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By Rune Grey
Perhaps it was the first time that I looked in the mirror that I realized it. Realized that my life was falling apart at the seams, all of my carefully placed illusions fading away, or shattering like a hall of mirrors.
The silence is indeed, deafening.
I've hated mirrors. Hated them ever since that first day, when I staggered into the shop of some merchant, already long dead from the fighting. That day when I stopped, and looked at what I had become.
I stared at my hands, realizing that they were neither the thick, long fingers that I had known in my mortal life, nor were they the almost demonic talons that I had born for the remainder of my exsistence. My fingers were graceful, almost elven in their form... not a ladies hands, but the hands of an artist. A poet.
I didn't know at that point that those hands had only practiced one form of art their entire lives. There was only one color they used, and only one canvas. The color of blood, and the canvas of the battlefield.
But I'm getting ahead of myself again. I do that from time to time.
The face I wore was the face of a young man, barely old enough to shave. Pale, ice blue eyes stared back at me, mocking orbs of color, accusing me of what I had done. The face was thin, delicate, and crowned with a mop of unruley, unkempt brown hair, the type that keeps falling in your eyes and always has to be tied back. But that face was laughing, the shattered look in the eyes accusing me of my crimes, my failings.
She looked at the mirror from behind me, her face indescribable. What was it that I saw there? Sorrow? Reg