Megrin and the Fountain Without a Reflection

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Evening descended upon the village like a heavy curtain. Lanterns hung in the alleys, but the shadows remained thicker than usual. Megrin, whom people greeted hesitantly, fearing his otherness, stepped softly into the village square. His red robe barely rustled, the flame on the medallion on his chest glowed in the twilight. There stood the old fountain, the heart of the village, entwined in ivy and with a stone border, as old as the first houses. Children had once seen their reflections there, young lovers had pledged their loyalty. But now the water was black as pitch, revealing nothing—no face, no star, not even the lanterns around it. Only emptiness. Megrin leaned forward. His pointed ears twitched as he heard the breathing of the depths. No ordinary fountain. A gate, he thought, and something about it was out of balance. His knowledge of hundred herbs didn't help him here, but his sense for the cracks between this world and the other world did. "The reflection is gone," he murmured. "That means something refuses to be seen." An old woman approached hesitantly, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders. "We fear the well is cursed. Some say it sucks the souls who look into it." Megrin shook her head. "Not a curse, but a disturbance." He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small glass vial containing a shimmerroot. He sprinkled the water with a drop of its juice. But the surface remained black. Then a movement opened in the darkness. Not a reflection, but a second depth, like an eye looking back. The water sucked at him, demanding that he step closer. His heart beat faster. Balance was no longer a given here, but on a knife edge. He stood upright. "I know who you are," he said into the void. "You are the echo of the otherworld, the shadow of forms. You took the reflection because it betrayed you." The water surged, and a voice without sound answered: You humans only want to see yourselves. But mirrors are gates, and gates demand a price. Megrin raised his hand. His medallion glowed more brightly, the flame within flickered. "I ask for no image, only balance. Give back what you have taken." Silence. Then the well shuddered, and cracks appeared around the edges, fine lines like spider webs. The villagers backed away. But Megrin stood still, his gaze steady. He knew: if he wanted to maintain balance, he had to offer something. He opened his bag, drew out a bundle of dried herbs—memory leaves that could capture any image in the mind. "Take this," he said, "and keep the reflections we don't need. Give us back what is enough for us: ourselves." The water foamed, sucking down the herbs. Then it calmed. Slowly, as if awakening, an image appeared on the surface: the well itself, the square, the villagers, their faces.