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Mirror, Mirror!: Part Four


by shelbymcb85

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Alana looked at her own reflection, smiling back at her. She'd come a long way and had seen a lot of things as a Double Agent, a spy, and a thief, but nothing so much chilled her as this sight. It was herself, but not herself. It was the person she'd seen in the mirror in the cold, lonely room. It was that temptation and mistrust that she knew had lurked there from the very beginning.

     She had no other choice, and without another word, Alana turned and ran to the creek bed. Scrambling the cold waters to hide the reflective surface, which only glimmered at her all the more in their cruel, mocking ways. The frills ruffled against the water as she sought the sealed bottle of milk under the surface, unsure of why she was so focused on this menial task.

     Her mind screamed at her, This isn't right! This is all wrong! This is not home and you should get back to where you belong—but she still persevered. Have to keep things orderly and right, said another voice. This is home. You are safe here. So very safe. Why muck things up now...?

     The water settled beneath her submerged paws, and she found herself staring downwards. No frills nor ruffles, no dress nor eerie smile remained. It was just Alana, as she knew herself from the moment she stepped onto the earth with open eyes. Just herself and the plain brown dress. All the essential elements—the agent, the thief, the spy, the regretful young woman, the guarded secrets set in her own eyes. She stood slowly, shaken, and with her mouth agape. A thief’s thoughts rose to the surface, and her spy's experience hissed through her mind, the double betrayal of kingdoms and princes leading her thoughts to speak what she knew was true.

     "Only nature can tell you what is true! Drink not their drinks, eat not their foods. Break their bread with it but let none touch your tongue! Beware your step. Dreams do not come so kindly in a land made of nightmares. Watch your back and keep an eye on the shadows..."

     A stone thrust into the pond disrupted her frantic thoughts and she looked up, half-turning as she did so, paws clutching the jar of milk tightly as she did so, her eyes wide. Norward stood above her, half grinning, and she stood slowly, watching him.

     That smile was old and familiar on his face, but it suddenly seemed to shine too brightly, and seemed too there for it all to be quite real. Norward had always had a modest look, despite his brilliance, but here his ego shone like a massive star. I know him better, she thought!

     He ceased his smiling suddenly, and spoke, his voice striking her as cold with sudden, unexpected indifference. The air chilled, and she felt smaller.

     "It's suppertime. I hope you're hungry, dear sister.” A pause. “Alana? Supper is going to go cold if you aren't in soon, and p'pa will be upset. He's worked hard." Another pause.

     "The milk is cold?"

     Alana stared at her brother in incredulity, a ripple of fear running along the length of her spine. She swallowed and turned the jar of milk gently in her paws, ignoring the cold as the evening wore on. She swallowed hard, and forced a smile, not daring to look him directly in the eyes, as her thoughts rose to the surface

     Break their bread, but don't let a crumb of it touch your lips...

     She shifted her weight carefully, ascertaining to not gain too noticeably a guarded stance, though she could certainly feel so. She nodded slowly.

     "Surely, brother, as the stream flows. I'll follow in after you. Forgive my hesitance—I thought I had seen rogues on the horizon."

     Her brother's attitude changed from cool indifference to a sudden wariness as he turned to the hills in the distance, frowning.

     "Probably just a reflection of starlight on evening's frost, sister. Nothing to worry yourself with. Come along."

     He turned swiftly back to the cottage, and she paused. She daren't look behind her. Frost was not to be on the hills in this weather. With an unhesitant reluctance, she moved after him. Passing the pan, she did not oblige her reflection so much as a glance. She knew far better. What was smiling after her was not to be seen...

     The sun was nearly down now, its fingers of gold stretching vainly into the darkening hues of rosy pinks, purples and indigo. As they moved into the small cottage, she could have sworn she saw the distant shapes of nature on the horizon flicker and gray. She attributed it quickly to her imagination--although, her mind spoke with a sneering air, that's all this place really was. She shook her head to clear these thoughts—No! She was home. There was no lie here.

     Except...

     She was distracted as the door thudded shut behind her, sounding heavier than it ever had before she'd left. The sweet, almost sickly smell of vegetables steamed with beef and onion stew curled against her, wafting around the small room like faerie's lights at festival. The babaas used to make the stew—not just wool animals, for certain--weren't too elderly, but there to be readily used. The PPL doesn't bother with rural areas, for fear of being asked to count obstinately large amounts of potatoes while farmers go to 'fetch' the livestock.

     The cabin was warm now, and the table's spread, while meager, turned Alana's stomach into a beast, roaring in protest. It'd been a long time since she'd had a hot meal not bought from a cart or stolen from a vendor on the street corners. The Citadel wasn't too extensive in its dietary regimen, and the food to be bought in Meridell was none too exciting, nor filling as any food from home could ever be. It's this way the world over: nothing satisfies the appetite such as a meal made from scratch in one's own hovel, live you in a cave or palace. Nothing can beat it, surely, with only some strange exceptions. It was the lack of care and love poured into food, she'd noted. Nothing quite ever compared to clumsily made dinners, so long as they'd been made with absolute care and affection in the hearts of the makers; not even the most expensive and fragile of gourmet foods.

     Golden bread, fresh from the small oven in the corner, glazed with tender oil and butter, browned to perfection alongside a meager dish of honey'd butter. A small hunk of soft, nutty cheese sat alongside the spreading knife, gently peeled of its wax and molds. Water chestnuts, vaguely stewed alongside thin pieces of bacon, all gristle and no meat to them. Alana's stomach, now obnoxious in its vocals, roared like a small, determined opponent against a horde of gladiators. This was most certainly unfair—all logic said this was fine to eat, and even better to partake in, but her experience clawed at her. Never accept a meal from strangers, no matter how certain you are to know them. It was a quick way to poison. From kings to paupers, it could get to anyone.

     With paws trembling, she managed to scrape back one of the sturdier chairs propped around the room, and sat delicately at the table, placing the cold, condensation lined jar of milk very carefully. It gleamed, tempestuous in the low light of the fat-burning lantern. Norward and her father, strangely, just smiled at her. Neither inclined to take a seat. Her father spoke up first, directing his careful, kind words to her.

     "Do you want to start, pumpkin?"

     Alana's sense kicked in, as though a bucket of water had been thrown over her. She looked at him carefully, and spoke as though treading on thin ice, "You've never called me pumpkin, ever. And you hate squash—they attract pests."

     Her father's smile faltered.

     "Only a term of endearment, my child."

     She frowned, now, and pressed against the table to stand, scowling.

     “I’ve spoken back. You’d usually have told me to shut me gob, p’pa.”

     She hadn’t meant to be so crass about it, nor so foul in her retribution to the conversation, but she was suddenly incredibly aware of how this wasn’t right. Her father’s expression, along with Norward’s, both changed quickly. Her father, through sudden, strange narrowed eyes that were eerily unfamiliar to her, growled in a voice that was like his but not his own.

     “Well, it’s just been so long—”

     Alana stared, but it wasn’t at him. The stew in the pot had boiled over into a foul mess and curdled towards the fire, molted in appearance, the texture of sludge and muck. There was nothing edible to be seen in it, unlike mere moments ago, where it had bubbled and thrived with edible, delicious looking livelihood. The food on the table crumbled and molded, masses of inedible drudgery, rotting quickly, as though it was all in a hurry to catch up to the twelve years since she’d been gone. Even the table groaned, and the house’s support frames visibly weakened, as though infested by mould and termites abundant.

     She chose the wrong moment to look up, and found herself screaming. Her father aged incredulously, and Norward faded, no, crumbled out of existence. Lurching forward, burdened with his sudden years, her father, or that thing which claimed to be him, snarled at her with vicious fervor.

     “Start! Let us be together! I can turn all this back, I can, I can–Just start, start..!”

     A specter stepped from the shadows, or, rather, came forth, dragging the shadows with it like they were stitched together. It was herself, or perhaps the reflection of herself, pretty and vapid in appearance, dark and ragged at its edges. It smiled like a broken plate, wickedness and grace and shame all in one go.

     “You know how happy we could all be. Everything would be lovely and pretty, so, so pret—”

     Alana cut her off, guardedly. Up her sleeve rested a silvery paring knife from the table, and she held it now, defensively as she bellowed at the thing, “I don’t seek lovely, pretty things! I seek only home!” Anger coursed through her, and she continued, snarling her words, letting her emotions best her.

     “I don’t know who you think you’ve got conned into this false place, but it was never a little girl who wanted a pony, or a castle, or any frivolous nonsense. It was a girl who woke up at sunrise and worked until her hands rubbed raw. A girl who knew, oh, Fyora, KNOWS, that a pony would only be more work, and the only thing a castle’s walls are good for is scaling!”

     She stepped forward, and tossed her hair from her eyes, the look of an enraged thief all across her features.

     “I am no frilly, impatient young girl in a dress. I wear boots. I steal. I lie. I cheat. I’m immeasurably human in this land of dreaming! I work hard to make things right even if I have to go about doing wrong to get it done. I take no side but my own!”

     The shadowy mirror image of herself sneered, “Such selfish perceptions.”

     Alana snarled and shook her head. “Selfishness keeps you alive.”

     She rushed forward with the knife, and roared, “I was not looking for myself in your mirror, and now, I choose to look away!”

     Her arm plunged on through nothing. The air ripped apart, and the silvery, rising moon, that shining mirror of the sun outside and above, was flooded with inky blackness...

     ----------------------------------------------------

      In the small room, the candle guttered to life, and Alana, the Zafara Double Agent, was sprawled across the floor. The mirror gleamed quietly, but it reflected only wall and candle, seemingly ignoring Alana altogether.

     Slowly, Alana sat up, shaken. Not daring to face the thing, nor look at it directly, she gathered the sheet in her hands. Shutting her eyes, she turned, and covered the wretched material, the wretched dream catcher, with the plain white sheet.

     “Eight thousand miles, forty years, and twelve steel castles couldn’t put me far enough from this accursed thing!” she growled, as the deed was gone. Thankfully, she, or rather, her voice, had no response, either internally or externally. She sagged, sitting down, and leaned against her hands along the floor, panting vaguely from sudden, inexplicable exhaustion. What strength had allied her earlier, had abandoned her now.

     “Good to hear. That usually tends to be the sentiment of those who actually escape the thing...”

     Alana jumped, and spun to her feet with sudden urgency. She groped for the candle and held it up like a saber to the source of the voice, which came from the shadows, smiling dully. Alana switched for her dagger in her left paw, carefully, eyes narrowing. Stepping out now was the previously unnamed client, whose identity was now alarmingly apparent. Alana’s eyes widened and adjusted to her overall gloom, as Vira, the embodiment of cursed vanity, gave her a dull, but curdling smile.

     “Glad you made it.”

      Alana lowered her dagger warily, frowning,

     “You wanted this... this thing?”

     Vira shrugged casually, moving next to the mirror quietly, running her hands along the sheet.

     “Don’t be so surprised. I’m rather infamous for my love of mirrors, you know.” She laughed drily, and Alana frowned. Vira glanced at the covered portal.

     “Mirrors like this one, exactly like this one, got me where I am now.”

     Alana swallowed.

     “So this—This mirror, and you-- You were the—In the tower? Before all the—”

     Vira nodded vaguely and frowned, “Lets keep the sentence fragments to a minimum, kid.

     “Now,” she continued, “Believe what you want, although I’d hoped the mirror might have taught you a little more about,” she paused and chuckled, drily, “stories.”

     Alana reflected silently in the gloom, frowning. Vira glanced at her claws and examined them vaguely, as Alana spoke up, quietly.

     “So it was just a story?”

     Vira nodded. “Yes, just a story. And what do the world’s stories do in our nightmares? They warp, they twist. When you’re looking for a truth in them, all you find are more fables, and everything goes awry...”

      Alana nodded now, muted by thought. Her lips pursed and Vira sighed openly, looking over at her piteously as the Zafara balled her fists and clenched her jaw.

     “Stories show you everything you could ever hope for, don’t they? The real world is such a cold place once you get past the happily-ever-afters.”

     Alana nodded, dumbly. The quiet of the room expanded to an oppressing force, almost crushing in its weight. Alana spoke up, quiet and hurt. “...I think I disagree. It... it showed me my family.”

     Vira paused and murmured, “It knows how to wound.”

     Alana looked up and shook her head. “No. It knew how to open my eyes.”

     Vira stared. “What-What do you mean?”

     Alana smiled quietly. “Leave another to take my place, Vira. Pay someone else. I don’t think I’ll be back again, and there are plenty more capable thieves.” She paused and shrugged. “Well, I’ve lied. I think I will return, someday, but now? It doesn’t seem right. The world doesn’t need any more evil from my hands, however.”

     She turned to the mirror and moved carefully. Time seemed to slow briefly between the two as her hands reached for the top length, leaning against the far wall. Vira’s voice was soft and alarmed, almost with a razor’s edge. “W-what are you doing?”

     Alana glanced back, and pulled her hood over her eyes. She shifted her weight against the floor, her dusty, worn boots scuffling the wood ever so slightly.

     “I,” she said, with defiance radiating through her voice, “am going home.”

     The pale silver of the mirror shattered beautifully on the floor. Vira’s scream was muted by the gorgeous cacophony of the raining glass, and the silver faeries on the mirror’s frame were frozen midflight as they crashed against the wood and dust. A web of silver glass sprawled across the room like broken ice on a pond, and footsteps that had paced the background in the shadows were now ultimately silenced.

     A cloak rustled in the darkness, and two cold and evil forces filtered through the room, as a stealthy, not quite evil, but selflessly selfish force of her own crawled out the window, down the side of the building, and nestled into a passing cart to find her way home.

     Vira had vanished with the shattering of the mirror, but among muck and rags, Alana knew quietly that she’d return. But, for now, the promise of something better kept her spirits high.

     As she rode, dawn dusted the long horizons, and far below the Citadel the fields of Meridell sparkled in the sunlight, with babaas grazing and the long working day ahead, Alana’s home waited, just as it always had.

The End

Author's Note:

...Did I make it? Er, I guess if you’re reading this, I have. Thank you, Droplet, for going over this and selecting it, and my dear friend for reading it, and putting up with my pestering for revisions. You know who you are. ;) Hope you enjoyed reading! With luck, a sequel should be on its way...

 
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Other Episodes


» Mirror, Mirror!: Part One
» Mirror, Mirror!: Part Two
» Mirror, Mirror!: Part Three



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