Dead and Damned Sorcerer
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files belong to The Sci-Fi Channel and to Jim Butcher. Certain characters in this fiction such as Samuel Liddell, Edward Alexander Crowley, Anna Sprengel, and Marilyn Monroe are actual historic figures however their personas are used here in a work of fiction. The events are fictitious that occur within this story in relation to them.
The translations of the sigils on Bob's manacle bracelets were done by Dragonmiss of the Blue Whale Dresden Files forum.
The following is an introspective look at Hrothbert of Bainbridge.
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1
Dead and damned sorcerer
I had finally stopped screaming. Of course who would not scream in that situation? My own voice still echoed in my ears even though it could very well have been days since I had last heard myself screaming. It was hard to tell. I realized that time did not seem to pass quite the way it did for me before. It was hard to determine just how much time had passed since it was done to me. I could almost still hear myself screaming. Well, it wasn't really hearing anymore, now was it? It was more like sensing it in a curious way that resembled hearing and yet was not. Just as my sight wasn't real sight anymore and these are the only senses close to describing all I had left now.
I know I was mad then. Who could keep their mind in a situation such as that? Bound to one's skull, the wretched thing that used to be my own head now poised on a pedestal in the middle of a large room. The room had a high slightly curved ceiling. It wasn't damp, as far as I could tell. And the walls were painted a dark red with gold trim. There was one door too far away for me to reach considering my new limitations. And I could not really reach either wall either. They had strategically placed the skull where my tethers would prevent me from simply passing through the wall (as I knew I could now) and antagonize my captors (as a part of me was already yearning to do). I was completely confined with no means of escape or contact with anyone in the building.
Repeatedly I tried to walk toward the walls or the door and I was forced to stop short because the invisible chains which held me had lost slack. Maddened I rushed over (seemed to run) to the skull and swung the illusionary form of my hand to smash the thing and found it passed straight through the skull. There's nothing more horrifying and frustrating than the realization that you have no impact on the physical world, that you cannot interact by any means and that you are helpless.
The manacle bracelets at my wrists felt heavy. These were not real wrists. I was simply in the illusionary form of a man. Some months ago I had figured out how to manifest the form but it was only a half-conscious act. I had been roaring with terror and rage the entire time. I pride myself on my capacity to multitask. I had to will myself to take form now. I had to carefully choose to force clothing to appear on me. I had discovered without any real joy that I could successfully make myself look like a living man so long as no one tried to touch me while I was manifest. My real form, when visible, is little more than a mass of energy and light shrouded in my own darkness that encompasses it in a smothering grip that also trails behind like a tail, my own darkness. I have no body now. I can sense things and I am aware of the world around me but these are not true representations of the five senses. I am gifted when it comes to creating illusions. I was in life. And I am in death. And in that form I could feel the limitations of my restraints with my entire being. Curiously, now in my human-like form I felt the limitations of my own curse manifest at the manacles at my wrists. These were unavoidable. Though I could change my form these remained constantly when I took the form of how I, myself, would life if I was alive. Mercifully the chains that bound these heavy bracelets to my skull seemed invisible to mortal eyes though the manacles themselves were distinctly there. I could, to a certain extent, hide them with the edges of the sleeves I caused to appear on my arms but this just barely seemed to work. They were always noticeable, to me anyway: A constant reminder of my doom.
I looked down at them now and studied the sigils, the same set of symbols on each wrist.
There were six sigils on these manacle bracelets, on these… slave bracers. Perhaps, with my execution included, there was one there for each of the seven laws of magick I had broken in mad desperation which descended into an addiction to the dark arts that I could not quell.
The message across the manacles was a simple one.
The first sigil was the alchemic symbol for Mercury or quicksilver. I understood what it meant. Mercury transcends both the solid and liquid states, both Earth and Heaven, both life and death. It symbolized Hermes himself; the guide to the Above and Below. It Symbolized my state of Limbo, suspended somewhere in a state between Life and Death.
The second symbol was one for Saturn or Capricorn. I myself was born under the sign of Capricorn and as such was governed by Saturn. This sigil seemed to act as a link to The Third Pentacle of Saturn (One of the keys of Solomon the King) which was one of the many symbols carved into my very skull to enforce the curse that held me. This served to manifest the chain which held me fast to my skull. And, rather painfully, it was this that compels me to obey whomever would possess my skull. Capricorn is also the symbol for transformation. So this sigil could mockingly represent my finally learning my limitations... my boundless power now taken away and myself transformed into a bound prisoner... a slave.
I had little faith that this could mean transformation for oneself and thus redemption though I was keenly aware of the line of runes that ran down my skull leading toward the triangular shape of the axe blow that had killed me.
The Futharkrunes going across the axe blow itself, above it. Runes are supposed to be read from right to left. So in order from bottom to top the symbols in my skull that I speak of were: Nauthiz (Necessity / Pain) followed by a reversed Algiz which means be thoughtful of others, be selfless followed by Isa which means Withdrawal or to stand still followed by Berkana which means Rebirth. After that is Ehuvaz, and that one means progress. After that comes Wanjo which is Joy / Light. Followed by Teiwaz which is the rune of the spiritual warrior. It means spiritual transcendence. The implication was a maddening glimmer of hope I didn't dare grant myself. 'A necessary pain followed by selflessness and reflection will lead to rebirth, progress, light and finally ascension.' This meant that I would have to regret that I had done. I could never regret it. I had to try to bring her back. I had to. The world was simply wrong without her. Some deity or another had been careless and made a terrible mistake and I had to rectify it. Nothing was right without her. Every event resulting after her death should never have been. She simply should not have died. I had pulled her back from what could easily have been a terrible Hell. How could I ever regret that.
I tried not to think of the pain I had seen in her eyes…
The third sigil was the alchemical symbol for lodestone... a natural magnet. It was yet another binding' symbol, ensuring the manacles and my skull were more or less magnetically connected... This was a reassurance of the invisible chains that held me. They were very thorough in their efforts that I should never escape my doom.
The fourth sigil was the Monad symbol. This represented the unity of the sun, moon and the four elements: the material world and everything in it, which I am prohibited interacting with. Combined with the symbol proceeding it, if read in western style (Left to right) it meant I was bound from affecting the physical world.
The fifth sigil incorporated the sigil for Jupiter and Tin in it but it had some added characteristics similar to the sigil for Tutia which is crude zinc oxide... possibly a composite of the two sigils that I was not entirely sure of.
Jupiter was
the 'king' and most powerful of the Olympian Gods, yet his
astrological / alchemical sign is also that of Tin... the weakest of
the seven alchemical metals (Gold, Silver, Mercury, Copper, Lead,
Iron and Tin). An appropriate symbol for one who was once so
powerful as myself and was now so weak… Symbolic of the judgment
passed upon one who tried to 'play God' by resurrecting the dead...
the more powerful they are, the harder they fall…
Tutia or zinc oxide has some significance in the fact that zinc is
often used to both serve as an alloy, melding with other metals and
elements easily and as a galvanizer to prevent corrosion... so it's
part might be to help meld together the elements of the spell into a
cohesive unit and prevent the spell's corrosion over time... And
it's seeming conjunction and overlapping of the sigil for Tin was
quite appropriate since tin was a very important metal in alchemy
because of it's ability to hold Mercury. Most metals will corrode
with contact with Mercury, but Tin can safely contain it. Since
Mercury symbolizes my Limbo state that I have been on demned to, this
makes sense.... The combination of the melding, non-corrosive Tutia
with Tin creates an inescapable prison... the state of Limbo cannot
be broken, there is no escape and it will not degrade over Time...
And finally the six sigil and the easiest to read was the glyph for the Hebrew character 'mem' or 'M'. This was the 'signature' and mark of the one who had seen to my sentence.
Condemned, forced to obey, powerless, inescapable, sealed and signed like property that had been branded…
I lowered my wrists, growing weary of reading over my own condemnation.
I was vaguely aware that this was likely a room at The High Council's rather imposing and remote palace that was guised as the summer home of a duke whom served The High Council and had donated the building to the cause of magical order.
In my own egotism I imagined that this room had been specifically built for housing me but no, it seemed older than myself. There were no windows. It was hard for me to determine how time passed. I could only guess and I had come to the conclusion that my perception of time was… shall we say, skewed.
I stared with utter contempt at the thing that… used to be my own head. The skull grinned at me from the pedestal. It's curious to hate your own head. I saw it laying there, the wretched paper weight that had used to house me, my brain, my once strikingly pale aqua eyes and my sharp tongue. I could imagine the skin that belonged over the contours, my own full lips that used to hang at that mouth. My white hair… Looking at it then it was hard to believe it used to be the head of a man, difficult to fathom it resting on my neck and my voice coming from that jaw that used to be a proper mouth and not a jaw bone held in place with a metal wire hinge. To know THAT used to be me filled me with such horror and disgust. I could feel a scream welling up inside of me yet again. I managed to swallow it back.
I could feel it in a curious sensation of being aware of events more than actually seeing or hearing, though I turned my head in the direction of the 'noise.' There was a clicking that I was aware of and a soft rumble of booted feet. Someone was coming into my cell. How long had I been standing there just staring? How mad was I? Had it been seconds that I was staring at those manacles or days? …Or years? Why did I have no real perception of time passing?
I was careful with my guise. I managed to look splendid for servant and I would, over the years, adjust it to the times. A servant fit for an opulent house hold. IF I was doomed to play the part of a servant (I loathed the word slave) I would damn well do it in style.
The guise was complete; the cloak of black velvet, the soft lace cuffs that partially obscured the view of the manacle bracelets at my wrists. I stood at an impressive six feet tall (which in that era was exceedingly rare and imposing though my current master, Harry Dresden, is several inches taller than that).
The men walked in, each bearded with a like brownish beard tinged with gray. At first I thought they could not see me as one silently moved past me and toward the skull. Had I done something wrong in my efforts? Surely they hadn't rendered me invisible to all but myself! But then I realized that the second fellow, whom wasn't as good of an actor as his companion, was trying a little too hard not to look at me. Clearly they were instructed not to acknowledge or address 'The Ghost'.
When the first man reached down and picked up the skull I 'felt it.' I felt the slight tug of the invisible chains at the manacle bracelets that heavily bound my wrists. I could feel a certain plunge of power from the hands holding to my skull.
'What are you doing!?' I shouted. 'Stop that! Get away from that!' I reached out to grab his arm and found my fingers passed through his elbow. I am certain he felt the cold mist that my body must have seemed to those who would accidentally touch it but he gave no reaction.
The other, perhaps in mercy toward me, spoke to his companion but answered my questions in the act.
'Who has been selected for custodial duty of it?' It was a small mercy that he asked that in my presence.
'The lady Bainbridge's brother, Jeremiah Morningway.' The other replied. 'Apparently he made a specific inquiry about the artifact. I can't imagine anyone willingly taking claim to it.'
The first wizard placed one of his hand firmly on the cranium of my skull, his hand resting over the grooves of the sigils and runes carved in there. I could feel the deliberate pressure through my whole being. And finally he addressed me without actually looking at me. 'Hrothbert of Bainbridge, I summon and compel you to withdraw into your skull as I command!'
I don't know how many, if any, of my masters ever fully appreciate how unpleasant a sensation that is, to be ordered back into my skull. This was the first time I can recall it happening, that I was commanded back into my skull.
When the command is given and it's made clear in the annunciation and wording that it is in fact a command from my master I feel a sensation. It doesn't start off painful. It's more like a tug. The manacle bracelets around my wrists seem to become heavier. This was the physical manifestation of my binding. And there's a tug. There's no other word to describe it. It's like the slack invisible chains that bind me to my skull suddenly become taut. It's not really at my wrists. It just seems that way when I take human form. Believe me, if I was in my more essential form- the light one sees when I emerge from my skull- I could feel it through my whole being but since I was in the illusion of life I felt the sensation in what would be my wrists. That's where it begins, where the manacles hold me...
The longer I resist the more the sensation changes. I can't say it actually hurts per se, not by the classic definition of pain but it does become more... intense. It leaves my wrists, or rather it expands from there and it encompasses me, this compulsion and need to comply. It pulls my entire being in a way that shatters all sense of will. It's as if this energy, somewhat electrical comes through me. It's not cold. It's not hot. It's a pressure. And it creates a discomfort where it's hard to focus on anything other than the command. It's hard not to flinch.
After I relinquish my hold on my guise of humanity I recede into my more natural-unnatural state. I am aware. I have no eyes. I have no ears. I have no hands and I have no face to show my feeling but I am aware. I see through all angles though it is not what you would call sight. I am aware of every noise and movement and every object and it's texture and substance, it's colour and form. I am aware. There's comfort and torment in this: I am aware. I am weightless. I am always a little frightened in this form. There's a sense, for me, of being helpless, of being somehow nothing. I choose to not remain in this state for very long when I am given the choice. I will myself to move. I tell myself to go forward (or is it backward?) and I do. I will myself, with a little help of that pulling of invisible force of my unseen chains; toward the skull- My own skull.
I feel myself falling, I plunge down into it. A painful spasm as all
that I am seems to rumble, to convulse painfully for a moment into
that constricted space. I'm not inside the skull. I AM the skull. I
merge with it. The light engulfs the skull from the inside out. I am
that light. I feel myself descending into the very bone. The eye
sockets, where my eyes should be I feel myself most of all behind
that. The teeth that can't part to form words- there are no lips, no
tongue, no muscle, no saliva- I feel that too or I am aware of it
actually. I take shape within it, molding myself within the skull,
all through it, the physical and hollow of it.
My
awareness dims. It becomes hard to focus. I can't think clearly. This
is sleep for me. This is as close as I get to sleep. It's not
pleasant though, especially when I want to stay 'awake'. It's hard to
think. It's hard to string thoughts together unless someone calls to
me while I'm here, then I could find my voice and manifest as light
inside the skull and think clearly but right now I cannot. I can be
compelled to clear thoughts and focus but the natural state of being
for me in here is to be in a haze, like floating in a pale gray void
without real form. It's so hard to focus. Sounds and vision are dim.
I am looking through the eye sockets, just barely aware. If I focus,
if I try very hard I can 'see' or rather I know what's directly in
front of the skull as if I still retained my own natural eyes and
they weren't gone. I can't call this vision.
It's a
struggle to retain consciousness. I feel like I might slip into
oblivion, which though impossible still frightens me somewhat. It's
sort of like when you're laying in your bed early in the morning and
someone might be talking in the next room. You're vaguely aware of it
but you don't care. You want to care but you can't bring yourself to
care. It's hard to concentrate on what you're hearing, to link to
words together and remember the meanings to what is being said no
matter the tone of the conversation. You struggle to hear because it
might be important but you're still half in dream so your mind blurs
fantasy with reality and everything becomes distorted by thought and
dreaming and you're helplessly between dream and reality, neither
here nor there.
It's not a dream for me. It's a
void. A vast empty void in which all I have are my own thoughts,
memories and most private dreams. It's a cold dark space of my own
creation within my own soul. It's better here usually, deep down
inside, than the half-consciousness of struggling for coherency
within the skull 'surface'. I am still 'hearing' dimly.
When I finally was called from my skull I was unsure of how much time had passed. How long was I gone? Hours? Moments? It's so disorientating. It is like sleep but it's not. I cannot say my first master was very kind. He rarely allowed me from the skull except to ask a question or two about a particular alchemic equation or potion and then he would send me back. I never thought I could miss the sunlight so much…
When
called from my skull I gather myself, my components. I push myself up
and out. I rise from the skull. I know what I am. I'm like a flame
surrounded in smoking black, bits of sparks of me stretch out and
spread. I am aware and I know what's in front of me and around me and
it feels so good to be out of there! I'm pushed from the eye sockets
but a little of me is always behind, not just chains that hold me
there. I feel like a projection of myself. Coming out of the eyes I
can see or as close as I come to sight. I concentrate. I need to
take form. What form though? Well, that's easy. My own form. The
cloak is black velvet. The trousers a dark charcoal gray and with
that I wear black leather boots or at least that's how they appear.
I'm an expert at detail to maintain my illusion. My eyes, I will to
appear pale and aqua as they had been in my mortal life. I know my
own face, my own skin pigment. Those are constant no matter what
century. Me. Me through eternity. The fashion and hair cut would
seem to change but the essential look is easy, it remains the same
and now, as I'm used to doing it, only takes a few seconds to
manifest. It's the change of clothes and keeping my manifestation
solid that requires skill. And I have skill at it. I do everything,
even now, with style.
The rings on my ever nibble
and eager fingers are the rings I had in life. They bore dark, heavy
stones that I had been accustomed to wearing in life. I can't feel
their weight now, they're not real. I can trick myself into thinking
I feel them and then I feel more alive. They're not real though. In
fact the only thing I can feel are the things I try to be discrete
about, the manacle bracelets around my wrists. I feel these as a
weight on my very being. A weight that now seemed to manifest at my
wrists, slight but present. The sigils on them, having a similar
purpose to what was carved in my skull to compel me and to bind me
among several other sigils and runes of many lands with similar
purposes in holding me captive for all eternity. I try to keep these
manacle bracelets hidden. They can be seen just slightly under the
suit cuff that I created. They hold me with invisible chains that I
can feel as a constant presence holding me to the skull as if they
were real chains.
Once I am certain my form is solid and can pass for a real person (it makes me feel real) I relax. I have summoned my awareness to at least 'seem' like my life's senses, holding my whole being in this form. The fogginess from being within my skull is gone.
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2
In my existence as a ghost, thus far, I have had seventy three masters. Considering I have only been dead one thousand, one hundred and nine years that is a very high number but most of my masters met with their own fates because of their greed and temptation. I know what I am to them and often I am blamed for their descents into darkness.
They learn of the power I had and the knowledge I have in regard to dark gray (there was a time when I balanced on that fence where it was not quite black magick) and finally of black magick. They ask me questions that I am forced to answer and it's their own addictions, greed, quests for power, or stupidity that get them killed. Either put to death by the High Council or killed by enemies or horrible lab explosions with careless spells….
Many masters were quite the same. I did have one master I liked in that time though.
In eighteen-ninety-four I was passed into the hands of one such wizard, Samuel Liddell.
Samuel Liddell was an interesting individual. I provided him with much knowledge and he was considerate enough to reward me by allowing me time in his garden in the sunlight. Liddell was a very conscientious individual. As was the fashion for wizards of the time he changed his birth name into something he felt suited him better. Wizards often use aliases or hide aspects of their names from the general public. Names have power. Names can be used to summon or control those of magical inclination and in the nineteenth century through the early to mid twentieth century paranoia was the fashion those of the supernatural inclination whom just a few short centuries earlier were being hunted and killed by the fanatical mobs.
Liddell was a vegan (as they're called now) something considered most unusual by the general public at the time. He loathed cruelty toward animals. He was very much the empath toward humans, animals and spirits. I had a great deal of respect for him and he tolerated my sardonic humour.
When Liddell and an associate of his, Alexander Crowley, asked me to translate a few manuscripts for them into English I was more than happy to oblige. It helped me to feel that I was more than a puff of air. It made me feel useful. It was good to feel as if I could accomplish something… anything. It's maddening to not be able to affect the world around me. I was eager to look over the old Grimoires and provide as accurate a translation as I possibly could. I provided the full English translations for the Clavicula Salomonis and Cavicula Salomonis Regis.
When I write I lift my left hand (I had always been left handed in my life and out of habit when manifest I act as left handed, though I do not have to. I will the light to emerge from my finger tip and I write. The light is actually an expansion of myself. It's no real magick, just ectoplasm. The nearest I can compare it to is writing in my own blood. And I wrote out all the translations in the air for them as they scribbled away in their books.
Somehow or another Alexander Crowley had managed to persuade the High Council to relinquish Samuel Liddell's ownership of me and hand me over to him, Alexander Crowley, instead. Crowley was not as good of a master as Liddell had been. He gave me no privileges such as time in the garden. I felt almost as if I had taken those for granted and yet in the rarity of having such pleasure I know I had not. Crowley was a genius but also a sociopath. His moods were sporadic and he dabbled in the darker magicks while trying to villainize his once friend and now rival, Samuel Lidell. And the falling out had all been over who would gain guardianship over me.
Crowley was a clever fellow, whom with my guidance, innovated what we today know as Thaumaturgy. He brilliant and he was delightfully promiscuous. Though certainly not as an enjoyable master as his predecessor, I did occasionally get to look through his not inconsiderable library. The High Council was aware of how dark some of Crowley's practices were but they did nothing to stop it because he had carefully side stepped breaking the seven laws of magick (much as I had in my life until mad with grief I gave in to my darker desires) and therefore it was technically not considered, by them, to be black magick.
The Seven laws of Magick are:
Thou shalt not kill by use of magick.
Thou shalt not transform others.
Thou shalt not invade the mind of another.
Thou shalt not enthrall another.
Thou shalt not reach beyond the borders of life.
Thou shalt not swim against the Currents of Time.
Thou shalt not seek beyond the Outer Gates.
Back when I was mortal, after Winifred had died I had become obsessed with bringing her back. I experimented and toiled until I was able to achieve my goals and to Hell with the consequences. Of course to bring someone back from the dead required following the alchemic law of equivalent exchange: A life force for a life force. After several experiments- some failed- some semi-successful (Ghouls, things not quite alive, ect...) I was able to perfect the magick but before I made the effort to bring her back I had found myself falling fast into addiction to black magick.
When I was lonely I found a pretty young thing to warm my bed. I lowered her inhibitions. I had rivals and enemies that would meet unfortunate 'accidents.' I compelled a few demons and soon I found myself believing I could make a greater world, a world in which Winifred and I would always live forever and ever and she would be happy. We would never need fear The High Council. I would bring order and peace to the world with my ruling it. And I found myself dressed entirely in black to be imposing to those around and I found myself also cackling madly about world domination…
And when I brought her back and she saw what I had become in my efforts and what I had done to bring her back, that expression on her face would forever haunt me…
I was alone when the High Council wardens had come, lead by Mai and my life was abruptly snatched from me and my fate was sealed for having broken every law of magick in my efforts and in my addiction...
I saw a lot of myself in Crowley and I hated the bastard…
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3
In 1960 I was in the possession of a German witch by the name of Anna Sprengel, whom had been believed dead since 1891. Most witches and wizards can lead considerably long lives if they're not killed. In fact a full life expectancy of a witch or wizard has yet to be measured. I, myself, have never met one who has died of old age. Usually their deaths come by accidents or murders.
And it happened that Anna Sprengel (By then living under an alias) had made friends with a gorgeous young woman whom went by the name of Marilyn Monroe
When I first saw Marilyn it was a day when Anna Sprengel was out buying potion supplies from a herbologist several miles away. I made myself invisible by thinking of myself as nothing more than air on the wind and concentrating on that idea as I watched the voluptuous blonde haired woman look around the opulently furnished sitting room with her wide, innocent eyes.
She was gorgeous. I swear to you she resembled a Goddess. She was beautiful. She was stunning and adorably naïve. She nearly bumped a table with her hip.
'Careful!' I had taken form. The form I took was my own form just more contemporized. Shorten the hair to a modern style. And the clothes.... clothes of this sort never existed in my lifetime but it's fashionable and it's a style that's been fashionable for years and will remain fashionable for years. An ageless suit of fine material and style. Dark, that's like the clothes of my time, the colour. I liked clothes of good materials that were black. The suit isn't entirely black. The vest is a dark cranberry. And the illusion of handkerchief is gold. It needed a splash of colour. The jacket is pinstriped black with dark gray thin stripes running vertically, I'm an expert at detail to maintain my illusion. The trousers are black. The shoes are black and polished leather, or at least that's how they seem.
I know I resembled to her a butler. But the sweet, innocent looking child-woman was more keenly aware than she seemed. She let out a gasp and looked at me quizzically. She could sense something unnatural about me.
'You're… You're a ghost.' She said in a soft little girl-like voice.
There was no real point in denying it. I shrugged. 'You're quite astute. Tell me, did they teach parapsychology in whatever cosmology school you dropped out of?' I shouldn't have insulted her. I don't know why I was being so defensive. I, in deed, am a ghost. It's just an unpleasant thing to be reminded of but I cannot run from what I am.
She frowned and looked cutely serious. She saw the skull. 'Is that yours?'
'Yes.' I folded my arms over my chest. The manacle bracelets were just noticeable under the cuffs of my sleeves.
She didn't ask any further question. She seemed concerned with the idea that she might wound my pride. It was strange, the consideration she gave me. She lightly brushed her fingertips on the skull.
I held back a sigh. I could almost feel it.
'Seems a little dusty…' She walked from the room and I briefly thought I would never see her again. She returned with a damp wash cloth and a bottle of some sort of chemically based glass polish meant for windows. The magick that held me gave me the unpleasant assurance that the chemicals could not hurt the skull by any means.
She gently set to work.
'What are you doing?' It felt almost like a hand was raking it's fingers through my hair. I felt a faint tingling sensation in my scalp that seemed to spread down my back. It was an exquisite feeling almost like being touched or as close to touch as I could know. I could practically feel her caressing me in her gentle fingers.
'I'm polishing your skull, silly.' She said with a smile as she went to the gentle task of wiping down the surface and lightly spritsing the polish onto the cloth. I sighed, audibly. It was as close to physically being with a woman than I had known in over a thousand years. And when she set my skull in her lap to get the hard to reach spots, her full round breasts brushed against the back of the cranium and filled me with such wicked delight. I adored her.
A few years later she died…
I had been forbidden to provide details to the matter but I can assure you that her death was by no means a suicide…
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4
Justin Morningway was like many other masters, strict and reveling in their authority and my own sub-servitude. The bitterness I felt toward him was a deep and old one that helped increase my own rancor and cold.
I knew what Morningway meant to do, kill his own brother-in-law. I knew what he was planning. I had little choice but to show him how to do it and how to cover it up. And I managed to detach myself enough to feel nothing on the matter or try to anyway. But when he took the boy, Harry Dresden in… Something changed within me. Something was not the same and I was no longer Morningway's puppet.
I heard his command through the haze of being inside my skull. 'Show yourself!'
I listened. I had no choice but to comply. I took form. The boy stared with wide, innocent eyes. 'Is he… Is he a Genie?'
I hated the question though admittedly the boy was very astute. My situation was and is very much like that of a Genie.
'I'm not a Genie! I'm a sorcerer!'
'Former sorcerer.' Morningway felt compelled to remind me. He addressed Harry Dresden specifically now. 'His soul was damned for eternity, trapped inside his own skull.'
'What did he do?' The boy asked. Was it really necessary that Morningway make it seem like I was some monster to the boy when I was to teach him?
'I CAN hear you!' I loathe when my masters would talk about me as if I could not hear them. I was weary of being treated like an object.
'He's crankly.'
'Yes, he is and very smart.' It wasn't meant as a compliment. It was simply how Morningway saw the truth of the matter and I won't deny my own cleverness. 'You'll learn a lot from him…'
I grew attached to the boy. I pitied him at first. I did not want him to be used as Morningway's pawn. The very first spell I taught him would, if he boy was clever enough, reveal to him how his father was killed. I don't know why I began there with his lessons. Perhaps subconsciously I wanted the bastard Morningway brought the justice. Perhaps I just wanted to see what would happen.
The boy did not call me Hrothbert of Bainbridge for very long. He did not like the name. He started to call me Bob and it stuck. I don't mind the name quite so much anymore. It seemed I could leave my past behind and for him just be 'Bob'.
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5
Now I stand in this shabby office waiting for Dresden to get home. I hate when he takes this long on a case. What if he does not come back? What if he's hurt? What could I possibly do? I paced in front of his desk. I was frustrated by my own limits. My skull rested like a macabre paperweight on top of a pile of antique books.
I had belonged to Harry for over half a decade now. In that time he had caused me to look at things a little differently, to feel things in a way I had never known and between you and I… I sort of liked it. I liked how he made me feel. I liked that strange sort of hopeful way he optimistically viewed society. I liked that someone such as himself could dedicate himself to protecting the innocent, even if he did do it to such a stubborn degree that it hindered his own comfort. There wasn't a hedonistic bone in his entire body. Harry Dresden was a good man. Perhaps the first truly good man I had ever really known.
Finally I heard the little jingle of the bell over the door. The relief was exquisite. He was home. My adoptive-child, my master, my student and my friend.
I faded from view quickly and descended down into my skull to be alone with my thoughts. I am certain Harry witnessed me fading out of view. Later Harry would tell me something curious. As I had descended into my skull he had noticed something he hadn't before. When I slipped from my human form and into my more essential form, the light surrounded in dark smoky haze seemed considerably brighter. The darkness dimmer, harder to see and was now, according to Harry, almost non-existent, as if the light had become a flame that was now eating away at the darkness. I am not sure I believe him…
The End.