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Curse of the Dragon
Chapter 10
Rubato

The last time Fakir held a quill between his fingers, he wrote about catching a fish.

He remembered the air going still, the surface of the water undisturbed. The universe held its breath for him, awaiting his next words as the tip of the feather scraped across the rough pages of his book. That the world would wait in such anticipation for such a silly command like that—that the world would bend and shift to the will of his words for something as frivolous as delivering him dinner was … laughable.

He'd been so stupid.

His fingers swept through the soft barbs of the duck feather in front of him, the small jar of shimmering ink on the opposite side of a blank, open page.

Centuries ago, he practiced both fiction and truth. Proper story-spinning required responsibility. There was a hefty weight in his quill, and every drag and stroke of ink brimmed with possibility and danger. With care and focus, he could make the world budge. Sometimes. Bending reality itself was a burdensome task.

Fakir rested his head between his hands, his brow furrowing and jaw clenching. He laid out the tools before him—the quill, the page, and the ink that Ahiru created—and still he could not bring himself to reach out and try again.

There was no shift in the stagnant air of Wyvern, no bated breath of the universe. How could there be when Drosselmeyer viciously ripped Fakir apart and snatched away the very power of possibility from within him? And that wizard shamed Fakir in the worst way—he disregarded responsibility and spat on the ways of the world, writing with loose fingers and flippant selfishness, changing reality as he saw fit. And so, he left destruction in his wake.

Did that make Drosselmeyer better than Fakir? More powerful? More free to use that power to the fullest extent?

Fakir's hands curled into tight, whitening fists. He wouldn't be like that.

Not that it mattered anymore. The void within him felt emptier now more than ever. He was barren. His power was undeniably, completely, and utterly gone.

"Shouldn't you keep doing it, just because?"

Fakir's eyes snapped open, his gaze gravitating to the silvery ink.

"Even without powers behind it, stories are so … so important!"

She said it herself. That girl, the same who wouldn't leave well enough alone, the one who persisted in her nosiness, the one who burned herself on his fire just to save centuries-old stories, never wavered when it came to his writing.

His fingers went back to the quill, curling lightly around it.

"You don't have to use it or anything! But at least it's definitely not kept away from you anymore."

The ink glimmered, the flickering light of the lantern dancing off the liquid and reminding him of the way her blue eyes rippled with life.

"No one should make that decision for you! It … it has to come from you! For sure."

The quill used to sit heavily between his fingers when he wrote. He remembered each letter etching itself into the pages of reality as he crafted the story of people's lives. He gave them happy endings, each and every one of them to the best of his ability, to the extent of his influence, the weight of his quill a constant reminder of the power he once wielded.

But power left him long ago, and he knew that.

This time, he realized with wry amusement, the quill seemed delicate and natural as he dipped it into Ahiru's ink. The silver liquid clung to the tip of the feather, and he gave it a light tap against the lip of the jar to drop the excess.

Fakir thought of her, holding Uzura's hand, surrounded by a flutter of flowers and dancing lady bugs, red braid swinging behind her, eyes wide, smile bright. He thought of the warmth in her touch, drawing him from the chaos and darkness at the cusp of losing himself to a dragon's rage. While he was no longer a story-spinner, and while he could no longer bend the universe to his will, he felt inspired.

Just like Ahiru said. He could write, just because he wanted to.

So, he did.

Prince Femio had every reason to feel confident. He just skimmed over the plans for new siege machines and found them to be quite impressive. His army undoubtedly dwarfed Prince Siegfried's forces significantly. Victory was within his grasp, and war hadn't even started yet.

Shifting in his seat, he released a sigh and flexed his fingers as one of his beautiful slaves filed his nails. Grooming usually relaxed him, so what could possibly unsettle him this much? He certainly disliked this feeling—being a prince promised endless ease and comfort!

This was … unsatisfactory!

He pouted at his servant, dissatisfied. With a second sigh, he pulled his hand away from her and stood. "Ah, enough now. A prince of my delicate state grows weary from such mundane activities~!" He wiped a tear from his eye and sauntered toward the door that led out to the hall. "I know, I know, you must be utterly heartbroken at my retreat, but alas, while your attentions have captured me for a short, passionate while, I cannot bequeath my entire heart unto you~!"

Soon, he stood in the echoing, grand halls of Rungholt Palace, alone. A chill swept through him to the bone despite the heavy, fur-lined and embroidered cape that draped over his shoulders.

Perhaps he ought to seek out his favorite, most trusted valet. The other servants hardly spoke to him unless he demanded their attention (for they must've been driven speechless by being in the presence of his elegance~!), and while Montand was a quiet man, he was as close to the prince as any attendant could be. There was no one else.

Sweeping through the corridors toward Montand's chambers, he only began to notice just then how empty his castle felt. Slaves and soldiers lingered about, bowing as he passed, as natural and required for subjects of such lowly stature to their sovereign. Thoughts of Prince Siegfried's Grand Chateau found him then—the advisors' loyalty, the housekeeper's attentiveness, the care and respect with which they treated the estate and the prince himself—and he did something he never thought he'd ever do.

He began to envy Prince Siegfried.

As soon as this realization dawned on him, he buried it, forcing a dazzling grin to his face and squaring his shoulders. There was no time for such silly musings! They were preposterous!

He reached Montand's chambers in due time, and Femio let himself in without preamble. "Ah, Montand, my dear and most loyal subject, I—!"

Montand brought his finger to his lips.

As always, his valet's chambers were dim, lit only by simple candlelight in several places around his room. Femio found Montand kneeling in a circle of red rose petals and candles more often than not as of late, so he remained unsurprised to see this again. With a pout, Femio entered and sat at the nearby desk, disappointed that Montand diverted his attention elsewhere.

He was beginning to wonder just what sort of prayers Montand took part in. In such a notable time as this, when Montand had been the most enthusiastic to engage in war, one would think that he'd be paying notice to more pressing matters.

Femio rarely questioned things, but …

"Montand, there are many things we ought to discuss, and I'm feeling rather tired of waiting. Are you almost finished?"

At this, Montand turned to look over his shoulder, shadows cast over his eyes as he nodded. And Femio couldn't place why, but the crooked smile Montand gave him sent a chill down his spine.

In the back of his mind, Siegfried heard a clock ticking.

It echoed with the steady, heavy pound of his pulse, like a pendulum, blood pumping with its tempo. He grew more accustomed to the constant clench around his heart after a while, until the dull sting of the claws digging into his chest throbbed in time with the phantom gears grinding behind his ribs.

It was only a matter of time, he supposed. As he sat at the windowsill, watching the lights in the darkness go out one by one across the village surrounding the Grand Chateau, he began to realize that the pain eased somewhat by simply succumbing to it.

He smiled softly and ignored his aching spirit crying out into his ears. Hush now, he whispered to himself, it's alright. Rest. Stop fighting. It's easier this way.

The welts that he clawed into his chest above his heart no longer burned and itched. The weight of anguish and loss lightened until he barely felt it at all. He locked it away with the part of himself that continued its attempt to struggle back to the surface.

The prince almost chuckled at himself. In the deepest reaches of his heart, he knew he cried out for his country, his people, his future queen. War lingered just beyond the horizon, able-bodied villagers bid farewell to their families as they joined in the cause, and somewhere, out in the distance of a forever away, his fiancee might've been dead.

His Ahiru would make all of this go away, he was sure. But she wasn't here. So, it was easier to drown in the numbness than try to endure any longer. Only a matter of time.

Prince Siegfried's smile widened, the last of his clear, golden eyes shining a foggy pink as his clock struck twelve.

Inside, he continued to scream.

Delving into the past was risky business. Autor sighed and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses and cracking his neck. They only had a month or so before they sacrificed the girl and achieved freedom, so he had his work cut out for him.

He seemed to have finished the majority of it, though. For that, he'd be grateful, considering the taxing effect of the process on his mind and body.

Everyone made such a big deal about Fakir's old responsibility (that he didn't even have anymore), but they never once considered how demanding or how punishing it could be to experience and preserve history all on Autor's own. His frown deepened as he glanced down at the document he'd just written—and by extension, experienced.

He had his good days and his bad. In general, he found it easier to unearth the past if he'd been a part of it, and more difficult to sift through the sands of time for events unrelated to him or those he knew. But that was only logical.

Reaching out for his tea and bringing the cup to his lips, he let his eyes scan the document he just wrote. At last, he'd figured most of it out after many months of searching. Elder Raven would be pleased.

Finally, Autor could make someone proud.

Just then, the heavy cloth draped over the entrance to the meager library shifted, a short figure slipping inside into the lantern light. He raised an eyebrow, aggravated that his good mood suddenly plummeted at the sight of the sacrifice.

He had the same problem the majority of the village had. They couldn't look at her. Almost three hundred years passed, and Drosselmeyer's blood surely thinned over the course of the centuries, but she was still the last piece of him left in the world. For that, Autor hated her.

They'd given one another a wide berth after his little accident, thankfully (an accident that had been entirely her's and Fakir's fault, no less), so he bristled at the girl's sudden unwanted appearance. "Can I help you?"

She froze, giving him an uncomfortable, shaky smile. "A-Ah—I'm sorry to bother you, I just—I was just wondering if I could have some paper?"

He snorted. She probably got sent to retrieve it for Malen. He heard that the girl had been spending time with some of the more sensitive people in this village. Hermia, Freya, and Malen probably felt sorry for Drosselmeyer's descendant.

Now, the idea of her finding companionship in Rue's company surprised him. He never expected Rue to bother with the sacrifice in the way she had. More often than not, he found them doing chores together, strolling around their village together, laughing together.

Not once did he see Rue look so at ease, no matter how he tried.

His eyes narrowed behind his spectacles and he reached over for some spare sheets. "Hmph. Here, then."

Hopefully she would just grab her paper and leave. Her presence was stifling. And as the one person able to relive the moment Drosselmeyer ripped everything away from them with vivid, gruesome detail, she only served as a harsh, ditzy, dumb little reminder of betrayal and disappointment.

Drosselmeyer. The legendary mystic. One of the most powerful wizards in existence. The stories of the wonders he performed and the miracles he enacted enchanted Autor since he'd been a small boy. And the day Drosselmeyer arrived in their quiet, isolated village was supposed to be the day he would fulfill his dreams of becoming the wizard's apprentice.

But Drosselmeyer already had an apprentice. And if there was anyone the wizard took an interest in during his fateful visit to Wyvern, it was Fakir. It was always Fakir. Brother to Rue, a story-spinner, a waste of precious talent.

The girl stepped forward to pick up the sheets, but hesitated for a long moment, just staring at him with a dumb look on her face. "Well? Go on! Can't you see that I'm busy here?"

"I-I know! I—right. Sorry! I was just glad to see you're doing a little better, after the whole thing when you changed and … well, Fakir's doing well, too! Everyone's healed!" She gave him a blinding smile.

What was this girl playing at? Not more than a month ago, she almost caused him to ruin what was left of Wyvern entirely! Now, she grinned like nothing was wrong with the world, oblivious and idiotic, like she, the spawn of their enemy, didn't succeed in achieving what Autor always wanted: giving Rue happiness.

Always, there was someone better.

"Anyway," she continued, holding the stack of pages close to her chest, "Thank you! Good luck with whatever work you're doing!"

As she whirled around and left, Autor's shook his head. This ditz was Drosselmeyer's true descendant? Had the madman intentionally written the last of his bloodline to be so simple-minded?

He thought of Rue's smile and recent good humor, and realized with a heavy dread that this must've been the wizard's true punishment.

With a clench of his jaw, he set back to work, his quill poised over the page and his mind bracing itself for another vision of the past.

Almost finished. And then he would have the happiness that Elder Raven promised to them all.

Karon sent word to the city of Kunz by dove. A day later, their reply arrived, and the castle bustled with activity in preparation for the prince's uncle. Raetsel oversaw the majority of it, keeping the staff's spirits light and optimistic. Meanwhile, Karon dealt with the finances and supplies of this new campaign and General Lysander handled the army itself.

In the midst of their responsibilities, they'd neglected their prince. However, Raetsel had a distinct feeling that he wouldn't have allowed them to focus on him while so much had to be done.

A week rolled by, and now that Raetsel fell into a solid routine and the prince's uncle would arrive any day now, she took a moment to stop and realize that Prince Siegfried had been mysteriously … distant. It was utterly unlike him to refrain from taking an active role in the crucial dealings of being a country at war. While she never intended on pushing him, he just didn't seem himself.

Perhaps everything just became too much for him. He needed help more than ever before. He needed their support. She wasn't particularly fond of Siegfried's uncle, but if anyone could reach him, then surely …!

She sighed, balancing a tray of finger sandwiches, pastries, and tea against her hip as she knocked on his door. Did he even eat today? "Your Highness? May I come in?"

When only silence greeted her, she tried again, concerned. "Your Highness?"

" … Yes, come in, Raetsel."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise at the rather cordial, pleasant intonation of his voice. Had his mood improved so suddenly? She reached out while adjusting the tray at her hip and turned the knob.

His bedchambers, usually with open windows and full of natural light, were dim, and Siegfried, usually composed and dignified whenever he could help it, still sat in bed, dressed in a flowing undershirt. The royal blue curtains hung loose from his canopy on three sides, framing his pale form as he rested against his pillows.

He smiled, his eyelids heavy. "Ah, good morning."

"Good … good morning, Your Highness. Are you feeling alright?" She placed the tray onto an ottoman near the door and crossed the room to press her hand against his forehead. "Have you fallen ill?"

"Oh, no, no, I'm just fine." He took her hand from his forehead, holding it between his own, and he looked at her with hazy, pinkish eyes.

"Are—are you sure? You seem—"

"Raetsel, do you love me?"

In the dark of his canopy, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed heavier, but his soft smile remained. And his hands were cold upon her own. Raetsel stepped back, but he didn't release her. "Your Highness …?"

"As more than just a prince, Raetsel. Do you love me?"

"... We all love you, Your Highness. We care for you and—"

"If I asked you for your heart, would you give it to me?"

She froze, unnerved and confused. She thought of Lady Ahiru, his fiancee, the future queen, the one a good number of knights still sought out weeks after her abduction. Karon and Lysander would never admit to it, but they lost hope in Lady Ahiru's survival at this point. Had Prince Siegfried likewise given up?

Even so, why was he—?

"Y-You must be ill, Your Highness," she insisted, swallowing thickly and trying to pull away from Siegfried's tightening grip around her hand, "Please, you've had a long month; surely, you—"

The pinkish hue of his eyes sharpened. "So, you wouldn't. That is your answer. You would leave me, like they all do."

"I would never leave you, Your Highness! I simply—please let me go—!"

He jerked her closer, teeth gritting. "Then promise! Promise to give your love to me!"

"Mytho!" she cried out, tugging back with increasing desperation, "Stop!"

His eyes flashed back to warm gold, and he jerked away from her as if burned by her touch. He snapped his body to the side, burying his head into his pillow as his hands gripped at his shirt over his heart, trembling. "I … I'm s-sorry, Raetsel … I don't … please leave," came his quivering, muffled reply.

Raetsel didn't stay to comfort him.

She scrambled toward the door, slammed the door closed after her, and bolted through the corridors. She ignored the startled glances and the concerned calls, never stopping until she found Karon in the conference hall with the other royal advisors. By the time she reached the chamber, her tears welled up and fell freely, undoubtedly ruining her powdered cheeks.

Karon rose to his feet. "Miss Raetsel? What happened?!" He took her shoulder and steered her out the door where the other advisors wouldn't be able to overwhelm her with questions.

"Th-the prince—he frightened me, Karon, he was being so strange and his eyes—!"

He offered her a handkerchief from his breast pocket, the lines of his wrinkled forehead deepening. "Mytho frightened you? What do you mean?"

"He asked me … strange questions. Asking if I loved him, or if I'd give him my heart—he wasn't himself!"

Karon swallowed thickly, rubbing her back in comfort and shaking his head. Between the war and his missing fiancee, Prince Siegfried must've been under so much pressure, but this …? "Don't worry, Miss Raetsel. Keep your distance from him for now. We'll … we'll figure it out."

Raetsel wanted to argue; she saw the threatening sharpness in his eyes, the venom in his voice, and the cold squeeze of his hands around her own. He was a stranger. How could anyone possibly figure it out?

But she was interrupted when one of the heralds jogged up to them, announcing with a smile, "The company from Kunz is here! They've arrived!"

Karon breathed a sigh of relief, and Raetsel quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks, attempting to stifle her sobs for the sake of professionalism in the face of their important guest. She adjusted herself and put on a brave face, leading the way to the grand foyer and letting Karon trail after her. Siegfried frightened her and she resolved to stay away for now, but this needed fixing and hopefully his uncle would be the shining light of guidance that they needed.

She straightened, looking as dignified as she could manage, while Karon and Lysander stood on either side of her exchanging worried glances.

The large doors opened as the philosopher and scholar of Kunz and uncle to Prince Siegfried stepped in, poised and elegant. With sharp, yet warm eyes and a mustache resembling whiskers, Mr. Cecil Katz immediately demanded their attention with his presence of quiet authority alone. He greeted the three with a gracious smile and a bow, his eyes twinkling as he beheld Raetsel's sultry beauty.

"Afternoon, lady and sirs," Mr. Katz purred, "I thank you for calling upon me. Miss Raetsel, still unmarried?"

She giggled behind her hand, swallowing back her sigh of aggravation and hopefully concealing the remnants of her panic from earlier. This was to be expected. "And I plan to remain so, Mr. Katz."

His expression fell, but he recovered quickly. "Well, it's a pleasure to see each of you again. I wish it had been under better circumstances.

"Now then, where is my nephew, nyah~?"

Ahiru had twenty-two days left. She'd been counting.

She wasn't scared anymore, though. She made her decision, all on her own.

Instead of fretting and studying, she'd spent the past week or so making good use of her time with the only friends she made in Wyvern. Uzura and Lamp were her constant companions, never leaving her side, and she took quite of bit of joy in telling Uzura all about the world above and the fun things to do out in the daylight. The drummer girl seemed particularly excited for the idea of rain and snow, or anything to do with the sky, really. Endlessly precocious and curious, she never once stopped asking questions about clouds, the sun, the moon, and the stars.

Freya taught her how to make a delicious tea with herbs and fruit, and with Freya's regular treatments, the burns on Ahiru's palms healed completely (along with Fakir's wounds, thankfully, but he still maintained a new scar to join the one he already had). She asked Ahiru about the flora of the current world, wondering if, in three hundred years, plant life had changed significantly. Ahiru, of course, didn't know how to answer most of the questions, but Freya seemed pleased that peonies, violets, and hydrangeas still existed.

Malen sketched two very pretty pictures for her: her coastal home in Hedeby, with the beach in the distance, and her favorite oak tree next to the duck pond, and a portrait of Ahiru's would-be husband, Prince Siegfried, with his kind eyes, handsome features, and noble posture. The drawings sat on the desk in Ahiru's hut, a warm reminder of her happiest memories, and Malen seemed genuinely touched that she liked them so much.

Hermia was her greatest comfort when Ahiru had been most afraid of the fate she now accepted—they cried together just two nights before when Ahiru woke from a rather dreadful nightmare. Coming to terms with her destiny became easier, knowing that someone else in Wyvern felt exactly what she was going through.

Even Raven had been cordial, though Ahiru still couldn't feel at ease in his company. As she went to harvest some herbs from the garden for Freya, he intercepted her with a cordial grin, holding her red pendant in his hand. Odd. She'd stopped needing it for some time now. "Now that you've settled down, I think you may have this back," he told her, his crimson eyes sharp though his lips formed a soft smile. She mumbled her thanks, feeling the weight of the red jewel in her hands. Before, she would only think of her mother's warmth. Now, she thought of her ancestor's cruelty.

Regardless, Ahiru decided to wear the jewel, no longer needing it for strength, but bearing it as a symbol of sins she never committed and could never forget.

It felt heavier around her neck than before.

At least Rue agreed to teach her how to dance.

Granted, Ahiru lacked the natural talent for such a thing, but when she confided to Rue about her mother's beauteous and inspiring dance, Rue's usually proud eyes softened, and lessons began soon after. The opportunity meant the world to Ahiru, and for all of Rue's haughtiness, she was a patient teacher (or at least she forced herself to be for Ahiru's sake).

Over the past week, she'd come to see that Fakir and Rue really did act alike. Both harsh and a bit prickly, but so, so kind.

After all, Fakir allowed her to read his newest story!

That was a miracle in itself, considering how much she pestered him about it these last few days. Every evening, she marched into his hut with Uzura and Lamp right behind her, looking over his shoulder and seeing the shimmering silver strokes forming into his own, new words. They would sit on his bed with a bowl of berries and nuts on her lap and just chat, quite possibly ruining his concentration. Despite the annoyed glances over his shoulder, however, she did catch him smirking every so often.

Once, he turned to face her directly and said, "Hey, think you can go and grab paper from the library?"

Her eyes lit up. "Oh! You need more?"

"Yeah. But like you said," he muttered as he turned back to his half-written page, "it's a secret. Don't say it's for me."

By the end of the week, he told her he was done. Of course, she excitedly asked for permission to read it.

Thus, she found herself with twenty-two days left, resting on her belly and elbows in a field of glowing sun flowers and flipping through his pages. Lamp, who sat quietly on her shoulder, illuminated the words for her with her radiant wings while Uzura played with the other lady bugs nearby. And a few feet away, Fakir lay down, his eyes closed and hands folded under his head.

As she reached the last couple of lines, she sighed in contentment, turning her gaze to the writer to her right.

"'... The swan swept across the lake, her flight restoring the town and granting the prince and princess their happily-ever-after,'" she recited, her freckled cheeks glowing in appreciation, "'And so, the littlest gesture of kindness, and a dance full of hope had changed the world for the better, forever.'"

Fakir snorted, his eyes remaining closed. "Looks better on paper than how it sounds out loud."

"No way! It sounds amazing! The whole story was amazing!" Giddy, she rolled over onto her back in his direction, the sounds of Uzura's chanting and drumming filling the calm quiet of the glowing field as Lamp fluttered away to join the little girl. "And it's like you never stopped writing at all!"

His eyes snapped open and his cheeks darkened. "... Idiot." Sitting up, he moved away from her, averting his gaze to watch over Uzura, Lamp, and the other lady bugs from a distance.

"I'm not an idiot. And really, it's true! Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're really talented?"

"Aside from you, not really. Not since my parents." His jaw clenched. "I was just a child, though, so I barely remember. If anything, they were probably humoring me."

Ahiru's eyebrows rose a little. He was opening up, and for some reason, she wanted to see more of that. Gently, she tried to encourage him to continue. "Mm … how old were you when they …?"

"... Maybe four. Too much time's gone by. I don't remember everything."

"Wow, you've been writing that long? And I guess Rue wouldn't remember either, huh?"

"She probably doesn't even remember their faces. But I wouldn't know—Rue and I were never that close and never talked about it."

Ahiru took a breath, letting her own eyes fall shut as one of the sun flowers tickled her cheek. "That's hard, huh? Growing up without parents sounds really, really hard."

"Rue had Raven," he mentioned offhandedly.

"O-Oh." That probably explained why Rue followed Raven's orders so easily. "I … I understand, though. It's hard to be without parents. Even if she did have your elder there for her, still …"

Fakir hesitated, green eyes glimmering with something Ahiru couldn't quite identify. "... And you're the last of—your parents passed as well."

"... Mm-hmm. I guess … you knew that already."

"Autor found you to be the last of Drosselmeyer's bloodline. It's easy to guess." His voice grew oddly soft, lacking his usual roughness. "How long ago?"

A dull ache filled her chest at the reminder of her loss. "N-Not long. A few weeks before I met Mytho and … and you kidnapped me."

Come to think of it, she didn't have that long to mourn, especially with all that had happened in the last month. The very idea that she'd been so distracted by everything and buried her grief beneath a puzzling mess of emotions and chaos was strange to her. Lately, she didn't know how to feel.

Losing her parents broke her heart, soothed only by the idea of being with her promised prince, then shattered by her kidnapping, and overshadowed by the daunting destiny that awaited her. Far too much happened all at once, and it was only now that it was all catching up to her.

Perhaps acceptance just did that to people.

She sniffed messily, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"... Sorry I brought it up."

His apology was weak, but she knew it to be earnest. So she laughed a little through her tears. "S-S'okay. It's just—it's a lot. Not just for me. It's a lot for everyone! I just …" If she continued like this, she knew she'd turn into a sobbing little mess. She scrambled to find a positive, a bit of humor, something else to think of other than all of the unfair things in this world. "Hah! Y-You were so mean back then! W-With the throwing into the water a-and then you ripped my dress!"

Her forced laugh turned into a genuine giggle at the heat that filled his cheeks in the steady light of the sun flowers. "That was—the dress was a pain, alright?! Just forget that ever happened like that!" With a scowl, he crossed his arms over his chest. "And you, acting all high and mighty, some stupid rich girl. As if that was any better!"

That was right. She tried so hard to be a proper queen back then. Everything she truly wasn't. Those days felt like an entire lifetime ago. "Yeah, well you started a fire!"

"No one was actually going to get hurt." His blush grew, his ears growing red. "It was all just a diversion, I made sure. Couldn't get that damn prince away from you otherwise."

She sat up, cross-legged beside him. "Hey, don't talk badly about Mytho!"

He fell silent at this, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Hello, did you hear me? You can't talk about him like that! I … I want to marry him," she said quietly, "I … wanted to marry him."

Still, he said nothing, instead giving his full attention to Lamp and Uzura as the little girl spun around in circles among the sun flowers. When he finally turned to stare at Ahiru once again, she couldn't read his expression at all.

"Fakir?"

"... You have a petal in your hair."

"Eh?" She blinked, reaching up into her messy red locks. "I-I do?"

"Yeah, it's—" Fakir trailed off, reaching out to pluck it from her strands. But he stopped before he could, hesitating and instead deciding to point in the general direction. "—there."

"Oh. Oh! Found it! Thanks!"

He snorted, but more out of amusement than annoyance, and then cleared his throat. "Anyway, you finished reading. Shouldn't you be doing more of your 'research'?"

"Mm. About that … I was actually going to ask you for a favor."

"What is it?"

"... I wrote a letter to Mytho—Prince Siegfried," she mumbled, bringing her knees to her chest, "When … when your curse is lifted … would you find him, and give it to him for me?"

Fakir looked stunned. "You—?"

"I've made my decision!" she insisted, straightening in her seated position, "I decided this on my own, just like you decided to write again on your own! I thought about it a lot, and it's not like … it's not like I'm giving up. That's not it at all! I'm not doing it because you all told me to, or because I have no other choice. But I thought that …" Her shoulders wilted a bit. "Well, what would Mytho do? And what else can I do for him, or the world? I … I'd make an awful queen. The only thing I did with all the blessings I was born with was just sit and daydream and this way, I can help people and make a difference, right? This is … for the best."

Wasn't it?

"So," she continued, slow and small, "if you could just give him the letter I wrote … that's all I want."

This was what they wanted.

Nothing stopped them from breaking their curse now. They would emerge from their prison, finally move forward in time, grow old, live to the fullest, enjoy what they took for granted long ago. And they could do it guiltlessly, and greet freedom with open arms and laughter.

So, why …?

Why did Fakir feel as though he was being ripped apart all over again?

He stared numbly at the folded letter Ahiru entrusted to him.

"You're the one who's always been honest and truthful from the very beginning! You're my friend, Fakir. I know that if it's you, Mytho will definitely receive my letter!"

Fakir felt like scum. A wretched, bitter weight, heavier than any blame or punishment he'd ever endured in his pathetic existence, pushed into his chest so sharply, he could hardly breathe.

Ahiru came into his life, fiery, determined, and kind, touching their lives with her smile. She gave him inspiration and strength to overcome the power of transformation and even, he had to admit, self-doubt.

But this was what he wanted. This was what he'd asked for. He was the one to volunteer to risk himself in order to find the last of Drosselmeyer's bloodline. He was the one who willingly snatched Ahiru away from happiness in order to have their own. He was the one who began all of this. He damned her.

Why was he feeling this way? Was this indescribable guilt? Was that all?

Was this even further punishment? Did Drosselmeyer want this, too?

He grit his teeth and gripped his quill, his mind full of thoughts of her. He wrote mindlessly in the silvery ink that she, in her boundless kindness, fashioned just for him, describing the red of her hair, the blues of her eyes, each little freckle that dusted across her nose and the way she laughed and danced freely with the most important people in his horrible life.

The girl with the brightest spirit and warmest heart stumbled and tripped through life, scattering light across the shadows in the poor man's soul.

He dropped the quill and buried his face in his hands, eyes clenched shut.

… Fakir cared for her. And because of him, she was going to die.

Fate cursed them all.

Ahiru carried a basket of herbs toward Freya's hut. But as she did so, humming with a skip in her step, she stumbled over her own feet, tripping and scattering the sprigs of rosemary all across the cobblestone ground.

"E-Eh?! Oh no!" She frowned in dismay at the mess, and looked behind her to see what she might've tripped over.

Oddly enough, there was nothing there.