Having much time to reflect upon the events of the past half-year, Laicamiril looked once more upon her reflection in the tall mirror that graced the corner of the room she shared with her husband. Arthandron had gone off early to try his hand at falconing with a pair of Cirdan's master-builders. He did love to pick up new things. She was left alone with her thoughts, many of which led down the rocky, slick slope to regrets. Such as it ever was, she thought, reflexively dismissing the notion that her flight from Tol Lochul's confines had been other than the best course.
Looking into her own eyes as she braided her brown hair, she was struck buy something peculiar. The mirror seemed to be clouded somehow. A brilliant light shone in from the open windows where the leaded glass panes had been opened wide to admit the fresh sea air. Transluscent curtains billowed slightly and little birds sang gaily a celebratory autumn song. They also seemed to carry a reproachful and somber note in their song. And a warning of danger ahead. The elves are alert to such things. Her reflexion seemed suddenly to carry a shimmering nimbus, as though the double she looked at was somehow offset to itself, as though the double of the reflection were mimicing her motions.
She'd have to have Arth look at this mirror. Perhaps one of his friends would know what would cause it to fail so. She knew mirrors made by inferior mortal hands could fog or cloud up over time but this example was of the finest quality. Something her husband had acquired from some hunting companion. There had been a trio of mirrors but one had broken and the previous owner had chosen to give it away. It had been made in Nan Elmoth it was said, which she had found peculiar. The knowledge of who made it was long lost and it bore no maker's mark or other device.
The more she looked however, the worse it seemed to become. She finished braiding her hair, becoming annoyed to the point of distraction. The surfacing of negative feeling coincided seemed almost to coincide with a dimming of the light outside. She went to the window. Not a cloud could be seen. A perfect day.
But it wasn't. She had been absorbed with a feeling of guilt since Cirdan had informed her what the nature of her new errand was to be. The incident at Kheledul came back to her. What had seemed like a spike of iron resolved itself into a twisted and hateful figure. A spirit that had some special animus for Lady Arahen's squire. That it was driven from the Ered Luin had been enough for the Lords of the West. The unexpected re-appearance of the disembodied thing called 'Mans' in Addiela's presumptuous and catastrophically failed binding rite had driven her to eager acceptance of a long-standing summons from Cirdan.
The relief felt on the ship had faded quickly after her interviews with the Shipwright. Now she recalled her promise to Addiela, who had pleaded with her to never leave.
Well, I've failed a friend. But I swore no oath. The fact that she had not invoked the Powers or pronounced some doom should she fail was of no comfort as she drifted through the vast libraries in Mithlond, collecting clues. She could not draw upon the help of Arahen, who was in Imladris. Or Rhavanielle who had once more disappeared as was her habit. All her old comrades were scattered by events. Hrangach was in Lothlorien the last she had got word, as was Inwis. Aipolossë was seconded to the dwarf expedition. The others had sailed west to follow the setting sun to their reward for labors and pains of Middle Earth.
She had no one to seek counsel or absolution from save Aamu, who was hunting in Lindon and her boss, Cirdan, who was typically enigmatic, saying only that the 'circle will complete itself in its due course. I cannot see how wide the ambit.' Whatever that really meant, it was cold comfort. She had felt stifled and useless in Xandelif's villa, laying about the gardens in idle and luxurious indolence.
She had had intimations that something was deeply wrong about Addiela's comportment in the days leading up to her ill fated magickal rite. Very much not herself, her panoply of expression was utterly changed. Snide, reflexively choleric and insular, she seemed to retreat into her preparations.
But when she tried to speak to Xandalif- who was the one least trusting of the motives of others- she was rebuffed in her effort to organize an intervention before this sorcerous rite should be carried out. “Don't worry about it. It's probably nothing, I'm sure.”
That intuition proved right was not much of a sop now. It seemed that dealing with Mans was not something she could escape.
The more her mind drifted through the sad terrain of failure, the more she was drawn to look back at the mirror. She tied the belt on her morning gown tighter and stared hard, fingering the soft beads of the chyrsocola bracelet Calidis had gifted her as she often did when she was anxious.
The ambit of her vision was at once reduced to the reflection. All else was a black and spinning starless void. The eyes of her reflection held her mind fast. There was no time for a counterspell even had she known what the nature of this bewitchment was. The face in the mirror reflected her sudden and complete panic, but the eyes were those of someone else. Something else. Red and molten and violent with triumphant malice. The space behind her ceased to be her bedchamber and became a dark prison. The last sensation before oblivion was a voice. Disembodied and hollow; “Now for the others.”
