As always, thank you all endlessly for the constant support and encouragement—every comment has me running around my room screaming with joy, no joke. It means the world to me, and really gets me motivated to put my best foot forward!

Again, please see the wonderful art that some amazing artists have graciously done for this fic. They are absolutely gorgeous, and can be directed to from my profile.

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season! May your 2016 be a great one!

Curse of the Dragon
Chapter 9
Accelerando

Ahiru stared down at her reddened palms with a pout, wincing now that she noticed the slight, throbbing sting of her burns.

About two steps ahead of her, Fakir held Uzura's hand, glancing over his shoulder as he led the way back to Freya's hut. Lamp sat upon Ahiru's shoulder, humming in a twinkling, bell-like voice. Returning to the higher levels of Wyvern somewhat darkened Ahiru's spirits as the glow of the flower field below disappeared from her sight, and the stares from the other villagers resumed just as before.

Maybe Fakir noticed the drop in her mood, because he frowned at Ahiru's expression. "How are they looking?"

"Ah, they're a little red, but it's nothing I can't handle!" She smiled. "Could be worse!"

"Right." As they approached their destination, he paused, adjusting his hold on Uzura's hand. "... I'm—that's—" Clearing his throat, he continued on. "Freya will fix it. Shouldn't be too bad."

"Are you really, really hurt, Duck-zura?"

"Not at all! I promise!" Her heart warmed at Uzura's concern, and she had a bit of an inkling that Fakir was a little worried, too.

When they arrived, Fakir dropped Uzura's hand and pulled back the heavy fabric, holding it open for her, the telltale scents of herbs and incense hitting their nostrils. Ahiru ducked under his arm to step inside and blinked in surprise to see Freya, Malen, Hermia, and Rue scattered about the hut, seemingly in the middle of a casual conversation. Freya busied herself at her desk, arranging some jars across one of her shelves and holding a few sprigs of rosemary. Malen had a sketchbook on her lap, and it dawned on Ahiru that she'd never seen her without one. Hermia and Rue sat together at the table, assisting Freya in organizing her collection of ingredients.

All eyes turned to Ahiru when she entered, and for a moment, she forgot why she came in the first place. Lamp touched her cheek in comfort and Uzura clung to her skirt.

Fakir took it upon himself to break the silence. "She needs a burn salve."

Freya placed the rosemary into a basket and turned to face them, serene eyes rippling with worry as she gracefully crossed the room to Ahiru. "A burn salve? Please, let me see."

Palms up, Ahiru revealed the reddened skin, her eyes downcast as the rest of the room continued to stare in her direction.

"Burns?" Rue sighed in exasperation. "What did you do, Fakir?"

"It wasn't his fault! I—" Ahiru bit her lip and glanced up, meeting Fakir's oddly steady gaze. "—I was being kind of careless."

"Well, don't you worry," Freya reassured, her smile warm, "This won't be a problem at all. Please, sit."

"Take over from here, Freya," Fakir said from the doorway, adjusting the sling on his shoulder. "And keep an eye out for her—the moron gets herself into too much trouble."

"Hey!"

At Ahiru's protest, Fakir, in one, brief instance, smirked before it vanished and his expression sobered again. "... And, sorry. About the burns."

He took his leave, the ladies in the room surprised by Fakir's unexpected apology, however little it might have been.

Then, Hermia cleared her throat and scooted over, patting the spot beside her with a bright smile. Ahiru slid onto the bench, feeling more comfortable beside Hermia than anyone else. "So! Who's your new friend?" she asked as she rested her cheeks in her palms as she turned her attention to the lady bug on Ahiru's shoulder.

"This is Lamp!"

"Oh! I see!" She tilted her head. "I can tell that she's been doing wonders for your mood! I'm glad to see you happier!" When Uzura scampered forward to climb onto the bench beside Ahiru, she laughed again. "You've been keeping a lot of good company!"

"Yeah. They're sort of making things easier to handle." Or as easy as things could be, given Ahiru's situation.

The more time passed, the less wretched she felt over it. Ahiru knew that Hermia, with her powers, undoubtedly felt that.

The hut was silent for a moment, but for the scratching of Malen's charcoal on paper. Freya moved quietly, pulling various and unnamed jars and bottles from the shelves. She plucked petals from a potted succulent (after asking for its permission first, of course), placed them into the bowl, and ground them together with other materials with a pestle and mortar.

"So," Rue began with a raised eyebrow, "how did you get those burns?"

Ahiru let her gaze fall again, staring at Uzura leaning forward to play with a pinecone that sat on the table in front of her. "Well, Uzura and I went down where the flowers and the fairi—lady bugs live because I wanted to find Lamp. And Fakir was there, but he was trying to burn the books he wrote! So I … I grabbed it. N-Not that smart, but—!"

"Not smart at all." Rue huffed, but reached out to take the backs of Ahiru's hands to cradle them in hers, scrutinizing the blemished skin with a surprising amount of care and concern. "You shouldn't hurt yourself over something so trivial."

"It's not trivial! Why doesn't anyone see how great those stories are?"

Hermia's eyes widened, stricken by Ahiru's burst of emotion.

"My, my," Rue observed, "This is a subject you're completely incapable of dropping, isn't it?"

Freya hummed lightly to herself as she continued with her concoction. "The subject of Fakir's writing is a rather sensitive one—but I do remember his stories. It feels like an eternity since I've read them. They were wonderful, though I'd forgotten them until now."

"There was one I really liked, about a donkey who passed letters of affection between friends and lovers!" Hermia blushed, awkwardly twirling her finger through her curls. "That one was my favorite."

Shy, timid Malen finally joined in, staring fondly down at her sketchbook. "I remember … so many years ago, before … before everything happened. For a whole week, all I did was draw pictures of a dancer in one of his stories. She had such a sad, beautiful tale … with a very happy ending, too."

"He wrote me a story for my birthday once," added Rue, who took to staring down at the lines of the wooden table. "Of a Prince Who Loved Everyone, but chose to love his princess the most. I wonder where it had gone. Or even if it still exists."

The corners of Ahiru's lips curled up. Had they all truly forgotten his stories until now? Had he really kept them locked away all this time?

The effect he had on them was evident—it shown in their soft, imaginative gazes and tiny smiles. If only he had stayed a little longer. If only he was here to see the difference he made—even after three centuries of a silent quill.

Beside Ahiru, Uzura whined. "I don't know any Fakir-stories-zura!"

Rue straightened, shutting the gap in her composure. "Of course you haven't, Uzura. Fakir is no longer permitted to write. You know that."

Satisfied with her work, Freya approached Ahiru with the salve and clean bandages. "Here, now. Hold out your hands."

Obediently, Ahiru did so, biting her lip and turning her palms up. Freya wasted no time in applying the pasty salve onto Ahiru's burns, the cream cool and soothing on the dull throbs. Like magic, the pain eased. "Um … thank you."

"You're very welcome. It's no trouble at all."

Ahiru took a moment just to bask in the blessed relief, watching as Freya took great care in wrapping her palms in the bandages. There was more she wanted to say—she still marveled at the fondness in their memories of Fakir's stories. Did he used to publish them all those years ago? What could he have accomplished, had he the chance to put his work out there? Even beyond the borders of Wyvern, the world could've enjoyed the magic of Fakir's pages.

What could they all have accomplished? Would Malen's art be revered, displayed in prestigious museums and universities? Perhaps even in Prince Siegfried's Grand Chateau? What about Freya, and her ability to understand flora in a way the rest of the world couldn't, with her healing talents and grace? And Hermia could have changed the world with her infallible empathy, helping those in need of guidance and sense of self. Even Autor's work, his ability to reveal the past as it truly was, to document events that have long-since been forgotten.

Rue's dance would undoubtedly touch the hearts of everyone lucky enough to see her. Captivating and elegant, would she have become a legend like Ahiru's own mother, had their curse not fallen upon them?

These people were incredible.

Ahiru felt Hermia's hand on her shoulder, drawing her away from her dizzying thoughts. "It really bothers you, doesn't it? All of this … You must never know how to feel."

It continuously disarmed her, how easily they all could read her. Was it Hermia's power? Or was Ahiru just that predictable? "Um … I mean …!" She slumped, feeling their pitying gazes. They knew. They all knew what she must've been thinking. Uzura, with her wide, perpetually-curious eyes, was the only one Ahiru could bring herself to look at. At least Uzura didn't pity her like everyone else did.

Hermia caught on, and pulled her hand away.

Silence reigned for a while, and the ladies trickled out as the evening came (or at least, Ahiru's assumed so—it was still a trial, adjusting to days without the sun). Malen excused herself first, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses with a yawn as she bid them all good night. Hermia took to bed soon after with a final, comforting smile in Ahiru's direction.

Rue stood up when Uzura fell asleep on Ahiru's lap. Delicately, she lifted the child into her arms and away from Ahiru. "You should get some rest," she whispered as she tucked Uzura's head under her chin. "I'll walk you to your room." Then, she turned to Freya. "Good night."

Freya bowed her head in a small nod, her luxuriously long hair slipping from over her shoulder. "Good night, Rue."

With that, Rue led her outside, Uzura still asleep and Lamp resting in the crook of Ahiru's arm once more. The journey was silent and dark, and the rest of the village began to turn in as well, a hush settling over the dismal town. Ahiru was growing used to it.

When they reached her hut, Lamp retreated from her perch on Ahiru's shoulder to flutter to the corner, resting gently and comfortably in a broken basket filled with handkerchiefs, her warm glow casting shadows on the walls. The last of the candles flickered and paled in comparison to the slumbering lady bug's light.

Rue didn't leave immediately. Instead, her usual proud visage softened, her crimson eyes … rather kind. "... I'd forgotten how much I'd missed my brother's writing. Thank you for that. But it's caused Fakir just as much heartache as it has tragedy for the rest of us." She took a breath, adjusting Uzura in her arms.

Ahiru stared down at her bandaged hands and slumped down onto the bed, frowning. "So … it's really the end of it? That's all? Why do I feel so bad right now?"

" … Did you know I once tried to convince Elder to give ink to Fakir?"

"Eh?" Ahiru's head lifted. "You did?"

"Yes. But he turned me away." Rue crossed the room to sit on the bed beside her, still holding Uzura close. "Autor confirmed it for me; Fakir's powers had been utterly stolen. He can no longer change the world with his writing, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to. At least, not in the way he used to. So, Elder's decision to keep him from writing isn't about fear of storyspinning. This is about punishment. And so, any ink that is made is kept away from Fakir."

"You make all your ink?"

"Obviously. We don't have much—made by grinding certain plants into a powder, I think, but I didn't care enough to learn more. Elder keeps track of all of it through Freya and the other gardeners, just in case. It's for anyone else,mostly Autor, I'd imagine, but never Fakir."

"That isn't fair."

"No. It isn't. But I'm sure Fakir is accustomed to it, after so long. We haven't changed in almost three hundred centuries, and I doubt we ever will. But you ..." Rue, with all of her usual composure, calmed Ahiru's uneasiness with a smile, more gentle than she'd ever seen her. "I'm … grateful. And Fakir was different tonight. It was a small change, but I feel it. Freya was telling me that even the plants in the gardens are blooming with more enthusiasm, as if the very sunlight touched them when you came down to our village. Ahiru, perhaps you truly are our savior.

"I wish that things … could be different." She reached out to idly brush her long fingers through Uzura's hair beneath her chin. "I wish that we all could have met under better circumstances, and I wish that there was a better way to have our freedom. We are a selfish people, Ahiru. And we have suffered for too long. We can't choose you over our happiness. We can't choose you over Uzura's future.

"I'm not sorry. And yet, I am. Strange, isn't it?"

Rue said no more, rose to her feet with Uzura in her arms, and left Ahiru alone.

Perhaps the worst part of all of this was the cold, unfeeling fact that she actually understood where they were coming from.

And likewise, she understood now, the reason why she was so adamant about Fakir saving his stories. Continuing his work. Trying again.

They were the same. Just as he couldn't help his power being the cause of all their tragedies, she couldn't help being the descendant of the one who wrote them.

The dim light flickered across the walls as Lamp stirred in her makeshift bed, wings fluttering in thought as she took in Ahiru's expression. Ahiru threw her a weak smile in response. "S'okay," she mumbled, drawing her knees up to her chest and curling up on the bed. "It'll … It'll all be okay."

She couldn't see what Lamp was doing, but the little lady bug seemed to fish something out from beneath the pile of handkerchiefs. The glow she exuded brightened somewhat, like a tiny star.

In her arms, the fairy carried a single sun flower. And as if to give Ahiru a small measure of comfort, she buzzed across the room to her and placed the soft petals on the pillow beside her nose. They smelled sweet and reminded her of sunshine, like she was back in Hedeby, like she was a child all over again, like she could close her eyes and run around her favorite oak tree while her mother and father watched from their picnic blanket, the scent of their pink garden roses giving her the peace and comfort of home.

Ahiru swallowed down a sob and reached up to caress the flower, rubbing the shimmering, silky petals between the pads of her fingers, a small replacement for the pendant that she still had not gotten back. Soft, smooth, fragile … though, she found that if she rubbed hard enough, a glittering residue stained her skin just a bit. She tried to gently smear it off on the backs of her bandaged palms, and blinked in wonder as they left trails of light across the white fabric. The luster dimmed as it dried, and took on a silvery sheen, dark enough to be seen clearly.

Like ink.

Mytho never felt so exhausted in all his life.

He'd been up before dawn that morning when the swift declaration of war arrived. None had been surprised. Prince Femio was a spoiled child, displeased by his brief visit over some insignificant event, and given far too much power than he could handle.

The orders for all blacksmiths to forge greater weapons and armor had been sent out, and he knew of the unfortunate dent that would be put on the treasury as a result. General Lysander's forces were spread too thin, and some of the scouts who sought out his still-missing fiancee had to be called back (even despite the threat of bandits in untrodden lands). A royal decree was announced to the villagers today, asking for volunteers to lend their aid in the coming troubles, and while his subjects of all statuses eagerly came forward at their prince's plea, it would still be a stretch to compete with Prince Femio's vast numbers.

For the past few months, Mytho desperately endeavored to avoid war with Rungholt at all cost. And it became substantially clear why as he continuously signed document after document.

Now, in the darkness, alone in his bedchamber, resting on the seat by his grand windowsill, he felt numb. And cold. He didn't feel like himself.

After centuries of peace between these countries, why was it under his rule that misfortune strikes so heavily and so swiftly? Why was Prince Femio such an imbecile, and why was Prince Siegfried the one to trifle with him? And why did his beloved fiancee disappear now, of all times?

Surely, had Lady Ahiru been here, he could've found strength with her. He remembered the pure blue of her eyes, her hair the color of a red sunset. She was sweet and demure in her manner, delicately long lashes batting from behind the coy flutter of her fan …

His princess. His future queen.

The darkest part of his aching heart mocked him. She's probably dead by now.

His golden eyes flashed a sharp pink.

It's because of you.

His heart squeezed agonizingly in his chest, and he doubled over in the sudden sharp clench behind his ribcage.

You've destroyed your country.

His nails scraped and scratched angrily against the glass as he struggled to grip the curtains for support.

You've killed her.

The cold ground caught him as he slumped over, his world going black.

You are a curse on this world.

Ahiru didn't know what possessed her to pursue such a strange endeavor. She could have been researching more or taking some sort of action toward escape as she did in the previous week. But she threw herself into this new task as soon as she woke the next day (it seemed easier to gauge day from night now—she took a moment to marvel at this).

Resolute, she ground the glowing petals into the stone bowl with renewed vigor, careful not to aggravate her burned hands too much in the process (though Freya's magic salve did wonders for her).

Earlier in the week, while Ahiru assisted with her herbs and gardening, Freya allowed her to have a mortar and pestle with which to mix her own teas or fruit tonics. Today, she found a good use for it in this new mission.

The people of Wyvern never touched the sun flowers that grew in the deep, deep abyss. It was said among them that they belonged solely to the lady bugs, and even Freya dared not ask permission from the flowers to be used in any potions, salves, or rituals.

When Ahiru took her second venture to the glimmering field to retrieve Fakir's books with Lamp and Uzura in tow, however, the lady bugs flocked around her excitedly as if sensing her secret venture, showering her with the brightest flowers they could find. In Ahiru's presence, the petals almost bloomed with renewed energy. With excited and rambling words of thanks, Ahiru left the field with the books and a basketful of brilliant sun flowers, hiding the glow from the other villagers with a tattered tablecloth. Uzura was a tiny bundle of jubilation, and Lamp's light was warmer than ever before.

Ahiru didn't know the real process. She could only use what little Rue told her and her own experience with the sun flower to make what she could, and her injuries impeded her from doing consistent work. Uzura seemed to have more success with it, actually—her finer powder mixed well with the drops of water Lamp thought of pouring into the mix. Uzura was just a truly lucky little girl.

So, Ahiru followed their example, and kept to herself most of the day to work on her little project. At one point, Rue came to check on her, to which Ahiru replied by throwing her thin blanket over her work and bolting to her feet, nervously rocking back and forth on her heels while blurting out her reassurances that she was doing fine.

Rue appeared understandably suspicious, but thankfully left her to her own devices. "Don't forget to eat," she reminded with a frown before she took her leave. In a strange way, Ahiru felt touched by Rue's quiet concern.

She resumed her work. And, as her mind tended to do while she set about a mindless task, it began to wander.

A strange thought struck her then—the thought that she stopped thinking of Mytho as often.

She blushed. It wasn't that she'd forgotten him—on the contrary, dreams still brimmed with images of his handsome face, his warm smile, his golden eyes in the sunset—but, shamefully, her hopes of reaching him and seeing him again dimmed over the time that passed.

Was that wrong? Two weeks ago, it would've been.

Two weeks ago, she wanted to see him. She wanted to get married and be his queen, and help him rule a country that she … knew next to nothing about. Her life was a dream that she never woke from. And when she finally did wake, it was to this nightmare.

The true reality, though, poured harshly and heavily onto her shoulders. In the grand scheme of everything she knew, she put nothing out into the world that had given her so much. She loved people, but she couldn't rule the way a queen should. She honestly made a lousy duchess, too, especially compared to her mother before her.

She was talentless. She was plain. She was just born into the right family—and born into the wrong one, too.

If she accepted her fate, if she gave up her life, would there be happiness? Would those of Wyvern be able to fill the world with more than she ever could?

Was this truly what she was meant for?

Ahiru stared dully at the ground petals in the bowl, and Uzura put her hand on her shoulder. "Duck-zura? Are you okay-zura?"

"Ah … I-I'm okay! I think."

What would her selfless mother do? What would noble Mytho do?

At least making this would be somewhat of an accomplishment—it was the only thing she knew she had to finish. After that … she would figure things out. Before time ran out.

So, she resumed her work, feeling enlightened and resenting it.

General Lysander and Karon stood before the training grounds, watching as the knights sparred with one another. Soon, Raetsel joined them, satisfied that the rest of the servants had everything under control in the household.

"His Highness was slow to wake this morning," she sighed.

Karon nodded. "He's understandably exhausted."

"Is that truly all, though? Exhaustion is one thing, but he may be distraught at this point. Our poor prince …"

It was then that Prince Siegfried himself stepped forward into the courtyard. All ceased their activities and lowered into a deep bow in his direction, awaiting his signal to continue. With a lift of his hand, they resumed.

Only his three, closest attendants noticed the dark circles under his eyes (a pink hue—likely from a lack of sleep, they imagined). Other than that and the stern, stoicness of his expression, he seemed as groomed and composed as he ever did. He stared the knights down with a critical eye, as if judging their movements against one another.

The prince stepped forward, looking dissatisfied, and beckoned to a pair of sparring knights. "Stop," he commanded.

The two men—Demetrius and a soldier named Hans—immediately did so and knelt to their knee with lowered practice swords.

"Rise, Sir Demetrius. And hand me your weapon."

"Aye, Your Highness!"

"Sir Hans, do you accept a challenge of a spar from your prince?"

Hans lifted his gaze in awe. "O-Of course, Your Highness! It would be an honor!"

Lysander, Karon, and Raetsel exchanged confused glances, but said nothing otherwise. If there was any time for Prince Siegfried to practice with his men instead of his proper tutor, it would be now.

Demetrius cleared out of the area as the rest of the knights likewise turned to watch their prince and their comrade, some whispering excitedly and others attentively seeking the technique behind the two men.

And it didn't take long at all to see the differences between him. Hans moved with the same strength and prowess that knights of Vineta were trained to have, with solid footwork and defensive stances. His every swing clanged appropriately with the prince's fluidity, Siegfried's arcs and jabs studying and testing.

Until the prince frowned, impatient.

In the blink of an eye, Siegfried's movements shifted from curious evaluation to an absolute onslaught.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd as Siegfried gripped his practice sword with feverish force and swung with a shocking 'clang' against Hans' blade. Clash after clash, Hans stumbled backward on the complete defensive, eyes wide and sweat rolling down from his temple as he attempted to parry the blows. All the while, Prince Siegfried's eyes grew sharp, fierce, almost angry.

All could only watch until Hans found himself stumbling over his own feet, crumpling to the ground with distressed panting. Above him, Siegfried, tall and poised, stared coolly down at the fallen knight. "Train harder, Sir Hans. War is afoot." He dropped the practice blade to the ground and walked back into the Chateau, scratching his chest above his heart.

Stunned, General Lysander, Karon, and Raetsel remained frozen for a long moment, before Demetrius darted forward to tend to his stricken friend on the ground. They finally snapped back into reality, immediately following after to surround Hans and Demetrius, Raetsel taking it upon herself to kneel by his side and check him for injuries. "Sir Hans," she began with a quivering voice, "Do you need to go to the infirmary?"

"N-No, Miss Raetsel … I think I'm alright."

Karon rubbed his temples. "You were right. His Highness is … gravely distressed. Perhaps we'll need someone to give him some guidance. Be there for him in a way we cannot."

"Aye," Lysander interjected, "but who? His Highness isn't … well, he's not talking to any of us, so who can reach him at this point?"

"His only living relative. His uncle, the scholar from Kunz." He frowned at Raetsel's sigh of aggravation at this. "Regardless of his eccentricism, Miss Raetsel, we must send word to him immediately."

Alarmingly enough, Fakir felt inspired.

It was bizarre and frustrating, feeling such a thing after centuries without a quill in his hand (and he was perfectly happy with never touching one again). But he vowed to himself that he would never write another page for the rest of his pathetic existence with or without powers, and everyone around him found it perfectly satisfying to aid him in this endeavor.

Until Ahiru. That stupid girl. That stupid, stupid girl who would not let him forget about the past he thought he buried away. And even after she unearthed those useless memories, she succeeded in stopping him from burning them from existence completely.

What a pest.

Ever since he picked her up from that castle-town and ripped her away from her prince forever, she'd been nothing but a little, annoying, bug of a pest.

She was incapable of leaving well enough alone, wasn't she? Part of him almost regretted ever finding her and bringing her to this place at all. If not for her necessary sacrifice …

His eyebrow twitched as he scowled at the wall, sitting on his cot as he slowly changed the dressing of his wounds.

There was a time when he couldn't look upon her and that stupid pendant she used to wear without disdain, without remembering those hideous, swirling amber eyes, that laughter …

… Now, he couldn't even see how someone like her could be Drosselmeyer's descendant.

He'd seen her with the others. Huffy and loud, but ultimately kind to her captors. Clumsy, with a short attention span, but determined and good-natured.

Also, stupid. She was so stupid. She had the one chance to take back her freedom—when a trivial scuffle with Autor almost cost Wyvern even more lives than they'd already lost. Fakir was very much aware that, of all times, that was the one of which to take advantage.

But the stupid girl stayed, and calmed him in ways he'd never felt before. Her cool touch soothed him, stopped him before he destroyed everything they'd tried to preserve.

And for the life of him, he couldn't be rid of the image of her running through the sun flower fields with Uzura, making the lady bugs dance with a joy and elation they hadn't had in many years.

He hated that the sight made him want to write again.

Stupid girl.

Fakir ignored the bitterness that spread across his tongue at the thought of her eventual sacrifice and stretched out, satisfied with his work on his bandages.

Recently he'd tried to keep to himself, at least until Ahiru lifted their curse. It was only a matter of time. When they reached the surface, after Uzura's future could be established, after Rue settled in to have her new life, he'd leave. He'd live the rest of his life away from Wyvern, and if fate deemed it so, he'd be able to forget everything. He'd be able to forget the past that he feared so deeply.

And his plan would start now, by giving that girl a wide berth from now on. She had his stories. She'd be satisfied until the day came when she would have to die.

He rolled onto his back, attempted to find a comfortable position as he favored his injured shoulder, and let his eyes fall shut.

"Um … Fakir?"

His eyes flew back open and he sat up, jaw falling slack as the one girl he was determined to avoid stood right there at his doorway. Great. He tried to ignore the weird, unsettled sensation in his stomach when he saw her. "What do you want?"

She scratched the back of her head, her freckled cheeks turning red in the meager light of his lantern. "Sorry I woke you! I thought it was still early! I guess I'm still getting used to being without sunlight. But you know, I'm getting better at it, honest! Just this morning, I got up pretty quickly to work on something, and you might like it, but I guess I didn't notice how much time has gone by—!"

Fakir pinched the bridge of his nose. "Slow down, idiot."

"'M not an idiot!"

"Just tell me what you want."

He met her pout with a dull raise of his eyebrow, and when her frown slowly curled back up into a tiny smile, he averted his gaze. The girl waddled further into his hut, her hands behind her back and her braid swishing back and forth behind her. "I … I have something for you! And it's a gift, so you can't give it back!"

Fakir snorted. "A gift."

"Yes! A gift!"

The wrinkles above his brow smoothened and his lips parted when she pulled a small parcel out from behind her. An old handkerchief, wrapped around a nameless object with twine. "Open it!" she demanded, her grin growing.

He gave her a side-glance, bewildered and suspicious. What could the prisoner of Wyvern possibly want to give him, and why? Wasn't she so determined to get out of here?

… And when was the last time anyone but Uzura wanted to give him something?

She only continued to stare at him, her grin spreading and her eyes hopeful, holding out the parcel insistently.

Wordlessly, he took it with his uninjured hand. Then, he pulled at the end of the twine bow, letting the wrap fall open in his lap.

It was a small jar, filled with a dark, silvery liquid. The material swished innocently in its container, and in the light of his lantern, it shimmered, almost like light.

"It stains paper and fabric!" Ahiru explained, rolling back and forth on her heels and displaying dark markings that marred the white bandages around her hands. "Now you have no excuse!"

"How did you—?"

"We have to keep it a secret! I found out you're not allowed to have any, but this might make you feel better and try again."

He almost felt angry. He'd given all of that up—not just at Elder Raven's behest, but because he simply chose not to, right? He couldn't. He wouldn't.

His powers were gone. That was a fact he couldn't deny. He'd lost that itch, that pull of the universe, that touch of magic. What good would this do?

Just as he was about to stand up to give her a piece of his mind, she stubbornly pressed a hand to his uninjured shoulder. "Just … keep it. You don't have to use it or anything! But at least it's definitely not kept away from you anymore. That's the most important thing." She puffed out her chest. "No one should make that decision for you! It … it has to come from you, for sure."

Her eyes glimmered, swimming with thoughts that must've just come to her at that moment, though he couldn't imagine what they were.

They fell into mutual silence, her gaze falling and his own glued to the jar still in his lap.

And the more he stared at the shimmering fluid, the more he began to wonder …

He didn't want to dare himself to try. And, yet …

Glancing up, he watched her conflicted expression, and began to consider it. He stood and walked past her, placing the jar onto the table.

… What sort of stories could he think of?

What could he write with the ink that she created for him? What could he write with the inspiration she infused into his empty being?

And how was it possible that he was able to inspire her, so much so that she wanted so badly to see more? So much that she would do this for him?

"... Thanks," he muttered, unable to think of anything else.

"... Mm. You're welcome!"

Her heavy expression lightened, and she gave him a smile—one that reached the blues of her eyes and made them come to life.

The room grew cold when she left.

Beta-read by Docktor Locktor