Trials And Tribulations.
The trouble with Tribbles?
A tribe of tribble tribulations?
Where is Harlan Ellison or DC Fontana when you need them? Why is Gene Roddenberry gone? Did Stephen King actually devour him whole?
Which is better, Star Trek or Babylon5?
So many questions!
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The Atlanta Hartsfield airport is a chaotic mess for humans to deal with. Whether by fate, destiny or general malicious intent the place had infuriated Llew within a few minutes of deplaning.
The design and layout is not passenger friendly and is certainly Aos Sidhe hostile. The TSA harassment, luggage confusion, and the mixture of volatile emotions that surrounded him in the busy airport were all a designed inconvenience. Certainly it was all a pointless and unpleasant experience.
Llew mused that Loki must have been the architect and engineered the pointless, useless posturing pretending at combating terrorism.
Many people crowded together responding to the most powerful emotions around them. Operating in a biological feed back loop of pheromones, emotions, anxiety, fear and anger caused shedding of random pheromones in abundance.
The mixtures of the different pheromones were most fragrantly diverse. The volatile mixture, a taste of intoxication with revulsion, which further amplified the unpleasantness. Llew was convinced that he would never get the pheremonic residue out of his sweater.
Once he had found his duffle bag and retrieved a black anodized Aluminum case that happened to be the exact length of his arm, Llew made his way towards the main entrance. He climbed in the first rental car agency’s van he saw. It was past time to rent a car and hope Macha or Morgan would tell him where they were at. Badb surely only wanted mayhem and madness and gratuitous violence. Entertaining as that is, it served only as a distraction.
He knew a vague region and that was all. Without their cooperation he would spend months searching to no avail. Regardless he was on a quest. Part of the quest, is the journey. That is part of the problem of immortality. One learns and knows the patterns. After enough times though, it becomes boring. Hah, that arrogant perception brought new agonies. New twisted experiences. Llew, master of pointed riddles, sighed in understanding of the whole meaningless collapse of reality. The cat is alive, the cat is dead, the cat is taunting you, defying you, demanding you to look and see. Yet, in the end, the box is empty and Schroedinger was deceived.
Einstein and Podolsky and Rosen were all acolytes of Rambam. Llew had had his medieval Jewish doctor phase poised between the great teacher in the synagogues of Grenada, becoming Rambam
Yes, The irony is delicious. The great pagan god, the proto lucifer teaching Kaballah and Quantum mechanics.
Well irony is part and parcel now isn’t it?
I-75 goes straight through Atlanta. Morgan was enjoying herself weaving in and about the heavy eighty mile an hour traffic with reckless abandon. Laughing at a tricked out tuner, with its aggravating giant mosquito sounding muffler and purple flashing lights on the undercarriage. Morgan smacked her self in the head, ” Could of had a v-8" quoting from an old commercial.
Morgan pushed it further. With her reflexes one hundred twenty miles per hour in traffic was as easy as twenty. Well, as long as she had the opening. That was the fun.
She was not racing the drivers around her. In truth, they meant nothing more to her than those orange safety cones that line the highway. Safety cones that moved about randomly which gave it the challenge. Michael watched Morgan, her relaxed intensity was alluring. She is always a pleasure to watch.
Michael fortunately discovered that when he focussed upon Morgan, the constant mental chatter from the sword lessened. Evidently Michaels thoughts of Morgan were more than the sword could penetrate. He had determined that he was going to think about Morgan continuously. Not for the first time Michael wondered about the state of the thing between Morgan and himself. The time they had spent together in the other world was not the cause of this. He had no idea what to call it. Obsession? Possession? This thing had began the moment he had first seen Morgan. Before she had drained him. Before she had touched him he was already lost to her.
She is a wonder. Tell me does the darkness burn? Why, why yes it does ! Morgan is the living flame. Can ones soul burn? As Michael had discovered, yes it can. Morgan had set a fire that rather than consume him, it, enchanted? Is that the word? It seemed too ordinary to be the right word. She enchanted Me! Yeah, no. No matter how he said it in his mind did it work. Cast her spell? She is the spell, She is , Morgan is a Goddess, Michael was her high priest. Yes, Michael had to save that. Watching her reaction to being called a religion would be most intriguing.
Michael had yet to have the opportunity to process everything. So much had happened in the last week. So much in the here and now. The time in the other world was a whole different dragon to slay. A lifetime lived in moments packs quite a punch. Time truly is relative. Decades together in that place, that state of being had cemented the thing. Cemented? More like melted down and cast of pure Adamintium. That particular monument barely covered the strength of the physical bond let alone approached the entirety of this thing.
No woman had ever affected him like she had. In the very beginning he had been overwhelmed by the chaotic assault on existence that is Morgan. The whole transcendent reality of the Morrigna is in it’s self an assault on reality. Morgan is the twisted pattern welded blade of the Sword, Badb the silver fired razors edge of that blade, the point of the matter. Macha, the guard, hilt and pommel. The foundation that binds all of the majestic terror together. Together they formed a thing of awe. A viciously beautiful creature of storms. A weapon of the pure chaos of creation manifest. The cruel cut of fate. The burning darkness consuming the light. Her epithets are endless.
With the weight of all of that upon him it had been impossible to process quickly if at all. Michael could see the enormity of emotion that flowed between Morgan and himself. He tried to examine it, to understand it. Everytime he thought he had it gripped it changed, it transformed and he had to begin allover again. Is this thing, maddening thing, is this love? That chaos and madness could only be love. A love forged of the blackest crystalline unobtanium. Love, Michael had always assumed was made of unobtainium. That dream that hides in the depths, the dark of his mind. Does the darkness burn? Yes, the darkness burns black when devouring the light. Made of flames cast from love that consumes everything in existence.
Darkness is the devouring lover of light. Morgan is the dancing flame of darkness. Well damn!!! What the fuck does it mean when one can only form ideas of awe and prophetic experience?
Poetry, is the pressure release of the agony of existence. Michael, as high priest and chief acolyte, the lover of insanity, did not care. Let the universe burn! Been there, done that. Death, eternity, perception, have no meaning. Ruefully, Michael broke it down. For the Aos Sidhe, the only concern was what flavor time has wrought. Nothing else was of consequence. Is that all there is to this new experience? Feast, hunt, feast, to what purpose? To feast? To taste? Ahhh yes! To feast! To devour! To consume! To become! To be all. The voice cackled in Michaels mind. He had become distracted from Morgan, which opened the door for the sword and it’s circular obsession. The struggle began anew.
Morgan did not resist the spears attempts. She simply ignored them. Millennia of experience in categorizing memory, had created a labyrinth of thought and memory that absorbed the spears consciousness. With no focus, nothing to struggle with, the spear had no option but to wander through Morgans memories. There was no contest of wills there. That did nothing to mitigate the unwavering hunger. The emotional impact was a different beast to slay. The emotions of the spear flowed over Morgan in waves. The desires brought a deep aching need.
The emotions of the spear danced within her heart and inflamed her spirit. Her already fierce passions ignited and the fires of desire were lit. A stoked up Morgan is a volatile thing. One never knew how those flames would burn.
Chaos could be amusing. Wreaking havoc among the humans was her version of cow tipping. A bored Morgan is a hurricane poised to strike. An evil dream just waiting to be released.