Oh wow, guys, I am so sorry this is late! For once, it's not my fault, though --- was being stupid last night and apparently had some glitch that wouldn't allow documents to be uploaded. Now it seems like it's better, though, so here's the second part of Chapter Six! Hope you enjoy! ^__^


The Heart of Everything -- Chapter Six, Part Two. 9,028 words.


The sun was quick to collapse that evening, burdened by ragged clouds that smothered the sky in gray, that trembled with ghosts and echoes of rain though none would fall. Still, though it slipped beneath the forest's edge, dusk seemed reluctant to emerge. The light lingered, a rim of gold along the withered outline of the trees.

It would only take a few minutes more -- but she had never been one for waiting.

An animal rustling. A human sigh. Both wings curled to her sides, feathered tips damp from tracing shapes along the pond. A thought flitted through, the slightest of questions. Would it be wise to look upon her reflection? The water was still and calm, bereft of everything but truth. Her long neck arched and guided her eyes to the spiraling echoes of light that trailed along its surface, but she could not bring herself to look, and turned away instead. It would not be her face within the water. It would be too much to bear -- this much, she believed.

A single raven's arrival freed her from such unsettling reveries. Both sets of talons sunk into the bank, a careless breath away from her body. Its wings spread wide and cold eyes met her own, seeking approval for what was to come next. She gave it, and the bird rose into the sky once more, beginning to screech, the sound an uncanny imitation of a human voice. It was startling but not surprising, not when she paused to think on it. After all, the horrid creature must have caused such screams time and time again.

She waited to see what would occur next, to see if her plan would follow the careful path she had carved for it. Over countless days, she'd played the role of a simple animal, but in truth, her innocence proved meaningless, and her careful eyes had watched the steady, strict rhythm of the guards before the castle doors, taking in every detail of their posts: her obstacle. The length of their shifts. The severity of their weapons. Which of them proved weaker than the others. Which of them would be easier to…overcome.

Sure enough, only a few moments passed before frantic footsteps swelled in volume, and two guards stumbled up the field, weapons poised. They turned in all directions, searching for someone in peril -- only for their own cries to be stolen away as claws sunk into the naked skin of their necks. The darks of their eyes disappeared, leaving only startling white. Their bodies crumpled to the grass, warm blood mingling with soft dirt.

She shook her wings dry with a sigh and waddled through the grass over to them, close enough for the tips of her feathers to graze their twitching fingertips. Such injuries would seem severe to a simple eye, but they would not die. She'd been explicit in that order to the raven, who'd ruffled its feathers in obvious disappoint but obeyed all the same. Murder was such a brash, clumsy method, one meant for violent fools and simple-minded ravens. She was not a raven, and in her mind, she repeated the words a thousand times over, as if they would be forgotten lest she not. She was a swan, and such pointless brutalities were beneath her in this moment.

No, she thought, and one wing strayed through a trail of blood, feathers matting with sudden, stark color. She would not kill anyone.

Not yet.

Dusk finally came upon the land, then -- but still, it appeared stilted and broken, as if reluctant to bring her the comfort she so desperately craved. Her form could not decide which body to assume in these breathless moments of twilight, and therefore seemed to struggle to engulf both, a monstrous assortment --- wings, hands, feathers, skin, beak, lips. She could not look upon herself at such a horrifying moment, instead fixing her gaze towards the castle walls. The doors, so suddenly bereft of their protection.

It did not matter whether her legs were bird or human, for at once, they carried her towards it. The familiar jewel appeared amidst her swirling feathers and pulsed, a strong, hungry beat. The lone raven, still lingering overhead, uttered a screech before disappearing within the foliage of the forest once more, no doubt to inform her Master of her welcome intentions this evening.

Your freedom from this curse will serve a suitable reward, would it not?

Her body trembled. The doors drew back with a simple push.

She would not fail.


What was wrong with him?

Frantic footsteps echoed down the length of the empty hallway. A shadow danced across the cobblestone walls and crumpled against each corner. The sky held within each open window swirled with muted color, a few threads of sun nearly lost amidst the folds.

Such light was pitiful, but still it flooded Mytho's eyes, coloring them a wild amber for the briefest of moments.

He couldn't stop moving. He felt as though his legs had wholly separated from his body and were determined to carry him somewhere, to a place he knew nothing of, save for the simple belief that he needed to be there. Irrational thoughts flitted to and fro, a painful whirl of words inside his head. Both arms tensed, and his torso was stiff and heavy. Yet, he kept on.

It didn't make any sense. He had not felt this way for quite some time -- not since that restless afternoon after the ball, when he'd felt compelled to linger before countless windows and ignored Ahiru so callously. Not since that tense morning he'd spent before the Council, where his anger had somehow gotten the best of him to demand nonsense from such well-meaning men. Many days had passed since then, his time filled with quiet innocent lessons and activities, so many that his thoughts barely had a moment to linger elsewhere. Not a single odd inclination had plagued him, and he was relieved, convinced that all his strange behavior had merely been due to some illness or ailment that had since passed.

Today had been different, though. He was reluctant to admit it, but the tour through the hall of portraits had proven…unsettling. The circumstances of both his father and his mother's demise had been gently relayed to him many times while growing up, and eventually, he'd found himself immune to the tale. Spoken words were not as powerful as images, though and to suddenly be brought before their portrait and see with his own eyes the stern face of his father, the soft curls of his mother, captured within a moment of time he could never hope to reach -- it had been overwhelming, to say the least. Of course, then the historian had looked to him with caution, and Ahiru's hand had tightened around his arm, as if bracing for a rush of emotion. If anything, Mytho was not someone who sought pity, and thus, he'd done his best to remain unaffected. Even so, when the tour had ended, he'd been quick to excuse himself, uneasy question after question gathering on the fringes of his thoughts, questions he would never know the answers to.

Just when he'd managed to recover, though, the Council had summoned him, desiring yet anotherpromise that his horrendous actions would not be repeated and he would do his best to create no more needless commotion. He'd agreed to it all without incident, of course, even if both of his fists had clenched tight as they'd spoken. When he'd been released, he chose to take a walk around the walls of the castle, hoping the outdoors would calm him, only to be informed by an overzealous servant that he was not to step outside without express permission. They were only performing their duties, and he had been appropriately apologetic as they'd led him back inside, but still, he could not fight down the frustration that overtook him, overwhelming, even absolute as he paced the length of his room a thousand times over. They meant well, they all meant well. So then why could he not shake this feeling that the walls were closing in on him, that if something did not change soon, he'd find himself trapped forever?

Was this how his father had felt? The historian's words spun like loose thread through his thoughts, painting pictures of a brave king rushing from his sanctuary without a second thought and battling the monsters with every shred of strength he could muster up. In the end, had fighting proved the only choice? If there was the slightest chance of destroying this prison the ravens had created -- had it been worth it to the king, to countless past monarchs who'd done the same, even if death was all but a certainty?

The darkening hallway curved before him, and in desperation, Mytho reached out both hands and clung to the slope of the wall, managing to stop his steps at last. He took one deep breath, than another. His back flattened against the cool stone, and he shook his head side to side, as if maybe all of this nonsense would be shaken free and leave him be.

It was crazy, to be thinking such thoughts. Had the marriage completely slipped his mind? Only a few months more, and it would prove the final key to freedom. The forests would be rid of their vicious burden. The land would see no more lives lost, no more blood shed. He would be king, and all the rules so heavily burdened on his shoulders would be a thing of the past. Then, he'd be able to revel in true happiness at last…right?

Of course.

With one last breath, he stood straight, curls of dying sunlight dancing along the curve of his neck. At least no one had come upon him in the middle of his pacing, he thought, managing a chuckle as he ran a cold hand through his hair. They would have surely thought him a madman. Yes, he would return to his room at once and perhaps pick up that book he had started the other day. That would surely take his mind off such things…

He turned and began walking in the direction he'd come -- only to stop a few steps later, distracted by his shadow on the far wall as it mimicked the form of another person.

The echo of footsteps, though, strangely continued on for a few seconds before coming to a halt.

Mytho stiffened -- had he just imagined it? -- before starting his pace once more, noting the firm, unique sound of his own footsteps on the stone floor. He reached a bend in the corridor then stopped cold.

Still, he heard them. Another set of steps, softer and quicker than his own. They flooded the quiet hallway with noise for a brief moment before mimicking his pause.

He didn't dare to turn around, but spoke instead, hoping it was a careful servant or a playful child. "Who's there?"

A laugh was his answer, as gentle and lilting as an evening lullaby.

My, you seem troubled.

He couldn't tell where the voice was coming from, but even so, it seemed to surround him, settling like a blanket along the curve of his shoulders, so pleasantly warm. It was a woman -- he'd known that easily, of course -- but the sound clung to his every fleeting thought, bothering him with a sudden rush of familiarity. That couldn't be…

He spoke, voice softer than before. "Where are you? Who…"

You mean to tell me you don't remember? How very disappointing. I, on the other hand, cannot forget.

A sudden movement caught hold of Mytho's attention. At first, it appeared as though one of the vast shadows had come alive, its fluttering form dragging across the stone like a careless child's ribbon. Only after a moment did he realize it was the fringes of a woman's skirt, soft and uneven, traveling the length of the hallway and disappearing around the bend. At once, he hurried in the same direction, his body acting of its own accord, his thoughts clouding and convincing the parts of him still resisting that to do so would be worthwhile. All the while, her voice flooded through him, the warmest, most welcome of presences.

What saddens you, Prince? You did not look of such sorts at the ball. You certainly did not wear that worn face as we danced the night away.

The realization struck, so suddenly that he nearly stumbled, catching himself against a nearby wall. Ahead of him, the glimpse of trailing skirt he'd been chasing vanished within the shadows of a nearby stairwell, and at once, he quickened his pace. Her name grew heavy in his mouth, soft along the shape of his lips, and he could do nothing but call it out.

"Rue!"

Another soft laugh. The sound unraveled behind her fleeing form, twirling around the dizzying curves of the stairwell -- almost like a trail, leading him all the closer to her. He was running, and the tips of both shoes barely pressed to the edges of each step as he hurried further and further down. Still, he could not reach her, the echoes of her voice the only sign she was even there at all.

Rue. Yes, that's right. You gave me that name, and such a priceless gift should never be forgotten. Shouldn't it?

The stairwell came to a sudden end, and Mytho found himself thrust out into the grand entrance of the castle, marble floor wide and gleaming beneath his feet. The gates, painted a stark ebony, had been left raised, and the doors lingered just within their shadows. At once, he turned in all directions, but yet again there was no one to be seen. Was this all just in his mind? Could he be going mad? The memory of Rue's voice, vibrant amidst his clouded thoughts, urged him on, and he spoke despite such possibilities.

"Of course it shouldn't be forgotten. I could never --"

The slightest of movements distracted him, but once again, it was only his shadow, dancing along the far walls.

"Rue, where are you? Why are --"

I am here. You must only step a little closer, towards the doors. Twilight is such a beautiful sight, wouldn't you agree? The night is being born at last…and I, as well.

He did as she asked, setting his palm firm against the elegant carvings of the door, which had for some reason, been left ajar. A thought struck him, callous despite all the uncertain warmth. Where were the guards?

Only a little further, Prince. Do you not wish to see me? Perhaps we could dance once more; here, within the night. The stars will be our audience. The wind will prove our melody.

But the sudden question had given rise to many more, an unwelcome whirl of words gathering in the back of his head. The Council's forceful demands returned to him, and he found himself unable to fully ignore them. Your involvement with that strange girl was disrespectful, both to us and the princess…

His grip on the door's edge loosened, and he took a few hasty steps back within the shadows of the castle walls. "I'm sorry," he called out to her. "Forgive me, but I -- I can't…"

Why ever not?

He turned once more, and for the briefest of moments, glimpsed a glint of crimson amidst all the darkness of the grand room -- but before he could even dare a step, it vanished, swallowed up in deepening shadows.

All I desire is to ease your torment. Whomever has denied you happiness must be endlessly cruel.

"It's -- no, it isn't like that," he stammered, his words weakening, his shaking hands reaching up to grip around both tense arms. "They mean well."

Oh, dear Prince. Do you honestly trust in such lies? You must trust in me instead, for I understand this feeling that plagues you so well. The weight of the world, forced to be your burden. The fates of countless souls left to your actions, and yours alone. You must see it, though. The people of this land are not worth your selfless love. They care only for their own salvation, and they will trap anyone who can give them the means for such a future. Like a beautiful songbird captured within a cold cage. A true tragedy.

"A tragedy," he repeated, and even as his own voice formed them, they were not words he had chosen to speak. It couldn't matter less, though: a growing presence within his mind insisted. Misty thoughts trembled throughout his body, forcing all those other troublesome emotions far away. It made sense…

I understand. You desire to be everyone's prince. A prince who loves everyone and is loved by everyone. Your intentions are noble…

Soft footsteps echoed along the length of the marble floor. Sharp gleams of red flooded his wide-eyed gaze, and he found himself unable to move, to even construct a thought that had not already been formed for him.

Such a thing seems so very difficult, though. So very burdensome. So very unhappy.

He could feel the presence of a body standing just behind him; he barely stiffened as cold arms wound between his own, encircling his chest with the gentlest of holds. No -- no, they were not arms. They were stained black, and their edges were ruffled and uneven as they tickled the skin of his face, fluttering with each muted breath he dared to take.

There is another choice, however. Why not, instead of being everyone's --

Her grip tightened without warning. Long nails stiffened and pressed hard to his chest, so tight that he thought them claws, his heartbeat quickening just beneath their painful embrace. Pursed lips grazed the curve of his neck, and her voice proved absolute as it drew a firm line across his skin, so sharply warm that it felt like a flame, burning, burning ---

You will be my prince, and mine alone.

"Yes," he answered, and whatever traces of doubt that had possessed him before were overpowered, effortlessly muted by his new thoughts, so pleasant and sure. The glow of crimson remained. She remained, gentle against him, and oh, how wonderful it was to only be hers.

The elegant shape of a hand formed in the shadow before him, palm splayed wide.

Come.

Mytho took it -- only to discover that it was not a hand at all, but a strange shape of feathers, soft within his grip.

He thought to question such a strange sight -- but it did not matter, for questions were unnecessary now. In the end, it seemed, he knew not where she began to lead him, or to what purpose such a journey would serve, only that he was going towards it.

Ah, to be free at last.


Ahiru heaved a heavy sigh.

The hallway was growing dark around her, the glimpse of sky lingering outside each passing window laced with swirling purple. She wasn't really paying much attention to that, though. After all, the arrival of dusk still meant that she still had thirty minutes or so as a girl, and she'd learned over time that such an estimate could even stretch to as much an hour, the arrival of the moon having proven unpredictable time and time again. Instead, she had trained her feet into a sort of skip, making sure not to step on the worn cracks in the floor as they passed beneath her. It wasn't for any important reason, really, she'd already sheepishly admitted to herself. She just found it fun, not to mention distracting, the game managing to keep her mind far away from many unwelcome topics -- such as how the few bites of dinner she'd managed to choke down had begun dancing in the low of her stomach. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and she clutched a careful hand to the spot, making a face when one of her shoes landed flat in the middle of a crack.

Not that the dinner had been bad or anything! The cook had even gone out his way to make an elaborate dish, his smile when he'd presented it assuring her that he was no doubt aware of all the pressures awaiting her the next day. Lillie and Pique had been thrilled, easily cleaning their plates, but Ahiru hadn't been able to manage anything more than a few half-hearted pokes with her fork. Pique had nudged her shoulder, offered her a soft smile, a "hey, come on now, things aren't that bad," -- only to be overrun by Lillie's exuberant, excruciatingly detailed list of everything that had, as well as could, go wrong ("Don't worry! I'll be here to pick up the pieces of your woefully shattered heart!"). Though both girls managed to get her to swallow a few bites with incessant prodding, they had eventually finished the warm meal themselves. Ahiru, meanwhile, had done little more than rest her chin on the table, eyelids drooping, lips twitching into a frazzled line. It wasn't just the impending ball. It was the failed dance practices, the judging looks from strangers, the memory of the woman in black. She couldn't seem to find a nice thought anywhere amidst all the unpleasant anticipation. Even the encounter with Fakir in the field earlier that day bothered her, if only because she was still mad.

Of course, then Pique had come up with the idea to go downstairs and sneak into the finished ballroom, so they had, both girls seizing Ahiru by a limp arm and dragging her all the way downstairs. The three of them had stood for a long moment in the entryway, Lillie and Pique 'ooh-ing' and 'aah-ing' over every detail while Ahiru marveled at how pretty the fading sunlight looked as it filtered through the stain-glassed windows.

The room couldn't have looked very different than it had for the first ball, she'd insisted to herself, taking in the decorated tables, the shimmering decorations, the gleaming floor resting at the tips of her shoes -- but somehow, it did. Somehow, it seemed so much bigger, so much grander than she had ever seen it, and tomorrow, she'd be in the center of it all, a thousand pairs of eyes following her every movement, watching as she took part in a dance, as she twirled around and around and around and --

-- and then she'd felt very sick.

Ahiru had quickly excused herself after that, doing her very best to ignore two servants arranging flowers across the room who had begun to whisper and cast curious gazes in her direction. Lillie, bless her, had shooed them off in her usual flamboyant way, though, and Ahiru'd been able to manage a weak smile as she left, all the while promising that she would be sure to say "hello" to them tomorrow amidst all the celebration.

So here she was.

Ahiru tried to take a deep breath, only to have the air dragged right out of her throat as one of her heels snagged within an overlooked crack. Unprepared, she fell out of the shoe, arms flailing as she stumbled backwards a few steps before managing to regain her balance and allowing her shoulders to sag. Could she not even succeed at a silly game?

She gathered up the fringes of her skirt in both hands and hurried back over to the shoe, forcing herself to laugh as she slid her wiggling toes back within the material.

Why was she doing this to herself? Everything would be fine! And even if it wasn't -- and it would -- dwelling in so many awful negatives wasn't going to help in the least! She would think of something happy instead, like -- like the fact that the ball would be during the day! For once, the curse wouldn't be lurking in the back of her every thought like an eternal rain cloud, determined to rain on her parade. For once, she'd be allowed to escape its effects and simply enjoy all the fun. Empowered by that thought, she flashed a victorious grin at the next open window she passed, as if to taunt the darkening sky overhead, to say "not this time, moon!" --

-- only to perform a hasty double-take.

Ahiru hurried back to the window, palms pressing hard to the ledge as she lifted onto her tiptoes for a better look. Her braid tumbled off her shoulder and out into the open air, dangling beneath her like a loose rope. The field seemed endless beneath her perch, a spread of muted green as it stretched all around the castle walls. What caught her immediate attention, though, was a lone figure, their form a shape of color amidst the overwhelming hue of the grass.

She squinted as hard as possible, wondering if she was mistaken -- but there was no mistaking the glimpse of white atop his head.

She blinked once, then twice. She knew Mytho enjoyed being outside, but why would he have chosen to sneak out just before nightfall, of all times? Wouldn't the guards have seen and stopped him from leaving through the main doors?

With a grunt, she managed to hoist herself a few more inches out of the window, a burst of wind slapping her braid hard against the low of her neck. It looked like he was walking, she realized. His steps were slow and stiff, but still he was moving away from the castle walls, growing smaller and smaller as he traveled down the slope of the field. Why?

A stubborn thread of light shimmered high in the sky, finally revealed as a cloud passed by, and as it bathed the field in a glow, Ahiru saw what she first thought was his shadow, crumpled against his form -- only to catch her breath a moment later.

At once, almost irrationally, she believed it to be the black swan, with elegant wings spread wide, feathers dark and ruffled -- but no, no, that couldn't be, because swans didn't have legs, or faces, or glowing red jewels gathered amidst all the black of their bodies. A swan wouldn't be leading Mytho away, so far away from the castle, closer and closer to the forest's dark edge --

-- and then Ahiru was running.


Two candles would do. With a shallow breath, he lit both curled wicks, quick to catch the smaller one when his wrist nudged the warming wax -- only for his elbow to in turn brush a handful of loose pages straight off the table.

Fakir cursed under his breath, watching as they scattered in wild directions, twirling in the air for a brief moment before settling along the floor. Now he'd have to put them in order all over again, he grumbled, crouching down to gather them up.

It didn't matter. After all, it wasn't as though he'd actually planned to bind them or anything of the sort. All of his work that day had proven nothing more than nonsense; some ridiculous story he'd felt compelled to pen, its subject being an answer to the question of the ravens' departure. Everyone around him seemed so convinced that the monsters had acknowledged defeat, vacating their claim in silence and vowing never to return, and in a moment of weariness, he'd believed it best to try and craft an outcome along that tone, if only to settle his own troubled thoughts -- but the desire could not overcome his own judgment, and soon enough, his quill had formed words that led to a much darker conclusion. He just couldn't accept it. He just couldn't believe that it was over, and anyone who blindly assumed it was clearly had to be an idiot of the greatest caliber. Was he the only person who had any shred of common sense? The ravens had laid vicious claim to this land for almost five hundred years now, had murdered hundreds of innocent people in order to make sure their control would never be forgotten. To think that they would leave without a fuss, without so much as an attempt at revenge for their approaching banishment…

Shaking his head, he glanced down. His grip had tightened around the collected pages, hand pressed so firmly that the words had left imprints on his calloused fingertips. The lines he'd written only a few hours ago seemed to waver in the candlelight, sloped and hasty, no doubt because of the troublesome breeze he'd been forced to deal with. A few phrases had bled darker than others, it seemed. Gathering into a wild flock -- dark orders were given -- an attack, greater than all which had come before --

Drivel. He would burn them in the morning.

The last few dropped sheets lingered just out of reach, and with a sharp sigh, Fakir moved to gather them, fingers stilling against the awkward fold of the last one. It was a little more wrinkled than the others, only half-covered in words, and had one frayed corner hopelessly crumpled.

His frown deepened, and he seized the deformed page a little firmer than intended, shuffling it deep below the others. No, he insisted to himself as he rose to his feet and returned to the table. He refused to be reminded yet again, refused to linger even one second longer on --

Why can't you be kind to me!?

Her annoying voice. It seemed stuck in the back of his head, determined to ruin any semblance of a decent mood he could conjure up. Even after so much, she still seemed ridiculously dead-set on getting a rise out of him, refusing to leave him be like any reasonable person would at this point. What would it take to make her understand that her efforts were meaningless? That it was impossible for him to ever…

The thought trailed off, and Fakir took a seat at the table, one hand reaching out to brush against his worn inkwell and the frayed tips of his quill, little more than a solemn shadow within the candlelight. After a long moment, he took it up.

He would try once more.

The feather was soft against the curve of his hand, and he dipped it within the inkwell. A letter would serve his purpose well enough -- but how would someone start one of this caliber?

Dea-

The point stilled, ink gathering in a blotch against the curled shape of the 'a'. After a moment, he crossed out the unfinished word with one stroke, then tried again.

Ahir-

Once again, his fingers stiffened. Once again, he could not bring himself to continue.

Damn. Did he not have the strength to even finish a single word?

Still, he tried, refusing to remove the point even as a growing shape of black bled stronger and stronger -- but it was not enough, and with a fierce scowl, he dragged the quill down the length of the page, leaving a jagged streak of black in its wake. With a wild hand, he cast it aside, steadying his elbows against the table instead, palms pressed to his forehead.

He should have known it'd prove a pointless effort. He'd already tried countless times, tried crafting letters of various lengths and tones, all meaning to explain in simple, stark words what would forever be impossible to speak aloud, to explain just how complicated the answer to the question she was so stubbornly seeking would prove. And in the end, what did he have to show for it? A stack of ruined papers, all stained with weak, blotted words, angry streaks of ink. Why was it so damn difficult to --?

He needed some air.

Outside, the breeze was calm and cool, and with a harsh breath, Fakir steadied himself against his door, running a hand through his hair as he looked towards the castle, little more than a distant shadow in all the absence of sunlight. The land had already fallen quiet around him, the quarters near him still and silent, his fellow knights seeming to have already retreated deep within. He could not say he blamed them. A few faint streaks of color still lingered overhead, mixes of dark blue and violet mingling amidst all the black -- but night was about to begin, and the trees of the forests' edge rustled violently, as if meant to be a warning of what such darkness could -- and had -- brought from within it. He would not be ignorant of such memories. He was not blind to such signs.

Still, he could not help but think back to the dilemma at hand. However ridiculous it was, he would have to find a way to resolve the matter once and for all. Perhaps asking the Council for a different assignment, one that did not deal so heavily with protection of the royals. If he could keep his distance, then surely ---

The thought derailed, his attention seized by a strange sight further up the field.

A single person, moving slowly within the castle's sinking shadow. At first, he assumed it to be a hurrying knight or a guard startled by some small disturbance, but with a closer look, he could tell at once that that was not the case. The landscape may have darkened, but Fakir had endured countless instances in which he'd watched the prince from great distances in order to preserve protection, and he recognized the royal blue of his clothing after the briefest of moments.

What the hell was he doing?

At a loss, he could do nothing but call out, the name echoing across the field as it was caught up in a gust of wind. "Mytho!"

The prince did not turn at the sound. His deliberate steps didn't even slow, and Fakir could only watch as he continued to move further and further away from the castle, dark shadows numerous around him, appearing almost human in shape, almost like --

The knight muttered a sharp curse, and straightening at once, he ducked within his home just long enough to seize his sheath and sword; in only a moment, he had taken off across the field.


Mytho could not recall ever feeling happier. The stifling walls of the castle were far behind him, disappearing within the darkness so easily that it all must have only been a terrible, terrible dream to begin with. Not like this wondrous world around him, so vast and free and magnificent. The wind fell in waves against his clammy skin, and the rustling grass tickled at the soles of his feet. The forest's wise trees seemed to brush against the very heavens themselves, beckoning him like the dearest of long-lost friends. Wait a moment longer, he wished to call out, his body urging him all the closer. He would be with them soon enough.

And Rue, beautiful, wondrous Rue followed beside him, so gentle against his shoulder. How had he ever known true life before becoming hers and hers alone? How had he ever taken an easy breath without her voice trailing like the softest of ribbons all through his head, forcing any tedious questions that arose far away? He did not know, and he never wished to remember.

She moved before him, her lithe form surrounded by the faintest glow of daylight as she spiraled through the grass, as she curled and spun and leapt with such breathtaking grace that his heart gave a vicious heave at the sight. Her pale face shimmered through waves of hair. Her majestic wings were splayed wide and full. Yes, wings -- she was not only Rue, he had learned, for a mere women would have arms instead, would have fair skin instead of dark feathers. No, she was his beloved swan as well, and he was not sure how he knew such a thing, only that it had to be true. Her body seemed trapped between the two forms, and in one moment, she would take the shape of the quiet bird while in another, her limbs would twist, pale and thin once more -- but still, she moved with the elegance of both beautiful girl and beautiful creature. At another time, as the slightest of notions in the back of his head reminded him, he might have thought such a transformation strange, even frightening, but his every thought bore an unthinking warmth now. The only word that came to mind was magical, and he was enamored all the more.

They came before the pond, then. The quiet pond he had stolen away to many instances before, searching for a moment's peace, an innocent laugh as the ducks gathered at the crest of the bank to greet him (and in the back of his mind, echoes of a stammering voice, a flash of red hair bothered him, only to be quickly subdued). Rue's lips curved into the sharpest of smiles, and with a sigh, she stepped upon the surface of the pond as though it were as firm as solid ground. Her new feet, a gleam of alabaster beneath all the black of her body, curled upright, so straight that she seemed to be balancing on nothing more than her toes.

She turned back to face him just as the last few whispers of light on the horizon faded into oblivion. The last of her feathers shook, then fell, slipping from the curves of both shoulders as simply as a loose scrap of clothing. Her wings bled into arms, thin and trembling as they rose into the cool air, and at last, her body was that of a human's once more.

She breathed deeply, easily. His empty eyes clung to her own, which flashed a wild crimson, matching the shade of the jewel ornamented amidst all the black of her gown.

Do you find me beautiful, prince?

"Yes," he answered, and did not even take a breath.

Could you come to love me?

"Yes."

The red curl of her lips deepened. The jewel pulsed and glowed all the brighter, urging him closer, so close that he could not bear such distance another moment. With a sharp breath, he hurried towards her, feet only pausing when they reached the bank, weak dirt crumbling into the water as his weight fell upon it.

She held out her hand, elegant fingers arched, nails catching fragments of warm red along their edges.

How much? How much would you love me, if given the chance? Enough to give me whatever I may long for? Enough to -- enough to offer me your very heart, should I desire it?

Somewhere within Mytho's muddled thoughts, a murmur brimmed at the surface, like a smothered cry, like the prick of a thorn against skin. His heart? What would such an promise entail? Was this really what he -- but such questions were overcome by yet another rush of warmth, by the wondrous glow of red before him.

He was hers and hers alone, his sharper thoughts were quick to remind him, and one hand rose of its own accord, eager to settle against hers at once. If she wished it, then he would gladly --

"Mytho!"


Ahiru couldn't bring herself to move, form so starkly frozen in place within the field that she didn't even flinch when a gust of wind blew past, slapping the end of her braid hard against her neck. Her mouth hung open, both blue eyes widened and unblinking. For the briefest of moments, she'd even forgotten Mytho's presence, her attention seized by the dark-haired girl -- by the impossible shape her body took that in turn had taken Ahiru's breath away.

She had wings.

No -- no, not just wings. Her body had seemed to shift, human one moment, then something entirely different the next, wings spread wide, feathers black and full. The swan, Ahiru realized, recognizing the wiry curve of her neck, the glimpse of a red beak in the few brief moments she retained the form. When daylight had finally vanished from the horizon, though, she'd become fully human at last -- just as Ahiru had seen her from the high window during the ball.

A woman who becomes a bird; a bird who becomes a woman. Just like…

But then she'd held out a hand to Mytho, urging him closer towards the forests' edge, and all the gravity of the situation had come crashing down on Ahiru in one shrill moment, silencing the thought. Stricken, she'd done the first thing that came to mind -- screamed his name.

"Mytho!"

The swan-woman's form seemed to stiffen, and she glanced over his shoulder, meeting Ahiru's gaze at once. For the briefest of moments, both her eyes widened, her smirk unraveling into an uneasy line. But then her expression hardened, and when Mytho began to turn, she touched her long nails to the low of his cheek and guided him back to her, fervently murmuring something that Ahiru couldn't hear.

Was something wrong with him? Why hadn't he resisted her? Was he --

With a sharp intake of breath, Ahiru tried again. "Please, don't --"

But her desperate words were swallowed up in a noisy gust of wind, and not even the woman looked to her again. At once, she gathered up her shirt against both sets of grasping fingers and began running through the long grass towards them -- only to cry out as a rough hand grabbed her by the arm.

"Stay back," a voice ordered, and she glanced up bewilderedly only to meet Fakir's intense gaze. The knight yanked her backwards a few steps, holding tight when her heels dragged and nearly caused her to fall.

"B-But Mytho, he's not --" she stammered, straightening at once and struggling to pull her arm out of his iron grip, too startled to consider anything else than her own frantic thoughts, urging her to do something, anything.

"I'll handle it," he interjected, and Ahiru noticed the sheath and sword held in his other hand, fingers curled so tight that his worn knuckles gleamed white. "Go back!"

What? How could he expect her to do that!? Anyone could see that something was wrong with Mytho. What if she waited within the castle walls only to find out later that something awful had happened to him!? No, no, she wouldn't do that! There had to be a way she could help, something she could do or say that would --

-- and with a surge of newfound energy, she managed to tear her arm away from Fakir's hand, quickly turning and stumbling through the grass a few quick paces towards the pond. After a moment, she came to a stop and steadied on both wobbling knees, only allowing herself one shallow breath before crying out.

"You - you can't go with her, Mytho," she screamed, struggling to keep her voice steady and strong. "You must want to stay here at the castle instead, right? It's your home, after all, and surely it'll be scary in the forest, with all those trees and ravens and -- and lots of other horrible things! Please, come back over here!"

She wasn't even sure what she had just said, hasty words rushing to her mouth much faster than she could hope to control them -- but to her surprise, the prince's form began to move. The woman drew in a sharp breath, glinting eyes widening as in one quick motion, he turned to meet Ahiru's gaze, whose lips spread into a smile, relief flooding through her --

-- only to quickly subside, replaced by a swell of shock as she met his eyes. They still bore the same gold gleam as always, but the warmth she'd grown so accustomed to glimpsing within them had vanished, replaced by little more than emptiness. No recognition blossomed along the curves of his face. He looked to her as one might look upon an unwelcome stranger, and after a brief moment, he turned back just as easily to the woman, whose smirk deepened.

Once more, she held out a pale hand. This time, he took it without hesitation, following as she began to lead him away from the pond and across the brief remainder of the field.

Ahiru uttered a sharp cry, running as fast as she could manage after them -- only for the tip of one shoe to tread across her skirt's fringe. The misstep sent her stumbling to the ground, elbows skidding through the dirt. Still, she called out, voice cracking. "No, you can't --"

The rest of her sentence died away as Fakir's sheath landed in the grass just before her fingertips. Startled, she glanced up just in time to watch as he rushed past her, sword poised and ready. He didn't use it just yet, though, and she watched wide-eyed as instead, he took violent hold of Mytho's shoulder and dragged him away from the woman, her grip on the prince's hand broken.

"Mytho, wake up!" He shouted, and shook him hard, searching for some hint of recognition or reason within his eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

The woman's lips formed a sneer, eyes narrowing as she drew closer, longs nails arched like the sharpest of claws. "How dare you --"

But her words dwindled away as Fakir drew back, and in one fluid motion, brandished his sword, blade drawn only a breath away from the curve of her neck.

"Get back," he growled. "Get back!"

Her expression flooded with obvious rage, careful eyes tracing the shape of the sword -- from its sharp tip to his hand, strained around the hilt -- but despite it all, she drew back, her jewel's glow withering to little more than the slightest of glints.

Fakir's stance did not falter despite her movement, and for a uneasy moment, it seemed as though he would pursue her with the weapon -- but suddenly, Mytho's limp hands twitched, then tensed.

With a gasp, he clutched both around Fakir's wrist, tight enough for the knight to glance back at him, and without even a hint of warning, the prince crumpled, legs giving way as easily as ill-placed twigs. Fakir reacted quickly, managing to wrap an arm around the low of his back, catching him just before he hit the ground. "Mytho!"

Meanwhile, Ahiru had risen to her feet once more and was watching the dark-haired woman with wide eyes. Anger glimmered against every curve of her face, and for the briefest of moments, it had looked as though she might draw forward once more -- but Mytho's sudden collapse seemed to have been startling enough to keep her frozen in place, and she merely watched as Fakir struggled to rouse him once more. The moment passed, though, and in one elegant motion, she turned, feathered skirt fluttering around her. Dark feathers. Wings

She was the swan, Ahiru remembered with a jolt, her realization from a few minutes ago flooding in once more. This girl became a bird just as she did, changing from human to swan to human once more right before her very eyes. A cautious spark of hope swelled deep within her chest, then, heartbeat quickening to a fervent pitch. What if…what if she knew who or what was responsible for the change? And if Ahiru could somehow talk to her for a moment, then maybe, just maybe --

The woman took off running, her form quickly meshing with the forest's shadowed edge, and any concern of basic safety or danger withered away to little more than a murmur inside Ahiru's head, replaced by a single belief: that if she didn't find out now, there would never be another chance.

"Wait!"

And then she was running after her.

Fakir shouted her name, but she barely heard it, the steady thrum of her own footsteps ringing in both ears. The forest rose up to meet her approach, trees trembling like tormented shadows, rattling branches reaching out to her as if arms, meaning to yank her within. A step away from its dark edge, she hesitated -- but with a deep breath of her own, she forced the uneasiness away, and in she went.

The soles of her shoes bent and twisted against the uneven ground. Thorns and sharpened branches yanked at tendrils of her hair, tore thin scrapes across her face and hands. Horrifying shapes rose to flood her gaze time and time again, nothing more than monsters in such overwhelming darkness, and a thousand times over she begged herself to go back -- but the echo of softer footsteps ahead led her on, and she kept going. She could only call out, her voice hoarse and nearly silenced by the wind's howling.

"W-Wait! Please wait!"

And then, a clearing.

Ahiru's foot snagged on a gnarled root, and she fell right into the brief patch of grass, soft against her palms. One deep breath, then another. Her dress had ballooned around her, and quickly, she shoved back the folds, grimacing as she struggled to rise to her feet once more. She had to keep going, had to find --

"It's you."

The unfamiliar voice cut through every other thought, and with a gasp, she looked up, locking startled gazes with the swan-woman who stood a few feet away with arms crossed and unmoving.

"I must say," she spoke once more, and her voice was quiet, sharp, "I never expected to see you again."

Ahiru rose to her feet, blinking a few hasty times. "You -- you know me?"

A thread of surprise seemed to flutter across the woman's face -- but it was quickly overcome by a darker expression, and her lips formed a cold curve as she approached. "I did. A long, long time ago," she said, her steps wandering in a circle around Ahiru, who could only watch. "You're who that child became? How disappointing."

Ahiru noticed her pale wrist lingering close to her own, and grabbed it gently, too overwhelmed by her words, still so desperate to ask her question before the moment passed and her chance was gone. "Please, I only wanted to --"

But before she could finish, the woman violently tore away, fixing Ahiru with such a fierce glare that the rest of her words died away in the low of her throat.

"Don't touch me!"

Startled, Ahiru gripped both hands tight to the curve of her chest, backing a few steps away. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to! I just --"

"You're pathetic," the girl interjected, and her crimson eyes were so hardened, so horribly cold that Ahiru could not bring herself to meet them for more than a moment, "and I expected so much better. You couldn't even dissuade the prince from me, could barely hope to catch his attention in the least. And now you've run off and left him, hoping instead that I can tell you whatever it is you wish to know. Did you honestly believe it would be this easy? "

Her hateful words settled like weights on Ahiru's shoulders, so sudden that she could barely understand them at all. "W-What?"

The woman ignored her word and smirked instead, a sharp laugh trailing her lips. "You always were so very good at abandoning others, though."

She turned away, but Ahiru just couldn't let it end like this, and she held a desperate hand out towards her. "Please, I only --"

The rest of her words died away. The pale shape of her hand arched in the dim light -- smothered in yellow feathers.

"My," the woman said, casting a brief look over her shoulder, "you seem to have forgotten the time."

Ahiru couldn't even bring herself to breathe. She turned her gaze towards the sky, blotted with countless dark treetops, yet there it was, the silver curve of the moon, trails of its light filtering through the shadows and covering the clearing in streaks of ethereal white.

No, no, no, Ahiru must have repeated a thousand times over within her head, clutching both hands tight to both arms, hoping against hope that maybe if she wished strongly enough, that she could somehow stop it, delay it, anything --

It was no use. All at once, she felt light-headed, a frenzied blur of wings and beaks and webbed feet overcoming her, drowning her -- and before she knew it, Ahiru was falling, tumbling to the ground in a small, feathered heap, dress parachuting down and covering her in thick folds of fabric -- just as it had happened a thousand times before.

Muttering a string of quacks, she managed to dig her way out of the dress with a few shoves of her beak, nudging her head up out of the heavy cloth only to see that the woman was still there, staring down at her, a twitch of amusement obvious along her lips. She wasn't surprised, Ahiru realized. She already knew --

"Ahiru! Ahiru!"

Echoes of shouts reached the clearing, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Ahiru recognized it as Fakir's voice after a moment, her body tensing as she glanced back up at the woman, whose smirk only deepened, a mere thread of color amidst all the empty moonlight.

"Let's see what they think of you now."

And with one last flourish of her feathered skirt, she was gone, vanishing into the maze of trees.

Blind with panic, Ahiru grabbed a thick fold of the dress in her beak, dragging it as quickly as she could manage into a nearby bush. When that was taken care of, she hurried in as well, nestling deep within the fabric and allowing herself one last mournful quack before quieting.

All she could do was wait. All she could do was listen as the shouts of her name grew louder still.

What now?


That's the end of the sixth chapter! I hope it was more exciting than the last!

...and now I'm afraid that I have some bad news. I was hoping I'd be able to keep up with this weekly updating schedule...but as it turns out, I'm just not that fast of a writer, and I've sadly fallen quite behind. Not to mention that I'm on Break with my family right now, and won't have much time to work on this story for a while. This means that there sadly won't be an update next week. It might be two or three weeks until the next chapter, even. I know, I know, this is an AWFUL place to stop, and I'm really sorry. But the story won't stop, I promise -- I'm just a slow writer. I'LL BE BACK AS SOON AS I CAN. ^__^;;

Reviews, as always, are appreciated~!