Notes: Again, I am truly sorry about the damage done to my stories (including the previous chapters here) due to the sudden disallowing of scene dividers. I am trying something new on the suggestion of First Silvera, as I simply do not like how the provided horizontal lines increase my word count!

Chapter Four

Fakir soon determined his next course of action. The first thing that should be done was to locate his Prince, who could tell him of anything he knew concerning their enemies. Then they could plan how to track them down and rescue their hostage.

"We have to make haste," he frowned. "If they think your friend is me, it won't be long before they'll start torturing him for information." He was sitting at the kitchen table with the others, his hands clasped on the wood and his eyes narrowed in seriousness.

Ahiru looked down, fighting back the urge to retort. She could not follow Autor's plan of humoring Fakir. She knew she could not. And at the same time, she knew he had made a valid point. If they kept telling Fakir he was not Lohengrin, he was not likely to let them come with him on this trek. And they needed to be right with him, to be at least somewhat trusted by him, in order to help him as best as they could. Yet, if they could not even get him to realize he was Fakir, what could they really do to restore his memories?

"We know a prince."

Ahiru slowly brought her head up as Autor spoke. He was watching Fakir carefully for his reaction.

"I don't know if he's your prince or not," Autor continued. "His name is Siegfried."

Fakir's eyes widened. "Yes," he said. "My prince's name is Siegfried. He's around our age."

Autor nodded. "Then we know how to find him," he said.

Ahiru stared as Autor took out a piece of paper and began sketching a map of Germany, pointing out locations and distances as he worked. Mytho had told them how to get to his and Rue's kingdom, but she had not processed the directions well. And from what Autor was saying, it looked like it was a long way from Kinkan.

Nevertheless, she felt a bit more hope now. Surely Mytho could help Fakir, if no one else could! She looked to Charon and Uzura, her eyes shining.

Charon could not help but feel hopeful himself. Since Fakir believed himself to be Mytho's knight, Mytho might be able to convince him of his true identity. It was certainly a possibility that could not be ignored.

"The easier way to get there would be by train," Autor concluded.

Fakir gave a thoughtful nod. "Then we should go," he said.

Uzura stared. "We're going to see Mytho zura?" she said. "Is he still lovey-dovey with Rue zura?"

Autor flinched. Charon quickly interjected, "Now, none of that, Uzura."

He looked to Fakir. "We should pack some belongings and supplies and leave quickly," he said. "The trip will take several days."

Ahiru blinked. "You're coming, Charon?" she said. Of course she knew Charon would want to come, but she had thought he would need to stay behind with the shop.

However, he gave a firm nod. "I'll close the store for a few days," he said. "I'm not going to stay here and wait while all of this goes on around me. I'm going to get my son back." He looked to Fakir as he spoke.

As expected, Fakir did not understand the real meaning of Charon's words. He just nodded. "We'll ready ourselves and go," he said. To Autor he asked, "How long do you think it will take to reach Siegfried's kingdom?"

"I couldn't say for sure without seeing the train's schedule," Autor said. "I'll call them and ask when I go home to pack. Hopefully I'll be able to reserve places for us on the next departure."

Uzura banged on her drum. "We're going on a trip zura!" she exclaimed. She looked to Ahiru. "Will this make Fakir's heart lovey-dovey again zura?"

Ahiru managed a weak smile. "I hope so," she said.

Charon hesitated. "I'll take you upstairs to your . . . Fakir's room," he said to Fakir as he got to his feet.

"True," Fakir said. "I should pack some things for Fakir for when we find him."

Charon could not bring himself to say more than a quiet "Yes" as he led Fakir up the wooden steps.

Ahiru's shoulders slumped once they were out of hearing range. "I can't do this," she said, her voice cracking. "Autor, I just can't."

"You have to," Autor retorted. "It's the only way we're going to get anywhere." He stood and walked over to her. "We'll do all we can to try to encourage Fakir's memories to awaken without directly telling him he's Fakir. And maybe when we reach Mytho's kingdom, he might be able to help us."

Ahiru looked up at her friend, forlorn. "How can we do anything to help Fakir if we're not telling him he is Fakir?" she said.

Autor sat next to her. "Tell him about some of the things you've experienced with him," he said. "But instead of saying 'you and I' say 'Fakir and I'. Don't indicate that he himself is the one you're speaking about." His voice lowered. "Maybe something in what you're saying will eventually break through to him and he'll start to remember that he is the one.

"Anyway, Ahiru . . . the way he is now, can you really say he is Fakir?"

Ahiru frowned. "Of course he's Fakir," she said defensively. "What are you talking about?"

"It's like talking to a stranger, isn't it?" Autor said.

Ahiru lowered her gaze. "Well . . . yeah. . . ."

"Then if you think of it like that, maybe it will make it easier," Autor said. "The Fakir we know is a separate identity from this Lohengrin."

"I guess," Ahiru said. "But . . ." She looked up at him again. "Isn't Fakir supposed to be Mytho's knight reborn?"

Autor looked surprised. "That's what we've been led to believe, yes," he said.

"Then . . ." Ahiru wrung her hands in her lap. "Isn't some part of him really Lohengrin, or whoever Mytho's knight really was?"

Autor frowned. "That's a difficult question," he admitted. "I'm not sure we can find the answer. Potentially, Fakir could literally be the knight's spirit in a new body. But on the other hand, if Fakir only was made to play the role of the knight in Drosselmeyer's living Story, he himself might not necessarily be the knight."

Ahiru glared at the floor. It was too complicated! Why did everything have to be so confusing? Why couldn't they just tell Fakir who he was and he would remember? Why did he have to think so strongly that he was Lohengrin? And if one of his Stories had done this, which one and why?

Again her worries resurfaced. What if it really was the Story he had written for her? What would they really do?

She looked away. She had wanted to be human again, but not if it would hurt Fakir like this. Yet on the other hand, it would also hurt Fakir if he came back to himself and found that she was again a duck, transformed back to undo the Story and save him.

Though there was no way that could happen anyway. Autor would not be able to write against Fakir's Story.

And what if it was Fakir's other Story, the ending to Drosselmeyer's? What would be the solution then?

She could not think. Instead she looked at Autor, who was moving to stand and leave. His expression was a mask that his glasses only accentuated. Impulsively she stood and reached for him, grabbing the cuff of his jacket sleeve. "Autor . . ."

He stopped and looked at her. "What is it?"

Ahiru's eyes and voice were plaintive. "You're hurting too, aren't you? About Fakir?"

Again Autor looked surprised. Part of him was tempted to make a quick reply and be done with it. He really needed to go; it would take him a while to walk home and call the train station and then to decide what he wanted to take on the trip. Not to mention that this was an awkward, uncomfortable subject.

But Ahiru's sorrowful face stopped him. Normally she was so cheery and happy. Seeing her like this was painful.

"A while back, I might have told you that it really didn't have anything to do with me," he said. She stiffened and he sighed. "But it isn't true.

"Yes," he admitted then, "I'm hurting. And even if Fakir didn't mean anything to me personally, I wouldn't want you to suffer." He hesitated and scowled. "I wouldn't want him to suffer, either."

She looked at him. "You like Fakir, don't you?" she said.

". . . He still irritates me at times," Autor said. "He would say the same about me. But . . . I told the doctor today that I'm Fakir's friend. I meant it." He looked Ahiru in the eyes. "This problem does have to do with me, because of that. And because I'm your friend, as well.

He laid his hands on her shoulders. "I know what I suggested we do is painful and it feels wrong. But it's what I think is best for the time being. You understand that, don't you?"

Ahiru weakly nodded.

"Good." Autor moved to draw back. "I have to go. I'll be back when I have information on what time we can leave."

To his surprise, Ahiru moved closer and hugged him. "Autor . . . thank you," she said softly.

For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then recovering, he said, "We both want to help Fakir. There's no need to thank me."

"Yeah . . . but I'm really glad I'm not in this alone," Ahiru said as she pulled back.

A sharp rat-a-tat on the drum gave them both a start. "Are you two lovey-dovey zura?" Uzura demanded.

Ahiru looked at her in shock. Autor was just annoyed. "Where on earth did you pick up this obsession?" he retorted. "And for your information, no, we are not." He pushed up his glasses.

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "We're friends, Uzura," she said.

"Ohh. Friends are different from lovey-dovey zura?" Uzura blinked in all innocence.

"Yes." Autor crossed to the door. "I'll try to be back within the hour," he told Ahiru. "There should be a late-night train we can leave on, so try to be ready by then."

Ahiru nodded. "Okay," she said.

With that Autor stepped outside and into the cold night air. He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he began the walk home.

Who would have ever believed that he would make friends with Drosselmeyer's direct heir, someone who had the position Autor had longed to hold? He had never considered it would happen, and he was certain Fakir had not. Though they had met as children and had formed some sort of companionship, Fakir had long ago forgotten it, just as Autor had been sure would happen.

They were certainly strange friends, to be sure. Neither had ever admitted it aloud to the other. They disagreed on almost everything. And as Autor had told Ahiru, they still became irritated with each other.

But when Fakir was in trouble, he went to Autor anyway, in spite of all of that.

Autor slowed to a stop. Those children that had betrayed him years ago had always wanted use of his knowledge. That was all he was good for, they had told him.

He frowned. Fakir was not like that. Besides, there were plenty of times when Fakir went to him for other reasons, not just because he needed help.

Autor shuddered in the chill. Fakir had been stricken when Autor had died to save them from his out-of-control Story. The anguish Autor had seen in his eyes when he had tried in vain to write Autor back to life could never have been faked. And though Autor had been doubtful as to whether Fakir had been distraught due to not being able to protect someone in general or because of his feelings towards Autor personally, Autor was certain he had later learned the truth.

As strange as it was, Fakir cared about Autor a great deal.

Stranger still, Autor reciprocated.

And Ahiru. . . .

Autor resumed walking. Was Fakir completely blind? Did he really not see that Ahiru was no longer in love with the Prince? Ahiru's affections had turned to Fakir long ago, though Ahiru herself had not known at first. Autor had been the one to notice. But for whatever reason, Ahiru had said nothing.

Fakir had never spoken of his love for her, either, likely because he did indeed think that she still pined for Mytho. Or perhaps because he was just embarrassed and awkward. Well, Autor had watched Rue in silence for years without confessing his love, but that was because he had known he would never have a chance with her, which had turned out to be true. On the other hand, if Fakir honestly thought Ahiru could never fall in love with him, he was hopeless.

But nevermind such thoughts. Right now the most important thing was to get Fakir to remember in the first place. Once he did, then they could worry about confessing love.

Not that Autor planned to involve himself in that. If they wanted to keep dragging it out, that was their problem. He was not a match-maker.

xxxx

Ahiru sighed as she surveyed her cozy room. She did not have that many belongings, so she would not have much trouble determining what to pack. There was an old suitcase of Raetsel's that had been left in the room, so she could use that. Pulling it out, she opened it on her bed and crossed to the closet.

Her thoughts wandered far away as she selected her casual clothes as well as a couple of dresses. Fakir was just down the hall with Charon. Or his body was. Autor was right—this Fakir was a stranger. He believed he was packing clothes for when they found "Fakir", not having any concept that he was that person.

She clutched a light-blue dress in her hands. The real Fakir had to still be there too, didn't he? He couldn't just be gone. They had to be able to get through to him, just like with Mytho and Autor.

But with both of them, their true selves had never stopped trying to break free of the darkness. Any time they had resurfaced it had increased the hopes of those fighting for them. With Fakir, however, there had not been any sign of any other self. If it was not that Autor had been right with him at the time of his collapse, Ahiru might believe that Fakir actually did have a double called Lohengrin.

"It's only been a few hours," she realized as she folded the dress and laid it in the suitcase, "but it feels so much longer." She gave a sad sigh, blankly staring at the contents of the valise while leaning on the open lid.

"Ahiru?"

She started and turned at the young voice. "Oh! Uzura," she said, trying to smile.

"Can I help you get ready zura?" the puppet asked, coming into the room.

"Thank you, Uzura, but I think I have almost everything," Ahiru said. Going to the dresser, she opened a drawer and removed several items of underclothing.

Uzura stood on tiptoe to peer inside. "Do you need these zura?" she asked, grabbing up two pairs of socks in her small fists.

Ahiru nodded. "Bring them over here," she said, walking back to the suitcase on the bed.

Uzura climbed onto the mattress before reaching to place the socks in with the other clothes. "There zura!" she said.

"Thank you, Uzura," Ahiru said. Her smile was genuine now. "You're a big help."

Uzura beamed but then looked sad. "I didn't think things would be like this when I got back zura," she said. "I thought everything would be okay zura."

Ahiru sat down on the bed next to her. "I didn't ever think this would happen either, Uzura," she said, unable to help the sorrow in her own voice. She reached over, drawing the little girl close. "But we have to have faith in Fakir, okay? And we can't ever give up on trying to help him remember."

Uzura nodded. "Okay zura!" she said, snuggling with Ahiru. "Are you going to do what Autor said zura?"

Ahiru froze. What really was she going to do? She did not like the concept one bit, even though she had seen the logic in Autor's argument. It would break her heart to go along with it, but what if that really was the only choice right now?

Oh, why couldn't she become Tutu whenever she wanted? Why hadn't they been able to figure out why it had happened in the first place after the end of Drosselmeyer's Story? If she could be Tutu and get Fakir to dance with her, maybe she would be able to get at the heart of his problem and help him solve it. She had tried to will herself to become Tutu, but to no avail.

"I think for right now we'll have to," she said at last, "so Fakir won't get mad and he'll let us come with him."

Uzura frowned. "So we have to call him Lohengrin and not Fakir zura?"

Ahiru looked down. "I guess we will," she said.

"That feels weird zura," Uzura objected.

Ahiru nodded. "I know," she said. "But it . . . it's for the best." She choked on the words.

"You don't want to do it zura," Uzura said.

"No," Ahiru admitted. "If it'll help Fakir, though, I'll do it anyway."

"Fakir will be okay zura," Uzura said.

Ahiru smiled a bit. "You're right, Uzura," she said. Right now they had to focus on the hope that they would be able to get Fakir safely to Mytho's kingdom and that Mytho would know what to do. If he didn't . . . then what?

She got up from the bed, forcing the thought from her mind. "Come on, let's finish packing. We want to be ready when Autor comes back."

"Okay zura!" Uzura chirped, hopping to the floor.

xxxx

Charon's heart was painfully twisting as he watched Fakir roam the attic room, examining the shelves of books with curiosity and asking advice on what clothes he should pack. Charon responded, pointing out the things Fakir would particularly want if he was aware of who he was.

No, the torn clothes should be taken, he said when the inquiry was made on whether to just get rid of them. Fakir would want them perhaps more than most else. Charon had never really understood the attraction to worn and ratty clothing, but Fakir had always felt quite comfortable in the shirt with the mismatched sleeves.

He sighed, stepping back as he watched the boy place the garments in the suitcase. How many parents had dealt with such a thing—their child forgetting his identity and viewing everyone he had loved as strangers? If Mytho had not come to this world, and had lost his heart in the world of the original story instead, would he have remembered his own parents? He had seemed to forget everything about his past when he had used the forbidden spell to lock the Raven away.

And speaking of stories. . . . Was it at all possible that what Autor suspected was true? Could Fakir's own Story have actually came to life and done this to him? Considering what Autor's Story had caused before, it could not be rejected as a possibility. But how on earth would they fight against a Story that had become sentient? They had been helpless against Autor's madness and subsequent possession by his Story. In the end, only Autor himself had been able to end the horror—and at a price that could have been irreversible.

Charon's eyes widened. What if Fakir's Story had possessed him? What if the person he was speaking to actually was not Fakir, but just the part of him he had placed into his Story to bring it to life?

The man frowned. Somehow, he did not believe that. He had the feeling that this truly was all of Fakir—a Fakir with his memories erased and replaced. The Story was not in his body; it had done its damage from afar and was probably watching in glee at what it had caused.

Still . . . had Fakir's memories truly been replaced? Or had they only been pushed back to make way for Lohengrin's memories? Had Lohengrin really been Mytho's knight? Was Fakir literally the reincarnated spirit of that loyal friend?

This was too much to think about right now. Charon stepped back into the doorway.

"I need to get ready myself," he said. "Autor will be back soon."

Fakir nodded. "I'm done," he said. "Do you think Fakir would mind if I read one of his books while I wait for us to leave?"

The pain went deeper. "No," Charon said, his voice taut. "He wouldn't mind."

xxxx

Ahiru nearly jumped a mile at the frantic knocking that resounded through the house a while later.

"I'm coming!" she called, flying to her feet with such force that she tripped and crashed on the floor. With a weak groan she pushed herself up and ran out of her room, flying down the hall and the stairs. Though she caught sight of Fakir looking out of his room, she did not stop. "Someone's at the door!" she yelled over her shoulder, not bothering to berate herself for the obvious statement.

It was a miracle she avoided falling down the stairs, she thought as she pulled the door open in the kitchen. But then she gasped. Autor was standing there, completely pale. Behind the glasses, his eyes were wide.

"Autor!" Ahiru exclaimed. "What's wrong? Did you find out about the train?"

He nodded, stepping past her into the kitchen. "I did, but that's not important right now," he said. "There's a mass panic in the town." He turned to face her. "Everyone remembers everything!"

"Eh?" Ahiru gaped at him. "What are you talking about, Autor?"

"Drosselmeyer's Story!" Autor said impatiently. "We knew they were starting to recall bits and pieces. But now they have all of their memories back. They remember the heart shards, Princess Tutu, even the Raven and becoming crows."

Ahiru fell back. "What?" she cried. "How could they? And all at once, too?"

"I don't know." Autor pushed up his glasses. "It's strange, though, isn't it? They all remember everything and Fakir has forgotten everything." He frowned, crossing his arms. "Almost as if there was an exchange of some kind."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "Exchange?" she echoed. A dark feeling was taking hold of her heart. What did this mean? Was it even more serious than they had thought?

"This is bad, isn't it?" she squeaked at last.

"Very bad," Autor said. "And there's nothing we can even do about it. All we can do is stay with our plan and try to get Fakir to Mytho as soon as possible. Right now he's our best hope. Above all else, Fakir must regain his memories and knowledge. Only then can we deal with the problems here in Kinkan Town."

Ahiru gave a weak, overwhelmed nod.

Now everything had gone from bad to worse.