Mirror Image
Alexi Wolfgang Von Girshimer stood in alone his study. The soft glow of five candles glinted in his ravenous eyes, their red-rimmed whites betraying a long, sleepless vigil, even as the deep blues of his pupils gleamed with a near-manic ardor. The flickering flames cast erratic shadows upward from their place on the floor, illuminating his immaculate yet careworn form.
Dark brown waves of medium length hung down to grace his shoulders. He wore a finely pressed white button-down shirt with a crisp collar, black slacks of the highest quality, and a maroon tie, unadorned yet solemn in its drape around his throat. Across the room, a dusky brown wool pea coat hung on a rack, untouched. The walls were lined with empty bookshelves, their barren presence a silent condemnation, while rich-colored tapestries clung to the stone, striving in vain to keep out the touch winter’s merciless bite.
Gazing down into the flickering light, Alexi was finally certain of his purpose. The candles, freshly lit and meticulously arranged, formed a perfect five-pointed star—the pentagram. Against the polished darkness of the wooden floor, a solid ring of pure white salt bound the candles, sealing the image in stark, ritualistic precision.
Annoyance and elation warred within him. The long hours of the night had been spent in painstaking labor—each grain of salt meticulously placed; each candle measured with mathematical exactitude. He knew that even the smallest imperfection, a single misplaced speck, could summon a grim and bloody failure to his work.
At last, there was nothing more to be done. The stage was set. There was nothing more he could do prior to the start of his ritual. It was time to take the plunge.
“Höre mein Anruf, großer Geist.” — Hear my call, Great Spirit.
Alexi’s voice emerged deep and steady, a solemn intonation that shattered the silence lingering in the room for hours. A faint ringing filled his ears, a distant echo of something beyond. His body tingled, sensation fading to numbness as his vision wavered, shifting like a mirage before plunging into absolute darkness. Whether his eyes remained open or closed, he could no longer tell. Yet he did not falter. He continued the chant.
“Befolge meinen Willen, willenloses Wesen.” — Obey my will, Willful Creature.
Alexi drifted further, untethered from flesh, slipping into a place beyond the known. His mind loosened its grip on the mortal world, dissolving into the abyss. Yet he clung fiercely to a single vision—an expanse devoid of shadow, a void of blinding white that stretched into eternity.
“Gib nach und sei beschworen, gehässiges Befinden.” — Enter and be summoned, Spiteful Being.
Darkness sprang within the eternal. A flaw within infinity, an aberration corrupting the pristine void. Alexi latched onto it, calling it forth with unyielding will.
The darkness answered.
It bit into the white, creeping, writhing, blooming. It spun toward him, gaining shape, feeding on its own momentum. No longer a speck but something tangible—defined. A box. A box of pure night, resting just within his reach.
“Zvit’Goth Hizzvit Var’o’th Got’vzeeet.”
The words passed his lips, yet they no longer belonged to him. They were of another place, another time beyond the mind of men.
The box shuddered, its surface writhing, pulsing in defiance against the blinding expanse. A weight, crushing and immeasurable, pressed upon Alexi’s mind, threatening to smother his intent. But he did not waver.
He seized his will with iron resolve, forcing thought into command, command into action, and action into reality.
Within his mind’s eye, he wrenched the box open.
Darkness devoured the light.
Nausea gripped him first, followed by the sickly weight of weakness—his limbs leaden, his body drained, his throat parched as though scoured by dust and ash. Alexi woke in his study, consciousness dragging itself back from the abyss.
Nothing.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing was waiting.
A slow, creeping rage ignited in his chest, flaring into a bitter heat. Another failure. Another wasted night. But he could not—would not—yield. He rose, slow and deliberate, wincing as his body protested, soreness clinging to every fiber of his being. His gaze swept the room, desperate for any sign, any trace that his efforts had not been in vain.
The pentagram lay empty. The circle undisturbed. The candles had burned low, their creamy wax pooling in congealed rivulets upon the wooden floor. A single, silvery ray of moonlight pierced the velvet-drawn curtains, slashing across the gloom. It had been dusk when the summoning began.
Rage swelled into fury, seething beneath his skin. He turned sharply, striding to his grand cherrywood desk, his glare fixing upon the tome sprawled open atop it. The book was vast, ancient, its leather binding cracked with time. Its pages, yellowed and brittle, nearly consumed the desk’s surface, exuding the musty scent of ages long forgotten.
It had promised him answers.
It had given him nothing.
Alexi knew not what had gone wrong.
The flickering candlelight made the words difficult to decipher, but he stooped low, eyes scanning the aged script once more. He had followed the diagrams with meticulous precision, spoken the incantations exactly as instructed. The salt was purely refined, the candles crafted by holy hands. He had even gathered and crushed foxglove and fennel cloves, weaving them into the protective bindings.
No—the mechanics of the ritual were flawless.
Something else had failed.
Had he not focused hard enough? Had his intent lacked strength? He had no doubts about the structure, but the human element—his own will—that was fallible. Had he spoken a word with too much force? Or too little? Had his resolve wavered at some imperceptible, crucial moment?
Anger cooled, hardening into resolution as swiftly as it had ignited. There was no time for doubt. His mind was already back on task.
The candle flames wavered, then flared brighter as he read on. Faint words sharpened into clarity, the shifting light bending to his intent. Alexi did not know how much time had passed as he pored over the book’s cryptic pages, his eyes tracing every line, every sigil, until he felt ready to try again.
Then—a sting.
A sharp burn flared in his left thigh. He had not noticed it before, too consumed in his study, but as his mind calmed, the pain grew, searing through his focus. Time thickened, stretching unbearably, until he could stand it no longer.
Reaching down, he pressed his fingers to the spot just beside his right pocket—and froze.
It was warm. No—hot.
A terrible heat pulsed against his palm. He thrust his hand into his pocket and recoiled at once, teeth gritted as the scent of scorched flesh filled the air. His fingertips came back red, skin singed. A shower of brittle, blackened foxglove cloves spilled to the floor, crumbling to ash as they met the wood.
“Interesting choice—foxglove.”
The voice was smooth, clear, and unhurried, slicing through the hush of the study like a scalpel.
“I would have thought lilac… or perhaps ginger, a better choice to aid in the binding.”
A pause. Measured. Amused.
“To each their own, I suppose.”
Wide-eyed and heart hammering, Alexi jerked his head up, his gaze snapping toward the source of the voice.
A man of exotic flavoring stood within the salted circle. His presence was effortless, as though he had always been there, yet the air around him shimmered with the aftertaste of something wrong.
The stranger was finely attired—though oddly so. A deep maroon dress shirt, pressed to perfection, clung to his frame, tucked into pristine white slacks. A black tie hung sharply against his chest, stark in contrast. His hair, a pale shade of blonde, cascaded loose around his shoulders, unnervingly neat despite its casual fall.
But it was his eyes that held Alexi captive.
A wrongness that seized his vision in full, though he could not say for how long.
The man’s pupils were white—a reversal, an inversion of nature—while the whites of his eyes gleamed an uncanny blue, ringed in abyssal black.
His face bore no age, smooth and untouched but for the faintest shadow along his jaw. His skin, bronzed with a flawless tan, only added to the illusion of something almost human.
Almost.
“Who are you? Name yourself, Beast.”
Alexi steadied himself as he spoke, forcing the tremor from his voice. Perhaps he had not failed after all. Hope coiled around his doubt, and with it, pride crept into his thoughts.
The man smirked, his gaze sweeping over Alexi with a casual, almost dismissive air. He stood unnervingly bright against the dim study, a stark contrast to the gloom. The candles—moments ago waning toward death—now burned hot and fierce, their flames stretching unnaturally tall. The wood beneath them curled and blackened as they raged to new heights.
“I’m not quite certain of that particular fact at this moment,” the man mused, his tone flippant. “I spent a while… orienting myself while you were busy, but I’m still not entirely sure who I may be.”
His smile widened—too wide—as his form seemed to shift, warping subtly in the air, as though the space around him bent to accommodate his presence.
“Let’s chat a little, shall we? Perhaps we can figure it out together. And what shall I call you, good sir? For now, you may call me Xelia Mir Rhigers.”
A sickly, honeyed voice dripped from his lips, familiar in a way Alexi could not place. The sound of it curled in his ears, worming into his thoughts, trying to nestle itself somewhere deeper.
Rage flared anew within Alexi, scorching away the unwelcome pull of the man’s words.
“I care not what you think you may be. I care only for what you are.”
He kept his voice firm, commanding, letting no sliver of uncertainty creep in. He must show the demon who held dominion here—who had called whom.
“You are my creature, the one I summoned. Are you not?”
His glare hardened. He could not—would not—allow this thing to twist the dynamic.
“You may call me Master Girshimer, if you must. But that is all.”
“Ahh, yes—Girshimer. That sounds right. My thanks. Every little bit makes it easier on this side.”
Alexi blinked.
For a moment, Xelia’s form shimmered, like heat rising from the inferno of the candles. In that single instant, his darkly exotic skin paled, shifting—molding—until it nearly mirrored Alexi’s own.
“Yes, I suppose I am that which you called.”
His gaze swept the study, lips pursing with what seemed to be mild disappointment.
“But why summon me to a place so barren and drab? Empty shelves, heavy curtains… all meant to stifle and obscure. I so rarely come over—I would have liked a better view.”
Alexi smirked, fingers tapping against the massive tome before him.
“Do you take me for a fool, Xelia?” His voice held the sharp edge of satisfaction. “I studied well before attempting this. I know how your kind works. You’ll find no path into the world through sight, sound, memory, or reflection.”
The last phrase he spoke with particular pride, reciting it as though quoting a great and sacred truth—one he had, in fact, memorized.
The candles wavered. Their flames, once wild and towering, flickered low. The shadows pressed in.
And yet, the single sliver of moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains only seemed to grow stronger, stretching across the floor in a cold, silver gleam. It slashed across Xelia’s frame, and for a fleeting moment, his form glowed.
Alexi blinked.
Another change.
The maroon dress shirt was now white. His trousers black. The tie an off-shade of what the shirt had once been.
“Mind not my attire, Master. I’ve yet to grow accustomed to this world, and it takes a bit of… adjusting to fit my new role.”
“I care not.” Alexi’s voice was sharp, unyielding. “I called you into being for one reason, and one reason alone. You must grant me my every wish. Let us get to the bargain that must be struck.”
He hesitated. It was this part—above all else—that gave him pause.
The book had spoken little of the pact itself, only that both parties must agree upon its conditions and that one must be certain—deathly certain—before finalizing the deal.
“Excellent. Right down to business—I like that.” Xelia’s voice had deepened, the resonance of it unsettling, almost familiar. Alexi knew he had heard something like it before, though the memory eluded him, shadowed and distant. “Speak your wish, and I shall name the terms.”
Alexi exhaled, steadying himself.
“My needs are simple.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. He had thought long on this moment, rehearsed his words over and over until no hesitation remained.
“You shall grant me eternal life. My mind remain sharp, my body strong and able for all of time. I will walk this world, pursuing knowledge, unraveling its mysteries, until the stars themselves darken and die.
A pause.
“Only then shall you release me—only then shall I pass from this life into the next. I shall not be bound to a world long dead, forsaken and crumbling, as no doubt you would have twisted my words to ensure, Fiend of Lies that you are.”
Xelia hummed in thought, tapping his index finger against his upper chin in idle contemplation. A moment passed before he nodded.
“Agreed. But on terms.” His voice was smooth, assured. “You must answer me two questions before the deal is struck. Do this, and I will ensure your body remains forever hale, strong, and your mind never loses its wit.”
“Speak your questions and be done with it.”
Xelia inclined his head.
“Very well. First—why do you seek knowledge?”
A sharp, derisive laugh escaped Alexi’s lips.
“What a waste of a question. Why does any man do anything? What is our nature, if not to quest? It is the very essence of humanity. I pity any being that does not know this base drive—to understand, to master the workings of life and all that governs it.”
Xelia simply smiled. The expression was unreadable, yet disturbingly knowing.
“Very good. Very good. I’m beginning to understand.”
The candles dimmed further, their once-defiant glow shrinking into fragile embers. The shadows thickened, stretching long and hunched across the walls. Xelia’s form wavered—then disappeared entirely, swallowed by the dark.
“You are impatient. That much is clear. Very well—I will ask my last question after your wish has been granted.”
The voice, once like silky honey, now thrummed from the darkness—a deep, solid baritone that resonated like the toll of a distant bell, reverberating through the air with an eerie weight.
Again, Alexi felt it. That creeping, gnawing sensation at the back of his mind. The voice. He knew it. He had heard it countless times before.
A warning clawed at the edges of his thoughts. Something is wrong. He knew it.
And yet—
What did it matter?
The hunger in his soul outweighed the whisper of doubt. His need devoured hesitation. He would be a god among men.
Alexi nodded, his decision made.
“Let us be done with it. Where must I sign? How do we proceed?”
“No, we need not do something as worn and trite,” the beast chuckled, the sound curling through the dark like smoke. “Simply speak your full name aloud, and we will be done.”
The last flicker of candlelight guttered and died.
Darkness swallowed the room whole, save for a single, pale sliver of moonlight slipping through the heavy curtain, casting a spectral glow across the floor.
Alexi drew in a breath, steady, unshaken.
“Alexi Wolfgang Von Girshimer.”
The world spun violently around Alexi, a chaotic maelstrom tearing his senses apart. He staggered, fighting the bile rising in his throat as the ground beneath him seemed to vanish. A sudden, visceral fear seized his chest, clutching with icy fingers.
And then—clarity.
A fog lifted from his mind, a fog he had never realized was there until it was gone.
The past hour unraveled in his thoughts, memories flashing in sharp, merciless clarity. Something was wrong. It had been wrong from the moment the summoning ended—perhaps even before that.
Blind in the suffocating dark, Alexi struggled to grasp his bearings. His right side burned, the sting lancing through his ribs. The acrid scent of fennel smoke curled up from his pocket.
And then—his body moved.
Not of his will.
A step forward. A soft crunch beneath his boot.
He drifted toward the curtains, toward the sliver of moonlight slicing into the room. His hands trembled as he bent down, reaching for something unseen. Fingertips brushed against glass—tiny fragments, scattered and sharp.
A realization, cold and absolute, seized him. Horror swelled in his chest. He tried to scream. His mouth would not move. His throat produced no sound.
His own voice slipped from his lips—smooth, composed—foreign.
“Ah, Alexi, time for our final question.”
Alexi’s hand rose, yet it felt distant—detached. A phantom sensation of movement was the only indication it was his own.
His fingers gripped the heavy curtain. And in one swift motion, they wrenched it open.
Light poured into the room, illuminating every corner, chasing away the darkness.
The pentagram stood empty.
And then, his voice—Xelia’s voice—spoke again, rich with quiet amusement.
“Who am I?”