in the gilded mirror
she tilted to reflect
visions from long ago
...
In front of the mirror she sat, running a silver brush through hair already perfect. A hundred strokes. He counted inwardly as she went, the scene overlaying and repeating in his memories. His fingers found the slight worn indentations on the door frame and hardened. A hundred strokes each day, over a hundred years this eve. He wondered if she remembered. The brush flashed silver through her black hair. As his inward count reached a hundred she set the brush down, and turned the mirror so they could match wills. Her gaze was both cold and malevolent.
"The carriage is here" he spoke, his voice spiteful, matching the challenge in her perfect eyes.
A hundred years of learning to hate each other was a long time indeed.
...
*Artwork by A6A7
12.August.2015: Never forget.