Work Text:
he stares at the mirror, and the mirror stares back. unblinking, cold to the touch, unafraid of him.
he’s terrified of the mirror. of mirrors everywhere, even. windows into the soul, gateways to worlds uncharted. mirrors are centres of vain, untameable magic. his mother’s ornate full-length mirror embodies this tenfold. his eyes are drawn to the surface, over its carefully, expertly polished surfaces brought to life by some of the best craftsmen in the entire netherworld.
it’s a perfect mirror, but his reflection is still all wrong.
if he stares at the mirror too long, dread pools in his stomach, pushing his breakfast backwards through time, backwards through his gut. it sickens him.
his face is not his own and yet it’s not someone else’s, either. there’s definitely someone in the mirror, but it’s not him. it’s alice, he knows. alice is the one in the mirror. she’s petite and doe-eyed and adorable, she’s a little girl all dolled up in gorgeous gossamer silks, she’s the one who made the doctors blush when they first saw her.
she’s him. and at the same time, she’s his worst fear. the mirror is cruel to show her to him. to show him her stunning ruby eyes and graceful silky tresses and cruelly cold smile.
it’s a reminder of who he is— no, who he should’ve been.
her eyes hold so many tears behind them.
he stares at her, and she stares back, unblinking, unsmiling, and suddenly he is the one in the mirror, watching, waiting, trapped.
alice is outside, stuffed in a dress she cannot stand. alice is outside, talking to people she cannot stand.
alice is outside, pretending to be someone she cannot stand.
and he realises. it’s not easy for either of them, is it? not for little alice, and not for bigger alice either.
little alice looks up at him, her eyes cold and unflinching. he reaches out to her, but she doesn’t take his hand. he understands.
asmodeus sits down, alice sits with him. she watches him brush his hair, frown at it’s length, reach for the scissors and trim it himself. she watches him get dressed, button-down over compression undershirt, vest over button-down. pants and long pretty boots.
alice’s eyes do not move from him. she is trapped in the mirror…but still so much more powerful than him, somehow. he’s not her. he can’t be. he doesn’t want to be.
he can feel tears prickling at his eyes. alice’s eyes are just as weepy.
she doesn’t want to be her either.
something coiled, wound tight up in his chest, snaps wide like an overly-taut bowstring.
asmodeus sobs. something like an ancient sorrow, nestled deep in his soul, carved on his heart, has been released. he can feel it try to strangle him, try to claw at his throat. it makes a last-ditch desperate attempt to cling onto him, to place him in a chokehold one final time, but little alice is here this time, and he is fighting it too.
big alice looks at little alice, and for the first time, he sees the little boy smile.
the mirror stares at him, and he stares back. unblinking, cold to the touch, unafraid of it.