Descry.
[v to catch sight of.
She would idly observe her reflection on the glass in a shop window at night, giving a brief glance as she passed – then stopping short and staring.
Always, when she stopped to stare, there would be nothing. Yet she had for sure descried something, a glimpse of something… the briefest image of mismatched eyes, the momentary gleam of a crystal, the slightest sight of breath on the clear glass as a soft sigh reached her ears…
Sarah…
All these, and more, she descried, yet she could never describe in detail just what she had descried – but descry it she had.
What she could never do was admit to herself what they were, what she wanted them to be.
Descrying was not what he did.
Scrying, yes. He turned the crystal in his hand, the magical orb gliding flawlessly from his gloved hand to hand, so handy for observing everything that went on, both in his labyrinth and everywhere. He was ubiquitous; he could see almost anything; he likedto see everything, to scry.
But descrying?
It was catching sight of something involutarily, a lack of control that he did not like.
He closed his eyes, the unwanted images flooding his mind. Pain he had not expected rose, and in the middle of every goddamn one of those images was a certain human girl.
Sarah, tossing her hair, barely descrying the glass that had appeared in his crystal, so unexpectedly, as she talked and laughed freely with a boy from her school. Sarah, looking more tired and exhausted than ever, leaning on the shoulder of someone, a close friend of hers, a stranger to him. Sarah, spitting mad and throwing a fit…. Sarah, with tears in her eyes, wishing, wishing for something, something that he could not give, not this time…
Beyond foolish, he snarled at himself. So what if she was with another – so what if, ever since seeing her, he'd hardly looked at any other, was unable to think of any other? So what if she desperately needed someone – so what if he needed her more?
So what, if she dreamed, as he dreamed, if every cursed night since that day was filled with tossing and torturous half-dreams, and every waking moment with the heady scent of an impossible dream?
Yet even the sight of her, alone, unexpectedly appearing on his glass as she passed a mirror or a window was enough for him to feel the stab of pain.
Yes, he hated it; when descrying, he was never in control of what he saw, what he felt…
What he could never admit, not even to himself, was that somehow, almost without any conscious decision, the glasses he chose to look through with his crystals were always the ones in her house, her school, the shop she worked at… all so near her, so that her image might even fleetingly reflect upon the glossy surface.
To descry, to catch an unexpected and painful glimpse of her…. it tore at his heart, bleeding it dry with every breath, and destroyed his sanity, draining every coherent thought and emotion left in his body… but oh, to see her, even like that…
His heart and sanity be damned.
He was in love.
You could treat this as a stand-alone, or as a little piece taken from my story, "The Chapters of Life".
Either way, thank you for reading! Reviews welcome!