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“Maybe there’s a book about your world here…”

Jericho’s deep blue eyes flicked upwards in alarm.  If such a book were indeed here, it was likely to contain a more accurate version of the story she told.  After all, it was part of the founding legend of the Kithnarya.  Jericho had rarely shared her role in the story with anyone; she had told the legend truthfully many times, of course.  She was the one who arranged it and fit all the pieces in their proper places so the truth could be understood.  But even as she told the story, she would never admit her own place within it.  Her trust had been too eroded over time.

“Perhaps there is,” the woman managed after a moment of silence.  She helped him search, until she came to a tome titled ჯერიჩო ქუვადჰუჰ.  Jericho Kuvadhuh.  She skimmed a few of the pages; it was a biography, detailing her life, her involvement in the Daraya family line, and how she helped lead to the founding of Kitharin.

Dazed, Jericho was only half aware of the book slipping through her fingers and landing on the floor.  At least it was written in the Kidarin script, and thus the boy and Nithel would not be able to read it.

~

Having passed the veil, the source of warmth in the other rooms was now apparent; just beyond the curtain was a lit brazier, the only source of light in the circular stone room.  Directly behind the brazier stood a tall mirror of blackened silver.  Some chary instinct told him the mirror was what had drawn Brendin here, murmuring soft whispers into the air.  He warily approached the dark glass.

In the mirror was not Brendin’s reflection, however; instead a woman stood there regally, poised and composed, stiff-backed and stern in a conservative blue dress beneath a heavy chestplate.  Brendin did not recognize her, yet at the same time he knew her.  The Northern Marshal, his mother.

The Lady Warin’s demeanor softened slightly as her eyes fell on him.  “Where have you been?” she asked quietly.  Her tone was somber, threaded with disbelief at seeing him.

Brendin’s reflection was not entirely vacant from the mirror, his visage superimposed faintly over the image of his mother.  He could see the dead look in his eyes when he answered her.  “The Wold.”

Fear rose to her eyes.  “You’re a Maere.”

Brendin said nothing.

“You’ve come to kill me…” the Lady whispered, drawing her weapon.  He made no attempt to correct or dissuade her.  If anything, rather than distraught or enraged as the mirror intended, Brendin looked only tired.  So the mirror tried again.

Now a shadowy black figure filled the tarnished glass.  “Found at last,” it hissed, the reptilian voice grating on Brendin’s ears.  He resisted the urge to flee.  “My dear man, did you really think you would ever truly escape from me?”  It chuckled darkly and Brendin felt his face flush with hatred and fear.  He tried to look away but the mirror drew him back to itself.

“Well, Brendin?  Have you no words?  No bitter declarations of the utmost loathing?”

The man said nothing.  His jaw was growing sore from holding his mouth shut.

“I must say, I’m surprised,” Ingor went on.  “Cyn tells me you quite despise me.”

“What do you want?” Brendin managed, only barely keeping his voice steady.

The wraith made a most unpleasant sound.  Laughter.  “My dear man, surely you know the answer to that.  I want you to join us again.  The prodigal son.  Not even my precious Cyn could cause so much wanton death as you when the mood took you.”

He could feel Ingor beginning to pull him closer.  Nothing harsh as yet, just a steady tug at his core.  But Brendin had no intention of being dragged back into Ingor’s service as a murderer.  “No.”

“Are you sure?”

The invisible force drawing Bren into the mirror suddenly amplified and he jerked forwards, only barely managing to catch himself and brace his arms against the frame of the mirror.

“You know how I feel when you turn me down…”

A skeletal, emaciated hand stretched out from the mirror, reaching towards Brendin’s chest.

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

Brendin’s arms were shaking from the strength it took to fight against Ingor’s hold.  He wouldn’t be able to avoid what followed.

Ingor pressed his hand against Brendin’s chest and the man to cut off a strangled cry of pain.  The wraith was clawing at Brendin’s soul, digging in with his talons and tearing into his core.  He could taste copper in his mouth and it took all his strength just to keep himself from falling into the mirror.

“Have you changed your answer?”

“Still no,” Brendin gasped.

The claws dug deeper, ripping into him, and turned his gasped words into an agonized shout.  He couldn’t hold himself up against the mirror any longer and his arms gave way.  Brendin crashed into the mirror, shattering it and cutting up his face, before collapsing unconscious to the floor in a shower of broken glass.  Blood leaked in a small rivulet from the corner of his mouth.

 

Nothing to see here, just tormenting my characters with their pasts.  Also it would be great if someone heard Brendin and went to check on him because I don’t think he’s doing so good at the moment.

@this-is-not-an-alien @joelle-stone @kimlikesart @crazywriter