Disclaimer:  Crusade concept and characters belong to their creators and production company.   The following story is exclusive property of the author; no copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG-14.

So, You Don't Believe in Magic?

© 1999, Jo Taylor

"Music."

With his hood pulled up, eyes closed, he could lose himself in the darkness.  It surrounded him, held him in its thrall, cocooning him in its velvet blackness; a cloak against the emotions threatening his control.

Listen to the chords; follow their path through the discord.  Find the harmony within the chaos.  The acoustic symphony echoed around him, unbending.  His mind would not, could not follow his will.

Since the return of his staff, he had been functioning almost on auto pilot.  Staying on board the Excalibur only long enough to aid the doctor in modifying the nano-virus, he had beaten a hasty retreat to his ship.  And if his departure this time held more than a hint of flight, he was sure no one noticed.  They were used to his swift passage along their corridors, moving out of his way, almost instinctively, as though aware of the danger he represented.  Though, he had given them no cause to fear him.

His face was still set in its granite-like construct on boarding his own vessel not ten minutes ago.  Carved features reflected back from the panels, eyes hard and unforgiving -- until now.  His ship exited the Excalibur, its course set; he could relax.

His staff, his most treasured possession; he had thought it lost, was numb with the thought.  As numb as his shoulder where the doctor had frozen the tissue she worked on so efficiently.  Answering Gideon's questions almost mechanically.  Giving away as little as possible, though he owed Matthew some explanation.  And then  she had been there; covered in dirt from head to foot, that set determined expression he had seen so often.  Blue grey met tawny gold, and he had been bereft of speech.

He could still feel the grit on her skin where his fingers had covered hers.  The warmth of them, against the cold metal; but he had not the words to thank her.  She, of them all, threatened his self-control the most; embodying all of the passion and emotional freedom he had denied himself for so many years.  She had been badgering him to teach her, to let her into the mysteries of technomancy, but always for the wrong reasons.  His own experiences were a prime example of the harm that could be done.  Soon, when this search was over, when she had matured beyond her grief and needs, then he would consider her pleas.

The Circle had been correct; his interaction with the humans had brought him to this.  They had prophesied his destruction at their hands.  But it was not a physical harm that threatened him; they were violating his independence, his autonomy.  His need for companionship was eroding the barriers he had set around his heart, around his very soul.

His craving for company had been ingrained in him during his childhood.  Brought up by loving parents, he was part of a tight-knit society.  The commune was isolated, a small oasis of green and blue amid the vast desert that surrounded them.  An artificial paradise created by the founder of the cult and one of the few areas on the planet that did not rely totally on technology.  They farmed the soil, fished in the lake, spun cloth from the animals kept for their wool.  An idyllic existence, and all that he had ever known.

Of his mother, he had the vaguest of memories, a warm, comfortable woman.  Soft-voiced, practical, a haven when the night terrors struck.  He could smell the scent of her baking even as the memory of that early time came to the forefront of his thoughts.  The imagery so strong even now.  But she had died, suddenly, no one explaining to him why.  He had been nearly four then.

And Father, wise, caring, ever interested in his son's needs and wants.  He played with all the children, taking time out from his work and studies to tutor all that required it.  And Galen had a veritable thirst for knowledge, pestering his parent night and day.  Why was the sky blue, the grass green? How did the clock work, why had his pet died, why, why, why…? With unfailing patience his father had answered, explaining the intricacies of life and death, of nature and technology, never turning him away.  And he had soaked up that knowledge like fertile soil accepting the rains.

Occasionally, they had visitors.  Dark garbed men, with solemn, careworn faces.  His father always treated them as honoured guests, but Galen, even at that young age, had known something was amiss.  Then, one night, very late he had heard voices raised as though in anger.  He could not hear the words, but the edge in their tones jolted him out of sleep.  He had crept quietly down the stairs, one ear to the door of his father's library.  Quiet now, only mumbled tones, as indistinct as the louder ones had been.  Then one clear sentence.  "You know he is born to this, Owen.  It's time he began his training."

More inarticulate words, then his father's voice, clear, defined, controlled.  "He is naught but a boy, I won't have him coerced into this.  I chose to leave the order, it is not a life I would choose for him."  And then silence.

He had stolen quietly back up the stairs, waiting patiently on the landing, hoping to see the visitor leave.  Soon the lights went out downstairs and his father made his way slowly up the stairs.  Where had the visitor gone? He had run quickly to his room, diving under the covers, holding his breath.  There was so much he wanted to know - but this he could not ask without admitting his eavesdropping.

After that visit, their time together seemed to be more precious, father spending even more time with him in play and study.  Swimming in the lake, the cold scars on his back showing livid against his tanned skin.  Eyesight failing as he tried to read to Galen from the tomes piled high in the library.  Though he was only a child, he knew that something was wrong, and he clung to all that was familiar.  His home, his books and most importantly - his father.

On his tenth birthday, another traveller called to see them.  He too dressed in dark clothing, but was more outgoing, more interesting than any of the others had been.  Younger too, a contemporary of his father.

Father had introduced him as Alwyn, a magician come to entertain the children in honour of Galen's birthday.  The youngsters had gathered round in awe-struck wonder as Alwyn performed his slight of hand tricks.  Making little balls of light dance around his hand, then round young Celeste's head; leaving her screaming in delight.  Bringing forth flowers from behind young Lara's ear, drawing stars and moons in the air with a fiery finger.  And then the piece de resistance -- a dragon! He was glorious, ten feet tall; gold with eyes the colour of rubies.  At first, the children had run in terror, but seeing that Galen stood his ground, they gradually returned.  The giant head lowered itself to their level, and tiny hands stroked the warm scales.

Galen had stood aloof from the conjuror's performance, showing neither approval nor delight.  Knowing that magic did not exist, but not understanding how the feat had been done.  Wanting only to ask his father ‘how?'

Owen stood and watched his son's reaction, and despaired.

"So, you don't believe in magic?" Alwyn's voice carried more than a hint of humour in its tone.

"Of course not.  Magic is for children.  I don't know how you did it, but I know it isn't real."

"Such assurance from one so young! Owen, your boy shows promise."

Galen had seen the distressed look on his father's face.  But it would be five more years before he found out the cause.

Ten days after his fifteenth birthday, Galen had watched the light go out in Owen's eyes.  Heard the last soft sigh, and knew his life was forever changed.  A voice had called softly to him from the gloom outside his house, asking entry.  He had wanted to be alone, to grieve, but he had recognised Alwyn's gruff tones and knew he would not be denied.  Dignified, holding his emotions tight, tight inside him, he opened the door.

Alwyn had not been alone.  A tall, angular man stood with him.  Eyes deep set, almost invisible under his hood, the dark cloak hiding him from Galen's view.  They had entered then, going straight to his father's side.  The older man had passed his hand over the closed eyes, across the still chest, then straightened.  "He is beyond our help."

The voice, deep and resonant had sent chills down his back.  There was something fearsome about this stranger.

"We must make preparations.  The boy must be removed, trained.  You say he is acceptable?"

"I still say I should be the one to train him, Elric.  He knows me, will be more willing to learn from me."

Elric cut him off without a second thought; and Galen had watched as the two men squabbled over him as though he did not exist.

"I'm not going with either of you.  I am staying here; it's my home.  My friends are here, my life is here."  Anger removing the numbing grief.

Alwyn had come to him then, putting a consoling hand on his shoulder.  "I'm sorry, Galen.  There are things, qualities about you that we can't leave untutored.  Did your father ever talk to you about his life before the settlement?" At his negative reply he continued.  "I thought not."

"Now is not the time, Alwyn."

"Yes, it is, Elric.  The boy needs to know.  Has a right to know.  Especially if you insist he joins the order."

But his attention was now firmly focused on his father's body, lying between these two terrible old men, who could think of nothing but their own disagreements.  He had screamed his rage at them then, forcing them out of the house, back to wherever they had come from.  He had no concept of the danger he had been in, being governed wholly by his grief.

His neighbours had come running to the house, unaware of the men, only seeing his distress, and Owen's lifeless body.  They had taken him in, comforting him as best they could.

The following day they had cremated Owen's body.  Leaving Galen with only memories of a man dedicated to serving his community, to loving his child.

They allowed him a month, then Alwyn and Elric returned.  Not in physical form, but holographically, surprising him at his studies.  Though he had read voraciously when his father had been alive, he now buried himself in study, there were many books he had yet to read - numbing his pain with the written word.

"We need to talk, Galen."  Alwyn's voice jolted him out of his musing.  "There are things you need to know.  A choice you need to make."

Continued

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