#anyway can u imagine being like eons old trapped in a janky mirror man

[chernabogs]

This was originally meant to be put out in October for Halloween but what is time management anyway?

SORTIGER

Inc: The Dark Mirror, Crowley, The Fairest Queen, some Draconia's sneaking in there (can't escape them) WC: 1.9k Warnings: Some depiction of violence Summary: He was as he had always been, and he knew no other way—for the concept of anything other was quite beyond his comprehension. (or: eldritch horrors your dark mirror <3)

He recalls the time before. 

In the vast expanse of black in which he dwelled, corporeal but conscious of such, only the dim glow of suns thousands of years away guided him forth. The hum of the void was his calling, and his presence was a mere brush of stardust in the night. He was as he had always been, and he knew no other way—for the concept of anything other was quite beyond his comprehension.

It was within this vast expanse of black that he first witnessed the event that is the unexpected, and frankly quite messy, act of creation. The world of Twisted Wonderland was not crafted by hands in a slow, harmonious fashion; it was shoved into being with a flash, a bang, and a disruption of the peace until suddenly it was there in its spherical form. It startled everyone who was capable of being startled, as it was something that happened in a realm where nothing ever really changed at all. 

He did not approach it first. That was one of the other hidden ones. They slithered forth in their serpentine form to taste this new offering, to feel what would become known as soil and inhale what would become known as air. In the beginning, Twisted Wonderland was a time of opportunity—a time of new growth that those who had existed so long now had forgotten. After the serpent, another crept down, and then another, until only he was left alone in the darkness. His form turned, and writhed, and debated what would be best to appear as until he finally descended in the shape of a figure like the denizens of the land, with a porcelain mask upon his face. 

In the time that it took for him to settle, the others who had come prior had already left their marks upon the land. ‘Age of the Gods’ did the occupants so accurately coin it in their fables and tales. He bore witness to the ones he had never seen before now parade themselves as superiors, claiming that the gift of magic they had bestowed upon a few now let them hold a debt over their bodies. Considering this, he avoided direct involvement with either party, choosing to be more of a vagabond than anything else. The only time he interacted with anyone was when he told them truths. 

Sortiger, he was called. Deliverer of prophecies to the masses—so long as one knew the right words to use.

He didn’t consider himself a prophet, but rather just a being that knows truths. He wandered area to area, devouring experiences he was deprived of for so long, and which this land was now giving to him in abundance. It was a liberating experience that he would not trade for any luxury that the others so hounded for. 

Sortiger, as odd as it was, also served to be the chains that bound him in the end. Magic was a gift granted to a few to provide them the tools for easier living. Unfortunately, man is as cunning as he is ambitious. If one were to hear tales of a travelling prophet, what else would there be to do then try and bind them to you somehow? There is power in knowledge, and infinite knowledge means infinite control.

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It was a tailor’s apprentice who tricked him, in the end. A young woman with her needle and her thread who clothed him in a false sense of security. He was unaware that she was one of few blessed with the gift of magic. Or perhaps he was aware, and he simply chose to ignore that intuition in place of emotions, instead. It mattered little in the end—she had lured him into her trap like a spider in wait, and then paralyzed him when the moment was exactly right. 

There’s magic in mirrors. 

There always has been, even before the idea of Twisted Wonderland was born. He recalls vaguely the shimmering reflections of dust in the stars; it was one of the few times he was able to see his form—a writhing, black mass, dripping ichor with a burning heart that pulsated with each bit of life that crept through his veins. The sight always unsettled him because there is no hiding who you are before an item that is meant to show you in full. 

He had fought. 

Naturally, he had fought. He was a being of unmeasurable power that was not meant to be confined to a singular realm. He had screamed unholy screams and tore at the glass with nails until they broke, and split, and bled that ichor that so dripped from his body when he was unbound, and he was free. He had spewed curses and words with a blackened tongue, his porcelain face warped in rage and, worst of all, heartbreak. 

This ire and this power are why, in her cunning, the tailor’s apprentice did not confine him to one place. There is a concept that humans share known as a panopticon; a circular platform meant to serve in prisons so one guard can keep an eye on everyone at once. 

He was not trapped in a singular realm. He was instead trapped in multiple at once. He was held stagnant with thousands of mirrors surrounding him, showing the thousands of lands that he could have walked had he listened to his instincts instead of falling into the honeyed trap of gentle words and gentler touches. There was no ceiling, there was no floor—it was as though he had been returned to that void from whence he came. 

So it goes that even gods fall prey to the whims of love. 

He considered it a mercy, then, that he did not remain in her possession for too long. After all, if one were to hear tales of a prophetic mirror, what else would there be to do then try and steal it somehow? 

But it was not a mercy to bear witness to the destruction that followed henceforth. Villages consumed by flames, steel finding more familiarity in the bellies of innocents than a blacksmith's forge. The tailor's apprentice had been slaughtered to gain access to his mounted form; if he had been free, he would have saved her, he would have wrapped her in his power and carried her to the stars above. Instead, all he could do was look in the mottled face of her killer as bloated lips tried to coax a story out of him. 

It went like that. 

From soldier, to merchant, to captain, to priests. He found himself meeting the most privileged in one moment and the most deprived the next. At one point, the term mirror, mirror, became synonymous with his existence and the prophecies he was meant to give. It may have been initiated by the woman that held onto him the longest. He met her when she was still a young girl, the crown on her head not as grand as the one yet to come. The fairest of them all—until her heart became warped with a combination of both paranoia and hate. She was as stunning as a portrait right up to the moment she met her end. 

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This all has little relevance. 

If one see’s enough faces, they begin to lose the ability to discern them. He has been bound in this panopticon for so long that he no longer has a comprehension of time, or of the worlds he examines. At one point, his mask begins to change��from smooth porcelain to one with a lace patterning upon his brow.

There was a princess he had met once who had a similar pattern on her face, though hers was of scales and not lace. He had not received her name, nor had she asked him any questions. She had stared into his reflection, her crown wrapped around the proud horns on her head and her eyes reflecting a sense of exhaustion that ran deeper than surface level, before she had simply turned away.

No mirror, mirror. No demands. Only a glance, and then she was gone into the night. 

He considers that encounter the reason he ended up at Night Raven College. He sees that woman once more in the form of a boy who approaches him, a pair of proud horns on his head and his eyes reflecting a sense of anxiety that runs deeper than surface level. He considers it fate to be here once more—even though fate is but a vague manipulator to a being of his stature. 

He considers it fate, too, when he encounters the human. 

“Are you certain there’s no way home?” Crowley murmurs when the students all depart to their dorms. He studies the equally masked face when asked this question. Eons of existing has allowed him to recognize one who deceives without much effort—not that it’s his place to call the man out. He must be asked the right question to do that. 

“Again.” He responds, voice lower and colder than the one used for the students. A small mercy. Crowley’s golden eyes narrow with their own darkness, which so often hovers just inches from the surface. 

“Mirror, mirror, born from the unknown—is there a way to send the student home?” Crowley then drawls out, his voice dripping with contempt at each word he utters—such a stark contrast from the usual upbeat man he presents himself as. He must keep a smile from touching those porcelain lips as he affixes a blank gaze.

“We are not the ones who have the ability to do such an act.” He replies, the answer as blunt as ever. 

What many do not know is that a mirror is not only a means of accessing a different location. Although he has serviced hundreds before to travel from one place to another, many remain unaware of his ability to let them travel from one world to another. He can never leave himself—the tailor’s apprentice made sure of that—but that doesn’t mean he can’t guide others. 

She knew that—the woman who looked like the boy with the proud horns on his head. Not the princess, but instead someone older—someone who knew him when he was still with the fairest queen. 

Queens are cunning—he has come to learn this over time.

Crowley clicks his tongue in disagreement. It’s a sharp, jarring sound that echoes in the empty chamber as he turns away to march back to the door. This inconveniences him. He has a plan that he’s attempting to follow, and the presence of an unknown variable is throwing that all off. 

Is it pitiful? The mirror considers it quietly as the chamber door slams shut. The bubbling of the green fountain at his base remains the only source of noise left. The unknown variable may construe Crowley’s plans, but he knows that it would benefit him in the end. The woman had known that too. It was why he had let her do what she had asked. 

He pulls his face back from this mirror and turns his attention towards the thousands of others that surround him. All of these lives, all existing with the freedom of movement, of choice. 

He will join them soon. The lace on his face feels more prominent then ever, and he knows, he will join them soon.