Date: Thu, 30 Jan 2003 12:34:33 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: Starlight Reverie, chapter 7 This is a Sci-Fi/ Fantasy story involving incest, male/male, teen/adult, graphic sex and it's not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material isn't legal where you live, stop now, and go read something else! This is a fantasy meant only for the purpose of pleasurable reading. These people don't exist, this world doesn't exist. This story originated as part of a fiction writing game which is hosted at a site called The Palace. For those interested in the game and what is known as "key fiction," the site address is, http://www.ravenswing.com/~keys/. A version of this story is posted there under the pen name, Mickey. It appears here with the blessing of the Palace. Feedback, always appreciated & framed, to: javabiscuit@hotmail.com Starlight Reverie ~ chapter seven by Biscuit The Silver Key, it seemed impossible when Emery first said it, and then obvious. Once he knew, once he tried to picture it, Morgan could imagine Brian Jennings in that role only too well. An uncomfortably arousing image. Jennings, she told them, was the son of a once wealthy family, sold by way of adoption, to cover his father's debts. It was inconceivable and yet Morgan knew it happened; legally and illegally. He'd searched through hundreds of photographs of boys Marcus's age and general description in the first weeks of the search for his son; the denizens of licensed and un-licensed brothels. Fathers could, fathers had, done such things. Morgan, to his horror, had been suspected of it himself; his personal life and financial records scrutinized minutely for any evidence that he'd engineered the disappearance of his son. The detectives considered it routine. It happened. He knew it did. What didn't he understand was how a man who had suffered what Jennings had, could enslave others in turn. "Why they don't free the boys they rescue?" he asked. His son had seemed asleep through Emery's story of Shaun Vidar, a story which had led, surprisingly, to the revelations about the former Silver Key. Near the end, Marcus had opened his eyes and migrated back to his father's lap. Morgan was comforted by the feel of him leaning on him, the soft texture of the sweater Shaun had dressed him in, under his fingers. "If you'd been a slave," he said to Emery, "how could you stand to enslave someone else?" "It's a question you should ask Brian. Have dinner with him, Morgan. Ask him." "I'm asking you," he said. The dinner, date, whatever it was she was urging on him, was out of the question. Jennings might not be the cold-hearted slave trader he'd thought he was, but he was far from innocent in Morgan's eyes. There were still a hundred reasons he didn't want to get close to him. Shaun was innocent, in his eyes, and he'd come to accept that he loved a boy who'd been forced to prostitute himself. That Jennings had saved Shaun's life moved him deeply, but he couldn't get past the rest. He'd saved him, Morgan thought, to use him. Emery hesitated. "Morgan, is a son the slave of his father?" The question took him broadside. "What do you mean?" Why couldn't the woman just answer a question! "Is a child free or at the mercy of its family?" He stared at her in disbelief. "What are you getting at, Emery?" He felt his spine stiffen with resistance to following her along this line of reasoning. Marcus started moving again, shifting in his arms. "Is this about Brian's father?" Morgan asked. "Forget Brian's father, for the moment," she said. "Think about your own life. How much choice did you have about how you were raised? How much does any child have?" "You're confusing the issues," he said. "It's not the same as being a slave." The whole idea was absurd, he thought, and yet a voice whispered in his head that he had only been luckier than Brian Jennings. Born into the same class, the same social set with a father who was as ruthless, as unscrupulous, in his way. Luckier than Jennings, unluckier than others, maybe. Morgan didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about his family. His mother was gone, she'd died not long after his marriage to Renee. He didn't want to think about his father, and Emery knew it. He was estranged from Brendan Fahr and he'd told her very early on that he wouldn't discuss it. "It's true that the Keys aren't free," she said, "but ..." "But, what," he countered. "It's not a relative term." "I think it is," she said. "Were you really free? Even as a young man. Did you want to get married, or was it forced on you, to keep your inheritance? Did you really have any choice, Morgan, if you wanted to be part of your family?" "I could have walked away," he said impatiently. "I wasn't a slave." His body tensed, remembering the fights with his parents, the final ultimatum. He'd accepted his father's conditions -- marriage, producing an heir. An uneasy peace was reached between them. It had broken irrevocably, when the man blamed him for what had happened to his wife and son. A true husband, a good father, wouldn't allow such things to happen. Though a part of Morgan judged himself even more harshly than his father did, he hadn't seen or spoken to him since the night they fought. He was independent of his money, having inherited his mother's estate by then. He'd used it to forge his own way, creating his own fortune. "Brian too, could have walked away, when he retired," Emery said. "But he chose to stay. Shaun will have that same choice, sooner or later. In the meantime, this is his home, though you think of it as a prison." It was crazy for her to compare the Palace to a real family, Morgan thought. His own was far from ideal, but not enslavement! There were good families, he believed, loving homes that were better than his own had been. He could try to make that a reality for Shaun and Marcus and she should be helping him, he thought, not arguing with him. "Emery," he said, exasperated, tensed enough to make Marcus flinch in his arms. He took a deep breath and paused, using Marcus's response as his guide. This talk, he thought, was beside the point, not important enough to get upset about, and upset his son. When Marcus was relaxed again, he went on, having gathered his wits and come, in his mind, to what he considered the heart of the matter. "If you think the Palace is good for Shaun," he said evenly, "that Brian Jennings is a good caretaker, why did you bring us here? You told me that Shaun Vidar deserved a loving patron." He was certain, though he'd never put it into words, that she'd wanted him to free the Starlight Key. "Shaun does deserve a loving patron. Brian is a trainer. He's taken care of Shaun, but he can't be what you can be to him. If you remember, I also said that you and Marcus had reached an impasse, Morgan." "Well, you were right. And he's helped us past it. He is a beautiful lover to my son. I can't let go of Shaun, he means too much to Marcus, to me. I want him to be part of our family." "Morgan, you've done so well by your son," she said, in a way that made him feel proud, but wary, feeling sure she was about to qualify it. "I've watched him come back to life before my eyes," she said. "And I've seen you come back to life with him. But the two of you have come as far as you can by yourselves. Marcus needs more than a lover, and so do you. You need to live in a world with people in it, a community. One where no one will judge you, a place that's safe for Marcus to explore and grow." "You're serious," he said, trying to absorb the impact. The sick feeling in his gut, like he couldn't get his bearings, wasn't a new one. I should be used to this by now, he thought. But he wasn't. "I've shocked you, Morgan," she said cautiously. "I didn't mean to. It's not a decision you have to make today, or tomorrow. It's something to think about. You say you can't stay here, but I think you can. I think you would be doing your son and yourself a great service." He'd walked the paths she cleared for him, carefully. Through the years she'd alarmed him, frightened and confused him. She'd been turning the world upside when he least expected it, ever since he'd met her. Had she ever, once, steered him wrong? Not that he could remember. Far from it. In one night, she'd changed everything. Slavery indeed, he thought. How free was my own son when she met us? A prisoner in his own home, confined to a hospital bed. Restrained and drugged. His body had been wasting away when she came to them, despite the efforts of a team of physicians and physical therapists. She'd been recommended to Morgan by the lowliest of the doctors on the totem pole, the GP who oversaw the most mundane aspects of Marcus's health. He'd come to Morgan on his own, alarmed by the fact that his patient was eating less and less solid food, and not sleeping without sedatives. "There's a psychiatrist I know of who's supposed to be very good with children who have eating disorders," he'd told Morgan. Another psychiatrist, he'd thought wearily. He'd agreed to it mostly because he'd been so surprised to be consulted personally. The medical decisions were made by others, experts, and had been for a long time. The issues were complex, and intimidating, the numbers of specialists seemingly endless. He hadn't questioned his exile from the decision making process any more than he'd questioned the restrictions that had limited him to visiting hours with his son. He'd been told that his presence overexcited him, that Marcus clung to him to avoid therapy. "You're like a parent in the classroom," he was told. "Preventing the teachers from doing their job." Morgan had learned to stay away, to hide from the sounds of his son's distress. Especially at night. Not a good time for Marcus, after his doctors had gone for the day, when the nurses were left to cope on their own. What did he know about medicine or psychiatry? What did he know about parenting, for that matter, how to care for a child? Emery had arrived in the evening, after the rest of her day's appointments. She'd summoned him to his son's bedside -- and he'd gone, though he knew he shouldn't. He remembered how his heart had beat like a drum approaching the forbidden territory of Marcus's room at night. He'd avoided the eyes of the nurses on duty. As always, unconsciously shutting down his reaction to the smells. Piss, disinfectants; the stale plastic scent of the diaper that Marcus had to wear at night. Marcus had been agitated, weeping, pulling at the bands that restrained his wrists as soon as he saw him. "He's between meds," a nurse said to him. Morgan had nodded, his heart wrenched. It was always like this as one course of drugs weakened and the next hadn't taken effect. Agony to see, to hear. The doctors were immune to it, Morgan wasn't. It hurt him every time. "I'm not supposed to be here," he'd said. And there was Emery, waiting with the doctor who had asked her for the consultation. A small woman, maybe in her early forties, he'd thought. Everything about her conveyed compassion and competence, from her gentle featured face to the comfortable clothing she wore. Her warm brown eyes had been focused on him, not his son. "They tell me he stops crying when you hold him," she'd said. "He does," Morgan had answered. "But I'm not supposed to be here, they don't want me to hold him. They say ..." "They say what?" she'd demanded, interrupting him, the edge in her voice making her suddenly seem far from warm or small; the anger underlying her tone, shocking. She'd smiled, stiffly. "Do they tell you that it's untherapeutic?" He hadn't answered. He'd waited, riveted by her gaze. She had grown more calm as they'd taken the measure of each other, silently; suffering together the sound of Marcus's weeping. Her expression had softened. "Do they say you can't hold him forever?" Her eyes had said that she'd heard these things a million times and didn't believe them. Morgan had felt a surge of guilty excitement, like a boy hearing someone challenge the wisdom of parents and teachers. "Among other things," he'd said, torn between meeting the demand in her eyes and the beseeching gaze of his son who was pulling pitifully at the bindings on his wrists. "I say you can hold him, Morgan. You can hold him as long as you want to, as long as he needs you to. Forever, if need be." He sighed now, remembering both the bliss and pain of that night, how together, they'd freed Marcus from that bed, from that room. The joy of physical contact, and horror at how frail Marcus had become. There was fear, too. Morgan was sure he'd be punished, somehow, for taking his child to bed with him. But Emery had stayed. She'd taken the doctors on when they came. She'd created a cocoon of peace for him with Marcus, who had slept through the night in his arms and eaten breakfast from his hand. He hugged the healthy body he now held in his lap, and looked down to see the dark blue eyes watching him. Marcus's face glowed and he sighed with pleasure at being looked at. "Daddy," he whispered his word, tilting his chin up, expecting the kiss to follow. "Yes, baby," said Morgan, overjoyed that at last Emery had heard the wondrous sound of Marcus's voice with him. Forever, if need be, he thought, as he kissed him. As long as I want to, as long as he needs it. Emery had given him his son. Dinner with Brian Jennings was a small price to pay. He wouldn't give up the hope that he'd walk away from the Palace with Shaun, he couldn't. It was impossible to believe they belonged here. But, for now, could it hurt to try to do what she thought was right? "Is that voice the sweetest thing you ever heard?" he asked her. Her smile said it was. "You win, Emery," he said. "You always do. I'll talk to Shaun," he promised. "And I'll leave a message at the front desk for Brian."