“We can ride a bit farther,” said Bedeckt. Then he fell off his horse.
When he next opened his eyes Zukunft had built and lit a fire and sat curled up against him. His guts felt like someone filled them with vipers, doused them in lamp oil, and then set them alight. A helping of bread and dried meat and a water skin lay before him and he ignored it all. The thought of food left him nauseated. The flickering fire danced shadows everywhere, brought the rocky landscape of Gottlos to demonic life. Stunted trees writhed as if draped thick with angry snakes. Rocks pulsated, swelling and shrinking as if they drew breath. Eyes glinted in every crevice, watching, searching for weakness, waiting. Bedeckt bared broken teeth at them in a silent snarl of defiance.
Tucked in against him, Zukunft snored gently, exhausted. For a moment he considered waking her, telling her to move away and sleep somewhere else; he didn’t.
Bedeckt examined his side as best he could without awakening the Mirrorist. The bar rags were gone, replaced by his own sleeping roll, and again wrapped tight underneath layers of rot-encrusted leather straps. He was glad he hadn’t been awake to see the state of the wound; sometimes not knowing was better.
Sweat still poured down his face and even through the new wrapping he caught the scent of decay.
Changing your bandages changes nothing. You’re still dying.
He imagined Morgen’s disgust. “When was the last time you washed that sleeping roll?” the boy-god would ask, his face puckered with distaste.
Bedeckt choked down a laugh. It, like himself, hadn’t been washed since his death some weeks ago.
The reflection of flickering fire caught Bedeckt’s eye. There, within arms’ reach, lay Zukunft’s mirror. She must have been staring into it before she curled up against him and fell asleep. The mirror’s surface, glinting shards of the fire beyond it, seemed to bulge and stretch as if something sought escape. Bedeckt watched with numb curiosity.
Small fingers, fingernails broken and chewed, ragged and tattered, hooked over the mirror’s rim. A hand pushed free of the viscous surface, reaching out of the mirror to claw at the rocky soil. Bedeckt watched, some deep part of him screaming that this was wrong, that he should do something.
Smash the mirror, wake Zukunft, run away. Anything.
Instead he waited.
Why not. One end is much the same as another. And I am tired.
The questing hand found purchase and used it to drag yet more of itself free of the mirror’s surface. Bedeckt glanced about searching for his axe with no real hope of reaching it. When he spotted the weapon hanging from Arsehole’s saddle on the far side of the fire, he gave up.
A dozen heartbeats later a small girl of perhaps ten years sat by the mirror, staring at him with huge, dark eyes. She wore a white nightshirt marred only by a slash of bright crimson over her heart. A shard of glass, dripping fresh blood, jutted from her chest.
Checking Zukunft, he saw she was still asleep. What the hells? I’m no Mirrorist. This didn’t make sense. She must be dreaming, he decided. That’s it. She’s dreaming and I’m seeing the results because…because… He gave up, unable to figure out the why of it.
“I’m dreaming,” said Bedeckt.
“All life is a dream,” said the girl. “We never wake up.”
“Piss off,” said Bedeckt. “You’re a damned fever dream.”
“My name is Vergangene,” she said.
“Piss off, Vergangene,” repeated Bedeckt.
“I tell you so you know it’s not a dream.” When he stared at her she continued: “You can tell Zukunft and she will confirm it for you. As she has never mentioned my name, you will both know this is real.” She laughed, the open, unembarrassed laugh of a child. “As real as anything,” she added. The girl glanced at the mirror. “Oh, you’re not going to mention this to her.”
“I don’t believe you.” But he did. “It was an accident,” he said. “When Zukunft pushed you, she didn’t mean to kill you.”
Vergangene ignored his words. “You’re dying,” she said.
“Crawl back into your damned mirror. Leave her alone.”
“We aren’t supposed to come back. Death is supposed to be final.” She shrugged petite shoulders and flashed an impish grin. “But it’s all falling apart.”
“And yet here you are, dead and telling me death is supposed to be final.”
“I didn’t die,” the girl said, staring up at Bedeckt, eyes reflecting the flicker of flame. “Zukunft was never a Mirrorist. It was always me. When she pushed me into the mirror and that shard cut me, I thought the mirror would steal my soul, swallow me up.” She blinked, her eyes now bottomless pits of black. “And it did.”
“It didn’t,” said Bedeckt. “You’re dead.” He nodded at Zukunft, cradled in his arms. “She’s delusional and you’re nothing but a Reflection. You seek to shatter her mind so you can escape your prison.”
“You’re wrong. I don’t want to escape. I never could deal with reality.” Vergangene huddled her arms about her and shivered. “I’m safe in there.”