Joshua Morris Glimpses

[Joshua Morris]

Being back in his own bed was a blessing. The bedding in the hospital had a too-slick feel to it, as though waiting to be wiped clean of blood, shit, and vomit. Every time he shifted he would feel material slip beneath him. It made the whole stay feel transient—like his entire life, everyone’s life, could be sponged from the sheets just as easily. A whole building devoted to trying to cheat death; a whole building that failed in its purpose. Even without casting any spells he could feel that grim weight pressing down on him. A whole building devoted to futility.

That constant pressure, coupled with the strangeness of hospital life, had done little for his mood. He’d spent his days propped up on thick, zippered pillows, and thought. Why not? There was precious little else they would let him do. Now, back in his own bed after a tiring day, he let his thoughts flow back towards what had concerned him in the hospital.

His friend was hurting, hurting and afraid. How could Joshua help Animus?

The Mind Arcanum was one possibility, a way to see and feel the fears that gnawed at the Thyrsus; maybe a way to help the storm clouds clear. It would require a lot of trust for Animus to let Joshua in with something like that. Would he allow it? Joshua thought he might, maybe. There was no question Joshua was going to learn the Arcanum anyway—Renascentia’s lack of knowledge was a vulnerability. The hotel had proven that. He only wondered how much good it might do Animus.

Or there was psychology. Not a therapist of course; he may as well just put a bow on his head and turn up on Henry’s doorstep with a target tattooed over his heart if he suggested that. But in forty years of self-help publishing there had to be something that could be useful. Joshua didn’t hold much hope for this option—but the stack of library books on his bedside table meant he wasn’t going to ignore it, either.

Or he could just do nothing, but that wasn’t an option at all. Immediately on returning to Sacramento Joshua could see his friend was all raw nerves and pent-up fear. Something had happened that Joshua couldn’t really guess at; he’d thought that maybe as time passed it would get better. But if anything it was worse. Building Renascentia had seemed like a step in the right direction but it had just given him new things to fear. Something had to be done—and it was Joshua’s job as Sentinel, and his duty as friend. Of the three of them, he felt Animus had the potential to be the strongest. But he’d never reach that pinnacle if he wasn’t healed of the one hurt the Thyrsus seemed unable to touch.

Joshua lay back in the bed, brooding. In the dark, drifting off, a thought flit by--all of these things you want to help him with, they apply to you, too--but as he tried to grab the idea, to recognize it, he fell asleep.

[Joshua Morris]

Oil poured into the drip pan with a sound like a throaty chuckle. Joshua brushed off his backside as he got up from beneath the car. He had some time to kill before the car would be empty, and he spent it with his eyes closed, leaning against a table as he hummed. He was relaxed.

Relaxed in a way he rarely was, otherwise; working with his hands was calming, primarily because he was sure of his capabilities. Changing a car’s oil never made him go crazy. When he rotated a car’s tires he never discovered at the end that he’d actually done the work on another car. Planing a door, fixing a toaster, putting together a shed—he might get a small cut or some splinters but these were honest wounds, not like the weird hidden injuries magic could cause if his connection to the Supernal ever faltered.

The world may be a Lie but this work with his hands felt true. Certainly more true than anything else he did. With time he was beginning to accept his nature as a wizard, but it would be ages before he could wield that tool without doubt and fear in the back of his mind. Real confidence only ever came when there was a wrench in his hand. It brought back pleasant memories: his father, with patient voice and strong hands, directing the son.

Magic brought up.... other thoughts... of his father. Horrific ones. Dark, warm, and bloody. Joshua could imagine the carnage that had occurred; the sound of pumping blood, in his mind, not unlike the noise of the oil steadily draining from his father's car.

If there was a way to make himself whole--to align his magical nature with his mundane self--if there was a way to fix himself, piece by piece, he would gladly take it. If he wasn't whole he would just let his friends down, again. He'd never really looked all that hard for a solution to the problem; maybe now it was time. Maybe now he was ready.

[Joshua Morris]

If anything can make him lose focus, or lead
His thoughts astray, it's them. He sees a face
That reminds him of his mother, perhaps, or arms
Thrown up defensively like his sister's had been. Mind
You, it's his father he sees most; men's faces change
And shift until they remind him of his, first among ghosts.

They call him necromancer now, master of ghosts,
But he still doubts. He pays his way through life with the Lead
Coin but part of him always expects to get back change,
Certain the Supernal will fail him. To prevent a loss of face,
He focuses on strengthening body and improving mind
Over Will; he puts his faith in technique and arms

Instead of magic. And so, as he fights the Lie, he arms
It. He struggles to accept his fears of the meaning of ghosts
And what they represent, but he has so far to go. Body, mind,
And soul are always at battle; he will lead
Himself down the Adamant path only if he can face
The fact that all things must either die or change.

He died as a child, with them, and there's been so much change
They would think him a new person. And he is. Arms,
Once skinny, now thick with muscle. A hard, blank, face
Where once was open trust. He is haunted by his ghosts,
But he would haunt them also, if their Realm of Lead
Could let them see him now. They are always on his mind,

Even though he knows he must release the past. He must mind
Where he is going more than where he has been, but this change
Is hard, harder than any Stygian shift. Will it lead
To new confidence and purpose, closer ties with comrades-in-arms?
Or will he (as he suspects) fail, and become one of these ghosts?
Can he afford to redefine himself, when he might fall on his face?

With twenty years gone he is beginning to forget his father's face.
That scares him more than anything. How can he keep in mind
A family who no longer exist, even as the faintest of ghosts?
How dare he live in deference to this desiccated past? But a change
In purpose is uncertain, daunting, awful. So he arms
Himself against it instead, and deals with his problems in lead

Because he'd rather not admit to these ghosts or himself that he cannot face
His problems without violence, lead, death. There is no balm in Gilead. His mind,
In some ways still a child's, cannot change that he just wants his parents' arms.