Disclaimer: Jim and Blair belong to people who don’t appreciate what they have.

Beta’d: Linda – ta muchly, you’re a star.

Rating: R-if you’re of sensitive disposition.

Warnings: Caveat Lector (see the rating, man). Personally, I think warnings spoil things.

MOTE

By Sealie

sealie1@hotmail.com or sealie@trickster.org

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own?’ Matthew: Chapter 7 Verse 3.

Preparation took three days. Three days that he deemed necessary to cleanse himself before his first meditation since the incident in the Fountain. His partner, Detective James Joseph Ellison, despite his heightened senses, had not noticed that his ersatz roommate only drank pure spring water and the most basic of foods and fruits for several days. But then again Ellison had some peculiar blind spots at the best of times.

Blair Jacob Sandburg set a pure beeswax, hand-dipped candle in the centre of the coffee table. Slowly, he walked around his impromptu altar—something was missing. Brow furrowed, he viewed his preparations: soft acoustic music—beating of drums—selected for continuous repeat; a wooden orb saturated with frankincense and neroli; a pile of plump cushions to sit upon; and, finally, a glass lantern (no bare naked flames allowed; he didn’t know how long he would be gone). There was still something amiss. He had taken a long hot shower, shaved twice and he now wore clean, new clothes. All had been set by the dictates of his own heart. Blair glanced around the loft, the sink wasn’t dripping and the oven was switched off. Then he darted across to the front door and double locked the deadbolt.

Everything was perfect.

It was time.

Gracefully, he settled into a lotus position before the candle. With an innate grace, which was rarely visible as he vibrated through his days, he placed the thick candle in the lantern. For a moment he looked at it—the wick untouched and the wax unmarred by flame—it seemed a pity to ravage such perfection.

Sighing, he took a match and then with great deliberation struck it. The light flared engulfing the bright red head. An acrid tendril of smoke snaked upwards and Blair automatically held his breath as he waited for it to dissipate. Slowly, he brought the flame to the wick.

‘Houston, we have ignition.’ He grinned at the irreverent thought, which was quite contrary to the atmosphere he wished to achieve. The match with a burnt head further disrupted the ambience. Resolute, he unfurled from his lotus position and padded, barefoot, to the sink. Carefully, he cooled the tip and then threw it into the garbage disposal.

Everything was now perfect.

One last thing—he made a quick dash into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped. For the first time in a long time his hair was untied, combed and unsnarled it was a riotous mass of curls. He had cut it recently, shearing away the long ends that pulled it down and flattened the natural bounce. But then, for some obscure reason, he kept it tamed with a strip of leather. Darker eyes than normal stared back at him, the blue shadowed by thunderclouds. The finest spray of lines gave his eyes unaccustomed depths. They hadn’t been there a year ago.

His eyes cast down, viewing this mature stranger. He should stay away from mirrors; he saw too much. The little chicken pox scar at the corner of his mouth was never going to fade—unaccountably that cheered him. His lips curved in an unconscious smile and the lines faded just a little bit.

Blair turned from the mirror and the unfamiliar image that it reflected. He dealt with his business automatically, wondering where this oh-so-serious meditation would take him, as he urinated. Abstracted, he washed his hands, re-situated his brand new silk boxer shorts underneath his brand new overly baggy cotton trousers. He let the matching cream tunic drape over the leggings. Naomi, his alternative religion—alternative everything—mother, would be so pleased with his outfit.

‘You look like a yogi, sweetie!’ her exuberant, imaginary voice was almost loud enough to hear.

It was time.

The flame was dancing joyously; a small well of molten wax had already formed. Once again he settled into a lotus position.

He focused on the candle, striving to clear his mind. Thoughts skittered, untamed. He had a spirit guide—he had seen it when he had been pulled from the spirit world. He had died. Or since he now walked and talked and breathed, perhaps he had not died? How could he say that he had died when he now ate and slept and dreamt? Semantics. One moment he had been in the waking world of pain and fear as a warped sentinel forced him head first from air into water and the next…

The fountain had been a bridge between worlds.

Then suddenly he had crouched beside a wolf in a forest grove. He had become the wolf and a whole new world opened up. He had been just about to explore further when the bereft lament of a jaguar stayed his feet.

Then he was back, cold and wet and coughing up slime.

And people were crying.

And nothing would be the same ever again.

He had tasted death and his balance had shifted in response. His spirit was defeated—he knew no other way to describe the feeling of tiredness and sorrow. But why sorrow? He lived—he had defied death—that was a reason to rejoice. His roommate rejoiced beneath a façade of distance. They were back together, living in the loft. Jim hadn’t thrown him out of the loft during the debacle with the thesis. That had been a nightmare of ultimate proportions. He had destroyed his old life and started anew. Within the week he would be enrolling in the police academy. In a few weeks he would be a fully fledged member of the Cascade P.D.

Yet now he flailed, looking for a tightrope as he stood on a precipice. He had to know the reason for his disquiet.

Blair relaxed into himself, striving to find that quiet place that brought him contentment. It was simply a matter of letting go. Calm mind. Still thoughts.

~*~

At peace, Blair opened his eyes.

He was back in the glade.

It was beautiful, vibrant green and alive. It called to him. Sunlight shafted through the foliage. The summer buzz of birds and insects ambled above his head. And there sitting in the cool shade of a tall oak tree a grey wolf laughed at him. Happy yellow eyes watched. Unafraid, Blair ventured forwards. A spirit guide. His spirit guide - that had to be a special kind of magic. Drawn, he crouched beside the wolf. His fingers tangled in coarse fur catching in the shorter, warmer hair beneath. The wolf still bore his winter coat.

“Do you feel the cold, boy?” he asked.

The wolf didn’t respond only leaning into the caress. Carefully, Blair teased his fingers through the fur, taming the few little knots that he found. The wolf nuzzled against his chest, sliding inevitably downwards until the majestic animal was sprawled on the grass accepting a tummy rub.

“You like that, don’t you. Yeah.”

He rubbed a furred belly losing himself in shared sensual pleasure. The wolf twisted beneath his hands, rising to bestow a long lick over Blair’s nose. The anthropologist laughed richly. Wise amber eyes smiled with him. And then with a flick of a tail, the wolf scampered away. The spirit paused at the edge of the glade looking over his shoulder. Caught between standing and sitting, Blair paused. The scene was eerily familiar. He had stood in this place once before when he had died. That time he had been called back to merge and return to his sentinel.

The wolf barked once drawing his attention from the material world. Blair bounded after him, his tongue lolling in a lupine laugh.

Was his hold on life so tenuous that he could turn his back on it without a backward glance?

~*~

Jim Ellison balked at the door, banging his hip against the wood as only one turn of the key failed to unlock the door. Weighed down by two shopping bags, he scowled at the door.

“Sandburg! Open the damn door.”

Grumbling under his breath, he waited impatiently for the ex-grad student to open the door.

“Sandburg, today...”

No answer. Muttering to himself, he set the bags on the floor and double turned the key to get into his home.

“I’m gonna... You better not... I know that you’re in there; I can hear music.” The door swung open. He froze on the threshold, brought up short by the atmosphere in the loft. The single candle cast soft shadows on his friend’s face. The essential oils permeating the room were a strange choice, they had him thinking reflective thoughts. Jim shook his head and slowly ventured into his home.

“Blair?” Usually the anthropologist responded when the detective interrupted his meditation sessions. This time he remained locked in his own type of zone.

“Fine, Chief. I’m making lasagne for dinner. I assume that’s okay.”

Jim dumped the bags on the counter and began to unpack—separating out the ingredients for the night’s repast and putting the rest away in their proper places. In short order, he had the iron bottomed skillet on the burner and was preparing their dinner.

Jim hummed to himself, content, as he browned the mince with onions and a hint of garlic. Mid stir, he stopped and peered at the anthropologist. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing.

“Sandburg?” he ventured.

Concerned, he crossed to the kid’s side. Automatically his senses extended, playing over the anthropologist, striving to catalogue the heartbeat and breathing pattern. There was no heartbeat.

“Shit!” Jim dropped to his knees in a half collapse-half controlled descent. His own heartbeat clamoured in his ears as he reached for his roommate. Blair sagged as Jim touched him, falling against the detective like a disconnected puppet. Jim braced him, allowing Blair to sprawl against his chest before curling over to gently lay him supine on the floor.

Jim tipped Blair’s head back clearing the airway. His touch told him a myriad of things; all bad. How could this have happened? Contrary to his senses, he plastered his ear against the anthropologist’s chest and listened with all his heart and soul.

“Please, please, please...” he didn’t hear his own plea. His fingers tangled in his roommate’s curls as his other hand pawed at the still chest.

‘Lub-lub’

A beat. A beautiful heartbeat.

~*~

Blair loped through the forest after the wolf. He thought that this was perfect. It was much nicer than the hot steamy jungle that Jim described on his spirit walks. It was the perfect temperature for running. He bounded over a fallen, moss covered tree trunk into another sunlit glade. Warmth washed over him as he came to a halt. Motes of pollen encircled him, drawing him with them.

He knew that the wolf was now at his heel. Entranced, Blair brought up his hand allowing his long fingers to disturb the pinpricks of light.

“So what lesson would you have me learn, wolf?” Blair asked. “Apart from obvious? This is a cool place.”

A low, rolling laugh heralded the wolf’s metamorphosis. The wolf’s legs stretched, hindquarters straightened and the paws extended to long, narrow hands. The short tufty fur on his head lengthened to dark brown curls as his ears became small and rounded. Blair faced himself, naked as the day he was born. An impish grin formed on the wolf’s face. Obviously entranced, the wolf ran his fingers along his chest, fingering the prominent ribs.

“Strange.” He smiled, showing sharp teeth.

“Personally, I think it’s a rather good body.”

The wolf cocked his head to the side as he scratched his ear. “It’s very wolfish.” He plucked at a chest hair. “Nice and compact. Muscular.” He stamped a bare foot against the grassy earth.

“My body is a temple,” Blair intoned, and then laughed, spoiling the effect.

“Yes, I like a good piece of steak every now and again.” Wolf crossed his legs and sat. “So you’re really getting into this shaman gig.”

“Is this what this is about?” Blair asked, pacing around the recumbent wolf.

“You tell me.” Wolf rolled onto his back and scratched his tummy.

“Great. Why all the metaphorical stuff? Can’t you just tell me? I’m not Jim; you just tell me something and it’ll sink in.”

The wolf laughed. “Even you don’t believe that it could ever be that easy!”

“So what have I got to do to achieve enlightenment?”

“Stop running.”

Blair jerked to a halt and stared down at the wolf, who was still sprawled on the grass.

“Stop running,” Blair echoed. “I’m not running.”

“If you say so.” Somehow Wolf shrugged whilst lying down.

“Okay, I’m not running.” Abruptly, Blair sat.

Wolf rolled onto his side propping up his head on one hand. “Maybe running’s not the right word. I might be speaking metaphorically.”

“Are you sure you’re not really ‘Coyote the Trickster’?”

“Well, he is my little brother so we might share a few characteristics.”

Blair rolled onto his back, cupping his hands behind his head. He stared up at the open sky and the eagles whirling over head. While this was pretty cool it wasn’t helping him.

The sun overhead was blindingly bright, almost like the light that had called him from the fountain. A low, distraught wailing entwined in his consciousness. Concerned, Blair sat up. During his moment of introspection, the wolf had reverted to his true form and watched him with warm, amber eyes.

“What’s that?” He clambered to his feet and listened. It sounded like a baby. An upset, hurting baby. The cries were coming from somewhere ahead.

Sitting on his hindquarters, the wolf remained in the glade. Blair stopped at the tree line and looked back.

“This is part of the lesson, isn’t it?”

The wolf shrugged, enigmatically. The crying increased, wailing in abject misery. Unable to ignore the siren like call, Blair scurried into depths of the woods.

The forest was still warm and inviting, Blair almost expected it to turn into a scene from a horror story. Imagery was the name of the game in a spirit world. The white light was ahead - he was running straight for its heart.

~*~

The baby was wailing in misery. Blair sobbed with it, kicking at the coarse blankets that swaddled his body. The room around him was dark and he couldn’t see many details over the high wooden sides of the crib.

‘Reality check,’ Blair thought, belatedly realising his position.

“How’s ma wee man?” A giant figure loomed over him. “Why all the noise?”

Equally large hands pulled back the blankets and cradled his tiny body. The sensation was beyond weird as he was lifted and draped across a warm, bare shoulder.

“Did you have a nightmare?” The soft lilt of the man’s voice was Scottish. “Stop your grizzling, Da’s here.”

Instinctively, Blair turned his head. His neck was wobbly, but he managed to look up at the man. He would recognise those eyes anywhere. The face was different and the hair bore a distinct red tinge, but despite the outward changes he knew in the depths of his soul that this was...

“Jim,” the softly spoken name was unrecognisable and only sounded like baby talk.

“There, there.” Rough hands patted his back. Blair could only see the large expanse of a hairless chest. Frustrated, he craned his neck looking around the room. The man holding him, reacted to his squirming, shifting him higher. Blair took the opportunity to look around. They were in a small room. The walls were constructed of large stones. In a shadowy corner a small doorway led off to another room. In the opposite corner a banked fire glowed in a large fireplace. He was distracted as a blanket was draped over his tiny body.

“Did you have a bad dream?” the man soothed, walking across the room to a rocking chair by the fire.

The large hands moved him again so he was cradled in one arm, braced against the chest.

“You miss your ma, don’t you? You don’t know where she’s gone.” A sad smile crossed his craggy face. “She’s with the angels, little man. It’s just you and me... now.”

Blair moved with his...father... as the man leaned closer to the fire, stirring it up and throwing on some more peat. One handed, the redhead ladled some grey concoction from a pot hanging over the fire into a square wooden plate. Then they sat back.

“Your wet nurse’s asleep,” the man continued conversationally. “You tire her out, you hungry little man.”

Blair kicked out at the hand holding his feet, testing the man’s grip—it was secure and comfortable. He watched as Jim took a spoonful of the stew and chewed thoroughly. He was feeling a little hungry himself. His stomach grumbled in response. Then Jim delicately transferred the contents of his mouth onto the spoon. Blair watched horrified as a spoon was then brought to his own lips.

The wood nudged against his mouth. Anthropologically speaking this was hardly unusual—before the advent of electricity and food processors, baby food had to be broken into little chunks somehow. He’d never had it demonstrated so...fundamentally before. Intrigued, he took another look around the room, ignoring the stew for the moment. The fact that he was in what could only be a nursery, and that he had a wet nurse, meant that the family was obviously well-to-do. As spirit walks went this was a doozy.

The spoon nudged against his lips again and obediently, Blair opened his mouth. He managed a few mouthfuls before a sleepy lassitude overtook him. Experienced hands moved him again onto a hard shoulder. His back was rubbed gently, until a nice, rich burp escaped.

A soft laugh reached his ears. Content, he was lifted and he didn’t protest as he was placed back in his crib.

“Are you going to let your Da get some sleep now?” Jim leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.

Blair batted out an uncoordinated hand and connected with Jim’s cheek. He managed to stroke it once, before the redhead caught it and tucked it under the blankets.

“I love you too. Go to sleep.”

It was impossible to not obey the order. Blair yawned once and drifted away.

~*~

White light shone in his eyes. Blair blinked furiously and focused on a shaft of sunlight shining through an open window. Intrigued, Blair stepped forwards. Another room but this was different again. Straight well-made walls surrounded a wide open room. The air was warm and scented with a floral bouquet. The windowsill was at a level with his head. He had grown but he was still a child. He looked down at himself, stocky prepubescent limbs and sandals told him little. He wore a simple white tunic gathered at the waist.

Blair clambered up onto the sill and peered through the window. Rolling, fertile plains stretched out before him. In the distance a smoking volcano caught his eye. He leaned out further.

“What are you doing!”

Hands caught him, he was braced against a hip and his bottom was smacked. What was it about adults and picking up children, Blair wondered. He didn’t remember feeling this vulnerable when he had been a child.

He was set down on his own two feet and a man loomed over him. A long aristocratic finger was waggled under his nose.

“Agrippina, how many times have I told you not to climb on the window sill?”

The man had a classic Roman nose and his olive tinged, aquiline features were framed by short grey curls. Blair squinted at his eyes trying to see a familiar essence. He didn’t recognise this man.

“Lots,” Blair hazarded, when it seemed apparent that the man wanted an answer.

“So why did you?”

“I wanted to see the volcano.”

“Are you talking back to me, young woman?” Hands on hips, the man was almost a caricature of a concerned parent.

“No, sir.” Blair chewed on his bottom lip; he had no idea how old he was supposed to be and didn’t want his words to sound too adult.

“Next time, go down to the orchard. And no climbing the trees.”

Sighing deeply (Blair got the distinct impression that this Agrippina was a wilful little person), the man tousled his hair. Blair stood quietly until the man, who he supposed was his father, exited the room. He then took stock. In the far corner of the airy bedroom was a bronze polished mirror and a bowl of water on a dresser. Blair took the opportunity to look at himself.

Blue-black curls tumbled past his shoulders. A hooked aristocratic nose was too big for his face. Big brown-black eyes made him look a bit insipid. Despite that he was a little on the chubby side, he could see the family resemblance with the man who had chastised him. It was also blatantly obvious that he was female.

‘Okay, I’m a girl and I’m somewhere nice and sunny. And, I look like I’m about four.’

He clambered of the stool beside the mirror snagging a pear from the overfilled bowl beside the mirror. Happily munching, he toddled out of the room. Jim Ellison had to be somewhere, it was just a matter of finding him.

Searching the one level house from room to room yielded no Jim, but he did find the atrium of what was probably a roman villa. His father was resting under the shade of a cherry tree—improbably growing in the central court of the house.

“Hello, Pina, did you lose your cat?”

Mutely, Blair shook his head, but then nodded, it was, in fact, a good description of a certain sentinel who had a black jaguar spirit guide.

“I think I saw Augustus chasing his tail in the kitchen,” the man volunteered.

“Sir.” A small, rotund man bounced into the atrium. “You have a visitor.” The servant stepped aside to reveal a tall, young sapling of a man under the rounded arch of the doorway.

The man