The Journal of Michael O'Shane

Journal Entry – June 7, 2003

Charles asked me tonight why I still use the name Robin. I confess the inquiry took me aback at first. Why not use it? I have done so for twenty years now, so it hardly seems like the time to announce to everyone that I want to go by Michael alone; no more answering to two different names. I couldn’t though. Especially as I stopped to recall how that name first came to be.

Peter and I have had several discussions centered around the name over the past twenty years, especially after he stopped going by the name Flynn. Peter admitted he expected to find I’d gone back to being called Michael after we parted ways in Rome and while I did, I never eliminated “Robin” from my list of pseudonyms either. But why? Why hold onto it? After all, it was forced on me by Sabrina. There’s something to be said for nostalgia, though. And for brothers.
I have no idea why I got so agitated with him that night. It was a combination of several things, I suppose. Watching him talk with Sabrina, both of them sitting intimately close to one another. Sabrina whoring herself to Peter, teasing him with what a prostitute she’d become ever since San Francisco. I left her for some time because I could not choke back the bile in my throat each time I watched her thrust her femininity in the face of whomever she desired to control, and that night was no different. She fed it to him and he lapped it up like a dog.

The would-be seer; I grumbled a bit over that fact as well. Sabrina turned him for revenge. He became her prized gemstone because she found one of the mortals’ chief defenders and became quite pleased with herself at watching him become a bloodthirsty psychopath. I considered ending Peter to clean up the god-awful mess she made in turning someone who should not have been turned. Heaven only knows why I did not follow through with it before. That night, though, I nearly made good on ending him while in a fit of rage.

I deliberately provoked him. I threw him around and drew a sword with the intent of slitting his throat. It doesn’t take much to kill a neophyte vampire and Peter had only been immortal for mere months at that point. (Weeks, perhaps? I cannot recall offhand.) Against a one hundred year old elder, he stood no chance of making it out of the encounter alive.

Except for one thing. I’d caught him on a night when he was a bit incensed himself, making schemes about creating a new identity. Changing his name. Indulging in what I call the ‘rebirth syndrome’ when a young immortal attempts to distance themselves from the past by reinventing themselves – I considered doing it myself, in fact, until Sabrina told me she loved my name too much to have me change it. The minute Peter talked about a new life, the name Flynn flew out of my mouth to make a point to Sabrina I knew only she’d understand.

I never expected him to fight back.

Patrick Flynn never fought back. He became a vampire and ran away from Sabrina. It is a wonder he lived as long as he did, but Sabrina knew she made a mistake when she turned him. That night, I told Sabrina she made another mistake in taking this would-be seer and allowing him to be a part of a world where he didn’t belong.

But Peter drew his own sword and had me on my knees within minutes, his blade point pressed against my throat, shaming me in front of the entire coven. Just prior to defending himself, he countered with a wager that he’d have me on my knees and name me Robin and I accepted it before my eventual defeat. Sabrina’s words to me were, “You made your bed, now lie in it,” or something to that nature. The actual charge does not matter. It is what transpired after this that matters most.

I slowly stopped blaming Peter for the past and started taking care of him. Mentoring him the way I promised Sabrina I would. In exchange, my younger brother has become my best friend… while stripping me of any fear the remainder of my existence will be dull. Each time I consider dropping Robin from my aliases, something reminds me of the night I looked at Peter and told him he was a mistake and nothing more. The future certainly proved me wrong. We are each where fate has placed us, be we Michaels or be we Robins.

And with the people fate has destined will accompany us along the way.

Sláinte,
Michael