am not one of the lesser races. I am at the level of primal ascendents.”
“You ascended?”
“This is immaterial to the matter you brought before me. I will restrain myself better in protecting you. I can make no promises as passion, and not duty, are my reasons for taking this role now.”
“Thank you, Morgan. Good day, then.”
February 01, 2009
Peaceful Interlude
Precedent: Be Careful What You Search For
Valerie and Morgan glided across the empty room together, dancing a waltz to the music in Morgan's portable CD player. The calm, graceful steps were a welcome relief from his usual life and a welcome distraction from her ennui. The universe melted away and the steps became the focal point of their minds. A few drams of liquor let Morgan's mind be free of any insistent voices or eavesdropping. The conversation between them was the tacit language of the body and tempo. A calm expression graced his visage. He could sense Valerie's smile.
As the music faded, their bodies relaxed away, then stepped closer for a tango. Both had grown isolated in their current political states. Valerie had been practically locked away in an ivory tower because and despite her immense power. Morgan, well, he was who he was and, outside of his brother, he was usually alone, aloof, and badly misunderstood when not straitjacketed and drugged into sopor. The graceful airs were atypical of both, though one might guess otherwise at first glance.
When the set of dances was over, he sat on a bench with her leaning on him, holding his hand. He pulled out a flask and sipped from it to ensure the relative quiet continued. They withdrew to her tea room. She talked with her usual exuberance and he told her as much as he could about what was going on back home. As she drew closer, he felt a twinge in his mind. At first, it was merely an annoyance, but as he lifted his flask to his lips, he recognized the sender.
“I'm apologize, Val, but my brother needs me.”
He quickly stood and shrugged his cloak about him. His re-emergence was right behind his brother as a large, roc-sized creature was diving at him. Michael's back slammed into Morgan's front. Morgan reflexively put up a wall about them and collected his brother into his arms. A resounding slam came from the edge of the manifested wall. Michael turned and pressed himself full against Morgan's body. A cold thrill went through him and he was suddenly aware of tile beneath his feet.
Michael proceeded to slide down Morgan's body until he was sitting on the floor. Morgan knelt down beside him. “Are you injured?”
“No,” Michael answered, shaking mildly from the encounter. “Sorry to have disrupted your sleep.”
“You have nothing for which to apologize on that account. I was not asleep.”
“You were very serene?”
“Yes,” Morgan said, smiling. “I was.” He walked away without further explanation.
Valerie and Morgan glided across the empty room together, dancing a waltz to the music in Morgan's portable CD player. The calm, graceful steps were a welcome relief from his usual life and a welcome distraction from her ennui. The universe melted away and the steps became the focal point of their minds. A few drams of liquor let Morgan's mind be free of any insistent voices or eavesdropping. The conversation between them was the tacit language of the body and tempo. A calm expression graced his visage. He could sense Valerie's smile.
As the music faded, their bodies relaxed away, then stepped closer for a tango. Both had grown isolated in their current political states. Valerie had been practically locked away in an ivory tower because and despite her immense power. Morgan, well, he was who he was and, outside of his brother, he was usually alone, aloof, and badly misunderstood when not straitjacketed and drugged into sopor. The graceful airs were atypical of both, though one might guess otherwise at first glance.
When the set of dances was over, he sat on a bench with her leaning on him, holding his hand. He pulled out a flask and sipped from it to ensure the relative quiet continued. They withdrew to her tea room. She talked with her usual exuberance and he told her as much as he could about what was going on back home. As she drew closer, he felt a twinge in his mind. At first, it was merely an annoyance, but as he lifted his flask to his lips, he recognized the sender.
“I'm apologize, Val, but my brother needs me.”
He quickly stood and shrugged his cloak about him. His re-emergence was right behind his brother as a large, roc-sized creature was diving at him. Michael's back slammed into Morgan's front. Morgan reflexively put up a wall about them and collected his brother into his arms. A resounding slam came from the edge of the manifested wall. Michael turned and pressed himself full against Morgan's body. A cold thrill went through him and he was suddenly aware of tile beneath his feet.
Michael proceeded to slide down Morgan's body until he was sitting on the floor. Morgan knelt down beside him. “Are you injured?”
“No,” Michael answered, shaking mildly from the encounter. “Sorry to have disrupted your sleep.”
“You have nothing for which to apologize on that account. I was not asleep.”
“You were very serene?”
“Yes,” Morgan said, smiling. “I was.” He walked away without further explanation.
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