An Exercise in Reflection

[LR]

Entry Number One

The other children called me Keliru.
"Mistake."
Frail. Meek. Mute.
But I could talk, and I'd talk for hours with the mirror.
The only words I needed to hear were Hers.
“Never mind the others,” She said.
And the other children grew more distant.
Fear? Anger? Jealousy? Theirs? Or mine?
The other children became easier to never mind.
For years it went this way.
Me, the mirror, and my Queen-
Her words through my reflection.
Oh, how she loved me.
The way a cat loves a mouse.
I wondered, when I first began to reflect:
Victim or willing servant?
I remain unsure as to the difference in my case.
Choices were made.
And then I continued to wonder, if I had been provided a wider selection from which to make those choices, where—in comparing one another—would this and that Adira meet?

[LR]

Entry Number Two

They lined us orphans up, tallest to shortest.
I was among the tallest, standing fourth of fifteen.
Three dark armored men regarded us. Critical.
"Fifth," proclaimed the one with the battered, broken nose.
Our caretaker smiled. Fifth was an obedient boy.
"Eighth," said the one with the dull, dead eyes. Uncertain.
Our caretaker shook her head.
And so the dead-eyed man chose the ninth.
"Fourth," announced the one with the neatly trimmed beard.
"Keliru," our caretaker said.
"Fourth," repeated the man. Confident.
I looked to Third and Fifth beside me.
Twice the space between us as there was between the others.
Our caretaker stood before me.
"Pothoc," she spat. Stupid.
Thirteen years and I'd not said a single word to her.
What was she to think?
"Nagash," I returned in kind. Worthless.
For this, I took five lashes and shed not one single tear.
"Fourth," said the man with the neatly trimmed beard.
I believed myself special that day.
For having been seen as something more than
a perfect face,
a perfect vessel,
a perfect servant.
In reflection, I concede that I was not more than.
And while I stand before the mirror, razorblade to my face,
I concede that I shall never be more than.

[LR]

Entry Number Three

He was called Lord Valkan Vhalkaar, Champion of the Skull.
The man with the neatly trimmed beard.
My namesake, my master.
In many ways, he was my father.
But not on this day.
On this day, I stood naked and bleeding before him.
A razor-sharp shard fell from my hand to the ground. Shame.
Our Champion provided me another.
"Look at yourself now, Vhalkaar." He stepped to the side. Patient.
And so, I stood naked and bleeding before my reflection.
Emaciated. I tried to recall when last I had bathed.
The least of my concerns were the razor-sharp slashes across my face.
After all, I was dying.
All this a reminder of what precious little I had.
What precious little I clung to.
What precious little I could not bear to lose.
My vanity, my vice.
My pride, my sin.
Her words through my reflection.
Who could blame me?
Why, only She could.
Of course.