What do you see when you look at me? I need you, to give me life. But perhaps you also need me, to give you hope.
Once upon a time, a beautiful princess lived in a castle.
Once upon a time, all stories began in this way. This particular castle was on top of a high mountain, overlooking a vast lake, (so you know where it is now.) And the particular princess-- it hardly matters, does it? All princesses are pressed from the same mould. The fairytale princess should wear her beauty lightly, take it for granted like her royalty and her excessively sweet nature. The birds of the forest should flock to her outstretched hands, and --you know the drill. An evil stepmother for contrast is always a good idea as well.
Glass, between me and the world. And I can touch nothing.
Not me, though. I was never ungrateful enough to take my beauty for granted. It meant a lot to me. It meant power. My stepmother was very ordinary although overly keen to get me married off. And I was, like most people, useless at talking to birds: I made up for that by being very good at charming men. They used to flock around me: their inane chatter and repetitive compliments would make a flock of starlings sound intelligent by comparison.
Nigredo, rubedo, albedo. Black, white, red-- the threads of alchemy. I was guardian of the Stone because we belong together, perilous objects of men's desire.
And as for sweet nature: once I overheard the following story about my birth, told by a servant who knew me better than most:
My mother, the old queen, was sewing by the window in winter. She pricked her finger. A drop of blood fell onto the snow. A crow alighted beside it. My mother, struck by the beautiful contrast in colours, wished for a child with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as a crow's. I duly appeared nine months later (yes, that's where babies come from-- royal ones, anyway.)
The servant telling the tale went on: "Symbolism is so dangerous. She's now colder than snow, crueller than a wound, and she feeds off destruction like a crow does..."
I laughed. Then I had him executed. I was cold at nights for some time afterwards, but eventually I found a chestnut-locked replacement.
You can be the sun, and burn yourself up to give light. Or you can be the moon, and merely reflect what you recieve Both are attractive. But one ieels very cold...
Of course I was surrounded by suitors desperate for my hand. And of course I had no desire to marry any of them. I had scant wish for a husband whom I must obey in all things, as was then the law of our land.
I set them all impossible tasks. Climb a mountain of ice ("the thought of your fair face will give me the strength to hold on.") Kill a seven-headed giant with a toothpick: ("if I must die to win you, it shall be a noble death.") I was particularly proud of my request to one amorous and spotty man-who-would-be-king, that he bring me a drink from the Fountain of Youth. I made the Fountain of Youth up on the spur of the moment, but for all I know he's still looking for it...
And then-- it became imperative that I marry. For the usual reasons. The servant responsible would have been an unsuitable husband, so I had no choice but to choose one of the crop of young fools who were currently being hosted in the palace by my not-evil-but-still-quite-annoying stepmother.
Because I can see into your heart, you love me. Because you cannot see into mine, you continue to love me.
A young wizard called Salazar Slytherin was at least capable of holding an intelligent conversation. I had no wizard-magic myself, but I found him occasionally interesting. Although even he told me I was his ideal of pure perfection, like snow on the mountains. Like other people he projected what he wished onto the blank screen of my beauty. I had some contempt for him. The ceremony was conducted early, as I was so swept off my feet I couldn't wait.
I was radiant in white-- everyone from all the villages around came to watch, and sigh, and dream of their own fairytale wedding.
I'll never forget the expression on Salazar's face as he looked into my eyes and kissed me for the first time. I have always been able to blush at will and was preparing to do so then, when I found it happening all by itself.
Perhaps I felt guilty for deceiving him. He thought I loved him. If I felt guilty, it was for the first time in my life.
The truth is, that I don't know what love is. Even for my chestnut-haired child, I felt nothing real. I preferred to cuddle his father, and was doing so one day when Salazar found us.
I cannot hurt one who does not will to be deceived. Would you blame the rock for the shipwreck?
His rage was cold, burning. You've been a sham all along, he told me.
All the beauty I ever saw in you-- it was only my own wishes, my own hopes, reflected.
You're good at that, aren't you? Dangling people's hearts in front of them.
But you're nothing, yourself. I don't think you have a heart. You have to feed off other people's dreams, and other people's hurt. No-one touches you-- you aren't even real. Others see what they want to see in you, and you aren't even real.
Be true to your nature, he said, and he waved his wand.
He looked at me. "Now I shall always see you loving me," he said sadly, and turned to walk away.
I reached towards him in a pleading gesture. But there was glass, between me and the world. And I could touch nothing.
One day I shall be rescued-- a man with no dreams will shatter the Mirror. At that time my heart will fall, bleeding, on the floor, and I shall begin to live again.
In the meantime-- I am the most beautiful being in the world. And I shall remain so, for just as long as no-one can see into my heart.
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Author's note: That was the story of the Mirror of Erised, in case you couldn't tell. I know it was very very strange, but I love fairytales, and the central image kept haunting me till I gave in and wrote it. I get the feeling that if I ask for reviews on this one, I'll get flamed more times than Wendolin the Weird. But like her I'm immune-- review it anyway!
Disclaimer: Mirror of Erised, Slytherin, Hogwarts etc. belong to JK Rowling.