Blind once told Enchantress about the Mirror in the room next to the boudoir.
What's so special about the Mirror?
Visit the Mirror alone. You'll understand.
What difference does it make? My boudoir has a mirror, too.
You will understand.
Blind had always been so cryptic. Enchantress never fully understood Blind and the eccentricities around him, nevertheless, there was no harm in trying Blind's advice. She made her way towards the room next to her boudoir and found the Mirror.
It was old, and its oval frame was carved into the likeness of twisting flowers and leaves. The dark wood possessed a quaint sheen, while the mirror itself was the silver untouched by age. Enchantress hovered before it and understood at once what Blind hinted at: it could show her - or at least the faint outline of her form. It was cloudy and she could see no features of her face at all. The image of the room reflected on the mirror, along with Enchantress' hazy form, rippled without warning.
Who are you, alone and nameless?
Who are you, without the walls with which you barred prejudice out?
Who are you, stripped bare of the raiment of lies, white and otherwise?
Who are you, revealed without the shadow you hide in?
Who are you, as you are, as you were supposed to be?
Who are you, bathed in the truth of your being?
The vision faded with the dying echoes of the disembodied voice. Enchantress herself was enchanted, for once. The questions gave form to the incoherent confusion within her.
Who was Enchantress?