Fandom: The Legend of Sun Knight
Summary: That man in the mirror, no matter our passing similarities, isn't me.
Notes: A companion piece to Grace, a story which I probably won't ever finish at this rate. Written as a response to getyourwordsout's Mirror Mirror challenge, where I had to start with "I've heard of crossed telephone lines and party lines, but I've never heard of…" and use the location Athens, Greece. Here we get Grace's POV for the first time.
Grace -Mirror, Mirror-
I've heard of crossed telephone lines and party lines, but I've never heard of malfunctioning mirrors. The mirror doesn't lie, but that in itself is a lie, as it certainly is doing that now. That man in the mirror, no matter our passing similarities, isn't me.
I tilt my head. He does as well, but it's a mere coincidence that he does so. His blinks are a beat too slow, off sync from mine, like subtitles that don't match what the lips on the screen are saying. He isn't studying me as I am studying him. Why does he tilt his head then? The answer lies in the comb in his hand. He runs it through long strands similar to mine yet not. His are void of color, as if a painter's paint has run out, leaving the primer uncovered, the result unfinished.
He doesn't see me, that I am certain. I reach a hand out to touch the mirror. He doesn't pause in combing his hair. In fact, he doesn't even look directly at the mirror despite sitting in front of it. His gaze is faraway, unfocused, his motions practiced but absentminded.
It's all too easy to believe that he could be a long lost brother of mine or some other close relative with those eyes and that chin of his, nearly identical to mine. Only our noses and cheekbones break away from the mold, but if you don't look closely, you wouldn't be able to tell. We could pass for twins. Behind him, the architecture is a lie too, as what is reflected is nothing like the quaint apartment walls around me.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer. Lock after lock as white as the walls around him pass through his comb, falling gently against his back.
Perhaps what is reflected is Greece, and not just any Greece but rather Ancient Greece. The smooth walls look to be white stone, the room lit naturally. It's a picturesque scene, the sunlight streaming in to illuminate my not-quite-doppelgänger, almost like a scene straight out of the plays I used to perform in university.
Perhaps, once he exits the room, he'll be greeted by grand hallways leading to majestic great halls and carved pillars throughout, with windows along the walls giving a peek to the courtyards beyond. His gold-trimmed outfit and graceful movements give him a noble air, suggesting he could be royalty, much like the roles I've acted out in the past. The club always liked throwing those kinds of roles at me.
To me, his is a life far removed from mine, just as fictional as the events in a play, yet there he is in the mirror, so close yet so far. He doesn't see me. He doesn't hear me. But there he is.
Frowning, I think at him, Who are you?
His hand stills.
My breath catches.
He doesn't look around, but he waits, perhaps for me to confirm that he hasn't misheard. Has he heard me? Truly?
His eyes still don't gaze into the mirror. It's like he doesn't see the lie in front of him. Is my mirror the only one malfunctioning? I change my question. Why do you look so much like me?
Are you him?
The one from that lost play? The play that he claims is actual history?
If you are him, could you... change our fate?
I am only an amateur actor, but you, you're the real deal.
His lips part. I lean forward, not wanting to miss anything, not even a whisper.
...I don't hear a single sound. A muted audio track is all I'm given.
But I could have sworn the princely stranger in the mirror cursed at me despite not looking at me. Even though I'm not great at reading lips, his pissed off expression is enough of a clue, and he's throwing his comb...!
When I blink again, the doppelgänger in the mirror is gone, just like that.
My own face stares back at me, the room deathly quiet.
Then, my comb clatters against the floor.
This entry was originally posted at http://lucathia.dreamwidth.org/347348.ht