Chapter 10: Knock On Wood

"Fakir…Fakir…" Ahiru stood nervously in front of the cabin door. Fakir hadn't been to the infirmary, and as far as she knew nobody had seen Autor there either.

The door creaked open. She looked up to see Autor.

"Autor where is Fakir?"

"For one, there's no need for that much of a ruckus. Second, he's here and-"

"Can I see him?"

"I don't know if you …want to."

"Of course I want to!"

"I guess I should rephrase. I don't know if you want to see it."

"His foot? Is it in a cast, or broken or…why what's wrong? Autor please just let me in."

Autor sighed. "How did I get myself in the middle of this…" He mumbled and opened the door with one hand.

Ahiru entered and saw Fakir in his bed, and looked to his foot. It was covered over. She looked to him, and noticed he had beads of sweat on his face.

"Fakir? Are you alright?" Ahiru looked scared.

"I-I don't think it's over Ahiru."

"What?"

"I think-"

"For all it matters," Autor jumped in to the conversation after they were both startled by the door behind them shutting. "I'm not surprised. He filled me in on what's happened, and Drosselmeyer is, as I out of all people should know, is notorious and by the sounds of it, is toying with you two and your characters' once again …"

"What?" Ahiru looked from Autor to Fakir confused.

Fakir clenches the blanket, closed his eyes, and sighs. "Look." He pulled up the blanket.

His foot…at least half of it, was wooden.

Ahiru stopped breathing for a minute. Her mind took a second to understand it. She tried to rationalize; if a girl could turn into a raven or a duck, could Fakir turn to wood? Wood? What was going on? She felt her knees grow weak, but she tried to hold herself up for Fakir's sake.

Autor sighed and broke the silence. "It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't spreading you know, peg legs aren't that terrible…I mean it's not convenient for dancing but-"

"-But how is this happening? What else did Drosselmeyer have to finish? How could this happen? We-we-we-" Ahiru grasped her words.

"We finished it. Or so we thought. I know." Fakir cringed at every pain, but his voice somehow remained steady.

"But that's exactly it. He didn't have to have another story, epilogue, chapter or prologue…" Autor started his hands crossed, his hand holding his chin. They both looked to him for answers. "Drosselmeyer often incorporated old Ballets and Fairytales into his plots; retold them and reused them into his own tales…if you two left anything unanswered…unresolved…loose-ends…he could build on it. Another character…a bit of ... I'm not sure …magic….something…"

"But we left nothing unturned." Fakir looked serious, as if he was hiding his agony. For a moment.

"Fakir you're in pain!" Ahiru lurched forward to him.

"You know, after really thinking about it, I'm not surprised he keeps torturing you two…"

"Why?" Fakir raised his head to distract himself and Ahiru from his pain.

"Beyond the fact that both of your characters have some kind of tragic past, or the more obvious fact that Fakir is related to the impressive diabolical writer himself, it's mostly that you Ahiru, are in the middle of everything. You seem to consistently be the character to which everything weighs upon…"

"But why me?" Ahiru didn't like where this was heading.

"He seems to have chosen you; the most tragic. Often the character, which starts out at the background of the story, becomes quite important in the end. The underdog. In all cases, you were the focal interest and pivot point of most characters actions and results. Like I said, in the middle of everything."

Ahiru's head sunk down.

"You really have no filter." Fakir sighed, feeling almost more sympathetic now for Ahiru then himself.

"It's my nature. I am a critic naturally."

"Then …then it's all my fault. Whatever happens…" Ahiru murmured.

"It's not your fault…" Fakir tried to protest. "Last time it was Autor who almost had me turned into a tree."

"There's nothing you can do Ahiru, I mean you don't control the story, but it is likely –" Autor intervened in a slight failed attempt to lessen her guilt.

"Then…maybe I should have stayed a duck…"

"It's Drosselmeyer's fault this is all happening…don't even say that Ahiru." Fakir cringed, his forehead wetted with sweat.

"But Fakir-"

"Fakir has a point, and the next point we need to figure out is what exactly the story has become…there's a reason, a subtle trace of a plot he plants to skewer…but a wooden foot…"

"Pinocchio?" Ahiru asked. Fakir's eyes widened, and Autor's dulled.

"Not a ballet. Nor a classic that fits Drosselmeyer's tendencies, nor pattern." He explained. "…Let's keep going then…anything strange that has occurred recently…besides this?"

Fakir swallowed. "I found out…that…-agh-In the tale of the Nutcracker the a character is …the nephew of Drosselmeyer."

"The Nutcracker Prince is." Autor's eyes widened. Fakir took out the pages he'd ripped from the book. "What are those?" Autor looked appalled.

"Some of the pages on the character. I wanted to learn about it after I found out he had a nephew…or a relative in this story…" Fakir said. "It was strange that Drosselmeyer was in a story himself, let alone the idea of another relative."

"What if it's not another relative…per say? It's strangely parallel to your own predicament…the relative of the puppeteer of the plot. The nutcracker doll is wooden, and …" Autor speculates.

"Also there's this. " Fakir points to a book on his desk.

Autor looks over to it. Fakir continues. "I didn't tell you I did this today Ahiru…but I had a hunch that something was off about Nesumir."

"I really hope that-" Ahiru started to mention her hope for them to mend their quarrels.

"Actually I thought we had an even number in male to girl ratio in the past, but this explains it." Autor looked at the book on the desk.

"Exactly." Fakir nodded.

"What?" Ahiru asked.

Autor took over. "Fakir has the Academy registry from last year. Our class did have an even ratio of the sexes. Its surprising to find that we all couldn't remember who he was. That may be part of the set up itself."

"Who was it?" Ahiru asked.

"Fritz." Autor pushed the image of a pale, dusty brown haired boy with large glasses in her face.

Ahiru faintly recalled the boy.

"He never stood out. Clumsy even. I do recall a solo he did, and believe me he-"

"But I was always the underdog?" Ahiru asked.

"He was next in line quite frankly. Nobody remembers that you Ahiru. Another peculiar aspect of this set up." Autor said.

"Then he disappears and Nesumir shows up."

"It's convenient."

"Nesumir was also the one who chose the nutcracker for the ballet duets." Ahiru felt it escape her lips. She felt like their assumptions were going to far.

"But, it doesn't explain why Fakir suddenly has –"

"Two, wooden feet." Fakir's pain looked rough. His other foot had begun to turn.

Ahiru felt her stomach turn, and head spin as she sat down on the edge of the bed. This was all getting too complicated. Fast.