poetry (in stillness)
Rune stared at the mirror and smiled.
It came off as more of a grimace - it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and his tusks stretched his lower lip awkwardly. The flicker of a knotted furrow between his brows did nothing to lessen the effect. He braced his hands on the sink below the mirror and let his head hang for a moment, groaning.
Try again, whispered the tiny, optimistic, spitefully hopeful voice in the back of his mind. An echo of who he was before, the last clinging ghost of a man who was once as charming as he was pretty. It was a counterpart to the foreign whispers entwining him like thorny vines, their bitter sting rooted in the lump of cursed rock where his heart should be - once red and lively, beating with the thrill of life and freedom, now cold and black and burning with hatred.
Not even metaphorically, the voice whispered again, not without humor. Now, stop moping about rocks and smile.
“No,” he said.
Do it, you coward. The voice was sly, playful. Silly, even.
He raised his head, leveling a challenging glare to the mirror. His simmering glower was enough to make even Mogrul the Loan-Shark back down, but it seemed he was immune to himself. “I looked like I was trying to bite someone.”
Because it’s not genuine. Think of something you love, and try again.
“Alright, fine - fine.” He huffed, and closed his eyes. He pictured Veena, the beauty of the Blackbirds; he loved her, would trek across still-burning foyadas for her, would die for her. He pictured Elshad, her smile when she was turned back into herself, the way she held Veena and Rune in her cool arms; the giddiness he felt when he laid beside them, trying to shield them both at once. He would be their sword and shield, if they would have him, and by the gods, they had him - and refused to let go.
Quite the poet.
He opened his eyes, only to be met by his own scowl.
Rune winced, and lightly let his head bang against the mirror.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m wasting my time.”
You’re being silly. His reflection tilted his head, mirroring his stare.
“Excuse me? You’re being silly - sitting here and making me practice smiles in mirrors,” he growled - grumbled, more like. There wasn’t as much fire in his tone as he had intended, the comeback falling a bit flat. His reflection only seemed amused by it, lips quirking into a smile.
Says the man yelling at himself in a bathroom.
A startled noise left him, and he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle it. “I - how dare you, I’m -” There was that noise again, and again, before it became a steady stream of noise. There was a moment before he realized that his reflection was laughing.
He was laughing.
The thorns that entangled him loosened for a blessed moment, the absurdity fully hitting him. Bahrjulihn’ruhn gro-Yatuklak, born of the lost cities, rune of the fire-stones, revered and scorned and feared in Raven Rock, son of a mabrigash witch and an Orc legionnaire ... sitting in front a mirror in the Retching Netch, practicing his smiles.
His head was thrown backwards, his teeth biting lightly into the skin of his knuckle to quiet himself. Full-chested peels of laughter bounced around the bathroom, his bemusement overruling his will to shut up already; he managed to calm the laughter into hiccuping chuckles, and then awkward clears of the throat, his eyes meeting his reflection’s.
His ears, long and mangled, were pressed contentedly against his head. His eyes wrinkled, usually making him appear older than he was, now giving him an air of mirth. His grin, lopsided and messy and real, grew smaller but just as real as he ducked his head low and left the bathroom.
The patron closest to him - a mercenary, Serjo Sero - shot him a strange look from behind his mask as Rune brushed by, clearing his throat.
Oh, gods, he realized, they heard.
