Lessons of the Mind || Bo + Charles || November, 2022
Continued from [x]
Bo: His head tilted, favoring his right ear before setting himself to rights. One might notice the singular nod if paying close attention. Very few did, which was why he stopped making excuses months ago.
"The global academic society known as Arcanum." His mouth remained agape, snapping shut with a breath. Nails gently scraped over the back of his hand before rubbing out the gooseflesh of his skin. That word alone was a curse.
"Holmscroft, Rising Day, Vannevar Hall, Society of Leopold. Every name in my journals. If you take anything away from knowing me, avoid anyone attached to these."
Charles: "Duly noted."
He made a mental note to ask Leslie more later. He was not comfortable showing the same open curiosity that he did with the other mage.
"You can rest assured that I'm not a part of any such organization. I'm only passingly knowledgeable in magic at all. A handful of spells learned from our mutual friend. I'm a mutant. A telepath. And I have no reason or desire to take anything from you."
Bo: It was imperative those words hit his ear just right, and without a single nuance of tingle, a cold relief washed over the mage from head to fingertips.
Suddenly, Charles only seemed half as dangerous.
"What's holding you back?" Two fingers flared out and back. "From magic."
Charles: Charles lifted a shoulder. That was a simple enough question to answer.
"Life. I'm very passionate about what I do here. And I devote as much time as I can to my family. My friends. It doesn't leave much room for anything else."
He flashed a brief, crooked smile. "That I know as much as I do is a testament to my friendship with Leslie. We make time for each other. And learning spells from him is an entertaining pastime."
Bo: "From my understanding, it's in his blood."
He was watching Charles again. From his eyes to his lips, a glance at his shoulders.
"You're not committed to what you say."
Charles: "Oh, definitely. He makes an excellent teacher. If he wanted a career in education, he could have one."
His brow furrowed slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Bo: He felt himself on the verge of offending this man again. While normally beyond his scope of care, he would much rather have a lesson by the end of the afternoon.
"You just seem... enthusiastic." Was as good enough of a lie as any.
Charles: That caused an eyebrow raise.
"Do I? I enjoy my time with Leslie. And magic is fascinating, to be sure."
Bo: Lips hesitated, jaw snapping shut. Best to leave these subjects there. Of course Charles would learn from Leslie. Must have been effortless from a Verbena with their obsession with spreading themselves like a virus.
Nowhere in his journals did he ever write about teaching someone.
"What is it you want in return for this?"
Charles: "For what? Shielding lessons? Nothing."
An honest statement. This was a favor for his friend. But it felt rude to say so, and he left it at that.
"It's a valuable skill to possess."
Bo: "I've mentioned donation but that doesn't feel adequate."
Charles: "It is more than. Unnecessary, but appreciated. This is truly no trouble, Bo. You won't be beholden to me in any way. This is... this is my life's work. Teaching, I mean. That and mutant advocacy are what drive me."
Outside of his family, of course.
Bo: Blond lashes shaded green eyes with a squint. Did this man ever tell a lie? He was just... so... wholesome. It coated him in a strange uncomfortable warmth like a humid summer.
"Shall we try again?"
Charles: Now it was Charles' turn to look uncomfortable. He really did not want a repeat of earlier.
"Are you certain that you're prepared? I can just... try to explain, if you'd prefer."
Bo: "You're the professor, but wouldn't practical applications benefit progress?"
Charles: A nod. "It would. But not if we can't actually get through the exercise. I don't want to push your boundaries."
Bo: His eyes returned to the table. With Charles' relentless honesty, he felt compelled to give his own, but swallowed that thought like a pill. The telepath would learn sooner or later.
"You're not going to hurt me."
Charles: "I'm not," he agreed. Or anyone else, for that matter. He studied the mage's face for a few, long seconds, looking for any hint of hesitation. Charles didn't know him as well as Leslie, or one of his students, but he seemed steady enough.
After another beat, Charles nodded to himself. All right. He slowly extended his hands once more, placing them palm-up on the table between them.
"Whenever you're ready."
Bo: His hand rested on his satchel as he was studied. Steadier breathing. Both were armed with better understanding. The shoulders weren't quite so tight.
His notebook and fountain pen were pushed further away before taking Charles' hands. His eyes closed, ready to immerse himself.
Charles: It took another brief moment of consideration before Charles shut his own eyes. They settled once more into the projection of his mind's library. This time, he said nothing. He studied Bo for his reaction to the warm, quiet space.
Bo: This image of Bo had smaller, tighter shoulders, but there was a distinct lack of primal fear in his eyes. A quiet fascination, maybe, as he looked around with new interest.
He too waited on saying a word.
Charles: That was progress, he supposed. With a tentative smile, he gestured to one of the wingback leather chairs.
"Have a seat? We can discuss."
Bo: These sensations were all of the mind. Breathing, the taste in the air, the need to swallow. This was just... his mind on autopilot, he assumed.
The mage shuffled to the chair and sat, stiffly.
Charles: Charles wrestled against the urge to chuckle. It was better than outright panic, he supposed. He pulled a leather-bound book from one of the shelves before claiming the chair opposite the mage.
"As you know," he began, setting the volume on his lap, "everyone is different. I constructed this place because such spaces are a comfort to me. Leslie chose his meadow for similar reasons. None of this is strictly necessary but it does make shielding easier to conceptualize. My memories can take any form I choose. Obviously, I settled on books."
He extended the volume to Bo. If he opened it, he'd bear witness to an innocuous moment from days earlier: two young children bickering over what to have for breakfast, and Charles' husband swooping in to break the stalemate by settling on pancakes. It was a crisply defined memory, tinged with obvious fondness.
Bo: Bo took what was offered but left it closed in his lap until Charles finished speaking. Only then did he open, pausing halfway as the story unfolded like a video on his tablets.
"I've heard of this in meditation. Creating a space to throw things away, or save them."
Charles: His mouth curled into a crooked smile and he nodded. Meditation. A pastime of Leslie's as well. Perhaps it was a practice of most witches. He didn't have a large enough sample size to guess.
"And once you've created a space, you can construct a method of defense. A wall, a lock box, a private room, or a hidden compartment."
He waved a hand and a locked wooden door appeared on the wall beside the fireplace. An illustration, nothing more.
Bo: Bo's head jerked in the direction of something new. This all made a little more sense when placed in an already familiar idea.
"Meditation doesn't really work on me. Never helped with - with anything. But... this is all just... something I'm to imagine?"
Charles: Charles nodded. "Basically. Most non-telepaths find it easier to with something concrete. Would you like to begin constructing your own?"
Bo: Bo looked around the room once more, considering what it was he found safe and useful. He thought about everything he had ever read in his journals.
"Yes."
Charles: With another nod and a small smile, Charles carefully released the projection. Bo would find them still sat in the brisk, autumn air. The telepath gentler when he released the mage, this time, pulling his hands back to cradle his now-cold tea.
"All right. Walk me through your plan. Do you have an idea of what you'd like to construct?"
Bo: Much less jarring this time. Bo breathed easier and leaned away to write in his notebook. Every last detail, including Charles' vague abilities, would be put to paper. This to be rewritten later in his actual journal with better penmanship.
"I have... ideas. A kind of library. Juvel will have her inclusions."
Charles: He smiled a broad, eye-crinkling smile. "A fine idea, but I'll admit to a bit of bias, there. What are you considering for defense?"
That was largely the purpose of these lessons, after all.
Bo: He didn't have to think about that. Juvel was already in his ear.
"Crystals."
Charles: "Fascinating," he said, meaning it. "Would you prefer to start now? Or work at home and reconvene later?"
Bo: "You're... telling me to just imagine this crystal library and it will be enough to keep someone out?"
Charles: "No. It requires hours of practice. Creating the space is only the first step."
Bo: "The space has to remain consistent?"
Charles: "Not if you don't find it useful."
Bo: "The point is, then, to just deny access?"
Charles: "Easier said than done. Not wanting a telepath to enter your mind isn't enough; unless you're dealing with a very polite telepath. You have to construct mental shields. Which is easier to do if you use something more concrete. Or you're actually a telepath."
Bo: "I haven't found a need to read minds, yet." But this gave him a lot to think about.
"You said this requires hours of practice. What is essential in creating a formidable shield?" If not consistency and denying consent.
Charles: "The heart of it is learning to recognize and block psionic energy. Which is easier said than done when you have no idea what you're looking for. Or how to properly defend. It's why I teach using the methods that I do. You learn to work the necessary muscle without needing to understand psionic abilities fully."
Bo: "The more I feel you in my mind, the better I will understand." A hands-on method. What he was accustomed to. He wouldn't understand what to feel without actually feeling the sensation.
Charles: "I can do that. We can have our conversations mind-to-mind, from here on. If you prefer that."
Bo: "Alright. And what are we to do physically?"
Charles: He made the transition seamlessly, keeping his mental voice as gentle as possible.
'Nothing. These aren't physical exercises. Skin-to-skin contact helps with projection, but is far from necessary.’
At least for him. This was not the case for every telepath.
1:00 PM]Bo: His mind was not simply silence until speaking. There were other languages, the flipping pages of his journal. Conversations with Brett Parker, Torsten Glockner, and a woman's face, a druid.
"How -"
'How is your voice singular?'
Charles: Mere background noise. Easy to weed through for the experienced.
'What do you mean?'
Bo: 'Not... images, other thoughts, songs, talking to yourself.'
Charles: 'Ah. That's a matter of compartmentalization. I haven't been able to pinpoint whether it's unique to telepaths, or something anyone can learn. But we can carry on a telepathic and vocal conversation simultaneously without breaking the flow of either. Background thoughts, to-do lists, strong emotions... It can all be isolated from the projected thoughts.'
On that note.
'We can work on projection, as well, if you'd like. Isolating your thoughts and pushing them outward. That way I only pick up what you intend for me to pick up.'
Bo: "Yes," he said to himself. That would be ideal, as the many hundreds of thoughts cycling and filtering through were bound to create confusion, if not for Charles than for his own sanity.
Thoughts of what he intended to say, for example, beginning in Norwegian, switching to Swedish, before finally reaching clarity in English.
'You mentioned altering memories. Does a false memory feel askew?'
Charles: He drummed his fingers against the table thoughtfully.
'That depends entirely upon who altered the memory. It may be difficult to find the seams on a false memory created by someone particularly skilled, but they are always present. A more powerful telepath can locate even the most skillfully altered memories. However, just like changing them, finding them takes practice.'
Bo: "If found," Bo sighed. Thinking exactly what he wanted to say out loud, and thinking that thought in English took practice.
'If found, are you able to correct the alteration?'
Charles: He could take all the time he needed. Charles was in no hurry.
'Possibly. It depends on how severe the damage. And what caused the alterations in the first place.'
Bo: 'Have you ever?'
Charles: 'Yes.'
Bo: 'Will you tell me?'
Charles: 'About the memories I've recovered?'
Bo: 'Yes.' Charles had his complete attention.
Charles: 'You'll understand if I can't go into personal detail, here.' Or he wouldn't. Perhaps it was reassurance for Bo, as well. His privacy would be respected, like anyone else's.
'There was a very powerful telepath I was acquainted with, in the past. She was an associate of someone that I... needed to find. She left a trail of false memories in her wake that made them more difficult to track. Difficult, but not impossible. She left a sort of impression in the minds she altered. Like mental fingerprints.'
Bo: "So you-" Again. This must take getting used to. He couldn't imagine speaking telepathically day in and day out. 'You corrected every broken memory? How?'
Charles: He gave a soft but audible hum. 'That depends. A false memory is a construction, yes? So, unraveling it is a matter of pulling on the right thread. Altered memories are different. The bits that are falsified usually have a slight variation. In her case, there was a sheen to them that wasn't there in proper memories. Almost like a haze. And buried memories require digging. It's a much more invasive process.'
Bo: Bo leaned back in his seat, hands falling into his lap. He stared at nothing for a time, considering this new information.
"Could you see?" He would meet his eyes for this. "May, 2016, I lost everything. Could you try to find it?"
Charles: "I don't know." He spoke rather than projected, now. Charles wasn't going to go making promises he couldn't necessarily keep. "I suppose it's possible. It wasn't a telepath that took your memories, correct? It was some sort of a spell? Leslie is far more confident in my capacity than I am. I can't do mind magic."
Bo: "If someone did this to you, what do you think is the correct punishment?"
Charles: He shook his head. "I'd want a resolution, not a punishment."
It was the truth. Vengeance didn't appeal to him in the least. It never had. It was rarely as satisfying as people hoped it would be.
Bo: "A resolution? For losing," he gestured to the school. "This, your husband, everything?"
Charles: "I've lost everything. Attacking the man who I felt was responsible did nothing to bring it back." This was long before Mason, but the point still stood.
"I rebuilt. That was satisfying."
Bo: "Right." He was in the throes of rebuilding, and as much as he loved Brett, that itch wasn't being scratched. What did he really want? What had the man he once was want? Would these versions of himself agree, was the ultimate question.
His hands returned to the table. His breath slow and steady.
The little boy sat on the train by himself, again. It was the third time this month. Back and forth from a little village outside of Oslo to the heart of the city. Two families amid an argument over who possessed the child. Avarice and principle from one family, commodity from the other. Whoever inherited the boy inherited his money – that was the paternal family’s desire. Whoever inherited the boy inherited his power – that was the maternal.
Neither of which mattered to the man sitting across the aisle. His eyes forward, listening with clenched teeth as the boy quietly wept, staring down at a textbook too blurry to read.
Some familiars knew their chosen beloved by hearing the loneliness in their voices. To others it was calling, sending them hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles, following a thread of primal energy as though tethered to their waist. Olek knew with a tear.
But he wouldn’t dare look and embarrass the boy. He might not always be lonely. But every train ride he was alone, and every train ride, he cried.
Perhaps it was a tether, as others had felt before him. He had been drawn to Oslo for so long that he was beginning to forget other places he had lived. An easy task for a forgetful familiar. Forgetting Sapporo, forgetting Barcelona, London, Stavanger. Had he a last name, he had forgotten. Most familiars didn’t have one, but some gave themselves something off the top of their head; human borns had no choice.
He was Olek. Just Olek.
“What do you want?” the little boy whispered.
The familiar blinked. Turned his head to look; the boy was adjusting his nasal dilator strip.
“You were here two weeks ago, and the week before that. I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not.” Speaking in the first person came naturally, in the moment. He followed along and whispered, too.
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
Olek looked forward again, losing him in his stunted peripheral vision. The boy sniffed. Slammed his book shut.
“Where are you going?” asked the boy.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Everyone knows where they’re going.”
“Do they?” The familiar smiled. “Who said?”
“You study, you get a job, you hate life, you make babies, you die.”
He was back to looking at the boy, concern etched in his subtle features. This was all he needed, wasn’t it? Someone to vent to. Someone indifferent and unattached.
“Life is more than that. It’s whatever you want it to be.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Who said?”
The boy shifted. He had no answers, only observations. His mother’s misery with his father. His uncle’s determination to own him, to fill every minute of his day as he saw fit. He sank in his seat, bringing his knees to the back of the chair in front of him.
“I know where I’m going.”
“Do you like it?”
He shook his head. His quivering chin replaced with a vague look of anger. Emotions he didn’t know what to do with, too young to fully realize. A look Olek couldn’t see anymore. Eyes forward, making himself a blind listener for his comfort.
“It gets better. I promise.”
__
He didn’t see the boy again. Not for nearly ten years. In the meantime, he roamed the countryside, roamed the city, but never too far. There was indeed a thread around his belly.
Eventually, he was noticed. A mage named Willow Hagatha Norwood, an alumna of Charleston Private Academy, invited him to her doorstep. She knew what he was the moment he greeted her with a chirp and a nuzzle. She was a means to an end, and he was a source of comfort from the fate of a quiet apartment.
Not once did she demand his human form. He was eyes she could admire, and ears she could pour her words. She told him stories about her one and only student, fed him salmon and herring, and allowed him the foot of her bed. She wasn’t his master, but she was a pleasant companion nonetheless.
“I want to bring him to the academy,” she said one night. “Oh, I hate his uncle! If I wasn’t certain he had some contingency plan I’d stake his chest so fast! Believe me, I would!”
Olek’s bushy tail bristled. His twittering chirp filled with caution. Don’t let him read your mind.
“I should just… I can take him away. I should, shouldn’t I? That’ll show him. He’s already marked the boy. He thinks I haven’t noticed, but I have. He’s wearing turtlenecks in the summer, for heaven’s sake! I know I'm right. I know it.”
She was not long for this world. As sure as he would never see a rainbow. It was too much. The boy wasn’t improving under her tutelage. This promising mentor was becoming audacious. This wasn’t about her ego; this was about the boy. Someone needed to care about him more than their pride, their flimsy principles, and their greed. She was saying things she shouldn’t; thinking things she shouldn’t. Thoughts a vampire like Johan Sigurd would notice. He needed to find him. He needed to be where he belonged.
__
White blond hair fell into his eyes when he stared down at his feet. It was just a cat. A tortoiseshell cat doing an elegant figure 8 around his ankles, but… he knew. He knew the cat was male, and he knew the cat’s human face. His private tutor was adamant in his studies of primal energy. No animal had this much static. But, why did he know his face?
“I’m still not stupid,” he whispered.
The cat trilled, stood tall, and stretched over the mage’s leg. This was where he belonged. At last, he was carried home in Botan Nowicki’s arms.
“It’s my birthday today,” he said, scratching behind the cat's ear. “What do I call you?” In the silence, the boy smiled. He could hear him. A warm voice unlike his own. He hadn’t made him up. The man on the train wasn't a figment of his imagination during the worst year of his life.
Peabody was like a kid on Christmas morning, except rather than be excited about getting a gift, he was excited about giving one.
“It’s a lap desk! You don’t strike me as the type to work in bed but now you can if you want to. Or the couch, I guess.”
The hug would come before Bo had a chance to stop it. Peabody got only one hug a year, he had to savor it! “Merry Christmas, brother.”
Bo stared at the gift while Peabody spoke. He had to admit, the deputy knew his tastes. That style could have easily been the flooring of his house, without Brett to dissuade.
Deep breath. He can do it. “Thank -” The mage stiffened from that merciless embrace. He could smell Peabody’s cologne. The shampoo his fiancé probably purchased. That grip was strong. He would... just... give him a pat on the back.
“Take this. For your... wedding.” That word tasted bitter on his tongue, but Peabody was handed a small envelope with a sizeable (arguably ridiculous size) gift card to Kenneth Cole. Not his choice of designer, but maybe Peabody could handle it.
“I got you the entire universe,” Brett murmured, snuggling and kissing his warlock in their beautiful new home. “It’s a fully accurate map. Didn’t mean for it to match the cologne bottle but I kinda like that it does. Feels very you.”
Another kiss, soft and lingering. “I love you, baby. God Jul.”
How far Bo had come, and all without lingering on why, and how. Years ago this would have all been too sentimental. He would have been repulsed by the very idea of this intimacy, but there he was, sitting stiffly only with apprehension of his gift. A small rabbit made of moonstone, the size of Brett’s palm.
At first, it seemed a simple gift, until Bo placed the figurine on the table and flicked its ear twice. The rabbit came to life, sniffing the air and scratching its head. The same two flicks, it was a statuette once more.
