Do you ever feel like you've been squeezed to fit a role, crushed and boxed in to fit a life because the person who was supposed to play that part, supposed to live that life wasn't there?
I've felt that way for several years, ever since the day a teen-aged warlock was executed for his role in the death of another warlock who had once been a Warden.
I'll never forget that day as long as I live.
It had been just another trial, just another young man misusing his gift, twisting magic into something it was never meant to be, never meant to do. Despite the pleas of one elderly wizard who insisted that the boy had acted in self-defense, a death sentence was passed down. I had been one of the Wardens present at the execution. I can never forget when the tall, gangly boy who had been all elbows and knees had looked me in the eye in the moments before he died. His almost black eyes had been fiercely defiant until the end.
Despite the fact that measures had been taken to prevent such things, the boy had somehow managed to cast his Death curse in the final instant before his head was lopped off. The curse that was in mangled Latin of which the only word I could make out was "destiny" had been directed at me. I believe that the boy had meant to take me down as well, had meant for me to die when he did, but instead he had done something far worse.
I've come to believe that I'm being forced to live the life that the boy should have lived.
Why else would I have quit being a Warden after a century of loyal service? Why else would I have picked such a miserable profession as this one? Why else would I keep a dangerous artifact that had belonged to the Warden turned Warlock who had been teacher to the boy? Out of all of the places in the world, why else would I choose to live here, especially in the apartment I have chosen? I hated Chicago, still do in fact.
As I was finishing the final page of the novel I was reading to kill time until I got another job, I heard whistling coming down the corridor to my office. The person that was the source of the whistling stopped in front of my door. He started laughing, having apparently just read the sign posted on it. A moment later, he knocked.
I answered the door to find that it was a new mailman. He was a cheerful looking fellow. I wasn't in the mood for cheerful. I wasn't in the mood for his questions either.
"No parties." I growled as I signed for my letter and sent him off muttering about how much of an asshole I was.
I tossed the letter aside as soon as I realized that it was my landlord complaining about the fact that I was late paying the rent on my crappy basement apartment. I'd pay it right now, but I'm keeping what little savings I still have for a real emergency. I could live for another two centuries or more, and if I went dipping into my savings every time I hit a rough patch now, there would be nothing left to see me through my old age.
As I was wondering when I would get a job to pay the rent and feed my thirty pound catzilla, the phone rang. It was a woman named Monica who was looking to hire me. I scheduled an appointment with her, and got ready to go to lunch. Before I could leave however, the phone rang again.
It was Karrin Murphy, and she apparently had a job for me. I like Karrin, there's something about her that reminds me of my former mentor Anastasia.
As I left, I left a note for my other client tacked to my door.
Out briefly. Back for appointment at 2:30. Morgan.
My name is Donald Morgan, and I'm the only wizard dumb enough to advertise my services in the phone book. Look me up.