Standing right outside of the chamber, the girl's fingers hovered above the metallic knob, showing clear hesitation as to whether or not she should enter. The wide hallway was showered in golden daylight, its caress that of hope and clarity. It had been several days since the embrace of the souls had altered her, since Keeper had last emerged to find her. Of course, he was always there. The sanity and peace that she had found ever since the return in Silvermoon was made was his gift, one treasured and appreciated. Now, there was only one door separating her from its loss and the projection of the obscure guardian. Who could truly blame her for the reluctance? Who would step out of the light to meet the darkness?
Slowly but surely, the fingers of the bandaged hand embraced the knob, lowering it slowly. There was no need to examine her surroundings, in fear of being caught as she engaged in such action. Yes, the room still belonged to her, but to enter was laced with guilt, the irrational fear that takes hold of a mind when they know they are up to no good. No one was there, though. Theradrim was occupied in the Spire at that hour. The maids occupied, gossiping in their quarters. The young elf was all alone.
Click. No going back. On the other side, the complete lack of illuminance was broken as a shred of light reached for the chamber, gradually growing into a path. Now, Celysiel's wide eyes could see the still, thick vines whic were spreading across walls and furniture alike, just like she remembered. But they appeared dead under the light's rays, as if the peculiar life sustaining them for so long had fled from within. It did not trouble the apprentice. She knew that to judge with her eyes would only lead her to a false conclusion.
The girl's fingers abandoned the knob, so she may walk in the path that the rays were opening into the dark room. The scent that welcomed her was that of decay: dust, along with humidity. Right there, on the golden road, it was the right moment to give into the doubt and reluctance, to turn back when there was still time. Yet when Celysiel did so, it was to close the door, letting the chamber sink into darkness.
Not that it was completely dark in the room. The daytime had its way of becoming known to whomever trapped inside, as stray rays of sunlight invaded through the strictly shut curtains. Their radiance, however, was weak, no match for whatever stirred deep within the walls. Shapes were more than clear, as where some details. The wrinkling of the sheets, though they had not been used for far too long, the decoration of a jewelley box, as tiny pearls adorned it, the small stripes on a forgotten quill. But none of that interested the apprentice. Her eyes sought something else.
It was in the corner, standing tall and forgotten, concealed by white sheets lightly greyed by the dust. What hid beneath, the young elf knew. There was nothing more horrific than the other, the twisted reflection in the mirror. Now more than ever, it was her desire to have Keeper by her side, but the imaginary guardian's words rang into her mind. He came when he was needed, not wanted. She was all alone. And all alone meant the freedom to defy.
Her hand rose slowly, as if led by fate. Stretched fingers reached out for the sheets, so close, so near. All it would take was just the soft flick of her wrist when the hook would have been made, to tug the shield between two worlds, let her reach for the cold reflection. The fingers of her left hand twitched with euphoria.
It was the bandage that clouded Celysiel's mind and made her pause, then pull back. The girl's eyes were wide as big steps were made further from the item. "No." she could only whisper. The right hand came to hold the left wrist, restraining it. "No." she repeated, alone in the room.
Eventually, she stopped. Her soft features became neutral for once more, as the stimulus of her deepest terrors remained still in front of her. It was easy to blame it on Sherazel, to say that a seed of insanity still lingered within after the souls of Val has whispered in her ear, but Celysiel knew that it was all far from the truth.
What is it that you are afraid of? asked a little voice in her head.
The night sky. Planet bodies. The Twisting Nether. The depths, underwater. Anything vast, anything dark, anything wide, anything big. The mirror.
The mirror...
Women looked at it with vanity, calling it their beloved friends. Some felt hatred for it, calling it their enemy. But none feared it. None could understand. It was that specific mirror. In that specific room.
"Am I losing my mind?" the young apprentice silently whispered, disturbing the silence of the room. "Am I dreaming?"
A low cackle echoed somewhere in the depths of her mind. But it was not coming from the mirror. It was a side of herself, amused. A voice. The one never to go away.
For a bright, prosperous soul, there was so much pain, in so little time. If pain could be undone by reliving a memory, fear could extinguish by confronting the source. Celysiel, though, did not pull down the drape to look at her reflection. She did not set the concealed mirror ablaze. It was part of the room. It was part of home. Something lightly swirled into the locket. An emotion. Excitement. Passivity and dominance. Acceptance. The girl felt it at her fingers, the left hand beckoning. So simple. She merely succumbed to it.
Days long, the source of the fear and weakness she had been looking for was in the Scourge and the the treats of time's end, avoiding Sherazel, avoiding the wrath and denial of those close, avoiding something stronger. Where true strength lay.
It came as tendrils of smoke first, soft and morbid, dark, with a hue of purple to dance in the obscure room. If anyone was there to see them, they say they moved like spasming snakes, with a will of their own, rather than that of the summoner. But gathering to the palm, their shape was undone. It did not form a core, like fel would, but a layer. The coated hand reached forth.
In the past, such power had harmed. But she did not want to harm anymore. Not that, not the mirror. The palm moved closer, fingers stretched, longing, waiting to make contact.
But when the contact came, it was only a glove touching the shield of a dusted sheet. The shadow had disappeared.
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