Chapter 9

"Fakir?" Mytho's eyes widened at the sight of the other man.

In stark contrast to the distress on Fakir's face, Mytho approached Fakir and greeted his old friend with a joyful smile. "What a surprise! It's been so long since we last met."

The joy was not mirrored on Fakir's face as he inquired in a tremulous whisper, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the dance school you said you were going to attend?"

Mytho's footsteps stopped and he held Fakir's gaze. Emerald eyes locked with amber ones, the former demanding an answer from the bearer of the latter.

At last Mytho dipped his head slightly, the smile on his lips turning wistful. "I did attend the school, Fakir."

"Then why are you here now?" Fakir demanded, his voice echoing in the deserted foyer. "What have you been doing all this time?"

Instead of answering, Mytho laughed softly and flashed Fakir an apologetic smile. "We can catch up some other time. I'm afraid I don't have time to answer all of your questions tonight. I am in a hurry, you see." With that, he turned around and started down the stairs leading to the entrance.

"You came here with Rue Corvo, the daughter of Domenico Corvo, didn't you?"

Once again, Mytho stopped. Barely glancing back at his old friend, he replied evenly, "Yes, I have."

"And what about Principe?" Fakir uttered in a hushed tone, and at this Mytho stiffened. "How did you get that name?"

Slowly, Mytho turned back around to face Fakir. Standing at the bottom of the marble stairs, Mytho looked up to meet Fakir's accusatory green eyes. Softly, Mytho asked, "Fakir, tell me, has your dream come true?"

Fakir glared down at Mytho, his eyes narrowed, fists clenched. His throat felt so tight that it seemed hard for him to breathe. He tore away from Mytho's gaze, gritting his teeth wordlessly.

"Fakir," Mytho maintained his gaze, "has your dream come true?"

Taking a shuddering breath, at last Fakir managed a strangled, muttered, "Yes, it has."

Mytho closed his eyes and nodded once. "I see." Opening his eyes again, he peered back up at Fakir, and said sincerely, "I offer you my belated congratulations. Over these years I've realized that achieving one's dream comes with a price. Nothing can be accomplished without sacrifice.

"And in this case Fakir," Mytho declared with finality, "the price of your success is our friendship."

Then Mytho turned away and strode out of the theater entrance, leaving Fakir standing there, staring with horror at his former friend.

Fakir wanted to race down the steps, grab Mytho's shoulder and shake them both awake from this senseless nightmare. But, from this dream there could be no awakening. There was nothing he could say to Mytho that would change this reality before him.

The lone dark-haired man lingered in the foyer, standing there helplessly as if he was the puppet of a grinning, sadistic Fate, with his strings gone slack and all strength, all sensations draining away, leaving him as but an empty shell of devastated despair.

And that was how Rachel found him. After disentangling herself from the last group of well-wishers and a few quick words to Hans, she had set out alone to find her cousin. Having failed to locate him in the ballroom, she wandered out into the foyer.

Rachel caught sight of a familiar seated figure at the top of the stairs. She rushed up to him and her face blanched when she saw Fakir in a catatonic state, his usually alert green eyes now distant and vacant.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she shook him gently. "Fakir? Fakir, are you all right?"

Slowly, Fakir seemed to register her presence and Rachel could see his face was ashen white despite the tan complexion of his skin.

He got up unsteadily and blinked several times before turning and looking down at the direction of Rachel's feet, his voice low and disconnected. "I…I'm going back, Rachel. Have Duck take the car; I'll find a taxi."

Rachel stepped in front of him and blocked his way. Cupping his face entreatingly in her hands, her eyes bearing intently on him, she implored, "What happened, Fakir? You've been behaving so strangely as of late. You haven't contacted us for months, then you moved away without any notice, and now I find you here pale as a ghost. Please, tell me what is wrong?"

Fakir shoved Rachel's hands aside and drew away from her, avoiding her eyes. "Leave me alone!" he bellowed, making Rachel wince, a wounded look on her face. Instantly regretting his reaction, Fakir shut his eyes and ran a hand across his face, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

Opening weary eyes to look at Rachel, he touched his older cousin's arm in a mute apology before descending the stairs and passing beyond the building's doors. Rachel watched as he melted into the night, her eyes overcast with worry.

The sound of clacking heels and gasping breaths made Rachel look away, and she saw Duck racing into the foyer.

"Rachel!" Duck exhaled, stopping beside the singer. "Have you seen Fakir? He ran off so quickly that I couldn't follow him!"

Rachel grimaced, and then turned to look back at the theater entrance. "He said he's decided to go home early, and asked that you take the car back on your own."

"What!" Duck exclaimed in dismay. "How can he do that? Oh! It was Fakir's idea to look for him in the first place and now he just takes off and—!"

Duck's angry rambling halted abruptly when she realized what she was saying and saw Rachel looking at her suspiciously.

Duck took a step back. "Eh, nothing! Never mind what I said! Hahaha!" She waved her hands about her in a vain attempt to dismiss her previous statements. However, Rachel wasn't buying any of it and she breathed a deeply pained sigh that cut off Duck's flood of excuses.

"I don't how what exactly this is about, but the two of you coming here tonight...this has something to do with Fakir's work with the mob, doesn't it?"

At those words, Duck's shoulders drooped and she looked away from Rachel. "I-I promised him not to say anything...I'm sorry, Rachel..."

Rachel shook her head, her lips drawing thin with concern. "No...it's not your fault." She sighed heavily. "I just wish...I just wish he'd be able to let it go and move on."

"Let go of what?" Duck wondered aloud.

Rachel turned to Duck. "His parents' death," she said, her gentle voice laced with sorrow, "You see, Duck, Fakir's parents died because they were murdered."

Duck's eyes opened wide at this revelation and she repeated the last word with disbelief. "M-murdered?"

"It happened the year after I first met Fakir. From what the police told us the mob had been harassing them because Uncle Antonio refused to pay them protection money. On the night they died two armed mobsters had broken into their home. Uncle Antonio must have had heard them shortly after they got inside the house, because he'd put up a struggle before they gunned him down. Auntie Maria had tried to run out of the house with Fakir but they shot her before she could make it to the door. Afterwards they had tried to destroy the evidence by..."

Here Rachel's voice cracked, and as tears welled up in her eyes she had to take a deep breath to collect herself before she could continue. "They tried to destroy the evidence by pouring lye on their bodies. It was absolutely barbaric what they did to them. And the worst part was that Fakir was still..." At this point Rachel could no longer go on, clasping her hands over her mouth.

Revulsion was etched on Duck's face. Lye. Poured over the victims' bodies to eliminate the evidence. And Fakir, who somehow made it out of that lurid slaughter alive…

The image of the scar burned across Fakir's bare back came to Duck's mind, and with a shudder, the color drained from her face as she realized its brutal origins.

"Is that how Fakir got those scars on his back?" Duck whispered, and Rachel's eyes widened.

"How could you know this?" Rachel murmured in astonishment. "He's never told anyone about it."

"I..." Duck had no answer to give. She glanced helplessly down at the marbled floor, her hands grasped tightly over her chest.

Rachel looked at Duck for a long moment before seeming to accept the fact for what it was. "No, you're right. Even though the neighbors had called the police after hearing the noise no one dared enter their home until the police arrived. When they finally did, they thought the entire family had perished until an attentive officer noticed Fakir was still breathing. He was rushed to the hospital, but by then the lye had done its damage. It was a miracle he pulled through the surgeries at such a young age, especially considering the extent of his injuries."

"But they caught those men in the end, right?" Duck asked hopefully. "Someone must've seen them!"

However, Rachel shook her head. "It was very late when this happened, and if anyone did see anything they were too scared to come forward. Fakir saw the men but did not get a good look at their faces, so no one was ever identified or formally charged."

Duck was at a loss for words as she began to feel nauseated and lightheaded from these gruesome images. Rachel placed steadying hands on the girl's shoulders, and Duck looked into the singer's face.

"I don't know what has happened tonight, but when I found Fakir he looked the same as when I first saw him in the hospital…like a soulless, empty shell. Seeing a child like that, it's something I will never forget. My parents and I, we thought if we could try to replace the family he'd lost, Fakir would eventually return to his old self, back to the little boy who read detective stories and wanted nothing more than become the greatest sleuth there ever was."

Rachel's eyes closed despondently. "But he never returned to being the lighthearted child we had known before, and as he grew older he wanted to study law and become a police officer. I supported him in his dream because I believed having a goal would help him move forward in life, but I was wrong."

She opened her eyes that were now full of apprehension. "He wanted to become an officer because he never forgave himself. He's still trying to bring to justice the people he couldn't help arrest as a child. But I'm worried that will only scar him even deeper instead of allowing the wound to heal.

"That's why Duck, I'm begging you," Rachel's hands gripped onto Duck's and she gazed imploringly at the younger woman. "Please watch over him. He wouldn't tell me anything for fear of getting me involved, and I understand that. But he trusts you and relies on you; that much I can see."

Her brows creased more deeply. "Though I might not know what he's planning, I'm afraid it's something extremely dangerous. He thinks he can do everything on his own, but he can't. No one can. So please…be there for him where I can't be."

As Duck rode the Essex alone back to the apartment, she could not stop thinking about Rachel's words. As the car stopped in front of the familiar snow-covered steps of her building, Duck stepped out and looked up at the window next to her own. The thin curtains were open but there was no light coming from beyond the dark window pane.

He trusts you and relies on you…

Duck recalled Rachel's words as she quietly climbed the stairs of her apartment building. Fakir had never asked for her help, and always insisted she did things his way. But he had always been there to protect her, just as he had stated he would do. Didn't that count for something? He had found her in a crowd of thousands, despite the odds, had supported her when she doubted herself, however indirect his words might have been. Sure, he was a jerk and a nuisance, but Duck was forced to admit, he was someone she could rely on.

And to Duck's own surprise, she also trusted him in return. She trusted him to be there for her when she needed him, and had his invisible support when she faltered. So shouldn't she do the same for him?

As she reached her floor, sounds echoing across the silent hallway pulled Duck away from her thoughts, and the familiar tilts and scratches of a gramophone record drifted faintly through the air. Duck walked up to Fakir's door and heard the music wafting through the crack underneath it. She rapped the door once and strained to hear any movement from within, but none came.

Trying again, Duck waited once more but there was again no response. Giving the door knob a twist, Duck found it locked, yet still there was no response from inside the apartment, save for the ghostly timbre of the piano record.

At this point, upon recalling Rachel's description of Fakir's behavior, Duck began to worry. What if something had happened to him? The fear nagging at her, Duck looked down at the carpet underneath her feet. Before she had time to reconsider, she'd bent down, pulled out the spare key from its hiding place, and inserted it into the lock.

With a quiet click, Duck pushed opened the door and the heavy smell of tobacco assaulted her senses. Suppressing the urge to cough from the heavy smoke, she stepped into the dark, smoke filled apartment.

Her shoes whispering on the floor, Duck made her way to the source of the music and it was there that she found Fakir, sitting by the window, a half burnt cigarette forgotten in his hand. His tailcoat, waistcoat, and tie had been discarded at the end of the bed closest to him, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone despite the chill permeating the room. Fakir seemed unaware of her presence, merely staring unblinkingly out the window pane. Duck grimaced at the ash tray filled with spent cigarettes.

Examining Fakir's expression, Duck could see why Rachel had been so alarmed.

During the flu epidemic when she had gone to the hospital to fetch medicine for her mother, Duck had seen soldiers; men with their bodies battered and broken, with hollow eyes that stared into nothingness for hours on end, no longer seeming connected to the world around them.

The Fakir before her reminded Duck of those broken soldiers she'd seen in the hospital ward. She'd always known Fakir to be alert and active, always moving forward. Now he slouched as though crushed by some invisible burden, disheartened and utterly defeated. The sight sent a painful jolt through Duck's chest.

"What are you doing here?"

Duck jumped at the abrupt sound of Fakir's voice. He did not look at her and continued to gaze sightlessly into the night.

Shifting her eyes to the side, Duck fidgeted uneasily and said, "Well, you rushed off without any explanation. Also, Rachel's worried about you..." the usually frank redhead trailed off, "...she said you didn't look too well."

"What's it to you?" Fakir snapped and Duck winced at the sharpness of his voice.

"R-Rachel…she told me, about what happened to your parents. I-I'm really sorry about what happened to them…"

Fakir cursed under his breath before smashing the cigarette into the ashtray with unnecessary force. Standing up sharply, he fixed a pair of menacing eyes on her and bellowed, "I don't need your pity! Now get out!"

"That's not it!"

Crystal-clear blue eyes looked up to meet his startled green ones. Duck was evidently surprised by her own boldness, though when she spoke again her voice was quieter but no less determined.

"Fakir, I know you want to put these people behind bars more than anything in the world, that you want justice served for your family, but you're going about it all by yourself. You told me once that the Corvo gang is extremely dangerous, and yet you insist on tackling them on your own. This case is something you can't freely talk about with other people, I understand that, but Rachel is worried sick about you," Duck beseeched him. "Even if you can't tell her about the case you can't ignore her concern for you. It's not fair to her."

Having expressed her feelings in full, Duck fell silent. In the background the song on the record ended, giving way to the skipping noise of the stylus on celluloid.

"I can't tell her, Duck." Fakir dropped back down into his chair and closed his eyes.

"Is it because it's related to the case?"

"No, it's much more than that." Fakir opened his eyes and Duck saw that the anger in them had faded, revealing the pain and sorrow she had seen earlier. Slowly, Fakir uttered, "I…I know who Principe is."

Confused, Duck frowned. "You mean the person called Mytho?"

"Yes. We grew up together. He is—no, was—my best friend."

Duck did not understand what Fakir was saying at first until she remembered Rachel had mentioned a boy who had left to study ballet and with whom they hadn't had any contact with for years. But was that possible?

There must be some sort of mistake, Duck thought, like a case of mistaken identity or something!

Yet Duck could not shake the memory of Principe—or rather, Mytho—uttering Elsa's name. She had wondered why this elegant but dangerous man would know her mother, but if he had at one time been a ballet student, in particular a student of her mother's, then it was plausible he had mistaken her for Elsa.

This thought, in addition to everything else she'd uncovered that evening, was making Duck feel faint, and so she found her way to the end of Fakir's bed and sat down on the thin mattress. Bowing her head, Duck squeezed the beaded purse in her hands, pushing the tiny beads against the skin of her numb digits.

"But…how could that be?" she whispered, incredulous.

Recalling the moment when she saw Principe's face clearly for the first time, Duck remembered his wide-eyed expression, a face not at all like that of a killer. But there had been an edge to his eyes, and while Duck had lived a mostly sheltered life she'd seen men in her neighborhood with eyes like that, men whom had lived a rough and turbulent life. No one was born with hardened eyes like that, and thus Duck knew this person named Mytho must have once been an innocent as well. Whatever could have taken away that innocence, Duck couldn't begin to imagine, but she was sure that his hardened amber eyes at one time must've been warm and gentle.

With that thought in mind, Duck lifted her face towards Fakir, and asked softly, "What kind of a person was he, was Mytho?"

Fakir exhaled a long sigh and slouched in his chair. "He loved ballet more than anything else in the world. In fact it was because of ballet that we met in the first place." The flame from a lighter flickered for a moment in the dim apartment as Fakir lit another cigarette. The dark-haired detective brought the cigarette to his lips and drew long on it before exhaling it in a cloud of steel-colored smoke. Staring at the shifting wisps of smoke, memories of a small town emerged from the haze as though shrouded in a morning mist.

It was a community tucked between a series of gently rolling hills and intersected by two thoroughfares and a railroad. Due to the abundance of goods and people that passed through it, the town was prosperous and well-connected to the outside world.

A few blocks from the busy Main Street was a roll of well manicured houses. Fakir, then a dark-haired boy, looked out the sitting room window and back inside the house, and upon perceiving the coast was clear, hurried to the door where he—with a hardbound book tucked under one arm—dashed down the street and around a corner. It wasn't until he made it to the center of town did he slow down and meld into the crowd. Few people on the street paid him any mind, and those who did were perplexed by this dark-skinned boy as he seemed to wander aimlessly about, but with an undefined purpose.

He had come to live in this town only very recently after having been discharged by the hospital. His uncle's family was kind to him; but save for his older cousin Rachel everyone around him treated him as though he was a glass figurine to be cushioned and protected from the world. His aunt had forbidden him to leave the house for anything more than a short walk each day in the belief that it was "bad for one with a fragile constitution," and had further arranged for a family friend to come in as a tutor during the afternoons so Fakir would not fall behind in his studies until he was well enough to attend school again.

It did not help that the street they lived on was noisy and loud during the day, making it impossible for young Fakir to concentrate on his reading. Even though he had grown up in the city, the bookstore his father ran was located on a quiet street, with little to moderate traffic during the busy hours of the day. The thought of his former home made the boy bite his lips and he held the book in his hands ever more tightly.

Roaming away from the din of the crowds and the railroad station, Fakir headed south until he was nearly at the edge of town. There he found a small cluster of houses and buildings at the base of a short hillock, where otherwise the area was secluded and quiet. Finding the place to his satisfaction, young Fakir made his way up the hill side that stood before him.

As the morning sunlight passed over the top of the mound the boy blinked at the dazzling light. When he opened them his eyes were met with a bright pale figure sitting on the lush grass.

Surprised, Fakir gasped, and the pale figure turned around and their eyes met. The dark-haired boy blinked at the other figure, a boy whom appeared about the same age as himself but was of such lithe and delicate features that for a second he wondered if this stranger was some supernatural being, like those he'd read about in fairytales.

Clearing his throat and awkwardly breaking eye contact, Fakir sat down on the grass and opened the book he had carefully transported. Though he tried to maintain his focus on his reading, Fakir could feel the other boy glancing curiously at him, and the feeling of being watched made it impossible for him to concentrate on the text in front of him.

Finally, after several minutes the fair-haired youth spoke in a voice so soft that the wind nearly carried it away. "What are you reading?"

Fakir turned, saw the other staring at him expectantly with wide eyes, and answered severely, "It's called A Study in Scarlet. It's a mystery novel," he added.

"Oh." The other boy nodded and seemingly content with the answer, turned his gaze to the sight of the houses and farms below them. Seeing his companion's curiosity had been satisfied, Fakir firmly returned his attention back to his book.

He became so engrossed that he had forgotten about the presence of the other boy when the stranger suddenly stood up, turned, and ran down the hill. Startled and perplexed by the other boy's sudden departure, Fakir closed his book shut and pulled himself up to his feet, watching as the white-haired figure disappeared beyond a small grove of trees. Natural curiosity and his love of mystery goading him forward, before Fakir knew it he was hurtling down the hillock in the other boy's wake, book in hand.

It did not take him long to locate the fair-haired boy. The lithe figure had stopped beside the window of a whitewashed building and with his hands resting on the edge of the windowsill, was now looking intently through its glass panels, the tinkle of faint piano music emitting from them.

Fakir, standing behind a tall chestnut tree, peered through the window and spotted a group of four or five young women wearing pointe shoes and long skirts of tulle all standing by a wooden barre, dancing to the tune that trickled out from their studio as their instructor watched. The white-haired boy was absorbed in watching the lesson, and after looking at the dancers for in a while would bend his legs or position his arms to mirror their moments.

This strange game of hide and seek went on for more than an hour, and just as Fakir was beginning to wonder how much longer the other boy was going to stay the distant toll of a bell rang through the air. At the resounds of the bell the white-haired boy turned and dashed off again, this time back towards town. Fakir blinked, and then snatched up the book he had put down on the ground and sprinted to catch up with him.

He followed the boy, skirting behind houses and shops, cutting through alley ways until eventually he found himself in front of a small church, identified only by a simple cross displayed above its double doors and a small bronze plaque beneath it which read "Saint Vitus Orphanage and Refuge"*.

The church bell was tolling still, and Fakir saw the boy he'd been following run up to its doors where a sister was waiting. The sister said something to the boy who smiled and nodded. Then, to Fakir's surprise, the fair haired boy turned around, looked straight at him and waved, before disappearing into the building with the sister.

When Fakir got home that day he found his aunt by the door, displeased and worried. She had scolded him while his uncle only smiled thoughtfully and commented how Fakir's energy reminded him of his younger brother. Fakir on the other hand, could not stop thinking about the strange boy he'd met that day. Why was he watching the ballet class? Was he trying to learn ballet? Did he live at the orphanage?

Fakir felt a sense of excitement at having met this mysterious boy, like he'd become the detective he'd always dreamed about becoming, someone who had stumbled upon a mystery and he was the one who would unravel its secrets. Those were the thoughts that lulled him to sleep that night.

The next day, after a long discussion between his aunt and uncle and a brief telephone consultation with the doctor, Fakir was told he'd be allowed to leave the house for his reading but that he'd have to return by noon and not to do anything exceedingly strenuous. How anyone expected an eight-years-old boy to adhere to the latter commandment was not Fakir's concern. All he knew was that he was now free.

He returned to the hillock and again found the white-haired boy there. They met day after day like this for over a week. Sometimes Fakir would arrive first and sometimes there would be no ballet lesson at the studio, and the white-haired boy would simply lie on the hillside, or practice the steps he'd learned earlier, with Fakir as his silent audience. No words besides those spoken on their first day passed between them but both boys seemed content with the other's silent companionship. Fakir learned from observation that it was the sound of the piano from the dance studio which signaled to the boy that there would be a lesson for the day and from the gossip of the townsfolk that his companion was indeed an orphan. He had been left on the steps of St. Vitus as an infant. In his swaddling cloth was a scrap of paper with the word "Mytho" written on it, and so the townspeople took to calling him by that name. Everyday Mytho had to return to the orphanage at a specific time to perform his chores, but as long as he performed them dutifully he would be allowed to slip out for a few hours in the morning to study ballet.

And so it was on one particular day Fakir looked up when Mytho dashed off in the direction of the ballet school. Fakir did not follow him, but watched from his vantage point atop the hill as his nameless companion studied the dancers, his movements elegant and fluid, and it was not hard to imagine him as on the other side of the window, practicing with the rest of the class.

Fakir wondered silently how long had this orphan boy been studying as such in secret for him to have become so proficient. It crossed his mind to go ask the boy in person, but a chorus of loud and jeering voices jarred him from his thoughts.

A group of three boys, all about Fakir's own age, had come upon the pale haired boy. Mytho dashed away from the studio window and made a run for the open hillside, but the little bullies quickly surrounded him and started to fling pebbles at him that they'd stored in their pockets. Mytho, caught in their trap, could only cover his head with his arms and meekly endure the ordeal.

Fakir slapped his book close and rushed down the hill. As he came upon them he screamed, "Stop! What did he ever do to you?"

The tallest of three, and whom Fakir judged to be the ringleader, stayed his hand when he saw Fakir. Cocking his head at the poor boy huddled on the grass, the tall boy said, "This little brat's a pervert. He comes here every day to look up the girls' skirts!"

"Yup, and this time we caught him in the act so we're gonna teach him a lesson!" croaked a stout boy.

"No he's not!" Fakir shouted back as he stood between the bullies and the fair haired boy. "He's watching them because he's trying to learn ballet!" However, that only elicited a chorus of jeering laughter from the three offenders.

"Oh, ain't that something! So he's a sissy too!"

The bullies laughed even harder, but Fakir's fists clenched and before any of the boys had time to react, Fakir had picked up a pebble off the ground and threw it straight at the ringleader's face, striking him right between the eyes. The bully's legs instantly turned to jelly and he crumpled to the ground, instantly quelling the laughter of his two cronies.

"What the hell—! Ow!"

The two remaining bullies found themselves under fire as Fakir threw the pebbles they'd been tossing earlier right back at them. Screaming with fright, they turned and ran, dragging their half dazed leader with them.

Fakir flung one last stone their way as the bullies disappeared around a building and he stood there, panting from the effort.

He heard a rustling noise behind him. "You have really good aim."

Fakir found himself blushing profusely at the compliment and turned to face the white-haired boy. "It was just a lucky shot. Are you alright?" He noticed that the boy's clothes were dirtied and welts were already forming where Mytho had been struck.

The pale haired boy nodded. "Thank you, um…"

Fakir reached out a hand to help the other boy up. "My name's Fakir, and you're Mytho, right?"

Taking Fakir's outstretched hand, the boy pulled himself back onto his feet and smiled. "Yes, but how did you know?"

Fakir straightened his back and proclaimed, "I'm going to be a detective, so I…"

Here Fakir faltered and he admitted sheepishly, "…Well, I just asked around."

"Still, thank you for saving me back there. But you should be careful; those boys come around here every few days. I usually try to avoid them, but that's not always possible," Mytho shrugged his shoulders and sighed resignedly.

"In that case, I'll protect you."

Mytho's head shot up in surprise. "Eh? But…why?"

Fakir strode over and picked up the book he'd dropped in the grass. "Because a detective works for justice and protects the people." Looking back at Mytho, he said with conviction that belied his young age, "You do what you want to do, and leave those bullies to me."

Mytho considered this and asked tentatively, "Um, so does that make us friends, then?"

Now it was Fakir's turn to be surprised as Mytho explained, "The church's Father told me that a friend is someone you'd share your adversities with. So if you're willing to shoulder my trouble for me, then doesn't that make you my friend?"

Fakir blinked several times thinking it over before he gave a vigorous nod, his cheeks flushed and a smile emerged on his lips. "Yes, it does! We can be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson! Every detective needs a friend to watch his back for him, so while I watch your back, you can watch mine."

Mytho nodded in turn, but gave Fakir a confused look. "But, who are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? I've never heard of them before."

Fakir looked at Mytho as if he'd just pronounced that he did not know what the sun was. He gasped incredulously, "Sherlock Holmes is the greatest detective of all time! In the stories Dr. Watson is his friend and biographer, and they solve crimes no one else could solve. You've honestly never heard of him before?"

"The church's Father only has books on theology and history, so no," Mytho replied feebly.

Fakir grabbed Mytho's hand and began pulling him back towards town. "I have all the books and I'll lend them to you. Come on!"

Mytho stumbled and gasped, "But are you sure?"

Fakir turned to look at him, and smiled. "Of course it's alright; we're friends after all."

At this Mytho smiled back and speed up his pace to match Fakir's eager footsteps.


"What happened after that?"

From the bare wooden floor of Fakir's bedroom Duck looked up towards the window. The moon had risen high in the night sky, drawing a long column of pale blue light in through the glass. Fakir sat facing the moonlight, deep shadows cast across his face.

"After that…" Fakir tiled his head up to look at the orb of light shining through the dusty window pane. "We started meeting up every day at the hill until I reenrolled in public school, but even then we continued to see each other daily. I went to see him at the orphanage some times. I would read, and he would practice in the chapel when it was empty. He would practice for hours, and people in the orphanage saw that too. The Father who ran the orphanage recognized his talent and wanted him to attend proper lessons, but the orphanage didn't have the extra money to afford to pay for them. Then when I was 15 the Father passed away. We found out at his funeral that he'd left a portion of his will to send Mytho to a respected dance school here in the city."

"And so he came here, to New York to study," Duck finished.

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "Yes, but I lost contact with him after that. To think he's now…" he exhaled sharply, a long thin trail of smoke emitting from his lips.

Duck knew what Fakir wanted to say. Neither of them could understand how the innocent boy Fakir had known in his childhood could become the cold blooded mobster they had seen that evening.

What would it be like to know your friend was guilty of a horrible crime, particularly a crime you were in charge of solving? If she was a detective and the perpetrators were Lillie or Pique, would she be able to arrest them? Duck asked these questions to herself. But Duck could not see her friends being guilty of anything more harmful than reading illicit romance novels and gossiping while at work, and thinking of herself as a detective was laughable even to Duck.

Duck watched as Fakir walked over to the Victrola and placed the needle back onto the record. With the moonlight on his back, she briefly noticed a dark patch above his shirt collar before it was covered again when Fakir's ponytail fell across it. Duck frowned as it took a second for her to realize she was staring at an edge of the hidden scar that stretched across Fakir's back.

She'd always thought it strange for a man, particularly a police officer, to sport a ponytail and had thought it was an outward expression of Fakir's independent attitude. It wasn't until that moment that she realized he was using it to cover up the tip of his scar that a shirt collar could not conceal.

He's still trying to bring to justice the people he couldn't as a child…and that will only scar him even deeper instead of allowing the wound to heal.

Would Fakir ever be able to get past his family's murder? Would anyone else be able to? And now that Fakir knew his best friend was associated with the very organization that likely had a hand in his family's death, it would be even more difficult for Fakir to let go of the past.

He was at an impasse, Duck realized. Dropping the case would forever deny the justice long overdue to his family and letting the largest and most dangerous criminal organization in the city go unchecked. Continuing with the case would force Fakir to arrest his best friend, who would either face a life sentence or the electric chair.

Duck looked back at Fakir, who stood watching the Victrola as it came to life. "What are you going to do, Fakir?" she said quietly, the tune of the recorded piano sounding eerily like a funeral dirge.

Face still turned away from her, Fakir did not respond until after a long pause, and then finally whispering, "I don't know."

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that, and instead the melody from the record permeated the room.

Duck touched the pendant at her throat. Up until now she had always tried to distance herself from the case she had been witness to, fighting Fakir's insistence on serving as a witness with avoidance and anger, hoping that by disassociating from it the memories would go away and she could return to a normal life.

But the truth of the matter was that regardless of whether she wanted it or not, she had become a part of a story that had turned best friends against one another. And as much as Duck hated to acknowledge it, her decision as a witness could tip the scale in one of two paths, both of which had cruel consequences for the detective.

It was up to her to break this impasse, but Duck did not know what choice was the right one to make. This doubt could not be so easily overcome, and Duck regretted that she did not have the courage to make a decision.

The jewel's name is 'Courage', it is a gem made of two.

Do the individual stones themselves have names?

Yes they do, and someday you will find out what they are, Duck.

Duck started at the sudden recollection. She had completely forgotten about the jewel Edel had shown her until now, when the memory had come back unbidden. "Someday you will find out what they are…" Duck quietly repeated those words to herself.

Across the room, Fakir looked at her and Duck looked up to meet his eyes.

"You know Fakir, Miss Edel once showed me a jewel she called 'Courage'," Duck told him. "She said it was 'a gem made of two'. I didn't understand what she meant when she said that and I'm still not sure what it means, but…"

Duck took a deep breath, "Maybe courage is having the bravery and perseverance to choose, and then walk the path that you know is true to your heart. I'm not particularly smart or brave or strong, just an ordinary shop girl leading an ordinary life. But I think everyone, no matter who they are, should do what they believe is right."

Fakir stood staring at Duck, whose voice grew as she spoke with increasing self-assurance, "There has to be a reason for Mytho to have abandoned his dream, Fakir. From the way you described him he seemed like the kind of person who wouldn't hurt a fly. Something must've happened during his time here in the city that changed him."

Could it have something to do with Ma?

Duck frowned at the sudden thought, but brushed it aside and continued, "I know justice and the law are important things, and I know that we have to arrest him, but we should also find out what it was that led him down this path."

Duck stood up from the bed and tread over to Fakir's side. "Once we've arrested him, and once we learn what his reason is, if at that time you decide you still want to pursue the case, I will be there to testify in court."

The moonlight reflected in her wide, resolute blue eyes bespoke her conviction. There was no more fear, no more hesitation, simply the lucidity of one who had decided on a path and was willing to walk its length, no matter the consequences.

Fakir's heart softened and he was once again astonished by the depth of this young woman. For someone so small and seemingly insignificant to have made such a bold choice could not have been easy, as Fakir remembered all too clearly the signs of distress she'd shown when he first revealed to her the scope of what she had gotten caught up in.

Then, what of himself, a police detective who'd sworn to uphold justice and righteousness, and who still carried the cross of a crime where justice was long overdue? It was not so much about choosing between the bond of their friendship and justice for his family that had left him paralyzed; rather, it was the baffling nature of an incomprehensible betrayal. But unlike crimes, betrayals happen for a reason, and it was this notion that Duck had awakened Fakir to.

Though Mytho had renounced their brotherhood, by considering the contrast between his old friend's current and former selves, Duck made the assertion that a catalyst must've been involved to bring about such a dramatic change. Even if Fakir could not change the past, as a detective he could uncover the mysteries of what had taken place in that past.

Funny… isn't that what a detective is supposed to do in the first place?

Fakir closed his eyes for a moment and sighed briskly, making Duck cock her head slightly to one side, half surprised and half confused.

Glancing back at his neighbor, Fakir could not help but find it ironic that she was the one to remind him about the heart of his profession. It certainly wouldn't be easy, and Fakir wondered, when (and if) he ever caught Mytho, if he would still once again meet the boy he'd grown up knowing, if he was still within the man he had met this evening.

But he wouldn't get that answer until he came face to face with Mytho again, and so no matter what choices he might make in the end, this was the one objective Fakir was now certain of.


A/N * I choose St. Vitus for the name of the orphanage because St. Vitus is the patron saint of dancers (but also of actors, comedians, and epileptics). The exact circumstances of his patronage are unclear, but in 16th century Germany some people would dance in front of a statue of St. Vitus on his feast day (which, by the way, is June, 15th) with the belief it would give them a year's worth of good health. The dance somehow became associated with the neurological disorder chorea (as in "choreography") and was called "St. Vitus Dance". This connection with "dancing" led to his patronage of entertainers and dancers in particular.

Updates will be coming slowly as I'm busy working on my graduate school advancement. I won't stop writing completely, but alas, life's priorities must be attended to first.

And lastly, a big "thank you" to Tomoyo Ichijouji for beta-ing!