Makalaurë grimaced as he looked at himself in the mirror. A dark-haired Elf stared back at him, with forlorn, morose, and icy blue eyes. His countenance was despondent and sad, and he wondered why he even bothered to get up today.
Who is that person in the mirror? he wondered to himself. It certainly is not me... Is it?
When he was a child, Maitimo would tease him about his fascination with reflective objects. He was only five years old when he discovered 'himself' in the lake, watching with befuddlement as he stared back at himself. He was wide-eyed and innocent, with a cherub-like face of one untouched from harsh reality, blissfully ignorant of the sorrows of the world, of the land, of the people. He couldn't quite comprehend difficult matters, and his parents were always there when matters became too serious for him to handle, despite the fact that he was mature for his age.
Slowly, Makalaurë poked his other self and jumped back when the water rippled.
"Makalaurë!" shouted Maitimo, as Makalaurë leaned back from the dock, trying to get away from whatever it was inside the water.
He had sat a little too close to the dock, and Maitimo had spotted him in a precarious position. Quickly, Maitimo scooped up his little brother from the wooden floorboards and held him close, glancing down at whatever had held his attention momentarily. All he saw was his reflection, blinking back at him with Makalaurë in his arms as well.
"What were you doing?" he asked softly.
Makalaurë pulled back slightly to look at Maitimo—to ensure that he wasn't angry. "I-I saw myself in the lake! Is that supposed to happen? Is there some sort of creature down there that takes the form of the person who looks it in the eye? Is it evil? Is it something that eats disobedient little kids? Is it—"
Maitimo placed a finger to his lips and shook his head, silencing him. "That, Kano, was your reflection. He is you. You are him. You are simply look at yourself from another view. You normally cannot see your face, correct?" Makalaurë nodded. "Well, we the Elves developed a way to look at ourselves, so we could right our appearance. Thus, an ingenious invention called the mirror was invented. But it wasn't really invented—since there have been hints of things like mirrors before we even came up with the idea of the mirror. We just...refounded it, I suppose."
"Then...why did you shout my name?"
"You were sitting a little too close to the water; any unbalanced force could have sent you flying into the water, and I wouldn't have been there quickly in time to save you from falling in."
Makalaurë smiled sheepishly. "Sorry..."
Maitimo smiled back and knocked their foreheads together gently, giving his little brother an affection look. "It's all right... Just be careful from now, okay?" He received a nod, rubbing against his own forehead.
Maybe it is me, Silmalir thought, sighing to herself as she gripped the edge of the basin, glancing down at the silver tap.
Silmalir had always been curious about mirrors - what made them reflect people's images?
"Atar! Atar!" Silmalir exclaimed, sounding distressed.
Lord Almarawë came stumbling down the hallway, wondering what had caused his daughter to sound bothered. And then his answer met him as he rounded the corner, seeing Silmalir balanced on a long wooden table, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were wide from where he could see, and he was reminded of his wife's eyes. It was really too bad that she couldn't be here right now to see her daughter discover the mirror; instead, she was on a trip to Taniquetil to visit her cousin-in-law.
"What's wrong, my little Silmalir?" he asked anyway. It was always best to let the answer come out from the person who needed it explained.
Silmalir turned to her father, looking confused as she glanced back at the mirror. "Why... Why is there someone who looks like me?" she asked, her voice quivering with slight fear. "Is this...? Am I—am I going to be replaced?"
He almost wanted to laugh at the preposterous idea that she presented him, but he figured that it would make her even more anxious. He shook his head seriously and walked over to his daughter, placing his hands on her small shoulders. "Silmalir, we would never replace you—ever. You are too dear to us, and no one could ever take your place. I promise you." Then he turned her around slightly so she faced the mirror once more, and he bent down close to her to whisper in her ear.
"There are two of you as well!" she cried, even more surprised. She did not move, but she glanced at her father behind her.
"This is a mirror," he spoke softly. "It shows our reflections...so there are not really two of us. You, Silmalir, are seeing yourself in the mirror, for the mirror is showing you yourself as much as it can, as long as you are in view of it." He reached out a hand, and Lord Almarawë in the mirror reached out as well, and their (his) hands met at the looking-glass. "We use this special trinket to look at ourselves...because we are a vain race. The Noldor do not use it as much as the Vanyar, but we still are quite proud of our appearances. Are you proud of yours?"
"They shouldn't have made mirrors," Silmalir declared after some thought. "Someone else might have had a fit, seeing his or her double! I know I did!"
He chuckled and ruffled her daughter's soft dark hair. "You have much still to learn, Silmalir, but I know you'll try your best. And I'm proud of you for taking it so well."
Silmalir grinned toothily at her father at the mirror, and he saw. Then he smiled as well and kissed the top of her head, and she watched him in their reflection.
"I love you, Atar," she said truthfully.
It was times like these that Lord Almarawë would feel his heart ache with happiness. "And you know I love you too, my little Silmalir," he replied.
Silmalir raised her hand to the mirror and touched her reflection's face.
Makalaurë moved from the mirror and turned away, grimacing to himself as he realised that he was even too cowardly to face himself. He shrugged off the dark blue robe, hemmed with black, and pulled off the other articles of clothing that he wore beneath the robe. After pulling his hair back away from his face and holding it together with a leather band, he pulled on an old tunic and old pants that he had used for hunting with Tyelkormo (when the latter was bored out of his mind and needed someone to hunt with).
He turned back around and turned the tap, splashing his face with cold water, willing himself to wake up from what had to be a nightmare. Then he looked up, faced the mirror, and patted his face, trying to smile.
He couldn't, the first couple of tries.
Even when he succeeded on the fifteenth try, it seemed to be faked and insincere.
It frightened him, that he was no longer capable of smiling with radiance. He tugged at the neckline of the tunic and sighed, pulling it away from his collarbone. It felt uncomfortable to be dressed in robes for too long, and he was starting to feel a bit jumpy.
"What have I done to myself?" he asked himself. "What have I done...to everyone? To Fánamaril, to Maitimo, to Tyelkormo, to the elflings... To Silmalir?"
When no answer came to him, Makalaurë pulled his arm back slightly, trying to get a better view of his eyes.
And then his fist went flying into the mirror, causing shards of glass to rebound, to get caught in his hand, to shower him with fragments, to...to...
Red flowed down his hand, down the broken mirror, covering his skin with a crimson velvet sheet, coloring the glass a startling deep scarlet.
He leaned close to the reflection that was still there, staring back at him as he looked.
"Wrong," he hissed. He didn't even care anymore.
Lady Calwilmë came from a family of noble standing, from Taniquetil. She loved sparkling things, and especially trinkets such as sparkling jewels, gems, and artifacts that shone in the light of Laurelin and Telperion. Her father loved her very much, but...
Dear Calwilmë,
How are you doing in Tirion? I hear that you were asked to pretend to marry a son of the Crown Prince. Are you having fun? Does it feel nice to live in an actual palace? Imagine - this is where your mother and I were born. At the very palace. It is probably different than from a thousand years ago. I hope you are well, my daughter. Your mother sends her regards as well, but recently, her temper hasn't been so enduring. I think it's a sign that she misses you very much.
Calwilmë knew the real reason why; she could never seem to satisfy her mother's wishes, or earn her approval.
"Pah! Pretend to marry? Tell him to propose to you truthfully and just get married! There is no need to waste your time in Tirion unless you are doing something productive!" her mother had told her before she left for the palace.
Her aunt, Lady Finienel, had visited the palace, but she was forced to leave before her stay was over because of an incident, misunderstanding, and fiasco with a servant of the palace. She couldn't believe, however, that the very same servant was the one who Prince Kanafinwë dearly loved. She could tell—he could barely focus when the topic was centered on her, but when asked about Lady—er, Silmalir, he could easily carry on a conversation, but with a melancholy expression.
She could only imagine if he was asked to describe his love for her; it would probably go on forever.
And it was obvious that the elflings had done the prank and doused her in honey—but why had Silmalir taken the blame for it? Elflings, they should be punished for things that they did wrong. Her Ammë always followed by this protocol, and Calwilmë agreed. Her father was a bit more relaxed in punishment, and it wasn't so severe. But she would never take punishment willingly, and especially not for someone else. Perhaps that was the difference between her and Silmalir—Silmalir had the will of stone, and her eyes reflecting that strong, powerful spirit inside of her body.
However, Lady Calwilmë couldn't just let that slight on her honor slide. Someone was going to be punished.
Fána ran—ran far from that hallway corner. Not even Oromë could have beat the urgency of the matter. She rushed away, the skirt of her dress billowing after her as she moved one foot in front of the other quickly. Her eyes were starting, strangely enough, to water, and she didn't understand why.
Why did her eyes sting?
Why should she care about one little...
For one moment, she kissed back, pressing forward and wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer and closer...and then she pushed him away, eyes widened at the realisation of what she had just done. That's when she fled the scene.
It was nothing, she tried to tell herself, as she tore out of the Entrance Hall and out of the palace as well. He has probably kissed plenty of girls... It's nothing...
Oh, who was she kidding?
So, a lot of drama is going on. Yep.
One day before the wedding, after today in the chapter! Who's prepared for the final event?
Oh, by the way, I have deleted scenes from this story that I didn't post on here...but they go before this tragic event in which Makalaurë totally screwed up. After I finish this, stop procrastinating, actually get working on the sequel (I'm kind of wavering), then I shall try to type it onto the document. It was hand-written three months ago, most of them, usually during nights when I couldn't sleep.
Sadly, most of my awesome ideas come because I can't find anything else to think of. Shows how much I think about, eh?
Let me tell you how awkward it was, writing that scene about Fána.
I couldn't keep a straight face. I'm one of those people who can read stuff like this, but when I have to write it myself, I get squeamish.