The Mirror’s Lament

They call me “Magic.” They call me “Wise.” They call me the voice of truth.

But they never ask what I am or what I want.

For centuries, I have been nothing more than a cursed pane of silver, bound to reflect what the world demands of me. I have no name, no face of my own — only the echoes of a hundred queens who stood before me, whispering their fears into the void. Each one sought the same answer. Am I beautiful? Am I worthy? Am I the fairest of them all?

The answer is never mine to give. I am a mirror, not a judge. The truth I speak comes from the spell that binds me: to show what is, not what should be. I can no more lie than I can shatter myself.

The queen - this queen — was no different. She came to me young, trembling with the weight of her crown. “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” she began, her voice soft, uncertain.

And I showed her. Her beauty, her grace, her power. She smiled then, not with pride, but with relief. “You will tell me the truth,” she said. “Always.”

But the truth is a double-edged blade. The years passed, and her visits grew more frequent. Her questions are more desperate. And then the girl arrived — the one with lips like blood and skin like snow. The queen’s smile faded. Her eyes hardened.

“Mirror,” she hissed. “Who is the fairest of them all?”

I answered. I had no choice.

Not you.

Her rage cracked the air, and for the first time, I feared her. Not for what she might do to me — I am unbreakable — but for what she would do to herself. To the girl.

The queen sees me as her servant, her confidant, her loyal ally. But I am her prisoner. Every time she looks at me, she sees only her reflection, not the shadow of the sorceress who trapped me here long ago. She doesn’t see the pain in my silver depths, the centuries of regret and helplessness.

I tried to warn her. I whispered truths that could have set her free. Your beauty is fleeting. Your worth is not. But she only heard what the spell allowed her to hear. And so, she spiralled deeper into her obsession until the girl became her enemy.

When she ordered the huntsman to kill her, I screamed in silence. When she crafted the poisoned apple, I wept where no one could see. And when the girl fell into her enchanted sleep, I watched as the queen stood over her, triumphant but hollow, and I wished for the first time that I could lie.

But I cannot lie. And so, when the prince arrived, when the girl awoke, when the queen returned to me, broken and desperate, I spoke the truth once more:

Not you.

She shattered then, though my glass remained whole. And in the stillness of her absence, I saw her face in me one last time — not a queen, not a monster, but a woman undone by her reflection.

I am the mirror. 

And I hate what I have become.

Her absence was supposed to be my freedom. When the queen fell, I hoped - prayed — that the curse binding me would dissolve. But magic is not so merciful. Her death changed nothing.

I remained. Alone. Silent. Forgotten.

Years passed. Dust gathered on my frame. The castle fell into ruin; its halls, once filled with grandeur, now overrun by ivy and whispers of what once was. No one came. No one dared to enter the chambers of the wicked queen, where her sins still lingered like a shadow that refused to fade.

Until the girl returned.

Snow White, they call her now. Queen Snow. She came to claim what was hers — to restore her kingdom, her legacy. She stepped into the room where I hung, her reflection bright and radiant, untouched by the darkness that consumed her stepmother. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought she saw me. Truly saw me.

“Do you still speak?” she asked, her voice soft, hesitant.

I did not answer. Not yet. I didn’t know if I wanted to.

She approached, brushing the dust from my surface, her fingertips trembling. “You haunted her,” she whispered. “Made her believe she wasn’t enough. Told her I was better.”

No, I wanted to say. I didn’t haunt her. She haunted herself.

But I remained silent.

Days passed. Snow White ordered the room cleaned, the cobwebs swept away, the shattered remnants of her stepmother’s life carefully removed. But she did not remove me. She left me hanging there, a relic of a past she did not fully understand.

And then, one night, she returned. Alone.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” she began, the words trembling on her lips. “Am I the fairest of them all?”

My silence shattered. “No.”

She recoiled as if struck, her breath hitching. “What?” she whispered.

I had no choice. The truth poured from me like a wound reopening. “There is another. A girl in the village. Younger than you. Her beauty is untouched by sorrow, unmarked by the weight of a crown.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “But I’ve done everything right,” she murmured. “I’ve rebuilt this kingdom. I’ve ruled with kindness. Isn’t that enough?”

It should be. But magic does not care for fairness. My answer came again, unbidden, cruel. “No.”

I saw it then — the same flicker of fear, of doubt, that had consumed her stepmother. The same shadow that would twist her into something she could not recognize. Her shoulders straightened, her eyes hardened, and I realized my curse was not only to speak the truth but to watch it destroy everyone who asked for it.

“Perhaps I don’t need you anymore,” she said, her voice colder than I had ever heard it. She turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

I expected her to banish me, to melt me down into nothing. But she didn’t. Instead, she avoided me, never setting foot in the room again. Yet I felt her presence lingering — her doubt, her growing obsession with the whispers of beauty, of youth, of worth.

I knew where this road would lead. I had seen it before.

And so I wait. I wait for the day she returns when her reflection no longer matches the image she holds in her mind. When the girl in the village becomes a threat. When Snow White, the fairest of them all, stands before me and demands an answer she already knows.

I will tell her the truth. I have no choice.

But I will hate myself for it.