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Syden was still covered in blood. It stained his armor, it stained his clothing, it even stained his hair. He could smell it, but he paid no mind as he walked through the castle halls on his way to Napoleon’s study.
He saw men in the halls, some of them limping with the aid of a friend, likely towards the infirmary. Others were merely sitting on the floors, or standing. They all looked somewhat roughened up, bloodied and muddied, with dented armor and dishevelled hair—much like himself. A few of them looked up and nodded at him as he passed them. But most were busy murmuring quietly amongst each other, while he was occupied by his own thoughts.
Napoleon once told him there was a special mirror in the castle armory, that which, by looking into it, revealed a thing about the soul. Through it, you can know the difference between a boy and a man. The men called it a magic mirror. Their leader, Sohal, had brought it from his homeland, known for its long and shadowy history of sorcery.
Napoleon had placed this mirror inside the armory for a reason.
Many a time Syden had gone to that room to equip himself for his training. He usually ran into a few of his comrades while there.
Like the others, he would take his turn glancing into the mirror, but he noted that what he saw hadn't changed much since the first time he looked. In all the years he'd been there, and despite all the skills he had gained during that time, the reflection in the mirror didn't look a day older than when he first joined the army.
This year, he had stood before his reflection, wondering at what he saw — a fresh-faced seven-year-old staring back at his present-day body of 14 years.
The boy stood confidently facing him, with the same green eyes and dirt-streaked blond hair. He followed all of Syden’s movements. When he smiled, the little one smiled. When he flourished his steel sword, the boy did the same with his wooden one. When he frowned, the boy frowned back. It was almost disconcerting.
It was quite a curiosity. He had noticed men older than himself stealing glances at the mirror whenever someone looked into it, especially those whose reputation they did not yet know of, or whose past lives they wondered about.
On this day, when he pushed open the study-room door, he found the commander sitting behind his desk, in a moment of private contemplation in the aftermath of the recent battle. The first thing Napoleon asked him was, “How do you feel?” And he had replied, calmly, “I feel fine. Why do you ask?”
Syden had often glanced at the mirror. It was such a bizarre object that one could not help wondering at it. He had seen older men look over at his reflection from the corners of their eyes as they went about selecting their padded garments and chainmail for the regular training sessions.
He did not like the feeling of all those eyes on him, almost as much as he was bothered by the boy that stared back at him from the glass itself. His presence was no mere illusion. The image was a constant reminder of his inexperience in battle. The boy reflected that well enough, but where were the markings of all the rigorous training he had received for years at the castle fortress? With age came experience, did it not? So why was his reflection still that of a child?
It made him feel as though he were a creature bound to an everlasting spring, while others were seasons ahead of him and ever growing in skill and prowess.
One day, long before the battle, Napoleon had told him, “One cannot kill a man without simultaneously experiencing a death of one’s own.”
“Do you mean the death of the soul?” Syden had asked.
“No. The spirit never dies. I mean that it changes, in a way.”
Now that the fight was over, and he was undoubtably blooded, his sword tried and tested, and his victory secured, he felt confident that the mirror would show him his true reflection at last.
So after talking to Napoleon, and insisting that he bore no great injuries that required examination, he excused himself to pay a visit to the armory.
When he went there, he found that he was alone in the room, which was dark due to low lighting. This time, the only crowds were the many shelves and cabinets and racks containing armor and weapons. The weapons had a dull sheen to their blades even in the dim light.
He glimpsed the mirror, standing like a stranger facing sideways. Syden walked over to it, his steps slow and deliberate. He paused in his last step, then came around to face it directly, his black cloak swishing around with him.
He almost thought it was a different mirror altogether, for, staring back at him for the first time, was his present-day image, standing bloodstained and tall, tired but erect.
He smiled, and his reflection smiled back at him.
This was what he had wanted, what he had been waiting for. The men would never question his competence after this day, mirror or no mirror. It felt so good to see his true form at last.
Why then, did he feel a tinge of sadness?
It was only once he had spent some time with the men, accepting their praise, and helping with the injured – only when he put his head down on his pillow at night – that he realized he was missing someone. The one person who was not present in all his interactions — the little boy he would never see again.