Reflections of self, alterable on a mere whim. Standing before them, polished bronze or brass for distortion, dwarf-crafted glass for clarity. Eyes crossing, brows furrowing, tongue sticking out, a repertoire of twisty faces that would change a young hobbitlad to something other, all within the time it takes to blink.

Reflections of other hobbits, curious or critical, as if judging themselves, as if somehow the reflection is them. Many are not content with what they see, but Merry likes to watch; he knows that it is not forever, the images. The mirror displays only slices of self, moments, now.

And now Merry watches, restive and eager, as Frodo stretches into his hands, stark and dark and firelit and other. Frodo exults in change, and from behind him Merry's reflection is changed as well—this otherness has entered them forever, locked in the shape of Frodo's mouth as Merry touches him. The mirrored hand moves as Merry's own hand moves, and Frodo rises to meet him and the mirror silently begs. And for the first time Merry wants these images to stay, from this now to the next, and he needs nothing more than to bask in that reflection of what they have become.

* * * * * *

Frodo used to dream of mirrors.

Images shattering on stone, and the shards melting together into sparkling runnelets, sunlight on river-water. Reflections of his own face in the waters, hoping against hope that other, beloved faces will be looking back at him, but only his own image is there, and his own tears falling to distort then disappear.

Frodo was never frightened of the water, but mirrors were a different story—they were solid, and once you fell into them you could never come back up, break the surface and breathe. He would not look into them for the longest time. But he knows better now.

Now there is firelight and darkness, and Merry's scent and the sounds of his voice, and the full-length mirror in his room shows it all: Merry's yearning echoed against his own, gold and brown curls twining with sable and russet, sunlight and moonlight merging for the first time. Merry is on fire; he all but sets their reflections alight, and Frodo basks in the warm glow. Frodo loves to watch, but he loves the feel of it all even more; of Merry's tongue flicking out to caress his nape, the warm caress of his breath, the steam forming on the mirror with their closeness. Finally, finally he lets himself fall into the mirror, and Merry is waiting on the other side.

The mirror is teacher and revelation; it is heady freedom and velvet bindings both, capturing images of now in a thin, dwarvish-laid alchemy of mercury and glass.

* * * * * *