Desire Doubled Is Love And Love Doubled Is Madness
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfsbane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine
Stiles curses as he falls, hands scraping against the bark of the tree whose roots he has just stumbled over. He winces, palms stinging and blood blooming from the smallest cut to his thumb. He didn’t see the roots until he was tripping over them.
He can’t see very well. The canopy is so thick that only snatches of moonlight make it through, like spotlights on a stage that is kept mostly in darkness. An owl swoops overhead. Though it is far above, Stiles still ducks his head. A phantom feeling of claws or perhaps needle sharp teeth at the base of his neck cause him to shudder.
He needs to get out of this forest.
Stiles moves a little slower, with more precision to avoid becoming even more familiar with the forest floor. Roots seem to rise out of nowhere; tangled, twisted things that seem to be trying to ensnare him. He steps over them carefully but someone gets caught up in low hanging branches. They cut his cheeks, run through his hair like callous hands with sharp nails.
Stiles just wants to go home. He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking for. Doesn’t even know how he got here in the first place.
He spins around; trying to get his bearings, possibly see if there is an exit from this labyrinth but ends up walking into a spider’s web. He tries to bat it away, the sticky silk threads tickling his face and then he’s falling again. He manages to tumble forwards, doing an awkward forward roll that seems to take him into a clearing he didn’t even see before.
Stiles is lying on his back, staring up at the moon that is high in the ebony black sky. Moonlight spills over the clearing like oil over tarmac. Purple flowers surround him, Aconite and deadly nightshade, swaying in a light breeze that ruffles Stiles hair. Mushrooms too in a strangle circle that encompasses his entire body. Somehow, Stiles feels at peace, a wave of calm washing over him. He blinks, mind feeling hazy.
“My, my,” A voice purrs in his ear, “What do we have here? A little lost lamb who has wandered too far from the flock?”
A hand cups Stiles face, a thumb smoothing over his cheek. Stiles winces when it presses against the cut there, blood oozing. The thumb swipes at the bead collecting there. A hum of satisfaction.
“You taste delicious. And such a pretty face.”
The hand returns, slinking around Stiles face to tilt his head back, bare his throat. Stiles eyes flick upwards. His pulse quickens, mouth parting in shock.
His own face is staring back at him. Except it’s not quite his face. Everything is the same but it’s like looking at an old photograph of yourself, the shock because you cannot believe that’s what you look like. Paler skin. Red rimmed eyes as if he hasn’t been sleeping for days. The eyes are dark, like staring into a bottomless pit.
“Come along little lamb,” Mirror-Stiles says. Suddenly Stiles is standing and he doesn’t know how. Mirror-Stiles smiles. It’s saccharine sweet, sharp teeth visible beneath plush lips. A hand is placed on Stiles back; he’s pulled closer to his other self, his left hand held aloft, cold fingers intertwining his.
A strange melody begins, impossible to discern where from. Its haunting and razor sharp. Mirror-Stiles starts to lead and they twirl. A gentle waltz in the middle of the woods. It’s so bizarre to look upon his own face, stretched into such a delighted grin.
“I…” Stiles replies but cannot seem to form a coherent sentence.
“What gets bigger the more you take away?”
“A hole,” Stiles answers automatically.
His other self grins even wider.
“When is a door not a door?”
Stiles is spun around, his left hand held above his head to do so. Pulled in close once more, his other self trailing their hand down his back. It skates the bottom of his shirt, cold fingers on warm skin. It’s a touch like ice but sends sparks of pleasure up Stiles spine.
“Everybody has it but no one can lose it.” This is whispered in his ear, so delicate and careful.
“A shadow,” Stiles murmurs.
The kiss is intense. Pain and pleasure mingling together, leaving Stiles breathless. His lip is bleeding and the other self laps it up with glee. Hands feel like they are everywhere, touching, stroking, petting. They break apart, Stiles head tilts back. His tongue runs over the broken skin of his lip and coppery blood falls onto his taste buds.
“Stay with us,” Mirror-Stiles pleads, “Let us keep you. You wandered into our ring, we want to keep you.”
Teeth on his neck. Hungry and full of possessive rage. A mark is been sucked into the taut skin. Stiles grips his other self’s shoulders, a low moan trembling from his lips. He has never known such agonizing bliss. He might split apart and all that he knows and feel might tumble out of him. His other self will collect them and build him anew.
“Yes,” Stiles replies, his voice lost to another pleasured gasp.
“We begin in the dark,” Mirror-Stiles says, kissing Stiles sweetly on the forehead. “And birth is the death of us.”
A silver chalice is placed against Stiles lips. He drinks the ruby grape liquid, thick and sweet. He stumbles, body going pleasantly numb.
“Sleep now,” His other self murmurs, catching Stiles, “We shall wake in our kingdom and we shall rule the chaos together.”
Stiles lets his eyes drift closed.
She Dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh
– John Keats, ‘Ode To Melancholy’
