Snow-white strands were smoothed gently by the large, silver brush, one of the most valuable items that could be found in the former merchants' residence. Its trail followed that of the wonderful, alabaster waves, long as they were to reach beyond their owner's waist. Now, they were resting over her shoulder as she was tending to the beautiful tufts, their length her pride and joy, their colour something hated, for it lacked the radiance and mystery of all other women, as she believed. To the world, the youth was certain she merely looked like a forlorn phantom.
Yet that somehow did not matter as she was finally doing one of her favourite past-times, even if one as selfish as tending to her own appearance. Her hair. For that, there was always a ritual that had to be followed. It had to be done before she got dressed, still in her white underdress, sitting on the perch of her own bedroom's window, while being completely alone. Not that she would oppose if one was there to watch; never would Celysiel reveal her true preference. It was one of those cherished moments of absolute solitude, those moments meant for herself alone. There was no excuse good enough for anyone to trespass.
Her eyes were closed to the morning's blinding light, though the bare skin of her upper chest and arms could feel its warmth, drinking from it. How wonderful it was not to be able to feel cold and shiver just while standing in front of the window! From below, the sounds of the market were vivid. Calls for fresh products or better prices, people greeting each other under their so adored sun. Celysiel too adored the sun. She loved their voices, though weaved them like a veil around her, a circular border which she would not touch and would not let touch her.
Within the moment slumbered a memory. It always did. It lived there, at the pleasant tickle the brushed tufts offered to her skull, the serenity that came with something as simple as taking care of her mane. It only took a sliver of imagination in order to feel...
Warm hands on cold skin. Gentle and soft as they sometimes collided with her neck, a fleeting touch, a caress. They collected her long mane behind her back, with every last strand, before setting the brush on the beautiful locks, so to untangle them. Distant were the sound of the market below, drowned by the gentle humming of a sweet voice behind the girl, so young as she was, about the age of seven, maybe eight. A little princess of ice that always needed to be taken care of.
"We should take better care of your hair, my little sparrow." the woman whispered, her tone betraying that she was smiling. "The Midsummer's festival is near. Will it not be wonderful to weave flowers in your braid? Yellow and red, like the fire.
And her tender tune continued, now in the form of singing. It was a soft nursery rhyme, a short lullaby, a welcome, a greeting, a farewell. It was the root of a beautiful life. When her words finally came to a pause, the smile became wider. From the window blew a soft breeze, swaying between ginger hair that carried the scent of daisies and sandalwood.
She tucked a snowy tuft behind the little girl's long ear, before her fingers stroked the precious daughter's cheek. "And we should take good care of you, my little sparrow. For one day, you will grow to be an eagle. Until that day comes, though, we must see to your frail health."
"Yes mother." Celysiel heard her voice say. It was silken, though nowhere near that of a child. Long years had to be set behind her. She lowered the brush and tightened her closed eyes, doing her best to hold the threatening tears at bay.
"Violets and daisies will always keep you safe." she heard the memory whisper.
"Violets and daisies." agreed the apprentice in a broken tone.
When she opened her eyes, the chamber that was always kept to herself bore little to betray the passing of time. The tomes of the dark arts, as well as the regeants, were hidden away, as if their presence would taint the purity of another time. There were, however, Thaelen's flowers by the window. There was a young woman by their side, her body so different from that of a child. And there was, of course, the mirror.
It was a mirror which she had promised herself would not be touched, not without the other half that was locked away for so long to give place to weakness. However, that other was not desired, not at that very moment. It took so little to fool the youth into believing that the scent of daisies and sandalwood still lingered in her old bedroom, as if her mother had only exited a few seconds ago. How hurting the truth was, how different from a wishful mind's imagination. The ghost of Dyandria was the only thing that remained, a sorrowful shred, a bitter memory.
What drew her to stand and approach the source of her greatest fear was unknown. The large mirror stood leaning against the two walls as they met in the corner, where it had been placed, the silver frame shyly peeking out of the heavy, white sheet that covered the glass. The girl's hand, the right, reached out, fingers outstretched, as if to meet the covers. In her ears still rang that song of her childhood. How happy those years were.
Is that what she thought would hide on the other side of the sheet, that such would be the reflection to greet her? A little child with a pink ribbon on her snowy locks, wearing an ivory dress, with her mother by her side? An image of better times? But as the tip of her digits brushed against the cloth, a sting assaulted her chest; her left hand rose instantly to grasp the right one's wrist and lower it against the white underclothes. Gone were the days of innocence, the days of light. Now, all that awaited at the other side was a derisive whisper, a perverted image. Celysiel feared her, not what she looked like, not that she lingered in the other side of any mirror, any reflection. That she was that woman at the other side. A part of her banished and made real, though what could stop two reaching hands from one day uniting?
The young woman fell to her knees and, with her back leaning against the ominous mirror, closed her eyes. The stream of tears was finally allowed to find its desired release through tension for all that was lost. Golden rays of sunlight were sliding through the ethereal silks hanging in front of the window, shaken into their dance, gracefully moving to the tune of that one last lullaby.
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