Strings, a daughter of smoke and bone fanfic

Strings

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Daughter of Smoke and Bone

Akiva watched from a rooftop, glamoured invisible, as Brimstone's mysterious errand girl greeted the two young humans who must have been her friends. He saw her exclaim over the giant man-shaped figure made of wood, hand out pastries and costumes to the young couple, and smile at their playful antics. He wondered how much, if anything, they knew about her connection to Brimstone. Would they still take gifts from her if they knew that she traded in teeth from the dead?

He watched the show with indifference at first, intending to keep his eye on nothing but Karou. He was not expecting much from human artists, considering that the music of his own people (on the rare occasions he'd heard it, military marches on parade and concerts for the Emperor's birthday) was nothing short of heavenly. But the more the light-haired boy caressed the strings of his instrument with the bow, the more grace began to emanate from the movements of the little dancer, the more Akiva couldn't look away.

The wooden man was controlling her. His arms moved in time with her body, hovering above her, all the while his sinister painted smile did not move at all. How was this possible? To Akiva, who had never heard of puppets, there was something disturbing about the way the dancer was pulled along by her strings. Or – no. He corrected himself. How she pulled the strings, for of course the wooden contraption was not alive.

Remarkable, he thought. Such dexterity would be very useful in a fight.

But it was more than that. Not being an art student like Karou, or even well educated, he could not have described to anyone how he felt. But it was something about that girl, that black-haired dancer who moments ago had been bolting her food in an attack of nerves. She had made herself look utterly helpless, with her smeared makeup, tattered dress, and faded crown of artificial flowers. But in truth, the entire performance – the machine, the musician, and even Karou – was under her command.

I believe in myself, every motion seemed to say, even when she "struggled" against being "forced" back into the toy chest. No one controls me. And this was Karou's friend.

Akiva looked from her to the musician, whose face glowed with adoration as he played. Then to Karou, fading into the background as no one with lapis-lazuli-colored hair should be able to do, losing herself completely in the beauty of the moment she had helped to create.

Then the performance ended, the young lovers kissed and bowed to the audience, and Karou's smile faded like an unpolished blade. For just a moment, when she thought nobody was watching, her black eyes filled with unutterable longing. She could have been Madrigal at the Temple of Ellai, glancing back over her shoulder as she flew away.

Akiva did not smile, having lost the energy for it eighteen years ago. But if anyone standing close enough, and with the ability of seeing through his glamour, would have seen the life returning to his eyes. These three people had grown up with everything he hadn't: safety, freedom, innocence. A world beyond war. It was as clear to him as the sunlight gilding the cobblestones. He would have taken off and left them to enjoy it, if not for one thing – Karou's eyes. If the lovers' world was perfect, hers was not.

He must speak to her. Let her hate him, even attack him, as she most certainly would after Marrakesh. But for reasons beyond his comprehension, he could not leave her alone looking like that.

It was impossible to join the play now; he knew that. But for the first time in eighteen years, he felt as if, one day, that might no longer be the case.