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bardvenweek · 4 months ago

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in your eyes, i see —

> written for day 4 of bardven week: au/reflection !! i lapis lazuli’d venti <3 you can also find this on ao3 !!

The bard was never quite good at following rules—he is told to do one thing, he hurries to do the opposite of it. Stay in one place? He leaves. No? He hurries to find a “yes.”

This, he finds, is no exception to that.

Perched atop one of the flattened roofs of the buildings, he watches as two men—surrounded by varying sizes of boxes, and sorting them into the back of a wagon, one that has the King’s insignia on it—make a commotion out of one in particular.

The man stumbles with it, the top popping open as it leans forward, the sounds of something clattering and breaking echoing from it. The other man accompanying him seems to snap his head over, aggravated and worried as he rushes towards the mess.

“Are you mad?” He says, harshly, grabbing the lid to the box and helping to heave it up, “Do you know what kind of valuables are in here? If any of these broke—”

“Cease—they all just tumbled forward.” Even he does not sound convinced of himself, a slight tremor to his voice. “Would it help to take a look, if you are so worried?”

“If you are wrong, it is your head I am offering first.”

“And duly noted. Here, set it here.”

They set the box onto the ground, kneeling beside it as they rummage through it, taking out several items and scattering them around themselves. One catches Cecil’s eyes, something he would guess to be medium-length height, covered by a lace veil. The men handle it as though it were a precious gem, quite differently from the way they grabbed at the others—still delicately, yes, but their hands shake with this.

Fascinating… he wants a closer look.

Shuffling, he digs a hand into his bottom for a rather large rock he had picked up earlier that day, and sits more upright so that he has a better angle. Reels his hand back, aims for the boxes besides the wagon as they wait to be loaded into it, and throws. It hits the box sitting on the very top of the pile, causing it to tilt, then fall, creating a domino where it knocks others down.

He snickers at the way the two men immediately jump, turning to the chaos, yelling at the other.

“What was that?” The scolding man demands.

“Those were placed perfectly, someone—”

“Perfectly? Are you trying to shift your incompetence onto others, you had to re-do several.”

It continues, til they are half hidden behind the opposite side of the wagon. A grin splits his face—now is the time!

Weaving down the building the way he had come up it, Cecil lands on the ground in a soft thump of boots. He darts over to where the mirror sits, skidding to a stop, the wind kicked up from his movements lifting the veil covering the object ever so slightly, before it drapes back over it. Cecil gapes, inches closer, awe and an itching curious etched into his being. His hands come to the sides, fingers carefully hooking around the veil, and—

Upon folding the fabric over the object, he finds… a mirror?

Cecil leans, right hand going to the stone tiled ground, to help when he shifts his balance, his brows furrowing as he observes. The glass does not reflect his image, nor the area around or behind him—though he cannot tell if it is because of how dark it is, how dusty everything is, or because this angle would not allow it, to say?

(Strangely… peering around it, he feels as though the mirror is observing him, too.)

It has an intricate framing. Atop is a sundial-like halo, with Cecilia’s cradled inside—it arches out in waves of leaves around the mirror, curving in, looping around to create a mimed sun, then out (although, the left side seems to create a moon, instead.) It repeats this, til it reaches the bottom, where it blossoms into an ivy-like draping of vines. Dappled across the leaves, there are four other Cecilia’s: two on the top parts, closer to the sundial, and two on the bottom parts, closer to the ivy. Above the ivy is something almost akin to a plaque, adorned with those same leaves, curving towards writing, though the words are hardly legible. It is mostly silver, although tarnished and worn from age. The parts not silver (and still well intact, shiny) are the golden Cecilia’s, with teal gems inlaid into the buds, one of them darker than the others.

“Oh,” he breathes, “you are a wonder to lay a gaze upon.”

At his words, the gems seem to flash brighter, shinier, for a fleeting moment. He gapes, pivoting on his heels, wondering if one of the men managed to sneak on him when he was not paying attention, and being met with the same walls, the same darkness, the same distracted men, bickering with one another quite a distance away. Hm.

Narrows his eyes, turns to the mirror, tilting it towards him—

There is a rippling across the glass, and he startles seeing his image.

His own wide eyes lock with a reflected pair. Except—he had seen himself, before this, in the reflections of passing metals. Now, there seem to be distress lines underneath his eyes, and his pupils have constricted into near pinpricks? He drags a finger up, prodding at the skin, and runs a nail over the bags of his eyes; watching as a relaxation overtakes his features, the pinpricks slowly dilating to dots, though the lines never leave.

Dirt skitters under his nails (and a shock of cold, cold, cold goes throughout his entire hand), as he presses his fingers into the stone. He moves his touch from his face to the glass of the mirror, nearer, and nearer…

“—was a dupe!”

“We would have known that earlier if you were not distracting me!”

“I was distracting you?”

Cecil jerks away, head snapping to where the voices are. Grimaces, his heart thudding. So soon?

He reaches behind the mirror, grabbing the veil bunched behind the mirror to lift it back over and cover it. Then, he grabs it with both arms, pulls it to his chest, and heaves it up as he stands, stumbling (and scrambling to stay upright) a little when he gets to full height—his cloak falling closed over him in a silent swoosh of fabric, hiding his find from sight. He refuses to leave without it.

Shifting to the side, he eyes the area surrounding him, spotting a pocket of space within the stacked boxes he could squeeze through, leading to the alleyways. He sprints over, footsteps carefully light—though, he cannot help but wonder if the mirror should be heavier than it is, feeling as though he were carrying a full to the brim mug, instead—and turns to shoulder his way in. Once out, he takes off, the boxes wobbling at his departure, right as the men arrive.

There is shouting, cursing. He urges himself to run faster, weaving around walls.

——

It must be a fortunate day for him, indeed, because the view of the house he has been situated in peeks into view. That has him slowing, breaths coming out short, clipped.

Walking up to the door, he raises himself upon his tip-toes, checking through the small pane of glass looking into the house. He glances to the left, then the right, and nearly presses his nose against the glass to stare straight ahead—no shadows, no figures, no out of places where someone could hide…

He drops his arms, letting them fall to his waist, holding the mirror to his stomach, and his cloak flutters from it—he hopes that hides it even more. A quick inhale, exhale, he nudges the door open, clicking it shut as silently as possible; and, after another cursory look around, he bounds to the stairs, delicately taking two steps up each time, landing onto the second floor in his quickest record yet, and skirting around to his room.

It is not until he has the door properly locked (the metal lock was another find of his!), with a chair shielding the entrance to the room, that he allows himself to feel fully safe and comfortable.

“Okay,” Cecil murmurs, grabbing the mirror from where he had leaned it against a wall, “Let us see if we can find you somewhere more permanent to stay, hm?”

He has to keep it out of immediate sight (the mirror looks ancient, every single person here would pounce for the chance), so that would narrow the places to… hm.

Walking to his desk, he hooks a foot around the legs of the stool—which, thankfully, does not shriek when he drags it away. Ducking underneath, and crawling to the back, where the wood of the desk meets the wall, he gently sets the mirror there—silver ivy digging into the floor. He hums, narrowing his eyes, considering, and clambers out from the desk to grab any spare fabrics he has (not many, and he quietly mourns that he may not be able to use them) to scatter them around the bottom of the mirror. What could be a “nest” of sorts, almost.

“There!” He attempts to “fluff them,” “That should be sufficient for the moment.”

Reaching behind the mirror, Cecil grabs at the veil, lifting it up, and pulling it down, to add it to the pile; carefully wrapping it around the ivy. When he sits on his haunches, satisfied with his work, he once more meets his mirrored gaze.

And—still, there are lines of distress etched under his eyes. Though, they seem to have… lessened, now.

“Apologies for how unconventional this is,” he laughs, a small thing. The beginnings of aches from his escape start to seep in, as well as a twisting in his stomach, and exhaustion tugs at his body—he should not have pushed himself to run like he had, should he have, huh. “I imagine you would want to be hung somewhere instead, no? Ah, I fear I do not have any nails to do so..”

Tilting his head, he regards the silver and gold of the mirror.

“Perhaps I could do something for you? A cleaning sounds nice, does it not?” He rubs at his chin, scooting closer. “Who knows how long you have been buried under all that dirt…”

There is—a feeling, that layers over him, then. Telling him that he should wait for a response from his reflection.

Of course, it does not reply, even after he waits for a while. It is only showing himself, back to himself; it is only an inanimate object.

He muffles a yawn into his left hand’s palm. Blinks away any stray tears that had bubbled up from the action, and turns to the stool, stretching out to haul it to where it had sat beforehand, cozied right up against the desk—essentially boxing both him and his mirror in this little space, though his feet bump besides the feet of the stool. Do not want to fall asleep without concealing it in some manner!

Shuffling onto the floor, he curls his legs up to his waist, and cocoons himself in his cloak, nuzzling closer to the fabric bunched around his neck, breathing out a soft sigh. Before he can get too comfortable, he sticks an arm out from the cocoon, to pat at the silver framing. “That will have to wait, though. I should be able to find things to make you spick and shiny tomorrow! My energy is sapped today… this was quite an adventure.”

With that said, he shifts back to his position, snuggling into his folded arms contentedly.

(As he drifts off, another ripple skims across the mirror��s glass, beginning to pulsate and burble in a manner similar to that of a water droplet hitting still water. A hand appears behind it all, blurry, touching lightly at their side of the mirror—and everything clears, as the reflection of Cecil cracks their eyes open, eyes glinting teal. They push themself onto their elbows, and slowly dragging their gaze around the area they have been situated in.

With an unchanging expression of blankness, they look to the wood of the desk, each etched in grove of it, to how caged in they are, a box-like space that could only fit someone small under it without hurting, to the stool blocking them in, to the fabrics blanketing their form…. and, then, finally, their gaze lands on Cecil.

Their hand twitches, a minuscule movement. They dip closer, hand trailing to where his hair splays across those fabrics, raven locks intermingling under and over a variety of worn colors. The reflection tilts their head at him, at the steady raise of his chest when he breathes, and the fluttering of his lashes.

Brows knit, a slight wrinkle forming.

There are no sounds when they lower themself, arranging their limbs to mirror how he lays on the floor. Their expressions remain that way for a moment longer—Cecil nestling further into his cloak—before smoothing it out, and closing their eyes.)

——

The day after, Cecil makes good on his words.

He tends to make a bit of a ruckus, yet… it has never been this quite of an uproar, before. It seems as though word spread fast of “missing objects,” coupled with a description that matches the mirror he had taken, along with a few others of the items he saw (those men must have been spotted by another.) When he had gone out to find any sort of soap (one of the others were keeping the house’s in their room, when he had awoken, blasted, and he is not risking his tools in case they break again) there were a decent number of people whispering of it.

“I heard the mirror was magical,” a lady says to another. “A looking glass into other worlds.”

“Magical? Do not be absurd, that would have never made it this far into the city.”

“Why else would the guards be so insistent?”

“Silver, Laurel—pure silver! Do you know how much that would sell for??”

Lugging the stool away from his desk once more, he sets down the soap he had managed to grab, along with a small wooden bucket of water, a half full sack of vinegar, and a spare rag. He recounts the events, musing on them aloud. “You have become a striking commodity,” he says, “it felt as though there were nary a person who was not talking about you!”

Cecil leaves the stool where it is, having blocked the door to his room with not only a broom, but a pile of books. This way, he will be prepared!

Squeezing a dollop of soap into the water, and sloshing the rag in afterwards to mix both together, he continues, “Luck must have truly rolled to my side, then, huh?”

Pulling the rag out, he brings up another hand to wring out the excess water (and, having traded his blouse and vest for a tunic when he had returned, it does not drench him, either). Scooting towards the mirror, he brings it up to the silver framing, and begins to scrub away the tarnishing that has creeped its way across. The detailing proves to be a tad difficult, as he has to apply pressure to the rag to get in between the intricate designs, and the cracks of them, where dirt and dust have hidden themselves in, but—when he finally leans back to see his work, he smiles at how radiant it seems, now.

Though, he still is not finished, yet: the ivy and plaque is left of the silver. He carefully lifts the mirror from the fabric, to angle the ivy into a better view. Then, with another dip into the bucket, and another wring of the rag, he proceeds forward.

As the tarnish is washed away, and the ivy shines, the writing of the plaque slowly shows itself: looping, fanciful cursive of what seems to be a description?

Cecil squints. Scrubs once more, using the tips of his nails inside the rag to scratch the dirt off from the words.

The binding, written as so to not invoke her wrath:

sutneV

Henceforth, from here on, to forever remain a mere echo.

And.

“Huh?” Cecil murmurs, dropping the rag, sheer confoundment in his voice, “Is that the name of someone? Ehh, what have I taken… is this someone’s personal mirror...”

Except—the words are far too personalized. It does not seem to be describing someone, more as it is describing… what had happened to them? The words, upon closer examination, is scrawled deeply into the silver, and he wonders what sorts of force the person writing it had been using to engrave it so harshly, that he can see the minute scrapes.

He glances upwards, finding the stare of his reflection.

“Is that why they were taking you somewhere?” Cecil furrows his brows, glancing down as presses his lips into a thin line. His left hand is raised to tap at his chin, ruminating, expression turning from a scowl to a curious one. “You must be special. I wonder what demand was given, if any reward had awaited those men, especially since they were terribly worried about breaking you. What happens when you shatter—”

There is a flare of teal, nearly blinding in its dazzling, followed quickly by a THUMP, sounding as though someone were pounding their bare fists against a solid surface, which is then overwhelmed by a horrible screeching—something being grated across glass in a rising pitch.

He startles, hand dropping from his chin to his waist, the other going to cover his ear, he left any “weapon” he could have in other parts of his room, he does not have anything to defend with—

The very first thing he sees, is his reflection bodily pushing themself away from the glass, in a pose he knows that he himself is not doing. The second thing he sees, in rapid succession, is that his reflection looks to be terrified, pupils constricted into slits.

They both freeze.

Cecil’s thoughts race, not only because of the sinking dread of ah, so that is the reason why it felt as though I was being watched at times, but, because what did he say to elicit such a reaction? He recites each word he had said in his head, and suppresses a wince, alongside a grimace, getting to the shatter part.

“I am not—” Eugh, his voice. He clears his throat, “I am not going to shatter you, nor bring any other harm. I was—wondering, if anything were to happen, if it was necessary to break the mirror for… ah, if there was a ritual, or….”

His words fizzle out. His reflection is still leaning away, hands now held to their chest, though they do not look as stricken. Eyeing him, a little warily, the teal gems embedded in the silver framing flickering between brightness of glowing.

The nails of his fingers prod against his palm, when he clenches his hand, a repetitive motion as he thinks. He unfurls it, twisting it so that the palm faces the ceiling, and—with a small breath—reaches towards them, an offering of a branch. “You will be treated with nothing but care, here,” he does not touch the glass, waiting for the others’ response. “I promise. You are protected.”

After all, he was the one to have taken them, and he can only assume that something was planned for them. As unexpected it certainly is, and while Cecil’s heart continues to thud erratically in his chest, he will not turn away someone.

(Especially…. well, he can hazard a guess that they were not always inside a mirror—that the writing implies the people who did this had to go behind someone's back to trap them.)

They stare at him, brows knitting together, considering. Then, they inch towards, extending out a hand, pausing it before it touches their side of the glass. Gingerly as he can, Cecil turns his hand, so that the back of it now faces the ceiling instead, and does the same—a scant space between the glossy material.

Their hand drops. They tilt their head, pupils dilating slightly to dots.

Ah! Success!

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely. Pulls his hand back, to fold it over the other, holding it in front of him loosely. “Are you—there is a name engraved on here, is that your name?”

The expression they make is a mix between indignant and a quiet upset, blowing out puffs of air before opening their mouth, yet no sounds arise from it—no, he should rephrase. There are sounds, yet try as he might, straining his ears to the muffled noises, he cannot hear them.

It must show. They try again, exaggerating the words, and still…

Firmly confirmed, they deflate, sinking into their cloak, their shoulders falling as they hunch. The teal gems dim drastically, the shine to them disappearing momentarily, then reigniting when… his companion(?) heaves themself upright, and crosses their arms with a pout to their lips, brows furrowed into a rather righteous fury; though, he notes an edge of exhaustion to it.

“How can this be—I heard you earlier?”

They cringe.

“… it was because you screamed, though.”

Half shrugging, they nod their head, tapping at their throat and miming an injury. Similar limitations to his own body, then: if they yell for too long, it would result in dire, and often hurtful, consequences.

Cecil hums. “Would you… be able to spell it out?”

They spring up, the ahoge atop their hair swaying with the movement, braids bouncing, their mouth forming a small ‘o.’ Intently, they bring both hands up to their collarbone, meticulously forming five letters with their fingers: V-E-N-T-I.

“Venti?” He repeats. They nod vigorously.

A soft smile tugs at him, and he warmly greets, “Hello, Venti.”

Venti smiles back, seeming to rock on their heels. They halt, then point to him, spelling out the word N-A-M-E, and clasping their hands, pressing them to their left cheek. Curious.

Oh! He lifts his hands up, to spell: C-E-C-I-L.

They are leaning towards him, eyes locked onto the hands, and mouthing each letter to themself as it is revealed. Once he is finished, they bounce backwards, doing a lavish bow, extending their arm out in a flourish at the end. He snickers—is this their way of greeting him?

“A pleasure to meet you, as well!” Cecil exclaims, allowing the bemusement to leak through.

As fluidly as they had bowed, Venti stands, retracting their arm to their side, clasping both hands behind their back. They get closer to the glass, braids swinging, and he squints when the hair disappears briefly, re-appearing in seconds. It does it again, and—

“Oh, your glass, I still have not cleaned it!” He gasps. “If I—may? Have I overstepped with that?”

They shake their head “no,” rather fiercely. Seem to urge him to continue on with several varying gestures, such as a shooing of hands to the bucket, and reeling it back in, or balling their fists and they bounce up and down, or even tugging at an imaginary line. Cecil can feel his shoulders relax at it, picking the rag from where had dropped it.

“How long has it been since you were?”

In a snap, their lively motion slows. Eyes casted down, as they seem to think, then cast their gaze around, trying to look past Cecil. Eventually, they give an uncertain, jerky half shrug.

A frown settles upon Cecil’s face, dunking the rag back into the bucket, and swishing it around in one place, almost absentmindedly as he falls into a deep thinking. He picks at the words he wishes to choose, stripping out the ones that are too off, too pushing, a careful hesitation to them. “Were you… left?”

And Venti—

Looks surprised, their eyes as wide as saucers, for a moment (and how strange it is to see his face make that expression?) Pauses. They wave their hands in a dismissive “no” with a small sheepish smile, mouth opening as if they were laughing off a silly notion—before there is a split second of conflict, a wrinkle to their down-turned brows. They continue their motions, stop, stall, when something keeps coming back to their mind, and clench their fists. It ends with them shrinking into themself, ducking their head into the bunched fabric of their cloak.

“I apologize,” Cecil says, quickly, regret lacing his words, recognizing that this is a sore spot. Then, “Have you ever seen a cat?”

Venti looks at him as if he had grown another head.

“Before,” he adds, not elaborating whether he means the times before Venti had been trapped or the times they saw during it, “have you ever seen one? I have heard they are fluffy.”

Their brows furrow, pressing their frown into the cloak. Hands unfold, forming an odd shape that Cecil truly cannot describe, and they shake their head—then jump, and quickly form another shape: hooking their thumbs together, the palms of their hands fluttering like a bird’s wings.

“A bird!?”

The shape stays, as they seem to giggle. Brightening further, they shift it so that only one hand is up, in the vague approximation of a horse?

“And a horse??”

For the remainder of the cleaning, he keeps prodding them, eventually diving from what they have seen to fantastical situations. These ones he likes doing, he is sure that the fond smile he gained when Venti had full bodily laughed at his question of “Would you ever pet a dragon?” is still there. They keep this up til Cecil has to light a candle, wanting to have their conversation carry on—but finding that the reflection is half-made, and reluctantly bids goodbye, setting everything back so that Venti is laid in a comfortable place once again.

——

In the following days after, the search for the mirror intensifies—new people trying to find it, dressed in coats with a triquetra insignia. The news has him slinking towards his room, relegating to stay there for the time being.

“Care for a second round of questions?” He inquires, sitting with his legs crossed, a small stack of papers placed in his lap. Besides him is a pot of ink. He holds a quill up to embellish his question, twirling it, and waving the feathered end at them.

Venti blinks at him. Points down at the papers.

He lifts them up, showing them more properly to the other. “I wondered if we would be able to communicate another way, if we reflected this?”

A hand raises to Venti’s chin, and an expression of utmost consideration dawns on them. They, then, nod firmly—mimicking leaning forward with their hands, pointing to the top of the mirror, and Cecil places the quill next to the pot so that he can follow their question. As he had the day before, he grabs the mirror and repositions the fabrics underneath them, setting the mirror back down so that it is now titled comfortably towards the papers.

There is a rippling sent across the glass, and the reflection appears. He waits, keeping himself still, and silently sighs in relief when two hands pop into view, wiggling the fingers—and by some working, it seems to be in the same direction Cecil sits.

Reflected, yes, but not fully. As if Venti had turned the paper around so they were where he is.

“Okay,” he mumbles, excited, “ready?”

What he learns from their conversations is this:

Venti has… three colors, they are fond of?

(“Do you have a color you favor?” Cecil writes.

It appears in the mirror, though the quill seems slower, more so tracing the words. There is a moment where Venti processes the question, a static image of Cecil’s reflection upon the glass. Then, the quill moves, the lines growing steadier as it proceeds into a … small doodle of an eye, with three evenly spaced lines being drawn across inside the iris?

Venti taps at the next number, when Cecil asks what they mean. He imagines they would be giggling.)

Venti likes dresses.

(“What clothes would you wear, if you could?” Cecil writes, pauses, and adds, “We could reflect them.”

The response this time, after the reflection is finished writing Cecil’s question, is near instantaneous: another doodle, this one a rendition of Cecil, where he is wearing a dress in a style he does not recognize—a solid band wrapped around the middle, while the sleeves are held up to the shoulders by circles, a flowy fabric connecting to it and to the arms.)

Venti likes soft materials.

(“Are these okay for you?” Cecil writes, then draws an arrow down to the bundle underneath the mirror.

“Not connected to the framing, so I cannot feel it.” And, oh, “But, yes. They look nice, good to hold, and touch. Would like to.”

“What are you connected to?”

The quill taps at the paper, once, twice, looping around in a tiny doodling scratch on the third. One hand spreads across, to hold it down, as they sprawl out: “The glass, mostly. My door. And the gems—those are mine, actually! But not the framing.”)

And one that has him rethinking where he placed them:

(“Are you okay with this place?” Cecil writes.

The quill races to reply, movements quick, “No. Please move me, cramped.”

Though he knows this entire thing has gone a little fast, that they could not find the right moment to discuss where Venti goes, especially when Cecil had been believing what he had taken was fully inanimate not even a day ago, he still feels a pang of guilt strike him. He yelps, “Ah—! My deepest apologies, I will, where do you—?”

By the second he has gotten out “apologies,” the quill is a blur, to write: “It is okay, it is okay! Anywhere, not walled in.”

“Would you like for me to do it now?”

“After. Want to do more questions!”)

Then it is Cecil’s turn, and Venti is very persistent.

(“Why do you wear a cloak?”

“To keep myself from freezing,” and he almost laughs, responding—have they been waiting on this one? “These lands are rather frigid. So I wear a heavy and quite comfortable fabric.”

“Is that why you have braids? You should wear your hair down, that would help better.”

“I suppose, but it would also get in the way more.”

“Practicality!” And it is written with such a flourish, he thinks Venti would be crowing. A cheer, an awe. “You should wear your hair down once. Pretty hair.”

And that shocks him enough into the quill slipping down his fingers, splotches of ink splattering against the papers. “Ah..?” He squeaks. “Thank you.”)

(“Do you have other clothes? You mentioned we could reflect them.”

“I do,” but that was before he learned of Venti’s preferred style. “Though, ehh, they may not be ones you enjoy, I am thinking…”

“Huh? What? Let me see?” Cecil’s eyes widen, ever so slightly, watching the quill move to write lines upon lines, once more a blur of white. Vigorated. “Your sleeves have frills, do the others? I like your shorts. Are there any other clothings that have the stitches on the side? I have never seen those, I like them! Are there frills? Do you have beads for the other clothings, similar to the ones for your boots?”

Cecil laughs, brightly, at their enthusiasm. He drops the quill onto the papers to make a “slow down” motion with his hands. “Okay, okay, I can show you. One at a time?”

He has to move Venti atop the desk, leaning them against the wall as he rummages through clothing. Rather than change into them, he holds them up to where they should be, whether the chest or his legs—Venti enjoys it greatly, making grand gestures, clapping their hands and bouncing up and down to point at what he thinks they like the most about them.)

(“Do you have a color you favor?”

A snicker bubbles in his throat, one that he has to restrain from building further, swallowing it down. Repeating a question he asked them?

“Not one in particular,” he pauses, thinking, “it switches whenever I learn of others. There are many beautiful colors, such as blue, or purple, or green!”

“What of teal?”

Cecil has to raise his palm up to press it to his mouth, a noise escaping from him. He glances at the gems embedded in the framing, how they cast a steady glow, almost pulsing. With a small smile, he replies, “I like it, it is a wondrous one.”

The gems glow brighter.)

——

They end up coming to a decision—that Cecil is to place the mirror on his bed. That way, Venti will have a better view of the room, and more space, and Cecil can hide them relatively quickly if a reason arises for it.

He watches, endeared, as they sway side to side while gazing at everything he has in his room, an impromptu dance. They clasp their hands together, unclasp them at something they find exciting, then rock their hands alongside the rocking they are already doing.

What a personality you have, he thinks, fondly. And it is that thought that has his smile fall to a contemplative frown, canting his head to the side. So why did they seal you away?

——

“Is there a way to free you?” He asks, toying with the threads of his quilt.

Venti, sat at the other end, so they can face each-other, snaps their head over—their pupils constricted into thin slits once more, distress lines under their eyes. They grip at their forearms, inclining their head, a quiet confusion there.

“I—you have not left the people’s minds, and I fear the worst. If we could do anything to help you…?”

Their brows furrow, knitting together, before their expression drops entirely. It tugs at his heart, threatening to break it, a lovely person such as they being forced into a confinement, for who knows how long—

“Why were you trapped at all?

They fidget with their braids, seeming to sigh. Their hands raise to form a square, asking for the paper. He brings them, laying them out, tilting the mirror carefully, and waiting for a ripple to sweep across the glass—writing out a simple question mark for them once it does. Venti takes over right after, quill pausing in increments, chewing at the words to write.

“Mistake,” pause, “I had been edging the line. Playing, doing small tricks. But it went too far. I destroyed a… mechanism, they were to use. People got upset, and I was going to try to fix it! But they were still mad. And thought this was the final strike.”

Their hand trembles. “I did not mean to break it. Really.”

“That is awful,” and there is a thickness to his voice, “that would be why they wrote your name backwards..”

“They did?”

“Yes? Oh,” He shuffles closer, to trace the words of the plaque. Recites them aloud, so that Venti could hear them—for what must be the first time since they have been put into this, and when they write next, the lines are wobbly.

“They did not allow her to know? I thought… all this time…”

“I am sorry, Venti.”

“No, no. I thank you. If they would dare to try this, of everything, I wonder what else…” The quill stills. “Your question. I do know of a way to escape.”

“You do?”

“Yes, it is something to do with the glass, but that is all I know… what else is there on the mirror?”

“Oh! One of your gems has lost its glow, and—” He leans them back, mimes flipping the mirror around, and waits for their nod to continue. He traces a finger along the edges, and finds it to be completely smooth. Flipping it so that Venti can face them again, he trails his touch over the other details, poking and prodding—and, there, underneath the plaque, is an indent of a hole, slanted and small. So out of the way it is, he silently curses himself that he missed it while he was washing their mirror.

“There is a hole?”

Venti looks stunned. They gesture frantically to the papers.

“That is why they hardly told me anything!” They write out, writing scratchy, scribbling, ink scattering in uneven stray splotches, “Right there!!! They showed me the key and knew no one would look for it!!! A secret!!!”

“Which is?”

“The gems! They placed them in a certain way. Start taking them out, from the top, to bottom, and do not touch the one without a glow in any way. Please!”

Cecil does not waste any time, determination overtaking him. He scrambles off the bed to find something to pry out the gems, grabbing a blunt knife, and using the edge of it to do the job. It is slow going, made more aware by Venti thumping their hands against the glass in an almost rhythmic like manner, but—the mirror shudders, and Venti’s image is washed away by a wave of teal, remaining that way as the last gem makes a high pitched whine, before it falls off.

He picks it up and shoves it underneath the plaque, hearing a click. For a second, nothing happens—only for a light to burst out, teal emitting from the space, and Venti’s image re-appears. They blink and blink, eyes squinting, before widening, and placing their hands atop their side of the glass. There is a ticking sound, and they startle at a teal light being cast over them.

Both of their eyes meet.

Cecil reaches out, gently placing his hands against theirs. The glass is warming up, and solid, before it gives in, and his hands sink, sink, sink, til—Venti grips back at him.

He pulls. It feels heavy, as though he were moving through sludge—the glass follows after his hands, stretching, gradually solidifying into hands that are shattered into thousands of glass pieces, reflecting the little light that is inside the room, a prism of colors. He heaves, yanking, and more is revealed: arms, a head, shoulders, and—

Vaguely, he is aware of how the bed squeals under him, as he bounces backwards. He feels—odd, as though a part of him had just been given away. Then, a weight makes itself known on his own torso, and he snaps his eyes open.

Halfway sprawled on the bed, and the upper half of them clutching onto Cecil, lays Venti. Their form—the silhouette of it looking like Cecil’s—is quivering, glass melding together in swift, almost confused, movements as they try to gather themselves together. By the time they can look up at Cecil (and having helped them into a pose that would not hurt their legs), their form is still a glass-like transparency. A ghostly, reflective Cecil.

“Hello,” he whispers.

They are still, gaze expressionless, tilting their head—and two bangs separate from the action. They squeeze their hands around his biceps, replying, equally softly, an echoing pitch to their voice, “Hello.”

Cecil would say they both sit there, staring, for what must be minutes. Then, suddenly, Venti gapes, and pushes themselves off from him, turning to grab at the mirror—and he swears his jaw could have dropped seeing the state of it, wavering like water, nearly having disappeared from existence, all except for the still glowing plaque.

They pick it up, hold it in their hands. And—

Crush it. Bare handedly. Oh.

“Sloppy job,” they murmur. They swivel, dropping the crumbs of it on the bed, and when he looks past them, the mirror has completely vanished. Not a trace of it left.

He glances back to Venti, feeling oddly breathless, as he shifts to move his legs underneath him. There is a breath of a pause, before a body collides against his once more, hugging him tightly, knocking their cheeks together. A gratitude lacing every part of it.

——

Since then, Venti finds delight in switching up how they look. Sometimes, they keep their hood over their face, hair curtaining their expression—other times, they will show off a new outfit, excited to see how elaborate they can make it. Both times, however, they do this all while pressing themself close to him.

“Your clothes have changed, and so have your eyes,” Cecil lowly whispers to them, when they have been left alone, a curious note to his voice, “Yet you still share my hair?”

They turn, offering him a radiant smile. “I told you—it is pretty!”

#bardvenweek2025

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