Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is purely a fanfic for enjoyment.
Cross-over from various games, books, anime, manga, and movies.
The familiar characters you see here belong to their respected authors and owners.
"Speech"
Time*
Arc 1: Payback - Chapter 3
Alaric opens his pocket watch to check the time; it's 9 in the morning, the delicate hands glimmering against a face made of ivory and gold.
Shutting the pocket watch with a soft click and slipping it back into his vest pocket, he locks the wooden door behind him with a key.
A chilly breeze sweeps down the cobblestone street, prompting Alaric to press his hat a little more firmly against his head. As the city slowly stirs around him, vendors opening their stalls, the first delivery carts rumbling by, Alaric begins his morning by searching for a cozy spot where a warm breakfast might be waiting.
Alaric spots a food vendor down the street, the scent of warm, buttery pastry drawing his attention. A tray of freshly baked sausage rolls sits under a glass dome, flaky golden crust wrapped around well-seasoned pork, still steaming from the oven.
He exchanges a few coins and purchases two rolls, the vendor nodding politely as he wraps them in wax paper. With a nod of thanks, Alaric continues on his way, the warm parcels tucked neatly in one gloved hand.
A short walk later, he notices a tea stall tucked into the corner of an alleyway. A small, unassuming, but with a steady curl of steam rising from metal kettles. He steps forward and orders a cup of hot sweet tea: two sugars, a splash of milk. It's served in a slightly crumpled Styrofoam cup that's just a bit too warm to hold comfortably, but the aroma is rich and comforting.
Leaning against a nearby lamppost, Alaric takes his time with the modest meal. Despite the small portions, he savors each bite. The satisfying crunch of pastry, the flavorful spice of sausage, the mellow sweetness of tea. It may not be a grand breakfast, but it's more than enough.
Alaric returns to the building that serves as both his place of business and his home—a narrow, ivy-draped structure nestled between a shuttered tailor's shop and a bookstore long past its prime. The ground floor houses his office and workspace, while the upper floors serve as his private living quarters, connected by a creaking staircase and warmed by the steady hum of enchanted brass piping.
As he approaches the door, his keen eyes catch the edge of something white peeking out from beneath it—a folded note, partially crumpled as if slipped in with trembling hands. He stoops, picks it up, and immediately notices the handwriting: panicked cursive, the ink uneven as if written in haste.
He unfolds the note and reads:
"One of the mirrors I acquired from an estate won't stop whispering! I turned it toward the wall, and it started reflecting things that aren't there! I need help!"
— J. Hemmingford
Alaric frowns slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening as he rereads the message.
"Hemmingford was a known antique dealer with a taste for the obscure, but rarely did he rattle so easily. Whispering mirrors and false reflections—this wasn't simply a trick of the mind. This smelled of active enchantment. Or worse." Alaric muttered, eyes narrowing as he studied the jagged flow of ink across the page. "The handwriting's shaky… most likely, Mr. Hemmingford is already showing early signs of possession. Whatever's inside that mirror is beginning to take hold."
He stepped inside, the door creaking softly on its hinges before clicking shut behind him.
Drawing out his pocket watch once more, he checked the time: 8:34 AM. The minute hand glided smoothly under the crystal face, its ticking a soft, comforting rhythm in the quiet room.
"If I recall correctly…" Alaric murmured, pacing slowly across the wood-paneled floor. "Hemmingford's Antique Shop is at 54 Kettleby Street, Guildford, Surrey. That's about thirty-five minutes on foot… if the roads are clear."
Alaric locks the door, the deadbolt sliding into place with a firm clack. The building falls into stillness, and the faint ticking of his pocket watch is the only sound that remains. He makes his way to the counter and sits down in the chair.
Placing the note carefully in the center of the counter, he closes his pocket watch with a soft snap and sets it beside the paper. He takes a slow, steady breath before uttering the invocation.
"8th Period — Astronomy: Constellation Map."
His voice reverberates strangely in the quiet room, as if layered with echoes from some distant plane. The very air stills, becoming heavier, and then begins to shimmer faintly with ethereal energy. This is Hell Lesson, Alaric's personal magic—a system of structured periods, each tied to a time of day and a distinct magical function. The 8th Period, aligned with Astronomy, is one of foresight, celestial insight, and among other things.
A subtle glow ignites in Alaric's eyes, not bright, but unmistakable, like candlelight caught in amber. As the spell takes hold, the note slip on the counter begins to glow with a cool, blue starlight. Sigils and constellations slowly emerge from the paper like frost on glass, mapping themselves in midair into a spiraling web of stellar alignment.
Above the paper, a constellation map unfolds, slowly rotating, three-dimensional, with twinkling motes that shift position as if reacting to some unseen tide. The pattern centers around a twisting glyph hovering where the mirror must be, surrounded by stars that flicker irregularly, as though corrupted or flickering between realms.
Alaric's gaze sharpens as he studies the constellation's strange movements. The stars were speaking, not in words, but in positions, alignments, and omens.
Something was in that mirror.
"Mostly a ghost." Alaric muttered, his voice low, tinged with unease. "But what type of ghost is the question."
His frown deepened as the constellation map continued to shift before his eyes, revealing subtle distortions in the star patterns, the kind not found in natural phenomena. Some of the points pulsed in irregular rhythms, flickering out of sync with the constellations around them. A classic sign of fractured identity. Possibly a fragmented spirit… or something worse: a layered haunting, where multiple presences occupy a single object in competition.
Alaric reached into his coat and withdrew his Wizard's Wand. He gave the counter a firm tap.
In a shimmer of gold-threaded mist, a thick leather-bound book materialized before him. The book floated upright, then opened itself.
Without needing to lift a pen, inky script began forming of its own accord, transcribing Alaric's observations in perfect, spidery handwriting as he continued his analysis:
Case Entry: Whispering Mirror — Client: J. Hemmingford
Preliminary Scan: 8th Period — Astronomy: Constellation Map
Energy Signature: Celestial distortion with localized corruption
Manifestation Type: Likely spectral, presence irregular, unstable
Observations:
Star flicker patterns indicate fractured identity
Presence does not correspond with conventional poltergeist patterns
Reflections do not match physical surroundings, evidence of a mirrored sub-realm
Whispering effect suggests intentional communication rather than ambient haunting
As the book continued to write, Alaric narrowed his glowing eyes, watching a spiral of stars curl inward on the constellation map, a visual metaphor for entrapment, or perhaps containment. Something wanted out, but not through brute force. Through temptation. Through suggestion.
He murmured, half to himself, "This may not just be a haunting. It may be a lure."
An hour later*
"9:40 AM. I've got twenty minutes before I switch over to the next period..." Alaric muttered, snapping his pocket watch closed with a sharp click before sliding it back into his vest pocket. His thoughts were focused, and his movements were calculated.
A brass bell over the door jingled softly as he stepped in from the still morning street, its sound oddly out of place against the silence within.
Hemmingford's Antiques was a place that hadn't changed in decades and looked like it resented the mere idea of doing so. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, brass polish, and something faintly musty. Dust clung to the dim shafts of light filtering through the narrow, lace-draped windows. Wooden shelves sagged beneath the weight of long-forgotten relics: tarnished Victorian silverware, cuckoo clocks frozen in silent anticipation, porcelain dolls with cracked faces, and faded taxidermy specimens under glass domes, their glassy eyes long since dulled.
Alaric's shoes clicked softly on the uneven floorboards as he made his way past a display of cracked hourglasses and lopsided globes. His gaze swept the room, sharp and discerning.
Behind the counter stood Julian Hemmingford, a man in his mid-50s with thinning gray hair and red cheeks, the kind that suggested stress more than good health. His name tag, slightly crooked, read Julian Hemmingford. He was nervously polishing a brass mantle clock that hadn't ticked in years. The rag in his hand is trembling slightly, his eyes darting toward a tall, covered object propped against the far wall.
Alaric took note of the way Julian's hands shook, not just with fear, but exhaustion. Whatever had happened here, it hadn't started today.
"Mr. Hemmingford." Alaric said calmly. "I received your note."
Julian froze mid-polish. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the counter.
"Th-thank God for that!" Julian stammered, his voice hoarse. "It—it's still in there, I think. The mirror. I covered it, but it talks when I'm not looking. I—I swear it said my name last night."
Alaric's gaze drifted toward the covered mirror, the air subtly colder near it.
The clock on the wall ticked once, then stopped again.
Alaric stepped forward slowly, his shoes brushing over an ornate Persian rug whose once-vibrant colors had long since faded into dusky browns and washed-out crimsons. The fringe was curled and threadbare, the edges tugged loose by decades of foot traffic and dust.
He reached into his vest, retrieving the familiar weight of his pocket watch once more. A brief glance confirmed the time: 9:50 AM; ten minutes before the next period.
Still enough time.
"9th Period — Psychology: Confusion Pulse." He intoned, his voice steady but low, as if weaving the words directly into the air.
A ripple of unseen force spread out from Alaric's body like the slow movement of water through glass, silent, seamless, and potent. The confusion pulse was not loud, not violent. It was subtle, targeting the conscious attention of others and scattering it like ashes in the wind.
Julian blinked, eyes suddenly vacant. The tension in his shoulders loosened as his focus seemed to drift out of reach. "H-Huh? Wh-What…?" He mumbled, turning slowly as if compelled by some faint thought he couldn't quite recall. He wandered toward the back shelves, absently picking up a broken compass and turning it in his hands as if it required urgent attention.
He would stay like that for a time: safe, unaware, and most importantly, uninvolved.
"Now then… let's see what we have here." Alaric mutters.
He took a few measured steps closer to the tall object propped against the wall, its shape unmistakable even beneath the dusty sheet draped over it. A standing mirror, nearly six feet in height, its frame carved with baroque spirals and grotesque flourishes; ivy, serpents, open mouths. The kind of craftsmanship that spoke of obsession more than artistry.
The confusion pulse still lingered in the air, subtle but pervasive, clouding not only Julian's thoughts but also disrupting whatever sentience might lurk behind the mirror's surface. Spirits, especially fragmented or unstable ones, were vulnerable to psychological manipulation. For a ghostly entity, especially one tied to reflective surfaces, even a brief loss of clarity could sever its grip.
Alaric could feel it now: the unnatural pressure behind the glass had weakened. Whispers that had once scratched at the edges of perception had grown dim, slurred, directionless. Whatever intelligence resided within the mirror was temporarily dazed, disoriented enough to be observed without retaliation.
He reached the mirror and paused, letting his gaze travel along the base of the frame. Dust. Scratches. A small crack in the wood, as if something had tried to escape once, or be forced in.
Alaric extended his wand and, with the tip, gently lifted the sheet away.
The mirror's surface shimmered faintly, as though water sat just behind the glass. For a moment, Alaric didn't see himself reflected at all, only faint and cold, drifting in a pitch-black void.
Then the image flickered.
And a woman's face—pale, with hollow eyes and a mouth sewn shut with black thread, surfaced and vanished, leaving only a ripple in the silver.
Whatever it was… it wasn't asleep.
But for now, it was confused. And Alaric had the advantage.