A/N: my first PT fic…long overdue…enjoy!xD
The Poet who Never Knew Sadness
Oneshot
"There was once a poet who earned his fame after Prince Myuuto had collected the pieces of his heart and defeated the ravens. In his youth, this poet had been a great dancer and a noble warrior…but after the aforementioned life-changing incident, he discovered a passion for writing and retired those careers. He took in a good friend for a wife and settled down by the outskirts of the quaint village.
In due time, the couple gave birth to a beautiful baby boy and their lives were utterly full to the brim with joy. The poet Fakir would unendingly write and speak of happiness…seemingly banishing a dark past into nothingness. He gave life to the village and gave its people a reason to live. They loved the poet dearly and so did King Myuuto and Queen Ruu.
But in an abrupt turn of events, the king and his wife passed away quite suddenly. All their old school friends attended their funeral and everyone mourned. It was the second time they lost their beloved prince…and this time it was for good. Yet the poet Fakir sang of the golden age which was his rule and the people became happy once more.
To some extent, Myuuto's successor was worthy of the throne yet he did not quite reach the snow-haired boy's standard. The new king lacked Myuuto's ever-caring concern for his people and thoughtful mien. He did not share a passion for poetry as the villagers did…but went along with the flow nevertheless.
The small town remained happy because of Fakir…until tragedy struck when his and his wife, Ahiru's son was only four.
The king had grown excessively tired of all the joy that reeked from the people. So, he sent his men to the poet's humble cottage to arrest him.
Fakir valiantly put up a struggle but had no idea what was going on. The general informed him that unless he wrote a poem of sadness, he was going to be beheaded. The guards left, giving him two weeks.
Fakir was plunged into a great depression. Ahiru and her son were frightened at the change in him and were determined to help out, but had no clue as to how. On most days, joyful words would flow out of the poet like a bubbling brook. Now they were stunned to stone in his head.
He feared greatly for the welfare of his beloved family after he was gone. For many a night, Fakir would be restless and would not sleep. His appetite was lost and he thinned rapidly.
His young son would oftentimes peer at him from behind a wall and watch his father pacing in his study. Often too, would his mother pick his up and coo at him to help him understand what his father was going through. On other times, she would bring the boy to the poet and the three would pass a night in peace…only to dread waking up.
Soon, Fakir's two weeks were almost up.
By sunset on the last day, the ebony-haired man sat devastated by the pool in which Princess Tutu resided as a duck an ancient period ago. Ahiru slowly approached him with a sad smile on her face. Their son was in her wake.
The orange-haired woman bent down to her husband and gave him a searing kiss. They pulled apart with question in the latter's eyes before he saw her draw a sharp dagger from the folds of her skirt.
Ahiru placed the point of the weapon to her own neck and stabbed herself, not enabling Fakir to stop her.
She died right then and there in his arms.
--
The next day, the poet was brought to the king's court. Immediately, words full of woe and sorrow poured from him like a raging torrent of innocent blood. He lamented of lost love, having been robbed of all the happiness in the world…and vengeance to those who took from him. He mourned for the life that had once blessed him for so long. He sang of how the future would no longer hold hope for the world…only darkness and despair.
The court officials and nobility present were horrified at what they were hearing. They screamed and covered their ears. They sank to their knees and begged hysterically for the poet to stop.
The king was unable to take such grief and ordered his guards to take the man away.
Despite this, Fakir was unable to stop.
He wandered about the streets of his beloved hometown as a broken man, telling and re-telling the sad story of life, love and the world. The boy who had once given so much joy to the people now plunged them into suffocating sadness. As the poem's woeful words were drilled into them each day, happiness was soon leeched out. Nothing remained in their heart but gray, monotonous hues.
In due time, when the villagers had been driven to the brink of insanity, Fakir was banned from entering the village limits. Yet the effect he produced was already irreversible. Even with this act, the poet would still be heard declaring his mournful tale amidst the deafening silence of a lifeless town.
Years flew by and Fakir neglected himself. By then the villagers knew not nor remembered any moments of joy in their lives. The long standing depression hit home in the king. He eventually fell ill and died.
A windy day caught the poet frighteningly aged and wasted. His stark-white beard trailed to the grass beneath his feet as he dejectedly lost himself by the outskirts of the village. His poem had not ended and its curse was fresh in the villagers lives, which by now had grown routine and dull. The unfortunate generation that came next was surrounded by this utter hopelessness and succumbed to the unending sorrow which the quaint village was now known for.
Quite suddenly, by sunset's eve on that windy day, Fakir dropped dead by the lake of his beloved, in full view of his only son, who stood by him all throughout like a silent witness.
Oh how the village was relieved! They thought the madness finally came to an end…until the poet's dreaded song was heard once more a month later.
…in the voice of Ahiru's twenty-four year old son.
He had appeared that morning in one of the four towers that marked the town and began the most depressing and striking stanzas of his father's poem. Since he was none too artistic himself, he repeated the lines again and again.
The people agreed to keep the poet's son in the tower as his permanent home. They asked him to recite the poem day after day so that they would be reminded of the heavy price they had to pay because of the last king's curiosity of the poet's knowledge of sadness.
The village could only escape this maddening wrath at night."
Adel, reborn from ashes, would tell this story to many a traveler passing by. For a puppet with no heart, she expressed this piece of town history with impressive indifference. Few of the people who trekked the path bothered to stay and have a look.
But the last traveler that left that night aroused old memories within her. So moving they were, that she dropped her music box, collapsed on the grass and wept.
The next morning, the villagers were once more awoken by their sad poem, like how they always remembered. Last night's events went unchecked.
END
A/N: I've got a sequel in mind! All I have to do is just develop that last character there…the 'traveler' so to speak…so scream for a sequel! …enjoy!xD and ciAo…