A Man and his Heart - 1. Friday, September 28, 2007

The car seemed new - it was indeed only three years old - but had already clocked up more kilometers than many a car at the end of its service life. The owner didn't care.

If the license plate was to be believed, he was from Georgia, and it was a long way from there to Montana. It had taken him just over three years, working his way through all sorts of states, from one village to the next, towns - big and small - and anything worth a name.

From one cursebreaker to the next.

The man searched for them via Internet, but mainly by word-of-mouth. Sometimes the news beat him to it and he was expected, sometimes curious, sometimes skeptical, sometimes he was just one of many who came seeking help.

Here in Montana, there was only one cursebreaker. Richard Parker. He used to move from village to village himself, to wherever he was needed. Now he lived in Quincefield, or so the man had been told.

And that was where he had gone. Quincefield. Partly because Parker was on his list, and partly because he was considered powerful. Well, powerful was a matter of opinion, but according to the stories, he was now an old man, so at least he had seen a lot.

The small hospital in the small town had three or four buildings, it was hard to tell from the parking lot. He had seen posters announcing the hospital's centenary celebrations for October, but the style of the main building didn't match the architectural style of the turn of the century, it was more reminiscent of a Renaissance chateau from Europe.

The man gave himself a push and trudged towards the main entrance. The sun was still warm, but the wind which blew dead leaves around his feet clearly brought fall with it.

The lobby smelled of old and humid masonry and cleaning products, classical music whispered softly from somewhere. Two men were sitting in the glass-enclosed reception box, the older one nodding intently and pressing a telephone receiver to his ear, while the younger one looked terribly bored.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” It came in a nasal voice. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale and far too thin. Probably in his early twenties. Probably as old as Patrick, if - well, if Patrick were still alive.

The man managed to turn his mournful sigh into a harsh exhalation. “I need to see the cursebreaker.”

The receptionist blinked slowly and raised his hand, his index finger limply extended. "Down the hall there, keep following the signs to the morgue. Pass the morgue on the left. Behind is a white building currently housing our Magical Incidents Department and that's where our cursebreaker resides."

“Thank you.”

Morgue.

The man shuddered, hoping it wasn't too visible. He had seen enough dead bodies in his life.

In the white house, marked only with a cryptic abbreviation, was another reception desk, which sent him to the third floor, where there was once again a reception desk. The woman there, perhaps in her mid-forties and with pink-dyed hair, peered at him over the rim of her small glasses.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” Professional, calm, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“I'd like to speak to the cursebreaker.”

“I would need a valid identification document and a reason for the visit.”

The man hesitated. “Do I have to?" He didn't like to leave an obvious trail.

Presumably the woman was used to this sort of reply, because she gave no visible reaction. "Sir, this is a public hospital. We register our patients for security and billing reasons. This also applies to a consultation with the cursebreaker." Her nose twitched. “Mr. Parker no longer receives patients in a private setting.”

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of telling her just enough to leave him unbothered, but he let it go. He didn't need security to come running in panic because the receptionist had forgotten everything but “bomb” from his statement.

With a neutral expression, but inwardly rolling his eyes, he slipped her his driver's license and the corners of her mouth twitched upwards briefly. "I carry a curse with me. Is that enough of a reason?"

At first she looked as if she wanted to protest and demand a more detailed answer, then she nodded curtly and typed eagerly.

He couldn't do more than wait obediently until she had finished.

"Here. Please take a seat. It may take a while, though, the waiting room is full."

He nodded, slipped his driver's license back into his wallet and then stepped through a door into an adjoining room. There were two dozen chairs packed closely together and only two were unoccupied. It would take hours for a single man to examine and “treat” all these people.

Murmuring a greeting, he went to one of the empty chairs and took a seat, but the room seemed to swallow him up. Someone to his left reeked of sweat. A man was munching on strong-smelling chips, smacking his lips loud enough to be heard over the low murmurs of several other people. A teenager with shimmering octopus arms growing out of his ears tapped his foot impatiently. A man slouched in his chair and kept shifting uncomfortably, his privates seeming unhealthily swollen beneath the fabric of his pants.

The man was waiting. A young man in pale green scrubs picked up first the teenager with the cursed ears, then a man who revealed a cat-like tail as he stood up.

From his seat, he couldn't see much of the hallway, but shortly after the now tailless man left, a loud male voice rang out:

"No, Phil, it's not working like that. That's not how deals work. And you know that. And even if it did, I can't make it today." For a moment a man could be seen, obviously old and tall, a tiny phone pressed to his ear, hurrying down the hallway. "No, man, I've got a grandson to look after. Emmi, please postpone - oh no, Phil, you listen to me now. When a sixteen-year-old calls you crying and says he needs you, you do your God-given grandfatherly duty and take care of him - yeah, yeah, go fuck yourself."

The waiting room was as quiet as a mouse. The man with the chips had paused with his mouth full, a woman was holding her water bottle at a dangerous angle to her lips.

"Emmi, listen, I have to be out of here by three so I can pick up Dust from the station. Postpone the meeting with Kolt until Monday and get one of the witches here to decide if anyone here is wandering downstairs."

The man glanced at the clock hanging in a corner. Just before half past two. He would have to come back tomorrow.

He wasn't the only one who had come to this realization, because a woman jumped up. She was holding a baby in her arms that was so still and quiet that he had already wondered if it was still alive. “Cursebreaker!” She shrieked outright and several people flinched. “Cursebreaker, you need to see my daughter!” She rushed out into the hallway, pleading and sobbing loudly.

The cursebreaker answered, but the words were unintelligible, drowned out until he finally yelled himself: "Ma'am, your baby has a high fever! You need to take her to the pediatrician or the emergency room, but not here!"

Again, spellbound silence. For some, this was probably better than TV.

Then the cursebreaker appeared in the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered, but magic and age had molten the flesh from his bones. He looked terribly old, even if he moved like a much younger one. “Anyone else think the world's coming to an end?”

The man with the swollen genitals raised his hand, and two women did the same.

The man who had only come for the cursebreaker gathered his magic.

"Ugh, no, that belongs in the emergency room too, my friend. Ma'am? Report one floor down. And you - yes, you'd better too. Otherwise..." The cursebreaker broke off and the man felt his attention drift to him.

Their eyes met.

“Boy, I'll have to take a closer look to that.”

The man, though long no longer a boy, immediately stood up. Ignoring the murmur of protest, he left the waiting room and followed the cursebreaker down the corridor to an office.

“Have a seat.”

It smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant and a quick glance was disappointing. Filing cabinets, bookshelves, a desk, all cold and lifeless in gray and beige; no photos, certificates or the like adorned the walls.

The man sat down and bowed his head in greeting. “Cursebreaker Parker.” He was curious to see if this visit would finally bring him something new.

“You're glowing with magic,” Parker noted.

“That... happens sometimes.” The man let the magic rest. “It's probably just my imagination, but I'm in pain sometimes and it seems like my magic calms the curse.” A delicate little lie to justify his silent cry for attention.

Parker nodded. “Let me take a closer look.” He leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. Only a moment later, he frowned.

The man had expected nothing less. First came a puzzled frown, then realization, followed immediately by fear. A bomb always seemed to trigger a primal instinct.

“You've got a nice bomb in your chest there, my friend.”

“Looks like it.” The man gave him the grimace of a smile.

“And I doubt you put a netherbomb into your own heart, battlemage or not.”

"There are nicer ways to die, Cursebreaker. I've studied enough of them."

To the man's surprise, Parker snorted in amusement. “You battlemages all have a screw loose, if you ask me, but it's not like anyone can help their magic.” He paused. "Except women. But never say that to a woman's face, it ends badly."

The man grinned conspiratorially. “Promise.”

“All right, then.” Parker nodded and scrutinized him again, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You're really carrying hell with you, if I may say so,” he said after a long minute.

"One of my colleagues said the bomb and the curse are different things, yet inseparable. I don't see that much of it myself," the man remarked. He had gotten to this point only a few times in all his conversations with the various cursebreakers.

Cursebreaker Parker tilted his head thoughtfully and leaned back. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and tapped his chin thoughtfully with two fingertips. “I suppose you would have noticed if you were suddenly carrying a netherbomb...”

“For sure...”

“Hmm. How long?”

The man blinked. “A few years.” he replied vaguely. He couldn't read any real reaction from the cursebreaker's face, so he waited in silence.

“That's probably the most interesting curse I've ever come across,” Parker began slowly after a long moment, "The bomb was placed around your heart first and then the curse was woven into it. That took time. Not that I know all that much about you battlemages, but it takes line of sight to plant a bomb like that, doesn't it?"

Confirming, the man tipped his head.

Parker looked at him piercingly. "The curse is full of love - a parent's love - and death. A dying battlemage has cursed you, over the child's death, I should think."

Silence fell. Awkward and heavy.

The man swallowed uneasily. But he had been searching for the truth and, as is the case with the truth, it seeks its equal.

“You know who it was?”

He nodded.

Parker nodded back slowly. “Did you hear what he said?”

The man certainly had, but the words didn't make much sense. “Not really,” he said therefore. “The situation was... messy...”

Parker raised a brow, but was silent for another long moment. “The curse is bound to someone.” he then said with a frown. “There's... a tiny connection, the hint of a thread...”

“That can't be.” The man shook his head. “Because, you're right, the son is dead.” Oh, sweet Patrick...

"Is there another child? No? Any other possibility to whom the curse could bind you?"

Again the man shook his head. Patrick was dead. He hadn't seen him die, but neither he nor the men who had been sent after him had returned. The pools of blood and scraps of flesh were statement enough.

Really?

What if not? No one had paid any closer attention given the general chaos, the obvious had been enough.

The cursebreaker cleared his throat and made the man lift his eyes. "You say you've been carrying this around for years now. Then I would assume the child is still alive. No, listen to me. If the curse had been based on hope alone, it would have dissipated by now. Curses with conditions are not very stable in the face of counter-conditions. The connection is really just a breath, but that may be because of distance to the person."

The man swallowed, a fine tremor running over him. Patrick... Patrick was alive...? An involuntary grin broke out on his face, which he couldn't quite control.

“That's really fascinating...” Parker muttered, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head.

“Can you break the curse?” The question wasn't quite out yet before the cursebreaker shook already his head.

"No. Well, I suppose I can, but putting a bullet in your head would probably be easier and less painful for you. You can't break the love and pain that's in there without making a huge mess. Whatever you've done to deserve the curse - in quotation marks, of course - you'll have to carry with you until it's over." He shrugged. "Maybe a magebreaker could help you, but even there I think it's more likely it'll kill you, netherbombs are really nasty. And, well, if you want to enjoy your life, you could always kill the kid... or have it killed."

Any remaining euphoria at the realization that Patrick was still alive vanished. “Very pragmatic.”

"I offer my help, young man, and if I can't help myself, I offer alternatives. Whether you accept them is up to you. It's all the same to me," Parker replied coolly and with a small shrug.

“I could report you for suggesting murder.”

“I could have you locked up on suspicion of terrorism,” Parker countered, his lips twitching for a second into a humorless smile. “Actually, it's a wonder that hasn't happened yet.”

The man took a deep breath, but then simply nodded and stood up. "Thank you very much, Cursebreaker. You've helped me a lot. Most of your colleagues wouldn't even look at me properly."

Parker rose as well and held out his hand, which the man took after a barely noticeable hesitation. "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know, isn't that right? I hope for your sake and for the sake of the child, who is obviously still alive, that you handle the situation responsibly."

“I will,” the man promised, taking a step back. “Thank you.” He turned and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Patrick was alive. By God and all that was holy!

As he hurried back across the hospital grounds to his car, tingling joy crept up inside him. His sweet boy was still alive. He would find him, beg his forgiveness however long it would take. A promise he made to himself and more importantly to Patrick.

The phone in his jacket pocket vibrated briefly. He'd put it on silent, but since he'd left three years ago, there had been hardly anyone to contact him.

Except Sean, of course. And the message was from Sean.

The man swallowed. He didn't open the message, but instead unlocked the car and got in. The air inside was stuffy, but at least the wind was no longer blowing around his ears.

His joy had fizzled out for the second time, though.

If Sean found out Patrick was still alive, he would again send men after him. The man couldn't let that happen, he wouldn't lose his sweet Patrick a second time.

He turned the ignition key enough to power the navigation system sticking to the windshield. The only question was what he should do now. Patrick had been officially declared dead. And he wasn't stupid, not at all. He had killed his pursuers and escaped - but where to?

Of course, even a battlemage could hide if he wanted to, the United States were big enough. But Patrick? Where had he gone? Just eighteen, with no means, no life experience outside of the War School?

The man sat there for a while, thinking.

A maple leaf flew against the windshield, sliding here and there before the wind carried it away.

No one had anticipated the tournament at the War School would escalate. That certainly hadn't been Sean's plan. The man was pretty sure Patrick's death had indeed been pre-planned, but to even think something like that near Sean was suicide. He himself had left the War School against Sean's orders.

What would he have done in Patrick's place?

He continued to ponder, but no answer came to mind. Instead, he typed Washington D.C. into the GPS and grimaced as the display jumped to over 1900 kilometers and an estimated twenty-eight hours of driving. That was plenty of time to think.

Not only about Patrick, but also about his own future. He had sided with Sean once and survived - but at what cost? If he left Sean's side for good now, would he live long enough (be left alive!) to find Patrick?