Prompt #15 – Senza (Can't Do Without)

"This wound is serious. He's just lucky it missed his heart. Still . . ." The man heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, I honestly don't think he'll live through the night. I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid you shouldn't expect very much."

"No!" Ahiru cried. "Autor already was dead and he came back. He's not going to let this beat him. He's going to make it. And he has all of us to stand by him."

"Alright then," the doctor conceded. "I'll get to work."

****

It was strange, how he could hear them through his haze and yet not communicate with them. It was as if it was all in a dream; though he knew it was not a dream at all, just his own illness. Their voices faded in and out, sometimes audible, sometimes too far-off to make out anything intelligible.

He felt his chest wound being worked on as the physician tried to repair all the damage that he had caused to himself. He cringed, gasping in pain. The doctor exclaimed something in concern about the anesthesia wearing off too soon. Then he passed back into oblivion, leaving them to do whatever it was they were doing with him.

There were times when he was falling through the endless gears again. Sometimes his descent never stopped. Sometimes the gears closed in, crushing him in their midst. Still other times he avoided the gears altogether, but plunged into the fires of Hell far below.

He screamed as the flames lapped at and tore at him. It was the only fate he deserved, the miserable wretch who had lost control of his darkest emotions and of his very Story itself. But the longer the fire consumed him, the more he cried out in anguish for deliverance.

There were times when he thought he heard the others talking to him, trying to call him back. Though it was often Rue he heard, Ahiru was also frequently pleading for him to return.

"Wake up, Autor," she begged. "Everything's okay. You're right here with us! Please wake up and you'll see!"

And something warm would take hold of his uninjured hand, clasping it firmly to lead him out of the personal Hell he had built for himself. Yet no matter how he tried, he could not seem to follow.

The Prince himself had spoken to him several times. "I know it must be difficult, Autor, but I also know you can come through this. You never stopped fighting against your inner demons and the Story before; you won't stop now. Come back, Autor. Come back to the light."

Fakir never spoke to him, but he heard Fakir talking—and sometimes arguing—with the others about it.

"What could I tell him that you haven't already said? We never were close."

"I've never even had a real conversation with him, Fakir," Mytho replied. "But I'm talking to him now."

"You're better at it than me."

"Ohh! You just don't want to talk to him because you're still mad at him!" Ahiru exclaimed.

"Can you blame me?! True, Autor may have been taken over by his Story in the end, but he made his own choices that got him to that point. He made the decision to try to get hold of the power he wanted. That's what caused all of this."

And then Rue had gotten angry. "Haven't you ever done something you regretted?" she said.

"Not on a scale like this," Fakir said. "I never tried to take over the world."

"Is that what's really bothering you, Fakir?" Mytho asked, his voice quiet.

"Of course it is," Fakir said, but he sounded unsure of himself and defensive.

"And I suppose you still haven't forgiven me, either, have you?" Rue said.

"Now that you bring it up, I am still angry about a lot of the stunts you pulled," Fakir shot back.

And then they fell into another of their heated arguments, while Mytho and Ahiru desperately tried to restore peace. They were all stressed and worried and upset about Autor, and it was taking its toll on all of them.

Listening from the dark place where he currently resided, Autor was awash with guilt. He had to get back somehow. He could not let things keep going on in this way. The Prince had told him to come back to the light, but he was not even sure how to find that light. For him, he felt as though he had lost it completely and had fallen too far to ever hope to return.

His friends, however, still had the light. Perhaps, if he focused all of his attention on their voices, could they draw him into it? He was willing to try. He wanted to leave the flames behind, to return to them and try to put his life back in order. He wanted to somehow make peace with them . . . and with himself.

The next time he felt something warm and comforting take hold of his hand, he grasped it in turn and did not let go. He did not allow his thoughts to stray; instead he thought only of going back and what he wanted to do when he got there. And as he had hoped, he was at last pulled upward and out of his abyss.

His eyes fluttered open, taking in what looked like a blurred ceiling above him. It was really quite dull and predictable, filled with those tiny holes that children always threw pencils at. Then a flash of red and blue appeared, leaning over and blocking his view of the tiles.

"Autor!" Ahiru exclaimed. "You're awake. Thank goodness, you're awake!" She leaned over and embraced him, holding him close in her light.

He let her hug him, too surprised to do much else. "Ahiru," he rasped.

He was back.

****

He recovered well, and quickly, he was told; though it seemed a long time to him, he had not been expected to live at all. And of course the medics had not been told what had actually happened. That would have made the situation far too sticky. As far as they knew, Autor's injuries had been a terrible accident. That was just fine with him; he did not want them knowing he had stabbed himself and have them worry that he needed suicide counseling or some such thing.

Somewhat to his surprise, he shared conversations with the others over the following weeks. Ahiru talked too much, as always, but she was overjoyed that Autor would get better. Autor usually felt somewhat overwhelmed after one of their visits, but he thought of Ahiru as a friend and usually tried to be patient—though he was quick to tell her if he needed quiet.

"Ahiru," he said one day, "I've been having strange memories of something that happened the night I died."

She blinked in surprise. "Oh yeah? What's that?" she asked.

"Tell me honestly," he said. "Is this just something I hallucinated, or did you become Princess Tutu?"

And Ahiru stiffened, looking amazed that he had been aware enough to realize that much of what had happened. She shifted in the chair.

"Y-yeah, I did," she said. "We're still trying to figure out how it happened. I mean, I'm not supposed to be able to become Princess Tutu anymore, even though I think of her as a part of me, and . . ."

"And Mytho and Rue are still remembered in the town, aren't they?" Autor said.

Ahiru nodded. "People are remembering more and more all the time," she said. "None of us can figure out why! Before long, maybe they'll even start remembering the really creepy stuff, like turning into crows and . . ." She trailed off, not wanting to bring up Mytho and Kraehe trying to steal hearts for the Monster Raven.

Autor frowned. "Then it really wasn't something I caused unknowingly," he said.

"Nope!" Ahiru said. "At least, I don't think so." She hopped to her feet. "It's great to have them back, anyway!" she said. "And I'm so glad you're back too, Autor." She smiled. "I've missed you."

Autor hesitated. "Ahiru," he said at last.

She blinked in surprise. "Yeah, what is it?"

"After I was brought here, I was lost in the dark turmoil of my own soul," Autor admitted. "I couldn't find my way out of it. When I finally did, it was because I was following your light. Thank you."

Ahiru blushed. "Autor . . ." Then she smiled. "Even if you were following me, you made the choice yourself!" she declared. "You figured out how to escape."

Autor considered that, then gave a slow nod. "I suppose."

"It's true!" Ahiru said firmly.

"I just wonder," Autor said. "You forgave me so easily, but . . . can I ever forgive myself?"

Again Ahiru looked surprised. But she smiled once more, brighter still. "You can," she said. "You'll figure out how to do that, too."

"I wish I had your confidence," Autor said.

****

Rue and Mytho were pleased over his improvement as well, though certainly more reserved. He had not spoken with the Prince very often, but he considered it a great honor whenever Mytho stopped in to say Hello.

"Rue said she told you about our past," Mytho said on one occasion.

Autor nodded. "She did," he said, his stomach knotting to remember how he had treated her that day in the theatre.

Mytho nodded. "After being poisoned by the Raven's blood, I understand all too well what it's like to have to fight against something taking you over," he said, his voice grave. "At my worst, I didn't care about anyone. I even fought against Fakir." A haunted look flashed through his eyes. "I was only barely able to stop myself in time."

"At least you were able to stop yourself," Autor said. "And at least you were fighting against a parasite, an intruder from outside. For the most part, I was fighting myself."

"Sometimes I wonder," Mytho said, gazing into the distance, "whether the Raven's blood just awakened my dark side and emphasized it. I know it attacked the weak spots of my heart."

"I can't imagine you actually being that way, Prince," Autor said.

"Just 'Mytho' is fine," Mytho smiled, then sobered again. "No, I couldn't imagine it of myself, either. It was too horrifying to imagine that I was capable of such abominable acts. Yet the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that it would be all too easy to blame the Raven's blood and exempt myself. I don't believe anymore that it was only the Raven's blood at fault.

"But as for you, Autor, you blame only yourself. I think, since the Story became its own entity, you can't fully be held responsible for your actions."

"It wouldn't have become a separate being if I hadn't written it," Autor said.

"You couldn't have known it would get so out of hand," Mytho said. "Your original plan was to do good with the power, wasn't it?"

Autor nodded. "Yes. . . . But I lost sight of it."

Mytho's smile was kind and gentle. "That doesn't mean," he said, "that you can't find it again."

Autor started. "No," he said. "No, I won't expose myself to that again. It's too big a risk."

"I understand your fear," Mytho said. "But fearing power may not be healthy, either. And despite what you've believed for years, the Story-Spinning ability is in your blood. I don't believe it would have been given to you if there wasn't something worthwhile you could do with it."

Autor looked towards the window, at the oncoming twilight. "Maybe," he said. "If I can ever trust myself with it."

****

The first time he spoke with Rue after he awakened, he attempted to apologize to her for what he had done to her.

"I remember when you came to see me in my office," he rasped, drinking from a glass of water that sat on the table by the bed. "I didn't want to hurt you then. I don't know why I ever did. . . ."

But she shook her head. "You don't need to explain yourself," she said, in the quiet and mature and perfectly composed voice he still lovingly played back in his mind. "Our darkness has a way of warping what we want. We rationalize things, even if we know somewhere in our hearts that they're wrong, because we long for something so desperately. If we're not careful, we can lose ourselves altogether."

"I should have been stronger than that," Autor lamented. "It's ironic; I warned Fakir of the dangers of Story-Spinning, yet when it came to myself I lowered my guard. I invited my dark side to take control at the prospect of power." He pushed his glasses up on his face. "I was weak."

"You were strong enough to never allow yourself to be completely consumed, either by your darkest feelings or by the Story you created," Rue said. "It takes a person with a great will to do that. And a beautiful heart."

Autor flushed. "Rue. . . ."

She allowed a bit of a smile, though it was tinged with a melancholy air. "You'll make someone a good husband someday, Autor," she said. "I'm sorry it can't be me."

"Rue, you don't need to say that," Autor said. It still hurt, to be honest, to be reminded that Rue could never be his. But he had to accept that, even to move on sometime. Yet he knew he still was not ready. The closure he had sought still had not come.

"Maybe someday," he agreed, "I'll find someone. But for now, I . . ." He looked deeply into her surprised red-violet eyes. "I want to keep loving you. I can take happiness in knowing that you're happy."

Rue stared at him, the emotions flickering through her eyes and across her face. "Autor . . ." she said at last. Sometimes the depth of his feelings still amazed her. One did not get over a lifetime of verbal and emotional abuse quickly. Every day, Mytho awed her with his love. And Autor, the one who had loved her when Mytho had not remembered how to love, who loved her still even after she had told him all of her darkest secrets, who actually had given his life for her, at least in part . . . yes, he amazed and awed her, too.

"It's alright," Autor said. "I'll be alright. It's what I want."

At last Rue nodded. "If you feel that way, then I won't try to discourage you," she said. "I just hope that you won't spend all your life like that."

And he had told her that he would not, though he really did not know for sure. It was almost impossible to picture himself loving someone other than Rue.

****

Fakir continued to remain aloof. The only times he really spoke to Autor at all were when he came to get Ahiru to go home or to bring messages to Mytho, and more rarely, Rue. Autor had attempted to talk with Fakir himself, but had failed. In any case, he really preferred that they speak in private, anyway. More than with the others, there were issues they needed to resolve.

It was only after Autor was well enough to return to his home that he discovered the reason for Fakir's behavior. Fakir came over one day, claiming to be checking on him for Ahiru. Their conversation remained tense and eerily polite, as though each knew exactly what he wanted to say but was refraining to see what the other would do first. And as Autor had expected and predicted, the short-tempered Fakir was the one to snap.

"I just have one more thing I want to say," he said at last, his voice taut and his eyes steel.

Autor stood up straight, one hand on his hip. "Then by all means, say it," he said. "I think we're both tired of this charade, aren't we?"

And Fakir lunged, striking him across the face. "What were you thinking?!" he snarled. "What in the name of all that's holy and good were you thinking?!"

Autor stumbled back, his head snapping to the side. He was only momentarily stunned, though Fakir's physical assault had surprised him. But as he looked back to the conflicted Story-Spinner, pushing up his glasses, the truth was laid bare in Fakir's eyes. He had wanted to snap and say it from the beginning, to scream it, but he had restrained himself, fearing Autor would not be able to handle the stress of the attack. And, doubting his own inability to hold himself back if they started to converse, he had steered clear of any discussion with his distant relation. Only now, that he was sure Autor was well enough, did he let loose with what had been consuming him for weeks.

Autor met Fakir's intense and tormented look with a quiet acceptance. He was a proud person by nature, yet what he had caused had shaken him to his very core. And there, as he stood facing his former ally, he bit back any possibly arrogant retort he could have made and would have made in any other situation.

"I wasn't thinking," he answered, quietly and simply. "I was overcome by all that I longed for and desired for ever since I was a child. I won't make excuses for myself; the Story may have warped my mind and taken complete control of me by the end, but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't let it."

Fakir's eyes widened in surprise at Autor's frank admission. ". . . I wasn't talking about that," he said.

"Then what were you talking about?" Autor retorted.

"I'm talking about what you did at the theatre. What you did to stop yourself, or the Story, or whatever it was." Fakir clenched a trembling fist at his side.

"I see." Autor continued to look at Fakir, not wavering. "I didn't want to do it. I was panicked; you and the others were restrained and Rue was being choked to death. I believed I could win against my Story, but I was afraid it would take too much time. It was already clouding my senses. I could barely think at all, to be honest. I was afraid I'd come back to myself to find all of you dead. I did the only thing I knew I could."

"And did you ever think about how we would feel, helplessly watching you die after we had tried to bring you back?!" Fakir shot back. "Did that ever occur to you?"

"Yes, it did." Autor crossed his arms. "What would you have wanted me to do, Fakir—take the time to fight the Story, only for it to not be in time to save you and the others?"

Fakir gritted his teeth. "I don't know," he said, turning away.

"Rue would not have lasted much longer. You know that."

"I know."

Autor hesitated. He could not very well leave things as they were, but he did not know if he could fix this problem. He and Fakir had never been very close, as Fakir had said to Mytho and the others. But Fakir had been very deeply affected by everything that had transpired. Whether that was because of his determination to protect in general or because of how he felt about Autor personally, however, Autor did not know.

"Fakir," he said at last. "I know you tried to write me back."

Fakir went stiff. "What?!" He whirled around to look at Autor, flabbergasted by this announcement. "How could you possibly . . ." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Ahiru didn't tell you, did she?"

"No." Autor's voice was firm. "I saw it when it was happening. I tried to reach out to you then, but I wasn't able to make contact. You couldn't see or hear me."

Fakir immediately glowered at the floor. "I wasn't planning to tell you about it," he said.

Autor smirked in his typical way. "I knew you wouldn't," he said. "And I hadn't intended to mention that I saw you."

Fakir looked up again. "You thought it was funny, didn't you," he said. "Seeing me like that."

Autor flinched. "No," he said, completely serious again. "I didn't think that at all." Clearly, this was an awkward conversation for them both. Neither knew quite what to make of it. It did not help in the least that they had never talked like this with each other before. "I was horrified, actually. I hadn't wanted to hurt you, Fakir."

"That's not what you said before," Fakir retorted, then cringed himself. He had not meant to say that; it had just slipped out.

Autor knew in an instant what Fakir was referring to. "I don't even know myself why I said that," he said. "You might not believe it, but when you left I sat there in confusion, wondering if it had really happened. I couldn't believe I'd actually threatened your life."

Fakir mulled over that for a moment before responding. "Strangely enough, I believe you," he said. "But that doesn't make it easy to forget."

"I wouldn't expect you to forget it," Autor said. "I don't expect forgiveness, either."

"Good, because I don't know if I've given it," Fakir said. He sighed. "I don't even know if I can."

That was not a surprise.

"To even be able to begin moving on, I have to forgive myself," Autor said after another pause. "I don't know if I can do that, either. But . . . I have to have the hope that . . ." He searched for the right words. Funny, how he could always say what he wanted except right now. It was uncomfortable to even be saying this to Fakir, yet it needed, it had, to be said.

"I have to have the hope that, if the desire is there, over time it will work in me until I can grasp it and accept it and find peace."

Fakir searched his eyes. They were sincere, though he had already known it from Autor's tone. The experience had changed him. He would likely always be at least somewhat arrogant and prideful; it was part of who he was. But he was also sobered, scarred, and filled with regret. He had a good heart. It had been buried under his power-lust and the Story itself—but only buried, not dead. And it had broken free of the rubble.

"I have the desire," Fakir said at last. "I didn't for a long time. I wanted to stay mad at you. It felt good. But then I realized it was draining me and pushing me away from Ahiru and Mytho and Charon. I think today . . . maybe I can finally let go of those feelings." As he spoke, he knew all the more that his words were true. Slowly at first but then in determination, he raised his hand.

Autor brought his to meet Fakir's. As they clasped their hands, a healing peace swept over them both. And as they looked at each other, they realized something else.

Their friendship had been scarred, but not broken. They could both emerge from the rubble and start again.

And that, they vowed in silence, but somehow each knowing that it was in the other's mind, was exactly what they were going to do.