The Empty Mirror
Chapter 76: Candle
Once upon a time, to my misfortune, I perceive how my judgement plummets towards madness, amidst this abysmal appearance. I am aware that the Two of Wands staff has succumbed to the ferocity of the abyss, plunging into the sea of hell. In turn, the Hunger on Trial choker betrays its owner and the treacherous attack is reflected on my countenance, tearing apart half of my face, witnessing my own demise amidst the corrupted flesh of my skin and the poison flooding my being. I find myself devoid of any semblance of sanity and discretion, my mind wandering through a milky ocean, in a place as immaculate as the asylum of the insane, incapable even of subjugating the three heads that gaze insolently at me. It is clear, the three heads are nothing but a perception of my experience, yet I know it to be a certainty. And in this sea of milk, I contemplate the flashes of my extinguished eyes like fleeting lights, and perhaps hallucinate the presence of rainbow-colored spectacles in the halted time, rainbows that seem tangible, moving like wild horses on the stage, intertwining and entangling with each other, divine promise. After this torment, which continues like a nightmare, I awaken.
I awaken in a bed, within a room shrouded in shadows, and with my eyes still half-open, I barely discern that I am neither in a circus nor among gardens. After rubbing my eyes with my fingertips and clearing the haze from my sight, I observe that the chamber is modest and rustic, with a bed that invites rest. With hesitant steps, I descend from the bed and my bare feet touch the cold floor, feeling its icy caress. I no longer wear my usual attire, the dress, but am adorned with a beige shirt, which seems like a relic rescued from a distant era. Crafted from linen of the finest texture, its folds spill elegantly over my skin, offering a refreshing relief from the heat of the day.
The embroidery adorning the collar and cuffs is an added touch of distinction, and its looseness provides essential freedom of movement for daily tasks. However, such lightweight attire does not alleviate the sweat that beads on my forehead and bathes my body, remnants of the intensity of the nightmare. I also wear brown trousers, woven from sturdy wool, which protect me from the inclemency of weather and the demands of labour. Their simple and straight design ensures comfort and practicality, while reinforced seams augur a long life with each step. Although their appearance dismisses pomp, their worth lies in their functionality and their ability to endure through the years, like a loyal squire in my wanderings.
Barefoot, I embark on a leisurely stroll through the unfamiliar enclosure that embraces me, and upon realizing that midnight reigns and dawn is still distant, I unveil my surroundings. The stone floor, worn by time, groans beneath my steps, while the sturdy stone walls provide a steadfast bastion against the tumult of the outside world. Some solid wood furniture adorns the chamber: a canopy bed, dressed in rough linen sheets; a rickety dresser, whose wrought iron fittings speak of bygone times; and a small table by the window, guarding an extinguished candle in its bronze holder. The window, more a slit in the wall than an opening, allows the entry of a faint lunar glow that bathes the room in a silvery and enigmatic luminescence. A tattered tapestry hangs from one of the walls, its faded warp narrating forgotten epics in blurred strokes and frayed edges. From afar rises the echo of melodies and whispers, a reminder that I am at the core of a temporal journey. Immersed in the tranquil calm of the room, I silently appreciate the refuge it offers me in this ancient and unknown world.
After a brief hesitation, I approach the window, and there, in the vastness of the sky, hangs a solitary moon, different from the one I beheld in the Ace of Wands forest; more waning and faint, as if it were created for this land. With my mouth slightly agape in awe at the heavens, now veiled by dark clouds, my gaze shifts to the candle on the table. I take it in my hands, and the black wax, dense and matte, seems to swallow the light rather than reflect it, endowing it with a halo of mystery and depth. This black candle, with its disturbing beauty and aura of secrecy, evokes the duality that resides in every being: light and shadow, hope and fear, life and death. A reminder that even in the deepest darkness, a spark persists to illuminate the path ahead. With delicacy, I rub it against a rough surface and the wick ignites.
I place it in the brass candlestick and watch as the flame dances whimsically, casting gleams that contrast with the darkness of its bearer. Its glow, though faint, reveals just enough to stir the imagination and sharpen the perception of the unknown. Every drop of melted wax solidifies on the black surface, adding texture and character to the candle. I gaze, fascinated, as it slowly consumes itself, devouring the darkness and metamorphosing it into clarity. But suddenly, in a blink, I watch in horror as the flickering flame stiffens and its colour turns as black as the wax that feeds it. I step back and realize that the room is plunged into an even deeper darkness, submerged in gloom except for the unsettling black flame of the candle.
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A masculine voice resonates in the air, its tone smooth yet deep, as if it emanates from the depths of some unknown realm. Each word, imbued with a breath of ancient wisdom and veiled mystery, captivates my ear and envelops me in a halo of enigma: "Dear Giselle, let us convene at the council of Underworld Academy, where darkness and knowledge intertwine in an indissoluble bond. By the decree of the academy, you have been chosen, an inquisitor of truth, a bearer of the sacred flame. We bestow upon you this divine artefact: a candle, repository of the quintessence of our ancient sorcery. You are summoned to Mummy Bridge to await the carriage that will convey you to our sacred precinct. Mummy Bridge lies within the demarcation between the realm of the living and the domain of twilight. To reach this assembly site, follow the path that winds through the village forest in which you now reside, where the trees seem to whisper secrets of yore and the shadows come alive with each step taken.
Once you traverse the woodland and reach the edge of the precipice, you will find Mummy Bridge spanning the gloomy river that divides the realms. Wait at the heart of the bridge, where wandering souls whisper tales of bygone eras and the wind carries the echo of their lamentations. There, remain in the growing darkness until the carriage of Underworld Academy manifests before you, ready to convey you to your destination at our institution. Let this be a mandate, not a request. Your presence is imperative at Underworld Academy to fulfill your sacred mission. There is no alternative. There is no excuse. May the glow of the candle illuminate your path to truth and redemption. May the power of faith grant you the strength to face the challenges ahead. With authority and devotion, The Council of Priests of Underworld Academy.”
Upon concluding the message, the candle returns to its primal glow, and the room illuminates once more as if the spell had dissipated, leaving only the fragrance of the candle lingering. The scent emitted by the black wax is unique, a blend of death and mysticism that permeates the air. As I approach, the smell of melted wax, warm and earthy, intertwines with darker and more enigmatic effluvia. A subtle halo of smoke hangs, evoking visions of ancient bonfires and ceremonies forgotten. This smoky haze mingles with a scent of wilted floral, as if faded petals merge with the essence of twilight.
And I, still stunned by the words of the candlebearer, try to comprehend what I have heard, wondering if perhaps this would be the desired adventure, even if it were one of mysticism rather than chivalry, which both embittered and comforted me. I doubt the reality of what I heard, and I do not know if I should embark on the journey at dawn, for no date has been given to me. I am unaware of the day, ignorant of the nature of such an organization, and my own location, for after Hanging Gardens, it is clear I am not in full sanity, nor can I think clearly. Thus, I extinguish the candle and forego the appointment, or at least, I do not know what to do, so affected and confused I am. I decide to recline once more on the bed, consulting with the pillow until dawn, wishing for rest, but my troubled mind continues to formulate questions, thousands of them, and weave theories throughout the night, until the first light of day breaks.
At the break of dawn, I rose once more from the bed, having not slept and with my mind in an unfathomable chaos. Barefoot, the cold pavement grazed my soles as I searched for some footwear amidst the disorder on the floor. On the verge of giving in to discouragement, my eyes spotted a pair of light brown leather shoes, covered in dust, whose sturdiness and functionality promised to withstand the vicissitudes of life both in village and city. Their design, devoid of ornamentation and with simple lines, moulded to the foot with a thick and firm sole, studded to provide traction in muddy terrain or snow, offering protection and comfort when traversing cobblestones and dusty paths. As I slipped them on, they fitted my feet with surprising perfection. Then, my attention turned to the room, where disorder reigned with a long tunic lying near the bed, and a piece of fabric cinching the shoulders to cross the chest, among other attire without reason or relevance. Curious and expectant, I knew nothing about this place, the reason for my awakening in it, the absence of my usual dress, and the presence of this attire and footwear alien to my style. I was unaware of the purpose of these strange clothes, but something caught my attention: a metal bowl on the dresser, previously hidden in the dimness and now visible, brimming with crystal-clear water.
Upon noticing the presence of the bowl, I rush towards it with canine eagerness and begin to drink greedily. However, my body does not crave the vital liquid; it is my mind that, after the torment endured, deceives me into believing in a non-existent thirst, a dilemma between flesh and brain. Amidst my introspection, my eyes meet my reflection in the water of the metal bowl: my pale complexion, my small eyes, my upturned nose, my thin lips, and my... black hair. Once white and initially black, it has returned to its original state. I feel a nostalgia and surprise that do not translate into joy, but into an indifference I have cultivated for some time, for I neither love nor enjoy my appearance. The white hair, which once granted me a fresh start and a renewed identity, made me feel unique, a circular rebirth. But now, the black hair, like an echo of the past, assails me with piercing memories and sufferings linked to a noble title. My countenance reflects disdain, fear, and above all, a visceral terror at my renewed raven mane. I longed for a fresh start; perhaps, somewhere deep within me, I desired the ethereal hair of a ghost. I cease drinking, spit on my reflection in the water, and, standing tall, regain my composure. Then, an epiphany strikes me: I desire to make my way to Mummy Bridge.
Ready for adventure, it was necessary to find a rucksack to accommodate the journey's necessities. Fortunately, my eyes came across, next to the solid wooden door, a sturdy canvas backpack with leather straps, whose compartments, though humble, promised efficiency. Within it would fit a piece of hardened bread, a water skin, and, hopefully, some healing herbs for the ailments of the road. Its make, unassuming, adhered to functionality, allowing me to carry it comfortably on my shoulders. It was somewhat worn, yet somewhat hollow, ready to be filled with the provisions of a pilgrimage. I proceeded to provision it: the extinguished black candle and the metal bowl, emptied of its water, were my choices. As I loaded the backpack, a void seized me; the imperial cloak, companion to a thousand and one journeys, no longer enveloped me. Naked I felt without its mantle, yet I concealed the bitterness and, with a final glance at the rustic air of the room, I crossed the threshold. The corridor stretched, flanked by rooms similar to the previous one, and murmurs rose from below, whispers of life bustling in the inn. My eyes settled on the stone staircase, and with firm steps, though laden with uncertainty, I descended to the ground floor, discovering that destiny had led me to an inn.