Mirror, Mirror on the wall…
Something was different.
Totally different.
His skinned did not hurt; it just seemed dry, extremely dry, and chapped. It felt if at any moving of his face muscles it would burst, would like to tear open to reveal the flesh beneath. To show everything.
He looked down to his hands, his fingers. Any manicure in the world would cover the damage he got there. His skin white, pale, wrinkled, dead; the fingernails changed colours, burnt, yellow-brownish.
Disgust came up in him.
Hate for himself.
Hate for Windu.
Jedi scum
His body seemed to be washed-out, tired and weak. Walking felt somewhat strange; his back lightly bend, hurting. It had been quite a long since he used his lightsaber actively for fighting on life or death.
Exhausted he took a seat in his office, behind him the broken window made of security glass, shattered into thousands of pieces. Around him everything was in chaos.
Pestage and Doriana took the necessary steps. A medicer came, was shocked, looked for his well-being and went away quickly again. Anybody said a single word, but anybody dared to look at him, neither at his face nor his eyes. Even not Pestage.
His closest advisor.
His friend.
He asked for a mirror, he wanted to know what had happened, how disfigured he had become.
No reaction, just a wincing and a breaking asunder of the men when he got himself up, heading to his target, running out of the office. Then he would look for the bathroom at his private chambers that were deeply hidden in the back of his official office.
There hung a mirror.
Cowards…
Every step a thrust in his heart. Every metre towards the mirror, towards the truth, felt more and more awful.
Silence.
Nobody had followed him or got ready to stop him. They left him alone…
The mirror.
Large, shiny. It reflected the face of the ones who looked into it. There were nations, so he knew, that claimed a mirror would show the soul of the concerned person. The owner's soul…
He stopped in front of the sink, deeply sighed, taking a deep breath. His cloak fell down to the floor, black, like his conscience. His right hand stroked through his hair.
It got thinner, got white; snow-white. And it fell out. He held a tuft in his hand.
He swallowed.
One…two…
He straightened up his head, got frightened then.
…three…?
That can't be me?!
Death starred on him out of deeply sunken eye sockets, focussed him with his sickly yellow eyes. The face completely disfigured, the skin that pale as if it fell off any minute; wrinkled.
His soul now was shown to the outside.
This…should have never... happened!
You will pay for that!
You!
All of them!