Kings in Hiding

Chapter 7

Within the abandoned tower of the Avira Palace, Kirk had been held captive for some time after the bridge incident. As Ika heard about his escape, he only thought to lock his son up in a place he knew no keys would be dropped.
Kirk sat in a little corner of the room, in between the wall and an old bookshelf. The room itself was filled with old junk and used commodities, a draft flew through the tower. Kirk had grabbed a heavy cloth and wrapped himself in it.
Knock knock.
The heavy door pushed open, a single hand tossed in a platter of food. Kirk sat up, the door closed and locked itself. He tossed aside the cloth and approached the meal given to him. Kirk picked at the food, which seemed to be a small portion of cold chicken and wilted, fried greens. He left it alone, as he'd decided he wasn't hungry. He then yawned and stretched, his weary body made him feel heavy.
Kirk rubbed his eyes; as his hands dropped, he spotted a large, covered object among the relics in the room. He cautiously stepped towards this object, softly tiptoeing through the piles of dust and fallen items. His gentle hands lingered from artifact to artifact, just barely feeling the surfaces of each item.
As he neared the object, he reached out and yanked away the cloth covering it. Kirk coughed, the dust that had rested on this cloth had gone flying. Setting the cloth aside, he realized the object he unveiled was a mirror. It looked as if it were any plain old mirror, leaning tall against the stony walls of the tower's room. Kirk took his hand and touched the mirror, it's darkened glass revealed Kirk's disheveled reflection. He sighs, not surprised with his appearance.
"Same as always..." he mutters.
A moment passed, and Kirk's reflection in the mirror transfigured; before him stood a new version, a corrupted version, of himself. Kirk gasped, took a step back, and nearly tripped on his own foot.
This "reflection" Kirk saw appeared to be dressed in formal clothing, similar to his father's. He bore a crown on top of his head, a black cape with a velvety blue inside draped from his shoulders, and his face seemed empty and cruel beyond all reason. Scars covered his face, including the one that resided on the real Kirk's left cheek from an incident many, many years ago. The whites of this reflection's left eye had gone completely dark; one could only believe it might've had something to do with Ika.
Kirk takes another step back; the reflection takes one forward. A wicked smile creeps across the reflection's face, the room fills with a deep, terrifying cackle. As it grows louder, Kirk covers his ears in agony in attempt to drown out the sound. His efforts are fruitless, for the cackling had come within him, terrorizing him from from the inside. Kirk looks up at the mirror to see the reflection staring wildly back at him, striking fear into his being. He shouts, charges towards the mirror and shatters it with a single punch. Almost immediately, the cackling dies down and the tension within Kirk's chest is relieved; however, as the cackling fades away and a ringing sound fills his mind, his nerves start to tingle and sting around the outside of his hand. Glass pieces from the punch sit painfully within Kirk's knuckle; the open cuts begin the bleed. He holds his hand low, preventing the dripping blood to flow into his sleeves and provoking the glass to fall out. Kirk looks around, his eyes darting from tabletop to the floor. He finds an old, dirtied up dress laying on the edge of a table nearby; he reaches across and grabs hold of it with his left, tearing some of the white cloth to wrap his injured hand in and stop the bleeding. He carefully picks out pieces of the glass, holding his breath, and wraps the tattered, off white cloth around his hand.
Kirk shivers, a cold breeze flies through the tower room. He looks up, spotting a little hole in the roof. Rubbing his arms in attempt to arm himself, he curls back up into his corner, taking hold of the heavy cloth he had earlier and covers himself in it. Kirk adjusts himself, and as he finds himself in a comfortable enough position, his heavy, weary eyes finally closed, falling asleep.

A little boy with rich, brown hair and pink cheeks bursts out of a petite wooden house, his eyes filled with bravery and hope. He trudged uphill, through the snow, his courage evident in every step. The little boy approached a set of enormous gates, fading away as he passed through.
Everything went black. Only a small patch of white could be visible from a distance, a puddle of cold blood tainted the pure patch of white. Fire melted away the white, the smell of iron filled the air. A woman's screams shout beyond the fire, her disembodied voice grew louder and louder with her every cry.