Niethan
04-17-2007, 04:14 PM
The mirror was cracked at the edges. The silver had bubbled with age, and the glass was clouded from smoke. Or was it that the air was smoky? It was so thick, Niethan could not tell how far away the mirror was from where he was seated on the floor.
Niethan tilted his head. The shadow in the glass followed suit. He couldn't see the figure there, but he recognised the shape. The man in the mirror-- or was it a boy? No, it was a man-- was all hard edges and indistinct features. He cast his eyes about for a different reflection.
Near his knee was a knife, made of clear silver and with tracery around the hilt, giving it a mystical appeal. But as he picked it up, Niethan found it was a butcher's knife, the kind he used in cooking. He enjoyed making meals for those he loved.
The reflection here was clear, and the shadow of his face showed a boy. Too big for his own self, and made clumsy by the descrepancy. The boy had soft hair, with slight kinks from having been braided and petted. He looked almost sorrowful. Or was it regret?
Niethan looked back to the mirrored man. Mirrorman was leaning against the frame of the mirror, like he'd seen it all before and was just waiting, now. Niethan looked back to the shadow of the boy. The boy refused to meet his eyes.
Niethan was perplexed. He understood, someow, that he couldn't watch both reflections, and they changed if he looked away. The knife was pretty and clean and fit well in his hand, and the mirror across the room was pitted and scarred.
But the boy was looking away. And Mirrorman was waiting for him.
Niethan fixed his eyes on the distant figure. Perhaps the Mirrorman was waiting for this, as when Niethan turned away from the knife, the figure raised one of his own. He brought the ritual knife up and pressed it against his phantasmal chest.
Niethan mirrored him. The boy's knife cut easily through his chest, slicing into the bone with little difficulty. He pushed the blade in until it hit something that jumped like a nerve, sending a shock of pain to his toes. He could feel it jumping and trembling against the blade-- he'd just pierced his own heart.
But Mirrorman wasn't done. He brought the blade down, then finally pulled it out only to open his smoky chest like a purse. Niethan copied him, not daring to watch what he was doing. His ribs popped open with a wet snap, and with his eyes still on the Mirrorman, Niethan reached in and pulled out his heart. Satisfied, the figure retreated back into the mirror.
Now he was without direction. Feeling a thread of unease start in his stomach, Niethan looked to the boy in the knife, but the blade was covered in blood. The boy was gone, or perhaps fled.
With little else to do, Niethan looked at his heart. It was scarred, pieces of it looked burned or clawed. And the cut he'd inflicted was still fresh. It weeped glass. Niethan turned the organ over in his hands to see the old hurts, and the glass slipped over it and hardened, leaving Niethan with a clear, fragile sphere encasing his heart.
Niethan looked at it, making a wordless sound of distress. It was certainly pretty, and the empty ache where it was told him it was precious. But he was clumsy, and with it made of glass if he were to drop it, it would shatter and be cut to ribbons. Turning the sphere over in his hands, he wondered if perhaps he already had. It looked like he'd mistreated it terribly.
Perhaps someone less clumsy could hold it for him? Feeling more optomistic, Niethan closed his ribcage with another wet snap, then stood and walked to a nearby window to search for someone to give his heart to.
He could see Vilmah outside, but as he watched Nojinbu took her hand, and they walked off together. Diomades was nearby, but he was looking through the building, not at it. He saw Ammyra, the human girl, and saw the long road ahead of her-- she was still very young, and the boy in his knife was gone.
And there was Sulajin. The orb in his hands throbbed when Niethan laid eyes on the mage; he was something nearly otherworldly, passionate and strong. The mage looked up towards the window, and smiled. The sphere in Niethan's hands felt light and whole, and he leaned out closer to perhaps give the mage the precious object.
Sulajin's eyes weren't following him. Niethan watched, stilled, as Khiskiva walked towards him and was embraced. Together they turned away from the window, and after a moment, Niethan pulled himself back inside. He stood in the center of the room and looked down, mutely, at his heart in his hands.
When Niethan woke up he stared at the celing for a very long time.
Niethan tilted his head. The shadow in the glass followed suit. He couldn't see the figure there, but he recognised the shape. The man in the mirror-- or was it a boy? No, it was a man-- was all hard edges and indistinct features. He cast his eyes about for a different reflection.
Near his knee was a knife, made of clear silver and with tracery around the hilt, giving it a mystical appeal. But as he picked it up, Niethan found it was a butcher's knife, the kind he used in cooking. He enjoyed making meals for those he loved.
The reflection here was clear, and the shadow of his face showed a boy. Too big for his own self, and made clumsy by the descrepancy. The boy had soft hair, with slight kinks from having been braided and petted. He looked almost sorrowful. Or was it regret?
Niethan looked back to the mirrored man. Mirrorman was leaning against the frame of the mirror, like he'd seen it all before and was just waiting, now. Niethan looked back to the shadow of the boy. The boy refused to meet his eyes.
Niethan was perplexed. He understood, someow, that he couldn't watch both reflections, and they changed if he looked away. The knife was pretty and clean and fit well in his hand, and the mirror across the room was pitted and scarred.
But the boy was looking away. And Mirrorman was waiting for him.
Niethan fixed his eyes on the distant figure. Perhaps the Mirrorman was waiting for this, as when Niethan turned away from the knife, the figure raised one of his own. He brought the ritual knife up and pressed it against his phantasmal chest.
Niethan mirrored him. The boy's knife cut easily through his chest, slicing into the bone with little difficulty. He pushed the blade in until it hit something that jumped like a nerve, sending a shock of pain to his toes. He could feel it jumping and trembling against the blade-- he'd just pierced his own heart.
But Mirrorman wasn't done. He brought the blade down, then finally pulled it out only to open his smoky chest like a purse. Niethan copied him, not daring to watch what he was doing. His ribs popped open with a wet snap, and with his eyes still on the Mirrorman, Niethan reached in and pulled out his heart. Satisfied, the figure retreated back into the mirror.
Now he was without direction. Feeling a thread of unease start in his stomach, Niethan looked to the boy in the knife, but the blade was covered in blood. The boy was gone, or perhaps fled.
With little else to do, Niethan looked at his heart. It was scarred, pieces of it looked burned or clawed. And the cut he'd inflicted was still fresh. It weeped glass. Niethan turned the organ over in his hands to see the old hurts, and the glass slipped over it and hardened, leaving Niethan with a clear, fragile sphere encasing his heart.
Niethan looked at it, making a wordless sound of distress. It was certainly pretty, and the empty ache where it was told him it was precious. But he was clumsy, and with it made of glass if he were to drop it, it would shatter and be cut to ribbons. Turning the sphere over in his hands, he wondered if perhaps he already had. It looked like he'd mistreated it terribly.
Perhaps someone less clumsy could hold it for him? Feeling more optomistic, Niethan closed his ribcage with another wet snap, then stood and walked to a nearby window to search for someone to give his heart to.
He could see Vilmah outside, but as he watched Nojinbu took her hand, and they walked off together. Diomades was nearby, but he was looking through the building, not at it. He saw Ammyra, the human girl, and saw the long road ahead of her-- she was still very young, and the boy in his knife was gone.
And there was Sulajin. The orb in his hands throbbed when Niethan laid eyes on the mage; he was something nearly otherworldly, passionate and strong. The mage looked up towards the window, and smiled. The sphere in Niethan's hands felt light and whole, and he leaned out closer to perhaps give the mage the precious object.
Sulajin's eyes weren't following him. Niethan watched, stilled, as Khiskiva walked towards him and was embraced. Together they turned away from the window, and after a moment, Niethan pulled himself back inside. He stood in the center of the room and looked down, mutely, at his heart in his hands.
When Niethan woke up he stared at the celing for a very long time.