A/N: The long-awaited "Chapter of the Raven." My own version of a would-be third season. I'd like to ask any future readers of this to bear with me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Princess Tutu.
Warnings: Spoilerish, pairing references. Also, please excuse any typos.
Chapter of the Raven
AKT 1: Those that don black
By: Nuit Songeur
Once upon a time, there was a woman who died. Though, whether it was a physical death or a death of her spirit was difficult to determine. The woman was loved dearly by everyone, with her kind and charismatic disposition. She was especially adored by one man. A man who found it to be an arduous task to trust people and somehow managed to place his trust within the beloved girl. But, shortly thereafter, the girl vanished, disappearing from him, their friends, the world, and- ultimately- the man's heart. Then, when it seemed that all hope was lost and the man thought himself to be doomed to a life of bitterness and despair, a small shred of light appeared in the man's life, offering to bring the girl back to him. The man hastily accepted without question. However, did the light come from a pure source? Or was it, in fact, the result of the deepest and blackest of shadows?
In a dark alcove where time freezes and stories are nothing more than a whisper in the wind, their characters limp and lifeless as puppets without their master's strings, a young story-weaver stood on his unsteady feet, scanning the darkness for any hint to where he was or why he was there. His green eyes caught not so much as a sign and panic started seizing his chest.
"Hello?" he bellowed out to the darkness only to hear his voice echo back to greet his ears. He waited, hoping something would happen, hoping for some sort of response. Anything. An answer, a question, an absolution, a mystery. Anything at all. Just something. But there was nothing and because of this lack of something, his breathing spiked and transformed into labored pants.
"Hello?" he called again, becoming more desperate. He lifted a foot and slowly took an uncertain step toward the direction he was facing. When his foot made contact with the ground, he was met with a hollow thud that resounded throughout the blackness. The sound continued, growing louder and more ominous. He took in a sharp breath as the resonating thud grew into rumbling and then into a series of metallic clicks that sounded like large gears shifting and turning. The story-weaver whipped his head around to catch even a small glimpse of what was going on.
Finally, after a moment, or a minute, or even an hour (for time was not measured here) of anxiously glancing around, a sharp wind whistled from in front of him but, nothing was visible until after the wind subsided and a faint purple glow emanated from a pale, feminine figure that gracefully pirouetted toward him with slow, careful motions. The story-weaver gazed upon the figure, taking note that the violet glow illuminated a feathery black tutu the figure wore, a familiar tutu. And a familiar ballerina. He gasped when she drifted to a stop a few feet in front of him, for there was no mistaking her identity now.
"Rue…" he whispered, voice trailing throughout the darkness. But he stopped himself almost as instantly as he uttered the name. This was certainly the girl he had known when studying ballet, the girl that endured the tragic plots of Drosselmeyer's story with him but yet, there was a threatening air about her. An air that was both all too alien and familiar at the same time. The girl gave a small, light malignant chuckle.
"No," the story-weaver said. "It isn't. It can't be… Kraehe?" She chuckled again, louder this time, confirming what he had just suggested. She was Kraehe.
"Why it is, Fakir," she told him. "Why do you seem so surprised? You have seen me before, no?" She spoke to him with the sweet and condescending edge he so easily remembered of her.
"But… but when I last saw you… you left with Mytho… you were still Rue." She raised an eyebrow at him.
"I am Rue. And I am Kraehe. They are one in the same." She narrowed her eyes at him cautiously. "Why do you act as though my alter ego is evil? Just because I don the color black?"
"No! That's not it at all and you very well know it!" Fakir snapped, raising his own voice. Kraehe pouted, pursing her lips at him.
"Now, what need is there to yell? You're among a friend Fakir. Surely you remember our last encounter." Fakir did remember. It was after they had defeated the Raven and Rue left with Mytho to go back into the story as his princess. But why was she here? Why was he here? And where could this "here" possibly be?
"What's going on? Where are we?" he demanded of her, trying to keep his voice even. She ignored the subtle hint of rage in his tone and advanced toward him slowly, talking, and moving her hands in rhythm to what she was saying.
"We are at the place where time does not move. Where stories and their outlines do not interfere and where 'life' and 'death' have no meaning. Here, mortality becomes immortality and immortality is, simply, nothingness."
"That doesn't explain anything, Kraehe!" he said, becoming more impatient. She stopped her advancing and began circling around him, as if she were the predator and he were her prey.
"What defines good and evil, Fakir? Some higher force? An author? What? In Drosselmeyer's story, his emblem for evil was that of a raven. A bird that presents the color black and signifies death. You call me Kraehe, a crow. But, in truth, I was not part of the original story. I was a member of reality until the story intermingled with reality. I do not belong in The Prince and the Raven. And what about you, Fakir? You thought you were the reincarnation of the knight, doomed for death. Your birthmark was a constant reminder of that. But what actually occurred? You did not die so therefore, you could not be the knight. No, you were but a descendant of Drosselmeyer with only the power to write and move the story in a more suitable direction. But even then, you were controlled by Drosselmeyer's pen. So what are you now, Fakir? Tell me. Are you a knight, a writer or- better yet- just another character? Hmm?"
"What… what are you saying?" Fakir stammered, his face growing hot and his fists shaking with his anger and frustration. Kraehe ignored the evidence of his temper and continued.
"I wonder… if you were a character, would you be the hero or villain of your story." Kraehe stopped her crow circling just in front of him. She reached up and combed a lock of his dark hair between two fingers. She was close enough to Fakir that he could smell the floral scent of lilac wafting from her skin. The smell, intoxicating, filled his nostrils and left him standing there frozen and stunned. She inhaled herself, taking a deep breath, and let out a small sigh.
"The color of your hair is black, the color of raven feathers- the symbol for all that is evil, apparently." Upon hearing her words, Fakir instantly snapped out of his stupefied gaze.
"What?" he hissed. "Are you saying that because of the color of my hair, I'm evil?" Kraehe shrugged, releasing the lock of his hair, and lowered her hand down to his face, her long, eggplant-colored fingernails trailing the shape of his cheekbones.
"It seems to be how you classify me as. But do not fret, Fakir. We cannot help who we are. The two of us are born the way we are, destined for the path chosen for us—" Fakir instantly cut her off by seizing the wrist that was connected to the hand stroking his face and held it away from him, as if it were an object that reeked of a rotten stench.
"I choose my own destiny," he told her in a soft voice that only matched for his irritation. She just smirked at his annoyance.
"Is that so?" she asked, again condescending.
"Yes," he answered, keeping his voice low.
"Then you chose to be evil?" Her voice was sweet and innocent enough but it caused him to emit a dangerous, guttural growl as he lifted her wrist higher into the air, forcing her face to come closer to his. He might have been causing her pain as she did little success to hide a sharp gasp escaping her clenched teeth.
"I… am… not… evil!" He spoke each word slowly, enunciating the syllables as best his gravelly voice would allow him. Kraehe allowed her pained expression to return placid.
"If you say so," she said simply. "How is it that you define evil? Someone who hurts others? Someone who acts selfishly? Someone who does not help a greater good? Or is it all gray area, Fakir?" Fakir's nostrils flared as his temper continued rising.
"I know not of what you speak, Kraehe. Perhaps it would do you better to tell me why we're here." As if to prove his point, he tightened the grip on her wrist. Kraehe grimaced in response but still gave a strained chuckled, constricted slightly by the pain he was causing her.
"Someone who hurts others then, is it? For your own selfish reasons. You are no better than Drosselmeyer himself. Surely you are one of his blood." Unable to tolerate her words any longer, Fakir relinquished his grip on Kraehe, tossing her to the ground with a disgusted sigh. She stayed there, in her heap, for a moment and did nothing but laugh, an evil, cackling sound that sent shivers down Fakir's spine.
"What is it?" he barked. "Why do you laugh?" She lifted only her face to stare at him.
"Watch as it unfolds, Fakir. As a new story takes place. A story where the two of us belong. Along with a few additional characters: Mytho and Duck." Fakir started at the second name.
"What?" he gasped. She smirked.
"Yes, you heard me correctly. I said Duck. You know, that bird you're always dragging along with you. Don't you remember? It used to be a girl you loved." Fakir stared at her blankly. Duck… The name, or word, stirred something within him. But, he couldn't recall the memories of any girl. Just a duck. Fakir didn't understand. Memories, he knew, were supposed to be there and they were but… he didn't know how to access them.
"I… I don't…" Fakir's voice trailed off as he struggled to remember this girl. But, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn't.
"You mean you don't remember?" Kraehe interjected. "No wonder you're so bitter. The only person that even so much as show compassion to you, you can't even remember. How sad." Kraehe stood up from her position on the floor and faced Fakir once more. "Tell me, Fakir, what do you know of Princess Tutu?" Fakir's eyes widened considerably at the name.
"Princess Tutu?" he repeated, losing all his anger as those two words seemed to be a key to the locked memories he was holding in and they all came rushing back to him in an array of colors and monochromes. And, one face stood out beyond the rest. One single, solitary face. And it wasn't even the face of Princess Tutu but, rather, of Duck. "Duck," he whispered, a few tears gathering in the corners of his green eyes as he remembered the forgotten girl. But, she was no longer a girl, just a bird that followed him around and swam in the pond. Just an animal. Kraehe let loose a dreamy sigh.
"Ah, so you do remember. How interesting. Most people believe the adventure is getting your memories back. But I happen to know that the real story is what you do with them."
Fakir said nothing, too enveloped with the cherished moments of his lost past. So, Kraehe continued.
"She never did love you, did she? At least, not in the same way you loved her or the way she loved Mytho. That's it, isn't it? She was too preoccupied with Mytho to even notice you." Fakir squeezed hid eyes shut, giving small, hiccupped gasps.
"Be quiet. You know not of what you speak."
"Oh, but I do, Fakir. It was by her feelings for Mytho that she was able to turn human. Then why did her love for you not prove strong enough for her to sustain human life?"
"It was by Mytho's heart and feelings that she turned human, not hers. The pendant she wore consisted solely of Mytho's heart shard. With it gone, she turned back into… a duck," Fakir explained quietly.
"Perhaps," Kraehe mused for a moment. "But she also had to have the resolve to become Princess Tutu. And Princess Tutu loves the prince and sacrifices her life for him as such. Not for some selfish knight." Fakir clutched at his chest, the spot where his heart beat painfully.
"Enough!" he hissed. "I've had it with your useless prattling." Kraehe scoffed a small laugh.
"You will not think it so useless later, Fakir. It would be best if heeded my words with caution." She paused for a minute, just grew silent long enough for Fakir to open his eyes once more to see if she still remained. She did.
"What do you want?" he asked her sharply. She ignored his question and asked one of her own.
"What would you do if Duck could become a girl again?" Fakir gaped at her.
"What do you mean? Are you saying it's possible? Do you know of a way?" Kraehe tilted her head to the left slightly, carefully observing his reaction.
"I do," she answered simply. "The question is, what would you be willing to sacrifice for it to happen?" Eager with her offer, Fakir spoke too soon.
"Anything," he said quietly.
"Really? Is that so?"
"Yes."
"Then it shall come easy for you." Kraehe paused, contemplating Fakir for a moment and said, "You know, you really are completely different from Mytho, Fakir. He would give anything to protect others. You would give away anything just to get what you want. Selfish. I wonder if that's what separates a hero from a villain." Fakir's temper quickly returned to him as he slapped Kraehe's cheek with the back of his hand.
"Enough of this!" he snapped. Kraehe covered her cheek with her hand, glaring at him forcefully.
"As you wish." And, with a flash of purple, Kraehe vanished and Fakir was left alone in the darkness until unconsciousness overtook him.
Fog covered the grounds of Gold Crown Town Academy in the early morning. The water fountain emitted its constant flow of water, the sound of splashing slightly muted by the overall silence of the surrounding area. Almost everyone slept the morning away. Almost. A few birds twittered, welcoming the invigorating chill of early morning. And there was a figure moving about the grounds, clad in a black cloak as he soundlessly drifted from the boys' dormitories, across the cobblestone plaza, and toward the tall iron gate that guarded the dormitories of the students. With a small heave, he easily pushed one open and slipped to the other side.
The town of Gold Crown was just as quiet. No one was wandering through the streets as he was. All the better for him, he supposed. No one there to catch what he was doing unless someone was purposely following him. Something he seriously doubted for he was a student of indifferent sorts, one that did nothing to attract attention to himself.
His boots clacked loudly against the pavement, the sounds echoing off the shops and stores that cluttered the sides of the street. He paid no mind to this however and quickly hurried on his way, stopping only when he reached the entrance to one shop labeled as "Schmied." The Smith. Without as even so much as hesitating to knock, he opened the door and crept inside, disappearing from sight of anyone that might be lurking outside.
Once inside, the dark figure carefully tread his way upstairs. He easily skipped past a step, the one that he knew creaked when weight was applied. He remained quiet, given the exception of his boots clacking on the wooden floorboards. Once he was on the second story, he became careful, slow, cautious, as he took measured steps to a certain doorway, the certain doorway that was his destination: his old bedroom in the smith shop.
Creaking the door open slightly, he paused, holding his breath to make sure he hadn't awoken anyone— before flinging the door open to its full breadth. It barely made a sound as it opened, an oddity for the age of the door and its rusty hinges. He stepped inside and closed the door securely behind him and turned back around, facing the bed positioned in the middle of the room. His eyes focused on the person lying across its sheets, trailing down from the top of her head, down past the small curves of her body, and stopped at a bulge protruding from beneath the blankets that was her feet.
Gently as to not wake her— though he doubted that he could— Fakir strode to the edge of the bed and placed a hand on her cold cheek. It slightly quivered but, otherwise, she did not stir. His thumb stroked the length of her cheekbone tenderly, feeling a burning within his chest as he did so, a longing desire that made his throat hollow. However, despite the feelings of discomfort, he didn't stop his actions and remained in that position for quite some time. Only the sound of the resonating school bell made him budge. It gave off six bellowing chimes, signaling it was six o'clock in the morning. On the last one, the girl's eyes slowly lifted opened and revealed the empty blue orbs within her sockets. She blinked slowly, unsurprised that her caretaker was hovering above her.
"Fakir?" came her light and airy voice, devoid of any emotion. Fakir stared at her, feeling a prick in the back of his eyes. But, nothing happened. His indifferent composure did not change and showed no sign of frivolous emotions. Instead, he turned away from her penetrating gaze.
"It's time to get ready for school," was all he said to her, before he removed his hand and quickly swept out of the room, leaving her alone so she could dress herself.
Meanwhile, across the town and back to the silent dormitories, a studying ballerina was preparing herself for the day's activities, methodically putting on her school uniform. Her ballet clothes were in the girl's locker room at the dance studio. On this particular morning, she wanted to get there early so she could have some time to practice for a bit and prepare for the next upcoming performance.
She left the dormitories and made her way through the town and towards the Academy, her arm wrapped tightly around her books as her silky, raven-black hair blew in the morning's breeze. She hurried on her way, not wanting to lose the studio to anyone else who might get the idea of an early morning practice. Within a few minutes of traversing the town, the girl finally made it to the Academy's campus and then to the dance building, first going to the locker room.
She deposited her books in the appropriate cubby and exchanged them for her practice clothes. She changed quickly, fixing her black hair up into a bun, and threw her school uniform into her cubby. And left the room with a small towel, heading towards the main lesson room. Once she was there, she saw, to her immense satisfaction, that it was empty. She went to the self-playing piano in the corner of the room and turned it on. It began playing a soft melody that started our with a tinkling celesta part and then was accompanied by an answering bass clarinet part.
The girl then went to a section of the ballet bar that surrounded the room and began practicing her warm-ups. First, she stretched her legs, feeling the tight muscles strain themselves in the demanding exercise. She stayed poised in the position for a few moments, welcoming the fullest extent of the stretch, and then exhaled, loosening herself as she felt her calves and thighs slightly burn. Then, her arms received the next attention as she stretched one arm out before her, gripping the rail for balance with the other.
Rue, for that was her name, continued in this manner for some minutes until she was appeased that her muscles had all been stretched properly. She left the practice bar in favor for the middle of the room so she could practice her pirouetting. She held her hands at waist level and then began spinning across the room, turning first slowly and then building up speed. She would halt herself suddenly and then, with a thrust of her leg, would send herself twirling in the opposite direction. She continued this for several more turns and then stopped, raising her arms up, and began pirouetting in the same spot. Once she had accomplished that, she allowed herself to dance in rhythm to the music that was playing on the piano.
With her eyes closed, she felt her arms and legs glide to a self-composed choreography. In that moment, as she twisted and turned, and stretched and swayed, Rue felt herself caught in the moment, felt herself floating across the dance floor. She felt beautiful, graceful even, as sweat beaded across her forehead and other crevices of her body. She pretended that her surroundings had transformed, that she was not performing solitary but with a male partner and in front of many awed spectators. They were cheering for her, clapping for her, offering her confessions of unconditional admiration. They were tossing roses to her as she danced across the stage…
"Ahem."
And suddenly, her concentration was broken. She stopped immediately, opening her eyes as she was careful not to lose her balance. The music played quietly in the background, no longer the loud wave of sound she had imagined moments before. Rue felt herself become irritated at the interruption and turned abruptly to the one that had dared to do so. However, her anger suddenly evaporated away when she saw it was Mr. Cat, along with two people standing behind him. The light that poured in the room from the vast windows was brighter than she remembered, leading Rue to think she had been there for quite some time.
"Mr. Cat?" she said tentatively.
"Miss Rue," he began. "It delights me to no end to see you've been practicing so arduously in the early hours of the morning. As such, I regret interrupting to inform you that we have a new student." Mr. Cat turned his body slightly to allow Rue to see who was behind him.
The tallest figure was one of her old classmates, Fakir, who was standing there with a scowl plastered on his face, as usual. Rue transferred her gaze to the small girl standing shyly beside him. A girl with orange-red hair and a wide face that contained wide blue eyes. She stood with her hands folded together and her face tilted toward the floor.
"I would like you to meet our newest student to the Dance Academy, Miss Duck. Miss Duck, this is Miss Rue, our top student here at the Dance Academy." Duck lifted her face to look up at Rue with her vacant gaze.
"Your dancing is beautiful," she said in a blank voice. Rue was taken aback. For some inexplicable reason, the girl seemed vaguely familiar to her but, only vaguely. There was something about Duck that made her seem alien than what Rue would originally expect. She couldn't exactly explain it but Duck seemed, so unusually, lifeless.
"Thank you," Rue said softly.
"I wish I could dance just as beautifully," she said. Mr. Cat interjected.
"And here at the Academy, you may do just that! As long as you work hard, practice, and, above all, apply yourself to the art. I had a student, not too long ago, who was a very ambitious girl but she never succeeded because she never applied herself. Although, now that I look back on it, I can't place the name nor face of that particular girl…"
Rue watched as Fakir quickly flickered his gaze from Mr. Cat, to Duck, and then, quite abruptly to the floor upon hearing Mr. Cat's words. Rue thought it odd and looked back at Duck again. This time, something cold and sinister stirred within her. Why was this Duck girl so timid and quiet? It was unnatural, even if she was just a shy girl. And how was she connected with Fakir? Fakir wasn't connected to anyone. He always kept to himself and no one bothered him due to his severe and— often rumored— violent manner.
"How do you know Fakir, Miss Duck?" Fakir cut across.
"Friend of the family," he said quickly. "I've always taken care of her." Rue whipped her head to Fakir.
"I don't believe I was asking you," she snarled to him under her breath so as to not be heard by Mr. Cat.
"We shall get you started right away, Miss Duck. Miss Rue here is part of the Advanced Class, restricted to five students. You will be starting out in the Beginning Class and as long you do your best, you won't be dropped to the Probationary Class. Am I understood?" asked Mr. Cat.
"Yes, sir," said Duck.
"Good, very good then."
"Mr. Cat," said Rue. "Since Duck is a new student and all, I wouldn't mind sharing my dorm with her. That way, not only does she share a room with me but I can help her with settling in."
"The master suite?" said Mr. Cat. "What a splendid idea!"
"That won't be necessary," Fakir interrupted. "She's staying at my house in town."
"Nonsense, Mr. Fakir!" Mr. Cat exclaimed. "Every Academy student needs their own dormitory." Rue watched Fakir clench his teeth with a small growl.
"I assure you, Mr. Cat, it is not needed." Rue lashed out, suddenly feeling protective over Duck.
"It is most certainly improper for a young girl such as herself to be left alone with an unwed man of no relation," she pointed out. "And, if I didn't know any better, I would say that you've abused this poor girl senseless! Just look at her eyes and the way she stares! Her timid nature not so much as procuring an original thought." Fakir was glaring at Rue as he protectively placed a hand on Duck's shoulder.
"I've never abused or even so much as lay a single finger on her in violence! She came to me this way, in tattered rags, and I've taken care of her since!"
"That is a very serious accusation, Miss Rue," Mr. Cat said quietly.
"But not a misplaced one," she defended. "Have you not heard of rumors circulating about him? How he sneaks away all the time, how when placed in the wrong mood has the most violent of natures?"
"Rumors are rumors and are not to be taken with such seriousness," said Fakir. Finally, Duck's voice piped up.
"Fakir," she said. "What is abuse?" The three others looked down at her in amazement. Rue answered her quickly.
"Abuse is when he restricts your freedom and tells you what to do all the all."
"Abuse?" Duck's voice trailed off. "Fakir always tells me to do things. Sometimes I don't understand what they mean but he tells me to trust him and I always do. Fakir's never harmed me."
"Well, Miss Duck, Mr. Fakir," said Mr. Cat, "I think it would be best for everyone that Miss Duck stayed with Miss Rue, so as to put out any unnecessary suspicions. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Fakir?" Fakir was only glaring at Rue, seething as his fists were shaking at his sides.
"Yes sir," Fakir managed through his tight lips. And with that, Fakir turned on his heel and exited the room. Before he disappeared, he threw an anxious glance over his shoulder at Duck but his temper collided with his anxiousness his feet continued walking until he was gone from the studio.
Rue only watched the empty space through which he disappeared, an expression of contemplation on her face. Somehow, his story of 'friend of the family' and 'finding her in tattered rags' didn't match up.
"Here," Rue said, handing her a cone. Duck looked up at the proffered treat.
"What is this?" she asked.
"It's ice cream," Rue explained. "My treat." Duck slowly took the ice cream from her and began to lick at the vanilla top. Rue sat down next to her on the park bench. "How was your first day of dancing?" she asked.
"Fine. A bit physically demanding though. I do miss Fakir. Can we go see him, please?" Rue started at the abrupt topic change.
"I don't think that would be a very good idea," Rue said, facing forward. "Don't get me wrong, Miss Duck. I'm just trying to look out for you. I don't know why, but I get the feeling that I know you from somewhere." Duck shrugged.
"I don't remember anything." She continued licking her ice cream. Rue sighed and decided to stop asking her questions for now. It didn't seem to garner her any more information, despite how sure she was that Fakir wasn't right for her.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, eating their frozen dessert. Then, Duck stirred, lifting her head up and her eyes widening in slight surprise.
"Do you hear that?" Duck asked her. Rue only looked around at the serene park. Everything was muted with the babbling sound of daily life.
"Hear what?" she asked. Duck didn't answer her and instead dropped the ice cream cone and bolted away from the bench and toward the tree line of the park's forest. "Wait! Miss Duck, where are you going?" Rue deliberated for a moment before deciding to run after her.
Fakir was walking through the park's forest, avoiding people but at the same time wanting to roam around. He just couldn't believe that prissy, arrogant know-it-all Rue did this morning. He? Abusive to Duck? It was absurd. He would never do such a thing. Yet, at the same time, he knew Mr. Cat sided with his prima donna, even if he was supposed to be unbiased and not listen to rumors as a teacher. How did those rumors start anyway? The only violent thing he did was slap Mytho around whenever he was angry. And then there was the whole thing of pushing Mytho out of the window, but no one remembered that or anything regarding Mytho.
He paused before a certain overhanging tree and momentarily leaned against its bark. He wanted to see Duck, wanted to make sure she was okay. He didn't trust Rue to completely take care of her.
He heard a rustling from the nearby bushes, and as soon as he shrugged himself off the tree, Duck's form darted from nearby and disappeared through the thick of the forest. Fakir blinked before rushing after her.
"Duck! Duck!" he yelled, trying to get her attention. What was happening now?
"Fakir?" she cried, not stopping. Her tone puzzled him. It was filled with… emotion, like the time she had been trapped in Drosselmeyer's clutches and he had set her free.
"Duck? What's going on?" he yelled, trying to catch up to her. Surprisingly, her short legs carried her away faster than he could run.
"Fakir!" she shrieked from farther away. She sounded distressed, and it only made him push harder to catch up.
She's going to fall, resounded a soft voice through the forest. It wasn't quite Duck's but older, instead. Like Tutu's.
"Who? Who's going to fall?" Fakir demanded pushing past brambles that scratched his cheek. He felt a small trickle of blood drip down his face.
She is.
Fakir broke past the tree line and found himself standing before a wide river that bubbled with strong, swift currents. It would be dangerous if someone fell. And then, he caught sight of Duck perched precariously on a high tree branch, reaching for an injured canary. A black speck distracted his attention, and, when he turned toward it, saw a crow flying off, its talons dripping of canary blood. Fakir focused his attention on Duck.
"No! Duck, don't! You're going to fall!" She was too far and high for him to reach in time. The branch she crawled on was swayed dangerously over the river. Duck paid no mind to his words and continued reaching for the bird. Fakir watched helplessly as started swaying and losing her balance.
"I have to, Fakir," was all Duck said as she fell.
Everything was silently, completed muted as Fakir watched, horrified. He could have turned deaf. All he knew was that Duck was falling and she would surely die.
But then, a bright light appeared from the depth of the forest and began transforming the river into a bed of ice and snow. And then, he realized it was snowing, creating a scene of the ideal winter wonderland. It gave him the strong impression of Waltz of the Snowflakes.
Duck fell safely on the blanket of snow. She looked up at an approaching figure that emanated from the bright orb of light. But, the clearing was too brightly lit that Fakir could not see who it was. The figure held out a hand and helped Duck to her feet.
Fakir watched the exchange silently. The other figure, whom he had deduced as male, appeared familiar. It was with great fondness and a stab of jealousy that he recalled his name.
"Mytho."
Everything cleared and Fakir was standing by the river's edge alone with Duck before him. She looked up at him with wide eyes and held out a hand for him to take. He did.
And so it begins again, cackled a sinister voice.
There you are. Tell me what you think. Please review.
-NuitSongeur
