Because what better way to celebrate end of exams than a little Shelagh fic? Enjoy!
TW: Implied domestic violence
Mirrors had never been Shelagh's friend; they were far too good at revealing the truth about her for her liking.
Long ago, they showed a small, scared little girl - barely more than a toddler really - attempting to twist her own hair into braids with sticky fingers, the ground shaking with her father's drunken snores. The mirror reflects no mother to lovingly do her hair before class each day. And so, afraid and alone, Shelagh goes to school each day with her tangled hair in wonky plaits, and a brave smile plastered onto her small face.
Fast forward to her teenage years, and a shattered mirror now hangs on the wall, testament to a night last week where a hurled Bible missed its target and flew into the reflective surface instead of Shelagh's chest. Or her head. Or her arm. Or her leg. She now uses the mirror to help hide the scars and burns that litter her body, a scared teenager frantically painting over her pain with cheap foundation borrowed from a classmate's older sister. She's becoming excellent at hiding, at putting on a front, and the only ones who ever see her break are her father and the mirror.
A new location now, the Mother House. She barely recognises her reflection anymore, the habit turning the young woman into a stranger with a new name and a new life. Sister Bernadette. The mirror shows her the change the nun's uniform brings - she is wearing another front, this time one she thought she wanted. But as she adjusts her wimple in the gentle morning light, she sees uncertainty in her reflection.
In Nonnatus House, she owns but one mirror. Accompanied by the hushed laughter of the nurses, she lets her hair tumble out of the cap. The look in the blue eyes she sees staring back frightens her. It is lonely, and sad, and destroys all the attempts she's made to convince herself this is the right path for her. It's an immense longing for something more, and it scares her.
The same mirror, the same longing, but for something entirely different. Someone. She pulls off her glasses gently, wondering if she is imagining everything. She knows it is best for them both if she is, but wishes so desperately that she isn't. Does she love him? With that thought, Shelagh turns away from the mirror sharply, afraid of what her reflection may reveal. She isnt ready for that answer just yet.
It's only a week or two later, and so muc has changed. Her cheekbones are jutting out and her face is pale and pallid, though whether from the treatment or the TB itself is anybody's guess. Slowly, she reaches out a shaking hand to her reflection, marvelling at the conviction she sees reflected there, before picking up her old clothes. Then, she begins the transformation from Sister Bernadette to Shelagh, watched only by her reflection.
Months have passed. The new mirror that is not hers shows her the grey dress that she knows will never truly feel like hers. But she stares down the doubt in her reflection, fighting and fighting the disappointment that rises in a crescendo each time she sees that awful grey colour. She does not deserve white - even though the mirror is telling her otherwise.
This time, the last time, things have changed yet again. She has been through sorrow and heartbreak, and yet swamped in seas of beautiful white lace, she has never felt happier. She hardly recognises this woman in the mirror, this blushing bride with flushed cheeks and sparking eyes. Then, her reflection is joined by that of Sister Julienne, as, finally, her mother helps her to do her hair
