Slowly he turned to look at himself in the mirror heading the elven-crafted desk. He saw his reflection staring back at him, the same expressionless face that he always saw there. With a hand he reached up, watching himself brush his ice-white hair back over his shoulder; he had neglected to put it in its usual band that morning. Di’thang lowered his hand back to his side, stroking his fingers absently along the dark crossbow hung there; and he blinked. His reflection had not copied him this time, instead it continued to stroke its hair.

Di’thang couldn’t believe his eyes; his reflection had not disobeyed him since… Slowly now he turned his eyes away from the mirror, closed them and swallowed heavily. He feared what he would see when he turned back, but as was common of the moon elf his curiosity got the better of him. His eyes snapped open and he turned back to the mirror; his reflection was still there, but it was no longer brushing its hair through its fingers. Di’thang bit his lip, relieved at this. But just as he was about to turn his attentive gaze back to the room, he noticed something. The reflection, though stood in the same stance he himself held, was gripping in its left hand a dagger. Di’thang looked in a single movement of the head to his own hand; but to his dismay both daggers were still firmly in his sleeves where they always remained concealed.

In a split second the reflection leapt from the mirror, tackling its creator to the ground. Di’thang let out a shocked gasp as he felt the slender form crash down on him. The moon elf’s head rebounded against the carpeted floor, and he could almost see stars before his eyes for but a split second. His quick arms fought suddenly against the mirror image of himself, struggling to get it off of him and to keep its dagger away from his throat as it bore down seemingly with intent to kill. Twice Di’thang felt the dagger point touch his skin but both times he was able to push the blade away.

He turned his head to the side to avoid the intense gaze; his own gaze staring down on him with a hungered hatred. With both hands wrapped around the mirror-assaulter’s wrists, Di’thang let out a whimpered murmur; he felt unusually weak against the weight pressing down on him. He had to free himself; he had to get free. He turned quickly back to the mirror image but a startled cry left his lips at the sight he saw instead.

She lay on top of him in place of the duplicate, her eyes narrowed coldly, dagger in hand as she tried to push it deep into his neck. He could see the hate in what were usually beautiful elven eyes, and he could see the distorted anger on her full, lush elven lips. Where he had moments ago seen a replica of his black leather armor, Di’thang now saw the flowing red dress that Ar’thilmus took such pride in. And in that instance Di’thang stopped fighting; the love of his life now lay over him trying with all the might in her slender limbs to take his life from him. He went limp beneath her, his breaths coming out short and sharp as he tried in his jumbled mind to understand what was happening. This whole situation seemed to him so unreal.

Di’thang’s instincts kicked in as he felt the dagger point touch his skin, cutting it and drawing from it a flow of his blood. He groaned in both agony and in anger, and bucked his hips and his chest up against her, forcing his lover off of him. Ar’thilmus staggered backwards, the dagger still clutched tight in her hand. Both of them got quickly to their feet, neither of them wanting to be caught unguarded on the floor. Di’thang struggled to gain his breath, and at the same time he noted that Ar’thilmus seemed to have no need to do so. With energy and swiftness unknown to him, she lunged forward with her dagger raised and fell against him. Together they fell, but Di’thang’s back landed on the bed, ruining the neat work Ar’thilmus had made of it earlier… earlier before she had found this new will for his death.

Di’thang flailed to get free of her as she pressed down on him, sandwiching him between her curving body and the mattress, the blade of her dagger pressed heavily down on his bleeding neck. His arms fell limp around her body, absently hugging her to his chest. Her eyes met his, still lacking the love and the lust he was so used to seeing there. None of this made sense to him; he had given her no reason to want him dead, and yet now he felt a cold blade pressing against his skin held by her hand. He gasped her name on a hoarse breath, but she responded to it with only a cold smile.

Before he could even realize what he was doing, Di’thang had driven his dagger deep into her back. He did not know why, he did not know how, but he had flicked the blade free of its pocket in his sleeve and driven it down hard, through the blood red robes and into her skin. Her eyes widened but she made no noise, simply staring at him. The anger was lost and she seemed now as he had always remembered her. There was question in her eyes and on her face and in his mind he’d have sworn to hearing her voice. “Why, my di’thang...?”

Di’thang stared up at her with a new wave of horror as her blade slipped down onto the bed, freeing his neck. He had killed her. He had killed his only love.

Before another word could be whispering, before another movement could be made, Ar’thilmus began to vanish, and in shock Di’thang realized that he could feel her melting into him. Her limp form slowly faded, merging in a way with his and she was gone. He was left, alone, on the bed with his clean dagger clutched to his hand.

Di’thang awoke with a start, his eyes wide and sweat lining his brow. He swallowed down heavily, remembering everything that had happened. A dream? Di’thang rolled quickly over to set eyes on where his love would normally have laid. She was not there. Where was Ar’thilmus? But before the moon elf had chance to panic, he noticed the small leaf of paper lay on her pillow, a crusty green and written on in fresh ink. Di’thang sat up in his bed, taking the note into his hands and reading the flowing elven text hastily. “Sanganad vasa vee’ mereth en amrun. Feith no’amin, mela en coiamin. Lle, Ar’th.”

A sigh of relief left Di’thang’s lips now as he let the note flutter to the carpet. She was alive; it had been nothing more than a dreamlike vision to disturb his trance. He furrowed his brow, bringing a hand to his stinging neck. Despite this settling thought, Di’thang could not help frowning to himself. That was the second vision he had had in two nights…