I awoke with a start, my head dripping with sweat. The dream still fresh in my mind invaded my emotions. I clutched my aching chest attempting and failing to catch my breath. It was then I noticed a bruise forming on my wrist in the shape of a hand. The fingertips pressed into my flesh; the tips appearing as claws stung when I touched them. Something told me that this dream was more real than I liked it to be. Certainly this was not the most assuring realization to wake up to, but nevertheless I was still trapped in a world I knew nothing about. I rolled over on the hard stony ground and stared at the morning sky.

The circle of tall grass around me swayed to the brisk wind rolling off the side of the mountain. I imagined the grass parting to reveal a doorway home, but no such luck would come to me.

I thought of my mother and the two times I had seen her cry. The first time was for simple reasons, a family get-together, all of us sharing stories around the table, passing food, and laughing. Those were joyful tears.

The second time were sorrowful tears. It was the day my father was buried, and like with most burials there was a rush to get dressed and prepare for the ceremony. I remember hurrying down the hall to find my black socks when I passed by her room.

"Mom," I asked, poking my head past the door. "Have you seen my black socks?

"They are in the hamper," she said sternly. "Now get your sister ready. We leave in ten minutes."

Under normal circumstances I would have immediately followed her order, but I was stopped by a foreign sound. She sat at her makeup desk; her face illuminated in bright light. In one hand the eyeliner trembled. In the other hand rested a tear soaked tissue. I knew she was trying to mask the pain and force the makeup to conceal her emotions, but the tears eventually won and after ten minutes of struggling, she gave up. Though the day presented many dark clouds and little sun, she wore sunglasses to hide behind.

For someone who took great pride in their appearance, it was the first time I saw her leave the house with nothing more than lipstick on her face. She did not want to be seen as the grief stricken widow; her pride would never allow that. Instead during the funeral, she sat with her back against the chair and legs crossed, smiling when people passed by with their condolences. I watched her with curious intent like a child at a magic show waiting to see the magician reveal the trick. But as with magic, when the illusion is lifted and the mystery is gone, the awe inspiring effect it once offered can never be claimed again. The sacrifice for truth is too often the innocence of the world. That is why a magician never reveals their secrets and why my mother never lifted her sunglasses that day.

Even as my father was lowered into the ground, my mother's lips remained steady. Yet behind her strong facade I spotted a single tear peek out under her sunglasses and slip down her cheek. It dangled there on her chin for a moment capturing the light and reflecting the many beautiful flower arrangements around us. At last the teardrop fell to her lap vanishing in the fabric of her dress. It was the truth behind her illusion, and a magic trick I prayed I would never have to witness again.

My stomach growled with hunger. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. A heavy dew had formed on the fields where Owen and I had set up camp. I observed the rising morning sun clear the last patches of mist and warm the frigid air. A delicious aroma wafted up my nose, and the sound of sizzling meat crackled in my ears. My mouth started to water. Looking down I saw draped on my body were Owen's shirt and jacket. I sniffed the dirty fabric. The lovely smell was definitely not coming from them. Disgusted, I pushed them off.

A short distance away, Owen crouched over a fire. A small creature unrecognizable to me gently roasted over the flames.

"Ah, you're finally awake," he said rotating the spick. "Hungry?"

I stared at Owen's toned arms and muscular bare chest. A small tattoo of a white diamond pressed against the smooth skin of his left shoulder. I had never seen a guy's body so defined and trained before, especially not one so close up. I must have looked like a fool with my mouth wide open and salivating.

"Y..Yes," I said abruptly as if I had awakened from a trance. "I'm starving." I scooted to the fire. The flames were a welcomed comfort from the nippy air. "Um," I said awkwardly holding up Owen's clothes, "I think you could do to have these back."

"Yes," said Owen. He appeared a tad bit embarrassed as he promptly put them on. "Did you sleep warmly enough?" he asked, focusing his attention on whatever he was cooking.

"I did. Thank you." I watched as he put his finger on the meat to check the temperature.

"That's good," he said, wincing at the heat. "You tossed and turned most of the night. I was worried you were going to roll away at one point."

"Was it that bad?"

"Nah," Owen said with a smile and a laugh. "It was just a little. I was exaggerating, duh. You sure are a gullible girl."

"I am not!" I confirmed. "I have quite the level head!"

"I'm just joking with you, gosh. I never knew Mirrorbenders could be so uptight."

"I'm sorry," I said tucking my legs into my chest. "I had a bad dream, and it still has me on edge."

"Sounds like you had a vision." Owen threw a few more sticks on the fire.

"A vision?" I said looking dumbfounded. "I'm not psychic."

"I heard some Mirrorbenders had the power of divination, the ability to see into the future. I believe they called it Dream Scrying. Seems kinda spooky if you think about it. Seeing your fate before it happens. Oooo makes me shiver."

"I don't think it was a vision," I said, glancing at the clouds. "My family was there, and I spoke with my grandmother as if she could really understand me. It felt so real."

"Dream sharing then," said Owen, giving me a serious look. "It's when people who have a close bond dream of the same thing. It happened to me once. I felt like my dream was blending into someone else's dream. It was weird."

"Yeah," I agreed. "That's how it felt. Is it magic?"

"Perhaps," said Owen. "But I think it is older than magic. Not even the sages can explain it. Worth studying I guess."

"Ugh, it just hurts my head thinking about it." I looked down at my feet. The aching from all that walking and running yesterday hurt worse this morning. "I don't feel good," I said. "Everything hurts."

"Perhaps because you haven't had a decent meal since you arrived in Tartarus. It should get you some strength for today's hike. Food's ready."

"What is that exactly?" I asked, sneering at the cooked animal. It's little buck teeth poked out of its leathered shout.

"That is a field-rat."

"Wah," I let out a loud disgusted moan. "You expect me to eat that?"

"I expect you to like it." Owen plucked off a leg and handed it to me. "Found this little devil in our camp last night. Must have been looking for warmth."

I sniffed the roasted leg. While it smelled delicious the thought of eating a rat repulsed me. I took a small hesitant nibble then as it hit my tongue, a big bite. "Oh my God, this is good," came my muffled voice through a mouth-full of food. I chewed with delight. I was so hungry. "What do you call this recipe? Roasted rat on a stick?"

"I call it survival," said Owen stuffing his cheeks as well. We stared at each other in an awkward silence, our mouths bursting with food. Suddenly we began to laugh with Owen almost choking. Who would have believed that my first enjoyable experience in Tartarus would be consuming the tasty remains of a dead rat. We ate until only a small piece remained.

"Here," said Owen, handing me the last piece. "You will need all the strength you can get."

While I ate, Owen began deconstructing the camp and collecting his things. Everything I had was in my pockets, a small circular mirror, my cell phone, and my wallet.

I glanced at the endless rolling hills and the high mountains. Last night the scene was haunting and frightening, but in the daylight it was beautiful beyond anything I had ever seen. Leaning down I grabbed Owen's satchel off the ground. It took all my willpower to not peek inside.

"So where do we go from here?"

"There," Owen pointed to the distance. A small plethora of smokey pillars rose up behind one of the taller hills. "There must be a town over there. We couldn't see it last night. We were so close." I handed Owen his satchel. "Thanks. Alright let's go."

As we trekked closer to the plumes of smoke, a small town began to arise on top of a large hill. In my opinion it appeared a cute little settlement just ideal for rest and relaxation, but Owen stopped; his expression showing a different opinion. He squinted his eyes and studied the little place on the hill.

"Shh," he hushed, dropping his body low to the ground.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I followed his movements.

"There is something not quite right about that place."

I looked again. "Now that you mention it. Seems an awful lot of smoke for a small town."

"Indeed," agreed Owen, stretching his neck to get a better look. "In fact, too much smoke." The wind shifted and the odor of burnt wood and straw permeated the air. Owen pulled me behind a nearby boulder. "Let's approach cautiously. Keep your footsteps light. No sudden movements." He pointed to a small break in the bushes beside the hill. "That way."

As we neared the hill, there was no denying that the town had recently fought a major fire. The flames had receded but the embers were still smoldering. Certain spots on the tall wooden barricade that surrounded the town showed significant charring and were about ready to crumble. Gentle falling soot rained down on our heads as we grazed the outer wall looking for a way inside.

"This does not look good." Owen turned to me. His voice dropped low. "Hope, I want you to be aware that these people are simple folk, farmers and fur traders, some of the poorest in the nation. Many who remember the prophecy look with disfavor on Mirrorbenders. It may be best to keep your identity a secret for as long as possible. Tell no one of who you are, understand?"

"Yes," I nodded. "But what about my clothes? They're not from this world. Someone is sure to notice." My bright yellow coat with bold white letters stood out even in Texas, but compared to Owen's drab and rugged garb, there was no way I could walk about conspicuously.

"If anyone asks, you are a traveler from the capital city, and I am your guide. They might believe it is some new fashion. Though it is best we try not to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves if we can help it. I will get us some supplies, hopefully a map, and you some new clothes, then we leave this town as quickly as possible." I nodded again in agreement.

We walked a little further around the walls until an opening appeared. There was no guard at the gate so the two of us wandered easily inside. I gasped as we entered and the true nature of the town displayed itself before us. Most of the buildings were either collapsed or blackened with soot. A vast many mirrors lay broken at the entrances to homes. On the ground were the outlines of people charred onto the soil. Nothing remained, not even a trace of clothing could be found. I drew back in fear at each outline we passed.

Finally, we heard the sound of an angry crowd. Congregating by the shadow of a destroyed well stood the town's remaining inhabitants. A tough-looking man preached from atop the rubble, his arms bursting with muscles and his head dripping in dreadlocks. Those not part of the crowd, cowered in the singed and drooping doorways of their once lovely homes. Two ladies walked by brushing away debris with stiff brooms. Their faces held a look of defeat. I moved closer to Owen as stern eyes began to stare at us from the slanted doorways.

"Owen," I whispered, "I think we should turn back. Find another town." Owen did not have time to answer as a young woman nearby began to point and scream in our direction.

"They're back! The Half-Lives have come back!"

People started scattering like roaches to a light. Some grabbed their children while others crouched to the ground in fright. The small group at the center of town looked back at Owen and I. Their eyes showed a mix of terror and outrage. I was confused until I noticed the woman screaming was glancing back and forth between us and a mirror. The woman apparently realized neither of us had a reflection. The town grew silent.

The tough-looking man standing on the collapsed well, jumped down to the ground. His ripped shirt bulged over his powerful chest. His heavy boots sunk in the soft soot as he walked confidently over to Owen and I. He stopped about twenty feet away, raised a small oval mirror and looked at us through it. His hairy cheeks rose to a grin. He laughed and then slowly as if humbling to a king, got down on one knee and spoke.

"Please, oh mighty Half-Lives, spare our town from further destruction. We know not of what we have done to offend you. We simply ask for your mercy and forgiveness."

I opened my mouth ready to speak but Owen spoke up first. "We demand supplies, a map, and some clothing. Bring it to us and will not harm you further."

"Owen, what are you doing?" I asked, pulling at his sleeve. "You can't demand things from these people. Can't you see they suffer. We are not Half-Lives."

"Hope," whispered Owen over his shoulder. "We have no choice. If we do not play the part, they will kill us. Sometimes to survive in life we must do things that are not easy or necessarily kind."

The tough-looking man stood to his feet. "Your demands will be met with swiftness," he responded. Turning to the silent crowd he raised his arms. "You heard them! Go!" As people began to scramble through their ruined homes for supplies, the tough-looking man remained motionless and stern. His gaze never left either Owen or myself.

Suddenly a small boy rushed out into the street at Owen screaming and wailing. "You killed my mommy! You killed my mommy!"

"Benjamin!" screeched a young soot-covered girl from a nearby doorway. "Benjamin!" She cried desperately. "Come back!"

The young child stopped in front of Owen. I watched in horror as the boy's little face contorted to anger and sadness. "You killed my mommy, you Half-Life!" The little boy punched weakly at Owen's leg.

Owen raised his foot and kicked the small boy in the face. I let out a cry and against Owen's wishes reached down, picked up the injured child, and rubbed his head. I turned to Owen, tears ran down my cheeks and my lips quivered in disgust. "Enough!" I screamed at him. "You can't do this! You can't just hurt an innocent child!" The townsfolk stopped moving.

Owen gritted his teeth. "Hope, stop that now! You will blow our cover." By now it was already too late.

A bright green light and a loud pop whizzed through the air. The tough-looking man had activated his WEAK revealing a large broadsword covered in green fire. He flew with tremendous speed at Owen and I. Thankfully Owen was just as quick. "Blockage," he whispered. His WEAK glowed. A small transparent yellow shield blocked the falling fiery blade just as it came inches from singeing my face. I expected the massive blade to suddenly collide with my head if Owen lost his strength, but the man had stopped advancing because on his neck rested Owen's small dagger.

"Who are you," cried the tough-looking man seeing as he and Owen had reached a temporary stalemate. "What do you want with us? And why do you have no reflection? You are no Shadows. Shadows can't activate WEAKS or stand in the sun. What manner of creatures are you?"

"We are travelers," said Owen pressing his dagger harder against the man's throat. "We mean you no harm if you show us the same."

"No harm! You just hurt one of our children."

"I am sorry, ok."

"Hmm," the man thought for a moment, "I see you are no Half-Life. Your eyes are not violet. But even so, I cannot trust you. While you place me in a difficult situation, I must choose the safety of my people. I am afraid you have to die."

Before anyone could think to move, a bright blue light shot in between Owen, myself, the man, and the small boy. Each of us was thrown safely apart. Owen and I found ourselves suddenly encased in a large glowing orb unable to escape. An old woman with long blond hair stood behind us; her arms held high in the air. She was dressed in a flowing blue and orange robe and from her fingertips came threads of blue light. The light cracked and flickered like lightning from a cloud. Her majestic bright figure silhouetted against the dark soot.

"As the young girl said a few moments ago," cried the old woman in a harsh voice of disapproving voracity, "enough!" With a twirl of her hands, ropes appeared from the light and knotted themselves around our hands and feet. "No one is going to hurt anyone else anymore," stated the old woman ruefully. "There has been too much senseless killing as of late. Take these two to the church, and put a stop to this pitiful violence."

The old woman lowered her arms, and the blue light faded away. Owen and I tumbled to the ground unable to move our limbs. Against the will of the tough-looking man, we were hoisted over his shoulders and brought to the tallest structure at the far side of town. The townsfolk glared at us with arrant eyes the whole way to the church. I had never felt more humiliated and ashamed.