"Oh, shit!" Fakir yelled. "Ahiru!" He had no time to be flustered by her nudity after her traumatic rebirth as a human. Ripping a blanket off of his bed, he covered the hysterical girl and then gripped her by the shoulders. She flailed weakly against him as he scooped her up and pressed her to his chest.
The only thing he could think of was to take her to his bath, where he could clean her off and perhaps calm her down. Some of her skin sloughed off in the shower, even though he tried to be gentle. She was thin-too thin, he thought-as if her bones were brittle and her muscles weren't fully developed. His relief was palatable when she stopped screaming, but that she still openly wept made his good hand clench shut.
Quite frankly, this was not what he expected. He'd wanted to kiss her full on the mouth, but given the way her lips were chapped and peeling, that wasn't going to be a possibility for a while.
"Ahiru?" he asked softly, using his fingers to comb the blood out of her hair. "Ahiru, it's me, Fakir.
"Fakir?" she said, raising her head slowly. He saw the way her pupils widened before contracted, and then widen again. She leaned forward and looked away, as if the dim light of the room was too painful to look at.
Can't she focus? Fakir thought, feeling his heart pound in his chest. Did she hit her head when she transformed?
"Hey, moron," he tried again, bringing her chin up. If she'd been injured more than the obvious, he'd never forgive himself. "Look at me."
She threw up.
Fakir laughed-high and loud. Heart of a warrior, all right. Defiant to the end. He stripped of his shirt, only now realizing that it had gathered filth long before this incident. Using a fresh washcloth, he bathed the shivering girl and whispered to her.
"You're safe, Ahiru," Fakir said, trying to be as soothing as possible. He climbed into the tub, soaking his pants, to reach her back. "You're safe. No one will ever hurt you again."
"Okay," she said, clutching her hands against her collarbone.
Abandoning the cloth, Fakir scooted forward to better reach her. He looped his arms around her shoulders and nuzzled his nose into her hair, resisting the urge to crush her up against his chest. "Idiot," he whispered. "You'll never have to worry when you're with me."
"Okay," Ahiru said again. She dropped her chin to her chest, and Fakir pressed his lips to her neck.
It took Ahiru nearly three weeks to recover physically from her change into a girl. Explaining her sudden appearance to Charon was somewhat difficult, especially considering that he'd forgotten all about Tutu when the original Story ended. He was even more disconcerted when he realized that Fakir planned to keep her.
Throughout the days, Ahiru gained strength-slowly. She was still disoriented, and had yet to show any signs of her usual, happy self. Fakir nearly cried when he realized her legs were too weak to dance, damage which might be permanent. So he decided to make her as comfortable as possible until she healed, no matter when that might be.
He spoon-fed her soups that he'd cooked himself, waiting for the day her skin would finish knitting itself back together. He read her book after book of fairy tales. He brought home plants, so many that his room started to look like a greenhouse. He took her to the theatre as often as his budget allowed-which wasn't often-but she seemed to love the plays and ballet performances.
He avoided the lake.
And life went well, for the most part, until Fakir woke up to the smell of a fire. While pulling on his pants one-handed, he tripped on his way to the kitchen. "Ahiru!" he yelled, pushing her out of the smoke. "Get away from the stove!"
"But, Fakir-"
"You idiot," he said. "What did you think you were doing?" He doused the pan-burnt sausage and all-in the barrel of water used for washing.
"I wanted to cook breakfast," she said, twiddling her thumbs. Fakir's heart leapt in his chest. Her coordination had suffered so much-that she could do such a simple action like moving her fingers in a pattern made him inordinately happy.
"Just let me handle the cooking, all right?" he said, smiling as he ruffled her hair. "I don't want you to get burned."
"Okay," she said, and her shoulders sagged.
"Listen, moron. All you have to do is what I tell you," Fakir said, smiling softly. Carefully, he lifted her turtle-neck and inspected her flesh for bruises. A simple action like shaking her hand produced a map of black and blue; he couldn't fathom what shoving her might have done. Luckily, there was only a handprint-shaped bruise on the left side of her ribcage, and some swelling on her right hip. She must be getting stronger. Thank God.
"I may not have been able to protect you as a knight," he continued, relieved at his findings. "But hopefully I can give you some happiness as a man."
For a little while at least, he thought, scratching at the festering infection in his right hand. He made a trek to the restroom to relieve himself and pick up bandages.
Ahiru followed. He blinked at her when she didn't look away.
"Um," he said, feeling his cheeks redden brighter than a tomato in summer. "I need to use the bathroom now."
"Oh, right," she said, chewing on her lower lip. "Where should I go?"
"Er," Fakir said, feeling unsettled, but not the good kind, like she used to do for him. "I don't know. Anywhere you want to?" Guilt pricked him, which he thought rather strange. "We're going out today, to visit the library. Is that okay?"
"Whatever you say!" she replied cheerfully, to his delight.
Once he'd relieved himself, he retrieved the bandages and flushed all the pus he could out of the wound on his right hand. Holding one end of the cloth against his wound with his left hand, he placed the other end between his teeth.
"Fakir," Ahiru said, causing him to open his mouth and release the tension in the wrap.
"Yeah, what?" he said, a touch annoyed.
"What are you doing?"
Fakir snorted. "What does it look like? I'm bandaging my hand." He grunted in pain as he pulled the wrap taut again.
"I can help!" she said, standing on her tip-toes.
"Don't worry about it."
"But I belong to you," she said, gently laying her fingers on his wrist. "I want to help you."
"I don't need your help, moron," he said, quickly tucking the end of the bandage under the already wrapped pieces. "I can take care of us both."
"Okay," she said, releasing his wrist. She rubbed her injured hip and worried her bottom lip.
She's so... subdued, Fakir thought. I've never seen her like this-at least not for so long. Is she sick?
"You little idiot. Hey," he said softly, placing his lips to her forehead. Weird, he thought. No fever. Maybe she's coming down with something else? He frowned. "I'm sorry for being so harsh."
Then, his breath caught in his throat. What if she is sick, and it kills her?
"Are you feeling all right?" he asked, frantically searching for symptoms: dialated pupils, flushed cheeks, trembling. But there was nothing. She was the healthiest she'd been since he'd written her new Story.
"Yeah," she said. Her lips twitched as she smiled. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
To ward off chill, he gave her his coat, and then wrapped his cloak around her. It was one of their daily rituals, but today he made sure to shield her from the wind on their walk to the library.
"Oh. Hello, Fakir," Autor said when they arrived. He was hunched over a massive copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. The tome had yellowed pages-some of which were torn out. "How are you feeling?"
Fakir didn't miss the way his friend glanced at his right hand. But he didn't come here for pleasantries. "Look, Autor," he said, and brought Ahiru out into the light.
Autor was less than pleased. "Holy shit!" he screamed. "What the fuck did you do?"
Fakir smiled sardonically. "A miracle."
Falling into his seat, Autor cradled his head. "You shouldn't have brought her back. When I taught you the Craft, I didn't realize-"
Fakir slammed his hands onto the desk. "You didn't realize? Of course I was going to bring her back! What else could I have done?"
Autor adjusted his glasses. "Just look at her, Fakir," he said. "Something's clearly wrong."
Fakir wrinkled his nose. "What? How could you say that?"
"Has she tried to manifest as Tutu?" Autor asked.
"Of course not," Fakir snapped. "I wrote that out of her Story."
"Oh, my God," Autor said, and his face drained of color. "What have you done? Where is the Story now?"
"I don't know where it is," Fakir lied, feeling a flush spread across his cheeks, like a sunset.
"Oh, that's just great," Autor snapped, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "You've lost the only way to fix this. To fix her. Now what, Fakir?" he demanded. Standing up quickly, he jabbed a finger into his friend's chest. "What are you going to do with her, exactly? Would you be another Drosselmeyer, making her dance on your puppet strings?"
"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Ahiru said quietly, startling both of them. Her fists were clenched, and the skin around her eyes was tight. She'd moved away from Fakir, and was standing in the shadowy nook between a bookcase and a statue of an angel.
Wings, Fakir thought foolishly. She has wings again.
"Is it true?" she asked, fixing her fierce gaze on Fakir. "Did you play with my fate?"
He found he couldn't look away, as much as he wanted to. "Yes," he croaked. "Yes, it's true. But Ahiru-"
She cut him off with an upraised palm. "So it's by your will alone that I'm here like this," she said evenly. Then, she rubbed at her temples. "I'm still confused. I need some time to think all of this through, okay?" With great effort, she tightened Fakir's cloak around her shoulders. "Don't follow me."
Autor adjusted his glasses.
If he says even a word, Fakir thought viciously, I'll kill him.
But he didn't. Autor looked at Fakir mournfully and shook his head, which was almost worse.
