Oh man, thank you all for once again waiting so patiently!
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Readers, please check out their pages! Their work is phenomenal!
Curse of the Dragon
Chapter 15
Sonata
A sparkling petal brushed against Ahiru's cheek, feather-light and soft like down.
There, bathed in floral starlight beside her, rested Mytho, a contented smile touching his lips. His golden eyes glowed appreciatively as he reached for her hand.
But his touch was cold. Empty, like a glove.
The flowers lost their luminescence, dimming and wilting.
She tore her gaze from Mytho's, sitting up as the field darkened.
Just beyond her reach, Fakir lay, green eyes dull, scales piercing from beneath his skin, a gaping maw of a wound torn open from shoulder to navel ...
Ahiru awoke in a tangle of sheets on the ground. The floor was too cold and too hard to be grass. And above her, Lamp buzzed about in concern, the lady bug's light flickering off the safety of her Vinetian chambers.
Her heart hammered painfully in her chest and her nightgown clung to her sweat-drenched skin. It was only when Lamp tugged at the blankets ensnared around her legs and arms did Ahiru noice the messy heap in which she found herself.
Just a dream. She sniffled and wiped at the tears that trailed down from the corners of her eyes. "S-Sorry, Lamp! I didn't ... I didn't mean to wake you or anything. I must've been pretty loud, huh?"
Lamp reached out to touch her cheek, the lady bug's light warm on her clammy skin. With a forced smile, Ahiru cupped her hands so Lamp could sit comfortably in her hold, and stood, extracting herself from her sheets with a little stumble and a kick.
It was too dark to be morning—a glance toward the silvery moonbeams streaming past the gossamer curtains over the window confirmed that dawn was still a few hours off. But how was she going to get any rest now?
Wyvern truly changed her. Sleepless nights and quiet days have been close companions lately. She wanted to spend time with Mytho, but ...
She went out of her way to avoid him.
... Well, not entirely. There were times when she knew he was seeking her out, but at the behest of those closest to him, she kept her distance. Raetsel assured her that the real Mytho wouldn't want Ahiru to be near him right now, no matter how much she yearned to be.
What happened to Mytho's gentle eyes? His soft smile? What happened to the Mytho to whom she was promised and with whom she spent a beautiful day about the town? How could she bring him back? How could she be the one to save him? And in the end, could they still be together?
She wanted to go to Fakir's room for help, but she bothered him enough. He was busy trying to keep Autor "at bay," while trying to become powerful enough to do something about this curse. And though Ahiru didn't understand it very well, all she could do was trust in him. He never let her forget that they were running out of time.
After tonight, fourteen days remained until ...
... Until what? Until Fakir, Uzura and the rest of the dragons vanished in a flash of light? Until she sacrificed herself? Until war tore Vineta apart and Mytho fell deeper into turmoil? And all the while, Fakir was working so hard, and everyone in Vineta prepared for battle, and she did nothing.
"Lamp?" Ahiru whimpered helplessly, cradling the lady bug close to her heart, "Why is everything so hard?"
Lamp could not provide an answer other than an embrace around Ahiru's thumb.
It was a small comfort. And at this point, Ahiru would take what she could get. Her gaze trailed toward her vanity where her red jewel glinted in the moonlight beside an old, familiar music box. There was a time when clutching that pendant would bring her thoughts of her mother-the ultimate comfort in her times of profound sadness and doubt.
However, she didn't touch it when she came to sit in front of her vanity. Instead, she reached for the music box, winding the key in the back until it could wind no further, and released.
From within, the little porcelain ballerina, with her painted smile and tuft of tule for a tutu, emerged in her frozen arabesque, perpetually elegant even after all these years. The passing of time left the soft chimes and soothing melody scratched and tired, but the familiarity and warmth remained. Lamp fluttered beside the tiny dancer, her glow casting its shadow over the wall. The ballerina twirled, tall and poised by Ahiru's side.
Ahiru rested cheek against her arms and, like this, she slept.
The dry heat of Rungholt left Prince Femio's lips chapped and cracked. He licked at them anxiously, his eyes trailing out from his high vantage point to the departing company of Runholtan knights. In uniform succession, they marched from the stone gates of the city. Heavy footfalls and clanking metal rang out into the quiet air and reached the prince's ears high in the tower of his fortress.
Without tearing his gaze from the spectacle, he gestured to one of his slaves for his lip salve with a careless wave of his hand. The slave delicately smeared the balm along Femio's dry mouth with a pinky finger, dabbing gently to soothe the rough skin.
After all, the prince loathed discomfort.
Rose oil salve. Prince Femio's favorite. Yet as he smacked his lips together and reveled in the small relief, this strange lack of ease in his mind simply refused to diminish. He felt … bothered by something.
Drums and metal clanking scraped against the back of his skull, so he turned from his balcony and retreated into the quiet safety of his bedchamber.
He shivered despite the warm air.
Taking his leave from those who cared little for him, he allowed his feet to carry him in the direction of Montand's room. His valet's company pleased and soothed him far more than the rest of his subjects and he felt particularly forlorn this afternoon.
Montand assured him that victory was inevitable. Why did he feel such heaviness regardless?
As he swept through the halls, the slaves avoided glancing in his direction as they were wont to do unless he addressed them directly. He pulled his weighty, fur-lined cloak closer to his slim form and continued his trek. Odd. His servants' behavior never bothered him before. Unnerved by his own sudden bout of ill feelings, he was grateful when Montand's door came into view.
Just as he reached for the knob, however, a hushed voice, muffled by the heavy wood of the door, permeated from the gap of the keyhole.
Old. Amused. Not Montand.
The voice spoke with whimsical, gauzy echoes, as if speaking through fog. Fanciful. Otherworldly.
"I see we've garnered enough strength for us to speak a bit easier, hm? But it seems our characters are quite stubborn! Tsk, tsk! Not knowing their places—this is not quite the tragedy I had in mind!"
Femio dramatically leaped away from the keyhole. Characters? Had Montand organized a play without his prince's permission? Surely Femio's inherent talent was worth nothing less than the lead~!
But the voice carried on, wavering like ripples in water. "It seems that one of my favorite principals is falling into character quite easily, but not quickly enough, I fear!"
Montand muttered something in agreement.
"Yes, yes, a bit of darkness is well to do for a tragic, princely protagonist! But to truly become another, one should be utterly empty!"
Princely hero? Were they speaking of Femio?
Or ...?
"Make haste, make haste, before the curtain call! See to it, my protege, that our story continues on! That our noble Prince Siegfried becomes our perfect, tragic hero! That my delightful, darling descendant and my dear dragon friends accept their roles once more!"
Prince Femio, once again, moved away from the keyhole, the unpleasant wash of cold blood flushing through his veins.
This play ... did not seem so entertaining. Not at all.
Rue stared listlessly as Elder Raven placed the small drum on her cot.
"Let this be a reminder of your failures," Raven said, the gentle tone doing nothing to veil the underlying disdain in his voice. "Our precious Uzura, kidnapped by your traitor of a brother."
Rue said nothing in reply, lowering her gaze in shame.
The elder's eyebrows softened, though his crimson eyes remained sharp as he sighed. "But ... you are like a daughter to me, Rue. You always have been. A good, dutiful daughter. And perhaps I'll find it in my heart to forgive you one day. Even as we speak, Autor is right on their trail, and they ought to be brought home within the week. Once this curse is lifted, maybe you will have a chance to redeem yourself. Do not disappoint me as your brother has.
"In light of these developments," he continued, turning his nose up, "I'm allowing you to leave your room until I decide you've had enough."
His frigid air remained even after he left her to her thoughts. Rue sat dismally with Uzura's drum in her lap. Certainly the instrument was well-worn and had undergone frequent patches and repairs, but it was in impressive condition considering it endured three hundred years of constant attention from a mentally five-year-old child.
Rue toyed with the frayed ends of the canvas stretched across the wooden frame (the original animal skin was long-since replaced), lightly drumming on the surface with dull taps that reverberated through her stone hut.
What was the point of leaving her room? Surely, Rue should've been grateful to Elder Raven for giving her such leeway after her abysmal failure, but what was waiting out there for her?
Her power, dormant inside of her, had grown over the centuries. Before, yes, she could influence the hearts of many—small things, like convincing Autor to break his glasses when they were but children, or swaying Fakir into giving her the last of the freshly-baked potatoes. But this ...
Holding Uzura's drum close to her chest, she stumbled toward the doorway and slipped outside into the dim emptiness of Wyvern. A small distance away, Freya passed by, balancing a basket of herbs at her hip. Absent were the soft serenity of her usual presence, the gentle way in which she'd caress the leaves of her wares, and the light whispers of thanks and appreciation to each petal and root. Hermia took it upon herself to take over the laundry duties while Rue was in isolation and other villagers were sent to seek out Ahi—the sacrifice. But Hermia did so with mechanical efficiency, scraping fabric roughly against the washboard without her typical awkward splashes or flustered breaths when coming upon a person's undergarments. And she'd heard in passing that Malen hadn't picked up a piece of charcoal in days.
Rue changed them all with a twirl of her toes. The villagers were focused. Single-minded. All of them determined to see to Elder Raven's glorious plans of becoming the dragon guardians of this world.
"Rue," Freya murmured as she passed, her head tilting and a curtain of golden hair falling past her shoulder, her eyes holding an edge of suspicion usually foreign to her elegant features, "Elder Raven said you are to be confined to your room for the duration of our curse."
"... He forga—" No, that wasn't right. He hadn't forgiven her. She hadn't yet earned it. "He's released me. For now. You can ask him yourself if you don't believe me."
Freya merely conceded and kept on her way, leaving Rue unsettled by her cold countenance. Rue clutched the drum with growing desperation and let her feet carry her away.
And moments later, she found herself in front of Fakir's hut.
Why was she here? Certainly this place would bring her no consolation of any kind. Just resentful reminders of her own failures, and of her brother's utter betrayal. For someone who so tragically lost his powers, he certainly had a knack for taking control of all their destinies without consent. Still, she wandered inside, as it was better than seeking out the comfort of the villagers she herself ruined.
His hut was like any other. Decrepit, barren, and sad. A washbasin and pitcher, a small chair, the shelf full of miserable scrolls and books, a table, a cot against the stone wall ...
... Her eyebrows furrowed. His cot lacked sheets. She let her gaze travel further, tracing the edges of the thin cushion to the empty space beneath the bed.
Except it wasn't empty at all. Her stare landed upon a heap of thin blankets on the ground beneath the mattress, wrapped in a messy ball, as if someone haphazardly stuffed it away in a rush. She delicately placed Uzura's drum onto his bed, knelt down to the pile of fabric, and reached to drag it out and peel it open.
She flinched back when a piece of shattered glass pinched into the tip of her finger.
The jagged edges of a broken jar surrounded a mess of shredded paper and a quill with a snapped feather. And staining the pages and the cloth were silvery streaks and blotches that matched those of the barely-legible scrawl on the ruined parchment. Even as the written words smeared messily across off-white paper, she recognized the familiar, uniform cursive and consistent lettering.
Fakir's penmanship. A sight she hadn't seen in almost three hundred years.
He'd been writing.
Rue's blood ran cold.
Two quills scratched fervently against paper, miles and miles between them.
One writer sought truth. The other sought to create his own.
Fakir's hand ached fiercely, the skin red and calloused where he compressed the quill against the inside of his fingers. He dropped the pen and cracked his knuckles with a wince.
Hopefully, what he'd written would be enough to keep Autor busy for another day. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he turned toward the grand windows, scowling at the midday sun. Fourteen days left, and he still hadn't made any real progress. He intended to figure something out by now, but only Ahiru's words etched themselves onto his paper. Only the adventures she dreamed of. He remained incapable of writing anything else into reality.
And not for a lack of trying. Despite Ahiru's rather frequent visits and Uzura's presence (when the child wasn't out and about with Ahiru exploring the entire Chateau), he primarily barricaded himself inside his guestroom, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the castle activity. There was little he could do regarding the matter of the war—not that he wanted to be a part of that in the first place. And he surely wanted nothing to do with the prince's stupid ball.
Going outside of the Chateau was out of the question as well. Though tasting freedom again gave him a renewed sense of purpose, it didn't feel right experiencing it without his sister and the other villagers back in Wyvern. Especially after he fled with Ahiru and Uzura.
He heard a knock on his door and sighed. This was to be expected. "Come in."
Raetsel led the way in, wheeling a small cart with a tray of various baked goods and tea set in quite a presentable arrangement. Karon, Lysander, and Mr. Katz dutifully followed, filling the room with their formal presences.
"Miss Ebine is so pleased that you appreciate her food," Raetsel said with a giggle behind her hand, "More than anyone else in the Grand Chateau, I imagine."
Fakir's cheeks heated and his eyes narrowed. To be frank, he hardly remembered the taste of sugary foods before the curse was placed upon them, and being reintroduced to cookies and eclairs after centuries of root plants, fruit, and dried gopher meat didn't bode well for his teeth. With a clenched jaw, he forced out, "They're ... they're for Uzura."
Mr. Katz made his way to Fakir's desk and held out his hand for the stack of papers as he did every day—to make sure that what he'd written wasn't anything dangerous, as per their agreement. As he skimmed the pages with sharp, yellow eyes, he toyed with one side of his whisker-like mustache and commented with an offhanded air, "Careful there with those sweets, Mr. Fakir. A full tray this time? It seems you've begun to show us your hoarding tendencies, nyah~!"
Fakir's eyebrow twitched, his face reddening further.
Karon, who'd been eying the growing pile of crumpled sheets in the wastebasket and Fakir's disheveled state, stepped forward. "Are you quite sure you don't wish to step out? If only for a little while."
"I'm fine."
He rubbed his chin in thought. "Then you've been nothing but productive these past few days? Sitting in front of the desk for hours on end is helping you?"
Fakir had no answer to that.
With a sigh, Karon's eyes stared into his, regretful and resigned. "We've commissioned our best blacksmiths for cold iron blades, bolts, and other such weaponry for our knights."
What?
Incensed, Fakir leaped to his feet in an instant. Cold iron? They must've remembered the effect those iron shackles had on him and Uzura upon their arrival. It wasn't difficult to guess what they had in mind. "You said you'd leave my people to me!"
"What are we to do, then?" Karon muttered, crossing his arms. Raetsel and Lysander watched on in grim silence while Mr. Katz continued to occupy himself with Fakir's story. "We wait for you? Nothing has been done to ensure our safety from a threat you brought to us. Our first priority is the protection of our citizens." He paused, exhaling with a shuddering breath. "And under our prince's orders, we need to be prepared for any threats against Vineta. Including your dragonkind. He sanctioned the creation of the equipment himself."
Fakir should've known that planning a ball wouldn't be enough of a distraction for the troubled prince. His hands clenched into fists.
"So," Karon continued, "perhaps you ought to have a change of pace. Get some fresh air."
"You're the one telling me that you've already got dragon-killing weapons being made and you want me to take a break?!"
"Sitting here isn't helping you!"
"Don't tell me what to do!"
"Mr. Fakir," Raetsel interrupted with a tilt of her head, "he means well. We all do. Our situations, unlikely as they might be, are entwined. Everything you do affects us, and it goes both ways. I think we all understand that, dragon or not, you're still just a young man." She poured herself a cup of tea. "Get some exercise, and then continue in the library. This room is far too stuffy to get anything done. And perhaps you can even squeeze in a fitting for decent ball attire!"
"I'm not going to a ball," Fakir grumbled.
Mr. Katz handed the stack of papers back to Fakir, seemingly satisfied with what he'd read. "Ah, Miss Raetsel, as lovely and level-headed as always~! You'd make a fine wife someday, nyah~!" He pointedly ignored her exasperated glance. "No need for a fitting if he is so determined. We have a company of knights training out on the grounds in preparation for battle. I'm sure General Lysander is not averse to allowing you to practice with them?"
"A-Aye!" Lysander agreed after taking a moment to blink in surprise, "We're always looking for sparring partners. Do you know how to use a sword?"
Fakir stared bitterly at stack of pages in his hands, refusing to meet their eyes. "I don't know. It's been a long time."
"Couldn't hurt to give it a try? You never know."
"That settles it, then, nyah~?" Mr. Katz left him no room for argument as he gestured for the others to head for the door. "Find comfortable clothes and come downstairs. It'll do you some good!"
It looked as though Karon wanted to say something more, but the advisor merely nodded and turned to leave, leading Lysander and Raetsel out.
Mr. Katz lingered, however, his voice dropping in volume—almost as if musing to himself. "You're quite the writer, you know. I'm particularly enchanted by the way you write about our dear Lady Ahiru. Quite inspiring, nyah~?
"Be careful there. With those sweets."
Fakir's mouth went dry as Mr. Katz took a graceful step out the door and left him in silence.
Perhaps Ahiru was too accustomed to loose-fitted clothing.
She heard Pique's and Lilie's stifled giggles from across the room as she gripped the floor-length mirror in front of her with whitening knuckles. And beside her, Uzura cradled Lamp in her small palms, blinking with wonder.
With a sharp, choking gasp, the air was forced from Ahiru's lungs as the corset seized around her waist and hips. The seamstress sighed. "Milady, please straighten your back."
Ahiru made a valiant attempt, but on wobbly legs, there wasn't much she could do to recover any semblance of grace or dignity. Ballgowns were lovely, to be sure, but such an absolute pain.
"Ohhhh!" came Uzura's sing-song intonation, "Ducky's face is blue-zura!"
Ahiru groaned. "C-Could it—b-be a little loos-errrr ...?"
"Milady, this is the latest fashion of the kingdom ..." the seamstress countered curtly.
"B-But it huuuuurts!" she whined, uncaring about her lack of ladylike propriety, "P-Please?"
The seamstress conceded with an inaudible mutter, and with a few tugs of the ribbons, Ahiru felt the oxygen slowly seep back into her chest. By now, Pique and Lilie doubled over in overt laughter as Ahiru puffed out her cheeks in a pout at their reflections in the mirror.
She really didn't feel cut out for this. "Can I take a break?"
"Milady, the ball is quickly approaching and we've only just begun the fitting."
The ball was the least of her worries, but Ahiru could feel the heat of frustration reverberating from the seamstress behind her. Being even more of a burden was out of the question, so the duchess fell quiet and let the agonizing half-hour of fitting go on without complaint. Pique and Lilie busied themselves with cooing and squealing over the lacy patterns and detailed beadwork, while Uzura and Lamp dove into a pile of soft, folded silks and satins, much to the seamstress's chagrin.
As soon as she was able to get away, Ahiru all but burst through the doors, ecstatic to remove herself from the stuffy fitting room. Pique, Lilie, Uzura, and Lamp scampered after her with glee, and it appeared that they were more excited for the ballgown than she was.
The ladies scuttled and fluttered with kittenish delight through the halls of the Grand Chateau. They ducked beneath trays and baskets that servants hefted between the rooms, earning startled yelps and harsh reprimands as they darted left and right, dodging staff members and furniture.
For a while, just a little while, Ahiru could forget about the world and just be with her friends.
Would she have appreciated all of this back then? Before her kidnapping?
The chase (not that they were running from anything) exhilarated her, and they continued to wind about through the corridors, one particular hall leading out to a veranda overlooking the open grounds. That was when she heard the girls behind her skid to a stop on the marble floor. "The knights!" cried Pique and Lilie, Uzura's cooing and Lamp's fluttering wings accompanying their mirth.
"They're so dreamy, huh, Lilie?"
"Pique, darling, they're especially lovely when you consider that they're training to give up their lives in a battle of the ages~! All for us, their people~! Oh, what sweet sadness~!"
"There's nothing funny about war, Lilie."
"Ohhh, but it can be romantic~!"
"Ahhh, that's so true~!"
When Ahiru stopped to catch her breath and trotted back to her friends, they were all leaning over the balustrade, Pique's and Lilie's chins in their palms as they sighed giddily. Uzura peeked from behind the stone pillars at the display, blinking with wide, curious eyes, while Lamp fluttered over to sit on Ahiru's shoulder to get a better look.
"Ohhhh!" Uzura cried excitedly, "Fakir-zura! Fakir is playing, too-zura!"
"Eh? Fakir?"
Lined up along the grasses, knights clinked and clanked with their practice swords in neatly-pressed uniforms instead of their typical heavy armor. And toward the front, dueling with the young soldier Ahiru came to know as Demetri, was Fakir—easily distinguished, lacking their matching garb and displaying a distinctly unique fighting style.
"Oh, goodness~!" Lilie gushed, "Isn't he so dashing~?"
"Do you think he's trying to show off?" Pique winked, nudging Ahiru in the side with her elbow.
But Ahiru knew better than that. The flush in his cheeks, the focus in his eyes, the clench of his hands around the handle of his practice blade ... He was taking a much-needed break, no doubt, and the weight of the world fell right down upon her again when she reminded herself of just how much he had to deal with. The miniscule puffs of smoke that escaped his nostrils were evidence of how much he secretly held inside.
He moved differently than the others, too. In contrast with the trained knights, Fakir seemed to focus more on footwork than the sword itself, parrying with gestures that were foreign to her (not that she knew all that much about combat in the first place). Perhaps a piece of his past, long-since buried away with the village of Wyvern. Was that how people fought back then?
With a sharp 'clang,' Demetri forced Fakir's blade away with his own, then swung down in a large arc and stopped just before impacting Fakir's shoulder. From their vantage point, Ahiru could make out the ensuing conversation as they pulled away from their duel.
Demetri gave Fakir an awestruck whistle, despite his obvious victory. "I've never seen fighting like that, Mr. Fakir! Y-You ... could you teach me how to do that with your feet?"
Fakir rested his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. The knights likely had better endurance than he did, too, along with the practice. "It's a dead method," he muttered between pants, "It's fine, but you don't last as long. Better stick to what you know. It works."
"You'd make a fine knight, Mr. Fakir."
"A knight?" Fakir snorted. "That's not for me, thanks. I appreciate the exercise, though. It's been a while." He brushed his dark bangs from his eyes.
Though the ladies fell into silence as they watched, Uzura decided to jump up with a wave of her tiny arms, trying to hop high enough to see Fakir over the balustrade. "Fakir-zura! Fakir-zura! Are you done playing-zura? Can I play, too-zura?"
Pique and Lilie squealed behind their hands when Fakir turned in their direction. With a nervous, quack-like laugh, Ahiru waved, giving Fakir and Demetri each a smile of greeting. Fakir's face looked quite red. He definitely needed to stop overexerting himself.
He turned his attention to Uzura, ignoring Pique and Lilie and their incessant whispers. "No swords for you, Uzura. You do better with drum sticks."
"Ohhhhh!"
"But yeah, I'm finished." He nodded his thanks to Demetri and made his way closer to the veranda where the ladies stood. "I'd better get back to work."
"Eh? Already?" Ahiru pouted, her heart sinking at the thought. It was rather nice to see Fakir talking to people other than herself, Uzura, and those who took care of the Grand Chateau. After three hundred years of being around the same villagers, it must've been so new for him. And Demetri was one of the few people to not stare at Fakir like he was some kind of monster. "But you've been working so hard already!"
"Indeed, Mr. Fakir," came a voice from behind her, soft and noble, but hollow all the same. "Surely you can spare a few hours for us." A cool touch brushed against her hand, and a chill ran down her spine when Prince Siegfried brought her arm up to curl around his own.
Empty. Like a glove. Cloudy, pinkish eyes. When the prince approached, Lamp immediately fluttered away from Ahiru, taking shelter within Uzura's grasp instead.
"M-Mytho—! H-How've you bee—are you doing oka—w-well, it's awfully nice to see you! Ah ... ahaha—!" After days of avoiding him, Ahiru was suddenly at a loss now that he was right by her side. She wanted to reach for him, embrace him, anything to bring warmth back to his skin and to his smile, but the sharpness and detachment in his eyes repelled her.
In her peripheral vision, Karon, Raetsel, Lysander, and Mr. Katz also made their presences known and watched, undoubtedly keeping an eye on Prince Siegfried's every move.
Fakir visibly stiffened. "... I've wasted enough time. I should probably go." With an anxious clench of his jaw and a shallow bow, he added, "... Your Highness."
"But I could not help but notice your peculiar style of combat." The prince drew Ahiru in closer, and while she would've once welcomed the contact, the curl of his fingers felt like talons against her arm. "Will you do me the honor of personally demonstrating? A simple spar, perhaps?"
Ahiru had to stop herself from panicking and flailing right out of the prince's tightening grip, the color draining from her face. "W-Waitaminute! I don't know if that's—!"
"I assure you, Lady Ahiru, it is all in good sport," he replied, an edge beneath his seemingly comforting words.
Karon took it upon himself to step forward. "Lady Ahiru is right. With all due respect, Your Highness, I do believe it inappropriate if—"
"I must insist," murmured the prince with a clench of his fingertips into Ahru's arm.
"Y-Yowch!"
Fakir stepped forward, his green eyes blazing and lips curling up in a snarl. "Hey!"
Everyone started, astonished by the bite in Fakir's voice.
As if realizing his mistake, he took a deep, shuddering breath, shoulders tensing. He exchanged significant glances with Karon, Raetsel, and Mr. Katz, and then trained his attention on the grip around Ahiru's arm. "... Alright. One spar. But you'll probably just be disappointed."
Lilie and Pique almost fainted on the spot.
"Eeeee! I believe the tragic prince will win this battle~!"
"No way, my vote's going to Mister Mysterious!"
Uzura spoke up next in a rare display of quiet worry. "F-Fakir-zura? I thought you were done playing-zura ...?" On her shoulder, Lamp clutched the little girl's mint-colored hair, her glow flickering with unease.
"Y-Yeah! I mean, yes, yes!" Ahiru squeaked, "Y-You said you're all done playing! Let's—how about we all just get something to eat! Gosh, I sure am starving right now and I heard there's freshly-baked bread ready and—!"
However, Prince Siegfried released her, a reddened bruise already forming on her skin. Without another word, he stepped down from the veranda. By now, the knights had ceased their practice, watching with profound interest as their prince challenged the creature who'd taken Lady Ahiru a month or so ago.
And though Pique and Lilie couldn't get a hold of themselves, gushing about the oncoming battle for Lady Ahiru's heart, Ahiru could see the truth of it all—in the sharp gaze of Mr. Katz, in the anxious set of General Lysander's jaw, in the bitten bottom lip of Miss Raetsel, in the slump of Karon's posture, and in the furrow of Fakir's brow.
It wasn't a battle for her heart. Ahiru knew well enough that no one would want to fight for something as silly as that. Not when Mytho wasn't himself. Not when Fakir was just her friend. Not when she was just a dumb duchess who couldn't help anyone, unworthy of Mytho's affections and Fakir's friendship.
Fakir was going to gauge him. He was going to see what was wrong with him.
Instinctively, Ahiru crossed over to Uzura's side and huddled the little girl and the lady bug close as Prince Siegfried armed himself with a practice sword.
She didn't want to watch, but with the ring of blunt metal sliding with a slow screech against another piece of steel, she glanced up in time to see Mytho dragging his blade against Fakir's. He taunted him in a way that was utterly unlike Mytho at all, for as much as she knew about him.
And in the blink of an eye, Mytho was on the offensive.
Anyone could tell Fakir was caught off guard by the forcefulness in the prince's swings, parrying and dodging with quick footwork as Mytho pursued. He seemed more intent on observing Mytho's movements than landing any hits of his own. Ahiru winced when Fakir almost stumbled back from the onslaught.
"Well, Mr. Fakir!" the prince declared with a false smile, swinging down upon Fakir's steel with a bellowing clang, "Have you somehow forgotten how to fight? I expected more from your earlier display. How pathetic."
Ahiru's heart clenched at the shocking, icy cruelty in Mytho's tone and words. Still, Fakir attempted to maintain his focus, his expression hardening with his determination.
Mytho went on. "Is this what you are capable of, then?!"
A quick jab had Fakir grunting as he strained to veer his opponent's blade to the side.
"The monster that kidnapped my fiancee?! Is this all you can do?!"
With a quick step to the side, Fakir narrowly avoided a blow to the shoulder. "C-Calm down, dammit!" he cursed. Ahiru's heart hammered hard against her ribs. Fakir couldn't gain his bearings this way!
The astonishment of the audience didn't seem to reach the prince at all. But everyone else could hear the chilling laughter that came from him, and the words that struck them all to the very core.
"So, story-spinner! This is what you've become! Such a tragedy!"
Uzura and Lamp whimpered in Ahiru's arms as her stomach dropped.
Fakir froze, numbly allowed the prince to fling his sword out from his grip, stumbled back with wild eyes. He fell back with a thud, his mind elsewhere as the prince drew back with every intention of bringing the blunt steel down upon Fakir's head.
"Stop!" Ahiru cried, all but leaping from the steps of the veranda and throwing her arms around Mytho's middle. She gripped him tightly, her entire body shaking from adrenaline and panic.
For that long moment, silence reigned, until Mytho, at last, allowed his weapon to drop uselessly to the ground. A grim, confused, troubled blanket of dread swept over the castle grounds: the knights stared on in shock, Pique and Lilie clung to one another in silent tears, Uzura and Lamp trembled against a stone pillar together, and Karon, Raetsel, Lysander, and Mr. Katz stood frozen, unable to move while they struggled to register the last few seconds.
And Mytho and Fakir ...
"Gyah—!" Ahiru squeaked when Mytho, still in her arms, suddenly crumpled to the ground, his weight dragging her down to her knees with him. She held him tightly still, her heart almost breaking at the sight of the sudden anguish that eclipsed the former malice in his eyes. "M-Mytho!"
His reply was small. Pained. As if it tore him to pieces just to utter a syllable. "I ... f-forgive me. There's ..." His eyes, pink, clouded, and swirling, landed on Fakir's prone form just a few feet away. And his gaze was almost pleading as he gripped at his tunic, right over his heart. "There's s-something ... here ... please ...!"
Finally, the prince's eyelids fell shut, and he went limp in Ahiru's arms.
Helplessly, she looked to Fakir. The rest was a blur. Somewhere above her head, Karon commanded Lysander to calm his men and reassure them. Maybe that was Pique and Lilie still crying, or poor Uzura and Lamp, who could only hold onto one another. At some point, Mr. Katz and Raetsel must've attempted to pry the prince's sleeping form away from her arms.
But no matter the chaos that surrounded them now, she couldn't bring herself to look away from Fakir's faraway stare, or the way he clutched at his chest.
Right above the scar from three hundred years ago.
A day passed, and Fakir remained locked in his room.
Ahiru could tell that Raetsel, Pique and Lilie were trying to keep themselves occupied last night and this morning. They'd successfully convinced Uzura and Lamp to help think of decorations and food for the ball coming up. The poor things definitely needed a good distraction from all of this for the afternoon at least.
For Ahiru's part, when she wasn't helping Uzura and Lamp in their efforts for the perfect "party-zura," she sat by Mytho's bedside where he remained in a deep, likely much-needed slumber. She wanted to take his hand, but ... it was still cold.
Mr. Katz slipped into the prince's bedchambers with the silent grace of a feline, twirling his mustache in thought. "Ah, Lady Ahiru. Please do not trouble yourself if you must rest. I may watch over him if you'd like, nyah~?"
With a whimper, Ahiru folded her arms on Mytho's bed and buried her face in them. Her words came out muffled and whinier than intended. "But I don't wanna. What am I gonna do instead anyway?"
"Quite a many things, actually."
"Nuh uh." She sounded like a petulant child, she knew, but at this point, what more was there? "I'm no good. I can't help anyone. I just watch things happen. I always just watch things happen and I am always just relying on everyone else and Mytho's still asleep and Fakir won't talk to me and Pique and Lilie don't understand and I don't want Uzura and Lamp to see me like this and make them feel sad all over again and—!"
"Now, now, my lady," Mr. Katz said, "deep breaths."
With a stifled sob, Ahiru blubbered into her sleeves, "I-I—*hic*—o-okay ..."
"Good."
Thankfully, Mr. Katz allowed her a few moments to compose herself before speaking again.
"Now, after everything, do you truly believe yourself incapable of helping anyone?"
"I-I—y-yeah ..."
"Ah, yes, quite the convenient excuse, isn't it?"
Ahiru lifted her red gaze, still sniffling messily. "E-Exc-use?"
"Indeed, nyah~? What is more convenient than not doing anything?"
"B-But what can I—?"
"Anything you want, Lady Ahiru," he said, a twinkle in his yellow eyes, "Give it a try."
Anything she wanted?
She stared down at Mytho's slumbering form, his expression empty and drained even in his sleep. Mr. Katz said she could try anything she wanted, but when was she ever useful or helpful? When did she ever do anything right? With an anxious gnaw of her bottom lip, she reached up and touched the pendant weighing heavily from her neck. Not for comfort, but as a reminder.
Well, there was that one time. It wasn't much, but …
… It was something, wasn't it?
Ahiru gave Mr. Katz a tiny smile, which he returned easily and brightly.
Fakir pressed hard into the page, words spilling out onto white paper. Another story to keep Autor away. Another day to work toward absolutely nothing.
"Such a tragedy!"
Finally finished, he snapped the quill in half between his fingers and flung the pieces against the wall beside him.
Even now, that damned wizard still wouldn't just disappear. Three hundred years of torment, only to be faced with more. His world didn't seem real anymore (not that it ever did). He was outside looking in on his own pitiful existence, watching as every hope crumbled into shambles.
And Fakir knew it was him. There was no mistaking it. As soon as he heard the prince declare those words, Fakir came to this conclusion. He tried writing that presence away from the prince last night, but the words would not come. Reality would not bend. He was, once again, useless to stop D. D. Drosselmeyer.
Maybe Elder Raven was right. This was all Fakir's fault.
If all those centuries ago, he safeguarded his gift and kept it a secret, would Drosselmeyer have bothered to come to Wyvern in the first place? Would Fakir have lived quietly with his writing, weaved simple tales with simple beginnings and simple endings, and died an old man of natural causes? Would Wyvern still be standing today, their own descendants carrying on their magical lineage with pride?
Would Ahiru be blissfully happy in her marriage to a good prince, who would love her and care for her the way she deserved? Would she be free, never once under threat, never once abducted, never endangered? Just safe. Happy.
... But then, Fakir never would've met her.
With a grit of his teeth, he squashed that dangerous, selfish thought before he could linger upon it.
He didn't budge when a timid knock reverberated from his door. And even when the familiar warmth of her voice reached him, he said nothing.
"Fakir ...? Can I come in?"
He pulled out a blank sheet of paper and stared bitterly down at the white surface, already knowing that the words he needed simply wouldn't come.
"Fakir? Um ... I know you're in there. I don't think you're sleeping either ..."
How could he face her now, with all the revelations that came to him over the course of the evening and the following morning? It was all too much. And he still couldn't be rid of the images of her frightened, pained expression when Prince Siegfried harmed her.
"... Hell-ooooooh?" She was beginning to sound impatient.
But for some reason, the idea of just looking at her pained him in ways he couldn't understand.
"Fakiiiiir!" He heard her slump against the door with a low 'thump.' "I don't wanna bother you, but I really need your help! You have to talk to me sometime, you know! I'll—aaaahhh, I'll just wait here till you open up!"
Stubborn idiot.
But she had a point. He had to talk to her at some point. Hell, he had to talk to everyone at some point, especially regarding the prince's current ... state.
And if she really did need help, how could he refuse her anything?
... What was wrong with him?
He grumbled under his breath and ran a hand through disheveled, dark hair before he strode to the door. Without preamble, he turned the knob and swung it open.
"Gyah—oof!" So much for a proper noblewoman. Ahiru fell back, sprawling messily onto the floor in a heap of fine fabric and red hair. Her wide, blue eyes blinked owlishly up at him from her upside-down angle.
Ignoring the skip of his heartbeat, he raised an eyebrow. "Happy now?"
She gave him a satisfied grin. "Yeah!" Rolling over, she grabbed onto the doorknob to heft herself up and back on her feet in a sea of skirts, before shutting the door behind her. "Thank you!"
He walked back to his desk, keeping his eyes away from her. "You're right. We need to talk. And you said you needed help."
"... Y-Yeah." She made herself comfortable on the bed, hands folded in her lap and swinging her legs back and forth. "But, you first! So ... So what happened? With yesterday? You and Mytho were both so—it was really weird that you—? Um. Are you okay?"
No.
But he refrained from saying so. He kept to the facts. It was easier that way than dealing with the painful memories. Resisting the urge to touch his shoulder (right where the jagged scar tissue began), he sat in his chair and stared down at the page again. "You saw the prince's behavior yesterday. Everyone did."
"... Mhmm."
Fakir's jaw clenched. "Do you remember what he said?"
Those words. The eerily nostalgic intonation. Words Drosselmeyer spoke just before he stole Fakir's power from within him.
Ahiru fell silent.
Fakir tried to keep his hands occupied, clipping the end of a new quill as he'd broken the other one. "Your prince isn't just under some spell. Drosselmeyer's in there. Somewhere. I know it. I can feel it." Even now, they couldn't escape from the man.
Her breath hitched, her quack-like voice rippling and wavering. "Y-You think that—but how?"
"Monty. Or whatever the hell his name is, now. If everything Mr. Katz theorized is true, then he's right. It's all deliberately connected.
"The war. Your kidnapping. All of that would tear anyone apart, even a prince as good as Prince Siegfried is said to be." Bitter and disgusted, Fakir dropped the quill and rubbed his forehead. "Drosselmeyer planned for your sacrifice. It was written. He might've even foresaw Elder Raven's plans for our future after you lifted our curse. Your abduction and death would leave Prince Siegfried open to whatever influences him now, corrupting him. And the war would keep him cornered. Easy to control people who are cornered and corrupt." The entire village of Wyvern was testament to that. "Me kidnapping you. Two birds, one stone."
A small sob escaped her, and the sound of it was a dagger between his ribs. "A-All this? But why? That's ... so much!"
"I don't know," he muttered, his mouth a grim line and anguish in his brow, "Maybe he wants to come back using the prince. With Monty in Rungholt, and Prince Siegfried here under his control ... Maybe he wants the dragons to destroy the war-torn kingdoms, along with ourselves." It wasn't just coincidence that Ahiru ended up engaged to the prince, was it? He likely used the loss of Ahiru to weaken the prince first. And using the prince's form guaranteed him as much power as he'd like, along with a front-row seat to Drosselmeyer's perfect tragedy.
If Drosselmeyer lived again, he could write again.
"A-Are you sure?" Ahiru whimpered with a sniffle. And he didn't blame her. It did seem like quite the tall tale.
Fakir nodded with grave finality. After all, in the end, he was a writer, too. It repulsed him to acknowledge it, but he could understand Drosselmeyer's way of thinking. Ends neatly tied, wrapped in ribbons of prettily woven words, all in a quaint, little tragedy. "I hate him. I understand him. And I hate him for it."
Who was to say Fakir wouldn't have ended up just like him one day, unchecked and unhindered with his gift?
He heard the shift of the mattress as Ahiru stood, soft, padding feet quietly making their way over to the window. She pushed back the curtains to let the afternoon light stream in, beams of sunshine framing her fiery hair and blue eyes rippling with unshed tears.
His heart skipped a beat when she turned to smile at him regardless.
"But you forgot!" she said, her grin widening as she wiped at her eyes, her nose crinkling with the freckles on her skin, "You saved me!"
"... Ahi-?"
"You saved me! And I bet he wasn't expecting that, huh? I sure wasn't!"
His lips parted as he shifted on his chair to face her fully, watching as she sat on the sill and drew her knees up to her chest beneath the thick satin of her dress.
"Before," she continued, her eyes glossy and clear (and he might've forgotten how to breathe for a moment), "you said you wanted to change this fate. And I promised to do it with you! So ... y-yeah, there's a lot to do! And it's really scary, right? But if everything went according to his plan, then I don't think I'd even be here right now!"
A surge of heat spread like wildfire through Fakir's veins at her words. Inspiration.
"Didn't we say we wanted to save everyone? Mytho, everyone in your village, this whole kingdom? I thought I couldn't do anything, and maybe what I can do won't ever be enough. But if you were able to change a lot—not even through writing or powers! You changed so many things, just because you chose to save me!" An exhilarated breath left her lungs as she stood up again. "So ... I'm gonna choose! I choose to save you, too! I could do it once! Remember?"
There was no preparation for the way she tenderly placed her hands upon his cheeks, or any defense for the sudden weakness in his knees. Of course he remembered. How could he forget, deep underground, when dragon scales pierced sharply through his skin, and leather wings sprouted from his back? How could he forget the sudden touch of warmth that drew him from the darkness before he was truly lost?
Speechless, he allowed her to continue, uninterrupted even in her roundabout rambles, her hands falling from his face as her cheeks reddened. "O-One thing at a time, right? Fourteen—er, it's thirteen days now! Well, um, I don't know how to fight in a war, but I guess we can work to keep Mytho as happy as he can be! And we can let Uzura have all the fun in the world, and if the dragons come, then ...! Then, I know that Drosselmeyer is my ancestor, so I probably inherited some magic, because Raven said so before, though I don't know how to use it, but I used it once to calm you down, so maybe if we practice—yeah, we can probably practice, but only if you have spare time, I don't really wanna bother you—remember when I said I needed your help, well this is what's it's about so—!"
Somehow, in the mess that was her earnest words, Fakir understood what she was trying to say. One thing at a time. Preparation.
She was right. About everything.
They had to try. And once again, she was full of surprises.
The realization washed over him like cool rain—the sort he hadn't felt in three hundred years, with soft droplets that caressed his skin and kissed his eyelids as he let himself bask in it.
Somehow, in the course of the past month, he convinced himself that he saved her to keep Raven's plans from reaching fruition. For the greater good. For the world.
He was a fool.
How was this possible?
How did he not see just how far he'd fallen?
Fakir stood up with her, staring down at her hopeful expression from his full height. Resigned, he already knew how this would end. They would save everyone, and she would live happily ever after with the prince she deserved.
Being her friend was enough. It had to be. So for as long as it took, he'd support her.
... But he was still just a weak, stupid boy at heart, and he didn't bother to fight the urge to wrap his arms around her shoulders and draw her into a tight embrace, tucking her head against his chest and burying his nose in her hair. Just this. Only this.
"Idiot," he whispered, his eyes falling shut in bliss as she returned his embrace with her own, her small arms winding securely around his waist, "you didn't inherit a damn thing from him. It was all you. Always."