The Darkness about Him rippled and shifted, offering passage for its master. A gleaming arc over his head, a scythe carved of gleaming onyx caused him n'er to bat an eye, as ghostly shapes reminiscent of himself passed by, some looking about in awe, some with their eyes full of tears, and some of them flushed with anger. His steps caused no echo, as mirrors reflecting this darkness glittered with shattered fragments, each a touch of sunlight scattered and lost to actions that could not be undone... unless He willed it.

But then there would be no way to track how long. How long he passed this way, and how many times he caught his own dull silver eyes in the broken reflections. The fear that they exuded, the terror they inspired in any who looked upon ghastly pale features and the emotionless visage.

His eyes tracked one, one who was dressed in thin clothes, uncloaked, clenching the scythe in both hands with something that He remembered to be fear. It was impossible to believe that he had once been what mortals called 'afraid'. He had always been. He had been... ever since He had departed from their ranks. But... there was yet another puzzle piece that never seemed to add up. He did not remember departing, and nothing was here to remind him. The translucent ghost looked back and forth, his mouth slightly agape as he took in the hall of mirrors, then whole and sleek, which would have reflected the lithe form, the scars which webbed down his collar and throat, and gash which had been too quickly healed to kill upon his jugular. A similar scar was upon the right eye of the ghost, as well as a jagged birthmark beneath his left.

That godforsaken mark.

It had been the reason for his pain, the suffering that he had experienced in his previous lives and the current. He had watched it for eternity, watched the branches from which it had sprouted from himself and made its presence known upon his children. They had to have been his children, mustn't they have? To have his curse? And yet, he never remembered sharing a life with a household, a family to love and cherish.

He didn't remember love or cherishment, anyways.

The ghost took a few faltering steps, staggering towards a destination that He knew well. It would set him upon the path of the rest of the ghosts which swirled about and whispered in his ears in a deep, whispery monotone. Reminding him what he needed to do and what he needed to change on this opportunity. He watched, watched each version pass by, watched them evolving and changing; one scared, one confused, another confident, yet another beaming with joy, another, another, another, another... each of their expressions changing with tiny variations at each turn, until all their expressions were replaced with dull resignation and empty eyes. The knowledge that they must walk forward; must march on no matter the cost, no matter the occurrence. They had done all that they could; it was now up to the next one to attempt a different path.

Clenching the scythe, He trembled with rage, letting out a cry that had been held within for a time that He could not predict.

The final mirror, the only one which remained whole after all this time, trembled, before spidery cracks not unlike the ones which webbed over every inch of His skin began to spread. A sharp sound of shattering glass, and the last mirror fell, crumbling to dust before Him. No matter what he did, everything led back to this place, this special purgatory that offered Him another chance without explaining how to escape. All the ghosts turned to him simultaneously, their glowing, pupilless eyes staring as they gazed blankly on. Their mouths were moving, but no sound escaped, nothing to guide Him this time. Nothing but the incessant parade towards the end of the mirrored hall, now crumbling and dilapidated from the violence inflicted upon it.

A single shard still hanging from the mirror slowly swung back and forth, and His eye flicked to it, watching its movement. In it was encapsulated a glittering silver eye, still bright and youthful, a youngling trapped in a corpse's form. Its iris swirled and danced, as if made of quicksilver, vivacious and gentle. A gentleness which had now been lost and denied. A gentleness which had been repaid with hatred eons ago, when He remembered a different time: a time when the Mark had been silent, and a time when he was one of the fold. Their shepherd and guardian.

The shard suddenly loosed from its string of security, and with a ringing of crystal, made its descent to the ground, spinning and spreading light as it fell from its heavenly seat. With a tintinnabulation of silver, it went silent, relinquishing its final act, the silver eye now lost from its reflection. Left to darkness. How it had come, no person was sure, its Existence as fleeting as He was eternal.