From: The Management:

Re: Notes. All writer's notes will now be found at the end of all chapters for this fic. Beginning. . .Now.

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All Things Equal in Time

Chapter 1: Mamma's Boy

The earth spoke to the boy. He would touch it and he would know its will. He knew its pulse, how it breathed, and the low murmurs of its voice that had become indecipherable to most men in its primordial rumblings. It would tell him its secret shapes as he molded it in his hands. It came alive there. He never felt quite right until he could see traces of it wedged beneath his fingernails and in the dry creases covering his palms from years of shaping. His hands were beginning to resemble the earth they touched.

Lina told him that magic worked the same way: magic was nothing more than shaping, and the words of the spell were nothing more than man's bumbling way to decode the language of power. Understanding what the words really meant made the difference between a great sorcerer and a hedge-wizard. He was a natural, Lina said.

Valgaav couldn't say if this were true of not, and didn't think much of it. He knew he was happiest in his pottery shed, basking in the warm aura of the kilns his uncle Jillas built for him, surrounded by boxes of clay his other uncle, Gravos, sometimes quarried. He liked the simplicity of this life, ignoring whatever complexities the woman (who made him call her "Aunt Lina") cryptically spoke of between exuberant ravings.

He had been one of those children obliged to call many non-related adults "aunt" or "uncle". He had not actually met many of these people. He'd been told some of their stories in Fillia's tearoom, after she spent her long days working in her small shop. The shop sold, of all impossible combinations of things, a variety of fine antique vases and an assortment of heavy clubs, bludgeons, and maces--Valgaav wasn't sure what market niche this sort of shop catered to, but his "elder-sister" managed to eke out a comfortable living while amassing only a moderate debt from this improbable venture. His vulpine uncle Jillas told him that Fillia had once been a priestess of the Fire Dragon King, but he never explained what it was that had caused her to lose faith. Valgaav suspected that it had something to do with him, but if either of his two uncles knew, they weren't telling, and neither was Fillia.

Of the people Fillia spoke of, he knew two--the sorceress, who's attempts to teach him magic resulted in loud explosions, and her companion uncle Gourry, who was more patient when they'd spar during Lina's impressive tirades (his uncle Gourry had a habit of saying the wrong things when his aunt was trying to be serious). Valgaav had another uncle he also (sort of) knew, with laughing eyes and a dangerous smile, known only as "That Man", because that was what Fillia called him before sending Valgaav away whenever That Man mysteriously appeared. Those few visits were how he learned his first word as a child: "no".

His not-quite-aunts and not-quite-uncles had all been friends, and in a past life Valgaav, too, knew them all: as enemies. He did not remember any of this, except for the nights he would lose time and dream of flying, which was better than when he dreamed in a red haze of violence, rage, and death. These visions were unsettling, although he forgot most of them in his waking life. This is how he came to meet his "aunt" and "uncle", Lina and Gourry because of one time he couldn't remember during his early adolescence. No one talked about it--he could only assume it was pretty intense, whatever it was, because he doubted the sorceress made regular, free house calls for a mere case of spoon-bending or middle-of-the-night floating furniture.

They were happening more frequently now--the dreams, but he didn't tell Fillia because she would worry. Fillia would not let him call her "mother", but loved him with the possessive, visceral love a mother has for a son. The re-born Valgaav had been Fillia's joy and purpose since hatching. She would not let him call her "mother" out of guilt. That guilt prevented her from telling him too much. Made the words "elder sister" bitter-sweet, like a cut in her mouth that hurt just a little bit, but enough to ruin the pleasure of a favorite meal: a sore spot that would heal if only she left it alone. More than anything, she feared losing the quiet, loving boy she'd raised; losing the little family she fought for and clawed from the bitter ironies of life. She told him what little she dared, which was less than she ought to have, but more than enough to feel bad about. Valgaav did know he had been reborn and that he was an ancient dragon, last of his kind. Had known since childhood. Lina had insisted that Fillia tell him this much, and Amelia had sent her a book which said the same, "Parental Coherence: The Important Role Consistency Plays in Healthy Child Development ", which she swore by (Amelia was expecting her own child at the time, but whether or not the book actually helped, Amelia never did mention it again, which was just as well; Fillia felt slightly envious that she did not give birth to her ward, and would not have the same connection to her child as Amelia did, regardless if Fillia knew that such distinctions really didn't matter).

He had a frightening capacity. Lina (who believed that the word "talent", much like the label "gifted", was a word only used to describe people who had it by people who had none) told her as often as she could, as if to chastise Fillia for never teaching the boy any of the magic he was born to use. This was, in part, due to the fact that Lina found it inconceivable that anyone with a potential for power such as he would be contented to spend his time cultivating a ridiculous interest in pottery. But Valgaav paid little attention to the basic spells Lina tried to teach him, or in really knowing what any of the stuff she said was about. Didn't talk about it much, either, at least not to Fillia, so if he was at all curious she had no way of knowing and, as it was, never felt comfortable enough to pry. She would later admit to herself that fifty percent of her reserve was selfish. On occasion, she would tell him the lore of her kind and his. She'd skim over the nasty bits. She'd never seen him transform since he hatched and was too bashful to show him how.

She worried about the boy. Every so often she'd catch him staring at nothing, the glass orbs of a childhood toy absently clacking in his hand. When he finally noticed her watching, she thought she saw his eyes change, a spark and kindling of recognition, before they would change back to the eyes of a boy who didn't want to cause any trouble and really didn't want anyone to fuss, especially her. She knew about the night terrors, suspecting but never knowing what they were about. Each night from the time she sat up in his room pressing a cool cloth to his forehead while he convulsed and screamed until now, listening to him bolt awake in the next room because he was far too old for them to share a bed, she felt the weight of her culpability burning in her chest, as if she was the accomplice most responsible for the great sin of his pain.

There was once a time when she thought she had to tell him everything. But it had been so long and he'd grown accustomed to her evasions and half-truths that she didn't know where to begin, even if he asked. Later always seemed like the better time to talk about it, and he was the kind of boy that never seemed to be upset about anything. He was the kind of boy that people called "boy", even though it had been twenty or so years since he'd hatched (and the kind of boy who let Fillia cut his hair because it mattered to her even if it didn't to him); and it worried her that she didn't know, but his time had stopped making it impossible to determine his actual age from his physical age. It was a thing that only happened when dragons came into their own power, and, as far as she could tell, he had not. Then again, hers was a different race and there must have been differences between her kind and his.

He was a good boy, although "good" was almost, but not quite the correct word. He was not necessarily good because he desired to be good, or because it was the right thing to do. It was just easier.

There was something stifling and oppressive about Fillia's maternal care; a terrible sadness dwelled in the shop and the apartments just above. He could never really clear himself of it until he crossed the cobbled-stone courtyard to his studio, redolent as it was with an earthy decrepitude that was comforting and solid. Being "good" alleviated Fillia's guilt. It was a passive-aggressive guilt; one rarely found in the secular world. A guilt which she unconsciously transferred to her ward--who felt compelled to be grateful for something he didn't remember because of something else he couldn't remember, but he had to be sorry about. Worse, still, was the intolerable, obliging sympathy he felt was always directed at him--a despicable kind of pity, but one for which he could not blame those that felt it towards him.

Everyone was so good to him, especially Fillia, whose constant kindnesses to him came with a watery-eyed expression of self-reproach. She needed constant reassurance that whatever it was she did for Valgaav (always a bit too excessive to be entirely appropriate) was acceptable to him, until the air became static with expectation. But no matter how many times he tried to tell her, yes, everything is fine (and it was), it never seemed like enough. When he got a little older, maybe nine or ten, he'd ask her what was wrong. She'd sniff and smile beatifically at him, as if the sun and the moon rose and set only for him, saying "no, little wing, everything is wonderful." He was a child, but he could tell when adults were lying. He'd say nothing, and for as long as he could remember his boyhood could be defined by his efforts to please her, and Fillia never asked him for anything because her little boy always seemed so good.

His transition from childhood into young man-hood saw a change from a naïf unease into full-blown gestalt. Like all youths of a certain age, he'd come to believe that if he didn't know Everything, he knew Enough. He wasn't so worldly or inclined to believe that he possessed a righteous moral compass (he held a guileless belief that his upbringing produced an outlook on life that was much too secularized for any such claims), but, having had what he considered a lifetime of practice, he came to understand that being good could be substituted by pleasing women, and that knowing this, he could act out without upsetting the delicate balance of what he reasoned was an otherwise a decent life. He tried not to, but couldn't help finding perverse pleasure in the irony of this.

It was true that he felt strange whenever he talked to his elder sister-who-wasn't-really-his-sister-sort-of-mother-sort-of-not, but this hadn't festered into a bitter misogyny. On the contrary, he loved women, he was happy to please them (it made things easier and, having pleased them, he could bask in the warm glow of approval, the cloying adorableness of their surprise that he would want to please them). He found them--women, girls, all types, ages, and varieties--endlessly fascinating. He'd smile and thank them as he conducted his business about town, but never really spoke until they engaged him with their conversation, which he spent mostly listening, limiting his own talk to a few thoughtful sentences. He'd wordlessly help if they needed to lift or carry something, he ushered elderly ladies across streets. He'd buy small candies or fruit for the really young girls if he saw them stare wistfully at an apple in a vendor's bin or sweets counter. He'd apologize if he inconvenienced them in any way, however slight. He'd pretend to not notice when they spoke about him to their girlfriends as he walked by them on his way to or from home.

He would spend hours watching them in Fillia's shop, enjoying the expression that would always light their faces whenever he politely make suggestions, or select a particular jar that seemed like just the sort of jar so-and-so was looking for; how he'd seen them in the store and had this feeling that such-and-such was perfectly suited to the lady and how this vase would reflect their innermost thoughts and the truth of their inner-most selves, and how the delicacy of the glazing of this particular jar brought out the flecks of green in their eyes.

He spoke in low, pleasant tones so that they would have to stand close but not too close, and they'd avert their eyes bashfully because he really made eye contact and really listened instead of pretending to be interested. If they were with their mothers, he'd talk of their resemblance and what a fine upbringing they must have given their daughters to have such aesthetic taste and inherent charm. He was careful not to flatter--instead he would pick out their quirks, some perceived flaw and convince them that true perfection is found in imperfection, illustrating his aside by pointing out the irregularities in antique vessels, cracks in the glaze, a slight asymmetry in design, and so forth, as he escorted them about the shop, thrilling his audience with a scrap of antique obscurity, or the casual aesthetic musing.

He had affinity for such things, he would say, because, he was something of an artist himself, you see, but it was nothing more than a hobby, and no, the ladies were too kind, too quick to praise what they hadn't seen, and yes, if they insisted, he'd be more than happy to show them his studio, if only they promised not to expect too much. Please understand, it was only something he did to pass his time alone when he wasn't helping his elder sister.

And the women loved him for it. They waited breathlessly for him to notice them, and always he did, in his thoughtful and nice way, without the transparent, aggressive overtures of a career womanizer. He was not the "nice guy" because they sensed something deep and personal and brooding about him--something lonely and dangerous and secret that each girl was convinced she could fix, and each of them wasn't entirely wrong, because on some level he desperately wanted and needed them to fix him. He savored the way their faces would bloom--something inside these women would open up, something they kept caged and hidden but only he could see, and now they could see it, too.

The result was many sticky nighttime encounters in his ceramics studio--in spite of, perhaps because of, his many protests that this was not what he'd intended because he valued their company too much for what it was and no matter how beautiful and desirable he found each of them, how unforgivable it would be should there be any awfulness between them. Which was true. He earnestly loved them and believed every he said to them. No matter that the women remained just as lovely and charming as he found them before, he couldn't help feel disillusioned and empty and somehow deceived when it was over and everything was naked and inert and ordinary.

It would all end very quickly and neatly. The women went home adjusting their buttons and disheveled hair feeling loved and beautiful and not a bit regretful because for a single night the quiet boy at the pottery store didn't feel lonely anymore. He'd wait, but they never returned, and it didn't bother him that they didn't. He was very discrete about all of this, but somehow all the girls knew. They loved him all the more for it--it made the whole thing seem even more tragic and lonesome, when, by all rights, he should've been considered a scoundrel. Aside from a primal wholeness he felt shaping clay into objects--an act that was for him, halfway between nature and culture--he felt no purpose in his life, but did not have the vocabulary to articulate this to him self or others.

Fillia saw this, and it broke her heart. At first she was relieved that he liked girls and engaged in social activities outside of his home and pushed aside her own disquieting feelings of jealousy and reactionary judgment that none of these women were good enough. But it had gotten to the point where she feared for her usually grounded, self-contained boy--he'd do something savage and reckless one day without intending to harm anyone and come to harm himself. Should that ever happen--she stopped, and the thought hung in the air, unfinished. She sensed that this, along with his troubling lack of self-efficacy would only worsen with time, and that she was, however she wished otherwise, partly responsible.

This revelation was all it took for her to summon the agency to enter the studio, a thing she had not done for some many years. He looked surprised, but not angry. Finally, she asked: "don't you want to see the rest of the world?" He stopped working to tell her: no, everything was fine, and, didn't she need his help at the store? Besides, the earth would tell him everything he wanted to know of the world. He smiled at her over his shoulder.

"No, I don't," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder, "and it won't--not really." Then Fillia, who, despite the guilty conscience, had been a caring and generous guardian. Who smiled easily, enjoyed her tea in the afternoon, would lose control of her tail whenever she'd lose her temper, was stern when necessary but quick to forgive her ward. Who, utterly and completely, loved her ward. Opened her mouth and emitted a single, resonant, bell-like tone. And as the golden light faded--the first and only time she'd done magic in a long time--Valgaav found himself standing profoundly alone in an alien woodland, with three notes pinned neatly to the front of his shirt as if he were a mere child going to school for the first time.

Next Chapter: The Girl Least Likely To

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Notes:

I apologize in advance for such long end-notes. At least I can try making my notes funny. There is nothing worse than an accusation of humorless-ness.

I started writing this because I finished the last one and couldn't just leave it alone in spite of mixed reviews (90 of all fan-fiction is about making two characters--one of which is possibly a stand-in for

the writer-- f# each other, so suck it up and admit it and get over it--I did, and it's not bad). The story can stand on its own, although it is intended to follow up the "Untitled" story. This narrative takes place quite a bit forward in time and I get to work with some new characters (meaning no more bitching about character discrepancies--not that I minded any of it--much), and I can revisit the originals in their later years (which is cool, but lends itself to more bitching--whatever, refer to earlier parenthetical notation).

Obviously, I am drawing most of my source material from the television series, not the manga or the novels--although, some of that material was very useful when writing this. So any discrepancies found in this story (i.e. ages, height, plot, hair color, character relationships, et. al) already existed within the television series. I take sole responsibility for all others. As for spelling--I go by what I see in the U.S.-produced subtitles (I adamantly REFUSE to believe Amelia is spelled "Ameria"--because it looks and sounds stupid even when the soft r is pronounced correctly--and it's pronounced pretty normally in the subbed version--besides MS Word keeps tryin' to change it, and this ain't The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2), with the notable exception of spelling "Sailoon" as "Seyruun"--that's just silly. I'm writing in English, and therefore all spelling and pronunciation follow basic English-language rules for spelling and pronunciation. Hukt on foniks werkt fer me! As of the time of this writing, Slayers! Revolution is just now airing in Japan, and I am loathe to wait the year or so it takes for its state-side distribution to finish this story.

On the subject of ages, for this writing, it helps to guess-timate Amelia's age as being somewhere around mid to late 30-ish, Valgaav's as being early 20-ish (still a child in my opinion), and the next major character, introduced in the nest chapter is about 6 – 7 years younger than Valgaav. One can use this cross- section of subjects to approximate the age of the rest of the cast. This is important because it helps create a context for the story.

I am a grown-up in the process of growing up, so, in my own solipsistic way, I assume every character I write about is going through the same thing in its different way.

You will be tempted to feel very sorry for some of our original characters over the course of the first two or so chapters. Don't. The original characters are all exceptional and complex people--just because I like to examine their flaws and weaknesses doesn't mean I don't admire their decisions--nor do I necessarily agree with them. This isn't a sad story. I think it has a happy ending.

I want to write honestly.

You start with what you know, so I started writing from my experiences as an adopted child, and my experiences as a biracial child. I tried to examine the flawed and brittle ties that connect me to the host of people that exist in the liminal space between my life and my desires. I ask myself: what do these characters need? At what point do those needs intersect (what happens at that intersection?)? Everything goes transparent--what is written is already there. The post-structuralists would argue that writing is not the function of authorship, but rather that authorship predicates writing (it's more correct, then, to use the term "writer" since "author" would imply that meaning and intent are one in the same)--or. . .whatever--which is just a REALLY academic joke that isn't all that funny (I have worse jokes about Hegel), and serves as sort of a disclaimer.

N-E-way. . .right about now the chapters feel like loosely connected vignettes--I think this is a story about relationships (not necessarily romantic). But they will amount to something--there is a plan, which may or may not include sexy bits.

Always, I am the dedicated critique-whore: post long, spiteful, and detailed reviews. Don't just tell me that I fucked up: tell me how, where, when, and why, damn-it, with extended citations and references and such--or tell me how brilliant I am (true genius is determined by whether or not you agree with me), whatever you feel like commenting about. Maybe you're shy--don't worry. You don't have to sound smart (the words "cool" or "sucked" will do in a pinch)--I'm not that smart either. Just post something, and if you like it, tell your friends.

Please. Enjoy.

Sincerely,

The Management.