Through a Mirror, Darkly

Cerra Manor; Ryven's "Reclaimed" Suite
11-2  YC 116

Ryven couldn't sleep, though he desperately needed to.  His short communication with Dr. Thomas had been met with the explicit advice that Ryven rest to aid his recovery.  Every time Ryven finally drifted off into the warm embrace of his bed, the nightmares would return.  Worse than that, the nightmares weren't even the thready mercurial essence of dream, but flashes of ironclad memory and the frightful recollection of events in which he was both actor and spectator.  Rather than just a silent watcher, Ryven could also remember the sensations of the Other, with no bifurcation.  In those moments, seared into his mind, the barriers between himself and the Other were fluid, permeable.  There was no means of blocking the transference.  So, every time he finally drifted into sleep, he relived the experience, the horror of the acts of a madman, and worse yet, the constant realization that he shared the same face in his mirror.  In this lightest nightmare, he stood naked before a mirror, his muscles traced in flaky rivers of coagulated blood from a small family of minors who met their ends in an unspeakably grisly fashion.  His eyes stared back at him in the mirror, the pupils dilated with the ecstasy of the kill.  He felt simultaneously the elation of the grisly murder and revulsion at the act.  The edges of the mirror seemed to cloud and darken, though Ryven assumed he imagined this.  The line between reality and hallucination had become every bit as fluid as the line between himself and the Other.  Even now, Ryven could hardly believe that the Other was gone.  That he was alone in his own mind again.  He still avoided mirrors though, finding they showed too much truth.  Mirrors are too honest.  They reveal that the face of the madman is the same as the face of the saint, save only their aim.  The saint's eyes turn in ecstasy above.  The madman's eyes turn in ecstasy to himself.  Ryven couldn't look to himself for salvation.  He was the source of his own damnation.

Ryven sat on the side of his bed, his eyes drawn out the window of his suite.  There were some silver linings in his situation.  He was free of the Other, for starters, which couldn't really be overstated.  He had enjoyed a conversation with Reginauld.  Some of Regi's advice made sense.  Ryven could probably use a new hobby to keep himself occupied.  Ryven chuckled bitterly at the thought of taking up knitting.  Perhaps he should find some hobby that fit more clearly within his known skills.  Of course, his known skills involved the cultivation of tea and tobacco, and oh yeah, killing people.  Perhaps a treatise on close quarters combat?  Maybe he should invent his own line of tactical gear?  If nothing else, he should find himself a martial arts training center.  It had been too long since he sought the peace of truly disciplined martial skill.  Ryven's mind drifted to Shalee.  This subject was more complicated.

Ryven hadn't realized the depth of his feeling for Shalee until Leela had convinced him (admittedly quite easily) that he had murdered her after destroying her clones.  The idea of a universe without Shalee had crashed in on him with unbelievable force.  More painful than any of the host of acts committed by the Other, this one broke Ryven's mind.  It broke it for the better, certainly, and the joy of his realization that Shalee had not been murdered, and not by him, had been a more efficacious balm than any he could have asked for.  Yet, it had brought into focus and idea that had been formless floating around in his subconscious.  So basic, and yet utterly unacknowledged and secret even to himself.  Shalee meant more to him than even he had known.  And tonight, he had had his first non-confrontational conversation with her in as long as he could remember.  Suddenly, through the events of the past few days, all of the storied and stormy history of their relationship had seemed trivial.  The pain he had suffered at her hands was meaningless compared to the joy of having her in his life in whatever fashion.  Now, even more unsought but longed for, the possibility of ending the animosity between the two of them was a real one.  This thought brought him more comfort than he could have believed it could.

Ryven lay back in his bed and closed his eyes, focusing all his thought on Shalee, and felt himself drift off to sleep, this time, hopefully free of the phantasms of his guilt.