21

The Witchelf couldn't remember the last time she tried to commune with her mirrorself.

In times of weakness, she was tempted to destroy the mirror, unburden herself entirely from those memories. The fate of elves was extermination. There were very few left alive on this plane, sequestered to their own little niches, hiding from the empire. It would be a catastrophic loss of what remained of their culture, if the Witchelf took such a selfish action, which stayed her hand.

Centuries before, elves were a normal part of life on this plane, and centuries before that, prior to the dawn of light, their kingdoms spread across the plane. Now, They were often considered creatures of myth. The efforts of humankind to eradicate elven culture have been so thorough that for many humans, elves were a tale to frighten children into not venturing away from home for fear that an elf will turn you into stew.

Benevolence won. It sought to take over the nightsky, to eradicate darkness and the power of stars from this plane, to eradicate elves entirely, and it has succeeded. No longer the plane of elves, Benevolence has created for itself a world for humans and light. A world for industry and agriculture. A world for civilization.

How many elves were left? a few dozen? maybe a hundred? The Witchelf had read vague references to other elves currently being hunted in other parts of the world through intercepted messages. It was not enough information to get an estimate on the surviving elven population. The ones mentioned in the communications would be many kilometers away and were said to also be living a solitary life in hiding, probably also squirreled away in a created fold.

The Witchelf might learn more if she could successfully commune with the mirror. It occurred to her that perhaps she had originally sealed away that knowledge to protect other survivors should she ever get captured and interrogated by inquisitors. That would explain the resistance she experienced from her mirorself, at least, but it wouldn’t explain the malice. Their relationship was hanging on by a thread which grew more strained the longer the Witchelf chose to ignore her mirrorself.

She was sure she could still protect sensitive information if she could develop a some kind of rapport with her mirrorself. Though it would be difficult to convince her mirrorself of that.

For the better part of a year, Sophie had tried to establish a relationship with the Witchelf’s mirrorself with very little success. After many cycles of attempts by the girl, the mirror seemed to shout at Sophie less, the elf observed, so perhaps it was having some positive effect.

Every few days Sophie would summon the Witchelf’s mirrorself and sign about her training and her interests, transcribing to the mirror what occupied her days, almost like a sort of journal. She would frequently talk at lengths about different things she learned about the animals and creatures of the forest, things taught to her by the Witchelf. It was really quite sweet to try to watch her try to communicate, though her mirrorself didn’t seem to appreciate it much.

The mirrorself only stubbornly spoke in elvish so Sophie couldn’t ever establish a dialogue. She should know common tongue but she had a grudge against using human languages, having been forced to use them in the past and forbidden to use her own. The Witchelf wondered what her mirror self thought of the girl. “Annoying,” probably. The mirrorself’s voice said as much in protest to being summoned.

The Witchelf was scared of what her mirrorself might say to her, scared of what memories could be shared with her, and scared what her mirror self would say about Sophie and their relationship. She might know the shape of the memories she stored, the weight of the trauma, but she didn’t know the details. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to see the faces of the people who were killed. She knew it was a cowardly, and disservice to the memory of her people, to keep those memories trapped away.

Sophie had changed something in her.

She had felt like a ghost, unfeeling to the world around her. It felt like centuries could pass in an instant, with no one to talk to. So many decades were lost being a ghost of a person who once lived.

In a way, it was comforting, just tending to her tasks and chores, training herself to be numb to the world around her. Occupying away idle time by sleeping. You didn’t have to sit with your trauma and guilt if you didn’t leave yourself time to think or feel. It felt easier destroying that part of you so you could see the next cycle and the next one and the next. She spent those lost decades, centuries maybe, tending to the needs of the forest. Keeping humans from interfering with or harming the creatures who lived here. That was her life: a spirit who looked after others.

With Sophie sitting beside her, she looked over the mirror, an oval shaped mirror within a wooden frame, carved many centuries ago. She felt unease, kneeling before it. She usually kept it covered. Seeing her reflection felt unfamiliar. Her red and black eyes, her horns, the lines of aging and scarring on her face, her ashen skin and hair, remnants of the past, artifacts from a world that has been erased.

She sat there for about a half hour before she summoned the courage. She raised her hand and placed her finger tips of her sword hand on the mirror’s surface. The quicksilver beneath the glass surface begun swirling at the point of contact, reverberating outwards like the ripples of the surface of a pond that has been disturbed.

It went hazy for a moment before conjuring the image of her mirrorself. She took the form of a younger version of herself, less aged, less scarred. Her mirrorself opened her eyes and immediately scowled upon seeing the Witchelf. If she weren’t captured here and at the will of the Witchelf, her mirrorself probably would have walked away if given the choice. They both stood still in silence for a brief moment before the mirrorself said in elvish, “No longer are you harassing me with your pet, I see you have chosen to bother me yourself.”

“She’s not my pet,” the Witchelf instinctively responded with a noticeable amount of irritation judging from how her mirrorself smirked, satisfied she got under the Witchelf’s skin.

“Believe what you want to believe. The thing torments me constantly, telling me useless things about its life. I would be amused that it thinks I cared if I didn’t find it nauseating. I assume you taught it how to sign so I suppose I have you to thank for this torment. I preferred when you pretended I didn’t exist,” the mirrorself said with bitterness. She was just playing with the Witchelf, asserting her dominance, establishing a line that she dared the Witchelf to try to cross.

“I don’t do anything for your approval, you don’t have control over my actions-”

“Obviously not,” the mirrorself interupted, “I knew that when you sealed me in here and forgot about me. I’m burdened by all the weight you couldn’t carry. The wisdom and strength you are afraid to wield. You let all of yourself rot in me so that your body can shrivel up out there in the sun. You’re a coward. You’re not in control, not even close. You’ve let your fear control your actions and now you’re barely a person.”

The Witchelf sat in silence, discomforted by some of the truth in her mirrorself’s words. After a brief pause she continued, “I’m sorry. I should have been more mindful in maintaining our relationship.”

“An elf of your stature is meant to be wise beyond her many years and yet you purged your identity and left it with me. You are a naive lamb, naive enough to fraternize with a human, keep it as a consort, or maybe a plaything. We made the mistake of trusting humans before, we defended them being in our resistance movements. We are responsible for them ultimately betraying us. You would know all this if you weren’t a coward. Now you make this same mistake again.”

The mirrorself pointed at Sophie, “It will betray you. I can tell by how it looks, its fair skin, its golden hair, not an an ounce of grief or trauma visible in the lines on its face. Humans are a thrall to Benevolence, a fowl creature created to exterminate our people. Don’t make that same stupid mistake again. Throw it to the wolves before it is too late.”

The Witchelf repressed her anger. She remembered what Sophie said about the mirrorself, the anger it exhibits to mask a deep suffering.

The Witchelf took a deep breath before speaking, “I can’t speak to things I’ve chosen to forget. Maybe it’s naive of me, but I trust Sophie. She shares the gift of elves, a human who is capable of rendering memories from flesh, an outcast and criminal with her people. She shares our star.” She chose not to reveal that Sophie comes from the royal lineage, choosing to put off crossing that bridge later.

The mirrorself seemed surprised by this, indicated by how she didn’t have an immediate reply. Sophie must have never mentioned it before. “I suppose that explains some things. So it is a pet, a curiosity. We always had a weakness for pitiful and defenseless souls we could nurse back to health. It was in our nature to be trusting and kind to weak things.”

The Witchelf couldn’t argue against that at least, though she didn’t think of it as a weakness. She spoke up, “I don’t expect you to be friends with Sophie and I don’t expect you to forgive me for sealing you away. Our relationship as it stands is unsustainable and unless we are able to exchange memories with one another we’ll both be driven to madness. If we drift too far apart then reconciliation will be impossible. I do not wish for that to happen. There is very few elves left in the world and I want something of our legacy to be preserved.”

“So now you care about your people?” the mirrorself scoffed, “I don’t know how you expect me to trust someone who cast off so much of her identity that you don’t even know your own name.” She paused, still angry, annoyed, but her tone had softened somewhat, though it still carried some venom.

She continued, “At the very least, I can tell you that and then maybe you will start to see that I’m right. You will see that you are being foolish and that thing,” she pointed at Sophie, “shouldn’t be trusted.”

The Witchelf didn’t respond, angry at the words the mirrorself used to describe Sophie. She wasn’t a thing. She starred down her mirrorself. She could see it now. Sophie was right, like an animal caught in a trap, lashing out in pain.

The mirrorself paused for a moment and blinked, breaking eye contact for a small moment by looking away briefly. “I don't think you are being sincere in your concern for our people, but I suppose I can talk some sense into you.” It was faint but her confidence was lessened.

The Witchelf felt a surge of what felt like static electricity flow into her fingertips, another unfamiliar sensation, causing a brief moment of numbness. Suddenly, should could feel it, a forgotten memory unlocked, a piece of herself restored: her name, the name other elves would have called her in her native tongue.

“Qingling Xiang.”