The face in the water didn't blink. Aragorn pondered this for a moment and then splashed the puddle in anger. The face in the water was him. But it was so... perfect. It had no flaws, no nervous, irritating habits. It did not have to worry about bathing, or eating, or being polite. It was perfect. And it wasn't real.
How much of this is truly real, Aragorn wondered. How much of life was real? Lord Elrond had taught him basic philosophy, but the meaning of life had not been among the topics. Of course not. Why should immortals care about the meanings of the small, pitiful lives of men?
As if in defiance of its master, the puddle had returned to normal. No waves broke its surface, and Aragorn's face stared back at him. Unblinking. Unflinching. Unnerving.
'Tell me what you know,' Aragorn begged it silently. 'Tell me what you know, that I don't, that leaves you so serene. So perfect. How could anyone hate the face in the mirror?' He sighed and slowly lowered himself to the ground beside the small pool. The image in the puddle mirrored him exactly. Yet it did not blink when he did.
"Tell me what you see," Aragorn whispered. "Tell me why you are content to merely be a reflection of everything that goes past you. Tell me why you do not itch to put your mark on everything. Tell me why you sit here in silence and let others make of you what they will."
Aragorn's hand slipped almost unnoticed into his leggings as he continued to stare at the puddle. His mirror-self smiled and Aragorn wondered why. His hand continued, lowering the tightening leggings without their owner consciously realizing. The puddle seemed so unthreatening, Aragorn thought. 'It is content. It is content to be what it is.'
'Unlike men,' he realized with sudden clarity, as his hand started to move faster. 'Men are never content. Men strive to be better, or worse, than they had been previously. Men desire. Men covet. Men...live.'
Breath coming in short gasps now, Aragorn studied the puddle once more. It seemed almost self-satisfied. Like it had imparted a particularly difficult lesson to a dolt of a pupil. Aragorn had seen that expression much in his life. He had never expected to see it on his own face.
And then the hand's work was over, seed spilling over into the puddle. Aragorn looked at his mirror in horror. In understanding. Mirrors, puddles, other images. Everything you want. They consume you utterly, until you hardly know yourself. Until you hardly know what you are doing.
Until you can hardly recognize yourself in your mirror image.
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Story notes: Series: First in the Library of Moria series.
Series Explanation: I was bored. I was browsing the Library of Moria website. I played around with the pairing generator. The following stories are what resulted. 30 minute fics.
