a storm of sherds

AUGUST 19TH, 2057

Ashling stared into the mirror standing quietly at the edge of her room, thankful that she was alone. Even if they did not fall, tears carved their wet trails on her cheeks. She had just realized the substantial damage grieving had brought upon her: it affected her when she had it and it affected her when she didn’t. Ashling – she almost called herself Lena, by Merlin – could feel herself trembling, though she never knew what was so upsetting about looking into the mirror like she did every morning for the past sixteen-ish years of her life that she could remember. Just to make sure she was okay.

But what the hell was she thinking? She was never okay.

The tears that had been hidden in her tear ducts rolled out, slowly making their way down her face. She could feel them smirking, their faces glinting in the artificial light of the room. “Aha!” they seem to be screaming, “despite all your best attempts, dear weakling, you are unable to contain us, your only show of weakness. And now, with your bright red eyes, no one can deny your limitations, Ashling Vorstenbach.”

She wiped them – those horrible, mocking tears – away from her face with the back of her hand, glancing down at the floor. Her heart hurt with every breath: each inhale or exhale of her lungs was a chore, a true chore which required thought and energy. When she looked back up, however, it was not her face in the mirror. The face was too pale, her eyes too clear, the hair too short, and far, far too…

… ginger.

The brunette blinked him away, believing it was just another product of uncontrolled artifice. She opened them again, and still, his face stared back at her, bright and blue and knowing. Sh waved her hand to one side, and he did it too. She opened her lips – so did he! He blinked – she blinked too – and there they gazed for an eternity, watching one another.

“W-Wha…” muttered the Uchitel, “what are you doing in my bedroom?” Her brows raised; Rhys seemed to stop playing mirror with her now, yet he uttered nothing: a silent killer. “This isn’t funny, Rhys Edmunds,” said she firmly, “you better tell me what the hell you are doing in my mirror, in my bedroom, in Bad Münstereifel, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany.” Immediately Ashling performed a double take on the scene behind her; Charles was nowhere to be seen, though his heavy sighs could be heard if she listened closely.

Rhys chuckled. A sad chuckle. “Well, what makes you think I’m in your bedroom in the first place?” asked the Hrabrost, his eyes never twinkling. “You’re the illusionist, Le. I could just be an illusion in your bedroom.”

Indeed, thought Lena. My head knows me much better than I thought it did. Perhaps that is why it is throwing illusions at me. “You are an illusion in my bedroom,” she decided, “the real Rhys would not be so sarcastic towards me; he is far too gentle for that.”

“And what makes you think that you still know me so well?” Rhys scratched the back of his head. “We broke up, Lena, because clearly…” There was a pause. “If you love me, you would seek my comfort. If you love me, you would not have kissed Frodo. If you love me…”

“… if I loved you I wouldn’t be sharing a room with Charles Prentiss. If I love you, I wouldn’t avoid you like I did. If I loved you, I would have tried to stay away from temptation.” The brunette chuckled, “Oh, I do love you, Rhys Anwell Edmunds, more than you will ever know.” She placed her palm on the mirror, just above where Rhys’s cheek appeared to be, “But you see, I have a problem: the Gods won’t leave me alone for long enough to let me love you in peace.”