Trivial Beauty

Nisha stood in front of the mirror.

It hung on the wall opposite her bedroom window, large and oval and gilt to the point of gaudy. Flecks of gold had flaked off over the years, leaving the frame looking somewhat battered and worn. A relic, clinging to a time not its own.

She examined her reflection in the lightly smudged glass, perhaps for the last time. A shrewd gaze traversed her opposite self, half critical, half considering. She looked, nice, she decided. Pretty, even, though her hair was merely tied back and her clothes uncomplicated, simple shifts dyed dark and unassuming.

In the hours before daybreak, she would leave this room, battered mirrors and all, possibly never to return. Darkness would aid her then, as it had her whole life. Ironic, that the dark hair and dark eyes and dark complexion, the beauty she’d been praised for all these years, she would now use to evade detection.

And then, bid farewell forever.

With one last glance, prolonged and indulgent, she turned away from the mirror and walked over to the bed. Her bag was packed, and had been for a week, but she couldn’t resist rummaging through it one last time, checking she wasn’t leaving anything important behind.

Anything, necessary, anyway. Her mother’s pearl hair pin she would have to leave behind, along with the diamond studded dagger - a birthday gift from her father’s own personal collection -, and her own gold signet ring.

The first of these lay on her bed, side by side. The third still sat on her smallest finger. She pressed it briefly to her lips now, the metal cool against her skin, before gently easing it off, and laying it atop her covers as well.

She was not leaving everything behind, at least. Strapped to her thigh was another dagger, this one plain, hilt bound in black leather, forged for her by her friend Arnav, in between the time he’d spend bolstering the castle’s own arsenal. In her pocket, a wooden whistle, roughly hewn in the shape of a very misformed bird but all the more treasured for it - her sister’s first attempt at woodcarving, that she had carried with her for years. And around her waist, her brother’s braided belt, that he had thrust into her hands earlier that night, eyes suspiciously bright, with an oddly choked “Good luck”, before rushing away.

And some jewellery too, the simplest pieces, plain golden bracelets and link chains, dismantled or disformed, and sewn into the very fabric of her bag, with tight stitches to keep the metal from ringing out. A precautionary measure, for if the funds she had already packed proved inefficient.

Besides that, she didn’t have much. An extra dress, a small bottle of alcohol, a loaf of bread and some water. It had been a hard balance to navigate, but she’d finally settled on taking less in order to be able to move faster. She only hoped she wouldn’t come to regret it. 

At some point in the coming hours or days, the castle would fall under siege, if their intelligence is to be believed. Even now, Lord Uxton and his amassed forces marched towards them, and she needed to be gone before they arrived.

Which meant she needed to leave soon. 

There was a scrap of paper on her bedside, scrawled upon in blue ink, words she had committed to memory, but revised once more before reducing them to ash above her half-burnt candle. A fragment of fairy tale: follow the Eastbound star as far as it will lead you, and then climb until you can climb no more, and there will you find your passage to the promised land.

It was an old story, an epic passed down through generations. A King, a Queen, and a Consul all voyaged East. There they found a being of immense power, who told them stories of an Otherworld, of magic and mystery and endless possibility. The being promised them safe passage to this place, but only if they first gave up their greatest attribute. The King his strength, the Consul his mind and the Queen her beauty.

From there the mythos grew confusing, each teller adding their own stories and embellishments as they saw fit. Some would detail wonders and adventure, and others cutting warnings and tragic ends. But they all agreed that the Otherworld had marvels beyond mortal comprehension: metal abominations that could transport a user thousands of miles in hours; blocks that held infinite wisdom, equal and more to the collective knowledge of a library of libraries; inhuman spies, that could not speak but relayed their information with perfect recall. The power to halt an invading enemy in its tracks, if only the one who sought it had something in their nature of worth to the great Being.

Nisha moved back before the mirror. 

She had always thought, as a child, that the Queen had had a rather easy time of it. What was losing one’s beauty, in the face of retaining one’s wits and meagre strength? Truthfully, she still did, but now she wondered. How did you take someone’s beauty?

What was beauty, anyway? She wasn’t sure she knew. Growing up, her mother had lauded Nisha’s unmarred face as often as she’d lamented her sister’s scars. And the hags in the books she and Arnav used to read were always described as wrinkled and aged. Perhaps that was beauty - the simple lack of evidence of a life lived. Perhaps the being would merely grant her experience and nothing more - tired eyes and sagging skin. That she could live with.

What else might she lose?

She’d always been called beautiful, for the curls on her head or her slender frame, the depth in her eyes that people said spoke of her intelligence, though no one seemed to care as much about that supposed intellect.

Perhaps that is what the being would do, then. Leach the black from her hair and disproportion her body and scar her face. That would not be so bad. 

Still, she studied her reflection and wondered. Suppose the being took more, rewrote her down to the very structure of her bones. 

Would this be the last time looked at herself in the mirror and recognised the person staring back?

Would her family even be able to recognise her, should she return?

But now was not the time for doubt. Her vision was slowly dimming as her candle dwindled to nothing, and it was fast approaching the time to go.

She turned away from herself, and hefted her bag over her shoulders, and silently left the room.

****************************************************************************

Nisha had followed the slowly fading East Star for a couple of hours, across plains and streams, before her vision was finally obscured by masses of jagged rock jutting from the earth.

Here then, at the peak of the tallest pillar, lay her path to the promised land.

She took a small gulp of water, dusted off her hands, and began to climb.

In some ways, she had volunteered for this quest as many times as she also hadn’t. She had wanted to go - she was curious, and had little to lose, and even if it were a fool’s errand she felt she would rather be trying to do something useful than be left helpless and under siege.

But she also had known, realistically, that she was the only viable choice. Labourers could not be spared, nor military men trusted. Her parents could not leave the castle - a King and Queen abandoning their castle was as good as surrender. Her brother, the eldest of the three, the Heir, could not be risked, especially with their family’s rule so tenuous, and her sister, arm still weak from her accident a decade ago, could not have made the climb. She was the only one able to succeed, who would not harm their cause if she did not.

She had volunteered herself before they were forced to ask. And she didn’t regret it, even as her hands started to blister against rough stone, and her legs started shaking beneath her, and the ground slowly faded into oblivion.

No. She was ignoring that. Focus instead on the being at the top, and the exchange. Focus on what is being left behind.

She let herself separate from her mind, as her legs weakened and her fingers grew numb. Climbing, and climbing, until she finally collapsed onto a plateau, barely able to move.

With effort, she lifted her head…

And saw a black rectangle, a doorway made of pure void, and the Being.

****************************************************************************

“Been a while, since someone last made the trek up here to see me.”

Nisha didn’t respond, too busy slowly, achingly pushing herself upright, to a seated position.

The Being continued. “You wish to pass through my doorway, I’m sure. Very well. I assume you already know the nature of the payment I must take?”

Nisha nodded.

“Good. To business, then. Now, what should my price be?”

At this, she looked up and blinked. “I, I thought it was fixed. Beauty or strength or wit, and I have beauty so I have come to trade it.”

The Being laughed. “Someone thinks a lot of themselves.”

Nisha flushed, and opened her mouth to protest, that it was not her opinion, merely something she had been told, but the Being waved her off.

“Besides, what use to me is a sacrifice you have come to be ready to give. And I do require sacrifice, not a mere exchange.”

“But the story said -”

“The story is a petty fable of the inanest sort. Each gave what they valued most, and it ought to have been a moral indictment of each of their characters. Strength alone should not befit a person to rule, beauty is merely a question of another’s perception, and someone willing to trade away their wits before entering a strange and foreign land was likely never particularly gifted in that department to begin with. No, that you came to me ready to barter your looks simply tells me it would do me no good to take them.”

“Then what,” she began to ask, but trailed off as the Being studied her, just as she had her own reflection before she had left home.

“Intriguing,” they muttered. “You are of royal blood, are you not.”

She nodded. “Princess Nisha, youn-”

“Youngest of the reigning King, yes, I see. Your clothes are not the garb I would expect one of your status to wear.”

“I sought to come here unnoticed.”

“And unnoticed you were, I wager. Dull clothing, just loose enough to disguise that the material is strongly made, and with the added bonus of obscuring your form. And I am sure that your bag is full, but by its shape and sound, I would have by cursory glance thought it was empty.”

Nisha was preening slightly, despite herself, as the Being continued.

“Yes, you strike me as someone who, despite her so-called ‘beauty’, takes pride in not being seen. Interesting, yes. I think perhaps that shall be my price.”

She started. “Wh- what?”

“Well, as I see it, you have gone to great efforts to make sure you either evade detection, or recognition. And I think you came here knowing that giving me your beauty would only aid that, and thus deemed it not only an acceptable loss, but a useful one. Taking your beauty would mean little to you, no matter how I went about it. Your anonymity, however…”

“But, how would that even work?”

“A simple compulsion spell. Child’s play, really. As an object of beauty, you are noticed once and then passed over. I would make you command attention in any room. Yes, I do believe that is the best sacrifice you could give me.”

“But, how--”

“How is not my problem, Princess. I care not who wins your little civil battle, I care not how you evade detection on your conditional return. These matters do not concern me, but you’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can figure something out.”

“What is on the other side?”

“Why, a world of your imagination of course.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Over your head. The stories of the Otherworld are true, it is just as the books describe.”

“Will I find… anything?”

“That I cannot tell you. But I will give you this - no one will know you there. For some time you will still be unknown, if not unacknowledged.”

The Being watched her consider.

“So, young Princess,” they said, stretching out a vague hand of light. “Do we have a deal?”