Split, like a shattered mirror. Not cleanly, with the precision of a knife, but with a jagged, deadly and serrated edge drawn out in a warbled line. Against this new world, that is me- one half of a greater being, but yet not quite precise. Parts of me, parts that should belong to my other half- my stronger, wiser, better half- still cling on to me, brittle like the glass I see myself as. But unlike the glass, I cannot be shattered, cannot be splintered as easily. No, if anything, I am stone; hard and cold, only changing with the passing years. And when, in time, after the years have aged me and ground me into dust, like a phoenix bursting into flame from its final requiem, I shall, at last, become that glass. But I will still be broken, split, and never whole. For that is the fate of us few Mastrata, puppets of this eternal world.
The world heralded the coming of the Mastrata as the return of heaven's light to the earth. Blindly, we trusted them without question, their power and beauty captivating our mortal desire for perfection. They were as angels, winged and graceful as they heralded the coming of a new age. Fascinated, we invited them into our homes and workplaces, not understanding the words they spoke but believing they were ones of good intent. They sung for us, and acted as guardians for families, villages... Anything. Across our world the song of the Mastrata, the strange words they used among each other, began to converge, twisting into a sonata sweet enough to melt the soul. And at the helm of this hymn for the Mastrata's coming, the Mastrata Ithuriel, he who gazed upon our planet from the end of time and wished to take it within its perfect, sculpted fingers. But their song had become sinister, notes falling away, faltering and warping.
The Mastrata had turned and changed. But deep down, we knew that they had never been the angels we had hoped them to be. Our faith in their coming, the light they seemed to bring with them, had broken; reduced to ash in the fire of our mistrust. Just as humans crumble away, so does faith, and with faith broken, so does trust. And so the Mastrata were set upon by all of mankind. A great war ensued, larger than any either side had seen before. The Mastrata had their talents, the power we had once believed celestial, with which they decimated the population. Cities ransacked by their might, blackened skies strewn with smoke from burning lives. The air stank of rotten flesh, both that of humans and livestock alike. But humanity wasn't defenseless, quite on the cotrary. Like the fae of human myth, iron was the bane of their enemies, it's touch poison to the Mastrata. It burnt them and set into their skin a transformation unlike no other. The perfect, unblemished skin they covered themselves in as what could only be called a mask fell away, revealing the ichor covered skin beneath. These were no angels, and with the strength of the iron, we grew to realise that they were no demons either. The iron forced them to hide from humanity, forced into the corners of our world. They cut their wings away before they could escape, so the heavens they conquered alone could no longer be theirs.
But the war never really was won, just delayed. And in the mess of the broken world two fighting races had left for the future, a Mastratan child was found in the wreckage of an abandoned building. And it, rather she, was me. But I was different to those the humans would kill without delay. They thought they could cut out half of me, that I wasn't wholly one of their enemy. They believed they could turn me against what I was ; a human weapon created by the Mastrata. But their faith was misplaced again; and as I was torn apart my brother was born. But he was glass to my stone. Frail and fragile, lacking in the demonic qualities the humans had hoped to separate from me. From one Mastratan, they created a unique being without destroying the original creature it was taken from. Of the twin wings of the Mastratan, only one was gifted to me after the split. Dark and unlike any of the other the world had seen. I can remember from one of my earliest memories, someone once calling it beautiful, a child I believe But it was the look in her mother's eyes as she dragged her child away from the dangerous half-breed that first told me of the stigma I had previously thought did not apply to me. For I was always the one who had to be strong, for the twin torn from my soul who could not be, despite all his efforts to fight alongside me. Kendra... My brother. He always was easily led, naive to a fault and all too easy to read. And it was because of that that people soon learnt to manipulate him, i more ways than just childish play. The kingdoms of our world were interested in him, Kendra and what they thought was his limitless potential. Despite the Mastrata not making further attempts to engage in battle with the humans once more, nonetheless they felt threatened. All they really wanted was the invaders known as the Mastrata to be exterminated.
They took Kendra. And that could be the end of the story. Could. But of course it isn't. And now, in the present, I am stranded between finding where I belong in the world, and finding my brother; my other half. Because, despite our combined flaws, everything seems harder without him. My chest is tight as I take in air, my one wing limp and lifeless against the wind, and the whole world watching for me to make a mistake that will cost me my life. Kendra is malleable, soft enough to be moulded into any shape possible, but yet again like stone, I am brittle. The world cannot change me so easily. And neither can the meddling of those with power that rightfully belongs to the people they rule over. But they can reach me, and put an end to me as if I am nothing. To them, I guess that's the truth. Kendra always was the one they wanted, their weapon. All I was was the monster they tore him from. In their eyes, they have every right to put an end to my life, the only reason they haven't yet being Kendra's wellbeing; they know that all too well. Kendra is their hope of obtaining their selfish goals. I am just the barganing chip willingly tossed onto the table for the sake of their petty politics.