Every morning, Albel Nox stood in front of a mirror. Sometimes completely naked, sometimes fully clothed. Either way, time would draw out like his katana when he looked at himself. He never asked who was the fairest of them all, he demanded it, but as he ran his hand over his bare, well-muscled midriff, he already knew the answer. If the mirror could talk, it would tell Albel that he was the fairest one of all.
Who would dare dispute that? Certainly not the mirror, and those who were human nearly always gawked at him. Albel never minded that. In fact, he expected it and even relished in it. Of course they looked at him. Who could blame them? He knew he stood out, and he sneered at the thought of those who couldnít even dream of him in fear that he might slice them into ribbons.
What really made his blood rush through him was the painfully obvious fact that not one person alive or dead rivaled him. No one would ever have his purposefully wild black hair dyed blond at the tips. Sure, people could try to imitate it right down to the wrapped braids that hung down his back, but they would fail miserably, of course. Not that anyone dared to try, and they certainly didnít try to emulate his sense of style. In Albelís piercing crimson eyes, real men wore purple, like he was doing now. No one ever really did though, not even the women, and no Glyphian man, except for Albel, wore skirts or revealing clothes. Then again, no one alive had his speed, grace, or flexibility. Even with the silver steel gauntlet he wore on his left arm for reasons he almost never thought about, he still looked better than everyone. Albel the Wicked was the greatest in the world and the mirror confirmed it.
His lips curled with a feral grin, he spun on his booted heel and stalked out of the room. Albel didnít hear anything except for the echo his footsteps made against the floor. Anyone who got in his way earned a growling snarl or worse. So when he walked through the hallways with his braids trailing behind him, people got the hell out of the way. He grinned everytime someone dove through a door trying to escape him. He felt alive, like someone who could do and be whatever he saw fit. No one would stop him. No one could.. Everytime Albel saw a mirror, he would look, and smile once more.
That is, until one morning, he saw a different face staring back at him. With widening eyes, Albel again demanded that the mirror tell him who was the fairest one of all, but the reflection never changed. Black hair turned blue and sharp crimson eyes turned to innocent, wide, and very bright green. Albelís lips parted as his breathing came out in gasps. This wasnít happening. Who could possibly be better looking than Albel the Wicked, the greatest and most gorgeous man in the world?
Fayt. Fayt Leingod. Albel glared at the mirror. He remembered seeing him at the Kirlsa Training Facility. A weak, worthless little worm, but this worm burrowed into Albelís mind and stayed there. Those green eyes, the slightly rounded face, the body perfectly intact. Intact. He grabbed his gauntleted left arm, feeling the metal bite into his fingers. Again he glared at the mirror, but to no avail. Albelís hand slid from his gauntlet and fell limp to his side. He shook his head. Albel the Wicked refused to believe this. No one could do the impossible, not even one with bright green eyes, eyes that invaded his very dreams, ghost hands that touched his body, a future memory of a kiss. He could almost feel the boyís warmth on him, dominating him in every way.
Curling his slender fist, Albel shattered the mirror, blood as red as his eyes sliding down one thousand cracks, but it didnít stop him from spotting a maid running into the room. His sudden scream sent her flying as fast as she came in. Shards of glass bit into his flesh as he struck the mirror again and again, but he felt nothing. No amount of pain would ever compare to what he felt nine years ago. Once the mirror became nothing more than block of wood on the wall, only then did he step back, his breath labored as he surveyed his handiwork. Licking his wounded hand, he imagined his own coppery tasting blood belonging to Faytís.
Albel couldnít quite remember how long that maggot had been around, but as far as he was concerned, it was too damned long. So when a couple of Black Brigade soldiers entered the room with news of the blue haired boy being sighted at the Bequerel Mines, he didnít scream or snarl. He just sneered, more than willing to go out and play to reclaim his rightful place as the fairest one of all. How fitting that the location just happened to be in a Copper mine.