For Sara G.

Khael’s eyes flew wide as Morgan appeared out of the ether, a bundle of cloth under one arm. Morgan cursed loudly in an odd language. He gently placed the bundle on a worktable and collapsed to one knee. “I won. Did not get coup. Too dangerous.”

Morgan silently cursed Magir’s lack of vocabulary while hoping Khael did not want details. “No coup? This?” Khael poked the cloth bundle.

Morgan hissed in response. Khael smartly decided to leave the bundle be and left a purse of coins next to it.

Morgan left for his cabinet. Sitting on his narrow bed, he peeled away layers until a small person was revealed in his lap. In the desperate and sudden need to end the recent battle, he killed his opponent, grabbed for his brother, and jaunted to Hysperia without giving much mental time to what exactly had happened to Michael. Michael hadn’t said a thing, not that he had the time to comment in Morgan’s expeditious finale. He was indignant, understandably, but was still uncharacteristically quiet. “How old are you?” Morgan probed.

“Ninety-six, of course!” Michael blurted out, his voice squeaky and thin.

Well, his mind was still cognizant of who and what he was. So, it wasn’t true chronomancy, probably just a tweaked form of transmutation. In an odd moment of levity, Morgan squeezed Michael in a hug, cloyingly gushing, “Aww, aren’t you so cute!”

Michael went to punch him, but his strength was that of a seven-year-old along with his proportions. He failed to even leave a red mark. “So, I’m guessing you have the sexual development of a youngling, too?” Morgan said a bit more soberly.

Michael looked down to realize that, rather than the short undeveloped stem of a human child, he had nothing. “I’m missing something down there.”

“Missing or inverted?” Morgan queried.

Michael felt around. “No, missing, I don’t have anything.”

“So, he turned you into….” Morgan started laughing. “I must stop ascribing intelligence to those who so sorely lack it. He probably forgot children can have genitalia.”

“Is undoing this going to be a problem?”

“Only if you want to be intact once I’m done attempting it. I honestly don’t know how to undo it, so this may take some research, but for now, you are a Scafir youth. I can try ageing you a bit, but no guarantee that puberty will happen since we are hoping that Zwigif was aiming for was a Scafir child."
"What do you think he was aiming for?"
"He was aiming to make me helpless... or less effective." 
"..."
"He would have failed on both counts. I'm more concerned that you were gravid before he hit you with the transmute, but you aren't now."

Bridge

I know not what drove me to visit the castle graveyard that night but the cold October air was refreshing on my face after hours of pointless sex.  My libido had finally calmed enough to let me have a couple hours unfettered by lust.  The dry, scraggly leaves that blanketed the ground around the myriad old, lovingly tended gravestones rustled under my feet and made me wonder who would take up the mantle of gravedigger after the octogenarian Randall passed on.  He was one of the few old servants left who had no children to apprentice to his trade, nor did he seem to desire to teach any of the many youth who'd grown up around the manor.

First, I visited my own emptied grave.  My name sat regally embossed on the crumbling stone.  The empty casket mouldering and decrepit in the still open, but mostly  collapsed, plot.  I looked at the neighboring stone which bore my brother's name, now weathered to almost nothing.  The burial site was also empty, but the ground encasing it was undisturbed.

A memory seemed to dance before me.  A moment later I realized it wasn't my vivid imagination but an actual spectre.  I caught myself stepping forward and quickly reversed my direction.  The image reached out to me and I was caught between longing memories and brutal reality.

"I know you're not really my soul twin," I stated.

For a minute, only a stiff breeze rushing through chattering branches was the only sound.  Then a ghostly echo of his voice could be heard in the wind.  I blinked, not daring to believe, not wanting this wish to evaporate, but unsure that I had any semblance of control in the situation.  He was different in some undefinable way, but I could feel in my soul it was him.

"Why?" was all I could manage.  My advanced age had caught up with me and my original reason for sending him away was lost to the centuries past.

"I could sense that your time as a mortal is ending," he whispered.

"My time?  What of yours?"

"I am no longer mortal."

"Have you become a harbinger?"

"Not as such.  I'm a deity.  I want you to be eternal consort."

"A deity of what?"

There was a slight catch of hesitation before he answered.  "I intend to sire a race of vampires."

I was flabbergasted.  "Could you not have simply been a god of assassins or death?"

"I probably will be.  There is no existing pantheon where my influence is felt."

"And you want me to ... aid you in your task... to create this vampiric race?"

My objections were merely my mouth sounding intelligent.  My heart had already made its decision.

Setting:	Derelict Graveyard
Plot:	The Collector
Narrative Device:	Poor Communication Kills
Hero:	Commanding Coolness
Villain:	Alas Poor Villain
Character As Device:	Always Lawful Good
Characterization Device:	Switching POV

Michael's Wish 2009

I didn't mean it to happen this way. But, sometimes God, fate and nature will intervene at the most surprising times.

By the time I had decided to be Michael, I had let go of any hope of being “Mommy.” A cyst happened that October and I was left feeling depressed and lonely. The silent prayer went out yet again as I curled up in a ball and felt life bleeding out of me.

In December, I found my way to a clinic and was evaluated for hormone therapy. They decided I was healthy enough physically and mentally to start injections. Money shortages meant the injections wouldn't start until March. Feeling fidgety, I was finally relieved when I could start them.

My body's initial reaction was gut-wrenching nausea. I could've sworn I lost five pounds from vomiting the first week. With help, I staggered back to the clinic three days later, where they decided to ratchet the dosage down to one-quarter the original amount. The doctor suspected I had a stomach virus and ordered me to bed. I continued feeling vertiginously ill and I was switched from injections to oral pills. I recall looking at the scrip and wondering how I was going to keep pills down. Luckily, either the illness subsided or my body's violent reaction to its hormone balance being upset was mollified, because I felt much better by the next day.

As I regained a sense of well-being, my mood brightened and my appetite returned. I managed to land a contract to sell insurance despite my gender transition. My life got hectic and March and April seemed to fly right by. I did well enough to pay off all my outstanding debts and start building a nest egg.

In May, I got a scant period. I had to use a sheet of newspaper as a makeshift pad since I was between sales calls... and in the mens room. I ate well now that I had a regular income, inviting my agita back. I had my stomach screened but no activity from my ulcer, so I was good with an over the counter remedy.

In July, I invited the first woman I ever loved to come up and live with my husband, my boyfriend and me in my newly acquired condo. I was constantly coming and going from this new base of operations. We each had our own bedroom and I had an office. Incredibly happy, I hardly noticed the changes within me. Occasionally, I would wake from a catnap feeling as if I'd just been jostled or throttled, but I could never pinpoint what it was. Despite central air conditioning and busy days with two sales contracts, I slept restlessly and sweated profusely. I figured it was the hormones and activity and simply napped when I could.

In August, I was seriously considering picking up a third sales contract, but found myself hamstrung by serious hunger followed by serious stomach discomfort. I was eating six meals a day and still felt ravenous. I was drinking so much that it felt like I was in the mens room once an hour. During a checkup, I brought up the stomach pain and was given a prescription for an acid blocker. I didn't mention how much I was eating. My weight had gone up about ten pounds, but most of it seemed to be in my legs and shoulders.

Late September brought me to a more somber mood. I'd come home to her cooking in the kitchen and the two guys puttering on World of Warcraft, but somehow the whole thing just seemed off kilter. I became aware of any faults in the others and would often find myself tidying up and cleaning even when my exhaustion told me I shouldn't. Finally, one night, bone tired, I lay back on my bed and fell asleep without even removing my shoes. I had trained the others that I would allow them into my bed if I went to bed with the door open. Needless to say, I hadn't closed the door before collapsing. My boyfriend and girlfriend crept in and proceeded to flank me in bed, each snuggling up to a shoulder, but I was turned somewhat to the right, where she was. As she pressed against me, I was startled awake as I had been for about a month. At first, I thought she had awoken me, but I soon became aware that she was looking bewilderingly at my abdomen. Now, truthfully, my abdomen had distended a little with my weight gain, but not as significantly as ten pounds would indicate for my short stature. I loosened my tie and unfastened my collar button and mumbled, “What's the matter?”

“Your belly just hit me!” she exclaimed.

“My belly?” I repeated incredulously, right before I fell asleep again.

The next morning while I was in the shower, I felt a thump around the level of my navel. I put my hand against it and I felt another one. I quickly finished my shower, shaved, and dressed before bolting out the door, just barely remembering to snag my keyring on the way out. My boyfriend, who sometimes chauffeured me around, yelled after me, but I didn't waste any breath explaining myself. I turned a corner and sprinted down the main avenue and burst into the Rite Aid. My sudden explosion of energy finally burned off once inside and pains shot through various body parts. My lungs felt like they were stuck to my ribs with cement. I could hear myself wheezing asthmatically from overexertion. As soon as the acute problems ebbed slightly, I started walking forward.

It was surreal looking for the feminine aisle again. I just stared for a moment at the panoply of products. I picked up a box and hypnotically walked to the registers. The walk home seemed interminably long and scenarios kept playing in my mind with hope, fear, love and self-loathing all competing for the floor in my mental self-debate. I dragged myself in the front door and my trio of life partners quickly flocked about me with questions. I selfishly dismissed them, desperate for solitude and space. They followed on my heels up to my bedroom. I shut the door.

I slowly opened the box and read the instructions, fully aware that I was stalling the inevitable. It wasn't that hard to use. I could hear the three of them talking outside my door. I retreated to my en suite bathroom and used the test. I felt three flutters while waiting for it to develop. I didn't look at it until the time limit was up. Ten minutes after urinating, I opened the door and looked at the three people with whom I was in love and stated as plainly as my nerves would let me, “I'm pregnant.”

At the clinic they weren't immediately sure whether they should believe me. But, when I mentioned the movements I felt in my abdomen, they decided to rule out other things first and gave me an ultrasound. No sooner had the wand been placed on my abdomen, when a distinctive 'paw...paw...paw' sound could be heard – a fetal heartbeat. My response was less than dignified; I suddenly burst into tears. Afterwards, I had to reassure my treatment team that I wasn't despondent and I was definitely keeping the child. I then had to convince them that I still saw myself as a man, just that I was now a pregnant man. I had wanted this so badly after three miscarriages, I hadn't dared to hope anymore. Masculinity wasn't something I wanted. It was merely what I was.

I was immediately taken off of hormones. An amnio was performed and I was subjected to several other tests. They estimated I was twenty-six weeks. My gynecologist sought out a trans-sensitive obstetrics team for me. When I met with them, I found out the karotype said female, the ultrasound indicated male. Great, I thought sardonically, my child is intersex. I added more guilt to the pile of emotions I was experiencing. They estimated my due date at January 6.

At home, everyone wanted to know how I could do this to them. My husband was embarrassed. My boyfriend was perplexed. My girlfriend started wondering where we'd fit the crib.

By October, my pregnancy had somehow become public knowledge. Local advocacy on behalf of transgenders had afforded a small amount of local celebrity, but it hadn't, until this point, been intrusive. I was now beseiged by various religious, women's, and political groups to change something in my self-definition. Or my condition. As diplomatically as I could manage, I told them it was none of their business.

I was just barely showing so some believed it was a publicity stunt. I refused to adjust my life to avoid being stared at and some people were outright abusive. I was assaulted a couple times by what I believed to be homophobes. It turned out one was an off-duty cop.

By November, a palpable divide was forming in the community and the city. I was medically being told to reduce my stress load while, socially, it wasn't possible. When a Roman Catholic priest taunted me on camera, my response was “The Catholic woman in me feels it would be unethical to abort this baby. And the Agnostic male in me feels her decision is none of his business.”

I still found sympathy among some of the GLBTI community and the Pink Pistols, whom I joined to prevent any future battery attempts. I also got a license to carry a concealed weapon.

Angry letters, emails, epithets, graffiti and threats got uglier as time went on. I went about work as best I could, but only the staunchest of my customers continued buying from me. Written death threats continued, but personal threats face to face had lessened as my belly had started rounding noticeably. There was a certain moral line even the most adamant weren't willing to cross.

December brought me to the point where I had to concede I needed maternity clothes. I had simply worn larger shirts up to this point and kept wearing dress pants, ties, and suit jackets. My breasts were too outsized now to go without support. And maternity pants were necessary, too. When my husband asked, I told him the child would call me its mother. The three of them were very protective of me now. She was giddily awaiting the birth. My boyfriend wasn't, but wanted to be there. Against my wishes, I got no less than three baby showers. They turned out to be some much needed cheerfulness at a point when I felt overly anxious.

In private moments, I talked to my child and assured it that I loved it and very much wanted to see it. I made no gender references. I decided it would be up to my child to decide what it was. I decided on the gender-neutral name Morgan. I spent time alone putting together a small crib in the corner of my bedroom and determining how best to store the profusion of pastel gifts in my mahogany and beige bedroom.

The baby was very active now. I spent many nights lying awake just feeling it jostle around inside me. I loved the feeling. It was empowering. Not emasculating at all. It was feminine energy, but that did not cancel my masculine strength. It just imbued it with another dimension. I wanted to have this baby, to mother it, to breastfeed it, to love it. And, I felt no less a man for it. I felt more so. A man with the ability of a woman. Yes, a man-plus. That seemed a great way to put. I smiled inwardly as society seemed to crumble around me.

It was Christmas Eve and I was attending a party at a friend's apartment. The walk home was only ten blocks. I left it feeling like I had overindulged in the rich foods and felt more cramped and nauseated with each step. Suddenly, I was leaning over a trash bin emptying my stomach. As I was regaining my composure, I thought I heard a gunshot or an M-80 in the distance behind me. A second retort was followed by a piercing pain near my left kidney. I slumped to one knee while reaching for my concealed handgun. When I turned to face my attacker, I saw two figures farther up the block. I pointed the weapon and emptied it. I don't know how many hit, but at least one did. I dropped the gun and held my side. A pool of blood was forming on the sidewalk. I pressed two handkerchiefs over the opening and pulled myself upright.

The cold seeped into me as I staggered down to the PATH station. My clinic and the attached hospital were in Manhattan, an hour from where I was attacked. Under the platform lights, I saw that the bullet had gone completely through. No one else was at the station. I fumbled for my mobile phone as the train pulled up. I got on and everything went black.

I awoke hazily a short time later when a stranger shook me. He and his date seem relieved I was alive, but horrified by my condition. I told them slowly where I was trying to go. They understood me, but I suddenly convulsed as a new pain gripped me and I fainted again

When I came around the second time, my abdomen felt incredibly taut and I was fighting to breathe normally. I don't clearly recall everything that was happening. I remember being outside. That someone said I was leaking fluid. People asking if I could hear them. I tried vainly to tell them what I felt, but couldn't hold on to consciousness...

... and after that, there is nothing. I died on the way to the hospital, I guess. I never got to see the child I carried and loved. I can only hope that he or she is raised well and with love, patience and understanding. And as I find myself free of corporeal wants and needs, I hear one last thing:

“Congratulations, Michael. You're a mother.”

World Mechanics 5

Mor'ganth “Vengeful Death”

Creator Deity

Symbol: A stylized stake impaling a shattered circle

Home Plane: Material Plane

Alignment: Lawful neutral

Portfolio: vampires, redemption, order, vengeance, death, assassins

Worshipers: vampires, paladins, assassins

Cleric Alignments: must be lawful

Domains: Death, Inquisition, Law, Murder, Suffering, Redemption, Vengeance

Favored Weapon: natural weapon/soulknife/unarmed strike/racial weapon

Little is known of Mor'ganth's origins, but it is known he has defeated other deities and has absorbed ascended mortals, infernals and celestials into himself. He himself may have been a mortal once but on the subject he is silent, as is his retinue. His power is upheld and insured by the existence of fourteen holy champions that are each bound to a specific aspect of the deity.

Mor'ganth is worshipped by the Vampire Lords of Prior as their creator. All take the vow of the Codex Draconis upon their tenth year of life and many swear themselves as paladins. Mor'ganth invests a good deal of his attention to the living vampires and will always heed their prayers. His physical presence redoubts their faith. He has also stationed a six-armed avatar to stand guard over his 'children' at all times.

Mor'ganth pays little attention to the other races, charging his wards to protect them from the dark forces on Prior. It is not unheard of, though, for others to worship him and worthy individuals may find their prayers answered.

Dogma: Through clarity of thought, purity of mind, and suffering of the body, one can overcome weakness of the flesh. I offer redemption from the allure of temptation. Let my will strengthen your own. Accept destruction if you fail.

Great Balls of ...

“Fireball as a spell is a neat idea in fiction, but its practical application is tricky. Having fire as an element is a good start, but the evocative or force magic you need to make it more than a spell to roast marshmellows doesn't come naturally to fey.”

Michael sipped orange juice while lecturing. Magic consumes a lot of caloric energy and even demonstrating intuitive spells could leave one seriously depleted. “The magiir have the big booms necessary, but lack the essentia for elemental casting.”

“But that means Valerie...”

“Uncle Morgan did a blood transfusion with her to help cure her of a disease. A side effect of the transfusion is it granted her the ability to manipulate the element natural to him.”

“What if I try to make the fireball bigger?”

“It will be more voluminous, but no more dangerous.”

The youngster flexed his fingers frustratedly. “Part of being an adult,” Michael said patiently, “is accepting that everyone, including yourself, has shortcomings. I can't produce fire or electricity. And I never studied evocative magic. Your uncle may be able to teach you that, but be prepared for him to say no.”

Question Horizon

There comes a time when a non-human or demi-human is revealed for what he or she is. They catch you casting magic or they see your ears or you don't hide fast enough. And suddenly, this person is aware of a much larger world than just the physical one. So, suddenly, you're faced with a decision. Do you try to explain away what they've seen by using science fiction doublespeak? Or have you just taken on an acolyte? Sometimes you're lucky and they cobble together their own fantastic rationalization, but more likely they need an explanation, and not necessarily a rational one. Just something to keep them from thinking they're totally nuts.

Now, honestly, human minds run on emotion and logic. Most of their world runs this way, too. Magic is too chaotic to their way of thinking and violates most of their natural laws. Some of them can deal with its existence better than others. It's no big secret really that magic exists; we just don't discuss it openly because most humans would think we're crazy or worse. If someone point blank asked me if magic exists, I'd say yes. Whether they believed me is a separate question.

After the End

The world seemed dimmer than one would expect. The numbness and mental shock was understandable. Morgan had stopped counting bodies he'd left behind at around six thousand. That was early on the first day. Thirty days had now passed. Thirty days of people dropping dead or resisting, screaming and exploding at the mere sight of him. He smelled awful. The charnel smell of a fat-rendering plant would be more pleasant. His hands were so coated in blood and gore that it was cracking and flaking off in large chunks. He knelt by a stream and plunged his hands and face into the tannic waters. The wound on his hand ached and oozed. He could smell it putrifying.

Michael could not, would not, dare to think. The hollow, pale faces, carved sallower by fear and slow death haunted him, gnawed at him, crawled under his skin. The pain of the bodies racked by starvation ate his brain, gnawed on his consciousness, wormed through his innards. The horizon ceased to exist and a black ichor ran from his eyes, mingled with tears of horror. Where his hands touched the ground, the grass shriveled black and crackled into dust. The concept of millions dying slowly wrenched through him and drained away his sense of unanimity, of worldliness, of life.

Georg choked on his bile. The writhing sense of disgust within him was like acid etching away any thought of self. Pox and buboes had sprung up when he merely looked in the direction of living flesh. Sores and rashes and cracking, weeping black lesions from his breath. Where he moved, the plants went yellow and white or rusted brown. Birds spiralled out of the sky and horrible disfigurements of flesh and sinew and stalk gnawed into his eyeballs. The putrid smell of sickness and rivers of vomitus and mucus and effluvia clogged his nose and pores. Those who died quickly were lucky; many lingered on, crying to the heavens in pain and disjunction. Too many too sick and not a one could stand from infirmity.

Valerie hugged herself tightly. She was crying but had long run out of tears. The amount of bloodshed could have filled oceans. Men, women, children, animals – all fighting, all dying, without cease. She would walk near a town and suddenly fires and shouts and gunshots would ring out. Murder, mayhem, brawling, mauling. En masse and singly. With and without reason. She sat, untouched physically, but no one could walk away from the sea of carnage and be sane.

The other three had found each other by the time Morgan stumbled upon them. He could feel the trauma from quite a distance away. He had washed away as much of the signs of his damage as he could and walked up fairly clean. The three sat together but otherwise showed no recognition of anything outside their own painful realities. Morgan reached for his brother. Michael tried to speak, but only frantic gibberish came pouring out. Morgan understood. “I am sorry,” he whispered as he rendered him unconscious.

Morgan quickly did the same for the other two and transported everyone back to the “pre-apocolyptus.” If they continued being incapable of functioning, he would erase their memories of this. He silently ran a golden needle between his fingers and wondered at his own sanity.

Road Hazard

The mob must have mistaken him for someone else. What interest would they have in capturing him? They taped his mouth and manacled his wrists and ankles and threw him in a trunk after they'd sapped him. He awoke and felt the rough trunk liner against his cheek. Groggily, he considered calling his brother, but decided it wasn't necessary. As the car rode over a bumpy stretch of road, he painfully repositioned himself. It took several tries to get the tape off with his tongue. It wasn't completely clear, but off enough for him to start incanting. The first incant toughened his skin. The second shattered the steel handcuffs. The third rendered the car undriveable...

World OurStory

Charles habitually called both Morgan and Michael daddy. No one corrected him. It was too cute. No one disputed he would be the next baron, either. The two men jointly trained him for the role. One night, he climbed into a seat at a table where the two were discussing a diplomatic situation.

“There is no official positon and I haven't been instructed that we have one,” Michael commented. Morgan listened intently, drumming his fingers softly on the tabletop, a stylus perched between his middle and forefinger.

“In the long run, I think the accord will be useful. It the short term, it will incite riots, possibly a revolution,” Morgan responded.

“And that would be economically beneficial to foreign money?” Michael queried.

“It wouldn't look very nice, but insurrection is brewing either way. Let it happen. Let the air clear and then invest in actual progress.”

“I'd like to think there is some way to derail the revolution too.”

“Both sides are bloated self-serving ticks living off the blood of their subjects. They won't learn peace throuh any of these petty warlords.”

Charles had the enviable position in the household of being allowed to listen when the two were talking in Morgan's private study. There was no possibility of sneaking in or listening at the door as Morgan could always sense it. Charles leaned over into Michael's lap. “What are you talking about, Daddy?”

Morgan smirked as Charles's presence took Michael by surprise. “Oh! Eh...we were discussing world politics.”

“Yes, in the same way talking about bicycles is discussing renewable energy,” Morgan said snarkily.

Charles tried to read the papers in Michael's hand. “Africa?”

“There are areas of conflict in Africa. We were considering getting involved financially. The living conditions are deplorable in many areas and we think providing jobs will allow them to improve,” Michael exposited

“And, if we can covertly help create and back stable governments, they can owe us favors down the line,” Morgan added.

“Having someone owe us favors isn't as good as owing us money,” Charles theorized.

“Actually,” Michael said,” it's better than money. When someone owes us a favor, we keep track of it. We call on it when we truly need it. When money isn't enough or the proper way to deal with a situation, we have influence. There isn't a western nation that doesn't owe our family a favor or three. We've forgiven large debts in lieu of receiving favorable treatment or special conditions. And we have three hundred years worth to call on. And, if they ever change their minds about us, we can change our minds about the money they owe. Trust me that a couple hundred years of daily compounded interest can add up.”

“However,” Morgan added, “being worth several trillion on paper doesn't hurt either.”

Vengeful Death

Year 37: Georg was right. It took long weeks of bedrest in the infirmary for Morgan to recover well enough to breathe normally. He would request books from his library that Nicole and Krystie had to use a special key and password to unlock. He used his enchanted spectacles to read them. He took no notes but would chant things under his breath, sometimes passing out from reading.

After six weeks, Georg discovered him trying to pull the breathing tube out of his lungs. When he was freed of it, Georg put an oxygen feed in his nose. Hoarsely, Morgan said, “That made cantations challenging.”

“You shouldn't have needed to do them,” Georg chided.

“Maybe not, but it's natural for me to try. I'm an annoyingly hard-headed scafir, after all.”

Georg paused what he was doing. “Did you just crack a joke?”

Morgan smiled like a child just discovering something new. “Yes, I did. Is that not strange? For the first time in my life, my head is clear. No voices, no geases, no compulsions. Just me. I can think without interruption. It feels very... lonely. Too quiet.”

Georg smiled sunnily enough for Morgan to pick it up. “Let me get you some water. That gravelly voice doesn't suit you.”

Two months is a long time to nurse a grudge. It festered in Morgan's mind for three weeks, then he started plotting. He had time and quiet to plan and heal like never before. And he could triple check all his research, another luxury. Finally, he lay quiet, let the plan he etched out go dormant, and concentrated on his body healing. A peace and tranquility enveloped him as he realized that the torment and pain would be addressed and ended. Then this morning, Morgan realized he could breathe with regularity.

He fought the urge to regurgitate the first meal they brought him. Traditionally, any long period without eating angered his stomach. After muscling down the oatmeal and tea, he started to feel lively. He napped for a short while. He had been planning this long. There was no rush.

After lying awake for ten minutes to be sure he was alone, Morgan arose from the bed. He stood and found his legs rubbery. It took a few minutes before he felt steady enough to let go of the counter. He slowly reoriented himself to walking. The atrophy was minimal, but real. He took breaks as he needed them. The usual brisk pace he employed was now a tentative grope. Servants purposefully paid closer attention to their work when he came near. Finally, he found himself at the edge of the state rooms. He heard people milling about. “Help me,” he said. A maid dutifully wrapped a chintz throw around his waist while a young man took his arm and led him upstairs. Morgan thanked him and lay down. “Bring me a light meal,” he ordered. He was left alone.

~~~~~

Georg found Morgan soaking in a tub. “You're an amazing specimen,” he commented dryly.

“Healing is a luxury to me. I rarely get the time.”

“Well, now that you do, you should take all the time you need.”

Morgan sat up. “I never thought about what it would be like to just say no straight to someone's face. And now that I can, just having the choice is more liberating than actually making it.”

“Michael left you quite a gift.”

Morgan relaxed back, perfectly calm in his face, his voice was anguished. “I only wish he were here to benefit from it. I would so dearly like to talk to him now that my attention is... focused.”

~~~~~

Morgan had never learned portation magic and he'd buried his traveling cloak with his brother. But he knew deep inside he wouldn't need either. With the most humanizing factor in his life gone, there was very little humanity within him. A servant told him his brother's death mask had arrived. Morgan told him to have it placed next to his father's bust. Later, in his sitting room, he went in and ran his fingers over the new object. It was cold and inanimate and it was the last link he had to remember his brother viscerally. Michael's scent was fading from his usual seats and pillows.

He pressed the mask to his cheek and let the loneliness consume him. A sharp keening broke a profound silence. Tears carved a path down his face. When a familiar stabbing pain entered his mind, he did not ignore it. He placed the mask lovingly upon his brother's former seat and said to the ether, “I accept your summons.”

Scariel's schadenfreude was thick in the air. She was enjoying her surviving son's pain. He sensed no regret for murdering her good son. Steeling his mind, he said, “Yes, mother?”

“I told you,” she said, icily, “that you would be the death of your brother and look what has happened.”

Morgan turned his face downward, as was customary when speaking to a superior female. Respect was not his motive, though. He could feel his fangs sliding out.

“You could have saved hi-...” An incorporeal hand gripped her mind and shut off her speech.

“You,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “You killed my brother. You killed my soul twin. You killed Michael.”

His mother was taken aback at being interrupted. Morgan had never spoken when she enforced her will over him. She still assumed a geas existed or was delusional enough to ignore that it didn't.

“I have suffered enormously because of you. Michael was the only comfort I had. And you took him from me, from everyone. You killed the one person who loved me.”

The tears came. His nose ran. It didn't matter. He didn't care. His voice wavered, but the steel edge remained. “And now mother, after all that I have borne under your servitude, this is something that will not go unanswered. I want revenge. But not simple revenge. I don't care about the torture or the deaths or the abandonment. This hurts far worse. Michael did not deserve this. And I can't let it go.”

“You're not soul twins. You have to be identical to be....”

Morgans knuckles cracked against Scariel's cheek. Scariel fell back and away, she tried to scramble away on the ground. He grabbed her ankle. “I believe this was how you did it once.”

He grabbed her by her nape and smacked her across the face. He felt bone give. She screamed loudly. “Shut up!” he shouted in her face. “You wouldn't let me scream when you did it, so shut it!”

She'll come to save me, she thought. Please, save me....

“Yes, call her,” Morgan said, regaining some composure. “Call her. I want you to know what you've done. I want you to experience what I am going through. I want you to know the pain” his voice dropped to a whisper, “of having your twin taken away.”

Scariel's eyes dilated with a fear. Morgan tugged at her soul, tasting it. No, please, no.... just kill me...

“And give you the coward's way out? No. Mother, I don't want justice here. I want retribution. I want you to suffer. I want revenge.”

He ran his hands down her leg. “Call her...”

No, Sethiel, don't...

Morgan disjointed her knee. A moment letter a bullet lodged in his spine. He twisted his hand around and drove a spike through her. “Come here,” he commanded.

Sethiel looked at him, shaking. “Come here,” he repeated. She stepped forward, numbly, unable to resist his will. When she stood at arm's length, he put a hand on her shoulder. “For thirty-seven years, I have borne your abuse. I have been used and tortured and desecrated mentally, physically, and spiritually. An enlightened man, like Michael, would forgive you and offer you redemption. But, I'm not Michael. I can't be like Michael. I am full of anger and hate and pain and suffering. I have been trained to devalue life and glory in its destruction. Michael was a good man. He could love. He could even love me.”

Morgan cried uncontrollably for a couple minutes, then clamped down harder. “But I don't have Michael anymore. I will never see him again. Never know the comfort or warmth of his presence. Whatever I am, I am now so much less. Sethiel, if you see him, tell him to pray for me, because I have nothing...”

Morgan decapitated her. “... to redeem me any longer.”

Scariel screamed in agony as her soul twin's life was taken by her son. Then, he started chanting. “Nooooooo! Noooooo! Nooo...”

Morgan felt a flash of euphoria, of potency, of a satiety unkown to most mortals as he drank Sethiel's soul. “My vengeance has been satisfied. But it's not over yet.”

He manifested a knife and cut a symbol into his blood-slicked palm. He took the carved out piece of flesh and shoved it in his mother's mouth. “Swallow it,” he ordered. When she only stared back at him in horror, he rode his will over hers and made her gulp it down. “Now, send me home.”

As he disappeared, the bright sunny day on the Scafir homeworld continued on in its cheery manner.