This was the first assignment I did for the Seed Writers Group. At the time, this was simply to create a little background into a very minor character who was acting as a foil for my wizard. This piece, written as a journal entry, ended up changing him into the primary antagonist in my first book, and the entry ended up in the book verbatim. When it’s found, it sets off the climax of the first book.
What do you do when your dream reveals your destiny? What chances do you take? Who can you trust to tell?
Those were my first questions upon awakening. I made no comment to the woman beside me. She was a meaningless slave, no more. Beautiful, yes, but I no more noticed her than the silken sheets on which she slept.
I rose and studied myself in the tall, slender mirror along the far wall. I do not use it to reaffirm my beauty, but neither do I keep it as yet another lovely trophy for my tower. I know far too well how limited my magical abilities are. More, I think, than any of my fellow Grand Order members realize. It is my dreams that grant me any modicum of magical power, a secret I intend for no one but myself.
The mirror is…more than it seems. It certainly serves my purposes, for it provides answers to my dreams. Not only the dreams and visions of sleep, but the daydreams of those who are ambitious enough to seize the opportunities that they are given. If you know how to look in the mirror, that is, and I had known how for quite some time.
The problem with dreams and visions is their lack of clarity, even when seen through the glass of my mirror. Daydreams are much easier to see clearly, but the mirror can do little more than enforce those dreams in the waking world so that, depending on the strength of one’s ambition, success is virtually guaranteed.
It is the dreams of sleep for which the mirror is truly meant. How does one recall without such a device? How does one sift through the dreams of fancy and the dreams of true vision? How does one reveal the will of the gods given through dreams?
This morning I stood before the mirror, examining my eyes. The eyes are the trigger, of course. “Windows to the soul,” that is what the poets have called them. “Gateway to dreams,” is closer to the truth. Never before had it been more true than this morning. I do not remember any part of the dream that mattered, only that it would affect my destiny.
The reflections of the mirror are no different from a normal mirror. Except for the eyes. Patience is required. Not my strongest trait by far, but there are times when a true man of ambition must wait, so wait I did, staring into my own eyes as I would a beautiful woman worthy of seduction.
When I first learned of the mirror’s gift, I was surprised that I did not see my dream played out for me, especially the ones like last night’s where I can recall nothing. There was no sudden change in my eyes other than a light that illuminates like the lifting of a veil. The interesting thing about dreams is the number of ways in which they can be interpreted. And just as with daydreams, the mirror provides me the gift to correctly interpret those dreams, or possibly to shape those dreams to my interpretation.
The revelation is often sudden and sometimes painful. A dagger seemed to raggedly gouge my eyes out, the pain was so sharp and deep. I crumpled to my knees seeing nothing but eternal darkness. I must have cried out, for I could feel the woman’s arms around me and hear her cries of “My lord! My lord!” At first, I think she should never have awoken but, as my vision clears and the pain recedes and I see no blood from my eyes, I realize she is the woman in my dream. For, of course, I know my dream fully, and I know the destiny that has been laid on me by the gods. And it is glorious. Oh, it is glorious indeed! But it will require patience, and this woman is the key.
I look at her, revealed to me now by this dream as someone worthy of my respect. Her beauty is easy to look past; I have never lacked for lovelies. No, it is the magic she possesses. It is different from all others, a thing that is wild and willful, a tempest waiting to be unleashed, a beauty unmatched by all other treasures.
For a moment, I panic. How to gain her magic? But I recall the promise of the gods, what I shall unleash when the time is ripe. I look at her again and see the fear festering in her eyes. She has just realized she should have never shown compassion, that she should have feigned sleep. Yet she is the seed, and without her, the fruit will never ripen. I understand that I finally have someone to share my dreams with, someone to trust, for she will never speak to anyone else again. At least, not until I come unto my full, glorious, revealed dream.