Amator ex Speculo
As a general rule of thumb, it's wise to purchase a brand new mirror when it's absolutely necessary—for a few reasons. The main one being "energy."
Spiritually, mirrors can act as a container or a doorway depending on the use and intent. To buy a used one is to invite all sorts of spiritual chaos into one's life.
But the spiritual world is not visible in the mundane to those not paying attention.
Or to those who get distracted.
I was the latter.
But, in my defense, you would be too had you beheld what I did.
A relic of a time long since gone; at least it must have been as this was not a simple tool languidly pieced together. It had presence, purpose, and a gravity that lured me in before I even consciously realized that I was holding it.
The mirror was heavier than I expected, the weight a comfortable ache in my hand as my fingers wrapped around the thick handle. Slowly, my head tilted to the side as a curious heat began to emanate from the object, and I felt my cheeks flush in response.
I didn't tell the shopkeep that he was woefully undercharging me for such an invigorating find.
But when I returned home with my prize in hand, I silently gave thanks for my fortune as I sat on my bed to thoroughly inspect the mirror uninterrupted.
The antique gold comprising the majority of it looked darker in the dimly lit room—almost giving it a more sinister quality as I turned it over in my hands carefully. On the back of the mirror was a simple etching that I was unable to name in the middle of a thickly lined carved triangle, and as I tenderly traced my fingers over the marks I felt a tingling sensation surge up through my arm.
With a shudder I returned the mirror back to its original position to study the face and glass. The border surrounding the glass was delicately carved with two thick curves on either side. Within the curves were thinner, less pronounced accent lines and at the top, where the curves met the glass lay a circular single black stone.
Jet?
Onyx?
Obsidian?
My curiosity got the better of me and I angled the mirror back and forth to try to get a better look at the gem and that's when I noticed the quick glint on the back-tilt for a fraction of a second.
And as I measuredly adjusted the angle to hold the shine, I leant closer to see the white starburst in the middle of the darkened stone and a soft gasp left my lips.
A black star sapphire...
Amidst the ancient gold of the whole of the object and above the deep violet of the glass itself, the stone seemed perfectly at home.
My fingers came up to trace down the curves framing the glass as a shiver ran down my spine, yet I continued undeterred.
If anything, I felt incentivized to continue further as my fingers danced lower down to where the handle met the base of the mirror itself. I noticed how the handle was somewhat tapered at the beginning before it started to get thicker going down and my fingers began to struggle to wrap around the middle as I noted the round, bulbous tip accentuating the end.
My thumb slowly and softly rubbed along the thin accent lines trailing down to the tip and the warmth the mirror had while in the shop earlier began to return.
Oh
Suddenly, almost with a shock, I realized that this mirror was enchanted—as the violet glass began to distort and hazy images started to flicker through: a newly abandoned church in the middle of the night, an altar prepared for worship to an entity it does not know, smoke framing hunger, the silhouette of temptation, lifeless marble eyes watching with silent pride, a trembling hand clutching the altar cloth before it squeezes almost violently and yanks the cloth in a frenzied desperation.
The glass distorted before it would show me what truly aches at the center of my being and my grip on the heated handle tightened with frustration as the image settled back into my own heated reflection.
Yet, where I knew my eyes held agitation, my mirror's showed me promise with a hint of amusement.
It didn't intend to make this easy, but it yearned for the same thing I did.
Another soft pulse of the heat came from the mirror before it began to gradually cool. And as I gave it one last look, while I considered when I wanted to try to do this again—I finally noticed the true shape of the mirror and handle...and another flush crept across my cheeks.
Oh
This was a ritual tool; and it was going to see the rite through all the way to the end.
In whatever capacity I needed it to.
In every sense it wanted to.
He would have a focal point to observe.
I would have a surface to reflect on.
And we would be fulfilled again and again and again until my exhaustion overtook me.
But even then, he would be beside me as I slept.
Ever vigilant. Ever observant. Ever perceptive.
And when I opened my eyes to see not my own staring back at me, I began to wonder: was the sweet ache in my chest for myself?
Or because of him?
