Mirror, Mirror

By Harukami


[Language advisory.]

This was my day:

Dawn Essence, as usual, a leaf in the wind, but it felt good has always felt good, and I spun up into the air and showed myself over the Groves and they shouted and cheered and we played tag across the length of Heaven, and though I could outrun them all, I'd sometimes let them tag a ring, because they wanted it.

Someone needed me on earth and so there I was and they all fell down like houses in a fairy tale - straw, sticks, none of my children's enemies were brick, and after I went and rode the subway with the kids for a while, faces plastered to glass: Child, child, child, archangel, child. They and I could see in the dark, see the bricks whipping past, read the graffiti that was written on the bricks in the hidden dark walls and Seth, a Friend, leaned up and whispered, pointing at something long since past, "I wrote that."

And then back up up in a flurry, took on a Vessel of some average looking man and crept through the Bazaar, pockets bulging, walked into Marc's place as if it was mine and, weighed down but not heavy with most things I passed and then made it to his office where he sighed and handed me an inventory form and I grinned and filled it out and he smiled, reluctantly, and held up a bottle of wine.

And breezed in late to some meeting or other in the Spires, listened for a while and breezed out again, dashed through the Groves down lower and knocked down a row of Michaelites, so sure of themselves, span off elsewhere into the city and lost myself and came back and lost myself and met someone who didn't recognize the Vessel, and we ended up in some room in some still-staffed Creationer bar, rolling around, and after I went to the mirror and the Vessel was red-faced from exertion, red-faced and he was watching me in the mirror, he was watching me, he never stopped.

For a moment, the urge to break, and then I sped off, ducked my head to kiss the girl, and was off, away, away, away, moving.

This was my day:

I sat for a while in my armchair, reclining, wrapped in my favourite dressing gown. Mr. Jones, my butler, was waiting attendance. We had work to do; there was property out there belonging to other people, a situation that needed altering.

The chair was starting to look a little threadbare; that was the third one this week needing replacement.

Finally I rose and dressed, idly moving the painting to get at my good boots before putting it back where it belonged, out of the eyes of others, and went out to face my people. I sent some to do a run on Tartarus; one could always find interesting things there. I sent some to do a run on the Bordello - a different form of interesting, but still amusing. I sent some to do a run on the Louvre - it was traditional.

And then I sat and waited. I had no specific goal in mind for the day and would not waste my talents on the unimportant. I waited. I am patient.

I felt myself being Invoked by some of my Servitors. After a moment of debate I showed; the Malakite decorated the walls in a lovely splash of red, as, shortly thereafter, did the Vessels of my Servitors in question. They knew better than to call me over something so petty.

The Thieves I'd sent earlier returned with their goods. I examined them - junk, mostly, the occassional jewel in the rough; not too poor for a day with no direction.

And then I headed to my elabourate bathroom to change back into my favourite dressing gown and he was watching me in the mirror, and I turned, pressed my hand to it - I could nearly feel him through the glass. I leaned, and the reflection's eyes widened. The question arose: Do I run? Do I stay? I want to run. I want to push through the glass and be there. Move away, move towards. My heart pounded faster and the glass shattered, each seperate piece flying apart under my hand, wisking him away, and he was gone again, he'd sped off again, he'd moved away again and fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.


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