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He Who would be Master

Introduction Magic is real, in forms many and varied. Magicians by their myriad names: Sorcerors, Witches, Shamans, and every type of "-mancer" out there are but a fraction of the types of the Powers that Be. In this world, where things go bump in the night or worse, humanity is almost willfully ignorant of magic or the forces that prey on the human condition's extremely primordial nature. The wizards and miracle workers of yesteryear are those humans who have evolved, in a sense, to open their eyes and grasp the living tool that is magic. They call this experience Awakening. Nowadays, those who practice true magic do so in secret, away from those who can Disbelieve with such force that magic itself unravels under such scrutiny, and sabotages the works of wonder in very dangerous ways. That is the world we live in. That is the power we wield and the price it levies. For the most part we are, and must remain, separate from the conscious minds of humanity, who Sleeps in ignorance.

Prologue

He was young, too young, to have been bestowed with such a terrible gift. From the day he was born, he could see Them. They took on various, odd forms. As a child, he was afraid of some, but happily played with others. His parents thought he just had a vivid imagination, or that he had strange imaginary friends. He got older and realized that They were not apart of this world. That things happened to disrupt his life and the lives of others around him when They were around. At around this time, his parents grew concerned. "Why did he not outgrow the imaginary friends and make some real ones?" They wondered. "Why can only I see Them?" He wondered in turn. "They ARE real... Aren't they?" That's when things turned bad. They began trying to hurt him. They began saying scary things about how there's something good in him that they want to get out. They tried all sorts of things to get it out of him. The lead him to quiet out of the way places to make him lost. They used animals and people and cars to try to break him open to get it. The worst part of these attacks were, when he managed to escape, no one believed him. They muddled his mind and told him that boogie-men,-cars, and -dogs were all in his head... So he stopped telling. He stopped caring. They called him names. One in particular tugged on his subconscious, like a deja vu: "Kaard," they cooed...

Chapter 1

"Kaard?" She said as the boy passed on his way to school. "Does that name sound familiar to you?"

The young man, Othello Montague, was finally growing into his long limbs in his late-teen years. He hitched his overstuffed backpack and scowled. "No," he lied. "Who are you?" His dark brown eyes glowered. His features etched suspicion in skin only a few shades lighter than his eyes.

The lady could only be described as such; a Lady. There was nothing overtly regal in her appearance: She was of Asian descent, and sprightly in stature. She was bundled in a light brown coat with fur-lining on the collar against the autumn cold. All told, she seemed delicate on the surface. It was her eyes that held her poise, and a certain sharpness. They were the eyes of someone who made decisions quickly, and sometimes, brutally. Othello had only seen that look in Their eyes. Those same eyes darted as if reading lines on a page. "Who are 'They'?" She asked.

"Who are you?" The boy repeated. She must be another damnable psychologist... Where do mom and dad FIND these people? "Norn." She said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. "Who are They?"

"No one," the boy said, too weirded out to bother lying or questioning the line of inquiry. "They aren't real anyways, so you can go home."

"Says who?" She pressed.

"Everyone." The boy muttered. "What do you want, Norn?"

"Ah-uh!" She tutted, "LADY Norn, little love." A bit of the mask of delicacy chipped away and the boy saw a glimpse of something as dangerous as any of Them ever presented themselves to be. This marked the first time the boy had ever attributed such fear of being utterly consumed to another human being.

He turned away, not in terror, but in affront. Who was this... this bitch to make him feel that way? No one. He had seen horror, and continued to see horror. And even they couldn't do any real damage. This china doll was nothing, and so, the boy declared himself done talking with her.

"They are real." She called to him, "Most people just forget how to recognize them."

The boy kept walking, and she didn't follow, but her words echoed in his head. All the from the school bus, through each of his classes, and up to lunch. He allowed himself to do something that he hadn't for more than a year: He let himself look at Them.

In his school there were patterns that move under the surface of the blackboard the same way fish move behind aquarium glass. Vultures of shredded tests hunched over teachers' shoulders, or circled over certain students' heads. Likewise, other students had halos of words and theorems protecting them. He'd been told time and again that these things weren't real, he'd had some sort of psychosis. But... he liked believing in them, these boogies and muses and imaginary-friends. He looked at his classmates, Jean and her muse, a dour-looking pixie, clad in cobwebs and smoke that whispered dark poems that she wrote. Niel, who's halo of knowledge burned brighter than anyone's save for maybe some of the teachers, yet he was almost willfully flunking out of most of his classes.

His gaze settled on Angel. Whether his parents named him for some angelic quality they saw in him as a baby, or if it was to toughen him up, Angel's name seemed entirely inappropriate to the brute that baby became. His bogie fixed itself to him. It seemed to be a shard of black glass, jutting from his chest. In it were reflected shadowy faces, distorted into rage... This one Othello didn't like.

Too dumb to excel academically, too wrathful for any sport, and too strong for his own good, Angel had always been a bully. His body was big, and hunched like a big blonde gorilla. The shard was smaller when the boys were younger, but it had grown as fast and as disproportionately gargantuan as Angel himself has.

While he stared, the shard seemed to notice, glaring at him through distorted, burning eyes. Angel turned toward him a second after the shard did. What were once crystal blue eyes were now an odd purple, almost black. He snarled in a hoarse whisper. "What are you looking at, faggot!"

"Faggot"? That's original... Aloud, he muttered, "An oaf too blind to see he's dead inside..." The boy could never quite grasp the idea that he should elaborate, but in this case, he wasn't sure it'd do any good. Angel, for his part, heard a threat. No one threatened Angel Calihan! He jumped from his seat, red-faced. His desk clattered to the floor, disrupting whatever rubbish the teacher was educating.

"Something I can help you with, Angel?" The teacher, Mr. Ames asked. He was one of the few who couldn't be bullied, not by bigger students, or badder parents. He kept his eyes steady on Angel, and Angel looked like a trapped animal. He looked between Ames and the boy, as if at two attackers, trying to make up his mind, and looking totally lost. Frozen with indecision. Ames took just shook his head and pulled a detention slip from his desk. He filled it out, and calmly called Angel to the front.

Angel turned redder as embarrassment and rage mixed in him. "But... But HE-!" "Is not the one disrupting class-time. Take this, get out of here. Now, Mr. Callihan." Angel snorted and looked back at the boy with hate-filled eyes. The shard in his chest seemed to grow a little, swelling as it siphoned something from its host. The face it reflected became a little clearer, and suddenly, the boy knew exactly where it had come from.

The day wore on with no more incident until final period. Neil wandered up to Othello before the class started and handed him a letter: "You'reDEAD queer!! Lockerroom 3:00. BE THERE!!!" Or what...? The boy mused.

He'd never been challenged to a fight before. Most kids just left him alone, thinking that he was just too weird, which suited him fine. He sat through the rest of class, with fear and anticipation welling up in him. He was not a fighter. He was a... watcher, he supposed. What was he supposed to do? It never once dawned on him to ignore the summons, though, admittedly, that answer became obvious afterward.

The bell rang all too soon, and he was the last to rise from his seat. But rise the youth did. He walked on legs he couldn't feel. Down into the school's basement, past the gyms and training rooms. To the locker rooms, where he was, in his mind, to meet his destiny. He opened the door and walked the aisles until Angel's bulk came into view.

The bigger boy smiled and wasted no time in charging. No words, no exchange of ideals like those in movies, just straight, brutish violence. The boy felt the fist connect with his nose, and could have sworn that his face folded around the knuckles. His head flew back as he stumbled into the wall, then slumped to the floor in a painful daze. He never even registered the boot sink into his gut, just that his eaten lunch was suddenly filling his mouth and bloodied nose.

"I'M dead inside!?" Angel roared. "You're NOTHING! NOTHING!!"

"I.... I'm... not your... your father...." He muttered. "I'm not you...." He couldn't tell why Angel stopped hitting him. He just kept talking. "... And so... so I'm not the... the one you h-hate so much..." He stood up and the pain finally hit him full force. "'You should be better' they say... right? "Be the best, or never try'... Right?" His vision was clearing and he could see Angel frozen, eyes wide in horror. "So you never try. YOU'RE the one who's nothing! YOU'RE the one who'll never be anything! Your father knows it, and that's why he... punishes you?" Angel flinched and the reflection in the shard raises his fist, showing a recent memory. "He beats you."

"Shut up..." Angel snarled, but his voice cracked. "You can't know anything..."

"And what about your mom?" He looked into the shard again. This time, the image had its back to him as it raised it's fist. "Ahh. He beats her, too... And she only blames herself, right?" The boy hurt, he was angry, but on some level, he was amused; he'd never known he could decipher a personal history through Them. Nor had he been aware of just how potent the effect of such insight could be on some people.

He stepped forward, trying to find out more. Angel, who was having his darker secrets laid bare, stumbled backwards. There was no more mask of machismo now. "St-stop it!" The bigger boy started to cry, fat tears rolling from wide eyes.

"What was it that made him disapprove of you so...?" The boy continued. "Your grades? Your failure as an athlete...?" But he saw the answer in Angel's eyes before he ever saw it in the shard.

"Queer."

"Stop it... I'm not..." Angel almost sobbed out.

"Faggot..."

"Don't call me that!" The boy reached out and tried to touch the shard, but his hand passed through as if through smoke and he touched Angel's chest. Angel through himself back away from the other's touch, hiding his groin away behind his hands. He was hard! This was turning the bully on! The boy reached down and felt himself... And found that he was hard too. Angel scrabbled to his knees, curled up, hiding in shame.

Othello reached down and raised Angel's chin. And there, in those blue eyes, he saw his friend again scared, unsure.... And somewhere in Othello's mind, beautiful.

He had so much to say, and so much to ask, but only one question came out of his mouth. "Who do you hate?"

"Me..." Angel said in a shakey voice. "I hate me... So much! Everyone does!"

"Do you want it to stop?" The boy asked. "What would you give?"

"I only have... I don't know! I'll give you everything, just please! PLEASE! Make it stop!"

Othello was stunned. He wasn't sure what he'd made happen. He suddenly felt very deeply connected to Angel. It wasn't a bond, per se-- nothing like affection, or hate. It felt more like, suddenly, the boy's awareness was spreading through Angel. He felt the other's pain, but knew that it wasn't his own. He knew what Angel needed, though Angel, himself had no idea. The experience was terrifying, yet fulfilling somehow... He couldn't think. He needed time. "Grab your shit and meet me by the front door. Were going home." The boy commanded. He couldn't say why, or how he knew, but there was no doubt in the boy's mind that Angel would obey.

Angel got to his feet slowly. He looked broken. Naked and vulnerable, despite having "won" the fight. In those blue eyes was a clear longing. He didn't want to leave Othello. The boy stared back, waiting. Whatever Angel saw in his eyes made him look away and lumber for the door.

As the two parted, the connection, whatever it was, grew tenuous, so that the boy wasn't too distracted by the urges he felt around Angel.

After Angel was gone, the Othello washed his face in cold, mind-clearing water. He was momentarily alarmed when the water rinsed away blood. He'd almost forgotten he'd just had his ass kicked. He sighed and assessed the damage. Nothing broken, and no visible scaring would occur, but he'd be sore and scary-looking for awhile. And the kick to the lower gut, which left a pretty nasty bruise, would make eating or shitting a chore.

He left the lockerroom, ignoring the bored, busy-body students who had gathered outside the door, Jean and Neil among them. He retrieved his book bag and coat, and walked to the foyer, where Angel stood, looking antsy. The boy reached out and touched Angel between his shoulder blades, and Angel jumped. The boy felt the connection they shared earlier return to its original strength. He felt like Angel was his.... His what, though? It wasn't as if he had harbored a crush on the bigger guy. He wasn't in love... At least he didn't think so. It was like he owned Angel now...

"Walk with me," he said, not bothering to look at the Angel. He felt Angel follow. They'd missed the bus home. The two walked in silence, neither knowing what to say. The weight of the silence made Angel stomp and shuffle his feet just for the noise.

When Othello stopped suddenly, Angel thought it might be to shut him up; Was the stomping annoying? To his new friend? Were they friends now? How could they be? Didn't they hate each other? No... Angel hates Angel, remember? Does Othello hate Angel? 'thello's gonna help Angel, right? Angel... should be extra nice to 'thello... "I'm sorry, 'thello..." Angel murmured. "I'll stop...."

But Othello wasn't even paying attention to the emotionally confused ape at his heels. He was already talking to Norn.

"What, are you stalking me now?" Othello scowled.

"Sort of, but you see me only because we need to talk... What is that?" She looked around Othello as Angel stepped behind him.

Angel looked at the little lady and started to feel a little more like himself: He could have his way, whatever that might be, with her if he really wanted. She couldn't stop a man like him! Norn's eyes narrowed and in three graceful strides, she was staring Angel in the face.

"You just try it!" She challenged. Angel took a step back, startled. Then he growled, as much at himself as at her. He raised his hand, intending to back-hand her. An instant before contact was made, Norn swatted angel's wrist skyward. She stepped to the side and dug her elbow into his ribs. Angel yelped and stumbled away from the blow. Since he was off-balanced, it was easy for Norn to push the giant over.

Angel fell with a thump, not really hurt, but totally confounded. Norn advanced on him and Angel knew he'd made a serious mistake. He knew this Ninja-Girl could do anything SHE wanted to him, the HE was the one powerless here. He braced himself as a shadow fell over him.

But nothing happened, just the chiming laughter of the Ninja-Girl after a moment or two. Angel looked up and saw Othello looking down at him. The sun was at his back, and to Angel, he seemed larger than life.

"Get up." Othello said in a clear voice. A thrill overtook Angel. He was on his feet immediately. He was looking down at the shorter Othello, and he felt like it was a lie. He knew Othello should be over him. He fought the urge to sit back on the ground.

Othello turned to Norn, but she was already speaking: "I get it. He's yours. Get him trained soon, because right now, he's not fit to be in public." Both boys stood baffled.

"Lady," Othello shouted, "Who the hell ARE you?!"

"A dominatrix." She stated. Angel had never heard the word before, but Othello broke out in laughter.

"Like whips and chains and 'you've been a real bad boy'? Lady, leave me alone." His laughter died. "And don't ever touch Angel again."

Angel felt his face heat.

"Listen, boy." Norn said. "You have... gifts. Both mundane and mystical. When you get tired of lying to yourself about them, I can teach you to hone and harness them. We'll be in touch, love."

With that, she marched away, sparing Angel no more than an impish smirk.

"Stupid girl," Angel muttered once he was sure she was safely out of earshot, "She didn't even give you a card or anything! How're ya s'posed to contact her?"

Othello's only response was a quick glance and a smirk, Heh, the neanderthal has a point. "Nevermind her. Let's go."

"Um..." Angel started. "How do you know what a dominatrix is?"

"I read, geode-skull..."

"Oh..." The insult bit a little.

"'Thello?"

"Yeah?"

"What do read with dominatrixes in it?"

"Stop talking.... Please" Othello said, really not sure he even COULD answer that question appropriately

Angel fell silent and loped behind Othello, eyes downward, feeling foolish.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

No was home when Othello got there, and no one would be for hours. The house was humble, and fairly old for the suburb they lived in. One floor but with plenty of floor-space, like a ranch house. Both of its neighbors had two floors and promised an attic each. They towered over the Montague house, stariing at the street as if silently shunning the squatter, wider, cheaper, older home. The back of the house was enclosed in a wall of wooden planks, providing privacy.

Othello opened the door and bee-lined for the living room. He sat in a large leather recliner.

Angel looked around the strikingly modern living room. He felt lost, wasn't sure what to do with himself.

Othello was quiet, watching Angel on his periphery. Eventually, that gave him a headache, and his swelling face wasn't helping that one wit. He turned and looked at Angel full on. Angel flinched like he'd done something wrong. Othello was having a hard time breathing. His sinuses were swollen and his lip was still fattening. He sneezed a blood clot on to the carpet.

"Bring me a cold compress." He said, wiping blood and snot away.

Angel just stood there. It had been quiet for so long that he had a chance to think clearly. Or, more appropriately, he had a chance to listen to the dark feelings he felt welling up from his chest every so often. He stepped forward and glared down at Othello.

Othello, for his part, noted that he and Angel weren't connected anymore... And that made him uneasy.

"What did you do to me, 'Thello?" He growled.

"I don't know..."

"How do you know... What makes you think..." Angel tried very hard to figure out what to ask.

Othello figured roughly what he was asking. And found he had no real answer. "Am I wrong?" Smooth, Othello. Very slick.

Angel shifted uncomfortably.

"Angel... Get me my cold compress. We'll talk. Okay?"

Angel swallowed something. Too anyone else, it'd seem like he was biting back a homicidal urge. To Othello, he saw Angel battle with the bogey attached to him. Something was forced back and forth between the two. There was no physical change, but there was something surging back and forth between the two.Othello sat very still and watched the fight play out. It took all of to seconds. The shard cracked.

"Fine." Angel grumbled. He lumbered into the kitchen.

Othello was amazed. He'd never seen anyone fight off a Bogey with will alone. He didn't think they COULD BE FOUGHT! He lived in fear of them. Fear that they WERE real was almost as deep as the fear that they WEREN'T... But now, he knew they could be fought!

Angel returned and dropped the ice pack into Othello's lap.

Othello stood up and examined the Black Shard. Angel only saw Othello staring at his chest... Which reminded him of some of his friends staring at the girls in low-cut shirts. This time he pushed Othello off, forcing him to sit back in the recliner. "What the FUCK, man!?"

"Angel! That was incredible!" Othello hopped up again. "What? Why?" Angel's uncertainty was turning into anger. He was starting to freak out.

"No, no." Othello tried to calm down. He had to do the impossible; he had to explain Them to someone else. "Listen. Please. Just now... Just now you fought something very... dark and very powerful inside of you! You won! You beat it!"

"Look, I was angry, alright? But I can't... I can't blow up right now, you know?" Angel said. "This is your house. You invited me in. You were trying to be cool to me... so I didn't get angry."

If reason and thought like that could foil the thing, maybe enough could free Angel from it. "Angel... Think for a moment..." Othello said sofly. "Why do you hate yourself...? Why do you think everyone else hates you?"

Angel went quiet. He was trying to think, but he couldn't. He didn't actually know. At least, not consciously.

"Who do you love, Angel?"

"Well... You know..." Angel tried to focus on what he thought was an easier topic. He'd never tell his friends he loved them, though he was carrying a crush on Eli... His mom and dad? ... No... No, not any more... His siblings? Yeah! Yeah he thought the world of them! "Laramie and Cammie!"

"And, what do they think of you?" Angel looked down. "They're afraid of me..." He said. "And anytime I try to make them not afraid, they become total assholes..." The anger was flooding back. "WHY?!"

"Because you don't like yourself."

"Because no one likes ME!" Angel roared in Othello's face. "

Because you DON'T LIKE YOU!!" Othello roared back. "Bu-uh... B-but..."

"Your dad thinks you're a useless homo! Your mom thinks of you as a coward. Your brother and sister find you a tyrant... Are you worth anything to anyone?"

"YES I AM!!"

"WHO?" Silence. Complete, roaring, thunderous, silence.

"Well... I'm worth something to you, right?" Angel almost pleaded. "Why else would we be here? You called me amazing..."

"See, that doesn't matter, does it?" Othello asked curiously, mostly to himself. "Would you believe me?"

"Of course I would!" It sounded like a lie even as he said it. It was a lie he believed, but a lie, none the less.

Othello moved on. "Do you hate being gay?"

"I'm--!" Angel was about to deny it. "Do... Don't you?"

Othello was taken aback. He thought about it and shrugged. "Maybe I'm not. I don't fantasies about guys or girls."

"So... what DO you fantasize about?"

Othello might have answered, if he knew how to. Instead he opted for mystique: "That's not for you to know."

"Alright, s-" Angel cleared his throat. "Alright, man."

"Why do you hate being gay?"

"Because I can't stand how useless fairies are! They have to all be bitchier than any chick!"

"Useless? Like you?"

Angel bit back more rage... and doing so was starting to hurt. But then he looked down. Othello was so close... Angel hadn't backed off and Othello didn't feel the need to sit and had nowhere to back off to. What would he feel like... If I touched him? Angel thought. There were two urges pushing at him, and both involved physical contact with Othello; he wanted to either hold the other boy, or finish pummeling him. It was exhausting enough to keep just one of those in check for a 17 year old. Each felt like a clawing in his chest, or in his head.

"You're not useless, you know." Othello muttered.

Just as Angel, in an approval-starved reaction, began to reach for Othello, Othello sat back down with the ice pack over his face, not having noticed Angel's movements. Angel hurriedly stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Why are you doing this, 'Thello?" Angel asked. "Seriously, what are you doing to me?"

"I don't know." Othello admitted. "Do you remember what you felt in the locker room?"

"Angry?"

"After that!" Othello sighed, still hidden under the ice pack. "Do you remember being connected? To me?"

"I do, yeah." Angel muttered. "Have you ever felt that before?"

"No... But... But I liked it..."

Othello heard movement and when he moved the ice pack from his face, he saw Angel had moved in, their faces inches apart. Angel froze when Othello saw him.

"'Thello... I'm sorry... You're the only who knows so..." Angel looked on the brink of tears again.

"You want to kiss me?" Othello said, annoyed. "You should ask me. Nicely." He said, intending it to be sarcastic.

"Please... c-can I kiss you... 'Thello... I need this... I need to try..." Angel's breath was strong and warm and smelled really bad, like ash and . But none of that kept the shiver from running through Othello.

"Fine. Try-" The rest of the retort died when Angel pressed his lips against Othello's half parted ones.

Angel was a clumsy kisser, but an audacious one. His lips quivered as he tried to meet Othello's exactly. When he missed because his eyes were closed, he tried and tried and tried again.

Finally, Othello cupped Angel's cheek and took over. Othello was, as it turned out, a pretty decent kisser indeed! Admittedly, Othello wouldn't have called it that. He just wanted to experiment with different angles. He parted angel's lips and briefly supped on each. Angel was butter as soon as Othello took over. He fell onto Othello, settling himself into the other's lap. When Othello slipped Angel the tip of his tongue, Angel piped a tiny high moan. He pressed his body against Othello and both boys felt the other turned on.

Othello's hands started to wander Angel's bulky body. It was so different from how he imagined it'd be with any girl. This body was thick and heavy. Burly and heaving with power and strength. If that power could just be controlled... Othello brushed those thoughts aside. Anyone'd tell him they were a little fucked up.

Besides, he had better things to focus on. Angel wanted him, wanted this. When the whole world views you as some sort of freak, it's nice to be wanted, even for a few hot, gropy minutes.

Angel's hands wandered, too. They smoothed up his chest and thick fingertips tenderly slid along Othello's neck... then curled... Then tightened. Hard.

Othello opened his eyes and shoved hard at Angel's chest. Angel looked at him in surprise at first, then horror at his hands. He couldn't control them. He tried to let go, but he couldn't feel his arms. He tried to pull himself away. But simply ended up pulling a gaggin Othello with him. By the time Angel started screaming, pleading and crying, Othello could no longer hear him.

Othello knew it wasn't Angel's fault. He knew the bogey had them both. He was going to die here, and Angel would take the fall for it. He hated the shard. A deeply searing loathing was the last thing Othello felt before white-out filled his conciousness...