The endless sea of cogs churned in the darkness. The din of their ticking was maddening, but, for one who was already mad, Herr Drosselmeier had nothing to fear. He stood upon an immense, floating cog, surfing through the darkness, hunting for the irregularity… With ears as attuned to the cacophony of clockwork as his, the task was easy. Some of the gears were seizing up, a story was dying. The Prince and the Raven… The story had come to an end; the main characters' destinies had been fulfilled…
Up ahead he spotted it. As he approached, a constellation of cogs froze and plummeted down into the darkness. From the cluster, one remained afloat.
"Come with me, little one," Herr Drosselmeier bade the cog. "Let's find another place for you. A single cog can't possibly do any good on its own. No, no."
Drosselmeier sailed off on his disc, the lone gear following close behind…
Fakir watched the new girl practice, rapt by her graceful, statuesque poses, and stunningly elegant, seamless transitions. Sable strands of hair streaked his vision, he brushed them aside. His hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, leaving a few tendrils to frame his angular, virile face. His hair had lost the wiry buoyancy of his youth and hung limply, tousled. Dark, fervent eyes were narrowed in concentration, probing the girl's long, lean limbs, gauging her technique. Flawless. His focus swayed from mere technical evaluation to an appraisal of a more recreational sort. The girl's body, though toned, lacked a certain maturity, a certain feminine quality. She must have been about 18, his age, but her body almost seemed too slight, too delicate. Her face so ingénue, so soft. Her sultry lips, though, were a dead giveaway. A telltale sign of her age. Though Fakir could not help but think of her as a girl, he knew she was a young woman.
Her strawberry blonde hair was bundled upon her head in an intricate bun, pulled back precisely, so as to effectively display her entire face. Her brow was placid, belying the intense concentration Fakir knew occupied her entire being. Or almost her entire being. Her eyes; they glinted with undisguised ardor. Their warmth kindled Fakir's spirits, and in spite of himself, he smiled at the woman's passionate performance as she undulated daintily en Pointe.
Her enthusiasm, however, proved too intense. The passion in her eyes crept into her delicate features, hardening her countenance, contorting her limbs. Her dance became more frantic and discordant, somehow wildly beautiful in its urgency. She spun feverishly, propelling herself at the end of each turn with a flash of leg. Her path was aimed directly at Fakir, to whom, as far as he could tell, she remained oblivious. Fakir's smile sagged, eyes widened in dismay. It was like being approached by a petite, ridiculously slow tornado. He was too taken aback to warn her of the impending collision and too dumbfounded to evade it. Before he knew it, she was upon him.
Clara gasped as she found herself unceremoniously entangled in an unexpected, sloppy embrace. Her arms had struck what she believed to be a face; her own face had burrowed within what she took to be someone's chest, if the heartbeat that thundered in her ears was any indication. Disenthralling her splayed limbs, she
thrust her face upward to uncover who it was she had managed so spectacularly to introduce herself to. Her sapphire eyes were met with a pair of dark, bewildered orbs. Clara almost swooned with embarrassment.
"I'm so sorry about that!" she apologized forcefully, nervous laughter punctuating her words. Her tactlessness was at such odds with the refined performance Fakir had just seen—well, up until the last part of it anyways—that he at first couldn't summon the presence of mind to respond. His silence made Clara start to sweat.
"You know, I didn't even see you there! Sometimes I get so wrapped up that I just don't notice what's going on around me. I should really set up some hazard signs when I'm practicing. They could say 'enter at your own risk!' Hahahahaha…" The young man did not appear to be amused. Clara suspected that he hadn't listened to her at all.
She cleared her throat and looked stupidly at the floor. There were the young man's bare feet. Until that moment, Clara didn't know feet could look toned—muscular. His did. Graceful, too. She wondered if the rest of him followed suit. Her gaze climbed upward. Black leotard contained fine, sinewy legs. A loose, azure top did its best to conceal his buff upper body, but Clara could tell it was there. His neck, though not thick, was well muscled, a fine pedestal for this face. Which, to Clara's shy satisfaction, was breathtaking. Dark hair hung haphazardly about his face, giving it a wildness. It was tied in the back and the attempt at civility made it look all the more feral. His tawny skin looked smooth and rich. The eyes. The eyes were the kicker. Sharp and dark like burnished bronze. She'd only got a quick peek at them before, now that she'd had a longer look…
"Fakir…" she muttered, almost dreamily. Fakir flinched, his puzzlement deepening, not to mention it completely unnerved him to hear his name pronounced in such dulcet, creamy tones. He wondered how she knew it.
"How did you know my name?" he asked.
She blushed. "Everybody knows," she said with a shrug, her eyes now firmly fixed on the ground.
Fakir sensed there was more to it than that. There was something about this girl, something familiar.
"What's yours?" he asked, almost demanded.
"Uh...Clara," she stammered, taken aback by his firmness. Her gaze was still grounded. She heard Fakir sigh, as though disappointed.
"Um, is something wrong?" she murmured, wondering how she could have the audacity to ask him if there were anything wrong. Fakir's breath faltered.
"No, I just thought I might have known you from somewhere," he said it gently, sensing that his apparent disappointment had upset her.
"Oh…"
They stood silently for a few moments, listening as Odette's solo from Swan Lake, the music Clara had been dancing to previously, concluded.
Clara could feel Fakir's gaze upon her, just as surely as hers was on the floor. She felt obligated to say something. Anything.
"So are you going to try out for the school's production of Swan Lake?" she asked, lifting her gaze to his right shoulder, she couldn't manage his face.
"I already have," he said quietly.
"Did you get the part of Prince Siegfried!?" Clara asked, unable to corral her eagerness, her eyes burned into his.
"No," he said simply, deciding not to let her inexplicable enthusiasm jar him. "I tried for it, but I was cast as Rothbart." He smiled faintly. "I always seem to get the villain. It's starting to hurt my feelings," he joked.
"Well, still, that's no bit part! You have to have a strong presence to play him," Clara prattled, hoping she wasn't coming across as patronizing.
"I suppose," Fakir said blankly. "How about you, you trying out?" He wasn't sure that he cared, but he didn't want to appear rude. Clara mantled.
"Mm, yes," she said sheepishly. "I'm going for Odette."
"The lead role," Fakir's eyebrows reared, "that's quite ambitious."
"Yeah, I hope I've got what it takes."
"What I saw earlier seemed promising, as long as you don't lose control at the end there."
"Mm." The mention of her faux pas sent fresh waves of crimson down her cheeks.
"Um, but that intensity will come in handy for Odile's parts. Whoever gets the part of Odette will have to dance Odile's as well, as I'm sure you know," Fakir offered helpfully. His words seemed to encourage her. "Just make sure you rein it in."
Clara brightened. "I will thanks." She paused. "Well I suppose I should be off, I'm sure you're waiting for me to get my buns outta here so you can use the studio."
"It's alright, no rush," Fakir said. "When is your audition?"
"Tomorrow."
"Well by all means…" Fakir smiled, and turned to exit the studio. Clara gasped.
"Oh! Don't worry about me, what's a few more hours of practice going to buy me anyways!" she cried, rushing towards him, putting herself between him and the door. He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled slyly.
"Good luck," he said, and gently pushed her aside, slipping through the doors silently. They closed with a hollow sound.
Clara sagged against the door, heaving a moony sigh. For the rest of the night, she danced on air.
