Work Text:
Many mythologists before him have disappeared with very little trace or died under mysterious circumstances, researching and trying to understand this great mystery spanning centuries.
Lance reads aloud in the small dedicated room, covered from wall to wall in every little shred of evidence of this mysterious God's existence he could possibly get his hands on, no matter how insignificant and useless it may seem. Captivated by the mysterious tales from a young age and the witness claims that seemed too true to discount, he started to connect the dots over the years to a much bigger picture.
"Fernando Alonso is the God of Chaos." He reads, for the thousandth or so time, words burned deeply into his mind. "It thrums and thunders wildly beneath his skin, but he looks like any other man. In some legends he is cunning. In others, he lacks any form of sanity." Lance looks up from the book he reads and moves a string from one pin to another, taking a step back to look at the full picture, still wild and unclear, book in hand. It's a large board with lines and photographs too obscure and wild for just any person to understand what they all mean. How they link together. Why one is so important to the other. Lance reads on. "Do what you wish with that knowledge, for it is not useless."
He turns the page, the sound of paper sharp against the silence of the room. "Descriptions vary, quite vastly. In some accounts he is humanoid, in others he appears as sparks and flames, in others he's a ghost. In a few, he is a lost prince of Spain and in one obscure and hastily written poem, he is a demon. There is no set description but, such is the nature of Chaos." He looks up at the board again.
"But who are you?" Lance mutters beneath his breath, trying to make sense of the hurricane of string connecting to different pins. "I don't think you are the villain the world paints you to be," he watches a newspaper article from the early 1900s, speaking of a miracle, a being of light and fire holding back a high flood, what looked like arms raised with an invisible force ending the flood in the air as if an invisible wall had magically come to stop it in its tracks. "But who are you?"
The lights above him flicker slightly and the bulb softly hums with electricity.
A sudden fire ignites in a ring around the being of light in the photo, a burning line reaching up from the circle and to the ceiling. It runs in a chaotic zigzag line until it met the mirror on the other side of the room. The flames magically extinguished themselves after a few seconds and a bold dark scorched line marked out an arrow pointing towards the mirror.
This mirror is an oval shape, but little markings and patterns on the metal around it made it seem out of place with everything else. Lance found the mirror years ago, abandoned and unwanted with that same symbol carved into the edges. Something told him to pick it up, to buy it, and so he did.
Lance takes a careful step towards the mirror. He's learned to trust these odd signs during his time investigating the great mystery of Fernando Alonso. But still he's cautious of course, well aware that this notorious God of Chaos has also killed many who seek to understand him in more depth. It's a great risk with an equally great reward, and he's willing to take it.
The mirror shatters with no warning and Lance stumbles back. The fragments stay suspended in the air then somehow move themselves back into the spaces on the mirror they broke free from. In the mirror there now stood a strange figure, completely still and changing at the same time.
The figure is morphing, changing, shifting between all different wild forms. A golden crown upon it's head melting to form flames for hair, becoming solid then exploding into a new shape. It never rested, never settled, never stopped. An eternal hurricane.
The room turns pitch-black then bright as if the unfiltered light of the sun had been unleashed in the room.
The strange apparition goes to touch the mirror from where it stands on the inside, passing through it to reach the outer world, it's form settling into a humanoid being of light, quickly fading. It's hands reach out for Lance, but they aren't imposing or terrifying as described in the journals and diary entries with quick and rushed handwriting. They didn't threaten to rip him apart or dig harshly into him. The hands reach out, tetative, as if they were looking for something to hold onto.
Lance watches, stunned by the scene before him and is unable to move, shock leaving him frozen to the spot.
Lance feels his heart reach out.
Then his hands reach out.
Lance doesn't really know why, but he does it.
The hand from the mirror stops before it could reach Lance, and nothing moves for a few moments, the possibility of what could happen becoming a burning question in the space between them.
Lance can hear his heartbeat in his ears, loud and quick. He wonders if he'll hear it for much longer as the hand moves closer, hesitancy clear in the way it moved.
His hand is warm, then ice cold, then warm against the side of his face. The other hand moves gently across Lance's forearm, fingertips prickling against his arms.
"Fernando Alonso, the God of Chaos." Lance mutters.
His hands become heavy and human against Lance's, but still cold as if the being had come from the heart of an ice blizzard. More of him starts to warp through the mirror, lava-like structures fading to faces, a torso, a leg, then two. He's built like a lion, with the eyes of a kitten, curious and intrigued, the gaze of his brown eyes warm and gentle.
His lips are warm, but his hands are ice cold.