Major Mint insisted that he wasn't to blame. Captain Candy declared otherwise, and the Nutcracker would have been inclined to agree with the captain, but he decided to hold back his comments so as to avoid worsening what was already quite the impressive argument.

"How was I to know that there was quicksand there?" cried the major.

"Because the Nutcracker told you it was quicksand!" exclaimed Captain Candy. "But you refused to listen, as usual, and then he and I had to go in after you! Now we've been delayed, because you are too thick-headed to heed simple advice!"

"Thick-headed?" roared Major Mint. "I could have your rank for such talk, Captain! How would you like to spend the rest of your career scrubbing mud off horseshoes?"

"So long as you're not there to destroy my work, I'll gladly accept the job!"

"Proud talk, coming from an impertinent scoundrel such as yourself!"

"Have they always been like this?" Clara asked, keeping her voice low enough so that only the Nutcracker could hear her.

The Nutcracker gave a soft laugh. "For the most part."

Clara shook her head, looking amused as she bent over the Nutcracker's knee.

After the major had been saved from the quicksand, the three men had cleaned themselves as best as possible. They were unable to find a nearby water source, so they would have to wait until they stumbled upon a pond or stream that the major, captain, and Nutcracker could properly wash off in. Save for the stains on their clothes and pride, this presented no serious problems for the major and captain.

The Nutcracker, though, had been having trouble keeping up with the group. The quicksand was nothing like Clara had ever seen before. It was darker than the kind from her world, and coarser, as though it was comprised of millions of tiny gravelly pebbles. It was also sticky, and harder to scrub off than regular mud. Embedded in the Nutcracker's wooden joints, it was only a matter of time until his movement was hindered, slowing him down. So they stopped for a short rest, at Clara's request, so that she could properly tend to the Nutcracker.

He sat on a fallen log, while she knelt before him. Using a borrowed knife from Captain Candy, she carefully scraped away the dried quicksand from his knee and ankle joints. It was a tedious task, as the sand was difficult to remove, and Clara had to maneuver the knife awkwardly in order to get into the deeper crevices of the Nutcracker's joints.

The Nutcracker had offered to do it himself, but Clara firmly rejected the suggestion. His hands weren't functional enough for such a meticulous job, she explained, and it would be a challenge for him to bend far enough to see properly, due to his bulky body. Annoyed, and slightly embarrassed, by the valid points, the Nutcracker reluctantly allowed Clara to chip away at the uncomfortable sand caking his legs.

"I'm almost done," she said. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she braced the Nutcracker's leg with one hand, and carefully dug the knife into his knee joint with the other. She glanced up at him worriedly. "Are you sure I'm not hurting you?"

"Trust me," said the Nutcracker bitterly. "I can barely feel it."

Clara nodded and returned her attention to her work. "You certainly have no reservations about putting yourself in danger for those two. How long have you known them?"

The Nutcracker glanced warily at the major and captain. But they were so engrossed in their quarrel that it was clear they were paying no attention in the slightest to Clara or the Nutcracker.

"The major has been working for the royal family since before I was born," said the Nutcracker. "He admired my father greatly. He often told me, during my military history lessons, how much hope he had in my being able to live up to my father's legacy." The Nutcracker snorted, though there was no humor in the sound. "I'm afraid I turned out to be a bigger disappointment than he had been expecting."

Clara paused, looking up at the Nutcracker in sympathy. The Nutcracker smiled sadly, then focused his attention on the knee Clara was cleaning. "Candy, though, he never tried comparing me to my father. He's older than me by a few years, but we've been friends since I was a boy. I'm afraid most of the time it was me who dragged us into trouble, and he was often burdened with the task of getting us out of it." The Nutcracker sighed. "I suppose I feel as though this is my last chance to do something right for them. To make up for all those years of mediocrity on my part."

Clara frowned, bothered by his words. "You're too hard on yourself," she said. "You are an honest, brave person Eri…Nutcracker." She pressed her lips together, annoyed that he wouldn't let her call him by his real name, even in private. He tensed at her slip-up, though she pretended not to notice. "The only thing mediocre about you is the way you see yourself."

The Nutcracker did not reply. He watched her hands as they pivoted the knife, admiring the way her elegant fingers flexed and twisted around the instrument's handle. The other hand continued to hold his leg in place, her pale fingers splayed out over the scarlet paint. He found himself wondering how her fingers would feel against his human hand, how soft they must be, how her ivory skin tone would complement his darker complexion…

He shook his head, diffusing the thoughts. Focus. He reprimanded himself.

With a determined flick of the knife, the last chunk of the quicksand tumbled to the grass. "Ha!" exclaimed Clara triumphantly. She pulled the blade away from the Nutcracker.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

Clara smiled up at him. They stayed like that for a long moment, gazing at each other as something unexplainable passed between them.

Clara blinked, then pushed herself to her feet, looking flustered. The place her hand had been on his leg suddenly felt cold and empty to the Nutcracker after she pulled away, and he stared at it in wonder, not recalling feeling such a sensation under his curse before.

"Can you stand?" asked Clara.

The Nutcracker looked up at her. "What? Oh. Oh, yes. I think so." Carefully he stood. He took a step; feeling no resistance, he took another. "That's much better," he said in relief.

"Good," said Clara. She glanced over at the captain and major, who – amazingly – were still bickering. "I suppose we should try and be the peacemakers. They've been arguing long enough."

"Or we could just leave," said the Nutcracker. "They probably wouldn't notice for at least ten more minutes."

Clara looked at him in surprise. Realizing that he was joking, she laughed. "Tempting, but I think we should let them continue to accompany us. They could get lost otherwise," she teased.

"Well we can't let that happen," said the Nutcracker with a smile.

Clara felt a sudden warmth blossom in her stomach. Unsure what to say in response, she simply returned the smile, and together they walked over to their companions.

/

"It's not my fault."

Clara rolled her eyes.

"It's not," insisted Eric. "How was I to know that particular rung on the ladder was cracked? It looked perfectly fine when I started climbing it. The crack must have been visible only on the backside of the rung."

"Hm," muttered Clara, unconvinced. "You shouldn't have been using the ladder in the first place. Why did you need to get into the stable loft, anyway?"

Eric shrugged. "I was trying to find a good place to read that large– and massively boring – document the major had given me to sign. It was so stuffy in the study, and I wanted a change of scenery."

"So you thought the stable loft would be an appropriate place to read an important government document."

Eric chuckled. "I don't think the horses care what I'm reading."

Clara shook her head, unable to the stop the upward curve of her lips. She looked down at Eric's leg laying across her lap, the ankle heavily wrapped in bandages. She frowned in concern as she wound the bandage strip around the swollen ankle once more. "You're fortunate it's only a sprain," she said. "Though you shouldn't put any weight on it for a few days."

Eric huffed in annoyance.

Tearing off the excess bandage, Clara tucked in the end of the strip. "How does that feel?" she asked.

"That's much better," Eric said gratefully.

"Good," said Clara. She gently lowered his leg to the floor and stood.

Eric watched her hands fall away from his leg with a faint longing. His skin felt oddly numb without her touch, and he felt himself wishing for the comforting warmth of her hands once again.

"I have to go," Clara said. "There are things that need my attention before the day is over."

"They can't wait?" It wasn't a serious question; he knew very well they could not.

Clara smiled. "No. And you still have projects of your own, sprained ankle or not."

Eric gave a defeated sigh. "Very well." He glanced begrudgingly around the study they were in, irritated that he was to be stuck in here for the remainder of the afternoon after he had made such an effort to avoid it.

Clara bent and kissed his cheek. "I'll come back when it's supper time."

Eric managed to plant a quick kiss on her lips before she straightened. She laughed, shaking her head as she left the study.

The following hours were dull, but productive, and Eric heartily welcomed the sight of Clara when she returned at the promised time. The caress of her hands on his own as she greeted him was a wonderful relief, and he was certain he would never tire of her touch.