Date: Sat, 15 May 1999 10:02:30 EDT
From: Will961@aol.com
Subject: A Romance Out of Time and Place--Part 1

'May you get exactly what you wish for. . .'
                                                                              
  Ancient Chinese Curse

   This particular Saturday was dull and oppressive--slate-gray sky heavy 
with the threat of rain and the scent of the coming storm on the wind.  
Everything had a muted feeling, a sense of not being real.  Michael sighed as 
he turned away from the gloomy world and entered his apartment.  The warm, 
rosy glow of the cherry wood furniture did not lighten his mood.  He relaxed 
on the hunter green futon and watched TV while his mind spun a mile a minute, 
recalling all of what had happened only a month ago.  Michael had met a man 
and it was a whirlwind--he had not expected to like this man so readily or to 
be so attracted to him--personality-wise as well as physically.  The man's 
words still echoed hollowly in his head--words that once had feeling and 
import, but now was a pale phantom of its former light.
   'You have a beautiful face. . .You're smart. . .I value intelligence. . 
.you make me happy. . .I like to see you smile,' he had voiced--that had been 
all it had turned out to be--only a voice intoning consonants and vowels.
   His eyes betrayed no emotion as he thought back on the words that had been 
spoken--they had not been real, just a hook to reel him in and once he was 
caught, he would be molded and changed to fit the man's whim.  At this 
thought, his jaw hardened and his eyes grew glacial--he was an individual, 
not someone that would be content to be just a keepsake boy-toy.  He wanted 
someone that would view him as an equal--love was an equal partnership, not 
some mind-game of keeping or of being kept.
   Michael grew angry at his mind dredging up past mistakes and flipped the 
TV off and ran his fingers through his medium-length chestnut brown hair as 
if he could wipe the past events away.  The paper rustled under his feet and 
he reached over and snagged the classifieds--maybe he could check out a few 
garage and estate sales.  His eyes scanned the print and found a few likely 
places.  He drove to the first place but drove on when he saw that they were 
packing up.  The second one was just old clothes and various old games.  The 
last one was an estate sale located in an affluent neighborhood.
   Michael wandered through the house, seeing tagged and expensive furniture, 
artwork and bric-a-brac.  He was about to leave when he saw a small study and 
entered.  Row upon row of books filled a wall, old volumes mostly.  
  "Excuse me, sir, but we need to close up now," an attractive young lady 
said.
   "Could you tell me if any of these books are for sale?"  He asked 
hopefully--he was a voracious reader--books were safe. . .it was life that 
was a disappointment.  
   "No, sorry--they all have been donated, but I do have a few books that are 
not in good repair," she added, reaching down and bringing up a small 
cardboard box.  Inside he could see books with ripped or frayed seams and a 
few unbound ones as well.  He was about to say thank you, but no thanks when 
he rationalized that you can't judge a book by its cover--or lack thereof.  
Michael paid her a twenty and went back home with his new acquisition.
   He relaxed and began taking out the books--most were hardbacks that were 
usually assigned in English classes, like The Grapes of Wrath, The Catcher in 
the Rye and Wuthering Heights.  The others were paperbacks on baseball or its 
players.  He got go the last book--old, dog-eared leather and fine paper 
stiff with age. He carefully opened the cover and could barely make out the 
name -- Amelia, Amanda--the writing was precise but tiny and slanted.  The 
pages were handwritten like a journal and the corners flaked away as he 
turned them.  It took him awhile but he could make out a few words-- gran 
mere Marie. . .New Orleans. . .her incredible force of will.  Michael leafed 
a few pages and found a page that was in a different hand--more rounded and 
the capitals oversized.  He saw the title 'A Sending for True Love' and read 
a few lines--it was a simple poem, three stanzas almost the same, but filled 
with strange names.  He read it out loud, stumbling over the odd names, but 
slowly becoming more confident of their pronunciation.
  As he read the last line, a chill skittered down his spine and he became 
tingly all over.  Suddenly a bright light erupted in front of him with enough 
force to knock him into the wall.

				   *****

   "What in the Heavens are you doing?  You must be blighted to keep that..."
   "That is a he--a person in need--certainly you can see that," another 
replied as he leaned over and laid a dampened cloth on his patient's forehead.
   "I see--it is you who do not.  The area where he was found was devastated 
beyond nature's ken--ground blackened and torn up, an entire tree twisted 
with others blasted to brambles, a nearby river turned off its course and 
boulders pulverized to pebbles--how can you not fear?"  The younger man 
asked, eyes wide with the memory.
  "He was ill-used, I think the power not be his," the older man spoke as he 
leaned back on the stool.  "Besides, I believe that he is the one spoken of 
in the prophecies."
   "But his vestments--they are strange, he is a foreigner!"  The younger 
protested, affronted by the thought of being beholden to an outsider.
   "Foreigner or not, lord or commoner, we must. . ." the elder reprimanded 
but was cut off by a groggy groan as his patient woke up.  The elder leaned 
closer while the younger backed up.
   Michael looked up at the two robed men after wearily rubbing at his eyes.  
The elder possessed a kindly, but worn face--as if weighted with some 
ever-present and arduous task.  The younger, trembling and sweating, looked 
as if he would faint dead away if spoken to.  Michael rose and sat at the 
edge of the cot he was in and stretched.
   "It is good to see that you are finally of good health and with us, young 
sir."
  "Finally--have I been here long then?"  Michael asked.
  "Verily--for two noonings, almost three.  We can send a missive anywhere if 
you would inform us of the proper party to receive news of your recovery."
  Michael was about to open his mouth when he realized that he couldn't 
recall anyone--or anything before waking up here.  He shuddered slightly, "I 
do not think so, thank you."
   "May we inquire as to the name of our guest?"
   "I am Michael John. . ." he paused wondering where he got those names, but 
they felt right to him.  "I do not seem to recall my surname."
   "Well, we give welcome to you, Michael.  I am Master Blaine of Clarmont.  
You must be famished--come with me and we shall talk over our repast," the 
elder said as he lightly set a hand to Michael's shoulder to guide and steady 
him if needed.  They made their way to what appeared to be some kind of study 
with a huge desk precariously littered with paper and books on one side and a 
tray of food on the other.  They sat down and ate.
   The elder looked at Michael John surname unknown with a stare that 
evaluated him as they talked--young, perhaps thirty-odd summers old, handsome 
face, almost beautiful in fact, thick, dark eyebrows above eyes that were a 
perfect match to his brown hair, a trim body and of average height.  They had 
talked for most of an hour's time when Blaine realized that Michael was an 
intelligent, charming, and highly likable person.  But there was something 
behind the eyes--a sense of will that no one should brook lightly, an 
unpretentious sense of self that any highborn would wish to have.  He decided 
that Michael very well could be the one, but the course of action must be set 
just right.  Blaine showed him back to his room where Michael found a bath 
ready and a new set clothes--expensive clothes--laid out on the bed. 
  "I took the liberty of gathering proper apparel--bathe and change for I 
shall take you to one who may be able to help you," Master Blaine said before 
he turned and left.
   Michael undressed, bathed and examined the clothes--a dark, forest green 
lace-up shirt, brown pants with matching leather boots and a russet cloak.  
He put them on and was adjusting the shirt when he saw a ring on his right 
hand.  It was made of gold and had a light blue gem--it fit his hand too well 
so it must be his yet he could not draw any memory from it.  A knock at his 
door interrupted his concentration and the young man he had seen earlier 
opened the door and barely crossed the threshold.  Michael followed the man 
and realized that this was an extensive school as he was led outside to where 
Blaine was.
  "Ah, the vestments become you," Master Blaine said as he started to walk 
east along a dirt road.
   "To where do we go?"
  "As I said--to someone who may be able to help you," Master Blaine uttered 
uncomfortably, strangely not wishing to talk.  They walked in silence for a 
good mile or so when they came upon a wood.  
  "Past the wood lives the man we seek," Master Blaine mumbled as Michael 
strode forward, eager yet apprehensive to find out who he really was.
  "Thank you for helping me--I will never be able to repay such kindness," 
Michael said weightily and did not see Master Blaine draw out a knife and 
advance.
  "I'm sorry," Master Blaine whispered as he reversed the knife and hit his 
guest on the head.  Michael slumped to the ground, a fold of the cloak fell 
over his face.

				   *****

   Michael awoke in a strange bed for the second time that day, but this one 
was the extreme opposite of where he had been before.  Rich, vibrant 
tapestries covered stone walls, the fireplace was huge, chairs were either 
brocade or velvet and he could feel that the sheets of the bed were either 
silk or satin--in fact, he could feel a lot because someone had removed his 
clothes!  Indignation rose then vanished completely as he came fully awake to 
find that he was not alone in this bed--there was a strong, tanned arm curled 
about his chest.  The owner of the arm stirred and drew him even closer to 
him.  Michael gulped uneasily as he could feel the muscled chest and also 
felt that someone was very male.  His face got incredibly red and he slowly 
and painstakingly inched himself away from the man till he was out of the bed.
   Michael looked about for his clothes, but they could not be found.  There 
was, however, two sets of clothes laid out.  He chose the set that was less 
ornate and began to put them on, but stopped when he realized that these were 
apparently some kind of hosen.  He fumbled with the unfamiliar buckles and 
cursed as the oversized shirt and ties got in his way.  He just wanted to get 
dressed and very far away from here.
   "My servants can attend you if you wish, but I wouldn't mind at all if you 
chose not to attire yourself," a voice spoke from the direction of the bed.  
Michael jumped, blushed, lost his footing and fell.  His eyes blazed as he 
heard a soft chuckle.  He untangled the hosen from around his ankles and 
flung them down to the floor and turned to tell this pretentious lothario 
just where he could go.
  He almost gasped as he saw the man for the first time.  His voice had been 
regular in volume, but the innuendo had been thick and the chuckle had been 
sexy, even if it irritated him--but visually he was impressive.  Six-three or 
more feet tall, lightly muscled in a defined way rather than bulky, long, 
wavy brown hair that almost hid one level eyebrow, eyes incredibly 
blue--piercing like a laser, clean-shaven, strong arms off of broad 
shoulders, hands that were long-fingered and well-cared for.
   "You, sir," Michael began, drawing out the word sir--undoubtedly making it 
very clear that he thought the man was anything else but, "are the most low, 
conceited, ill-mannered, ill-bred lout that ever was--you take advantage of a 
guest like I were chattel, just another item to sell, buy or acquire!  I am 
deserving of more--wish for more than that!"  He added as he gathered up the 
rest of the clothes in his hands and strode for the door and opened it.
   He was puzzled as he saw a guard outside the door dressed in full armor.  
"What kind of perverted kink have I gotten mixed up in?"
  "Uh. . .sir?"  The nearer guard asked.
   "Take me to a guest room, please--that is if I am not to be placed in 
irons," he shot back to the man who had moved off of the bed.  The guard 
looked at him in an odd way before looking back to his prince.
   "My lord?"  The guard questioned, then brought his hand to his chest as he 
saw his prince acquiesce.
   "How Roman-Geeko," Michael muttered as he walked off, causing the guard to 
jostle to take the lead.
  The door was closed by the other guard, who could not hide a small smile 
and the prince just stood there frozen.  He blinked then he snickered and 
roared in laughter as he realized that the stranger was striding the halls of 
his castle in nothing more than a shirt--granted, the shirt was long enough 
to provide him modesty, but he imagined the startled looks on his servant's 
faces when they came across him.  What if a member of his council saw him in 
the halls?  Prince Davin of Ardith laughed till tears were streaming down his 
face as he imagined the stranger dressing-down a Council member with his 
barbed tongue.  
   The prince ran a hand over his face to wipe away tears as he thought of 
the stranger.  He had been found by the side of the road as he and his friend 
and old teacher, Master Blaine, had been riding before their eve-feast.  
Davin had swung down from his horse and ran to the body--it was dressed in 
fine yet simple vestments, but a hood hid the face.  He carefully reached out 
and brushed the fold of fabric away and gasped.  'Beautiful,' he had uttered, 
feeling as if time had stopped--even ceased to exist.  Straight, 
medium-length chestnut brown hair framed a face that was pure nobility--high 
cheekbones, strong jaw, sensual lips made for kissing, eyelashes that were as 
thick and as jet-colored as his eyebrows.  He had wondered what color his 
eyes were as he touched his neck and gave a small sigh of relief as he felt a 
pulse.  
   They had ridden back to the castle and Davin had carried him to his rooms 
and summoned a physician as he took a bath.  It had been his physician that 
had removed his clothes in order to ascertain if he had any other wounds than 
the bumps on his head--and as for being taken advantage of, he had dined with 
his court and drank a bit too much with a group of his guards and had come to 
his room, undressed and immediately fell to sleep.  Davin had not sullied the 
man's reputation--although he most likely would have if he had awakened first 
he admitted to himself as he remembered the trim yet solid body he had held 
as he awoke.  He sighed as he prepared for an early council meeting.
   Michael followed the guard and grew pensive and more confused as they 
turned hallways and he saw that the man wasn't pretentious after all and that 
this was some kind of fort or a castle.  As they rounded a corner they 
happened upon a woman who was carrying a tray and towels.  Michael did not 
see the shocked look, nor the flush of embarrassment--all he saw was the 
woman's clothes, or to say the lack of zippers or even buttons.  How could he 
be in a place that was supposedly rich enough to have a castle, but poor and 
backward enough culturally not to have buttons on clothes?  And what of Mr. 
Wells Fargo leading him to another room?  
   This was strange--the last thing he remembered was reading a book that he 
had gotten at an estate sale because he wasn't about to mope around the house 
and think of. . .it all came back to him suddenly--his name, where he was 
born, all of his life.  Michael almost stumbled with the shock of it all, and 
smiled reassuringly as the guard stopped to see if he was okay.  That 
book--something about Marie and New Orleans--he froze as he recalled a word 
his eyes had skipped over. . .witch.  The poem had been no poem, but a spell 
for finding true love and somehow it had brought him to here--wherever here 
was!  
  Michael nodded to the guard in thanks as a door was opened for him and 
entered.  Why was I brought here--did the spell misfire?  Did I pronounce a 
word wrong?  How can I go back when I don't have the book?  How can I find 
out where I am?  What if I'm stuck here--I need civilization!  I need my car! 
I need my computer!  I need chocolate!