Death and Owls- Two Unavoidable Things. (Owl to Terry Boot)
Date: 17 August 2000
Time: The Crack of Dawn
Location: Michael's Flat (London; Newham)
Characters Involved: Michael Corner; Terry Boot (implied)
Rating: PG to PG-13, depending on how you see things.
Dark.
Cold. Very cold. Frosted breath curlled from stiff bluish lips. The wispy smoke curlled upon itself until its swirlled essence resembled a skull.
A skull.
The Dark Mark.
"Whats wrong?" The voice was distant and tinny- like it wasn't all there. A bad recording of someone he knew.
"The Dark Mark." The reply was soft and low tenored. The voice of Michael Corner. "She's dead, isn't she." It was a statement of bitter acceptance, not a question.
"She is dead." The hollow, emotionly uncaring voice confirmed. It was like a distant robot was speaking. "I'm sorry."
Emotionally drained, liquid blue-grey orbs turned over in the darkness, obscured by strands of greasy charcoal colored hair that went blended into the inky world. They blinked away a moistness that wasn't quite to the level of tears.
Dark, cold... and small. A feeling of claustrophobia coursed through the slender body. The eyes stared into impenetrable blackness. "Do you ever wonder what its like to be dead?"
"I don't even like going into closets." The voice returned, but was full and rich- almost throaty, as if disturbed from sleep.
The blue-grey orbs flitted as if to look over their shoulder, blinked, and straed straight ahead again. "Maybe its like being in a closet. I mean, they put you in a box not much bigger than a closet."
"Go to bed Michael." The voice was so familiar... masculine. The eyes turned, Michael shifting onto his back. The crack of lightning splintered the sky, illuminating his features for but a moment. He laid in bed, sheets slack around his diaphragm. His fingers diddled with the worn, pilling cotton of his sheets. A hand rested on his shoulder- dry and reddened. It felt rough on Michael's flesh, like its sensation was magnified a hundredfold to feel like sandpaper.
"You wouldn't know you were in a box... unless the brain perceives more than we know beyond death." Michael commented, his head slightly tilting. His hair pushed against his pillow as he squinted at the ceiling. He held his breath and closed his eyes for a long moment before exhaling breath in a puff of air. It curlled on itself, frosting in the unnaturally cold room. Michael watched it in wonder as it drifted lazily away.
His head turned when he received no answer, realizing he was staring at a face. Terry Boot's face. It was sheet white and rigid, his eyes glassily staring at half-moon. In that moment, Michael felt loss.
A jerking roll awoke Michael as his mind fought two things- being in bed with his schoolyard chum, and being in bed with a dead body. In so rolling, Michael was on his side and propped up on an elbow. Realizing he was holding his breath, he released it and felt the subsequent swimming as blood rushed into his skull.
The dream faded slowly from reality to the black recesses of his mind, where he kept a hundred unpleasant, embarassing or dark memories. But the meaning lingered, itching at the back of his brain like a persistent worry. Why Terry? Michael mused. He knew enough about psychology to realize that dreams were seldom that blatant. Terry wasn't dead and Michael wasn't in bed with him.
Flinging off the sheets, however, and uncurlling his legs from the bed, Michael planted his feet against the cold wood of his flat. He gripped his forehead, feeling cold sweat on his brow. It grew warm quickly and stuck to his palms. His hair was mussed and greasy, and even a casual whiff under his arm told the wizard he needed a bath this morning. Yet he stayed his position for a moment, gripping his hair in handfuls as he stared at the floor. It wasn't the first time in this many months he had had the dream or some derivative of it. He had only started analyzing them, paying attention to them, when his dream went farther and Terry was holding him. He was petting him as he embraced him from behind. But when Michael looked back, Terry was quite dead.
The only meaning Michael was willing to pull from the dreams was that his subconscious mind was demanding he make sure Terry was alright, for his sake as much as Terry. Somehow, the conscious thought that he knew Terry was doing fine did not translate into his dreams. Maybe it was Michael who wasn't alright.
That thought was brutally pushed aside as Michael stood. His long, lanky body arched back as arms stretched over his head. Hands clasped in the air and a purr-like noise crescendoed into a full groan as the man pulled every fiber of muscle in his torso and arms to alertness. Half-slitted eyes pivoted in their skull to stare at his desk and the quill, inkwell and paper held there. It was time...
~ ~
Owls, as a general rule, will hold it against you if you scourgify them. They become downright rude and indignant if you do it multiple times and then fashion a note around their neck saying, "He's been scourgified." Its as if its an affront to their sense of personal hygiene. And mostly definitely a blow to their ego. If you do this, expect to get clipped at by those rather unpleasantly sharp beaks of theirs. Oh sure, its meant for mice. But invasive human digits work just as well.
Michael Corner learned this many years ago from his association with Terry Boot. It was really the only method to get the man to touch the owlpost, or so Michael had observed. Yet the sting of a freshly nipped wound on his finger was enough to put Michael in his place. He did take a small amount of chest-puffing pride in the fact that the owl had faired little better. It looked like it had been blown dry with a hairdryer set on "discombobulate."
Magnus and Michael has an antagonistic relationship, at best. Ever the test to see who would come out on top, Corner could remember the moment where sneaking up on the cranky old bird had become prerequisite. He was about to scourgify the ill-tempered, yellowing snow owl when the bird's head twisted in an owl parody of The Exorcist, snatched Michael's wand with his beak, and with unexpected strength was able to yank the length of cedar from the boy's grip. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Or rather, the wand. And into a pile of owl leavings no less.
Still, the nips and the tactical posturing with a cranky avian were well worth the friendship of one Terry Boot. Michael, unlike some, was deeply respectful of Terry's needs, going so far as to try and predict what the young man would require to feel secure. Michael often placed himself into Terry's shoes to walk a mile.
How frustrating to be so brilliant, to have mastered so many skills with that brain, only to have it be your own personal prison as well. How does one fight one's own mind, after all, especially when rationalization means nothing? The problem is the irrationality of it all, and the knowledge of that fact. This is what Michael surmised to be Terry's most frustrating personal demon. Rationalize all you want, the mind doesn't care.
As Michael suckled the latest nip from the bird, he pondered this before waving off the irritated postal carrier. It carried a letter to Terry.
Time: The Crack of Dawn
Location: Michael's Flat (London; Newham)
Characters Involved: Michael Corner; Terry Boot (implied)
Rating: PG to PG-13, depending on how you see things.
Dark.
Cold. Very cold. Frosted breath curlled from stiff bluish lips. The wispy smoke curlled upon itself until its swirlled essence resembled a skull.
A skull.
The Dark Mark.
"Whats wrong?" The voice was distant and tinny- like it wasn't all there. A bad recording of someone he knew.
"The Dark Mark." The reply was soft and low tenored. The voice of Michael Corner. "She's dead, isn't she." It was a statement of bitter acceptance, not a question.
"She is dead." The hollow, emotionly uncaring voice confirmed. It was like a distant robot was speaking. "I'm sorry."
Emotionally drained, liquid blue-grey orbs turned over in the darkness, obscured by strands of greasy charcoal colored hair that went blended into the inky world. They blinked away a moistness that wasn't quite to the level of tears.
Dark, cold... and small. A feeling of claustrophobia coursed through the slender body. The eyes stared into impenetrable blackness. "Do you ever wonder what its like to be dead?"
"I don't even like going into closets." The voice returned, but was full and rich- almost throaty, as if disturbed from sleep.
The blue-grey orbs flitted as if to look over their shoulder, blinked, and straed straight ahead again. "Maybe its like being in a closet. I mean, they put you in a box not much bigger than a closet."
"Go to bed Michael." The voice was so familiar... masculine. The eyes turned, Michael shifting onto his back. The crack of lightning splintered the sky, illuminating his features for but a moment. He laid in bed, sheets slack around his diaphragm. His fingers diddled with the worn, pilling cotton of his sheets. A hand rested on his shoulder- dry and reddened. It felt rough on Michael's flesh, like its sensation was magnified a hundredfold to feel like sandpaper.
"You wouldn't know you were in a box... unless the brain perceives more than we know beyond death." Michael commented, his head slightly tilting. His hair pushed against his pillow as he squinted at the ceiling. He held his breath and closed his eyes for a long moment before exhaling breath in a puff of air. It curlled on itself, frosting in the unnaturally cold room. Michael watched it in wonder as it drifted lazily away.
His head turned when he received no answer, realizing he was staring at a face. Terry Boot's face. It was sheet white and rigid, his eyes glassily staring at half-moon. In that moment, Michael felt loss.
A jerking roll awoke Michael as his mind fought two things- being in bed with his schoolyard chum, and being in bed with a dead body. In so rolling, Michael was on his side and propped up on an elbow. Realizing he was holding his breath, he released it and felt the subsequent swimming as blood rushed into his skull.
The dream faded slowly from reality to the black recesses of his mind, where he kept a hundred unpleasant, embarassing or dark memories. But the meaning lingered, itching at the back of his brain like a persistent worry. Why Terry? Michael mused. He knew enough about psychology to realize that dreams were seldom that blatant. Terry wasn't dead and Michael wasn't in bed with him.
Flinging off the sheets, however, and uncurlling his legs from the bed, Michael planted his feet against the cold wood of his flat. He gripped his forehead, feeling cold sweat on his brow. It grew warm quickly and stuck to his palms. His hair was mussed and greasy, and even a casual whiff under his arm told the wizard he needed a bath this morning. Yet he stayed his position for a moment, gripping his hair in handfuls as he stared at the floor. It wasn't the first time in this many months he had had the dream or some derivative of it. He had only started analyzing them, paying attention to them, when his dream went farther and Terry was holding him. He was petting him as he embraced him from behind. But when Michael looked back, Terry was quite dead.
The only meaning Michael was willing to pull from the dreams was that his subconscious mind was demanding he make sure Terry was alright, for his sake as much as Terry. Somehow, the conscious thought that he knew Terry was doing fine did not translate into his dreams. Maybe it was Michael who wasn't alright.
That thought was brutally pushed aside as Michael stood. His long, lanky body arched back as arms stretched over his head. Hands clasped in the air and a purr-like noise crescendoed into a full groan as the man pulled every fiber of muscle in his torso and arms to alertness. Half-slitted eyes pivoted in their skull to stare at his desk and the quill, inkwell and paper held there. It was time...
~ ~
Owls, as a general rule, will hold it against you if you scourgify them. They become downright rude and indignant if you do it multiple times and then fashion a note around their neck saying, "He's been scourgified." Its as if its an affront to their sense of personal hygiene. And mostly definitely a blow to their ego. If you do this, expect to get clipped at by those rather unpleasantly sharp beaks of theirs. Oh sure, its meant for mice. But invasive human digits work just as well.
Michael Corner learned this many years ago from his association with Terry Boot. It was really the only method to get the man to touch the owlpost, or so Michael had observed. Yet the sting of a freshly nipped wound on his finger was enough to put Michael in his place. He did take a small amount of chest-puffing pride in the fact that the owl had faired little better. It looked like it had been blown dry with a hairdryer set on "discombobulate."
Magnus and Michael has an antagonistic relationship, at best. Ever the test to see who would come out on top, Corner could remember the moment where sneaking up on the cranky old bird had become prerequisite. He was about to scourgify the ill-tempered, yellowing snow owl when the bird's head twisted in an owl parody of The Exorcist, snatched Michael's wand with his beak, and with unexpected strength was able to yank the length of cedar from the boy's grip. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Or rather, the wand. And into a pile of owl leavings no less.
Still, the nips and the tactical posturing with a cranky avian were well worth the friendship of one Terry Boot. Michael, unlike some, was deeply respectful of Terry's needs, going so far as to try and predict what the young man would require to feel secure. Michael often placed himself into Terry's shoes to walk a mile.
How frustrating to be so brilliant, to have mastered so many skills with that brain, only to have it be your own personal prison as well. How does one fight one's own mind, after all, especially when rationalization means nothing? The problem is the irrationality of it all, and the knowledge of that fact. This is what Michael surmised to be Terry's most frustrating personal demon. Rationalize all you want, the mind doesn't care.
As Michael suckled the latest nip from the bird, he pondered this before waving off the irritated postal carrier. It carried a letter to Terry.