This was not the way things were supposed to be.
That mantra repeated itself over and over in Autor's head.
Fakir was not supposed to be dead. He was supposed to live a long life, writing good stories to keep the world in order, and taking care of the duck-girl that he loved. They were supposed to get married and have children, and those children were supposed to grow up, get married and have their own.
And, of course, Autor was meant to be the one who watched. He was supposed to be the best man at their wedding, the one they dumped the kids on when they needed some alone time, who became family by extension. The one who looked at his best friend's wife and wondered every now and then what might have happened if he told her that Fakir was not the one who turned her into a human again. The one who would marry a local girl with eyes that weren't quite as blue, and hair that wasn't quite as bright.
But that was the way things were meant to be, so he would have loved that girl and never have any real regrets. And if he could not keep himself from picking up his pen every once in a while… well, he was only human.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
This was all wrong. Fakir was so much more noble than Drosselmeyer. He wasn't supposed to make the same mistakes. He wasn't supposed to succumb to the madness that had swept the great author. His stories were meant to be filled with hope and possibilities. The Bookmen were supposed to leave him alone, satisfied that not all writers were sadistic or insane.
But somewhere along the line, the way things were supposed to be and the way they actually happened diverged.
The first sign had been months ago, when a little girl got lost in the woods around the town. Her older sister had gone off to find her, only to trip and drown in the Lake known as Despair. Her little sister had been found- her wailing cries were all the help the search parties needed.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
A boy fell down a well, and had died of pneumonia a few days after his rescue. His name had been too long and complicated, so his little brother had been unable to get help quick enough.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
A pretty little girl and her grandmother were devoured by a huge wolf. A woodsman had found them, and killed the wolf… but that didn't bring them back to life.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
The Bookmen could no deny no longer that there was another writer at work here. They could not risk him doing the same as Drosselmeyer, so they did not settle for cutting off his hands.
They went straight for the throat.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
It was all so bizarre- so utterly wrong- that Autor could not help but think that he was in a dream. Even when he opened the door to see the headless corpse, surrounded by cloaked men carrying axes, he couldn't believe that this was reality. It wasn't until later, when the sobbing redhead threw herself at him- desperate for someone to lean on- that he understood.
This was not the way things were supposed to be.
And somewhere between her tears and his own, he screamed.