Pique

The silver dagger wasn't hers.

"Well." Pique began, "It wasn't long until Autor and I began to spend more time together. I found him a surprisingly sweet boyfriend, and he seemed to enjoy my company.

Autor took me to the place where he had trained Fakir to be a writer, and showed me the roots of the oak tree. I had never known about how Drosselmeyer had manipulated the fate of this town, how our world had been merged with fantasy. There was that family tree, as well—Autor told me that Fakir was a direct descendant of Drosselmeyer.

I became more and more curious. It took no small amount of coaxing, wheedling, and cajoling, but eventually I got the entire story out of him. Who could have guessed that there was such a power, that the written word could twist reality itself?

"I was starting to forget." Autor confessed, "Now that the story's gone back to normal, I think the fact that we had ever had such a strange world was about to fade from everyone's minds and smooth over as time went by. Do you remember that your teacher was once a cat?"

I tried, and the words stuck a vague chord in my mind, but the more I thought about it the less I could remember.

He smiled confidently. "See? But now that I've told you, it's been affirmed in my mind—and yours as well. If everyone does forget, we'll be the last ones."

I nodded, soaking it all in.

Autor told me about the Bookmen, the people who tried to restrain the story before it went spinning wildly out of control. Apparently they tried to cut Fakir's hands off so he couldn't write anymore before Princess Tutu leapt in and saved him!

The very thought of them scared me. Autor must have noticed, because he leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry, they won't bother us again."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"The story's ended." Autor answered, looking up at the sky. We were both sitting next to each other near the roots of the old oak tree. "It's over. Drosselmeyer's contraption that he used to control us all was dismantled by Fakir. It's crazy that a dead man could have the power to ruin all of our lives."

"But you can't tell anyone." He told me, suddenly serious.

"Of course I won't!" I retorted.

"Good. By the way, I've been trying to write stories." Autor said wistfully. "I know I don't have the same power as Fakir, but I haven't seen him in a while…anyway, it's more for my entertainment than anything else."

"What do you write about?"

"For a while... I wrote about Rue. I always resented that she ended up with Mytho; theirs wasn't true love, because she had no idea who he truly was! All she saw was a handsome, manly prince being nice to people (and that was only because he had no heart). Of course she had to be his princess, and I know it's just wishful thinking, but I would write little stories about how Rue would leave her station as princess and come back to the real world. No harm, just small short stories."

"That awkward moment when you confess to your girlfriend that you've been writing stories because you love other women!" Lillie laughed.

"Shut up!" Pique huffed. "Now, let me continue.

He caught sight of my expression and quickly backpedaled. "That was a while ago, Pique. I don't want to have any secrets from you, and you know I'm telling you everything."

"I believe you. You know, Autor, I wonder what would have happened if it weren't for the story."

"I like to think that we'd still have found each other." Autor replied.

"We would have, I know." I answered.

We were silent for a while as I nestled against him and leaned my head on his shoulder. It was one of the most peaceful moments of my life. I wouldn't have given it up for anything, especially after what would happen next.

"Don't move a muscle!"

Suddenly, we were surrounded by a group of black-clad figures in cloaks. More than one of them held sharp silver axes.

"They're the Bookmen." Autor said, his voice halting against my ears. "Don't worry, Pique, it's all right."

"No! It's not!" I returned, becoming panicked. "Are they going to kill us?"

"Autor, come forward." An old, grey-haired man who stood at the head of the group announced. "You don't have a choice."

Autor disentangled my arms from around his shoulders. "Just wait here. You'll be fine."

"You have attempted to meddle with the story." The old man said to Autor. "If you keep on doing this, the entire balance of reality will be ruined. You have changed more than you could possibly realize."

"I won't continue, then." Autor answered calmly.

"But that's what they all say, boy. You have more potential than you might think, and you know the drill for writers who try to change their fate. Your hands will be cut off. Right. Now."

Autor tensed, as if to run away, but two cloaked figures grabbed his wrists and held him in place. "I'll make a machine. You'll see." Autor snarled, struggling fiercely. "Besides, haven't you heard of dictation?"

The old man gave a hoarse laugh. "Haven't you ever heard of blood loss?"

"NO! Wait, don't!" I screamed, rushing forward. Two of the masked figures caught me by the upper arms and I knelt, helpless to save him. "Run, Autor!" I said loudly. "RUN!"

"If you do, she dies." The old man said menacingly. "If you accept your fate, we'll let her go."

Autor's face had become pale, but his eyes shone with something like bravery as he stopped jerking his arms in their grip. "All right. Pique, don't do anything stupid. They won't harm you. It's me they want."

"You IDIOT!" I screeched, fighting the cloaked bookmen. "YOU IDIOT! RUN!"

And then Autor looked directly at the huge axe-wielding figure. "Make it quick. Pique, I tell you, don't do anything stupid."

I couldn't watch. But with that terrible thwacking sound, I lost all of the contents of my stomach onto the ground.

Autor's hands...were gone.

"Well, that piece of business is done." One of the bookmen said. I was released onto the cold ground, the world whirling around me.

One glance at him was all it took for me to become truly sickened. He raised the bloody stumps before his face, which had become a queerly greenish color. And there was so much blood welling out of what had once been his hands, the mangled skin and jagged bone, ripped flesh...My Autor, the boy whose hands were unjustly chopped off? Autor looked weak and unsteady, gruesome stumps wavering about each other as if he was unsure what to do with them.

I wasn't going to stand for it.

With a strength I didn't know I had, I rose onto my feet, dizzy for a moment. I took off in a flying sprint towards the old grey-haired bookman, tackling him, and we both were sent flying to the ground. His hand came up, and with horror I saw that he was wielding a silver dagger in his fist.

It all happened so fast. I twisted his wrist, worked the dagger from his palm, and before I knew what I was doing I had slipped the dagger into his chest.

He was dead, all right. In my fit of fury I had managed to kill the leader of the bookmen. I rolled over, away from him, and again lost myself in a violent retching.

The rest of them looked at each other, and for a terrible moment I thought I was going to die a torturous death.

Instead, they turned on Autor, who had already lost so much black-red blood onto the ground. With a single slice, axe dove into flesh. This time, I couldn't look.

"That's what happens when you defy the Bookmen. We kill the ones you love, and then we kill you." One of them said, advancing towards me with a bloody weapon. I knelt transfixed, until one of them spoke up with an evil smile alighting on his features.

"Take her to the police station for murder. We did need someone to blame the murder on, anyway." Another said. "She can rot in jail knowing she's caused the death of her lover."

And that's exactly what happened. They're going to charge me for murder. Of both Autor and the elder Bookman.

Any smart lawyer will say it was self-defense, but I'm fairly sure that the jury will decide that it wasn't. My hands were stained with blood no matter how hard I tried to wash it off, and sometimes I swear there's stains of blood on my fingers even now.

I as good as killed Autor. He might have lived, had I simply let it be...but now he's dead, and when I stabbed the Bookman, I also murdered Autor." Pique paused to look at Rue, who had a slender white hand over her mouth in horror at her tale.

But if you'd have been there…if you'd have seen it…could you tell me that I was wrong?"