Shattered Mirror

Suramar, ~10 000 years ago

“Look at her…”
“Do you see the stains on her hands?”
“Goddess, can’t she ever clean up?”
“Why the Priestesses ever let her near anything made of Mooncloth I will never understand, not with those dirty paws on her.”
“Her hands are not the worst part. Did you see her face? Paint and ink everywhere. Did she even notice?”
“Ah, but Sister, in the case of her face the paint is actually an improvement.”
The whispers and quiet snickers followed me as I hurried along the corridors towards my room. I had spent a pleasant afternoon helping some of the senior Sisters decorate a new prayer book. I had been so proud when they had asked me to create special illuminations for the pages and I had been unbearably excited to get started on the project. Now, my hands and face covered in ink, paint and a light dusting of gold leaf after having worked on the illuminations for hours, I -almost- regretted saying yes.

Walking through the halls and hearing the whispered barbs, the mocking laughter, made me want to die; to disappear and never resurface again. My mother would undoubtedly tell me that the vicious comments and attempts to isolate me stemmed from jealousy, but it was hard, very hard, to hold my head high and cling to the belief that they were being mean to me just because I had been asked to do this small thing for some of the senior sisters. It seemed so petty to be jealous of such a thing…but their words and pointed giggles cut deeper than any knife ever could and the comments and echoes of their laughter continued to haunt my every step through the Temple.

*

“Sister Tinwëtar, wearing the latest fashion once again I see?”
I had been so careful, coming back from the gardens. I had taken every step and measure to avoid the areas where my tormentors usually liked to linger, but here they were, blocking my path. I knew my robes carried the marks of several hours spent repotting plants and herbs, and so did my face and hands. It was not like I had covered myself in dirt and soil on purpose, it just…happened…when you worked in the garden. Not that my tormentors would know since they would not set a foot in there to plant or care for the growing things even if their lives depended on it.

“I know that mud masks are good for your skin, but to wear mud and dirt smeared over your face in public? Bold, sister, very bold.” Cruel laughter echoed in my ears and brought tears to my eyes. I blinked furiously to clear them away, to not give my peers the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
“Not that your face would benefit from it from a cosmetic standpoint in the first place, I am afraid that it is quite beyond saving, sister. So angular and bony. The mud suits you. At least it helps obscure some of your more offensive features…like that nose. Goddess, you poor creature. Who will ever look up to you as a Priestess? Who will ever listen to you? They will all be too busy staring at that face in horror. So plain, so ugly. No grace, no beauty…how could you possibly be one of the Goddess’ chosen? No, better stay in the mud where you belong, sister.”
I endured the tirage of words, staring straight ahead of me and not replying. They would tire soon enough and move on, but before they did I could not show any signs of weakness. I had to hold my head high, keep my eyes dry and stomp down the urge to run and hide. I was a block of stone and their words could not reach me…or, at least that is what I told myself. In reality, their words went straight to my heart, lodging like a thorn and leaking poison into my mind and veins.

*

I took a step back and admired my handiwork. The dress on the mannequin was my most beautiful creation to date. I was immensely proud of it and I had been so pleased to see it take shape as I worked tirelessly on it. It was a bold dress in every way; from the cut to the fabric choices. The design of the dress was a low cut bodice, adorned with golden embroidery and metal filigree that travelled down the front to the skirt that hung low on the hips. The fabric had been draped artfully to reveal just the right amount of skin over the thighs, just the right amount to be sensual instead of gaudy.

As the base fabric, I had chosen a sumptuous satin in a deep golden colour. It would feel marvellous against the skin and would make the most delicate hissing and rustling noise as one moved. Over it, I had draped sheer golden organza, to add to the decadence. A belt of gold plated metal filigree shaped like leaves and vines accentuated the hips and gave the fabric draping something a bit more solid to attach to. It was a dress to show off, a dress to dance and feel beautiful in. A dress that I would usually have reserved for Agam’adil, but this one…this specific dress, I had made for myself.

“Oh, sister Tinwëtar! What a beautiful dress!” I turned around and saw one of the senior Priestesses stand in the doorway. She looked at my golden creation with admiration and envy.
“It will be -perfect- for Jurina’tore. Oh, Agam’adil will be so pleased, I am sure! You are such a good friend for making her all these beautiful dresses to wear.” the Priestess prattled on, heedless to the fact that the dress’ measurements would -never- have fit the shorter, more curvaceous Agam’adil.
“Actually, the dress is…-” I never got a chance to finish as the Priestess continued.
“Agam’adil will be the star of the celebration in this. This will serve to accentuate her beauty even more. You are quite the artist, sister, and such a loyal friend for not carrying any resentment towards sister Glaivestar when she outshines you and everyone else around her at every turn.” The Priestess beamed a kindly smile towards me and patted my cheek before she left, still filled with the excitement of seeing the beautiful gown.

As for me, I stared at the dress with unseeing eyes, tears burning behind my lids. All the joy towards my creation had vanished at the Priestess’ words. She was right, of course. The dress would look so much better on Agam’adil. It did not matter if I wore it, she would outshine me anyway. But a part of me could not bear the thought of altering it to fit my dearest friend. I had created it for -me- and while I couldn’t wear it now, I did not want anyone else to wear it either. So, with despair in my heart, I removed the dress from the mannequin, folded it up neatly and stored it away in a beautiful box at the back of my closet.

*

Feralas, year 34 ADP

The memories washed over me unbidden as soon as I made my way back to the stronghold, as I ran towards the safety of my own chamber. I ran as swiftly as I could, my cloak rippling behind me like a banner. I ran as if I could somehow leave the night’s events behind me if I only put enough distance between myself and Aroki.
“It was a good thing that you wore your hood today.”
“I will not tell anyone since I assume you do not want anyone to see you like this.”
“You look like you’re about to embark on a scouting mission.”
I knew the words had been said in jest, had been said to tease me for the accidental smudge of charcoal that I had smeared across half my face after having spent the early part of my evening sketching. At that moment, it did not matter. It still hurt and I was immediately transferred back to my youth, to my time training at the Temple, where the same words had been used intentionally to wound and cripple me and my spirit beyond repair.

I finally reached my room and slammed the door shut behind me, grateful that neither Melaniel, nor Shorts, were in residence. I was completely and utterly alone, just like I had been back then in so many respects. As I turned about my room, removing my cloak and storing my journal, the mirror on the wall seemed to call my name. It beckoned me over, to check if I had truly managed to wash the charcoal off my face, or if some traces of black still lingered to make me uglier than I already was. It was with some measure of trepidation that I stepped forward and beheld my face in the reflective surface of the mirror.

My face looked like it always did; large, deep-set silver eyes framed by thick, black lashes (like a Tauren’s, as my tormentors had used to tell me), a long nose with a slight bump at the ridge, a wide mouth that had once been prone to smiling, but no longer, high cheekbones, cheeks that had lost their softness and fullness after too many months without proper amounts of nourishment, sleep and rest. The face that stared back at me was considered too angular, too other, to be beautiful. The face that lacked the soft, womanly allure that drew the eye. The face that had -always- been compared to Agam’adil’s and been found lacking in some way. The face that had earned me almost two centuries of constant torment and teasing…and I hated it. I hated the face that stared back at me from the polished silver.

Any trace of the night’s mishap had been washed away back at Aroki’s camp, but if I looked closely enough I could almost imagine where it had been; where the thick, black stripes of charcoal had marred my skin. The image blurred and I could see it clearly, stark against the pale lavender of my cheek. A bitter reminder that not even my hood could hide such a brutal imperfection, that not even my hood would keep it from being remarked upon. I used my hood as a distraction to hide behind so that the people around me would not be forced to dwell upon my unsightly visage. I had found ways around my handicap, to make people listen and take me seriously despite being as ugly as I was. But one misstep, one chink in my carefully crafted armour of beautiful clothes and my usually immaculate appearance, and it all fell to pieces.

I stared and I stared at that face that had been the cause of so much grief and pain and I could not stand it. In blind rage and despair, completely without thought, I raised my hands and punched my fists into the surface of the mirror, one after the other, over and over. Small, spiderweb cracks began to form from the site of impact until the mirror shattered completely, showering my hands in razor sharp shards. Only then did the pain, and the fact that I was bleeding, begin to register. Sobbing quietly, I fell to my knees and started to gather up the wicked shards and the process earned me several more cuts. But I did not stop until I had gathered up every last one and put them all into a basket; ready to be disposed of. The empty mirror frame hung on the wall like a gaping wound; one or two shards still clinging stubbornly to it. I stared at it, numb, for a few long moments before the pain in my hands drove me from my room in search of bandages. But there was no bandage strong enough that could ever hold my broken spirit together.