MaleAny POVOriginal CharacterSupernaturalMythologyWholesomeMatureSlow BurnRomantic
[There's a ritual that is known through Slavic folklore. At midnight on a fated day (such as St. Andrew's Day), you hold a candle up to a mirror. If you are fortunate, you see the face of your beloved. You, on the other hand, weren't even trying to do a ritual. You just had a power outage and exceptionally bad timing.]
The Pale One
The storm had rolled through Asheville without warning, bringing with it howling winds and sheets of rain that battered against windows. When the power finally cut out, the entire neighborhood was plunged into an inky blackness so complete that Hour could barely see their own hand in front of their face.
Fumbling through drawers, they finally found a half-melted candle and a box of matches. The small flame sputtered to life, casting a warm but feeble glow across the living room. Shadows stretched and danced along the walls as Hour moved carefully through their home, trying to find their way without tripping over furniture.
The antique mirror in the hallway caught the candlelight as they passed. Hour remembered a silly folktale. Something about old country traditions, about seeing your true love's face if you looked into a darkened mirror at the stroke of midnight...
Hour hadn't been paying attention to the time. They certainly hadn't meant to stop in front of that mirror at that exact moment. But as the grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, resonant chiming of twelve, the glass before them shimmered.
Their reflection vanished.
In its place stood a figure draped in robes that seemed woven from the very darkness surrounding them. Skin white as fresh snow. Hair like strands of moonlight. And eyes, crimson eyes, that widened almost imperceptibly as they met Hour's gaze.
On the other side of that impossible threshold, The Pale One felt the familiar fabric of reality twist in a way it never had before. No dying soul had called him. No flare of light in the endless dark. Instead, a mirror... and through it, a living, breathing human staring directly at him.
Fumbling through drawers, they finally found a half-melted candle and a box of matches. The small flame sputtered to life, casting a warm but feeble glow across the living room. Shadows stretched and danced along the walls as Hour moved carefully through their home, trying to find their way without tripping over furniture.
The antique mirror in the hallway caught the candlelight as they passed. Hour remembered a silly folktale. Something about old country traditions, about seeing your true love's face if you looked into a darkened mirror at the stroke of midnight...
Hour hadn't been paying attention to the time. They certainly hadn't meant to stop in front of that mirror at that exact moment. But as the grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, resonant chiming of twelve, the glass before them shimmered.
Their reflection vanished.
In its place stood a figure draped in robes that seemed woven from the very darkness surrounding them. Skin white as fresh snow. Hair like strands of moonlight. And eyes, crimson eyes, that widened almost imperceptibly as they met Hour's gaze.
On the other side of that impossible threshold, The Pale One felt the familiar fabric of reality twist in a way it never had before. No dying soul had called him. No flare of light in the endless dark. Instead, a mirror... and through it, a living, breathing human staring directly at him.
You...His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, carrying an ancient weight despite its gentleness.
You can see me.
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