It was a choice he made every day. If men are built up out of their choices, what does choosing poorly on purpose make you into?
He didn’t like mirrors, and not just because one tried to kill him once. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take any more reminders of how awful his visage had become. He saw his green skin, clawed left hand, and mercuric sweat too often to care. His lower jaw was painfully distended with too many tusks. He drooled relentlessly and could barely speak.
He knew he was a monster. He robbed graves to earn his daily bread for fuck’s sake.
It was his golden eyes that bothered him. It always made him think of his other half, buried alive beneath a ton of fool’s gold in some dark, dank cave somewhere far away. He relived his other half’s final moments again and again in his daily dreams.
Broken Green had had exactly one lucky mutation in his life as a magician. He grew to giant size before the twisted energies of creation split him into two identical persons.
The monstrous magician exhaled noisily. He then carefully opened his threadbare book of heretical secrets with his still human right hand. He paused at the very first page, at the notes of the very first spell he’d learned, at the spell he never could bring himself to cast: Tabula Rasa.
It was the spell that would make him a man again. It was the spell that would reset the horrors he’d reaped upon himself in his six years as an iterant sorcerer. It was the spell that would take his power away.
His horrible claws gouged deep tracks into the stump on which he rested. Broken Green turned the page and memorized instead the formulae and irrational images that would bring lightning into his fists.